Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

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 new 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.