Digital Winter (4 page)

“Amy's parents—our parents live on the other side of the country. They're on their way.” Roni thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in the doctor's eye. A moment later, it drowned in a flood of sadness.

The doctor sat and pulled the surgical cap from her head. Once in the chair, the woman seemed to deflate. She took two seconds to breathe and then sat straight. “I'm sorry, but your friend is gone.”

Roni started to counter the “friend” comment, but the rest of the sentence took the air from her lungs.

“We did everything we could. We used everything at our disposal, but there was nothing we could do. The damage was too extreme, and time wasn't on our side.”

Roni's lip quivered. Seeing tears in the surgeon's eyes only made controlling her grief more difficult. “You've said that a lot in your career, haven't you?”

Dr. Mayer nodded. “Far too many times.”

“What was the cause of death?” Roni tried to maintain composure by giving reason to revelation.

“Let's just say it was from internal injuries.”

“Amy and I were going to go to med school together. She would ask the same question if it had been me instead of her.”

“What school?”

“Stanford.”

Mayer nodded. “Good school. Okay…but it's not pleasant.” She turned to Roni and gazed in her eyes as if searching for a clue about the young woman's strength. “Amy presented with severe trauma. Her left leg was crushed, multiple fractures to femur, fibula, and tibia. Two of the breaks were compound. The soft tissue injury was extensive. If she had lived, I'm sure we would have had to amputate. Her hip was broken in three places; three vertebrae were cracked, and I'm sure there was significant spinal damage.”

She looked at the arm of the waiting room chair as if searching for her next sentence on the plastic arm rest. Roni figured Mayer was giving her time to digest the first bit of gruesome detail. When Roni didn't react, the doctor continued. “There was other damage too. Left lung punctured, left rib cage crushed, and her sternum was pressed back to her heart. It bruised the heart muscle and the xiphoid process. That's the—”

“The hard bit of cartilage at the end of the sternum.”

“Exactly. Anyway, it put a gash in the liver. The liver is blood rich, so it bled profusely. There were other organs damaged. She had almost bled out by the time she reached the ER.”

“So there was no chance to save her?”

“None. I wish I could have done more.”

Why did the woman on the operating table have to look like Amy? Her hair was the same color and just as wild, though it was now hidden by a green sterile bonnet. Roni had examined the woman in the ER, lifting her eyelids to check pupil response—eyes the same shade as Amy's. The ER docs had done an admirable job stabilizing the woman considering the number of patients who waited their turn, some screaming and moaning.

The injured lined the halls. As always, the early estimates were wrong. This time emergency personnel underestimated the number of injured by half. According to the first report, Harris Memorial would receive fifteen to twenty patients. But that many arrived during the first hour, and more were en route.

The head of ER started triage, judging who needed attention first. Usually the screamers were left to the last. Screams meant they could draw a breath. Unless they were bleeding out, they would have to wait. Roni performed a secondary triage on those who would clearly need surgery. Victims with broken bones were sent to orthopedic surgeons; Roni and other trauma surgeons would be responsible for those with internal injuries. In the worse cases, more than one surgeon attended to a patient. Such was the case for this woman, who had two broken arms requiring pins and metal plates. Roni's job was to stem internal bleeding, remove the pancreas, and check for a perforated bowel.

Roni called for a scalpel from the surgical nurse, took it in a Palmar grip—her index finger resting on the top of the blade—and set it to the woman's bruised skin.

Amy would be proud.

J
eremy was a kind man, taught by his parents to be respectful and polite. He prided himself on his calm, nonconfrontational demeanor. It was the way he thought all humans should act—except in uniform. The military way of communication was different from that of polite society. Rank existed for a reason, and Jeremy admitted to enjoying the often formal and disciplined way warriors spoke.

Inside the USCYBERCOM wing of the National Security Agency—to most,
NSA
stood for No Such Agency—ten newly minted Army officers, fresh from cadet training, chatted and joked as they awaited the arrival of the man who would deliver their indoctrination lesson. Jeremy had no intention of teaching like a college professor or delivering a speech like a politician. As the head of operations of the joint military unit, he was concerned with focus and knowledge. His team had no room for men and women looking for coattails to ride.

He paused before stepping into the small, theater-style classroom. From his position he could see twelve soldiers—eight men and four women—dressed in Army combat uniforms, similar to his airman dress uniform. The biggest difference was the sewn grade insignia on the collars: Theirs were single bars, indicating second lieutenant; his was the eagle of a bird colonel. Mixed into the group were eight other newly graduated cadets, four from the Air Force and four from the Navy.

As he stepped into the room, one of the soldiers glanced his way, blinked once, then shot to his feet. “At-ten-tion.”

Twelve junior officers came to attention.

Jeremy strode to the front of the room and approached a metal podium with an artificial wood top. He let the group stay at attention for a few moments as he gazed at each of their faces. All so young; so fresh-faced. “At ease. Sit.”

As only former military cadets can do, they sat at attention. He fought a smile.

“I am Colonel Jeremy Matisse. I lead day-to-day operations of USCYBERCOM. Welcome to the world of digital defense…and digital warfare. I am told you are the best and brightest to come out of the academies. I am told each of you has distinguished yourself in this year's cyberwar games.” Several smiles crossed young faces. “You shouldn't feel too bad that the Air Force took the Director's Cup.”

The Cyber War Games were held annually with teams from the various military academies to see which group of cadets could best defend a military network. The competition met outside Las Vegas and lasted four days, as cadets faced off against NSA specialists and the 57th Information Aggressor Squadron from Nellis Air Force Base. It was a real-world simulation and was essential in training the newest and most-needed breed of military assets.

One of the former Army cadets started to raise his hand but thought better of it. Jeremy had no doubt that the man wanted to remind him that Army usually won. He would be in his rights. West Point recruited and produced some of the best cyber warriors.

A motion at the back door caught Jeremy's attention. Two men entered the room. One wore an expensive-looking dark gray business suit. The other wore an ADU like Jeremy's but with a noticeable difference—two stars on the collar. Major General Tom Holt was nearly sixty but looked a decade and a half younger. He was six feet two and had the narrow build of an Olympic swimmer. His gray hair clung close to his head, and his aquiline nose and straight spine gave him an aristocratic air. The general raised a hand and gave a quick nod to Jeremy without breaking eye contact. The act kept Jeremy from calling the group to attention.

Bringing a visitor into the session had not been part of the plan. Holt and the senator sat in the back row, their entrance unnoticed by the others.

The visitor was no mystery to Jeremy, who prided himself on being a news junkie. Senator Ryan O'Tool looked as Irish as his name sounded: reddish-brown hair, ruddy skin, and a square jaw. According to rumors, the new head of the Armed Services Committee had the stereotypical Irish temper. He wasn't supposed to be here until tomorrow. A surprise visit? Jeremy wouldn't put it past the ambitious man.

Jeremy returned his attention to his charges and placed his hands behind his back. “Operation Shady RAT.” He gazed at the group. No one spoke.

He waited.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Operation Shady RAT. Anyone?”

A young man who looked too young to shave raised a hand. “It was a recent—”

“Stand up when you address the group, Lieutenant.”

The thin man scrambled to his feet. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Had this been a college class, snickers would have circulated, but this group knew better.

“Carry on.”

“Yes, sir. Second Lieutenant Rabin, sir. Operation Shady RAT was a hacking effort discovered by McAfee a few years ago. It was a five-year-long hack that embedded software on hundreds of computers around the world.”

“Define ‘around the world.'”

“Well, the US was the worst hit, and there were others.”

“Sit down, Rabin.” Jeremy frowned, searched the group for signs of intelligence, and pointed at a female Navy ensign. “Can you do better?”

The woman stood. Her round face was pretty, even with almost no makeup. “Yes, sir, I believe I can. Ensign Jody Liddell. The lieutenant is correct in calling it a five-year hack. The US received the most attacks. Forty-nine to be exact. Canada discovered four compromise attempts. South Korea and Taiwan each suffered three compromises. Other countries include Japan, Denmark, Vietnam, Indonesia—”

“Areas of attack?”

“Government agencies mostly, from the federal level down to county. Thirteen defense organizations were also attacked, including those in electronics, computer security, and satellite communications.”

“Who did it?” Jeremy stepped to the side of the lectern.

“I'm not privy to that information, sir, but my best guess is the Chinese government or a group sponsored by them.”

“That's a serious accusation.”

“Yes, sir, I agree. But some of the attacks had to do with international sports, and the earliest part of the attack occurred before the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing, so it is appropriate to suggest China as the state player.”

Jeremy looked at General Holt, who was smiling. Jeremy fought not to smile. “Thank you, Ensign. I don't suppose you know what fell off the truck.” Jeremy always liked that metaphor.

“Again, sir, I have no proprietary knowledge, but the news and scuttlebutt is that the computer of the secretary-general of the United Nations was compromised, although as far as the public knows, nothing was transferred. However, in its report, McAfee suggested that a great deal of material was copied and sent to the actors.”

“Very good, Ensign. Please take your seat.” He addressed the group. “Every day, computer systems around the world are attacked. As I stand before you now, the network of the NSA, the Pentagon, the White House, congress, and military bases around the world are under attack. Make no mistake. We've been compromised in the past. There's a good chance we will be compromised again. We are no longer facing off against pimply-faced geeks living in their parents' basement. We're matching wits with powerful and very rich countries, several of which have technology equal to our own.”

He paused to let the information settle, although he was sure the new officers already knew this. The speech was for the man in the gray suit scowling in the back.

“Your job will be to help stop that and, if called upon to do so, reverse the attack.” He wondered how many people in the country knew that the military and intelligence communities not only defend the technology networks of the country but also had taken the offensive on several occasions. The war against Iraq began at a computer terminal. “Some of you will work here or at one of the bases around the country. Some of you will deploy to foreign fields to set up and defend computer systems in combat zones.

“The world has changed,” he continued. “We are moving from megatons to megabytes. You will take us to the next level. Who can tell me the formal USCYBERCOM mission?”

An Air Force man near the back stood. He looked older than the others. “Second Lieutenant Ogilvy, sir. I believe I can.”