Tel Aviv, Israel
Major Sal Frydman studied Yehudi’s report he had written on an A4 sheet of paper in a barely legible scribble. Frydman wanted to tear it up, order Yehudi to complete the report on the official RP115 form, when a word caught his eye.
“Becky22”.
Now where had he heard the name before?
He racked his brain; the answer was on the tip of his tongue. Becky. He punched a search query into the Israeli Defense Force’s personnel record database. It came up blank. Becky was the shortened form of Rebecca or Rebeccah. He substituted his query string with “Rebeccah” and then “Rebecca.” The computer came up with thirty-eight matches.
He copied the results to a Word document and printed it out. He would examine the names over lunch.
He ran a trace on the network activity for the past twenty-four hours and noticed a spike at 2115 last night. By 2120, the network links were saturated, running between ninety-five and one hundred percent utilization. He had seen something like this once before. He had been a junior system analyst, and a bright spark Shin Bet operative had shown them how to infiltrate a system using a rogue program he had written. The program would flood the wide area network with traffic, stimulating a brute-force attack on the network.
System overrides would kick in, redirecting all processing power to firewalls and vulnerable segments on the network, allowing his program to modify the core operating system on the mainframe without detection, ultimately rendering the system incapable of processing any jobs. This would cause complete system shutdown, rendering the affected mainframe incapable of mounting any counterattack or defensive maneuvers. Ultimately, the infected system would not be able to control the infantry’s weapons systems, and the opponent being targeted would be a sitting duck, unable to defend itself.
Frydman had implemented countermeasures to any attacks of this nature by isolating his munitions processing to individual, non-networked computers. He was sure they were still OK as far as functional armory was concerned. But he wondered how someone could have triggered this attack and whether the intention was more sinister than he had thought.
And “Becky” rang a bell somewhere. Answers didn’t elude him for long. Sooner or later, he would recall where he had heard the name before.
Natalie faced Bruce in their makeshift sparring ring, her jet-black hair made up in a short ponytail, glistening in the searing afternoon sunshine. Bruce had raked the area clear of stones and rocks and placed four tar-poles to form a rough square. The trampled sand in the square bore testimony to the many practice sessions that had taken place during the past couple of months.
Sergeant Ellis stood outside the ring, arms folded, watching Natalie intently. He brushed his hand through his short hair and flicked the perspiration to the ground. His white T-shirt was caked with dust and sweat. “Come on, Natalie.”
“Like this?" Natalie asked Bruce. She held a knife in her right hand and had a piece of cloth wrapped around her left. She lunged at Bruce with a stab towards his neck.
Bruce leaned back and aimed a straight kick at her midriff. He stopped an inch before impact. He shook his head, squinting in the sun. “You're shorter than me. You need to reduce the distance between us before attacking.”
He slipped a knife from a sheath on his belt and flipped it over, pointing the blade down. “OK, block this.”
Natalie took a defensive stance, crouching, wrapping the cloth tighter around her left hand. Bruce swung down towards Natalie’s shoulder. She blocked the attack with her forearm and countered with a knee to his groin. Bruce pivoted his hip and slashed the knife towards Natalie’s face. It stopped a millimeter above her nose. “You're dead,” he said.
Natalie plopped down in the dust, tossing the knife aside. “This is unfair. You're taller than me and stronger than me. I can't hurt you,” she sulked, hitting the ground with the palms of her hands and sending a puff of dust up in the air.
Bruce pursed his lips, the muscles on his forearms knotting together. “Your problem is you're limiting your attacking options,” he answered, gesturing with his hands. “By wrapping up a hand, psychologically it becomes your blocking hand. You're losing the use of it as a weapon.”
He wiped his brow with the back of his arm. “And by crouching before I attack you, I know you’re prepared for what’s coming.” Crow’s feet lined his intense blue eyes as he squinted. “Always stand straight, hands to your sides, as innocent as a lamb.” He shook his fingers. “Relax, be loose, control the adrenaline, control your breathing.”
“But this is how Ellis trained me to do it.” She cast an accusing glance at Sergeant Ellis. “We always used to knife spar this way.”
Bruce pointed his forefinger, his face serious. “Yes, you sparred. You knew you wouldn't be hurt or killed or maimed. But this is real life, Nats. You need to use every trick in the book to your advantage.” He held out his hand, and she allowed herself to be pulled up.
“Fight dirty,” Bruce said and hugged her shoulder. “Never look your opponent in the eye; your peripheral vision will be shit, and you won't be able to predict where the attack will be coming from.” He held her shoulders at arm’s length. “Listen to me.”
She glanced up at him, biting her lower lip.
“Keep your eyes on your opponent’s chest and you will be able to see their direction of attack. If someone approaches you with a knife, defensive moves go out the window. You attack first.”
He stepped back. “You cannot do much to defend yourself against an armed opponent. If you need to block, it must lead directly into an offensive maneuver.” He demonstrated with two short jabs to an imaginary opponent’s solar plexus.
She nodded. “OK, I understand. But if I'm unarmed, how do I get close enough to you to attack? Again, I’m smaller than you.”
Bruce shrugged, the large trapezius muscles on his shoulders bulging beneath the white vest. “Use kicks. Or move in while the knife is still on its way back or being raised.” He clicked his fingers. “Give the other guy no chance to think, just do it.”
Natalie sighed. “OK, let's try.”
Bruce gripped the knife, pointing it at Natalie.
She held up a hand and knelt to fasten her boot lace. “Just a second.”
Bruce clicked his fingers impatiently. He stepped towards her. “C’mon, let’s get—”
Natalie bounced up and threw a handful of sand in his eyes. She ducked below his forward lunge, driving her knife towards his ribcage with two hands. Bruce dodged left, too late. She grazed his skin and rammed her head up, towards his chin. He rocked out of the way and pushed her away. She moved like a feral cat, attacking continuously.
He dodged another swipe to his face. She was swinging the knife in short arcs in front of her. He wiped the grit from his eyes, one at a time, then smiled and blew her a kiss.
She roared and leapt forward. Bruce dropped his knife, sidestepped her stab, and caught her arm. He bent her hand back painfully at the wrist. Natalie cried out as he disarmed her. She was caught off-balance, and he pushed her forehead. She landed on her bum.
Bruce grinned. “All right, next we’ll practice wrist locks and disarming techniques.”
“Bastard,” Natalie muttered under her breath as she stood up, wiping the dust from her bottom.
Bruce laughed loudly and handed her knife back. “I’m impressed, much better. You caught me off guard.”
Natalie blew away a strand of hair stuck to her forehead. “You wait till I get out of the Legion. I bet I’ll be able to take you then.”
The older man’s eyes sparkled. “We’ll see, Nats, we’ll see. I accept your challenge. It should be fun. But don’t go crying to mommy if I hurt you.”
“Aaargh,” Natalie shouted as she charged at Bruce. She ended up on her backside again.
Ellis laughed, slapping his thigh.
Bruce shook his head. “Natalie, you’re so clumsy.”
She looked up and her lower lip trembled. Then she burst out in tears. “I can’t do this Bruce,” she sobbed. “You’re hurting me. What are the guys in the Legion going to do to me?”
Bruce’s heart melted. He crouched next to her and gave her a hug, her whole body shaking as she sobbed. She looked up at him, blinked the tears away, and smiled. “Got you,” she said, holding Bruce’s knife to his neck.
He lifted his hands and stood up, Natalie holding the knife’s tip to his chin. He pushed her hand away, turned around, and walked away, shaking his head.
“Here’s your knife,” she shouted.
He glanced over his shoulder and waved a dismissive hand. “Keep it. You deserve it.”