Cyber Terror

  With thanks to Nathan Fenwick for his enthusiasm and to Lemon Jelly for the song, “Ramblin’ Man”.

  First published in the UK in 2011 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House, 83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com

  Copyright © Malcolm Rose, 2011

  The right of Malcolm Rose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Cover illustration by Daniel Atanasov at folioart.co.uk

  The name Usborne and the devices are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Epub ISBN 9781409538271

  Kindle ISBN 9781409538288

  Batch no. 01770-02

  CONTENTS

  1 FLIGHT DOWN

  2 MUCH MODIFIED

  3 SHORT CIRCUIT

  4 MEDWAY PIRATES

  5 BEFORE ECUADOR

  6 POWER FAILURE

  7 ARMED RESPONSE

  8 TIP-OFF

  9 DEEP WEB

  10 CYBER STORM

  11 BRICK WALL

  12 SHOCK WAVE

  13 MADISON FLINT

  14 TROUBLING INFORMATION

  15 OPEN DISTRUST

  16 CAR CHASE

  17 TOTALLY FURIOUS

  18 THE SINGULARITY

  19 TOP PRIORITY

  20 GUARDIAN ANGEL

  21 SKY HIGH

  22 EXTREME VIOLENCE

  23 TOO LATE

  24 OVERRIDE UNSUCCESSFUL

  25 SUDDEN DEATH

  26 FLYING SPARKS

  MALCOLM ROSE ON THE SCIENCE BEHIND JORDAN STRYKER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1 FLIGHT DOWN

  Flight LH6681 bound for Heathrow was carrying 138 passengers and crew when it took off from Edinburgh Airport at 15.05 on Monday 5th March. The pilot was Phil Lazenby, the weather was fine and the first three minutes of the journey were smooth.

  Control: “LH six-six-eight-one, you’re cleared to turn right, heading two-four-zero.”

  Pilot: “Affirm turning two-four-zero. Climbing to cruising altitude. Thanks.”

  Control: “Bon voyage. Over and out.”

  Pilot: “Hang on. Control? Stay with me.”

  Control: “I’m all ears. What’s wrong?”

  Pilot: “Something’s... Just a second.”

  Control: “Report, please, LH six-six-eight-one.”

  Pilot: “Yes. We’ve lost thrust in both engines.”

  Control: “What? Say again.”

  Pilot: “Major electronic fault. We’ve lost thrust in both engines. Turning back to airport.”

  Control: “Okay. Do you want to land main runway?”

  Pilot: “Descending rapidly. Probably unable to circle to main runway. Heading for secondary runway.”

  Control: “Tower stopping all departures and arrivals for emergency return.”

  There were a few seconds of radio silence. Uncannily quiet, the powerless Airbus 320 banked and plunged towards the earth.

  Control: “Secondary runway confirmed clear, LH six-six-eight-one. We can accommodate you. Repeat. You have permission for emergency landing on secondary runway.”

  The co-pilot had just passed the training course to fly an Airbus. The journey to Edinburgh and back to London was Toby Cotterill’s first outing. He was monitoring all onboard flight components. With a look of horror on his face, he was watching them all go down, one after the other. His training required him to remain calm. He was no use to the pilot – or to the passengers – if he panicked. But keeping cool was difficult when his heart was pounding like crazy, the plane had just become a giant glider and the rest of his life might be measured in minutes. His time was ticking down to zero just like the altimeter. He glanced across at the pilot and said, “The landing gear’s out of action as well. It won’t budge.”

  “Activate the auxiliary power unit.”

  “No effect.”

  “Deploy the ram air turbine, then,” the captain said.

  “Nothing happening. We’ve got basic power – radio, lights and such – but the flight system isn’t responding. It’s dead.”

  “No engines and no landing gear.” Keeping the plane’s nose up as much as possible, Captain Lazenby swore under his breath. Yet he was also determined and decisive. “Change of plan. I’m bringing her down in the Firth of Forth.”

  Toby swallowed. “What?”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Coming down on water, at least we don’t risk the lives of people on the ground.”

  The co-pilot nodded. “Agreed.”

  The cockpit door opened. The chief steward gasped, “What’s happening? What’s with the engines? The passengers are panicking.”

  “The flight system’s failed,” Toby told her. “Get them to brace for impact. We’re going down on the water.”

  “Right.” A quake of the voice gave away the flight attendant’s feelings. Even so, she snapped into action and went back to her passengers.

  “Did you copy that, Control?” the pilot asked. “We’re ditching in the river.”

  “It’s your call, LH six-six-eight-one.”

  “We’re going to need boats – and plenty of them. Scramble emergency services.”

  “Understood. Whereabouts in the river?”

  “Unable to plot exact course,” Captain Lazenby replied, guiding the jet with manual controls. “But they’ll see the splash.”

  Captain Lazenby knew that almost all planes broke up when they struck water. There was only one angle to hit the river without shattering the aircraft. It was like skimming a stone across a lake or a spacecraft re-entering the atmosphere. It had to be precise to be successful. But he had little control over navigation and he had only one chance.

  Toby Cotterill was going through the emergency procedure checklist in an attempt to restart the engines. Without a working control system, though, his effort would be wasted.

  “What about the ditch switch?” Captain Lazenby asked. It was the device for sealing all vents and valves in the fuselage to make the plane less likely to flood, more likely to float.

  The co-pilot shook his head. “No response.”

  To the captain’s left were four golf courses and the north-west sector of Edinburgh. On the right was the green countryside around Barnbougle Castle. Straight ahead was the Firth of Forth, as flat as a landing strip.

  A voice from the ground said, “I’ve cleared all traffic in controlled airspace. Overflights only. You’ve got it to yourself.”

  “Affirm. Copied information.” Captain Lazenby looked across briefly at Toby. Sky high on adrenalin, he said, “Let’s do it. Banking left. I’m going in close to South Queensferry – as near to the bridges as possible. Less distance for rescuers.”

  Phil breathed deeply, composing himself. He judged that he was too low and too slow but, now that he was piloting a glider rather than a jet aeroplane, there was little he could do about it.

  Control asked, “What’s
your status, LH six-six-eight-one?”

  The pilot ran his eye over the cockpit controls and Toby shook his head. “Flight system still dead.”

  “Emergency services scrambled. I’ll have them standing by at Queensferry.”

  “In case I bring this down in one piece, Control, you’d better have a whisky on standby as well.”

  “I’m a bit busy at the moment, LH six-six-eight-one, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  The co-pilot grimaced, making it clear that he didn’t think it was the right time to share a joke with air traffic control.

  Given what he was about to do, Captain Lazenby needed a smile on his face. He’d abandoned the usual flight path and the Firth of Forth was rushing towards him. The silent Airbus tilted as he turned tightly so that the railway bridge was directly ahead. He veered towards the southern bank of the estuary so the Airbus would ditch nearer to land.

  “Too steep,” he muttered to himself, trying to keep the nose of the plane pointing upwards.

  But the water seemed to draw the plane in.

  “Is that a ferry I see in the river?”

  Control replied, “If it is, it’ll probably be the Rosyth to Zeebrugge. Is it in your way?”

  Captain Lazenby’s voice sounded tired, as if he were talking at the same time as running a marathon. “No. Make contact. Keep it where it is on standby.”

  The river sped underneath the cockpit like a flash flood. Wind buffeted the Airbus and its right wing touched the surface of the water. The aeroplane juddered and jerked. Luggage shifted around the cargo hold, upsetting the plane’s balance even more. The pilots and passengers were pummelled in their seats.

  A few seconds more and their ordeal would be over. One way or another.

  Phil Lazenby steadied himself – steadied the plane – and let it drop into the Firth of Forth.

  The Airbus had been in the air for six minutes and forty-six seconds when it hit the water at 220 kilometres per hour. It didn’t bounce like a flat stone. It slammed into the water like a log ride hurtling down a water chute. There was a huge splash. For a moment, spray completely covered the plane. Phil was pitched forward awkwardly until his seat belt dislocated his shoulder. The jolt tore the plane’s underbelly and peeled off much of its aluminium skin, making large gashes in the bottom of the fuselage. At the rear, the cargo doors were wrenched open. The impact also broke three windows. Water flooded in through the holes. Within seconds, the passengers and crew were up to their knees in cold river water.

  When the plane came to a standstill, the cabin was quiet, apart from the sound of passengers crying, praying and talking urgently on mobiles. Then the flight attendants began to shout orders. Making sure everyone had got into their yellow life-jackets, they ushered people out of the mid-cabin emergency exits above the wings and evacuated passengers near the front down the two inflatable chutes. They gave most help to the injured and women with children as the water level rose to their waists.

  Strangely, there was no sense of panic. Everyone was unnaturally calm. They were probably in shock. By the time the flight attendants were ready to leave the plane and Captain Lazenby had waded laboriously up and down the aisle, to make sure he was the last person on board, the water was at chest height.

  The Airbus was submerged up to its windows and it was sinking slowly, but it seemed determined to stay afloat until everyone had been rescued. Its tail fin poking up out of the water, it was drifting eastwards on the lazy river current.

  138 people were huddled together in groups, standing on the wings or the partially submerged chutes. A few passengers had slipped off the wings and into the water. Or perhaps, fearing that the plane was about to sink or explode, they’d decided to swim for the shore.

  A ferry, several pleasure boats and a couple of rescue craft made their way to the stricken aeroplane within three minutes of the crash landing. Amateurs and professionals alike plucked stranded passengers from the wings, the water and the chutes which had detached from the aircraft to form life-rafts. The coming and going of boats continued until all of the passengers and aircrew of Flight LH6681 were safely back on land.

  Under the circumstances, the toll of injuries was light: one heart attack, four head wounds, several cases of exposure among those dragged from the water, one serious laceration to the arm, a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder. The flashbacks, panic attacks and sleeplessness would hit many of them later.

  The waterlogged Airbus was towed to Leith Docks and moored there while the on-scene investigation began.

  2 MUCH MODIFIED

  Waiting for the traffic lights in Highgate Village to turn green, Jordan Stryker looked up. For some reason, he wondered if he could punch his way out through the top of his car in an emergency. He didn’t know. He couldn’t do it with his left fist. He didn’t have to attempt it to know that the reinforced metal roof would be too strong for flesh and bone. He didn’t yet have the same instinct for his false right arm. He knew that, if he shoved it out of the window of the moving car and let it slam into a concrete lamp post, his bionic arm would come off worse. If he walloped a pedestrian or cyclist, he’d damage the person more than the robotic gadget attached to his right shoulder. But he hadn’t yet worked out his limitations. He might be able to smash through the roof and he might not.

  The lights changed and Jordan accelerated.

  Straight away, a police officer on a motorbike indicated that he should pull over and stop. The policeman took off his helmet and strolled up to Jordan’s jet black Jaguar. “Get out,” he demanded.

  Jordan sighed and did as he was told.

  The traffic cop looked him up and down with an expression of disdain on his face. “You’re young.” He seemed to have decided already that Jordan had committed a driving offence. A teenager in a flash car was all the evidence he appeared to need. “Your licence, please.” Then he smirked and added, “As if you’ve got one.”

  “Yes, I’ve got one,” Jordan replied calmly.

  Jordan Stryker was fourteen, but the date of birth shown on his driving licence made him seventeen years old. He was a much modified boy with a modified ID, driving a much modified Jaguar XJ Sentinel.

  More than a year before, an explosion had wiped out his immediate family and almost destroyed him. An underground organization called Unit Red had taken care of him, rebuilt his broken body and given him a new identity. Now, Jordan was part human and part machine. He had a robotic right arm, brain implants that gave him acute hearing, a fantastic sense of smell and a connection to the internet, as well as bionic eyes with a range of wavelengths. Whenever he wanted, he could turn on his night vision or the terahertz technology that allowed him to see through material. He used his enhancements as an agent for Unit Red, tackling the bad guys who were beyond normal law. It was also Unit Red that had given him his car and driving licence.

  The police officer examined the licence, stared at Jordan and then studied the card again. Plainly, he was struggling to believe the first four digits of Jordan’s licence number. They formed a code that told him Jordan was not to be hindered. “This means...”

  Jordan nodded. “Let’s not talk about it here. I didn’t nick the car and I’m not a joyrider. Despite appearances. I need to get going.”

  “Right.” The traffic cop returned the licence and muttered, “Sorry to...you know.”

  “No problem,” Jordan replied with a cheeky smile.

  He started the engine again and turned into Swain’s Lane. He could set the electric car to run in silent mode, but it had an electronic sound generator wired into its motor. The gadget monitored the revs and produced a synthetic engine noise, modelled on the powerful purr of a supercharged V8 engine. It alerted pedestrians to the car’s presence.

  Jordan let the Jaguar roll down the hill to Unit Red’s headquarters in Highgate Cemetery and halted by the locked garage doors. Using one of his brain implants, he thought the password into the on-board computer. At once, the car transmitted the electronic key to the ga
rage door and it eased open. Jordan steered the car slowly up to its recharging point in the engineering workshop and the door slid down securely behind him.

  He walked through the house and took the lift down to the underground rooms, heading straight to the bunker because Unit Red’s boss wanted to see him.

  When he entered, Angel looked up from his monitor. Even sitting, the chief looked impressively tall. He was in his late thirties, lean and self-assured. “Good,” he said, seeing Jordan. “I know you were putting the car through its paces, but I ordered you back because something’s come up. I’ve just been handed a new case. The usual agencies aren’t getting anywhere, so it’s come to us. I think it’s one for you.”

  Jordan sat down opposite Angel. “Oh?”

  He nodded. “You won’t remember the Edinburgh Airport incident – and the pilot’s heroic landing in the river – because you were still out of commission, learning to master your arm. Never mind. Basically, a plane lost all control in mid-air. You can access the details on the system.” He tapped his workstation. “A month before that, there was another incident. A flight took off from Quito en route to Amsterdam. Same thing. Within minutes, an electronic fault brought it down with a full load of fuel. There wasn’t much left to investigate after the explosion. And there was total loss of life.”

  “Quito? Where’s that?”

  “Ecuador.” Angel continued, “In one case, an explosion and fire stopped the experts diagnosing exactly what happened. In the other, water ruined the electronics. The planes’ black boxes weren’t specific. Both recorded an unknown electronic fault that crashed the flight system. So, in the absence of solid evidence, what are the possibilities? How did someone knock both planes out of the sky?”

  “Just a minute,” Jordan said. “How do you know it was done on purpose? Maybe something just went wrong with both planes.” Thinking of one of his mum’s sayings, he added, “Accidents happen.”

  “Before Quito, whoever did it announced there’d be a disaster. He didn’t say where or what type. He was making sure we knew it was deliberate. It was terrorism, not an accident. After Quito, he demanded a ransom or he’d do the same in Britain.”