Hidden Agendas (1999)

by Clancy, Tom - Net Force 02

  Of course, he could have downloaded all the lectures and texts for this class and studied them at home on his own. Nobody was holding a gun to his head and making him attend. Most of the other students were new feebs—FBI Academy students—and this class was mandatory for them, though more a matter of form than anything. They were all college grads, most of ‘em law school grads too, and this dinky little access course was a snoozer they could pass in their sleep.

  Not so for Sergeant Julio Fernandez, whose computer literacy was right up there with his knowledge of quantum mechanics, or the mating habits of great blue whales, which was to say, very lame on his best day. He'd tried absorbing the stuff on his own, and it slid out of his mind as if his brain were made of solid Teflon. He'd hoped that listening to the teacher and having other students ask questions and offer answers would somehow help, but so far, after three sessions, it hadn't done much to advance his knowledge of the subject, which he hated, but which he needed to know. When it came to using his hands or his weapons, Fernandez didn't give away anything to anybody. He could set up camp in a jungle or a desert and live off the land, but when it came to anything past button-punching a computer, he was dense, and that wasn't good for a Net Force man—

  "Let me see… Sergeant Fernandez? Security through obscurity?"

  Great. Just freakin' great. "Sir, I believe it means that a certain kind of computer system's security is sort of like a… fortress. You know it is there, you can find it easy enough, but the doors into the place are armored or booby-trapped or rigged with so many locks you can't open ‘em, even though you can walk right up to them."

  "What a charming simile. You know what a simile is, Sergeant?"

  Some of the feebs chuckled.

  Fernandez felt himself flush under his swarthy skin. He was old enough to be this kid's father and the little bastard was jerking him around. "I know what a simile is."

  "Well, as it happens, by what is no doubt a major miracle, you are essentially correct. Today's lecture will cover principles of how to accomplish various forms of security, from firewalls to encrypted passwords, from private-access tickets and their expiration dates and times, to security cookies, both fresh and… stale."

  A few of the feebs laughed at the stale-cookie thing.

  The teacher waved his hand and the holoproj vanished, and was replaced by another. This one showed a small boy sitting in front of a workstation. The kid looked to be about five years old. Probably who this class was aimed at, little kids.

  Fernandez gritted his teeth. Even when he gave the right answer, this dipwit twisted it so he looked stupid. Horowitz must get his jollies like that, making students look bad. He certainly wasn't going to get much action otherwise, as lemon-faced and pimply as he was.

  Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Fernandez should be spending his time on the range instead of having his tail twisted by young Master Horowitz. Maybe he should just bail out and paraglide away, and spend his time doing something he knew how to do: ground-pounding, dirt-soldiering, pick ‘em up and set ‘em down and count cadence while you are at it.

  For just a second, he enjoyed that thought.

  No. He was gonna learn this crap if it killed him. So when the young shavetail lieutenants started rattling off their compu-babble on a mission, he could nod and at least vaguely know what the hell they were talking about.

  One lieutenant in particular came to mind…

  "So, who can tell us what happens when an electronic ticket expires on an encrypted access site? Sergeant Fernandez? Since you are on a metaphorical roll, would you like to give us another of your charming little homespun similes?"

  Fernandez regarded the man. He was mightily tempted just to get up and walk out. His second choice was to get up and teach Horowitz how to breathe again after he punched him one good shot solidly in that soft gut. Now there was a real pleasant thought—

  "Come, come, Sergeant, speed is of the essence! In computer programming, in life, in everything. He who hesitates is lost and last!"

  "I believe you are mistaken in that, sir."

  Horowitz regarded him as a frog might view an uppity fly. "Oh, really? Please elucidate. Show us the error of our ways."

  Fernandez said, "Sir. When I was going through my basic training, we had an old master sergeant who was teaching us the use of small arms. He told a story about when he'd been a recruit, about a rivalry between two drill sergeants from different companies.

  "Seems there was a military shooting match both guys had entered, a course of fire using the then-issue M16's."

  Fernandez looked at Horowitz. "That's a fully automatic rifle, the M16. You know what a rifle is, sir?"

  Horowitz frowned. Good thing Fernandez wasn't depending on getting some kind of grade in this class—he'd never pass.

  But the feebs had had some firearm training at this point, so he had their attention.

  "So the first sergeant, name was Butler, he came up to the line. The timer beeped and he locked and loaded. Or at least he tried to. Nothing happened, the magazine wouldn't feed the round. So he dropped the magazine and inserted a fresh one, only cost him a few seconds. Same thing happened. Since the course of fire was limited to two magazines, he was SOL. He raised his hand, and got a DNF—that's a Did Not Finish.

  "So the second sergeant was up, his name was Mahoney. He locked and loaded, fired the course. Did a respectable time, nothing to write home about, but enough to keep him in the top five, if he was lucky. Clean shooting, moderately fast and accurate.

  "Meanwhile, Butler figured out what his problem was. He had inadvertently overloaded his magazines by one round each. This compressed the springs too much and they wouldn't feed the rounds. So Butler asks for a reshoot due to equipment failure. It was a slow day, and the RO—that's range officer—let him go again after everybody else was finished.

  "And this time, Butler came out hot. He smoked everybody. Shot the fastest time, didn't miss anything, knocked ‘em down left, right, and center like he was a machine. Butler was thirty seconds faster than Mahoney through the course. Guys who had been laughing at him before suddenly looked at him with a new respect. No doubt about it, the man could shoot.

  "So Butler grins at Mahoney, gives him a mock salute, and swaggers off.

  "Mahoney is packing away his weapon and gear and one of the other shooters who knows about the rivalry comes over. ‘Too bad,' the guy says, ‘I know you really wanted to beat him.'

  "And Mahoney smiles and says, ‘He won the contest, but if we'd been on opposite sides on a battlefield from each other, Butler would be history and I'd still be here. You don't get a second chance in a firefight hot zone if you're up against a guy who is any good at all. And there ain't no second-place winner in a gunfight neither.' "

  Fernandez looked at the porky young instructor. "A slow shot that hits the target is better than a fast shot that misses. Sir."

  The class laughed, and it was Horowitz's turn to flush. "See me after class, Fernandez."

  "My pleasure."

  When the other students were gone, Fernandez stood six feet away from where Horowitz sat at his desk. The instructor said, "Sergeant, your attitude needs some adjustment. I realize this is a non-credit class for you, so you aren't required to get a pass/fail, but if you were, I am certain you would be repeating this course next term."

  Fernandez stepped up to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned toward the younger man. He was well within Horowitz's discomfort zone, invading the man's space. Horowitz leaned back as far as the chair would allow, and fear stained his face.

  "Listen up, sonny. You got the social skills and wit of a water buffalo. You're so busy trying to score points and show everybody how clever you are that whatever teaching abilities you have—if any—can't get out of where you have your head shoved. I know this is like talking to three-year-olds for you, but you're supposed to be a teacher. That's your job, and you're dogging it."

  "You wait just a minute!"

  "Shut up," Fernandez
said. He kept his voice flat and quiet.

  Horowitz did just that.

  "I'm an easygoing guy most of the time. That's why you aren't on your knees observing the remains of your most recent meal spattered all over your shoes and the floor. I'm done here, junior. I won't be back. Lucky for both of us."

  So much for his resolve to learn this shit. Oh, well. There were other ways. There had to be. He leaned back from the desk, smiled, and turned to walk away.

  Behind him, Horowitz's voice was shrill, shading right up the scale and into soprano: "What is your superior's name? I am going to report you for threatening me!"

  Fernandez turned, still smiling. "My CO's name is Colonel John Howard. Give him my regards when you call. And I didn't threaten you, sonny. If I had done that, you'd be needing a fresh pair of pants. Adios."

  As he left the classroom, Fernandez shook his head. His inner voice said, Dense move, Julio, m'boy. Scaring a little pissant teacher isn't going to help you learn anything.

  Yeah, yeah. But it sure felt good, didn't it?

  He was almost sure he heard his inner voice chuckle.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  Monday, December 20th, 10:05 a.m. Washington, D.C.

  Platt strolled along the sidewalk next to the Mall in a T-shirt and jeans, without a jacket, pretending to ignore the hard chill and dirty, slushy snow the plows had piled up along the curb. It wasn't really all that cold, right around freezing, but he sure as hell felt it. Least the wind wasn't blowin', and he had his steel-toed Kevlar boots on, so his feet weren't cold. Thing was, at six-four and 225, he didn't have any body fat to speak of—he couldn't pinch any on his ridged six-pack belly—so no insulation. He worked out five times a week in a weight room when he was where he could get to one, had a decent gym of his own at home if he didn't feel like goin' out, and used big elastic bands or a portable apparatus when he was on the road. The portable thing, which was basically just some screw-together pipes made out of titanium and spun carbon fiber, assembled into a frame that would let you do chins and dips. Cost a damned fortune, but it was worth it. It didn't weigh hardly anything, and when it was disassembled it would fit right into a regular suitcase. Between the bands and body weight, you could keep the tone on your upper body for a couple of weeks without the iron, if you needed to. Didn't do much for the lower body, but that was what one-legged squats and stairs were for.

  He didn't like Washington, not the town, not the folks who lived and worked there, not the big old marble buildings, wasn't nothin' about it he liked. But if you walked around in the cold without a coat, people would stare at you just like they would anywhere else—except maybe Los Angeles.

  Platt grinned. He remembered the first time he'd been in L.A., twelve or so years back when he'd been a green kid just off the farm outside Marietta. He was walking down Hollywood Boulevard, a hick tourist gaping at the gold stars in the sidewalk, when he passed an old lady standing in front of the Chinese Theater. She was stark naked, smiling and waving at everybody. That didn't seem right to him, that somebody's poor ole granny was bare-assed on the street like that, so Platt whipped out his phone and called the po-lice. Told them about this nekkid woman. And the bored cop on the phone said, "Yeah. Uh-huh. Which naked woman are you calling about?"

  Which naked woman. Like there was more than one, which it turned out, when he asked the cop, there was.

  Jesus. According to the po-lice, somebody got naked on the street four or five times a week in Hollywood. Damn. Them folks had smogged-up brains out in La-La-land.

  He looked at his watch. Just after ten. He grinned again. About now, that spring-loaded time-release file would be hitting the web hard, and it was gonna be like a ton of fresh feces whapping into a big ole industrial-grade fan. If that bomb down in Louisiana didn't get their attention, this one would sure as hell wake ‘em up. Gonna pop a few strands when it landed, for damn sure.

  Ahead of him, coming in his direction, were two black men. African-Americans, was that still what they called themselves? Sheeit, these brothahs in their wool suits and camel-hair overcoats had probably never been within five thousand miles of Af-ri-ka, probably born in Mississippi or Georgia, and come to the big city for white poontang and cheap dope. Way Platt figured it, you were born in this country, you were an American, period, and you didn't hear white people talkin' about how they were German Americans or French Americans or English Americans. That was all bullshit, just one more way the spooks got uppity. Call themselves anything they want, they were still darkies, they couldn't hide that.

  The two in suits stared at him, but they weren't right. They were too small, too civilized. Probably lawyers or political staff guys who hadn't been in a fistfight since they were pickaninnies.

  Platt grinned, and he could almost hear the jigs thinkin': Look at that crazy fool white man, running around in a T-shirt in the cold!

  Yeah, but he a big crazy fool white man. Why don't we just cross on over the street here?

  A block or so later, he spotted the one he wanted. He was a big buck, wearing jeans and motorcycle boots, a leather jacket, and Gargoyle shades, thought he was so cool. Almost as big as Platt. And alone. Platt didn't mind a couple, but he wasn't stupid. A gang was not a good idea unless you were armed, ‘cause they sure as hell would be, even though guns were all kinds of illegal in this city. All Platt had on him was a little aluminum-handled Kershaw liner-lock, blade just about three inches, and while he could snap it open as fast as a switchblade and could slice and dice somebody into bloody mush with it, a knife wasn't the smartest choice against three or four gangbangers strapped with shooters. He didn't like to carry a gun in the city unless he had a particular need for one, and he didn't want to use the knife if it was one-on-one—unless the jig pulled one.

  Or unless it turned out the boy was a karate or judo guy who knew his stuff. Most of that crap was worthless, it didn't work on the street, but now and then you'd run into one of them smart enough to keep it simple, with the skill and timing to make it work. Had to give them that, some of them could dance real good. That would get you your ass kicked pretty good. If that happened, he could sneak the knife out and hide it, wait for an opening, though a guy who knew enough of that gook fighting shit to thump you barehanded usually knew how to deal with a blade too. Plait had a few nasty memories about bad guesses he'd made. But this guy in the leather jacket didn't look like no Bruce Lee, and besides, Platt just wanted to stomp somebody a little, not kill him.

  "What you starin' at, boy?"

  The big black man stopped. "Who you callin' boy, cracker?"

  "I don't see nobody else around, do you? Boy?"

  Leather boy took his shades off and carefully slipped them into his pocket. He smiled.

  Plait matched the smile. Oh, this was going to be fun…

  Monday, December 20th, 10:20 a.m. Of Virginia

  Alex Michaels sat at his desk, looking over the latest computer dump into his electronic in-box. Came in every half hour, the new business, faster if it was flagged, and there was always some fresh crisis that Net Force had to take care of or the country would go to hell in a handbasket. He on-screened the latest batch and scrolled through them: Somebody had stolen a couple million dollars worth of Intel's SuperPent wetlight chips from a plant in Aloha, Oregon. There was a name for you, Aloha. Town's founder must have spent a pleasant time in Hawaii. The chips were small enough so that they could all fit neatly into a shirt pocket without causing the pocket to sag, and good luck on finding those before they made their way to Seoul to be restamped and installed.

  Next item…

  Stanley the Scammer had opened a new VR store, once again selling porno. There was no product, past the handful of public-domain teaser j-pegs and QuickTime VRs he used to sucker his customers in to buy. He took their electronic money, promised to send them a bunch of nasty stuff, then shut the VR shop down and shifted to a new location. They had busted Stanley a couple of times, always in New York City. Stanley would rent a ch
eap flophouse room with a plug and phone, hook his computer up, run his scam, and usually skip before the local cops got there. While he wasn't moving across state lines himself, his victims were from all over, so it was Net Force's problem. And it was compounded by the fact that most people who got ripped off buying pornography didn't particularly want the proper authorities to know that was what they were doing, so most of the customers ate the loss and kept quiet about it. Explaining to the wife that you lost a hundred dollars trying to get a copy of the "Darla Does Detroit" VR was something most men wanted to avoid. The wife might get curious about all that time hubby was spending in his workshop with the door closed.

  Stanley's was a classic scam, and the reason most confidence men who were any good could continue to pull off their games was that they appealed to the illegal or immoral in people, made them partners in the sting. A guy worried that he was doing something wrong was hesitant to run to the police to complain when he got cheated.

  Of course, there was always somebody who cared more about their money than their reputation, and so some sucker always reported Stanley.

  The main problem was that there were dozens, scores, hundreds of small-time thieves like Stanley, and anytime they ripped off somebody computronically across a state line, Net Force heard about it.

  Michaels shook his head and scrolled the proj:

  Here was a report of a money transfer gone bad at a small bank in South Dakota. Some enterprising cyberstealer had siphoned a couple hundred thousand into his account during a series of fast e-shifts. The Feds' safeguards had caught it, albeit a bit late, and the money was quickly recovered, but they still had to catch the thief, who had run in a hurry, and figure out how he had managed to slip the federal wards even as long as he had. It had been an inside job—the thief worked as an auditor for the bank. It almost always was an inside job, given how good the Federal Reserve kept track of money these days.

  What else did they have here?