by Tim Washburn
Paul and Irene sold their house last year for half of what it was worth ten years ago and are now renting an apartment in a small retirement community in St. Clair Shores. With the home sale proceeds added to their nest egg, Paul and Irene are sitting on $473,546. The figure represents every dime they could scrape together, excluding the ten grand they keep in their checking account for living expenses. Paul, sixty-seven, and Irene, sixty-five, have been resistant to putting their money in the stock market despite their son’s assurances the money will be safe.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table, Paul is eyeing the computer screen displaying their current balance in an account he had opened with one of the large national discount brokerages. He shifts his gaze to Irene sitting across the table. “What do you think, hon?”
“I don’t know, Paul. That’s every dime we have to our name.”
“Know how much we made on the CD last year? Four thousand measly fucking dollars. Hell, that doesn’t even cover what we lost to inflation.”
“Maybe we should call Paulie.”
“Paulie’s the one who suggested we put it in the market. And according to that guy that’s worth a gazillion dollars out in Nebraska, we could maybe earn ten percent just by investing into one of those index funds.”
Irene throws up her hands. “What the hell do you know about index funds, Paul?”
“I know they pay a good return. What do you want to do? Put the money under the damn mattress?”
Irene hangs her head. “I don’t know, Paul. We lose this we’re going to the poorhouse.”
“We’re not going to lose it. Jesus Christ, millions of people are in the stock market.”
“At our age?”
“Hell, yes. It’s the only way to make any money.”
They sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound the whirring of the cooling fan on the old computer. Irene gets up, toddles into the kitchen, and returns with a glass of water. “Have you been tracking this fund’s returns?”
“Every day. But I’ve got my eye on a couple of funds. Don’t want to put all our eggs in one basket.”
“How are they performing?”
“They’re up. Hell, the whole market’s up.”
Irene throws her hands up again. “Whatever.”
“Oh hell, no,” Paul says sharply, “We’re not playing that game. This has to be a mutual decision or I’d never hear the end of it.”
Irene thinks it over for another minute. “You sure you don’t want to put it back in a CD?”
“Hell, no. Didn’t I just tell you what we made on it last year?” Paul peers over the computer screen, giving Irene a hard look.
“And you’re sure the money’ll be safe?”
“Hell, Irene, there ain’t no guarantees in life. But millions of people do it every day with nary a second thought.”
Irene takes a sip of water, thinking. “Does that mean you’ll take me on that cruise?”
“When we start making some money, I’ll take you on two cruises.”
“Oh, stop, Paul. I’ll be lucky to get you on one. Is the money already in the brokerage account?”
“Yep. Put in there last week. A few computer clicks and we can start packing for that cruise.”
“And I can buy a couple of new outfits for the trip?”
Without even a second thought, Paul says, “Sure.”
“Okay, Paul. Invest the money.”
Unfortunately for the Betkowskis, Paul picks the exact wrong day, the exact wrong hour, the exact wrong minute to make the trade.
He finishes placing the buy order and switches over to his e-mail account to check for a confirmation. He waits. And waits. And waits some more. “That’s strange.”
“What?” Irene asks, a hint of panic in her voice.
“Paulie says the trades happen almost as quick as the order is placed, but I haven’t gotten a confirmation e-mail yet.”
The Betkowskis’ wait stretches on for several minutes with Paul clicking the get new mail button every few seconds.
“Anything?” Irene asks.
“Don’t you think I’d say somethin’ if I’d gotten an e-mail?”
“Don’t be short with me, Paul. Check the account.”
Paul mouses the cursor over to the web page, logs out, and logs back in. “The money’s not there. They must be in the process of making the trade.”
“Paul, you better call them.”
Paul scrolls down the page to the CONTACT US section and pulls out his cell phone, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He punches in the number and navigates through about ten menu options before being placed on hold.
Irene sits, wringing her hands. “I told you, Paul.”
Paul glances over. “Don’t start, Irene. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up.”
After five minutes on hold, a live human comes on the line and Paul explains the situation. He can hear the woman clicking away on a keyboard. She returns to the line, and Paul hears only the first part of her explanation before the phone slips from his hand.
“What is it, Paul?”
All the blood has drained from Paul’s face when he looks up at his wife. “They have no record of the account.”
Daily News Website
—BREAKING NEWS—Power out in nation’s capital. More details to follow . . .
—BREAKING NEWS—Problems at Colorado River dam.
Details are sketchy at the moment but early reports suggest the floodgates at the Glen Canyon Dam are stuck in the open position. Experts are concerned about the effects on Glen Canyon’s downstream cousin, Hoover Dam. More details to follow . . .
—BREAKING NEWS—Nuclear power plant on verge of meltdown. Emergency workers widen evacuation zone. Experts fear the worst. Potentially worst U.S. nuclear power plant disaster since 1979’s Three Mile Island.
Residents around the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant in Maryland are being ordered to evacuate as a cloud of deadly radiation continues to escape from one of the plant’s reactors. At the moment the cause is unknown. As the story continues to unfold there is some speculation that the water pumps used to pump cool water to the reactor may have failed. More details to follow . . .
—BREAKING NEWS—All air travel halted after a series of deadly accidents. Possible engine failure may be to blame. Death toll could be staggering, according to one airline executive.
Investigators are scrambling to find the cause for several deadly airline crashes that have occurred across the United States. All flights have been grounded until further notice. Preliminary reports say all the aircraft involved are Boeing 737s. Early indications suggest it may have something to do with the planes’ engines. We have not yet confirmed the precise number of crashes or the number of people involved. One airline executive says the death toll could be staggering. More details to follow . . .
CHAPTER 13
McLean
“Find anything?” Hank asks.
“Still looking,” Paige replies. Each had chosen a power company in the D.C. area and it had taken Paige five minutes to break through the firewall and enter the company’s computer network. Hank was a little slower. It took him nine minutes to hack the system of another power provider. Both are using software developed by a consortium of programmers at the FBI and NSA.
“I’m perusing some company e-mails to see if they had any indications or warning signs they were being hacked,” Paige says, “but I’m not seeing anything. Someone wasn’t doing their job because the hackers would have been lurking around on their network for months if not years.”
“You’re probably right. I wonder what else they’ve hacked. So far, they’ve targeted a dam, a flight control computer, and a portion of the power grid. The big question is, what’s next?”
Paige continues scrolling through the company’s e-mails. She stops and clicks on one from earlier in the day. It’s an e-mail from a field engineer to the CEO of the company. She quickly reads through the contents. “Want some more bad news, Hank?�
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“I think that’s all we’re going to be hearing for a while. Shoot.”
“According to one of this company’s engineers, portions of the D.C. power grid could be off-line for months. Not days. Months. Apparently the hackers did a number on some of the larger transformers.”
“I’m not surprised. Does it say what method the hackers used? Was it an attack on the SCADA system or maybe a specific programmable logic controller?” Hank takes a moment to text Mercer the new information about the D.C. power grid.
“It’s not mentioned in this e-mail. I’d vote for answer C—all the above. If the bad guys have been on these networks for months, there’s no predicting how many vulnerabilities they’ve discovered. As for method of insertion, someone probably inserted an infected flash drive into their computer. Those damn things should be outlawed.” Paige looks up. “You know that’s probably how the NSA injected the Stuxnet worm into the Iranian computers that controlled the centrifuges, right?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately it got out in the wild. I wouldn’t be surprised to find we’re being attacked by some variant of Stuxnet as we speak.” Hank launches a piece of software that will allow him to drill down deeper into the system he’s working on. “I’m assuming the malware is a rootkit?”
“That’s how I’d do it,” Paige says, clicking out of the e-mail program. “I’m headed that way, myself. Look at all the device drivers and search for any anomalies. If the hackers are really good they’ve inserted it into the kernel where the most trusted functions of the operating system work. That’s where I would put it. And putting it there makes it damn difficult, if not impossible, to find.”
“But wouldn’t that cause catastrophic system crashes?”
“If these were average hackers, yeah. But these people aren’t your average hackers. Look, the software only does what it’s told. It can’t think for itself. So if you insert a piece of malware, in this case a rootkit, and it has an exploit to allow it the ability to modify the system’s software, then the system is none the wiser. It doesn’t know the malware isn’t supposed to be there.”
“Then how do we find it?”
“It’s going to take time, Hank. And even then we may not find it. The source code for these power companies contains millions of lines of code. Even if the malware did cause a system crash, I can promise you these hackers created a back door that would allow them to come and go at will. If a system crash occurred they’d wait for it to be repaired then manipulate their software to keep it from happening in the future.”
Hank’s phone dings and he lights the screen to see a text from Mercer. “I told you the bad news is going to keep coming.”
“What now?”
“Trouble at the stock exchanges. Surprise, surprise, they’re seeing some computer irregularities. Mercer’s thinking about sending us to Manhattan.” Hank leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes. “The hackers have to know this country will respond with overwhelming force, either through cyber or conventional means.”
Paige glances up. “We have to find them, first. And that’s no guarantee.”
CHAPTER 14
Somewhere near Boston, Massachusetts
Working out of an undisclosed location somewhere near Boston, twenty-five-year-old Hassan Ansari pulls up the list of malware exploits on his laptop screen. Pakistani in origin, Ansari is now a second-year Ph.D. student at one of Boston’s major universities. As he scrolls down the list, he checks the scheduled times for the payload releases, making sure all is in order. And he’s not working alone. Inside the building with him are five other people—four of whom are also Ph.D. candidates at various universities around Boston. All are of similar age and all are foreigners. All are extremely intelligent and all have elite-level computer skills. And, most important, all have a reason for being there.
The sixth man is a recent arrival. Ansari first met him six months ago. That’s also the same time that he met the other four members of the group. The man identified himself as Basir Nazeri, but offered little else. Suspicious, Ansari put his computer skills to work, but after a frustrating two days, found no information on the man calling himself Basir Nazeri. He found a few Basir Nazeris, none with any approximation to this man’s age or likeness. Whoever he is, he’s now the guy ramrodding this show and Ansari doesn’t really give a damn. After all, each and every one has the same objective.
Each member of the group was recruited to the universities with offers of lavish scholarships from entities with marginal backgrounds. In return for the scholarships, each man was asked to devote some time to work on a new piece of software that they would receive upon admission to graduate school. The only stipulation was that the work was to be done in private and had to be done on a computer with no connections to the Internet. Those people granting the scholarships did attach one caveat—if it were discovered that someone wasn’t adhering to the rules, the scholarship would be rescinded and that person would be deported immediately back to their native country.
The new unit is a diverse group. In addition to Ansari, there is one other man from Pakistan, two men from Afghanistan, one man from Yemen, and one man from Somalia. Different countries, yes, but they all hail from the same region of the world. And it’s an area of the world that has endured countless wars and atrocities that stretch back generations. And all five have faced hardship, some more than others.
At first, Ansari had difficulty finding a common denominator—the one thing that compelled each man to agree to take on this mission. The five men are not wrapped up in religious zealotry nor are they hiding behind a veil of racism or fanaticism. In fact, four members of the team espouse no religious views whatsoever. Only one, Ansari, claims to be a Muslim, but by no means is he devout. But to be clear—these aren’t spoiled rich kids searching for a cause, nor are they attempting to start a movement or launch a crusade.
But they do have one very specific reason for their involvement.
In the country on F-1 student visas, the five, busy planning their dissertations, had little interest in that piece of software until Nazeri arrived six months ago. The timeline accelerated when the new administration in the White House announced that all student visas would be rescinded by the end of the year for students from a list of specific countries. The home countries of all five team members made the list and now it’s the software taking center stage, while the dissertations are on hold.
Looking at the software now, Ansari finds it remarkable to see the changes each man made while working on it individually over the years. Some were changes Ansari had never thought to make, but many of the men made similar progress and, with some fine-tuning, the software program was meshed together. Now, months later, they have created a well-honed computer program unlike anything else in existence.
Ansari knew they were creating a piece of malware, but he had no idea how it was going to be used until Nazeri arrived. The mystery man appeared with a grab bag of goodies that must have taken years to assemble. How he amassed them and from whom has not been disclosed. But with his collection of zero-day exploits, back doors, and precisely mapped networks, the group now has administrator-level access to a broad array of military and civilian networks, as evidenced by the morning’s events. Ansari has worries, though. They haven’t been told the length of the mission nor have they been briefed about the exit strategy—all red flags in Ansari’s book. But it is what it is.
In addition to his bag of software goodies, Nazeri also arrived with some computer hardware that can’t be found in any store. The modest, unobtrusive building Nazeri leased came wired with fiber-optic lines and, judging from some of the trash left behind, the building once housed some type of tech start-up outfit that was either bought out or went belly-up. After pairing the fiber-optic lines with some of the hardware Nazeri brought, the team created a max secure wireless network with speeds nearing eighty gigabits per second, allowing them to operate in real time. To mitigate communication lag, a satellite uplink was installed on t
he roof of the building and was connected directly to the network.
Some members of the team are more exuberant than others, but none appear giddy about the hell they’re unleashing, other than Nazeri. The reason for their stoicism is tied to their memories of the past—the explosions, the mangled bodies, the stench of death that lives on in their nightmares. The events they remember were often brushed away as collateral damage, but for these five who lost close loved ones to U.S. drone strikes, it’s all too real.
And their reason for participating is one as old as time itself—revenge.
CHAPTER 15
McLean
After an hour of digging, Hank and Paige are no closer to finding out how the hackers infiltrated the power companies. “Think we should try the aircraft manufacturer?” Paige asks, rocking her head from side to side to loosen the kink in her neck.
“We’re already inside here. I say we keep diggin’.”
“I’m open to suggestions, Hank, because I’m not seeing anything. It could be the malware self-destructed after the exploit ran.”
“You would think there’d still be some residual pieces driftin’ around.”
“You’ll only find them by looking at the code line by line. If we had six months we might find something. But we don’t. I say we take Elaine up on her offer to send us to Manhattan. Once the power’s out, it’s out. It’s a whole different ballgame with the financial markets. They could manipulate those for months and really put the screws to us.”
Hank picks up his cell phone. “Pack a bag. I’ll call Elaine.”
“What do I need to pack?”