Digital Winter

by Mark Hitchcock

  The STU-III/CT was a secure, encrypted phone that operated on a shadow cell system used only by the government. The secure system piggybacked on the public cell system and received priority incoming calls. It was the only way a call could be made over a flooded system.

  “Dr. Young.” She listened. A moment later, her olive skin paled. “I see. Keep me posted, and I want as much info as possible.” She fell silent for a moment. “No, the secretary is with me. I’ll let her know.” She ended the call.

  “More bad news?” Monica asked.

  “Yes. Big-time.” She started to speak again, but the videoconference monitor suddenly filled the room. A roomful of faces looked at them.

  Monica took the initiative. “Mr. President, I think there’s been a development.”

  “You think there’s been a development?” The president’s voice poured into the room from overhead speakers.

  The image split, and the faces of General Holt and Colonel Matisse appeared alongside the image of the White House situation room.

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Young just now received a call and she was about to fill me in.”

  “Well, she might as well fill us all in.” The president shifted in his chair.

  Tasha sat, setting her laptop on the table in front of her. “Yes, sir. Mr. President, there seems to be a problem at the Hoover Dam power station.” She paused. “A big problem.”

  Jeremy couldn’t believe the words coming over the videocon. He did what military men are trained to do: stuff emotion and focus on the task at hand.

  “The generators are running out of control,” Tasha said.

  Jeremy knew all the key players in cyber security, and Tasha Young was the discipline’s equivalent of a rock star—pretty, knowledgeable, dedicated, and able to think faster than the computers she monitored.

  “Exactly what does that mean?” Barlow narrowed his eyes.

  “Sir, the US Bureau of Reclamation runs the power station at Hoover Dam. They’re reporting that their turbines are—well, they’re running out of control. All seventeen of them.” Tasha glanced at her boss and then back to the camera in the monitor. Jeremy could see the entire room from the USCYBERCOM communications room. He stole a glance at General Holt. The color had drained from the man’s face.

  “How can that be?” Barlow’s voice remained low but the words carried sharp edges.

  “Like all power generators in the country, they’re running on the power they produce. They’re on the front end of the grid and don’t depend on power coming in. That means their computers are still powered.”

  “The ones that run the turbines?” Barlow asked.

  “Yes, sir. Well, all of the computers, just like ours, except we don’t produce our own power like they do. We’re running on backup generators…Okay, I’m telling you what you already know. Here’s the concern: Whatever has affected the power grid has another level. Maybe more.”

  “Stuxnet.” General Holt mumbled the word.

  “What’s that, General?” the president said. “We didn’t get that over here.”

  “Sorry, sir. I made a reference to the Stuxnet worm of 2010.”

  “The one against Iran? You see a connection?”

  “Too early to tell, but it sounds like the same kind of attack.”

  Jeremy’s mind ran to the most sophisticated and effective cyber attack to date. A complicated worm was unleashed into the wild. Unlike most computer worms and viruses, Stuxnet was a large bit of code with a mission: to find a specific type of PLC, or programmable logic controller. More and more PLCs were controlling such devices as assembly-line robots and even doors to prison cells. They were efficient and untiring. They are essentially computers, so they are vulnerable to hacking. Stuxnet targeted centrifuges made by Siemens, a German conglomerate. The centrifuges were used to make high-grade uranium. The worm circulated through the Internet, searching for just the right target.

  It eventually reached the refining center in Iran’s growing nuclear program in Natanz. The nuclear enrichment process used centrifuges to increase the amount of usable uranium. Stuxnet entered the system in June of 2009 and began sending Iranian centrifuges out of control, damaging many of the estimated 2000 such devices in Natanz.

  “You’re saying that the power generating plant at Hoover Dam was targeted?” Frank Grundy asked.

  Holt nodded. “It appears so.”

  Israel was the primary target of blame for Stuxnet. Indeed, the code contained what some interpreted as a reference to Queen Esther, whose action saved the lives of countless Jews from Persian leaders 500 years before Christ. The reference might not be what it seemed, but it was enough to set accusations in motion.

  The United States was also a target in the blame game. Some believed that Israeli and US operatives designed, coded, and released the malware.

  What made Stuxnet so unique was its target. Instead of infecting the computers it used to move along the Internet, it simply multiplied itself and moved on until it found the centrifuges. And not just any centrifuges. No other uranium enrichment facilities were affected. The program was looking for specific centrifuges made by Siemens and operating in Iran.

  “Mr. President,” Holt said, “we’ve known for a long time that the US would be targeted for such an attack sooner or later.”

  Barlow sighed. “Do we have any other reports of such problems?”

  No one spoke, but Jeremy expected someone to walk into the Woodshed and hand Barlow a note. He had no doubt that new reports would pour in.

  “What’s the purpose?” Barlow pushed himself back in his chair. Jeremy couldn’t imagine the pressure on the leader.

  “If I may, sir.” Jeremy kept his voice steady. “I have a few speculations.”

  “Go ahead, Colonel.”

  Jeremy folded his hands and laid them on the table. “We have to assume that this is an attack and not the failure of a weakening, overused infrastructure. That might be the case, but it would be prudent to assume the worse and hope for the best. There is a good chance the first outage was just level one of the attack. It reset millions of computers, which I assume have been infected with this malware.

  “This later incident reveals that the attackers have a bigger goal in mind. Whoever they are, they aren’t satisfied with knocking the power grid off-line for a few hours. They want something closer to permanent. To do that, they have to attack power generation stations. When the power goes off, all nuclear power plants shut down as they’re designed to do. I think we can expect similar problems from other power producers.”

  The president pinched the bridge of his nose as if the conversation were giving him a migraine. “So we’re at war, and we don’t know who the enemy is.”

  CIA director Leon Sampson spoke up. “Mr. President, I think we can assume the attack has come from China, North Korea, or Iran.”

  “You think the Iranians are trying to get even?”

  Jeremy wondered if Barlow just admitted to US involvement in Stuxnet.

  Sampson nodded. “Perhaps. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “So what do we do? Do we launch our own attack on three or four nations on the assumption that one of them has done this?”

  No one answered. President Barlow looked into the camera, and Jeremy felt the gaze. “General Holt, do we have a like-response to an attack like this?”

  Holt straightened. “Yes, sir. Slipper Net is still up and running on backup power, so we can send out a digital response, but it might not be effective.” The general used the nickname for SIPRNet—the Secret Internet Protocol Router Network.

  “Why not?”

  “Sir, we can use cyber warfare against almost any technologically advanced country, but the offending party will be expecting that. I’m afraid it’s a little more difficult than what we did to Iraq when we invaded in 2003. Our biggest problem is we don’t know who to hit.”

  “Well,” the president said, “I’m itching to hit someone. Get me a target.”

  The phone in
the sit room sounded, and Frank Grundy answered. He listened and then rubbed his forehead. “Understood.” He hung up. “Mr. President, London has just gone dark.”

  10

  Husbands, Wives, and Mothers

  Night had settled on DC, but Roni hadn’t noticed because she had been confined in one operating room after another. The artificial light tended to skew a person’s sense of time. Each operating theater had a twenty-four-hour clock, but she seldom focused on the time of day. She was more concerned about the length of each surgery.

  She was losing track of other things. If asked and given a little time, she might be able to count the number of surgeries she had performed since the morning and the arrival of the first injuries from the train wreck. After six surgeries, she quit counting. Fortunately, some of the surgeries were simple. Of course, simple was relative. The person on the surgical table might describe it differently.

  Every operating room had been pressed into service. Surgical teams rotated in and out, doing their work as quickly as professional responsibility would allow. Triage doctors in the ER had done an admirable job of caring for the most critical cases first. What remained were nonthreatening injuries. Nonthreatening didn’t mean unimportant. Scores of serious injuries still required surgery. Her long day was about to become a long night.

  A conversation with an ER doc taking a ten-minute break wasn’t encouraging. Roni had gone outside to get some fresh air. She needed to see something other than hospital walls.

  “I thought you gave up smoking,” Roni said as she stepped toward the thin, dark-haired man. The January air was cold, and a wind cut through Roni’s scrubs.

  “I did quit.” Tony Rasmussen reminded Roni of a zombie looking for fresh brains to consume. His eyelids drooped, and his skin looked pale in the limited exterior lights running on reserve power. “I’ve quit three times. It’s a hobby with me.” He inhaled another lungful of tobacco smoke.

  “You know smoking is bad for a doctor’s image.” Roni wished for a habit that would help her relax.

  “Rumor has it that it’s bad for the lungs and heart too, but I’m pretty sure that’s just propaganda from the medical industry.”

  “You’re part of the medical business.” Roni did her best not to wave off the smoke. She knew the pressure the man had been under.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  Roni chuckled. “How you doing?”

  “Hanging in there. I haven’t been this tired since med school, and I haven’t felt this much pressure since…I’ve never felt this much pressure.” He dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the asphalt parking lot. They were standing twenty feet from the ambulance entrance to the ER. She guessed he snubbed out the butt for her benefit. “At least things have slowed.”

  “That’s good to hear. Have you eaten?”

  “Had a bag of potato chips about ten minutes ago. Carbing up. You?”

  “Granola bar for lunch. I’ve got half an hour. I’m thinking about heading down to the cafeteria. Wanna go?”

  “Nah, more patients are on their way in. Cardio. The old people are stressing. Especially since word got out.”

  “What word?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  Roni shrugged. “Of course I have. I just like hearing it again.”

  “Hmm, sarcasm.” He turned to her, and his weary eyes grew serious. “The whole country has lost power.”

  “Yeah, right.” She looked to the sky, seeing stars that were normally washed out by city lights.

  “I’m serious. The whole country is in the dark.”

  “Not possible.” Roni studied Tony’s face, looking for proof that he was making a joke. She didn’t find it.

  “Apparently it is.”

  An ambulance pulled through the lot and beneath the canopy covering the ER entrance, its red and blue lights splashing color on the walls and seeming brighter than she had ever seen them.

  Tony took a deep breath. “Duty calls.” He walked to the entrance with his shoulders rounded and his head down. He had a wife and two young children at home. Roni knew where his mind was.

  Again she stared at the sky. The stars and a three-quarter moon seemed unconcerned by the happenings below. If Tony was right, Jeremy must be up to his ears with work. A shiver of concern ran through her.

  Turning her back on the dark, Roni reentered the hospital.

  The ER waiting room was still full but orderly. Alan Morton, one of the triage nurses, sat next to a young blond boy. Roni glanced their way and started to continue on, but something made her take a longer look. She judged the boy to be about ten. He drew a hand across his face, wiping away tears. Alan did the same.

  As a trauma surgeon, she had regular dealings with Alan Morton and knew him to be dedicated and insightful—even intuitive. Several times she thought he should have gone to medical school. He had the smarts and the heart, but somehow the opportunity got by him. She never asked why.

  Alan glanced her way and then let his gaze linger. He did nothing to ask for her help—no motion, no mouthed words. He just looked at her. Roni knew he wouldn’t ask for help. ER was his world, and OR was hers. He wasn’t the kind of man to pass a problem to someone else.

  Your time is limited, girl. Get going. She moved, but not down the hall as she intended. Instead, she stepped to the corner of the ER where Alan and the boy sat.

  “Hey,” Roni said.

  “Hi, Doc.” Alan’s voice came out weaker than normal.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Alan looked at the boy. “This is Cody. He’s been here all day. Cody, this is Dr. Roni Matisse. She’s a surgeon.”

  “Did you operate on my mother?” More tears. This time Cody let them flow.

  “I…” Roni didn’t know. “What is your mother’s name?”

  Alan answered when the boy hesitated. “April Broadway.”

  “I don’t recognize the name, son. It must have been another doctor.” She looked at Alan, who shook his head. He didn’t know either. Any other day, he would have known which patient went to what doctor. This wasn’t any day.

  “Just got word. She passed on the table.”

  Roni’s first instinct was to ask what happened and get medical details, but she reined in the impulse. “I see. I’m so sorry.” There was no place for Roni to sit—patients took up every seat. Roni dropped to a knee so she could be eye-level with the boy. He was doing his best to be brave, to be strong, to hold it together for the adults. Roni admired his courage.

  “Father?” She looked to Alan with the one word question.

  “No. His father was a policeman. Slain on the job.”

  Roni’s weariness turned to profound sadness. She had seen the worst that life could deliver. People’s evil recklessness sent innocent people to her surgical table every week. Gunshot wounds were common in DC hospitals, as were stabbings and blunt-force traumas. Several times she had tried to piece back the insides of police officers whose organs had been damaged by high-caliber cop-killer bullets. A few times she had failed.

  Returning her gaze to the boy, she asked the next logical question. “Grandparents? Aunts?”

  Again, Alan shook his head. “Grandparents are long gone. Neither Mom or Dad had siblings.”

  Alone. The kid was alone in a big city in a strange time.

  Alan anticipated the next question. “Social services are overwhelmed, as you might imagine. It will be a while before anyone gets here.”

  The kid looked fragile, a crystal vase teetering on the edge of a rock quarry. The thought of sending the youngster to a foster home chilled her, but what could she do?

  His lower lip quivered. He lowered his gaze to the shiny lobby floor.

  Roni touched the side Cody’s head, pushing back a few strands of hair, and searched for words to say. None came to mind. No amount of talking would help. The kid’s world had been shattered, and he had no idea what the future held. Soon, social services would put him in a home with strangers who might keep him safe, w
arm, and fed, but he would still walk the dark paths of grief very much alone.

  Cody sprung from his chair and threw his arms around Roni’s neck. A sniff, a whine, a sob...and then a flood of tears.

  Roni held him close and fought the rising tide of pity in her, a tide determined to erode her professional detachment. Her eyes burned with tears as she held the convulsing boy. A glance at Alan showed flooded eyes. Why did the world have to be so cruel?

  Roni let the boy cry, determined to hold him as long as necessary.

  Then she heard her name called over the public-address system.

  Nathan Barlow slipped into the residence wing. Night, darker than usual, blackened the windows. The night had never frightened him, not even as a child. He found something comfortable in the lack of light. This dark, however, was different. It seemed to have a life of its own, like something from a Stephen King novel. He shook off the thought.

  Katey sat at the dining table, a selection of cold cuts spread out on a platter. She rose to greet him, taking him in her arms and holding him a few seconds longer than normal. She was frightened. She’d never say so. She wasn’t that kind of woman. His plate was filled with problems, she had once told him, and she saw no benefit in adding on.

  “In for the night?” Katey avoided his eyes, another sign of the fear roiling in her.

  “Sorry, no. Just a break. I told them I need to hit the head.”

  “There are bathrooms all over the White House.” She returned to the table and poured coffee into a cup that bore the presidential seal of the United States and positioned it at his spot.

  “I know that, but I need a few minutes away. Besides, you haven’t seen me since lunch, and I know how that makes you pine.”

  “It’s true, I’ve been known to think about you two or three times a day.” She returned to her seat. The humor lacked its usual snap.

  Barlow sipped the coffee. He drank more coffee than he should, not because of an addiction to caffeine but because he truly loved the taste. The caffeine didn’t hurt.

  “I had the kitchen send up a few things. I didn’t know when I’d see you, so I just went with lunch meat and cheeses. I can ask for something else.”