Savage Road

by Chris Hauty

  * * *

  ALFRED UPDIKE, THE F6 unit leader, greets Rafi with a light fist bump—as much physical contact the NSA contractor is willing to tolerate—as he enters the office suite on the top floor of the Big Four.

  “Rafi Zamani, in the flesh!” says Alfred Updike. Behind him, the unit is buzzing with activity. Every workstation is occupied, many by more than one NSA computer or network engineer.

  Rafi drops his motorcycle gear on the floor. His expression remains sullen. “Good to be here, I guess.”

  “Cyber Jihad is going to keep us employed for a very long time, brother. I’m thinking you can chip in with Anthony and Namhee running simulations. VGTRK exploits,” says Updike, referring to the All-Russia State Television and Radio Broadcasting Company. He turns and starts to walk off.

  “Wait, what? We’re hitting Moscow TV? For real?”

  “Once Monroe gives the okay.” Updike holds two fingers a half inch apart. “He’s this close.”

  Rafi can’t suppress an incredulous grin. “Holy fucking shit.” He almost hates that he’ll be leaving town and will miss all of the fun.

  Updike is anxious to get back to his desk. “That’s why we’re here, RZ.” He continues on his way, saying over his shoulder, “Keep up the great work, slugger!”

  * * *

  THURSDAY, 3:30 P.M. Clare Ryan pokes her head through the open door of Kyle Rodgers’s office in the West Wing and sees Hayley on a call. The secretary of Homeland Security appears agitated.

  Into the phone, Hayley says, “I have to call you back.” She disconnects and looks to Clare. “Ma’am?”

  “What the hell happened? Hernandez confirmed attribution. Congressional leaders have been briefed. The president is ordering a cyberattack on Moscow TV.” Clare makes an exaggerated display of her disappointment. “You were supposed to keep me apprised of any changes, Hayley. I thought we had an agreement.”

  Clare knows Hernandez intentionally kept DHS out of the loop to build unstoppable momentum for a strike against Russia. Blaming a low-level White House aide is convenient and an utter waste of time.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

  This is not the answer Clare wanted to hear. “Jesus!” The older woman turns and disappears from the doorway.

  Hayley stands and goes to the door. Stepping into the corridor, she watches Clare Ryan striding in the direction of the Oval Office. How could the NSA have confirmed attribution? Could the young man she saw outside the Rosslyn subway station be a Russian agent? Hayley’s growing confusion infuriates her. Fuck!

  A few minutes later, the president’s secretary shows Clare Ryan into the Oval Office. The DHS director finds Monroe behind the Resolute desk. Seated in one of the armchairs on the other side of the iconic desk is Carlos Hernandez. Instantly clocking the president’s expression of unmitigated resignation, Clare suspects an argument for continued caution is futile. What will follow here is only the pantomime of policy discussion.

  Hernandez stands as she takes a seat. The president remains in his chair, looking wan and defeated. His chief of staff and Vice President Landers hover nervously in the background. Other aides occasionally appear and then disappear again, lending a chaotic air to the proceedings. The White House truly is under siege.

  Clare says, “Mr. President, thank you for waiting to hear my thoughts before making your final decision.”

  Monroe waves off the need for such sentiments. “Glad you could sit in, Clare.”

  The secretary of Homeland Security refuses to glance in Hernandez’s direction, keeping her gaze locked on the president. “Sir, as much as I understand the pressure you’re under to do something about these attacks—”

  The NSA director interjects. “On the Pentagon!”

  Clare ignores the interruption. “It’s nevertheless vital we don’t act too soon. Not only do we risk retaliating against someone who had nothing to do with it, we also gamble on the possibility of igniting an actual conventional war.”

  “Mr. President, there is no question who did this. Attribution is confirmed.”

  Clare refuses to cede the argument to her nemesis. “But where is the proof? Where is it, General? In cyber warfare, can attribution ever be made with absolute confidence? Who wrote the malware isn’t as important as who sent it.” Clare then turns to the president. “Sir, some entirely different bad actor might have hacked the Russians to attack us!”

  Hernandez does not attempt to hide his disgust and exasperation. “My God! That’s preposterous!”

  The cabinet secretary locks her eyes on Monroe, pressing her case. “The NSA director knows as well as I do this stuff is littered throughout all networks. Sir, there are malicious implants in our financial networks, in our electrical grids, in the infrastructure that provides water to cities across the country, and in our transportation systems. Throw a rock and you’ll hit some malware that China, Russia, Iran, or North Korea has placed in the nation’s networks in the event of cyber war. We know it’s here because we’ve put the same implants in their networks. All this stuff is just lying around, waiting for some yahoo to it set off!”

  A long moment passes as both Clare Ryan and Carlos Hernandez watch the president brooding on the decision only he can make.

  Looking past the two of them, Richard Monroe sees Hayley Chill standing in the doorway leading into the Outer Oval Office with an armful of briefing notebooks. The president’s secretary stands next to Hayley. It is as if everyone in the building has stopped what they’re doing until the president renders judgment.

  He is in this impossible situation because of her. Monroe yearns to speak with Aleksandr Belyavskiy, his GRU handler. Or his wife, Cindy. He wishes he could talk to anyone. Really talk. Richard Monroe has come to comprehend something that all in his office inevitably realize as fact: being the president of the United States is the loneliest job in the world. But no president has ever been quite so isolated or so alone as him. Who could possibly appreciate the inexorable crush of his dilemma? He can’t afford not to act any longer. Refusing to retaliate only risks blowing his cover.

  But how will the Kremlin react to his ordering an attack on Mother Russia? They could have him assassinated with one encrypted text! Will they understand he had to attack or risk exposure of Operation Polkan? There is no time to seek approval via the dead drop. The time has come. Monroe looks to the NSA director and says, “A shot across their bow. No military targets or critical infrastructure.”

  Disgusted, Clare Ryan looks down at her feet. Carlos Hernandez merely nods, jaw clenched, and eyes bright.

  Across the expansive room, Hayley takes in the momentous scene and feels nothing.

  * * *

  FRIDAY, 6:45 A.M. (GMT +3) Svetlana Svanidze is running late for her job as a floor nurse at City Hospital No. 40 in Kurortniy District, Saint Petersburg, Russia. She is behind schedule because her husband, Oleg, a computer technician for Russia-1, the state-owned television channel, was up half the night dealing with an emergency at work. Along with the two other major television stations in the country, Channel One and NTV, Russia-1 earlier in the day suffered a devastating, computer-oriented shutdown. All three channels—television stations that capture 74 percent of Russia’s viewers—were dark for more than seven hours, a service interruption due to malware that wiped out data on their computer servers. Working feverishly to restore company hard drives from off-site backups, Oleg Svanidze and other technicians got Russia-1 back on-air before its two competitors. Oleg’s manager incentivized his team with the reward of a one-week, all-expenses-paid trip to the Kempinski Grand Hotel in Gelendzhik on the Black Sea.

  Svetlana is exceedingly pleased with her husband. Because he and his colleagues in the computer-engineering department at Russia-1 are so skilled, she and Oleg will be able to enjoy a much-needed vacation with their two children. More than two years since her last promotion and she has yet to take any time off! She works hard supervising the nursing staff in the intensive-
care unit at City Hospital No. 40, with long shifts under suboptimal conditions. Founded in 1748 as a fifty-bed infirmary at Sestroretsky armory and serving more than twenty thousand patients annually, City Hospital No. 40 is understaffed and underfunded. With a rapid turnover of employees, Svetlana must accommodate newer nurses insufficiently trained in the use of high-tech devices and continuously evolving diagnostic modalities. Every work shift, it seems, is a case of narrowly avoided disaster. She quickly gathers the things she needs for a long, twelve-hour shift. Svetlana laughs. A vacation is just what the doctor ordered.

  Russia’s stations went dark at the start of prime-time television viewing. Though Svetlana doesn’t watch any shows on the channel where Oleg works, she was looking forward to two of her favorite programs on Channel One, Adjutants of Love and Brief Guide to a Happy Life. Her disappointment as the outage dragged on into the late hours of the night was profound. Instead of watching her shows, Svetlana spent the night thumbing through fashion magazines, caring for her two young children, and trading a few texts with Oleg. Usually, her husband arrives home by eight in the evening. Restoring the broadcaster’s servers a few minutes after two in the morning, Svetlana’s husband didn’t get back to their apartment until three thirty, long after she had fallen asleep.

  He is still awake when she is preparing to leave for the day. After seeing he has enough food to eat for breakfast and a quick kiss, Svetlana heads for the door, grateful the kids departed a few minutes earlier. It was nice having a few moments alone with Oleg. Such a sweet man, her husband! She is already in the hallway and about to close the door when she remembers she made a music mix for a work friend, Olga Lugin. Svetlana considers herself to be something of an amateur DJ, with great taste in popular music and a subtle touch at arranging songs in a satisfying sequence. She dashes back inside the apartment, where Oleg is seated at the kitchen table, and grabs a USB drive from a desk in the living room. Dropping the thumb drive in her purse, Svetlana is unaware that it doesn’t contain the latest hits from Elena Temnikova or Max Barskih. The device is actually Oleg’s, which he brought back home with him from work.

  * * *

  THURSDAY, 10:55 P.M. Hayley was home only a few minutes when she is buzzed from downstairs. April’s voice, filtered over the intercom, has an edge. Her demand to talk is expressed in no uncertain terms. The White House aide, weary from a long day at work and not entirely recovered from the long night that preceded it, had cranked up the air-conditioning and collapsed on the couch. She reluctantly gets to her feet again and punches the button by the door that lets in her friend.

  “What in fuck the fuck?” April asks as she enters the apartment like a mini-cyclone, pent-up frustration carrying her past Hayley and into the center of the living room.

  Hayley shrugs. “What?”

  Her single-word response, so patently disingenuous, only amplifies April’s irritation.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”

  “Really?” Hayley asks with obvious attitude.

  April decides obsessing on her fellow operative’s failures of the last twelve hours is a waste of time. It’s the future that demands their immediate attention.

  “We need to come up with a plan. Andrew Wilde has been crawling up my ass all day.”

  “The NSA has attributed Cyber Jihad to the Russians.”

  “No.” April is so frustrated with Hayley she could slap her. Fear of being slapped back, twice as hard, stays her hand. “No attribution is ever one hundred percent confirmed via normal forensics and analysis. You need the hacker and his computer to be absolutely certain. Essentially, you need a confession.”

  Hayley shrugs and says nothing.

  April is shocked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “He emailed me.”

  “Who emailed you?”

  “Cyber Jihad.”

  “And you’re only telling me this now?”

  “I remember telling you all it was kind of a busy day.”

  “What did he email you? Let me see it!”

  “I’ll forward it to you. But it has nothing to do with the cyberattacks.”

  “What was it, then? Jesus, just tell me!”

  “A one-line message: ‘Thought you would be interested in this.’ And a classified report concerning my dad’s death in Fallujah.”

  “I can’t believe you sat on this all fucking day!”

  “They killed him, April. My dad was killed by friendly fire.”

  For a moment, the army lieutenant says nothing. No combat death is good, but some are worse than others. Put in a box by your own guys is a supremely wrong KIA. The anger floods out of April Wu.

  “Shit, Hayley. I’m sorry.”

  Condolences accomplish nothing. Hayley is mute.

  April looks away, shaking her head. “So fucked-up.” She turns her gaze on Hayley again. “You know he pulled this info from DoD servers with the intent of throwing you off his trail, then blew them up to cover his tracks. We saw the intrusion at USCC in real time. Obviously, Cyber Jihad perceives you as a threat.”

  “Maybe. What difference does it make?”

  “He’s fucking with your head, Hayley.”

  “Doing a pretty decent job of it, too.”

  April can see prodding her friend to action is a lost cause. There’s no time for convincing her. “Forward the email. I’m not ready to give up.”

  “Untraceable. ProtonMail.”

  “Forward it anyway. My team can take a run at it.” She turns to leave. One hand on the doorknob, she turns to face Hayley again.

  “It’s fucked-up what happened to your dad. No question. But I never thought I’d live to see the day when Hayley Chill takes a knee, not without a fucking gun to her head.” A mirthless laugh escapes April’s mouth. “Hell, I didn’t think you would take a knee with a gun to your head!”

  The army lieutenant turns and exits the apartment, disappearing down the hallway.

  Hayley shuts the door and returns to the kitchen table, unsure what to do. She feels as if she’s buried under a mountain of sand. Revelations regarding her father’s death have extinguished her spirit. The mental image of her dad’s remains in the plastic collection bags—scattered in his casket like so many items in the clearance bin of a department store—blocks her path forward. She wants to get drunk all over again. Inebriation is some form of self-direction, right? Blown to bits by a Marine jet? Oo-fucking-rah.

  She hears the buzz of the door downstairs again. April Wu doesn’t give up easily. Hayley stands and goes to the intercom by her apartment door. Pressing the talk button, she says, “Leave me alone, you freak.”

  “You’re not even going to give me five minutes?” The voice, filtered through the intercom system, is male.

  “Who is this?” Hayley asks.

  “Wow. That burns. It’s Sam McGovern. I thought maybe we could talk?” His voice, distorted by rudimentary electronic transmission, is a relief nonetheless.

  * * *

  THEY SIT AT the kitchen table. She serves coffee instead of booze. He looks magnificent to her. That is a fact. But those emotional pathways remain impeded by the fresh awareness of her father’s senseless, stupid death in Fallujah. She tells him everything. He is quiet the entire time, offering no comment, suggestions, or advice. He simply listens. If there is nothing else between them, merely his quiet presence is of great help. Hayley is grateful to the ends of the universe.

  When she has finished speaking, Sam McGovern must ask a single, essentially Sam McGovern question.

  “How can I help?”

  Hayley looks into Sam’s eyes, open to reveal her vulnerabilities.

  “I want to get up, but I can’t.”

  “It was a good punch you took. Maybe a knockout punch.”

  “I’m down, not out.”

  “I know.”

  “How can I get back up, Sam? I hate it all. I hate everything.”

  “Nothing I say can help. You know that.”

  “I kn
ow that, yes.”

  “Time helps.”

  “Yes.”

  He waits for a beat, then asks, “Do you want me to stay?”

  There is a long moment here, in which she retreats to a place devoid of sensation. The external world seems far away. Nothing in it can do her harm. This is the place inside herself where she can make these potentially momentous decisions.

  “Yes.”

  Afterward, in the blue light of night, they lay across the bed. Sleep is impossible. Staring at the blank-faced buildings outside her bedroom window—this mostly unfamiliar man in her bed lying next to her—a few words slip from Hayley’s mouth. “The lives we save.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t think she spoke the words out loud. Covering, she says, “I’m not good at this.”

  “Nobody is good at this. At least, beware those that are.”

  “You’ll stay? All night?” Hayley asks him.

  “If that’s an invitation, yes.”

  “It is an invitation. But I’m not sleepy. Don’t want to sleep.”

  “What, then?” he asks.

  Sex is slower this second time. More measured. There are spaces between the epic physical clashes of their lovemaking. And then both are seemingly sated.

  But still, she cannot sleep.

  Covered with a sheen of sweat that is rapidly evaporating in the air-conditioned bedroom, Hayley says, “I want to talk.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  “Actually, I want you to talk. I’m sick to death of the sound of my voice.”

  “Okay…” He’s unsure, naturally, what to tell her.