Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“Why?”

Fitzpatrick blows out a long breath. “Yes, we were hacked in 2010, okay? But we did a major revamp and beefed up our security.”

The program Paige had started ends with no infected files found. “Damn,” she mumbles under her breath. She clicks on her flash drive and launches another application. It runs for several minutes and a piece of source code flashes onto the screen. “There you are, you little bastard,” she mutters as she highlights the code and copies it to her flash drive.

Hank, looking over her shoulder, asks, “You find somethin’?”

“Yes. Not quite sure what it is, but it was found on a device driver in the system’s memory.”

Fitzpatrick pedals his chair over for a closer look.

“Does it look familiar to you, Kent?” Paige asks.

“No. But every driver we put on the network is accompanied by a digitally signed certificate of authenticity.”

“Oh well, that’s great. Those certificates are never stolen or compromised, are they?” Paige says, her voice filled with sarcasm.

Fitzpatrick shrugs. “It’s damn difficult to do.”

“Yeah,” Paige says, “almost as difficult as hacking an allegedly secure network.”

Bardere, Gedo, Somalia

September 6, 2008

TARGET: al-Shabaab

CONFIRMED KILLED: 69

CIVILIANS KILLED: 41

S ituated along the banks of the Jubba River in the Gedo region of Somalia, Bardere is one of the most fertile areas of the country. Palm trees line the riverbank and irrigated plots of land stretch across the Jubba Valley for as far as the eye can see. The farmers in the area grow sorghum, corn, onions, beans, and fruits such as watermelons, oranges, and mangoes. While unemployment for the rest of the country is nearly 70 percent, most of the 75,000 people who call Bardere home consider themselves quite prosperous when compared to others in this war-torn country.

One of those residents working in the fields this afternoon is fourteen-year-old Yuusef Yuusef Mohamed. In Somalia there is no concept of Western-style surnames. Children are given three names when they enter the world: his or her name, the name of the father, and the name of the grandfather or great-grandfather. To simplify things, Somalis will often create a nickname for the child that stays with him or her for life. Yuusef must have arrived during a period of low creativity because his nickname is also his first name. Yuusef climbs down the handmade ladder and carries it to the next orange tree in line and climbs back up, picking the oranges at the top of the tree and placing them carefully in the canvas bag slung around his neck. These orange trees or ones like them have been in Yuusef’s family going back four generations. And Yuusef doesn’t mind the hard work, but he has bigger plans for his life.

An excellent student with an uncannily sharp mind, Yuusef splits his time between high school and an accelerated learning program, including English, at the local university. That is, when he’s not picking oranges. Thankfully, the picking season is short and Yuusef can’t wait to get back to his studies. After a series of standardized tests over the years, Yuusef was discovered to have an extremely high aptitude for math and a Mensa-worthy IQ of 151. Teachers steered him toward all things computer related and Yuusef was off and running.

In addition to the small orange grove, the family also grows corn and watermelons and also owns a good-sized herd of goats. When not farming, Yuusef’s father often transports their goods to the larger cities, where he and Yuusef’s mother and his older sister and her husband set up shop at the local markets. Today is market day and the group of four rolled out long before daybreak with plans to return before dark when things often get dicey in Somalia.

His thoughts of upcoming studies are interrupted when he hears his grandmother ringing the dinner bell. Before heading back to the house Yuusef finishes with that tree and moves the ladder to the next tree so it’ll be ready first thing in the morning. Yuusef empties his bag of oranges into a larger crate, takes off his picking bag, and moves over to the well to wash up for dinner before going inside.

The home houses three generations of Yuusef’s family and quarters are tight. Yes, there are squabbles, but, in general, things run smoothly. Inside, Yuusef gives his grandmother a peck on the cheek and takes a seat at the table. His grandfather died two years ago and his grandmother now cares for Yuusef’s two-year-old niece, Leylo, while her parents are away at the market.

With the sun riding low on the horizon Yuusef asks, “Have you heard from Mother and Father?”

“They called when they were leaving the market. I thought they would be home by now.”

“Have you tried calling them again?”

“Yes, but you know cell service can be difficult.”

His grandmother places a bowl of stew on the table for him and Yuusef digs in. He’s hungry after a long day in the fields. Leylo takes a seat next to her uncle with a small bowl of stew and begins pestering him with questions as his grandmother sits. Moments later, dinner is interrupted when they hear the squeal of brakes coming from the front yard. Thinking it’s his parents, Yuusef stands and walks to the front door to find a strange truck in the drive. Two men climb out and approach, asking to speak to an adult. Yuusef’s grandmother comes to the door and meets the men on the porch. After a few minutes of discussion, Yuusef knows his world has been turned upside down when his grandmother bursts into tears and sags to her knees.

It wasn’t until two weeks later, long after the funerals, that Yuusef found out what happened. His family had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Stuck in traffic, they were directly behind a car that was targeted by an American drone. The ensuing fireball engulfed the family truck, killing everyone aboard.

Present day, somewhere near Boston

Now twenty-four, Yuusef is waiting for a satellite window to open to launch their next attack. Over the weeks, the team hacked numerous communication satellites and installed back doors in the software. The back doors don’t allow them the ability to reposition satellites, but they do allow them to communicate with their targets across a wide swath of the country. The payload Yuusef is waiting to release targets a specific programmable logic controller that regulates speed.

“Where are we with target nineteen?” Nazeri asks from across the room.

“Waiting for the satellite window,” Yuusef replies. He has no idea who the passengers are, but he does wonder if it’s possible he might know someone aboard. As quick as the thought arrives, Yuusef pushes it from his mind. But, while he waits, his continuously active mind drifts to what might have been.

His professors at the university thought his research into artificial intelligence held great promise. There was mention of numerous published papers in the finest academic journals and a possible breakthrough in a field that has stumped scientists for fifty years. Not that any of his hypotheses had yet been proven, but Yuusef felt like he was on the cusp of a breakthrough that could advance machine-level intelligence to the next level. But that was before.

Yuusef sighs as he waits for the satellite. All of his research is stored in the cloud and on a portable hard drive he keeps in a hidden location, but to have an opportunity to work in an environment with that level of expertise and funding is now up in smoke. As he thinks about that, a tiny morsel of doubt begins to creep into his subconscious thoughts. He works to keep it at bay and, when the satellite comes online, Yuusef triggers the payload and takes control of the small computer-networked device that regulates speed.