Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  Eric takes a seat on the edge of the sofa. “I’m sorry, Peyton. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. But not when you’re an asshole.”

  “I know. It’s been a long day, babe.” Eric settles back on the sofa as Allison returns with a fresh bottle of wine, a glass for Eric, and clothing for both of them, which she puts on the coffee table before sitting.

  “No offense, you two,” Allison says, “but I’m not into the campfire scene. Change clothes and toss what you’re wearing outside. There’s some bottled water in the garage that you can use to rinse off.”

  “I’ll change clothes,” Peyton says, “but we’re not wasting your water. You need to hang on to all the water you can, Allison.”

  “Why?” Allison asks. “I can always run to the store when the power comes back on.”

  “There’s a problem with that scenario,” Peyton says, standing. “The power could be out for a while.”

  “Like what? A couple of days?” Allison asks.

  “Longer,” Peyton says. “Maybe much longer.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Attica

  If the stench inside was vile when Butler and his men entered the prison, it’s now, after hours of fermentation, gag-inducing repulsive, and most of the troops have resorted to using makeshift masks to cover their noses and mouths. Captain Butler had a heated argument about removing the bodies with folks from the Department of Justice and lost. Crime scene preservation was their excuse and Butler wishes he could bottle the foul odor and ship it to them for a little taste of what he and his men are now enduring. Butler takes a deep, calming breath and immediately regrets it. He coughs and turns his mind back to the mission. At this point, he just wants it over with as quickly as possible. But he knows without a doubt that’s not likely to happen.

  Butler had called up the state troopers in reserve to guard the prisoners who surrendered and to provide protection for the prison personnel on-site. Now he looks up and scans the area, searching for Lieutenant Fred Parker. He spots him over by the coffeepot and calls him over. “What do you think, Freddy, should we offer the remaining inmates another chance to surrender?”

  Parker shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Cap. They’ve had hours to consider their options.”

  “I concur,” Butler says. “As my grandfather used to say before stepping into the hog pen with his pocketknife—it’s nut-cuttin’ time.” He turns to the men around him. “Squads one and two, move out and keep your heads on a swivel.” He makes a radio call to Lieutenant Gary Clark over in cellblock C and passes on the order. Once the two squads have cleared the cellblock gate, Butler orders more squads on the move. Parker takes off to be with his men and before slipping down the corridor Butler orders squad seven to remain as a rear guard. He unslings his rifle and braces it tight to his shoulder, his index finger caressing the trigger guard.

  He’s six steps into cellblock A when a barrage of rifle fire from up ahead shatters the silence. Butler hurries to the front to see two inmates bleeding out on the floor.

  “They tried to jump me, sir,” Corporal Todd Reed, one of the young firemen, says.

  “It’s okay, Todd. Drop back and let me take point,” Butler says, knowing the young man, a jittery person on a good day, is going to start spraying bullets at everything that moves. “And, Todd?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Try not to shoot me in the back.” Butler notices that Reed’s hands are trembling. “As a matter of fact, Todd, why don’t you join squad seven at the rear? Make damn sure nothing gets past you.”

  Reed salutes. “You can count on me, sir.”

  As Reed retreats, Butler and his men move forward to discover the horror show continues. They find seven inmates and six more guards dead, their coagulated blood pooled into a red lake that spans the width of the corridor. Butler turns his head and whispers, “Watch your footing.” But he finds the task difficult while trying to keep his gaze centered on the area ahead. He holds up a hand, deciding to switch tactics. “Squads one and two on me.”

  When the men arrive, he has them form a circle with their backs to the center. He joins the circle and they proceed down the corridor in a rugby scrum formation and make the turn into cellblock D. They find more of the same—bodies and blood. Finding no one alive, Butler is beginning to doubt the warden’s head count.

  When they reach the center of cellblock D and the iron-barred gate that separates the two sides, Butler holds up a hand and the scrum comes to a halt. The gate is centered in a concrete block wall with four feet of empty space on either side—making it a perfect hiding spot. And unfortunately for Butler and his men, the opening is fairly narrow, meaning they’ll have to enter side by side rather than using Butler’s preferred formation. Butler puts a finger to his lips, trying to hear movement or other signs of life from the other side of the wall. But the heavy breathing of his men wipes out any chance of hearing anything.

  Butler points at two men, Jack Coleman and Steven Perez, and waves them forward. Coleman and Perez usually spend their days patrolling the streets of Buffalo in their police cruisers. Butler motions them closer and whispers his instructions. “Go together, one left and one right, just like you’re breaching a house.” Coleman and Perez both nod and take up positions on either side of the opening. Both ditch their rifles and pull out their pistols. In such a confined space, a rifle is unwieldy and there’s a chance the bad guys could grab it by the barrel and rip it out of their hands. Butler holds up two fingers, signaling that the squad members are to form up in pairs, then he waves the troopers with the shotguns up to the front. Once everyone is in position, Butler nods at the two by the gate.

  They hit the doorway together and one swings left, the other right.

  And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  Coleman and Perez begin firing almost immediately, sustained bursts, one shot after another as fast as they can pull the trigger. Butler has no idea if they’re facing five inmates or fifty. “Troopers, up,” Butler shouts. Two state troopers armed with riot shotguns step through the doorway and immediately open fire, the booms from the shotguns almost deafening. Two more troopers step through the door and open fire.

  The pistols have fallen silent and Butler’s wondering what happened to his two men. He steps over to the door, braces his rifle against his shoulder, and clicks off the safety. He turns into the corridor to see inmates everywhere. It’s dark as hell, making it impossible to make an educated guess on their number. Butler sees them trying to overpower the state troopers and opens fire. He shouts for squads one and two to deploy as he moves the barrel from target to target, squeezing the trigger. The copper slugs of the 5.56-mm cartridges are deadly at a distance, but up close they’re absolutely lethal.

  One of the inmates tries to grab a shotgun from a trooper’s hand and Butler drills him right between the eyes, launching a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter. Butler can hear other M4s firing, but still nothing more from the pistols. He takes a quick peek at the floor to see his two men on the ground. He looks back up as a large man comes charging toward him. Butler fires and the man drops like a sack of cement. With the gun lights and the muzzle flashes, it looks like a dance with the devil.

  About a dozen inmates turn and try to make a break down the corridor, one carrying a shotgun. Butler sights in on the middle of his shoulder blades and squeezes the trigger. The man drops and the shotgun flies out of his hands. The rest of the inmates make it about six steps before they’re all cut down. Butler checks for other bogies and, not seeing any, shouts, “Cease fire.”

  The gunfire stops, but Butler still hears a roar in his ears. He puts the radio to his lips and shouts for the paramedics then tells his men to secure any other firearms. He hurries over to the closest man and kneels down, gently rolling him over. It’s Coleman, and his throat has been slit from ear to ear. Butler checks for a pulse anyway and, as expected, doesn’t find one. He stands and hurries to the next man. This time it’s one of the state troopers
. He has been bludgeoned to death, his face unrecognizable. His blood boiling, Butler stands and hurries over to Perez, who’s curled up next to the wall. Butler kneels down beside him. “Steve, can you hear me?”

  He’s rewarded with a groan. Butler doesn’t see any apparent external injuries but he’s afraid to roll him over to look, fearful of doing further damage. Butler puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hang in there, Steve. Medical personnel are on the way.”

  Butler stands and asks one of his men to stay with Perez until help arrives. Butler looks at Parker. “Body count, Lieutenant Parker?”

  “I count seventy-three inmates killed in addition to thirteen correctional officers in cellblocks A and D, sir.”

  Butler does the math in his head. He has no idea how many inmates Lieutenant Clark and his men have encountered, but he hasn’t heard much in the way of gunfire from that side of the prison. “Listen up, men,” Butler shouts. “We have over a hundred more prisoners to find. From here on out, it’s shoot first and don’t even worry about asking any fucking questions later. Understood?”

  CHAPTER 73

  Baltimore-Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport

  With all commercial aircraft grounded, it seems strange to look out the window and see one of the busiest airports in the region devoid of activity. There are no baggage handlers rushing to load on luggage before a plane departs, no fuel trucks zipping across the tarmac, and no food catering companies with their scissor-lift trucks loading on snacks and booze. Although all is quiet outside, Hank can only imagine the chaos going on inside the terminal.

  The pilots taxi the jet to one of the air charter terminals and park. Hank stands and stretches.

  “Do we have a ride?” Paige asks, sliding her laptop into her bag and standing.

  “Yeah, someone from the Baltimore field office is pickin’ us up and drivin’ us down to Fort Meade.” Hank glances out the window at the terminal building. “Why do you think the hackers haven’t hit Baltimore yet?”

  “No idea. I haven’t been able to figure out if there’s a method to their madness. You can bet they have access to the computer networks, but why they’re choosing to crash some power grids and not others is a mystery.”

  “Think it’s significant?”

  Paige shrugs. “No clue. You told me earlier that we’d eat and we’d sleep. We’ve eaten. When do we get to sleep?”

  “Yet to be determined.” Hank grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder as Michelle Miller lowers the jet stairs.

  “Hank, are you two headed to Meade?” Michelle asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mind if we tag along?”

  “Not at all. Are you two bunkin’ at the base hotel?”

  “I guess. Power’s out at my place in D.C. and we couldn’t get to Carlos’s place even if we tried. Anyway, we have a flight scheduled out of here in the morning so we’ll make it work. Give us a couple of minutes to finish and lock up.”

  “Will do.” Hank walks down the stairs and takes a deep breath, picking up a hint of the ocean in the briny breeze blowing off Chesapeake Bay to the east. Located twelve miles south of downtown Baltimore, the airport sees a lot of traffic from Fort Meade, which is located only ten miles down the road. Paige climbs down the steps and joins him.

  She looks down at her ruined clothing. “I wished I had another outfit.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s goin’ to care what you’re wearin’.”

  “I know. Maybe Natalie will let me borrow something from her locker.”

  “That’ll work. You two are about the same size.”

  “She’s a little bigger on the top end.”

  Hank takes a moment to study Paige. “Maybe.” That statement gets Hank an elbow in the ribs.

  Michelle and Carlos climb down, fold up the stairs, and lock up the jet. They walk around to the front of the building and pile into the idling Suburban at the curb for the short drive to the base. Once there, they badge their way past the guards and drop Michelle and Carlos at the hotel before the driver drops them off at the National Security Agency. They quickly discover their badges aren’t sufficient to get them inside the building and they wait while the guard makes a call to their host. A minute or two later, Natalie Lambert arrives to escort them inside. After clearing security—Hank had to relinquish his weapon and both surrendered their phones and backpacks—Natalie gives them both a hug before leading them to the elevator. They take the elevator down and exit, walking down the corridor to a plain wooden door absent of signage. Natalie positions her face in front of a nearby retinal scanner and the door pops open and they enter into a large workspace brimming with people.

  It’s not the NSA’s National Security Operations Center, but there are enough computers, video monitors, and televisions inside to fully stock a half a dozen sports bars. Natalie leads Hank and Paige to her desk and pulls up two extra chairs. Hank’s butt has barely touched the seat when Natalie launches into her spiel about what they’ve discovered so far about the malware.

  Hank holds up a hand to stop her. “Do we have any idea about who’s behind the hacks?”

  “Not yet,” Natalie says. “They’re clearly spoofing and are routing their attacks through servers all over the world.”

  “How long before we get a bead on them?” Hank asks.

  Natalie sighs. “I don’t know, Hank. Maybe never.”

  Hank leans forward in his chair. “That’s not goin’ to work for me, Nat.”

  Natalie throws her hands up. “I’m sorry, Hank. Right now we’re focusing on how to stop the malware from spreading and how to eradicate it.”

  Hank won’t let it go. “They’ve hacked a navy ship at sea. The only way they can do that is via satellite.”

  Natalie thinks about that for a moment. “Good point.” She lifts the desk phone and makes a call to someone else inside the agency. She passes on Hank’s suggestion, listens for a moment, and hangs up. “Signals is going to attempt to find your satellite. But don’t get your hopes up yet, Hank. I can guarantee you they’re spoofing their communications, too.”

  Hank leans back in his seat. “All we can do is try.”

  “Agreed. Now, can I continue with our findings?” Natalie asks.

  “Please,” Hank says, smiling. He listens with one ear as Natalie continues. He’s competent with a computer, but Paige and Natalie operate on an entirely different level. Mentally, he runs through the list of the hackers’ targets, trying to find other avenues of investigation. Could they be using cellular networks to carry out their attacks? He mulls that over for a few minutes.

  Hank interrupts Natalie again to ask another question. “Would these hackers be workin’ together as a group? For instance, would they be together inside a single facility?”

  “I would think so,” Paige says.

  “They don’t necessarily have to be,” Natalie says. “They can communicate online.”

  “I think that’s too risky,” Paige says. “These people are extremely clever. They know we are capable of intercepting their communications. I believe, for security reasons, they are working within the same physical space.”

  “But there are a hundred different ways to communicate online without being swept up in the NSA’s nets,” Natalie says, turning to look at Hank. “What do you think, Hank?”

  “I agree with Paige. It’s a much simpler process if they’re workin’ together as a group. And it eliminates the threat of havin’ their communications intercepted. I have a couple more questions and then I’ll let you two get back to work. How many people are we talkin’ about?”

  “I think a dozen or less,” Natalie says. “It’s extremely difficult to keep anything secret if you have more people than that.”

  “Paige?” Hank asks.

  “Natalie’s right. Initially, there could have been a large number of people involved, but once they hit the operational phase, the fewer people, the better.”

  “Last question,” Hank says. “Do you think they’
re havin’ external communications with someone on the outside who’s callin’ the shots? Or is it all in-house?”

  Natalie grabs a strand of her honey-colored hair and wraps it around her index finger. “I don’t think we have enough information to hazard a guess. I do think they had a game plan going in. It could be they’re just sticking to the script.”

  “Even if they are communicating with someone on the outside,” Paige says, “you can bet they’ve covered their tracks.”

  “Unless they make a mistake,” Hank says.

  “I wouldn’t count on these people making many mistakes,” Natalie says.

  Hank runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “We don’t need many. In fact, I’d settle for just one.”

  CHAPTER 74

  Chicago

  Peyton takes a sip of wine and studies her friend over the rim of the glass as Eric finishes his story about how he was wounded. It’s obvious Allison’s having second thoughts about inviting them to stay after finding out the power could be off for an extended period of time. And Peyton can’t blame her. She knows how empty her own pantry was before the house burned to the ground. But the thought of trekking all the way to her mother’s house in Champaign makes her ill. Peyton drains the last of her wine and, deciding she’s had enough, sets the glass aside and asks Allison, “Where’s Jordan this week?”

  Allison leans forward and adds more wine to her own glass. “Seattle. He was scheduled to come back tomorrow, but I don’t know what’s going to happen now that all flights are grounded.”

  “Did they ever say what happened to cause all those airline crashes?” Peyton asks.

  “They don’t know,” Eric says. “What’s strange is that the jets, from the little I heard, were all 737s.”

  “Is that significant?” Allison asks.

  “Maybe. I think something hinky is going on with the jet crashes and the power outages.”