by Tim Washburn
Pinnacle Thrillers by TIM WASHBURN
The Day After Oblivion
Cataclysm
Powerless
THE DAY AFTER OBLIVION
TIM WASHBURN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Pinnacle Thrillers by TIM WASHBURN
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PRESENT DAY
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
AFTER
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
ONE WEEK LATER
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
CHAPTER 115
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 Tim Washburn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4250-0
First electronic edition: February 2018
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4251-7
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4251-6
To
Keira Eve Chandler
and
Camdyn Adalynn Snider,
the first of the next generation.
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 1
The White House, Washington, D.C.
As the group from this morning’s intelligence briefing filters out of the Oval Office, President Thomas Aldridge arches his back, trying to alleviate the pain that has taken up residence along his lower spine. The world’s escalating problems are reflected in the length of the briefings, this one lasting more than an hour. Not only are they dealing with the usual problems—North Korea, Syria, Putin—but a growing trend that’s threatening every major computer system, both civilian and government: hacking. And it’s gone well beyond a few private e-mails leaked to the press.
The Russian and Chinese governments have hacked their way onto the nation’s power grids and there’s a growing concern it’s only the tip of the iceberg. Aldridge knows from his daily briefings that the United States bears some responsibility for the enemy’s computer infiltrations. The computer jocks at the National Security Agency (NSA) were the first to burrow into the power grid computer code in both China and Russia, as well as in many other countries. Aldridge can live with a power grid détente. It’s the constant worry about infiltrations into the country’s most sensitive networks that keep him up at night.
Aldridge sighs and arches his back a final time before walking over to his desk. A tall man, it doesn’t take him long to cover the distance. He circles behind the desk and drops into his seat, reaching for his smartphone. Rail thin, Aldridge runs five miles on the treadmill every morning before most people are out of bed. And at fifty-six, he has the usual aches and pains but he’s remarkably healthy for a man who has spent the past three years lugging around the mountain of problems that come with his office. He slips on his reading glasses and pulls up the favorites list on his phone. He sends a text to his son Jacob, a high school senior, about his first-hour calculus test.
The fact that President Aldridge has a smartphone is a long-simmering issue between him and the Secret Service. The battle raged until Inauguration Day, when the service relented and presented him with a phone that had been specially programmed by the computer whizzes at the NSA. Now the phone is always within reach no matter where he is in the world.
With his son struggling through calculus most of the semester, Aldridge wants to be a supportive parent. He glances up at his chief of staff. “What’s next on the agenda, Isabella?”
Chief of Staff Isabella Alvarez consults her iPad. “You’re meeting with a Girl Scout troop here in the Oval at ten.”
Aldridge groans as his phone chimes, signaling a message. He taps the screen and chuckles. “Is it bad my son doesn’t have a clue about how well he did on his test?”
“I’m sure he did fine,” Isabella says. “
Calculus was definitely not my subject. I think you either get it or you don’t. Unfortunately I never did.” Alvarez, forty-three, has the dark complexion and raven black hair of her Mexican ancestors, but her azure eyes are a gift from her Caucasian father.
The President thumbs out a reply, but before he can hit send, the phone powers off and begins to reboot. When the screen lights, a tingle of dread races down his spine. “What the hell?”
“What’s wrong, sir?” Isabella asks, striding across the room.
The President turns the phone her way. On the screen are three words—VENGEANCE IS OURS. The white letters are in stark contrast to the scarlet background.
“I thought your phone was supposed to be unhackable,” Isabella says.
“You and me both. See if you can get in touch—”
“Mr. President,” his secretary says over the intercom, “I have an urgent call from General Vickers on line one.”
The President picks up the phone and pushes the flashing button. “Earl, I think my phone’s been hacked.”
There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line. “That’s the least of our problems, sir. Both the NSA and DOD networks have been infiltrated.”
“By whom?”
“Unknown, sir. It appears our system is frozen. All the monitors in our office are displaying a single message.”
CHAPTER 2
U.S. Cyber Command
Fort George G. Meade, Maryland
General Earl T. Vickers, director of the NSA and U.S. Cyber Command, disconnects the secure line to the President and immediately mashes another button. “Colonel, I want the best computer operators we have in my office forthwith.”
“Military or civilian, sir?” the colonel asks.
“Colonel, I don’t care if they’re from Mars. Send me the best we have.” The general replaces the handset, stands, and begins pacing the perimeter of his office while his mind clicks through the list of probable suspects.
Located approximately forty miles northwest of the White House on the edge of Fort Meade, the National Security Agency occupies a sprawling office complex dominated by two large buildings sheathed in dark glass. The black glass creates a mysterious aura, befitting the secret work that goes on inside.
Created in 2009, USCYBERCOM started at the back of the pack and remains in catch-up mode as they attempt to thwart the daily assaults on the nation’s defense networks. The man charged with the mission, Vickers, is a four-star who rocketed up the army ranks. A broad-shouldered man of average height whose salt-and-pepper hair is cut high and tight, Vickers has two advanced degrees from an Ivy League university. Unfortunately, neither is computer related, and the general is also playing catch-up, learning on the fly.
Vickers stops pacing when there’s a knock at his door. “Enter,” he shouts. That’s the other thing about Vickers—he’s not big on gatekeepers. If you want to see him, you knock and enter, if so instructed.
The door opens revealing a woman, early thirties, dressed in ripped jeans, flip-flops, and a T-shirt—all in black. Standing beside her is a man, approximately the same age, tall and broad, outfitted in khakis, a blue blazer, and a button-down shirt. Vickers waves a hand at the two chairs fronting his desk and works his way back to his chair. The woman saunters over, plops down, and crosses her leg, letting a flip-flop dangle from the edge of her big toe. The man straightens his blazer and sits, his posture ramrod straight.
Once both guests are seated, General Vickers drops into his chair finds it hard to draw his gaze from the silver hoop dangling from woman’s left nostril. “You two are my computer experts?”
“Let me guess—you were expecting a couple of good old boys?” the woman says.
If the general has learned anything since taking command, it’s that it takes all types to make a world, especially when it comes to computer programmers. He smiles. “I don’t care what’s between your legs, young lady, if you can get the job done. Names?”
The woman leans forward and grabs a foam football from the general’s desk. “I’m Alyx Reed.” She jabs a thumb toward the man seated next to her. “He can speak for himself.”
“Sir, I’m Zane Miller, working for the National Security Agency.”
Alyx leans back and begins squeezing the football. “Some shitstorm, huh?”
“How could our systems be hacked?”
“Anything powered by a computer can be hacked.” Alyx tosses the ball in the air and catches it.
“The NSANet isn’t connected to the Internet. It’s a closed system.”
“Intelligence operators all across the world have access to the system,” Alyx says, tossing the football in the air again. “The system may be air-gapped from the World Wide Web, but there are other access points.”
“Zane, are you thinking this could be an insider?”
Before he can answer, Alyx says, “The name Edward Snowden ring any bells?”
General Vickers scowls at Alyx, before turning to Zane. “Mr. Miller—insider, or have we been hacked by an outside group?”
“Unknown, at this time, sir. It’s going to take some time to decipher how they hacked the systems and we’re a long, long way from knowing who. But, sir, a more troubling problem presents itself.”
“What’s that?” Vickers asks. Alyx tosses the football to Vickers, who catches it one-handed.
“Good catch,” Alyx says. “If they’re on the NSA and DOD networks, you can bet your ass they’ve infiltrated most everything else.”
Vickers leans forward in his chair. “Such as?”
“Sir, whoever they are,” Zane answers, “they’ve probably spent years probing our networks, searching for weaknesses. Once they found a way in, they most likely spent many more months mapping our systems.”
Alyx uncrosses her legs and leans forward in her chair. “What Zane is trying to say is that they’ve got us by the balls.”
“But who?” Vickers asks.
“Won’t know until we know,” Alyx replies.
The intercom buzzes and the general’s aide says, “Sir, Ms. Alvarez is on line one.”
Vickers stabs the button and puts the phone to his ear. “Yes, ma’am?” He listens for a moment before hanging up the phone. “You two go to work. Set up in one of the video conference rooms in case I need you.” He scribbles something on a piece of paper and slides it across the desk. “That phone number will reach me anywhere in the world, twenty-four/seven. I’ve been summoned to the White House.”
CHAPTER 3
Weatherford, Oklahoma
Gage Larson eases down his driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires and the vast Oklahoma horizon filling the windshield. Weatherford, Oklahoma, is a dot on the map an hour west of Oklahoma City. Once a hotbed of oil drilling activity, the town has returned to a sleepy little hamlet after the price of oil dropped through the floor. Now it’s back to plowing fields, baling hay, and rounding up cattle, unless you’re lucky enough to land a job with the new boom—wind. Gage is one of the lucky ones. Growing up on a farm, Gage has a lifetime of knowledge when it comes to fixing things.
The Larson family stretches back four generations in Weatherford. Gage’s great-great-grandfather homesteaded the original 160 acres after the land was released during the Cheyenne-Arapaho Opening in 1892. Over time the previous Larsons added to the original homestead and today the family farms 1,280 acres, a section two miles square. But Gage and Holly, his wife, wanting something different, bought ten acres and a two-bedroom fixer-upper on the edge of town. Now they can walk to get a gallon of milk instead of having to drive four miles into town.
The highest point in Custer County is not much taller than an average sapling, and the rest is flat farmland that spreads as far as the eye can see. This makes Weatherford the perfect location to harness one of Mother Earth’s most abundant resources. The road transitions from gravel to potted pavement and the tires sing along the asphalt. The morning sun is bright, and Gage fumbles around in the seat for his sunglasses. He finds the
m tangled in the seat belt and pulls them free, plopping them in place. A farmer on his tractor is raking cut hay into furrows to be baled and the sweet aroma of freshly mown grass fills the cab. Nearing his turnoff Gage watches the shadows dancing across the field as the massive blades rotate in the wind and he pulls into the drive and bounces across the cattle guard.
Rounding a bend in the road, he can’t help but marvel every time at the sheer size of the machines. The tower stands 260 feet tall and the blades extend another 126 feet beyond the hub, making the overall height 389 feet. In the distance, the towering turbines are lined out in a row that stretches for miles—ninety-eight in all. And Gage’s job is to keep them turning. Each turbine is capable of producing 1.5 megawatts of electricity, and the entire wind farm pumps out 147 megawatts, enough to power over ninety thousand homes.
Gage pulls up to the closest turbine and kills the engine. He steps out, grabs his climbing harness from the back, and pulls it on. The newer turbines are outfitted with a small service elevator, but it traverses only a portion of the tower, leaving plenty of climbing to do. He cinches the harness tight and ties a line to his toolbox and a small ice chest and carries everything inside the tower. He wedges himself into the small elevator car and punches the button. It’s a tight fit for Gage, who stands six-two and weighs north of 230 pounds. Although heavy, his weight is evenly distributed across his large frame. When the elevator stops, he wiggles out onto a small platform and begins to climb, the ice chest and toolbox dangling beneath him. The higher he goes the narrower the tower becomes. By the time he’s reached the opening to the nacelle, or hub housing, he’s drenched in sweat. In the August heat it’s like climbing through a blast furnace. Gage pulls himself through the hatch carved into the floor and immediately triggers the power doors that open outward away from the guts of the machine.
