Grace Hopper Cyber Security Studies Center United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland One year later

"Thirty-six million people — including this institution — without power for nearly twelve hours. Forty-six traffic fatalities, twelve people dead in hospitals with inadequate backup power systems, and three men dead in an explosion at ground zero of the hack: Allegheny Power and Light."

Don Riley paused, allowing his gaze to roam over the dozen uniformed midshipmen in his seminar class. He always included this incident in the syllabus, since they'd all lived through it or at least knew someone who had.

Nearly all the midshipmen were seniors — first-classmen, in Naval Academy parlance — except for two. Midshipman Second Class Andrea Ramirez's dark eyes followed him like a hawk as he spoke. She seemed to be committing to memory not just his words but every move he made. Next to her sat a fourth-class midshipman — a freshman, or plebe as the upperclassmen called them.

To have a plebe in an advanced seminar broke every rule of Naval Academy etiquette, but Don had insisted. Midshipman Fourth Class Michael Goodwin was no ordinary plebe. He was Don's special project.

The Academy, like every other institution of higher learning in America, had a well-established recruiting program for athletics. No one thought twice about spending money and resources to track down and lure the best possible athletic candidates to the academy. Don just applied the same recruiting logic to the Cyber Security Studies program. After all, that was why US Cyber Command lent him to the Academy as a guest lecturer: to get first crack at the new talent like Goodwin.

By any measure of intellect, Michael Goodwin was a prodigy. By any measure of societal norms, the fact that he was sitting in this classroom was a miracle.

Goodwin's face was still as he watched Don, his dark skin smooth, his jaw relaxed, his eyes vacant as if he were daydreaming. Don had seen this look before on Goodwin. He wasn't daydreaming, he was seeking inputs.

Don cleared his throat and continued. "The attack originated via an email to a midlevel employee in the admin department of Allegheny Power. The user clicked on a link which downloaded malware onto his computer. The malware used a security flaw in a print driver to infect any computer that was connected to that printer."

There was a snort of disbelief from the back row. "Problem, Midshipman Powers?" Don asked a tall, whip-thin brunette sporting the rank of a company commander on her collar.

"It's just amazing how stupid people can be, sir. I mean, who clicks on random links?"

Don pursed his lips. "Would it change your mind if I told you that this email was supposedly from the individual's mother? Also, the subject line indicated that it was about his father, who happened to be in the hospital receiving treatment for advanced pancreatic cancer. Would that change your attitude, Ms. Powers?"

The midshipman dropped her gaze to her desk.

"Given this new information, what can we surmise about this attack, people?"

"That the employee was targeted," said a voice.

"Exactly!" Don's gaze sought the person who'd answered. A stocky young woman with dirty-blond hair. "Midshipman Everett, please elaborate."

"Well, the fact that it was from his mother and regarding his father indicates the attacker knew his subject. He probably hacked the mother's email account to avoid the spam filters and wrote a subject line that would increase his chances of getting a click."

"That's exactly correct," Don said. "This was not some random internet virus you pick up when you visit porn sites — which I know midshipmen never do." He got a few laughs out of that line. "This was a very sophisticated spear-phishing operation, a targeted attack on a single individual. This person was surveilled, and his weaknesses exploited.

"But there's another reason we study this cyberattack. The actual code itself was a masterpiece. A virus within a virus within a virus. The first layer exploited the security flaw in the printer driver to gain access to as many workstations as possible. Then it waited for someone to access the power plant SCADA system." He paused. "By way of review, what does SCADA stand for, Mr. Nelson?" He called on a first-class midshipman in the second row who was nodding off. The young man's head snapped up.

"Supervisory control and data acquisition system, sir," the midshipman said in a near shout.

"Thank you for your enthusiasm, Mr. Nelson," Don replied, smiling along with the laughter of the class. "If you're feeling sleepy, perhaps you'd care to stand?"

The midshipman hoisted himself out of his seat, and Don continued. "The third layer of the virus was again targeted and clever. Instead of trying to crash the system, it changed just one parameter: the numbering system for the generators. When a technician tried to change an operating parameter on a generator using the SCADA system, he was actually sending the command to a different machine. When the control room thought they were bringing a spinning generator online, they were actually connecting a nonoperational unit to the power grid. What happens when you try to make a rotor go from zero to thirty-six hundred RPMs in a split second, Mr. Nelson?"

"Boom, sir?"

"Boom." Don stopped pacing and faced the room. "In addition to killing three men, the resulting explosion destroyed most of the Allegheny P&L generating capability. But our little piece of malware had one final mission.

"The term national power grid is often tossed around as if it's one monolithic entity. It's not. It's a patchwork of fiefdoms and legacy operating systems from the last hundred years. There's a reason the hackers chose to attack Allegheny P&L. Their plant is colocated with Midwest Power's distribution operation. This site is the link between the East Coast and the Midwest transmission networks. These are two separate companies, operating two separate software systems with two separate levels of cybersecurity.

"The malware jumped the fence from Allegheny to Midwest and proceeded to take down every distribution node on that network. The only way they were able to contain it was to take their entire operation offline for eight hours and bring the system back online one network at a time."

Don let the information sink in.

"All that damage, all those lives lost, all from one email. It does no good to complain about the guy who clicked on a link in an email from his mom. People are people; they will do things you don't want them to do. We're not here to try to change human nature, we're here to find the bad guys and shut them down.

"Make no mistake about it, people. What is going on out there is a war, right under our noses. We are under attack every day from all sorts of people with all sorts of reasons to want to hurt us. Non-state actors, the Russian 'patriotic hackers,' the North Koreans, China's cyber corps, even Israel's Unit 8200 — yes, even the countries we give billions of dollars to — love to hack us. And don't get me started on the private sector."

"Sir?" It was Everett again. "Who did it? The Allegheny hack, I mean."

Don gave her a grim smile. "The thorny issue of attribution, Ms. Everett. Hackers don't just leave a calling card. We need to pick apart their code, look at the context of the hack, backtrack on where the emails came from, and so on. Then, and only then, can we make some educated guesses about who did the deed."

"So who did it?"

Don shrugged. "In this case, it was simple. The hack was claimed by a group affiliated with ISIS — Daesh, as the rest of the world knows them. According to our current rules of engagement, we retaliated with increased bombing and drone strikes. All of the suspected perpetrators were killed."

"And is that what happened?" It seemed Everett was not going to let it go.

"Why do you ask, Ms. Everett?"

"Well, sir, you just described a scenario that was part intelligence operation and part hack. ISIS has not shown that level of capability before or since."

Don considered her. He needed to pick someone from this class, and she seemed to be the most engaged so far. "The topic of attribution and public acknowledgment is for another class, Midshipman. Class dismissed."

Everett hung back as the room emptied out. "That's not really what happened, is it, sir?"

"Ms. Everett, I'm the deputy J2 at Cyber Command. You know what that means, right?"

"Yes, sir. You help run the military's cyberwarfare operations. You complement what the NSA's already doing."

"Right. My stint here as a visiting lecturer is contingent upon following some strict security protocols. If I tell you that's what happened, then you have to accept that answer at face value." Her bright blue eyes met his without reservation.

In Don's experience, there were two types of midshipmen: those who were naturally gifted and those who worked their asses off every day to stay above water. Janet Everett was the latter, a striver, the kind of midshipman who put in the hours needed to get the job done. "Even if there's another answer that I can't talk about," he finished softly.

She gave him a curt nod. "I understand, sir."

"Midshipman Everett, what do you think about the underclassmen in the seminar?"

Her brow wrinkled. "I know Ramirez, we've had other classes together. She's solid. The plebe? Goodwin? Seems strange to have a plebe in an advanced course like this. I heard he's a real brain."

"You could say that." Don resisted a laugh. "Brain" didn't begin to cover Michael's pattern-recognition skills. "Do you expect there to be any tension with the other upperclassmen?"

Everett's broad shoulders shrugged. "Could be. He has to learn to deal with it. It's the system."

"We'll be breaking into teams after the next class. I want you, Ramirez, and Goodwin on the same team. Understood?"

Don knew his request — she would interpret it as an order — was unfair. She was a young officer, not a babysitter. He had no business saddling her with a couple of underclassmen, but his gut told him she was the right person for the job.

Everett had every right to ask him why or what was in it for her. Instead, she nodded without hesitation.

"Understood, sir."

Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) Headquarters, London

In the movies, defector debriefings were tense affairs filled with sharp questions designed to catch the witness off guard. The answers always revealed some brilliant new plot twist.

Real debriefings were much less exciting. Every minute of face time with a defector required at least ten minutes of preparation. You only got one chance to ask a fresh question and see his initial expression, to judge if the defector was real or some kind of double agent. Of course, the British had had this guy in custody for weeks. The chances of two US agents being able to find an unanswered question was nil.

FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush studied the small monitor showing an image of the interrogation room. Kim Daiwoo was a slight, wiry man, but carried a shadow of past malnutrition in the lines of his face. Was it possible that even a third cousin of the Supreme Leader might have known hunger in his past?

"Ready?" said the man at her elbow. Reggie Bowerman, a Canadian by birth, was a strapping man with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow who probably weighed twice what the North Korean did. As a representative of the US Treasury Department's Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes Division, he was assisting Liz on the money-laundering aspects of the counterterrorism case.

She flashed him a smile. "Let's do this. I'll take point, you jump in with technical details, just like we agreed, okay?"

Reggie popped up his thumb in answer.

Kim looked up as Liz entered the room with Reggie hulking behind her. He got to his feet in a controlled manner and offered a short bow, then seated himself after Liz had taken her seat.

She opened her folio on the table and drew a pen from the pocket of her jacket. The entire interview was being recorded, but she liked to take notes anyway. It helped her think.

"Good morning, Mr. Kim. My name is FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush, and this is my colleague Agent Reginald Bowerman of the US Treasury Department. I run the United States Joint Terrorism Task Force — do you know what that is, sir?"

The diplomat spoke in a cultured accent, reflecting his British education. "I presume you investigate acts of terrorism against the United States. But this is England; why are you here?"

"When an investigation of terrorism takes us outside the borders of the United States, Mr. Kim, we follow." She placed a photo in front of him. His eyes widened for a split second, and a shadow flickered across his features.

"You know this man, Mr. Kim?"

The diplomat's calm exterior slipped back into place. "Yes, I know him. Pak Myung-rok, the Supreme Leader's man ... I believe the American term is 'fixer'?"

Liz and Reggie exchanged looks. "What does that term mean to you, Mr. Kim?" Reggie asked.

"When Kim Jong-un needs something done outside the normal channels of business or diplomacy, he calls this man." Kim tapped the photo.

"I see," Liz said. "We have reason to believe that Pak is involved in money laundering, both in the US and in Europe. Do you have any knowledge of this?"

Kim relaxed in his chair. "Oh, yes, I'm certain he is involved in money laundering. What do you want to know?"

Reggie leaned over the table and began to pepper Kim with questions. The North Korean defector answered everything immediately and truthfully as far as Liz could tell, but her mind was stuck on his initial reaction to the charge of money laundering.

He had relaxed, as if he was expecting her to ask about something else. Something much worse.

Reggie was writing furiously. Times, dates, bank visits, diamonds smuggled in diplomatic pouches, illicit weapons deals, oil smuggling. It looked as if Kim was a gold mine for Treasury.

Finally, Reggie leaned over toward Liz. "I'm good," he said.

Liz focused her gaze on Kim, saying nothing. The diplomat's smile faded as the silence lengthened. Reggie shifted in his seat and she willed him to be quiet. Kim dropped his gaze to the table.

"What did you think I was going to ask about, Mr. Kim?"

He attempted another smile. "I don't know what you mean, Agent Soroush. I've just provided you with plenty of information about Pak's illegal money-laundering efforts. My answers were truthful. There is nothing else."

"Tell me, Mr. Kim."

The North Korean squirmed, his eyes pleading with her.

"Reggie," Liz said. "You can go."

"But the briefing plan. We got what we wanted, right?"

"Mr. Kim and I have another topic to discuss. I'll see you back at the hotel."

After her partner had departed, Liz let the silence drag on. "I'm not leaving until you tell me," she said.

"Have you seen my family? Are they safe?" Kim asked. His unflappable diplomatic shell had evaporated, replaced by a hunted expression.

"They're safe — provided you cooperate completely."

Kim sighed. "Pak is a playboy. He leads a charmed life. Favored by the Supreme Leader, he goes on expensive European business trips and does deals for the regime. Everyone knows he skims money off for himself, but he's always willing to share with his friends. Everybody loved Pak."

"Loved?" Liz asked. "That's changed now?"

"Four years ago, Pak brought a foreigner to Pyongyang. He convinced the Supreme Leader to give the man asylum. Before long, Pak was doing more than money laundering. He used this man to carry out secret assignments for the Supreme Leader. That reporter in Germany who was investigating food shipments to North Korea?"

Liz vaguely recalled a car accident and conspiracy theories. She nodded.

"That was him," Kim said.

"How do you know this? Did you see him do it?"

Kim shook his head. "No, not that one." He was sweating freely, and his eyes roamed around the room.

"Then it's just a rumor."

"No, I know because I smuggled him into the United Kingdom."

"And he did something while he was here."

Kim nodded. "It was easy," he said. "He's nearly six feet tall, has European features, and speaks English with a Spanish accent."

Liz felt a chill run up her spine. "What did you say?"

Kim mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. "Which part?"

"His accent," Liz whispered.

"Spanish, but not Continental, more like —"

"South American," Liz finished for him.

"Exactly."

Liz stood so quickly that Kim drew back in his chair. She stabbed out her hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kim. I wish you the best. You will have my recommendation for asylum."

She made her way out of the room and found the nearest office. "I need a secure line to the CIA. Quickly, please."