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Zero Day: A Jeff Aiken Novel [Hardcover]

Mark Russinovich , Howard Schmidt
3.7 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (7 customer reviews)
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Product Description


"Mark came to Microsoft in 2006 to help advance the state of the art of Windows, now in his latest compelling creation he is raising awareness of the all too real threat of cyber terrorism."
--Bill Gates
"CyberTerrorism. Get used to that word and understand it because you're going to see more of it in the newspapers and hear it on the news in the not too distant future. Mark Russinovich is a CyberSecurity expert who has turned his considerable knowledge into a very scary and too plausible novel. Zero Day is not science fiction; it is science fact, and it is a clear warning of Doomsday. A must-read for all Americans and for those entrusted with our security and our survival."
--Nelson DeMille
"While what Mark wrote is fiction, the risks that he writes about eerily mirror many situations that we see today."
--Howard A. Schmidt, White House Cyber Security Coordinator
"An up-to-the-moment ticking-clock thriller, Zero Day imagines the next 9/11 in a frightening but all too believable way. An expert in the field, Mark Russinovich writes about cyberterrorism with a mix of technical authority and dramatic verve. I was riveted."
--William Landay, author of The Strangler
"When someone with Mark Russinovich's technical chops writes a tale about tech gone awry, leaders in the public and private sector should take notes."
--Daniel Suarez, author of Daemon
"Microsoft computer guru Russinovich's first novel, a cautionary tale about the imminence of the great cyber attack to wipe out the Internet."--Publishers Weekly
 “Nothing if not topical, this is a competent thriller boasting a full share of conspiracies, betrayals, violence and against-the-clock maneuvers.”--Kirkus Reviews
"Russinovich’s debut thriller is worth a read; conspiracy theorists will thoroughly enjoy it."--Library Journal
"Zero Day by Mark Russinovich paints a chilling picture of what might happen if hackers lose interest in stealing credit cards and become more focused on cyberterrorism. ... Whether or not you're a computer geek, Zero Day tells a compelling story with thrills and chills to entertain you. I found it more plausible and fun than Dan Brown's Digital Fortress."--The Seattle Post-Intelligencer
"Guns, babes, rootkits, blade servers, damsels in distress, and assassins. ... Strikes a good balance between technical believability and plot pace."--TechRepublic

About the Author

MARK RUSSINOVICH works at Microsoft as a Technical Fellow, Microsoft’s senior-most technical position. He joined the company when Microsoft acquired Winternals software, which he cofounded in 1996. He is also author of the popular Sysinternals tools. He is coauthor of the Windows Internals book series, a contributing editor for TechNet Magazine, and a senior contributing editor for Windows IT Pro Magazine. He lives in Washington State.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

12:01 A.M.
When the whisper came out of the darkness, the man stopped. A vast panel of glass covered the wall before him, displaying uptown Manhattan in a scene that might have been sold as a poster. Ambient light and the soft glow from a dozen computer monitors was all that spared the room total darkness. The logo of Fischerman, Platt & Cohen floated on each monitor.
In the hallway, the steps faded. A moment later her fingers touched his arm, pressing lightly against the soft skin on the inside of his wrist, her flesh much warmer than his. The thought of her so excited aroused him even more.
She tugged and he followed. “Over here,” she whispered. He tried to make her out in the darkness but all he could see was her form, shapeless as a burka. They stopped and she came into his arms, on him even before he realized she’d moved. Her scent was floral, her mouth wet and also warm, tasting of peppermint and her last cigarette.
After a long moment she pulled back. He heard the whisper of clothing across nylon, the slight sound of her skirt dropping to the carpet. He sensed, more than saw, her form stretch on the couch. He unbuckled his trousers and let them drop around his ankles. He remembered his suit jacket; as he removed it, her hand touched his erection through his undershorts. She tugged them lower, then encircled him with her fingers.
Her grip guided him, and as he entered her, a single computer screen sprang to life behind the groaning couple. Turning blue, it read:
Rebooting …
After a few seconds, the screen flickered and read:
The screen turned black.
12:01 A.M.
The flight attendants were clearing breakfast in the passenger compartments as Captain Robert McIntyre scanned the dials of the PFD, the primary flight display, once again. Beside him, copilot Sean Jones sat facing dead forward in that semihypnotic posture so common to commercial pilots on extended flights.
The sound of the twin engines well behind the pilots was distant. Outside, air slipped past the airplane with a comforting hiss. The Boeing 787 Dreamliner, with 289 passengers, all but flew itself. Once the airplane reached a cruising altitude of thirty-seven-thousand feet, the pilots had little to do but monitor the instrumentation and be available should something go wrong.
The airplane could take off, fly itself, and land without human assistance. It was state-of-the-art, fly-by-wire technology, which meant the airplane had the latest in computers. The manual controls, such as the throttle and yoke, were not physically connected to anything, though they were programmed to give the feel that they were. Instead, they emitted electronic signals that moved the parts of the plane needed for control.
Computers had even designed the plane itself. So convincing was the computer construct that the airplane was approved for commercial use and had gone straight to production without a prototype. McIntyre commented from time to time that the 787 was the most beautiful and well-behaved airplane he’d ever flown. “Any plans in New York?” he asked his copilot.
Jones sat motionless for several long seconds. “Excuse me,” he said finally. “Did you say something?”
“Want some coffee? I think you were off somewhere.”
Jones yawned. “No, I’m all right. I get so bored, you know?”
McIntyre glanced at his wristwatch. They were still more than an hour out of New York City. “Better watch it. You’ll be on record in another half hour.”
The cockpit voice recorder functioned on a half-hour loop, constantly recording thirty minutes at a time, again and again. Pilots had long learned to be utterly frank only when they were not within half an hour of approach or for the first half hour after takeoff. These were the times anything unusual occurred, if at all. Once in the air, the airplane was all but unstoppable.
“I know, but thanks. ‘Plans,’ you asked? Nothing much. How about you?”
“Just a walk in the park, I think. I’m too old for the rest.”
“Right. Tell it to your wife.” Jones glanced back outside. “What’s the altitude?”
“Let’s see, right at thirty-seven thousand … Jesus, we’re at forty-two thousand feet.” McIntyre scanned the dials again as if searching for an error. The airplane had climbed so gently neither of the men had noticed. “Do you see anything on the PFD?”
“No. Looks good. We’re on auto, right?” They’d been on autopilot since London. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The plane had just come out of a complete servicing. All of the computer software had been reinstalled, with the latest updates. Everything should have been functioning perfectly. Instead, they were on an all but undetectable gentle incline.
“Right,” McIntyre said. “I’m resetting auto.… Now.” Nothing changed. After a moment he said, “Altitude is 42,400 and climbing. What do you think, Sean?”
Jones pursed his lips. “I think we’ve got a glitch. Shall we go manual?”
Pilots were under enormous pressure from the company never to go manual except at takeoff and on approach for landing. The computer not only flew the airplane in between but did a far superior job, increasing fuel efficiency by as much as 5 percent, a great money saver. If the pilots went manual, the flight data recorder, which kept a record of everything from preflight to postflight, would record it, and they’d have to file a report justifying their action.
“Airspeed’s dropping,” Jones said evenly. The autopilot was not only failing to keep the airplane at the proper altitude, but it hadn’t increased power to the engines to compensate for the steady climb.
“Altitude is 42,900 and climbing,” McIntyre said.
The door opened behind them and the senior flight attendant, Nancy Westmore, entered. “Are we climbing, boys? It feels odd back there.”
The pilots ignored her. “Airspeed is 378 and dropping,” meaning 378 kilometers per hour, well below the standard cruising speed of 945. “Altitude is 43,300 and climbing,” Jones said.
“Have a seat, luv,” McIntyre said. “And strap in. We’re going manual.” Westmore, a pretty blonde, blanched, then dropped into the jump seat and buckled up. The two had carried on an affair for the last three years.
“Bobby,” Jones said, “PFD says we are approaching overspeed limit.” The computer was reporting they had exceeded their normal flight speed and were approaching a critical limit.
McIntyre looked at the controls in amazement. “That’s impossible! Airspeed is 197 and falling.” The yoke-shaker program engaged and the stick began to rattle in front of him. In traditional airplanes, the yoke shook at stall. In the 787, the computer simulated the effect for the pilots.
At that moment the stall warning came on. “We’re nearly at stall! It can’t be both. Going manual … now.”
A soothing woman’s voice spoke. “Warning. You are about to stall. Warning. You are about to stall. Warning…”
But when the autopilot disengaged, nothing happened.
“Are you nosing down?” Jones asked, looking over, seeing for himself that McIntyre had pushed the yoke forward.
“No response,” McIntyre said. “Nothing. Jesus!”
“Airspeed 156, stall. Altitude 43,750, still climbing. Holy shit!”
Then the mighty 787, cruising at over forty-three thousand feet, stalled. All 427,000 pounds of the airplane ceased to fly as the plane nosed up a final moment, then simply fell toward the blue ocean eight miles below. All three experienced a sensation of near weightlessness as the plane plunged toward the earth. Westmore closed her eyes and locked her mouth shut, vowing not to make a sound.
Behind them came a roar of passengers screaming.
As it stalled, the airplane lost its flight characteristics, which depended on forward motion through the air for control. The plane fell as an object, not as an aircraft. Without comment McIntyre pulled the yoke well back, fighting to maintain some control and keep the craft upright. Without air control, the plane could easily roll onto its back. If it did, they were lost.
Under his breath Jones said, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” He scanned the PFD. “Airspeed 280, altitude twenty-nine thousand.”
“Jesus,” McIntyre said. “I’ve got nothing.” The yoke was not giving him any feel. The plane was moving through space absent any control. “Engaging auto!”
Through the closed door came more screams. Neither pilot heard them.
Jones reached over and engaged the autopilot. Both men were trained that in an emergency, the autopilot had a superior solution to any they could come up with. They’d been shown example after example of pilots wrestling with airplanes until they crashed, doing the wrong thing over and over, when the autopilot would effortlessly have saved the craft.
“Patience. Give it time,” McIntyre said as if to himself.
Another long moment passed. Nothing happened. The airplane wobbled to the right, corrected itself as it was designed to do, then wobbled to the left.
“Airspeed 495, increasing; altitude twenty-seven thousand, falling,” Jones said. He resumed the Hail Mary.
“Mother of God,” McIntyre muttered, “hear me. Disengaging auto. Setting throttle to idle!”
The airplane was now in a significant dive, and the cre...
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