War With Black Iris (Cyber Teen Project Book 2) Read online

  War with Black Iris

  Cyber Teen Project 2

  D. B. Goodin

  Copyright © 2020 by D. B. Goodin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction; any references to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  For more information about the Cyber Teen Project series visit:

  www.cyberteenproject.com

  www.warwithblackiris.com

  www.dbgoodinbooks.com

  www.davidgoodinauthor.com

  ISBN: 978-1-7334202-4-2 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-7334202-3-5 (Hardback)

  For my Friends and Family, I have missed parties, beach outings, and countless other social events when writing this book.

  Contents

  Exclusive Bonus Offer

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by D. B. Goodin

  Exclusive Bonus Offer

  Sign up for the D. B. Goodin reader group and get the starter library for FREE. Includes eBook and streaming audio formats for Mark of the Triad, Sonorous, and The Making of Cyber Teen Project. To sign up for this exclusive offer please sign up at www.warwithblackiris.com, or use use the “Contact Us” form at https://www.davidgoodinauthor.com

  Preface

  One of the goals for the Cyber Teen Project, written for teenage audiences, is to make learning as fun as possible. In 2011, the idea for the book came to me. I started writing scenes about email hacking, and the more I wrote, the more I realized that I needed more structure. I created a list of cybersecurity concepts that I wanted to cover. It changed over time, and I updated and expanded it.

  Another goal of this book is to teach kids situational awareness. I grew up in the eighties, and my father always tried to emphasize “awareness of” your surroundings. Decades later, human trafficking has reached almost epidemic levels in the United States, and the world. Kids are kidnapped every day, even in broad daylight.

  I have altered the names of specific technology used in this book to protect copyrights.

  Chapter 1

  London: December 26 3:56 p.m.

  Dahlia gazed from her office window overlooking the Thames. She had always enjoyed the view over the water at dusk. It reminded her how she loved the Christmas holidays, and she longed to be home with her dearest son, Hunter.

  Why did he go snooping into the Collective’s business? Dahlia thought. His impatience had almost cost Black Iris’s hacking operation everything. It was a good idea sending Jony to keep Hunter in check.

  An explosion in a nearby office suddenly rocked Dahlia out of her seat and onto the liquor tray beside her. Several full and partially full bottles of top-shelf vodka, whiskey, and wine bounced and shattered around her. She could hear the sizzling sounds of office equipment and wiring burning. Then Dahlia felt another smaller—but no less deadly—blast. Dahlia plunged under her hardwood antique desk, thinking it would provide some protection.

  After a moment of silence, Dahlia dared to sneak a glance out from under the desk; nobody was in sight.

  Was there a gas leak on the floor?

  The lights in the office no longer worked. Blindly, she felt around in the dark areas under the desk for the pistol she kept for emergencies. The weapon was in its holster. She checked the pistol.

  Good—a full clip.

  The weapon felt natural in her hands, as if it belonged there. It supercharged her resolve; she had some investigating to do.

  Dahlia snatched her coat from the chair, shook glass shards from it, and put it on. She crawled along the office floor; flames from small fires fueled by heaps of rubbish illuminated the office. Another twenty feet and she would be at the hallway. When she reached the main hallway, she gasped. Offices on either side glowed as the flames consumed the furniture, drapes, couches, and everything else. Smoke was enveloping the hallway, and soon it would be difficult to breathe, let alone see. She stood up and made a run for the door leading to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Blinded by smoke, she felt for the door handle, grabbed, and opened it. The building’s emergency lighting system illuminated the stairwell. She’d always hated the greenish tint that those lights emitted, but she was grateful for them now.

  Dahlia felt the air change; someone was close by. Then she could almost sense the release of energy as the bullets penetrated plaster wall inches from her head.

  The bastards will pay for this! Dahlia thought.

  She crouched down, hugging and sliding against the wall, trying to reduce the likelihood of becoming a target. Based on the pattern of the shots above her head, she estimated that the shooter was below her. She moved with purpose down the next flight of stairs, being careful not to break a heel. Searing pain coursing through her left shoulder. She glanced toward the pain; her clothes were torn open, and blood was seeping down her arm. Grazed, that was too close!

  “Aargh!” Dahlia hissed. She instinctively checked her weapon, a 9mm Beretta; a full clip meant seventeen bullets for seventeen kills. She saw movement below, between the metal bars of the staircase’s railing. Only a few flights down, I should be able to take the shot. She shot toward the shape, which moved with lightning-quick reflexes. The shot hit the wall behind the assailant. Boom—an explosion, followed by a crackling noise above her head; the stairwell began to faintly glow. She coughed; her breathable air was depleting. She made a break for it as more shots rang out.

  Dahlia got to the landing of the next level and flung the door open. Gunshots rang out, and the door filled with holes behind her.

  Christ! More than one shooter!

  She descended the stairs as quickly as she could. After two additional flights, she had to catch her breath. She heard a door open just below her. She started shooting at the door.

  “Aargh! I’m shot,” a voice called from below.

  “Gotcha!” Dahlia said. She closed the space between her and the door. When she opened it, a man in a fireman’s uniform rolled back and forth, screaming. He looked up and pointed at Dahlia.

  “Aargh! You bitch! Why did you shoot me?”

  Dahlia didn’t have time to explain. As she got closer to the fireman, she shot him point-blank in the face.

  If he’s innocent, then I’m going to pay for that, eventually.

  As she descended the next set of stairs, the air became easier to breathe. No more signs of the people trying to kill her. But she needed to get out of there. Just before reaching the third floor, she tucked the pistol into the small of her back and positioned her coat to conceal it.

  Need to remain vigilant.

  She encountered no more interference until the ground floor, where she c
ame upon another fireman.

  “You need to get out of here!” the fireman said.

  With one fluid motion, Dahlia performed a roundhouse kick that landed on the fireman’s throat. He grasped his throat, and blood oozed from his punctured neck.

  These heels came in handy after all, Dahlia thought.

  It sounded like the man was trying to say something.

  “What is that?” Dahlia asked.

  The man coughed up blood. She shed her coat then put it over the fireman’s head until he expired. A quick check of the fireman revealed no weapons.

  Damn, that bastard ruined my coat. I liked this coat! But better to be cold than caught.

  Dahlia made her way to the front entrance of the building. A quick peek out of the windows revealed several fire trucks. There were no police in sight—yet!

  Boom—another explosion went off inside the building. The firefighters changed course and moved farther away from her position where more flames appeared. She risked a move. Dahlia exited the building and darted between two nearby cars. A police car appeared just behind the fire trucks. She darted across the street then down a side street.

  Don’t think they saw me, but need to be sure.

  She positioned herself behind some bushes then looked back at the building. Most of the Design Center’s six floors were burning. The top two floors were burning so intensely that Dahlia thought nothing would be salvageable. There were holes the size of small cars blasted open in several areas across the building’s edifice, and flames licked the night air, looking for additional fuel.

  The air was brisk, and the streets were wet. It had been cloudy earlier, but now it was raining. After several blocks she heard the sounds of a pub. She followed until she entered a place called O’Donnell’s. She turned toward the bar side of the pub. The place was overflowing with people, but she could see people walking toward a hallway at the back of the bar. The long hallway ended—the phone!

  She dialed the toll-free number that connected her with her calling service. “Fashion Office Exchange,” the operator answered.

  “This is Dahlia Frost, employee ID one-zero-one-one. I need an outgoing line to Jony Clarke.”

  After several rings, she got to a voicemail. “Jony, this is D. It is urgent that you call the Exchange and leave me with a number where you can be reached.” Dahlia severed the connection. Damn it. Jony must be with Hunter at the Shadow Dealers, she thought.

  She didn’t know whom to contact at the Shadow Dealers. The Exchange, a discreet agency she used, offered special services to suit her needs—including getting in touch with some of her more clandestine clientele.

  “Ouch!” Dahlia said. This headache came out of nowhere! Argh—I can’t think! After a few minutes, she dialed the Exchange again.

  After verification, she asked to be put in touch with the emergency line for the Shadow Dealers.

  “Please hold.”

  While waiting, she noticed a familiar-looking man at the bar. He looked like Gregor from the Collective. She wasn’t sure, but she made a mental note to find out.

  The operator came back on the line. “Connecting you now.”

  Then another voice spoke up. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Malcolm speaking.”

  “This is D from Black Iris. I’m under attack.”

  72 hours earlier: Haven, Northeastern United States

  How could he do that to me? Alexei sold me out! For a damn kid! He was good at hacking. I'll give him that!

  The discharge clerk stared at Gregor for a long moment.

  Can’t read this guy. Must be part of his FBI conditioning, Gregor thought.

  The clerk began identifying the items taken from Gregor at the time of arrest:

  One pair of sunglasses

  One money clip with 938 US dollars and 300 British pounds

  One USB flash drive

  One smartphone, unknown manufacturer

  One black T-shirt

  One pair of blue jeans

  One pair of unidentifiable loafers

  “Sign here,” the clerk said.

  Gregor signed for his belongings. He wasn’t eager to linger in Haven. Fortunately, the city had many egress points available. He needed to leave the United States as soon as possible.

  He exited the old brown building that served as the regional headquarters for the FBI. A chilly winter wind was blowing.

  Damn—Natasha should have packed me a jacket, Gregor thought.

  He decided to take an inconspicuous form of transportation; it was too risky walking around in broad daylight. According to the Maps app on his phone, there was a bus station a few blocks away.

  Gregor crossed the street. Just then, a black sedan ran the red light and stopped short of hitting Gregor, who slapped the front of the car. “Watch where you’re going, jackass!” he roared.

  A large, bald man stepped out of the driver’s side. “I’m sorry, my boy. Please accept my apologies.” Gregor turned and continued walking.

  “You might want to get inside the vehicle. There is someone you may want to meet,” the bald driver said. Gregor turned and cautiously walked toward the passenger side of the vehicle, hearing an audible click as the doors unlocked. The windows were tinted, and Gregor couldn't see any of the occupants. The window rolled down.

  “Hello, Gregor. I’m Jeremiah Mason. Why don’t you come inside—it must be cold out there.”

  “From where I’m standing, it looks like you just tried to kill me!”

  “I assure you, that is not the case. I think you will like what I have to say,” Jeremiah said.

  Gregor turned to see a man in his late forties dressed in a white suit with a black scarf; he looked like he was going to a dinner party. Annoyed drivers behind the sedan started honking. Gregor noticed they had room to pass, but didn’t for some reason. Jeremiah opened the door and slid back to allow Gregor to enter.

  “I have a business proposal for you. I know that you have been burned by your old employer, the Collective,” Jeremiah said.

  Gregor froze, turned, and looked at Jeremiah, who made a motion for him to enter. Gregor got inside the car, and the bald man started driving.

  “This better be worth my time,” Gregor snapped.

  “Indeed, my boy!” Jeremiah replied.

  “You have two minutes to convince me that I should stay in this car. Otherwise, drop me off at the bus station.”

  “How would you like to strike back at the Collective—for not only burning you, but also turning you over to the FBI like some common criminal?”

  “You have ninety seconds left, so talk fast!”

  “How familiar are you with disrupting internet communications for an entire city?”

  Gregor just stared at Jeremiah. “US or European?”

  “City of London,” Jeremiah said.

  “That isn’t an easy task, as one would need to prepare multiple attack vectors using both US and European providers. It requires extensive planning, since a botnet is needed. Even if I wanted to do this, I would need help. How long would I have?” Gregor said.

  “A month.”

  “Too short. I would need at least three months to write malware to distribute, write the bots, build the network, and create a plan to execute. Also, the Computer Security Incident Reponse Team (CSIRT) in the United Kingdom already has contingencies for such attacks.”

  “All excellent points. Let’s plan for every contingency, but I need you to work within a much shorter time span,” Jeremiah said.

  Gregor didn’t respond.

  “We need to disrupt the control systems for an entire building—no communications or fire alarms can work. I’ll need at least fifteen minutes of delay,” Jeremiah continued.

  “Why?” Gregor asked.

  “Let’s just say that your attack is not the primary objective here. Is this something that interests you?”

  “It depends. How much will I be able to hurt the Collective, and how much will I be paid?” Gregor said.

 
“Plenty, on both counts. We are planning a high-profile attack that will pit the Collective and Black Iris against each other. And you will be well compensated.”

  “Your time is up, old man. But I’m intrigued, so tell me more,” Gregor said.

  “I suggest we talk more when we are high above the Atlantic.”

  Using Jeremiah’s compound, Gregor easily got the plans for the building automation system (BAS) of the London Design Center. After examining the plans, he determined that the center had two physical vulnerabilities that he would exploit. Based on the design, the software used for most of the building’s controls was long overdue for an update. According to Gregor’s research, the PLC4590, was the Programmable Logic Controller installed in the Design Center’s building automation system. If this is still the case, then I’m golden, Gregor thought. Now I need to check permits—or do I?

  Gregor pulled up his link to a website called ShowALLD, which allowed him access to find all sorts of information, including the building details he was looking for. The ShowALLD infrastructure was unique in that it had programs that crawled the internet looking for everything with an IP address. He focused his search on London and the PLC4590 part. It only took about an eighth of a second to bring up over fifty results. He narrowed his search by going into advanced search options and specifying a subcategory for only the PLC4590. He changed the date range to when the building system was installed. The manufacturer of the PLC4590 used multiple chipsets over unique time periods. It wasn’t that difficult to narrow the search.