DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (17 page)

“Just like taking a photo,” she whispered in his ear as she pressed the gun in his hand. “Make sure you have a good shot, hold it steady, press the shutter. No rapid fire, take only the shot that counts.” She kissed him. “And don’t panic. The other guy is scared and rushing the shot. You’re not. You’re just taking your time to make sure than when you squeeze the trigger, he drops.”

She was telling him all this, Martin thought, because she knew his weapon’s training had been a disaster. Even during the Iranian op, the gun issued to him had seemed decorative, just for show. He was the brains, his teammates the muscle. Now Sasha was his only teammate.

“Great,” he muttered.

“We’ll be fine. Three blows for armed intruders on foot, so they’re fairly close. Four blows for four intruders. We know this area, they don’t. That’s our advantage. We’ll snipe them down one by one. We don’t go to the cabin. We trap them there if they go in. Got it?”

“OK,” he said, thinking to himself he got nothing. He wondered who was blowing the horn, but that didn’t matter much now.

While Martin pointed the gun down-trail, Sasha took off her backpack, set it on the ground and took out two clips. She stuck one clip in his left pocket. She then unsnapped his camera strap and stuffed the camera in the backpack.

“No talking from this point on,” she whispered. “Slow, quiet steps.”

Martin followed her down the trail. Sasha held the gun in front of her, clearing the way.

Behind her, he pointed the gun forward as well, but making sure he never aimed at her, and that his finger was not resting directly on the trigger to avoid accidental firing. At least he remembered that much.

Maybe he could do this after all.

Chapter 25

Agent Ochoa and Beloski drove their Land Rover through the Highway 120/395 junction. Figuring he had enough gas to get to Mammoth Lakes, Ochoa had blown past the gas station at the junction, though Beloski, seeing only a quarter tank left had advised otherwise.

“We have the spare cans if we need them,” Ochoa said.

Ochoa’s phone rang to signal an incoming text. Beloski read it to him, “Stand down, S0 only for #1. S3 for #2.”

“Does that mean what I think it does?” Beloski asked.

“Update in orders,” Ochoa said. “The four basic Collection states are S0 to shield or protect; S1 to recover or bring in a friendly; S2 to rendition or bring in a hostile; and S3 to remove. Martin Spencer is subject number 1. Julian Rogers is number 2. If we find Martin we’re to protect him.”

“And if we find Julian?”

“We’re to remove him from theater by any means necessary.”

“Including—” Beloski couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Any means necessary,” Ochoa said.

“I guess they’ve decided Martin’s on our side.”

“I don’t know what they decided or why,” Ochoa said. “I just know what my job is.” He pointed at the phone. “Please reply with 'confirm #1 S0, #2 S3' and send the text.”

Beloski did as directed, and a few seconds later received a text message saying: “Roger, Cleared-Hot.”

They drove on for another 30 minutes, and just as they were beginning to descend a slight grade, Beloski heard two gunshots.

“You hear that?” Beloski asked, and by way of answer from Ochoa he received a sharp turn right onto a dirt trail.

“Where are we going?” Beloski said. “How do you know the shots came from here?”

Ochoa shrugged. “It feels right.”

The Land Rover sped down the trail, bouncing and rocking until they reached a fork in the road. Beloski could make out a sign pointing up the trail to a fire lookout. Ochoa braked hard and poked his head out the window.

“Fresh tire marks leading up trail,” he said. With that, he put the Land Rover in drive and climbed.

Sasha and Martin heard the shots, just as they reached the upper trail head by the outhouse. It was hard to be sure with the mountains around and the way sound echoed, but to Martin the two shots sounded close.

Sasha walked into a grove of trees, and Martin followed. Now came the tricky part, walking on all these needles and broken branches without making a racket. He watched how Sasha navigated her footing and stepped where she had stepped. After a few hundred yards of slow progress, she raised her hand signaling a stop.

Up ahead, Martin could hear heavy steps coming up the trail. He guessed they’d spotted Sasha’s and his foot prints and were following them. Through the trees, he could make out two male figures. Sasha was pointing her gun at the trail, waiting to ambush them when they went by. Martin imitated her, but just as he did, the two figures stopped, whispered something that sounded like Spanish, and then each of them hid in the trees on either side of the trail.

Now they were setting up an ambush.

Sasha looked up at him, pointed at his chest, then at the ground. You, stay here.

Martin gave her a thumbs-up to signal he understood. Then he watched her slink toward the nearest intruder, wielding a knife. Like a cat going after a bird, she pounced on him and slit his throat.

Martin could hear the gurgling of blood and life spilling out of the intruder’s throat. Sasha let go of his body, and it dropped with a thump.

“Berto,” the other intruder whispered.

Berto didn’t respond.

“Berto!” went out the call again.

Sasha crept to her left, farther now from Martin, still holding the knife. Martin looked across the trail and saw the other man stirring. He was coming out.

In a flash, Martin realized he had a clear shot at him. He raised the gun, aimed at the chest, breathed in, breathed out, held his breath and squeezed.

He saw the muzzle flash, heard the gun shot and watched the intruder’s chest explode in red and his body drop onto the trail. Martin’s first thought was that he had just shot a hollow-point round. His second thought focused on the echo of the gunshot off the nearby rock wall.

It was loud.

He wondered whether he’d made a mistake. Maybe Sasha wanted to knife the second guy, too, to keep from giving up their location. He looked at her and was about to tell her he was sorry, but she was giving him a thumbs-up. Then she waved at him to come to her.

Martin rushed over, perhaps making too much noise. When he reached her, she motioned for him to stay there, and after looking down-trail, she sprinted in that direction, and then into the trees across from Martin.

The man he’d shot lay directly in front of him. The other one, now completely silent, lay to his right, no more than a body length away.

Martin felt his stomach turn. He swallowed hard to keep the threatening vomit down.

The sound of trail dust crunched underfoot signaled someone’s approach. Martin figured since she was closer, Sasha would take the first shot. The body was the lure. As soon as the incoming intruder came to a stop, she would have a perfect shot from behind. If she missed, he’d take the next shot.

Martin could see the man now, rushing up trail. “Berto! Miguel!” he shouted.

Martin had no clear shot yet. The man came closer slowing down to a walk when he spotted the body. He came closer, closer, and then at the sound of a swish and a thump went down on his knees, then face down, a knife sticking out of the back of his neck.

Shots rang out in a fast burst, and Sasha pounced out of her hiding spot, took two steps and dove for cover on Martin’s side of the trail. She came up short and had to drag herself into the trees. Behind her she left a crimson smear.

Martin took cover behind a tree and could feel bark chips flying around him in an interminable rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat. Then came a pause, and he heard a metallic clink. Reloading.

Martin came out, lay on his stomach with his left elbow resting on the trail. He aimed just in time to see a large Hispanic man kneeling on the trail, inserting a clip into a semiautomatic, and behind him, a slender dirty blond woman taking aim with an equally slender, long barreled handgun.

Pop, pop, pop, like firecrackers came the sound from her weapon. The man went down.

The woman walked to the body, still aiming at his head. From her right side hung a small sub-machine gun.

She lowered her gun, took off her sunglasses and said in an even voice, “It’s me, Martin. Cynthia. Please put your gun down.”

Martin dropped his gun and ran to Sasha. She had bumped her head against a tree and lay unconscious. Her breath was shallow. Her green uniform was turning red-brown around her waist.

Chapter 26

Julian woke up to a light knock on the door. Through the round window in his small but well-appointed room, bright sunlight poured through, reflecting off glass and polished teak. The door opened, and Julian squinted to see who it was.

“Mr. Rogers,” Davood said, filling the doorway. “I trust you’ve had a restful sleep.” He smiled, just barely. “It is 9:30, and we have some follow-up to do per our discussion last night. Breakfast is served, if you care to join us.”

Julian followed Davood upstairs. Together they entered a small room where a dining table beckoned with pastries and glasses of various juices. Masoud rose to greet Julian, and after that was done, all three sat around the table.

Julian selected a couple of pastries and picked the one glass that looked the most like orange juice. He soon found out it wasn’t, and grimaced at the taste.

“Something wrong, Mr. Rogers?” Masoud said.

“It’s OK,” Julian said. “Let’s cut to the chase. I thought about what you had to say last night before I fell asleep.”

“And what did you conclude?” Masoud asked.

“That I should help you.”

“How did you arrive at your decision?” Davood asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling a bit stale lately. You know, like I’m not really doing anything productive. Not making a difference.”

“If you don’t mind, please explain what sort of difference you have in mind,” Davood said.

“Well, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not thinking I can change the world or anything like that. I just want to do something with some impact. Something of significance. You know what I mean?”

“You are most modest, Mr. Rogers,” Masoud said. “Humility is a valuable trait for a man to have. It helps him set the right boundaries for his life. It keeps him from overreaching.”

“Exactly,” Julian said. “Last thing I want to do is overreach. I might pull a muscle or something.”

“It is the small deeds that have the most impact,” Davood put in. “The deeds done in private and without purpose of self-glorification are the ones that pervade through history.”

“Yeah, good words,” Julian said. “So I leveled with you. Now you level with me. What are we into, gentlemen?”

Masoud said, “We have a project in mind, one similar to what happened in Los Angeles. Prior to Martin Spencer’s intrusion, of course.”

Julian thought about his next comment, finally deciding to just go for it, right down the hatch. “The stock market might be an interesting target. Lots of impact and significance there.”

“Yes, indeed,” Davood put in. “A destabilized New York exchange would affect many aspects of the U.S. and World economy. Unfortunately, it would also affect many of our friends, and we would all prefer a less indiscriminate effect, don’t you think?”

“I guess I see what you’re saying,” Julian said, a bit disappointed at their response.

As if he had detected that disappointment, Masoud said, “But perhaps we can do just a smidgen with the markets, as a leading entrée, as it were. Or perhaps more effectively, as a distraction, a misdirection from our true target.”

“A decoy,” Julian said.

“Exactly, just enough to divert resources to a fire that isn’t really burning,” Masoud added.

“And what would we like to burn?” Julian asked.

Masoud reached behind him and turned back holding a tablet, which he handed to Julian. Julian saw that the tablet pointed to a Wikipedia page titled: “90th Missile Wing LGM-30 Minuteman Missile Launch Sites.” Julian scrolled through maps and GPS coordinates of missile silo sites covering a tri-state area in Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado.

“You do know that most if not all of these facilities are off-grid, right?” Julian asked.

“Define off-grid,” Masoud said.

“As in I cannot just find their IP address on the Internet and start wailing at'em.”

“But you can find the firewall behind which they sit, can’t you Mr. Rogers?” Masoud asked.

“Sure, but those firewalls are built to allow filtered transfer of a limited set of data. They are beasts to break into. And if you do break in, the back-trace will be relentless. They will find you.”

“Suppose we have a team of individuals not concerned with detection,” Davood said. “Individuals whose sense of duty and honor will allow them, once detected, to make the ultimate sacrifice.”

That sounded messy, and Julian really didn’t want to think about what it all meant. He kept it technical, saying, “Yeah, but if they get detected before they accomplish anything—”

“Precisely our concern,” Masoud put in. “Which is why we would like to consult with you on an idea, and see if you can help us bring that idea to fruition.” He reached behind him again and returned to the table with a box containing a hovercraft.

Masoud continued with, “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Rogers, that this is just a toy. But if you select the other browser tab in the tablet, you will see some information that may stimulate your wonderful imagination.”

Julian did as Masoud suggested and saw specs for the hovercraft toy. Paying particular attention to the networking specs, he realized these things weren’t just Wi-Fi enabled. Each could be turned into a transmitting modem. In his mind’s eye he saw four of these flying and transmitting, then 8, then 16, and an idea he'd pitched while at InfoStream came flooding back. He'd imagined a networked cloud of these hovercrafts, poking at a firewall, morphing in IP address and network functionality as they moved spatially. It was a good idea, and the bean counters had tossed it in the bit bucket. Realizing Davood, Masoud and whoever they worked for knew about his idea made Julian hesitate for a moment, but not for long.

He said, “There’s definitely lots of potential here.”

Julian reviewed some of the non-networking specs, the processor, the memory, the video capability, the battery life, and he added, “We would need to make some hardware modifications. That in turn would drive changes in the firmware.”

“This is why we sought you, Mr. Rogers. We know that in addition to your considerable software skills, you are also well versed in hardware and firmware modifications.”

“How many of these do we have?” Julian asked.

“We have thirty-two,” Masoud replied.

“Thirty-two, two the fifth power. It’s a good number,” Julian said. “Two to the eight power, or Two-fifty-six would be better.”

Davood and Masoud exchanged a look. “We can arrange for that,” Masoud said.

“OK, if you have at least two of these on board, I could start looking at how to make some modifications. But I’m going to need some tools and time.”

“The tools are at the ready,” Masoud said. “How much time do you need?”

“Oh, three days… well, maybe a week, two weeks to really do it solid.”

“Hmm, I’m afraid we’re under a bit of schedule crunch.” Both Masoud and Davood stood up. “You have until 4 PM this afternoon to complete modifications on at least two devices and demonstrate your prototype.”

“But we’ll need to get memory chips,” Julian objected. “We’ll need firmware decoders and compilers, and time to analyze the firmware that’s there.”

Davood said, “You will find all the resources and parts that you need downstairs in a shop we’ve put together for you. We also have two technicians whom you may task to increase your productivity. We strongly recommend you use them to good advantage.”

“And besides, Mr. Rogers,” Masoud put in. “We’ve seen what remarkable results you can achieve when under pressure.”