He couldn’t time the off and on pattern of any specific port as they blinked so rapidly, but he didn’t have to. He was waiting for something different to happen. How, he couldn’t fathom, but so far, the impossible seemed normal for the Americans.
He undid his belt and pulled out the slim wire with their newest Category 7 ethernet cable mating ports. He only had about two-and-a-half feet of wire, but it would be enough. Looping it over his arm, he redid his belt, and felt a bit foolish thinking that if he were caught he didn’t want it to be with his proverbial or literal pants down.
The wires led to a cabling harness that circled the room at each wall and ran at each level, allowing the wires to sit comfortably along this support rack. He managed to tuck the wire along the existing structure and found the main exchange where the KGB servers had their wires plugged into a mated set of longer cabling. He left one end there, the one with a splitter on it, after ensuring that he had visually identified the open port he would have to use. The other, he had near the server. Then, he waited.
It seemed a very long time, but he knew it was not more than two minutes. Port twelve suddenly stopped flashing, and then it lit up three times in succession in a very engineered manner before going out completely and staying off. Vlad knew he had less than a minute to do his work. He unplugged the wire and felt his hands go clammy as he replaced the port with his own wire.
Quickly, he moved a couple of feet down to the main server hub, pulling on the wire that he had just replaced. He saw where it was plugged into another port and he unplugged it at that location, freeing up the original wire. With sweaty hands, he took his own wire with the split head and two mating ends. He plugged one split end into the main hub that was used by the KGB server, but he lost track of the other port in the dim light. Fishing around his pants pocket, he brought out his smartphone and hit the clock app to bring up a white screen. He didn’t trust himself to swipe and try to find the flashlight app; he didn’t need it.
Spotting the label, GR2AB, he plugged the remaining end into the vacant port and watched. It took only a few seconds before that inactive port started to blink with activity, as had the original port. Stepping back to his left, he saw the original server resume its methodical business of sending and receiving data. The wire he had laid looked too obvious to him, so he tucked it under the older wiring and tried to smooth the cabling bed so that it looked natural. He mainly succeeded, except the dust was disturbed, and he felt both fear and anxiety at what he had done.
Up until now, Vlad had done nothing overt to help an enemy—he had only omitted information that he should have reported to his overseers in the course of his duties. Today, that changed. I do this for humanity, he thought to himself, stepping back for one last moment to admire his handiwork.
His argument waned quickly in his mind and his last thought was harsh even by his own standards.
No, I do this for myself. Now, I am a traitor.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
Langley, Virginia
In the near future, Year 4, Day 179
“TIME’S RUNNING OUT,” Specialist Marks said to no one in particular.
A colleague at the adjacent console looked over at him. “Are we sure his handler gave him the proper instructions?”
“Oh, yeah,” a third man said, tapping away on his console in their operation’s center, one of several used for various mission control and monitoring tasks. “The babushka and his girlfriend had him briefed two days ago.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of a good booty,” a fourth, younger man said.
He received a few chuckles that quickly faded when the sound of tapping on a keyboard at the master console at the rear of the room reminded them of who was really in charge of this operation. Amy Miller was making a log entry, and she purposely tapped away harder on the mechanical keyboard, getting the attention of her analysts within the room.
She knew how covert operations went, having been a specialist for the CIA for nearly a decade in Europe, compromising powerful men and governmental leaders of every stripe. She had even worked on certain women in positions of power who had an inclination for the same gender, at least until her appearance had caught up to her age in her mid-thirties. No longer considered as effective in that field roll, she had transitioned to the NCS or National Clandestine Service within the only organization she had ever known—the CIA.
Her current mission focused on compromising the Director of Space Services in the Communist regime once known as Russia. His mistress was a long-cultured agency asset who was now being utilized to flip the number one man in their space program. The agency didn’t have bias as a bureaucratic department. It would prosecute every lead and capitalize on every weakness of any target, or potential target, that was centered in its crosshairs. Unlike the cinema version, the CIA didn’t care if a target was altruistic or simply greedy. It only wanted to identify and exploit its weakness, and when it came to HUMINT, every target had one.
Amy paused before hitting send on her log entry then pushed her black-rimmed glasses back on her nose. “Did you verify the power interruption, Marks?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the specialist said over his shoulder, then he looked back at his monitor and punched in a code to bring the latest data on the Moscow power grid up on his workstation monitor. The man would spend a few minutes verifying what he had done twice already.
“Do you think we’re not getting a data feed due to mechanical issues?” another specialist asked from the front row.
More than one head swiveled in her direction and she quickly answered, “No, the man is hesitant. Give him more time.”
She noticed one head bob in agreement while two others shook almost imperceptibly. She was an expert on body language and behavior, smiling at how naïve some of her staff were in matters as close to home as this. She was sure her target was hesitating, weighing his actions against his moral code and the social code that defined every member of humanity. She willed for it to tilt in her favor ... not for the first nor the last time in her life.
“Bingo,” her chief analyst said, punching up a screen and putting the display on the main monitor in front. Staring back at them was the picture and profile information of their target, one Vladimir Berdenko of the Soviet Union.
“Make sure you wipe the record entry for the power interruption on their substation server,” Amy ordered her specialist, who covered that specific area of operations. If any investigation looked into lost server time at the Cosmodrome, it would be traced back to the power grid that housed one of three KGB communication hubs. Months ago, they had identified which one was the primary feed for the space agency, and now they had interrupted its power supply in Moscow, thousands of miles away. The subterfuge would work, at least for a while.
“Consider it done, Miss Miller,” her analyst said.
Amy picked up her phone and hit a speed dial button, then waited for her boss to answer. “Donald, mission complete. Yes, sir, we’ll pass the asset on now. Understood, and thank you, sir. Goodnight.”
The Deputy Director of the CIA would ensure that the information was passed onto the executive branch at the daily national security briefing meeting held each morning. The President of the United States would know what her agency had accomplished in only a few short hours. Now, she had one more task to complete before she could call it a night.
Amy toggled her phone cradle switch to get a new dial tone and then hit a different speed-dial button, waiting for her counterpart to answer. “Edith?”
“Speaking,” the woman said.
“Good. Amy here. The Russian is in play; you’ve got the balls.”
It was a Freudian slip, but the other woman, an older lady, was eager to respond, “Don’t we always?”
“Enjoy,” Amy said simply, stifling a chuckle and thinking it was far too late to be silly at a time like this—however, the euphoria of success was intoxicating. Amy didn’t know her target’s handler, Irina, personally, but if
she ever met the woman, she’d buy her a drink and take her back to her place and show her how appreciative she was. The thought was refreshing. Amy hung the phone back in its cradle.
Mission accomplished.
NSA HEADQUARTERS
Fort Meade, Maryland
In the near future, Year 4, Day 179
EDITH BROWN HUNG THE phone up and snapped her fingers at one of her analysts, who was working on his sixteenth hour. The man’s head bounced up off his chest and he nodded at her while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The late autumn air brought fresh bouts of the flu and she was short-staffed at a critical time. Close to half of her staff was ill; a quarter was out of the office altogether.
She walked to the printer and took the Central Intelligence Agency’s formal handoff on Operation Soviet Skies. It was an arcane way to deal with their bureaucratic relationship, but her counterpart, Amy Miller, was being cordial by telephoning to convey the transfer of responsibility, at least for the electronic asset that had just been put into play. The CIA would continue to cultivate their HUMINT resources, but the electronic data that was now being fed to their safe house and satellite uplink in Siberia outside of Korsk, for the NSA to collect, analyze, and act on. The actual resources at the safe house would play a critical role in extracting their HUMINT collaborators when the time was right.
She walked the paper to the hole punch and gave it a forceful whack to emphasize the need for alertness within their office, then she walked it over to the scanner and sent an image of it to her inbox. Then, she went to a clipboard hanging with several others on a near wall and secured the document onto the board, then retreated to her desk.
Opening the file, she renamed it and then sent it to an address list of nine names. She knew it was close to three in the morning her time and her immediate supervisor, Mister Smith, would most likely call her in a couple of hours, when he woke up. He was a workaholic, and that suited her just fine, the pair being of like mind on the subject of labor. She had the day crew scheduled to come in at five o’clock instead of the usual seven and then around nine or ten, after the early round of meetings and briefings were over, she’d be able to go home and catch a couple of hours of sleep before returning for another late afternoon meeting. Extra afternoon meetings always accompanied the morning meetings when there was something of importance to note, and today was exactly that kind of day.
NSA SAFE HOUSE
Siberia, Russia
In the near future, Year 4, Day 179
THE AFTERNOON SUN HAD set and the temperature began to plummet as quickly as it had risen that morning. The early snow had covered most of their small dacha, and Igor Federov walked in for the last time that day. Once in, with a fire roaring, they would not venture outside into the cold again unless absolutely necessary.
The smell of steaming cabbage with a hint of meat tickled his senses. His two grandchildren ran to greet him. They had been home from school for the past week due to illnesses that were running rampant across the region. Many children stayed home instead of going to school so as to avoid the spread of the virus. They didn’t need educated city folk to tell them how to prevent the spread of disease. Igor’s family had been doing this since the early twentieth century, when his ancestors had settled in the region.
The reason for the settling by his family in such harsh conditions was due to them being a part of history. Stalin had sent many to the gulags of the last century, and many families had followed to be close to their loved ones. The first Soviet government had seen this as a way to populate the extreme regions of the country. Igor’s great-grandfather had come here as a child in order for his parents to be close to his grandparents, who had been interned at a camp not far from their home. His great-great-grandparents had died in that prison. The anger had never subsided despite his old age.
“No more fire wood, my love?” his wife, Alla, asked, planting a kiss on his forehead since his large beard covered the rest of his face and mouth.
“It’s chopped and by the door—enough for the rest of the month,” Igor said, closing his eyes and enjoying the aroma of fresh soup. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“You’re too kind,” she said, walking back to the kitchen and readying the bowls for them to eat. The children took their places at the table and so did Igor.
She served each in turn and brought over a plate of bread. Butter and honey were already on the table, and the children waited for their grandparents to say grace before beginning to eat. They did so for a few minutes in silence before Igor asked, “Any news from Roman?”
Alla nodded. “He and Nastya wrote again this week, as usual.”
“Aye, hard times for everyone this time of year,” he said, then, looking at his grandchildren, he asked, “You two ready to read your parents’ letters?”
“Yes,” they said in unison, beaming from ear to ear.
“Can we take the children to visit their mama and papa one more time this year?” Alla asked her husband, though she graced the children with a smile.
Igor sighed and looked at their longing faces and the love within the eyes of his wife. Their own child, Roman, and daughter-in-law, Anastasia, were political activists and schoolteachers at the nearby town. After the second Soviet revolution, they had protested and found themselves incarcerated for inciting violence against the state. It seemed that their current leaders had not learned from history, and the Federov family would once again pay the price.
“Da,” he said simply, willing to take an entire day to travel by train to the indoctrination camp where their grandchildren’s parents were being held. It would mean more work on the other days, but Igor would do this for family; he would do this for love. He would do a lot of things, now.
The sounds of clinking spoons were interrupted by the whirling of computer equipment as it came to life, barely audible; a faint alarm tone was distinct and well known to the pair. Alla gave her husband a knowing look and helped the children to finish before escorting them into the main room and adding another log to the fire.
Igor moved the table himself and received a reproachful look from his wife, who quickly cleared the bowls and finished helping him with the furniture move. Reaching for the trap door which the table had concealed, Igor opened it and quickly descended the steps into their small cellar. He crossed to the work table, which had nails, hammers, and other equipment strewn across it.
Pushing those off to the side, he pulled back on the door to a hidden compartment, exposing three computers. They had only ever used one their entire lives—he’d only ever seen his parents use one. The other two were connected but never used. Every few years, the equipment would be swapped out and upgraded by a contact from far away Vladivostok, who drove to their homestead. The last few years, the hard drive of the one computer may have worked once or twice a month, recording the data that it received via a receiver which had been hooked up to look like a simple radio antenna but which was now obsolete.
Today was different. The older hard drive of the first computer was writing madly as it took in data in immense quantities. The data would be stored and then transmitted to their satellite receiver in the greenhouse. They had a fully-functional antenna dish that was the size of a small car, purchased by his parents decades ago in order to watch the main Russian television channels. They were common in rural areas such as Siberia. These three computers, however, were attached to a much smaller, much more effective dish, hidden away and pointed at a geosynchronous satellite far on the southern horizon.
Igor and Alla exchanged glances and silenced the alarm by pressing a single button, then activated the power supply for the other two. They booted up, taking a good minute and a half, then they mimicked the first computer, greedily accepting the data feed and recording the large information stream onto its older disk system.
“Something big?” Alla asked, her brows raised high in excitement.
“Da,” Igor said, then added, “It’s about damn time, too.”
&n
bsp; Chapter 8
China
PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC SPACE Command
Beijing, China
In the near future, Year 4, Day 179
HUN SAT IN THE EMPTY lunch room well after the end of their scheduled shift. He had picked his soup up from his uncle for the third day in a row, and the first two days, his uncle had said something rather cryptic. All wise men know that an onion has many layers. True, his soup had more and more onion in it each day, but he was sure he was missing something. Today, his uncle had said, All attentive and wise men know that an onion has many layers.
After eating the soup, he looked into the empty cup, a stiff paper product coated with polyethylene that had kept the hot soup from soaking into the paper. He gingerly tapped at it with his plastic spoon and then set the items back down after seeing nothing. The lid sat next to the cup, and he didn’t see anything noticeable with that either ... or did he?
Reaching for it, he pulled the cup lid closer and inspected it. The paper lid also had the coating on the inside of it, but something did catch his eye now. At the very edge of the cup lid, under the lip and on the bottom side, a small, almost imperceptible piece of a hard onion was wedged between the paper lining and the lid itself.
Hun looked up and forced himself not to make eye contact with the security camera that was encased in its tinted, semi-circular ball on the ceiling. Now he was feeling foolish and wondering how much of his inspection of his soup cup was being observed and what, if anything, the observer would note. He racked his mind to think about what he had been doing the last three days, and in one fell move, he scooped everything up, placed it in the small brown paper bag, and walked to the nearest trashcan. He stood where he blocked the view of the camera and quickly pocketed the lid while discarding the bag.
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