Cyberstrike

by James Barrington

  For probably the first time since the airfield had begun operating as Camp Springs Air Base back in 1942, all activity at Andrews stopped and a total and utterly unnatural silence fell.

  Of course, it wasn’t just Andrews that was affected.

  At Ronald Reagan, a civilian airliner taxiing to the threshold of the active runway simply stopped when every instrument in the cockpit ceased operating and two small electrical fires broke out behind the instrument panel. When the pilot tried to radio the ground controller, he discovered that all the radios, too, had ceased operating. But even if somehow that particular piece of equipment had been spared, the ground controller was looking at a blank screen in the now entirely unlit, dead and lifeless radar room. And the tow truck that would normally be sent out to recover an aircraft suffering such a catastrophic failure was itself unable to move because its ignition circuit and almost every other piece of wiring on it had been burnt out.

  Throughout much of DC itself, those electrical devices that were still operating despite the blackouts ceased functioning, permanently, as the electromagnetic surges from the three NNEMP weapons ravaged their circuitry. The various additional sensors that had been installed to protect the capital city against air attack were fried, meaning that any airborne incursion would not be detected. And, even if such an attack were to be detected, the last line of defence, the Stinger surface-to-air missiles, were also neutralised by that same EMP, their circuits destroyed.

  Washington lay defenceless against the assault that was to come, but not silent. Gathering crowds of people thronged the streets, asking questions and looking for explanations for what had happened to their city. Explanations that nobody could give, because nobody there had any idea what was going on. About the only thing most of the population knew was that there had been a truck bomb, or maybe more than one, in the city. There had been casualties, but because the vehicles hadn’t been left in crowded areas, not that many. But that, of course, didn’t explain why nothing, not phones or tablets or computers or cars or buses or ambulances or fire trucks or even some wristwatches, still worked.

  The third phase, or the third act, as Sadir was mentally calling it, had been completed exactly as he had planned, expected and hoped.

  Of course, he himself had no way of telling whether or not the devices had worked, but he had no reason to suppose that they hadn’t. One way or the other, he would find out soon enough when the Reaper began its final approach towards Washington D.C.

  Because now it was time to raise the curtain for the grand finale.

  Chapter 61

  Forest Hill, Harford County, Maryland, United States of America

  ‘We’re missing something here, Grant,’ Morgan said. ‘Sadir had to use an EMP weapon at Syracuse to permanently knock out the ground communications with the Reaper so he could take control of it. But that’s only half the story. You told me that DC is well protected, with layered defences from fighter jets on standby all the way down to half-inch machine guns mounted in turrets on the tops of buildings, so well before that drone gets anywhere near the city somebody sitting at a radar set will notice, hit the panic button and punch a fighter or two into the air.’

  ‘Shit,’ Rogers muttered, immediately seeing what Morgan was driving at. ‘He must have planted another electromagnetic bomb back in DC.’

  ‘Not bomb,’ Morgan said, ‘but bombs. These devices have a fairly limited radius of action so he’d need several to take out enough of the city’s defences to give him a clear run for his attack. At the very least, he’d need to hit Andrews and Ronald Reagan and maybe Dulles as well to take out their radar systems, and to cripple any fighters on the ground.’

  Rogers nodded, picked a name from the contact list on his mobile and rang the number. Then he shook his head, tried another, and then a third.

  ‘Number unobtainable,’ he said. ‘That’s the Hoover building and the base operator and the command post out at Andrews. This bastard’s already done it, hasn’t he? He’s already triggered the weapons.’

  ‘Which means the Reaper is probably already on its attack run,’ Gordon said, his earlier doubts about Morgan’s hypothesis clearly dispelled. ‘We need to move now.’

  Chapter 62

  Fairview, Harford County, Maryland, United States of America

  Mahdi Sadir had trained as a private pilot at an airfield in Spain where the weather could be guaranteed and had been awarded a EASA – European Aviation Safety Agency – private pilot’s licence, a PPL, allowing him to fly SEP – single engine piston – aircraft. That had been almost five years earlier, and since then he had hired aircraft on an irregular basis depending upon where he was in the world, just to keep his licence current and, much more importantly, to keep his piloting skills as sharp as possible. He now had over a hundred flying hours under his belt and could confidently follow the somewhat clichéd but vital axiom drilled into every pilot, to aviate, navigate and communicate, actions that applied to routine flying as well as what to do in an emergency. That meant he could take off, fly a route and land most fixed wing aircraft powered by a single piston engine and talk intelligibly to air traffic controllers while he did so.

  But despite his familiarity with aircraft not dissimilar in size, shape and performance to the Reaper, he was finding controlling the UAV to be a far from easy task. In something like a Piper PA-28 Cherokee, an aircraft he had flown many times, he had unrivalled visibility and controls that responded to the slightest touch. And, more importantly, whenever he moved the control column or the rudder pedals he would actually be able to feel the effect of his actions through the seat: the changes in the effect of gravity when climbing or descending and of centrifugal and centripetal force when turning or manoeuvring. Somebody had once told him that that was where the expression ‘flying by the seat of your pants’ had come from.

  But on the Reaper, there were obviously no physical sensations at all, no matter what he did with the controls, and his view forward was extremely restricted, limited to what the camera in the nose of the drone could see and display on the screen in front of him. So while he’d been sitting in the middle seat of the control suite that the two Chinese hackers had designed and built, for most of the time he’d been content to leave the UAV on autopilot, flying in a straight line at a steady speed and maintaining the same height, while he made his preparations for the attack.

  He was able to plot the drone’s progress thanks to its GPS and INS – inertial navigation system – feeds displayed on a second computer screen, on which he had also overlaid the track that he wanted the Reaper to follow. The other thing he had done since he had shot Michael in the back was to access the weapon control module on the UAV to make sure that he had control over the Hellfire missiles and the bombs. He wouldn’t, of course, need to do any specific targeting – any old street full of people in Washington D.C. would do nicely – but he did need to make sure he could release the weapons when he needed to do so. And as far as he could see, that would be no problem. The now deceased Michael and Joseph had obviously done a very professional and comprehensive job, giving him control of all the functions of the fully-armed UAV.

  Sadir switched his attention back to the mapping screen, where the symbol representing the Reaper’s position was still following the original straight-line track towards the private airfield where the Chinese delegation was waiting to receive it. The symbol was approaching the alternative track that he had input himself, the track that terminated in the heart of Washington D.C. He waited a few more seconds, then adjusted the autopilot, moving the desired heading through ninety degrees to track south-east.

  Within a matter of minutes, the drone would be in a position to release the first of its bombs. And then the carnage would begin.

  Sadir felt his mouth go dry in anticipation and took another sip of his Coke. This truly was the endgame. Nothing could stop him now.

  Chapter 63

  Fairview, Harford County, Maryland, United States of America

&nb
sp; Morgan, Rogers, Gordon and the special agent commanding the SWAT team crowded around the Panasonic Toughbook rugged computer, all staring intently at the screen which was displaying the live video feed from the surveillance drone, thanks to a Bluetooth connection. The device was being controlled by another SWAT team member, using a small panel fitted with a CCTV screen which was supported on a nylon harness around his shoulders. He was steering the drone in a wide circle above the target property, keeping it at a height of around a hundred feet where it should be inaudible to anybody on the ground below, and using the zoom feature on its camera to closely inspect the exterior of the building.

  They’d been picked up by one of the SWAT team’s Suburbans and driven the short distance from Forest Hill to Fairview, where they’d parked on a patch of open ground about a hundred yards from the target house. When they’d arrived, the drone was already in the air and in transit, the team having been briefed by Gordon even before the Bell helicopter had landed.

  What was puzzling all four of the men was the fact that the building appeared to be completely deserted, although there were two vehicles parked outside it. The SWAT team had already run the plates and the local DMV, the Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles in Glen Burnie, not far from Fort Meade, had supplied the names and addresses of the registered owners. Neither of the names on the titles was Sadir, and neither listed address was the property that was under surveillance.

  ‘You quite sure that’s the right place?’ Gordon asked, saying exactly what the others were thinking.

  ‘That’s the closest property to the geographical coordinates that the GCHQ intercept flagged up of the target mobile,’ Morgan said, trying to inject his voice with more confidence than he was actually feeling. ‘The problem is that we’re kind of out in the sticks here, so the triangulation is based upon a smaller number of cell phone towers, so the location can’t be quite as accurate as it would be in a built-up urban area.’

  The drone passed behind the property and overflew the rear yard. An oblong area came into view, largely surrounded by what appeared to be established hedges. For a brief moment, Morgan thought it looked like a vegetable patch, though he had no idea whether or not American properties would incorporate such a feature, but then his attention was drawn to a roundish white object at one end of it.

  ‘We need to take a closer look at that,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a satellite dish,’ Rogers said, stating the obvious.

  ‘I know what it is,’ Morgan replied, ‘but what I want to know is where it’s pointing.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Gordon said, and told the SWAT team leader to zoom in on the dish.

  On the screen of the Toughbook, the picture wobbled slightly and then seemed to accelerate directly towards the dish. Then it stabilised so that they were looking down at it from above, the tripod of metal arms holding the LNB, the low-noise block downconverter, at the apex.

  Morgan looked at the compass heading on the screen, showing the direction that the drone was pointing, and then quickly worked out the approximate direction that the satellite dish was facing.

  ‘Most of your American satellite television companies use birds that are located down to the south-west,’ he said, gesturing at the screen. ‘That dish is pointing somewhere east of south, and that’s the bit of sky where most of the communication satellites are located, birds like the Intelsat and Inmarsat vehicles. So whoever’s in that house isn’t sitting there surrounded by empty beer cans and watching old reruns of Bonanza or I Love Lucy. He’ll have something very different on the screen in front of him.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ Gordon said. ‘Time to kick the door down.’

  Chapter 64

  Fort Drum, Jefferson County, New York State, United States of America

  ‘Can I assume this is not some kind of a joke?’ Major Oscar Paulson asked.

  ‘Damn right you can.’ The caller had introduced himself as Colonel David Moore and had stated he was calling from Hancock Field at Syracuse, and that was the first problem the major had had with the conversation.

  ‘Then why, sir—’ the man had sounded official and senior and angry, and so Paulson was hedging his bets until he found out more ‘—are you not calling on an official line?’

  ‘I say again, Major, and please listen carefully, because we have very little time, I cannot call on an official line because the fucking things have all been fried. Some terrorist detonated an EMP weapon on the airfield boundary and we lost the lot: radios, radar and telephone lines, including mobiles. But none of that’s important. What is important is that we had a fully armed MQ-9 Reaper airborne when this happened, and we’ve got reason to believe that a terrorist group has hijacked it.’

  Major Paulson opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and instead said: ‘Please go on.’

  ‘We don’t know where it is or what these terrorists intend to do with it, but it’s got bombs and Hellfire missiles on it so they could do a hell of a lot of damage in New York or Washington or wherever. We could be looking at another nine eleven, in spades. So what I’m ordering you to do is get your GCS manned like right now and find this fucking drone. And when you do, just get the thing on the ground, anywhere. Preferably at Fort Drum or Syracuse, but any airfield would do at a pinch. Any questions?’

  Paulson had been suggesting and rejecting scenarios in his mind while he listened to what the caller was saying, and in the end he decided that manning the GCS was probably the easiest and safest thing to do, just in case he wasn’t being spun a yarn. ‘I’ll get on that now, sir,’ he replied. ‘Can I call you on this mobile number once we’re up and running?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Just get on with it.’

  Before Paulson did anything else, he dialled the number for the Air National Guard base at Syracuse. It came back as number unobtainable, and that single result was more convincing to him than anything that the man calling himself Colonel Moore had said.

  Ten minutes later, Paulson led his team into the ground control station and explained briefly what little he knew. He didn’t mention terrorists or hijacking because that idea was stretching his own credulity, and instead described the incident as involving a ‘rogue’ drone caused by a massive equipment malfunction at Hancock Field.

  ‘We need to find this Reaper,’ he said, ‘and that won’t be easy, because we have no idea where it is. In fact, when they lost contact with it, the UAV was on its way to the air-to-ground range here at Fort Drum, but where it is now nobody has any idea. It probably isn’t squawking so we need to start looking out for primary contacts. Check with all the local radar units and try all our usual contact frequencies, including the Ku-band links through the satellite. I’ll try and get some more information from Syracuse.

  ‘Right, let’s get to it.’

  Chapter 65

  Fairview, Harford County, Maryland, United States of America

  But before they could formulate a plan, far less move, Morgan’s phone rang and the screen told him the caller was Natasha Black.

  ‘Yes, Natasha,’ he said.

  ‘Chummy’s been on the horn again,’ she told him. ‘He made a call to another mobile number that hasn’t been flagged up before. The peculiar thing is that he just rang it, but there was no conversation, and that mobile is now off the air.’

  ‘We think he’s triggered several EMP weapons in DC to knock out the radars and radios,’ Morgan said, ‘and that call could have been the activation signal. Our best guess is that he’s steering an armed Reaper drone towards the city. We’re just about to try to take him down. Just to confirm, you haven’t got a more accurate set of coordinates for the location of his phone than you supplied before?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but maybe I can help you identify the property.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘His mobile is still switched on. I don’t know if that means he’s expecting another call from somebody or if he just forgot to turn it off, but when you get outside the house or wher
ever he is, text me and I’ll call him up. I can be a phone company executive with an offer that he simply can’t afford not to take. You should be able to hear the phone ringing from inside the building.’

  ‘Good idea. We’ll do that. Now we’ve got to move.’

  The target house was located on a large corner plot, and the area was sufficiently rural that the SWAT team members were able to get to within about twenty yards of the front door without any possibility of being seen by the occupants. But that was as far as they could go, because as soon as the special agent in charge – the fabric nametag on his black combat clothing read ‘Wayne’ – scanned the front of the property with his binoculars he spotted two small cameras covering the road and the short driveway.

  ‘If we get any nearer,’ he said, ‘we might as well walk over there and ring on the doorbell. Let’s try round the back. There might be cameras there as well, but because of the trees and shrubs we should be able to get a whole lot closer to the building without being spotted.’

  They left two of the team members to cover the front of the house with their sniper rifles and the rest of them retraced their path until they were able to step into the open ground behind the property.

  Wayne had been right: there was a camera aimed at the lawned area to the rear of the house, but the sides of the property appeared to have no surveillance devices in place, and that omission allowed them to get close without being detected.

  ‘We need to lose that single camera,’ he said, and moments later two of his men flattened themselves against the back wall of the property and walked sideways until the camera was directly above them. One of the men crouched down, braced himself and used his linked hands and shoulders as stepping stones for his partner to climb up high enough to reach not the camera, but the cable that fed it. He took a pair of insulated wire cutters, in case the camera was fed by mains power, and briskly snipped the cable in two.