The Loyal Nine (15 page)

“Yes, sir. Another example is the formation of major trade partners and alliances. For a long time the G20 and G8 dominated the world trade markets. In the last five years, the BRICS alliance has been formed between Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa. The first four countries represent nearly half of the world’s population and the most lucrative emerging market trade partners,” said Ocampo.

Sarge could learn from young Ocampo. He observed the faces of the fellow classmates. Often, the egos of other students would get in the way of their learning from a student. Ocampo had captured their attention. This was why Sarge loved teaching.

“You mentioned the first four countries as being the most lucrative trade partners in the emerging markets. I assume that would exclude the United States, because we are clearly the world leader in trade—therefore not considered an emerging market. Why is South Africa included in the BRICS alliance?” asked Sarge, already knowing the answer.

“Gold,” replied Ocampo. “South Africa is the fifth largest producer of gold in the world and is the largest producer of many precious metals, including platinum and palladium. Not to mention the diamond mines. Their natural resources compliment the other four nations nicely. Plus, the acronym BRICS, instead of BRIC, sounds better.”

This drew some laughs and you could see Ocampo was gaining confidence on this first day of class.
Time to let him breathe
.

“Thank you, Mr. Ocampo,” said Sarge. “The BRICS alliance, as Mr. Ocampo points out, is having a significant impact on the world economy, and the United States in particular. Last semester, we discussed the changes in modern warfare. This semester, our focus on economic policy will also include another form of warfare—economic warfare. The BRICS alliance has the potential to cause substantial damage to the United States economy, if they so choose.”

And there was little doubt that the BRICS countries would make that choice.

Chapter 19

January 5, 2016

The Hack House

Antrim Street

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Lau sat across the desk from his two trusted lieutenants, Fakhri and Malvalaha. It was time to make the call. Lau had several firewalls of his own in place to avoid detection. Using a program called VyprVPN, Lau established a virtual private network that could extend beyond a public network. Since he had administrative user status within their network, he decided to make a clear and convincing point by contacting the TickStub chief technology officer directly through their Antec internal communications system.

The VyprVPN software would mask his location, and he utilized a Voxal voice changer to alter his voice. Voxal combined and stacked vocal effects like pitch, echo and volume to confound other listeners, like the FBI.

Lau would keep it simple. He’d provide TickStub with verifiable information only an internal administrator with a high level of security and administrative privileges could access. He would demand payment, wired to various bank accounts around the world, followed by a promise to leave them alone. They’d get one hour to provide an answer and another hour to comply. Walthaus and company would monitor TickStub’s internal servers, looking for evidence of last minute anti-hacking activity. If TickStub tried to plug the leak during the two-hour window, Malvalaha would unleash a series of DDoS attacks on their server. If TickStub’s IT team persisted, the domain would be taken offline, leaving a message that read:

We have your credit card information and it’s too late to do anything about it. Thank you for visiting the new TickStub
.

“Showtime,” said Lau, connecting to TickStub’s interoffice communications system. Wilson Bittermint, TickStub’s soon-to-be-former chief technology officer, appeared on the screen in front of him.

“Hello, Wilson, we need to have a chat.”

“Who…what’s the meaning of this?” demanded Bittermint. “Who gave you access to this network? Why are you wearing that bizarre mask? Oh, shit.”

Lau had donned the infamous Guy Fawkes mask worn by members of the Anonymous group, adding a theatrical touch to the interaction. He also thought it might provide some misdirection for TickStub’s investigation.

“You may call me Mr. Who-am-I,” said Lau. “I do the talking and you take notes. This won’t take long. First, you will take no action to notify the FBI or any other alphabet agencies of the oppressive American government. Second, you will take no action to modify, alter or otherwise patch your corporate servers. The system is under our control, and we’ll know if your IT minions attempt any damage control.”

“This is outrageous. You’re out of your mind,” screamed Bittermint. “I’m done with this charade.”

He attempted to end the call, but his keyboard was unresponsive.

“Wilson, you need to calm down. Your keyboard will not work, and your administrative privileges have been suspended,” said Lau. “I suggest you allow me to finish. Now, do I need to repeat items one and two for you?”

“No,” replied Bittermint.

“Third, you will be asked to verify the authenticity of my statements. I will allow you the next hour to do so,” said Lau.

Lau proceeded to provide Bittermint private information on the TickStub CEO, including the fact he had stage two cancer invading his lymph nodes. He provided a couple of TickStub usernames and corresponding credit card information. Finally, Lau provided Bittermint’s salary information and the social security numbers for several top-level employees.

“What do you want?” asked Bittermint defiantly.

“You’re going to convince your superiors to pay us what we ask to make this go away. Be sure to remind them the Super Bowl is less than two weeks away. They don’t want to fuck this up!”

“How much?” asked Bittermint.

“You see, Wilson, this is a zero-sum game. In this game, one man’s gain is another man’s loss; who gains and who loses is solely determined by who pays. We have other bidders, but the Buy It Now bid for you is fifty million. You will be contacted in one hour. Get to work!” Lau disconnected the transmission.

Now they wait.

Chapter 20

January 5, 2016

73 Tremont

Boston, Massachusetts

Abbie walked into the bookshelf-lined conference room, overwhelmed by raucous applause. As a public figure, she was accustomed to this type of reaction from her regular constituents, but this group was different. The faces greeting her inside 73 Tremont evoked long-standing memories. The people crowded into her father’s office had known Abbie since she was a child. Their children and grandchildren were neighbors on Beacon Hill. Forming the backbone of Boston’s historical elite, they were a tightly knit collection of families. The significance of bringing them together in one place was not lost on Abbie. Her father had orchestrated this event for a reason. John Morgan stepped forward to greet her with a hug.

“Hello, Father, what did you think?” asked Abbie.

Her relationship with her father was loving, but formal. He put on a tough, reserved exterior with everyone, including Abbie. Her mother, now deceased, always reminded Abbie of her father’s status, and that it was important to treat him with the utmost respect, in public and private. She scanned the faces again, searching briefly for Sarge.
I should have called him.

“You were splendid, young lady,” said Morgan.
Splendid. Nobody else would describe her announcement as splendid.

“Thank you, Father. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen so many of your friends in one place,” said Abbie.

“Our friends,” he whispered, stepping forward to address the room. “Everyone, may I have your attention?”

Within moments, the cheering and applause ceased.

“Abigail and I certainly appreciate your generosity and support as she embarks on her reelection campaign. I believe we all agree, Abigail has represented the interests of Massachusetts admirably—not to mention
our interests
.”

Abbie winced inside. Opposition research in political campaigns had risen to new heights over the past decade. Restaurant waiters wore recording devices. Tiny cameras were hidden in decorations on dinner tables. Abbie didn’t need her campaign overtly associated with the special interests of the nation’s rich and powerful.

“Before Abigail says a few words, I would like to add something,” said Morgan.

Abbie sensed her father’s blueprint for her life was going to take an interesting turn.

“I have this on good authority. My daughter is on every vice presidential short list, for the leading candidates on both sides of the aisle!”

She felt light-headed as the applause crescendoed, forcing herself to smile. Her father wasn’t one to boast or make grandiose claims. John Morgan had struck a deal, sealed with promises of wealth and power. Was this part of her father’s plan?
Is this what she wanted
?

PART THREE

Chapter 21

February 3, 2016

100 Beacon

Boston, Massachusetts

The UDT Chronosport’s persistent alarm drew Steven Sargent out of a deep sleep. Rummaging one of his hands over the cluttered nightstand, he located the offending hunk of precision metal and stabbed at the buttons—silencing it. His other hand ran down the sleeping beauty beside him—one Katherine O’Shea. Katie began to stir, which stirred Steven as well. No time for this, he thought, his body begging to differ. He swung his legs out of the sheets and onto the hardwood floor, squinting at the window.

“That watch is pretty rude,” complained Katie, pushing herself up in bed. “Hey, you’re not taking
that
away from me, are you?”

Steven pulled a pair of sweatpants over
that
and turned around.

“
We
,” he said, looking at his sweatpants for emphasis, “have a Jet Blue shuttle to catch to D.C.—and Sarge is on NewsCenter5 this morning with that
hottie,
Emily Riemer.”

“I’ll show you
hot,
asshole,” squalled Katie, throwing a pillow at his head.

He ducked the shot and jumped into bed, kissing her through a tangle of fiery red hair before sliding off the bed.

“Seriously, I have to roll. Duty calls, even when I’m stateside.”

“You’re the one missing out,” she replied, gathering the blankets around her.

“Believe me, I’m well aware of that,” he said, wishing there was a way to skip out on his trip to D.C.

He’d love nothing more than to spend the rest of the day in the bedroom with Katie. It had been a while since they’d been together—long enough for him to forget how much fun they had together, in and out of the sheets. Steven and Katie met years ago as midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy. They both elected to pursue a bachelor’s degree in Cyber Operations, which put them in many of the same classes—and facilitated a steamy relationship that made his restrictive days at Annapolis more than tolerable.

Following their graduation, Steven entered the Naval Special Warfare program, successfully completing Basic Underwater Demolition School (BUD/S) and reporting to SEAL Team 10, based out of Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base near Virginia Beach. During his tenure as a platoon-level officer, he deployed with SEAL Team 10 to Iraq and Afghanistan, developing a solid reputation within the Teams.

Katie put her degree to work as a Naval Intelligence officer, eventually accepting a position with the CIA as a counterintelligence threat analyst within the National Clandestine Service. Steven’s and Katie’s paths crossed again at Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), where she had been assigned to brief outgoing Special Operations commanders on the evolving al-Qaeda threat in Iraq. Then Lieutenant Commander Steven Sargent attended one of these briefings prior to assuming command of a platoon headed to Ramadi, Iraq. After the briefing, Katie and Steven found an empty office and got “reacquainted,” staying in touch ever since. Katie’s career in the CIA skyrocketed soon after, thanks to a well-placed suggestion by Steven’s benefactors
.

“Sarge is about to go on the show,” hollered Steven from the
Great Hall.

He’d managed to turn on Sarge’s wall of televisions, filling the screens with the show’s host, Emily Riemer. Katie emerged from the bedroom wearing a tee shirt which read
Spooks Rock
.

“I see your
hottie
doesn’t have the same effect,” said Katie, nodding at the deflated front of Steven’s sweatpants.

“Nobody has the same effect,” he said, grabbing his mug of motor oil
from the kitchen counter. She swiped the mug from his hands and took a sip.

“What the fuck is this?” she said, grimacing.

“Coffee,” said Steven. “For men. The foo-foo stuff is in the cabinet above the machine.”

He retrieved his precious coffee from her outstretched hand and turned up the volume. His brother’s smiling
I-am-a-published-author
face appeared on the screen, next to the cover and the title of his book.

CHOOSE FREEDOM OR CAPITULATION:

AMERICA’S SOVEREIGNTY CRISIS

The cover featured the American Flag split in half, with the stars and stripes on one side and the flag of the United Nations on the other half.

“Great cover,” said Katie. “Do the
bosses
know about this?”

Steven shrugged. All of them had free rein to pursue their careers, trusted to know when their career paths might conflict with other interests. Sarge had received a blessing of sorts.

“
Today we are pleased to have Harvard Professor Henry Winthrop Sargent the fourth, with his new book
Choose Freedom or Capitulation: America’s Sovereignty Crisis
. Now, you have pleasantly admonished me to call you ‘Sarge,’ so I will. Good morning, Sarge, and thank you for joining us,”
said Riemer.