The Paladin Papers
411: Cybergeddon
A Story By
Stephen W. Austen
Published by Stephen W. Austen at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Stephen W. Austen
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The Paladin Papers
411: Cybergeddon
A Story by:
Stephen W. Austen
Prologue
"When the infidels dial 911, their ‘Emergency’ phone number, they cannot help but to remember the emergency we precipitated in New York City. Soon, when they dial 411, their ‘Information’ phone number, they will remember this blow in the Information Age."
Umar Ansal, Iranian Cyber-Terrorist
(in remarks to the Council of Viziers)
Pelham, Alabama
South of Birmingham
April 11 – Before Daybreak
Nadar Surtan stepped out of the shower. He'd finished packing except for the laptop and an array of cellular and satellite communications gear spread on his desk by the window. Turning off the room lights he drew back the curtains, looked out, grimacing as he sipped the bitter brew from the in-room coffee maker.
His fourteenth floor room in the hotel tower at the Galleria, just south of Birmingham, Alabama, enjoyed a commanding view. Though it was dark the street lights and early morning traffic along U.S. Highway 31 South snaked through the Riverchase development then over the rolling foothills of the Appalachians.
Sitting down, he completed his attack with a few keystrokes. He rocked back in his chair to enjoy the view.
Seven miles to the south, a compressor boost station for the Antebellum Pipeline Company was pushing thirty-five thousand barrels of gasoline. Starting from a refinery in Baton Rouge, Louisiana it travelled through a 30-inch pipe to distribution points in Pennsylvania. Moving at six miles per hour the total trip for the nearly one and a half million-gallon batch would take over twenty days to complete.
A string of compressor boost stations, located about every fifty-miles along the journey, maintain a constant flow rate. This continuous flow of product is the key to the success of Antebellum’s pipeline operations. More importantly, it keeps thirsty distributors supplied, their customers warm, mobile and happy.
The pipeline runs under U.S. Highway 31 and through the town of Pelham, Alabama. Laid in the early years of World War II, it functioned faithfully ever since. Except for an occasional sign or cleared right-of-way, the citizens of that bedroom community scarcely remember it is there, until today.
Surtan's electronic and field reconnaissance of the Antebellum’s Pipeline systems revealed several vulnerabilities ripe for exploitation. His software attack package featured an SQL injection into Antebellum's SCADA system. Launched via the internet from his hotel room, through Antebellum's public website and email system, it silently went to work.
Programmable logic controllers at nine pumping stations from Alabama through Georgia and into South Carolina were temporarily overwritten with new operating instructions. The PLC’s were instructed to shut off the main pipeline valves at every third pumping station. The machine/man interface software was also overwritten to disable alarm buffers so the graphic displays at Antebellum's Pipeline Operations Center portrayed normal states of operation.
At the same time the pump houses in-between were misinformed of low flow line pressures. They immediately accelerated their compressors. The gasoline had nowhere to go, battering against the blocked valves.
Within minutes, line pressures in over four hundred miles of pipe approached 2,000 psig, exceeding their design capacity.
The gasoline-filled pipeline, beneath U.S. Highway 31 in Pelham, was the first to fail. An 8-foot breach ruptured and in seconds doubled in size, then doubled again. Thousands of gallons of gasoline washed over the windshields of the early morning traffic. It swelled into the parking lot of an adjacent wholesale hardware company then flowed into gutters, sewers, and streams until it found the inevitable spark.
The blast and flame crushed cars, trucks and busses then swept them away in a wave of molten asphalt. Tanker trucks detonated, immolating scores of fleeing commuters. One tanker, carrying anhydrous ammonia, was thrown off the road bed and wrapped around a massive steel power pole. It vomited a huge white cloud of lethal ammonia gas across acres of nearby residential area.
Delivery trucks at the wholesale hardware warehouse were all loaded, fully fueled and staged for the day's deliveries. Laden with volatiles, oxidizers and aerosols, the vans disintegrated as gouts of flame reached them. Three trailers flipped into the warehouse and the building blew-out, metal roof sagging. Tons of heavy hardware items became shrapnel that scythed a quarter-mile area.
From his hotel window, Surtan saw the first flash then a dome-shaped blast wave. A dirty orange fireball rose amidst the stroboscopic flashes of igniting electrical transformers. The power instantly failed. Except for gusts of flame and explosions, the town of Pelham plunged into blackness.
This apocalyptic scene would be played out again and again in towns and villages across the United States as a handful of cyber-saboteurs hit target after target. He packed his equipment then went down to enjoy a complimentary breakfast and watch the morning news.
Later that day, his support cell took him for a four-day drive to a safe house on a hundred-thousand acre ranch in Montana. It belonged to an oil cartel family member through a series of shell corporations. There Surtan would meet others then exfiltrate over the Canadian border.
-One-
Four Days Ago
Persian Gulf
North of Dubai
April 7 – Early that morning
The Eurocopter EC145 arced over the Persian Gulf off the coast of Dubai. Umar Ansal, the lone passenger, noted scores of yachts spread nearly to the horizon, surrounded by auxiliary pleasure craft of all kinds. These are people who live their life on a whim. He thought. I will soon be dealing with people of purpose. . .
The Heli-Riviera contract pilot easily threaded the busy air space and banked toward a flagship in this pleasure armada. The Prophet’s Hand, a sleek 160-meter long super yacht, was riding easily at anchor on the sparkling water. The yacht, crafted by the Biohm & Vodd yards in Hamburg, was complete with a landing pad on the upper deck.