Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“A lot of people, including the usual suspects, such as Iran and North Korea.”

“But that takes us back to my original point about retaliation. All of those countries know—they absolutely know—that payback is a bitch. Who wouldn’t be concerned with our response? A group of very smart people not affiliated with a specific country, but who also have deep-seated animosity toward the United States.”

“Like a terrorist group?” Paige asks.

“No, not the usual suspects such as Al-Qaeda or ISIS. This feels different to me. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just blabberin’. But my gut tells me this is straight-up retribution.”

“For what?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

North Atlantic Ocean

Captain Bruce Hensley, still confined to quarters, sneaks up to his cabin door for another look through the peephole and smiles. The guard is gone. Not sure what Griffin had done to cause the guard to leave his post, or how long he might be away, Hensley opens the door and hurries down the corridor. He climbs down the stairs to the rear deck and pauses. If Admiral Malloy spots him prowling around on the rear-deck camera, Hensley could be charged with mutiny. He stares through the glass at the Seahawk chopper sitting on the deck, weighing his options.

Inside the USS Stark ’s Ship’s Mission Center, Rear Admiral Richard Malloy is champing at the bit to get the ship’s weapons up and running again. Having spent the last eight years of his career overseeing the designing and building of America’s newest warship, he has more than his reputation at risk. As the Department of Defense whittled down the number of ships it was willing to purchase, Admiral Malloy’s stature inside the navy ranks was also whittled down. A proud man born to blue-collar parents, all his years of hard work and ass-kissing will be for naught if he can’t prove that this new Zumwalt class of destroyers is just what the navy needs for twenty-first-century warfare. And after years of delay and budget-busting expenditures, it’s now make-or-break time for both the ship and the man. Normally not one willing to take big risks, he’d considered sending the ship back to port for a bow-to-stern review. But with his fears that the USS Stark will never sail the high seas again and with a heavy dose of ego that his intimate knowledge of the workings of the ship will prevail, he’s opting for an at-sea reboot and retry. Malloy turns to the ship’s weapons officer and says, “Mr. Griffin, how much longer?”

Although the weapon systems are now operational, Lieutenant Mike Griffin says, “Sir, they’re having some trouble getting the missile pods back on the rails.”

“What about the guns?” Malloy asks.

Well, shit, what now? “Well, sir, uh…” Griffin sputters. “They’re—” He glances up at one of the video monitors to see his captain racing across the rear deck toward the helicopter. “—Can I show you something, sir?”

Everyone in mission control can hear the admiral sigh before he marches across the room to the weapons station. “What is it, Mr. Griffin?”

Hensley swings open the rear door of the chopper and dives inside as the pilot and copilot turn in their seats.

“What the hell?” the pilot asks, none too happy about someone piling in his helicopter uninvited. He removes his headset and asks, “Who the hell are you?”

Hensley leans forward. “I’m Captain Bruce Hensley, commander of the USS Stark , Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot says, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. “Why are you in my helicopter, sir?”

“I need to use your radio.”

“With all due respect, sir, what’s wrong with your ship’s radio?”

“It’s not working. I don’t have time to go into all the details, Lieutenant,” Hensley says, slipping a spare headset on. “Can you power up the radio?”

The pilot and copilot share a look, both wondering why the ship’s captain is in their helicopter wanting to use the radio. The pilot turns to face Hensley. “Sir, we’re here on orders from Admiral Malloy.”

“Christ, I’m not asking anything out of the ordinary. All I want to do is make a simple radio call.”

“I need permission from Admiral Malloy, Captain.”

Hensley yanks off the headset, tosses it on the seat, and leans forward to look the pilot in the eye. “When the shells and missiles start raining down on Norfolk again, call Admiral Young at Fleet Forces Command and tell him to mothball this motherfucking ship. Got it, Lieutenant?”

Before the pilot can respond, Hensley pushes open the door and hurries toward the aft entrance.

Griffin’s shoulders sag when he spots Captain Hensley climbing out of the helicopter only seconds later. He’s served with Hensley long enough to be able to read the boss’s body language and the captain’s red face is a dead giveaway. Griffin turns back to Malloy and points at a schematic of the vertical missile launching system on his computer monitor. “That’s the issue, there, sir. I think with some fine-tuning it’ll work like a charm.”

“Good eye, Lieutenant. And that’s a minor fix.” The admiral stands, places his hands on his hips, and arches his back. “Are we locked and loaded?”

Griffin picks up a phone. “I’ll call down to the weapons room to make sure, sir, but I believe we are.” Griffin waits for the admiral to move on, then dials Hensley’s extension and waits for him to answer. He does on the third ring. “What happened?” he whispers into the phone.

Hensley is out of breath when he says, “They won’t allow me… to make a radio call without… Malloy’s permission. Where’s my guard?”

“Engine room,” Griffin whispers. “The admiral took my suggestion and ran a damage drill while we waited. What now, Bruce? I’ve stalled about as long as I can.”

Hensley sighs. “I’m out of options, Griff.”

“Mr. Griffin?” Admiral Malloy shouts across the room.

“Do you have a cell signal?” Griff whispers over the phone.

“No.”

“Well, sit tight, because the shit show is about to start up again.”

“Reset the power to the weapons, Griff. That’ll buy us a little time.”

“He’ll skin me alive, Bruce. I’ll try to think of something else.” Griffin hangs up the phone and his fellow crew members turn to look at him, fear painted on their faces. He reaches for the power switch and says, “Admiral, we’re locked and”—Griffin triggers the switch off then back on—“wait one, sir. The weapons are resetting for some reason.”

“Goddamn it, Mr. Griffin. What the hell is going on?”

“Some type of power interruption, sir. It’ll take a few moments for them to come back online.” Griffin shoots a pleading look at Connelly.

“Sir,” Connelly says, “maybe we should hold the live-fire exercises until we can diagnose this computer issue.”

“There is no computer issue, Ms. Connelly. The systems performed flawlessly during the dry-fire exercises.”

“I know, sir,” Connelly presses, “but the weapons shouldn’t just power off, should they?”

“The ship’s computer is designed to reset itself if it discovers an anomaly. That’s simply the case, here.”

“But, sir,” Connelly says, “wouldn’t that be a major problem if we were in the heat of battle?”

Malloy waves at the monitors. “Look around, Ms. Connelly. Do you see any other ships on the screens?”

Connelly scans the array of video monitors. “No, sir. Not at present.”

“Exactly. We’re conducting sea trials. We’ll have to make some minor tweaks to the ship before we send her out on patrol. We’ll fix the computer issues. That you can be assured of.”