Rogue Forces

by Dale Brown

  “Can’t guarantee I will all the time, Patrick, but I’ll try. And I’m Kris. Let’s get you settled.”

  “Can’t. Jon and I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow afternoon’s test flight. The staff will set up quarters for us, but I’ll probably take naps in the plane.”

  “Same here,” Jon added. “Certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “We’ll have support services bring meals out to the plane, then.”

  “Good. Kris, I’d like clearance to be in the Tank when the operation at Zahuk begins.”

  “The colonel doesn’t usually allow off-duty personnel to be in the Tank during an operation, especially one this big,” Kris said, “but I’m sure he’ll let you listen in from up here.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to get any closer than that to Wilhelm anyway,” Jon said. “I thought for sure he was going to punch your lights out, Muck…twice.”

  “But he didn’t, which means he does have some common sense,” Patrick said. “Maybe I can work with him. We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the one hand he is carrying a stone, while he shows the bread in the other.

  —TITUS MACCIUS PLAUTUS, 254–184 B.C.

  ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, IRAQ

  Thompson took Patrick and Jon back out to the hangar, where the crew chiefs and support crew were unloading bags and servicing the Loser. This gave Thompson a chance to look the plane over carefully. “This thing is beautiful,” he remarked. “Looks like a stealth bomber. I thought you were just going to do reconnaissance.”

  “That’s what we were hired to do,” Patrick said.

  “But this is a bomber?”

  “Was a bomber.”

  Thompson noticed technicians working under the aircraft’s belly and saw a large opening. “Is that a bomb bay? This thing still has a bomb bay?”

  “That’s a module access hatch,” Jon Masters said. “We don’t drop anything from it—we load and unload modules through them.”

  “The Loser had two bomb bays, similar to the B-2 stealth bomber except much bigger,” Patrick explained. “We combined the two bays into one big bay but retained both lower doors. We then split the bay into two decks. We’re able to move mission modules around and between decks and maneuver each module either up or down through the module hatches, all by remote control.”

  “A flying-wing reconnaissance plane?”

  “The flying-wing design works well as a long-range multimission plane,” Jon Masters said. “Airliners in the future will be flying wings.”

  “Scion’s planes are designed to be multifunction platforms; we plug in different mission modules to perform different tasks,” Patrick said. “This plane can be a tanker, cargo plane, do electronic warfare, photoreconnaissance, communications relay, command-and-control—even several of these functions at the same time.

  “Right now we’re configured for ground moving-target indication, ground target identification and tracking, air surveillance, datalink, and command-and-control,” Patrick went on. “But if we brought different modules, we can load them up and perform different missions. Tomorrow we’ll have the air surveillance emitters up top.”

  He then stepped underneath the plane and showed Thompson a large opening in the belly. “Through here, we’ll suspend the ground target emitter module for ground target identification and tracking. All of the modules are ‘plug-and-play’ through the ship’s digital communications suite, which uploads the data via satellite to the end users. Other modules we’ve installed are for the very-wide-area networking, threat detection and response, and self-protection.”

  “‘Threat response’? You mean, attack?”

  “I can’t really get into that system because it’s not part of the contract and it’s still experimental,” Patrick said, “but we’d like to do a little more to the bad guys than just decoy or jam their weapons.”

  Patrick took Kris up the ladder and into the Loser. The cockpit looked roomy and comfortable. The instrument panel was composed of five wide monitors with a few normal “steam” gauges tucked away almost out of sight. “Pretty nice flight deck.”

  “Aircraft commander and mission commander up front as usual,” Patrick said. He put a hand on the side-facing seat behind the copilot’s seat. “We have a flight engineer here who monitors all of the ship’s systems and the mission modules.”

  Kris motioned to a counter behind the boarding ladder. “You even have a galley in here!”

  “Flushing head, too; that comes in handy on these long flights,” Jon said.

  They ducked through a small hatch in the rear of the cockpit, walked down a short narrow passageway, and emerged into an area fairly stuffed with cargo containers of all sizes, leaving only narrow aisles to walk around. “I thought you contractors rode around in planes with bedrooms and gold-plated faucets,” Kris quipped.

  “I’ve never even seen a gold faucet, let alone ride in a plane with them,” Patrick said. “No, every square foot and every pound has to count.” He pointed to a half cargo module, the thinnest of all the ones installed in the plane that Kris could see. “That’s our baggage and personal items container. Each of the twenty-five persons we brought on this flight was limited to twenty pounds of luggage, and that included their laptops. Needless to say we’ll be visiting your commissary a lot on this deployment.”

  They had to maneuver around a large gray-colored torpedo-shaped object that took up a great deal of the middle of the plane. “This must be the antenna that’ll stick out the top, I presume?” Kris asked.

  “That’s it,” Patrick said. “It’s a laser radar module. Range is classified, but we can see well into space and it’s powerful enough to even look underwater. The electronically scanned laser emitters ‘draw’ pictures of everything they see millions of times a second with resolution three times better than Global Hawk. There’s another one down below that’s set up to scan for ground targets.”

  “Kind of looks like a missile,” Kris observed. “And that opening down below still looks to me like a bomb bay.” He looked at Patrick with a curious expression. “‘Threat response,’ eh? Maybe you’re not out of the strategic bomber business after all, General?”

  “Our contract calls for observing and reporting. Like the colonel said: no more, no less.”

  “Yeah, right, General—and when I open a potato chip bag, I can eat only one,” Kris quipped. He looked around. “I don’t see any passenger seats on this thing. Did you take them out already?”

  “If you’re going to report us to the FAA for not having approved seats and seat belts for each occupant—yes, Kris, we already took them out,” Patrick said.

  “Jeez, you’re really blowing the image of you aviation contractors all to hell, sir,” Kris said, shaking his head. “I always thought you guys lived large.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble. There are two extra seats in the cockpit and some engineer seats at some of the modules topside and belowdecks that we share depending on who needs some real rest, but everyone brings sleeping bags and foam mats and stretches out wherever. I prefer the luggage cargo container myself—quiet and very well padded.”

  “I think our containerized quarters will seem luxurious compared to this, sir,” Kris said. “You don’t have any radar operators on board?”

  “The only way we can fit all this stuff inside the plane is to leave the radar operators, weapons controllers, and battle staff officers on the ground and datalink the info to them,” Patrick said. “But that’s the easy part. We can tie into anyone’s network pretty quickly, and we can send the data to just about anyone in the world—from the White House all the way down to a commando in a spider hole—via a multitude of methods. I’ll show you tonight in the briefing room.”

  With technicians swarming all around the plane like ants, Thompson soon felt he was in the way. “I’m headed back to the Tank, Patrick,” he said. “Holler if you need anything.”

  He didn
’t see Patrick again until nine P.M. that evening. Thompson found him and Jon Masters in the conference room overlooking the Tank sitting in front of two large wide-screen laptop computers. The screens were divided into many different windows, most dark but some displaying video images. He took a closer look and was surprised to see what appeared to be a video feed from an aerial platform. “Where’s that image coming from, sir?” he asked.

  “That’s Kelly Two-Two, a Reaper on its way to Zahuk,” Patrick replied.

  Thompson looked at the laptops and realized that they didn’t have any data connections attached—the only cords coming into them were from AC adapters. “How did you get the feed? You’re not hooked up to our data stream, are you?”

  “We’ve got the Loser fired up and scanning for datalinks,” Jon said. “When it picks up a datalink, it splices itself into the feed.”

  “Your ‘Wi-Fi hot spot’ thingy, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you got a wireless connection into here?”

  “Yep.”

  “How? We prohibit wireless networking inside the Triple-C, and the Tank is supposed to be shielded.”

  Jon looked over at Patrick, who nodded his permission to explain. “Turned one way and a shield can be used to block things,” Jon said. “Turn it the other way and a shield can be used to collect things.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s complicated and not always reliable, but we can usually penetrate most metallic shields,” Jon said. “Sometimes we can even get the shielding to act as an antenna for us. Active electromagnetic shields are tougher to penetrate, but you rely on the metal walls of the Tank and reinforced concrete and physical distance to shield the Triple-C. All that works in our favor.”

  “You’ll have to explain to my physical security guys how you did this.”

  “Of course. We can help you fix it, too.”

  “Hack into our system and then charge us to plug the leak, General?” Thompson asked, only partially sarcastically. “Hell of a way to make a living.”

  “My son grows out of his shoes every six months, Kris,” Patrick said with a wink.

  “I’ll submit it,” Thompson said. He didn’t feel comfortable knowing it was apparently so easy to tap into their datalinks. “Who else are you plugged into?”

  Jon looked over at Patrick again, who nodded assent. “Just about the whole operation,” Jon said. “We’ve channelized the entire command VHF and UHF radio net and the intercom here in the Triple-C, locked into the wide-area network created by the Stryker Combat Team, and we’re receiving the IMs between the tactical, brigade, and theater controllers.”

  “IMs?”

  “Instant messages,” Patrick said. “The easiest way for controllers to pass information like target coordinates or imagery analysis to others who are on the same network but can’t exchange datalinks is by plain old instant messages.”

  “Like my daughter texting messages to her friends on her computer or cell phone?”

  “Exactly,” Patrick said. He expanded a window, and Thompson saw a stream of chat messages—combat controllers describing a target area, sending geographic coordinates, and even passing along jokes and commenting on a ball game. “Sometimes the simplest routines are the best.”

  “Cool.” When the IM window was moved so Kris could see it, it uncovered another window underneath it, and he was surprised…to see himself looking over Patrick’s shoulder! “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You tapped into my video security system?”

  “We weren’t trying to do that—it just happened,” Jon said, grinning. Thompson didn’t look amused. “No joke, Kris. Our system searches for all the remote networks to plug into, and it found this one as well. It’s just the video system, although we did happen across some other security-related networks and declined access.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d decline access on all of them, General,” Thompson said stonily. Patrick nodded to Jon, who entered some instructions. The video feed disappeared. “That was not wise, General. If there’s a security problem after this, I’ll have to look at you as a probable source of the breach.”

  “Understood,” Patrick said. He turned to look at the security chief. “But there obviously is some sort of breach, because there is someone on Nahla Air Base shooting at friendly aircraft. Since we’ve been hired to enhance security around this whole sector, I can argue that I can legally access something like video feeds.”

  Thompson peered concernedly at McLanahan, his mouth rigid. After a few rather chilly moments he said, “The colonel said you were the kind of guy who’d rather ask forgiveness than ask permission.”

  “I get more done that way, Kris,” Patrick said matter-of-factly. But a moment later, he got to his feet and faced Thompson directly. “I apologize for that, Kris,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound so flippant about security matters. It’s your job and your responsibility. I’ll notify you the next time we stray across something like that again, and I’ll get your permission before I access it.”

  Thompson realized that if Patrick had hacked into the security system once, he could just as easily do it again, with or without his permission. “Thank you, sir, but frankly I don’t believe that.”

  “I’m serious, Kris. You tell me to shut it down, and it’s done…period.”

  What if he didn’t shut it down? Thompson asked himself. What recourse did he have against a private contractor? He vowed to research the answer to that question right away. “I’m not going to argue about it, sir,” Kris said. “But you are here to assist me in securing this sector, so you can tie back in if you think it’s essential to your job. Just tell me when you’re back in, why, and what you’ve found.”

  “Done. Thank you.”

  “What other security-related areas were you able to access?”

  “Colonel Jaffar’s internal security network.”

  A cold sweat popped out under Kris’s collar. “Internal security? He doesn’t have an internal security staff. You mean his personal bodyguards?”

  “That may be what you think it is, Kris, but it looks to me like he’s got an entire shadow J-staff—operations, intelligence, logistics, personnel, training, and security,” Jon said. “They do everything in Arabic, and there’s no foreigners on it that we can see.”

  “That means that he has his men in charge of the entire regiment’s departments and command structure,” Patrick summarized, “so he’s kept abreast of everything you do, plus he’s got an entire J-staff operating in the background, paralleling the regimental staff functions.” He turned to Kris and added, “So if, for example, something were to happen to the Triple-C…”

  “He’d be able to take over right away and continue operations himself,” Kris said. “Pretty fucking scary.”

  “It could be suspicious, or it could be smart on his part,” Jon said. “He could even argue that your Status of Forces agreement allows him to have his own separate command staff.”

  “Besides,” Patrick added, “you guys are trying to wind down military operations in Iraq and turn it over to the locals; this could just help facilitate that. No reason to automatically think something nefarious is going on.”

  “I’ve been in security long enough to know that if the ‘oh shit’ meter starts twitching, something bad is happening,” Kris said. “Can you plug back into Jaffar’s network and advise me if you see something unusual, sir?”

  “I’m sure we can link it up again, Kris,” Patrick said. “We’ll let you know.”

  “I feel bad about giving you the hairy eyeball about hacking our security systems and then asking you to spy for me, sir.”

  “Not a problem. We’re going to be working together for a while, and I do tend to jump first and ask questions later.”

  A few minutes later the mission briefing commenced. It was very much like the mission briefings Patrick had conducted in the Air Force: time hacks, overview, weather, current intelligence, status of all the units involved, and then briefings by each
unit and department on what they were going to be doing. All of the participants sat at their stations and briefed one another over the intercom system, while putting PowerPoint or computerized slides up on the screens in the back of the Tank and on individual displays. Patrick saw Gia Cazzotto at one of the consoles farthest from the dais, taking notes and looking very serious.

  “Here’s the rundown on the Iraqi army’s operation, sir,” the “Battle Major,” Kenneth Bruno, began. “The Iraqi Seventh Brigade is sending the entire Maqbara Company of heavy infantry, about three hundred shooters, along with Major Jaafar Othman himself in the headquarters element. Maqbara Company is probably Seventh Brigade’s only pure infantry unit—all the rest are focused on security, police, and civil affairs—so we know this is a big deal.

  “The target, what we are calling Reconnaissance Objective Parrot, is a suspected hidden tunnel complex north of the small village of Zahuk. Contact time is oh-three-hundred hours local. Othman will deploy two platoons of Iraqi troops to establish security around the town east and west, while two platoons will drive in for the tunnel network from the south and sweep it clean.”

  “What about the north, Bruno?” Wilhelm asked.

  “I think they’re hoping they’ll escape to the north so the Turks will take care of them.”

  “Are the Turks involved in this thing at all?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Anyone advise them that the IA is going to be operating close to the border?”

  “That’s the Iraqis’ job, sir.”

  “Not when we have guys in the field.”

  “Sir, we’re prohibited from contacting the Turks about an Iraqi operation without permission from Baghdad,” Thompson said. “It’s considered a security breach.”

  “We’ll see about that shit,” Wilhelm spat. “Comm, get division on the line—I want to talk with the general directly. Thompson, if you have any back-channel contacts in Turkey, call them and unofficially suggest that something might be going on at Zahuk tonight.”