Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Manhattan

Hank , Paige, and Tomás Morales exit the stock exchange building to find chaos. It appears Hank was correct in his assumption that the power is out in Manhattan. Nearby traffic lights are dark and traffic is already gridlocked as angry drivers pound their horns, creating a symphony of sound that’s almost deafening. The situation is not much better on the sidewalks—already clogged with people. Workers continue to pour out of the now-dark high-rises, pushing pedestrians out onto the streets, further snarling an already terrible traffic situation.

“I don’t think we’re getting the truck out of the parking garage anytime soon,” Morales says. “I guess we’re hoofing it back to headquarters.”

Hank puts the extra ammo clips in his front pocket and strips out of his FBI Windbreaker and crams it into his bag. “There’s nothin’ at the office for us, Tomás. We need that jet.”

Morales points at the jammed streets and says, “How are you getting to the airport, Hank? You going to walk?”

“No, we’re goin’ to fly when you have a chopper pick us up at the Wall Street heliport.”

“Hell, Hank, do you think I can just pull aircraft out of my ass?” Morales asks. “Even if I could find you a chopper it can’t land there. The heliport was hit by a barge a couple of weeks ago and it’s still under repair.”

Hank pulls up a map of Manhattan in his mind. “Okay, then have the chopper pick us up at the East 34th Street Heliport. C’mon, Tomás. You’re the assistant director in charge. You have ready access to all the agency’s goodies.”

“Why can’t you two work here at the field office?” Morales asks. “We’ve got backup generators so the power outage shouldn’t be an issue.”

“We need some help with this if we want a fast fix, Tomás,” Paige says as she slips out of her own jacket. “Back home we’ll have access to not only our computer programmers, but those at the NSA as well. And face-to-face is always better for brainstorming, especially when we’re dealing with such a sophisticated piece of malware.” Paige wipes the sweat from her forehead. The temperatures are pushing the mid-90s and, coupled with the hot exhaust gases from the gridlocked vehicles and the body heat from growing crowds, it feels as if they’re standing inside a giant oven set on broil.

Morales pulls out his cell phone and checks for service. He’s surprised to see he does have it, but he figures it’s not going to last long. “Cell service is going to be very spotty with the power outage. How are we going to communicate, Hank?”

“We don’t need to communicate. We’ll head to the heliport and you send the chopper.”

“What if I can’t find a helicopter?” Morales asks.

“C’mon, Tomás. What are the odds of that happenin’?”

Morales pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes the sweat from his face. “I’m not a magician, Hank. And this power outage could be an issue. Might temporarily limit available resources until it gets restored.”

Paige glances around at the crowds then steps closer to Morales and lowers her voice, saying, “Tomás, it could be months before power is back on.”

Morales rears back in surprise. “Wha… what?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

“Hank and I stumbled across some internal power company e-mails back in D.C. Apparently the hackers overloaded some of the large transformers and burned them up.”

“Can’t they just replace them?” Morales asks.

“Yes, if they had spares available, but many companies don’t stock replacement transformers. They’re too expensive. A single transformer costs millions of dollars, and the main reason for the delay is that most have to be shipped in from overseas.”

“That figures. We don’t make anything anymore. So you think the hackers have done the same thing to the power grids here in Manhattan?” Morales asks.

“Almost certainly.”

“Jeezus.” Morales glances around at the thousands of people now crowding the streets and sidewalks. “How are we supposed to survive?”

“Grab Cecelia and get on the plane with us,” Hank says.

“Can’t, Hank. I’ve got a field office and five resident offices to run.” Morales’s voice is subdued as he tries to get a grip on the enormity of the situation.

“Then send Cecelia with us,” Hank says.

“She won’t go without me, Hank.”

“You’re probably right, Tomás, but you might ask her anyway.”

Morales shakes his head. “No, if things get too bad here we can always hop on an agency plane and head to our condo in Virginia. You two head out. I need to get a few things out of the Tahoe.”

“Don’t forget your service weapon,” Hank says.

“I won’t.”

Hank puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t stay in the city too long, Tomás. Things up here could turn dangerous in a hurry.”

“We’ll be okay. You two head for the heliport and I’ll find you a chopper to take you to the airport.”

“What about our bags?” Paige asks.

“We’re headin’ back to D.C.,” Hank says. “I don’t think you’re goin’ to be hurting for clothes.”

“I’ll ship them to you as soon as I can, Paige. That sound all right?”

Paige nods, glad she’d slipped on her running shoes on the plane. They don’t coordinate well with her outfit, but they’re a hell of a lot more comfortable to walk in.

“Last chance, old friend,” Hank says, squeezing Morales’s shoulder.

“No. We’ll be fine. But we need to catch these bastards and put a stop to this madness.”

“That’s what we’re tryin’ to do,” Hank says. “See you around, Tomás.”

The two men shake hands and Paige gives Tomás a hug. “Be safe,” she whispers in his ear.

“Same to both of you,” Morales whispers back. “Stick with Hank. He’s pretty damn handy to have around.”

North Atlantic Ocean

Rear Admiral Richard Malloy continues to pace around the USS Stark ’s Ship’s Mission Center barking orders. The ship’s weapon systems are being reintegrated into the computer network, and a majority of the sailors working inside the center are wishing they were elsewhere. No one knows what might happen next and those same sailors don’t really care to know because it will inevitably be something bad. That’s just the way it is aboard the navy’s newest destroyer.

Malloy steps over to the weapons control station and asks, “How much longer, Lieutenant Griffin?”

“We’re close, Admiral.” Mike Griffin looks up from his computer screen, a pleading look on his face when he says, “Sir, we aren’t arming the weapons, are we?”

“Not yet. We’ll run the computer program through a few dry-fire exercises first. If those go as I expect they will, then we’ll talk about rearming.”

“Sir?”

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Well, sir, we didn’t find any glitches in the systems during our earlier computer simulations. It was only after we loaded the armaments that something went terribly wrong.”

“What’s your theory as to why that happened, Lieutenant? Operator error, maybe?”

Griffin’s face turns crimson. “No, sir. It was not operator error.”

“Then, what?” Malloy asks.

“I think the computer software has been compromised.”

“Impossible. I’ve spent the last eight years of my career working with some of the brightest minds in the industry to implement this new concept of ship-wide computer integration. So this bullshit about the systems being compromised ends here. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”