Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  —BREAKING NEWS—SECOND attack on Naval Station Norfolk. Further damage reported. Attackers unknown. President raises threat level to DEFCON 3. Multiple ships sunk. Many confirmed fatalities.

  The military has confirmed that several ships have been sunk. Military leaders think the nation’s latest warship, the beleaguered Zumwalt-class destroyer, may have been hacked. Search and rescue operations are still under way. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Power outage occurs in large swath of the Midwest. As many as 18 million people may now be without electricity.

  Several power company executives report their computer systems have been compromised. Hackers have apparently targeted several supervisory control and data acquisition (SCADA) systems. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Power out in parts of New York State. New York City included in outage. National Guard troops called up in city.

  After multiple reports of looting, the governor of New York has called up the National Guard to patrol the streets of New York City. We have heard unconfirmed reports that the Guard has been ordered to shoot to kill. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Possible prison riot at Attica Correctional Facility in western New York State. Reports confirm significant loss of life. National Guard troops said to be entering prison. More details to follow . . .

  CHAPTER 82

  Lexington Park, Maryland

  Roger Rinsky had a miserable night. Yesterday, soon after leaving the golf course, it felt like he had a bad sunburn, but by dinnertime blisters had cropped up on his arms, face, and legs. At bedtime the vomiting began and for the first time, he wished he’d evacuated when they told him to. Deep into the night, the diarrhea started and Rinsky ending up messing the bed, forcing him to move to the sofa in the living room. This morning it has all coalesced and he hasn’t left the bathroom in two hours. With daylight breaking, Rinsky knows he needs help or he’s going to die hugging the porcelain throne.

  He’s severely dehydrated, his movements are sluggish, and standing or walking is out of the question. So Rinsky begins to crawl, desperate to reach the cell phone on his nightstand. After his wife died three years ago, Rinsky moved into an apartment in a small retirement community across the Patuxent River in Lexington Park. As his grief waned over the passing of his wife, Rinsky started playing golf every morning and chasing the ladies in the afternoons and evenings. And that led to his current predicament. His girlfriend, Dorothy, moved out last month after she walked in on Roger and her best friend, Susie, participating in a little afternoon delight. Now Rinsky is alone and it’s looking like he might just die that way.

  Rinsky makes it to the entrance to his bedroom and he can see his phone on his nightstand. The distance is maybe seven feet, but to Rinsky it looks like a mile. After taking a deep breath, he begins to crawl again, his guts roiling and cramping. He can feel the diarrhea coming, but there’s little he can do about it as he crawls forward another foot, leaving a brown trail in his wake.

  His addled mind drifts. He wonders how much radiation he was exposed to when the Calvert Cliffs nuclear plant exploded. And what about Moretti and the others? Are they shittin’ and pukin’ their guts out? Rinsky shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind. But that triggers another round of nausea, and he pukes. There’s nothing left in his stomach except bile, awaiting its turn to break down his next meal, a meal that’s now in doubt. Rinsky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls forward another two feet. He raises his hand in a feeble attempt to reach the phone and he realizes it’s just out of his grasp.

  With one last surge of energy, Rinsky lowers his head and crawls, bumping his head against the nightstand. He exhales a stuttering breath and reaches up for his phone. He punches the button to light the screen and nothing happens. Rinsky screams with frustration, fumbles around for the power cord, and plugs in the phone. Rolling over onto his back, he waits for the phone to power up. He pokes and prods the blisters on his face, then looks at the ones on his arms. Some of his skin is turning black and that puzzles him. Jesus, it’s not like he was inside the plant when the damn thing blew up. Hell, they were at least four miles away. He lowers his arms and stares at the ceiling, berating himself for not listening to Moretti. If he hadn’t been so damn stubborn they could have made it back to the clubhouse when the sirens first sounded. And that might have allowed him time to set things right with Dorothy. But then his mind turns to Susie and their recent tumbles in the hay and all thoughts of Dorothy disappear. It’s Susie and her magic mouth that take center stage in his mind. But he’s now in such poor shape he can’t even get a hard-on.

  He checks the phone again. It’s not charging and that’s when he remembers the power is out. Rinsky mutters a string of curse words that would make a sailor blush and rolls over. He pushes himself up to his hands and knees and starts crawling again. His only hope now is to crawl outside and hope someone is around to help him.

  Exiting the bedroom, he pauses to vomit again. He’s as weak as a day-old kitten, yet once he clears the bedroom his sole focus is the front door. A Galápagos giant tortoise moves slowly, but today it would win a race against Rinsky, hands down. Halfway across the room, he falters, collapsing to his belly. His shoulders are burning and his knees are a bloody mess from the popped blisters. Rinsky rests for a moment, then uses his forearms to drag himself across the floor. With sweat dripping from his face and his throat parched, he finally makes it to the door.

  Grimacing against the pain, he reaches up and turns the knob. Unfortunately, the door opens inward so he has to push himself back to gain clearance, the skin on his knees shredding on the tile. He eventually gets the door open wide enough to get through and he slithers out onto the concrete stoop. He looks around hoping to spot a neighbor, but there’s not a soul around. This time Rinsky doesn’t even have the energy to curse when he remembers the evacuation order and his refusal to leave.

  After resting for a while, Rinsky pulls himself farther down the sidewalk, hoping to get out of the shadow of his apartment building in case someone comes by looking for him. He snakes his way across the wet grass and into the scant shade of a recently planted oak tree.

  He’s there three hours later when he coughs a final time and gasps a final breath.

  CHAPTER 83

  Calvert Cliffs

  Inside the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant, crews wearing hazmat suits are working in fifteen-minute shifts to reduce their radiation exposure as they attempt to stop the second reactor from melting. Inside the environmentally sealed control room, David Roark and Charles Lewis are thirty hours into their eight-hour shift. Pumps and generators were brought in overnight along with more staff, but there’s major concern about the integrity of reactor two’s enclosure. Reactor one is toast and the fire department is dumping an enormous amount of water on it to limit the release of more radiation as crews struggle to get the new pumps working. Once the pumps are operational, employees will need to pump millions of gallons of water every day from Chesapeake Bay just to keep the melting core cooled and to prevent more explosions. And, worse still, all of that water will now be contaminated, creating another massive headache of how to store a gazillion gallons of radiated wastewater.

  The CEO of the corporation that owns the plant, J. Harold Houston, arrived this morning, screaming about lawsuits and lost investments. Roark and Lewis are doing their best to stay out of his way. With reactor one down, they’re keeping a very close eye on the instruments measuring the health of the second reactor. If it blows, a wide swath of land around the plant—a nineteen-mile radius—–will be uninhabitable for generations. And a large evacuation might still be needed if they can’t contain reactor one. Roark and Lewis are also helping a team of suits from corporate do a thorough inspection of the plant’s computer systems, which are still up and operating. It will be an arduous task that could take months or years. Roark has already started thinking about employment alternatives because the last
thing he wants to do is sit next to a melting mound of radiated metal for the next however long it takes.

  As everyone knows after watching YouTube videos of the Fukushima disaster, they’re in for a long slog. The Japanese are years into the aftermath of their disaster and they still don’t have a good handle on how to stop the escape of ionizing radiation. And the Russians could never find a solution for Chernobyl and eventually had to entomb the destroyed reactor in a sarcophagus of concrete and lead. No one here knows for sure what’s in store or what to expect. The best thing to do would be to shut everything down and order the plant decommissioned, but that’s impossible now after the explosion of reactor one. Now the company’s responsible for the outcome and the costs could soar into the billions of dollars.

  If those problems weren’t enough, the company also owns two more nuke plants and no one here knows exactly how this disaster occurred. Someone obviously hacked the plant’s computer network and the fear is the other plants are now at risk. And they’re not out of the woods here in regard to reactor two. Could the saboteurs be waiting for another opportunity to destroy the second reactor? It’s a question with no answer. The smart thing to do would be to shut the company’s computers down, but they can’t. All mechanical operations of the plant are controlled by computer via the PLCs and the second reactor is still operating—for now.

  “Uh-oh,” Lewis says.

  “What?” Roark asks as a bead of sweat trickles down his spine.

  “The steam turbine speeds are ramping up.”

  “We’ve seen this movie before. Shut that son of a bitch down.”

  “The turbine or the entire reactor?”

  “The whole damn thing.”

  “No!” someone shouts behind them. They both turn to see Houston, the CEO, standing in the center of the room.

  “Sir, this is exactly how the failure of reactor one started,” Roark says.

  “Just dial the turbine speed back a little. We must have that reactor up and operating.”

  “We can’t dial back the turbines,” Lewis says. “Which part of ‘the computers have been hacked’ do you not understand?”

  “Have someone inside the plant take manual control of the turbines,” the CEO says.

  “The last time we tried that,” Roark says, “eight people died. And that was yesterday.”

  “Well, come up with another plan, then. We are not, I repeat NOT, going to shut down the second reactor.”

  Roark and Lewis share a look. They’ve both had more than enough. Roark stands, reaches across the console, and slams his palm down on the emergency release button that drops the control rods into the core of reactor two, stopping the fission process. He turns and walks toward the exit, looking at Houston. “I quit. Good luck managing your disaster.”

  CHAPTER 84

  Attica

  Captain Scott Butler steps outside the prison and takes a deep breath, his first taste of fresh air in what seems like forever. If he never sees Attica again it will be too soon. The final tally of the dead is grim. Other than Lydia Darnell and the two hostages they rescued from the hospital, every correctional officer or staff member inside when the power went off—all 167—are dead. The death toll for the inmates is considerably higher at 421. Of that number, Butler and his team are responsible for 198 of those deaths, the others killed by their fellow inmates. The plan now is to transfer the remaining prisoners to other facilities while law enforcement personnel work the massive crime scene. But the who did what might never be determined.

  Butler walks over to the truck and tosses his helmet inside. He leans his rifle against the door and strips off his armored vest, spreading it out across the hood to dry. Butler’s camo shirt is soaked with sweat and he tugs it away from his torso, hoping it will eventually dry. His troops are scattered around the parking lot, stripping off unnecessary equipment. Several have cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths, the smoke curling around their sweaty faces in the still air. Butler glances at his watch and curses. His first patient is due in the office in forty-five minutes. He pulls out his cell phone and attempts to call one of his dental hygienists to cancel his morning schedule, but the call won’t go through. Butler reasons that the power is now out in Buffalo.

  The cadre of ambulances is gone and in their place is a swarm of media vehicles from all over the state. The warden mentioned something to Butler about holding a news conference, but he wants no part of it. All he wants is a hot meal and a bed. He walks around the back of the truck, lowers the tailgate, and sits. Switching to a military satellite phone. Butler dials directory assistance to get the phone number to the hospital. He calls the hospital and becomes angry and frustrated when the medical staff won’t release any information about his injured soldiers. The hospital isn’t allowed to, according to the HIPAA law. He would like to call the families of those injured, but he can’t do that until he knows the extent of their injuries. It’s a quandary he’ll have to find some way to wade through.

  Butler hasn’t smoked a cigarette in twenty years, but for some reason he has a sudden desire to have one. He stands and walks over to one of his soldiers and bums a smoke. After lighting it, he takes a deep pull and allows the smoke to curl out of his nostrils. Then he starts coughing and decides that’s enough of that and he tosses it to the ground and grinds the cigarette out with his boot heel. He instructs Lieutenant Fred Parker to start rounding up the men, then studies the keyboard of the sat phone for a moment or two, dreading the call he must now make. He keys in the number for Major General Lawrence Moore and puts the phone to his ear. The call is answered on the second ring. “It’s over, sir,” Butler says. “The prison is secure.”

  “You disobeyed a direct order, Captain Butler,” Moore says.

  “No, sir, I managed the situation as I saw fit as the commander on the ground.”

  “No, Captain, you disobeyed a direct order from the governor himself.”

  “I guess we can agree to disagree, sir.”

  “This isn’t a disagreement, Captain. Your fate will be determined at a later date.”

  Butler’s cheeks redden with anger. “How about we decide my fate right now? I resign.”

  “Resignation denied. I want a full written report on my desk by the end of the day.”

  Butler blows out a breath, trying to keep his temper in check. “You’ll have it along with my written resignation letter. Is that all, sir?”

  “No, that is not all, Captain Butler,” Moore says. “Do not waste your time drafting a resignation letter. It will not be accepted during a period of martial law.”

  “Who declared martial law?”

  “The governor did last night. A majority of the state is now without power.”

  “We’ll resolve this issue later. I better get started on that report, sir.”

  “I am not through with you, Captain.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’m exhausted and hungry. My men and I have been at this all night.”

  “I’m sorry the world doesn’t conform to your schedule, Captain Butler. We have multiple reports of looting in Buffalo. You and your men will return to Buffalo and you will patrol the streets and return the city to order.”

  Butler pulls the phone away from his ear and mutters a string of curse words. He takes a deep breath and puts the phone back to his ear. “Is that all, sir?”

  “That is all, Captain. Do not forget my report.”

  When the general hangs up, Butler tosses the phone in the truck and mutters a long string of curses.

  CHAPTER 85

  Norfolk, Virginia

  Now three miles from Norfolk, Captain Bruce Hensley heads to his stateroom to shit, shower, and shave and to change into his dress uniform. Filled with apprehension, he has no idea what to expect upon their arrival. Downstairs, he ducks his head into the officers’ wardroom. “Admiral, we’ll be docking in a few minutes.”

  Admiral Malloy nods. “I’ve made several calls on your behalf, Bruce. I believe things ar
e going to work out just fine for you.” The admiral returns to staring at the table, as if studying the wood grain.

  “Thank you, sir.” Hensley wants to ask Malloy about the outlook for the admiral’s situation, but decides against it. “You can use Lieutenant Commander Connelly’s quarters if you’d like to freshen up, sir.”

  Malloy never looks up from the table when he says, “Thank you, Captain.”

  Hensley ducks back out of the room and closes the door. After entering his stateroom, he flips on the shower and strips out of his sweaty clothes. Once he finishes up in the bathroom he puts on his dress uniform, grabs his phone, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He pulls up his wife’s phone number and stares at the picture he’d snapped of her laughing. He liked the photo so much that he attached it to Maggie’s number so that it comes up every time she calls. Now, with his career likely over, he wonders where they’ll settle down. That is, if he doesn’t end up in the brig. Though, from what the admiral says, that’s probably not going to happen, but Hensley knows there are no guarantees. He touches Maggie’s photo and puts the phone to his ear.

  Maggie answers on the second ring. “Bruce, what in the world’s going on? Somebody bombed the hell out of the base.”

  “I know, babe. Believe me, I know.”

  “Who did it? The Chinese? The Russians?”

  “No, someone much closer to home.” Hensley sighs. “It was us.”

  “What?” Maggie shouts over the phone. “What do you mean, ‘It was us’? Our own navy?”

  “To be more specific, it was the USS Stark.”

  “Oh Jesus. What happened?”

  “Someone hacked the computers on board.”

  “How and who?”

  “We don’t know the answer to either of those questions.”