Rogue Element

Ruth’s job in this world, while essential, was relatively simple. Despite the considerable advances in technology, the agency still relied on people to process the enormous volume of information that flooded in every minute of every day. This information was then passed to people — hopefully the correct ones — located at appropriate NSA nodes around the world, to analyse and act on.

Ruth had the eye or the nose, or whatever one chose to call it, for the job. She seemed to know, even when there were no apparent clues, when a signal was imperative and when it wasn’t. Even some of the most innocuous signals could have far-reaching impact. Without people like Ruth, the NSA’s multi-billion dollar infrastructure would be worthless. She knew it and, more importantly, so did everyone else.

Self-congratulation was far from her mind, though, when the B2-classified field opened automatically on her Hewlet Packard screen. A Watchdog installed in computer system CS982/Ind. was alerting the system. An intruder had been found.

Watchdogs were highly secret weapons in the war against computer hackers. It was a benign virus that followed intruders over the Internet, leaving snips of code at every switch the call passed through; in effect, just like a dog marking territory. The code snips thus became a trail that led to the hacker’s point of origin. A hacker’s computer could be plugged into a phone line in a country on the other side of the world. Alternatively, the break-in could originate in a house down the street and the call routed through half a dozen different countries. This subterfuge was useless when a Watchdog was on the trail.

Ruth had no idea where system CS982/Ind. resided, nor did she care. What she did care about was passing the information on quickly to the appropriate echelon, which in this instance, the B2 code told her, were both the owners of the system cracked and COMPSTOMP, the new super-secret group within the NSA established to counter computer terrorism. They could probably catch the computer terrorist in the act, Ruth observed, because this intrusion was happening now, in real time.

Ruth efficiently tapped the forwarding codes in the box provided and keyed enter. The slip disappeared from her screen, on its way to the appropriate analysts. There, she smiled. Another blow to the forces of darkness.

Sulawesi, 2015 Zulu, Tuesday, 28 April

Captain Radit ‘Raptor’ Jatawaman was scrambled from Hasanuddin Air Force Base outside Mkassar, Sulawesi, one of the Indonesian air force’s largest installations. Despite the early start, he was out of bed and into his flying suit before he realised it, his brain lagging behind his body. He was summoned to the briefing room and given the details of the mission he was about to fly by a high-ranking officer who was a stranger to him. The objective shocked him but he somehow managed to keep the surprise out of his face. Timing was tight. He grabbed his helmet from flight stores and ran to his Lockheed Martin F-16A, parked on the apron.

Ground engineers surrounded the aircraft. Ordnance officers checked that the AIM-9L sidewinder missiles, one on each wingtip rail, were correctly attached. The fuel cart drove off.

The F-16A was the premier front-line fighter of the Tentara Nasional Indonesia — Angkatan Udara, or TNIAU, the Indonesian air force. Raptor was relatively new to the squadron, and he was proud to be one of the elite drivers. The aircraft had been pre-flighted and was ready to go. He hopped in, fastened his harness with the help of a ground crewman, jacked in his phones and began spooling up the Pratt & Whitney.

Once airborne, Captain Jatawaman received his interception coordinates. The F-16 climbed through 18 000 feet before Raptor turned sharply right. He levelled the aircraft out less than a minute later at 39 000 feet in clear, moonlit air. It wasn’t long before he saw the 747 sitting in the sky four kilometres away in his three o’clock-low position, just where it should be. The seven-four appeared motionless, bobbing on an ocean of Indian ink, lit as if for a party.

The captain went to full military power and accelerated high over the 747. When he was fully twenty kilometres in front of the passenger jet, he dived back towards it on a bearing that would take the F-16 shooting down the 747’s port side. It was a totally unnecessary manoeuvre but Raptor felt like playing. The game was cat and mouse.

Captain Jatawaman began the three-g pull-up on his F16 the instant his aircraft rocketed past the giant kangaroo on the 747’s tail.

Luke Granger yawned and lifted his eyes to the front windows as a ghostly dart blew past. ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, his head spinning around in an attempt to keep it in view. The captain and second officer almost seemed to jump, even though they were both strapped in.

‘What?’ asked Flemming, craning his neck, eyes scanning the instruments in a reflex action.