Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (10 page)

Sam winced as he held up that day’s authentication table and the cutout for the day. He placed the cutout over the table and showed them how to authenticate. “The challenge is always the first letter under the cutout, the response is the second. For example, if I said, ‘“Alpha,”’ what would be the authentication?”

One of the men called out from the back, “Mike.”

“Excellent. Now what about Charlie?”

“X-ray.”

“Exactly. Any questions?”

The group remained silent, so Sam had them practice authenticating with one another. He stood behind Marshall. The kid did well. Finally something he could excel at.

“All right, men, gather around.”

Boots scraped on the floor as they formed a circle around him.

“Remember: you need to ensure you always know who you’re talking to. I’ve had cases in the past where someone tried to break into my radio net. We’ll appoint one person as net control. His responsibility will be to ensure that only authorized users stay on the net. I’ll be watching to see who can to perform that function. It’s important.”

Sam looked around. “Any questions?”

No one raised a hand. Sam debated telling them to dress warmly for the next night because they’d be outside in vehicles, but then he figured the hell with it. If they couldn’t figure that out for themselves, let them freeze their butts off. Best way to learn.

“Dismissed.”

Sam had to find out Oliver’s plan before long so he could get the word to Alex. So far all he’d drawn was a zero and a bunch of bruises.

M
arshall Pearson spent his morning as he always did, jumping off his cot when the alarm rang at 4:30 a.m., mucking out the stalls in the barn, feeding the horses, and milking two dozen cows. Once he completed those chores, he hurried back into the house to prepare breakfast. This morning he decided to make blueberry pancakes, one of his uncle’s favorites.

He pulled a package of blueberries he’d picked the past summer out of the freezer and placed them in the microwave to thaw. Satisfied that was underway, he walked to the pantry to get the pancake mix, fetched a large bowl, and stirred milk and eggs into the powder to make a smooth batter. Then he stirred in the syrupy blueberries, which made his stomach growl. Yes, today might be a good day.

He poured the batter on the grill and watched until it started to bubble, then flipped the pancakes. After he’d flipped the last one, footsteps sounded in the hall. He turned. Seeing the bloodshot eyes, Marshall changed his mind. This would not be a good day.

His uncle stood in the doorway, terrycloth robe hanging open, torn and stained long johns underneath. Thin, gray hair stuck out on his head, and his right hand scratched at an unshaven face. “How come my fucking breakfast ain’t ready?”

He’d been at the corner bar the night before. Marshall hadn’t even heard him come in. He must have closed the place down again.

The old man slumped down in his chair, head in hands. “Get me some coffee. Why the hell can’t you do anything right?”

Marshall grabbed the coffeepot and poured a steaming cup, added a touch of milk and sugar, and set it in front of him. “Here you go.”

His uncle swung his arm violently, and the cup flew off the table and smashed against the wall, covering the faded blue wallpaper with coffee. “Don’t talk to me. Can’t you see I’ve got a headache? Goddamn punk.”

Marshall ran to the sink, grabbed a towel, and started to pick up the broken china.

“Pancakes are burning. Can’t you smell them?” His uncle walked over to the griddle, picked a pancake off the fry pan, and took a bite. “Goddamn, burned my tongue. You trying to kill me?”

Marshall looked up from the floor, a wave of hopelessness sweeping over him. Nothing he did would satisfy the man. His father and mother had loved him—been his world. Why had they had to die in that traffic accident?

“Goddamn it, you gonna start crying again? Fucking baby.” He stomped out of the room, waving his hands in the air.

Marshall fought back tears as he cleaned up the mess. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. The pancakes had seemed like a good idea, but now he’d lost his appetite.

He sipped his coffee and thought about Colonel Thorpe. The colonel knew his stuff and made an impressive presentation. Marshall liked the way he handled Buster. Yes, sir, Colonel Thorpe was all right.

Marshall walked over to his briefcase and pulled out the field manual Colonel Thorpe had handed out. He paged through it until he got to the chapter on radios.

“What are you doing?” The old man stood in the doorway in a pair of farmer’s jeans and a red and black checkered woolen shirt.

Startled, Marshall looked up. “Just reading some of the material Colonel Thorpe handed out last night. He’s a good teacher.”

“General Oliver told me you were the laughingstock of the Patriots. Don’t you know that reflects on me? These are my friends. You being a laughingstock makes me a laughingstock. Goddamn little baby. Get me some coffee.”

Marshall jumped up and poured a cup.

His uncle grabbed it in his big hand and took a gulp. “Too weak. Can’t you get it right? Is that too much to ask?”

“I measured out three scoops like you said.”

“You arguing with me? I said it’s too weak.”

Marshall thought his uncle might hit him again. His cheek still burned from when he’d slapped him and sent him slamming into the wall the night before. His arm ached, and he’d seen bruises this morning when he dressed.

“You’d better get it right. If I hear from General Oliver that you’re not doing the job, you’ll pay. Your parents created a little baby. They left it to me to make you a man. Well, I’m gonna make you a man, or you’re gonna die trying.”

He laughed at his own joke, grabbed his fleece jacket and stocking cap, and stumbled outside. “I’d better check to make sure you haven’t screwed up the animals. They’re our livelihood, and you don’t get it.”

When Marshall heard the door slam shut, he bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. He wasn’t going to give the old fart the satisfaction of knowing he’d made him cry again.

Marshall cleaned up the kitchen, gathered up the training materials, then walked to his room. Looking out the window to make sure his uncle was out in the barn, Marshall reached under his bed and brought out the blanket with his prized possession inside. Locking the door, he uncovered his laptop and set it on the desk.

He punched in “Cowboy” and his password, then watched in fascination as he always did while the machine whirred and the logos came up on the screen.

His father had used the last of his money for the month to buy a computer when Marshall was only eight years old. “Computers are the trend of the future,” his father had told him, “and you should know them like the back of your hand.”

Marshall had joined the computer club at his high school in Altoona. His best friend, Gregory, was president, and soon Marshall had been elected vice president. He and Gregory spent hours in front of their terminals. Their reputation as hackers grew and they’d broken into any system they’d wanted.

The two became avid “Mudders” and spent hours playing games on the multi-user domain, referred to as “MUD” by insiders. The multi-user domain was a sub-network of Internet Relay Chat rooms and afforded Marshall and his friends an opportunity to play real-time games. Now he played at night while he was alone. This kept him going during the worst of his uncle’s harassment.

His uncle would be outraged if he found out about the computer and the hours Marshall spent surfing the Web. He’d probably bust up the laptop and throw it in the trash. So Marshall kept the computer hidden under the bed. He hacked into Sprint’s system, so there would be no chance his uncle would pick up the computer time when he paid the phone bill.

Marshall typed in the address “badass/com,” and soon Gregory and he were talking to one another online. If it weren’t for the constant communications with his friend, Marshall wouldn’t be able to take his uncle’s badgering.

Gregory was his sounding board. He worked at the Staples in Altoona, so Gregory had access to all the latest gadgets. The two spent hours exchanging e-mails about new gizmos in the store. Marshall hated to admit it, but he loved Gregory. He wondered if Gregory felt the same.

Marshall had shared with Gregory his experiences with “the Patriots” and told him about Colonel Thorpe and how much he liked the colonel. While the two chatted online that morning, Gregory suggested that Marshall try hacking into the DOD database to see what he could find out about his new friend.

“Great idea,” Marshall typed into his computer, then, “I love challenges. Thanks.”

Marshall signed off from the chat with Gregory and punched in the address for the National Personnel Records Center database in St. Louis. That database listed every man or woman who had served in the military. Gregory had given him software that allowed him entrance into the system. Once Marshall had Colonel Thorpe’s Social Security number, he could obtain all sorts of information on tax records and other personal data.

Marshall typed in Colonel Thorpe’s name and waited, planning his next move. After the DOD system, he’d hack into the National Crime Information Center just to check if Thorpe had ever been in prison. Marshall doubted that, but it would be fun checking. Then he’d make a quick screen of the FBI database to see if Thorpe had any problems with the law. Finally, he’d scan the nationwide DMV database to determine the status of Thorpe’s driver’s license. If the colonel had been assigned to the Pentagon, his license would probably be from Virginia. But with the military, who knew?

Armed with the information from these databases, he’d have enough to crack the DOD database. He’d check to see if the database carried Colonel Thorpe as active duty or, as he said, retired. Marshall smiled. He wondered what the records of General Oliver looked like. Might be fun to check on him, too.

Marshall had learned from one his friends who now worked in the Pentagon about a possible trapdoor into the personnel database. This trapdoor was a back entrance, built in by designers, to get into the system to fix problems without worrying about passwords. His friend suggested he try it sometime. Marshall hadn’t bothered before, but now he had a reason to try.

If that wouldn’t work, maybe he could develop a packet, a small string of digitized data, he could send by e-mail through the DOD router. Then he could attach a small demon that would give him the password.

The data on Colonel Thorpe began downloading on the screen. Marshall looked out the window and saw his uncle limping back toward the house. His uncle had been thrown from a horse five years ago, and the injury left him with a severe limp.

Marshall’s fingers trembled as he logged off and shut down the machine. Brushing sweat from his forehead, he pushed the precious laptop under his bed.

The bedroom door shook from his uncle’s pounding. “Goddamn it, unlock this door.”

Marshall pulled the door open.

“What the hell you doing in there?”

Marshall pointed at the field manual. “I’m studying my lesson for tonight.”

Thursday night. Four more days to go.

Sam gathered the men around the conference table, appointed four team leaders, and gave each of them a map. “Tonight we’re going to divide up and put two teams moving into the upper pasture on foot, and two teams will circle around Hill 42 in vehicles and approach the target from the rear.”

The men leaned forward. Even Buster and his buddy paid attention.

“Each leader will appoint one man to operate the radio. After thirty minutes, I want the team leader to rotate the duty so everyone will get a chance. Don’t forget to use your proper call sign.”

Sam looked around, pointing at each man. “And no goddamn speeches. Radio procedures should be brief and to the point. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard guys give soliloquies on the radio. When they get that mic in their hand, they need to tell the world everything they know.”

Most of the men laughed. Even Buster cracked a smile.

Sam pointed at the four individuals he’d chosen to act as team leaders. “You four, over here. The rest can relax.”

When they had gathered around, Sam distributed the mission assignment for the night. He pointed out the roads on the map each of the teams would follow and gave them a time to cross their IP. “I want you to go back and brief your team. Popeye and I will come around to hear your briefing. It doesn’t need to be perfect. This is only practice, but later on it will become serious. We won’t be able to afford any mistakes.”

The four men briefed their teams, and they did the job well. At the end of the briefing, the men headed outside to begin the maneuver.

Sam rode in a Jeep and selected Marshall for his driver. He switched on the radio. With his AN/PRC-47 he could monitor both nets. Periodically, he’d try to break in without proper authentication procedures. He was pleased to be stopped by the net control on all but two occasions.

Marshall waited while Sam finished reprimanding one of the men who had let him on the net without proper authentication, then said, “Y-you really jumped o-on that guy.”