Wreckoning
Page 1
ALSO BY LEE HARDING
Keys To Betrayal
The Oracle 1.0
Dead Eye: Redemption
The Pan Piper
ALANA & MICHAEL SERIES:
Wreckoning
Visit www.leeharding.online
Wreckoning
LEE HARDING
Copyright © LEE HARDING 2018
ISBN: 978-1546750956 | 1546750959
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Lee Harding has been asserted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 UK to be the author of this work.
First Edition 2018
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Available as a Kindle eBook and paperback from Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk and Amazon’s other retail outlets and websites. Also available to buy via the official Lee Harding website.
Visit www.leeharding.online
Dedication
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Contents
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
The Ebony Chest by Cameron Faith
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
5th November 06:58
Alana White fiddled with the switch of her laptop and yawned as it booted up. The cramped workspace that acted as her office away from her office was besieged with neon sticky reminders. Jotters with shorthand hieroglyphics littered the desk. All were bruised by coffee mug stains.
It had been another late night. Alana licked her cracked lips and sipped her drink. The caffeine flooded her parched throat and her heart hammered. A loud groan sounded from her belly like a bellowing beast. She fished out a packet of chocolate digestives from the drawer. Munching on her breakfast, she checked her phone for alerts.
Six missed calls, one text message, thirty social media updates, eighteen emails. She sighed and slipped another biscuit from the pack.
The familiar logo of her work blazoned onto the screen. Two years had passed since she joined The Unbiased Reporter as an eager young journalist ready to change the world. She had a passion for reporting the news that really mattered. As a girl she often dragged her poor younger sister to search for a big scoop. Her mother would try to listen as Alana recalled how Mrs Walker’s spaniel gave birth to six pups, one of which was spotted black and white.
“Like a Dalmatian, Mummy,” she said as her mother hoisted the washing from the machine.
“Alana, why don’t you go and play with Paula?”
“Paula’s drawing,” she replied then continued with a story about Mr Rutherford’s tree falling down in the storm.
Alana yawned as she typed her password with one hand while wiping away crumbs with the other. Her phone said it was 07:01; just forty minutes before she needed to leave. This early morning ritual was a necessary evil. Answering emails had to be tackled before her editor sent the avalanche of assignments.
Roger Dolphrey carried the mantle of Editor and Chief since his predecessor Wilson Rook took a bad turn. Actually it was a bad turn that killed him, if the stories were to be believed. Rook’s overworked and overstressed heart packed in whilst driving and his slumped body wrenched the steering wheel into oncoming traffic. In the wreckage they found his mobile phone buzzing and a passenger’s seat teeming with edited articles for the next day’s deadline.
Roger was heading towards the same fate and with traditional paper sales plummeting tensions in the office were at an all-time high. Last week he confessed redundancies would be inevitable. Their launch into the online world had received moderate success but readership was down year-on-year in print. Changing their infrastructure to marry with their web site had been expensive and ultimately didn’t affect the bottom line. In the present climate it was now about survival.
Server down. Please try again.
That’s odd. The Internet page of The Unbiased Reporter refused to load. She refreshed the page with the same result. This sometimes happened, Alana knew from experience. Usually when a deadline was approaching or she was uploading a report was when it decided to throw a tantrum.
As a computer buff studying the subject at university, Alana was all too aware of the realities of IT. “Technology is wonderful,” her professor often said, “when it decides to work.” Alana had a broad knowledge of the vulnerabilities of the Internet especially from cyber threats. Most people read the headlines of the latest computer hack but few were personally affected. Her final year paper examined how assailable the net really was. One day soon and the world would wake up.
She left her laptop to retreat into the bathroom. A week’s worth of washing spilled out from a heaving wicker basket in the corner. Alana grabbed an unopened pack of velvet-soft and struggled to tear open the wrapping. She unrolled a few links of tissue, blew her nose, and stared into the mirror.
Dirty-fair ringlets bounced around a heart-shaped face. Ruddy cheeks sandwiched a cute button nose and wide, red lips. Her azure eyes were speckled with flecks of orange near the edges. She carefully pinched the end of a fake eyelash and tugged it out. Mascara hid heavy bags that drooped lower than usual. Her silver necklace caught the light reflecting warped versions of herself in the tiny cubes of polished metal.
Alana twisted the faucet and cupped her hands. Flinging the lukewarm water onto her face, she scrunched up her mouth in dissatisfaction and shook her head.
I need more sleep.
“If you went to bed at a reasonable hour instead of gallivanting around the clubs of London then you’d get more sleep.”
Her mother’s voice echoed around her head swelling the headache there.
Alana opened the cabinet that her stepfather had valiantly attempted to affix to the wall. Victor was a decent man whom she learned to love over the years but he was useless as a handy man. She tugged at a box of paracetamol then slowly shut the cabinet door. One frame sat an inch above the
other. She forced out three pills and sat down to wait for the drugs to kick in.
Her toes wriggled out of a split pink slipper. She examined her tiny legs which required some serious razor treatment. Alana had always been petite, much like her mother and sister. At times it was extremely frustrating. Practically, being small would often be a disability; like trying to order drinks from a bar. She could be there for ten minutes before the barman would see a little hand waving frantically up through a sea of giants. She wasn’t a midget but barely touched 5’3” in high heels. It could be emotionally draining too. Teasing sometimes led to downright bullying in school. But Alana always used her greatest asset to her advantage. A smart quip was far more powerful than a volley of insults or physical violence, although she was capable of both. Her nimble intellect was more than a match against spotty Julie Hagerty. Alana didn’t need to mention her adversary’s zit infested nose to silence her. A funny one-liner had all her classmates in an uproar and Julie Hagerty seething with rage.
She removed the creased t-shirt that hung below her knees and stepped gingerly into the tub. As a woman of modest means she had to make do with a makeshift shower attached to the taps. It was enveloped by a gaudy collage of sickly green and mud-brown tiles, remnants of the last tenants’ abysmal sense of décor. Alana was determined to make her landlord rip out the bathroom suite. However, her request fell on literally deaf ears. The old man struggled to mount the stairs of the first storey flat when asked to fix a thermostat. It resulted in Alana phoning for the emergency services to lift his wheezing frame back down.
Thirty minutes later and she was applying the finishing touches to her make-up. She aimed past the zombie, undead look but far from the Oompa Loompa shade of orange. Moderation was the key. A quick smear of pale, pink lipstick and she turned her attention back to the laptop as she walked into her study.
Server down. Please try again.
Damn. Alana decided to confirm that the fault didn’t lie with her Internet connection. Google appeared with no issues. The logo morphed into the image of Guy Fawkes. It was four hundred and thirty years since he failed to create reform by force. It was also only seven weeks until Christmas, a thought which she put firmly to the back of her mind.
Her phone buzzed into life. It danced along the desk until bumping into a ream of old newspapers. Alana picked it up and checked the caller id; Audrey Pearce, her colleague from work and closest friend.
“Alana, why haven’t you been answering?” The voice was high and breathless.
“I turned it on silent, Audrey. I needed some sleep.”
“You sound terrible. What time did you leave the club?”
Which one? Alana thought. “Oh, around midnight,” she lied. In truth she wasn’t sure exactly when or how she got home. “You didn’t need to phone me. I’ll be in the office shortly, okay?”
Her friend’s voice sounded tense again. “Something serious has happened here.”
“Don’t tell me. Roger’s finally had that heart attack he’s been threatening us with.”
Audrey paused before replying. “Someone’s hacked into our computers. They’ve taken everything.”
Alana sat down. “What do you mean taken everything?”
“I mean everything,” Audrey said. “All the research, all the files we need to publish the paper, absolutely everything.”
Alana typed on her laptop while putting the phone on loud speaker. She called up a command prompt and entered her work’s IP address – the direct route to check if it was working.
This address could not be reached.
“I can’t reach the office server,” she said.
“Roger removed all connections to the Internet when the police contacted him. He’s called an emergency staff meeting for 9am sharp.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Alana, wait, there’s more.”
Alana resumed her seat. “Tell me.”
“We’re not the only ones hacked. Every newspaper in the United Kingdom has had their systems compromised, their websites too.” Audrey lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “The British press is dead.”
Chapter 2
5th November 09:03
The journey through the metropolitan city was always manic during rush hour on a Monday morning. Today was no different.
Rain lashed against the steamed windows as Alana wrung the water from her suit trousers. Her umbrella rested between her feet, the water forming a small puddle which trickled down the bus as it turned a corner. She sat up and pressed her nose to her phone just like all the other passengers. Everyone was transfixed.
Although none of the UK media websites were available she could still receive the news from elsewhere in the world. Forgoing social media for a more reliable source, she tapped on the NBC app. Their main headline read: GREAT BRITISH BLACKOUT.
‘At 01:32 GMT a massive cyber-attack targeted all news organizations within the United Kingdom. Web sites, email, and internal infrastructures became crippled including those of The British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC). In a statement released via their television channel, Head of the BBC Sir John Stinton has apologized for the loss of its online services including its popular iPlayer and says they are working hard to rectify the situation.
‘“This is an unprecedented event where our society’s right to be informed of the news has been denied. It is an act of terrorism against the British public and we are working closely with law enforcement to ensure the perpetrators are brought to justice.”
‘Fellow broadcaster BSkyB has also issued a statement via their Sky News channel. In it they investigate the impact of the “media meltdown” on the already withering sector.
‘“This could be the final shove that pushes many small newspapers into bankruptcy,” says one expert. “Any halt to production could extinguish the flame of truth and impartiality delivered to its readership for centuries.”
‘Those responsible for the attack are as yet unknown. Reports that the hacking group Anonymous are involved are unconfirmed. Prime Minister Max Martin is set to address the public later this morning. Read more...’
Alana rested her phone on her knee. All the warnings over the years that a major cyber threat was overdue were finally realized. Yet it wasn’t against the military as many had prophesied but an attack on democracy. The news was a staple of every Briton’s diet. Starving them meant war on ordinary people’s lives. But that made little sense. The Internet fed the most with social media spooning the public daily. Why attack a crippled culture when people still tweeted and watched television too?
The towering offices of Fleet Street loomed fifty yards ahead. Alana grabbed her umbrella and fought her way to the front of the bus. The driver pulled to a stop by a red traffic light. Alana heard her phone sound through the driving rain.
‘Meet u at cemetery 1230pm. I have flowers – Paula xo.’
She shoved it into her pocket just as the bus shuddered into life. It pulled into the side of the road and the doors opened with a hiss. Waving goodbye to the driver, Alana disembarked and jumped over a deep puddle. She pushed up her umbrella. Black thunderclouds blanketed a miserable London sky.
As she tried to avoid the flood bubbling up from the drains, she peered into a corner newsagent. People were purchasing the morning’s papers that told yesterday’s news. Will the shelves be empty tomorrow? she thought.
The stairs leading to the entrance of her office were grey and cracked much like the building exterior. Fleet Street housed a multitude of media moguls with plush, modern architecture and a water fountain greeting visitors by the lobby. The Unbiased Reporter, with its niche readership, as Roger liked to put it, preferred a more grounded disposition.
“We report the news in a traditionally British manner – firm, honest, and unapologetic,” he informed Alana during her initial job interview. “The British press is the envy of the developed world, my dear. It is an ancient institution that must be regarded with the highest moral integrity.” A
lana simply nodded in reply.
Shaking off her umbrella, she took shelter under the narrow porch hanging over an ancient set of oak doors. She pressed the buzzer and stared resolutely ahead. She hated looking at the security camera. It made her feel like a criminal. The door lock sprung open with a heavy click and she shouldered her way inside.
The Unbiased Reporter occupied a full floor two storeys up. An online magazine called Riding the Wave dedicated to extreme surfing shared the floor below them with Photographer’s Eye. That traditional magazine had gone bankrupt a few short weeks ago and continued the worrying trend of traditional media closures. Alana had witnessed a dozen neighbouring publications go under over the past year alone. Blame was directed at the Internet and a failure from government to schools to ensure high standards of literacy were taught and maintained. Alana believed the truth lay somewhere in between. The same people also accused those culprits for the demise of the traditional book retailer. “No one reads anymore,” they said. “The power of the written word has been annihilated.” Utter nonsense. People still read but in different ways. The one thing that had altered significantly was the perceived value of information. Why pay for something when you can read it for free?
“Good morning, Alana.”
Alana flicked a few ringlets of damp hair from her eyes. “Morning, Sarah. Is everyone in yet?”
The building receptionist was a plump, pleasant lady in her early fifties. She sat behind her desk with a frothy latte in one hand and a chocolate éclair in the other. Her usual Cheshire cat grin had soured like the weather.
“You better get up there quick. Roger’s in a state.”
Alana turned to check if the elevator was open but saw it was on the top floor. Holding her handbag steady, she vaulted up the stairs and continued two at a time until she reached the second floor. Cardio was never a part of her routine and she fought the urge to throw up the biscuits as she stumbled into work.