Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“That, I don’t know. Hold on.”

Darnell cranes her neck for another look. Still clear. Taylor is back on the radio seconds later. “Sixty soldiers are inbound.”

Darnell clicks the talk button. “Jesus, Walt, that’s not going to be enough. These savages will chew through sixty weekend warriors like they’re having a midmorning snack. We need an overwhelming force if we’re going to take this prison back.”

“Lydia, these soldiers will be wearing body armor and will be heavily armed. The prisoners don’t have any weapons, do they?”

“Some of these guys could make a weapon out of a piece of tissue, but, no, they don’t have any firearms that I’m aware of,” Darnell says over the radio. “But sixty men ain’t no match for the monsters in here. Hell, Walt, six hundred soldiers might not even do the trick.”

“If they don’t have any guns I don’t see it being a big issue. Besides, I don’t have the authority to call up more troops . ”

Darnell sighs. She taps herself on the forehead with the handheld microphone a few times, thinking it’s a good thing Walt didn’t decide to be a brain surgeon. She pushes the transmit button and says, “I know that, Walt. Get on the horn to the warden or the director of corrections and tell them we need more soldiers.”

“Ten-four. I’ll make the call, Lydia, but what am I supposed to tell these soldiers that are rolling up right now?”

“Tell them to contact me. Darnell out.” She slings the handset over her shoulder and waits. Darnell takes up the shotgun again as the wailing of the wounded drones on. Her mind drifts and she wonders, briefly, which prison gang is now calling the shots. There’s a long list to choose from. Ethnicity plays a major role in deciding who belongs in which gang, but there are also multiple gangs among a single ethnic group. Most of the Hispanic prisoners at Attica fall into three groups: the Mexican Mafia, the Nuestra Familia, or the Netas. Most African American prisoners retain their street gang affiliations, making the Bloods and Crips two of the largest prison gangs in existence. Not to be outdone, the Caucasian prisoners also have several gangs to choose from, but the overwhelming majority of whites here call the Aryan Brotherhood home. Yes, they’re all diverse groups, but they do have one thing in common—each group despises the other enough to want to kill them.

Darnell startles when Walt calls to her over the radio. She drags the handset off her shoulder and answers, “Still here, Walt.”

“Good to hear,” Walt says. “I’ve got a Captain Butler here with me who wants to talk to you.”

Darnell rolls her eyes. “Walt, hand him the radio.”

Anew voice sounds over the radio. “Officer Darnell, I’m Captain Scott Butler with the New York National Guard. What is the situation like inside the prison?”

“How do you think it is, Captain?” Darnell says.

“Bad?” Butler asks.

“Beyond your worst nightmare. Do you really have only sixty soldiers with you?”

“Yes, but they’re all highly trained men.”

“That might be true, Captain, but you’re about to meet about two thousand of the meanest motherfuckers you’ve ever met. I suggest you bring lots of ammunition.”

“We’ll be prepared. How many other corrections officers are with you?”

Darnell sighs and clicks the transmit button. “Zero.”

A lengthy silence follows before Butler asks, “Are any of the other guards still alive?”

Darnell blows out a long, shaky breath. “Not in cellblocks A and D. I don’t know about the rest of the prison, but I haven’t heard anyone else on the radio.”

“What’s your current location, Officer Darnell?”

“I locked myself in the weapons locker inside Times Square. It’s situated at the crossroads where prisoners cross to other areas of the prison. Do you have floor plans?”

“I’m looking at them now,” Butler answers. “Can you activate the doors so we can enter other areas of the prison?”

“Yes, but I’ll be exposed. Call me when you need a door opened.”

“We’ll need more than one insertion point. Any suggestions?”

“Look, Captain, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I don’t think dividing your forces is the best idea.”

“Duly noted, Officer Darnell. Can you open the doors to the yard?”

Darnell groans then says, “Yes.”

“Good. We’ll finalize plans out here and I’ll be back to you in a moment.”

“Okay,” Darnell says over the radio. “Tell your men to loosen up their trigger fingers, cause they’re going to need ’em.”

Gardez, Paktika Province, Afghanistan

May 18, 2010

TARGET: Bomb makers for the Taliban

CONFIRMED KILLED: 33

CIVILIANS KILLED: Unknown

D ecimated early in the war, Gardez, the capital of the Paktika Province, is slowly making a comeback after the war shifted to other parts of Afghanistan. The Americans still maintain a forward operating base nearby, but troop numbers have dwindled over the years. Surrounded by the mountains of the Hindu Kush, Gardez’s current population has swelled to over 70,000 and the city, built at the intersection of two important roads, is the axis for commerce for a large swath of eastern Afghanistan.

With help from international aid organizations, the schools were rebuilt and the students returned to the classroom. Now at the local high school, seventeen-year-old Raahim Durrani is saying good-bye to his teachers for a final time. Small for his age and extremely shy, Raahim didn’t have much of a social life in school, so he filled his time with reading, studying, and learning other languages. Fluent in six languages, including English, Raahim used his language-learning skills to master another form of language—computer programming. He can now program using SQL, Java, JavaScript, Python, C, Ruby, and many, many others.

Raahim says good-bye to his last teacher, grabs his backpack, and exits the school for a final time. With excellent ACT and SAT scores, Raahim, on a whim, applied to some of the most prestigious universities in the world with money he’d earned over several summers. But knowing his family would never be able to afford any of them, he enrolled in classes at Paktika University for the fall semester and accepted his fate. Weeks later, the acceptance letters began to roll in and Raahim would read them and put them away in a drawer as keepsakes. Days later he received a letter that would change his life. He had already been accepted to two prestigious universities in Boston, and the letter informed him that he would be awarded a full scholarship if he met certain conditions and agreed to work on a special software project. With very little thought, he signed the paperwork, canceled his enrollment at Paktika, and set his sights on Boston.

As Raahim makes his way back home, he runs through a mental checklist of what else needs to be done. He leaves in two weeks to participate in a special summer program at the university and has already started packing. Although excited, he has momentary bouts of sadness when his thoughts turn to leaving his family. The youngest of five children, Raahim will miss his two brothers and two sisters, but it’s his parents he thinks about the most. It could be years before he returns home again and both of his parents are in their mid-fifties—not that old, but like most Afghans they’ve had hard lives trying to eke out an existence in a country perennially at war.

Raahim tries to come to grips with maybe never seeing his parents again as he crosses the bridge on his way to their neighborhood on the south side of the city. It’s a beautiful day and Raahim pauses in the middle of the bridge to watch the clear, cold snowmelt trickle over the rocks as his mind churns with emotions. His two sisters are busy with their own families, and Raahim realizes he’ll miss watching his nieces and nephews grow up.