Gust Front

by John Ringo

  So when the first reports came in of garbled orders, like everyone he took it to be the confusion of the moment, "the fog of war." But as more and more reports came in, an alarming pattern of data invalidation began developing.

  For him, the final straw was an overheard argument between the CONARC and the Tenth Corps commander. CONARC had been informed, out of channels, that Tenth Corps had given conflicting orders, some of them vocal orders from General Simosin himself. General Simosin's response was so angry, so absolutely sure, that Major Nix, who had dealt with the general several times over the years, could not decide which data to trust.

  Given a conflicting set of statements, only additional, preferably objective, data could decide the answer. Major Nix set out to find that data. He was no cyberpunk, but he could get the job done.

  He started with order logs. All electronic commands issued over Battlenet were stored on the Cheyenne Mountain Secure Server. He first called up the initial deployment orders for every unit in Tenth Corps. After that he called up the logged unit responses. A short query indicated that twenty-five percent of the units gave an invalid response. Logically, the higher commands receiving an invalid response should have replied, but there were only three replies to invalid responses. In addition, a plot of the logged responses had the units scattered all over northern Virginia. If the encryption codes had been invalid, the units would have either gotten no communications or map references scattered all over the world. Puzzled, he queried the unit local servers.

  It was a little-known fact that communications within the local commands were also stored locally. Unlike external communications, which were stored in Cheyenne, these communications were purged after each exercise. Mostly it was interdepartmental e-mail that would not be stored under any normal conditions, or comments between the staff and their subordinates. Like "back channel cables," the information was in no particular style and often had nothing to do with the exercise or even the military. In addition to local communications, however, the precise information presented on the command screens was stored. Since, logically, this would be the same as the commands stored at Cheyenne, the information was considered of low priority and only existed as a debugging tool. However, until purged it was available and purging only occurred during a stand-down maintenance cycle. To Major Nix's surprise, most of the Corps's databases had been purged, but Thirty-Third and Fiftieth still had some intact files at battalion level and the data conflicted with Cheyenne. Not in every case, but in several cases what the operators at battalion level saw was not what had been transmitted from their division.

  Tenth Corps had been hacked.

  * * *

  Jack Horner stared at the electronic map of northern Virginia and shuddered. Across the map were red penetrations and friendly-fire markers. Now he knew how an officer as experienced and capable as Arkady Simosin could have let the battle fall apart like this.

  He turned to Colonel Tremont. "Begin the evacuation."

  "But . . . sir!"

  "It'll take hours to do it in an orderly fashion, and if Major Nix is right . . ."

  "I am . . ."

  "We don't know how this is going to go. I don't know if Ninth Corps is where that map says it is without sending you out on a goddamned horse to tell me! If we are penetrated, we have to assume the worst-case scenario for this battle."

  "Yes, sir."

  "So start the evacuation of the Pentagon. Now!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now, Major, explain this. How pervasive is this penetration, and who did it?"

  "I don't know, and I don't know, sir, but here are the best guesses. I tickled Second of the Four Fifty-Second's battalion computer into sending me all its files including a complete copy of its core programming. I ran that through some analysis tools and it isn't good. I've got a bunch of file snippets that look . . . questionable, but this is the beaut." He pointed to a line of incomprensible text on the screen of his laptop.

  "What am I looking at, Major?" asked the general, smiling tightly. He looked like a gray tiger about to teach a deer why it should learn to drink looking backwards.

  "This is a portion of IVIS control code. It is telling the IVIS system to go to an external file each time it sends a position fix. I don't know what the external file is, but I can guess."

  "It tells it whether to tell the truth or not."

  "Yes, sir. And if it's in IVIS . . ."

  "It's in everything."

  "Yes, sir. These friendly-fire incidents . . ."

  "Shit." The general swung around. "Operations, send out a priority order to all field artillery units. Do not use the Central System for fire control! Go to voice communication for all calls for fire."

  "Umm, sir . . ." interjected the major.

  "What?" snapped the enraged general.

  "Their targeting computers might be corrupted as well. And the units might not know where they are, precisely, without IVIS. It's happened before."

  "Monsoon Thunder," said Jack, with an angry shake of his head. "But this time we're the side being hacked. Maybe renegade cyberpunks? Who's that guy, got the Medal, quit and then disappeared?"

  "No, sir," said Major Nix, positively. "If it were King Arthur, we'd never know it until you were out of the picture. His MO was to assassinate the command elements then confuse the troops. No, sir, I think it's someone else. Because there's this bit of code." He flashed another line on the screen. In this case, it was only ones and zeros.

  "Binary, so?"

  "It's Galactic binary, sir, a translation program for a quantum algorithm."

  "Galactic? Could it be Posleen penetration? They use similar code, don't they?"

  "It could be, sir, but it doesn't feel that way. I'm no GalTech expert, but this line looks a lot like some of the code in the AIDs." He gestured at the one encircling the general's wrist. "My guess is it's someone with renegade GalTech. I think that that external file was an AID program running somewhere that gave more or less random units false data and then carefully backed up all the lies.

  "The key is that the files in Cheyenne do not match what was received at battalion, but battalion's responses were ignored. I suspect that the 'response' was crafted by this program to be what the higher unit originally sent out, and the IVIS code was there to maintain the distraction as long as possible. In addition, all of this was masked by legitimate 'fog of war' incidents. This is sophisticated as hell; I don't even know if cyberpunks could pull it off, not for this many units. I would have to finger renegade Galactics. At this point it is way out of my league. We need some Darhel investigators, or maybe Tchpth."

  "Darhel," said the general, distractedly. "They're the programmers, the Tchpth don't program. Damn, this means all of our automated systems could be corrupted. Even the ACS could be vulnerable. There goes our ace in the hole."

  "I don't think it's global, sir, but I can't tell how widespread it is. I definitely think we should go to full manual backup on call for fire and movement orders. We can probably wait and see on logistics."

  "Right, put it out along with an alert about the problem. And good work, Colonel."

  "Major, sir."

  "Not anymore."

  The officer blinked. "Thank you, sir, but I need to send out that warning."

  "Get on it, and send an order to Tenth group telling them to retreat through any available route."

  * * *

  "Gee, thanks for the information," muttered Keren. The cheep for arriving orders from the now-useless ballistic computer distracted him momentarily from plotting the next fire mission. He quickly read the terse code and went back to his board.

  "Last volley, Keren!" said the platoon sergeant, throwing personal gear into the armored personnel carrier. A stray Kevlar helmet bounced once on the deck and cracked cleanly in half.

  "Mortars, this is Third! You better be ready to pull out, we are about to bypass your position!" The call was an effective punctuation.

  "Roger, Third." Keren took one last glance a
t his charge sheet and stored the board; this one was easy enough. He stood so he could look out of the Mortar Carrier and called, "Deflection Two-Eight-Zero-Zero!" All the communications wire was stored and the commanders had their heads out of the hatches, the better to man their machine guns. Company was expected and it deserved a professional reception.

  "Elevation fourteen hundred! Charge one!" Nearly the lowest charge and highest elevation possible, the mortar rounds would not be going far. "Five rounds, traverse, at will and run like hell!" Everyone had been instructed on the route to use to reach their secondary positions. At the command the drivers all started the big diesel engines, like race-car drivers at a tracked Indy race.

  Keren could see tracers from the Bradleys' 25mm Bushmasters through the trees. A bright flash indicated the erasure of another fighting vehicle from the remnants of the company. He was just as glad that the sight was obscured by trees.

  "It's okay, Keren," shouted the platoon leader. He climbed in and dogged the troop door just as the first round went downrange.

  As the mortar tracks began firing, the driver of the FDC track pulled out. It would take only moments for the rounds to be expended and then all three mortar tracks would "run like hell." Better to already be on the road than contributing to the log jam.

  "Don't matter," continued the lieutenant, grabbing a stanchion. He smiled grimly. "We're fine as long as we're not on charge zero!"

  * * *

  Arkady Simosin looked at the scrawled-over paper map of Prince William County and sighed internally. He refused to succumb to despair, despite what the map was telling him. His units, his beautiful divisions, were so much scrap scattered through the woods. But there were still troops to save.

  "Reinforce the order from CONARC, regarding the retreat." He stared at the red arrow of Posleen, charging up the I-95/U.S. 1 corridor. Unlike the horses they resembled, Posleen seemed inured to fatigue. They would be to the Occoquan bridges within the hour.

  "Send a message to the Thirty-Third and Forty-First to pull back to the beaches. See if we can get some craft down to the water to pull them out. The battleships were never tied into the fire net and they've been accurate so far. They might be able to cover the withdrawal. Get on that stat."

  "I'll handle it," said the planning officer.

  "Okay, all the rest, turn them towards Manassas, modify the original pivot plan. Tell them to retreat as fast as possible, Nineteenth Armored to take the back door and slow the Posleen." He glanced at the map again. "The Thirty-Third, Forty-First and Fiftieth DivArty should be able to make it across the bridges. I'm sure they'll hurry. Have them follow the back roads along the Occoquan. They should be able to provide some fire from there.

  "The units are to retreat until they are in reserve of the Ninth Corps, in the area of . . ." He looked at his chart and smiled grimly. "Bull Run National Battlefield Park. We will reorganize there."

  He paused and looked at his staff. "Gentlemen, we all know that a retreat under fire is the most difficult maneuver of all to effect. This is, effectively, a rout. We have to get to Manassas before our troops do, and get them stopped behind Ninth Corps. We will use the units that are still combat-effective to reinforce Ninth Corps and stop the Posleen on that axis. Prince William County is as far as they go!"

  CHAPTER 48

  Occoquan, VA, United States of America, Sol III

  1344 EDT October 10th, 2004 ad

  Lieutenant Ryan tried not to listen to the quiet murmur of the troops around him, but the rumors of defeat were reinforced by the continuous rumble of artillery vehicles crossing the I-95 bridges. A few armored personnel carriers even rumbled across the VA 123 bridge, tearing at high speed to the north. It was clear from every sign that Tenth Corps had had its butt kicked and was escaping as fast as it could. Even as his platoon continued its preparation for the Posleen, the rumble of falling artillery came closer and closer.

  He had moved his command post to the high ridge on the north bank of the Occoquan. Screened by a thicket of beech saplings—their palmate leaves turning brilliant yellow in the autumn chill—he had a clear view of the town, including the opposite ridge and both bridges. The last orders he had received were to blow the bridges when the Posleen were in sight and remain in position to cover the old dam. Until an infantry unit could be found to replace him, his platoon was responsible for preventing the Posleen from crossing that vital defense work.

  In preparation for the oncoming tide, the engineering platoon had been busy little groundhogs. A slit trench ran the length of the top of the ridge, with V-cut positions for riflemen stretched along its length and intermittent reinforced positions for machine guns. The slope was a mass of concertina and barbed-wire tanglefoot and the road running across the south slope was mined for demolition. Should they somehow force a crossing it would be extremely difficult for the inflexible Posleen to establish a bridgehead without the road.

  When an artillery battery began firing from just behind the ridge, with impacts on the south edge of the town sending woodwork flying into the autumn sunshine, Ryan decided that knowing how to contact artillery might be a good thing. A brief scroll through his ANCD, however, indicated that there might be a problem. He did not have listings for Tenth Corps units.

  Since the platoon had been drawn from a training establishment, their chain of command did not include any of the local tactical forces. The ANCD listed a vast number of training units in the Belvoir local area and even higher command frequencies that few platoon leaders would have under normal tactical conditions. But, unfortunately, there was not a single artillery unit listed. The closest thing to an artillery unit was the cryptic entry: "Continental Indirect Fire Net."

  With a shrug, he flipped his PRC-2000 to the listed frequency and keyed the mike . . .

  * * *

  Since the prohibition on automated indirect-fire, the Fire Direction Center had been stymied. Even when automated fire was allowed, so few units had direct contact that the Fire Control could only order fire on rough guesses of enemy location. Even worse was the lack of feedback. Nothing got a gun crew hopping like the word that they just destroyed an enemy.

  So when the crewwoman heard a faint whisper in her earphones, she clamped her right hand over the earphone and responded instantly.

  "Unit on this net, unit on this net, you are coming in faint and broken. Say again callsign."

  "Oscar-Fi—is—Romeo—"

  "Unit on this net, you are broken. Say again, or boost signal."

  "St—by."

  "Roger, this is Oscar Five Uniform Four Seven, standing by."

  A few minutes later the calling unit came back in, still faint but clear.

  "Oscar Five Uniform Four Seven, this is Mike Eight Romeo Six Seven, over."

  "Romeo Six Seven, this is Uniform Four Seven. Authenticate Victor Hotel."

  Pause. "Authentication, Bravo, over."

  "Romeo Six Seven, welcome to the net, over."

  "Roger, adjust fire, over."

  "Adjust fire, out." She began to enter the order as she hit the foot trip to switch to intercom. "Fire mission!"

  "Target, Posleen in open, coordinates 654894. Can you range, over?"

  "Romeo, what map sheet are you on, over?"

  The lieutenant stared at the private next to him and realized that he was no help; they were both trainees.

  "Sergeant Leo!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I got an artillery unit that needs to know what map sheet we're on!" The platoon leader looked at the military grid map covered in incomprehensible signals. "Where the hell is it?"

  "Why do they need the map sheet, sir?"

  "You want me to take the time to ask?"

  The NCO forced his way through the troops between himself and the lieutenant and ran a practiced eye over the map.

  "There it is, sir, in the upper right. Occoquan. That was next week's course," he finished with a wry grin.

  "Right." The lieutenant keyed the mike. "Occoquan, over."
>
  "Umm," the fire direction technician checked her map and eyeballed the range. "Roger. say your position and condition, over."

  "Ridge to north of Occoquan River, overlooking 123, dug-in, coordinates 654897."

  "Roger, stand by."

  * * *

  "L-T, we got movement on 123!"

  Lieutenant Ryan lifted his head out of the slit trench and peered into town. Down Main Street, "Old 123," trotted a swarm of yellow centaurs, their God King prominent in their midst. He had been surprised by the female voice, but now just wished she'd get her fanny in gear.

  "Sergeant Leo!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Drop the 123 bridge!"

  "Yes, sir. What about the footbridge?"

  "Let's keep that up for a while."

  A group of centaurs came around the shoulder of the hill, trotting down 123. At the sight of the intact bridge they broke into a gallop. Almost simultaneously there was a thundering racket from downstream where the I-95 and U.S. 1 bridges went up simultaneously.

  "Purple Heart Bridge indeed," muttered the lieutenant.

  "What was that, sir?" asked one of the waiting engineers.

  "Nothing, I think I've got some artillery on the way."

  "Great! That battery behind us?"

  "No, I don't have their frequency. Somebody else, I don't know what."

  As the 123 bridge blew up, the two hundred pounds of Composition-4 explosives lifting concrete chunks and the first rank of centaurs into the air, the radio crackled with a transmission.