Rogue Forces (10 page)

Gia was the last to depart. She shook Patrick’s hand, keeping it an extra moment in her own. “Very nice to meet you, sir,” she said.

“Same here, Colonel.”

“I prefer Gia.”

“Okay, Gia.” He was still clasping her hand when she said that, and he felt an instantaneous rush of warmth in it—or was his own hand suddenly sweating? “Not Boxer?”

“You don’t get to pick your own call signs, do you, sir?”

“Call me Patrick. And bomber guys didn’t have call signs when I was in.”

“I remember my old ops officer at the One-Eleventh had some choice names for you,” she said, and then smiled and headed off.

Kris Thompson was grinning at Patrick. “She’s cute, in a Murphy Brown kind of way, eh?”

“Yes. And wipe that grin off your face.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, sure.” He kept on grinning. “We don’t know that much about her. We hear her on the radios once in a while, so she still flies. She comes in to run missions occasionally, like tonight, and then she’s off again to another command center. She rarely stays for longer than a day.”

Patrick felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, then quickly shook the uncomfortable feeling aside. Where did
that
come from…? “The B-1s are great planes,” he said. “I hope they resurrect more of them from AMARC.”

“The grunts love the Bones. They can get to the fight as fast as a fighter; loiter for long periods of time like a Predator or Global Hawk, even without air refueling; they have improved sensors and optics and can pass a lot of data to us and other planes; and they have as much precision-guided payload as a flight of F/A-18s.” Thompson noted the quiet, slightly wistful expression on Patrick’s face and decided to change the subject. “You’re a real inspiration to those kids, General,” he said. “That’s the most excited I’ve
ever
seen them since I’ve been here.”

“Thanks. It’s infectious—I feel energized, too. And call me Patrick, okay?”

“Can’t guarantee I will all the time, Patrick, but I’ll try. And I’m Kris. Let’s get you settled.”

“Can’t. Jon and I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow afternoon’s test flight. The staff will set up quarters for us, but I’ll probably take naps in the plane.”

“Same here,” Jon added. “Certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

“We’ll have support services bring meals out to the plane, then.”

“Good. Kris, I’d like clearance to be in the Tank when the operation at Zahuk begins.”

“The colonel doesn’t usually allow off-duty personnel to be in the Tank during an operation, especially one this big,” Kris said, “but I’m sure he’ll let you listen in from up here.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure if I want to get any closer than that to Wilhelm anyway,” Jon said. “I thought for sure he was going to punch your lights out, Muck…
twice
.”

“But he didn’t, which means he
does
have some common sense,” Patrick said. “Maybe I can work with him. We’ll see.”

A
LLIED
A
IR
B
ASE
N
AHLA
, I
RAQ

Thompson took Patrick and Jon back out to the hangar, where the crew chiefs and support crew were unloading bags and servicing the Loser. This gave Thompson a chance to look the plane over carefully. “This thing is beautiful,” he remarked. “Looks like a stealth bomber. I thought you were just going to do reconnaissance.”

“That’s what we were hired to do,” Patrick said.

“But this
is
a bomber?”

“
Was
a bomber.”

Thompson noticed technicians working under the aircraft’s belly and saw a large opening. “Is that a bomb bay? This thing still has a
bomb bay
?”

“That’s a module access hatch,” Jon Masters said. “We don’t drop anything from it—we load and unload modules through them.”

“The Loser had two bomb bays, similar to the B-2 stealth bomber except much bigger,” Patrick explained. “We combined the two bays
into one big bay but retained both lower doors. We then split the bay into two decks. We’re able to move mission modules around and between decks and maneuver each module either up or down through the module hatches, all by remote control.”

“A flying-wing reconnaissance plane?”

“The flying-wing design works well as a long-range multimission plane,” Jon Masters said. “Airliners in the future will be flying wings.”

“Scion’s planes are designed to be multifunction platforms; we plug in different mission modules to perform different tasks,” Patrick said. “This plane can be a tanker, cargo plane, do electronic warfare, photoreconnaissance, communications relay, command-and-control—even several of these functions at the same time.

“Right now we’re configured for ground moving-target indication, ground target identification and tracking, air surveillance, datalink, and command-and-control,” Patrick went on. “But if we brought different modules, we can load them up and perform different missions. Tomorrow we’ll have the air surveillance emitters up top.”

He then stepped underneath the plane and showed Thompson a large opening in the belly. “Through here, we’ll suspend the ground target emitter module for ground target identification and tracking. All of the modules are ‘plug-and-play’ through the ship’s digital communications suite, which uploads the data via satellite to the end users. Other modules we’ve installed are for the very-wide-area networking, threat detection and response, and self-protection.”

“‘Threat
response
’? You mean,
attack
?”

“I can’t really get into that system because it’s not part of the contract and it’s still experimental,” Patrick said, “but we’d like to do a little more to the bad guys than just decoy or jam their weapons.”

Patrick took Kris up the ladder and into the Loser. The cockpit looked roomy and comfortable. The instrument panel was composed of five wide monitors with a few normal “steam” gauges tucked away almost out of sight. “Pretty nice flight deck.”

“Aircraft commander and mission commander up front as usual,”
Patrick said. He put a hand on the side-facing seat behind the copilot’s seat. “We have a flight engineer here who monitors all of the ship’s systems and the mission modules.”

Kris motioned to a counter behind the boarding ladder. “You even have a galley in here!”

“Flushing head, too; that comes in handy on these long flights,” Jon said.

They ducked through a small hatch in the rear of the cockpit, walked down a short narrow passageway, and emerged into an area fairly stuffed with cargo containers of all sizes, leaving only narrow aisles to walk around. “I thought you contractors rode around in planes with bedrooms and gold-plated faucets,” Kris quipped.

“I’ve never even
seen
a gold faucet, let alone ride in a plane with them,” Patrick said. “No, every square foot and every pound has to count.” He pointed to a half cargo module, the thinnest of all the ones installed in the plane that Kris could see. “That’s our baggage and personal items container. Each of the twenty-five persons we brought on this flight was limited to twenty pounds of luggage, and that included their laptops. Needless to say we’ll be visiting your commissary a lot on this deployment.”

They had to maneuver around a large gray-colored torpedo-shaped object that took up a great deal of the middle of the plane. “This must be the antenna that’ll stick out the top, I presume?” Kris asked.

“That’s it,” Patrick said. “It’s a laser radar module. Range is classified, but we can see well into space and it’s powerful enough to even look underwater. The electronically scanned laser emitters ‘draw’ pictures of everything they see millions of times a second with resolution three times better than Global Hawk. There’s another one down below that’s set up to scan for ground targets.”

“Kind of looks like a missile,” Kris observed. “And that opening down below still looks to me like a bomb bay.” He looked at Patrick with a curious expression. “‘Threat response,’ eh? Maybe you’re not out of the strategic bomber business after all, General?”

“Our contract calls for observing and reporting. Like the colonel said: no more, no less.”

“Yeah, right, General—and when I open a potato chip bag, I
can
eat only one,” Kris quipped. He looked around. “I don’t see any passenger seats on this thing. Did you take them out already?”

“If you’re going to report us to the FAA for not having approved seats and seat belts for each occupant—yes, Kris, we already took them out,” Patrick said.

“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.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d decline access on all of them, General,” Thompson said stonily. Patrick nodded to Jon, who entered some instructions. The video feed disappeared. “That was not wise, General. If there’s a security problem after this, I’ll have to look at you as a probable source of the breach.”

“Understood,” Patrick said. He turned to look at the security chief. “But there obviously
is
some sort of breach, because there is someone on Nahla Air Base shooting at friendly aircraft. Since we’ve been hired to enhance security around this whole sector, I can argue that I can legally access something like video feeds.”

Thompson peered concernedly at McLanahan, his mouth rigid. After a few rather chilly moments he said, “The colonel said you were the kind of guy who’d rather ask forgiveness than ask permission.”

“I get more done that way, Kris,” Patrick said matter-of-factly. But a moment later, he got to his feet and faced Thompson directly. “I apologize for that, Kris,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound so flippant about security matters. It’s your job and your responsibility. I’ll notify you the next time we stray across something like that again, and I’ll get your permission before I access it.”

Thompson realized that if Patrick had hacked into the security system once, he could just as easily do it again, with or without his permission. “Thank you, sir, but frankly I don’t believe that.”

“I’m serious, Kris. You tell me to shut it down, and it’s done…period.”

What if he didn’t shut it down? Thompson asked himself. What recourse did he have against a private contractor? He vowed to research the answer to that question right away. “I’m not going to argue about it, sir,” Kris said. “But you
are
here to assist me in securing this sector, so you can tie back in if you think it’s essential to your job. Just tell me when you’re back in, why, and what you’ve found.”

“Done. Thank you.”

“What other security-related areas were you able to access?”

“Colonel Jaffar’s internal security network.”

A cold sweat popped out under Kris’s collar. “Internal security? He doesn’t have an internal security staff. You mean his personal bodyguards?”

“That may be what you think it is, Kris, but it looks to me like he’s got an entire shadow J-staff—operations, intelligence, logistics, personnel, training,
and
security,” Jon said. “They do everything in Arabic, and there’s no foreigners on it that we can see.”

“That means that he has his men in charge of the entire regiment’s departments and command structure,” Patrick summarized, “so he’s kept abreast of everything
you
do,
plus
he’s got an entire J-staff operating in the background, paralleling the regimental staff functions.” He turned to Kris and added, “So if, for example, something were to happen to the Triple-C…”

“He’d be able to take over right away and continue operations himself,” Kris said. “Pretty fucking scary.”

“It could be suspicious, or it could be smart on his part,” Jon said. “He could even argue that your Status of Forces agreement allows him to have his own separate command staff.”

“Besides,” Patrick added, “you guys
are
trying to wind down military operations in Iraq and turn it over to the locals; this could just help facilitate that. No reason to automatically think something nefarious is going on.”

“I’ve been in security long enough to know that if the ‘oh shit’ meter starts twitching, something bad is happening,” Kris said. “Can you plug back into Jaffar’s network and advise me if you see something unusual, sir?”