Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Some members of the team are more exuberant than others, but none appear giddy about the hell they’re unleashing, other than Nazeri. The reason for their stoicism is tied to their memories of the past—the explosions, the mangled bodies, the stench of death that lives on in their nightmares. The events they remember were often brushed away as collateral damage, but for these five who lost close loved ones to U.S. drone strikes, it’s all too real.

And their reason for participating is one as old as time itself—revenge.

McLean

After an hour of digging, Hank and Paige are no closer to finding out how the hackers infiltrated the power companies. “Think we should try the aircraft manufacturer?” Paige asks, rocking her head from side to side to loosen the kink in her neck.

“We’re already inside here. I say we keep diggin’.”

“I’m open to suggestions, Hank, because I’m not seeing anything. It could be the malware self-destructed after the exploit ran.”

“You would think there’d still be some residual pieces driftin’ around.”

“You’ll only find them by looking at the code line by line. If we had six months we might find something. But we don’t. I say we take Elaine up on her offer to send us to Manhattan. Once the power’s out, it’s out. It’s a whole different ballgame with the financial markets. They could manipulate those for months and really put the screws to us.”

Hank picks up his cell phone. “Pack a bag. I’ll call Elaine.”

“What do I need to pack?”

Hank shrugs. “Clothes?”

“Just casual stuff?”

“I don’t think we’ll be attendin’ any charity galas while we’re there.”

Paige scowls. “Smartass. How many days should I plan on?”

“You’re the computer expert. You tell me how long it’s going to take to find these people.”

“Okay, maybe a week, then?”

Hank looks around at all the computer hardware, the expensive desk, and the expensive chairs. “I think you can afford to buy some clothes if it stretches longer.”

Paige holds up a finger. “Good point. Give me twenty minutes.” Paige disappears down the hall while Hank calls Mercer.

She picks up on the third ring and Hank says, “I guess we’re headin’ to the Big Apple. You have a jet for us?”

“You haven’t made any progress?” Mercer asks, disappointment in her voice.

“No. We’ve been diggin’ around, but Paige thinks the malware might have erased itself. That’s why we need to scoot up to NYC. Any luck with the aircraft manufacturer?”

“We’re waiting on the judge to give his ruling on the court order request.”

“How long’s that gonna take?”

Elaine sighs. “Who knows? You hear the latest?”

“No, we’ve been workin’. What happened?”

“Power’s out in Chicago.”

“I hate to say this, Elaine, but the entire country may be without power before this is all over. You get my text about the e-mail from the field engineer?”

“I did. Is it really going to take months to restore power?”

“That’s what the e-mail said. And it was an internal e-mail marked highly confidential .”

“I don’t need any more information about the e-mail, Hank, or how you got it.”

“Understood,” Hank says. “So do you have a jet for us?”

“I will. Dulles is still a mess and Reagan National is without power. Where are you now?”

“Paige’s place here in McLean.”

“I’ll have the plane meet you at Davison Army Airfield. Can you be there in an hour?”

“Depends on how long it takes Paige to pack.”

“On second thought, let me check the jet’s flight schedule.”

Hank can hear Mercer tapping on the computer keys. She’s back on the line a moment later. “Actually, you have forty-five minutes to make the plane. It has to be back in D.C. for an evening flight.”

“We’ll make it. I’ll call you when we’re wheels up.” Hank kills the call, loads up his laptop, and exits the office, walking down the hall to the bedroom. Paige is staring at a couple of outfits laid out on the king-sized bed. “Scratch twenty minutes. You’ve got ten if we’re goin’ to make the plane.”

“Ten? How am I supposed to pack in ten minutes?”

“Easy. You grab some clothes and stuff them in the suitcase.”

“Don’t we have to stop at your place for you to pack?”

“Nope. Keep a bag in the trunk.”

“Of course you do. Okay, go drink a beer or something while I finish up. Looking over my shoulder is not helping matters.”

Hank meanders down the hall to the main living space, bypassing the fridge and heading, instead, for the pictures lined up on the fireplace mantel. There are pictures of Paige with an older couple Hank assumes are her parents. A couple of pictures show Paige with a younger version of herself—a sister, Hank reasons. Other photos depict Paige with a group of friends, another with her parents and sister taken on a beach somewhere, but there are no pictures of Paige paired off with a significant other. “Huh,” Hank mutters.

Eleven minutes later, Paige appears from her bedroom, rolling a large Louis Vuitton suitcase with a matching shoulder bag slung over her left arm. “You nosing around?”

“Just lookin’. How old is your sister?”

“Thirty-one, three years younger than me.” Paige runs her fingers through her dark hair. “I’m ready when you are.”

Hank steps over and rolls Paige’s suitcase toward the elevator. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Peyton. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Eric.”

“You better call her and give her a heads-up.”

Paige cocks her head. “Why?”

“Power’s out in Chicago.”

“Damn. Do you think they destroyed the transformers like they did in D.C.?”

Hank punches the elevator button. “Most likely. You need to tell her to get out of the city.”

“And go where?”

“Anyplace will be better than a big metropolitan area. Where do your parents live?”

“It’s just my mom now. They moved to Champaign after my dad retired.”

“Then that’s where Peyton and Eric need to go. And they need to leave today.”

“They don’t have a car.”

“Probably wouldn’t be able to get around, anyway. They’ll have to rely on the oldest form of transportation.”

“What’s that? Walking? It’s a hundred and thirty miles.”

The elevator arrives and they load on. “’Bout the only choice they have. I promise you, they don’t want to be in Chicago after a few days without power.”

“I’ll call her when I get off the elevator. You really think things will go downhill that fast?”

“Absolutely. It’s probably already started.”

“Will her cell phone be able to receive a call?”

“Depends on where she is. Some cell towers have battery backups that’ll last a few hours, maybe a day or two, dependin’ on the network activity.”

The elevator stops at the lobby and the doors open. Paige digs out her cell phone and starts trying to call her sister as Hank leads them to the Mustang. He pops the trunk and nearly gets a hernia lifting and stowing Paige’s overstuffed suitcase before taking the wheel. After firing the massive engine, he backs out and squeals the tires pulling out of the lot.

Paige wags her phone. “The call won’t go through.”

“Keep trying. That’s all you can do,” Hank says, steering up the on-ramp to Interstate 495.

Chicago

The Chicago advertising agency Brown, Wright, Zuker, Tomlinson & Qualls occupies two floors of the high-rise office building One Magnificent Mile, located at the northern end of Michigan Avenue. The seventeenth floor is one large, open creative space for those who design the advertising campaigns while the eighteenth floor plays host to the executives and media buyers responsible for implementing those campaigns. One of those working on seventeen is thirty-one-year-old Peyton Lynch, a graphic artist. Peyton lights her cell phone screen, again, and groans—still no service. The Chicago skies are filled with angry clouds and it looks as if they could unleash a torrent at any moment. After they sat around looking at one another in near darkness for a good hour and a half, a bigwig came down from upstairs and cut everyone loose. But before Peyton can make any decisions about the rest of her day she needs to get in touch with her husband, Eric, who works in commercial lending at a large bank at the other end of Michigan Avenue.