Rogue Forces

“Jeez, you’re really blowing the image of you aviation contractors all to hell, sir,” Kris said, shaking his head. “I always thought you guys lived large.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble. There are two extra seats in the cockpit and some engineer seats at some of the modules topside and belowdecks that we share depending on who needs some real rest, but everyone brings sleeping bags and foam mats and stretches out wherever. I prefer the luggage cargo container myself—quiet and very well padded.”

“I think our containerized quarters will seem luxurious compared to this, sir,” Kris said. “You don’t have any radar operators on board?”

“The only way we can fit all this stuff inside the plane is to leave the radar operators, weapons controllers, and battle staff officers on the ground and datalink the info to them,” Patrick said. “But that’s the easy part. We can tie into anyone’s network pretty quickly, and we can send the data to just about anyone in the world—from the White House all the way down to a commando in a spider hole—via a multitude of methods. I’ll show you tonight in the briefing room.”

With technicians swarming all around the plane like ants, Thompson soon felt he was in the way. “I’m headed back to the Tank, Patrick,” he said. “Holler if you need anything.”

He didn’t see Patrick again until nine P.M. that evening. Thompson found him and Jon Masters in the conference room overlooking the Tank sitting in front of two large wide-screen laptop computers. The screens were divided into many different windows, most dark but some displaying video images. He took a closer look and was surprised to see what appeared to be a video feed from an aerial platform. “Where’s that image coming from, sir?” he asked.

“That’s Kelly Two-Two, a Reaper on its way to Zahuk,” Patrick replied.

Thompson looked at the laptops and realized that they didn’t have any data connections attached—the only cords coming into them were from AC adapters. “How did you get the feed? You’re not hooked up to our data stream, are you?”

“We’ve got the Loser fired up and scanning for datalinks,” Jon said. “When it picks up a datalink, it splices itself into the feed.”

“Your ‘Wi-Fi hot spot’ thingy, right?”

“Exactly.”

“And you got a wireless connection into here?”

“Yep.”

“How? We prohibit wireless networking inside the Triple-C, and the Tank is supposed to be shielded.”

Jon looked over at Patrick, who nodded his permission to explain. “Turned one way and a shield can be used to block things,” Jon said. “Turn it the other way and a shield can be used to collect things.”

“Huh?”

“It’s complicated and not always reliable, but we can usually penetrate most metallic shields,” Jon said. “Sometimes we can even get the shielding to act as an antenna for us. Active electromagnetic shields are tougher to penetrate, but you rely on the metal walls of the Tank and reinforced concrete and physical distance to shield the Triple-C. All that works in our favor.”

“You’ll have to explain to my physical security guys how you did this.”

“Of course. We can help you fix it, too.”

“Hack into our system and then charge us to plug the leak, General?” Thompson asked, only partially sarcastically. “Hell of a way to make a living.”

“My son grows out of his shoes every six months, Kris,” Patrick said with a wink.

“I’ll submit it,” Thompson said. He didn’t feel comfortable knowing it was apparently so easy to tap into their datalinks. “Who else are you plugged into?”

Jon looked over at Patrick again, who nodded assent. “Just about the whole operation,” Jon said. “We’ve channelized the entire command VHF and UHF radio net and the intercom here in the Triple-C, locked into the wide-area network created by the Stryker Combat Team, and we’re receiving the IMs between the tactical, brigade, and theater controllers.”

“IMs?”

“Instant messages,” Patrick said. “The easiest way for controllers to pass information like target coordinates or imagery analysis to others who are on the same network but can’t exchange datalinks is by plain old instant messages.”

“Like my daughter texting messages to her friends on her computer or cell phone?”

“Exactly,” Patrick said. He expanded a window, and Thompson saw a stream of chat messages—combat controllers describing a target area, sending geographic coordinates, and even passing along jokes and commenting on a ball game. “Sometimes the simplest routines are the best.”

“Cool.” When the IM window was moved so Kris could see it, it uncovered another window underneath it, and he was surprised…to see himself looking over Patrick’s shoulder! “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You tapped into my video security system?”

“We weren’t trying to do that—it just happened,” Jon said, grinning. Thompson didn’t look amused. “No joke, Kris. Our system searches for all the remote networks to plug into, and it found this one as well. It’s just the video system, although we did happen across some other security-related networks and declined access.”