Stealth Associates Pt. 01

1 -Stealth Associates - Part 1

1 - Prologue

Alone in his bedroom, Noah Hansen has something more fascinating to do than homework. It concerns the new tasking from the X Korps, shortened to the X, the hacktivist group he belongs to.

X Korps started as a chatroom. A place to boast about hacked websites. The targets selected for their raids were chosen by the members of The X themselves leading to arguments.

To resolve this a moderator using the online nick Valkyrie volunteered to take on generating targets and the relative value of these targets. Points for the successful completion of a mission were awarded, an encrypted website with showed which member of The X was leading.

On arriving home from school Noah found an email waiting for him. It contained a snippet of the lyrics from the Pixies Monkey Gone to Heaven in the subject line: 'there was a guy an underwater guy who controlled the sea.'

Noah logged onto another email account. He didn't bother to check out the in-box, instead he opened the drafts folder. Inside there was a picture of a tabby cat.

Steganography is the practice of concealing a message within another message. The young hacker copied and pasted the image into a program that decrypted it.

It revealed detailed instructions from Valkyrie on how to enter a server belonging to British defence company. The young hacker's task is to download any files relating to Corax, a stealthy drone.

The Hansen house sits on a plot backing onto the wall of a gated community on the outskirts of Las Vegas. On the other side of the wall a truck pulls up.

Two figures get out and struggle with a large metal flight case. With extreme caution it's set down at the foot of the wall. The taller crouches and opens a panel. Inside is a small keypad. He taps in a four digit PIN number. An LED display lights up showing '00:59:00' and begins counting down. The figures get into the pickup and drive away.

'Are you sure that we're out of range here?' the smaller of the pair is female and speaks with an American accent.

'We're safe here,' her partner speaks with a Scottish accent. 'The device has a maximum range of half a mile.'

'So, how does this work again?' Agent Taylor Diaz represents the US Department of Defense Cyber Command. Operation Roulette, is a new direction for the agency, covert kinetic counter cyberterrorism.

'Any minute now a million magic pixies will be released from the enchanted box,' Alasdair Lennox replies. 'They'll fly through the air and zap all the electronics down their with a magic spell that bewitches them.'

'Sarcasm?' Diaz asks, 'Really?'

Lennox takes pity on her and furnishes a fuller explanation.

'It's a EMP, an Electronic Pulse Weapon. The explosives in the eBomb will detonate, the explosion travels as a wave through the middle of the armature cylinder,' he tells her,

'the explosion makes its way through the cylinder, the cylinder comes in contact with the stator winding. This creates a short circuit, cutting the stator off from its power supply. which is going to generate an electromagnetic pulse strong enough to induce an unexpected massive voltage inside of every piece of digital kit within a half mile radius.'

'So how long now...' she begins.

Her words are cut short by a sudden bright flash, followed by the gated community instantly becoming blacked out.

Inside Noah's bedroom the world as he knows becomes unhinged.

The house is plunged into darkness. The air is filled with an acrid plastic smell as smoke from smouldering plastic seeps from powerpoints as electric wires arc and telephone lines and fibre optic cables melt.

2 - Headhunted

Ever wondered what the definition of poverty is? It turns out to be having to eke out a solitary pint of cider all night in the student union bar.

It's December, getting on towards the end of term and I'm stony broke. I'm coming to the end of my first semester as a postgrad student at university in Birmingham.

I can survive on my student loan. The problem is that the next instalment isn't due until early January. This will leave me broke over Christmas. Oh, and my family and friends will all be expecting presents, they're fairly traditional like that.

A bottle of cider appears on the table next to my empty bottle. Alasdair Lennox puts his own bottle of beer down and sits opposite me. There's an old cliché: 'never trust Greeks bearing gifts'. Perhaps it should be amended to also include Scots.

'How are things going?'

'All right,' I pick up the bottle and take a swig, 'thanks for this by the way.'

'You're welcome,' he takes a sip from his own beer, something called Brewdog Elvis Juice, apparently it's beer with added grapefruit. Just how tragically hip can you get?

'How're things on your course?'

'It's going well,' I reply cagily.

'I expect money's getting a wee bit tight on a student loan.'

I shrug in response.

'How's the job search going?' he asks, continuing to probe areas of my life I try to avoid talking about, 'you're looking for work in the private security industry, yeah? Close protection isn't it?'

Now how the hell did he know that? Last summer I put myself through a Close Protection course and got licensed to work. That didn't work out. It seems that while Birmingham may be Britain's second largest city, all the wannabe celebs who need a bodyguard as part of their entourage are down in London.

On the occasions we've bumped into each other we've never swapped chitchat about my success in searching for part-time work. He's just not the sort I'd take into my confidence. Let's face it, there's just something ineffably arrogant about him.

'And you're a lieutenant with the reserves too,' Lennox pauses and takes a swig of beer before continuing,

'serving with the Royal Signals in the Cyber Warfare role.'

Now how the hell does Lennox know about that? I just don't talk to anyone about what I do as a weekend warrior.

'Civilian employers might not realise the true value of that skill set, eh. They might think you're better suited to fixing IT problems,' he gives me the benefit of a smirk.

I use the lull in the conversation to get to the point.

'Where are you going with this?' I ask.

'How do you feel about government work?'

His question throws me.

'Government work?' I ask, 'do you mean the civil service?'

'I don't quite see you as a civil servant, do you?' He smirks.

'What I mean is working in the private security industry, but on a government contract.'

'I don't know,' I shrug, 'to be honest I've never given it any thought before.'

'Well think about it now,' he gives me the benefit of another smug grin. 'If such a job was on offer would you be interested?'

'So, what sort of work is it?'

'As I said, private security work but working solely on contracts issued by various branches of Her Majesty's Government. It's nothing you'd find too onerous, in fact I suspect that you might even enjoy it,' he answers archly.

He takes out his wallet, extracts a business card and pushes it across the beer stained table top. It's black except for 'Stealth Associates' and a phone number printed in white and small.

'Call the number on that and say that I talked to you, they'll tell you what to do next.'

With that Lennox walks off without a backwards glance.

3 - Safecracker

The room is dark, the only light comes from the Torch held by my best mate. Simon Trogmorton, less formerly known as Trog, we've been friends since we met in freshers week four years ago

He's tall, and skinny as a blade of grass with long red hair down to his shoulder blades and a neatly trimmed beard.

On the table between us is a small metal flight case. There's a digital display, a numerical keypad, four pairs of red and green LEDs and a chunky handle.

'OK, you know what to do, yeah?' Trog asks me.

I'm stressed. Sweat beads then drips from my forehead and into my eyes, causing me to blink.

'I'm not happy with the plan,' I hiss, 'there's an outstanding chance that we're going to get caught.'

'You know your problem? You're a pessimist, we're not going to get caught coz we're careful,' Trog gently reproves me.

I focus on the task in hand. One false move and I'll set the alarm off. I take a deep breath hold it then exhale slowly.

'All right, let's do this,' I whisper.

The logic is simple, and it's all about trial and error. I press the '1' button four times and then hit enter. I'm rewarded with four red LEDs. OK, that's no good. Next I hit '2' four times and I'm rewarded with one green and three red lights.

'Yeah one down,' Trog hisses.

I glance at the timer display, 'and one hundred-and-seventy-six seconds left on the clock then the alarm sounds.'

'No sweat. I've seen you do this in less than that.'

'Yeah,' I mutter, 'a really long time ago.'

I hit '2' and follow it up with three jabs at the '3' button. Same as before, one green and three red lights. Next I press '2' and then the '4' button gets mashed. Two green LEDs this time.

'Ninety seconds gone and two numbers left,' Trog says.

'Thanks for the running commentary mate,' I grunt.

Opting for '2', '4' and '5' gets nothing. The same when I try '2,4,6' as the combination. However, '2', '4' and '7' gets me three greens. I try '8' - nada. All that leaves is '9', it's no brainer really. That combination gets me four greens. I open the box and retrieve the small black folder.

The main room light comes on and I jump out of my skin. Busted!

'What the hell are you two doing in the dark?' Raven asks from the common room doorway. She's medium height, slightly chubby, with a snow white tan and long black pigtails which give her a Wednesday Addams vibe.

The thing is, Raven and me, we've been dating since I moved into the student accommodation at the start of the academic year. Things are beginning to cool off. Judging by the look in her eye our relationship may be heading for the deep freeze.

'It's my safe cracker game,' Trog explains proudly. 'It's based on Mastermind, the board game not the TV quiz show. You have to work out the combination to open the safe.'

'When you do you get whatever's inside,' I hold out my hand to show her, 'in this case an After Eight mint. You can have it if you like.'

'And why are you doing it in the dark?' she demands.

'It kind of adds tension, gives the whole thing a bit of a spy vibe if you know what I mean,' Trog says.

'He made this at school for his GCSE in Craft, Design and Technology,' I nod at the game.

'Yeah, at first I was going to do the trace the wire game, but it was supposed to have a gizmo to give you an electric shock instead of ringing the buzzer...' Trog starts out enthusiastically then fades away, 'but the teacher said I might get failed for making a torture device.'

Raven rolls her eyes and leaves the room.

4 - Selection

I'm cold, wet and tense as a coiled spring. Which is not at all surprising really. Not when you consider what I'm up to.

If I get caught, I'm in big trouble.

Putting my left hand out I tentatively touch the padlock. The faint beam from the torch I've got gripped between my teeth does little to illuminate the gloom. But then, anything has got to be better than nothing. Right?

I'm standing outside a ramshackle garage in the driving rain, trying to pick the padlock. This is all new to me. How new? I only learnt how to do it this morning.

This is the Farm, a paramilitary training complex in North Wales. It's name is Rhyd-y-Garnedd. At the welcome briefing we'd been told that translates as the Farm Besides the Cairn. Since all the people on this selection course have difficulty pronouncing the place's name in Welsh, it's just 'the Farm'.

OK I know the principle. Insert the L-shaped tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and put on light pressure. Next I insert the rake, scrubbing it back and forth in the key hole until I feel all the pins in the padlock lift. Finally I push on the torsion wrench and unlock the damn thing. It takes four frustrating attempts before I finally open the lock.

Inside the place smells like every garage I've ever been in; a mix of oil, dirt and damp. Scanning round with the white LED beam from my torch there's a shelf unit by the far wall and a work bench next to it. There's no car though.

I walk cautiously round, checking things out. On the middle shelf there's a yellow, oil stained duster covering something. I lift the rag. Underneath is a pistol. A Walther PPK. It's not difficult to recognise the weapon if you've watched as many James Bond films as me.

Reaching into a pocket I grope for my iPhone and select the camera mode. My concentration on the screen is intense as I focus on the pistol.

I become vaguely aware of a noise behind me. I freeze. Hold my breath, strain my ears. Nothing, I reassure myself. Just nerves that's all.

Squeezing the button there's a blinding flash of light as the camera takes an image of the gun. I'm left blinking as the camera flash is replaced by the flicker as a neon tube.

'Gotcha!' I can't see who's talking, they're behind me. The voice is male, gruff, Welsh accented.

He grabs me, twists my arm behind my back, swings me away from the shelves and pushes me face first into a breeze block wall. I bite my lip, tasting the hint of blood.

'You broke the eleventh commandment,' he growls, 'thou shall not get caught.'

Things go dark when a sack is lowered over my head.

5 - Interrogation

I'm kneeling with my hands restrained behind my back. It's not clear what my wrists have been fastened with, but it's so tight it cuts off the circulation to my hands and gives me pins and needles in my fingers.

The loud white noise hiss filling my head abruptly ends. The silence seems louder than the hiss. Suddenly it's replaced by the muffled sounds of shouting and swearing along with muffled bone-crunching thuds and someone crying out.

The sound of someone getting a kicking goes on. And on... in the end it just becomes so much audio wallpaper and fades into the background. After a while that stops as suddenly as it started, and the electric snake starts to hiss again.

Suddenly hands grab me with an unyielding grasp. I'm pulled to my feet and dragged somewhere. We come to a halt and pressure on my shoulders makes me sink down.

The sack's removed and I'm kneeling on a cold metal floor in front of a camping table. I'm blinking into the glare of two bright lights shinning directly into my eyes.

'Why are you here?' a man's voice demands.

I recall the scant training I've received in resistance to interrogation. Play the grey man.

I don't answer. I divert my gaze to the floor and hang my head down with my chin pressed into my chest. There's a sharp pain in my kidneys and I gasp out.

Someone's just kicked me. It seems that my attempt to play the grey man is seen as dumb insolence.

'Well, answer me then!'

'I'm a hiker.' I try to keep my voice to an unemotional monotone. 'I saw the door was open, I thought someone had broken in...'

'STOP LYING! ' He hits the the table in front of him. 'Do you think I'm stupid?'

The temptation to say yes is hard to resist. God knows where I found the strength.

'I'll ask you again; what are you doing here?'

'I'm a hiker.' My voice is rough. I could kill for a drink. Just a glass of water would do. I doubt I'll get one in the foreseeable future though.

'If you're a hiker what were you doing breaking into the garage in the middle of the night? And with this,' someone grabs my chin and forces my face up. 'A lock picking kit? Go on, tell me, why you've got that?'

I don't answer. What would be the point? He wouldn't believe anything I say. Why should he? Nobody in their right mind would accept the pitifully thin alibi I've come up with.

Besides, the evidence of what I'm really up to is stacked on the table in front of me. Let's be realistic, how many innocent hikers have lock picking kits? The answer's got to be none, yeah.

And then a quiet, calm voice in my head speaks reassuringly: 'stick to your cover story. Keep calm. White knuckle it for now and it'll soon be over.' I know good advice when I hear it, even if it's source makes me doubt my own mental state.

I hear footsteps behind me. Everything goes dark as the sack goes back over my head. I'm dragged back to wherever they've been holding me.

6 - End Ex

'END EX!'

I recognise the Welsh-accented voice even before they take the bag off my head. It's the bloke who's been questioning me. At first sight he has a brutally powerful build. His head's covered by a sparse stubble, he has the same complexion as a new potato and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal a multitude of tattoos. To be blunt he looks like a thug. Based on his behaviour over the last twenty-four hours, I'd have to say that looks aren't deceiving for once.

I know him. Cadwallader. He's the head honcho who's been running the course here at the Farm. He has the air of a purposeful bully. I reckon that the bugger's been having a bloody good laugh at my very painful expense. I could take this sort of thing personally.

I want revenge. Meanwhile in the real world...Who the hell am I kidding? Revenge? That's just wishful thinking. What will really happen is that I'll bottle up my anger and frustration and brood on it when I'm feeling depressed.

Someone from the training staff helps me stand up. Cadwallader takes a lock knife from his pocket and cuts the plastic cuffs off my wrists. Then the staff guy helps me to shuffle out of what turns out to be a metal cargo container. He guides me to a white plastic patio chair.

'I'll go and getcha a bacon roll and a cuppa, OK,' The staff guy has a fuzzy West Country accent. Strange how little things stick in the mind.

'You all right then?' Cadwallader asks, 'no hard feelings, eh?'

He offers me a cigarette from a pack.

'No thanks,' I shake my head and it seems to take me all the strength I have left just making that small gesture.

I realise that I'm on the ragged edge of exhaustion. I'm glad there's no mirrors, I must be doing a damned good impression of a zombie.

He shrugs, takes a fag and clicks away with a disposable lighter until he gets ignition. Cadwallader exhales a stream of grey smoke.

I'm surprised I can manage to be civil. What I'd really like to tell Cadwallader is that I hope smoking gives him cancer, I hope he dies from it, and I wish his death would be long and drawn out with him praying for relief from pain. To be honest, I'd previously had no idea that I could be that vindictive.

'You'll be all right,' he says, 'when you get home have a nice hot bath, all the aches will just soak away.'

It's that easy is it? That's all it will take to put the weekend behind me. Somehow I doubt that.

I say nothing. In fact what I'd really like to say is: 'I hope you get cancer from that fag you're smoking. Oh, and I hope you spend every second screaming in agony until you die, you sadistic bastard!' Somehow I manage to keep my mouth shut. I never knew I have that much willpower.

'Go home, for the weekend and be back here on Monday at ten AM.' Cadwallader instructs me. He's got doubts that it's sunk in and asks, 'you got that, yeah?'

'Yeah,' I rasp in reply.

And that's it. I'm through the first stage of selection. Forty-eight hours to recover and back to start next week with yet more bloody hell.

7 - Dumped

I trudge uphill along Bristol Road in Selly Oak. I'm feeling sorry for myself, it's permitted under certain circumstances, and trust me, these are definitely those circumstances. I've got an essay that's got to be handed in by the end of the week. No worries, I can hack it. Except that I've done nothing to research for it except read the lecture handouts.

But the last straw, you know, the one that broke the camel's... well heart in this case, is that I've just got dumped. Oh, and by text of all things.