by Tim Washburn
“I’m bettin’ it was,” Hank says. “Might be another avenue of investigation.”
“I’ll assign an agent to look into it,” Morales says.
“I have a question, Tomás,” Paige says.
Morales glances at the rearview and says, “Shoot.”
“If they’ve detonated one of these bombs at the manufacturing plant, what’s to keep them from detonating them elsewhere? Surely, some of these weapons are deployed.”
“They are. The bombs are stored at several air force bases. The military is working to disarm the remaining bombs.”
“That leads to my next question,” Paige says. “If the hackers have access to this particular bomb why not other types of military hardware?”
“I think the military folks are hoping the ammunition plant is the weak link in the chain. An isolated event,” Morales says.
“And what do you think?” Paige asks. “So far, they’ve hacked the power grids—which is not all that difficult to do—a dam, a series of chemical plants and nuclear power plants, a fairly sophisticated piece of aircraft flight software, and now some military ordnance. What’s to stop them from escalating their attacks to other military weapons?”
Morales’s eyes drift to the rearview mirror. “You think the military people are wrong, Paige?”
“Yes, I do.”
Morales glances over at Hank. “You feel the same?”
“Absolutely.”
“God help us,” Morales mutters.
CHAPTER 26
North Atlantic Ocean
Hoping to build the next great class of ships for twenty-first-century warfare, the U.S. Navy commissioned a trio of defense contractors to do just that. After years of design and building, the result of their efforts is the USS Stark, a Zumwalt-class guided missile destroyer. Designed to be stealthy, the ship is a marvel of modern technology. From her knife-edged bow to her totally enclosed superstructure, the 610-foot-long USS Stark has the radar signature of a 50-foot fishing boat.
The modern marvels continue inside the ship with racks of computer servers that run every system on the ship from bow to stern. The servers are enclosed in what the navy calls an Electronic Modular Enclosure (EME) and the Stark has sixteen such enclosures on board—each jam-packed with computer equipment. Everything on the ship, from the showers to the gun turrets, is controlled by what the navy calls the Total Ship Computing Environment (TSCE). And all that computing power and the sophistication of the ship’s weapons and navigation systems require an enormous amount of software to operate. Even without several systems online for sea trials, it requires nearly six million lines of code to get the ship out of port.
The navy originally hoped to purchase thirty-two of these advanced war machines, but as costs ballooned to the point that each ship was going to cost over $3 billion to acquire, the order was cut in half. But similar to many other government programs, the costs didn’t end there and the navy cut the total number of ships to seven. Flash forward to today, and the navy capped the number of ships at three and the whole program ran aground and was eventually canceled.
Today, Captain Bruce Hensley is commander of the USS Stark, a ship that is far from complete and years away from combat readiness. Despite the Government Accountability Office’s assessment that only three of the ship’s eleven critical technologies are fully operational, the U.S. Navy ordered the USS Stark out for sea trials, the navy desperate to show something from all those billions spent. Hensley glances at one of the camera displays hanging overhead. The view he’s looking at is from the bow camera and there are storm clouds on the horizon. To say they have bugs to work out would be an understatement. The last time they were out to sea, both of the ship’s propellers seized while they were traversing the Panama Canal and the ship had to be towed out of the canal and back to port. After eleven months waiting for repairs, they are now back out on the high seas and the captain is wondering if his career is going to crater along with this piece-of-shit ship.
The bridge on the Stark is small compared to the overall size of the ship, with room for only four or five sailors. Most of the work is accomplished in the navy’s new-concept control room called the Ship’s Mission Center (SMC), where the captain is now. A large room, it has space for dozens of three-video-screen workstations and is a total departure from the old concept when there was a radio room, a weapons station, or an engineering room. All of the ship’s functions are now controlled from this one futuristic-looking control center. The one thing that aggravates Hensley is the fact that the room has no windows—apparently windows are bad things to build in a ship if you’re trying to be stealthy. “Let’s take her out a little further,” Hensley says. “Helm, left rudder, fifteen degrees. All ahead full.” They have been navigating a busy shipping channel all morning and the radar is on the fritz—again. Hensley wants out of the clutter. The last thing he needs is to collide with another ship.
The large ship begins to turn, veering east. They are currently sailing about fifteen miles east of Naval Station Norfolk.
The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Kathleen Connelly, sidles up to the captain and whispers, “The farther out to sea we go, the farther we have to tow her back in.”
“Hush, Kat,” Hensley says. “You’re going to jinx us.”
“Bruce, this ship was jinxed the moment it hit the water.” At five-six, Connelly is runner-lean with short blond hair and lake blue eyes.
“I’m praying we can make it through this tour without another breakdown.” At forty-nine, Hensley is a tall man who wears the same size pants—a thirty-two waist—that he wore in high school. His dark hair is still more pepper than salt, but that could change, depending on how this portion of the sea trial goes.
Although this is another trial run, the USS Stark carries a full complement of weapons: everything from missiles to six-inch rounds for the two 155-mm deck guns. You can’t be caught in a possible gun battle and be shooting blanks. And in today’s pressure cooker of political uncertainties, a new enemy could be lurking just out of sight. “How long to fix the radar?” Hensley asks a sailor siting at the engineering station.
“Unknown, sir,” the young man says. “It appears to be a software coding error, sir.”
“What else is new?” Hensley mutters. He turns to Connelly and says, “I was hoping to run through some live-fire drills, but we can’t do a damn thing without the radar.”
“Patience, Bruce,” Connelly says.
“That’s one thing I’m about out of.” He lowers his voice and says, “I’d love to ask for a reassignment.”
“What? And leave me stuck with this albatross?” Connelly asks. “Don’t you dare.”
“It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. Not until we finish these trials. No, let me rephrase—if we ever finish these trials, which seems highly unlikely at the moment.” He takes advantage of the lull and pulls out his smartphone to check for messages from the family. That’s another selling feature of this state-of-the-art ship—stem-to-stern superfast Wi-Fi via the Stark’s TSCE. The TSCE system links all of the ship’s various systems—weapons, engineering, communications, etc.—using redundant servers running the Linux operating system. The fact that Linux has more holes (security vulnerabilities) than a paper target at a police shooting range seemed to matter little to the designers and builders of this new class of destroyers. Hensley finds no messages from family members and he takes a moment to check his e-mail.
An hour later, the ship’s chief engineer assures Captain Hensley the radar is repaired. He turns to Connelly and says, “Order preparation for live-fire exercises. Let’s see if we can get some action in before the radar craps out again.”
Connelly steps away to organize the exercise and Hensley orders the targets deployed. The targets are large inflatable orange squares that get tossed into the ocean to give the gunners something to shoot at. The two large 155-mm deck guns, the first of their type, were designed to shoot a newly designed projectile that would achieve a n
ew level of precision with a range of sixty miles. But after installation of the gun system, the navy discovered the costs of the new projectiles would be somewhere between $700,000 and $900,000 per round. After finding out the price tag to fill the two gun’s 300-round automated magazines would be in the millions of dollars, the navy went looking for alternatives. They discovered some ammunition already in inventory that would work, but only if the new guns were retrofitted. The guns were worked over and the new rounds Hensley will be firing today have a range of about twenty-six miles and a more manageable price of only $68,000 per round.
Executive Officer Connelly returns. “We’re locked and loaded, Skipper.
“Good. Let’s see what she can do.” The captain walks over to the combat center. “Chief, have you acquired the targets?”
“I have, sir,” Chief Warrant Officer Ed Elliot replies.
“Light ’em up.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Elliot replies, a large grin on his face. The all-electric guns are controlled entirely by computer through the gun system’s master control unit. Elliot powers on the two massive guns and immediately notices the turrets rotating the exact opposite way than planned. “What the hell?”
“What’s wrong, Chief?”
“I don’t know, s—”
His last words are clipped by the roar of cannon fire. “Sir,” Elliot shouts, “something’s wrong.”
“Shut it off!” Hensley shouts.
Each gun is capable of firing ten rounds a minute, and since they began firing they have shot off six rounds.
“The computer’s not responding, Captain,” Elliot say.
“Then shut the whole damn system down,” Hensley shouts.
Elliot’s fingers jab at the keyboard as the guns continue firing—boom . . . boom . . . boom—one round right after another.
“The computer’s locked up, Skipper,” Elliot shouts over the constant barrage.
“Unplug the damn thing!”
“I can’t. It’s all tied into the ship’s systems.”
“Hard left, rudder!” Hensley shouts to those on the bridge, hoping and praying the guns won’t track whatever target the guns are shooting at.
He glances at the bow camera to see the turrets turning, the tracking system apparently working flawlessly.
“Mr. Elliot, I need answers!” Hensley barks as more personnel flood onto the bridge. The ship’s weapon systems officer, Lieutenant Mike Griffin, comes racing in, out of breath. With this being the first planned firing of the guns, he had been doing an on-site inspection of their operation. He nudges Elliot aside and reaches for the keyboard, typing in command after command with no effect. “Skipper,” Griffin shouts, “we’re locked out of the computer.”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘locked out’?” Hensley hollers over the ongoing fusillade.
“I can’t access any of the ship’s weapon systems.”
Everyone on the bridge startles when a barrage of missiles roars out of their launchers.
“What the hell!” Hensley shouts. “Cut the power to the guns and missile launchers!”
Before anyone can answer, another flight of missiles streaks high into the sky as the large guns continue to fire.
“The computer won’t let me kill the power,” Griffin shouts.
“Goddamn it!” Hensley turns to Connelly. “Call down to the engine room. Have them cut power to the entire ship.”
Connelly snatches up the phone and makes the call as more missiles launch. Moments after Connelly’s radio call, the computer monitors and the lights in the Ship’s Mission Center wink off. The sudden silence is startling yet welcome—the guns have stopped.
“Mr. Griffin, how many howitzer rounds were fired?” Hensley asks.
“I won’t know the exact number until we power up the computers. A rough estimate based on duration would be somewhere close to a hundred rounds.”
Hensley shakes his head. “And missiles?”
“I won’t know how many or type until the computers are back on.”
“I’m not turning those sons-a-bitches back on until we find out what happened. Call downstairs and have someone count how many missiles are left on board.”
Griffin grabs a radio and pauses. “Sir, I can’t call down there with the power off.”
“Fuck! Run downstairs, Griff, and tell your men to count the remaining missiles.”
Lieutenant Griffin stands and hurries for the exit.
“Wait, Griff,” Hensley shouts. “Any idea if there was a specific target?”
“I won’t know that—”
Hensley cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I know, I know . . . until the computers are back on.” Hensley runs a hand across the top of his head and steps over closer to Griffin. “What the hell happened, Griff?”
“The only thing that makes sense is that someone hacked our weapons systems.”
“Who?”
“Unknown, sir. Might find something when we power back up.”
“While you’re down there, put a crew together. I want those weapons immobilized.”
“Yes, sir,” Griffin says, hurrying out the door.
Hensley walks over to the communication’s center. “Any luck with the radio?”
“Not yet, sir. But I think we were close before the ship was powered down.”
CHAPTER 27
Chicago
Peyton is dripping sweat and her feet are aching as she climbs down the final few steps to the ground floor. She’s uttered every curse word in her vocabulary on the trip back up to her office—all aimed at the sorry bastard who stole her case of water. Peyton had remembered seeing a case of water in the company’s break room and she’s now lugging it, and her heavy bag, back down the stairs. She hits the door and spills out into the lobby. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she hauls her stuff to a chair and plops down. Her new pencil skirt is in tatters after Peyton used the scissors to cut slits to allow for a wider range of movement. The slits grew to long rips during the journey, and it now looks as if Peyton is wearing a hastily cobbled together loincloth. She pulls her right foot onto her lap to pick the grit out of the scrapes and cuts on her sole. She’d love to use one of the bottles of water to wash the blood and grime off her feet, but the fear of not knowing what lies ahead wins out in the end. Instead, she wipes her foot with a section of her tattered skirt and does the same for her left foot and calls it done.
Sitting in the vacant lobby, she begins to worry about those same cuts and scrapes. How many germs on those stairs? She glances around the lobby. And not just the stairs. How many potential bacterial infections are lurking along the surface of the lobby floor? A floor that gets trod on by shoes that have probably tromped through pigeon shit, or dog shit, or worse? Think how much trash and garbage collects on the sidewalks. “Stop it, Peyton,” she utters out load, surprising herself. She glances at her new heels lying on the floor, but the thought of having to put them on roils her stomach. Peyton turns her gaze from the shoes to the window, hoping to see her husband’s familiar face. She doesn’t see any sign of Eric, but she does see a nicely dressed woman stop midstride, pull her skirt up, and squat. The woman appears nonchalant as her urine puddles around her shoes. “At least I opted for a stairwell,” Peyton mutters. The woman stands, lowers her skirt, and continues on, as if urinating on the sidewalk were an everyday occurrence for her, which, judging by her clothing and expensive handbag, it’s not. Jeez, if it has come to this after only a few hours without power, what’s it going to be like after a few days?
Before Peyton can give that question much thought, she’s startled by the sound of shattering glass. She stands and hobbles over to the window as the cascade of breaking glass continues. Peyton gasps at the sight of people pouring in and out of the nearby stores, their arms laden with stolen goods. Peyton isn’t that surprised that looting has already started, but she is surprised and somewhat unsettled by the people doing it. They aren’t street thugs or gang members, they’re people lik
e her. People who have jobs, apartments, families—people who ought to know better. Peyton hears more glass shattering and steps closer to the window to see which place has been hit now.
It’s the shoe store down the street.
She ponders that for a moment. Huh. No, absolutely not. I’m not a thief. My parents raised me better.
Peyton watches as men and women leave the store, their arms loaded with boxes of shoes. Two well-attired women spill onto the sidewalk, both clutching the same shoebox. They are shouting and spitting at each other, tugging on the distinctive black-and-white box that Peyton knows contains an expensive pair of shoes. When it looks as if one of the women is getting the upper hand, the other turns loose and Peyton thinks that’s the end of that. She’s shocked when the other woman winds her arm up and slaps the other woman in the face. The injured woman sags slightly and the box slips from her hands. The slapper leans over, grabs the shoes, and takes off while Peyton looks on, horrified.
More windows are broken and more stores are looted. Peyton cranes her neck to look up the street at Bloomingdale’s. It looks like Christmas Eve as people exit the store carrying overstuffed bags filled with stolen bounty. Peyton’s eyes drift away from the scene and down to her bruised and battered feet. Is one more missing pair of shoes really going to matter to the owner of the store? Heck, they probably have insurance to cover incidents just like this. Her gaze returns to the unfolding horror show outside. Besides, there’s glass everywhere and I’d have to put on those damn heels just to go outside. She watches as two men square off in the middle of the street, about to come to blows over a Gucci bag that one has stolen from the high-end department store. Both are wearing khakis and button-downs, but that’s where the similarities end. One is tall and overweight, his gut lapping over his belt; the other a head shorter and about sixty pounds lighter. The larger man makes the first move, throwing a big roundhouse punch that misses by a mile. The smaller man ducks the punch and delivers a short quick left to the larger man’s solar plexus and he doubles over, obviously out of breath. Fight over before it even began. The man grabs the bag and melds into the crowd.
