Tim Washburn: Cyber Attack

“I’d be doing better if you’d take me out for a drink, Hank.” This is a game Hank and Darla play often. In her late fifties, she’s been married thirty-some years and has pictures of her grandchildren lined up across her desk.

“Name the time and the place, Darla. But you might better check in with Big John before we go.” Hank has been out of his native state of Oklahoma for years but, despite focused attempts, can’t seem to shake the accent.

Darla laughs. “You let me worry about John. I swear he turns into a bigger fuddy-duddy every day.” Darla waves a hand in dismissal and glances at her phone console “She’s on the phone, Hank. It’s been ringing off the hook. Have a seat.”

Hank settles into one of the wingback chairs and crosses one long leg over the other. Noticing a smudge on the toe of his ostrich cowboy boots, Hank licks his thumb and rubs the smudge away.

The door to the reception area opens again and a tall, lean brunette enters. Outfitted in distressed jeans, Doc Martens, and a black T-shirt with COEXIST printed across the front, she waves at Darla and plops down in the chair opposite Hank. Hank studies her out of the corner of his eye. Her dark brown hair, highlighted by shades of lighter browns, is cut shoulder length and, when she turns to look at Hank, he’s instantly mesmerized by the color of her eyes, a Caribbean Sea green. Hank has seen her around the building at a distance, except for that one time, weeks ago, when he was close enough to get a glimpse of her name tag. He says, “Paige Randall, correct?”

Paige gives him the once-over. “Have we met?”

“We have now.” Hank leans forward and offers his hand. “Hank Goodnight.”

Paige makes a fist and Hank matches her and they fist-bump. She glances at the digital watch on her wrist. “I’m way behind. Are you also waiting to see Assistant Deputy Director Mercer?”

“Yep.”

Paige glances at her watch again. “Any idea how long you’ll be in there?”

Hank smiles. “Nope.”

Darla glances at the phone console on her desk. “She’s off the phone. You two can go in now.”

Paige glances at Hank. “We’re going in together?”

“Appears so.” Hank and Paige stand. At six-two, he has about four inches on her and he does the gentlemanly thing and holds the door open for her before following her inside.

Assistant Deputy Director Elaine Mercer glances up from the stack of paperwork on her desk. “You two have met. Good. Have a seat at the conference table, please.” Mercer stands, grabs a file, and strides across the office, taking a seat at the head of the table. Fifty-two, Mercer is a wiry, petite woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and dark, intelligent eyes. Today, she’s wearing navy trousers and a button-up light blue shirt tailored to fit her slim profile.

Mercer, who always appears to be in a hurry, gets right down to business. “Within the last hour there have been two possible cyber attacks. The first involved a passenger jet crash at Dulles. That’s bad but the second incident is of greater concern.”

“What’s worse than a plane crash?” Paige asks, still confused as to why she’s there.

“A nuclear disaster. The people manning the Calvert Cliffs nuclear facility are on the verge of losing one of their reactors. I don’t want to risk sending a crew to the plant, but I’ve got people headed to the corporate headquarters of the parent company in Atlanta.”

“What makes you think it was a cyber attack?” Hank asks.

“Both of their computer systems crashed after several unusual anomalies. We have unconfirmed reports of other jet crashes and the FAA has grounded all air traffic until we can get a handle on what’s happening. I have other people on the way, but I want you two to head for the airport.”

“I’m a computer programmer,” Paige says. “Not a field agent.”

“Today you’re both,” Mercer says. “It’s all hands on deck.”

“What are the anomalies?” Hank asks.

“That’s what I need you two to find out,” Mercer says, turning to look at Hank. “And I need you to put that big brain of yours to work.”

McLean

After returning to their offices to grab whatever items they need, Paige and Hank meet in the lobby and head outside. The August heat, mixed with the thick humidity, makes the air feel soupy, and both begin to perspire only seconds after exiting. Wiping the first beads of sweat from his forehead, Hank leads Paige through the parking lot to his car, a black-on-black 2014 Mustang Shelby GT500 Super Snake. He chirps the locks and they pile in. Hank fires the engine and cranks down the air conditioner. The car was a splurge for Hank, who usually keeps a tight rein on his money, a holdover from his childhood, when money was so tight they struggled to eat sometimes.

Paige looks around at the interior. “Boys and their toys. Does this muscle car make you feel like a real man?”

Hank smiles. “No, but it is fun as hell to drive.” He exits out of the parking lot and gooses the gas, the whir of the supercharger whining as he shifts to second and then third. He glances over to see Paige white-knuckling the armrest and shifts to fourth and eases up on the throttle as he hits the on-ramp to Interstate 66.

“Does she do this kind of thing often?” Paige asks.

“Elaine?”

Paige nods.

“Depends on the situation,” Hank says, clicking on the radio and lowering the volume as Jason Aldean sings about fly over states. “But she’s not afraid to send an expert into the field with me if it’s merited.”

Paige glances over. “What’s your role?”

“Multifaceted.”

“That’s obscure as hell. What did she mean when she referred to your big brain? Are you some type of genius or something?”

Hank smiles. “Nope, but I might be a tad smarter than your average bear.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Hank flips on his signal and steers into the fast lane. “Do you think the FAA’s air control system has been hacked?”

“Changing the subject, huh?” Paige scowls then says, “To answer your question, Mr. Big Brain, maybe. The software is beyond outdated and probably has more holes than a prairie dog town. But what I don’t understand is how that would be responsible for a single jet crash. A midair collision maybe, or a jet is told to take the wrong taxiway and gets slammed by another plane, but that would involve two planes.”

“Elaine said it was a passenger jet crash, I assume meaning only one plane is involved,” Hank says. “I guess we’ll find out when we get to the airport. Any ideas about the culprit?”

“Take your pick. Iran, North Korea, Russia, maybe even China. I’d lean toward the first two. Russia and China would be concerned about our response; the other two probably not so much.”

“So a nation or state and not a group of bad actors?”

“Yes. Even though the FAA’s software is outdated, if that was indeed the target, the hackers would have had to penetrate numerous firewalls to get that deep into their system. That’s not easy to do and would probably require enormous resources. And hacking a nuclear power plant is much more difficult. How much do you know about hacking?”

“I’m competent.”

Paige shakes her head. “Which means you’re probably a freaking expert.”

Hank smiles as he slows for traffic. Now within a mile of the airport, they’re close enough to see a cloud of black smoke still lingering above the runway. A little ways farther on there’s a break in the trees and traffic grinds to a halt as the rubberneckers ahead crane their necks, hoping for a quick peek at someone else’s tragedy. While they’re stopped Hank takes a moment to study the scene. The terminal building blocks their view of the actual crash site and all Hank can see are the emergency vehicles that are parked haphazardly around the tarmac, their lights flashing.