Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(27)
Most of the network traffic was TCP, the most common Internet protocol in use throughout the world, one that Mark had grown so familiar with he could form a mental list of the internet protocol addresses as he rapidly scanned through the TCP headers. It took just a couple of minutes to build a pretty good list of the IP addresses of the machines on the subnet he was watching.
Satisfied that he had all the most active addresses, Mark started a special program on his laptop that began sending data to every address in his list, working through a sequence of known operating system and software defects until it found a hole past the firewall. No matter how good the system administrator, computers were filled with complex software, and complex software always had security weaknesses that could be exploited. Many of those weaknesses were publicized through hacker communities on the Internet, but Mark, Heather, and Jen had discovered a broad range of previously unknown exploits for all the common operating systems, even those on the newest cell phones and tablets.
Mark selected a computer from the list, bypassed the firewall, and installed a minor modification to one of the operating system libraries, ensuring that the file date, size, checksums, and information assurance codes remained valid. After that it was a simple matter to pull up a list of the installed hardware and drivers, running services, installed programs, and user accounts, and everything else about the system.
The system turned out to be a newer-model laptop with a built-in microphone, speaker, and camera. The microphone and camera were currently disabled. Mark turned them on, routing the data feed to a small media server window on the upper left of his computer display.
A rather frumpy-looking blonde woman in her mid-forties seemed to be staring directly at him as she pecked away at her keyboard. Mark checked the active user account and identified her as user APeterson. Quickly cross-referencing against her open e-mail folder, he refined the information.
Annette Peterson
43 Walker Place
Baltimore, MD 21240
410-691-1353 (Home)
410-691-2764 (Work)
410-324-8763 (Cell)
Rapidly losing interest in Annette, Mark moved rapidly through four more computers before finding what he was really looking for, the system that controlled the airport security cameras. Tiling four media windows along the left half of his display, Mark began cycling through each camera in the airport. Apparently Monday was a busy travel day in Baltimore.
Satisfied with his understanding of the current network, Mark hopped again, then again. Two hours later he pushed back from the workstation, walked across the room to the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water.
“Oh my God!” Jennifer’s exclamation spun Mark’s head around.
“What?” Mark saw Heather lean over to peer at Jen’s display.
“Mom’s laptop. I’m in.”
Heather’s face shifted through a series of emotions, with dismay predominating. Mark found himself standing behind his sister without realizing he had moved.
“Jen,” he breathed, conflicting emotions almost robbing him of his voice. “Remember what Jack said.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But we’ve been hopping through all sorts of systems, certainly attracting attention from a variety of systems security analysts. If they can’t trace us from those, they can’t trace us here either.”
Heather placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You know how bad I want to do the same thing. It just doesn’t feel safe.”
Jennifer spun her chair to face them, first Heather and then Mark.
“Goddamn it! To hell with safe! I know this is all my fault. I’m the one who ran away. I’m the one who made you guys follow me. But I’m damn sure not gonna be the one who lets Mom and Dad rot from worry, never knowing we’re still alive. They deserve better than that.”
Mark felt as if he’d been kicked in the groin. In his mind’s eye, his dad’s strong arms hugged his mother close as she rested her head on his chest, tears streaming down her cheeks, soaking Fred Smythe’s T-shirt, her agony melding with his. Inconsolable. He’d seen it in his dreams. Now, as he glanced over at Heather, he saw from her white eyes that she saw it too.
As Heather’s eyes returned to normal, she staggered so that only Mark’s hand catching her arm prevented her from falling. Heather righted herself, looked up into Mark’s eyes, and nodded. He wondered if she felt the same spark he did.
“OK, Jen,” Heather said. “It’s time.”
Linda Smythe sat at her keyboard, rereading the endless supportive postings on her Facebook page from all her close friends, from Anna, from Fred. Over the last few weeks she’d found a certain relief in baring the darkest parts of her soul on this website, had even taken some comfort from the many people who struggled so desperately to throw her a lifeline.
Certainly the people closest to her had spent so much time with her physically that their own lives had been disrupted. But no amount of hand-holding and hugs could cure the depression into which she’d descended. Somehow Anna and then Fred had recognized that her Facebook postings provided a modest amount of relief. Somehow neither of these people she loved showed the slightest resentment that this illogical diversion gave her a measure of help that their love couldn’t.
Now, as she stared at that Facebook page, Linda came face-to-face with the realization that even that had stopped working. She scanned all the latest postings, feeling only the dull ache building in her diaphragm, leaving no room for air in her chest. Just that slow, desperate need burning a hole in her chest remained to tell her she was still alive. How long could she go on like this, a living zombie, unfit for the company of man or dog, dragging her friends and family down with her?