Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries)

by Linda Reid

  In minutes, the monitor returned the contact achieved notification, followed by the control established report. Miller breathed a sigh of relief. The resonator’s software had climbed out of its Trojan horse casing and invaded the hospital’s seismic-control system. It was now ready to align the counterweight function with the building in a way that would magnify any shaking created by the dirty bomb’s explosion. And just like the walls of Jericho, the hospital’s walls would come a-tumblin’ down.

  Bishop motioned for Pappajohn to wait while he flashed his ID at the sensor and punched in the Omni lock code to enter the ICCC on Level B3. Hearing the latch click open, he pushed the door forward to allow them both access into the large suite.

  Expecting to see the overnight technicians at their stations, Bishop was surprised to find the room totally deserted, save for an agitated and glassy-eyed Eccles. The only sounds were the bells and whistles of computer equipment whirring and buzzing on autopilot from one end to the other.

  “Ventilation, oxygen, electricity, natural gas, monitors, elevators, Internet,” Eccles listed. “All systems are operational.” The LCD monitors along the control counter displaying shots from the multiple security cameras all showed scenes typical for the university hospital in the evening hours. “But my night shift staff is MIA.”

  “Where’s the seismic-control system hookup?” Pappajohn scanned the millions of dollars worth of equipment that represented the heart and brain of the Schwarzenegger Hospital.

  “I’ve got it.” Eccles rolled his chair over to one control panel and began typing on the system’s keyboard. His expression of intense concentration became a worried frown. “Or maybe I don’t. I can’t seem to access certain levels of the program.”

  Eccles moved to an adjacent keyboard, typed a few entries, then slammed the counter in frustration. “We’re locked out.”

  Pappajohn put Sammy’s phone next to Bishop. “Keith?”

  “Yeah, I heard. If a worm’s taken over access and security, you’ll be blocked from entry.”

  “Impossible,” Bishop said. “You have a firewall and screen for malware. How could a virus get in?”

  “That might keep out your average hacker, but, if it’s someone in the government, it’s as good as a paper lock. All you need is a Trojan horse and your computer practically opens the door and invites the worm in itself. Then closes the barn door and leaves you in the cold.”

  “So what can we do now?”

  “Frankly, your best bet is to try to shut the whole system down,” Keith advised.

  Pappajohn’s eyes had drifted to the security monitors displaying rotating videos of the entire hospital. For a split second, he thought he recognized a man entering the hospital lobby, but the face turned from the camera before Pappajohn could be sure. Still, he’d spent too many years as a Boston street cop not to want a second look. Just in case.

  “Any way to rewind this security tape?” he asked. “I want to check a face.”

  Eccles nodded. “One minute. Nope, can’t shut it down either. I’m blocked on all fronts.” He turned to Pappajohn. “What’d you see?”

  “I’m not sure, but one of the visitors walking into the lobby might be al-Harbi.”

  Before Eccles could respond, the room was plunged into total darkness. A moment later, the transfer switch to the ICCC’s generator kicked on, providing dim runner lights and ongoing power to the computers.

  “Dammit! Central power’s not coming back online.” Eccles moved to another computer and queried system status. “Local generators are feeding critical units, but noncritical areas of the hospital are without power or light,” he reported with a hint of panic.

  Pappajohn noticed the security systems monitors had gone black as well.

  “Elevators just went out.” Red lights dotting Eccles’s screen indicated cars halted throughout the hospital. “Can’t get generator power to any of the lift systems.”

  Keith’s voice came over the speaker. “Gus, it’s time to get everybody out of there and bring in the bomb squad. I’ll alert the feds about a possible sighting of al-Harbi. Keep your phone with you, so I can stay in touch. What about the seismic-control area?”

  “Generator’s still running up there.” Eccles’s voice rose another register as he barked, “I’m calling a level one red alert.”

  “Evacuation.” Bishop directed as he walked Pappajohn to the exit door. “Runner lights and reflectors should guide you up to the ER on the main floor. Tell Dr. Wyndham—Reed—to implement disaster response protocol STAT, but no Klaxon. We need to get folks out as quickly and quietly as possible. We don’t want to start a panic.”

  Pappajohn agreed. “If the attackers know we’re on to them, they might move up their plans sooner than midnight.” He looked over at Eccles still seated at the control counter. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “We’ll join you in a few minutes. There’s something down here Dr. Bishop and I have to do first.”

  Teddy had just fallen asleep. Ana and Sammy were talking quietly when the lights in his seventh-floor hospital room flickered, then died. From where she sat, Sammy could see through the open door into the hallway. The corridor too had just gone dark, except for a row of runner lights leading to the exit.

  “What happened?” Ana whispered.

  Sammy leaned over and picked up the bedside land line. No dial tone. “Power’s out. Phone, too.”

  “You don’t think it’s the Y2K Operation?” Ana asked, her voice trembling.

  “It’s only ten thirty,” Sammy tried to reassure her. “My guess, it’s the winds again. Give it a few minutes. Hospitals have back-up generators. We don’t want to wake Teddy with a false alarm.”

  Sammy crossed her fingers in the dark, hoping it was just that.

  By the time Pappajohn had hiked up three floors to the main level and was hurrying down the darkened hallway to the ER, his wheezing had grown louder. On the way, he’d dialed Teddy’s room, but surmised the power to that floor was out when no one answered. Despite his ragged breathing, he urged himself forward, until he pushed through the glass doors and nearly collided with Reed.

  “Gus, what’s going on? We just heard the power’s out in most of the hospital. Luckily, our generator’s working.”

  Pappajohn realized that while the ER’s generators were functioning now, there was no way of knowing if a capricious computer worm might suddenly switch them off. “Dr. Bishop’s still down with security in the ICCC trying to get the system up again, but he wants you all to implement the disaster response protocol right away.”

  “You mean evacuate the whole hospital? For real?” Reed’s jaw dropped.

  “Afraid so. And he wants it done quietly, so no one panics.” From the other side of the ER, Pappajohn saw De’andray wave his badge at the triage nurse, then march past her toward them. “Dee! Am I glad to see you.” With Reed listening, he quickly apprised them both of the situation. “Looks like this may turn out to be a lot worse than just a power outage.”

  De’andray nodded, looking unruffled despite the crisis. “I could only pull a half dozen men with all the Y2K action around town. I’ll send two down to the B levels to meet Eccles, get a couple searching the floors, and one’s already doing recon on the perimeter. Bomb squad’s on the way and the FBI’s sending a field operations team.” He shook his head. “They’d already been alerted by your Boston friend.”

  “Good.” Pappajohn pulled out the picture of Fahim he’d put into his pocket. “This man’s on the terror watch list. I’m not sure, but I thought I saw him enter the hospital about fifteen minutes ago on one of the security videos.” He checked his watch: 10:45 p.m. “We’ve got less than seventy-five minutes.”

  Miller studied the feed from his rooftop camera into the cargo bay of the L.A. Edison van. The display had been fuzzier than he’d expected, blurred by the smoke and haze from the winds and the fires. Fortunately, right on schedule, at exactly 10:30 p.m. Pacific standard time, the worm had extinguished the lights,
swallowing the Schwarzenegger hospital in instant darkness. Perfect. The elevators and dumbwaiters would be next to malfunction, and then, in a few minutes, at eleven, the oxygen supplies would be cut off.

  All of these steps had the goal of both slowing down evacuations and amplifying the terror of the impending attack. A few staff and patients might make their way out, but without elevators, casualties in the adult and children’s ICUs were a sure bet.

  If al-Salid and his men had followed the plans, the dirty bomb should have been planted in the central core elevator shaft. In half an hour, Fahim would enter its activation code to begin the sequence toward detonation.

  As Bishop was guiding Pappajohn out of the ICCC, Eccles remained hunched over one of the still functioning computer consoles. Luckily, his password worked on this system, allowing him access to administrator’s privileges. With a heavy heart, he typed instructions for a last resort program few on the ICCC team knew about and one he had hoped he’d never need—activation of the hospital base firewalls. In case of bioterrorism, these physical firewalls would keep gases like sarin or other bioterror agents quarantined in enclosed sections until the hazmat teams could clear out the hospital.

  If the attackers had a bomb, conventional or even a small nuke, the lead shielded partitions should limit the damage to a localized area, and allow the building to remain standing and stable long enough for evacuation. On the critical B-level floors, partitions had been built to slide in behind the standard fire doors, like a second set of portals, only permitting evacuees out before closing and latching again. On upstairs wards, shield doors would slide in just outside the building core, isolating the central core and elevators, but facilitating patient transport by allowing both exit and egress. If the worst-case scenario did come to pass, Eccles prayed these untested safety systems would buy the hospital and its staff and patients valuable time and save lives.

  The loud banging startled Miller who’d been focused on the monitors.

  “LAPD, open up.”

  Gritting his teeth, Miller pushed back from the console and checked the time: 11:10 p.m. This was cutting it close. Anticipating that once the lights went out, someone might approach the utility van and ask for assistance, he’d held off donning his hazmat suit and made sure the rear of the truck had been packed with equipment supporting his cover as repairman. He hadn’t figured that LAPD would stumble on his truck and waste his time.

  Now he stood, dimmed the interior lights, and like an actor about to enter the stage, walked to the back and cracked the door just wide enough to see and be seen. The young cop standing before him in the dark, windy night had to be a rookie, Miller guessed. No more than twenty-five. “Can I help you?” His smile was feigned innocence.

  The officer flashed his badge. “Mind stepping out of the vehicle, John?” he asked, reading the name stitched over the pocket of Miller’s L.A. Edison uniform.

  Miller hopped out of the truck with a dramatic sigh of impatience. “Look, officer, we’re busting ass trying to get power back up to the hospital. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem. Just a routine security check. Let me take a quick look inside, and you can get back to work.”

  Miller shrugged and opened the rear door so the officer could scan the bay. “We’re in the middle of analyzing their transformer connections right now,” he said, adding a few more lines of techno-babble as distraction. “Guess you guys are up to your own you-know-what’s with the fires and this millennium business.”

  The young officer nodded. “Third double shift in two weeks. Man, I’ll be glad when midnight strikes and all the Y2K nonsense is over.” He waved his flashlight haphazardly around the fake utility equipment while Miller held his breath. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff people predicted would happen.”

  “Don’t I know,” Miller laughed, moving to block the view deep inside the van.

  A moment later, the policeman had completed his cursory survey. “Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, pocketing his flashlight, “Gotta finish my rounds.”

  Miller waved him off and was about to reenter the van when he heard his alias. “John?”

  “Yes?” His heartbeat quickened as he slowly turned to face the policeman.

  “Good luck tonight.”

  This time Miller’s smile was genuine. “Yeah, thanks.”

  Within a few minutes, Reed had activated the medical disaster response protocol and was coordinating assignments from the nurses’ station in the ER. With Pappajohn and De’andray listening, he’d explained that the computer systems were all acting up and that the hospital administration felt an immediate evacuation to be the safest approach. While some of the team appeared skeptical, most accepted the situation—perhaps because the expectations of Y2K computer failures causing trouble were so high already.

  “We’ve halted all nonemergent medical services and started evacuating patients to the holding area in the open parking lot beyond the building.” Reed shouted over the blaring intercom announcement, “Dr. Firestone, Dr. Firestone, code red in the ER.”

  “How many patients still in house tonight?” the on-duty nursing supervisor asked.

  Reed looked to Lou, whose tracking of the daily census was legendary. It was how the clerk managed to jockey patients from the ER to hospital beds so efficiently. “Lucky for us we had lots of pre-New Year’s discharges, but we’re still pretty full,” Lou responded. “As of ten p.m., there were three hundred twenty-two patients on eight floors. And that’s not counting friends and family since we extended holiday visiting hours.”

  “It’ll take hours to get them all out if the elevators are down,” the derm resident said.

  Reed forced himself to appear calm, aware they might not have hours. “We’ll have to do the best we can. I need everybody to help the response team if we’re going to have a chance to make it. Housestaff,” he ordered, nodding at the scrub-clad interns and residents, “you’re assigned to back up the evac team for ICU and CCU.”

  “Just finished the last surgery an hour ago,” a surgical nurse told Reed. “We can shut down all the surgi-suites.”

  “What about Peds?” interrupted a charge nurse. “We’ll need help moving babies from NICU and children from the floors.”

  Pappajohn stepped forward. “I’ll lead that group,” he said through a loud wheeze.

  “No,” Reed said. “You can’t climb seven flights of stairs. You’ll go into full-blown respiratory failure.”

  De’andray volunteered. “I’ll go get your daughter and grandson, Gus. You stay here and help my sergeants direct patients outside.”

  Pappajohn reluctantly agreed.

  “Thanks, officer. I’ll prepare the acute ER patients for transfer,” Reed continued to the group. “The rest of you divide into teams of two, each taking a floor. Grab a flashlight before you leave. Start spreading the word to evacuate. But please, try to stay calm. We want to avoid a panic.”

  Lou muttered, hugging away his own shiver. “Especially among ourselves.”

  When the hospital lights went out, Fahim, al-Salid and his two men were already sequestered in the elevator maintenance room on level B2 in the midst of their evening prayers. For Fahim, it had become a ritual he did by rote because of peer pressure, not with the kind of dutiful allegiance to their faith these three shared.

  Touching his brow to the prayer rug, his thoughts wandered far from the whispered words of the Qur’an. How had he had let himself be suckered into getting his hands dirty like these men? He was a dealer, delegating to the soldiers at the front lines. He wasn’t one of them. Killing the whore had been a momentary indiscretion, an accident really, but had given Miller a murder he could use to pull his puppet’s strings.

  Well, Fahim had had enough. Once this operation was over, he resolved to cut those strings, even if it meant forgoing Vegas and the United States for the tamer confines of a four-star hotel in the Principality of Monaco. Exile wouldn’t be fatal—Monte Carlo was filled with beautiful blondes.


  Adrenaline pumping, Bishop dashed into the ER and snaked his way past harried staff escorting patients and visitors from the hospital. To his surprise, most seemed to take the evacuation in stride, a few even making a joke of it. If the building started shaking, though, he wondered how long it would be before pandemonium erupted. At 11:10, he knew they didn’t have much time to find out.

  Bishop searched the crowd until he spotted Pappajohn standing by the triage nurse. “Come with me.” He led the way into the doctors’ lounge before Pappajohn could object. “You still got your friend on the line?” he asked when they were alone.

  Nodding, Pappajohn punched the speaker button.

  “Keith, I’m back. I’ll put you on with Dr. Bishop.”

  “Any luck with the system?”

  “No.” Bishop hurriedly explained that nothing they’d tried could override the Trojan horse and its invasive program. Left with no other choice, Eccles had finally decided to execute the untested firewall implementation built into the hospital. “It’s supposed to partition and quarantine areas in case of bioterrorism or nuclear attack.”

  “Smart thinking,” Keith said. “If there’s an explosion with a radiologic dispersal device in one area, it should minimize radiation exposure to other parts of the hospital.”

  “If it works.” The weariness in Bishop’s voice matched his mood. “It’s a new system, new construction. Frankly, thinking back to Desert Storm and the resonator trials Miller did there, all the apartment towers attacked were new construction. And they all collapsed.”

  “That’s an earthquake zone just like California,” Keith said. “Maybe they all had new seismic-control systems. Ripe for this ‘resonator’ to take over.”