Rules of Engagement

by David Bruns

  It was good, and it took the edge off the pain from the hot water. Pak swiped the sweat from his brow but kept his eyes on the Russian. He was willing to wait as long as necessary for the other man to speak.

  “Borodin says you have computer weapons on the internet.” He looked at Gerasimov for the right word.

  “Cyber,” Gerasimov replied.

  “Yes, cyberweapons. Computer viruses.”

  Ah, thought Pak, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “The Supreme Leader has made great investments in the realm of cyberwarfare. We rank among the most powerful nations on earth.”

  Aminev narrowed his gaze to slits. “Why cyberweapons? I thought all Kim cared about was his nuclear program.”

  Pak blinked the sweat out of his eyes. “Our nuclear weapons are for self-defense. Cyberwarfare gives us the ability to attack the United States in more … subtle ways.”

  Aminev tossed off another vodka and indicated for the girl to give another to Pak. “We have a job for you.”

  Pak tilted the shot of vodka down his throat. “I’m listening.”

  “Our weapons sales in the region have dropped off. Things are too peaceful. We want you to…” He twirled his finger in the air and looked at Gerasimov.

  “Stir up trouble,” Gerasimov supplied. “Alexi wants to goose his sales by ratcheting up tension in the region. No real conflicts, understand. Just bad feelings between neighbors.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Pak asked.

  Gerasimov shrugged. “Hack into Chinese military databases, leak some of their military plans to the Vietnamese, the Philippines, the Malaysians—that sort of thing. We want everyone to feel off balance, a little on edge. Nervous nations buy weapons.”

  He leaned forward. “You must understand, Pak, this operation requires finesse. We don’t actually want to start a war, just stir things up enough for everyone to open their pocketbooks. Maybe even start a bidding war on a few of the more hard-to-get items.”

  “Russian military surplus?”

  Gerasimov threw back his head, letting his laugh echo through the room. He quickly translated for Aminev, who joined him in the joke. Pak knew the arms dealer had a network that allowed him to skim seemingly unlimited quantities of weapons from the Russian military. He often wondered what would happen if Russia actually needed to mobilize a fighting force.

  Pak pulled a thoughtful face as he accepted another vodka. The water was just the right temperature now. This was his favorite part of a negotiation: the part where he got paid. “Cyberwarfare is expensive,” he said.

  Gerasimov and Aminev exchanged glances. “We were thinking twenty million US dollars, processed discreetly, of course.”

  “Hmm, that’s funny, Borodin,” Pak replied. “I was thinking forty million—with a three percent surcharge for handling.” Pak drank off the vodka. One point two million dollars in his private account!

  It took another hour and three more shots before they agreed on 32 million dollars with an additional 1.2 million on the side for Pak.

  His legs wobbled as he climbed out of the pool. Gerasimov caught his arm, steering him toward the locker room.

  “Pak!” Aminev called after him.

  With Gerasimov’s help, he turned back to face the head of the Bratva. “Just computers, got it? Cyber only. No shooting. Bad for business.” The Russian was standing in the pool, his matted chest hair sluicing water. He’d drunk at least eight shots of vodka with Pak, but it seemed not to affect him at all.

  Using Gerasimov as a stabilizer, Pak made a mock bow. “Just computers, Alexi. You have my personal guarantee.”

  CHAPTER 4

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Captain Brendan McHugh blew out a long breath and leaned back in his office chair until he could see the ceiling tiles. He’d just completed his fourth meeting of the day on his least favorite topic: budgets. Thank God he wasn’t the one doing budget briefings to Congress. They’d never get any funding.

  “Tom, how long till my next meeting?” he called through the open door.

  “Fifteen minutes, sir. In the ops center,” his admin called back. “I left a printed copy of your schedule in your inbox.”

  Brendan dug through the stack of paper until he found the sheet. So much for the paperless office. “Thanks, Tom.”

  He sipped at his now-cold coffee, enjoying a moment of calm before his next bureaucratic skirmish. His gaze strayed to the family picture on the corner of his desk. Liz, her raven hair grown out longer than at any time since he’d known her, and their two children. Beth, their oldest, had inherited her mother’s Iranian features—dark hair, olive skin, and firm jaw. Ahmad, despite being named after Liz’s father, tended toward Brendan’s Irish heritage with fine, strawberry-blond hair and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose.

  Beth had a T-ball game tonight, he reminded himself, and he made a note on the paper schedule. It was his turn to make the game. Juggling Liz’s FBI career and his own assignment with the CIA made for a hectic home life.

  “Sir?” Tom appeared at the door. “You’re meeting in the ops center in five.”

  Brendan hoisted himself out of his chair. His knee popped, and he grimaced at the expected pain. The ancient injury from a young North Korean sailor that had ended his career as a Navy SEAL was the gift that kept on giving. He forced himself to put weight on the knee as he walked down the hall. According to the doctors, the only way to keep the joint healthy was to keep using it—no matter the discomfort.

  Stepping onto the Trident watch floor was like shedding his skin. On one side of the door was all the paperwork and budgets and infrastructure; on this side he could at least maintain a tenuous connection to his time in the field with the Feisty Minnow program, the precursor to Trident.

  It was hard to believe that all this had started with one lonely cast-off sailboat from the US Naval Academy sailing fleet. At the beginning, Feisty Minnow was one step above a harebrained idea: take a civilian sailboat, outfit it with the latest in signals intelligence monitoring, and sail it around the globe. He’d skippered the Arrogant, a fifty-four-footer, posing as a rich software executive with more money than common sense. With his small crew of five, they’d broken some of the best SIGINT of their time.

  Partly as a result of his success, the fleet expanded to six sailboats stationed all over the world. Feisty Minnow, the program with the ridiculous name, became so successful it was taken over by the CIA and Brendan was pulled out of the field to run it. That was nearly six years ago.

  Brendan swept his gaze across the massive wall screens that dominated the room and the two dozen watch officers on duty at computer workstations. This was the headquarters for Trident, the most expensive and ambitious signals intelligence monitoring program in the history of the world. Trident connected an unimaginable variety of floating platforms into a network of what his analysts called v-SIGINT, short for “viral signals intelligence.” And they were just beginning to scratch the surface of what they could do with this capability.

  As he always did, he searched the wall screens for Arrogant, his old command.

  “She’s off the coast of Turkey, sir,” called one of the techs.

  Brendan spotted the dot on the map and blushed. “Thanks, Jenkins.” Some days he felt like an old high school quarterback reliving his glory days.

  He strode to the center desk, where the watch supervisor was waiting for him. “What’s our status, Supe?”

  “The network’s in good shape this morning, sir. We’ve got full coverage in the Med and the IO, pushing ninety percent around Japan and Taiwan, but we’re not even at sixty in the rest of West Pac.”

  Brendan studied the vast stretch of ocean from Taiwan to Malaysia as the man spoke. “That’s a lot of blue water to cover. How’re the installs going on the merchant ships?”

  The supervisor nodded with enthusiasm. “Really well. We’ll be ready to flip the switch this week. The analysts estimate we’ll have greater than ninety
percent coverage across the whole region within a month or so.”

  Brendan chewed his lip. Tying military ships into a consolidated surveillance network was one thing, but using civilian ships worried him. The CIA had developed a “black box” the size of a phone booth that could be installed on any vessel. Cooperative shipping lines were paid a handsome fee to supply a 220-volt line and ask no questions. The unit automatically gathered and uploaded signals intel wherever the ship went. For shipping lines that were unwilling to participate, the CIA had developed a version with a fuel-cell power source. The unit was simply bolted into a shipping container and shipped as regular cargo from one CIA front operation to another.

  The supe cleared his throat. “What’s the approval status of Piggyback, sir?” His voice had a hopeful tone.

  Brendan tried not to frown. The watch supervisor was in his midtwenties, one of the new breed of CIA officers who believed with all their being that every problem could be solved through the application of technology. If you just had the right app, you could sit behind a desk and all the questions of our complex world would be served up in a spreadsheet.

  I’m getting old, he thought. A feeling that seemed to be looming in his consciousness more often lately.

  “They’re briefing the Hill today,” he said finally. “I expect it’ll get approved.”

  The watch supervisor pumped his fist. “That’s awesome, sir.”

  “Yep, awesome.” Brendan returned his attention to the wall screens.

  In the last decade, threat assessments had highlighted the vulnerability of the United States’ space assets. From global positioning system satellites to comms birds that connected the fleet, the expected first move in any global conflict was for the opposing side—the Russians or the Chinese were the perennial favorites—to destroy the US military satellite network. Of course, the US would do the same to them, so after the first few hours, the world would have two blind war machines squaring off.

  Trident changed all that. The program that had begun as a passive signals intelligence collection platform had graduated to a distributed analysis network with independent computer processing capacity on every platform. Now, with Piggyback, it was ready to take the next step: viral communications. When the CIA platform achieved the right amount of coverage in the right places, the plan was to use Trident as an independent command and control network. In the event of loss of satellite coverage, the US would have a viral network of ships and planes blanketing the world.

  He’d seen the cool graphics of an entirely interconnected fleet with bright yellow lines bouncing from ship to ship to ship, without ever needing a satellite. It made for a really slick presentation for congressmen.

  But all that connectedness worried him. What if this all-encompassing network got hacked? Had these people never seen Battlestar Galactica? The Cylons decimated the über-networked human fleet with a single computer virus. He’d actually brought that analogy up in a staff meeting once, and the room of twentysomethings looked at him like he’d farted in church.

  Maybe I’ve been doing this too long, he thought.

  “Will that be all, sir?” the watch supervisor asked.

  “Yeah,” he replied with a sigh. “That’s all for now.” His eyes searched for the little blip on the map that represented Arrogant.

  CHAPTER 5

  Covert Actions Division, Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces Pyongyang, North Korea

  The desk between them was a cheap affair of metal and plastic laminate, built for a much smaller frame than his own. When Rafiq Roshed bothered to visit his office, which was infrequently, he managed to bang the tops of his knees against the drawer every time.

  He allowed the slight man in the well-cut, Western-style business suit to speak first.

  “How are you getting on these days?” said Pak.

  Rafiq shrugged and lit one of the vile sticks that passed for cigarettes in the DPRK.

  “Ah!” Pak said. He slid his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a red and white package. Marlboros. “Try one of these.”

  Rafiq immediately crushed out his own butt and seized the unopened pack. As he tore the foil, the scent of real tobacco filled the tiny office. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, drawing deeply.

  “Your brother’s brand, remember?” Pak said with a smile.

  Rafiq considered the burning end. He hadn’t thought about Hashem in months. His only link to this greedy little man who’d given him shelter in the rogue state of North Korea. A gift of sorts, with strings attached.

  “Half brother,” he replied. He stowed the pack of Marlboros in his breast pocket. Pak pretended not to see his petty theft even though real cigarettes were like gold on the thriving DPRK black market.

  Rafiq flexed his shoulders. The dark green uniform he was forced to wear in this formal office setting pinched in all the worst places. He told himself it was because the tailors of this godforsaken country only knew how to sew for two sizes: concentration-camp-thin or as fat as the Supreme Leader, who smiled down at them from his picture on the wall.

  “Half brother, then,” Pak said, watching him closely. “A good man all the same.”

  Rafiq grunted. His feet were like ice in the thin uniform shoes—also too small for him. They never turned the heat on in these damn buildings.…

  “I have a job for you, Rafiq,” Pak said.

  Rafiq. He’d called him Rafiq, not Chul, his new name in North Korea. Was this Pak’s subtle way of telling him this was a special task?

  “What kind of job?”

  Pak produced a second pack of Marlboros from his leather valise and lit one. He left the open pack sitting on the desk between them. He continued in English, a fact that caused Rafiq to sit up in his chair.

  “A job that requires finesse.” Pak pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and aimed it at Rafiq like a dart. “A skill that is sorely lacking in many of our operatives.”

  Rafiq nodded. The problem with a cult of personality like North Korea was that it killed independent thought, let alone initiative. The people of this damned country were a hammer and every problem was a nail. Threaten to attack, shoot a missile, test a nuclear weapon. Then what?

  “I had an interesting trip to Russia. The Bratva is seeking our help. They want to—how do the Americans say it?—create a seller’s market, I think.”

  Rafiq reached for the open pack of Marlboros and took one, leaving the pack on his side of the desk. “Explain.”

  “Cyberwarfare. They’re looking for a third party to hack the Chinese and spread disinformation throughout the region. Release war plans, diplomatic cables, that sort of thing.”

  “So the Russians can sell more hardware?”

  Pak nodded.

  Rafiq drew on his cigarette, holding his breath, finally expelling a long stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Too risky,” he said, pointing to the picture on the wall. “He’ll never agree to it.”

  “The Supreme Leader already has agreed to it.”

  Rafiq hid a smile behind another drag of his cigarette. “The Russians have legions of hackers. Why not do their own dirty work?”

  “Because they want the best—”

  “We’re not the best, not even close.”

  Pak’s lips tightened.

  “They want plausible deniability, Pak. If this goes wrong, it could start a shooting war. The Russian Brotherhood doesn’t want to be left holding the bag and they certainly don’t want any suspicion to fall on the Russian government. That’s why they want you to do it.”

  Pak stayed silent.

  Rafiq smoked his cigarette to the butt, then tapped another out of the pack. “It’s a tricky job. ‘Finesse’ is a good word to describe what’s needed.”

  “So you’ll do it then?”

  “How much are you getting under the table?”

  Pak reddened. “That’s insulting. How can you suggest I—”

  Rafiq leaned across the desk. “You know what’s insulting, P
ak? I’ve built the Supreme Leader’s covert-action capabilities into a world-class operation and I’m still freezing my balls off in this office. Your suit costs more than I made in the last six months. Every meal I eat is some sort of rice mixed with mystery meat—if it has meat at all.” He took a deep breath. “Answer me: How much are you skimming?”

  “A million,” Pak whispered.

  “Which means it’s actually one point five. I want half—and a way out of here when the time is right.”

  Pak nodded.

  “Good.” Rafiq sat back in his chair. “I need full authority—no interference from the chain of command. I report to you and you alone.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “I already have a core group of cyber people. I’ll need a squad of commandos for overseas work. Handpicked by me. I don’t want any informants in the group.”

  “You already have a plan,” Pak said.

  Rafiq shrugged, his shoulders straining at the confines of his uniform. “I’ve got something that has been waiting for an opportunity.”

  “Tell me.”

  Rafiq smiled but stayed silent. Pak snorted as a reply. This was a familiar dance between them. Rafiq Roshed delivered results, and Pak had learned not to interfere.

  “Anything else, Rafiq?”

  “A location. Someplace remote, secure, but with facilities for a top-notch cyber war room.”

  Pak brightened. “I know just the place.”

  CHAPTER 6

  South China Sea

  Lieutenant Commander Jake “Tracker” Hanson slipped his headphones off and hung them on the hook next to his pilot’s chair. The P-8 Poseidon aircraft rode high in a sun-drenched, cloudless sky over the sapphire blue of the South China Sea.

  He flipped his sunglasses up on his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. The steady drone of the jet engines was putting him to sleep. These freedom-of-navigation operations, or FONOPs, were his least favorite part of his job. Sure, they were great for racking up flight hours, but he preferred at least some activity. This run was a straight shot from Okinawa to Singapore—with a short dogleg to make sure they crossed within ten miles of a Chinese-made “island” in the Spratlys.