Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“What are the odds the president’s pacemaker has the new firmware update?” Sheezal asks Nazeri.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nazeri says. “I have other vulnerabilities we can exploit.”

Hassan is not surprised. Where Nazeri came up with all of the zero days, including the one that allows Nazeri access to the White House’s wireless network, is still a mystery. But hopefully it won’t remain a mystery for long. Hassan launches one of his programs that he created long ago and refined over the years. The software scans deep into the hard drive, searching for spyware or keylogger programs with administrator-level access. Hassan will not underestimate Nazeri again. He has no doubt now that Nazeri is monitoring their computer activities somehow and he has to find out how for his plan to work.

Within moments, Hassan’s software produces a list containing two items. One is a keylogger and the other sends a chill down his spine. It’s an encrypted file that Hassan has never seen before. It’s obviously a file Nazeri has placed on his computer, but he has no idea of the contents. It could be a self-destruct mechanism or it could also be a dossier detailing every aspect of Hassan’s life, including his family, friends, and a list of crimes he has committed. Hassan might be able to crack the encryption if he had enough time, but that’s the one thing he doesn’t have.

Hassan tries to put it out of his mind as he examines the keylogger. He doesn’t want to remove the software, fearing its absence will trigger some type of alarm. What he would like to do is either blind it to his activities or simply turn it off for a few seconds.

“I’m in,” Sheezal announces.

Hassan tries to tune them out, knowing that time is his greatest enemy. The attempted killing or the actual killing of the president could be the culminating event that will lead to their demise. Luckily that information won’t be readily available, buying them a little more time. Hassan finds a way to momentarily disable the keylogger and does. With a clock ticking down in his head, Hassan logs out of the VPN they’ve been using and logs back on to the wireless network, unmasked. Navigating to the satellite, he types in a set of instructions and pulls up the USS Stark ’s shipboard cameras. Using his keyboard and mouse, he spends a few seconds manipulating the cameras then kills the connection. After logging out, he immediately logs back in to the VPN, enables the keylogger, and sits back in his chair. All he can do now is wait.

Fort Meade

Natalie Lambert drains the last of her energy drink and tosses the empty can into the trash under her desk. Outside, dawn is breaking—a fact she knows only by glancing at the clock. There are no windows in the room and there will be no warming from the sun’s first rays of the day. Paige is working on an adjacent computer as they continue writing a program to target the malware’s self-destruct payload. It sounds easy, but it’s not. The sophistication of the malware only makes it more difficult.

Natalie nearly jumps out of her chair when the office phone on her desk rings. She lifts the handset and says, “Lambert.” She listens for a moment then says, “Oh shit. Really?” She listens for another moment as she pushes to her feet. “Okay. Hold on.” She lays the handset down and races across the room.

“What is it?” Paige shouts after her.

Peyton glances back over her shoulder. “Signals. They got a hit on a satellite.”

Natalie flings open the door to her office. “Hank, get up.”

Hank rolls over and sits up. “What is it?”

“Signals got a hit.”

Hank rubs his eyes as he stands from the sofa. “What and where?”

“They want to talk to you.”

Hank grabs his cell phone and blinks against the bright lights as he follows Natalie back across the room. Paige stands and walks over as Hank grabs the phone. “Goodnight.”

“Agent Goodnight, I’m Sheryl Wilkins, an analyst in signals. We picked up some satellite communications that might be of interest.”

“I’m listening,” Hank says.

“The communications originated in Boston and were relayed over one of our satellites.”

“Where did the signal terminate?” Hank asks.

“A ship in the North Atlantic. I can’t tell you specifically which one.”

“Are you able to decipher what the communications were?”

“They’re encrypted. We’ll eventually decode it, but it might take a while.”

“Have you picked up any other communications from that location?”

“Negative.”

“Do you have the address and the coordinates for the ship’s location, Sheryl?”

“Yes. Do you want to grab a pencil so you can write it down?”

“No, just tell me.”

Wilkins relays the info and Hank passes on his cell phone number. “I need that decryption as soon as you get it. Thank you, Sheryl. You’ve been a big help.” Hank hangs up the phone, pulls over a chair, and sits.

“Are we going?” Paige asks.

“This is my end of the deal. There is no ‘we.’”

“Bullshit,” Paige says.

Hank holds up a hand. “Hold up. Let me think this through for a minute. We don’t know for certain it’s them. She couldn’t identify which ship received the communications. Hell, it could be a food warehouse ordering more tuna from a fishing boat.”

Paige takes a seat at her computer. “You asked for the ship’s coordinates. Tell me what they were.”

Hank recites the coordinates and Paige enters them into the computer. After pulling up a map to locate the general area, she scrolls through the list of satellites, trying to find one that will provide a visual. Since it’s dark, she’d prefer an infrared image, so she clicks on several different weather satellites, but they don’t offer the image resolution she’s seeking. She glances up. “Natalie, do you have access to images from the NSA satellites?”

“Yes,” Natalie says, taking a seat in front of her computer.

Paige pedals her chair over while Natalie logs in. “Hank, what were those coordinates again?” Paige asks.

Hank rattles off the numbers again.

“How does he do that?” Natalie whispers.

“I’ll tell you later,” Paige says. “Pull up any satellites that cover the North Atlantic.”

It looks like it’s going to take them a while to find what they’re looking for, so Hank rolls the latest information around in his mind. He wonders why this is the only communication the NSA has flagged from that address. He runs several scenarios through his brain, but none make sense. After all, these are sophisticated hackers and if they’ve camouflaged their activity to this point, why the aberration? Could it be a simple mistake? Hank wonders. The one thing he failed to ask Sheryl Wilkins was the duration of the signal. Hank stands. “Natalie, how do I get back in touch with Sheryl Wilkins?”

“Pick up the phone and dial star-639. That’ll get you to signals analysis.”

Hank picks up the phone and makes the call. He reconnects with Wilkins and finds out the answer to his question—forty-nine seconds. Hank sits back down and runs through the process of how that might happen. He tries to visualize the actions that would be required to transition from a secure private network to a secure, but less private one—one that would allow the NSA to intercept their communications.

“Got it,” Natalie says. She turns her monitor so that Hank can see. “This is an accelerated video loop of the last thirty minutes that covers the coordinates Wilkins provided.”

Hank leans forward in his chair. “Play it.” He watches it all the way through and leans back in his chair.