Springboard (9 page)

“Very impressive,” Thorn said.

“Yeah, up until the point that it shut down,” Ellis said. “That simulation took a boatload of expensive log-in time and the lion’s share of attention from a cross-linked pair of supercomputers to run, and somebody killed it like stepping on a fire ant on the sidewalk. It happened yesterday. You can see why the Head of the Joint Chiefs isn’t happy.”

Thorn nodded. Ellis had a Southern twang in his voice. Texas, maybe. “Fire ant” had come out more like “fahr aynit.”

They were in a sim-room adjacent to Ellis’s office at the Pentagon, no windows, a bland space done in the same institutional colors as much of the rest of the place. The building was a maze—you needed the guard/guide they issued you at the door to find your way around, even with the flow charts. As dull an office building as there was, and this a room to doze off in, Thorn thought, though certainly not during a VR ride like the one he had just taken.

Ellis was in his late fifties, but white-haired and with a pale, lined face, looking ten years older than he was. He was in uniform, and one that had been well cut by an attentive tailor to minimize his belly, which, even so, was well on its way to winning the war with his trousers. What Thorn’s grandfather used to call “Dunlap’s Disease”—his belly had done lapped over his belt . . .

“Of course, the expense doesn’t hold a candle to what a real-world exercise like this would cost—not to mention that we couldn’t hardly practice it against the North Koreans or the Chinese. Still, a million here, a million there, and like Dirksen used to say, pretty soon it starts to add up to real money.”

Ellis looked at Thorn. “This is what you people do, run down computer geeks who screw things up. This was a dangerous security breach. Can you fix this?”

Thorn nodded. “If it can be done, our people can do it. Though you are looking at two different problems here, General. Finding and collecting the party responsible is one; repairing the software is another. My people will look for the hacker, and maybe we can help some with the repairs, but it’s your scenario programmers who will mostly have to resolve that.”

“Commander, I guarantee that if you bring us whoever did this, we’ll get him to tell us everything we need to know to fix it. And then some.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, you got your techno guys on it?”

“My best man is already working with the project liaison. More people will be put on it as soon as they have something to go on.”

Ellis grinned. “Welcome to the Marines, Commander Thorn. Colonel Kent is still in charge of your tactical guys?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him to drop by and see me when he gets a chance.”

“I will.”

“All right. We have some chain-of-command things to hash out—I’ll have my paper- and electron-pushers contact yours—and some other miscellaneous stuff, but the main thing is, you jump on this problem like ducks on a June bug and catch this sucker. Everything else we’ll work out as we go.”

“Understood, General.”

“Good. Go do it. Keep me posted.”

As the guard escorted Thorn toward the exit, the head of Net Force considered his first interview with his new boss. So far, so good. How long it would be before the other shoe dropped, he’d just have to wait and see.

The temperature was warm enough so that you could take your shirt off and be comfortable, but not so warm that you got too hot just walking around. Maybe around eighty or so. There were some high clouds in the pure blue sky, and a gentle breeze that ruffled the trees a little.

A manicured lawn stretched in front of the cottage, short grass that felt great under bare feet. A white-painted wooden picket fence surrounded the lawn and house. A medium-sized dog, a party-colored mutt, slept in the shade of a big oak tree next to the house, feet twitching as he chased imaginary rabbits in his dreams.

Framed in the big kitchen window, working on lunch, were three gorgeous women: a tall, busty, blonde, wearing a string bikini top; a redhead with hair down to the middle of her back, in a tube-top; and a dark-skinned, curly-haired brunette without any clothes at all covering her perfect breasts. The trio looked out through the window, smiled, and waved.

The hammock was strung between two sycamore trees; next to the hammock was a small table upon which was an ice chest full of bottled beer, an appetizer pizza piled high with three kinds of meat and two cheeses, and a humidor full of good Cuban cigars.

Mounted on the tree above the foot of the hammock was a holoproj set, and the images of the players in the championship American-style football game danced in the shade. Fourth quarter, two minutes to go, and the score was tied, 28-28.

The cheerleaders, young women, all of them flawless—and bare from the waist up—were going wild. Now and again, the camera would show them in slo-mo, so the bouncing was particularly interesting. . . .

Man. Was this heaven, or what?

The house, lawn, dog, beer—all of it—vanished. The idyllic scene went black, in the blink of an eye. A moment later, the blackness was replaced by flames, and a scene right out of Dante’s Inferno. Tortured souls writhed in the eternal fires, screams of pain filled the air, and everywhere was smoke and stinking sulfur. . . .

Charles Seurat shook his head. “Quite a shock,” he said.

Georges, the programmer, shook his head. “The kind of man—or sometimes woman—who usually elects this particular cottage scenario is generally working-class, what the Americans call ‘blue-collar,’ and the abrupt shift from paradise to inferno is particularly scary. Most of them have had religious upbringings, and in that teaching, the scenario they picked is not, ah, consistent with Heaven. To have the fantasy replaced with Hell is not only a jolt, it is, on some level, what many of them believe they deserve. Despite our assurances that it was a glitch, and even offers of free time, we have lost customers because of it.”

“How many?”

Georges shrugged. “Hard to say for sure. We know those who complained numbered only in the dozens. How many just dropped their service and left without saying? Who knows? Not everybody responds to the exit survey.”

Seurat shook his head. “And you have not found the source?”

“Just like others. The trail bounces from several satellites and then vanishes. He is very good, this hacker.”

“Well, we ought to have somebody who is better. This kind of attack is unacceptable. One man!”

Georges was quiet, but Seurat sensed that he had something to say. “Yes?”

“Two things,
mon capitaine.
First, CyberNation is not the only target. We have heard from reliable sources that the United States military’s war scenarios have likewise been attacked with some success.”

“I have heard these rumors. What of them?”

“It means that we may have a common enemy. And thus, perhaps, an enemy of our enemy who might be of some help.”

“And what is the other thing?”

Georges hesitated.

“Go on, spit it out.”

“We cannot assume that our hacker is alone. He may be part of a cabal. Or worse.”

Seurat thought about that for a moment. “Sponsored by a government, you mean.” It was not a question.

“
Oui
. CyberNation offers a threat to traditional geopolitical entities. If we succeed in our aim—
when
we succeed in them—our power will rival that of nation states. No one ever gives up that kind of power willingly.”

Seurat nodded. Yes. Georges had a point. A hacker backed by a government would have many more resources than one sitting alone in his room using his personal computer. Now that he thought of it, such a premise made more sense, that the attacks were backed by such resources. But—who? Which country?

The most adept would be, of course, the United States. But if they were being attacked themselves, unless it was a clever feint designed to throw CyberNation off their trail, then that would seem to rule them out. They could be very devious, the Americans, but from what he had heard about the cost to their military due to their computer disruptions, that seemed too steep a price. Even if CyberNation knew the U.S. was responsible, they were in no position to start an all-out computer war.

Not yet.

This needed looking into further. Seurat had contacts in the States, people who ought to be able to find out more. Time to use these contacts. He did not like being a target, no matter who the shooter might be. . . .

 

Locke sat in his rented truck—one that had been made to look like a plumber’s vehicle—and pretended to write a work order. The front door to CyberNation’s HQ was visible in the truck’s large, outside rearview mirror, and this was what Locke watched while ostensibly filling out the paperwork. The good thing about pretending to be a plumber—and he wore an old coverall with the word
plombier
stenciled on the back—was that people paid you little attention if your truck sat parked in a neighborhood for hours. With the French, if they saw you sitting in the truck doing nothing, they assumed you were goofing off, and dismissed that with a Gallic shrug. Lazy
bâtard, oui
?

Locke smiled at the image. He had little French to speak of, enough to have dinner or catch a taxi, and it would not have mattered if he was adept in the language—the French looked down their long noses at everybody who was not them, no matter how well they might speak their tongue. Them and their foolish quest to keep the language pure.

The CyberNation building had been a hive of activity since he had arrived, and the comings and goings of high-level employees had a certain frantic nature that Locke took to mean that Shing’s machinations had, at least to some degree, worked.

Plus he had bribed low-level employees—guards, secretaries, and the man who delivered lunches—and while the precise nature of the problem was not something upon which they could report, they could definitely confirm that something was going on—and that CyberNation’s leaders weren’t happy about it. No, not happy at all.

Locke had reports from the United States that the military had also suffered under Shing’s hand, and he would, in due course, travel there and check it out personally.

He had to give Shing credit, though. So far, it seemed as if he had been able to do everything he had claimed. Of course, that had to continue for the greater plan to unfold properly. If Shing was stopped, there was a backup plan, a more hands-on method that Locke would implement, but he hoped to avoid that. Not because he was worried that it wouldn’t work, but the risks entailed would require time and energy better spent elsewhere.

A policeman walked by on the sidewalk. He looked at the truck.

Locke smiled and nodded at the
flick,
then went back to his pretend paperwork. He was obviously not pure French to look at, and the policeman apparently did not wish to talk to him and suffer the expected butchery of speech by a low-life foreigner.

Arrogance was a pain, even if it was useful. Locke could hardly wait to get to the U.S. They were so much more easygoing over there.

He caught movement in the mirror. Ah. It was Seurat, the czar of CyberNation, emerging from the building. As he did, a limo pulled up and the Frenchman entered it.

Locked started the truck’s engine. From what he had learned, Seurat was an automobile buff—he liked to drive. That he was not in one of his sports cars probably meant he was, as Locke had also heard, traveling. A fan of fine cars did not leave an expensive vehicle in an airport or train station parking lot exposed to the elements and the possible dings from the carelessly opened doors of other drivers.

Company presidents traveled all the time, and probably this was no more than a business trip; still, given the problems CyberNation was currently facing, it was not a bad idea to at least check it out. Knowledge was indeed power.

The limousine pulled away from the curb, and Locke followed it into the afternoon’s commute.

Abe Kent had long ago come to terms with most of his fears. Not that he had lost them—there were still plenty of things that could worry him, if he let them: Going blind, or senile, or stroking out into paralysis, these were fears he still carried, but he had learned to control them rather than letting his fears control him.

The way he dealt with them was to pay attention and not deliberately do things that might cause them, at least as much as he could. He ate well, stayed in shape, and had routine physicals. He didn’t drink much alcohol, save for a little wine or beer now and then, and had given up smoking his pipe twenty years back. There were no guarantees, of course, and in the end something was going to kill him, but a quick and sudden end didn’t scare him. He had come close to that often enough that he had been, as far as he was concerned, living on borrowed time for most of his life.

He had been a good Marine. Would have made general by now if he hadn’t been quite as good—if he’d been prepared to let things slide in ways he hadn’t been willing to do. So, the worst thing that Roger Ellis could do to him was kick him out of his job, and when he looked back over his shoulder, there was not a lot he regretted. As a result, Kent wasn’t afraid of this meeting.

Still, there was a twinge of . . . unease . . . as he approached the door of the Pentagon office with his guard and guide, who was also a Marine. A kid, maybe twenty-eight, and a sergeant, who knew who he was.

It had started to drizzle on the way over from Quantico. Maybe that was an omen.

“Here we are, sir. I’ll be back to collect you when you are done.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Semper fi, sir.”