The Cipher Who Came in from the Cold: A Fictional National Security Story (with reality not far behind)

By Gideon Samid

The NSA modus operandi has always been to entice the world to trust encryption for which the consensus is that it is unbreakable, while in stealth breaking it; thereby achieving cyber superiority. And they achieved it, keeping America on top. Alas, success blinds. A fundamental vulnerability emerged and became a game changer. With the new science of cryptography, the computational edge claimed by the NSA becomes irrelevant. Unfortunately, America's adversaries were the first to spot the new cyber reality, and they are moving in for the kill. This is the factual basis of this new cyber thriller "The Cipher Who Came in from the Cold," a nail-biting account of a very likely future. Stewart Restbe, a hounding CIA officer, alerts the first African American Director of National Intelligence. It's not easy, the bureaucracy fights back. A charming NSA math prodigy Marlene Leipzig pitches in. Recent embarrassing CIA calamities shake up the Intelligence Community. A match of wits and grit is flaring up, burning throughout the vast expanse of cyber territory. America is stunned by the fighting power of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard. Who helps them? The struggle extends to kinetics; special forces are called in; nuclear events are on the table. The plot twists and turns. Each side firmly believes in their just cause. Follow the struggle to the last page of the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667841595

Gideon Samid

Gideon's writing is like a prayer, a sacred exploration of what breathes and hums below the math, under the technology, deeper than the engineering that occupy most of his waking hours. During the day Professor Gideon Samid (PhD, PE) is a front line engineer, building and designing stuff, planning: facilities, constructions, tools. With technology one creates comfort -- comfort to do what? With engineering one builds tools of convenience -- convenience to support a life lived for what purpose? These are questions that Gideon raises with the written word, with his unbridled literary pen, not shying from sharp, explicit, word pictures. Alas, this book is not a list of answers, but a tally of a succession of struggles, a list of frequent enigmas, a story of unreasonable hope, a sequence of persistent illusions. This book is a roadmap of trying and trying again. This is Part I of the series "Consequential Milestones in the Life of Samuel Soul". Here, the story points to milestones of sexual intimacy, and the emotional volcano that comes with it. Gideon was born in Jerusalem, was raised and served in Israel, and then developed his engineering career in the US (NASA, Exxon, The Pentagon, University of Maryland, Case Western Reserve University) where he presently lives. Gideon's grown children and grandchildren are spread out in Israel and in the US. His wife left him after 27 years of marriage, yet a gentle soul lifted him up from his misery into a most beautiful togetherness. Dolores' love and commitment unleashes a dormant creativity. Momentum builds, light shines. Gracias!

Book preview

Part I

1.

The USS Nevada was sliding to its stop. The massive, high-strength alloyed steel, smooth surface nuclear submarine had reached its destination. Its 560-feet-long bulk was resting undetected in the waters of the Gulf of Oman. Commander J. Hammer Brown checked the instruments, then nodded to Floyd’s smiling face on the screen, faintly mouthing the Nevada motto: Silent Sentry. Floyd, a trained SEAL commando, quickly released the latch, and the mission-specific submersible, the JFish, clicked loose. Its silent propellers were engaged, and the JFish submersible navigated itself to a fixed point off the Iranian beach. It took Floyd and his cohort, Hunter, sixty-seven minutes to reach their destination—on the dot. The submersible raised itself to sea level. Floyd and Hunter, perfectly clad with wet suits, emerged slowly and deliberately, penetrating the darkness with their peeled eyes. The two brave warriors wasted no time, their training kicking in.

Both men knew what the other was thinking: six months earlier, their two pals, O’Brian and Mitch, were exactly in the same disposition, although not across the same beach. Back in September, operation Sharp Blue took place in the Persian Gulf. Floyd and Hunter, by contrast, were launched toward the Iranian shore in the Gulf of Oman, operation Silent Paw. They carried out the same procedure. Both fighters wrestled with images of the former failed operation.

Their pal Mitch, who survived the September fiasco, participated in their training and he gave them the mother lode—his stories became so graphic, so horrid. And now they came flushing back. They could not help it. Floyd and Hunter both played these disturbing images in their heads. They thought of Mitch and O’Brian carrying out the same procedure just six months ago, expertly navigating their midget submarine, the new top-secret Navy boat, replacing the older submersibles, locally known as Jonah’s Fish, or JFish for the biblical similarities.

The moonless night was dark and foreboding. All was quiet. Both Floyd and Hunter could not stop thinking of their close pals, who failed so painfully just six months ago. Would their mission turn out differently? It played in their minds like a movie. Floyd and Hunter knew the other was thinking the very same scenario, but no words were exchanged.

Hunter had a more vivid imagination and the details rolled in his head. Mitch, the sole survivor of the September operation, poured out his emotions through graphic details of the failed action. Hunter imagined the sequence of events six months ago in details. In his mind’s eye Hunter saw O’Brian and Mitch’s boat as it came as close to the beach as planned. He imagined O’Brian ejecting the personal swimmer—the flat board carrying the warriors to the sandy beach. Hunter was plagued by a realistic picture of what happened. His mental landscape portrayed the scene where O’Brian—six months ago—leaped over the flat one-man swimmer and very quietly crossed the remaining few yards to the sand. No sooner had O’Brian stepped on the wet sand than, apparently from the void, some two dozen Iranian commandoes rose, as if choreographed, wrestling O’Brian to the ground. This entire scene played itself in Hunter’s mind while Floyd was riding the swimmer to the designated landing spot.

Hunter shook his head in a desperate attempt to stop thinking of the fate of O’Brian, who was such a close friend. The horror scene subsided when Floyd tapped him lightly, and Hunter snapped back. Now it was their turn, six months later. The SEALs always come back! Hunter and Floyd were now on, ready to land on a hostile beach. They were well trained. Hunter was so short, he was only accepted to the service on account of his superb athletic ability. He was robust like an oak and muscle-bound. Floyd, by contrast, was very tall, thin, wiry, alert, and nervous. Their union as a team was remarkable. Hunter took things on the easy side, and Floyd was serious even when he was asked to choose an ice cream flavor.

Floyd always claimed that the Persian Gulf is very shallow and that the Iranians must have placed there some spotters, which is how O’Brian was caught. Floyd was sure that his mission, though, would be a success. His confidence radiated. His mission took place in the Gulf of Oman, which is quite deep, and their launching boat was no other than the mighty USS Nevada. When their JFish came as close as was advisable, Floyd pulled out the swimmer, just as O’Brian did six months ago, lay on top of it, and immediately he was "swimming’ to the sand ahead. Hunter felt his heart racing as he followed his partner with the night-vision spyglass.

Floyd disengaged from the swimmer, his boots pressing on the wet sand. Floyd squatted, looking about him. The area was flat and appeared empty. Satisfied, Floyd stepped back to his swimming device to unload it. And just then a platoon of Iranian soldiers lifted themselves up from well-camouflaged dugouts and leaped on Floyd like a pack of wolves. It looked like the concealed Iranians were afraid that Floyd spotted them and was escaping back into the sea, so they rose as one and put the brave American down.

Every detail of what happened was watched by Hunter, waiting in the water. What happened to O’Brian six months ago now happened to his brother in arms. Hunter was overcome with an electric shock, afflicted by a momentary blindness, as if he refused to accept what his eyes were reporting to him. Like Mitch before him Hunter knew it was pointless to rush to his buddy. He is gone! His training kicked in. Hunter whispered a silent prayer: God! he mouthed. Your excellent noble son now returns to your heavenly custody. Hold him, caress him, pacify him! And immediately Hunter lowered himself into the JFish. The submersible kicked off and propelled itself to the mother ship, the waiting Nevada.

Six months of lesson-learning, concerted effort to do it right the second time around—and it was all for naught. Now it was Hunter’s fate to watch helplessly his brother in arms, his blood partner, his sweat-sharing buddy taken down in the most brutal way. No longer was it a tale Mitch was telling. Now it was his own. Hunter was never so shaken. Psychologically crashed, he was barely able to steer the JFish to the Nevada, devastatingly aware that his bosom pal, his war brother, his Siamese twin for two years was left alone on a foreign shore, with no one to rescue him. It was a toss-up but Hunter’s orders and his training arrested his emotions—their spy gear, kept on the JFish, had to be secured at all cost. The whole idea of only one climbing onto the beach, and without the gear, was in precaution against exactly the horrible events that now, so shockingly, took place twice—twice in a row—against the same foe. What was happening to America the Superpower?!

2.

It is extremely, extremely painful, mouthed Stewart Restbe, also called Stu. They were assembled in a midsized, windowless conference room on the first floor of the CIA headquarters compound in Langley, Virginia. The walls were fitted with large screens that projected images and data from around the world. Plenty of bottled water and high-quality swivel chairs enveloped a fine mahogany conference table perfectly fitted for the size of the room. Floyd and O’Brian were the best of the best. Perfectly trained, well-motivated, heroes, added Stewart. They went on their mission without hesitation. And here we are, gathered…how many? Close to twenty people, around this table of solemn inquiry. We spent four and half hours listening to reports from everyone—tons of details—but the pain and the sense of defeat, failure, and loss is shattering our chests.

Stewart Restbe fitted the iconic image of a CIA agent: enormous energy arrested by tight self-control (most of the time), clear thinking, bursting patriotism, a military career studded with acts of well-recognized bravery, and appreciated resourcefulness. Now in his mid-fifties he was an indefatigable manager. His hair was salt and pepper but still thick, his jaws protruding, his shoulders remarkably wide, and his gate well measured. He projected a sense of deep friendship on the people he worked with and he enjoyed the returning sentiment.

The CIA staff who knew Stu were also familiar with his emotional outbursts, but the many Navy personnel accustomed to cold metallic reporting were stymied.

Stu remained focused: When we were so badly beaten in September we came up with two theories to explain what happened. We thought that some hardware component in the complex communication gear had been seeded with malware that secretly communicated to the enemy—that was one theory, and not in very high regard. The second theory was that the Iranians developed some sophisticated boat detection gear, which was easy to operate in the shallow Persian Gulf, and they simply saw us coming.

We all remember, Stewart added, "how we displaced both theories because they implied a lot of smarts and sophistication on the part of the Iranians. We queried all our sources to find out if the Iranians installed some submarine detection gear in the gulf and we came out clean, and then we launched a three-month comprehensive component-tracking investigation, tracking back every electronic chip in every damn gear through which the sensitive operational information was flowing, even if only a small part of that information was flowing through there. Nothing, nada, zilch.

And then—I even remember who suggested it first. Stewart then gazed at Linda. "We bubbled the unthinkable—a mole! But since it was unthinkable, we buried it, and officially all agreed on the unproven but not disproven theory of some mysterious low-depth Persian Gulf detection gear. And the logical consequence was obvious: the next time we go in deep water.

So there you have it, the Gulf of Oman, and there it is! Once again, shamed, humiliated, defeated by a bunch of savages in the Middle East. Look at us. Stewart paused and swept his eyes through all his listeners Each and every one around the table here is in emotional distress. This should not happen to the CIA. We all, I am sure, were asked by our spouses at home, ‘Honey, what’s the matter?’ But unlike other husbands and wives we could not share. We could only say ‘something bad at work.’ Shit!

Stewart Restbe never used profanity, so this time it cut the tense air. After a quiet moment, someone—people were not sure who—whispered:

Yeah, indeed. Something bad, very bad, at work—something bad in America!

That’s right. It was Linda Storm—a middle-aged, unattractive woman equipped with a very sharp mind, plagued by very bad humor, owing to a conviction that she was smarter than she got credit for. Yet, she controlled herself very well. She noticed that Stewart was pooped, and took over: Our mistake was that after the disaster of ‘Sharp Blue’ last September we very quickly subscribed to the theory that the Iranians installed some detective gear in the shallow Persian Gulf and hence will be outwitted in the Gulf of Oman…. And we were so much in a hurry because absent this theory we had none, and that was unacceptable!

Sad but true! Stewart pulled back up from his slumped position. He knew he would have to report to Gordon Perry tomorrow, and he knew Perry would say nothing harsh but would devalue Stu in his heart."

That’s correct, added Admiral Ingram. But with what happened this week, we know very well that one of those highly unlikely ‘something elses’ is the culprit here, don’t we? His rumbling voice filled the room. Admiral Ingram was so harsh-looking that no one suspected his very high intelligence. His bark was so intimidating that the wisdom of his words did not register. His thick dark eyebrows took the breath out of anyone staring directly at his face.

The admiral added: Since our component tracing came up empty, the only ‘something else’ that we had the imagination to even contemplate was a mole—and until this very moment we dismissed it on the spot. It’s obvious why. We all know very well the small cadre of people in the know. We felt we could easily vouch for everyone on the team. We sweat together, struggled together, squeezed together. It was always beyond the realm of possibilities that anyone of us—our intimate team of ‘in the know’—would be a mole working for the other side. So we marked it off, we did!

Linda Storm broke in: What do you make out of the fact that not with O’Brian and not with Floyd have the Iranians bragged about their success? They have been mum, not a word. What does it tell you?

I don’t know, replied the admiral. One would expect the Iranians to parade our guys before the world, no?

It was Carlos who came up with the most bizarre idea: What if Floyd and O’Brian were not nabbed by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard, but by someone else? Carlos was the odd man out. His Peruvian parents carried Carlos and his brother José on their backs as they crossed the Rio Grande to seek a better life in the United States. Carlos was undocumented, but the University of Maryland had loose policies and Carlos studied history. His professor in his undergraduate studies spotted his brilliance, his sense of history and culture, and made a mention of him at the agency from where he retired not too long ago. Quite quickly, Carlos became fully documented and a respected member of the CIA spy team.

There was a moment of silence in response to Carlos’ hypothesis. Linda Storm broke it: Really! And who would that someone else be?

I don’t know, replied Carlos. Some foreign power that came to the beach before us, waiting to catch our guys?

You are climbing to the clouds, my friend! replied Linda in this curious dialogue.

Carlos insisted: Don’t we have to do this in intelligence? Lay out the most bizarre scenario and check it out?

Enough with all this! cautioned Stewart. The Iranians think that both Floyd and O’Brian came onshore alone, and so we are in the dark as to what happened to them. They expect us to inquire with our sources in the country, and they expect to spot this inquiry. Remember, they don’t know that a second commando was watching from the water.

If they had a mole who told them we are coming, he probably also told them about the scout waiting in the water. It was the admiral poking holes in Stewart’s hypothesis.

Linda Storm quickly added: And if they have a mole, they don’t want to brag and bring about some congressional inquiry and an independent commission to search for him. They may rely on our anticipated reluctance to admit that among us there is a rotten apple, as well reluctant we are…

Stewart was resigned: That could have been our mistake, our sin, our mismanagement, our guilt—if not for O’Brian, then at least for Floyd.

The atmosphere in the room could not have been heavier. They talked back and forth for the rest of the afternoon, then the meeting became informal.

3.

The others left per Stewart’s request, Hunter stayed. The two men scouted each other’s face.

We both need some serious therapy, Hunter, Stewart said.

Hunter sighed but remained silent. When I was in the Marines, Stewart added, "helping a fellow marine in a bind was a given, beyond any question. And here we trained you, drilled into you to abandon your partner, and save the integrity of the top-secret equipment you carry.

The whole idea of letting O’Brian land first alone with no compromising equipment, and myself following only if the coast was clear, was exactly in anticipation of what happened. Hunter paused, struggling with a choking throat, then added: I know that I could not help him, could only get myself killed too, and the sensitive gear we had with us would have been exposed, with catastrophic consequences.

Stewart was flooded by the emotional admission of Hunter, but quickly came back and said: Yes, Hunter, but that is logic, not the heart. I don’t know who is more devastated by this loss, you for losing your partner or myself for botching the operation I worked on for years. O’Brian before and Floyd now are on my watch. I bear the responsibility. I have lost men before, and we always charged ahead. It was the mission, the duty, the country. We have to weep and keep the fight—that is what we both signed up for. That is why everyone in the CIA is working his ass off.

Everyone except the leaker, commented Hunter wryly.

Stewart nodded and sighed. Indeed. At least now we know that it was no coincidence. The Iranians did not happen to just stumble on O’Brian, nor on Floyd.

A sharp abdominal pain held Stewart back. He overcame it and continued: Tell me, what will be your theory? How did the Iranians find out?

Beats me. If you ask me, I would say, can’t happen, impossible.

So you don’t believe in what everybody is saying that we have a mole, like Aldrich?

No. I can’t imagine it, Hunter replied, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Stewart stared at Hunter and read his distress. He continued the conversation: Moles are so successful because no one suspects them.

I guess so, Hunter replied in a quiet tone.

Stewart sensed that it was right to leave Hunter to himself, to find inner peace, so he ended the conversation by saying: I will submit a report to Director Perry by Friday. I guess he would want to see you. Meanwhile enjoy your time off. I know you can’t really.

4.

The foregoing grim conference took place on the last Tuesday of March. Very few miles nearby in downtown McLean, Samuel Soul was pouring over lines of code with three of his programmers. They all sat in a nondescript office suite on Elm Street near the post office. A small sign on the door read Soul Engineering Enterprise.

Samuel Soul was a passionate engineer, always eager to create, to build, to make things work. With his natural leadership qualities he put all his people on a mission every time they landed a contract and had a customer to satisfy. His age was visible on his skin, but not at all through his actions.

Samuel had the dynamics of an ambitious thirty-year-old, with the finesse of a forty-year-old. Alas, his wisdom was consistent with his age—not quite ready for Medicare, but getting there. It became late fast, as it usually happens. Sam and his people were facing a beta test that snagged and the customer was in a rage. The three young programmers knew that they are not going home before finding and fixing the problem. Sam was not an experienced Java programmer, but a good manager he was. By 7 p.m. he roared: What toppings do you want on the pizza?

Anchovies, extra cheese, sharp pepper, Sam repeated his programmers’ request.

Okay, you stay put. I am ordering and going out to pick it up warm.

Why go, boss? They deliver.

I know, said Sam, but I need to jog some. Would have asked you to join but I need your nose on the page.

When Sam walked in to the well-lit Papa Jones store, the two large pizzas were ready for him, and Ahmed, the franchisee, greeted him as always. And then added: Is there a big crisis on the news or something?

Beats me, answered Sam. Was too busy to listen to any news. Why do you ask?

The CIA ordered twenty large pizzas, with ‘everything’ on them. They are coming to pick them up any moment—we can’t deliver, of course. That means that a bunch of CIA folks are staying in the office tonight, which only happens when a crisis erupts.

I will be damned, answered Sam. I bet they don’t even realize how much raw intelligence they broadcast to the world, leaking like an open faucet!

Why leak? asked Ahmed. It is everybody’s expectation that the CIA will get busy on a crisis day.

That is true, but if there is no crisis, and I am Googling right now to check, if there is no obvious crisis, and you get an oversized order, it means that they are planning something, or something important not known to the public is happening— that’s a leak!

As Sam drove back, finding no crisis justifying twenty large pizzas, he thought to himself: I must find a way to connect with those guys. I bet our technology could be helpful!

5.

Stewart Restbe slumped in his chair. His dark brown eyes, sitting in their deep sockets, were dull; so untypical of this very energetic middle-aged man. He closed the door behind him for a moment of privacy. Minutes ago he walked through the big hall of his domain from the elevator to his private office, overlooking a maze of dividers where some 160 people worked for him, busy, serious, patriotic. He waved to them, with a cheerful face, trained for it as he was, but now the door was closed, and sadness rose. That raw sadness he could not expose even at home, where Martha, his wife, was bugging him to make sure it was work, not health issues, that clouded his mind. He assured her but, mindful of his stomachache, his assurance was hard squeezed.

It was time to call Perry Gordon—he was the director after all—and report on the painful conference of last night. The only good thing about last night was the pizza, Stewart thought. I really love the Papa Jones cheese!

Gordon Perry was out of town, so Stewart had to use the secure phone. Perry was not happy, and yelled into the phone. He would not have yelled had they been face to face, thought Stewart.

Mole? Absolutely no way! Gordon Perry reacted to the listed options discussed last night. And he kept on firing:

No, Stu, you did not handle it right. I wish I did not have to be at the veep’s daughter’s wedding last night. I would have not allowed anyone to leave the room with this ridiculous resolution.

Stewart remained quiet.

The component tracing—is it sufficiently reliable? Perry’s voice was angry.

Oh, yes, they went painstakingly through everything that handles the communication, even single components.

Did you try BiPSA?

BiPSA?

Yeah, it’s a technique developed by the Mossad. They trained Julius Meadow in it. He is retired now, but we can reactivate his clearance and ask him to help. Talk to him.

Perry slammed the phone without salutation and Stewart’s stomach jolted with a shock of pain. The stress is too much. He thought of the Peter principle—is he in over his head?

When Julius explained BiPSA, Stewart appreciated the technique intellectually and gathered some enthusiasm to try it.

Being a good organizer Stewart rather quickly put together five teams of CIA experts, and tasked them to develop a plan to compromise the CIA international communication gear. By early June they all presented their planning paper. These five plans were then presented to 212 mavens. The voting weights of these 212 experts was adjusted by weighing their votes on how well each did on voting on plans of actual past cases. The scientifically ranked votes were integrated, using the BiPSA method, and one of the five plans became the clear winner. It turns out that modern communication gear uses frequently something called nonce—a random string of bits that is injected to the communication stream as part of the protocol. The nonce is generated by an embedded algorithm, operating on an easy-to-replace chip. An attacker replacing the chip en route, for example, will gain critical insight into the generated cryptogram. And nonce generators are everywhere.

Stewart ordered to replace all these chips and seal them, but he did not sigh in relief.

Stewart’s report was preempted by more pressing matters. CIA director Gordon Perry de-prioritized Stewart’s report throughout the day and picked it up from the pile late in the evening. When he read it he too was unconvinced. Despite the late hour he rang Stewart: "If you think that I am ordering a third foray into Iran on the theory that these ‘nonce-shmanze’ chips are it, then you are royally mistaken, Stu— royally!" Then he added:

Let me call Jerry! Stewart instantly realized that things were bound to get hotter, once the NSA chief, Jerry Webster, was to be pulled in.

The very next morning Gordon Perry burst into Stewart’s office. Jerry Webster said the nonce is nonsense. It is not it, for sure. He gave me some techno babble on top of it, but the bottom line is—good that we secured the nonce generators, but not good enough. We are going to try again to find the real cause of our double failure. We are not going again to sea before we know for sure what happened to Silent Paw and Sharp Blue." The two men remained speechless for a long moment, then Perry said:

"Stu—we are out of options. Write your revised official report including recommendations, and yes, put forth your painful