Hacked

by Tracy Alexander

  ‘Joe told me,’ said Ty.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said.

  Ty shoved me and I stumbled. ‘Shut it, Dan. He’s worried, and so should you be.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, wide-eyed with pretend surprise.

  ‘Leave it out, Dan,’ said Joe.

  ‘Explain,’ said Ty, ‘from the beginning.’

  We sat on the roundabout, which Joe occasionally pushed with his foot to keep us slowly circling. As ordered, I went through the dominoes, and in between emphasised my complete ignorance of any sinister plot.

  ‘If Angel had asked you to jump in a lake, would you?’ said Ty, sounding like someone’s mum.

  Angel once typed that – it was a joke. Not so funny now.

  ‘It doesn’t matter why he did it,’ said Joe, ‘not now. What matters is what he does next.’ A fair summary.

  They both looked at me.

  ‘Dronejacker isn’t definitely Angel,’ I said, half-heartedly.

  ‘So you’re not going to do anything?’ said Ty. ‘Just see what happens?’

  He was waiting for me to declare I’d leave no stone unturned to stop the London bomber. He’d be waiting a while.

  ‘Dan, listen, if there’s enough of a chance Angel’s for real, you have to confess.’

  Unbelievably, Joe’s word went straight through all the decision areas of my brain to its conscience. I missed a beat. Was he really suggesting I, Dan Langley, should ring … the police, the FBI, MI5, Southmead Police Station, 101, 999, Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes?

  ‘Joe’s right,’ said Ty. ‘If you come clean they’ll be much more lenient with you.’

  I hadn’t even considered confessing. Did that make me a psychopath, or sociopath, or plain old nutter? Causing havoc and taking no responsibility.

  ‘No one will believe me,’ I said, after a complete revolution of the roundabout. ‘They’ll think I’m a terrorist.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ said Ty. I pitied his future brain-surgery patients, asked to choose between a radical life-threatening operation and a slow decline, with no sign of compassion.

  ‘But I could end up handing myself in and finding out that I was nothing to do with any of it … that it wasn’t Angel at all.’

  ‘And thousands of people, kids, grandmas, whatever, might die if you don’t.’

  ‘Might,’ I said.

  Their silence was more condemning than any words. I pictured my dead grandad, and Ty’s great-grandma (who had whiskers like a cat) and Mandela, then Malala, the fifteen-year-old girl that got shot by the Taliban but says she doesn’t hate them, and the woman coming out of the Tube station after 7/7, her face covered in white burn dressings …

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ said Ty.

  It took some time to sink in. As it did, my body sank with it. I leant back against the pole in the centre of the roundabout and let all my organs hang off my skeleton.

  We circled again. The swings were to-ing and froing – entertaining ghost children. The sun was setting, pinkish sky. The gate was shut, keeping out unwanted dogs, keeping in pre-school children. Not that there were any.

  We circled again.

  ‘Don’t make us do it for you,’ said Ty.

  He was threatening me. I looked at him – a pillar of society. Neat, fair hair with the quiff just so, clever, responsible, dressed in beige chinos and a dark green jumper with a zip-neck – preppy-look, I think they call it. Even his scar was tidy. A world away from his any-old-iron dad. I switched to Joe. Cool, street, edgy. An image of myself flashed in front of my eyes – a mug shot. Words to go with it – odd, geeky, outsider.

  Joe dug his heel in and we ground to a halt.

  ‘You’ve got vital information,’ he said. ‘You have to give it to the police.’

  A burst of Darth Vader interrupted their attempt to convince me. It was Ruby. I picked up.

  ‘Dan, something’s up, isn’t it?’ she said. Too much to deal with. I cut her off. Vodafone could take the blame. If Pay As You Go King turned out to be King of Drones she’d never speak to me again, anyway.

  ‘So …?’ Ty was staring at me.

  I was in a corner.

  ‘It’s not a game, Dan. It’s for real,’ said Joe. ‘Angel’s for real.’

  28

  A ton of revolutions later, we had a plan of sorts – one that didn’t involve me getting the electric chair. Ty summarised, with Joe adding bits in.

  ‘Call Crimestoppers from a phone box and tell them everything you know,’ said Ty. He rubbed his eyes. Tiredness was still a real problem, thanks to the white van.

  ‘Except your name,’ said Joe.

  ‘If they want evidence – to prove you’re not a hoaxer, agree to call back with some,’ said Ty.

  ‘From a different phone,’ said Joe.

  ‘I haven’t got any evidence,’ I said.

  ‘The code,’ said Ty.

  ‘I can’t send it down the telephone wire,’ I said, then quickly changed my tone. ‘I could spoof an SMTP address and send them an email with the code.’

  ‘Won’t they trace it to you?’ said Joe.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Play it by ear,’ said Ty.

  ‘If you’ve told them all you know, whatever happens afterwards isn’t down to you,’ said Joe.

  ‘It’s still partly his fault,’ said Ty, prefect material through and through.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ said Joe.

  ‘Now?’ I had an unexpectedly high voice.

  ‘The deadline’s tomorrow lunchtime,’ said Joe. ‘There’s no time to waste.’

  Oh yes there is … Think, Dan. Think quickly.

  ‘I can’t. I need to think about what to say.’

  ‘The truth,’ said Ty, getting fed up with me.

  ‘You wrote some code that let you control a spy drone, and gave it to someone called Angel. That’s your script,’ said Joe.

  Something about the way he said it jogged an idea and sent a little current of hope through my grey matter.

  ‘Actually there’s something else I need to try first. If Angel did use my hack to steal the drone, I might be able to use it too … maybe get it back.’

  We had a short burst of raised voices. Joe saying, ‘Have a go.’ Ty saying, ‘No, leave it to the police. You’ve done enough damage.’ Me insisting I had to try.

  ‘I’ll have a quick look for the drone before I call the police – just in case. Then I’ll use VoIP to route the call through a website from home, that’s as good as a call box … better, in fact. I’ll do it when everyone’s asleep. Promise.’

  I hated the way I was begging, but there was a risk I’d be frogmarched to Southmead Road, and I hated that idea more.

  Ty and Joe looked at each other and made a telepathic agreement without any discernable facial movements or hand signals.

  ‘You’d better,’ said Joe.

  ‘Let us know what happens,’ said Ty.

  ‘And let’s meet tomorrow,’ said Joe. ‘Nine? On the corner?’

  ‘Done,’ said Ty. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He stepped off the roundabout. ‘I’m bushed.’

  ‘If you’re in the clear, I’ll buy you a bacon sandwich,’ said Joe.

  The gate clanged as we walked through it. A few streets on, we went our separate ways. I had no intention of sticking to the plan, or at least not the confessing bit. I loped home in the dark, enjoying the drop in temperature, got a packet of chocolate digestives and a Coke and set to work.

  Hope is a marvellous thing.

  My window into the military server via the base station was still there. Good. Once inside, I set about replicating the hack that let me control the combat drone, but … two biscuits down, I’d already failed. The way had been locked down, barred and grilled. That meant two things. Firstly, I had no chance of finding the stolen drone. Secondly, someone somewhere — cancel that. Secondly, a cyber expert in the US Government’s defence department had found the breach. And that meant they were, quite possibly, on Angel’s trail. A
nd if they were, a confession from me wouldn’t help, because they already knew what I knew. All good.

  The downside of my discovery was less pleasant to consider. If it wasn’t Angel that was threatening the home of Big Ben, the only other person to have used that particular route in was me, so they’d be on my trail. If I hadn’t been so thorough in covering my tracks, that would have been a more alarming thought. Routing through six third-party servers spread across the world made the chances of finding me miniscule. I wondered whether Angel had been as careful … Probably not. If he couldn’t write the code, he wouldn’t know how to avoid leaving footprints either. They were bound to be on to him.

  It was a relief when my logical brain concluded that no action was the best plan. For all I knew, they were arresting Angel right now. By the time I saw Joe and Ty in the morning, the papers would be rejoicing in the dominance of good over evil, praising UK security for standing tall in the face of terror. (I’d make a good journalist – headlines just come to me.)

  Making quips in my head in the middle of a crisis made me think of how Grandad was still cracking jokes on his deathbed. Maybe it was genetic … Whatever, it had to be better than the alternative, which was to collapse, wailing, ‘I’ve ruined my life. Sob. Sob.’

  29

  Sleeping was out of the question. I went downstairs to get provisions for a night of … gaming, exploring, maybe stumbling upon Angel …

  ‘Come in here a minute,’ said Dad as I passed the door to the telly room. He was watching with Mum – rare.

  ‘I’m just getting some —’

  ‘Shhh!’ said Dad.

  Mum looked over and pressed her finger across her lips. The news was on. I felt a flutter of panic, praying it would only be the football results or a tax announcement for Dad to get all shirty about. It took a few words for me to tune in.

  ‘… British Government does not negotiate with terrorists but in this instance the threat to the general public combined with the explicit nature of that threat has impelled the Secretary of State for Defence to ask for a dialogue. In this unprecedented move …’

  If I’d had dogs’ ears to prick up, up they’d have gone.

  ‘What did I miss?’

  El appeared in her Hello Kitty onesie.

  ‘He’s going to bomb London,’ she said. ‘Like in the Blitz.’

  ‘She’s not wrong,’ said Dad. ‘They’ve decided that Dronejacker really does have a drone, and plans to use it. They want to negotiate, but in case he won’t, likely targets in London are being evacuated.’

  ‘There are helicopters and all sorts searching for the drone,’ said Mum. ‘Evidently they’re hard to find. You wouldn’t think you could lose one, would you?’

  ‘It’s a proper emergency,’ said Dad. ‘They’ve got the Eurofighters at the ready to shoot it down. Bloody terrorists.’

  ‘How much damage can one drone do?’ asked Mum.

  ‘It’s the missiles they fire, not the drones themselves,’ said Dad, stating the obvious – his speciality.

  ‘They can vaporise a car and everyone in it,’ I said. ‘Anyone nearby would get shrapnel damage – lose legs and arms, hearing, sight. The blast waves alone can crush your organs.’

  ‘I’m glad we don’t live in London,’ said El. ‘I don’t want a bomb on my head.’

  ‘Nor me,’ I said, as casually as I could. I walked out of the door, went via the kitchen as planned, and then back upstairs. I put the Coke on my side table, took a couple of yogic breaths and read the full statement from the Secretary of State for Defence which was on the news page of the BBC, right where the terrorist had put his threat. While I waited for everyone to go to bed, I cycled through various sites. Like Dad said, London was really jittery – no one knew whether to leg it or stay put. In a city of eight million, the chances of getting hit were tiny, but reading the sensationalist coverage, I could see why people were panicking.

  There were reports of traffic jams, people abandoning cars and walking, Tube stations closed due to overcrowding, police presence outside the Houses of Parliament, Number 10, Buckingham Palace and on all the bridges. Speculation about both the likely target and the current whereabouts of the drone filled pages and pages, as did the big question: Why?

  Everyone had a theory. Dronejacker was a disgruntled ex-serviceman, a fanatical Muslim, someone ‘on the spectrum’ like Gary McKinnon, an anti-capitalist, an anti-American, Eeyore, Kevin Bacon … But the most plausible was that Angel was something to do with a territory that was plagued by drone strikes on civilians – Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen …

  By eleven-thirty the house was dark and quiet. There was no point putting off the inevitable. Angel was real. The drone was real. The threat was real. I had to do something.

  But I didn’t. Time ticked. I sat. How warped was Angel that he made strangers do his dirty work for him? I wanted to tie a rope round his neck, whack him with the lead piping or the spanner … I didn’t want to admit my part, own up, be brave … but Angel made me.

  The response to the government came back on the BBC’s Twitter feed at midnight (using 149 characters).

  The job goes ahead at noon. How does it feel, civilians, to be at the mercy of an unmanned flying weapon? By the way, Dronejacker’s good. I like it.

  My phone started juddering away on silent (shouldn’t silent be silent?) but I didn’t bother seeing who it was. I had nothing to say to Ruby – I’d shoved everything about her away in a little-used bit of cortex. And Joe and Ty could wait for an update. At least I’d have something to tell them when I met them at nine, thoroughly deserving my bacon sandwich.

  I set up a VoIP call to Crimestoppers via a random Skype account in Dharamsala (I think the Dalai Lama lives there). A female voice answered, said she was called Rachel. I didn’t give her time to say her bit, just ploughed straight in.

  ‘I wrote some code that got control of a US drone. I gave it away to a stranger called Angel. I think he’s Dronejacker.’

  Confessing wasn’t anything like as bad as I expected.

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘I don’t want to give my name.’

  ‘That’s all right. Can you tell me any more about … did you say Angel?’

  ‘Yes. And no I can’t. I don’t know who he is.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘On lots of forums, and then on IRC. And lots of places.’

  She asked me a few more questions that showed she had no idea what I was on about. My answers were all the same. No, I didn’t know what he looked like. No, I had no other name for him. You get the gist.

  ‘Can you stay on the line while I get someone else to talk to you?’ she said.

  Good move.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  I waited. In front of my eyes, London’s level of panic rose in pictures and words. Loads of journos, bloggers and tweeters had now drawn the same conclusion from Angel’s choice of word – civilians. It fitted. Examples of drones killing innocent people were everywhere. US drones annihilated a whole wedding party in Yemen. In Pakistan, eighteen labourers were killed while they were waiting for their dinner. The military called the casualties ‘collateral damage’. Anti-drone groups called them war crimes. People were angry (understandably), and one of those people was Dronejacker. If civilians were the target, London was right to panic.

  ‘Hello, I’m Rick. I understand you don’t want to give your name.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘Can you tell me what you told my colleague, Rachel?’

  I repeated what I’d said.

  ‘That’s very interesting. Thank you for calling. We’ll keep an eye out for Angel, or any other callers that mention his name.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Thank you again. Please understand that we’re very busy here today, and have other information that we need to prioritise.’ There was a pause. ‘We could call you back when it’s quieter if you gave us a name and number …’

&
nbsp; ‘No, thank you.’

  That was the end of the conversation. He didn’t believe me, had me down as a crackpot. Unless they were already hot on the tail of a well-organised gang of hackers, nothing to do with Angel.

  Stop dreaming, Dan.

  I looked back at Dronejacker’s response to the government’s attempt to negotiate. The first six words:

  The job goes ahead at noon.

  Stupid Dan! What did Angel always say?

  good job

  bad job

  great job

  It was him. For definite. I was involved. For definite.

  Everything was pixel sharp. For the first time, I had a clear idea of what to do. I rang 101, gave my name and address, and started to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. (That statement is an exaggeration.)

  ‘Can I stop you there?’ said the voice. ‘I need to put you through to an officer.’ Who was I talking to? A school leaver on minimum wage?

  I waited for, hopefully, a senior policeman … maybe they were putting me through to Scotland Yard … The feeling that I was, at last, doing the right thing was, surprisingly, as good as when I was doing the wrong thing i.e. hijacking the spy drone. I wouldn’t be treated like Gary McKinnon, because I was about to save the day.

  ‘Hello, Dan,’ said the voice. ‘This is Police Constable Helen Perry.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, ready to agree to them seizing my computer, phone, laptop … Keen to be the most helpful citizen on the planet to stop London exploding in … eight hours and eleven minutes. The squad cars were probably already on their way to me …

  ‘Dan, I’ve had a talk with my fellow officer and we think you should tell your parents about your call to us today. We could send someone round but it might be better for you to broach the subject yourself. The internet isn’t the safe place it seems, Dan.’

  I started to speak really quickly, explaining it all again, trying to get her to understand. But the more I spoke the more I could read her thoughts: Poor deluded kid, probably from a troubled background.