The Loyal Nine (11 page)

“So, I gather you enjoyed your belated Christmas gift?” asked Sarge.

His brother turned his head and smiled.

“Fuckin’ A! Be sure to thank Santa for me,” exclaimed Steven.

On cue, a leggy blonde emerged from the guest room, wearing nothing but one of Steven’s long-sleeve shirts. As she stood on her toes and reached around Steven’s waist to give him a kiss, Sarge caught a glimpse of what she revealed underneath the shirt.
Fuckin’ A is right.

“I need coffee,” said another woman, a well-endowed brunette strolling out of Steven’s lair, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.
Double D Fuckin’ A
. The girls giggled as they tried to operate the Keurig.

“Where did you find these two frog hogs?” asked Steven, using the slang terminology for Navy SEAL groupies.

He took a sip of motor oil and admired his conquests.

“They are on retainer by our
friends
,” replied Sarge, nodding toward the east and downtown Boston. “After your latest vacation, I thought you needed something to get the blood flowin’.”

“No problem there, bro,” said Steven proudly. “The blood and all of the other parts checked out just fine, but thank you very much for your concern.”

Sarge turned his attention back to the girls—although they never really lost his attention.
I am such a boy.

“Ladies, Steven and I have a busy day. Would you mind getting your coffee to go?” asked Sarge with a tone of dismissiveness.

Christmas morning was over.
The girls whined in protest, offering to hang around quiet as mice, woefully underdressed mice.

“C’mon, Sarge, we’ll be good. Let us hang with you guys today,” said the leggy one.
Tempting, but no.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but not today,” said Sarge.

Maybe I should be led into temptation, as they say. I’m not married.
But something always held Sarge back from partaking of women.
Was it his feelings for Julia?

“Besides, I want to live to my fortieth birthday and somehow I feel you two could put me six feet under,” said Sarge.

As the women returned to Steven’s bedroom, he found his brother staring at the paused images on the television. Sarge waited until Steven’s Christmas gifts had closed the door.

“So, is this your handiwork?” asked Sarge, pointing toward the media wall with his latte glass.

“Which one?” replied Steven.

“Really? Do you think I’m referring to the fat parents and their equally fat kids complaining about eating healthy foods in school?” asked Sarge.

“You know the drill, bro. I can neither admit nor deny my involvement in the blowing up of Russki shit,” said Steven with a grin.

Sarge unpaused the televisions and the talking heads came back to life. He liked the still-life versions better. He often wondered what the world would be like if time stood still or, better yet, returned back a couple of hundred years to the nineteenth century.
Would we be better off?

“Here’s the thing,” began Steven. “I follow orders. I’m really good at what I do. A soldier does not question his orders, he executes them. I’ll leave it to smart fuckers like you to determine the best course of action on the political side.”

Steven mussed Sarge’s hair playfully. Sarge was the older brother, but Steven took on the role of protector. They were perfect complements to each other, and the chemistry they enjoyed would prove useful in the coming years. Steven would never question Sarge’s plan, and Sarge would never question Steven’s execution of it. The women returned a few minutes later and said their goodbyes. Steven escorted them to the elevator with a final round of kisses and butt squeezes.
Lucky hound dog.
He returned to the kitchen and fixed himself another double cup of full-strength coffee upon Sarge’s request. They had more to discuss than the Ukraine.

Chapter 11

January 5, 2016

Antrim Street

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Professor Andrew Lau navigated his Subaru Forester into a cramped parking space on Antrim Street. As was his custom, he made a point to avoid parking near the house. In America, the residents of quiet neighborhoods seemed to hustle into their garages or front doors, with the sole intent of avoiding eye contact with their neighbors. The discreet community of Mid-Cambridge was no different. Lau had rented the house several months earlier, furnishing it with rudimentary, professorial decor. The house itself was unobtrusive—beige with scalloped lap siding, two story, white trim and a chain-link fence—perfectly suiting Professor Lau’s needs.

The neighbors would have described him as quiet, introverted and somewhat of a recluse. They also knew him as a professor at MIT, but Cambridge was full of professors, so the title drew little attention. He drove a Subaru, but what good liberal didn’t. Lau even dressed down, frequently seen in jeans, a Red Sox cap and his Koji Uehara Red Sox jersey. Uehara was Japanese and Lau was Korean, but his neighbors didn’t know the difference, and that was exactly what Lau wanted.

Lau was a professor of computer science and engineering, and the associate director of the Microsystems Technology Laboratory at MIT. One of 750 students and staff who performed all types of research in electronic circuits and photonic devices, his team effectively created the technology that made corporate giants Xerox and IBM extremely wealthy. Lau was paid a salary commensurate with his position as a professor, but he was not paid for the results of his research, which was “generously” shared with some of the university’s wealthiest benefactors—behemoth technology companies.

Pretending to check for mail that was never there, Lau unlocked the chain-link fence gate and nonchalantly strolled up the front steps of the house to the front door. Out of habit, he glanced quickly over his shoulder to scan for nosey neighbors that never appeared. Satisfied, he entered the cramped foyer.
Hi, honey, I’m home.

The 1,800-square-foot home was typical for the neighborhood. Built in 1905, it was solidly constructed with twelve-inch walls, featuring hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings. To a visitor, the foyer looked like any other home on Antrim Street, as did the sitting room immediately to the left. A beautiful oak staircase wound its way upstairs to a second level, also concealing a cellar door.
Nothing to see here, typical home on a typical street, in a typical neighborhood, in the good old U.S. of A—land of opportunity.

But if one listened carefully, blocking out all distractions, they might hear the sounds emanating from above—
click, click, click
. Professor Lau of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was a professional hacker and this was his “hack house”—home of the Zero Day Gamers.

Chapter 12

January 5, 2016

100 Beacon Street

Boston, Massachusetts

“So what’s the plan for today?” asked Steven. “Are we gonna work out? Go to the range? Chill here?”

“
The plan
is…I have a full schedule in class today, and you are on your own,” replied Sarge.

He’s such a man-child.
Sarge explained today was the first day of classes, and he had after-class interviews with the students new to his lectures. It would be a full day at the school.

“Okay, that’s cool. I’ll drop you off at Harvard Kennedy, then I want to run up to Marblehead to check on the
Miss Behavin’
,” said Steven. “She’s been winterized, but I really want to check on her and grab a few things.”

Sarge sensed he
really wanted
to drive his new G-Wagen around.

“Don’t wreck my new car,” scolded Sarge.

“Why would I do that?” asked Steven with faux innocence.

“You have a history of wrecking my cars. This is a
company car
. Don’t bust it up. Do you wanna take the FJ instead?” asked Sarge, hoping Steven would take him up on the offer.

“It doesn’t have heated seats. The G-Wagen will keep my ass warm,” said Steven.

“Listen, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of hostility out there,” said Sarge, gesturing toward the windows. “I’ve advised everyone to carry—including you, soldier.”

In recent months, racial tensions had exploded across the country. The shooting of an unarmed black man in Ferguson, Missouri, in 2014, ignited protests and riots throughout the country. Almost a year ago, tensions escalated to new levels when two police officers were shot by a black gunman during a Ferguson protest. The undeclared war on law enforcement officers fueled the racial divide. America was on edge. The thin veneer of civilization was being threatened by political agendas and the corresponding frenzy associated with biased media reporting.

“You know that’s not a problem for me,” said Steven.

Sarge led him down the hallway, where he stopped one-third of the way down and pressed an unobtrusive wainscot panel below the chair rail. The hinged panel popped open, revealing several shelves. A puck light automatically illuminated the treasure inside.

“
There is a great big world out there for you, son,
” their father’s words during “the talk” to his sons long ago rolled through Sarge’s mind. “
Always wear protection
.”

Sarge doubted his beloved Heckler & Koch HK45C was what Pop had in mind, but his father had lived in a different world. Sarge placed his hand on the biometric safe to reveal its contents. Together with the .45-caliber compact, a well-worn Galcon double time holster and a 5.11 Tactical belt finished out the ensemble. Sarge had been issued a concealed-carry permit in Boston for many years. Massachusetts had been a “may issue” state for a long time, although “may” had become more like “sorry, screw you and your second amendment rights.” Over the past few years, Sarge felt more and more comfortable carrying the pistol as his country edged closer to chaos. Carrying a firearm felt as natural as wearing pants in public. His peers at Harvard would probably faint at the thought of a weapon in their hallowed halls, not that he’d ever let them know. Firearms or weapons of any kind were strictly forbidden by university policy. He transferred the pistol to a secret compartment in his briefcase when he entered the campus—a gun-free and “safe” zone.
A new world indeed
.

He removed the 5.11 belt and converted the Galcon to its tuck-in-the-waistband mode. The cold leather shocked his skin, but the feel of the weapon warmed his heart. He stood out of the way to let Steven make his selection. He chose the Glock G38 together with a paddle-style right-hand holster, tucking the combination in his jeans. No surprise there. Steven was also a .45 kind of guy. The brothers were protected.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me crashing here until winter takes a hike?” asked Steven.

He’d stayed on the boat last winter and bitched to Sarge incessantly about it. Having him at 100 Beacon would avoid the complaining, and allow them to hang out.

“Absolutely, but keep the wine, women and song to a minimum,” said Sarge, knowing full well Steven’s shore leave would be a challenge.

Sarge led them into his study to gather his briefcase and lecture notes.

“No prob, bro,” replied Steven, likely unmindful of the point Sarge was making.

Sarge’s study, the professorial equivalent of a home office, was his pride and joy. Despite being single and not having to succumb to the decorating whims of a significant other, he always felt the need to have his own space. A retreat within a retreat. The two floors below the penthouse, which he also occupied, did not count. They fell under the category
man cave
. The study was a special place. Bookshelves adorned the entirety of the west and north walls. Sarge, embracing his lineage, was compelled to collect old works. The authors dated back to the turn of the eighteenth century and included the names Hawthorne, Peabody, Minot and his namesake, Sargent.
This is history
.
History must be preserved
.

Sarge gathered the notes located on his pride and joy—a nineteenth-century partners desk crafted from oak, with tooled leather inserts and decorated with brass appointments. The desk was a gift to Winthrop Sargent Gilman when he opened the banking house of Gilman, Son & Co. in New York City around 1900. It had been passed down through the years to his father, and then to Sarge. He was honored to be a lineal descendant of 250 years of American history. It had its perks
and
great responsibilities
.

Chapter 13

January 5, 2016

The Hack House

Antrim Street

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Lau dropped his briefcase next to the oak foyer table and tossed his keys by the Tiffany lamp.
Home sweet home.
Pushing up the red sleeves under his jersey, he bounded up the stairs and opened the solid wood, double doors of the home’s master bedroom turned hacker’s heaven. The entire second floor of the Antrim Street house had been gutted and furnished with modular workstations, each housing a powerful computer and one of MIT’s finest student hackers—the Zero Day Gamers.

“Good afternoon, class,” said Lau sarcastically.

He was greeted with a few laughs, a couple of
good afternoons
and a paper wad that barely missed his head. The crew was handpicked by Lau and his graduate assistants, Anna Fakhri and Leonid Malvalaha, from the top computer coders and programmers at MIT. Lau was fluent in Korean. Fakhri spoke a variety of Arabic languages, and Malvalaha spoke fluent Russian. The three had unofficially worked together for more than a year, until last fall when they took their hacking enterprise to a new level. As with any business, in order to grow and prosper, you need more employees. There were now a dozen hackers rotating in and out of the Hack House daily.

Lau’s
business plan
was relatively simple, unlike the strings of code typed on the screens in front of him. A zero-day threat is an attack on a computer operating system that uncovers a previously unknown vulnerability. Hackers conduct reconnaissance of the systems applications and look for openings known as vulnerability windows.