In the Spook Booth, the NSA agent pointed to the screens displaying what Bobby Sung and Eric were doing. “The interruption in service comes first,” he explained to the rep from the National Security Council. “Then the Cyberknight making the hack wipes away the old header information and substitutes the one we came up with, the Trojan horse.”
Though he really didn’t understand everything that was going on in the Pit, the NSC rep grunted and nodded knowingly.
Back in the Pit, Eric drew his hands away from his keyboard and into the air. “Done!”
Bobby Sung, alerted to this by his compatriot’s actions and announcement, removed the block from the targeted system. When the warning banner on his screen was replaced by a “Service resumed” message, the EWK let his hands fall away from the keyboard and to his sides. Dispassionately he watched his monitor, which was now showing him the same thing the systems administrator of the hacked computer was seeing. If anyone had noticed the break in service, they would notify the system administrator, who would, in turn, initiate some sort of action to find out what had happened.
Again the Pit became still as everyone watched for a flurry of activity on the portion or the big screen showing them Bobby Sung’s screen display. From his seat the OIC took note of the time. It had been decided that a thirty-minute pause would be sufficient to allay any fears that their insertion of the Trojan horse had gone undetected.
As before, Eric found himself unable to contain his nervous energy. With all his pencils out of reach, Eric began to drum his fingers on the tabletop as he watched the big screen. He was in the middle of rapping out a tune when he felt a sharp slap across the back of his right hand. Stunned, he looked over at the interpreter next to him. Surprised by her action and the scowl she wore, Eric pulled his injured hand up to his chest and began to rub it as he stared at his attacker as if to ask, “Why did you do that?”
Having anticipated this, the interpreter shoved a note in front of his face. In angry strokes, the note read, “Stop with the noise, before I am forced to break your fingers.”
Reaching over and snatching the pencil from her hand, Eric turned as he took up his notepad and jotted out a response. When it was finished, he flashed his response at her. “Oh yeah!” it read. “You and what army?”
Seeing an opportunity to pass time by engaging in something more exciting than watching the big screen, Eric and the female interpreter exchanged a flurry of notes.
They were still at it when Captain Reitter broke the silence. “It looks as if the Trojan horse is in place and doing its thing. It’s time to move on to phase two.”
Before breaking off the silent war of words, Eric scribbled out one more message to his neighborly foe. “We’ll continue this later.” After delivering that, he swiveled about in his seat and took up where he had left off. “Okay, Scottie,” Eric announced over the intercom, “beam me up.”
Without a word the pathfinder prepared to launch back out into cyberspace from the computer they had hacked into and on to the one at the chemical plant chosen for destruction. Using macnife’s screen name, he initiated the new hack from macnife’s own computer. Unlike before, he made no effort to cover his tracks or weave his way through the Internet along a predetermined route. For this part of the operation to be successful, the pathfinder had to leave a traceable path from macnife’s machine to the chemical plant for the cyberwarfare specialists in the other nation to find.
The point of entry at the new site was the computer system at the chemical plant that handled the shipping and tracking of the plant’s products. This point, according to the system expert, would be the easiest port through which they could enter and gain access to the rest of the system. While he watched the pathfinder hand off the attack to Bobby Sung so that he could crack the security codes, the system expert unfolded a diagram of the chemical plant’s network.
As before, Bobby Sung wormed his way through the security gateways and worked his way through the system until he had reached the network’s root directory. From his seat, Eric looked at up the big screen before him. “Gee,” he muttered as he took in the screen before him. “I thought you said this plant had been built by a German firm.”
“The plant is German,” the SE replied. “But the computer network is based upon an American design.”
“I sure hope the American firm got some royalties out of this deal,” the interpreter remarked.
Bobby Sung snickered. “Not likely.”
From his seat, Reitter called out. “Let’s settle down and deal with the issue at hand.”
Unlike the previous sessions that had passed in near-total silence, a lively exchange began between the system expert, who guided Eric through the computer network that ran the plant, the interpreter, who translated when they came across something in Chinese, and Eric himself, who asked them both questions. To assist in this effort, each of these three had laser pointers with which they could point to the word or section of the plant’s computer screen that was now displayed on the big screen.
“Okay,” the SE stated triumphantly. “The second file down contains the program that runs the control panel.”
“Well,” Eric mused as he highlighted the file and clicked his mouse. “Let’s see what we shall see.”
After taking a moment or two to study the series of computer commands, the language/program expert heaved a great sigh of relief. “They’ve not changed a thing. All the preprogrammed defaults are still set.”
The system expert nodded. “Agreed. We can proceed as planned.”
Leaning forward, Eric locked his fingers and flexed them as a concert pianist would before playing. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Now, for my first number, I shall play, ‘Let’s fuck with the emergency shutoff.’”
“He’s a cocky little bastard,” the NSA agent commented to the group assembled in the Spook Booth.
Coming to Eric’s defense, Colonel Shrewsbery countered. “He’s twenty-five years old, playing the world’s most sophisticated computer game.” Turning, he looked over at the NSA man. “Like you, we recruit brains, not personality.”
Quickly Eric moved from item to item, changing the settings. In some cases he reversed values, so that when the computer screen in the control room showed the operator that a valve was open, it was actually closed and vice versa. Simple mathematical formulas were added to lines that displayed temperatures of the huge vats where chemical reactions and mixing took place. The inserted formulas were written so that the measured temperature at the vat showed up on the control room’s computer as being substantially lower than it actually was. Together with the disabling of the automated-shutdown sequence and fire-suppression system, the new settings were designed to initiate an uncontrolled chain reaction. Not only would the personnel in the control room be unaware of what was going on until it was too late, when they did take steps to shut down the plant or activate emergency procedures, the false readings they were seeing and the reversed controls they were manipulating would only serve to increase both the speed of the disaster and its magnitude.
When he was finished, Eric leaned back in his seat, pushed his chair away from his workstation, and looked up at the big screen. Slowly, he checked each line he had altered, character by character. When he had finished, he twisted about in his seat and looked up at Bobby Sung. “What do you think, old boy?”
Sung, who had been watching every move Eric had made, took another long look at the big screen before he nodded in approval. “Bloody good show, old boy. I’d say we have a keeper here.”
Though annoyed by their lighthearted manner, Reitter said nothing. The two Cyberknights, like everyone else in the Pit, were under a great deal of pressure.
When the hackers were satisfied, Eric next turned to his left. “Do you see anything that needs a second look?”
Both the systems expert and the language/programs expert took a few extra moments to scan the altered settings and formulas. In turn, each gave Eric a thumbs-up when they were sat
isfied.
With that, Eric glanced back at the pathfinder. “Okay, Scottie. Take us home.” As was his particular habit, the pathfinder clicked his heels three times, repeating the old cliché, “there’s no place like home,” each time while he backed out of the chemical plant’s main computer and prepared to quit the Internet. Finished, he clapped his hands. “We’re out.”
Without hesitation, Reitter called out over his boom mike. “Comms, break down the link. I say again, break down the link.”
In the Pit, the red banner that warned that they were connected to the World Wide Web suddenly disappeared. Standing up, Reitter looked about the room. “It is now nineteen thirty-five hours. Our initial afteraction review will take place commencing twenty hundred in the main conference room.” Though this briefing was standard, the assembled team let out a collective groan. Then, without further ado, all of the players began to gather up the material they had brought with them and prepared to leave.
From his seat in the Spook Booth, the representative of the National Security Council blinked before he looked over at Shrewsbery, then at the NSA and CIA reps. “That’s it?” he asked incredulously.
As one, everyone connected to the 401st, as well as the special agents from the CIA and NSA, looked about, wondering if they had missed something. Confused, Shrewsbery looked back at the NSC rep. “What were you expecting? Armageddon?”
“Well,” the NSC rep asked, still not sure of what had just taken place, “how do you know if you’ve succeeded?”
Shrewsbery did his best to hide his disgust. It was obvious that this refugee from inside the Beltway had expected to see explosions and death and destruction in real time, just like in the movies. When he had composed himself, Shrewsbery stood up. “Well,” he stated as tactfully as he could, “as far as the Trojan horse goes, it will be a few days before the NSA will know just how effective that is.”
“What about the chemical plant?”
Shrewsbery shrugged. “My advice is to watch CNN tomorrow morning. If we succeeded, it’ll be all over the news.”
“And the ploy to foment distrust between the two nations?” the NSC rep continued.
“That, sir,” Shrewsbery answered, making no effort to hide his irritation, “we may never know.”
Stymied, the civilian advisor stood there, looking about at the men and women gathered about in the Spook Booth. “So, that’s it? This is how we will go about fighting our wars in the twenty-first century?”
Bowing his head, Colonel Shrewsbery reflected upon that comment for a moment. He had asked himself the same question time and time again until the truth had finally sunk in. “Yes,” he answered, making no effort to hide the regret he felt over this state of affairs. “That’s pretty much it.” Then, sporting a wicked smile, he looked over at the NSA rep and gave him a wink. “Last person out, please turn off the lights.”
Without another word, the infantry colonel pivoted about and made for the exit. In so many ways, his job was finished.
HAROLD W. COYLE graduated from the Virginia Military Institute in 1974 with a B.A. in history and a commission as a second lieutenant in Armor.
His first assignment was in Germany, where he served for five years as a tank platoon leader, a tank company executive officer, a tank battalion assistant operations officer, and as a tank company commander. Following that he attended the Infantry Officers Advanced Course at Fort Benning, Georgia, became a branch chief in the Armor School’s Weapons Department at Fort Knox, Kentucky, worked with the National Guard in New England, spent a year in the Republic of Korea as an assistant operations officer, and went to Fort Hood, Texas, for a tour of duty as the G-3 Training officer of the First Cavalry Division and the operations officer of Task Force I-32 Armor, a combined arms maneuver task force.
His last assignment with the Army was at the the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. In January 1991 he reported to the Third Army, with which he served during Desert Storm. Resigning his commission after returning from the Gulf in the spring of 1991, he continues to serve as a lieutenant colonel in the Army’s Individual Ready Reserve. He writes full-time and has produced the following novels: Team Yankee, Sword Point, Bright Star, Trial by Fire, The Ten Thousand, Code of Honor, Look Away, Until the End, Savage Wilderness, and God’s Children.
FLIGHT OF ENDEAVOUR
BY R.J. PINEIRO
One
The soft whirl of the Environmental Control and Life Support System broke the silence of space, the dead calm that Russian Mission Specialist Sergei Dudayev had grown to detest since his arrival at the International Space Station three months before. He knew he didn’t belong there, in the pressurized cylindrical modules that had been his entire world for what now seemed like an eternity. A place where “up” and “down” had no meaning, no significance. A state-of-the-art rat cage where humans worked, ate, and slept protected from outer space by layers of metal alloys and insulating compounds.
Outer space. Sergei frowned as he gazed out through the Habitation Module’s panoramic windowpanes at the light cloud coverage over southern Africa. The Earth looked peaceful, quiet, majestic.
At five-foot-four, the thirty-year-old Russian cosmonaut was a short man, particularly when standing next to his American or European colleagues. With a neatly trimmed beard, hollow cheeks, and charming smile, Sergei gave the impression of someone who found no pleasure in food. In his long, bony face, Sergei’s alert, rather feminine eyes had an Italian softness that made people feel at ease with him. Today, he was banking on his natural ability to make everyone inside the International Space Station feel comfortable in his presence.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of his own breathing as he prepared himself mentally for what he had to do. He felt his heartbeat increasing, the adrenaline rush, the perspiration forming on his creased forehead.
He opened his eyes and stared at a perfectly round bead of sweat floating inches from his face. He placed his index finger and thumb around it and toyed with it for a few seconds before squashing it. The silent explosion projected hundreds of tiny liquid particles in an isotropic that slowly trended upward as they got sucked in by the airrevitalization-system extractors overhead.
The time had come. With Atlantis heading back down to Earth and the launch of the shuttle Endeavour at the cape being delayed by a week, the ISS’s regular crew of eight had been temporarily reduced to five, including himself.
The opportunity to take over the U.S. military’s GPATS module would never be so easy. The Global Protection Against Terrorist Strikes module was one of several modules that made up the current core of the station. But unlike its sister modules, which served either as living quarters or to run experiments and collect data, GPATS, the highly classified military payload of a shuttle flight a year ago, housed a prototype hydrogen fluoride chemical laser gun powered by an array of solar cells. Initially plagued with bugs, the laser had already proven itself useful six months ago, when a malfunctioning satellite had come dangerously close to colliding with the space station. The laser had managed to transfer enough energy to the satellite to deflect its trajectory, missing the station by a thousand feet. Since then, the Pentagon, in order to protect the station from space junk, had used two shuttle flights to haul a billion dollars’ worth of upgrades to increase its power and accuracy, making it capable of disabling enemy satellites as well as incoming nuclear warheads—its design objective during the Strategic Defense Initiative project over a decade ago. But GPATS also housed another weapon, deployed at the request of the United Nations Security Council: thirty BLU-85 warheads, each fitted with individual Earth reentry boosters. The BLU-85 was the largest nonnuclear warhead made by the United States, big brother of the venerable BLU-82 used during the Vietnam era to clear out large areas of forest for helicopter landing pads. The purpose of the BLU-85 aboard the ISS: a tactical, nonnuclear, firststrike antiterrorist-capability weapon that could be delivered with surgical precision anywhere on Earth within
minutes. Each warhead provided the equivalent yield of fifteen thousand tons of TNT, or fifteen kilotons—small when compared to the two-hundred-kiloton warheads atop ICBMs, but large enough for its intended application. A single BLU-85 could level a military compound in a hostile nation, vaporize a terrorist training camp, discourage an advancing army, or destroy a cocaine plantation—all with the push of a button, and guided to its target by its own radar in shoot-and-forget mode. In procedures similar to the ones followed for decades by missile-silo crewmen, the weapons were kept in a state of readiness, their launching controlled by two crew members from the United States, the country that footed the entire GPATS bill. GPATS was the United Nations’ ultimate hammer against a rebellious nation or terrorist group, capable of delivering a quick and devastating blow without the large overhead of troop deployments or air strikes, or the political and moral problems associated with a nuclear strike.
And now I will use this weapon against the Russian butchers, thought Sergei, who had become aware of this secret payload during the last month of his training.
Sergei Viktor Dudayev was Russian by birth, but his heart belonged to the struggling people of Chechnya, the land where he’d spent most of his youth as the son of a military officer during the final decade of the Soviet Union. Growing up in Grozny, Chechnya’s capital, had allowed the young Dudayev to develop strong bonds with the locals, some of whom were killed during the turbulent civil war period following the fall of the Soviet Union. This secret loyalty had remained very much alive inside Sergei Dudayev after he’d left that war-scarred land, abandoning his friends in their fight for independence. The fire continued to burn in his heart even after he had settled in Moscow and tried to start a new life; even as he himself climbed the military ladder of the Russian military, following in his father’s footsteps; even as his distinguished career eventually led him to the Russian space program.
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