Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  Butler, finding the last statement odd, cocks his head to the side. “So you’ve spoken with the governor and are aware of his orders?”

  “I have, Captain, and yes, I’m aware of his orders.”

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  Diaz looks down at his shoes for a moment before looking back up. “All I’m saying, Captain, is do what you think needs to be done.”

  “To be clear, Warden, we won’t murder unarmed prisoners.”

  “I understand, Captain Butler, but be forewarned that most of the men you’ll encounter inside would kill you at the blink of an eye without any hesitation.”

  “I understand, but that doesn’t change my stance. Tell your two men with the keys to be ready.” Butler turns and walks away. He calls the men going inside together for a few final words before telling them to get into position. As they file away, Butler looks for Walter, the corrections officer. He spots him with the group of prison officials and walks over. “Walt, can I borrow your radio?” Butler asks.

  Walter hands it over and Butler keys the transmit button and says, “Officer Darnell, are you there?”

  A moment later Darnell replies. “I’m still here, Captain.”

  “Sit tight. We’ll be entering the prison in thirty seconds. Do you still have your weapons?”

  “Locked and loaded, sir.”

  “Good. Butler out.” He hands the radio back to Walter and starts walking toward the entrance. Then he stops and turns around. “Walter, can I borrow your radio for a while?”

  “Of course, Captain.” Walter hands the radio back to Butler, who clips it on his belt.

  Butler retraces his steps and walks up to the entrance. He doesn’t have butterflies in his stomach—it feels more like a hawk has taken flight instead. He takes a deep, calming breath as he joins his forces that are bunched up near the door. After one final deep breath, he says, “Remember your assignments, men. Go, go, go.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Somewhere near Boston

  Hassan Ansari looks at the clock in the right-hand corner of his computer screen then checks the position of the satellite. He’ll have access to the ship soon. For computing power to carry out their attacks, the five Ph.D. students hacked their university’s supercomputers and installed a back door that allows them administrator-level access. They tested it out over the previous few months to see if their activities would be discovered or if it raised any red flags and neither happened. They’re certain because, as advanced students in computer-related fields, they receive e-mails and notifications from their universities about attempted intrusions, viruses, or other events that might harm the school’s computer networks. So far there has been no mention of their activities. To mask their location, they are using a secure VPN that Nazeri has access to and from there the signals are routed through other servers all over the world.

  Hassan might feel a tad squeamish about killing innocent civilians but he has no such qualms when it comes to an American warship launching missiles at one of their own naval bases. He has no idea how much damage Norfolk has sustained, but he hopes whoever is running the ship will bring the weapons back online. Either way, he’ll know in a few minutes.

  Hassan stands and stretches and decides to use the restroom while he’s up. Standing in front of the urinal, he looks up when Yuusef opens the door and slips inside. Hassan finishes up and the two huddle near the sink. Having found two cleverly disguised pinhole cameras in their sleeping quarters, Hassan is wondering if Nazeri has placed listening devices in the restroom. Just in case, he turns on the water and he and Yuusef talk in muted whispers.

  “What are we going to do about Nazeri?” Yuusef asks.

  “I do not know,” Hassan says. “I think he has a different exit strategy for us than the one we have been discussing among ourselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once this is over he no longer has a use for us.”

  Yuusef’s eyes widen. “What are you suggesting?”

  Hassan leans against the counter. “The easiest thing for him would be to cut the loose strings. Yes, we are all participants, but we are also witnesses to his involvement.”

  “We know nothing about him. What threat are we to him?”

  Hassan debates telling Yuusef about the pictures he’d snapped of Nazeri and decides against it. “How do you see this ending, Yuusef?”

  Yuusef shrugs. “I thought we would all go our separate ways.”

  Hassan shakes his head. “We are all criminals now, Yuusef. Murderers. Nazeri’s worst fear would be that one of us gets captured and points the finger at him.”

  “You believe he is going to kill us?”

  Hassan nods. “Our only hope is to get away before he can.”

  “How long do you think this will last?”

  “I do not know. The sooner we leave, the better.”

  “Tonight?” Yuusef asks.

  “Maybe. In the interim, continue with your tasks.” Hassan turns off the water. “I’ll leave first and you wait a few moments before coming out. Nazeri does not need to know we have been talking.”

  Yuusef nods and Hassan slips out of the bathroom. When he returns to his computer he discovers that the satellite window is now open, allowing him access to the USS Stark’s computer systems. He sits, cracks his knuckles, and pulls up the coordinates for Naval Station Norfolk again as he waits for the ship’s onboard cameras to come online.

  CHAPTER 59

  North Atlantic Ocean

  The first few minutes of the live-fire exercises go off without a hitch. The computer is tracking targets with precision and the large 155-mm rounds from the deck guns are obliterating the targets. Over at the weapons station, a tiny caterpillar of doubt is trying to worm its way into Lieutenant Griffin’s head. Had I been doing something wrong? The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders. But then he replays the earlier event in his mind. The weapons went wacky the moment they were initialized. Why then and not now? Griffin turns to his computer and scrolls through pages of computer feedback on the weapons’ operations. The deck guns are working exactly like they were designed to do. He glances up to see a grinning Admiral Malloy walking toward him.

  “Mr. Griffin, let’s try a missile or two,” Malloy says.

  “Yes, sir,” Griffin says. Hoping to make the selection more difficult and to buy a little more time, Griffin refers to the weapons using their full designation. “Which missiles, Admiral? The RIM-66M Standard Missile, the RIM-162 Evolved Sea Sparrow, the RUM-139 anti-submarine, or the BGM-109 Tomahawk?”

  Malloy places a hand on his chin, playing it up for all it’s worth. “Umm, let me see. Not the Tomahawks. Let’s be creative. We’ll fire a standard missile and then a few seconds later a Sea Sparrow to track and kill the first missile. Sound good, Mr. Griffin?”

  “Yes sir,” Griffin replies. “Give me a minute to set it up, sir.”

  “Notify me when ready,” Malloy says before turning and walking away.

  Griffin grinds his teeth as he enters the launch sequence for the missiles. Once that’s completed, he ducks down behind the bank of monitors and picks up a ship’s phone and makes another call to Captain Hensley, who is back in his stateroom, under guard. Hensley picks up on the second ring. “What’s happening with the weapons, Griff?”

  “Nothing unexpected.” Griffin scans the area to make sure Malloy isn’t hanging around before lowering his voice. “Did we screw something up during the initial exercise, Captain?”

  “Tell me what you think,” Hensley says.

  “I don’t know, Cap. I don’t think we did, but it all happened so fast.”

  “Remember during the event when the computer wouldn’t respond to any of your input?” Hensley asks.

  “Yeah, I do remember. But why is everything working so flawlessly now?”

  “I’ve been contemplating that exact question as I watched the video feed. The only thing I can think of that makes any sense whatsoever is that either the hackers
can’t access the ship’s computers or the event was a one and done.”

  “I can’t see it being a one and done,” Griffin says. “Penetrating the ship’s systems would have required enormous effort and I can’t see them walking away from that. So that leaves us option one. The ship is cruising around in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and unless they’re following us on another ship, their only access would be via satellite.”

  “Bingo. Weather could be a factor or it could be the satellite they’re using is out of position.”

  “So we didn’t fuck up?” Griffin asks.

  “No, Griff, we didn’t screw up. What’s the admiral doing now?”

  “We’re preparing a missile test.”

  “Keep a hand close to the kill switch, Griff.”

  “I will, Cap. Later.” Griffin hangs up the phone and reluctantly tells Admiral Malloy that the missile test is ready.

  “Very well, Mr. Griffin. Fire when ready.”

  “Roger, sir.” Griffin has the Sea Sparrow programmed to launch precisely three seconds after the launch of the first missile. He runs through the numbers again and positions his finger over the launch button. “Launch in three, two, one . . .” He presses the button and the first missile erupts from the vertical launching system. Three seconds later, the second missile blasts from its launcher. Griffin tracks the missiles and he gets a sinking feeling in his stomach when the first missile makes a long looping turn to the left. He checks the progress of the Sea Sparrow and that sinking feeling he felt is now a burning coal in his gut. Whatever the Sea Sparrow is tracking, it sure as hell isn’t the target it’s supposed to be tracking.

  “Admiral, we have a problem!” Griffin shouts. He watches the screen as the first missile veers left again, taking dead aim at the USS Stark. “Incoming,” Griffin shouts as more missiles roar out of their launchers. Everyone in the mission center dives under the desks.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Malloy shouts, racing over to the weapons station.

  “It’s the comp—”

  His last words are obliterated when the first missile plows into the helicopter sitting on the deck and detonates. Shrapnel rips through the upper superstructure, shredding everything in its path. Griffin hammers the now-inoperable kill switch with his palm before diving under his desk. He catches a glimpse of the forward deck camera on a video screen and cringes as more missiles roar out of the launchers.

  The admiral is the only person still upright, as he pounds on the keyboard above Griffin’s head. Shrapnel continues to zing around the room, tearing through video monitors, computers, and those unlucky few who chose the wrong spot to hide. Malloy seem oblivious to all of it as he pounds the buttons on the weapons center console. “Kill power to the goddamn ship!” Malloy shouts at the top of his lungs.

  Within seconds, the control center is plunged into darkness and the barrage of missiles stops. Only then does Griffin hear the moans of the wounded. The battery-powered emergency lights kick on and Griffin climbs out from beneath his desk as others do the same. The admiral is standing and staring into the distance as if in a trance. “Are you injured, Admiral?” Griffin asks.

  Malloy turns to look at him. “What?”

  “I asked if you were injured, sir.”

  “No, no. I’m not injured,” he answers in a flat, lifeless tone.

  Medical personnel rush into the room and begin triage. Griffin pulls a chair over and positions it behind Malloy. “Sir, why don’t you sit down for a moment?”

  The admiral nods and slumps into the chair as Captain Hensley hurries into the room and says, “Mr. Griffin, disable the weapons.” Hensley takes a second to survey the damage then turns to his executive officer. “I need a ship-wide damage assessment, Kat.”

  She nods and hurries away to carry out the captain’s order, as Hensley starts barking out more orders. The injured members of his crew are either being carried out or being helped out by medical personnel and taken to the infirmary. Luckily, no one inside the mission center appears to have sustained any life-threatening injuries. Hensley doesn’t know if that’s true for the entire ship or not. He won’t know that until Connelly returns with the damage report. He walks across the room and squats down next to Malloy’s chair. “Are you okay, Admiral?”

  Malloy turns to look Hensley in the eyes. “No. I’m not okay. What the hell just happened?”

  Hensley wants, badly, to shout I told you so, you arrogant bastard, but he doesn’t. “The same thing that happened to us during the first live-fire exercise. This computerized piece of shit has been compromised, Admiral.”

  “What were the missiles targeting?” Malloy asks.

  “We won’t know for sure until we power the ship back up, but I’d assume they were targeting the same thing as before?”

  “Norfolk?”

  Hensley nods.

  “Jesus Christ. What a nightmare. I need to talk to Admiral Young,” Malloy says, referencing Admiral Ronald Young, the commander in chief of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet.

  “We continue to have communication issues, Admiral,” Hensley says. “We can’t make a radio call, a phone call, or send an e-mail.”

  “Don’t you have someone aboard who can fix it?”

  “We’re trying, sir. Am I to assume, sir, that I’m no longer confined to quarters?”

  Malloy takes a moment, looking at the damage inside the room. “You are correct. We’ll be lucky if either of us has a job after this clusterfuck.” Malloy pauses, then turns to look Hensley in the eyes. “It’s a little late now, but I owe you an apology, Captain. If I’d listened to you and your crew, this would have never happened.”

  Hensley is momentarily taken aback by the admiral’s honesty. It’s not often that a two-star admiral admits fault—the old adage that “shit rolls downhill” is usually the prevailing attitude in the navy. Hensley is just hoping the admiral’s story doesn’t change between now and their inevitable date at the general court-martial. Hensley, unable to come up with a meaningful answer, simply says, “Thank you, sir.”

  Malloy nods. “Power this ship back up and take us back to port, Captain.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Cushing, Oklahoma

  Cushing is a sleepy little town of 8,000 residents that lies about an hour northeast of the capital city, Oklahoma City. The town is not much different from other small cities across the country. They have a school, a grocery store or two, local restaurants, a pharmacy, and doctors’ offices. But Cushing has one thing those other towns don’t. Known as the Pipeline Capital of the World, Cushing is home to one of the largest oil-storage facilities on the planet. With up to eighty million barrels of crude oil in storage, the town is a major strategic player in U.S. energy policy—and a potential terrorist target.

  Over the last few years, the companies have erected tall fences topped with concertina wire and fortified the ingress and egress routes with guard shacks. Security cars patrol around the clock and the employees are on constant lookout for new strangers to town who might have nefarious purposes in mind. With the exterior fortifications in place, no one gave much thought to what happens on the inside—specifically the supervisory control and data acquisition (SCADA) systems that interface with the computers.

  With over three hundred storage tanks scattered around the area—many large enough to fit a 747 jet inside—there are just a handful of companies that control how the oil flows in from the drilling fields or out to a refiner downstream. And everything is controlled with the click of a computer mouse. Working for Black Gold Energy, shift supervisor Sadie Turner sits at one of the banana-shaped desks, her eyes darting back and forth among the eight video screens stacked horizontally on the wall. Arrows indicate which way the crude oil is moving and red and green tank icons indicate whether the tank is emptying or filling. Beneath the tank farm are hundreds of miles of pipelines that Sadie controls by electronically opening and closing the valves. The crude is pumped at pressures as high as 1,000 psi, and Sadie also keeps a close eye o
n the pressure readings for each section of pipeline.

  Four other similarly shaped desks take up the rest of the control center, each manned by one of Sadie’s coworkers. Being the only girl on the team, she’s learned not to react to the raunchy jokes or the constant revelations of sexual escapades that occurred the night before. Sadie glances at the video monitor on the upper left and winces. “Jackson, what’s your monitor showing for fill line F8-331?”

  Jackson, occupying the desk next to her, scoots his chair closer to the desk and clicks on his computer mouse. “It suggests the pressure’s too high, but I bet it’s a sensor error.”

  “What makes you think sensor error?” Sadie asks.

  Jackson shrugs. “What else could it be? If the pressure is really that high, we’d be watching a real-life gusher.”

  Sadie snatches a radio from her desk and stands. “What if it’s not a sensor error? Open the backflow valve. That’ll tell us whether it’s a sensor error.” As Sadie approaches the window she uses the radio to direct one of the field workers to the trouble spot.

  “Sadie, I’m getting no response from the backflow valve,” Jackson says, his voice edging higher.

  “Kill the pump, then.” Sadie watches as the field worker approaches tank eight.

  “The computer won’t let me shut down the pump.”

  “What the hell do you mean won’t let you?” Sadie hurries across the room and knees Jackson’s chair away from the desk, grabbing for the keyboard. “Is the valve not responding?”

  “No, the computer is not responding.”

  Sadie’s fingers dance across the keyboard. “Brian, is your computer responding?” she shouts to one of the other workers. A bead of perspiration trickles down her back.

  “No, I can’t—”

  A dozen alarms begin to sound. “What the hell is going on?” Sadie shouts. “Someone try to reboot the system.” Sadie hurries back over to the window, the radio to her lips. “Anything out there?”

  Before the field hand can answer, oil explodes out of the ruptured pipeline, slicing the worker in half. Other workers rush to the site. Two run to the main valve for a manual shutoff but never make it. Horrified, Sadie watches as other pipelines rupture. Sadie’s coworkers rush to the window in time to see four other workers cleaved in half. Before they can react, the oil hits an overheated pump and ignites. With multiple ruptures now occurring, the fire spreads into a conflagration so intense the heat can be felt inside the building. The wall of fire creates its own wind and the swirling flames race across the landscape, now heading directly toward them.