Goodfellow Air Force Base, TX

January 25th, 2019

1700S

Zoe POV

The chalk squeaked as it glided across the dusty blackboard, leaving behind a trail of white, like the ghost of an idea fading into the air. I watched the instructor write out another cryptic symbol, another puzzle to solve. I sat at the front of the classroom, right next to my collegiate athlete bootcamp battle buddy, PV2 Natasha "Amazon" Adams. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting an eerie glow across the worn linoleum floor and the rows of battered metal desks. The air was heavy with the smell of old books and coffee, and the faint whir of a ceiling fan struggling to keep the air moving.

Why don't we have any AC in this damn building... should've fucking gone Chair Force.

Me and my classmates were all here at Goodfellow AFB for the same reason: to become 35P cryptologic linguists in the US Army. It was a demanding course, one not for the faint of heart or low in brain cell count. But despite the mental exhaustion and the constant pressure, it was still a pretty good time. I glanced up at the clock, noticing that there were only a few minutes left in class. Soon, we would be free to return to the barracks, and we had the weekend to study and rest. But before I could even think of my bed, I had to focus on the symbols on the board.

"Private Zibbell," Sergeant First Class Stevenson—our instructor—said, yanking me from my thoughts with his clipped, authoritative voice. "What's the next step in the decryption process?"

Fuck.

"Um," I stammered with a nervous swallow, trying to keep my composure. "We'd first need to break the code by identifying the cipher used, and then perform frequency analysis to find the key words and phrases."

"And if that fails?" SFC Stevenson asked, his scowl deepening as he crossed his arms.

"Well, Sergeant... we'd move on to a cryptanalysis approach, using various techniques such as index of coincidence, letter-frequency analysis, and n-gram analysis to identify patterns in the ciphertext."

"And if that fails?" he repeated, his voice even more ominous this time.

I felt my heart skip a beat. I took a deep breath and tried to steady my voice as I frantically thought of the next part of the process.

"In that case, Sergeant," I began. "We would attempt a brute force attack, trying every possible key until we find the one that decrypts the message. However, this method can be extremely time-consuming and computationally intensive, and it's not always feasible, especially if the message is long or the key is truly random."

"So what do you suggest we do?" he asked, his eyes boring into mine.

"If all other methods fail, we could try a social engineering approach. We could attempt to gain access to the cipher key by befriending someone who might have it, either through manipulation or by winning their trust."

The SFC Stevenson's scowl seemed to lessen slightly.

"Go on."

I took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of relief and nervousness as I continued with my answer.

"If we were to go down that route, I would suggest we start by profiling the person we think might have the key. We could gather information about their background, their interests, and their contacts. We could also try to identify any vulnerabilities or motivations that we could exploit to gain their trust."

SFC Stevenson nodded thoughtfully.

"Go on."

"We'd start by gathering as much information as possible about the person we believe has the key. We could use open-source intelligence gathering techniques, such as searching social media platforms, public records, and even using search engines to find any relevant information."

"And what if that doesn't work?"

I hesitated, unsure what to do next. But, feeling confident in my plan, I decided to go full-Leeroy Jenkins.

"Well, Sergeant," I began. "In that case, we could always consider a double-bluff approach. We could create a fake message, using similar cipher techniques, and leak it to the person we suspect has the real key. The message would be intentionally flawed, making it seem like it was created by an amateur. This might make them realize that we're on to them and that they need to change their security protocols."

"Go on," he prompted, his eyebrows raised in apparent interest.

"We could always consider a social experiment, perhaps masquerading as a pen tester. We could create a fake message, using similar cipher techniques, and send it to the person we suspect has the real key. The message would be intentionally flawed, making it seem like it was created by an amateur. This might make them realize that they need to change their security protocols, and hopefully, they'll come to us for help in improving them."

SFC leaned back against his desk, considering the idea of fraudulent penetration testing: it sounded like some bullshit out of a movie, in all honesty, but considering just how fucking weird the world of intelligence was, it probably wasn't too outlandish.

"And what would be the goal of this social experiment?" he asked, his expression thoughtful.

"The goal would be to help them understand the importance of secure communication. By showing them the flaws in their own cipher system, we could hopefully convince them to improve it and avoid similar mistakes in the future. And if they do come to us for help, it would give us the opportunity to establish a trusting relationship with them. We can then manipulate their system to our advantage, giving ourselves a backdoor into their network."

"And if they don't come to us?"

I hesitated, unsure where I was going with this idea. But at this point, I had to commit.

"Well, Sergeant, we could always remain discreet about our intentions. We could continue to gather information on them and their contacts, just in case they do eventually reach out for help. In the meantime, we could use the information we gather to improve our own understanding of the party of interest's cryptography and security protocols."

SFC Stevenson nodded, writing down something on his notepad before looking up at us.

"Okay, that's it for this week. Study up for next week. Dismissed."

I was glad to be finally done after an extra-long day of classes, and my 5'10" friend seemed similarly pleased as punch. As we began the walk to the DFAC (Dining Facilities Administration Center) for dinner, Adams was talking about something or the other while I just nodded along and listened. Frankly, I was too tired to truly pay attention to the jovial Arizonan, and I felt really bad about letting her words go into one ear and fly right out the other. But at the end of the day, I was just too exhausted.

After a shitty meal at the DFAC—seriously, damn near everything but the omelet bar is utter garbage—we returned to the barracks. I collapsed onto my bed while Adams, who'd apparently finished her extroverted actions for the day, had put in her earbuds, turned on her music, and begun reading my copy of Seymour Gray's Intelligence Institution: BORTAC. Sure, the books were meant for teens and younger kids, but I still kept every copy of the series with me... even the autographed advanced reader's copy of Intelligence Institution: Oceanic Ops that Mike got me for Hanukkah-slash-Christmas back in 2015. Adams saw the books I was carrying around, got curious, and started borrowing them to read. She seemed to like them.

Suddenly, my personal phone began emitting a shrill beeping: I was getting a Skype call from none other than Mike. I smiled to myself and picked up, getting greeted by the tired, filthy face of my boyfriend, who'd just completed another day of Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia.

"Hey, Mikey. How's Jump School?"

"Well... half-n'-half: nice change of pace from SW Prep (Special Warfare Preparatory Course and A&S (Special Warfare Assessment and Selection). It's nice to be back on the East Coast, too," he replied. "Shit, Zo. I can't wait 'til we start doing PJ training."

"Isn't all that part of being a pararescueman?"

"Yeah, but... you know what I mean."

"Fair enough. You haven't showered yet."

"Showers are jammed. A fourth of them have mold, a fourth are broken, and the last half are all taken."

"Sounds like some Army shit."

"If this is the state of an Army base, I don't wanna know what the Marines have... how the hell do those poor bastards do it?"

"More with less, Mikey. That's the whole schtick of the Marine Corps. They're under-budget and psychotic, but they ain't total schmucks."

"I gotta call Chip at some point, see what that doofus is up to."

"Hey, I gotta ask... how're you doing?"

"I'm fine."

"I mean..." I trailed off, tiptoeing around the subject that still continued to screw with Mike's head.

"Ben?" he sighed resignedly. With no other way to respond, I mutely nodded, making Mike sigh again. "It's... it's complicated, Zo."

"Talk to me."

"I... fuck. Still shows up in my nightmares. Wasn't even there. Can't imagine how you've handled it."

"I've been lucky. But it's been a little over a year, and I wasn't able to call you on that day."

"Sometimes I still think he's here. Like he's sitting right next to me, y'know? Giving me some advice about not getting my ass in trouble... even though it was always me pulling him out of the fire in kindergarten, elementary, and middle. He was the skinny little kid that got bullied, then fucking saved the USA, all that. In-fuckin'-credible, right?"

That was Smokescreen, alright.

"Not just that... every day, I wonder if he's just gonna drop a text, phone me, just walk though the fuckin' door, sayin' 'hey, bro! Sorry for fakin' my death, the IC made me do it. But I'm back!'" Mike said with a mirthless laugh. "Yeah... the fucker would do it, too. I know he was your best friend too, but fuck... I've known that nerd since before we could walk."

"Smokescreen was the man," I agreed with a nod. I wondered if I should change the topic: it obviously wasn't something Mike wanted to talk about at the moment. Maybe another time, in person while we were on leave, but not now... not over a video call. "Well, I know he would be proud of you... especially for finishing your first week in Jump School."

"Well, I think we just successfully separated the men from the boys... next week, we separate the wise from the fools. And in Week 3..."

"The fools jump," I finished, making Mike smile as we recalled what Chip told us about the paratrooper training.

"'And he ain't gonna jump no mooooore,'" Mike added in a sing-song voice, referencing that World War II song... "Blood on the Risers," I think. "Speaking of Airborne, do you know where you're heading after this?"

"Allegedly to Fort Bragg," I replied, making him nod in understanding: he knew that the famous, All-American 82nd Airborne Division was headquartered at Bragg, and their presence was probably more significant than the fact that USASOC was headquartered there as well (because, you know... the 82nd has been around longer). "35-Papa. Lotsa signal work."

"Sounds like a bang-up time."

"Yeah... probably ain't goin' anywhere near the front. But hey, now that I'm a hundred-fifteen pounds soakin' wet, I can probably kick a little more ass if necessary."

"My dear girlfriend, the gun is called the great equalizer for a reason."

"What, you don't think I can use my M4 carbine, Mikey?"

"Now, I never said that!" Mike exclaimed, trying to backtrack as I laughed, letting my offended countenance fall away.

"I'm only kidding. Relax, I know my shit. I've made it this far, haven't I?" I asked as he joined me in chuckling.

"That much is true... damn, I miss you."

"Miss you too, handsome. But I'll tell you what: soon as AIT's out, I've got ten days before I gotta go to language school," I said, referencing the 36-64 weeks I'd have to spend at the Defense Language Institute Foreign Language Center (DLIFLC) learning yet another language atop the several I already knew (English, Hebrew, Yiddish, Arabic, and Russian; as well as half-fluency in German and Italian). "Maybe I can fly out to wherever you are. We can rent an apartment and... y'know, get away from it all."

"I think I gotta take you to dinner before we do anything crazy, pretty girl," Mike replied with a salacious grin. "And I should probably talk to your old man at some point to make sure he doesn't point a shotgun at my dick without probable cause."

"First of all, I'm from New York. The Second Amendment is almost nonexistent thanks to a bunch of losers in NYC and the government... 'long with the assholes who voted 'em into office," I snorted dismissively. "So if anythin', Abba's (my father) gonna come at you with a baseball bat or one of his various construction tools. Now, Uncle Vinnie? He's a different story."

"Your Uncle Vinnie? The NYPD ESU (New York Police Department Emergency Service Unit) cop?"

"Yeah, he's on the SWAT team... though they call it some weird name like 'Apprehension Tactical Team...' 'A-Team' or some politically correct BS."

"Yeah, I've heard of 'em: one of the highest optempos (operational tempos) of any American tac team. I ain't fuckin' with him... but I probably need to meet 'em all at some point."

"Yeah, Eema (my mother) is wondering who the mysterious 'Mikey' is."

"Yeah... my mom's the same way. We better start booking tickets before they get too pricy."

"Well, you know my schedule, right?"

"Yeah...?"

"Well, do you have any leave that overlaps with mine?"

"Lemme check," he replied as he appeared to scroll through his phone. "Okay... okay... did that... not that... yeah, it looks like your last five match my first five after HALO school. We could do two days in NYC, then two in Alexandria, then you can have the last day to fly to wherever the fuck your language school is and get settled in. How's that sound?"

"That sounds pretty good. Although, we could try Space-A (Space Available)," I suggested, making Mike roll his eyes.

"Zo, Space-A is fucking ridiculous. It's too complicated and unreliable for us to try and hitch rides on military birds. Let's just stick with broke-as-fuck sardine seats on Spirit or some shit."

"... alright, you're the boss."

"We're the same pay grade."

"Mike, shaddap and let me get my laptop out so I can start booking."

After we booked our airline tickets—on Spirit, of course—we spent a little more time chatting before Mike had to sign off, shit, shower, and sleep. By this point, Adams had departed to go to the gym like the health nut she was (she's a rock climber and D1 collegiate athlete from Arizona, after all). As for me, I took the opportunity to take a shower myself, as I was still covered in sweat. The hot water mercifully worked, allowing me to wash all the grime, dust, and other crap off myself. I even had time to wash my hair.

"Thank God for hot water," I muttered to myself as I finished and began drying off, after which I brushed my hair and teeth before walking my sleepy ass back to my barracks room, face-planting into my bed. "Uuuurrrrrrrrrgh."

I bet I sound like a fucking cave troll right now.

This was probably the best Friday I'd had in AIT so far. I just had 6 weeks remaining, then I could chill for five days, fly back home to visit my family, fly to Virginia to meet Mike's family, then finally fly out to California for DLIFLC... hopefully for either Persian Farsi, Chinese Mandarin, or Spanish. And I was praying that I'd get Spanish, since the course was only 36 weeks. Heck, I could hop onto Duolingo and learn some more German and Italian while I was at it: languages came easy to me.

All I and my loved ones had to do was not get threatened, kidnapped, or beaten by Duo.

The psycho could at least wait until I finish SERE School... then I'll be ready for him.

https://youtu.be/ga3ttnz3nXI

SPANISH OR VANISH!

Hope you enjoyed this update of Zoe continuing to undergo training to be a 35P Cryptologic Linguist (these days known as a 35P Signals Intelligence Voice Interceptor). Sorry for the delay. I'll also try to incorporate some more action in one of the next updates (not the next one, but hopefully the one after that).

Don't forget to let me know what you think of it! And as always, remember to hydrate and brush your teeth.

Until next time,

- ADF-2