Tim Washburn: Cyber Attack

“Most of today’s aircraft offer some form of Wi-Fi and my bet is they hacked the aircraft’s computer systems,” Hank says. “And if that’s the case we’ve got major problems.”

Lusby

The local golf club in north Lusby is located four miles south of Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant. Surrounded by a blue-collar neighborhood, the course attracts the barbers and hairdressers on Monday and the retired the rest of the week. The greens and fairways aren’t manicured, but they are playable. If you’re thinking Augusta National, this isn’t it. Not even close. But to Roger Rinsky and his three pals who play there three times a week, it might as well be. And at ten bucks a round—including cart—it’s affordable.

Playing for five dollars a hole, Rinsky and his playing partner, Harvey Moretti, are heading to the sixth tee down twenty-five bucks each. Yes, they’d heard the sirens a while ago, but when Rinsky’s losing there’s no stopping him. He squeals the tires when he slams on the golf cart’s brakes at the sixth tee. Rinsky climbs out, yanks his driver from his bag, and stalks up to the tee box. A tall and thin man when he was younger, Rinsky’s fondness for beer has finally caught up to him at the age of seventy-two. Around, firm potbelly protrudes from his midsection, and his friends—when Rinsky is in a good mood—will often tease him about the sex of the baby. But today is not the day for teasing Rinsky.

After the other twosome tees off, Rinsky plunges his tee into the ground and places his ball. He’s in the middle of his second practice swing when the sirens sound again.

“Rog, maybe we should head to the clubhouse and find out what’s going on,” his partner, Moretti, suggests.

“Screw that,” Rinsky replies. He steps behind the ball and works on picking a target farther down the fairway, waiting for the sirens to end. When they do, he steps forward, lines up his driver, shuffles his feet, and takes a huge, angry swing at the ball. His shot slices right and ends up in the trees. “Fuck!”

After Moretti hits his tee ball down the middle of the fairway, Rinsky stomps back to the cart and slams his driver into his bag. He slides behind the wheel, pops the top on a fresh beer, and guzzles half of it before hitting the gas. After driving through the trees for a few minutes, Rinsky spots his ball and mutters another string of curse words. The ball has come to rest behind a large oak tree, giving Rinsky no shot. He climbs out, grabs a club, and looks around to see if his two competitors are watching. They aren’t, so Rinsky uses the nose of his golf shoe to nudge the ball out from behind the tree. He steps back to plot his next shot when the sirens sound again.

“Roger, that’s the third time the sirens have gone off. We need to find out what’s going on,” Moretti pleads.

Rinsky steps to the back of the cart and takes a club from his bag. “Harvey, quit being a pussy. They’re probably running some kind of fuckin’ drill.”

Moretti shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “But what if it’s not?”

Rinsky points his club in the direction of the nuke plant. “Do you see anything wrong? Hell no. If there’s a problem, don’t you think you’d see steam, or smoke, or something?”

“There doesn’t have to be visible evidence for them to be having problems, Roger.”

“Yeah, well, until I see any evidence they’re having trouble, I’m going to keep playing.” Rinsky settles over the ball, takes a big backswing, and knocks the ball all the way across the fairway and into another grouping of trees. “Fuck!” He slams his club into the ground and turns, marching back to the cart. He takes the wheel and stomps on the gas pedal, driving over to Moretti’s ball.

“I’ll give you the twenty-five bucks, Roger,” Moretti says.

“Screw you, Harvey. It’s not the damn money and you know it. Hit your ball.”

Moretti steps out, selects a 5-iron from his bag, and hits his ball onto the green before climbing back in the cart. “Jeez, Rog, it’s not like we’re playing the U.S. Open.”

“I don’t care.” Rinsky zips over to the trees that swallowed his ball and finds it sitting on the edge of the fairway. “I must be living right.” He steps out, selects a club, and swings, the ball dribbling onto the front edge of the green. “Ha. A par putt.”

“From about sixty feet,” Moretti says.

“Still a par putt, assh—”

His words are clipped when the sirens start up again. Rinsky drives up to the elevated green and scowls when he sees the other two players within six feet of the pin for a birdie. Balls are marked and the green repaired as Rinsky looks over his long par putt. He kneels down behind his ball to study the undulations of the green. The other three are huddled together, looking at the power plant to the north. Rinsky picks a line, takes a couple of practice swings, and addresses the ball. In the middle of his backswing there’s a deafening explosion that shakes the ground beneath Rinsky’s feet. He looks up to see the other three running for the carts then turns his head a few degrees to the left and drops his putter. The nearest concrete cylinder housing one of the nuclear reactors has been obliterated. The steam, smoke, and debris shooting high into the sky are picked up by the wind, pushing the cloud of radiation toward the golf course.

Rinsky runs for his cart. The major problem is that they’re now at the farthest point from the clubhouse. The foursome is three hundred yards from the clubhouse when the cloud of ionized radiation particles sweeps over them.

Dulles

Once clear of the terminal’s basement, Hank’s phone starts dinging like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Surprised that he has a cell signal with the power out at the airport, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and sees over a dozen text messages and six missed calls—the calls all from Mercer.

“Somebody’s looking for you,” Paige says.

“Mercer,” Hank says, holding his thumb on the home button to unlock the screen.

“I’m going to hit the little girl’s room while you call her back,” Paige says.

Hank nods, scrolling through his text messages. Two are from his grandmother wanting to know what’s going on, the others from fellow agents looking for information. Hank types out a quick reply to his grandmother: Call you shortly, Nana and then punches Mercer’s number and she answers on the first ring.

“Where in the hell have you been, Hank?”

“The basement of the terminal buildin’. No cell service. What’s happened?”

“We’ve had reports of nearly a dozen more aircraft crashes and they were all landing after the grounding order was issued,” Mercer says.

“All 737s?” Hank asks.

“Hold on,” Mercer says. She comes back on the line a moment later. “Yes. How did you know?”

“The jet here was a 737 and, in the tower audio recording of the incident, the pilot’s last words were something about engine speeds. My guess is they’ve somehow hacked the airplane’s thrust management system. How, I don’t know, but all these planes now offer Wi–Fi so that might be it. That’s not to say they haven’t infiltrated the FAA flight systems, too, but they’d have to have a lot of things break their way to create this much havoc.”

Paige returns from the restroom and Hank says, “Hold on, Elaine.” He covers the phone’s microphone, saying, “More jet crashes all over the place. All 737s.”

The blood drains from Paige’s face. “How many?”

Hank shrugs. “More than a few. See what you can find out on your phone.”