Cyber Terror

by Rose, Malcolm

  Jordan sighed. “Okay. He’s on a power trip. But if Short Circuit’s that good, he must’ve known the police would put cameras in the bushes. They’d keep an eye on their cash. So, he wouldn’t show up.”

  Kate shrugged. “Good point, but somehow he knew they’d delivered the ransom.” She pressed the switch on the table and the curtains began to open. “By the way,” she added, “I’ve got a present for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Angel asked me to hand it over.” From behind the sofa, she produced a cardboard container, slightly bigger than a shoebox.

  Inside he found a pair of shoes and a pair of gloves.

  “The latest development,” Kate told him. “You can’t see this – not even with your eyes – but the gloves and the soles of the shoes have got tiny carbon nanotubes on them. Like the hairs on spiders’ feet. Microscopic Velcro.”

  “So?”

  “You know how Velcro sticks well, but you can ease it apart at the right angle? That means you can put the shoes and gloves on and walk up walls and across ceilings.”

  “Really?”

  “Even surfaces that look smooth are rough under a microscope. Rough enough for flies and spiders to grip with the hairs on their feet. Rough enough for those as well,” she said, pointing at his new shoes and gloves. “Awesome.”

  “How do I know they’ll take my weight?”

  “We’re putting you on a diet,” she replied with a grin. “No. You’ll be fine. A square metre of it holds a car up.”

  “Spider-Man, eh?”

  “Angel said you should also know your arm’s got a GPS chip in it – like a SatNav but much more precise. It’s called an inertial navigation system.”

  “So Unit Red can spy on me?”

  “It’s for your own safety. We’ll know where to find you if there’s a problem. On top of that, you can log on with a brain implant if you get lost and it’ll tell you exactly where you are. You shouldn’t get lost, though, because it’ll guide you wherever you want to go.”

  Jordan asked, “Do you listen in to what I say as well?”

  Kate shook her head. “No microphones. Angel thought you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Back to the case,” Kate said. “Where are you going to kick off?”

  Jordan stopped himself from saying, “At home.” After all, the Unit Red house in Highgate Cemetery was his home now. Instead, he answered, “Lower Stoke.”

  4 MEDWAY PIRATES

  It seemed a lifetime away. In a sense, it was. A little more than a year earlier, Jordan Stryker had been ordinary Ben Smith, living in a small Medway town that had not yet been wrecked by the Thames Estuary explosion. Ben Smith had not yet been killed by the same blast. He’d got into about as much trouble as anyone else in school, he hadn’t been top or bottom of his class, he’d been the brightest young tennis talent in the area, he’d played drums in a group and he’d had a best friend called Amy Goss. Among the older boys Ben knew was Merrick Breeze.

  Made unrecognizable by surgery and the passage of time, Jordan walked anonymously down All Hallows Road until he came to the familiar sports centre. He didn’t go inside, though. He walked straight past. On the other side, there was a wooden shed. It was large and sturdy, but still a shed. Since the Thames explosion, it had housed the local community radio station.

  Before the blast, the outfit had been pirate broadcasters. Harassed by the police, the Medway Pirates had been forced to uproot themselves and move in secret from place to place. They had never been busted because Merrick Breeze had hacked into the local police computer and he’d always alerted them when a raid was about to happen. At once, volunteers had shifted the illegal gear to the next hideout. The police had found themselves scratching their heads in an empty room each time.

  Merrick had also been popular with the local gangland boss, Mr. Goss – or, as Ben Smith knew him, Amy’s dad. Mr. Goss had always funded the radio station and looked after Merrick in return for the opportunity to snoop on the police. Ben had never told his mum, Detective Sergeant Smith, what Merrick was doing because he’d not wanted to get a popular boy into trouble and he’d enjoyed the music that the pirates used to pump out. Anyway, it would not have been a good idea to make an enemy of Mr. Goss.

  Now, as a Unit Red agent, Jordan intended to exploit his knowledge of the shared history of the radio station, Merrick and Mr. Goss. He knocked on the shed door and pushed it open with his left hand. Putting his head inside, he said, “Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” a big guy replied in a quiet voice. “What are you after?”

  “Merrick,” Jordan answered, stepping into the shed with its clutter of shelves, audio equipment, papers and CDs. In the far corner, a small area was partitioned off mostly with floor-to-ceiling windows. Through the glass, Jordan could see a DJ and a guest talking into microphones. Their interview came into the main room through speakers attached to the wall.

  The producer adjusted his baseball cap and jerked his thumb towards a door on the opposite side of the shed. It looked as if it led into a broom cupboard. “Are you one of his mates?”

  “Sort of. Mr. Goss sent me.”

  He nodded abruptly. “You’d better go in.”

  As always, Merrick was hunched over a computer keypad. Jordan recognized him at once but Merrick stared back blankly.

  “Hi,” Jordan said, squeezing into the tiny room that could have been a broom cupboard. “I’m Jordan. Friend of Mr. Goss.”

  “Yeah?”

  Merrick had changed. His hair was much shorter, his body more solid, his glasses more prominent, his skin more tanned, his voice deeper. He still had the broad sinewy shoulders of an Olympic swimmer but, as far as Jordan knew, he never swam. Jordan hoped something else hadn’t changed. He hoped that Merrick still loved to brag about his online activities.

  “I’ve been away,” Jordan continued. “Out of touch. Last time I heard about you, you were one of the Medway Pirates.”

  Brought together in the confined space, Merrick was close enough to see Jordan’s flaws. He glanced at the fake right arm and looked into his reconstructed face, but he didn’t comment on Jordan’s appearance. “Whoever decides these things thought we’d all pull together after the explosion if we had a local voice. That’s us. A local community radio station. Okay, we’re in a shed, but we’re legal. We’re broadcasting and going out over the internet. That’s my bit. It’s what I do instead of homework. Actually, being legit takes half the fun out of it.”

  Jordan smiled. “I know what you mean. You’re a pretty good pirate in another way.”

  Merrick’s face creased.

  “Hacking.”

  “Do I know you?” Merrick asked.

  “I don’t think so. Just that you’ve got a good reputation with Mr. Goss.”

  Merrick nodded. “Never did like being called a hacker. Still don’t. I’m a cyber joyrider.”

  Jordan grinned at the description. “Nice one.”

  Jordan had an unusual education within Unit Red. He wasn’t so sure about equations and metaphors, but he’d learned a lot about the Computer Misuse Act, the Counter-Terrorism Act and intelligence work. He knew when Merrick’s mischief became a crime.

  “Do you hackers – I mean, cyber joyriders – mess around on your own or are you all in touch?”

  Merrick wasn’t entirely serious in his reply. “We’re one big happy online family. Except we keep some things to ourselves. We share other things. Why?”

  “Mr. Goss is wondering if you know anyone who’s more cyber vandal than cyber joyrider.”

  “He’s behind the times. There’s not so much vandalism now. It’s more about making cash than making a mess. It’s about identity theft and back doors to people’s money.” Quickly, Merrick added, “Not for me. I still like the thrill of cracking a system, not robbing people.”

  It was true. Jordan remembered that Merrick had never been motivated by money. He’d just enjoyed using a computer as a weapon
against authority. “How about hacking into flight control systems?”

  Merrick grimaced. “That’s heavy.”

  “But do you know anyone who does it?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Even though Raven had told him it was easy to sabotage an aeroplane, Jordan was still wondering if Short Circuit had practised on something else first. “So, what does the happy online family take a pop at?”

  Merrick laughed. “Government websites. Big business. That sort of thing. Bringing them down is fair game. And no one gets hurt.”

  “Any successes stick in your mind?”

  “Mr. Goss knows I got into the local police computer.”

  “Yes, but how about other people’s hits? I’m interested – Mr. Goss is interested – in anything special.”

  “Special?” Merrick thought for a moment. “Well, there was one job I would’ve been proud of, if I’d done it. I suppose it could’ve been more of a cyber attack than joyriding. Anyway, it was months ago. Someone got into Cockenzie Power Station and took it offline for a day.”

  “Cockenzie? Where’s that?”

  “Edinburgh. But the hacker could have been in America or Russia or anywhere else. The net was buzzing about it for a bit. We were all trying to figure out who did it, but no one knew and no one claimed it on Zone-H...”

  “Zone-H?”

  “A site where joyriders log their successes. We all know how it was done, though.”

  “Oh?”

  Merrick explained, “A lot of power stations, oil refineries and that sort of thing have got a really spongy software package controlling what they do. It’s called SetLink. Full of holes. Whoever crashed Cockenzie sent a virus with a massive chunk of data to one of the ports running SetLink. The program couldn’t cope. It shut down.”

  “Clever.”

  “Pretty simple actually. And once you know how to do it there, you can use the same tactic to get into anywhere that’s running SetLink.”

  “How do you know who’s running it?”

  Merrick laughed again. “You Google ‘SetLink version 1.3.1’. Then you get a list of companies.”

  Jordan nodded. “That is simple.”

  “Yeah. Look at it like this. A power station got hit for a day, but a cyber joyrider’s done them a favour by pointing out how soft their system is. The company that makes SetLink has patched that hole now, but they’ll be desperate to get their hands on the whizz-kid who did it.”

  “To have him arrested?”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Merrick exclaimed. “To give him a job. They’d pay him a fortune to harden their security. And to look for faults in other companies’ programs.”

  Jordan nodded. It made sense. Turning towards the door, he said, “I’d better let you get on now. Thanks.”

  Puzzled, Merrick replied, “What did Mr. Goss want? And has he got it?”

  “Er...yes,” Jordan muttered. “You’ve given him the lead he wanted.”

  A group of four young men had collected around Jordan’s car. With his sensitive hearing, Jordan detected the voice of the one on the passenger’s side. “How are we going to get in?”

  They wouldn’t. The Jaguar would open and start only when its computer received the right codes from Jordan’s brain/computer interface – or BCI for short.

  The man by the driver’s door bent down and picked up half a brick. “This’ll do it.”

  The XJ Sentinel was made of reinforced steel, Kevlar and strengthened glass. The armoured cell was bulletproof and it could withstand a grenade. Hanging back, Jordan imagined it was also brickproof.

  The young man hurled the half-brick against the driver’s window. It smacked against the high-tech glass, rebounded without making a mark and crashed into his shin. He yelped and clutched his leg. Jordan also flinched. He knew how painful that would be. But he also smiled.

  Jordan had just talked to a cyber joyrider. These real-world joyriders were very different from Merrick Breeze. They were also far less successful. Jordan stepped forward, deciding it was time to intervene.

  When they saw Jordan, the four men banded together and formed a barrier between him and the Jaguar. “We saw it first!” one of them cried.

  Jordan shook his head. “I’m not here to nick it. It’s mine.”

  “You’re not old enough – or posh enough.”

  “If you just walk away, that’ll be the end of it,” he said. “I won’t report you.”

  “No chance!” The man with the bruised shin limped towards him threateningly.

  Jordan stood his ground and scanned them with his terahertz vision. They weren’t carrying any obvious weapons.

  “Why should we leave you to it?”

  “Because it’s mine,” Jordan replied.

  The man laughed and then, trying to catch Jordan off guard, suddenly aimed a punch at his head.

  Amazingly fast, Jordan’s right hand came up in front of his face and the man’s fist slammed into it. He cried out again, partly in shock this time, and nursed his bruised knuckles.

  “Not your lucky day, is it?” said Jordan. “Best give up.”

  Another one stepped forward. “Why? You’re outnumbered.”

  “If I thump you, I might take your head off completely. On top of that, the car’s going to start in five seconds and, if you don’t get out of the way, it’ll mow you down.”

  They all sniggered.

  Jordan hadn’t practised the remote manoeuvre but his BCI was capable of operating the Jaguar from a short distance. He transmitted the first code.

  The men looked round as the car came to life with a slight growl. Unsure, they glanced at one another.

  When Jordan sent the code to reverse, the car began to move towards the group.

  Panicking, they ran off.

  With a grin on his face, Jordan stopped the car, unlocked it with a thought and got in.

  5 BEFORE ECUADOR

  Raven looked up from her monitor and said, “I’ve been scouring databases, the internet and every news outlet I can think of, looking for unexplained downtime or known cyber attacks before the Ecuador spectacular. I’ve been ringing round as well, but most organizations won’t admit anything’s got through their defences. It’d be like advertising a weakness, so they keep quiet. Private companies are the worst. They want everyone to think their security is foolproof.”

  “But you’ve got something, right?” Jordan replied.

  “A few things. There was one very public breakdown. The National Lottery computer died a death on live TV in January. It could have been a glitch. It could have been Short Circuit, I suppose. The Commission won’t talk about it. That’d tell other geeks it’s fun to target high-profile computers.”

  “As if they didn’t know,” Jordan muttered.

  “Norton – the anti-virus people – had an unexplained evening offline. So did Amazon.” Raven scanned the notes on her screen. “Here’s a horrible one. A woman in Felixstowe Hospital died when she was undergoing brain surgery. A robotic arm was destroying cancer tissue when it suffered a mysterious fault. It doesn’t bear thinking about. The laser fired off in all directions instead of keeping to the tumour.”

  Jordan asked, “Who was she?”

  “A woman called...” Raven glanced down at her monitor again. “Paige Ottaway. Married, mum of three. There was an inquest. One of the motherboards in the robot packed up so it was put down to equipment failure, but it could have been a cyber attack.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Someone hacked into NatWest’s central computer and disabled it for hours. The bankers lost a day’s pay. That’s an annual salary to you and me. Trinity College Dublin and a Scottish power station got stung as well. A few councils have been attacked. And those are just the ones I found in Britain and Ireland. There’ll be quite a few more keeping quiet, ones I didn’t spot, and plenty overseas.”

  “What about us?”

  “Us? Unit
Red?”

  Jordan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Never had a problem. No incursions at all.”

  “Would you admit it if we had?”

  “Within Unit Red, yes. No one outside knows about us anyway, so they wouldn’t ask. Or target us in the first place.”

  “Okay,” Jordan said. “Did you try Zone-H?”

  “Yes. It’s where hackers show off about defacing other people’s sites. There’s probably a good dose of exaggeration in there. It lists thousands of attacks. Too many really, but nothing jumped out at me. All it did was confirm the strikes on the National Lottery, Norton, quite a few councils and the NatWest Bank were malicious. I’ve put everything in a file for you, but...”

  “What?”

  Raven shrugged. “They might not have anything to do with Short Circuit. Some’ll be kids flexing their virtual muscles.”

  “I know.” Jordan sighed and then added, “Can you try something? It might be daft, but... There was the crash in Edinburgh and, before that, the plane from Quito to Amsterdam. Short Circuit asked for the money in Kingston and he sends his sound files to Manchester. Can you do an internet search on Quito, Amsterdam, Edinburgh, Kingston and Manchester? I’m wondering if there’s a connection, but I don’t know why there should be.”

  “All right,” Raven replied.

  In a third of a second, the search engine came up with an answer. None of its finds contained a reference to all five places. The first page of results was mostly about flights and tourism.

  “Let’s add Felixstowe and Dublin,” Jordan suggested. “Where the woman died and the university got hit. Just in case.”

  It didn’t help. The new search revealed more links to shipping information.

  Angel strode into the room, looking as if he had something important to say, but instead he was captivated by their computer research.

  “One more thing,” said Jordan. “Try Ecuador instead of Quito.”

  This time, the top two results were both links to sites featuring the lyrics of a song by a group called Lemon Jelly. Raven clicked on the first hit and the words of “Ramblin’ Man” filled the screen. “Not so much lyrics,” she said, “as a list of places.”