The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  ‘Harold?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lance, it’s bad news.’ ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Helena.’ The pause was so long that Lancelot thought the link had been cut. ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’

  Not possible. His brain refused to accept it. ‘Helena.’ ‘Yes.’

  For a long time he could neither think nor speak. Then . . . ‘Helena,’ he repeated blankly.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s been depressed,’ said Harold, ‘not eating properly, taking anti-depressants and sleeping pills. She was seeing a therapist, and we thought she was perking up. It seems she took an overdose. Last night she went into a coma, and this morning she had a massive haemorrhage.’

  ‘An overdose?’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Harold,’ He searched desperately for words of comfort, but there were none, or at least none that were not trite and banal.

  Severing the link, he sat staring at the wall, trying not to think, above all not to feel. After a while he roused himself. Galahad. He must tell him before someone else did.

  Galahad’s reaction was at first subdued, then frenzied, his rage directed at his father. ‘You did this! It’s your fault! You killed my mother!’ Lancelot tried to reason with him, but Galahad would have none of it. ‘You made me leave her! I should never have listened to you.’ He began to beat his father with his fists on the chest and face, and Lancelot made no effort to defend himself. Worn out at last, Galahad threw himself into a chair and burst into tears. Staggering to the bathroom, Lancelot dabbed his bruised face with a towel soaked in water, muttering over and over again, ‘God forgive me, God forgive me,’ and thinking all the time that though God might, Galahad never would.

  For days Lancelot neither ate nor slept. Never leaving his apartment, he refused to see anyone. Most of the time he sat staring into space, his body periodically galvanised by mini- eruptions of shivering. When these quakes subsided he would nod his head knowingly and mutter to himself. Even more worrying to his friends, he began to have hallucinations, holding long conversations with his mother, pleading with her to explain what he had done to make her abandon him, begging her to forgive him, as if he were responsible for her death.

  ‘You killed yourself, mother . . . Ban told me you did . . . It was because of me, wasn’t it? . . . It must have been, or you would never have left me.’

  Visiting him one evening, Gawain found Lancelot marching about his apartment in a trance-like state, drilling himself, just as he once did when he was a young captain in the British army. ‘You’re a disgrace, Lancelot! A disgrace to the Army! Get those arms up! Left, left, left right, left! You’re on a charge of murder, captain! About turn! Swing those arms! Eyes right, d’you hear! You’re on a charge of adultery, captain! Left, left, left right, left! You’re on a charge of murder and adultery, you horrible creature!’

  The harangue continued for nearly an hour before Lancelot collapsed on his bed, closed his eyes and slept. In the morning he remembered nothing. For a week his mind wandered; then one day he was himself again, unsteady on his feet but coherent. He asked to see his son, meaning to tell him how sorry he was, to confess he felt responsible for Helena’s death, and to throw himself on his mercy. To his surprise it was Galahad who apologised.

  ‘I should not have blamed you for mother’s death. It was my decision to leave her, not yours.’

  Shared guilt, and the knowledge that they depended on each other’s support to become whole again, led to a partial reconciliation between father and son. What prevented it from being complete was the knowledge that his father was having an affair with Arthur’s wife, something Galahad could not understand, certainly not condone.

  The next morning Gawain found Lancelot sitting at his computer in Command Control.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You need a break, Lance.’ ‘I need you to stop fussing.’

  ‘A couple of weeks, that’s all.’

  ‘So you can steal my job? Forget it. I’m still your boss.’

  Grinning broadly, Gawain made for the door. ‘Welcome back,’ he said.

  ‘Once, a long time ago, I saved a life,’ said Lancelot, apropos of nothing.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘I thought God had granted me a miracle.’ His fingers toyed with the keyboard. ‘It wasn’t a miracle of course, it was a freak of nature.’

  ‘Stop tormenting yourself,’ said Gawain.

  ‘So you see,’ said Lancelot, ‘I am not the man I thought I was.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Gawain. ‘What I do know is that you are greatly loved and respected for what you are, and for the things you have achieved.’ ‘Like murder and adultery.’

  ‘If you are talking about Helena,’ said Gawain, ‘you are most definitely not a murderer, Lance. You were not responsible for her death. As for being an adulterer . . . ’ – he drummed his fingers on the door jamb – ‘it’s in your hands.’

  Yes, it was in his hands. Or it was until he saw Guinevere again, smiling at him with those entrancing eyes of hers. In an instant, all his good intentions were forgotten. Soon they were meeting as often as before, their love-making more passionate than ever, animated now by a kind of defiant desperation and a sense of foreboding about the future.

  Forty Nine

  The Hand of God

  At 6 p.m. Eastern Seaboard time the lights in New York went out. It was unusual, though not that unusual. Whilst there was concern and anger at whichever incompetent authority was responsible, there was no panic. Power outages happened every few years, some of them lasting many hours, and so, tough New Yorkers, accustomed to dealing with crises, blamed everyone they could think of, from the Mayor to the President, and tried to go about their business as usual.

  The fact was, however, that a major electrical failure that was merely inconvenient for some, was frightening and potentially dangerous for others. A million people were trapped in subway trains with no air conditioning and no way of knowing how long they would be sitting there, many more in skyscraper elevators. In a matter of minutes, every cab in the city was taken, public transport had slowed to a halt in streets jammed with automobiles, and hundreds of thousands of commuters roamed the canyons of Manhattan aimlessly, growing increasingly frustrated and anxious. Mobile communications were disrupted by a huge overload, and fire, police and ambulance services either did not receive emergency calls, or, in jammed Manhattan streets, were unable to respond to them.

  Fortunately the outage did not last long. Sixty minutes later, at exactly 7 p.m., the lights went on again. In the twenty-four hours that followed, the numerous federal and state agencies involved sought to play down the “interruption” as it was generally referred to, though no one explained what had caused it. By the third day following the event, it was accepted by both media and public that the power outage had demonstrated the resilience and guts of the American public, and the success of the administration’s contingency plans for dealing with such emergencies. Backup generators had taken over swiftly in all key services. Communications, whilst certainly affected, had not broken down, and there were few reports of panic amongst members of the public.

  In Command Control, Agravaine sat with Arthur, Gawain and Lancelot at Galaxy’s big table monitor.

  ‘Was it an accident?’ Arthur wanted to know. ‘It’s possible,’ said Agravaine.

  That wasn’t good enough for Gawain. ‘Was it, or wasn’t it?’ ‘The Americans are saying it was,’ said Agravaine. ‘Obviously

  they don’t want to scare people for no reason.’

  ‘If it wasn’t an accident,’ said Lancelot, ‘then what was it?’

  Agravaine meandered across the dimly lit room and poured himself a coffee at the machine. ‘It might have been – I’m not saying it was, mind you – it might have been hackers.’

  ‘They would have to be very superior hackers, wouldn’t the
y?’ said Arthur.

  Agravaine nodded. ‘They broke into some of the best defended sites on the planet.’ There was a hint of admiration in his voice, as of one master saluting another.

  ‘Any idea who it could be?’ asked Gawain.

  Lancelot squirmed as Agravaine slurped his coffee noisily. ‘Techforce Ten and Neural Network are on the case. So are the Americans, though they won’t admit it. They’re worried, whatever the President says.’

  ‘What are the chances of tracking them down?’ asked Arthur. ‘Not great,’ said Agravaine. ‘These guys are pros. They know

  what they’re doing.’

  ‘We must face the fact that we could be dealing with terrorists,’ said Arthur. ‘Cyber terrorists.’

  A week later, at precisely 6 p.m., the lights went out again in New York. In a repetition of the same scenario as the previous week the power failure lasted exactly sixty minutes. This time, however, there was widespread panic, and the disruption was far greater than it had been the previous week.

  When the lights went on again at 7 p.m., a message was posted on the internet:–

  The power outages in New York were only a taste of what is to come. Experience has shown us that you will not listen to reason. Therefore we shall not attempt to reason with you. We shall attack your so-called civilisation which worships not Allah but material things. We shall destroy your economies, your cities, your degenerate way of life. And in their place we shall build God’s Empire on earth. Allahu Akbar!

  Ronin

  The Hand of God

  If the threat was genuine, then it was likely that it came from one of a number of fanatical Islamist groups: Al Qaeda, or one of its fundamentalist offshoots. There was no indication which group was involved, nor could the message be traced. Whoever was behind it had the protection of cyberspace. No demands were made, a fact that in itself created much speculation in the world’s media.

  Some commentators claimed it was an encouraging sign, an indication that hackers, not terrorists, were behind the power outings and the internet message. Hackers, they reasoned, were less likely to make demands than terrorists. Others were less optimistic. No threats meant that no deal was being offered, which implied that further incidents, perhaps far more serious ones, were to be expected. Despite the President’s assurance that whoever was responsible would be found and punished, the mood in the United States, was sceptical, people having long since lost faith in the promises of politicians.

  Arthur asked Agravaine to address the Round Table. ‘We are all familiar with the Internet,’ he began. ‘It allows us to travel electronically anywhere in the world through computerised gateways. With one tap on our keyboards we can span the planet in a second, and with a bit of ingenuity and a few simple commands we can access computers anywhere we choose. Cyberspace has been described as the world’s nervous system. Every developed country functions by means of electronic links to web servers and control systems, and as a result, every country on the internet is globally interdependent. The world’s economy runs on cyber space which makes it incredibly efficient. It also makes it extremely vulnerable. Inflict damage on the system and you can deal a body blow to a nation. Or to the world.’

  By now he had the complete attention of the Round Table. On a huge screen at the end of the Great Hall appeared an apparently random network of boxes. ‘As you see,’ he continued, ‘all these boxes are linked, each of them representing a vital function of pretty much every developed country in the world. Some of them – for example telecommunications – are globally linked.’ One by one he identified each box with a remote- controlled laser beam. ‘Electrical power supplies, natural gas lines and gas-powered electric systems, hydro-electric plants and water supplies, water treatment plants, air traffic control, road and rail transport, telecommunications, oil and chemical refineries, nuclear power plants, communication networks, stock markets, commodity exchanges, financial institutions, hospitals, emergency services, and last, but certainly not least, the command and control systems of all military sites relating to everything from intelligence agencies to nuclear hardware.’

  When every box had been signposted, he paused and looked round the hall. Rows of expectant faces were turned towards him. No one moved, there was not a sound. It was understood that no questions would be asked until he had finished his presentation. A beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds lanced through a window directly onto his tinted glasses, casting pink lozenges of light on the stone floor, on the Round Table and on Arthur. The effect was magical and at the same time ominous, as though it were a warning of things to come, of things beyond the control even of Camelot. Agravaine removed his spectacles and wiped them compulsively before putting them on again.

  ‘By means of viruses orworms,’ he continued, ‘often contained in apparently innocent programmes, it is theoretically possible to access and severely damage, or put out of action, any of those boxes on the screen. The people who try to do this – until now, it must be said, with limited success – are called hackers. In the last decade their expertise has grown exponentially. So, it should be said, have the defences designed to protect us against their intrusion. We have learned a great deal about the techniques hackers use, and we have information technology to protect our systems, but . . . there is no such thing as total protection, and there probably never will be. It’s like an arms race. As defences become more sophisticated, so do hackers.’

  Time passed, Agravaine was still talking, and the mood in the Great Hall grew more despondent by the minute. ‘There have been isolated cyber attacks which have caused disruption and resulted in some casualties. In every case, standby or emergency services and equipment such as generators have been successfully used to limit the effects of the attack. But until now no attack has targeted a country’s infrastructure on a massive scale, involving, for example, what are now termed “botnets” – computers hijacked by clandestine viruses. A co- ordinated attack on the systems in these boxes could paralyse a country, or several countries, for a significant period of time. That in itself would be serious enough. Even more serious, any cyber attack might well be accompanied by a physical attack, or by a series of physical attacks – suicide bombers, car bombs, missiles, ‘dirty’ bombs, biological weapons, poisons etc. – the aim, maximum loss of life and also maximum psychological impact.

  ‘As for the choice of targets, the possibilities are endless; oil terminals, ports, ships, town centres, government institutions, important buildings, airports, aircraft, nuclear power stations, and so on.’ Agravaine surveyed the hall. ‘I could go on, but I think you have the general idea.’

  Leo Grant raised his hand. ‘All very interesting, Agravaine,’ he said, ‘but if you’ll forgive me for saying so, there is something missing in your talk.’ A dry smile. ‘You have succeeded in scaring the Round Table – not an easy thing to do. But here’s what I want to know. How do we track down these cyber-terrorists, assuming they are terrorists, so we can deal with them?’

  Leo’s contribution broke the ice. Members banged the table in approval. Agravaine wiped the sweat from his shining bald head. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no simple answer to that question.’

  Leo Grant was not to be fobbed off. ‘Are you saying it can’t be done?’

  Arthur intervened. ‘Like most things man has discovered or invented, the internet is our servant and our master, a blessing and a curse. No use disguising the fact that it can be a potent weapon in the hands of evil men. If it turns out that the men we are dealing with are terrorists, you have my word that we shall track them down.’

  Arthur’s optimistic words sounded to most members more like morale boosting than a realistic appraisal of the situation. Meanwhile, crucial questions remained unanswered. Was the message from Ronin a hoax? Could the power failures in New York have been accidental? Was some misguided hacker or group of hackers behind it?

  Or was there a more sinister explanation?

  Fifty

  The Hand of God


  A week after the second power outage, at exactly 6 p.m. Eastern Seaboard time, vital internet control systems in the USA, Canada, Russia, India, Pakistan, China, Japan, Korea, Australia, and every member of the European Union, were simultaneously targeted by computer viruses. In the skies, Air Traffic Control systems had difficulty making contact with pilots; communication was sporadic – in most cases non- existent. Because many TV and radio networks had shut down, it was difficult for ordinary citizens to follow the developing global crisis. Camelot’s orbiting and static satellites and UAV’s beamed back a huge amount of data, instantly broken down by Neural Network and processed by Techforce Ten. In Galaxy, columns of constantly updated information scrolled down the banks of wall screens.

  Estimate globally several thousand commercial aircraft grounded, many compelled at short notice to land at nearest airport . . . multiple air crash over Beijing… runway collision at London’s Heathrow . . . aircraft crashes at Kennedy airport . . . believe ran out of fuel . . .

  Arthur and Agravaine sat grim-faced at the big central monitor, trying to absorb the mounting toll of disasters.

  Rail crash in France . . . signal failures lead to head-on rail crashes in India . . . thousands feared dead . . . Power failures raise concerns over safety of nuclear power stations in Russia . . . The scale of the attack, and the fact that it was so well co-ordinated, created widespread panic. In Moscow and New York, in Washington, London, Paris and Berlin, in Tokyo, Beijing, Delhi and Karachi, millions fled homes and offices. Major roads out of cities were jammed with traffic, cars and public transport unable to move.

  Global disruption generated fear, and in its wake violence. In almost every city centre angry crowds gathered in the streets, crowds that swiftly became mobs. Tempers frayed, fights broke out, government buildings were besieged and in some cases attacked. Shots were fired and firebombs hurled at the Kremlin in Moscow, the White House in Washington, the Houses of Parliament in London, and the Elysée Palace in Paris.