by Tim Washburn
CHAPTER 34
Manhattan
There’s bad news and then there’s really bad news. The bad news is that the stock exchange software is infested with the malware and Paige wonders if they’ll ever get rid of it entirely. Now, the really bad news—about half the database that records and documents stock trades is trashed. The final tally for the damage won’t be known for months, but it figures to be in the trillions of dollars. To pile on, the redundant system out in New Jersey is also infested. But the fears don’t end there. Paige is betting the broker-dealers who make trades on the exchange are also compromised. The malware turns out to be a worm, a nasty little piece of software and, like other worms, it propagates quickly, self-replicates, and requires no user intervention. As far as Paige can tell, the payload on this worm was designed for one purpose only—destruction. Paige turns to look at Hank. “What was the worm with multiple payloads that the Kaspersky Lab found?”
“A newer version of the Duqu worm. Newer even than Duqu 2.0. It was discovered on their system in early 2015, and the lab thought it was one of the most sophisticated pieces of malware to date. The hackers were clever enough to make slight variations to each attack, such as slight changes to file names or algorithms to avoid detection. The version they found had at least four compressed and encrypted payloads.”
Paige shakes her head. “Who needs Google when I have you? Anyway, I’ve seen some of the Duqu source code and this isn’t it. Not even close.”
“Could it be an updated version of the Stuxnet malware?”
“If it is, there are some radical differences from the original code I saw. I’ll send it to Natalie in a moment. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that all these attacks are linked to this one piece of malware.”
“That’s my hunch, Paige, but it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m right. Couldn’t they have multiple embedded and encrypted payloads? One for destruction and maybe another targetin’ somethin’ else?”
“It’s possible, but extremely difficult to do.”
“Whoever is behind the hack has spent years developin’ this malware, Paige. Maybe we should reach out to the folks at Kaspersky.”
“Hello? Do you watch the news?” Paige asks. “It’s a Russian company. There’s no way the FBI or the NSA is going to ask the Russians for anything.”
“They have offices here in the States,” Kent Fitzpatrick, the IT guy, offers.
“Yeah, probably to spy on us,” Paige says.
Fitzpatrick shrugs. “We’ve used them in the past.”
Paige swivels her chair around to stare at Fitzpatrick. “Yeah? And where did that get you?”
Fitzpatrick shrugs. “They’ve been very helpful to us in the past.”
“Of course they were,” Paige says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Hank’s phone chimes and he pulls it out of his pocket to see a message from Elaine Mercer. He unlocks the screen and reads the contents before turning to Fitzpatrick. “Would you mind steppin’ out of the room?”
“I’m not leaving the room until she unplugs her flash drive,” Fitzpatrick says.
Paige scowls. “What? You afraid I’m going to copy some of your precious software?”
“It’s my ass on the line,” Fitzpatrick says. “Unplug the flash drive if you want me out of your hair for a few minutes.”
“What if I plug it back in when you leave?” Paige asks, wagging her head back and forth with each word.
“If you do, I’ll get a notification on my phone.”
Hank feels like he’s back in first grade. “Paige, pull the damn drive.”
Paige pulls it out and waggles it in the air. “Satisfied?”
“Yes,” Fitzpatrick says, his nose in the air as he exits.
“What an asshole,” Paige mutters as the door closes. “What’s the latest, Hank?”
“Nothin’ good, that’s for damn sure. Apparently one of our navy ships decided to take out half the fleet that’s docked at Norfolk.”
Paige rears back in surprise. “Jesus. How did that happen?”
“Accordin’ to Elaine, they haven’t been able to contact the ship. They don’t know if the damn thing has been hijacked or what.”
“Which ship did the shooting?”
“The new Zumwalt-class destroyer.”
“Well, that makes sense. Talk about a piece of shit. They’ve worked a gazillion years on the damn thing and still can’t get it right. The navy is trying to implement their new Total Computing something-or-other. The entire ship runs entirely by computer with about half the number of sailors as the current class of destroyers. I guess it’s their way of saving money if you forget to factor in the billions of dollars already spent on development.”
“The computer networks control everything? I’ve seen pictures of the ship, but that’s it.”
Paige nods. “Yes, from the ship’s lights to her guns, it’s all controlled by computers. I’m sure the network’s partitioned so that the cooks don’t have the capability to launch a missile, but I haven’t seen any of the source code to know how it’s structured.”
“The structure doesn’t matter because these hackers appear to have had abundant time to map every system on the ship.”
“I think you’re right.”
Hank rereads the message from Elaine. “There’s more.”
“Of course there is. What else?”
“The Acela Express train derailed and slammed into other parked trains at Penn Station. Death toll unknown at present, but witnesses report seein’ the train acceleratin’ as it approached the station.”
Paige leans back in her chair and grabs a strand of hair and twirls it around her index finger. “Huh. Now I’m doubly confused.”
Hank leans forward in his seat, propping his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been thinkin’.”
“That’s dangerous,” Paige says. “We don’t want to get that big brain of yours overheated.”
“Funny,” Hank says, frowning. “We don’t know exactly what happened with the aircraft, the dam, or all of the rest, but one thing sticks in my mind.”
“Throw it out there. I’m game.”
“Reports from the nuclear power plant suggested a water pump failure. The recordin’ from Dulles pointed to an engine speed problem. The dam and power plants are producin’ electricity. How? Through the use of turbines. Initial reports from the chemical companies were that their systems were overpressurized. The new warship’s guns are run via computer. And witnesses say the train was speedin’ up and not slowin’ down as it should have been.”
“Yeah. I like where you’re going with this,” Paige says. “You think they’re targeting specific programmable logic controllers, such as the turbine speed controller?”
“I think so. Either that or they hacked into the SCADA systems and manipulated the controllers that way. Hell, if they’ve hacked the SCADA systems they could target not only the PLCs, but every other peripheral device connected to the network.”
“What about the stock market?” Paige asks.
Hank leans back in his chair and crosses his right leg over his left. “I think it’s a statement—a big fuck-you to America. You said it yourself. The worm here was designed for one thing—to do as much destruction as possible as quickly as possible. I think it’s the anomaly out of the group. Everything else can be tied back to the various components that caused the disasters.”
“Say you’re correct in your theory. My question is, who and why? And why now?”
“Those are the big questions. How long is it goin’ to take to create a program to delete the infected files?”
“Who knows? I need to send what I found to Natalie.”
“Give me a ballpark?” Hank says. “If you haven’t noticed, the country is going to hell around us.”
Paige shrugs. “Hours, certainly, and that could stretch into days. We have to reverse engineer the worm before we can design a program to eliminate it.”
“We n
eed to shorten the timeline, Paige. Whatever it takes.”
Hank’s phone chimes again. He looks to see another message from Mercer. He swipes to unlock his screen.
“Mercer again?”
Hank nods as he reads through the new message. “Power’s out in parts of western New York State.”
“How long until they kill the power here in Manhattan?”
“Don’t know. Probably sooner rather than later, especially since we’ve clamped down on their malicious activity here at the stock market.”
“Can we leave before it happens?”
“That, I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 35
Attica Correctional Facility, Attica, New York
For the guards at the maximum-security prison Attica, the power outage in western New York happens when they’re most exposed. With the early-dinner service under way, the mess hall is clogged with four hundred of the most dangerous prisoners in New York’s prison system. Get in trouble at another prison and you get shipped off to Attica, site of the notorious prison riot that killed forty-three people in 1971.
The Attica Correctional Facility is one of only a handful of prisons in the country that has a permanent tear gas system installed. As long as the prison has power, guards can deploy tear gas in the mess hall and a few other select places throughout the prison at the touch of a button. Corrections Officer Brandon Spicer is standing just outside the mess hall staring at the rain streaking down the windows when the power goes off. With the threat of tear gas now gone and the lights off, the inmates are on him in seconds. Spicer is quickly thrown to the floor and the inmates begin kicking and stomping him. He wonders why the backup generators haven’t started up, but before his brain can process possible reasons, several of the inmates start kicking him in the head like they’re trying to hit a forty-five-yard field goal. He curls up in a fetal position, his hands over his head, as the beating intensifies. Bones crack with an audible crunch and Spicer shouts for help from his fellow officers between his gasps of pain. He glances across the floor and discovers why help is not coming—several of the other guards are lying on the floor, dead.
A sustained burst of rifle fire outside is the last sound Spicer hears before a violent kick to the head snaps his neck. Like a pack of rabid dogs, the inmates march through the prison, killing and maiming. Areas normally protected by electromagnetic locks are now fair game as the prisoners take revenge on the guards before turning on their own. The corridor leading to A-block is awash in blood as the carnage escalates.
The violence is not restricted to A-Block. Much of the same is occurring in the other three cellblocks. For Corrections Officer Lydia Darnell, the shrieks of the aggressors and the wails of those being attacked create a cacophony of sounds straight out of hell.
Inside the control room in Times Square when the power went off, Darnell’s currently ducked down beneath the glass, trying to open the iron gate to the weapons locker behind her. Times Square is the small, secure booth that looks out over the hub of the prison where the tunnels from all four cellblocks meet. She doesn’t know if the door to the booth is still locked now that the power is out, but the last thing she wants to do is rattle the knob or make any noise that will draw attention to her presence. She finally finds the right key—it’s not a gate that gets used often—and quickly unlocks the door and darts inside. After relocking the gate, she grabs a shotgun and a box of shells and begins loading the weapon as she shuffles to the far corner of the room and sags to the floor. Once the gun is fully loaded, Darnell braces the shotgun against her shoulder, waiting for the inevitable.
CHAPTER 36
North Atlantic Ocean
Out on the chopper deck of the USS Stark, Captain Hensley tried waving at the two Seahawks hovering off the stern to signal that the ship hasn’t been hijacked. There have been no visual clues that the helicopter pilots understand, or they’re wary it’s all an act and the bad guys are holding the crew hostage. Admittedly, it’s not normal for one navy ship to fire on other ships sailing under the same flag, but Hensley is running out of options on how to convey the message that he and the crew aren’t under duress. And looking at all those Hellfire missiles hanging off the helicopter’s stub wings is giving him heartburn.
He turns and scans the deck, looking for anything he can use to convey the ship’s radio is broken. “Piece-of-shit ship,” he mutters as he walks over to the helicopter hanger. He rolls up the door to find the space empty, not so much as a screwdriver in sight. Yes, the sea trials involving the helicopters are way down the road, but he’s pissed they didn’t build out the space. He curses the manufacturer and slams the door down. He walks back to the center of the helipad, fuming. Then an idea pops into his head. Unclipping the useless portable radio from his belt, he rears back and slams the radio onto the deck. It breaks into pieces and Hensley steps back, gesturing at the shattered remains as if he were highlighting an item in the showcase showdown on The Price Is Right.
One of the choppers breaks from formation and edges closer. Apparently finally getting the message, the chopper pilot flies forward and hovers over the helipad, forcing Hensley to move out of the way. Once the helicopter settles on the deck, the back door opens and Hensley’s bad day gets worse. Rear Admiral Richard Malloy, his commanding officer, climbs out with an angry scowl on his face and a sidearm strapped to his thigh. Hensley snaps to attention and salutes as Malloy approaches and the helicopter takes off. Malloy doesn’t return the salute nor does he issue an order to stand at ease. He pins Hensley in place with a glare and steps forward until they’re nose to nose. Once the helicopter retreats far enough away that they can have a conversation, Admiral Malloy says, “Captain Hensley, you are relieved of command.”
Still at attention, Hensley says, “Yes, sir.”
“What the fuck happened, Captain?”
“We’re not sure, sir.”
“Not sure? Half the goddamn fleet has been shot to shit and you don’t know how it happened?”
“We’re still dissecting the problem, sir.”
“You’re not dissecting shit, Captain. You’ll be lucky if your ass doesn’t get dissected by another inmate when you’re shipped off to Leavenworth.”
“Permission to speak, sir?” Hensley asks.
Malloy leans in closer. “What makes you think I want to hear some bullshit excuse?”
“Sir, we think the weapons systems were hacked.”
“I did not give you permission to speak, Captain. And your goddamned weapons weren’t hacked. This ship’s fucking computer systems are bulletproof. I know because I’ve spent the last eight fucking years making sure that can’t happen.”
Rear Admiral Richard Malloy is in his early sixties and he has to look up in order to address Captain Hensley. With Malloy’s dark, beady eyes, a sunken chin, and a slender build, Hensley can’t get the image of a rat terrier out of his mind. Hensley wants desperately to wipe the spittle off his face yet he remains at attention. Finally, Malloy breaks eye contact. He steps back, removes his hat, and wipes the perspiration off his balding head as he gazes out to sea. He puts his cap back on, turns to face Hensley, and continues his tirade. “Why were your weapons even loaded, Captain?”
“We were scheduled for live-fire exercises, sir.”
“Exercises means practice, Captain, not shooting up the fucking fleet.”
Sweat is dripping into Hensley’s eyes as he remains at attention. “Yes, sir.” With his career probably swirling around the toilet bowl, he’s tempted to tell Malloy to go fuck himself. But he doesn’t. He stands rigid as Malloy circles him like a pit bull searching for the right spot to chomp down.
“Sir, how many ships sustained damage?”
“Did I tell you to speak?”
“No. Sir.”
“To tell the truth, Captain, I don’t think they’ve finished fucking counting.” Malloy runs an index finger across the bridge of his nose and flicks the accumulated sweat onto the deck. With the ship stopped, there’s no
t even a hint of a breeze and the afternoon sun feels like they’re standing under a heat lamp. “Where’s your weapons officer?”
“I’ll take you to him, sir.”
“You’re not taking me anywhere, Captain. You’re confined to quarters until I can get a handle on what the fuck happened here. Dismissed.”
Hensley salutes and hurries to get back inside before Malloy changes his mind and puts him on one of the choppers. He steps through the door and nearly plows over his executive officer, Kat Connelly.
“How bad is it?” Connelly asks.
“Bad. I’ve been relieved of command and banished to my quarters.”
“He can’t do that. It’s not your fault.”
“He can, Kat. That’s why he has those two stars on his sleeve. And, although what happened was out of our control, I’m the commanding officer.”
“So, what, then? You going to your cabin to fall on your sword?”
Admiral Malloy comes stomping in the door and stops. “To your quarters, Mr. Hensley.”
Kat comes to attention. “Sir, with all due respect—”
Malloy cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “Would you like to join him, Lieutenant Commander Connelly?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s what I thought.” Malloy heads for the stairs. “Ms. Connelly, tell the sailor in charge of weapons to get them up and running.”
Hensley clears his throat. “Sir—”
Malloy whirls around. “Why am I still looking at you, Mr. Hensley? You’ve been ordered to your quarters. Move your ass.”
Hensley ducks through the hatch and heads down the corridor.
“Sir?” Connelly says.
“You’re already walking a very fine line, Ms. Connelly.”
“I know that, sir, but we immobilized the weapons systems.”
