by J. L. Brown
Whitney held up her hand. “Who benefits?”
“China most likely. They can fill the void. No one else.”
Whitney turned to Edison Banks, secretary of health and human services. “Hospitals?”
“It’s a crisis. Medical care facilities rely on power. We’ll need to move people soon.”
Whitney eyed Pravir Ratta, her secretary of education.
“Nothing’s come in so far,” he said.
“Media?”
“No reports that they’ve been hit,” Energy Secretary Oliver said.
“But what do we tell them?” asked Lena, the acting press secretary.
“Nothing for now,” Whitney said. “Until we know our plan.”
Lena leaned forward. “With all due respect, Madam President, the East Coast is asleep now, but they won’t be for much longer. Some people might still be up—
“As we are,” murmured Secretary of Commerce Ashton Crawford.
“—trying to contact loved ones on the West Coast. We won’t be able to keep this under wraps for long.”
Whitney turned to Secretary of Defense Leyton Quinn. “Military systems?”
She shook her head.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Whitney shuddered to think of the consequences of the infiltration of their nuclear or missile systems.
“Winters, what’s your assessment? Did you see this coming?”
General Malachi Winters was the chairman of the US Cyber Command and head of the NSA. Now, in addition to land, sea, air, and space, his responsibilities included a new battlefield: cyberspace. Cyber Command’s mission was to neutralize cyberattacks and defend military computer network systems.
“We had an inkling,” Winters said, shaking his head. Deep lines furrowed his dark forehead. “But nothing like this. I would’ve told you. Do you want my resignation?”
Whitney waved this thought away. “Options?”
“At first,” said Defense Secretary Quinn, “we thought it was a massive outage, but now I think…”
“What?” Whitney asked.
“It was a military attack,” Quinn said.
Her words silenced the room.
After a moment, she added, “This was an act of war.”
“By whom?” said Winters. “A sovereign state? A nonstate? A bunch of teenagers playing a game?”
“Or a fat guy lying on his bed,” said Commerce Secretary Crawford.
The nervous giggles died quickly.
Whitney eyed a woman dressed in a military uniform decorated with five stars on her shoulder straps. “General?”
Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Frances Wilkerson was the first woman to hold the title. Possessing a high standard of integrity, she guided the military with restraint. She despised partisan politics, especially when they got in the way of doing the right thing. Whitney trusted her completely.
The general gazed at her, calm and unflappable. “At your command, we are ready.”
Whitney broke the stare and scanned the cabinet members’ faces again. “Is there any good news?”
No one met her eyes. Some of them doodled on the notepads in front of them. Some stared off into the distance.
“I think it was Tamirov,” said Defense Secretary Quinn.
Russia had done something like this before. A decade ago, to Ukraine. Ukraine, however, was not the most powerful country in the world.
“Could be Min,” said Maricela Salcedo from Homeland Security.
“He possesses a hacker army of hundreds of thousands of private citizens,” Winters said, “while we employ a few thousand civil servants to protect us. It’s not a fair fight.” He hesitated, then looked at Salcedo. “Could it be both?”
Whitney thought it was plausible.
“Let’s talk to Min,” she said, nodding at Secretary of State Park Chui. “Instead of mutually assured destruction, we want mutually assured restraint. Otherwise, this will not end well. For anyone.”
“What about Tamirov?” asked Leyton Quinn, the defense secretary.
“I’ll talk to him,” Whitney said. She looked at her team again. “Come up with a plan for bringing our citizens back online.” She stood. “I want it on my desk within the hour.”
“An hour?” said Oliver, voicing—if their expressions were any indication—the concern shared by most of the other members.
“One hour,” said Whitney. “We’re at war.”
“With all due respect, Madam President,” Winters said, “we’ve been in a cyberwar for a long time, and we’re losing. Most Americans just don’t know it.”
Chapter Eighty-One
Washington, DC
She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up here.
Well, she knew how, but not why.
Jade had spent that afternoon discussing next steps on the Shakespeare case with Dante and dealing with other matters. The conversation with Barringer continued to bother her.
When she called it a night, Jade didn’t feel like going home, and she wasn’t up for Zoe’s upbeat company. Zoe lit up a room, but the energy she needed to fuel herself could drain those around her.
Instead, Jade stopped by a small dive bar in Capitol Hill, a place where she hoped no one would recognize her. A jazz trio played near the entrance. Photographs of jazz and blues artists—recent and seasoned, young and old—dotted the walls. When she arrived, there were no vacant seats at the bar, but there was an empty semicircle booth for two in the back.
She removed her suit jacket, laid it next to her, and ordered a Heineken.
Taking a pull on the beer, she closed her eyes, allowing her head to bob to the music.
“Is this seat taken?”
Jade opened her eyes. A woman stood across the table. She was about five eight, with light-brown hair, attractive in an androgynous sort of way.
“No.”
“This place is always crowded. Do you mind?”
Jade moved her jacket closer to her. The woman slid into the booth.
“You look familiar,” Jade said.
“I live nearby, so you might’ve seen me here.” To the server, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Glass?” the server asked.
The woman glanced at Jade’s bottle. “No.”
The server left.
The woman smiled, embarrassed. “Forgive me. My name’s Brooklyn. My friends call me Brook.”
“Jade.”
They shook hands.
After receiving her beer, Brooklyn raised her glass. “To jazz?”
“To jazz.”
They clinked bottles and drank.
“Thanks for letting me share your table.”
The two women listened to the music and sipped their drinks.
“What do you do?” Brooklyn asked.
If this woman didn’t recognize her, Jade wasn’t going to be the one to inform her.
“Security,” Jade said. “You?”
A pause. “Customer service.”
Brook turned to face the band. Her neck was taut, her forearms sinewy.
Jade sipped her beer. “Athlete?”
The woman turned back to her. “Volleyball. Setter.”
“Do you still play?”
Brooklyn shook her head as she signaled for two more beers. “I’m more of a triathlete now.”
“Impressive.”
The two women talked as they listened to the first set. Brooklyn was also a fan of all the DC sports teams, including soccer, and they discussed the prospects for DC United this season. Jade was enjoying herself immensely. She hadn’t talked sports with another woman in a long time. For the moment, she forgot about Barringer, Shakespeare, Judy Porter, and Whitney Fairchild.
They ordered a bucket of Heinekens and stayed for the second set.
That was several hours ago.
The bedroom was dark.
“Brook, I gotta go,” Jade said. “Thanks for tonight.”
Brooklyn turned to face her, her head still on the pillow. “
It was nice.”
Jade rolled out of the bed, gathered her clothes, which were scattered all over the floor, and dressed hurriedly.
She quietly let herself out of the Capitol Hill townhouse.
Driving home, Jade realized she didn’t know Brook’s last name.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Washington, DC
“Crazy what happened on the West Coast last night,” Pat said, looking up from her computer.
“What happened?” Jade asked.
“Where were you? Sleeping under a rock?”
Sort of.
Early the next morning, head pounding, she’d stopped by Pat’s cubicle on the way to her office. Jade still hadn’t processed her feelings about sleeping with Brooklyn.
“Tell me,” she said.
Pat told her about the blackouts.
“Sounds like a test,” Jade said.
Pat ceased her typing and squinted up at her. “You okay?”
Jade yawned. “Late night.”
Pat looked hopeful.
“Noneya,” Jade said.
Pat raised both of her arms, as if Jade had hit a three-pointer. “Yes!”
Christian looked over from his cubicle. Since he’d returned from Seattle the night before, Jade had told him to take the day off. He’d come in anyway.
“What’s up, Pat?” he called over.
“Jade got some last night!”
He lumbered over. “Really? Who!?”
Jade’s face flushed. “Noneya. Chill.”
Dante came out of his office. “What’s going on?”
“Shit,” Jade said under her breath.
“Boss got some,” Pat and Christian answered, almost simultaneously.
“It’s about time. Maybe now you can get off my back,” Dante said. He raised his hand to give her a high five. “Male, female, or both?”
Jade ignored him. “Can you all get back to work? I’m talking to Pat.”
“We’re happy for you, that’s all,” Christian said, grinning.
A parting, suggestive smile from Dante. “Can’t wait to hear more.”
As she watched Christian return to his cubicle, her gaze landed on Micah. Still seated at his desk chair, he glared at her, his jaw clenched, his face a mask. He averted his eyes and turned to face his computer.
Jade couldn’t help him.
To Pat, she said sarcastically, “Thanks.”
“Sorry.” Pat suppressed a smile. “Couple of things for you. After running into a dead end with the Barrett witness—”
“Pat,” Jade warned.
“—I found out that the SUV used in the Porter killing was out of range of the motel’s camera, which pointed toward the parking lot.”
“But…”
“A traffic light camera caught it. The license plate turned out to be fake. Indiana. Unregistered. They still haven’t been able to locate the vehicle.”
“I wonder if it’s the same SUV as the one used to kill Barrett.”
“I doubt it. That was a long time ago. Plus, there aren’t any cameras on that country road, and our only witness is dead.”
“Unless we lifted something off the congressman’s car.”
“Which is in pieces and part of other vehicles now.”
“True. What else?”
“Sebastian Scofield also attended the Carr Summit. He and Hurley belonged to the Carrs’ billion-dollar donor club.”
“Someone might be targeting the attendees. These people are at risk. Micah tried to obtain a list. Can you check it out?”
Pat rolled her chair a few paces to the other end of the desk. She returned, handing Jade a file.
Jade opened it to find a list of attendees. “All righty then. Tishman and Porter on the list?”
“No. Tishman was a progressive. Still unsure how he fits in. Or Porter. She had no connection to the other victims. She wasn’t a conservative. Quite the opposite. Her husband said she voted for Fairchild. She was a strong supporter and respected the president tremendously, but she hid it behind journalistic impartiality. He said she felt sick breaking the news about the first man’s affair.”
Jade closed the file; she’d review it later. It was a long list. “Come with me.”
Once they were both seated in her office, Jade said, “I need a favor.”
Pat’s arms were on the guest chair’s armrest, her hands clasped. “Sure.”
“I need you to explore Barrett’s death again.” Jade straightened the already-straightened items on her desk. Without looking at Pat, she said, “Also, find out why Barringer would want us to stop the investigation.”
“Are you sure?” Pat said. “You’re treading on dangerous territory, Jade. We could lose our jobs.”
We.
Pat just called her Jade. She didn’t remember the last time that Pat called her by her given name. If she ever had.
“I’ve thought a lot about this,” Jade said. “Some things are more important than a job. We swore to obey the Constitution with uncompromising integrity. That case stinks. Something’s not right.”
“We’re not only talking about losing our jobs here,” Pat said in a quiet voice.
“I know.”
The older woman gazed down at the floor, then raised her head. “I’m in.”
“This stays between us.”
“I got it, boss.”
Shit. Now Dante has everyone saying it.
Jade had secretly started to like it.
“I need you to do something else for me,” she said. She spun around in her chair and grabbed a sheet of blank paper from the stack next to the printer.
Placing the paper on her desk, she sketched two objects from memory.
When she finished, Pat gave her a puzzled look. “A tree?”
Jade nodded. “Find out what kind it is.”
Pat pointed. “What about this symbol? It looks Japanese.”
進捗
“I believe it’s ‘progress,’” Jade said, “but find out for sure. My Japanese is a little rusty.”
Jade’s mother was Japanese, and at one time, Jade spoke it fluently. With her mother gone, she no longer spoke it every day. Another piece of her parents that she’d allowed to slip away.
While Jade ruminated about them, Pat grabbed the sketches and left her office.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Washington, DC
“What’s the latest?”
Sasha stood in front of Whitney’s desk in the Oval Office, looking no worse for wear. “Power grids, water systems, and energy are back online. Transportation is up and running, although with significant delays.”
“Roads?”
“Cleanup has commenced on the highways.” Sasha paused. “Although the cars were driverless, it doesn’t mean they were without passengers. At least five hundred deaths and counting. We were blessed that the event happened at midnight, or there would have been more. Many more.”
“There were enough.”
Sasha gave her a solemn nod. “Thank God there weren’t many planes in the sky.”
“I wonder if that was why that particular time was selected. To minimize casualties.”
“Several planes made emergency landings. Reports of injuries—some severe—but no deaths. Factories are up and running. A lot of wasted product, but otherwise no long-term damage.”
“What else?”
“Internet’s back up. Most personal computers and cell phones are working, but…”
“What?”
“We’re encouraging the public to download antivirus software on their computers, servers, and smart TVs to combat any malware installed during this event. There’s no guarantee that people will do it.”
“Likely adding identities to the list of casualties,” Whitney said, leaning back in her chair.
Sasha waited.
“It was a test,” Whitney said.
She was more convinced that Russia was the culprit.
The former Soviet Union hadn’t forgotten that the C
IA had planted the computer malware that blew up part of the Trans-Siberian pipeline back in 1982, causing the biggest non-nuclear explosion the world had ever seen. The country didn’t publicly blame the US at the time.
“I think you’re right.” Sasha cocked her head. “Did you sleep?”
“No. I took a cold shower. You?”
“I tried to sleep on the couch in my office, but it was clearly made for a skinny girl, not a voluptuous woman like me.”
Whitney held up her hand. “Don’t start shimmying. Care to watch the opening bell with me? Instead of Breakfast at Wimbledon, let’s enjoy Breakfast at Wall Street.” She punched the speakerphone, not waiting for Sasha’s answer. “Sean, please bring breakfast into my study. Something hearty. For two.”
“Has the First Gentleman returned?” he said, hopeful.
“Thank you, Sean,” Whitney said, hanging up.
Twenty minutes later, a butler wheeled in a cart with several covered trays. He lifted each cover and described the tray’s contents before departing.
The two women sat a table in front of the television eating eggs and bacon and toast—Sasha asked Whitney to call back and add pancakes to the order—as they watched the negative red numbers light up the screen.
“We should do this every day,” said Sasha. “Not that,”—she pointed her forkful of eggs at the television—“this.” She slipped the fork into her mouth.
The Dow dropped two thousand points by 9:31 a.m.
By 9:35, the New York Stock Exchange halted trading.
Whitney dabbed her mouth with a white linen napkin. “I guess you should call Lena in here.”
“She can wait a few minutes.” Sasha lifted a tray cover, heaping another helping of eggs onto her plate. “We need to fortify ourselves. It’s going to be a long day.”
Whitney looked at the second helping on Sasha’s plate, suddenly not hungry. “By all means. Any word from Chui?”
“He said that Min categorically denies any involvement and is open to further discussions of mutually assured restraint.” Sasha chewed and swallowed. “Tamirov?”