The Loyal Nine

by Steven Konkoly

  “No problem there, bro,” said Steven proudly. “The blood and all of the other parts checked out just fine, but thank you very much for your concern.”

  Sarge turned his attention back to the girls—although they never really lost his attention. I am such a boy.

  “Ladies, Steven and I have a busy day. Would you mind getting your coffee to go?” said Sarge with a tone of dismissiveness.

  Christmas morning was over. The girls whined in protest, offering to hang around quiet as mice, woefully underdressed mice.

  “C’mon, Sarge, we’ll be good. Let us hang with you guys today,” said the leggy one. Tempting, but no.

  “I’m sorry, ladies, but not today,” said Sarge.

  Maybe I should be led into temptation, as they say. I’m not married. But something always held Sarge back from partaking of women. Was it his feelings for Julia?

  “Besides, I want to live to my fortieth birthday and somehow I feel you two could put me six feet under,” said Sarge.

  As the women returned to Steven’s bedroom, he found his brother staring at the paused images on the television. Sarge waited until Steven’s Christmas gifts had closed the door.

  “So, is this your handiwork?” asked Sarge, pointing toward the media wall with his latte glass.

  “Which one?” replied Steven.

  “Really? Do you think I’m referring to the fat parents and their equally fat kids complaining about eating healthy foods in school?” asked Sarge.

  “You know the drill, bro. I can neither admit nor deny my involvement in the blowing up of Russki shit,” said Steven with a grin.

  Sarge unpaused the televisions and the talking heads came back to life. He liked the still-life versions better. He often wondered what the world would be like if time stood still or, better yet, returned back a couple of hundred years to the nineteenth century. Would we be better off?

  “Here’s the thing,” began Steven. “I follow orders. I’m really good at what I do. A soldier does not question his orders, he executes them. I’ll leave it to smart fuckers like you to determine the best course of action on the political side.”

  Steven mussed Sarge’s hair playfully. Sarge was the older brother, but Steven took on the role of protector. They were perfect complements to each other, and the chemistry they enjoyed would prove useful in the coming years. Steven would never question Sarge’s plan, and Sarge would never question Steven’s execution of it. The women returned a few minutes later and said their goodbyes. Steven escorted them to the elevator with a final round of kisses and butt squeezes. Lucky hound dog. He returned to the kitchen and fixed himself another double cup of full-strength coffee upon Sarge’s request. They had more to discuss than the Ukraine.

  Chapter 11

  January 5, 2016

  Antrim Street

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Professor Andrew Lau navigated his Subaru Forester into a cramped parking space on Antrim Street. As was his custom, he made a point to avoid parking near the house. In America, the residents of quiet neighborhoods seemed to hustle into their garages or front doors, with the sole intent of avoiding eye contact with their neighbors. The discreet community of Mid-Cambridge was no different. Lau had rented the house several months earlier, furnishing it with rudimentary, professorial decor. The house itself was unobtrusive—beige with scalloped lap siding, two story, white trim and a chain-link fence—perfectly suiting Professor Lau’s needs.

  The neighbors would have described him as quiet, introverted and somewhat of a recluse. They also knew him as a professor at MIT, but Cambridge was full of professors, so the title drew little attention. He drove a Subaru, but what good liberal didn’t. Lau even dressed down, frequently seen in jeans, a Red Sox cap and his Koji Uehara Red Sox jersey. Uehara was Japanese and Lau was Korean, but his neighbors didn’t know the difference, and that was exactly what Lau wanted.

  Lau was a professor of computer science and engineering, and the associate director of the Microsystems Technology Laboratory at MIT. One of 750 students and staff who performed all types of research in electronic circuits and photonic devices, his team effectively created the technology that made corporate giants Xerox and IBM extremely wealthy. Lau was paid a salary commensurate with his position as a professor, but he was not paid for the results of his research, which was “generously” shared with some of the university’s wealthiest benefactors—behemoth technology companies.

  Pretending to check for mail that was never there, Lau unlocked the chain-link fence gate and nonchalantly strolled up the front steps of the house to the front door. Out of habit, he glanced quickly over his shoulder to scan for nosey neighbors that never appeared. Satisfied, he entered the cramped foyer. Hi, honey, I’m home.

  The 1,800-square-foot home was typical for the neighborhood. Built in 1905, it was solidly constructed with twelve-inch walls, featuring hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings. To a visitor, the foyer looked like any other home on Antrim Street, as did the sitting room immediately to the left. A beautiful oak staircase wound its way upstairs to a second level, also concealing a cellar door. Nothing to see here, typical home on a typical street, in a typical neighborhood, in the good old U.S. of A—land of opportunity.

  But if one listened carefully, blocking out all distractions, they might hear the sounds emanating from above—click, click, click. Professor Lau of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was a professional hacker and this was his “hack house”—home of the Zero Day Gamers.

  Chapter 12

  January 5, 2016

  100 Beacon Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “So what’s the plan for today?” asked Steven. “Are we gonna work out? Go to the range? Chill here?”

  “The plan is…I have a full schedule in class today, and you are on your own,” replied Sarge.

  He’s such a man-child. Sarge explained today was the first day of classes, and he had after-class interviews with the students new to his lectures. It would be a full day at the school.

  “Okay, that’s cool. I’ll drop you off at Harvard Kennedy, then I want to run up to Marblehead to check on the Miss Behavin’,” said Steven. “She’s been winterized, but I really want to check on her and grab a few things.”

  Sarge sensed he really wanted to drive his new G-Wagen around.

  “Don’t wreck my new car,” scolded Sarge.

  “Why would I do that?” asked Steven with faux innocence.

  “You have a history of wrecking my cars. This is a company car. Don’t bust it up. Do you wanna take the FJ instead?” asked Sarge, hoping Steven would take him up on the offer.

  “It doesn’t have heated seats. The G-Wagen will keep my ass warm,” said Steven.

  “Listen, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of hostility out there,” said Sarge, gesturing toward the windows. “I’ve advised everyone to carry—including you, soldier.”

  In recent months, racial tensions had exploded across the country. The shooting of an unarmed black man in Ferguson, Missouri, in 2014, ignited protests and riots throughout the country. Almost a year ago, tensions escalated to new levels when two police officers were shot by a black gunman during a Ferguson protest. The undeclared war on law enforcement officers fueled the racial divide. America was on edge. The thin veneer of civilization was being threatened by political agendas and the corresponding frenzy associated with biased media reporting.

  “You know that’s not a problem for me,” said Steven.

  Sarge led him down the hallway, where he stopped one-third of the way down and pressed an unobtrusive wainscot panel below the chair rail. The hinged panel popped open, revealing several shelves. A puck light automatically illuminated the treasure inside.

  “There is a great big world out there for you, son,” their father’s words during “the talk” to his sons long ago rolled through Sarge’s mind. “Always wear protection.”

  Sarge doubted his beloved Heckler & Koch HK45C was what Pop had
in mind, but his father had lived in a different world. Sarge placed his hand on the biometric safe to reveal its contents. Together with the .45-caliber compact, a well-worn Galcon double time holster and a 5.11 Tactical belt finished out the ensemble. Sarge had been issued a concealed-carry permit in Boston for many years. Massachusetts had been a “may issue” state for a long time, although “may” had become more like “sorry, screw you and your second amendment rights.” Over the past few years, Sarge felt more and more comfortable carrying the pistol as his country edged closer to chaos. Carrying a firearm felt as natural as wearing pants in public. His peers at Harvard would probably faint at the thought of a weapon in their hallowed halls, not that he’d ever let them know. Firearms or weapons of any kind were strictly forbidden by university policy. He transferred the pistol to a secret compartment in his briefcase when he entered the campus—a gun-free and “safe” zone. A new world indeed.

  He removed the 5.11 belt and converted the Galcon to its tuck-in-the-waistband mode. The cold leather shocked his skin, but the feel of the weapon warmed his heart. He stood out of the way to let Steven make his selection. He chose the Glock G38 together with a paddle-style right-hand holster, tucking the combination in his jeans. No surprise there. Steven was also a .45 kind of guy. The brothers were protected.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind me crashing here until winter takes a hike?” asked Steven.

  He’d stayed on the boat last winter and bitched to Sarge incessantly about it. Having him at 100 Beacon would avoid the complaining, and allow them to hang out.

  “Absolutely, but keep the wine, women and song to a minimum,” said Sarge, knowing full well Steven’s shore leave would be a challenge.

  Sarge led them into his study to gather his briefcase and lecture notes.

  “No prob, bro,” replied Steven, likely unmindful of the point Sarge was making.

  Sarge’s study, the professorial equivalent of a home office, was his pride and joy. Despite being single and not having to succumb to the decorating whims of a significant other, he always felt the need to have his own space. A retreat within a retreat. The two floors below the penthouse, which he also occupied, did not count. They fell under the category “man cave.” The study was a special place. Bookshelves adorned the entirety of the west and north walls. Sarge, embracing his lineage, was compelled to collect old works. The authors dated back to the turn of the eighteenth century and included the names Hawthorne, Peabody, Minot and his namesake, Sargent. This is history. History must be preserved.

  Sarge gathered the notes located on his pride and joy—a nineteenth-century partners desk crafted from oak, with tooled leather inserts and decorated with brass appointments. The desk was a gift to Winthrop Sargent Gilman when he opened the banking house of Gilman, Son & Co. in New York City around 1900. It had been passed down through the years to his father, and then to Sarge. He was honored to be a lineal descendant of 250 years of American history. It had its perks and great responsibilities.

  Chapter 13

  January 5, 2016

  The Hack House

  Antrim Street

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Lau dropped his briefcase next to the oak foyer table and tossed his keys by the Tiffany lamp. Home sweet home. Pushing up the red sleeves under his jersey, he bounded up the stairs and opened the solid wood, double doors of the home’s master bedroom turned hacker’s heaven. The entire second floor of the Antrim Street house had been gutted and furnished with modular workstations, each housing a powerful computer and one of MIT’s finest student hackers—the Zero Day Gamers.

  “Good afternoon, class,” said Lau sarcastically.

  He was greeted with a few laughs, a couple of good afternoons and a paper wad that barely missed his head. The crew was handpicked by Lau and his graduate assistants, Anna Fakhri and Leonid Malvalaha, from the top computer coders and programmers at MIT. Lau was fluent in Korean. Fakhri spoke a variety of Arabic languages, and Malvalaha spoke fluent Russian. The three had unofficially worked together for more than a year, until last fall when they took their hacking enterprise to a new level. As with any business, in order to grow and prosper, you need more employees. There were now a dozen hackers rotating in and out of the Hack House daily.

  Lau’s “business plan” was relatively simple, unlike the strings of code typed on the screens in front of him. A zero-day threat is an attack on a computer operating system that uncovers a previously unknown vulnerability. Hackers conduct reconnaissance of the systems applications and look for openings known as vulnerability windows.

  The Zero Day Gamers, like seasonal hunters, might spend days or weeks searching for their prey, without meeting success. But once a hacker discovered an initial compromise opportunity, the entire team looked for a foothold in the computer network. Once a foothold was established, a hacker team consisting of a coder and a programmer escalated privileges within the network until they reached an administrator’s status or higher. Once in place, the hacker could navigate the entire system, making changes. Then the game began—the zero-day game.

  The term zero day was used because the system programmer had zero days to fix the flaw. A patch for the vulnerability was not readily available. Over the past several years, an underground gray market had arisen, where a hacker contacted the system administrator and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse—pay us to leave you alone, or we will sell our information about your vulnerabilities to the highest bidder. Buyers included Fortune 500 firms, foreign intelligence services, terrorists and even the United States government. Payment was non-negotiable, and the consequences of nonpayment were strictly enforced.

  Lau looked up at the chalkboard on the back wall of the Hack House. The end game, the mission statement of the Zero Day Gamers, was succinct:

  One man’s gain is another man’s loss; who gains and who loses is determined by who pays.

  Lau applied the same philosophy to his employees. The Gamers were paid handsomely for their efforts—and to buy their silence. The students came to Zero Day Gamers for a number of reasons. Some needed the money and were trying to monetize the in-class research they conducted for others. Some participated for the thrill and feeling of compromising another’s private world. Others simply enjoyed “sticking it to the man.” There were similar operations to the Hack House all over the world. Underemployed techies looking for lucrative paydays and a chance to have their talents recognized among their peers. They were located in Russia, Eastern Europe, the Middle East, North Korea and especially China. Hunting for software holes was grueling drudgery, but it was the most lucrative security job available to them. Symantec or McAfee might start a new technology graduate at eighty thousand dollars. At the Hack House, an employee could make that in a day, if they played the right “zero-day game.”

  “I’m in!” exclaimed one of the Gamers, holding his hands high over his head.

  Lau snapped to attention and turned his Red Sox cap backwards. Game on!

  “Talk to me,” said Lau.

  “I’ve been pen testing these guys on and off for days. My gut told me there was an opening, so I kept trying,” said Herm Walthaus, an MIT grad student.

  Lau had not been particularly impressed with Walthaus thus far. His best hack was entering the Applebee’s Restaurant servers. They were unable to secure any funding from Applebee’s, and eventually settled for scrambling their computerized register system known as Squirrel. Within an hour of being denied payment, and finding no interested buyer for the vulnerability, Lau settled for changing all of their menu items to some form of nut. Applebee’s Burgers became Walnut Burglars. Sizzlin’ Fajitas became Spoiled Veruca, paying homage to Willy Wonka. The restaurant chain was forced to close their doors for days. The economic impact to the company was reportedly in the millions and hammered their stock on the NASDAQ. They should have paid us something.

  Pen testing was just what it sounded like—a test to see whether you could penetrate a network. Pen tests had huge va
lue when done correctly. Even if done incorrectly, pen testers enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. If thwarted, the hackers could disrupt a system using denial-of-service tools—DoS. These tools might simply fire off an attack on the system, causing internal reactions to seal network vulnerabilities, which resulted in the unintended consequence of destabilizing the entire network. At a minimum, a visitor to a website might receive a “Page Cannot Be Displayed” error message. At worst, the entire network misfired, requiring a reboot and repairs of possible network damage.

  “Okay, Walthaus, settle down,” reassured Lau.

  Walthaus was sweating, and his face was getting red from excitement. The extra weight crowding his waist didn’t complement the scene. The last thing Lau needed was a heart attack victim at the Hack House. He calmly placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders.

  “Tell us what you have going on. Slowly,” said Lau.

  “Professor, I have breached the firewall of TickStub,” said Walthaus.

  Lau leaned over and surveyed the screen. It appeared TickStub utilized a Windows-based RRaS server—routing and remote access server. This was not uncommon. Windows servers were the most widely used, a piece of cake for a novice hacker. Walthaus was well beyond the RRaS firewall, having penetrated the TickStub ordering system. Step one, the initial compromise was complete; now Lau needed to evaluate what was exposed. Once he gained a foothold in the system, he could expand his perusal of the network later.

  The screen read:

  Welcome to the TickStub ordering system.

  You must login to start.

  Username:

  Password:

  The room was deathly quiet. All keyboard activity had ceased, and full attention was upon Walthaus and Lau. Lau stood upright and adjusted his cap.