by Tim Washburn
Pinnacle Thrillers
by TIM WASHBURN
Cyber Attack
The Day After Oblivion
Cataclysm
Powerless
CYBER ATTACK
TIM WASHBURN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
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
ONE WEEK LATER
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
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: 978-0-7860-4252-4
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4253-1
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4253-2
This book is dedicated to:
Loren and Frances Washburn
and
Jack and Sue Cress
CHAPTER 1
Washington Dulles International Airport
The skyline around Dulles International Airport changed significantly in 2007, thanks to the construction of a new air traffic control tower that soars 325 feet above the surrounding landscape. With a panoramic view of the entire airport, the air traffic controllers are now able to visually see the runways and taxiways that funnel nearly twenty-two million passengers in and out of the airport every year. With that many people coming and going, Dulles is a busy place, especially for the air traffic controllers responsible for safely organizing the chaos that comes with two thousand daily flights. And if that wasn’t enough to cause heartburn, the air traffic controllers must face the reality that the tiniest mistake could lead to a major catastrophe.
But for Adam Baldwin it’s just another day at work. He’s accustomed to the pressure working as a flight controller inside the tower at Washington Dulles. Nine years on the job, Baldwin has seen a little bit of everything, from aborted takeoffs to emergency landings. The one thing Baldwin has never witnessed is a passenger jet crash and he has no desire to see one, especially on his watch.
Today Baldwin is working departures on runway 1C. He glances out the window to see how many aircraft are lined up for departure. The airport had a small hiccup earlier that put them behind and now he’ll need to play catch-up to get back on schedule. Baldwin does like the unfettered view from the top of the tower, but all that glass also allows the sun in, creating a hotbox the air-conditioning unit is struggling to cool on this hot August day. Glancing up at one of the large video screens hanging from the ceiling, Baldwin checks the scheduled departure times and compares it to the current time. They’re fifteen minutes behind, something he’ll hear about at the end of his shift, but he can’t make the planes fly any faster. He triggers his radio and says, “AirExpress 1423, you are cleared for takeoff. Please contact Potomac departure at 125.05.”
Baldwin leans back in his chair and pulls the headset from his head to dry moisture collected in his ear canal. Inside the tower, Baldwin sweats on even the coldest days of the year. The sweating is in direct relation to the extra fifty pounds he’s packed on since college and the intensive nature of his job. After swabbing his inner ear with a pinky finger, he repositions his headset and stacks the paper strip for the next departure at the bottom of his flight board. They’re still using the paper strips because the last significant computer upgrade for the Federal Aviation Administration’s flight systems occurred in 1999. And even then, the software was already outdated. In 2003, the FAA began the process of upgrading the nation’s air traffic control system with their NextGen system, but like most government programs, it’s years behind schedule and billions of dollars over budget. Installation of the new system did start last year at Dulles, but it’s not yet operational, leaving Baldwin and his team with their pencils and paper strips.
Baldwin scans the radar as the last plane to depart makes a right-hand turn. He triggers his radio. “Transjet 1536, Dulles Tower. You are next for departure.” He watches as the heavy jet taxis into the center of the runway and holds, waiting for Baldwin to give the all clear. He glances at his departure board and radios another jet to tell them they’re clear to taxi. As the planes continue to back up on the runway, the sweat begins to roll down Baldwin’s back in waves. He checks the radar to make sure the last departure has cleared the airspace and triggers his radio again, saying, “Transjet 1536, Dulles Tower. You are clear for departure.” He follows the plane’s p
rogress through the window as the pilot pushes the throttles to the stops and the jet picks up speed. Baldwin slots his next departure and then, without warning, the power in the tower flashes off. Shift supervisor Elise Carleton steps into the center of the room and takes charge. “Where the hell is the generator?” she shouts. “Hold all departures and have all aircraft maintain current positions.”
“How the hell are we supposed to do that?” Baldwin shouts, removing his headset. “The radios are down.”
Carleton mutters something about how much she loves her job and pulls the microphone away from her lips, snatching up the phone. She punches in an extension and waits for the call to be answered. After several seconds of silence she realizes the phones also aren’t working. “Somebody”—she looks around and points at another supervisor—“run downstairs to check on the generator.”
The supervisor hurries to the door and begins the long climb down.
There’s a roar as Transjet 1536 passes by the tower, zooming toward takeoff speed.
“Who’s taking off?” Carleton shouts.
“Transjet 1536,” Baldwin says. “They were cleared.”
“How the hell are you going to track them, Adam?” Carleton says.
Baldwin stares at his dead headset. “I don’t know. I can’t radio them to abort.”
“Jesus Christ, what a mess,” Carleton says.
Seconds later, the generator kicks on but they have to wait for the antiquated systems to reboot. Baldwin snaps on his headset and waits for the radio to power up, his eyes glued to the jet now lumbering down the runway. He hears a beep signaling the radio is up and running and he relaxes a little when the plane lifts off. Baldwin triggers his microphone and says, “Transjet 1536, please contact Potomac departure.”
“1536. Roger, Dulles Tower—what the hell? Dulles, we seem to be having engine—damn, dial back the engi—”
Baldwin triggers the radio. “Repeat, Transjet 1536.” Baldwin waits for a reply and when it doesn’t come, says, “Transjet 1536. What is the problem?” He pumps his right leg, mentally begging the pilot to respond.
Baldwin nearly jumps out of his chair when a massive explosion rattles the building to its core. Every eye in the room is drawn to the end of runway 1C, where a fireball is blooming high into the sky. Baldwin’s hands begin to tremble as he triggers his microphone again, saying, “Transjet 1536? Dulles Tower to Transjet 1536, please respond.”
He pauses to listen for a response, knowing there won’t be one.
CHAPTER 2
Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant
Lusby, Maryland
Located approximately fifty miles from Washington, D.C., Maryland’s only nuclear power plant is perched along the western shore of Chesapeake Bay. Two massive concrete cylinders front a long, three-story building that houses the necessary equipment used to generate electricity. Situated inside this building is the nerve center of the plant—the control room. The walls of the room are lined with muted yellow metal cabinets, reminiscent of the harvest gold appliances that were all the rage back in the ’60s and ’70s when the plant was constructed. Although ugly, the cabinets do serve a purpose and they’re outfitted with more switches and gauges than you’d find in an Apollo spacecraft. Phones, buttons, red lights, green lights—you could spend two days looking and still not see it all. In the center of the room is a U-shaped desk equipped with more phones and an array of computer monitors. Manning the desk is David Roark, the leader of the day shift. Presently, Roark is closely monitoring the incoming voltage levels from the power grid on his computer screen. If the voltages drop to a certain level the two nuclear power generating plants could shut down, one of a dozen or so safety measures designed to protect the surrounding civilian population.
The facility is equipped with backup diesel generators and a pair of emergency generators if those backups fail to start, a scenario that appears unlikely but has happened in the past. Two months ago, the two nuclear reactors shut down due to a weather event and the backups failed to start, as did the emergency generators. Roark and his crew had to scramble to keep the water flowing to the pool where the fuel rods are submerged. But according to the maintenance logs Roark scans every morning, the generators are now up and running and in tip-top shape. Roark will have to see it to believe it.
Both units at the plant are pressurized water reactors, and the fission of uranium heats the water to produce steam that is then used to spin massive turbines, generating electricity. Roark pedals his chair across the floor to check the computer display for turbine speeds. A tall, lean man with a shock of wavy red hair, Roark’s most noticeable feature is his oversized Adam’s apple. That big ball of cartilage is now bobbing up and down as he dry swallows repeatedly while watching the turbine speeds continuing to ramp up. “What’s up with the turbines?” he shouts to his four coworkers.
“Both started speeding up a moment ago,” his coworker Charles Lewis says while looking at a video screen at the front of the room. A cascade of alarms begins to sound and the front wall lights up like midnight in Times Square. “David, shut the turbines down!” Lewis shouts.
Roark begins typing the shutdown sequence on his keyboard and looks up to see his monitor frozen. He reaches across the desk and grabs the keyboard of a second computer only to find that one is also unresponsive. “The damn computer is locked up,” he shouts. “Try for a manual override.”
“Trying manual override,” Lewis shouts, pounding his palm on a button that’s supposed to cut the power to the turbines. “The manual override won’t enga—”
A loud shrieking noise pierces the room, followed closely by two loud explosions. Inside the plant, the turbines, spinning ten times faster than they were designed for, rip apart, launching a wave of shrapnel that rips through the other equipment, including two critical pumps used to transfer water from the bay.
“Pressure’s droppin’ like a rock on two of the water pumps on unit one,” Lewis shouts over the continuing wail of alarms.
“Bypass them,” Roark shouts.
“I’m trying. None of the controllers on the bypass valves are responding.”
Just when Roark thinks things couldn’t get any worse, the control room is plunged into darkness. “Where’s my backup generator?” he shouts into the black void.
“Checking,” another coworker, Emily Edwards, says.
“Check faster,” Roark shouts. The battery-powered emergency lighting kicks on, providing some light, but it’s no help for the rapidly failing pumps. He can hear the radio chatter between Edwards and the technicians, but can’t distinguish the actual words.
“Emily?” Roark asks.
She holds up a finger and moments later Roark sees her shoulders slump. “Both backups failed to start,” Edwards says, “and the emergency generators are off-line for maintenance. They’re trying to get the generators started.”
“They better hurry the hell up,” Roark says. “We’re about two minutes from disaster.”
After a very long two minutes with no word from the techs and the power still off, Roark reluctantly picks up the phone and pushes a preprogrammed button on the console. When the call is answered, he says, “This is shift supervisor David Roark at Calvert Cliffs. The emergency code is 746W3. Please initiate evacuation procedures.”
Daily News Website
—BREAKING NEWS—All air travel halted after a series of accidents. More details to follow . . .
CHAPTER 3
National Cyber Investigative Joint Task Force
Operations Center, McLean, Virginia
FBI Special Agent Hank Goodnight has his feet up on the desk and a keyboard in his lap, his eyes glued to the computer screen as he scrolls through the latest surveillance reports on a suspected hacker. Hank doesn’t have a clearly defined role within the agency and his job description has been reduced to two words—special projects. He does have a boss, though—Assistant Deputy Director Elaine Mercer—who decides which projects would best fit Hank’s uniq
ue abilities. The two have been a team for the last eight years and for the last four years they’ve been working on a joint task force focused on cyber threats. It’s a field of investigation that didn’t even exist twenty years ago. But that’s all changed and now the general public is bombarded by daily news reports about data breaches and stolen identities. Hank’s office phone rings and he leans across the desk and glances at the caller ID to see Mercer’s name. He picks up.
“My office, now,” Mercer says before hanging up.
Hank lowers his feet and stands, lays the keyboard on the desk, grabs his cell phone, and strolls out of his office. The official name of the agency Hank and Mercer are assigned to is the National Cyber Investigative Joint Task Force (NCIJTF), which occupies two floors of an unassuming building in downtown McLean, Virginia. A multiagency task force, it is run by the FBI and includes members from nineteen other government agencies—Homeland Security, the National Security Agency (NSA), Secret Service, Justice, Energy, State—along with a passel of military people mostly from the intelligence and special investigation units. According to the task force’s mission statement, not only do they coordinate, integrate, and share information about cyber attacks, they are also tasked with hunting down the perpetrators. And that’s where Hank comes in.
Hank places his palm on the scanner by the elevator and waits for the car to arrive. He dislikes the endless security gauntlet the agency installed when the space was remodeled for the agency’s use. He understands the need for security, but it’s a little over the top to suit him. He does, however, like the location and that’s the reason this building was chosen—it’s a short trip to both CIA Headquarters and the National Counterterrorism Center, with the added bonus that Dulles International Airport is just down the road.
