by Lee Harding
“I know from experience that any transition can be fraught with difficulties but I was pleasantly surprised when it came off smoothly.”
“Did you assist in the installation of the network?”
Alana hesitated. She could see where this was heading and squeezed on the brakes.
“I hope you don’t think I had something to do with the cyber-attack? I’m competent with technology but I’m not a terrorist.”
“I didn’t say you were but I need to know who had access to your systems.”
“The Unbiased Reporter has a Service Level Agreement with Hydra Security. They handle most of the networks on Fleet Street. My login won’t allow me to meddle with anything of importance.”
“And the website; who manages that?”
Alana blushed and looked out the window. “I do.”
“Anyone else?”
“Danny would help to upload articles and of course Roger has the final say over everything.”
She waited to be grilled over her access to the site but it never came.
“Your university; where did you study?”
“Upton. It may not be Oxford or Cambridge but I really enjoyed my time there. Professor Preston was one of the leading pioneers of securing the web during its infancy and taught me for four years.”
“Professor Phillip Preston?”
“You know your Internet history, Michael.”
Alana’s brilliant smile disorientated him for a second. Usually when conducting an interview, whether in the station or informally like this, he was in control. He knew exactly where he wanted to go and if he smelled blood he raced at full tilt, jaws opened wide. But there was something very disarming about this woman. She threw him out of his steady groove.
Alana played with her silver necklace, rubbing the little cubes between her fingers.
“You’re a Cambridge man, I bet?”
It was Michael’s turn to blush. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, the accent gives you away a bit plus the smugness.”
“I’m smug?”
Alana giggled. “More bold.”
“It comes with the job, I suppose.” Suppressing the urge to continue flirting, he said, “Tell me about your family.”
Instantly she changed. The laughter lines at the corners of her mouth dropped like a deflated balloon.
“What about them?”
“Have you a husband, boyfriend, children?”
“No boyfriend, not married and definitely don’t have kids. My parents are alive and well and I have a younger sister called Paula. A year ago I became an aunt for the first time. And that’s it.”
An alarm bell sounded in Michael’s head. She’s hiding something.
“Alana, we’ve been examining your office computer since Monday and found something of possible significance.”
Alana set her cup down. “Were you able to recover my data?”
“No, I’m talking about a text file that wasn’t affected.”
Michael reached around to dip his hand into his coat. Alana read the paper as he studied her reaction. At the top the name of the file was printed and it made her reel.
alana.txt...You are the key.
“But what does it mean?” she said, looking up at him in horror.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I’ve never seen this before, I swear.”
Alana noticed some numbers on the footer. A date.
“Look, this says the file was created at 01:32 GMT 5th November; exactly when the attack happened.”
“So you didn’t create it?”
“Why would I write something like that? Have you any clue who did?”
Michael rubbed the stubble on his cheek before replying. “At the moment, no we don’t.”
Chapter 7
11th November 16:14
Swatting the cordless mouse made the five, ultra-high definition monitors wake from their hibernation. He raised his legs onto the memory-foam cushion which moulded his form perfectly. His fingers flexed above the keyboard in anticipation and he smiled. This was his war room, his command centre, and occupying this throne made him a king.
He chuckled at the metaphor. He never could take himself too seriously. But over the long, arduous months of intense work he came to realize that a little comfort went a long way in reaching his maximum potential. And that was something he did not jest with.
A miniature mouse sat to the right, its glowing red eye piercing the darkness. He lay back and blinking away the sleep, moved the pointer to the centre screen.
The operating system was a unique recipe of hacker tools that secured him from all online threats. He designed the software himself. That was one job he could never trust to outsource. His safety and those who he cared for depended on it. His online handle was Guy. It was a play on a regular man for that’s all he really was; just an ordinary guy whose life had been upturned.
Except that he wasn’t ordinary and neither was his story. Once he lived a normal life until he fell. From that moment on the plunge into darkness had never stopped. It was of his own doing yet it went too far. Those entrusted to pull him back up failed and those who could have shared his story to help others abused it to taunt and destroy. He would never allow them to do that to other fallen guys. Never.
Guy was also synonymous with Guy Fawkes, his own personal hero of medieval history. Although Fawkes failed in his bid to reform Britain by blowing up the Houses of Parliament, still his legacy lived on. To this day they burned the effigy of the Guy on their bonfires not realizing his name planted a seed of rebellion in the hearts of each successive generation. Subconscious defiance, he termed it.
Guy Fawkes’s image was aligned to the hacking collective known as Anonymous. He sided with them many years ago, attacking large, soulless corporations. Anonymous began in the primordial soup called the Chan Boards, a website dedicated to the inane and diverse. At first it was just for lols. If a celebrity who advocated healthy eating to sell her New Year’s diet DVD was caught with her hand in the cookie jar then it was pay day. They hacked into her social network account posting anti-slimming messages and bombarded her house with pizza deliveries. It was really harmless fun. As a mantle they took the image of V from the film V For Vendetta. The hero was a modern-day Fawkes who frees the people from a corrupt government and a world of tyranny. Guy’s plans went far beyond that.
He eventually had enough of Anonymous. Their pranks collided with his ideals and the ludicrous notion that they were saving the world was pathetic. They were merely anarchists; no discipline, no real objectives, and no clue of the power they wielded. Guy was a visionary but fundamentally he was a realist. He knew what could and could not be done. Now that he had unlimited resources at his disposal he could finally begin his master plan of reform. And it was unfolding before his eyes.
The encrypted chat programme filled the largest screen and he logged on. All Internet activity was routed through a myriad of proxies spread across the globe. They alternated each hour so if someone tried to trace the original source and somehow followed the chain back to him their findings would be redundant by the time they arrived. To be extra safe he utilized his own web browser to ensure he remained incognito.
One of the reasons he found it so easy to crack and hack was that most were too trusting in their security programmes to protect them. Pre-installed software to thwart the online baddies was rendered useless when a user failed to update either by ignorance or negligence. Hackers prided themselves in sniffing out vulnerabilities and often attacked without warning in a zero-day exploit. No anti-malware or anti-virus programme could deter against an unseen weapon and Guy would save the best to last.
He once had a conscience about breaking-in to another person’s private virtual world but since the incident all barriers were broken. No one had stopped to consider his privacy or that of his family. In a way, he was teaching the world an important lesson about the reality in a virtual world, a lesson they would
not soon forget. Fundamentally that was what Wreckoning stood for – revealing the truth no matter the consequences.
A whoosh echoed through the speakers. It was a sound effect that heralded the arrival of a new party into the chat room. He began to type.
Guy: Good morning.
Mr Knox: Good afternoon and happy Remembrance Day.
Guy: How’s the weather there?
Mr Knox: Need you ask? There’s no point asking you the same question.
Guy: The others should be joining us soon.
As if on cue the whoosh fx sounded twice in succession.
Woogie and Pierce have entered the chat.
Guy: Welcome.
Woogie: Thanks.
Pierce: D-Day is almost here!!
Mr Knox: Is SF2 online yet?
Woogie: We were working together a few hours ago. He was finishing the debugging of Hijax.
Guy: We can start without him. I need status reports from everyone.
Woogie: You asked for some real-time feedback about people’s perception of Wreckoning. The response is mixed. Our biggest demographic of support comes from males aged between 13-29 and the largest detractors are those with a family income of over £50,000.
Pierce: Figures. Print is dead to the youth and the only news they care about is drip fed from YouTube.
Mr Knox: Any idiot could have predicted that. What about tomorrow’s deadline?
Woogie: The press are terrified. So are the Government.
Pierce: Their Prime Minister vows to never lay down for terrorists. What a crock.
Mr Knox: He thinks he’s Winston Churchill reincarnated.
Guy: But you said they’re rattled?
Woogie: I’ve been reading their internal memos. Pressure from the media moguls has been enormous. Social media chatter between them is verging on panic.
Guy: Excellent. Hijax is progressing well?
Woogie: From what I’ve seen, hell yeah! SF2 can update you better though.
Guy: Pierce, your turn.
Pierce: The media companies are trying to snap up computers to get their networks up and running. I’ve put a thorn in their flesh by infiltrating the major couriers. Any parcel earmarked for an address on our database gets redirected straight back to the loading bay ;)
Woogie: Nice one.
Guy: And the new stock that’s gotten through?
Pierce: A couple of anonymous calls to the Inland Revenue helpfully pointing out some irregularities in the network engineers’ accounts means they’re preoccupied.
Guy: Come tomorrow leave all first strike targets and concentrate on your next assignment.
Pierce: Will do.
Guy: Knox, update me on Phase 2.
Mr. Knox: Almost complete. The scanners have been troublesome but a few friends helped resolve that. All senior members’ details have been collated and I’ve uploaded them for your perusal.
An paperclip icon flashed and Guy dragged it outside the chat window. The egg timer counted down the seconds until the files decrypted. A photograph of a familiar man in a wig filled a smaller screen. Below it was a section of dividers displaying the intimate details of the subject’s life. Including some surprises.
Guy: Is that true?
Mr Knox: I triple checked it. That one has a few skeletons in his closet.
Guy: My, he won’t be pleased. I’ll read through the others today. Well done.
Whoosh...SF2 has entered the chat.
SF2: Sorry I’m late. Been working on some bugs.
Guy: Any issues I need to be aware of?
SF2: Only one and I’m afraid it’s not good. Seems a wake-up call from Lloyd’s Insurers has finally made one of them upgrade their firewall. It’s new tech and there’s no known hacks.
Guy: You’re saying Hijax won’t work?
SF2: Not on that one. We need another plan or else skip it entirely.
Guy: No. It’s all or nothing. Leave this with me.
Woogie: Is the next video ready?
Guy: I’m editing the final cut today. Everything’s going to schedule and I want to thank you for keeping your end of the deal. Soon you’ll all be part of history.
Guy finished the session and logged off. Essentially they were mercenaries for hire but he believed they shared his vision to one degree or another. Mr Knox especially had been an advocate from the outset and loyal to the cause. And if the worst did happen and they were tracked down they would still receive a handsome reward and their families be looked after as he had promised.
Before returning his attention to the next video, Guy called up his email. The next step in his design would now be activated. He started to type.
Chapter 8
12th November 11:50
“Turn up the volume.”
Danny retrieved the controller while Smitty and Audrey positioned the TV set so everyone could see.
Still without access to their office computers, several of the staff had brought their laptops and tablets to the office. Roger was adamant about not reconnecting the Internet so they had to make do with a fluttering wi-fi signal from the magazine business beneath them. The television was borrowed from his daughter’s room. She had moved out the previous month along with his wife of twenty-three years. They also took the dog.
Audrey stretched the aerial cable to breaking point and stabbed it blindly at the connection port at the back.
“You’re missing it. Come towards my hand.”
Audrey managed to brush the hole with her finger and slotted it in. The screen adjusted as the signal was injected. A moment later and the BBC News channel appeared.
Alana sat on Danny’s desk and resisted the urge to swing her legs which dangled above the floor. Deirdre was at the opposite end, idly peeling away some chipped paint from her fingernails. Smitty pulled his swivel chair to sit down. Danny sat on the table too and tried not to show disappointment as Alana motioned for Audrey to shuffle between them. Roger clasped his hands behind his head.
It was nearing noon, the deadline Wreckoning set six days earlier. Silently the staff of The Unbiased Reporter watched the news.
“As the cut-off point approaches,” the anchor woman said, a brunette with high cheekbones and a grim expression, “no further statements have come from Downing Street. Yesterday, Prime Minister Max Martin issued a forthright condemnation of the cyber terrorists’ actions and vowed to never give in.”
A video showed Martin delivering a stern speech as the world’s press looked on.
“These terrorists are trying to bully us into submission. They are attempting to deny our right to freedom of speech and remove our humanity. We will not tolerate it. The British public reject your demands.”
As he finished, a flood of questions streamed from the surrounding journalists. Bathed in a sea of flashing bulbs, the Prime Minister decided to answer the most pressing query.
“Yes, we are closing in on them. I have assembled a multi-agency taskforce to work alongside Scotland Yard’s Cyber Terrorism Unit. It is only a matter of time before the terrorists are brought to justice.”
The anchor woman’s face filled the screen in a dramatic close-up. “The British Press Association is in accord with the Government’s decision not to give in to the terrorists’ demands. They have stated they have measures in place to ensure no further cyber-attacks can occur. What if they’re wrong?”
Deirdre snorted as Martin fumbled to give an answer. Alana could read the Prime Minister’s expression all too well. Before his fear could be further exposed red writing scrolled across the bottom of the monitor:
NEWS FLASH.
“We have just received word that the cyber terrorists who call themselves Wreckoning have uploaded another video. We are going to stream the footage to you live. Please be aware that viewer discretion is advised.”
The screen went dark. Alana’s eyes flicked between the shadows until the familiar silhouette of a mask appeared. The Union Jack flag woven into a hideous skull seeped into view. The shadows
were dispelled as the image of a burning newspaper blazoned behind the figure. The cool, clear female voice spoke.
“Your time for reform has come to an end. You have failed in your task to bridle the paparazzi monster and to stop its vile reign of corruption and tyranny. For your wilful ignorance and arrogance you, like they, must be judged.
“As of noon today, all the data encrypted on the computers of the British press will be destroyed. Any attempt to rebuild that arrogant and corrupt institution will fail, you have our word. To ensure that happens, we have some news that the media wish to keep from you. They have hidden their own dirty little secrets while simultaneously exposing the alleged actions of the innocent before they have a chance to defend themselves. We have decided to share this with the world but have much more in store. The British press has been judged and justice has been served.”
Alana closed her eyes. They had actually done it. Without being present for the solemn phone call that would soon come from Hydra Security she knew what they would say. Any attempt to power-up the hard drives of their office computers would trigger the permanent deletion of their data. Any back-ups of the encrypted files would also disappear. The only hope would be to manually reinstall everything and use the back-ups made before 5th November, unless they were infected too, which they probably were. But the talk of a new threat was a surprise and Alana wondered exactly what the hackers had meant.
As they chatted amongst themselves in hushed tones, Roger’s cardigan pocket hummed. The poor man’s nerves were already on tenterhooks. Realizing it wasn’t the overdue heart attack, he checked to see who was calling. Alana noticed her boss’s face drain as he walked into his office. After some meek replies and furtive nodding he returned. He drew a breath before addressing his staff.
“That was Sir Ian on the phone. He’s quite distressed. It seems someone has posted a few unflattering photographs of him and a, ehm, lady friend on a social networking site.”
Deirdre laughed. Exasperated, Roger continued. “He is holding Wreckoning fully responsible and has demanded that, in his words, “those buggers be found”. He wants all available resources to be used to track them down. As of now The Unbiased Reporter is no longer a functioning newspaper. However, you are still journalists so I need you dedicated to this assignment.” He coughed to clear his throat. “I don’t need to remind you that if these people are not stopped then your jobs are on the line.”