Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“I’m working, Mom. I don’t have time for specifics, but New York City might be our best chance to discover who’s responsible for these attacks.”

As Paige’s phone conversation continues, Hank pulls his computer out and places it on his lap. Before raising the screen he takes a moment to study Paige. She’d changed clothes back at her place and gone are the Doc Martens, the jeans, and the T-shirt. Taking their place is a pair of tailored navy slacks, a sleeveless lightweight gray sweater, and a pair of navy peep-toe wedges that show just enough of her toes for Hank to see her nails painted a royal blue. The clothes are a perfect fit and, judging by the quality of the material, he has no doubt they were expensive. He allows his gaze to travel up her body. Paige’s shoulder-length, straight, dark hair is blended with auburn highlights and, when she tucks it behind her ear—a habit he noticed quickly—he catches a glimpse of her simple, yet elegant diamond teardrop earrings.

Paige glances up and catches Hank staring. Embarrassed, he looks away, but it’s not long before his gaze drifts back to her. With an oval-shaped face, her high arching eyebrows act as a perfect frame for her tantalizing green irises. She’s tall and willowy thin, but Hank can see the ropy muscles in her forearms as she grasps the phone. Overall, she’s very attractive and Hank wonders, again, about the lack of a significant other in the pictures on her fireplace mantel. Not that it’s any of his business, but he is curious.

Paige looks up to catch Hank staring again. She arches her brows in a questioning look and Hank sheepishly lifts the lid on his laptop and hits the power button. Moments later, Paige wraps up her phone conversation and asks, “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Hank says.

“What is it, then?”

Hank squirms in his seat. “Nothing. I guess I was daydreaming.”

“Uh. Most people stare out the window or at something in the middle distance when they’re daydreaming. You sure you weren’t checking me out?”

Hank’s cheeks flush red.

“That’s okay. I did some checking out of my own while you were driving.”

Hank is suddenly desperate to change the subject. “So your mom hasn’t heard from Peyton, either?”

“No. She wanted to drive to Chicago and look for her and Eric.”

“I hope you talked her out of it.”

“I did. She can’t navigate the Chicago traffic on a good day. I can’t imagine what traffic is like now that the signal lights aren’t working.”

“It’ll be a mess,” Hank says. “But I think traffic problems will soon be way down the list of things to worry about for the Chicago PD.”

“How do you know this? Can you see the future, too?”

“No, smartass. I was assigned to one of the agency’s Critical Incident Response Groups when Hurricane Sandy hit. Lootin’ began before the storm even passed. And it wasn’t just the lootin’. You’d be surprised what humans can do to one another in enormously stressful situations.”

Paige shudders. “I can only imagine. I just hope Eric and Peyton can get out of the city.”

Hank’s phone dings. He pulls it out of his pocket and lights the screen to see a text from Mercer. He unlocks the screen and reads through the message and mutters, “Jesus.”

“What now?”

“The hackers hit several chemical manufacturers. Somehow they triggered the release of some pretty nasty stuff.”

“Anything around Manhattan?”

“Not yet, but it’s probably comin’.”

Paige sighs. “What makes you think that?”

“They’ll be targetin’ the most densely populated areas,” Hank answers, “hopin’ to get the most bang for their buck.”

“I just hope there’s something left of this country when we do find out who’s responsible.”

“Stuff like this pisses me off,” Hank says. “We’ve known for years that these chemical plants are vulnerable to either a conventional attack or a cyber attack, and no one’s done a damn thing about it.”

“Does that surprise you?”

Hank drops the phone on the empty seat next to him. “No. But that doesn’t make it any less frustratin’.”

“So far we haven’t heard about the hackers attacking any of the federal government’s networks, but you have to believe they’ve infiltrated those. And that frightens me way more than these chemical plants.”

“What are you thinkin’?” Hank asks.

“What’s the one thing that’s been proven to be vulnerable by the government accounting office?”

“Some of the military weapons?”

Paige nods. “Yep.”

Mudiyah, Abyan Governorate, Yemen

July 14, 2011

TARGET: Al-Qaeda

CONFIRMED KILLED: 50

CIVILIANS KILLED: 30

E ighteen-year-old Jermar Bakal is enjoying his last few days at home before beginning his journey halfway around the world to a place he’d never been before—Boston, Massachusetts. All of the prep work has been completed online and all the financial documents regarding his scholarship have been signed. Jermar is both excited and apprehensive about his prospects. An excellent student, in sixth grade he was plucked from his local school by a ministry of education official and enrolled in a special program through the University of Science and Technology in Sana’a. That was the first time Jermar had ever been away from home and the adjustments in the beginning were difficult. But over time, Jermar flourished, finishing first in his class.

Today, the day is hot, the temps pushing close to 37 degrees Celsius with a light breeze out of the east. That’s one thing Jermar is not going to miss—the oppressive, merciless heat. While Jermar is busy packing, his mother is out in the garden picking fresh vegetables for lunch. He steps over to his small desk, searching for his passport. When he doesn’t find it he walks across the room and sticks his head out the door to ask his mother. And that’s when he hears a peculiar whistling noise. Before Jermar’s brain can interpret the sound, the house next door explodes, launching shrapnel in all directions and knocking him to the ground. He scrambles back up, shouting his mother’s name. He stumbles through the door and hurries out to the garden.

With smoke and tears stinging his eyes, Jermar careens down the rows of tomatoes and squash and still doesn’t find his mother. He cuts across two rows of sweet corn and sinks to his knees near his mother’s lifeless body. Sobbing, Jermar cradles his mother’s head and, between sobs, begins to mumble the Janazah prayer.

Present day, somewhere near Boston

Now twenty-five years old, Jermar Bakal recalls that fateful day as he pulls up the master list of targets. He’s not a heartless man and he wonders about their actions today. But then he thinks about all the innocent lives lost, including his own mother, to American drone strikes and that sharpens his resolve.

Basir Nazeri has forbidden televisions in the building and also confiscated everyone’s phone last night, leaving the five students in the dark about the death and destruction they are currently unleashing on America’s citizens. And Jermar prefers it that way. He doesn’t know how the others feel, but for him he has no desire to witness the horrors of their actions. For him, it’s better the victims remain faceless and nameless. Not a strong-willed man, the less he knows the better. In his mind, he likens their activities to those of the faceless drone pilots who rain down death from afar.

“Bakal, why are you hesitating?” Nazeri asks, standing behind him and looking over Jermar’s shoulder.

Jermar is surprised that Nazeri snuck up behind him. The man can do that sometimes almost as if he’s a ghost. Jermar turns and looks up at Nazeri. “I am not. I’m attempting to find a suitable target.”