Blue Warrior (28 page)

45

Pearce Systems Headquarters
Dearborn, Michigan

10 May

I
an’s task was clear: spy on Jasmine Bath and Senator Fiero. The risks were equally clear: decades in a federal penitentiary—or worse. The trick was coming up with a strategy that would accomplish the former and avoid the latter.

Jasmine Bath was the best in the business. Period. Her cyberdefenses were impeccable, but her ability to counterattack was fearsome indeed. On the other hand, Senator Fiero and her husband would be more vulnerable and less able to retaliate in the digital realm, so they were the better targets to pursue. Undoubtedly, there would be some sort of exploitable link between Bath and the Fieros. Ian knew if he could break through the Fieros’ defenses, he might have a good shot at breaching Bath’s.

The problem with that strategy, though, was that Bath and CIOS would undoubtedly be keeping a watchful eye on the Fieros. Ian had to find a way to disable CIOS without being detected so that he could exploit any breaches in the Fiero firewalls. But how?

Ian wasn’t confident he had the resources to deal with Bath. It reminded him of an exam he was once given in computational semiotics at Oxford. The tutor came into the lecture hall and demanded that each student come up with a question too difficult to answer—and then
answer it. The entire room groaned with frustration and anger. It took Ian a few moments to realize the purpose of the exercise. People prefer the path of least resistance. People tend to work on problems they already know they can solve, thereby limiting intellectual growth. But avoiding problems that seemingly can’t be solved also limits intellectual growth because it means that people become increasingly unaware of what it is they don’t know. Science, in the end, is about knowing, and the beginning of “knowing” is finding out what you don’t know. Only by becoming aware of the impossibility of a problem—insufficient knowledge or skill—would possibilities for solutions begin to suggest themselves. And that’s when the first solution to Ian’s insoluble problem suggested itself.

Ian knew he wasn’t smart enough to overcome Bath, so he needed to draw on others for help. The international hacktivist community had been under assault by the national security agencies of Western governments throughout the world in the last two years. Whether through DDOS attacks, counterhacking, or just old-fashioned spycraft—honey traps, bribes, break-ins—agencies like the NSA and Britain’s GCHQ had crushed the backbone of many autonomous hacker groups. The surviving members were both afraid and eager for payback. Ian knew how to tap into their collective talent and rage.

Ian reached out to an old contact in the GCHQ who provided him with the necessary info. Carefully hidden behind a series of hijacked computers, Ian faked a new Edward Snowden leak, distributing the explosive “secret” that CIOS corporation and Bath had been the primary architects of the most recent antihacktivist campaign, along with a few IP addresses. This tiny nick put enough blood in the water to draw in the hacktivist sharks, and within hours a digital feeding frenzy had begun.

Within twenty-four hours of Ian’s launch, CIOS was fighting for its digital life, with Jasmine Bath leading the defenses. If Ian couldn’t disable CIOS and Bath, he could at least distract them long enough so that he could accomplish his second strategic objective—going after the Fieros.

Ian attacked the Fieros on two fronts with Myers’s help. First, he deployed one of Pearce Systems’ most reliable human assets, a redheaded Kiwi named Fiona York. As a former JTRIG operative specializing in physical operations, she was perfectly suited for what he had in mind.

York and an assistant picked up sixteen specially fitted miniature air and ground vehicles from Rao’s lab. Some of the MAVs deployed the same high-speed miniature cameras swallowed in pill form to photograph colons.

The MGVs were fitted with gecko-inspired microfiber pads that allowed them to climb walls or other vertical objects. Their primary objective was building and car windows. They were equipped with low-powered infrared beams that could “hear” the vibrations on glass caused by people speaking on the other side of them—a surveillance technique invented in the 1940s by the Russian Leon Theremin, inventor of the Theremin music synthesizer.

York deployed the miniatures with the help of a SmartBird drone, dropping them near the Fieros’ personal residences and vehicles in California and D.C.

But Ian’s main attack was cyber. It was only logical that CIOS would have put better security on the senator since she was their primary client and her home was geographically proximate to CIOS headquarters. Ian further surmised that Anthony Fiero didn’t want his vast financial empire exposed to Bath’s probing queries, which was yet another reason Ian decided to focus his efforts on him. That focus paid off quickly.

Ian knew that Fiero’s private company would have its own IT resources, separate from CIOS. A frontal assault on mainframes or hard drives was possible, but time-consuming. Better to attack on the periphery. Fortunately, that kind of attack was easier than ever these days, thanks to the “Internet of Things,” the machine-to-machine communication that facilitated more and more of modern life. Ten billion devices were connected now. By 2020, that number would rise to fifty billion.

Ian began by downloading the latest hacker list of known back doors to the top ten business software apps. Through one of those back
doors, he gained access into an older version of Microsoft Outlook on the tablet of Anthony Fiero’s personal assistant. From that infection vector, Ian was able to make the leap into a variety of other Microsoft software programs, which then spread into the assistant’s laptop, then other devices and apps connecting the assistant’s laptop to Fiero’s laptop. Then the infection really spread.

Once inside Fiero’s laptop, Ian’s malware infected Fiero’s tablet, iPod, and even his Xbox One game system. The Xbox One Kinect feature provided Ian with voice and video images inside of Fiero’s home, which activated whenever the motion-activated Kinect system was triggered by his presence, recording everything he did or said in front of the gaming machine.

Automated software and data synching between machines and cell phone then spread the virus to Fiero’s phone, a treasure trove of data unto itself. A side benefit was that the phone infection spread to Fiero’s wireless Bluetooth connection, which, in turn, gave Ian access to Fiero’s car and its “smart” radio and GPS apps. Now Ian could listen in on or record any conversation Fiero had in his car through the radio and speakers, and geo-locate him even if Fiero’s phone wasn’t there.

The other significant penetration Ian achieved through Fiero’s phone was to invade the “smart” thermostat system Fiero deployed to remotely control his utilities when he was away from his home. Unfortunately for Fiero, the apps that controlled the smart thermostat also sent wireless data to the utility company, which in turn had access to Fiero’s bank accounts for automatic bill pay. Once Ian was inside Fiero’s bank account, he downloaded copies of all his financial transactions and acquired the personal data needed to find and penetrate other bank accounts, domestic and offshore, including those of his wife, who was also linked to those accounts. Those financial holdings were so vast, however, that Ian had to bring in a trusted consultant, a former Europol bank examiner who specialized in tracking down illicit Russian mafia drug money around the globe.

Ian also created several botnets exploiting the viral pathways now infecting almost all of the Fieros’ computer and computer-controlled
devices, including Anthony’s newly installed “robo-toilet.” The botnets all went to work copying, downloading, or recording every sliver of data they could get their digital hands on. Like the NSA and its massive data-collection capabilities, however, Ian was overwhelmed with the sheer volume of data pouring in. It would take several days, maybe even weeks, for them to sort through it all and connect the dots. Myers had set about the analysis task immediately, while Ian kept expanding the data-collection nets. She was happy to let him take the lead on this operation. She had always been smart enough to delegate the hardest work to the most talented members of her team.

For all of their success, Ian thought the best news was that they had managed to slip their noses under the tent without Bath even knowing they were there. In a long string of personal achievements in the digital world, Ian couldn’t think of anything to top that.

46

Adrar Province
Southwestern Algeria

10 May

T
hey rode until late evening, arriving at a wadi to rest and feed the camels. The sun had long before dropped below the jagged horizon of the Adrar miles behind them. The flat sands shimmered like a silvery sea beneath a high, blazing moon.

Balla stood watch in the distance over the camp while Moctar prayed the last prayer of the day. The camels stretched their long necks, grunting as they munched on the salty green leaves of the tamarisk trees. There was no water, but the camels had drunk their fill before they’d arrived at the Adrar. The Nigerien camel driver was baking bread in a shallow desert oven he’d dug with a trenching tool. That left Pearce, Mossa, Early, and Cella to sit and relax around the small campfire where the teapot was heating up. It was still near eighty degrees Fahrenheit, but that was thirty degrees less than the hottest part of the day, so the evening felt almost cool.

Mossa had unwrapped the
tagelmust
from his face and smoked a cigarette. He sat cross-legged, sharpening the
takouba
resting on his knees with a whetstone. The traditional Tuareg sword was about three feet long and almost two inches wide at the base near the leather-wrapped hilt. The sound of the stone scraping on the ancient
steel was the only sound in the air, save for the munching jaws of the camels.

“I want to thank you for saving my life today, Mr. Pearce. Twice.”

“I was just trying to save my own neck. And please, call me Troy.”

Mossa held his
takouba
up, examining the fine edge he’d just put on it. “You have amazing weapons in your arsenal. Did you invent them yourself?”

“No. I have a research team that sometimes creates new systems, but mostly we take existing technologies and modify or combine them. The grenade launcher you saw me use in the village was off-the-shelf technology, and so were the MetaPro glasses. We just wrote a piece of targeting software to link the two, and to make them function better together.”

“You saved many lives today,” Mossa said. He laid the blade back down across his knees, put the whetstone away.

“And took many more,” Cella added.

“Hardly seems kosher,” Early said. “All this new technology has too many advantages over us mere mortals. Might even make wars obsolete someday.” Early recalled the slaughter at the village, but he’d seen plenty of other examples of technology-induced carnage on too many other battlefields.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Cella said. “It can’t happen soon enough.”

“Your machines will change wars, but not the men who fight them. There will always be wars, until there are no men,” Mossa said. “When all men are dead, then their machines will still keep fighting for them, because they will have been programmed by the men who made them.”

“It’s
Terminator
and Skynet,” Early mused.

“I loved that movie,” Mossa said.

Early burst out laughing. Cella and Pearce did, too, infected by Early’s loss of control.

“I said something funny?” Mossa said.

When Early finally recovered, he wiped the tears from his eyes. “No,
I’m sorry. I meant no offense. But you look like an ancient warrior from the distant past. The thought of you sitting in a movie theater with your sword, watching a futuristic sci-fi movie, well, it just seemed funny.”

“I watched it on a DVD, actually. At my son’s home in Tripoli, years ago.” Mossa’s eyes misted into a memory. Cella took one of his hands in hers, squeezed it. The others stared into the crackling fire.

Pearce wanted to know more about Cella’s husband. How they met, how he died, and how Cella of all people would be caught up in a genocidal war like this. But now was not the time.

Mossa returned to the present, to his guests. “You two met in your war, yes?”

Pearce nodded.

“In Afghanistan, or Iraq?”

“Iraq,” Early blurted after an uncomfortable silence. “A joint mission, helping the Kurds in the north.”

“You were both CIA?”

“Me? Hell no. U.S. Army Ranger.” Early threw a thumb at Pearce. “He was the spook.”

“A spy. Interesting. I don’t think of spies as fighters.” Mossa flicked his cigarette into the fire.

“I was with the Special Operations Group, part of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. Sort of like their own little army.”

Mossa brightened. “So you were a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“But not now?”

“No.”

“And yet here you are, fighting.”

“That’s different.” Pearce pounded Early on the shoulder. “I came for this knucklehead. But now, no more wars.”

“What did you learn about war in Iraq?”

“He also fought in Afghanistan,” Cella said. “That is where we met. A long time ago.”

“What did I learn? I learned that war is too important to be left to the politicians.”

“And yet they are the ones who want them. But it has always been that way. What else?”

“I know that I fought with good men, mostly.” Thoughts of Annie washed over Pearce. “And women.”

“Women fighters?” Mossa was incredulous. “What a waste.”

“Yes, a few women back then. More now, these days.”

“Why did you fight in Iraq?”

“For my country.”

“What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you stop fighting? Did you stop being an American?”

“The war was voluntary. Most Americans didn’t fight in the war. Almost none of the politicians did—neither did their children.”

“You got that damn straight,” Early said. His face soured. “Funny how the guys that never fought are the first to want to fight.”

“That is true everywhere,” Cella said. “Politicians want the votes. They get votes when they bomb other people.”

“We call them ‘chicken hawks’ back home,” Early said.

Mossa lit another cigarette. Pointed at Pearce. “But I asked about you, not about the chickens. Why did you stop fighting?”

“We started two wars we didn’t know how to finish. Too many people I knew got killed waiting for my government to figure that out.”

“We have a saying: ‘It’s easier to fall into a well than to climb out of one.’”

“We jumped into two of them,” Early said. “Now look at them, now that we’re gone.”

“But you had the best weapons. Did your technology fail you?” Mossa asked.

Pearce shook his head. “No. The technology worked fine. We killed many, many more of them than they killed of us.”

“And yet you are the ones who quit the war. You, yourself, left. So
your technology did fail.” Mossa pointed at Moctar, head devoutly touching his prayer rug. Mossa whispered. “Moctar loves his people, but he loves Allah even more. Such men are more dangerous than drones.”

“Even to you?” Pearce asked.

“Yes. Even to me. He is al-Qaeda Sahara.”

“What?” Early couldn’t believe it. “Then why is he here?”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Mossa winked. “He will only put a bullet in me if he is ordered to. He loves me like a father, and his people. He is a good man, as well as devout. Besides, even the prophet Jesus had his Judas, did he not? Not that I am a prophet or even the son of a prophet.”

“The
muj
always knew that they would win simply by not losing,” Pearce said, using the pejorative slang word for
mujahideen
. “They were willing to die by the tens of thousands. They bought time with their blood. But I agree. Technology is never a substitute for the will to win.”

“So many needless deaths,” Cella added. “On both sides.”

“They started it,” Early said. “I’m just sorry we didn’t finish it.”

“And how would you finish it?” Cella demanded.

“Kill every last motherfucking one of them,” Early said.

“‘Them’?” she asked.

Early’s eyes narrowed. “The
muj
. The crazy bastards. The terrorists.”

“They call us terrorists,” Cella said. She meant Mossa and her adopted family.

“I don’t know who ‘they’ are. But I know you. You’re the good guys.”

“And if you didn’t know us?”

“But I do. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Imbecilli!”
She flipped a dismissive hand in the air.

“Daughter, please.” Mossa raised his head. “These are our guests.”

“I’m sorry.” Cella wrapped her arms around her raised knees and buried her face, hiding from the conversation.

Mossa turned back to Pearce. “So you stopped fighting the war, and yet you are still a warrior. Both of you.”

“Not for America.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand. Our politicians are corrupt.”

“You Americans. You are so quick to change everyone else’s government. Perhaps you should change your own.”

“That’s called treason where we come from,” Early said.

Mossa smiled. “Truth is always treason to the wicked. Was not George Washington a traitor to the British Crown?”

“I’m no politician,” Pearce said. “And the country is divided.”

“Ha!” Mossa laughed. “You don’t know the Imohar, do you? We have a little unity now because everyone else is trying to kill us. When the outside threat is gone, watch what my people will do to each other again.”

“What do you mean?”

“The MNLA wants Azawad—a separate Tuareg nation. But Ansar Dine wants sharia law, not Tuareg law, al-Murabitoun wants to wage jihad against foreigners, and AQS wants a West African caliphate. But worst of all, most of our people have settled in the cities driving trucks or in the villages raising sheep and selling tires and tobacco, and are forgetting our ways altogether.”

“So why do you still fight? Every government around here wants the Tuareg fighters to surrender, and want you dead.”

Mossa ran his fingers along the
takouba
blade, his fingertips gliding over carved images in the metal.

“The men who make our swords are called Ineden
.
Do you know this term?”

“Blacksmith?” Pearce offered.

“Yes, that is what they do, but Ineden are also a separate caste of people. They have their own special language and, it is said, their own magical powers, which they breathe into these swords as they make them. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“The Ineden
are forged, by God, to make swords. I am Ihaggaren
,
forged in God’s furnace to wield the sword. Like you, I am a warrior. Do you not see? The warrior is given by God to serve his people. I win my war by being faithful to God and to my people. What they do with their victory,
inshallah
, is up to them. That is why you are miserable, Troy. You are a
ronin
, a masterless warrior. You know this term?”

“I’m surprised you do, but I don’t know why I’m surprised by anything you say anymore,” Early said.

“When a samurai no longer had a master, he sold his services or turned to crime,” Pearce said. “Or killed himself.”

“No. When a samurai no longer had a master, he was no longer a samurai. He lost his purpose.” Mossa turned to Early. “A samurai is devoted to his master, not to war. Serving his master was his true purpose. Did you know this? Or have you not read
The Hagakure
?”

“When did you read it?” Pearce asked. He had been assigned it as a text at The Farm years ago.

“When I was a young man, younger than you. It meant nothing to me at the time. But my Russian instructor had insisted on it, despite its being a ‘remnant of bourgeois classism,’ or some such nonsense.”

Pearce couldn’t help but smile. Had the Soviets copied the CIA curriculum, or the other way around?

“How long were you in the Soviet Union?” Pearce asked.

“Not the Soviet Union. Benghazi, at the military academy, for six months. We had several Russian instructors. Gaddafi was a socialist, besides being a Pan-Arabist.”

“You fought for Gaddafi?”

“I was recruited into the Islamic Legion in 1971. He recruited many poor fighters, but especially Tuaregs. He favored us, and gave us the chance to fight. Good money, homes. My two sons were born there.” He nodded at Cella. “Her husband. He became a doctor.”

“And your other son?”

“A fighter, like me. With his brother, in Paradise. I hope to see them both soon.”

“Don’t say such things,” Cella said.