But it wasn’t the command that interested Rubeo — it was the encryption. The Gen 4 Flighthawks used a software process for the encryption that took advantage of the nano-architecture of hand-built chips off the main circuits. There were advantages to this approach, most notably since it allowed for a more complicated — “robust” was the preferred term — system of encrypting the data in real time, which in turn made the UAV brains harder to hack. The process turned out to be too cumbersome for large-scale production; they could never get the chip count high enough to make it practical. Now, advances in manufacturing made that problem trivial; at the time, though, the process had been a breakthrough. DNA snippets were used as keys.
So here was a fingerprint — the DNA might reveal who had stolen the work, or at least whose work had been stolen.
“Compare vector in cycle Mark 56Z through Mark 987AA7 to typical DNA pattern,” Rubeo told the computer.
He waited as the mainframes back in New Mexico churned.
“Pattern would fit on X chromosome,” declared the computer.
Rubeo leaned back from the screen. He wasn’t sure whether to go on or not.
“Compare the possible encryption key to DNA contained in all personnel files for present and past employees, and in the Dreamland archives.”
It took twenty minutes — less time than he had thought.
“Match discovered,” said the computer.
“Identify,” said Rubeo.
“Gleason, Jennifer. Now deceased.”
7
None of the Malaysians had ever been in an Osprey before, and while Turk kept telling them it was no different than riding in a helicopter, they approached the aircraft with expressions similar to those of four-year-olds queuing for a pony ride. The wide-eyed stares continued once aboard the aircraft, whose interior was surely no fancier than the Eurocopters and Sikorskys they were used to. The Marine crew chief winked at Turk as they took off, joking that he could have charged the Malaysians for the ride and made a killing.
Dusk had fallen a few hours before. The sky was clear and there was enough light from the moon and the stars to see a good distance, though the jungle would make that far more difficult. But the darkness favored the Marines, who were not only equipped to fight in it but had practiced extensively to do so.
Sitting between Captain Deris and Private Isnin, Turk checked his gear. The Marines had outfitted him with an M-16 assault rifle and night vision, as well as body armor and a helmet. He had his own smart glasses, which not only tied into Whiplash but also to the Marines.
Though officially the Marines were “assisting” the Malaysians, in actual fact the operation was far more American than Malaysian. The Marines were not only supplying more men, they had redrawn the game plan from start to finish. It was better in any number of ways, and not simply because they had more men at their disposal.
A small group of rebels had been spotted at one of the clearing areas southwest of where they mounted the mortar attack. Apparently exhausted, they had stopped there to rest and restock; the rebels typically cached weapons in different areas for just such an occasion. Located some twenty miles from the base, the area lay along a dirt road that wound up on the side of a ridge. The nearby jungle canopy was too thick for the sensors on the Marine RQ7Z Shadow UAV to penetrate, but the Marines assumed that lookouts had been posted both near the road and at local high points, which would make any force moving on the road itself easily detected.
Their attack plan took advantage of that. Split in two, the assault teams would be dropped at two different landing zones four miles from the rebels, one northeast and one southwest. The group dropped to the southwest would move into a blocking position straddling the road a mile south of the rebels. The other would advance toward the camp from the north along the road. The idea was simple: the rebels would see the advancing unit and move to get away, running into the group at the bottom. They would be “encouraged” to move by an air attack just as the northern force came into sight.
There was a possibility, of course, that the rebels would stand and fight, even though their position was not well chosen for defense. In that case, the hammer and anvil attack would turn into an envelopment, with the southern group pressing most of the attack. This would be a slower operation but it would still allow the Marines to bring overwhelming force against their enemy.
Turk and most of the Malaysians were with the southern group; only Sergeant Intan was with the northern group, providing Malaysian presence more for legal reasons than strategy.
The Osprey taxied for a few seconds then lifted off, flying more as an airplane than a helicopter. Only a few moments seemed to pass before the Marine crew chief walked down the aisle at the center of the aircraft and held up two fingers.
“Two minutes,” he said. “Two minutes.”
Danny Freah ducked his head involuntarily as he ran toward the rear of the Osprey. The rotors, just starting to spin, were nowhere near him, but there was something about the windmill sound overhead that triggered the ducking reflex.
“Hi, Colonel, what’s up?” asked Corporal Mofitt. The corporal was with Group North, the augmented Marine rifle squad that would attack the rebels first.
“I decided to come along for the ride.”
Mofitt gave him a thumbs-up, then turned to the officer next to him. “Sir, do you know Colonel Freah?”
“We met,” said the lieutenant, Tom Young. The squad leader got up from the nylon fabric bench to stick out his hand. Danny had met him during the mission brief.
“Hey, Tom,” said Danny, sticking out his hand to put the young man at ease. “Don’t mind me. I’m just along for the ride. It’s your show.”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Young.
Danny knew that the lieutenant would feel a little uncomfortable having a senior officer looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t here to criticize or even supervise; he just wanted to be where the action was.
“I’ll try to stay out of your way,” he told the Marine officer, whose square chin looked a little too wide for the rest of his face. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d make myself useful.”
“Yes, sir.”
Danny took a seat across the aisle and scanned the rest of the faces in the aircraft. A few were expressionless, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance. A few looked worried, not fearful exactly but apprehensive. Danny recognized the look, common in men who had never faced combat — concerned that they might let their buddies down.
The majority had nothing to fear in that regard.
There were also a few expressions that spoke only of eagerness. These belonged to men whose adrenaline was already raging, for whom danger and excitement were life itself.
Danny suspected his face looked very much like theirs, even though he did his best to hide his emotions.
Combat was an unforgiving and uncompromising master; it extracted things far more valuable than the momentary adrenaline high. People he loved had died, and worse. That there were many worse things than death was still something that shocked him.
And yet he went to it willingly. More — he sought it out.
There was something about sitting in a metal container hurling toward destiny at a few hundred miles an hour that he could never get enough of.
He studied the lieutenant. He was a good-looking kid, six-two, a little thin but rangy, the way Marines liked their officers. There was something about his intense look that Danny knew his men would respond to. Leadership a lot of times hinged on those subtle signs as much as training and intelligence, even more than courage. The tone of voice, a habit of staring — there were any number of accidental ways that a man might inspire others just by being himself.