Bonus chapters for Crash Alive and details behind the hacks, locations, secret societies, code-breaking, and tech secrets in Crash Alive can be found on the author’s website.
More details at the end of the book.
CRASH ALIVE
The Haylie Black Series: Book One
By Christopher Kerns
TABLE OF CONTENTS
>>> PROLOGUE. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. TEN. ELEVEN. TWELVE. THIRTEEN. FOURTEEN. FIFTEEN. SIXTEEN. SEVENTEEN. EIGHTEEN. NINETEEN. TWENTY. TWENTY-ONE. TWENTY-TWO. TWENTY-THREE. TWENTY-FOUR. TWENTY-FIVE. TWENTY-SIX. TWENTY-SEVEN. TWENTY-EIGHT. TWENTY-NINE. THIRTY. THIRTY-ONE. THIRTY-TWO. THIRTY-THREE. THIRTY-FOUR. THIRTY-FIVE. THIRTY-SIX. THIRTY-SEVEN. THIRTY-EIGHT. THIRTY-NINE. FORTY. FORTY-ONE. FORTY-TWO. FORTY-THREE. FORTY-FOUR. FORTY-FIVE. ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
All hacks and exploits in this book are based on real technology.
PROLOGUE
Flight AA219, New York to Washington, DC
March 5th, 6:02PM
The passenger in seat 5A took a deep breath, fighting to calm his heart as it pounded through his neatly-pressed oxford shirt. He had spent the past few minutes deflecting the stares of travelers filing by—how did that teenage punk get into first class?—but they could gawk all they wanted. He had bigger things on his mind.
The plane climbed into the night, pulling him back into his seat. He wiped the sweat from his brow and drew a long sip of ice water, resting his cup back on his armrest with a trembling hand.
He couldn’t remember the last time he was this excited about something. About anything.
The bell signaled that the aircraft had arrived at thirty thousand feet, and passenger 5A rushed to slide his laptop from his bag. He made a quick sideways check of the person next to him; she had already fallen fast asleep, mouth agape and head flopped, spilling into the aisle like a rag doll. He logged in to his machine, connected to the Wi-Fi, and checked for any new messages, finding nothing.
He pulled the USB drive from his pocket, slowly flipping the metal rectangle end over end, again and again. As his thumb inspected the feel of raised text painted on stainless steel, he thought back to the times when he had looked forward to visiting New York; staying with his parents in modern hotels, going out for brisk family walks through Central Park. After his Dad had moved post-divorce, passenger 5A now found himself on this same boring flight every third Sunday of every month—every damn month—and the shine had worn clean off New York City. But today, that might have all changed.
When he had found the USB drive earlier that afternoon in a Starbucks at the corner of 5th and Lexington, his first reaction was to search the room for its owner. But the coffee shop was, like many in midtown Manhattan, without the luxury of extra space for anything as silly as tables or ambiance. When he had noticed the text on the drive’s casing—‘DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE’—well, that had obviously piqued his interest. The device had just been sitting there like a surprise gift on Christmas morning, resting on the dark wooden rail, wedged between a stained stir stick and a flat spray of spent sugar.
This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s just like a movie.
He angled his screen towards the window and wedged himself into the far corner of his seat. After a few attempts at getting the drive into the Mac’s USB slot—why don’t these things work both ways?—he felt the click of the drive finding its mark.
He opened the drive and saw a single file inside: a PDF document. Double-clicking the icon brought up a security dialog displaying a block of official-looking text. It read:
This message has been encrypted by the Department of Defense. If you are authorized to decrypt, click Open below.
He checked on his seatmate—still fast asleep—opened his eyes wide, and clicked. This is so awesome. He inhaled a deep breath as the PDF window filled his screen.
“Excuse me, young man?”
His head bolted up, swiveling towards the aisle as he slammed his laptop’s lid shut with one quick motion. The flight attendant jumped back. Her cherub face studied his every move as she stood in the aisle, holding a cup of assorted nuts close to her chest. She took a few breaths and forced a polite, airline-mandated smile.
“My goodness, darling, you scared me half to death. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine,” he said, catching his breath. “I’m good with the water—thanks.”
The attendant shrugged and made her way back to the front of the plane. After checking to make sure the coast was clear, passenger 5A cracked the computer’s lid back open and leaned in.
His mind raced, wondering if he would find government secrets, launch codes, or lists of foreign agents. Could I sell this stuff if it’s good enough? Not that I would do that, but … never say never, you know?
As his eyes met the screen, his expression fell with confusion. All he saw on the first page was an empty slate of white. There has to be something here—maybe it starts on page two.
He clicked through the PDF and scrolled down, page after page. Fifteen pages later as he had reached the end of the document, and hadn’t found a thing.
It was blank. It was all blank. He backtracked, checking the document a second time. A third time. No dice.
Nice job, super-spy. Great work today.
He chuckled softly to himself, stretched his arms above his head for a moment, and hit Command-Q. He leaned back in his seat, stretched his legs forward, and stared through the thick window pane into the blackness. He watched as the tiny, white lights flew by below—just like they had on every flight home, every month before.
He thought back to the littered Starbucks counter on 5th and Lexington, exhaled, and closed the lid of his laptop.
Maybe something exciting would happen tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow.
> > > > >
Seconds after being plugged in, the ‘DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE’ drive began building its own proxy server on the root directory of the passenger 5A’s laptop. After testing the airplane’s Wi-Fi connection and speed, the script began to ping a handful of Tor servers—a network of untraceable machines—and activated secondary scripts pinging thousands of other IP addresses. One of those pings sent a twenty-four-digit ID to a server in Southeast Asia.
That server quickly compromised the networks of all fifteen hydroelectric and six geothermal power plants in Iceland, gaining full access to each plant’s internal systems.
Seconds later, the script began quietly shutting down the backup generator systems in those plants by toggling power breakers on and off in a pattern that was designed to disrupt the timing of the rotating parts in each machine, silently confusing and crippling each system without triggering a warning. The script then went to work on the primary generators, shutting them down as well, starting in the north and working its way south.
The script continued, attacking every major Internet data center and server bank in Iceland, rendering all Internet traffic silent and bringing down the IP-based landline phone networks throughout the country.
Iceland’s two mobile service providers were then hit with a distributed denial-of-service attack, using an IP-based SIM-card emulator to mimic millions of simultaneous phone calls all within the same three second window. Both cellular networks, now already running on local backup power, were inaccessible within twenty seconds.
The script was designed to wipe clean the USB drive, still sticking out of the side of the man’s machine, after completing its final steps. It could have easily formatted the laptop’s hard drive to destroy all traces of the attack, but that might alert the FBI to the source. A normal-looking machine could buy a fe
w extra days of questioning, and that time would be invaluable for the next stage of The Project.
Within three minutes, the script was one step away from running its course. All internet, landline, and mobile phone service on Iceland was completely shut down. Everything—homes, hospitals, banks, restaurants, schools—were all without power. For the first time in hundreds of years, the entire island was completely dark.
As its final step, the script sent a message to a burner email address. The message read:
Iceland test complete, status: SUCCESS.
We are GREEN for phase 2.
CHAPTER ONE
Bowie High, AP Calculus Class
Austin, TX
March 6th, 2:15PM
“Laptops shut, please.”
As Mrs. Chen’s commanding voice sounded through the classroom, the last rings of the sixth period bell echoed down the hallway. Haylie Black watched as Mrs. Chen pushed the door shut, watching the room for compliance.
Haylie pulled her shoulder-length, chestnut hair back behind her neck and felt an anxious air fill the room. She plucked her glasses—only good for seeing at a distance—off her desk and slid them onto her face, pushing them carefully up onto her nose. Her fingers drummed nervously across the top of her MacBook as she eyed the thick stack of papers in Mrs. Chen’s hand.
Haylie’s least-favorite teacher silently surveyed the class. Mrs. Chen was legendary for her enjoyment of tense moments, especially when papers were about to be handed back. You could hear a pin drop as she leaned back against her desk and savored every second.
“As you have probably figured out, I finished grading your tests. The midpoint score ended up at eighty-two. As a reminder, anyone who scored above the midpoint will make the Math Team roster and hopefully help us get back to nationals this year. Anyone below the curve sits out,” Mrs. Chen said with a confident smirk. “I already know the test was fair, so please don’t bother with any complaints.”
Haylie saw a few nodding heads in the room mixed with a smattering of nervous smiles. As she thought back through her answers, she could feel the weight of her parents’ expectations sitting firmly on her shoulders.
Pacing slowly and purposefully, Mrs. Chen moved through the room handing back tests alphabetically by first name, as always. The class watched for a reaction as the first student received her score. As the nervous girl’s eyes searched for the red number circled at the top of her paper, she sighed a gasp of relief, closed her eyes and mouthed a few silent words to herself. Whispers cascaded across the class.
Haylie watched on, quietly calculating how long it would take for Mrs. Chen to reach her test in the stack. Do your worst, Chen. I dare you.
The next boy received his test and oh-so-subtly pumped his fists into the air, receiving a light round of laughter from the room.
Mrs. Chen continued to work her way through the classroom as all eyes watched the drama play out. A mixture of bowed heads and high fives accompanied paper after paper. Another classmate received his test and hung his head low, and Haylie suddenly realized that her name was up next.
She tugged at the lapels of her favorite coat—a drab olive green field jacket that was just plain enough, but still counted as some sort of fashion statement—trying her best to remain calm as she felt Mrs. Chen’s slow, methodical footsteps approaching her from behind. Over her shoulder, a few pieces of stapled paper flopped down on her desk. Haylie continued staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with reality for a few short seconds.
You better not have screwed this one up, Einstein. Haylie slowly looked down to the red ink at the top of the page.
It read: ‘80.’
As Haylie exhaled, placing her head in her hands, she was greeted with a tap on the shoulder. A classmate sitting at the desk next to her gave Haylie a reassuring pat.
“I’m sorry, Haylie. I was hoping you’d make it this year,” she said with full eyes that were still searching for the right thing to say. “I’m sure everyone was.”
Haylie sighed and stared off into the distance, fighting to hide the emotion trying to push its way out. She was already working on a plan for how she’d break the news to her parents. She could feel a growing collection of stares from across the room, watching her like a zoo animal.
“All right everyone,” Mrs. Chen said, standing with folded arms back at the front of the class. “Now that you know where you stand, we’ll be kicking off Math Team preparations for the rest of the period. Anyone that didn’t make the cut this year—and I’m sorry if you didn’t—please head down to the library to complete your daily assignment there. We’ll just need you to try a little harder next year, yes?”
A walk of shame—how degrading.
Haylie quickly gathered her things, placed her laptop into her backpack and gave a timid wave to the girl next to her. She tried her best not to make eye contact with any other students as she shuffled down the long aisle. Looking back, she could see others packing up. All around them, the members of the newly formed Bowie High Math Team scattered around the room to congratulate their new teammates.
Haylie was the first one out of the classroom, letting the door shut behind her. She paced down the empty hallway, throwing her backpack onto her shoulders. Finally alone, the tidal wave building up inside of her crested.
A wide, unforgiving smile crept slowly across her face.
Haylie had spent the past week carefully gathering test score data for her AP Calculus class. Mrs. Chen’s admin account had been easy enough to hack with a simple dictionary attack—a script that guesses combinations of words, numbers, and other characters until it finds the right match. Easy stuff—not exactly NSA-level security around here. Once inside the system, Haylie had grabbed data on each student’s performance for each test, quiz, and homework assignment for the year and then left the system without a trace.
By mapping the scoring data across topic categories in a database, Haylie had created a working predictive model for the distribution of scores on the Math Team qualifying test. She had guessed the midpoint of the grades would be eighty-four, so as it turned out, her model still needed a little bit of work.
After calculating the predicted midpoint of the test scores, the rest was easy. Haylie knew the answer to any math question Ms. Chen could ever throw at her, so after completing a first pass with one hundred percent of the answers correct, she backtracked and added a combination of errors that would land her score directly under the dividing line.
It was important for her to balance her strategy—she wanted to score well enough that her parents wouldn’t worry about her, but at the same time poorly enough to stay off the goddamned Math Team this year.
As she walked the long, echoing hallway towards the library, she could hear the clicks and thumps of footsteps behind her. Focusing her hearing, she thought she could even make out a few sniffles from the poor students following her down the hall.
Get it together. Good lord, it’s only math.
CHAPTER TWO
Bowie High Library
Austin, TX
March 6th, 2:42PM
Haylie pushed her way through the double doors, pulling her hands back into the pockets of her jacket and turning the corner towards the study area. The library was crowded today—more crowded than usual—and she stopped to lean her shoulder on a bookshelf marking the corner of the study area. She peeked her head around the edge to survey the crowd.
Small groups of students were huddled around their tables, all with computers open and screens glowing, leaving only a few empty spaces remaining. Haylie quickly evaluated her options as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
The first table featured a collection of guys—lacrosse players, as far as she could tell. T-shirts and mesh athletic shorts, large bottles of water and snacks scattered across the table top; none of them paying any attention to their work. Pass.
The second table included six of what had to be the most popular girls in Haylie’s senior
class, assuming they were still in the lead this week. They sat in tight pairs, flashing smirks across their faces and exchanging sideways sneers past heavy coatings of mascara as they texted back and forth, giggling with each volley. Telling secrets, spreading gossip. No thanks.
The third table was a mix of girls and guys that Haylie recognized, students she could give a passing smile to in the hallway and not feel like an idiot. Haylie had played on the JV field hockey team with a few of the girls freshman year. She had loved field hockey practice—and she was damn good at it, too—but had always hated the games. The build up, the travel, the crowds, the screaming parents; it just wasn’t for her.
She spied one open seat at the table, tucked in close to the center of the group. Clutching the straps of her backpack with both hands, she sucked in a deep breath.
Just walk over. It’s that easy. Don’t think about it.
Her heart pounded as the pit of her stomach began to ache. Staring down the empty seat, she swayed back and forth, finding her bearing against the bookshelf with one extended hand. Don’t think about it.
She began to think about it. She couldn’t help it.
Her mind began to run through scenarios. What-ifs. Walking up, having them tell her that the seat was already taken. Laughing at her as she walked away. Or worse: inviting her to sit, and then giving her the silent treatment, like those kids did a few years back at lunch.
She began breathing heavier and heavier as she imagined being denied. Being mocked. In front of everyone.
Turning away, she paced quickly across the room to the windows lining the far wall of the library, stopping at the row of multi-colored bean bags. She faced the shelves, focusing on just breathing for a few seconds.
She released her bag to the floor with a plop, took off her jacket, and sunk into her seat, now with a full view of the room. She felt a burning ache in her gut—twisting and churning—as her eyes moved from table to table, like flipping channels to observe each group. Some chatted in low tones. Others kept their heads down, working in parallel, exchanging chuckles as they pointed at screens and leaned in close.
Crash Alive (The Haylie Black Series Book 1) Page 1
