Mad Dog First Strike Ch 07

OK, I've had a couple of technical issues (in both cases they were PEBKAC - Problem Exists Between keyboard and Chair), and I've posted the same chapter twice on two occasions.

Oops! Sorry about that.

As always, I value any constructive criticism, so feel free to comment. Thanks.

7 - Fake News:

"Oi Mad Dog!" VJ called across the Bunker.

I wish he wouldn't do that. I've been trying to live my nickname down ever since it got hung on me when I first joined the army. Apparently it's not just a pun on my surname. I got it because I'm the last person in the world anyone would think of as a mad dog.

Who'd have thought it? British soldiers get irony. What's the world coming to?

He beckoned me over. I trudged across the Bunker's open plan bullpen to his cubicle.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I've been checking some of the website that perv city boy's visited and I found this," VJ looked jaded, tired, "I reckon you'll be interested."

He got busy with his keyboard and I stole the chair from a nearby cubicle. VJ bought up a JPEG file, a video starring the prime minister.

"So you're telling me I have got to go on this bloody Congo trip. I mean, there's no way out of it? And if I go, doubtless the AK47s will fall temporarily silent, the machetes will pause from hacking human flesh, and the tribal warriors will all break out in Watermelon smiles to see the big white chief touch down in his big white British taxpayer-funded bird."

There was no mistaking the voice, it was like the pompous braying of a posh jackass. Oh, and equally the round face with a complexion like a new potato, the scruffy hair that looked a pancake tossing accident; it was the Prime Minister.

"Bit racist." I said. "Likely to stir trouble too, coming hot on the heels of the riots that broke out after that black guy was killed in North Carolina by a load of white cops last month."

"You aint kidding," VJ replied, "and back in the States social media's telling people we just used a drone to take out a school bus...It's almost as if someone's done it deliberately eh?"

I gave a low whistle.

"Who'd be a politician?" I said. "Can you play it again mate?"

The video was low-def. It looked as though it'd been filmed on a phone. Badly. From what I could see of the background it was in a posh house, the sort of room that'd be called a study.

"Was this filmed inside 10 Downing Street?" I asked.

"Allegedly," VJ nodded.

Now that was a clue.

"Is it the real deal?" I asked.

"Ah, now that's the right question to ask," he beamed.

I settled back in the chair. I might as well accept that I was in for the long haul. I could sense that one of Vik's IT lectures was coming on.

"See, I reckoned this might be a Deepfake," he explained.

"A Deepfake?" I interrupted him.

"Yeah, software that will take video footage of someone from one source and videos of you from another, and superimposes your face on theirs. Or vice versa. It can also morph your voice to sound like theirs."

"Great if you want to appear in your favourite episode Game of Thrones," I grunted.

"Nah, now if it was Lovelace," VJ grinned, "I've got a serious case of the hots for Anna Seyfried."

"I lie awake at nights worrying about you," I shook my head.

"Don't believe you," VJ came back at me, "you lie in bed at night in Mack's arms, sleeping the sleep of someone who's exhausted after a prolonged bout of energetic shagging."

"True that," I admitted. "So this Deepfake software, tell me about it."

"Well, it's not exactly difficult. Even you could use it," he grinned at me, "there's a Chinese software firm, Zao, and they've got a Deepfake app on the market. It's point and click easy."

"Dangerous," I murmured, "I mean, the fake news implications..."

"Right!" VJ nodded enthusiastically. "Take this video for example, it's already started popping up on Facebook pages belonging to black lives matter groups. I haven't checked on Twitter since..." he yawned, "... ooh, say six this morning, but it'll probably be all over that like a nasty rash by now."

"Which, in turn, will create yet another artificial scandal for our glorious leader to try and extricate from." I nodded.

"Probably without much success," VJ grunted, "as usual."

"And this is from a website that Simon Milton has accessed?" I asked.

"No," VJ shook his head, "its from a website that he's administrator on."

"Bugger me!"

"It's a kind offer but no thanks," Vik chuckled. "More to the point, Alexi Makarov is also an administrator."

"Shag a dog!"

"Again, no thanks," VJ grinned, "I think I'll stick with women."

"If your last girlfriend was anything to go buy, I thought you'd got to the shagging dogs stage already."

"Hey now! Julie wasn't that bad," his grin widened, "except for when there was a full moon."

"Sorry mate," I grinned at him, "just banter."

"I reckoned that we'd have to deal with something like this sooner or later, so I downloaded an open source facial recognition program and adapted it."

"Adapted it how?"

"What it does is it analyses the quirks of body language that happen when you speak, then it compares it with the video you suspect is a Deepfake," he explained. "So, I've just pulled an all-nighter downloading videos of the sodding Prime Minister and analysing them with the software."

That explains why he looked so tired. The hint was there when he said he hadn't checked Twitter since six AM.

"You poor sod," I grinned, "So, does this mean you've spent all night watching YouTube videos of himself?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

Vik yawned again and I followed suit in sympathy.

You've suffered for Queen and country, haven't you?" I said.

"Don't rub it in," he growled, "what did you do last night?"

"I spent the hours of darkness in the arms of a gorgeous lady," I said smugly.

"I thought I just told you not to rub it in?" VJ whined. "You can go off people you know!"

"So, this software you've developed, has it confirmed this is fake?"

"It gave me a seventy-eight percent predication of probability that this is a Deepfake."

"Only seventy-eight percent?" I was gobsmacked, "can't you get a better result than that?"

"No," he shook his head, "that's as good as it gets."

"Can you see how this is not a good thing?" I let my annoyance show. "We go to Dirty Harriet and say we've got a seventy-eight percent chance that this is a Deepfake and she'll say it's not good enough."

"Look mate, while you've been at home shagging your drop dead gorgeous American girlfriend, I've been working on this all sodding night!"

Vik was suffering sense of humour failure. I could understand why. He was, to say the least, tired and emotional.

"It's the best I can do!" he snapped. "So if it isn't good enough for her majesty upstairs, then she can just go and stuff it up her arse. OK?"

I raised my hands palm out to chest height like I was surrendering.

"OK sunshine," I gave him a blast of my best disarming smile. "I get it, based on

the source material you've had to work with you've played a blinder."

"All night," he moaned. "All night I was here, and I could've been home. I've just got Call of Duty: Warzone. I haven't had a chance to play it yet."

"Yeah, but you'd have come in to work this morning and you'd have been in the same state you are now but with nothing positive to show for it."

"True." He suddenly thought of something, "hey, your Mack couldn't fix me up with one of her friends could she? We could go out on a double date."

"I'll ask," I replied, but since her friends are either in London or Texas, it might be difficult."

His shoulders slumped and his chin sank into his chest. The poor sod was fit to drop.

"I've got my spare crash helmet, how about I give you a lift home?"

"Can we go by way of that that greasy spoon cafe on the dual carriageway?" he asked with all the enthusiasm of a kid. "I fancy one of their foot long hot dogs."

"You know their sausages have more brains in 'em than a university?" I asked as we headed out of the bunker.

"Yeah, but they taste so good!"