Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“What?” Eric asks, his voice about fifty decibels louder than it needs to be.

Peyton gives Eric a stern look before placing a finger against her lips.

Eric points to his right ear and says, too loudly again, “I can’t hear.”

Peyton emphasizes her point by angrily tapping her finger against her lips. She glances across the street to see a dozen police officers converging on the store. Or, rather, Peyton thinks, what’s left of it. Flames are flickering from a half a dozen fires deep within, and the entire front facade is now nothing but a pile of rubble. Thinking the battle is over, Peyton turns her gaze back to Eric and slowly mouths the words, “Let’s go.”

“You’re cold?” Eric asks in a loud voice, his brow furrowed.

Peyton shakes her head. She holds her left palm out flat and uses two fingers from her right hand to pantomime walking.

“Oh,” Eric says. “Let’s go?”

Peyton nods.

“Now?”

Peyton nods again.

“Okay.” Using the trunk for support, Eric pulls himself to his feet just as the gun battle resumes. Still unable to hear, he turns and takes a step. Then another.

Peyton, horrified, lunges to her feet and tries to grab her husband, but she’s not fast enough.

A stray bullet hits Eric midstride and he crashes to the ground.

Chaman, Balochistan, Pakistan

January 13, 2006

TARGET: Taliban

CONFIRMED KILLED: 22

CIVILIANS KILLED: 18 (5–6 children)

L ocated along the border that abuts Afghanistan’s Kandahar Province, Chaman is a large city of 180,000 people in northwest Pakistan. Home to one of the major international border crossings between the two countries, the city is often used by the United States military to move men and equipment into and out of Afghanistan. Situated atop the high plains on the Balochistan Plateau, Chaman’s base elevation is nearly 1,400 meters and there’s not much in the surrounding area that provides protection against the cold winds that come sweeping off the mountains in winter.

And today is one of those days. With a stiff wind out of the north and light drizzle, it’s downright miserable. Twelve-year-old Sheezal Bukhari has his coat buttoned up to his chin and his hood up as he makes his way home from school. His family lives in a small neighborhood not far from the school on the south side of the city. Just up the road is the home field for the city’s football team as well as the local cricket grounds. Initially, Sheezal dreamed of playing football there someday, but he found out early that he wasn’t blessed with an overabundance of athletic ability. He tucked that dream away and applied himself to his schoolwork. What he and others soon learned is Sheezal might not be athletic, but he more than makes up for it with his intelligence.

Currently first in his class, Sheezal spends summers immersed in high-level learning programs at the Balochistan University of Information Technology, Engineering and Management Sciences in nearby Quetta. In addition to computer programming, Sheezal is taught English, which he picked up quickly. At twelve, he’s hacked just about every network in Pakistan, both civilian and government. He doesn’t do it for malicious purposes, only to test his skills.

His backpack slung over his shoulder, Sheezal makes the turn onto his street, hoping his mother has some hot tea brewing for his arrival. Their home is at the end of the block, near a busy thoroughfare known as College Road that runs along the outskirts of downtown. With the wind whipping and with him thinking about his next hacking target, he has no idea a drone is circling overhead.

Seconds later, there’s a blinding flash and a ground-trembling explosion. The pressure wave from the blast knocks Sheezal off his feet and he lies there a moment, stunned, his ears ringing. After a few minutes he begins moving his limbs, making sure all of his body parts are still attached. They are, and he pushes to his feet. His vision blurry, he wipes a hand across his forehead and feels something warm and sticky. He looks at his palm to see it covered in blood. After taking a moment to wipe the blood out of his eyes, he looks up and screams. He stumbles down the street, yelling his mother’s name until he reaches the spot where their home once stood.

Four days later, after his mother was laid to rest, Sheezal hacked into an American newspaper website and discovered that the drone was targeting an automobile containing high-ranking Taliban leaders as it traveled east on College Road. For the first time Sheezal understood what the words collateral damage meant when there was no mention of the eighteen civilians killed during the attack.

Present day, somewhere near Boston

Today, Sheezal Bukhari has no qualms about the hell they’re unleashing on the United States. Shortly after his mother’s death, his father was driving a truck across the border as part of a convoy when they were ambushed and, at the age of twelve, Sheezal began his shuffle through the homes of various relatives, never quite fitting in. The one thing he didn’t let lapse during it all was his education. He knew it was his ticket out, and when he received the scholarship offer, he jumped at the chance.

In the United States, he excelled in the classroom but lacked the social skills required to fully embrace campus life. It wasn’t until grad school that he finally opened up some and made a few acquaintances who drifted in and out of his life, but nothing permanent. Instead of working on making friends, he focused on his work, joined a gym, put on thirty-five pounds of muscle, and visited a whorehouse when he felt the need for carnal pleasures. Sheezal often wonders if his life would had turned out differently if his mother were still alive. But he refuses to retreat into that deep, dark hole, and returns to the task at hand.

Feeling sluggish, he stands and moves into the break room. He grabs an energy drink from the fridge and spends a moment stretching his back before opening the can. As far as he’s concerned, the new American administration can shove those canceled student visas up their ass. There’s nothing back home for Sheezal and over the years he has set himself up well. He has money and he has a half a dozen seriously back-storied identities that will allow him to move freely around the country.

No, the only stumbling block that Sheezal sees on the horizon is the arrival of that asshole, Basir Nazeri. And that’s not an insurmountable problem, just one that will require additional thought. He drains the energy drink in three swallows and belches as he tosses the empty can into the trash before returning to his computer. “Hey, Nazeri,” Sheezal shouts across the room, “how about some food? Is that on your agenda?” Sheezal is physically similar in size to Nazeri and he’s the only member of the group willing to challenge Nazeri’s authority.

“I have ordered some pizzas,” Nazeri says.

“We’ve had pizza for three days in a row,” Sheezal says, running his fingers through his wiry beard. “Order something else.”

“Or what?” Nazeri asks, standing.

Hassan, fearing a confrontation, says, “Pizza’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, Hassan. That shit he orders tastes like cardboard,” Sheezal says, pushing out of his chair. He and Nazeri engage in a stare-off.

After several seconds, Nazeri never breaks eye contact when he says, “What would you prefer, Sheezal?”

“Steaks, or hamburgers, or whatever. I think we’ve had our fill of pizza.”

Nazeri calmly retakes his seat. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime return to work.”