Brain Jack

by Brian Falkner

  The flight attendant, a pleasant lady with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, was suddenly at his side. He hadn’t noticed her approach.

  “Would you like a headset, sir?” she asked. “We have regular or neuro.”

  Sam tried to remember the last time he had been called “sir” and couldn’t. He smiled and shook his head. She asked Dodge the same question and got the same answer, then moved over to the other side of the cabin.

  Dodge stood up and extracted his field kit—a silver briefcase with a digital lock—from the luggage compartment.

  “It’s your first field mission,” Dodge said. “So I’d better show you the ropes.”

  Dodge showed him the key code and opened the briefcase.

  Inside the case was a collection of tools, some of which Sam recognized at once and others that he could not identify.

  “Right,” Dodge said, “we’ll start with the disclone.”

  He pulled out a black device with a long cable attached. The cable disappeared into a slot inside the briefcase. “Before we touch a thing, we clone their hard disk. Tactical will have already rendered the computer casing safe, removed any explosives or other booby traps—”

  “Explosives?” Sam asked nervously.

  “Pretty common,” Dodge said. “To destroy any evidence on the hard drives. But don’t worry about that—Tactical are specialists at that kind of thing. Once they’ve finished taking out the terrorists and dealing with any physical booby traps, then we go in. And the first thing we do is clone the drive so that if there are any software destructs or suicide code, then we get a second chance at it. Remove the drive from the computer, plug it into the disclone, and it will mirror the contents, bit for bit, byte for byte, on an internal drive in the briefcase. Clear?”

  “Clear,” Sam said.

  Dodge went through the rest of the gear in the case, explaining the use and the operation of each device. It took about half an hour and was far more interesting, Sam thought, than any in-flight movie.

  The cabin attendant—her name badge said MARIE— brought them some refreshments at one stage, just a soda and a choice of profiteroles. Dodge closed the case while she hovered and opened it again when she left.

  “So what do you think about the phantom?” Sam asked when the lesson was over. “What’s your theory?”

  “The beast of the moors.” Dodge grinned. “The hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “Eh?”

  “Gummi Bear will tell you that there’s some kind of creature roaming the network, a monster, a demon from the depths of the Internet.”

  “More of an angel than a demon,” Sam said.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Dodge said. “Another theory is that it’s a coding freak. Someone with immense power and skills.”

  “Are there really people like that?” Sam asked. “Coding freaks?”

  “There are. I’ve met two of them … well”—he wavered—“one for definite and one I’m not sure about yet.”

  “Who?” Sam asked eagerly.

  “Swamp Witch,” Dodge said. “She’s a freak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In this business, we do our best work before the age of twenty-two. After that, the brain begins to slow down, partly from the pressure and partly from old age.”

  “At twenty-two?”

  “Yup. But every now and then, a person comes along who doesn’t burn out and whose mind stays razor sharp year after year. A freak of nature. A natural. Someone who can do this stuff without thinking, without training. That’s Swamp Witch. They say she can do magic.”

  “So could she be the phantom?”

  “Don’t think I ain’t thought about it,” Dodge said. “If there’s anyone who could throw some lizard gizzards in a boiling pot and make a magic potion, it’s her. But she was right behind us when it happened. She couldn’t have done it.”

  “Who else, then?”

  “Maybe there’s another agency out there. Someone like us.”

  “The Easter Bunny?” Sam asked.

  “Could be,” Dodge said. “Or maybe our counterparts in another country.”

  “Nothing quite adds up, when I think about it,” Sam said. “It’s hard to believe that another country could be that far ahead of us.”

  “What’re you saying?” Dodge asked.

  “I have my own theory.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the intruder code disintegrated, and we’re all assuming that it got blasted by someone. But what if it just self-destructed?”

  “Why suddenly self-destruct when you’ve just won the battle?”

  “Unless the person who hit the Self-Destruct button was there in the room with us at the time.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Dodge, you can’t mention this to anyone inside the CDD,” Sam said. “No one, okay?”

  “Okay,” Dodge agreed, looking at him closely.

  “What if the terrorists had an insider at CDD? They’d know all our procedures; they’d know our response patterns, how we react, what we’d be likely to do, even what defense mechanisms we have at our disposal. It’s certainly more likely than some fantasy about a phantom on the Internet.”

  “But this insider didn’t know about the plane?”

  “Yep—that’s my theory,” Sam said. “Maybe the plane attack had two goals: to eliminate us, and to silence the insider. The only person who could identify the terrorists.”

  “So when the insider realized what was going on, he or she hit the Self-Destruct key,” Dodge said. “Why the delay, though? Cut it a bit fine. If we hadn’t DoSed the UAS, then we’d be toast by now and so would the insider. Why wait until the last minute?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sam said.

  Dodge said, “If it was one of us, then who?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam admitted.

  “The security cams would have recorded everything. I’ll call Jaggard and ask him to review the footage.”

  He reached for the airphone.

  Sam put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “If there’s a traitor inside CDD,” he said, picking his words carefully, “how do you know it’s not Jaggard?”

  “I don’t. How do you know it’s not me?”

  “I don’t. But I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

  “Okay, we’ll check it ourselves when we get back. I’ll hack into the security system so that we don’t have to formally request access.”

  Sam nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “I can’t believe it’s Jaggard, though,” Dodge said. “I’ve known him a long time.”

  “Who, then? Kiwi? Vienna? Gummi?”

  Dodge said, “I don’t know. There’s no reason to suspect any of them. Nor Socks or Zombie.”

  “Or even Swamp Witch,” Sam said slowly.

  The plane banked slightly, and through the window, Sam could see a dark scar on the desert: a ruined city, crushed and blackened buildings emanating from a huge crater.

  Dodge saw him looking.

  “Vegas,” Dodge said. “Not easy to look at, is it?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Better get some kip,” Dodge said, settling in for a nap. “It might be your last chance for a while.”

  The seat folded flat and was surprisingly comfortable, although quite narrow and not quite long enough for Sam’s legs. He couldn’t sleep, though, and after a while, he asked Marie for a neuro-headset and watched old cowboy movies inside his head as the sixteen-elephant-long flying hotel glided smoothly over darkened Midwest states.

  Later, in the dim light of the cabin, with the rush of the wind outside just a warm cocoon of noise enveloping him, he remembered to ask.

  “Dodge. You still awake?”

  “Am now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. What is it?”

  “You said you had met two freaks in your life. One was Swamp Witch. Who was the other?”

  “You,” Dodge replied sleepily. “Go
od night, Sam.”

  24 | CHICAGO

  Dark men emerged from dark cars as they approached an intersection just a block from the river, guns strapped across their chests. Chicago PD SWAT officers, according to the badges and markings on their uniforms.

  They checked Dodge’s and Sam’s IDs, then directed them to a small cafe on the next block.

  Dim blue lights placed on tables gave them just enough light to see by, without showing through the heavy drapes that were pulled across all the windows.

  A figure in Tactical coveralls hurried over. A black face mask hung low around his neck.

  “We’re just finalizing our operational plans,” Tyler said. “Please join us.”

  They followed him to a large hand-drawn diagram spread out on a table.

  “Okay, guys, here’s the situation. The tangos are in an apartment, in a block on the other side of the street. About thirty yards north of us. The apartment is on the third floor.”

  There were at least sixteen Tactical troops gathered around the table, and other chairs and tables had been stacked against the walls to make room.

  Tyler continued, “Police have sealed off a four-block perimeter. The river is also being patrolled, in case they should escape and make it that far.”

  He looked around at Dodge and Sam, and Sam had the feeling that Tyler had already been through this and was doing it again just for their benefit.

  “Are you sure these are the terrorists who attacked us?” Sam asked.

  “Vienna traced a video link from the server farm that launched the diversionary attack,” Tyler said. “It led right here. Solid enough for you?”

  Sam nodded.

  Tyler said, “Thermal imaging shows us two targets inside the apartment, currently sitting at computers. They haven’t moved from the computers since we’ve been monitoring them, no toilet breaks, no food, nothing. This suggests they’re in the middle of something.”

  “Any activity on the wire over at CDD?” Dodge asked.

  “No, nothing yet. But we want to get in there and shut them down as soon as we can. We have a sniffer pipe pulling air in from the apartment, and analysis shows traces of both cordite and ammonia, so it’s a safe assumption that they’ve got both weapons and explosives in there.”

  He turned to the diagram, drawn in marker pens on a large sheet of paper on the table in front of them and illuminated with flashlights at each corner.

  “The apartment block is roughly square in shape, with a central courtyard. The target apartment is on the far side. There’s an interior balcony off the apartment that hangs over the courtyard. That’s going to be our primary entry point. We’ll rappel in from the roof and hit the windows with a glass crusher from one of the apartments opposite. We’ll take out the front door simultaneously. Flashbang grenades from the window, and from the door, glycerol fog canisters. We’ll take out the power before we go in, of course, but they’ll have a backup power supply, so our main objective is to disconnect the tangos from their computers before they have a chance to do any damage. We’re using handguns, not automatic weapons. First round in the chamber will be a puffer, after that the hard stuff. Questions?”

  Lots, thought Sam, who hadn’t understood half of it but didn’t want to appear stupid and ask.

  A bleeping came from Tyler’s belt, and he pulled out a cell phone, reading the screen before announcing, “Okay, team, we have operational confirmation from CDD HQ. Plan is approved; we are good to go. You know your positions.”

  Tyler picked up a neuro-headset from a table and positioned it carefully on his head.

  “Dodge, Sam, there’s a couple of spare headsets on the far table, next to the monitors,” he said. “If you want to come for the ride.”

  “I thought CDD didn’t use neuro,” Sam said to Dodge.

  “We don’t,” Dodge said. “But Tactical make their own rules. They’ve been using neuro for years for nonverbal communication. Talking to each other during missions without actually making a sound. Now they’re fully equipped with video and audio feeds. Gear up—this’ll blow your mind.”

  The Tactical version of a neuro-headset was unlike any others Sam had seen. It consisted of a rubberized wire framework that held the sensors. It was malleable enough to be shaped into position on your head, rather than being tightly compressed onto your skull. A short cable led to a compact receptor unit with a radio aerial.

  “Don’t switch it on yet,” Dodge said. “You’ll want to be sitting down first.”

  “Sitting down?”

  “With the audio and video feeds, it’s just like being there. But you’ll need to sit down; otherwise you’ll end up falling over. You’ll be seeing what they see, in real time, and your body will tend to react.”

  “Okay,” Sam said.

  “You’ll probably end up falling off the chair in any case,” Dodge said. “But at least it’s not so far to fall.”

  Tyler came over. “Any last questions?”

  “What’s our entry point?” Dodge asked.

  “Stay here till I tell you,” Tyler said. “Then head across the road, thirty yards to the north, to the reddish-colored door. Take the stairs, not the elevator—the power will be out—to the third floor. Our guys’ll meet you at the top of the stairs. Wear these.” He handed them both a small round device with a metal clip. “Infrared strobes. Just in case they don’t recognize you in the dark.”

  Tyler moved away and sat at a long table that was covered in screens and other equipment. He produced a thick nylon strap, a little like a seat belt, from somewhere and strapped himself to the chair, placing both hands firmly on the table. In the dim light, Sam could not see Tyler close his eyes but knew that he had, from the sudden shift in the posture of his body.

  Dodge put on his headset and Sam followed suit. The moment he shut his eyes, a grid appeared with sixteen thumbnail videos, one for each member of the Tactical team.

  Some of the videos showed the roof of the building. Another showed the balcony of the apartment from across the interior courtyard. Others showed dark interior passageways.

  He selected one of those, and it expanded to fill his vision, leaving just a few control icons at the bottom of the screen. As he watched, an arm reached up in front of the camera and a leather-gloved hand unscrewed a lightbulb in a ceiling fitting. When the bulb went out, the hand stopped, leaving the bulb in the fitting. It was too dark to see more than vague outlines in the corridor now, and he selected Night Vision from the control icons at the bottom. His world turned into a strange, green-glowing video game as the viewpoint moved farther down the corridor.

  He clicked on a grid icon and was rewarded by the thumbnail videos again. He selected one of the rooftop soldiers and found himself on a low parapet-style roof where a small group of soldiers was readying ropes and strong metal clips.

  “Move to strike positions.” Tyler’s voice sounded in his head. “Okay, we have final mission confirmation from CDD HQ. Targets are confirmed. Weapons free. Ready to breach. On my go, stand by, stand by …”

  The view in Sam’s head swung around wildly as the soldier clambered over the parapet, looking down into the courtyard and glancing up at the night sky as he did so.

  There was a loud thud somewhere nearby and a sharp pain in his elbow. Sam opened his eyes to find himself lying on the floor.

  “Cut the power,” Tyler said. “And go.”

  25 | THE APARTMENT

  Sam closed his eyes again but stayed on the floor—at least he couldn’t fall any farther. The image from the soldier’s camera flickered back into vivid green life.

  The side of the building turned into a blur, and the rope slithered through the fingers in front of his face. He could hear a zizzing sound and realized it was the rope. He was on full audio as well as video feed.

  A voice shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

  Large glass sliding doors approached rapidly, leading in from the balcony.

  Tyler’s voice in his head: “Glass crusher, now!”
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  There was a loud explosion, and the doors shattered into a thousand tiny fragments, a rain of strange green confetti in the night vision.

  From inside the apartment came flashes of lightning and a sound of thunder that Sam could hear with his own ears from across the street, as well as through the neuro-headset.

  Then he was on the balcony and rolling forward through the pulverized doors, rising up, a pistol at eye level seeking targets.

  More voices all around him.

  “Clear left!”

  “Hallway clear!”

  “Friendlies to your right.”

  There were two figures in this room, lolling backward in their chairs as if unconscious, knocked out, surely, from the stun of the flashbangs.

  The computers in front of them were on, the screens glowing greenly in the night-vision viewer, but the figures made no attempt to reach for the keyboards.

  There was something about the shape of their heads, though … neuro-headsets! Just as Sam had predicted.

  Cut the cables, he willed the soldiers. Kill the connections before they can wipe the computers. One of the figures appeared large in his view, and a glint of metal flashed from the end of a pair of cutters as the cables at the back of the headset were disconnected.

  From the terrorist there was no movement, no sign of resistance. Nothing, in fact, at all.

  “Room one, clear,” a voice sounded. Then, “Room three clear, two tangos neutralized.”

  Why had the terrorists not moved? Sam wondered.

  The soldier secured the man’s hands behind the chair with PlastiCuffs. He moved to the computer and began scanning the case with a handheld device. Sam didn’t have to be told to know he was looking for explosives.

  “Something’s wrong.” It was Tyler’s voice, and Sam opened his eyes to see him looking at them. “Someone’s beaten us to it.”

  “What do you mean?” Dodge asked.

  “The terrorists were already down before we got here. They’re unconscious. They’re barely alive. Someone’s been here before us.”

  “What happened to them?” Sam asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Tyler replied. “They’ve been gassed, poisoned, something. Ten to one, whoever did this has also been into the computers. Get in there now and see if they left us any scraps.”