by Tim Washburn
The elevator car arrives and Hank climbs aboard. When he arrives on three, the doors open onto a sparsely decorated corridor devoid of any signage. Hank hangs a right and heads down the hall. In this building you’re supposed to know where you’re going. Of course there aren’t many slackers roaming around when you have to run through an onslaught of security measures just to enter the building. Hank supposes the government saved a few bucks by not springing for signs, but he doesn’t know that for sure. He sighs as he comes to a stop in front of a plain wooden door and positions his face in front of the iris scanner attached to the wall. Hank did a little research on the scanner and learned that it can detect two hundred unique points of reference on the iris as opposed to a fingerprint, which offers sixty to seventy points of reference. And much like a fingerprint a person’s iris is unique. He didn’t find anything in the stuff he read about repeated exposure to the damn things, but Hank wonders if he’s doing permanent damage to his eyes every time he puts his face up to the scanner.
The computer, satisfied that the person standing in front of the scanner is Hank Goodnight, triggers the door lock and he steps through, the door closing silently behind him. In the center of the large room is a cubicle farm that houses junior personnel who are doing the bidding of those people in the private offices that line the perimeter of the space. A set of double doors on the far side of the room leads to another large workspace with access to some of the fastest computers in the world. Hank bypasses everything and heads for the door tucked into the far corner of the room. This time there’s no scanner or security device to please and he pulls open the door and enters a handsomely decorated reception area, complete with leather wing chairs and a comfy leather sofa. Hank moves deeper into the space and waves at the older, silver-haired woman manning the reception desk. “How’re you doin’, Darla?” he asks.
“I’d be doing better if you’d take me out for a drink, Hank.” This is a game Hank and Darla play often. In her late fifties, she’s been married thirty-some years and has pictures of her grandchildren lined up across her desk.
“Name the time and the place, Darla. But you might better check in with Big John before we go.” Hank has been out of his native state of Oklahoma for years but, despite focused attempts, can’t seem to shake the accent.
Darla laughs. “You let me worry about John. I swear he turns into a bigger fuddy-duddy every day.” Darla waves a hand in dismissal and glances at her phone console “She’s on the phone, Hank. It’s been ringing off the hook. Have a seat.”
Hank settles into one of the wingback chairs and crosses one long leg over the other. Noticing a smudge on the toe of his ostrich cowboy boots, Hank licks his thumb and rubs the smudge away.
The door to the reception area opens again and a tall, lean brunette enters. Outfitted in distressed jeans, Doc Martens, and a black T-shirt with COEXIST printed across the front, she waves at Darla and plops down in the chair opposite Hank. Hank studies her out of the corner of his eye. Her dark brown hair, highlighted by shades of lighter browns, is cut shoulder length and, when she turns to look at Hank, he’s instantly mesmerized by the color of her eyes, a Caribbean Sea green. Hank has seen her around the building at a distance, except for that one time, weeks ago, when he was close enough to get a glimpse of her name tag. He says, “Paige Randall, correct?”
Paige gives him the once-over. “Have we met?”
“We have now.” Hank leans forward and offers his hand. “Hank Goodnight.”
Paige makes a fist and Hank matches her and they fist-bump. She glances at the digital watch on her wrist. “I’m way behind. Are you also waiting to see Assistant Deputy Director Mercer?”
“Yep.”
Paige glances at her watch again. “Any idea how long you’ll be in there?”
Hank smiles. “Nope.”
Darla glances at the phone console on her desk. “She’s off the phone. You two can go in now.”
Paige glances at Hank. “We’re going in together?”
“Appears so.” Hank and Paige stand. At six-two, he has about four inches on her and he does the gentlemanly thing and holds the door open for her before following her inside.
Assistant Deputy Director Elaine Mercer glances up from the stack of paperwork on her desk. “You two have met. Good. Have a seat at the conference table, please.” Mercer stands, grabs a file, and strides across the office, taking a seat at the head of the table. Fifty-two, Mercer is a wiry, petite woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and dark, intelligent eyes. Today, she’s wearing navy trousers and a button-up light blue shirt tailored to fit her slim profile.
Mercer, who always appears to be in a hurry, gets right down to business. “Within the last hour there have been two possible cyber attacks. The first involved a passenger jet crash at Dulles. That’s bad but the second incident is of greater concern.”
“What’s worse than a plane crash?” Paige asks, still confused as to why she’s there.
“A nuclear disaster. The people manning the Calvert Cliffs nuclear facility are on the verge of losing one of their reactors. I don’t want to risk sending a crew to the plant, but I’ve got people headed to the corporate headquarters of the parent company in Atlanta.”
“What makes you think it was a cyber attack?” Hank asks.
“Both of their computer systems crashed after several unusual anomalies. We have unconfirmed reports of other jet crashes and the FAA has grounded all air traffic until we can get a handle on what’s happening. I have other people on the way, but I want you two to head for the airport.”
“I’m a computer programmer,” Paige says. “Not a field agent.”
“Today you’re both,” Mercer says. “It’s all hands on deck.”
“What are the anomalies?” Hank asks.
“That’s what I need you two to find out,” Mercer says, turning to look at Hank. “And I need you to put that big brain of yours to work.”
CHAPTER 4
McLean
After returning to their offices to grab whatever items they need, Paige and Hank meet in the lobby and head outside. The August heat, mixed with the thick humidity, makes the air feel soupy, and both begin to perspire only seconds after exiting. Wiping the first beads of sweat from his forehead, Hank leads Paige through the parking lot to his car, a black-on-black 2014 Mustang Shelby GT500 Super Snake. He chirps the locks and they pile in. Hank fires the engine and cranks down the air conditioner. The car was a splurge for Hank, who usually keeps a tight rein on his money, a holdover from his childhood, when money was so tight they struggled to eat sometimes.
Paige looks around at the interior. “Boys and their toys. Does this muscle car make you feel like a real man?”
Hank smiles. “No, but it is fun as hell to drive.” He exits out of the parking lot and gooses the gas, the whir of the supercharger whining as he shifts to second and then third. He glances over to see Paige white-knuckling the armrest and shifts to fourth and eases up on the throttle as he hits the on-ramp to Interstate 66.
“Does she do this kind of thing often?” Paige asks.
“Elaine?”
Paige nods.
“Depends on the situation,” Hank says, clicking on the radio and lowering the volume as Jason Aldean sings about fly over states. “But she’s not afraid to send an expert into the field with me if it’s merited.”
Paige glances over. “What’s your role?”
“Multifaceted.”
“That’s obscure as hell. What did she mean when she referred to your big brain? Are you some type of genius or something?”
Hank smiles. “Nope, but I might be a tad smarter than your average bear.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Hank flips on his signal and steers into the fast lane. “Do you think the FAA’s air control system has been hacked?”
“Changing the subject, huh?” Paige scowls then says, “To answer your question, Mr. Big Brain, maybe. The software is beyond outdated a
nd probably has more holes than a prairie dog town. But what I don’t understand is how that would be responsible for a single jet crash. A midair collision maybe, or a jet is told to take the wrong taxiway and gets slammed by another plane, but that would involve two planes.”
“Elaine said it was a passenger jet crash, I assume meaning only one plane is involved,” Hank says. “I guess we’ll find out when we get to the airport. Any ideas about the culprit?”
“Take your pick. Iran, North Korea, Russia, maybe even China. I’d lean toward the first two. Russia and China would be concerned about our response; the other two probably not so much.”
“So a nation or state and not a group of bad actors?”
“Yes. Even though the FAA’s software is outdated, if that was indeed the target, the hackers would have had to penetrate numerous firewalls to get that deep into their system. That’s not easy to do and would probably require enormous resources. And hacking a nuclear power plant is much more difficult. How much do you know about hacking?”
“I’m competent.”
Paige shakes her head. “Which means you’re probably a freaking expert.”
Hank smiles as he slows for traffic. Now within a mile of the airport, they’re close enough to see a cloud of black smoke still lingering above the runway. A little ways farther on there’s a break in the trees and traffic grinds to a halt as the rubberneckers ahead crane their necks, hoping for a quick peek at someone else’s tragedy. While they’re stopped Hank takes a moment to study the scene. The terminal building blocks their view of the actual crash site and all Hank can see are the emergency vehicles that are parked haphazardly around the tarmac, their lights flashing.
Paige leans forward in her seat to look out Hank’s window. “Can’t see much from here. I wonder what type of plane it was.”
“No telling,” Hank says. “Let’s hope it’s not a Boeing triple-seven or an Airbus A380. If it was, the death toll will be somewhere north of five hundred.”
Paige settles back in her seat. “Even if it was one of those smaller planes, the death toll will still be significant. Can you imagine? All of those people lost in an instant.”
Hank glances at Paige. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if this is some type of cyber attack I don’t think we’re done yet. Not even close.”
CHAPTER 5
Page, Arizona
Upstream from its more famous cousin (Hoover Dam) and one of the nation’s most visited national parks (the Grand Canyon), the Glen Canyon Dam towers over the downstream side of the Colorado River. Built between the sandstone cliffs of Glen Canyon, the dam stands over seven hundred feet tall and required nearly five million cubic yards of concrete to construct when work was finished in 1963. The damming of the river created Lake Powell, the second-largest man-made reservoir in the United States. The largest reservoir resides farther downstream—Lake Mead, which was created with the construction of the Hoover Dam.
The control room inside the dam is a sparsely furnished place containing two desks, which are staged in the center of the large, circular room. The walls surrounding the desks contain an amalgamation of buttons, rotary dials, and old analog dial clocks that appear to be original equipment—which they are. There have been upgrades over the years though they’ve been few and far between. Although the dam contains eight massive hydroelectric turbines that turn twenty-four/seven, the room often contains only a single occupant. That’s because, today, after the last major upgrade, most of the dam’s operations are controlled off-site via computer in Montrose, Colorado.
Today’s lone occupant is twenty-four-year-old Brian Hunter, who is busy refining his résumé. His sole job is to act as the fail-safe—the one person who can operate the ancient levers and dials in case of an emergency. It’s a boring task and Hunter, dissatisfied with the job’s lack of stimulation, is on the hunt for a more challenging work environment. With a degree in hydrodynamics, he took the job with the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation hoping to explore the West and to help the western states manage their most scarce resource—water. But so far the only things he’s explored are the buttons, switches, and levers on the walls of the control room and the local bar scene.
Pen in hand, he scratches out a phrase in the previous employment section of his résumé and leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, deep in thought. He’s searching for the right word or combination of words—something other than monitoring—he can use to describe his present job duties. Moments later, the correct word is just on the tip of his tongue when an alarm bell begins ringing. His eyes snap open and he lurches to his feet, searching for the source. Lights on the far wall begin sparking to life just as the phone rings. Momentarily flummoxed, he stands transfixed as more bells begin ringing. He stares at the lights, then his eyes dart to the phone as a loud humming sound begins to penetrate the room. Finally, Hunter acts. He grabs the phone and can hear voices shouting in the background as he puts the handset to his ear. “Hello?”
“Brian, this is Dan McCoy in Montrose. You need to do an immediate manual shutdown of the turbines.”
Hunter drops the phone and it clinks to the floor as he races to the far wall and begins flipping switches to shut off the turbines, the humming only growing louder. His actions appear to be having little effect and he nearly pisses his pants when there’s a tremendous crash that sounds like a freight train plowing into a semi stalled on the tracks. Hunter hurries back to the desk and quickly reels in the phone. His hand is trembling when he puts the phone to his ear and says, “Turbine manual override is . . . is . . . inoperative.”
“Screw the turbines,” McCoy says. “They’re toast. Listen closely, Brian. The spillway gates are stuck open. You have to close them.”
“H-h-how?” Hunter asks, his entire body now quavering.
“Hit the emergency release. The gates are heavy enough they might close.”
Hunter hurries over to the near wall, stretching the phone cord to the limits. He slams the big red button with the palm of his hand. “I hit the emergency release.”
“Goddamn it,” McCoy shouts, nearly piercing Hunter’s eardrum. “You sure you hit the right button?”
“Yes. Wha . . . wha . . . what’s happening, Dan?”
“The damn computers are locked up. We’ve lost control.” McCoy sighs, sending a hiss of static down the line. “Okay, Brian. You need to grab who you can from the turbine room and go manually close the spillway gates.”
Hunter steps over to the observation window that looks out over the turbine room, the phone cord nearly strangling him. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. There’s . . . there’s . . . there’s blood . . . everywhere.” The phone slips from his grasp and rebounds off the desk just when the lights flash off.
Below, the spillway’s four 8-foot-diameter pipes are shooting out water at a rate of 208,000 cubic feet per second, or nearly 94 million gallons of water per minute.
Daily News Website
—BREAKING NEWS—Nuclear power plant on verge of meltdown.
Residents around the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant in Maryland are being ordered to evacuate. At the moment the cause of the accident is unknown. More details to follow . . .
—BREAKING NEWS—All air travel halted after a series of deadly accidents.
Investigators are scrambling to find the cause for several deadly airline crashes that have occurred across the United States. All commercial flights have been grounded until further notice. More details to follow . . .
CHAPTER 6
Dulles
Hank and Paige finally make it to the turnoff to the terminal only to find the exit blocked by two state troopers, their cars parked diagonally across the asphalt. Hank rolls down the window and holds up his credentials. The closest trooper climbs out of his car and walks over for a look. He glances at the badge and nods at the other trooper to move his car. “Any idea how the crash happened?” he asks Hank.
“Not yet,” Hank answers, “but you’re probably in for a long day.�
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“Tell me about it,” the trooper says. He steps back and waves Hank forward.
At least with the roads blocked there is no incoming traffic, but that changes the closer they get to the terminal building. Hank weaves the Mustang through an obstacle course of emergency vehicles and pulls in behind a police car parked near the entrance to baggage claim. After killing the engine, he pulls a placard with FBI printed on it from the back pocket of the passenger seat and tosses it onto the dash.
“What now?” Paige asks. “Are we heading out to the tower?”
“No, the airport’s servers are in the basement of the terminal building.”
“How do you know that?”
Hank shrugs. “Read it in a report, somewhere.” Hank’s phone dings and he pulls it out of his pocket to see a text from Mercer. “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.”
“What happened?” Paige asks.
“Appears the hackers hit a dam.”
“Which one?”
“Glen Canyon Dam.”
“Damage?”
“Plenty. Worst thing is the floodgates are stuck open.”
“Jesus. That could spell disaster for those downstream. They couldn’t have picked a more dangerous dam to target.”
“I think that’s what they had in mind.” Hank leans forward and opens the glove box, pulling out his holstered Glock 22.
“You carry a service weapon?” Paige asks.
“Never leave home without it,” Hank answers, climbing out of the car. He pops the trunk and takes a moment to clip the holster on his belt. “There are a couple of FBI Windbreakers in the trunk if you want to grab them.”
Paige does and closes the lid. She hands the larger jacket to Hank and slips the other one on.
“Might want to wait to put that on,” Hank says.
“Why?” Paige asks. “It’ll allow us to move through the crowds easier.” She ducks back inside the car to retrieve her backpack and slings it over her shoulder.