Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

Carved out of the mountain during the height of the Cold War, the interior campus covers nearly six acres. The information from those thousands of sensors is fed into NORAD’s supercomputers and the output is funneled into the Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center, a dimly lit room in the heart of the complex. Inside, large video screens are mounted high on the walls, and the floor space is occupied by U-shaped desks, computer monitors, and staff. Also scattered around the room are enough hardwired phones to open a telephone betting parlor.

Corporal Gary Rutledge, manning the satellite tracker, plucks one of those phones from the console and punches a button. When the call is answered, he says, “Sir, first signs of life from NORAD object three-nine-zero-two-six.” He waits for the reply and sits up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir,” he replies before hanging up the phone. The object, a satellite, is of particular interest to those at NORAD.

Within moments, the duty officer, Captain Brice Tremblay, arrives at Rutledge’s desk. “What do you have?”

Rutledge clicks on a video clip and turns the monitor for the officer to see.

“A course correction?”

“Appears so, sir,” Rutledge replies. “The satellite has been tracking more northwest to southeast.”

“And now the track is more north and south?” Tremblay asks.

“Yes, sir. I’ve extended the track out.” Rutledge clicks on another video clip that projects the satellite’s new course.

“The next pass brings it right across the central portion of the United States?”

“Yes, sir. Think they’ve been playing possum the entire time?”

“With them, you never know. What altitude?”

“Around three hundred miles, sir.”

“How long to make the next loop?” the duty officer asks.

“Approximately ninety minutes.”

“Task every available resource to track the target, Corporal. I want eyes on. I’m going to contact Space Command to see if they’ve intercepted any communications to or from the satellite. Notify me immediately if there are further changes.”

“Will do, sir,” Rutledge replies. As Tremblay retreats, Rutledge tags the satellite for easier tracking then searches the databases for any and all information on KMS-4, the latest North Korean satellite to enter Earth’s orbit.

White House Situation Room

President Aldridge and Isabella Alvarez reenter the Situation Room before the one-hour deadline has elapsed. Aldridge takes his usual seat and Isabella slips into a chair at the back of the room. Back on the video screen are Alyx Reed and Zane Miller.

“What do we know?” the President asks. The eyes of those around the table remain downcast. “Damn it, there has to be something.” He glances at the screen. “Mr. Miller, Ms. Reed, anything on your end?”

“Sir, the staff here is combing through all of the signals intelligence,” Zane says. “As of now, we’ve yet to find anything even vaguely related to the infiltration. Whoever is behind the hack, they’re remaining tightlipped. The search is ongoing and something may eventually turn up.”

President Aldridge sighs and leans back in his chair. “Ms. Reed, any input?”

“I did find a partial IP address. Ran it through our databases and received about ten thousand hits. I narrowed the search to include likely bad actors and ended up with about a hundred hits. Interestingly, several of those were servers located in western China. I’m not sure it means much. They’re almost certainly spoofing the attack.”

“And by spoofing, you mean?” Aldridge asks.

“They’ve concealed their real IP addresses by hijacking other servers. That’s what I would do.”

Aldridge turns his attention to Admiral Hill. “Admiral, where are we with the nuclear weapons?”

“We’re working it hard, but, as I said before, a software vulnerability could be a line or two of code out of millions upon millions. The weapon systems are extremely complex. Manpower isn’t the problem, sir, it’s time.”

“Meanwhile, we don’t have a clue what’s in the works,” Aldridge says.

“Kevin, are you picking up any chatter?” Vice President Camila Martinez asks.

The director of the CIA (DCI), Kevin Wilson, shakes his head. A tall, round man with a hairline in rapid retreat, he removes his steel-framed glasses and twirls them by the stem. “We’re scanning every scrap of intel and pumping every asset we have for information. It’s eerie how quiet it is. But, I don’t think the silence can be sustained. I believe that whatever is going to happen will happen quickly. Otherwise, why reveal themselves?”

“Is there anything significant about today’s date?” Martinez asks. Fifty-three, the former senator from Texas was a collegiate volleyball player who is still in remarkable shape. “An Islamic holiday? Or something of historical significance?”

“Not that I know of,” the DCI says. “But I’m not a holiday kind of guy. Could be today’s the day everything fell into place.”

“Hell, we’re just speculating,” Aldridge snaps. “If we don’t have a clue about who the hell it is, we sure as hell can’t arrive at a motive. So, do we sit here with our thumbs up—”

The intercom chimes. “Sorry for interrupting, sir,” the voice says, “but I have an urgent call for Director Wilson on line four.”

Rather than take the call at the table, Wilson stands and works his way to a phone at the back of the room.

“We need contingency plans,” Aldridge says. “Both military and cyber. I want to hit these assholes with everything we have in our arsenal.”

DCI Wilson returns to the table, his face ashen. He pulls out his chair and sits. “Sir, one of our flight teams has lost control of a drone.”

“What do you mean, ‘lost control’?” Aldridge asks, the veins visibly pulsing in his forehead.

“They said they’ve lost all flight capability and the drone is not responding to commands. I hate to say it, sir, but they believe the drone has been hacked.”

“What type of drone?” Aldridge asks, his voice tight with anger.

Wilson glances at the video screen then at those assembled in the room before turning back to the President. “The newest one we have, sir.”

The President glances away then whips his head back. “What?”

Wilson glances, again, at the screen. “Sir, can we lose the video feed?”

The President clenches his jaw. Only two other people present know what Wilson is referring to. He looks up at the screen and makes a snap decision. “Mr. Miller and Ms. Reed will stay with us, Kevin. They may be able to provide insight on the computer systems used to control the drone.”

“But, sir?” Wilson pleads.

“What the hell is going on?” Martinez asks. “Just shoot the damn thing down.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Camila,” the President says. He sags in his chair. “Lay it out, Kevin.”

“Sir?” Wilson asks, his face as red as that of a toddler pitching a fit. “This entire project is need-to-know only.”

“Well, now they need to know. All of it.”

Wilson sighs, throws his hands up, and takes a moment to ponder the best way to present the information while still covering his ass. He takes a deep breath and says, “The drone we are discussing is not a run-of-the-mill drone. Code-named Stalker, the drone is a highly modified MQ-9 Reaper.”

“Modified how?” Martinez asks.

Wilson loosens his tie. “The drone is a special DARPA project that’s been years in the making. Powered by a small nuclear reactor, the drone can stay aloft indefinitely and cruise at altitudes beyond seventy thousand feet.”