Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

Genres: Suspense; High-tech & Sci-fi Thrillers

Synopsis

“ Washburn brings a new kind of terror. “ —Marc Cameron THIS IS NOT A TEST It begins with a computer malfunction. A 737 passenger jet drops from the sky from 34,000 feet. Then another. And another. At the same time, the unthinkable happens in our nuclear power plants. Water pumps fail. Nuclear cores melt. Untold millions could die . . . THIS IS THE FUTURE OF TERROR With each passing hour, orchestrated cyber attacks unleash a massive wave of death and utter destruction. Chemical plants explode. Floodgates burst open. Power grids self-destruct. From Wall Street to Washington, the fear is going viral—and the panic could lead to the total annihilation of America. THIS IS WORLD WAR 3.0 Missiles and guns are useless. Generals and diplomats are powerless. America’s last hope lies with two specially trained FBI agents: Hank Goodnight and computer programmer Paige Randall, who must penetrate the darkest recesses of the web and infiltrate the twisted network of a faceless enemy. And dare to fight fire with fire—apocalypse be damned . . . “Leaves you breathless.” —Marc Cameron, bestselling author of National Security and Day Zero “Like a nuclear reactor, this story heats up fast!” —Anderson Harp, author of Retribution and Born of War

Release date: November 27, 2018

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 373

Sample

Washington Dulles International Airport

The skyline around Dulles International Airport changed significantly in 2007, thanks to the construction of a new air traffic control tower that soars 325 feet above the surrounding landscape. With a panoramic view of the entire airport, the air traffic controllers are now able to visually see the runways and taxiways that funnel nearly twenty-two million passengers in and out of the airport every year. With that many people coming and going, Dulles is a busy place, especially for the air traffic controllers responsible for safely organizing the chaos that comes with two thousand daily flights. And if that wasn’t enough to cause heartburn, the air traffic controllers must face the reality that the tiniest mistake could lead to a major catastrophe.

But for Adam Baldwin it’s just another day at work. He’s accustomed to the pressure working as a flight controller inside the tower at Washington Dulles. Nine years on the job, Baldwin has seen a little bit of everything, from aborted takeoffs to emergency landings. The one thing Baldwin has never witnessed is a passenger jet crash and he has no desire to see one, especially on his watch.

Today Baldwin is working departures on runway 1C. He glances out the window to see how many aircraft are lined up for departure. The airport had a small hiccup earlier that put them behind and now he’ll need to play catch-up to get back on schedule. Baldwin does like the unfettered view from the top of the tower, but all that glass also allows the sun in, creating a hotbox the air-conditioning unit is struggling to cool on this hot August day. Glancing up at one of the large video screens hanging from the ceiling, Baldwin checks the scheduled departure times and compares it to the current time. They’re fifteen minutes behind, something he’ll hear about at the end of his shift, but he can’t make the planes fly any faster. He triggers his radio and says, “AirExpress 1423, you are cleared for takeoff. Please contact Potomac departure at 125.05.”

Baldwin leans back in his chair and pulls the headset from his head to dry moisture collected in his ear canal. Inside the tower, Baldwin sweats on even the coldest days of the year. The sweating is in direct relation to the extra fifty pounds he’s packed on since college and the intensive nature of his job. After swabbing his inner ear with a pinky finger, he repositions his headset and stacks the paper strip for the next departure at the bottom of his flight board. They’re still using the paper strips because the last significant computer upgrade for the Federal Aviation Administration’s flight systems occurred in 1999. And even then, the software was already outdated. In 2003, the FAA began the process of upgrading the nation’s air traffic control system with their NextGen system, but like most government programs, it’s years behind schedule and billions of dollars over budget. Installation of the new system did start last year at Dulles, but it’s not yet operational, leaving Baldwin and his team with their pencils and paper strips.

Baldwin scans the radar as the last plane to depart makes a right-hand turn. He triggers his radio. “Transjet 1536, Dulles Tower. You are next for departure.” He watches as the heavy jet taxis into the center of the runway and holds, waiting for Baldwin to give the all clear. He glances at his departure board and radios another jet to tell them they’re clear to taxi. As the planes continue to back up on the runway, the sweat begins to roll down Baldwin’s back in waves. He checks the radar to make sure the last departure has cleared the airspace and triggers his radio again, saying, “Transjet 1536, Dulles Tower. You are clear for departure.” He follows the plane’s progress through the window as the pilot pushes the throttles to the stops and the jet picks up speed. Baldwin slots his next departure and then, without warning, the power in the tower flashes off. Shift supervisor Elise Carleton steps into the center of the room and takes charge. “Where the hell is the generator?” she shouts. “Hold all departures and have all aircraft maintain current positions.”

“How the hell are we supposed to do that?” Baldwin shouts, removing his headset. “The radios are down.”

Carleton mutters something about how much she loves her job and pulls the microphone away from her lips, snatching up the phone. She punches in an extension and waits for the call to be answered. After several seconds of silence she realizes the phones also aren’t working. “Somebody”—she looks around and points at another supervisor—“run downstairs to check on the generator.”

The supervisor hurries to the door and begins the long climb down.

There’s a roar as Transjet 1536 passes by the tower, zooming toward takeoff speed.

“Who’s taking off?” Carleton shouts.

“Transjet 1536,” Baldwin says. “They were cleared.”

“How the hell are you going to track them, Adam?” Carleton says.

Baldwin stares at his dead headset. “I don’t know. I can’t radio them to abort.”

“Jesus Christ, what a mess,” Carleton says.

Seconds later, the generator kicks on but they have to wait for the antiquated systems to reboot. Baldwin snaps on his headset and waits for the radio to power up, his eyes glued to the jet now lumbering down the runway. He hears a beep signaling the radio is up and running and he relaxes a little when the plane lifts off. Baldwin triggers his microphone and says, “Transjet 1536, please contact Potomac departure.”

“1536. Roger, Dulles Tower—what the hell? Dulles, we seem to be having engine—damn, dial back the engi—”

Baldwin triggers the radio. “Repeat, Transjet 1536.” Baldwin waits for a reply and when it doesn’t come, says, “Transjet 1536. What is the problem?” He pumps his right leg, mentally begging the pilot to respond.

Baldwin nearly jumps out of his chair when a massive explosion rattles the building to its core. Every eye in the room is drawn to the end of runway 1C, where a fireball is blooming high into the sky. Baldwin’s hands begin to tremble as he triggers his microphone again, saying, “Transjet 1536? Dulles Tower to Transjet 1536, please respond.”

He pauses to listen for a response, knowing there won’t be one.

Located approximately fifty miles from Washington, D.C., Maryland’s only nuclear power plant is perched along the western shore of Chesapeake Bay. Two massive concrete cylinders front a long, three-story building that houses the necessary equipment used to generate electricity. Situated inside this building is the nerve center of the plant—the control room. The walls of the room are lined with muted yellow metal cabinets, reminiscent of the harvest gold appliances that were all the rage back in the ’60s and ’70s when the plant was constructed. Although ugly, the cabinets do serve a purpose and they’re outfitted with more switches and gauges than you’d find in an Apollo spacecraft. Phones, buttons, red lights, green lights—you could spend two days looking and still not see it all. In the center of the room is a U-shaped desk equipped with more phones and an array of computer monitors. Manning the desk is David Roark, the leader of the day shift. Presently, Roark is closely monitoring the incoming voltage levels from the power grid on his computer screen. If the voltages drop to a certain level the two nuclear power generating plants could shut down, one of a dozen or so safety measures designed to protect the surrounding civilian population.

The facility is equipped with backup diesel generators and a pair of emergency generators if those backups fail to start, a scenario that appears unlikely but has happened in the past. Two months ago, the two nuclear reactors shut down due to a weather event and the backups failed to start, as did the emergency generators. Roark and his crew had to scramble to keep the water flowing to the pool where the fuel rods are submerged. But according to the maintenance logs Roark scans every morning, the generators are now up and running and in tip-top shape. Roark will have to see it to believe it.

Both units at the plant are pressurized water reactors, and the fission of uranium heats the water to produce steam that is then used to spin massive turbines, generating electricity. Roark pedals his chair across the floor to check the computer display for turbine speeds. A tall, lean man with a shock of wavy red hair, Roark’s most noticeable feature is his oversized Adam’s apple. That big ball of cartilage is now bobbing up and down as he dry swallows repeatedly while watching the turbine speeds continuing to ramp up. “What’s up with the turbines?” he shouts to his four coworkers.

“Both started speeding up a moment ago,” his coworker Charles Lewis says while looking at a video screen at the front of the room. A cascade of alarms begins to sound and the front wall lights up like midnight in Times Square. “David, shut the turbines down!” Lewis shouts.

Roark begins typing the shutdown sequence on his keyboard and looks up to see his monitor frozen. He reaches across the desk and grabs the keyboard of a second computer only to find that one is also unresponsive. “The damn computer is locked up,” he shouts. “Try for a manual override.”

“Trying manual override,” Lewis shouts, pounding his palm on a button that’s supposed to cut the power to the turbines. “The manual override won’t enga—”

A loud shrieking noise pierces the room, followed closely by two loud explosions. Inside the plant, the turbines, spinning ten times faster than they were designed for, rip apart, launching a wave of shrapnel that rips through the other equipment, including two critical pumps used to transfer water from the bay.

“Pressure’s droppin’ like a rock on two of the water pumps on unit one,” Lewis shouts over the continuing wail of alarms.

“Bypass them,” Roark shouts.

“I’m trying. None of the controllers on the bypass valves are responding.”

Just when Roark thinks things couldn’t get any worse, the control room is plunged into darkness. “Where’s my backup generator?” he shouts into the black void.

“Checking,” another coworker, Emily Edwards, says.

“Check faster,” Roark shouts. The battery-powered emergency lighting kicks on, providing some light, but it’s no help for the rapidly failing pumps. He can hear the radio chatter between Edwards and the technicians, but can’t distinguish the actual words.

“Emily?” Roark asks.

She holds up a finger and moments later Roark sees her shoulders slump. “Both backups failed to start,” Edwards says, “and the emergency generators are off-line for maintenance. They’re trying to get the generators started.”

“They better hurry the hell up,” Roark says. “We’re about two minutes from disaster.”

After a very long two minutes with no word from the techs and the power still off, Roark reluctantly picks up the phone and pushes a preprogrammed button on the console. When the call is answered, he says, “This is shift supervisor David Roark at Calvert Cliffs. The emergency code is 746W3. Please initiate evacuation procedures.”

FBI Special Agent Hank Goodnight has his feet up on the desk and a keyboard in his lap, his eyes glued to the computer screen as he scrolls through the latest surveillance reports on a suspected hacker. Hank doesn’t have a clearly defined role within the agency and his job description has been reduced to two words—special projects. He does have a boss, though—Assistant Deputy Director Elaine Mercer—who decides which projects would best fit Hank’s unique abilities. The two have been a team for the last eight years and for the last four years they’ve been working on a joint task force focused on cyber threats. It’s a field of investigation that didn’t even exist twenty years ago. But that’s all changed and now the general public is bombarded by daily news reports about data breaches and stolen identities. Hank’s office phone rings and he leans across the desk and glances at the caller ID to see Mercer’s name. He picks up.

“My office, now,” Mercer says before hanging up.

Hank lowers his feet and stands, lays the keyboard on the desk, grabs his cell phone, and strolls out of his office. The official name of the agency Hank and Mercer are assigned to is the National Cyber Investigative Joint Task Force (NCIJTF), which occupies two floors of an unassuming building in downtown McLean, Virginia. A multiagency task force, it is run by the FBI and includes members from nineteen other government agencies—Homeland Security, the National Security Agency (NSA), Secret Service, Justice, Energy, State—along with a passel of military people mostly from the intelligence and special investigation units. According to the task force’s mission statement, not only do they coordinate, integrate, and share information about cyber attacks, they are also tasked with hunting down the perpetrators. And that’s where Hank comes in.

Hank places his palm on the scanner by the elevator and waits for the car to arrive. He dislikes the endless security gauntlet the agency installed when the space was remodeled for the agency’s use. He understands the need for security, but it’s a little over the top to suit him. He does, however, like the location and that’s the reason this building was chosen—it’s a short trip to both CIA Headquarters and the National Counterterrorism Center, with the added bonus that Dulles International Airport is just down the road.

The elevator car arrives and Hank climbs aboard. When he arrives on three, the doors open onto a sparsely decorated corridor devoid of any signage. Hank hangs a right and heads down the hall. In this building you’re supposed to know where you’re going. Of course there aren’t many slackers roaming around when you have to run through an onslaught of security measures just to enter the building. Hank supposes the government saved a few bucks by not springing for signs, but he doesn’t know that for sure. He sighs as he comes to a stop in front of a plain wooden door and positions his face in front of the iris scanner attached to the wall. Hank did a little research on the scanner and learned that it can detect two hundred unique points of reference on the iris as opposed to a fingerprint, which offers sixty to seventy points of reference. And much like a fingerprint a person’s iris is unique. He didn’t find anything in the stuff he read about repeated exposure to the damn things, but Hank wonders if he’s doing permanent damage to his eyes every time he puts his face up to the scanner.

The computer, satisfied that the person standing in front of the scanner is Hank Goodnight, triggers the door lock and he steps through, the door closing silently behind him. In the center of the large room is a cubicle farm that houses junior personnel who are doing the bidding of those people in the private offices that line the perimeter of the space. A set of double doors on the far side of the room leads to another large workspace with access to some of the fastest computers in the world. Hank bypasses everything and heads for the door tucked into the far corner of the room. This time there’s no scanner or security device to please and he pulls open the door and enters a handsomely decorated reception area, complete with leather wing chairs and a comfy leather sofa. Hank moves deeper into the space and waves at the older, silver-haired woman manning the reception desk. “How’re you doin’, Darla?” he asks.

“I’d be doing better if you’d take me out for a drink, Hank.” This is a game Hank and Darla play often. In her late fifties, she’s been married thirty-some years and has pictures of her grandchildren lined up across her desk.

“Name the time and the place, Darla. But you might better check in with Big John before we go.” Hank has been out of his native state of Oklahoma for years but, despite focused attempts, can’t seem to shake the accent.

Darla laughs. “You let me worry about John. I swear he turns into a bigger fuddy-duddy every day.” Darla waves a hand in dismissal and glances at her phone console “She’s on the phone, Hank. It’s been ringing off the hook. Have a seat.”

Hank settles into one of the wingback chairs and crosses one long leg over the other. Noticing a smudge on the toe of his ostrich cowboy boots, Hank licks his thumb and rubs the smudge away.

The door to the reception area opens again and a tall, lean brunette enters. Outfitted in distressed jeans, Doc Martens, and a black T-shirt with COEXIST printed across the front, she waves at Darla and plops down in the chair opposite Hank. Hank studies her out of the corner of his eye. Her dark brown hair, highlighted by shades of lighter browns, is cut shoulder length and, when she turns to look at Hank, he’s instantly mesmerized by the color of her eyes, a Caribbean Sea green. Hank has seen her around the building at a distance, except for that one time, weeks ago, when he was close enough to get a glimpse of her name tag. He says, “Paige Randall, correct?”

Paige gives him the once-over. “Have we met?”

“We have now.” Hank leans forward and offers his hand. “Hank Goodnight.”

Paige makes a fist and Hank matches her and they fist-bump. She glances at the digital watch on her wrist. “I’m way behind. Are you also waiting to see Assistant Deputy Director Mercer?”

“Yep.”

Paige glances at her watch again. “Any idea how long you’ll be in there?”

Hank smiles. “Nope.”

Darla glances at the phone console on her desk. “She’s off the phone. You two can go in now.”

Paige glances at Hank. “We’re going in together?”

“Appears so.” Hank and Paige stand. At six-two, he has about four inches on her and he does the gentlemanly thing and holds the door open for her before following her inside.

Assistant Deputy Director Elaine Mercer glances up from the stack of paperwork on her desk. “You two have met. Good. Have a seat at the conference table, please.” Mercer stands, grabs a file, and strides across the office, taking a seat at the head of the table. Fifty-two, Mercer is a wiry, petite woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and dark, intelligent eyes. Today, she’s wearing navy trousers and a button-up light blue shirt tailored to fit her slim profile.

Mercer, who always appears to be in a hurry, gets right down to business. “Within the last hour there have been two possible cyber attacks. The first involved a passenger jet crash at Dulles. That’s bad but the second incident is of greater concern.”

“What’s worse than a plane crash?” Paige asks, still confused as to why she’s there.

“A nuclear disaster. The people manning the Calvert Cliffs nuclear facility are on the verge of losing one of their reactors. I don’t want to risk sending a crew to the plant, but I’ve got people headed to the corporate headquarters of the parent company in Atlanta.”

“What makes you think it was a cyber attack?” Hank asks.

“Both of their computer systems crashed after several unusual anomalies. We have unconfirmed reports of other jet crashes and the FAA has grounded all air traffic until we can get a handle on what’s happening. I have other people on the way, but I want you two to head for the airport.”

“I’m a computer programmer,” Paige says. “Not a field agent.”

“Today you’re both,” Mercer says. “It’s all hands on deck.”

“What are the anomalies?” Hank asks.

“That’s what I need you two to find out,” Mercer says, turning to look at Hank. “And I need you to put that big brain of yours to work.”

McLean

After returning to their offices to grab whatever items they need, Paige and Hank meet in the lobby and head outside. The August heat, mixed with the thick humidity, makes the air feel soupy, and both begin to perspire only seconds after exiting. Wiping the first beads of sweat from his forehead, Hank leads Paige through the parking lot to his car, a black-on-black 2014 Mustang Shelby GT500 Super Snake. He chirps the locks and they pile in. Hank fires the engine and cranks down the air conditioner. The car was a splurge for Hank, who usually keeps a tight rein on his money, a holdover from his childhood, when money was so tight they struggled to eat sometimes.

Paige looks around at the interior. “Boys and their toys. Does this muscle car make you feel like a real man?”

Hank smiles. “No, but it is fun as hell to drive.” He exits out of the parking lot and gooses the gas, the whir of the supercharger whining as he shifts to second and then third. He glances over to see Paige white-knuckling the armrest and shifts to fourth and eases up on the throttle as he hits the on-ramp to Interstate 66.

“Does she do this kind of thing often?” Paige asks.

“Elaine?”

Paige nods.

“Depends on the situation,” Hank says, clicking on the radio and lowering the volume as Jason Aldean sings about fly over states. “But she’s not afraid to send an expert into the field with me if it’s merited.”

Paige glances over. “What’s your role?”

“Multifaceted.”

“That’s obscure as hell. What did she mean when she referred to your big brain? Are you some type of genius or something?”

Hank smiles. “Nope, but I might be a tad smarter than your average bear.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Hank flips on his signal and steers into the fast lane. “Do you think the FAA’s air control system has been hacked?”

“Changing the subject, huh?” Paige scowls then says, “To answer your question, Mr. Big Brain, maybe. The software is beyond outdated and probably has more holes than a prairie dog town. But what I don’t understand is how that would be responsible for a single jet crash. A midair collision maybe, or a jet is told to take the wrong taxiway and gets slammed by another plane, but that would involve two planes.”

“Elaine said it was a passenger jet crash, I assume meaning only one plane is involved,” Hank says. “I guess we’ll find out when we get to the airport. Any ideas about the culprit?”

“Take your pick. Iran, North Korea, Russia, maybe even China. I’d lean toward the first two. Russia and China would be concerned about our response; the other two probably not so much.”

“So a nation or state and not a group of bad actors?”

“Yes. Even though the FAA’s software is outdated, if that was indeed the target, the hackers would have had to penetrate numerous firewalls to get that deep into their system. That’s not easy to do and would probably require enormous resources. And hacking a nuclear power plant is much more difficult. How much do you know about hacking?”

“I’m competent.”

Paige shakes her head. “Which means you’re probably a freaking expert.”

Hank smiles as he slows for traffic. Now within a mile of the airport, they’re close enough to see a cloud of black smoke still lingering above the runway. A little ways farther on there’s a break in the trees and traffic grinds to a halt as the rubberneckers ahead crane their necks, hoping for a quick peek at someone else’s tragedy. While they’re stopped Hank takes a moment to study the scene. The terminal building blocks their view of the actual crash site and all Hank can see are the emergency vehicles that are parked haphazardly around the tarmac, their lights flashing.

Paige leans forward in her seat to look out Hank’s window. “Can’t see much from here. I wonder what type of plane it was.”

“No telling,” Hank says. “Let’s hope it’s not a Boeing triple-seven or an Airbus A380. If it was, the death toll will be somewhere north of five hundred.”

Paige settles back in her seat. “Even if it was one of those smaller planes, the death toll will still be significant. Can you imagine? All of those people lost in an instant.”

Hank glances at Paige. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if this is some type of cyber attack I don’t think we’re done yet. Not even close.”

Page, Arizona

Upstream from its more famous cousin (Hoover Dam) and one of the nation’s most visited national parks (the Grand Canyon), the Glen Canyon Dam towers over the downstream side of the Colorado River. Built between the sandstone cliffs of Glen Canyon, the dam stands over seven hundred feet tall and required nearly five million cubic yards of concrete to construct when work was finished in 1963. The damming of the river created Lake Powell, the second-largest man-made reservoir in the United States. The largest reservoir resides farther downstream—Lake Mead, which was created with the construction of the Hoover Dam.

The control room inside the dam is a sparsely furnished place containing two desks, which are staged in the center of the large, circular room. The walls surrounding the desks contain an amalgamation of buttons, rotary dials, and old analog dial clocks that appear to be original equipment—which they are. There have been upgrades over the years though they’ve been few and far between. Although the dam contains eight massive hydroelectric turbines that turn twenty-four/seven, the room often contains only a single occupant. That’s because, today, after the last major upgrade, most of the dam’s operations are controlled off-site via computer in Montrose, Colorado.

Today’s lone occupant is twenty-four-year-old Brian Hunter, who is busy refining his résumé. His sole job is to act as the fail-safe—the one person who can operate the ancient levers and dials in case of an emergency. It’s a boring task and Hunter, dissatisfied with the job’s lack of stimulation, is on the hunt for a more challenging work environment. With a degree in hydrodynamics, he took the job with the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation hoping to explore the West and to help the western states manage their most scarce resource—water. But so far the only things he’s explored are the buttons, switches, and levers on the walls of the control room and the local bar scene.

Pen in hand, he scratches out a phrase in the previous employment section of his résumé and leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, deep in thought. He’s searching for the right word or combination of words—something other than monitoring—he can use to describe his present job duties. Moments later, the correct word is just on the tip of his tongue when an alarm bell begins ringing. His eyes snap open and he lurches to his feet, searching for the source. Lights on the far wall begin sparking to life just as the phone rings. Momentarily flummoxed, he stands transfixed as more bells begin ringing. He stares at the lights, then his eyes dart to the phone as a loud humming sound begins to penetrate the room. Finally, Hunter acts. He grabs the phone and can hear voices shouting in the background as he puts the handset to his ear. “Hello?”

“Brian, this is Dan McCoy in Montrose. You need to do an immediate manual shutdown of the turbines.”

Hunter drops the phone and it clinks to the floor as he races to the far wall and begins flipping switches to shut off the turbines, the humming only growing louder. His actions appear to be having little effect and he nearly pisses his pants when there’s a tremendous crash that sounds like a freight train plowing into a semi stalled on the tracks. Hunter hurries back to the desk and quickly reels in the phone. His hand is trembling when he puts the phone to his ear and says, “Turbine manual override is . . . is . . . inoperative.”

“Screw the turbines,” McCoy says. “They’re toast. Listen closely, Brian. The spillway gates are stuck open. You have to close them.”

“H-h-how?” Hunter asks, his entire body now quavering.

“Hit the emergency release. The gates are heavy enough they might close.”

Hunter hurries over to the near wall, stretching the phone cord to the limits. He slams the big red button with the palm of his hand. “I hit the emergency release.”

“Goddamn it,” McCoy shouts, nearly piercing Hunter’s eardrum. “You sure you hit the right button?”

“Yes. Wha . . . wha . . . what’s happening, Dan?”

“The damn computers are locked up. We’ve lost control.” McCoy sighs, sending a hiss of static down the line. “Okay, Brian. You need to grab who you can from the turbine room and go manually close the spillway gates.”

Hunter steps over to the observation window that looks out over the turbine room, the phone cord nearly strangling him. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. There’s . . . there’s . . . there’s blood . . . everywhere.” The phone slips from his grasp and rebounds off the desk just when the lights flash off.

Below, the spillway’s four 8-foot-diameter pipes are shooting out water at a rate of 208,000 cubic feet per second, or nearly 94 million gallons of water per minute.

Dulles

Hank and Paige finally make it to the turnoff to the terminal only to find the exit blocked by two state troopers, their cars parked diagonally across the asphalt. Hank rolls down the window and holds up his credentials. The closest trooper climbs out of his car and walks over for a look. He glances at the badge and nods at the other trooper to move his car. “Any idea how the crash happened?” he asks Hank.

“Not yet,” Hank answers, “but you’re probably in for a long day.”

“Tell me about it,” the trooper says. He steps back and waves Hank forward.

At least with the roads blocked there is no incoming traff