by Alan Fenton
And with every hour that passed, the news became worse.
Latest estimate of global casualties exceeds one hundred thousand and mounting . . . Latest Techforce summary . . . Electricity failures and the severing of oil and gas supplies have affected transport, communications, hospitals and emergency services and heating systems throughout the world . . . in the USA, Canada, Iceland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway and Sweden people are dying of hypothermia – mostly the elderly and the very young.
Fresh water supplies were cut or contaminated in many countries. Fire, police and ambulance services functioned at fifty per cent efficiency or less. Because many surgeons, doctors and nurses had fled to take care of their families, the sick and injured fortunate enough to reach hospitals often remained untreated. Throughout the world major banks and stock markets, shops, stores, supermarkets, restaurants, factories and warehouses closed their doors. It seemed that the terrorists’ threat to destroy the economy of the free world was not an idle one.
As Neural Network and Techforce Ten hunted cyberspace for the terrorists, Kraken, under Gawain’s command, slipped into the Atlantic. Seconds later, Eclipse, captained by Lancelot, lifted off from the launch pad, its silver cigar shape briefly dazzling in the afternoon sun, vanishing as it mantled.
Agravaine summarised the situation for Arthur. ‘Eclipse is covering the northern hemisphere, Kraken the south. They both have a full complement of actives, Scuttles and robots, and are fully charged with Excalibur. If in the next few hours they have no luck, we’ll begin dropping surveillance robots in suspect areas of the Middle East.’
On the big table monitor there was now a map of the world. The tiny images of the two great battle craft moved slowly across the screen, doubling and redoubling their tracks, Eclipse heading north, Kraken south. Over the speaker came the voice of Techforce Ten’s controller. ‘US President on screen.’
His eyes red and swollen, his cheeks sagging, the President had not slept for several nights. ‘We’re getting nowhere fast. What about you?’
‘Nothing to report,’ said Arthur.
‘The cost in lives and destruction of property is already mega. If we don’t find the bastards responsible soon, they’ll do lasting damage to the world’s economy. The whole goddam system – computers, servers, routers, switches, fibre optic cables – is close to meltdown. Who the fuck invented the internet anyway?’
Arthur suppressed a smile. ‘The United States is where it all started.’
‘You don’t say,’ said the President. ‘Well, if that’s true, we’ve paid a heavy price for it. These power outages are bringing the country to its knees.’
‘Do you have any idea who is behind all this?’ asked Arthur. ‘It’s gotta be some Iran-backed terror group. And I tell you, Arthur,’ said the President, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘one way or another we’re going to have to deal with them.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You know damned well what I mean.’
Yet again, it seemed, the US President was considering the nuclear option.
‘Where’s the evidence that Iran is behind this?’
‘Who needs fucking evidence!’ the President screamed, his face bright red. ‘You know as well as I do they’re the ones pulling the strings.’
‘Launching a nuclear attack would be playing into the hands of the terrorists. It’s probably exactly what they want you to do.’ The President’s bloodshot eyes glinted with anger. ‘Don’t give me that psychological bullshit, Arthur. This time the Islamists have gone too far. They’ve got their heel on our jugular, they’re humiliating the greatest nation on earth. How much more can we take?’ For a few seconds the President was distracted by a TV news report. ‘Get this, Arthur. Just about every supermarket in the country is shut. Supplies aren’t getting through – no food, not even bottled water. I just see that in a downtown Washington mall two guys were fighting over a carton of chicken legs, and one of them drew a knife and stabbed the other through the heart.’ A despondent shake of the head. ‘In the name of God, Arthur, what have we come to? Americans killing each other for chicken legs! Those evil bastards are pushing us back into the dark ages. I won’t let them get away with it.’
‘Attacking Iran is not the answer.’
‘The finger’s pointing at them. They set this whole thing up.’ ‘You do know,’ said Arthur, ‘that this Ronin is just as likely to be sitting in an internet cafe in Manhattan as in Tehran?’ The President’s patience was stretched to the limit. ‘Jesus,
Arthur, what do you want me to do?’ he said. ‘I can’t nuke New York, and I sure as hell won’t sit on my hands. What about you? Where do you stand in all this? You are the one who always wants action. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m still for action. My record shows that. But reasonable, focused action.’
The President threw up his hands. ‘What in heaven’s name do we do?’ To Arthur he sounded desperate.
‘Find the terrorists.’ ‘And if we don’t?’ ‘We’ll talk again.’
The President shook his head. ‘No more talking,’ he said. ‘We’ve been talking to maniacs like these for years, and where has it got us? Nowhere. You hear me, Arthur. I’m President of the most powerful nation on earth, and I say the time for talking is over.’
Early the following morning, Arthur and Agravaine were still monitoring incoming data when the speakers crackled and a message from Techforce Ten brought both men to their feet.
White House bombed! . . . White House bombed! . . .
Seconds passed, and there on the big table monitor was a horrifying sight. The White House was a smouldering ruin. Over it, dark and menacing, hung a cloud of ash and dust. Two dazed survivors staggered out of the remains of the building and collapsed on the lawns now strewn with burning debris. In the distance a siren wailed, then another and another. Arthur and Agravaine stared at the devastation in disbelief.
Duringthecourseofthenexthour, confusedandcontradictory reports reached them from the few US TV and radio stations still operating. Based on these, and the more accurate data from Techforce, they were able to assemble the facts.
At 2 a.m. Eastern Seaboard time a powerful missile had hit the White House killing almost everyone inside, including the President and his wife. A handful of badly injured people had already been taken to hospital. Rescue teams were searching for survivors.
By the following morning the attention of the media was focusing on the missile itself, whether it was long, medium or short range, and whether it had been launched from a ship, or an aircraft, or from land. Every security service was on high alert. Forensic teams worked feverishly at the impact site. An official announcement was awaited hourly.
At 11 a.m. an embarrassed Defence Department spokesman announced that the White House had been struck not by a foreign missile but by a US missile launched from a missile site in the south of the United States. Newscasters and military experts on the few T.V. channels still broadcasting speculated endlessly. First reaction was that an unplanned missile launch had been an accident waiting to happen, the surprise being, not that it had happened, but that it hadn’t happened before.
Later in the day the same Defence Department official revealed at a press conference that the missile strike was not an accident, but was thought to be ‘linked to the activities of cyber-terrorists’. The implications were frightening, even more frightening than the chaos and devastation the terrorists had already caused. Either they had succeeded in breaking into a well-guarded US military installation, or they had somehow deceived the computer network that controlled it into launching a missile targeted on the White House. The most probable explanation was that rogue software had infected the commercial operating system at source, when the circuit boards were assembled.
As a result, the United States and many other countries subjected military suppliers of everything, from highly sophisticated weaponry and software down to nuts and bolts, to the most ruthless and exhaust
ive scrutiny. The search for scapegoats created endless suspects. It was even suggested that treachery on a massive scale was involved, and that some rogue elements in the military had knowingly purchased an infected back-up system. There was no evidence to support this, or any other theory, nothing that could be proved, nothing except for the alarming fact that vital military networks had been compromised. Both media and public were asking what guarantees there were that the same thing could not happen again. Who would be the next target? How many more missiles would be launched?
What the military and security services knew, and the general public did not, was that in a number of countries military networks were linked, so that one rogue command could fire hundreds of missiles simultaneously, some of them locked on to overseas targets. If that were to happen, the consequences were horrifyingly predictable. There was little doubt that any country under attack would respond in kind, leading inevitably to world nuclear war.
As America mourned its dead, Arvin Wingrove, the Vice- President, was sworn in as President and immediately broadcast to the nation, making it clear that his first priority was to decide how best to respond to the murderous and unprovoked attack on the White House. ‘America will not be intimidated by terrorists. They have hurt us, that I will not deny. They have murdered our President and our First Lady, and with them many other fine men and women. But they have not broken our spirit. No one will ever do that. In the past this great country of ours has played a leading role in defeating tyranny. We shall do so again. I give my solemn word to the American people that we shall hunt these terrorists down and mete out swift justice. And we will do it in our own time and in our own way.’
For all the President’s brave words, neither the Americans, nor anyone else, knew who the terrorists were, nor where they were. Despite which, the world was fighting back as best it could. Every hour that passed, progress was being made in strengthening cyber defences, rebuilding destroyed and damaged systems and eradicating software viruses.
At 12 noon Eastern Seaboard time the following day, the cyber-terrorists posted a second message:
What you have suffered until now are no more than minor inconveniences. We assure you that the worst is yet to come. When two days have passed by Eastern Seaboard time we shall demonstrate our power in a way that our most arrogant enemy will never forget. You shall know what it is to shed bitter tears. And your tears will engulf you. Allahu Akbar!
Ronin
The Hand of God
The chilling threat in this second message both worried and confused world leaders. Almost as frightening as the threat itself was the absence of any conditions – still no demands for money or for the release of prisoners. Without negotiations there was little hope of tracking down the terrorists. The outlook could hardly be worse. The terrorists, whoever they were, were still out there, and no one had the slightest idea what the next target would be. Only one thing was certain; in the next forty-eight hours The Hand of God would strike again.
Fifty One
The Hand of God
In galaxy the debate continued through the evening and night, into the small hours of the morning. Where would the next major strike be? Arthur, Agravaine, Ian Tichgame and Mordred all had their own ideas. Yet by noon, Eastern Seaboard time, twenty-four hours before the deadline expired, they were still no nearer to finding a solution.
Agravaine and Tich agreed that the most likely potential targets were airports, railway stations, subway systems, nuclear power stations, and heavily populated city centres.
‘Somehow I don’t think they’ll go for obvious targets,’ said Mordred. ‘They’ll pick a spectacular site, yes, but not one that’s likely to be heavily defended.’
‘For example?’ said Tich.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mordred.
The task of strengthening the world’s cyber defences continued. Agravaine was growing more and more agitated. Little progress had been made, even though every country under attack was co-operating as never before in the huge task of cleansing cyber-space of viruses and worms, and attempting to repair and reactivate essential control systems. As a temporary measure many of these systems had been isolated from the network. Thousands of firewall logs were trawled through to establish what messages and instructions were being sent and received, in many cases blocking the relevant IP addresses. Such tactics were criticised as locking the barn door after the horse had bolted, but lessons, politicians claimed, had been learned. If a similar attack were launched in the future it would be unlikely to meet with the same success; which did not alter the fact that The Hand of God had won an impressive victory, disrupting and scaring the world.
Agravaine polished his pink-tinted spectacles with great concentration. ‘We’ve tracked down hundreds of hackers, some of them using pretty sophisticated techniques. But they are either criminals stealing user names, passwords, bank account details – that kind of thing – or teenage hackers creating chaos for fun.’
Arthur scrolled down the list of names. ‘None of them are our terrorists?’
‘Not as far as we can see. Let’s hope Eclipse or Kraken come up with something soon.’
‘They’ve launched land surveillance robots and orbiting satellites,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s guesswork, though. They don’t know where to look, or who they are looking for.’
Agravaine eased himself off his stool and walked stiffly across the room for yet another cup of coffee.
‘You should get some sleep, Agro.’
‘I can’t sleep, nuncle – not until we’ve found the bastards.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘The Hand of God,’ he said disdainfully. ‘These murderers claim they speak and act in the name of God. What kind of God condones the murder of innocent people? It’s sick, sick, sick.’
Tich spoke up. ‘Shouldn’t we be looking for a zombie?’ Agravaine’s stubby fingers ranged his keyboard. The mini- images of Eclipse and Kraken floated in and out of view, hunting land, air and sea for elusive demons, and finding none.
Arthur waited vainly for an explanation. ‘Will someone tell me what a zombie is?’
‘A zombie,’ said Agravaine, ‘is a machine that has been corrupted, usually by the introduction of software containing some kind of virus.’
‘There was a time,’ said Tich, ‘when it was relatively easy to corrupt an internet-connected machine remotely. These days it’s much more difficult; there have been many improvements in online security. A machine is more likely to be corrupted by someone posing as a friend selling the user an infected programme.’
‘The software contains a Trojan Horse,’ said Agravaine, ‘one that allows it to attack other internet sites.’
‘Once the computer is compromised,’ explained Tich, ‘it has no will of its own, it just does what it’s told. The computer operator doesn’t know it, but his computer has become a zombie ready to take orders.’
‘Do they go on to attack other internet sites?’ asked Arthur. ‘They might,’ said Tich, ‘or they might simply prime the computer with a hidden code that they can activate at a later date.’
‘How do you locate a computer zombie out of the billions of computers in the world?’ asked Arthur.
Tich smiled, his big eyes squeezed by his ample cheeks. ‘Which is easier?’ he asked, ‘to compromise a hundred machines? Or to compromise one?’
‘To compromise one, I presume,’ said Arthur.
‘Correct,’ said Tich. ‘It saves time and effort, and there’s less chance of being discovered.’
‘But if you were a terrorist,’ said Arthur, ‘wouldn’t you want to compromise as many computers as possible? The more machines you infiltrate, the more sites you can attack.’
‘Unless you infiltrate a group,’ suggested Mordred.
For several seconds Galaxy was silent, whilst Tich nodded approval, and Arthur and Agravaine digested the comment.
‘What sort of group?’ said Agravaine.
‘Any group with world-wide connections,’ said Mordred. ‘It would ha
ve to be relatively innocent, or why would a terrorist choose to infiltrate it? And it would need to have a great many contacts on the internet.’
‘OK,’ said Arthur, ‘we’re running out of time. Let’s work on the assumption that we are looking for a zombie. That still leaves a hell of a lot of groups to investigate.’
‘It would make it easier if we had a clue to start with,’ agreed Agravaine. ‘Meanwhile the best way to track down the zombie or zombies is to look in the logs on the servers that have been attacked, and their associated firewalls. By combining the logs from a lot of different servers, we might be able to spot the machines that are in regular communication. Then we’ll narrow down those groups to a list of probable suspects.’
Agravaine checked Techforce Ten’s latest analysis of internet messages, talking out loud as he did. ‘Neural Network absorbs millions of messages every day, and Techforce sifts through them and updates their analysis every few minutes. He pointed at the central monitor. Now that’s interesting. See that e-mail there? It’s reproducing itself all over the internet. What’s more, according to Techforce, it only appears on machines that have been attacked by the cyber-terrorists.’
‘What’s the message?’ asked Tich, joining them at the central computer.
‘Have met Ronin. ’
Tich peered at it, scowled and shook his head. Whatever he had in mind, he seemed disappointed.
‘Is that the whole message?’ asked Mordred. ‘Yes,’ said Agravaine.
‘No signature?’
Agravaine’s fingers danced, and Mordred read the full message aloud: Have met Ronin, Steven. Peering at the screen, his clever eyes alert as a fox’s, he was suddenly smiling broadly. ‘D’you get it?’
