Tim Washburn: Cyber Attack

“Jesus. That could spell disaster for those downstream. They couldn’t have picked a more dangerous dam to target.”

“I think that’s what they had in mind.” Hank leans forward and opens the glove box, pulling out his holstered Glock 22.

“ You carry a service weapon?” Paige asks.

“Never leave home without it,” Hank answers, climbing out of the car. He pops the trunk and takes a moment to clip the holster on his belt. “There are a couple of FBI Windbreakers in the trunk if you want to grab them.”

Paige does and closes the lid. She hands the larger jacket to Hank and slips the other one on.

“Might want to wait to put that on,” Hank says.

“Why?” Paige asks. “It’ll allow us to move through the crowds easier.” She ducks back inside the car to retrieve her backpack and slings it over her shoulder.

Hank shrugs and heads for the entrance, his jacket inside out and draped over his arm. Glancing at the chaos through the windows, Hank takes a deep breath and steps up to the automatic door, Paige right behind him. They’re barely through the door when people begin swarming Paige like a pack of hyenas moving in on a fresh kill. Paige tries to make herself smaller as the crowd swells, the shouted questions hitting her like a barrage of bullets. People are jostling for position, stepping on her toes, and grabbing her clothing. Paige slaps at the hands grabbing her clothes and looks pleadingly at Hank, who’s standing off to the side leaning against a support column.

Hank raises his brows and tilts his head in an I told you look and allows the melee to continue for a few more seconds before wading into the crowd. He grabs Paige by the arm and pulls her free. Once they’ve created some space, Paige peels off the Windbreaker—in world record time—and folds it so that none of the lettering is visible. “Why didn’t you tell me that was going to happen?”

Hank takes Paige by the elbow and steers her down the corridor. “If you recall, I suggested you wait to put on the jacket.”

“You could have been more forceful with your suggestion,” Paige says, glancing over her shoulder to see some of the same people following. “I feel like I’m leading a conga line.”

Hank and Paige make their way to the elevator. Hank debates calling the director of airport security to intercept the followers, but decides the man has enough on his plate and Hank doubts anyone will go to the trouble of making the trip downstairs. He and Paige hop on the elevator car when it arrives and take it to the basement. Just as they exit the elevator the lights flash out.

A collective groan can be heard echoing through the terminal upstairs.

“I think things just went from bad to worse,” Paige says. “Let’s hope the server room is connected to a backup generator.”

They remain where they are until the emergency lighting kicks on. When it does, the fixtures are so widely spaced the battery-powered bulbs do little to dispel the darkness. Hank and Paige wait for their eyes to adjust and then proceed. An area not frequented by passengers, the basement is cold both in temperature and feeling. Posters about workplace safety are plastered on the walls, and the dingy linoleum floors are worn through in spots, the walls practically begging for a fresh coat of paint.

“Where’s the server room?” Paige asks.

Hank glances at the room numbers tacked over the doors. “Room B203.”

“You remember the room number from a report you read ages ago?” Paige asks.

Hank shrugs. A little farther down the corridor, they find the correct room and are glad to see the lights are on and the servers up and running. The steel exterior door is outfitted with a numeric lock and a camera is positioned in the upper-left corner of the wall. Hank knocks and holds his credentials up to the camera.

The door is answered moments later by a man in his midforties, dressed in khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt streaked with sweat. “I’m Daniel Copeland, the IT manager,” he says, ushering them into the room.

Hank introduces himself then Paige. “Tough morning?” Hank asks.

“To say the least,” Copeland says, leading them deeper inside. The far wall is mostly glass and it looks over a large room jammed with computer equipment.

“Does the rest of the airport have backup generators?” Paige asks.

“Yes and no. There are generators to activate the emergency lighting and a few other security features, but you’d need several generators the size of a semi truck to power the entire terminal building.” Copeland leads them into a control room that’s currently occupied by three other people. In the center of the room is a large banana-shaped desk bristling with computer monitors, and hanging from the ceiling are more monitors displaying the current status of the computer network. Copeland turns his chair around and plops down, waving at two unoccupied chairs.

“What have you discovered?” Hank asks, pulling up a chair and sitting.

“Not much,” Copeland says. “How much do you know about hacking a computer network?”

“Enough, but Paige here is an expert,” Hank says.

Copeland turns his gaze on Paige. “Then you know how difficult it is going to be to find out how they entered the network much less find who might be responsible.”

Paige nods and takes a seat in the other vacant chair. “What software are you running?”

“Windows Server 2008 R2.”

Hank holds up a hand. “Before we get into the technicalities, can we hear the audio recording from the tower at the time of the incident?”

“Of course. The tower lost power shortly before the accident occurred so we don’t have much lead-in on the radio recording.” Copeland swivels around to face his workstation.

“That happen very often?” Hank asks.

Copeland glances over his shoulder. “Losing power?”

Hank nods.

“They’ve recently been doing a lot of construction around the airport, so yeah, it does happen occasionally. The tower is equipped with a generator, but for some reason there was a delay before it started. Do you think that’s significant?”

“Won’t know until we hear what you have,” Hank says. “Let her rip, Daniel.”

“This is fifteen seconds before the incident. The first voice is the air traffic controller Adam Baldwin, followed by the captain of Transjet 1536.”

“Transjet 1536, please contact Potomac departure.”

“1536. Roger, Dulles Tower—what the hell? Dulles, we seem to be having engine—damn, dial back the engi—”

“Transjet 1536, what’s the problem?”

There’s a pause on the tape and then: “Transjet 1536? Dulles Tower to Transjet1536, please respond.”

“That’s it,” Copeland says, swiveling his chair around.

Paige asks him to play it again and he does. After the second playback, Paige asks, “Any word on the flight recorders inside the plane?”

“No. Once it cools down a bit, I assume the NTSB will recover those.”

“What type of aircraft was Transjet flying?” Hank asks.

“A 737-800,” Copeland replies.

“How many 737s do you reckon are currently in service, Daniel?” Hank asks.

“What are you thinking, Hank?” Paige asks, tucking her hair behind her left ear.

Hank holds up a hand, waiting for Copeland’s response.

“Gosh, I don’t know,” Copeland says, pausing to think. “There are several variants of the 737, but I would think, globally, the total number has to be in the thousands.”

“’Bout what I thought,” Hank says, standing. “I don’t know if your flight control system has been hacked or not, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the crash.”

“What do you mean?” Copeland asks, a bewildered expression on his face.