State of Terror

by John Brown

  Inside the bag was a pouch of tiny metallic particles.

  “You will wait in the lobby for him. When our man exits the building, get some fairy dust on him. It’ll stay in his clothes.”

  “What is it?”

  “RFID active smart tags, each smaller than a grain of sand. Collectively, they pack the punch of dozens of conventional tags.”

  Taking him by surprise, Anna suddenly kissed him. She pulled her face back from his and kissed him again, this time on his cheek. It was the first time a woman had lovingly touched him in more than seven months.

  “I think you’re wonderful,” Anna whispered. “This is the easy part, my dear. We’ll cover the rest in our hotel room tonight.”

  “Spare some change? Yeah, right, thanks a lot.”

  Benson positioned himself where he could see directly into the lobby. Business people hustled in and out of the building through the revolving glass doors. Dressed as a beggar, he held a cardboard sign at chest height on which he had scrawled “pleas help sick cat Gd bless.”

  Spotting his man inside the lobby, Benson slipped inside the doors and checked his scanner. The display glowed, “Olson, Bernard,” with his likeness.

  Benson went directly up to Olson, who seemed to be distracted and impatient, as if he might be waiting for someone.

  “Hello, kind sir, can you possibly help me out?” Benson said, uncomfortably close to Olson and coughing. “I used to be an SVP. Help a man down on his luck?”

  “No!” Olson said with disgust on his face. “Go away!”

  Benson coughed into his partly open palm. A cloud of the RFID powder sprayed Olson. He reeled back in revulsion. An elderly private security guard came running over as fast as he could, his bulky walkie-talkie, ring of keys, and the other tools of his trade bobbing and jangling with each step.

  He fumed at this outrage in his lobby.

  “Get the hell outta here!” He pointed his finger at the door, pumping his arm. “You get the hell outta here right now!”

  “Hack! Sorry, sir.”

  “Look at what you’ve done, you horrible bum, you,” said Olson, wiping his face with the back of his hand and swiping at his suit jacket. “Do you know who I am? I should have you arrested.”

  At that moment, an analyst working in a dimly lit work gallery peered at a monitor casting a green glow onto his face. Banks of monitors with analysts seated before them filled the hall. Blinking, colorful icons dotted an overhead video map. The analyst zoomed in until the satellite view of buildings became sharper and clearer. The smallest details of cars on the street and pedestrians on the sidewalks became identifiable. The analyst could even pick up normal conversation if there were no buses or trucks close by.

  “Roger that, we have a lock. Maintain scan.”

  Olson hailed a taxi to a sex therapist’s office. The recorded conversation revolved around issues of personal insecurity and self control that he had apparently been wrestling with for a long time. With a keystroke, certain lingering medical conditions embedded on Olson’s REAL ID instantly popped up on the analyst’s terminal. Surveillance drones then tracked him to a lively bar. He became friendly with a few men he met, where, perhaps drinking a bit too much, he revealed compromising details of his position at the National Security Agency.

  “Help a man down on his luck?”

  Benson banged a cup against his leg, rattling the coins inside. Franklin laughed and sat down next to him on the park bench.

  “‘There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root,’” Franklin said.

  “Thoreau.”

  Franklin dropped a coin in Benson’s cup.

  “We are striking at the root, Tom. That’s where you come in. We need access to the source database. We’re developing a cloning algorithm that will link personal identifiers from REAL ID with all financial and tax records. This card,” he said, fishing around in his briefcase and handing a slim metal case to Benson, “has high-security clearance. We altered the chip’s programming, our very first clone. How do you like your picture?”

  Benson opened the case and examined the card’s front and back. It was flawless.

  “We need to keep moving,” Franklin said, standing.

  “George, I’m concerned about Gilbert. He could be a risk.”

  “Gilbert Ward is one of the top data experts in the world. I would trust him with my life — as much as I’d trust you.”

  “What happened to Olson?” Benson said.

  “He didn’t work out. We cloned his ID for your alias — you’re holding the result. As it happens, he called in sick for a few days. We trust that gives you enough time.”

  “What about my son, Daniel? Did you find out anything?”

  “He was deployed — that’s all I’ve found so far. You’ll have to excuse me now, I’m running late for one of our ‘touchpoint’ meetings. We’re discussing the president’s initiative for the military, intelligence, and technology sectors to collaborate somehow. It’s codenamed ‘PRISM.’ Look, we even have buttons.”

  He handed Benson a small plastic button with the initiative’s logo, a beam of white light emerging from a prism in a rainbow of colors. Benson slipped it into his pocket.

  Sprawled on a bench, Benson watched the pedestrians go by. His hand-scrawled cardboard sign read “alms for the por.” A familiar figure approached.

  “Gilbert! Help a man down on his luck?”

  They strolled down the street until they were halfway down the block.

  “The usual ID theft is that some punk steals personal data, opens a credit account and buys fancy TVs, jewelry, and designer clothes until he’s caught,” Ward said. “This is very different.”

  “If you think you’re going to charm the pants off me with those lines, think again.”

  “I’m still not buying the whole thing, Benson, just so you know. Keep walking and don’t look at me.”

  Benson’s anger flared.

  “At a deep level, REAL ID is linked to all financial transactions and tax returns. We’ll crack it and reveal everyone’s identity and cloning details on the Web. We’ll make it all public — brokerage and bank accounts, credit cards, birth certificates, social security numbers, all of it. When anyone can assume anyone’s identity, a financial system built on secure transactions will crash. Boom!”

  Benson wanted to smack him.

  “The NSA’s Stellar Wind program houses everything,” Ward went on. “The annual American Community Survey census of your income, health, family, travel, lodging, and personal habits; it’s in there, too. Even your passwords are in there. The current network of fusion centers will probably link up to it at some point. Aggregating and centralizing data like this is a real treasure trove for identity thieves.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Security is still very basic. They are not exactly concerned about protecting your privacy; the whole point is to invade your privacy. They’ve built a massive database that captures financial records, phone calls, emails, blog entries, website browsing — everything known about you, public or private, accurate or not. Citizen risk profiles are run through an algorithm that calculates a threat analysis score based on how closely you match typical terrorist profiles. One little problem: there’s no such thing as a typical terrorist. Despite the headlines, there haven’t been enough attacks to construct anything statistically valid.”

  “Lies, damned lies, and statistics.”

  “The idea is to find potential criminals and disloyal subjects hiding in plain sight. The higher the threat score, the more you become one of their ‘persons of interest’ — and then the surveillance intensifies. In fact, that’s how you were picked up, Benson. You tripped all the wires, didn’t you?”

  Benson didn’t like the way Ward was looking at him.

  “The standard terrorist target profile is nearly worthless. By now, most of your terrorists know not to buy one-way plane tickets with cash; they know they should check some lugga
ge and rent a hotel room like normal people. They don’t try to buy 10,000 pounds of fertilizer at once; they don’t deposit $20,000 in cash at the local bank. This makes them just about impossible to find through predictive data mining. Knowing an individual terrorist’s history and quirks tells you almost nothing about who will be a future terrorist. It’s worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack — it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack of needles. But none of that deters NSA. They are in love with the concept.”

  “Stupid is a boundless concept.”

  “Stellar Wind runs threat profiles against semiannual sweeps of the entire population, but even assuming a 99 percent accuracy rate, at 350 million a sweep times two sweeps a year, that comes to seven million false positives a year, a little less if you exclude children. Maybe up to 1 percent would move on to the next round, the ‘interviews.’ You know all about that. That’s 70,000 citizens arrested every year, based on an improbably low error rate. Owing to the nature of Stellar Wind’s design, we believe visitors and most non-citizen residents are missed.”

  “Then it probably misses all the terrorists. Ironic, isn’t it.”

  “You might say that, Benson. And then there are the citizens who are not false positives. They may not fit the profiles but they’re anomalous in other ways — unusual interests, hobbies, beliefs — and therefore suspicious to the authorities. Or they might just want to shut up their critics and blackmail political rivals and control judges. Even if such people aren’t detained they could still find their bank accounts frozen and employment authorizations attached to their REAL IDs quietly turned off, banished to a virtual internal exile as Undocumented Resident Nationals.”

  “So how are you planning to break in?” Benson asked.

  “In data security, it’s the human factor that’s often overlooked. The weak link could be the lowly paid, frustrated clerk who wants to live the high life and impress his girlfriend; it could even be a certain highly paid software engineering consultant gone rogue. The system ultimately operates on simple trust and the fear of getting caught — but everyone has his price. Isn’t that true, Benson? That’s certainly one way to break in. The cloned REAL ID you were given also functions as a Common Access Card using two-factor authentication. It’ll gain you access to NSA networks. That’s another way in — your way in, Benson.”

  “For a second there, I thought I heard you saying something about penetrating Stellar Wind. Crazy.”

  “Crazy, but not stupid. The main operations hub is a massive server complex in Utah fed by a network of listening posts, geostationary satellites, and secret monitoring rooms in telecom facilities all over the world. All the data is fed into the Multiprogram Research Facility in Tennessee and then to NSA headquarters in Fort Meade just a few miles from here. Shouldn’t be a problem for a tough guy like you, right? That’s why you’re on the team. You’ll receive further instructions at the hotel.”

  “You’re supposed to be a big IT expert,” Benson said.

  A shadow of a smile crossed Ward’s face.

  “So why don’t you go in yourself, Ward? Why do you need me?”

  “I don’t have your particular background,” Ward replied, stiffly. “You’re fairly well-known in certain circles, I have to give you that. COMSEC and network security are definitely not my fields. And you can tell I’m not in the best shape. That may come in handy.”

  They walked on in silence.

  “So Benson, I have to ask you something. Why didn’t you encrypt? Why didn’t you use Tor or another anonymizing service? How is it that a person with your background—”

  “If they can watch the entire Internet all at once, then they can watch all the traffic entry and exit relays, too. Some of them are actually operated by the State. Proxies are not invulnerable, either. No one is really anonymous. Besides, I didn’t think I had anything to hide.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  “And now I have something to ask you,” responded Benson, simmering. “How do you know so much about Stellar Wind? What makes you such an authority?”

  Ward looked at Benson with the tiniest hint of pride.

  “I helped build it.”

  28

  Get Me the Hell Outta This

  THE BOOMING ENGINES DRONED LOUDLY inside the cavernous transport aircraft. Hard bench seats were bolted to the floor throughout the cargo hold. There were no windows, call buttons, reading lamps, or any of the conveniences of passenger jets. The airplane pitched and rocked as it bore through the night. After 13 hours of rough flight the gigantic rear hatch was thrown open to the blinding sun.

  The newly minted soldiers straggled out, weary and dirty. It was easily 100 degrees. Waves of heat shimmered off the tarmac in the distance. A strong, steady wind blew stinging sand and dust in their faces. The few scraggly palm trees in the desolate landscape bent over in the wind, barely alive, the fronds rustling in the scorching breeze. Beyond the low terminal building and the hangar loomed an endless expanse of beige sand and rock.

  Daniel shielded his burning, tearing eyes from the intense light with his forearm. Hungry, thirsty, and greatly fatigued, he was groggy and nauseous, feeling a terrible headache coming on. High gusts stirred up the dirt into whirlwinds. The recruits were coughing, covering their noses and mouths with their hands.

  “Welcome, everyone. I’m Major Lamb.”

  Daniel lined up with the rest of the company in front of the military compound. Weak and dizzy, he struggled just to remain upright, the vibration and noise of the last 13 hours and now the blazing heat and light severely taxing what little vigor remained.

  “And congratulations.” Lamb’s soft voice was barely audible against the wind. “You have been given the opportunity to defend the Homeland in its time of need and preserve American freedom. On the front lines over here, your fellow soldiers are your brothers. You’ll eat, shit, and shave with them. They’ll look out for your sorry ass and you’ll look out for theirs.”

  The draftees grumbled at this inhospitable reception, especially considering the arduous journey to get here, but Major Lamb took no notice.

  “Okay, that’s about it. This’ll be your home for the next 18 months, grunts. Unpack and be ready for inspection at 1230 hours. Dismissed.”

  Daniel’s bunk was a small, thin mattress on a bare metal frame. Identical rows of stacked bunks lined the long walls of the sparse, cheerless barracks. The bed frames, walls, floor, and ceiling were all painted the same glossy, medium gray. He unpacked his bag and plopped himself down on the bed, dispirited, looking up at the underside of the top bunk before closing his eyes to catch what little rest and relief that he might.

  A thunderous explosion hit the barracks, flinging him off his bed. Dust and debris showered the air; bare light bulbs suspended from the ceiling danced on the ends of their cords. Huddling on the floor face down, he protected his head between his arms.

  “What the f—”

  “Stay down.”

  Major Lamb stood nearby, examining the damage to the ceiling.

  “It’s just rainin’ a little iron. You get used to it.”

  Another explosion rocked the barracks. The lights flickered and then burned steadily.

  “I’m shot!” a pathetic, mournful voice cried from inside a building. “Help me!”

  The street was deserted. Scattered fires in the houses and apartment blocks belched dense, billowing smoke, their crumbling facades scarred with bullet holes. Broken pieces of concrete littered the ground. The acrid smell of phosphorus hung in the air. Daniel and the other soldiers pressed up against the entrance of the bombed-out building. It was dark inside.

  “Where are they?” Daniel yelled into the building, his heart thumping.

  “Dunno! Can’t see nothin’!” came the reply from deep within.

  Something fell, clattering onto the floor. Daniel looked at his comrades.

  “Could be an ambush,” whispered one.

  “No way,” Daniel said,
“he’s one of ours — we leave no one behind.”

  He entered the building with the other soldiers hugging the walls. All was quiet. There was no furniture in the room, just bare cement and exposed foundation blocks. Shot in the neck, a soldier reclined in a corner. Another lay on the floor, blood oozing from his chest.

  Daniel crept to the soldier in the corner.

  “Where are they?” he said, in a low voice.

  “The courtyard,” the soldier groaned. “Shoot the fuckers.”

  Crouching against a cement wall, Daniel sprayed bullets in the courtyard’s direction. A barrage came back his way, blasting the wall above, filling the air with smoke. Flying cement chips stung him through his uniform.

  “We need support! Get fuckin’ support!” Daniel shouted into his shoulder radio.

  He tore around a corner, his carbine blazing. Through the smoke he took down one of the enemy and watched him shout in pain as he fell.

  Another insurgent fired on Daniel and a soldier from the opposite direction. Bullets ricocheted off the wall; sharp fragments zipped through the air. They returned fire, taking cover behind a cement partition. Bursts exploded around Daniel and the other soldiers, pinning them down.

  Dear God, Daniel mouthed silently, get me the hell outta this.

  He peeked out to see the enemy, who wore dirty jeans, a black T-shirt, and a manic expression on his face. “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” he yelled crazily between bursts.

  Daniel launched a grenade and hit the ground. The blast was earsplitting in the cement block room. Stinging fragments shot back at him. A section of the ceiling cracked and caved in onto the cement floor, sending up clouds of choking dust. Daniel’s face was plastered with white soot caked around his goggles and inside his nose. He felt as if he’d been punched hard in the gut. A loud whine rang in his ears.

  He shook his head and got up slowly, balancing unsteadily. He stood over the two terrorists, their bodies twisted and torn up. Pieces of their flesh and organs stuck to the walls. Daniel instantly felt sick, fighting to keep down the rising nausea. He retched and vomited on the floor in a corner where he hoped no one would see.