by Chris Hauty
“Tell me about your earliest memory. Or how your parents met. Did you ever see them kiss, with any passion I mean? How about the book that changed your life? Who’s your best friend? Dogs or cats? Or tell me what you like to eat for breakfast on Sundays. Who would you rather be, Picasso or Margaret Mead? Most of all, Sam, I just want to hear your voice. Maybe if I just listen to you talk, I’ll be able to sleep. Do you mind? You can say no. Like I said, I’m not much good at this.”
Sam doesn’t have a problem with her request, but it’s not in him to gab or gossip. He has a natural reticence that recalls another era of the American male. Never glib or frivolous. What he recognizes, however, is that his feelings for this woman are neither a burning building nor a threatening storm. What he believes with all his heart is that, in Hayley Chill, he has found a resting place. Talking won’t be a problem—not with her—despite the late hour.
* * *
AT VERY NEARLY this same moment, halfway around the world, Svetlana Svanidze arrives at Saint Petersburg’s City Hospital No. 40. Having taken the train in from the Kupchino station on the Moskovsko–Petrogradskaya Line of the Saint Petersburg Metro—a ninety-minute commute she endures with the help of favorite authors like Victor Pelevin and Lyudmila Ulitskaya—the ICU nurse greets her fellow hospital staffers with a warm smile. She is popular with staffers and doctors alike, a welcome presence in an otherwise grim medical environment. Her coworker and good friend, Olga Lugin, is excited to see Svetlana enter the cramped nursing station at one end of the cluttered intensive care unit.
“Did you remember?” Olga asks.
“Of course!” Svetlana tolerates her friend’s pestering with good humor. Aware that the younger woman’s home life is no picnic, Svetlana endeavors to brighten Olga’s day. She fishes through her handbag for the thumb drive from home and hands it to the other nurse.
Olga thanks Svetlana and returns to her work at the computer. She considers waiting until she gets home to listen to her friend’s mix. But music helps Olga plow through the drudgery of hospital paperwork. Simply too eager to wait, she inserts the USB drive into the networked workstation and, initiating the iTunes program, locates the drive. But instead of the anticipated music files, the nurse only sees a long series of unrecognized files. Her disappointment is keen. Clearly, Svetlana Svanidze has made a mistake and given her the wrong thumb drive.
The damage is done at the speed that electrons move across transistors, on the order of trillionths of a second. The NSA-created worm, uploaded into Russia-1’s network by Updike’s F6 unit and infecting Oleg Svanidze’s thumb drive, bursts into the hospital network with a rampaging speed and efficiency not found in the non-digital world. The malware scans the City Hospital No. 40’s computer system for root directories. Once it finds those network foundations, the worm makes quick work of destroying them all, effectively wiping all data and applications from hospital servers.
Within a few seconds of Olga Lugin inserting Oleg Svanidze’s USB drive into her work computer and infecting the hospital’s network with the NSA malware, the software running every single connected device in the hospital turns to digital goo. Administrative workstations, like the one in which Olga inserted the infected thumb drive, refuse to respond to user input, of course. But, in addition to computers, hundreds of networked medical devices throughout the hospital also fail, including those that monitor vital signs and administer medications. The rapidly escalating crisis impacts every part of the hospital. Frenzied personnel act to compensate for widespread computer failure. Administrators immediately cancel or postpone surgeries and procedures. The hospital’s information technologists work to restore the network’s servers.
Following the system-wide computer meltdown, medical staff remove patients from malfunctioning ventilators and work vigorously to keep them alive with bag valve masks. These heroic measures seem to be sufficient, but as the minutes of the outage lengthen to more than an hour, one of the five ventilated patients goes into cardiac arrest. Had the cardiac monitors been working, nurses in the room would have been alerted to the patient’s faulty heart rhythm. Doctors work valiantly to resuscitate the patient but fail. Alexi Morozov, sixty-four years of age and a former metalworker, is pronounced dead fifteen minutes before information technologists restore the hospital network. He thereby becomes the first fatality in a cyber war that threatens to go kinetic between the US and Russian superpowers.
* * *
RUSSIAN HACKERS COMPROMISED the Geostationary Operational Environmental Satellite system—operated by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and responsible for that agency’s weather forecasting and meteorology research—in 2012. At that time, they buried malware implants in the programming code responsible for the meticulous calculations that keep the four satellites in proper position above Earth. In response to the NSA attack on Russian television and the inadvertent infection of City Hospital No. 40’s computer system, authorities at the highest levels in the Kremlin issue an order to activate GOES’s illicit programming and destroy the US satellites. Less than thirty minutes have passed since the death of the former metalworker, Alexi Morozov, in Saint Petersburg.
GOES-17 experiences on-board computer malfunctions that instantly swing it out of its geosynchronous equatorial orbit within forty-five seconds of Russian cyber warriors in Saint Petersburg sending the appropriate commands. Programmed to return to precisely the same position in the sky twenty-two thousand miles above Earth, GOES-17 falls into a degrading, non-geosynchronous orbit around the planet that will result in its disintegration above Mongolia. In the next twenty minutes, GOES-16, GOES-T, and GOES-U also fall out of their geosynchronous orbits and will suffer the same fate. With the destruction of these satellites—orbiters that cost hundreds of millions of dollars to design, build, and launch—the US will be effectively deprived of the ability to track and forecast major storms, including hurricanes, for a decade.
7
THE TWENTY-FIFTH
Friday, 5:00 a.m. Hayley learns the US is at war with Russia before she gets out of bed. Waking up before dawn, without the benefit of an alarm, she opens her eyes and sees Sam’s sleeping form beside her in the half-light. She dozed off soon after Sam had started talking, but remembers him speaking of his growing up in suburban Virginia and family life. With the full realization of the previous night’s events, Hayley feels a swelling inside her chest all over again. Only this time, she directs her fury at herself. What did she hope to accomplish by inviting this man into her bed? Into her life? Did she expect he’d “fix” her problems? As best she can tell, Sam McGovern is a decent man. But that’s really beside the point. Assessing her behavior since learning the details of her father’s death, Hayley concludes she has been utterly self-indulgent.
Reaching for her bag on the floor next to the bed, Hayley retrieves her KryptAll phone and checks for messages from Andrew Wilde. He texted three hours earlier, about the US cyberattack on Russia, an inadvertent malware infection at the Saint Petersburg hospital, and Moscow’s retaliatory strike against US weather satellites. April and Hayley are expected at a meeting later in the morning.
Hayley leans down to replace the phone in her bag. Sitting up again, she sees Sam is awake, too.
“That’s a funny-looking phone.”
Needing to leave Sam out of it, she says, “Who asked you?”
He thinks she’s making a joke and smiles good-naturedly. Her failure to respond in kind is a signal that the ground has shifted underneath them. “What?” he asks, his grin fading.
With a flat expression, Hayley says, “I’ve got to go.”
And that’s enough for Sam. He’s been through the dating wars. When it hits the wall, the sound you hear is exactly the tone of Hayley’s voice. He won’t lash out or insist on an explanation. Sam is merely going to go, too.
Within two minutes, he’s dressed and heading for the door. They don’t exchange another word. Hayley wants to say something, but the collision of emotions robs her of t
he power of speech. Far higher stakes are now in play. Her personal life and issues will have zero priority in the hours and days ahead. Only silence follows the fireman out the door.
* * *
HAYLEY TAPS ON the passenger-side window of April’s BMW as the army lieutenant is about to exit the subterranean garage of her condominium complex.
“This freaking Bitcoin thing,” Hayley says, gesturing at the car once April has lowered the window.
“No. Uh-uh. We’re not pretending you weren’t a complete punk bitch the last twenty-four hours.”
“What?”
“What? Oh, fuck no. Not what!”
“Nuclear Armageddon is about to break loose. ‘What’ really is beside the point.” She pops the door open and settles into the passenger seat. “I’ve never been inside a BMW before.”
“Relax. A little indulgence isn’t going to kill you.”
“I’m only a simple girl from West Virginia.”
“Some may believe that hillbilly bullshit, but I sure as hell don’t. People underestimate you at their peril. Now talk.”
“The White House is about three minutes away. Is that enough time for you to brief me on your progress?”
“Wait. Where’s your car? How did you get here?”
“I ran. Needed to clear my head. Look, there’s not much time…” April interrupts the comment with an eye roll. Hayley presses on, undeterred. “You’ve heard from Andy Wilde, too, I assume. Let’s arrange to meet him at the Mills Building parking garage.”
“Okay, Deep Throat. But exactly how do you plan to prevent World War III from your little West Wing office?”
Hayley must remind herself that April has no inkling of Richard Monroe’s role as a double agent. Or that a lowly West Wing staffer has the president of the United States at the end of a very short leash. She wishes she could tell her friend the truth. Doing so would make both of their jobs much more manageable. Until Andrew Wilde tells her otherwise, however, Hayley’s orders are to withhold this explosive information from her fellow deeper state operative.
“No idea. That’s why we’re all counting on you.”
April smiles. Not every day that Hayley Chill offers this sort of concession. “I’ve got four of my people reviewing immigration files of Iranians who have come to the US over the last five years to study computer engineering. VAJA has run a bunch of its agents into the country under student visas, and I’m convinced this fucker is one of them,” she says, referring to the Ministry of Intelligence of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
“Is it advantageous to have hackers in-country as opposed to working remotely? Could we be wrong in our assumptions about Cyber Jihad’s masters? Maybe this guy is VAJA but on loan to Moscow.”
“We won’t know for certain until we nab him. But proximity to a target is definitely a positive. Counterintuitively, it’s even harder to trace the hack. Attribution is always always always an absolute bitch. Which is why we’re stupid lucky to have a general idea what one of these guys—”
Hayley interjects. “If it’s a group. We don’t know it isn’t a sole actor?”
“Possible lone wolf, but not likely. The sophistication of these attacks, coding, and exploits is nation-state caliber. If this dude is Iranian intelligence, like I suspect, then he could just be the tip of the spear.” April ponders on it. “New US sanctions have been putting a big-time hurt on Tehran. Relations between Iran and Russia have never been better. I suppose this fucker could be on Kremlin’s payroll.”
Hayley feels back on track again. Her emotional detour seems like eons ago. “We need to put hands on this guy.”
“We will put hands on this guy.”
April pulls the BMW over to the curb at Seventeenth and G Street. A second day of the late-spring heat wave discourages loitering in the morning sun. Passersby hurry along, finding shade wherever it exists.
Hayley gestures at the Mill Building, across the street from the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. “Noon, bottom level.”
“Woodward and Bernstein got nothing on you, Hayley Chill.”
The White House aide climbs out of the car and pauses before slamming the door shut. “You could buy twenty acres of good land in West Virginia with what this vehicle cost.”
“You can keep Appalachia. Sixty in two point eight seconds is more my style.”
* * *
FRIDAY, 8:24 A.M. The president eats his breakfast in the private dining room on the second floor of the executive mansion, across the west sitting hall from his bedroom. Though kitchen staff is visible through the open doorway to his right, Richard Monroe feels painfully alone. He craves the companionship of his wife, but she left yesterday for their home in Hawaii. What could he tell Cindy of his struggles, anyway? She knows nothing and must know nothing. Even in his loving marriage, he feels isolated.
Monroe left a message at the dead drop but doesn’t believe it was picked up. The Cuban valet hasn’t been anywhere in evidence since revealing his covert identity on Wednesday morning. Monroe worries that Moscow holds him responsible for the cyber counterattack on Russia’s television stations. The GRU didn’t install a mole in the Oval Office just so the US president would turn around and attack Матушка Россия… Mother Russia. What is he supposed to do if hostilities between the two superpowers escalate further? Forgetting for now the demands of his taskmasters in the deeper state, Monroe is desperate for instructions from the Kremlin. How did he ever find himself in this hideous bind? His senior White House staff awaits his arrival in the Oval Office. The affairs of the greatest democracy on the planet require his attention. But Richard Monroe only longs for escape.
Through the doorway leading into the west sitting hall, the president sees Alberto Barrios walk past. Despite the presence of kitchen staff nearby, Monroe cannot resist the impulse to connect with the GRU operative.
“Alberto!”
The valet stops and returns to the doorway leading into the dining room. His expression is placid. The president is slightly unnerved by the Cuban agent’s calm demeanor. He missed the days when he dealt solely with the more genial Aleksandr Belyavskiy. Though they had never met face-to-face, Monroe and Belyavskiy had developed something of a kinship, sharing stories of Mirnyy and other familiarities. The president meets the valet’s dead-eyed gaze. He realizes that if Moscow discovers the Americans have turned him, it will be Barrios who will kill him.
“I left my room a mess, I’m afraid. If you could see to it… ?”
Monroe looks over his right shoulder, into the kitchen. He sees the staff hard at work. No one is paying the slightest bit of attention to his exchange with one of his valets.
“Absolutely, sir.” Barrios doesn’t betray the slightest recognition of the president’s veiled request that he retrieve a message from the Sangamon edition of Sandburg’s biography of Lincoln. “Is there anything else?”
Mindful of the kitchen staff only feet away, Monroe pushes his chair back and walks to where Barrios is standing in the doorway. He glances to the left and sees Kyle Rodgers arriving at the top of the stairs forty feet away. The president’s advisor has come to fetch him.
But Monroe must have an immediate answer to his most pressing question. He leans closer to the Cuban agent, turning his back to the approaching Rodgers.
“Did you pass along my request for exfiltration?”
Barrios is expressionless, his respectfulness as practiced as a mortician’s. “Yes, Mr. President. I did as you requested.”
“And?” Monroe can barely breathe, his heart pounding. He can feel Rodgers’s approach. “You must tell them, Alberto, the situation here is untenable. You must tell Moscow the Americans are suspicious.”
“Have US intelligence agencies made contact with you?”
“No, for Christ’s sake!” Monroe knows his opportunity to get answers from Barrios has all but expired. “Dammit!”
Kyle Rodgers stops at Monroe’s side, respectful but firm. “Sir?”
“Yes, what i
s it?” he asks, more frustrated than impatient.
“Mr. President, you’re needed in the Situation Room.”
* * *
FRIDAY, 10:47 A.M. Running some files needed downstairs, Hayley sees Clare Ryan in the corridor of the West Wing’s basement level. The secretary for Homeland Security is exiting the Situation Room to make a call on her cell phone and beckons to her. Hayley follows Clare to a quieter alcove off the main corridor.
“What did I tell you?” Clare asks Hayley, her face flushed. She gestures in the direction of the Situation Room, where the president and his security advisors struggle to manage the growing crisis. “The Russians are moving troops and hardware along its borders with Latvia and Estonia. The defense secretary predicts the war will go kinetic if we respond in any way to the GOES takedown, whether conventionally or cyberattack, gray zone or not.”
Hayley remains composed in the face of the cabinet secretary’s agitation and chooses her words wisely.
“I don’t believe the Russians are behind Cyber Jihad, ma’am.”
The cabinet secretary’s aggravation seems to get the better of her. “Yes, yes, you told me that two days ago! Where is the proof, Hayley? I need proof!”
Hayley says nothing, a silence that reflects poorly on her bold assertion.
Clare gains control of her temper, however. The White House aide remains a valuable ally. “Look, Hayley, I certainly appreciate your eagerness to play secret agent and uncover the truth about these cyberattacks. But I do think that sort of work is best left to experts… in the field. What I need from you is to be that better angel whispering in Richard Monroe’s ear. I need the obvious influence you have over the president. The country is depending on you.”
“Madam Secretary—”
Clare Ryan silences Hayley with a gesture. She needs to make her call and then get back inside the Situation Room with the president.