by Tim Washburn
Hank shrugs and heads for the entrance, his jacket inside out and draped over his arm. Glancing at the chaos through the windows, Hank takes a deep breath and steps up to the automatic door, Paige right behind him. They’re barely through the door when people begin swarming Paige like a pack of hyenas moving in on a fresh kill. Paige tries to make herself smaller as the crowd swells, the shouted questions hitting her like a barrage of bullets. People are jostling for position, stepping on her toes, and grabbing her clothing. Paige slaps at the hands grabbing her clothes and looks pleadingly at Hank, who’s standing off to the side leaning against a support column.
Hank raises his brows and tilts his head in an I told you look and allows the melee to continue for a few more seconds before wading into the crowd. He grabs Paige by the arm and pulls her free. Once they’ve created some space, Paige peels off the Windbreaker—in world record time—and folds it so that none of the lettering is visible. “Why didn’t you tell me that was going to happen?”
Hank takes Paige by the elbow and steers her down the corridor. “If you recall, I suggested you wait to put on the jacket.”
“You could have been more forceful with your suggestion,” Paige says, glancing over her shoulder to see some of the same people following. “I feel like I’m leading a conga line.”
Hank and Paige make their way to the elevator. Hank debates calling the director of airport security to intercept the followers, but decides the man has enough on his plate and Hank doubts anyone will go to the trouble of making the trip downstairs. He and Paige hop on the elevator car when it arrives and take it to the basement. Just as they exit the elevator the lights flash out.
A collective groan can be heard echoing through the terminal upstairs.
“I think things just went from bad to worse,” Paige says. “Let’s hope the server room is connected to a backup generator.”
They remain where they are until the emergency lighting kicks on. When it does, the fixtures are so widely spaced the battery-powered bulbs do little to dispel the darkness. Hank and Paige wait for their eyes to adjust and then proceed. An area not frequented by passengers, the basement is cold both in temperature and feeling. Posters about workplace safety are plastered on the walls, and the dingy linoleum floors are worn through in spots, the walls practically begging for a fresh coat of paint.
“Where’s the server room?” Paige asks.
Hank glances at the room numbers tacked over the doors. “Room B203.”
“You remember the room number from a report you read ages ago?” Paige asks.
Hank shrugs. A little farther down the corridor, they find the correct room and are glad to see the lights are on and the servers up and running. The steel exterior door is outfitted with a numeric lock and a camera is positioned in the upper-left corner of the wall. Hank knocks and holds his credentials up to the camera.
The door is answered moments later by a man in his midforties, dressed in khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt streaked with sweat. “I’m Daniel Copeland, the IT manager,” he says, ushering them into the room.
Hank introduces himself then Paige. “Tough morning?” Hank asks.
“To say the least,” Copeland says, leading them deeper inside. The far wall is mostly glass and it looks over a large room jammed with computer equipment.
“Does the rest of the airport have backup generators?” Paige asks.
“Yes and no. There are generators to activate the emergency lighting and a few other security features, but you’d need several generators the size of a semi truck to power the entire terminal building.” Copeland leads them into a control room that’s currently occupied by three other people. In the center of the room is a large banana-shaped desk bristling with computer monitors, and hanging from the ceiling are more monitors displaying the current status of the computer network. Copeland turns his chair around and plops down, waving at two unoccupied chairs.
“What have you discovered?” Hank asks, pulling up a chair and sitting.
“Not much,” Copeland says. “How much do you know about hacking a computer network?”
“Enough, but Paige here is an expert,” Hank says.
Copeland turns his gaze on Paige. “Then you know how difficult it is going to be to find out how they entered the network much less find who might be responsible.”
Paige nods and takes a seat in the other vacant chair. “What software are you running?”
“Windows Server 2008 R2.”
Hank holds up a hand. “Before we get into the technicalities, can we hear the audio recording from the tower at the time of the incident?”
“Of course. The tower lost power shortly before the accident occurred so we don’t have much lead-in on the radio recording.” Copeland swivels around to face his workstation.
“That happen very often?” Hank asks.
Copeland glances over his shoulder. “Losing power?”
Hank nods.
“They’ve recently been doing a lot of construction around the airport, so yeah, it does happen occasionally. The tower is equipped with a generator, but for some reason there was a delay before it started. Do you think that’s significant?”
“Won’t know until we hear what you have,” Hank says. “Let her rip, Daniel.”
“This is fifteen seconds before the incident. The first voice is the air traffic controller Adam Baldwin, followed by the captain of Transjet 1536.”
“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—”
“Transjet 1536, what’s the problem?”
There’s a pause on the tape and then: “Transjet 1536? Dulles Tower to Transjet1536, please respond.”
“That’s it,” Copeland says, swiveling his chair around.
Paige asks him to play it again and he does. After the second playback, Paige asks, “Any word on the flight recorders inside the plane?”
“No. Once it cools down a bit, I assume the NTSB will recover those.”
“What type of aircraft was Transjet flying?” Hank asks.
“A 737-800,” Copeland replies.
“How many 737s do you reckon are currently in service, Daniel?” Hank asks.
“What are you thinking, Hank?” Paige asks, tucking her hair behind her left ear.
Hank holds up a hand, waiting for Copeland’s response.
“Gosh, I don’t know,” Copeland says, pausing to think. “There are several variants of the 737, but I would think, globally, the total number has to be in the thousands.”
“’Bout what I thought,” Hank says, standing. “I don’t know if your flight control system has been hacked or not, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the crash.”
“What do you mean?” Copeland asks, a bewildered expression on his face.
“Most of today’s aircraft offer some form of Wi-Fi and my bet is they hacked the aircraft’s computer systems,” Hank says. “And if that’s the case we’ve got major problems.”
CHAPTER 7
Lusby
The local golf club in north Lusby is located four miles south of Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant. Surrounded by a blue-collar neighborhood, the course attracts the barbers and hairdressers on Monday and the retired the rest of the week. The greens and fairways aren’t manicured, but they are playable. If you’re thinking Augusta National, this isn’t it. Not even close. But to Roger Rinsky and his three pals who play there three times a week, it might as well be. And at ten bucks a round—including cart—it’s affordable.
Playing for five dollars a hole, Rinsky and his playing partner, Harvey Moretti, are heading to the sixth tee down twenty-five bucks each. Yes, they’d heard the sirens a while ago, but when Rinsky’s losing there’s no stopping him. He squeals the tires when he slams on the golf cart’s brakes at the sixth tee. Rinsky climbs out, yanks his driver from his bag, and stalks up to the tee box. A tall and th
in man when he was younger, Rinsky’s fondness for beer has finally caught up to him at the age of seventy-two. Around, firm potbelly protrudes from his midsection, and his friends—when Rinsky is in a good mood—will often tease him about the sex of the baby. But today is not the day for teasing Rinsky.
After the other twosome tees off, Rinsky plunges his tee into the ground and places his ball. He’s in the middle of his second practice swing when the sirens sound again.
“Rog, maybe we should head to the clubhouse and find out what’s going on,” his partner, Moretti, suggests.
“Screw that,” Rinsky replies. He steps behind the ball and works on picking a target farther down the fairway, waiting for the sirens to end. When they do, he steps forward, lines up his driver, shuffles his feet, and takes a huge, angry swing at the ball. His shot slices right and ends up in the trees. “Fuck!”
After Moretti hits his tee ball down the middle of the fairway, Rinsky stomps back to the cart and slams his driver into his bag. He slides behind the wheel, pops the top on a fresh beer, and guzzles half of it before hitting the gas. After driving through the trees for a few minutes, Rinsky spots his ball and mutters another string of curse words. The ball has come to rest behind a large oak tree, giving Rinsky no shot. He climbs out, grabs a club, and looks around to see if his two competitors are watching. They aren’t, so Rinsky uses the nose of his golf shoe to nudge the ball out from behind the tree. He steps back to plot his next shot when the sirens sound again.
“Roger, that’s the third time the sirens have gone off. We need to find out what’s going on,” Moretti pleads.
Rinsky steps to the back of the cart and takes a club from his bag. “Harvey, quit being a pussy. They’re probably running some kind of fuckin’ drill.”
Moretti shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “But what if it’s not?”
Rinsky points his club in the direction of the nuke plant. “Do you see anything wrong? Hell no. If there’s a problem, don’t you think you’d see steam, or smoke, or something?”
“There doesn’t have to be visible evidence for them to be having problems, Roger.”
“Yeah, well, until I see any evidence they’re having trouble, I’m going to keep playing.” Rinsky settles over the ball, takes a big backswing, and knocks the ball all the way across the fairway and into another grouping of trees. “Fuck!” He slams his club into the ground and turns, marching back to the cart. He takes the wheel and stomps on the gas pedal, driving over to Moretti’s ball.
“I’ll give you the twenty-five bucks, Roger,” Moretti says.
“Screw you, Harvey. It’s not the damn money and you know it. Hit your ball.”
Moretti steps out, selects a 5-iron from his bag, and hits his ball onto the green before climbing back in the cart. “Jeez, Rog, it’s not like we’re playing the U.S. Open.”
“I don’t care.” Rinsky zips over to the trees that swallowed his ball and finds it sitting on the edge of the fairway. “I must be living right.” He steps out, selects a club, and swings, the ball dribbling onto the front edge of the green. “Ha. A par putt.”
“From about sixty feet,” Moretti says.
“Still a par putt, assh—”
His words are clipped when the sirens start up again. Rinsky drives up to the elevated green and scowls when he sees the other two players within six feet of the pin for a birdie. Balls are marked and the green repaired as Rinsky looks over his long par putt. He kneels down behind his ball to study the undulations of the green. The other three are huddled together, looking at the power plant to the north. Rinsky picks a line, takes a couple of practice swings, and addresses the ball. In the middle of his backswing there’s a deafening explosion that shakes the ground beneath Rinsky’s feet. He looks up to see the other three running for the carts then turns his head a few degrees to the left and drops his putter. The nearest concrete cylinder housing one of the nuclear reactors has been obliterated. The steam, smoke, and debris shooting high into the sky are picked up by the wind, pushing the cloud of radiation toward the golf course.
Rinsky runs for his cart. The major problem is that they’re now at the farthest point from the clubhouse. The foursome is three hundred yards from the clubhouse when the cloud of ionized radiation particles sweeps over them.
CHAPTER 8
Dulles
Once clear of the terminal’s basement, Hank’s phone starts dinging like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Surprised that he has a cell signal with the power out at the airport, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and sees over a dozen text messages and six missed calls—the calls all from Mercer.
“Somebody’s looking for you,” Paige says.
“Mercer,” Hank says, holding his thumb on the home button to unlock the screen.
“I’m going to hit the little girl’s room while you call her back,” Paige says.
Hank nods, scrolling through his text messages. Two are from his grandmother wanting to know what’s going on, the others from fellow agents looking for information. Hank types out a quick reply to his grandmother: Call you shortly, Nana and then punches Mercer’s number and she answers on the first ring.
“Where in the hell have you been, Hank?”
“The basement of the terminal buildin’. No cell service. What’s happened?”
“We’ve had reports of nearly a dozen more aircraft crashes and they were all landing after the grounding order was issued,” Mercer says.
“All 737s?” Hank asks.
“Hold on,” Mercer says. She comes back on the line a moment later. “Yes. How did you know?”
“The jet here was a 737 and, in the tower audio recording of the incident, the pilot’s last words were something about engine speeds. My guess is they’ve somehow hacked the airplane’s thrust management system. How, I don’t know, but all these planes now offer Wi–Fi so that might be it. That’s not to say they haven’t infiltrated the FAA flight systems, too, but they’d have to have a lot of things break their way to create this much havoc.”
Paige returns from the restroom and Hank says, “Hold on, Elaine.” He covers the phone’s microphone, saying, “More jet crashes all over the place. All 737s.”
The blood drains from Paige’s face. “How many?”
Hank shrugs. “More than a few. See what you can find out on your phone.”
“I will. How widespread is the power outage?”
Hank takes his finger off the phone’s microphone. “Elaine, how widespread is the power outage?”
“So far it’s confined to the D.C. and Dulles areas, but I don’t know for how long,” Mercer says.
Hank passes the info on to Paige and says to Mercer, “That’s strange.”
“Why?” Mercer asks.
“Because there are basically just three power grids that cover the entire nation: the Eastern Interconnect, Texas, and the West Coast.”
“Meaning, if they’ve infiltrated the D.C. power grid they’re also embedded in the Eastern Interconnect?” Mercer asks.
“Yes,” Hank replies. “And I’d be surprised if they haven’t hacked the other systems, too. That might be act two of this horror show. Are you picking up any chatter about the attacks?”
“Chatter about the incidents but nothing about, or from, the culprits,” Elaine says. “We’re liaising with the CIA and the NSA and even with all their resources we’ve failed to find a single shred of usable intelligence on who might be responsible.”
“We’re still only about three hours into this mess. Someone will start blabbin’. Human nature,” Hank says. “Think Paige and I can get into one of the power companies to get a look at their software?”
“Probably not without a court order. They’re all private companies and they’re competitive as hell. I’ll make a call to the secretary of energy to see if she can pull some strings.”
“We’re burnin’ daylight, Elaine. Might be better to bypass all the bureaucratic bullshit and talk to the man that holds all the strings. Have him
declare a national emergency or whatever he needs to do so we can get a look at some of this software.”
“I’ll talk to the director, Hank, and see if he wants to approach the president,” Mercer says. “I’ll also call the Chicago field office and have them send agents out to the 737’s manufacturer. I doubt they’ll be forthcoming, but all we can do is try.”
“Maybe we could offer to limit their liability in exchange for cooperation. By the time the liability lawyers get through with them they’ll be lucky to still have a company. Or better yet, start pullin’ some of their Defense Department contracts. We need to drop the hammer on some folks.”
“I’m on it, Hank. What are you and Paige going to do?” Mercer asks.
“We’re goin’ to do a little explorin’.” Hank disconnects the call and looks at Paige, who is using her phone to watch footage from one of the air crashes. “How are your hackin’ skills, Paige?”
Paige looks up from the screen. “Let’s just say I’m better than your average bear.”
Hank smiles. “Good.”
CHAPTER 9
En route to Miami
The Hammond family is flying from drizzly Portland, Oregon, to sunny Miami for their first family vacation in five years. The children, ten-year-old Chloe and seven-year-old Camille, had lobbied hard for a trip to Orlando and its numerous theme parks, but had eventually come around to the idea of a seven-night cruise to the western Caribbean. The deciding factor: a chance to swim with the dolphins, an encounter that’s going to cost their father, Martin, about five hundred bucks. And that’s just for the three-hour shore excursion. The entire trip has put a major dent in the Hammond family bank account, but his wife, Lilly, insisted that they were building lifetime memories with their children.
Martin, stuck sitting next to Camille, is trying to keep her occupied with a coloring book. He switches crayons and begins coloring SpongeBob red.
“No, Daddy,” Camille says, grabbing his hand. “He’s s’posed to be yellow.”
