The Russian Crisis

by G. R. Daniels

  THE RUSSIAN CRISIS

  By G.R. DANIELS

  ISBN Canada 978-1-9994867-0-9

  Copyright ©2018 Awareness Communications Inc. All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

  The Russian Crisis: first in the Crisis Series

  Read: Crisis in the Cold

  Read: Doubled Down Deadly

  Read: Devil's Chair

  THE RUSSIAN CRISIS

  CHAPTER ONE

  The long, sleek, sea kayak glided the last few yards to the dock of Shield Island, a dot of land in the clear waters of Georgian Bay. Jackson Phillips leaned forward to plant one end of his two-bladed paddle on the old wooden slats of the dock. He pulled himself out of the cramped cockpit and onto the planks of the dock. He rolled over, pushed himself to his knees and rose slowly until he was upright. He smiled. Not bad after three hours on the water paddling for five kilometres.

  “I’ll live,” Jackson mumbled to himself as he grabbed the toggle at the nose of the kayak and pulled the boat onto a sand beach.

  It was the end of July and the sand was blazing hot as it soaked up the bright sun that bathed the huge inland bay in early afternoon brightness. Jackson hurried across broiling sand and boulders. Climbing the wood steps to the porch of his cabin, he paused for a moment and took in the sight.

  Jackson Phillips had bought the island ten years before to ease his way into retirement with the vision of the home he and his wife would build. Now, the vision was real; the words ‘cabin’ or even ‘cottage’ didn’t begin to describe the place with its 4,000 square feet. It was larger than the cottages on nearby islands or the immediate mainland a couple of football fields away from his two-year-old home.

  The cottage had five bedrooms but three were seldom used. Jackson didn’t host many sleep-overs. He had two children who had one grandchild each but the ‘kids’ lived long ways off. He loved the kids and the kids of the kids but, after all, he was retired and had earned solitude when he wanted it. He had earned the cottage as well, with his twenty years as a military officer, twenty more in Canada’s intelligence service and more than fifteen years as founder and CEO of Jackson Phillips Incorporated. He had grown the company to be the largest provider of specialized software to militaries through the world.

  The cost of his career had been high. Jackson’s wife Laurel had died of a heart attack at 58 when Jackson was away in the Middle East as a member of a joint Canadian, American, British team planning security against terrorist bombers threatening soldiers fighting and training fighters in Middle East conflict zones. The heart attack when Laurel was alone in their Toronto home was unexpected and shocking. Jackson could have sent another executive to the planning session abroad but went himself as both an ex-soldier and business leader. He had lived since with twinges of guilt and remorse.

  The cabin had been built using plans roughly drawn by Laurel and Jackson just before Jackson had left for the Middle East assignment. It was a memorial of sorts, full of light just as she had been and to the exacting design she would have demanded.

  As a soldier, Jackson had risen to the rank of Brigadier General in the Canadian Army but his true prowess came from his position as a senior officer in JTF2. The name, Joint Task Force 2, may not be as catchy as ‘Green Berets’, ‘Seals’ or ‘Delta Force’ but Canada’s special forces match or exceed every skill and talent of their counterparts in other nations. Within JTF2 ranks, Jackson Phillips was still a legend even if he was an ex-soldier these days.

  Jackson’s tour with CSIS involved highly secret and occasionally dangerous work. With his military training and his physical condition as an ardent runner and swimmer, Jackson had been a natural for undercover work at the highest levels.

  As an undercover, Jackson had posed as everything from a buyer of bootleg arms to a drugs and people smuggler. He had also run agents into the hottest spots and turned spies into assets for Canadian, American, British, Aussie and even French intelligence services, since Jackson was fluently bilingual in English and French.

  ‘Double pension dipping’ and savings gave Phillips the money to create a company to develop and sell software for use in the world’s riskiest military environments. Every ranking officer in any major military on earth would recognize the name Jackson Phillips Incorporated.

  Corporate employees were on his mind as Jackson made his way into the luxurious cottage on his island - one among the so-called Thirty Thousand Islands of Georgian Bay in Canada’s province of Ontario. He was wondering who in former executive ranks were still at JPI and who had followed him out of the company.

  Jackson bypassed his office off the entrance hall and went into the living space, revelling in the view through the windows that made up most of the western wall of the open area. He could look out over a strip of sand and rock into the shimmering water beyond. Jackson’s home was located at the extreme eastern end of Shield Island so water could be viewed from three sides with a small wood on the island at its south end.

  Jackson wandered into the kitchen section. He still felt that he had let down his staff when he had sold his company for hundreds of millions. He had thought it was time to leave his company to younger and smarter leaders.

  Jackson repeated his mantra, time and again, “I’m getting older and I can’t do this forever. You will be in the best of hands - better than mine.” And the men and women in JPI would smile and nod as they feared his retirement.

  JPI had been sold to a private equity firm that specialized in the military sector. Cleanleaf Private Equity, a niche, rich firm, preferred JPI run its own affairs. JPI itself had a small board, composed mainly of women and men in the military provisioning sector, overseeing new executives along with those who chose to remain. All did stay, in the beginning.

  The seven men and women in his core leadership team had each received millions in bonuses from the sale money. Still, that had left Jackson with plenty for himself and a host of charities. No one complained; he had hired each one himself and paid them well. They were his employees, his colleagues and his friends. He missed them.

  As he opened the door of the refrigerator to see what he could make for supper some hours away, Jackson heard an irritating noise from outside. The noise made it through the thick windows of the cottage so it must be loud. He thought it might be a neighbor in an outboard running into the bay to fish for pike and pickerel or, god forbid, a neighbor’s kid on a new jet ski. He grabbed a beer by its skinny neck and headed out.

  A boat was pulling into the beach next to the wooden dock. It was an open rowboat with a small motor on its stern. With the brilliant backlight it was hard to see the boaters. There was a big guy manning the motor and a smaller man in the bow. Both were dressed in suits and each wore a dark, plain tie. Jackson thought they looked like undertakers. ‘How did they get this address,’ he muttered as he walked to the small sand beach next to his dock.

  “If you fellows are selling something you’ve got the wrong…” Jackson stopped at the waters’ edge and peered at the men. “Is that you, Payne?”

  The small man stood up but sat down quickly as the small boat rocked. “Come on Jackson, help us out,” he shouted. The big man fumbled with the engine controls and the motor sputtered and died. The boat coasted into the dock, causing both men to lurch forward.

  “Why can’t you live in some place that’s civilized,” the man named Payne shouted. Jackson stepped into the water to catch the bow of the rowboat and pull it into the sand next to his kayak.

  “Aw, Payne, you afraid of a little water? Come ashore.”

  The smaller man stood up, clutching both sides of the boat and made his way gingerly to the bow and ove
r the side onto the sand. “Gees, this beach is hotter than hell. I can feel it through my shoes.”

  Jackson still stood in shallow water, soaking his flipflops and cooling his feet. “Who’s your friend, Payne?”

  The big man left the stern of the boat and stepped over the gunwales into a few inches of water. He walked to the shore. His shoes got wet as did the cuffs of his black suit pants.

  “Brownley,” the man said. “Bill,” he held out a hand to Jackson. They shook and Jackson was impressed by Brownley’s strength.

  “What are you doing here,” Jackson asked of the man who used to be his Chief Financial Officer and was still counted one of his best friends. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you but…”

  “Sure, you are,” Payne replied ruefully eyeing the beer Jackson had set on the sand before pulling the boat ashore. “Interrupting your boozing? Sorry about that, Jackson, but the crap has hit the revolving thing.”

  “The sand is frying your brain; let’s go to the cottage.” Jackson turned on his heel and walked toward the structure.

  “Cottage?” Brownley stood just inside the vast living area and looked around. “This place is a palace.”

  Payne had been to Jackson's home before but still marvelled at its size and views.

  Phillips halted a few steps into the living area and turned toward the other men.

  Payne looked more closely at his friend. Jackson was six feet tall without hint of the stoop of so many elderly men. Jackson wore a black Tee and jean shorts on a body that had aged well. But, as he scanned Jackson’s face, Payne saw changes.

  Jackson had gone several days without shaving and his light beard was white like the thinning hair on his head. His mouth had definite lines. There was a lack of his typical sparkle in the light blue eyes and Payne could count several furrows across Jackson’s brow where, before, his forehead had been smooth. His friend was still as handsome as ever with a sharp-featured look that blended power and compassion but some of his magnetism had diminished and that saddened Payne.

  “You look like you bit on a lemon,” Jackson said with some anxiety. He looked at Payne with an arched eyebrow. “Want a drink.” He included Brownley with a nod of his head to the big man now standing behind Payne.

  “Yeah,” Brownley said in a rumbling voice. His fleshy face remained expressionless. “Thanks for asking, sir.”

  “So, you’re at JPI?” Jackson turned his full attention to Brownley. His tone was flat. His hands were still against his sides.

  “William Brownley. I’m head of internal security at Jack… your former company.”

  “Where is Starke?” asked Jackson.

  “Retired,” Brownley replied. “Months ago. I came in from Regal Security Partners.” Jackson knew that firm; it was a good one.

  Jackson turned toward the kitchen area. “Drinks.”

  A few minutes later, without further talk, the three men were seated in comfortable leather chairs in a conversation pit focused on the large windows of the rear of the living room. “Looks like a Group of Seven,” commented Payne as he sipped from a glass of scotch, referring to Canada’s famed artists who painted many works based on the waters and forests of Georgian Bay and Algonquin Park not far away.

  After an uncomfortable pause, Jackson continued. “Okay, Ryan,” untypically calling Payne by his first name. “What’s the problem?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Payne glanced at Brownley before answering. He took a breath. “It’s a security thing.” Jackson felt the hair at the back of his neck bristle and there was a cold feeling in his chest. He could feel his blood pressure drop and his skin pale.

  “Go on.” His voice was unemotional.

  “We don’t know who it is but someone on the inside has taken stuff…”

  “What does that mean, Ryan,” asked Jackson.

  Payne waved a hand toward Brownley and said, “As Bill can attest, our systems are protected with all means available, encryption, fail-safe …”

  “Damn it,” said Jackson with some anger, “You think I’m senile, Ryan. I’m not a programmer but I sure as hell know about JPI systems security.”

  Payne responded with more force than Jackson expected from the usually buttoned-down CFO. “Someone has stolen JPI source code. Don’t ask me for more details because I’m not sure anyone except Barry and Jean understands it… They discovered it in the first place.”

  Payne named the two top developers at Jackson Phillips Inc. Barry Tenant and Jean Villeneuve were among the most knowledgeable, military-focused software developers in the world.

  “Source code for what? Jackson asked with a slight break in his voice.

  "Machine Learning Defence and Targeting. Pretty much everything.”

  Phillips had named the division as one of his last acts at the company. ‘ML’ was first assumed by others as referring to Military, the customer base of JPI. But Jackson meant it as Machine Learning, the process that describes Artificial Intelligence or AI.

  For non-geeks, ‘AI’ refers to the many ways in which machines are thinking more and more like humans. Machines learn how to build cars, vacuum floors and turn on lights. Military software learns how to make war more efficiently. Machines learn like humans - for better or for worse.

  “Oh crap,” said Jackson and he put his hand to his forehead. “If our solutions are compromised, it could be a catastrophe for armed forces everywhere … Afghanistan, Iraq, Mali…” He mentioned places where JPI clients were actually fighting wars or training fighters.

  “I have to remind you,” Brownley interrupted, in his gruff voice, “this is no longer ‘our’ when it comes to you, sir. You are no longer the head of Jackson Phillips Inc. even though it’s your name on the door.” He turned pointedly to Payne. “I’m against this meeting and I must warn you that some of what may be said here could be covered by the Official Secrets Act in Canada…”

  Jackson looked at the big man in anger. “You come into my house and insult me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Brownley recoiled slightly from the sudden tension in the room. Jackson was a soldier, a spy and a powerful CEO - yes, in the past - and his background showed clearly in his manner.

  “I apologize,” said Brownley grudgingly, “But it is my duty to inform you…”

  “Enough,” said Payne with a sudden cut of his hand through the highly charged air. “Jackson Phillips is not only a close friend and my former boss, he is as qualified as anyone in the world to hear what I have to say. He knows more about secrecy than you and I put together.”

  What Jackson knew was, in short, the MLD&T division had developed solutions to prevent terrorist-style bombings and other attacks against allied soldiers or civilians. The targeting part of the division’s title referred to locating and removing the bombers themselves before or after they triggered their devices.

  JPI solutions could be easily adapted to specific battle fields - Iraq, Syria, Mali, - and even to civilian locations like a Middle-East marketplace, a dense urban area in Africa or a North American street where a truck driven by a terrorist could plow into pedestrians.

  JPI did produce software that could help destroy enemy installations and kill enemy soldiers, sailors and airmen, but it led the world in software that could prevent death and destruction.

  The software could detect bombs being worn by would-be terrorists before they got too close to troops or civilians for an effective blast radius. The software, placed in drones, could locate mines hidden in fields or beside roads long before traffic came near. JPI was a new Blackberry, the Canadian company that once stood for the best in smartphone security.

  The targeting part of MLD&T referred to the ability of the digital defenders to identify and guide bullets or missiles to terrorists with their bombs and mines. If one were to wear an explosive vest or plant an IED within the range of software controlled from a JPI platform, he or she would be guaranteed mission failure and sudden death.

  Theft of the source code of an
y or all of MLD&T solutions would be a nightmare. Source code is the Holy Grail of corporate hackers. Companies guard proprietary source code like gold. And someone inside JPI likely had nefarious plans for that treasure.

  Phillips could think of all the ramifications later; now, he had to get the basics and time to think.

  “Okay,” Jackson interrupted. “I do appreciate your caution, Bill, but not directed at me. Let’s calm down and get to the point.” He was calm himself again and more determined than belligerent. “Why are you here and not back in the office working your butts off to get this solved?”

  “We tried, Jackson. But we couldn’t get past our biggest obstacle. Maxim.”

  “Maxim Blax? That’s hard to believe, Payne.” Jackson switched to the use of the CFO’s last name to let his friend know they were back on friendly ground; Payne hated his first name and Jackson rarely used it except to get his pal’s full attention. In return, Payne never called Jackson 'Jack'. Nor did anyone else.

  “Why would Maxim stand in the way of stopping a breach like this. He has everything to lose if you’re right about this …” he hesitated, “… crisis.”

  “We don’t know,” Payne answered with confusion and dismay. “Barry and Jean came to us when they uncovered this mess. Jean wrote a note about what it would mean.” Payne saw the alarm in Jackson’s eyes. “It was on paper - one sheet - and I triple-shredded it as soon as we - me, Maxim and Fred - read it.” Fred Nbodo was Director of Technology at JPI, one of few senior managers authorized at this level of confidentiality at the company.

  “Blax told us to forget it.” There was sudden outrage in Payne’s voice. “Forget it! The biggest … really the only major security breach we’ve ever had and that son of a bitch tells us to forget it? What the hell, Jackson?”

  Brownley looked at the CFO and frowned.

  Phillips was appalled. The ire Payne exhibited toward the CEO of JPI was stunning. “Payne, I thought you people were getting along. I wouldn’t have sold out if I thought you and Maxim could ever be on the outs. What are you doing?”