Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“Do you have contacts at both of those places?”

“I’ve worked ops with other agencies. So yes, I have developed some contacts over the years.”

“Do you have the type of relationships that they’d be willing to part with some of their most prized hacking tools?”

“Don’t know. Won’t cost anythin’ to ask.” They ride in silence for the next mile or so.

“I’m going off subject for a moment,” Paige says. “Are you like a numbers savant or something? Was that what Elaine meant when she referenced your”—Paige makes air quotes with her fingers—“ ‘big brain’?”

“Is it really botherin’ you?” Hank asks, slowing the Mustang for the gummed-up traffic ahead.

“No, not bothering me, I’m just curious. For instance, we were talking about making the government force the cell companies to provide backup power and you said May something and then another date.”

“May 2007 and June 2012. That’s not difficult to remember,” Hank says.

“What about when you were talking about your hometown? You mentioned the population in precise numbers. Most people would say ‘around such and such.’”

“The population of Ada is 17,143. Or it was the last time I checked.”

Paige turns in her seat, now facing Hank. “Do you have hyper… hyper…”

“Hyperthymesia?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Well?”

“No. People with hyperthymesia have an autobiographical memory of events that happened in their past.”

“If not that, what? Did you get knocked in the head when you were little and it scrambled your brain?”

Hank sighs. “My brain is not scrambled, just wired a little differently. I’m not big on labels. I guess the closest thing—though some suggest it’s hogwash—is that I have an eidetic memory.”

“Like photographic memory?”

Hank nods.

“You remember everything?”

“Mostly,” Hank says.

“Can you recall everything you’ve seen? Like scrolling back through a roll of film?” Paige asks, her voice incredulous.

Traffic is crawling. Hank checks the side mirror and waits for a gap before easing the Shelby into the exit lane.

“Am I being too nosy?” Paige asks.

“If I said yes , would you stop with the questions?”

Paige thinks for a moment. “Probably not.”

Hank sighs—again. “Yes, I can recall most everythin’ I’ve seen and heard.”

“Wow. Everything you’ve heard, too? Wow, wow, wow.” Paige lets Hank’s revelation run around her brain for a few minutes. “Whew, man. That might drive me crazy.”

Hank glances over. “It can if you let it. My grandmother taught me how to compartmentalize it.”

“She has it, too?”

“Yes. Apparently this thing skips generations. Neither of my parents had it, but my grandmother’s grandfather had it—or at least he did accordin’ to the oral histories passed down through the tribe.”

“You can’t forget anything even if you wanted?”

Hank shakes his head. “With effort I can wall it off in my mind.”

“Can you then remove the memory, or image, or sound from behind the wall if needed?”

“Yes.” Hank exits off the highway and picks up a feeder road that’ll take them to the airstrip.

“Amazing. You said you remember most everything. What can’t you recall?”

“I don’t remember.”

Paige laughs as Hank pulls up to the guardhouse and holds up his badge. The man, dressed in army fatigues with corporal stripes on his left sleeve, grabs a clipboard and writes down the badge number and Hank’s name. The guard points his pen at Paige and asks, “Her name?”

Hank relays the name and the corporal writes it down before waving them through. Hank follows the feeder road to the parking lot and slots the Mustang into a spot under a large oak tree.

“Aren’t you worried about birds crapping on your precious car?”

“They do a good job of keepin’ the birds away from here.” Hank reaches over, pops the glove box, and grabs his pistol.

“What type of trouble are you expecting at the stock exchange?”

Hank pushes open his door. “It’s not the stock exchange I’m worried about.”

“Are you worried they’re going to cut the power to Manhattan?”

He and Paige pile out of the car and Hank seats the pistol in his holster. “If I was, I’m a little less worried now.

The roar of jet engines reverberates off the nearby hangars and Hank looks up to see their jet, a Gulfstream IV, touching down. He pops the trunk, busts a gut unloading Paige’s suitcase, and grabs his bag and a couple of FBI Windbreakers. He puts his on and tosses the other to Paige, pausing before closing the lid, wondering if he should grab more firepower. He has another go bag in the trunk that contains another pistol, an M16, a Browning 12-gauge shotgun, and extra ammo for each weapon. He unzips the bag and reaches in, grabbing two extra clips for the Glock 22. He closes the trunk and drops the extra clips into the pocket of his Windbreaker as they head for the jet.

Hank feels a tad bit guilty when Paige struggles to get her suitcase up the steps, but she packed it, and the way Hank looks at it, it’s a teaching moment. He follows her up the stairs and the pilot ducks his head out of the cockpit. He and Hank fist-bump. “How you doin’, Donnie?” Hank asks.

“I’m good, Hank. New York’s kinda tame for you, isn’t it?”

“I bet I can still find my way into some trouble. Who’s playin’ second fiddle?”

“Theresa Slayton.” Donnie steps aside and Hank sticks his head into the cockpit.

“How you doin’, Theresa?”

“I’d be better if you’d take me on a date, Hank,” Slayton says.

Hank chuckles. “Maybe one of these days our schedules will sync up. You keep a close eye on Donnie, here. He’s gettin’ mighty old to be drivin’ these jet planes.” Hank ducks back out.

Donnie laughs. “I’m not that damn old, Hank. We’re ready when you are.”

“Let’s roll.” Hank walks deeper into the cabin and takes a seat across the aisle from Paige.

Paige nods toward the cockpit. “Buddies of yours?”

“It’s always good to make friends with the people who hold your life in their hands.”

Chicago

Peyton Lynch pulls her polo shirt away from her torso, hoping the faint movement of air through the lobby will dry the sweat dripping down her back. Descending seventeen flights of stairs in a building with no air-conditioning is a hot, tiring task, especially carrying an overloaded bag and two large umbrellas. And to make matters worse, Peyton picked today to wear that new pencil skirt and matching heels she bought on sale last week. She prowled through the goody closet looking for something else to wear, but the advertisers usually ship their smallest garments that are designed to fit the emaciated models and Peyton didn’t have a prayer of finding anything that would fit. Even with that she thought about shucking the skirt several times on the way down, and probably would have if she hadn’t decided to wear a thong to avoid the dreaded panty lines. Letting go of her shirt, she walks over to the window. The storms have moved on but they left behind a thick layer of humidity that seeps through every crack and crevice of the large lobby. Peyton still hasn’t heard from Eric, so her plan is to camp out here until he arrives.

Standing next to the wall of glass, Peyton pulls out her phone to see if a change in location has improved her chances for getting a signal. It hasn’t. The result is the same—no service. During her trek down, she’d mulled over the few snippets of conversation from the phone call with her sister. The words that Peyton dwelled on, and continues to dwell on, are when Paige said “get out.” Did she mean out of the building? Out of the condo? Or is it something more sinister, like get out of the city? Peyton wonders about that for a moment. Paige works for the FBI and usually knows the scoop on what’s going on. Could the power be out for an extended period of time?