Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  “What now?” Paige asks.

  “They’ve taken down more power grids. This time they hit the heartland.”

  “Figured that was coming sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Do you think they’re going to take them all down?” Hank asks.

  Paige pulls out her smartphone and turns it on. “I don’t see why not. Anything else from Mercer?”

  Hank scrolls through the messages. “Looks like they hit two more nuclear power plants, one in Arkansas and the other in San Diego.” Hank tosses his phone onto a nearby seat and stands. He steps over to the small galley area, grabs two bottles of water from the mini fridge, and hands one to Paige. “You callin’ Natalie?”

  Paige takes the bottle, unscrews the lid, and takes a long drink. “Yeah, as soon as I recharge my batteries a bit. I’m physically and mentally exhausted.”

  “We both need to eat somethin’.” Hank drains his water, screws the lid back on, and walks back to the small galley area. He pulls open the warming drawer and the doughy, cheesy aroma from the pizza inside instantaneously triggers his hunger button. He pulls the large box out and lifts the lid to see a half-dozen different slices of deep-dish pizza inside. He grabs a couple of plates from the overhead cabinet and carries it all back to his seat. After handing Paige a plate he offers her first choice and she selects a slice of sausage and mushroom.

  “Change your mind about bein’ hungry?”

  “I didn’t think I was hungry until I smelled the pizza,” Paige says, scrolling through her e-mails, hoping to see one from her sister, Peyton. No such luck.

  “Works every time.” Hank grabs a slice of meat lover’s, closes the lid, and returns the box to the warming drawer. He grabs two beers from the fridge and returns to his seat, passing a cold brew to Paige. Once they’ve eaten their fill and drained their beers, both pull out their laptops and sign on to the jet’s secure Wi-Fi network.

  Paige shoots off an e-mail to Natalie while Hank does a little digging into the operation of the nation’s power grids, hoping to prove his theory that the hackers are targeting specific PLCs. What he finds only reinforces his original theory. No matter the fuel source—coal, natural gas, nuclear—the heat they generate is used to create steam that powers a spinning electrical generator, most often a steam turbine. And the same principle applies to hydroelectric facilities although the movement of water is the fuel that spins the electrical generators. But, no matter the source, they all rely on some type of controller to regulate the speeds of those spinning devices and those controllers are interfaced into the facility’s computer networks for ease of use.

  After a little more digging, Hank discovers that only a handful of companies actually make the PLCs that are used to manufacture everything from dog food to the power that enters a person’s home. Hank sits back and thinks about that for a moment. He glances at Paige and says, “What do you know about programmable logic controllers?”

  “Other than the fact that they control almost everything on the planet, not much.”

  “Easy to hack?”

  “Of course. They’re simple devices that operate on a few lines of code. Are you back to your theory the hackers are targeting PLCs?”

  “It’s the only theory that makes sense.”

  “I agree, but that’s not going to tell us how they did it or who’s doing it. Until we know those two things we have no way of stopping them.”

  “And you’re tellin’ me it may be a while before we know that information. I’m tryin’ to find ways to mitigate further damage. Maybe we can prod some people to take their critical systems off-line.”

  “Funny, when I mentioned that you said, rather adamantly, it was absolutely impossible,” Paige says.

  “I still don’t think it’s a realistic scenario, but I don’t like sittin’ on our hands waitin’ for the next disaster.”

  “I e-mailed Natalie. She has dozens of people working on the malware and they’re making progress.”

  “What does that mean?” Hank asks.

  Paige shrugs. “Progress is progress, Hank. It’s going to take time.”

  “That’s the one thing we don’t have.”

  Daily News Website

  —BREAKING NEWS—SECOND attack on Naval Station Norfolk! Further damage reported. Attackers unknown. President raises threat level to DEFCON 3. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Power outage occurs in large swath of the Midwest. As many as 18 million people may be affected. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Power out in parts of New York State. Manhattan included in outage.

  New York governor calls up National Guard to patrol streets on NYC. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Possible prison riot at Attica Correctional Facility in western New York State. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Numerous National Guard units activated to quell chaos.

  The governor of Illinois has activated the National Guard for the greater Chicago area. We have unconfirmed reports that the governor issued a shoot-to-kill order to curtail widespread looting. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Massive explosion at army munitions depot in McAlester, Oklahoma. Damage extends nearly one mile from plant.

  Sources tell the Daily News the bomb that exploded at the McAlester depot was a GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast (MOAB) bomb. Used recently in the war in Afghanistan, the bomb is better known as the Mother of All Bombs. The MOAB is the largest nonnuclear weapon in the American arsenal. More details to follow . . .

  CHAPTER 70

  Attica

  The gate to the cellblock being closed and then opened has Captain Scott Butler rethinking his strategy. Although heavily armed, his force of nearly a hundred men, including the state troopers, is severely outnumbered. Yes, some of the inmates would die if they tried to ambush Butler and his troops, but they wouldn’t get them all before being overwhelmed. Butler makes a radio call to Lieutenant Gary Clark, who’s leading the second team toward cellblock C.

  “Clark here, sir.”

  “Hold your position.”

  “Roger, Captain.”

  Butler pauses to allow Clark time to pass on his order before saying, “Gary, was the gate to cellblock C open or closed when you got there?”

  “It was open, Cap.”

  “Okay. Gary, you need to maintain situational awareness at all times.”

  “We are, sir. I have guards posted around our perimeter.”

  “Good. I’ll be back to you in a minute. Butler out.” He tosses the radio handset over his shoulder, thinking. He turns, spots Corrections Officer Art Robinson, and waves him over. When he arrives, Butler says, “Art, do all the guards carry radios and keys?”

  “Radios, yes. But not everyone carries keys. The cells are opened and closed electronically, and those working the blocks don’t carry anything that could be used as a weapon.”

  “Thank you, Art. Next question. If the inmates were planning an ambush where would they do it?”

  Robinson thinks about the question for a moment. “Probably in the transitions between cell blocks, the mess hall, the entrance to the tunnels, or the area around Times Square—the place where all four tunnels interconnect. They could hide down one tunnel and hit you when you funnel into the choke point. In fact, that might be the most logical place to do it.”

  “I think you may be right, Art. Thanks for your help.”

  Butler unclips the prison radio from his belt and looks at it for a moment, debating his next step. He puts the radio to his lips and presses the transmit button. “Captain Butler to Officer Darnell.”

  A couple of seconds later, Darnell answers.

  Knowing now that some of the prisoners are most likely listening in, Butler has to be extremely careful or he’ll be putting her life in jeopardy. He changes his mind and says, “Sit tight for now.”

  “Roger, Captain,” Darnell replies, confusion in her voice.

&nb
sp; Butler turns back to Robinson. “If Darnell is inside Times Square, can she see down all four corridors?”

  “No, sir. She can only see down two of the corridors and the entrances to the other two.”

  “Thanks.” Robinson turns to leave and Butler squats down and leans back against the wall, considering all of his options—none of them good. After several moments, he glances up and calls over Lieutenant Fred Parker, a social worker by trade. A tall, barrel-chested African American, Parker slings his rifle and walks over as Butler slides up the wall to his feet. “Freddy, you work out complicated social situations all day long. Do you think you could reach out to the inmates over the radio and convince some of them to turn themselves in?”

  “I can try, Scott, but they’re going to want some type of reassurances or concessions.”

  “I can guarantee you the governor is not going to offer them squat. Surely some of them don’t like what’s happened in here.” Butler kicks at something on the floor with the toe of his boot then looks back up. “Hell, Freddy, they can’t all be bad men.”

  Parker takes the radio from Butler and spends a moment gathering his thoughts. Butler makes a radio call to Lieutenant Clark and passes on the plan.

  When Parker is ready, he places the radio to his lips and announces his name and position before beginning his plea. “I know some of you don’t like or approve of what has happened today. It’s not our place to judge you or your actions. Our only job is to secure this facility. If you surrender you will be treated with respect and will be afforded due process under the laws of the state of New York. We have troops stationed at the entrances to cellblocks A and C. Surrender with your hands in the air and I will guarantee your safety.” Parker pauses and looks at Butler, who gives him the nod to continue.

  Parker, having given them the carrot, now offers the stick. “For those of you who refuse to surrender, there are zero guarantees concerning your survival. We will find you. Whether you live or die will depend on the decisions you make. But, to be honest with you, I don’t like your odds. We will offer no warnings. We will offer no pleas. And, just to make my point clear, we are authorized to shoot to kill.” Parker pauses to let that thought sink in then says, “Men, the ball is now in your court.” Parker hands the radio back to Butler.

  “Well done, Freddy,” Butler says. “Now we wait.”

  But they don’t have to wait long. Prisoners, their hands in the air, begin streaming into the corridor. Butler orders two squads to search the prisoners as they arrive. “And make sure you find all the damn keys,” he tells them. Now Butler has to find a place to put them. With no power the cell doors are inoperable. He asks Art Robinson, and Robinson suggests the school. Butler relays that information to the team over at cellblock C and orders them to do a head count.

  As the prisoners are searched, Butler takes to the radio again, talking to Major Pierce, who is outside the prison walls. “Major, have your troopers escort some of the prison personnel inside so we can start identifying these men.” He passes on the details of where to take them and asks Pierce to round up some coffee. Butler, who started drilling teeth at eight this morning, is running on fumes with a long night still ahead of them.

  It’s pushing midnight by the time they finish searching and identifying those prisoners who surrendered. Every member of Butler’s team is hungry and exhausted, but they still have work to do. Some of the prison staff brewed several large pots of coffee in the administration building and that’s helping. But Butler needs his men clear-eyed and focused. He steps over to the coffeepot and pours another cup as the warden, Albert Diaz, approaches.

  “Captain,” Diaz says, “we have a somewhat accurate head count.”

  “How bad is it?” Butler asks.

  “We have no way of knowing how many inmates have been killed in other parts of the prison, but we have two hundred and eleven inmates unaccounted for,” Diaz says.

  Butler sighs and sets his coffee cup on the table. “Okay. We need to root them out.”

  Diaz holds up a finger. “One more thing, Captain. Ninety-eight of those missing inmates are from the SHU.”

  “What the hell is a SHU?”

  “It’s our Special Housing Unit. It’s the place where we house the troublemakers and our most violent inmates in solitary confinement.”

  CHAPTER 71

  Chicago

  There are no approaching sirens, no firemen hurrying to deploy hoses, and no hope as Peyton and Eric, still coughing from the smoke, watch their home go up in flames.

  “It was those damn candles of yours,” Eric says, staring at his wife.

  Eric and Peyton are standing in the middle of the street as people stream out of nearby homes to watch the destruction unfold. “Those candles were the only light we had,” Peyton says.

  Eric lowers his voice. “Then you should have blown them out before lying down.”

  “I wasn’t planning on—you know what?” Peyton says, cocking her head to the side, “Fuck you, Eric.” Peyton turns and walks away from her husband.

  A few of the neighbors wander up and offer conciliatory condolences, but it’s clear they’re more concerned about the risk to their own property as the embers from the fire drift onto their roofs. It’s not long before murmurs of irresponsibility drift through the crowd. Peyton hears them and can feel heat creeping into her cheeks. Her friend from two houses down, Allison Bailey, walks over and gives Peyton a hug. “Don’t listen to those assholes,” she whispers in Peyton’s ear. “They all had candles burning, too.”

  Peyton nods and, unable to keep the floodgates closed any longer, bursts into tears. “Oh God, Allison. This has been the worst day of my life,” Peyton says, clinging to her friend as if she’s the last life preserver on a sinking ship. “And now, we . . . we don’t have anyplace to live.”

  “Shh, don’t worry about that now,” Allison whispers. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Peyton continues to sob. “What happens . . . when . . . the . . . the Singletons come . . . back? Now their . . . home . . . is gone . . . too.”

  “That’s why we have home-owner’s insurance, Peyton.” Allison steps back and takes Peyton’s hand. “Let’s go back to my place and open a bottle of wine. What do you say?”

  Peyton nods and wipes the tears from her cheeks before following Allison down the street. Their house is now fully engulfed and the roof is teetering on the edge of collapse as a shower of red-hot embers continues to rain down. It’s bright enough for Peyton to see the angry looks she receives, but she does her best to ignore them. Still angry with Eric, she walks by him without a word and follows Allison up the steps to the front door. Allison’s husband, Jordan, works in software development and is often away, as he is this week. Allison holds the door, and Peyton brushes past and sags into the closest chair, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. She can’t help but notice that Allison, too, has candles burning.

  One of the smaller homes on the block—a two-bedroom, one-bath Craftsman style—the Baileys have this place all to themselves. Allison returns from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of red wine and passes one to Peyton before sitting. “I thought Eric would follow.”

  “I’m glad he didn’t,” Peyton says. “And he can stay out there as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?” Allison asks, tucking her feet up under her. A real estate agent, Allison is short at five-two, with shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes. And like Peyton and Eric, she and Jordan are also in preliminary discussions about starting a family.

  Peyton takes a sip of wine and says, “He blames me for the fire.”

  “They’re called accidents for a reason. He’ll snap out of it. In the meantime, you two can use the guest bedroom.”

  “I’m not sure I want to sleep in the same room with him at the moment.” Peyton drains the glass in one long swallow.

  “Oh hell, Peyton, that’s all heat-of-the-moment stuff. You two will kiss and make up.” Allison stands, returns to
the kitchen, and comes back with the opened bottle of wine. She tops off Peyton’s glass, puts the bottle on the coffee table, and retakes her seat. “And you can borrow some of my clothes if you need to. My jeans and pants will be way too short on you, but you have free access to my shorts and shirts.”

  “Thanks,” Peyton says, staring into her wineglass. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here drinking wine while my house burns to the ground.”

  “There’s not a damn thing you can do about it. We can’t call the fire department, and even if we could, they’d never get a truck here in time.”

  Peyton sniffles, on the verge of tears again.

  “Is there anything in your home that can’t be replaced?”

  Peyton shakes her head. “Not really.”

  “No, there’s not. And look on the bright side, it’ll give me a chance to ring up more commissions when I find you a new home.”

  Peyton attempts a halfhearted smile. There’s a knock on the glass storm door and Eric sticks his head in and asks, “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” Allison says, standing up.

  Eric walks gingerly into the house. He’s holding his side and wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and the T-shirt from the police station.

  “What happened to you?” Allison asks as she passes by on the way to the kitchen.

  “I was shot earlier today?”

  Allison stops and turns, her eyes widening in surprise. “Do what?”

  Eric starts to tell the story, but Allison cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “Hold that thought. This is going to require another bottle of wine.”