Rebel Dark

Chapter 3

3

Somewhere Over Switzerland

Driver hovered on Baptiste’s shoulder as he scrolled through a deluge of stories on the major news sites from around the world.

Le Monde, CNN, the BBC, Pravda and China Daily were all reporting catastrophes, yet none of them made sense. According to the French news site, aliens had taken out power grids in Paris, London and New York. China Daily claimed Beijing had vanished into thin air. And according to CNN, Syrian troops had invaded Texas, setting fire to its oilfields.

‘Nothing but fake news,’ said Baptiste, shaking his head.

‘It would help if my signal didn’t keep cutting out,’ Lim added, joining the party towards the front of the plane.

‘Mine too,’ Rios sighed, slapping her phone in frustration.

‘Must be a glitch in the networks,’ Driver said, staring at her own grey bars.

Baptiste cursed in French as his laptop screen buffered and froze.

Driver left the others to wrestle with the devices, making her way to the cockpit.

The jet course-corrected, throwing her off-balance as the Gulfstream banked right and lost altitude.

Funny, the jet would have still been operating under its autopilot at this point in the journey. Yet being an ex-Navy pilot, she knew a manual turn when she felt one.

For one thing, they were never as smooth. With the jet levelling its wings, Driver knocked on the cockpit door. The co-pilot pushed it open, a slip of a guy in his thirties with ginger hair and freckles. The captain was older, greyer and broader, hands working the stick and throttle as he communicated with a control tower.

‘You guys hear of anything strange on the ground?’ Driver asked.

‘I’ll say,’ the English captain replied. ‘Charles de Gaulle is a car park and our airfield is out of lights.’

‘We’ve found somewhere else to land,’ added the co-pilot in apologetic Swiss tones.

‘Could be a bit of a drive home,’ warned the captain.

‘Anywhere on the ground will do,’ said Driver. ‘You not flying autopilot?’

The captain shook his head. ‘Problems with the GPS. Keeps throwing us off-course.’

Driver smiled. ‘Almost like flying for real, huh?’

The captain laughed. ‘I’d forgotten how fun it was.’

Patting him on the shoulder, Driver closed the cockpit door and returned to the cabin. She peered again out of the window. ‘What the hell’s going on down there. Any real news?’

‘Yeah,’ said Pope, screwing up a demolished bag of mini pretzels. ‘We’re out of these twig things now, too.’

The White House, Washington D.C.

Tyler Williams, America’s second black President, strode along the marble corridors of the White House with his Chief of Staff, Bill Ross by his side. A half-dozen secret service agents swarmed around him. Only months into his term, the Democrat leader was facing yet another global crisis. President Williams had promised peace and stability to the American people. And he was still restoring international relations following his predecessor’s combustible personality.

After the bombings in Washington and Moscow and the events in Rome, he thought it couldn’t get any worse. But now this?

‘We’re getting reports of power outages across the country,’ Ross said, light on breath and heavy on lines in his tired, pained face. ‘JFK and LAX are inoperable and then there are the oilfields in Texas.’

‘Is it just us?’ Williams asked, hurried along by his security.

‘No, Mr President. We’re hearing the rest of the world, the same, though it’s hard to tell through all the fake news.’

Williams turned left, following a pair of broad-shouldered secret service agents.

‘We’re also getting wind that there are problems with weather reporting systems,’ added Ross.

‘Getting wind? During hurricane season? Nice choice of words, Bill.’

Ross shrugged in apology.

‘Right, well let’s find out what the hell’s going on,’ Williams said.

‘Everyone’s waiting, sir,’ Ross confirmed.

As a man who’d forgotten what it was like to open a door, Williams didn’t break stride as he entered the room. The entire table rose as one at his arrival. He waved them back into their large black leather swing chairs as he took his own seat at the head of the room.

The table was awash with laptops and papers, the room bland with the Presidential seal the only touch of flair.

A large projection at the far end featured multiple screens playing news footage from around the world. A further six flatscreens either side of the room lay blank and dormant.

With the door closed and Ross taking his place against the inside wall, Williams surveyed the faces around the table. All the usual decision-makers were there, including his Secretary of Defense, the Joint Chiefs and the Director of the CIA.

The President took a breath and straightened his crimson-coloured tie. His senior staff paused in silence, all eyes fixed on his commanding six-foot-three presence. ‘So what are we looking at?’ he asked in his deep, calm Florida accent.

There was silence around the room as the experienced heads looked to each other for an answer.

‘Well don’t all speak at once,’ Williams continued.

‘We think it’s a terrorist attack, Mr President,’ offered CIA chief Todd Schneider, his fat wedge of raven-black hair gelled to within an inch of its life.

‘Well I figured that out for myself,’ Williams replied.

Schneider shifted his barrel frame in his seat. ‘More specifically, cyberterrorists.’

‘Any idea who?’ Williams asked.

‘Could be state-sponsored,’ Secretary of Defense Helen Danbridge replied, thirty years his senior in a mauve trouser suit.

General Joe Budge, squeezed into his US Army uniform shook his head, ‘Fake news or no, there are reports of attacks all over the place. Even the Kremlin’s been shut down.’

‘So we can rule out the Russians,’ Williams said, rubbing a hand over a square, clean-shaven jaw. ‘Who else would have the power to do this?’

‘Aside from us?’ Schneider replied. ‘Israel, China, but the intel I’m getting is that we’re all suffering, apart from the Saudis. And what reason could they have?’

‘Could be a jihadi group,’ offered Budge.

‘You think they’ve got the resources for this?’ Danbridge asked, appearing far from convinced.

‘Either way, what are we doing to resolve the situation?’ Williams asked Schneider as he stole a sip of water.

The CIA Director set down the glass. ‘We’re working to clarify the exact nature and scope of the attacks.’

‘And we’ve got teams of white hats working on it right now,’ added Danbridge. ‘Plus, we’ve scheduled an emergency call with the French President and British PM.’ Danbridge’s phone buzzed on the conference table. She checked the screen. ‘We’re ready for a call right now, sir.’

‘Tee it up,’ Williams ordered, looking towards the big screen at the end of the room.

Within seconds, the images from CNN were replaced by a split-screen video call of the British and French heads of state.

Prime Minister Judith Chambers was a grandmotherly figure in a staid blue suit. In contrast, French President Henri Berger appeared in a tuxedo, as if pulled from an event. His tanned, handsome face betrayed a sense of alarm and confusion, his dark mane of hair greying with every week in the job.

Williams knew the feeling and greeted them with his usual warmth.

Prime Minister Chambers was business-like as ever. ‘I’ve just come from a COBRA meeting. We’re convinced it’s not Russia or China. Or any other state for that matter.’

President Berger agreed. ‘Everyone’s suffering.’

‘What’s the picture like over there?’ Williams asked.

‘Bleak,’ Chambers replied in her dour manner. ‘London is without power and all flights remain suspended.’

‘And President Berger?’ Williams asked.

‘The same here,’ Berger replied. ‘We understand the corporate sector has been hit worldwide. Viruses and data leaks. The stock market is going to go – well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘The stock market can wait,’ said Williams. ‘I’m more concerned about the burning oilfields in Texas.’

‘Don’t forget China, Siberia and Canada,’ Chambers muttered. ‘And we thought we had a fuel crisis before…’

Berger shook his head. ‘And right after we remove Kravchenko.’

Williams leaned forward in his seat, itching to take action. ‘So we’re agreed it’s a global terror attack. Can we agree on a course of action?’

‘MI6 are recommending a coordinated response,’ Chambers replied.

‘I agree,’ said Berger.

Williams looked towards Schneider, his head buried in the screen of his laptop. ‘Bill?’

Schneider glanced up. ‘I’m in communication with the head of MI6 now, sir. Our best white hats are already fighting to regain control.’

‘Bring French intelligence into the conversation,’ continued Williams, motioning to General Budge. ‘And tag-team with the military on this one. I want everyone with a computer and a pulse on the job.’

Schneider nodded. ‘Yes, Mr President.’

Berger loosened the bow-tie around his neck. ‘In the meantime, may I suggest we get our friends in the East on a call?’

‘Let’s make it happen,’ Williams agreed. ‘The sooner the better. The last thing we want are any misunderstandings.’

As Williams’ European allies disappeared from the screen, he turned to Danbridge. ‘What can we do to trace the source of the hacks?’

‘You mean other than tracking the ISPs?’ she responded.

Williams nodded.

‘Not much,’ Schneider said, ‘but we’re working with the NSA on monitoring chatter.’

‘I propose we put the National Guard on standby,’ Budge said.

‘What about FEMA?’ Danbridge added.

‘We’re not at that point yet,’ said Schneider.

‘We soon will be,’ Budge replied.

President Williams shook his head. ‘We have two priorities right now,’ he said, tapping a finger on the table. ‘One is stopping further breaches of our national security. And two is establishing the source and scope of the attacks. I can’t reassure the American public if I’m as much in the dark as them.’ Williams slapped the table and stood from his chair. ‘Let’s get to work.’

Langley, Virginia

Deep in the bowels of the CIA headquarters, Jemal Awad typed in a panic, his white cotton shirt damp under the armpits, mouth dry and water bottle empty. The young white hat stopped and stared at the screen, running a hand over his mouth. This couldn’t be happening. This really couldn’t be happening. He pushed his chair away from his desk and swung around, looking for his team supervisor, Duncan. He was new and miles out of his depth.

A micro manager with zero coding knowledge, Duncan had been parachuted in to drive up efficiency – whatever that meant.

Jemal spotted the beanpole forty-year-old with his trademark rectangular glasses. He was lingering close to Amy, a fellow member of the cybersecurity team.

Duncan’s face fell all the way to the dark-blue carpet, the glare from the artificial lights reflecting off his glasses.

Jemal sprung from his chair and hurried across the floor. ‘Are you seeing this?’

‘I don’t know what I’m seeing,’ Duncan replied, his eyes glued to Amy’s screen.

The supervisor’s shallow breathing suggested he had every idea.

‘Russian Dolls,’ Jemal said, as Amy nodded in agreement.

Duncan flashed angry. ‘What are you saying? You coders. Plain English, please.’

‘Plain English?’ Jemal replied. ‘They left a trail for us to follow, and set a series of booby traps.’

‘We call them Russian Dolls,’ said Amy.

‘So?’ Duncan flapped.

‘So we walked right into it,’ Jemal continued. ‘And now they’ve got access to our entire network.’

‘When you say our network, you mean—’

‘They’ve got the CIA by the balls,’ Jemal explained. ‘And if they’ve got us…’

Amy rattled the escape key on her keyboard. ‘They’ve got remote access,’ she said, finishing his sentence and pointing at the screen. ‘I told you this was a mistake, going after them like this.’

‘Well maybe you wanna take that up with Schneider,’ snapped Duncan. ‘Or the President.’ He gripped a handful of his own floppy, sandy hair, one piece of bad news from a heart attack. ‘Jesus, what are we gonna do—?’

Jemal knew it was only the start of proceedings, like a car ram-raiding a jeweller’s.

As if to back up his theory, the code on the monitors went crazy. Files began downloading themselves to an unknown remote server.

‘What’s happening now?’ Duncan asked as the office lights shut down.

‘My guess would be they cut the lights,’ Amy replied.

‘I can see that,’ Duncan yelled. ‘On the damn screen.’

‘Oh that?’ Jemal said. ‘That’s just a bot swarm. They’re hunting down every file on record and stealing the whole damn lot.’

‘s**t, the whole department. They’ll know everything about our work.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Amy, jabbing at her keyboard in vain. ‘All the files. They’re stealing all of them.’

As Duncan dropped into an empty office chair, Jemal broke away and rushed back to his own station. He was just in time to see his screen turn to black – on it appeared the head of a snake.