Tim Washburn: Cyber Attack

“I will. How widespread is the power outage?”

Hank takes his finger off the phone’s microphone. “Elaine, how widespread is the power outage?”

“So far it’s confined to the D.C. and Dulles areas, but I don’t know for how long,” Mercer says.

Hank passes the info on to Paige and says to Mercer, “That’s strange.”

“Why?” Mercer asks.

“Because there are basically just three power grids that cover the entire nation: the Eastern Interconnect, Texas, and the West Coast.”

“Meaning, if they’ve infiltrated the D.C. power grid they’re also embedded in the Eastern Interconnect?” Mercer asks.

“Yes,” Hank replies. “And I’d be surprised if they haven’t hacked the other systems, too. That might be act two of this horror show. Are you picking up any chatter about the attacks?”

“Chatter about the incidents but nothing about, or from, the culprits,” Elaine says. “We’re liaising with the CIA and the NSA and even with all their resources we’ve failed to find a single shred of usable intelligence on who might be responsible.”

“We’re still only about three hours into this mess. Someone will start blabbin’. Human nature,” Hank says. “Think Paige and I can get into one of the power companies to get a look at their software?”

“Probably not without a court order. They’re all private companies and they’re competitive as hell. I’ll make a call to the secretary of energy to see if she can pull some strings.”

“We’re burnin’ daylight, Elaine. Might be better to bypass all the bureaucratic bullshit and talk to the man that holds all the strings. Have him declare a national emergency or whatever he needs to do so we can get a look at some of this software.”

“I’ll talk to the director, Hank, and see if he wants to approach the president,” Mercer says. “I’ll also call the Chicago field office and have them send agents out to the 737’s manufacturer. I doubt they’ll be forthcoming, but all we can do is try.”

“Maybe we could offer to limit their liability in exchange for cooperation. By the time the liability lawyers get through with them they’ll be lucky to still have a company. Or better yet, start pullin’ some of their Defense Department contracts. We need to drop the hammer on some folks.”

“I’m on it, Hank. What are you and Paige going to do?” Mercer asks.

“We’re goin’ to do a little explorin’.” Hank disconnects the call and looks at Paige, who is using her phone to watch footage from one of the air crashes. “How are your hackin’ skills, Paige?”

Paige looks up from the screen. “Let’s just say I’m better than your average bear.”

Hank smiles. “Good.”

En route to Miami

The Hammond family is flying from drizzly Portland, Oregon, to sunny Miami for their first family vacation in five years. The children, ten-year-old Chloe and seven-year-old Camille, had lobbied hard for a trip to Orlando and its numerous theme parks, but had eventually come around to the idea of a seven-night cruise to the western Caribbean. The deciding factor: a chance to swim with the dolphins, an encounter that’s going to cost their father, Martin, about five hundred bucks. And that’s just for the three-hour shore excursion. The entire trip has put a major dent in the Hammond family bank account, but his wife, Lilly, insisted that they were building lifetime memories with their children.

Martin, stuck sitting next to Camille, is trying to keep her occupied with a coloring book. He switches crayons and begins coloring SpongeBob red.

“No, Daddy,” Camille says, grabbing his hand. “He’s s’posed to be yellow.”

Martin puts the crayon on the tray table and squirms in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Something hard to do for a man who is six-four and weighs well north of two hundred and fifty pounds. Martin silently curses the makers of the 737 as he kicks his carry-on bag around beneath the seat in front of him, trying to stretch out his legs. He and his daughter had already colored five pages in Camille’s coloring book and the plane can’t get on the ground fast enough for Martin. He pulls out his phone. “How about you listen to some music on my phone?”

Camille shakes her head. “Your music sucks.”

“I downloaded some movies to my iPad,” Martin offers.

“Uh-uh. I want to color with you.”

Martin sighs and glances across the aisle at Lilly and Chloe. Both have earbuds in, their seats reclined. He waves at his wife to get her attention. When she looks over, he pantomimes trading places, and his wife smiles and shakes her head. A few choice curse words zing around Martin’s brain as he shifts around in his seat, again. He accidentally bumps Camille’s elbow, creating a big yellow smear across the page of her coloring book.

“Daddy! Look what you made me do.”

Martin sighs. “I’m sorry, honey. Why don’t we start on a new page?” He grabs the red crayon in anticipation then spots a female flight attendant collecting garbage and waves her over.

She steps down the aisle. “Yes, sir?”

“How much longer until we land?”

The flight attendant glances at Camille and her coloring book then at the crayon in Martin’s hand. She smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. “We should be on the ground in about thirty minutes.” With a wistful look at Camille, she says, “Enjoy them while you can. They grow up so quickly.”

“I know. How about I pick up the trash and you color?” Martin asks.

The flight attendant laughs. “I’d take you up on it if I could. My baby girl is off to college this fall.” She gives Martin a pat on the back and continues down the aisle.

Martin spends a moment studying his daughter. She’s a redhead like her mother. The tip of her tongue is sticking out between her lips as she concentrates on her coloring. She glances up. “Daddy, you can color Squidward.”

Martin smiles. “Okay. He’s red, isn’t he?”

“No, Daddy,” Camille says, giggling. “That’s Mr. Krabs. Squidward is turq… turq…”

“Turquoise?”

“That’s it, Daddy.” She digs through her box of crayons and hands the correct color to her father. Martin and Camille color until the flight attendant returns to instruct them to close the tray table and lift their seat backs.

Inside the cockpit, the pilot and copilot were informed about the possible breach of the aircraft’s computer systems early in the flight, but at 35,000 feet, there’s not a hell of a lot they can do about it. Now only three miles from touchdown, the copilot says, “Looks like we’re going to make it.”

“We’re not on the ground yet,” the pilot replies. “Flaps, thirty-five degrees.”

“Flaps, thirty-five degrees,” the copilot repeats as he shifts the flap selector to the required setting.

Two miles from touchdown, the plane’s engines begin to decelerate. The pilot grips the wheel and shouts for the copilot to add more thrust.

Passengers inside the cabin scream when the plane suddenly loses altitude. Martin wraps an arm around Camille and reaches across the aisle for Chloe’s hand. Camille is crying and Martin is praying when the plane slams into the ground, bursting into flames.

Dulles

Hank chirps the locks and pops the trunk and he and Paige dump their Windbreakers into the back before climbing into the Shelby. “Back to the office?” Hank pulls his pistol and puts it back in the glove box.

“Hell, no. If we’re going to be hacking, we’re sure not going to do it at the office.”