Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Inside the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant, crews wearing hazmat suits are working in fifteen-minute shifts to reduce their radiation exposure as they attempt to stop the second reactor from melting. Inside the environmentally sealed control room, David Roark and Charles Lewis are thirty hours into their eight-hour shift. Pumps and generators were brought in overnight along with more staff, but there’s major concern about the integrity of reactor two’s enclosure. Reactor one is toast and the fire department is dumping an enormous amount of water on it to limit the release of more radiation as crews struggle to get the new pumps working. Once the pumps are operational, employees will need to pump millions of gallons of water every day from Chesapeake Bay just to keep the melting core cooled and to prevent more explosions. And, worse still, all of that water will now be contaminated, creating another massive headache of how to store a gazillion gallons of radiated wastewater.

The CEO of the corporation that owns the plant, J. Harold Houston, arrived this morning, screaming about lawsuits and lost investments. Roark and Lewis are doing their best to stay out of his way. With reactor one down, they’re keeping a very close eye on the instruments measuring the health of the second reactor. If it blows, a wide swath of land around the plant—a nineteen-mile radius—–will be uninhabitable for generations. And a large evacuation might still be needed if they can’t contain reactor one. Roark and Lewis are also helping a team of suits from corporate do a thorough inspection of the plant’s computer systems, which are still up and operating. It will be an arduous task that could take months or years. Roark has already started thinking about employment alternatives because the last thing he wants to do is sit next to a melting mound of radiated metal for the next however long it takes.

As everyone knows after watching YouTube videos of the Fukushima disaster, they’re in for a long slog. The Japanese are years into the aftermath of their disaster and they still don’t have a good handle on how to stop the escape of ionizing radiation. And the Russians could never find a solution for Chernobyl and eventually had to entomb the destroyed reactor in a sarcophagus of concrete and lead. No one here knows for sure what’s in store or what to expect. The best thing to do would be to shut everything down and order the plant decommissioned, but that’s impossible now after the explosion of reactor one. Now the company’s responsible for the outcome and the costs could soar into the billions of dollars.

If those problems weren’t enough, the company also owns two more nuke plants and no one here knows exactly how this disaster occurred. Someone obviously hacked the plant’s computer network and the fear is the other plants are now at risk. And they’re not out of the woods here in regard to reactor two. Could the saboteurs be waiting for another opportunity to destroy the second reactor? It’s a question with no answer. The smart thing to do would be to shut the company’s computers down, but they can’t. All mechanical operations of the plant are controlled by computer via the PLCs and the second reactor is still operating—for now.

“Uh-oh,” Lewis says.

“What?” Roark asks as a bead of sweat trickles down his spine.

“The steam turbine speeds are ramping up.”

“We’ve seen this movie before. Shut that son of a bitch down.”

“The turbine or the entire reactor?”

“The whole damn thing.”

“No!” someone shouts behind them. They both turn to see Houston, the CEO, standing in the center of the room.

“Sir, this is exactly how the failure of reactor one started,” Roark says.

“Just dial the turbine speed back a little. We must have that reactor up and operating.”

“We can’t dial back the turbines,” Lewis says. “Which part of ‘the computers have been hacked’ do you not understand?”

“Have someone inside the plant take manual control of the turbines,” the CEO says.

“The last time we tried that,” Roark says, “eight people died. And that was yesterday.”

“Well, come up with another plan, then. We are not, I repeat NOT, going to shut down the second reactor.”

Roark and Lewis share a look. They’ve both had more than enough. Roark stands, reaches across the console, and slams his palm down on the emergency release button that drops the control rods into the core of reactor two, stopping the fission process. He turns and walks toward the exit, looking at Houston. “I quit. Good luck managing your disaster.”

Attica

Captain Scott Butler steps outside the prison and takes a deep breath, his first taste of fresh air in what seems like forever. If he never sees Attica again it will be too soon. The final tally of the dead is grim. Other than Lydia Darnell and the two hostages they rescued from the hospital, every correctional officer or staff member inside when the power went off—all 167—are dead. The death toll for the inmates is considerably higher at 421. Of that number, Butler and his team are responsible for 198 of those deaths, the others killed by their fellow inmates. The plan now is to transfer the remaining prisoners to other facilities while law enforcement personnel work the massive crime scene. But the who did what might never be determined.

Butler walks over to the truck and tosses his helmet inside. He leans his rifle against the door and strips off his armored vest, spreading it out across the hood to dry. Butler’s camo shirt is soaked with sweat and he tugs it away from his torso, hoping it will eventually dry. His troops are scattered around the parking lot, stripping off unnecessary equipment. Several have cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths, the smoke curling around their sweaty faces in the still air. Butler glances at his watch and curses. His first patient is due in the office in forty-five minutes. He pulls out his cell phone and attempts to call one of his dental hygienists to cancel his morning schedule, but the call won’t go through. Butler reasons that the power is now out in Buffalo.

The cadre of ambulances is gone and in their place is a swarm of media vehicles from all over the state. The warden mentioned something to Butler about holding a news conference, but he wants no part of it. All he wants is a hot meal and a bed. He walks around the back of the truck, lowers the tailgate, and sits. Switching to a military satellite phone. Butler dials directory assistance to get the phone number to the hospital. He calls the hospital and becomes angry and frustrated when the medical staff won’t release any information about his injured soldiers. The hospital isn’t allowed to, according to the HIPAA law. He would like to call the families of those injured, but he can’t do that until he knows the extent of their injuries. It’s a quandary he’ll have to find some way to wade through.

Butler hasn’t smoked a cigarette in twenty years, but for some reason he has a sudden desire to have one. He stands and walks over to one of his soldiers and bums a smoke. After lighting it, he takes a deep pull and allows the smoke to curl out of his nostrils. Then he starts coughing and decides that’s enough of that and he tosses it to the ground and grinds the cigarette out with his boot heel. He instructs Lieutenant Fred Parker to start rounding up the men, then studies the keyboard of the sat phone for a moment or two, dreading the call he must now make. He keys in the number for Major General Lawrence Moore and puts the phone to his ear. The call is answered on the second ring. “It’s over, sir,” Butler says. “The prison is secure.”