Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  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.”

  Nazeri points at the computer screen. “A suitable target is the next one on the list. Get on with it.”

  Nazeri is always pushing, but this time Jermar pushes back. “Why are you here? We”—Jermar waves at the four other men—“are here for a reason. What is yours?” Jermar surprises himself by the sudden outburst.

  “I’m here because I have paid your bills for the last eight years of your miserable, pitiful life.” Nazeri glances at those gathered around the conference table. “And that goes for all of you. I now own you.” Nazeri turns his penetrating gaze back on Jermar. “Did you think I was doing that out of the goodness of my heart? I was not. Do not ever question my reasons for being here. Is that understood?”

  Seething inside, Jermar wants to stand and punch Nazeri in the mouth yet he knows he’s no match for the much larger man. Instead, gritting his teeth, he nods.

  “Good. I am glad we had an opportunity to get that small piece of business out of the way. Continue on, everyone. As for you, Jermar, select the next target and launch your attack.” Nazeri moves back to his position at the head of the table and sits.

  A tall, lanky young man, Jermar vows to get even and he begins plotting payback for Nazeri as he pulls up the next target, another chemical plant. After surveying the list of programmable logic controllers at the plant, Jermar launches two of the malware’s payloads that will allow him control of the thousands of valves inside the facility.

  CHAPTER 21

  Seattle, Washington

  The WaveFront Water Park, a very popular summer destination for families, is located twenty-five miles south of downtown Seattle and two miles east of New Tacoma, a busy port and industrial complex. With no federal regulations and few local zoning ordinances addressing the siting of chemical facilities, the area around New Tacoma grew with residential neighborhoods and local businesses, such as the WaveFront Water Park. As Washington’s only water and theme park, it draws people from all across the state.

  Melissa (Missy) Dwyer is one of today’s visitors at the seventy-acre wonderland. And she’s not alone. Her son, Dylan, conned her into chaperoning a group of twelve-year-old boys for an end-of-summer shebang. And now Missy is trying to corral ten preteens with an overabundance of hormones who can’t seem to stop gawking at the girls in their two-piece bikinis. And no wonder, Missy thinks. Some of the swimsuits are little more than dental floss and itty-bitty pieces of fabric. Missy shakes her head and clucks her tongue as another group of teenage girls prances by, their butts hanging out for the entire world to see. She wonders what the parents were thinking when they purchased the swimsuits.

  “Mom, I’m hungry,” Dylan whines, plopping down on the end of Missy’s lounger.

  “Go play. We’ll eat later.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  Missy is kicking herself for not smuggling in snacks from home, knowing that ten boys could eat through a grocery store and not leave a crumb behind. She sighs, digging through her bag of sunscreen and swim goggles to retrieve the small waterproof case holding her cash. She peels off a five and hands it to Dylan. “Try to find something healthy, please. No funnel cakes and no ice cream.” Dylan is paying little attention to his mother, his gaze riveted on two scantily clad girls with long ponytails. “Dylan, did you hear me?”

  Once the girls walk out of view, Dylan turns to look at his mother. “Huh?”

  “Stop ogling the girls. I said, no sweets. Got it?”

  “Sure, Mom,” he replies before scampering away.

  Missy sighs and opens the People magazine she’d carted from home. She’s deep into an article on a high-profile divorce between two television stars—the second for her and the third for him—when one of her charges, Liam Grayson, comes running up. One of Missy’s least favorites among her son’s friends, Liam hovers over her, dripping water onto her magazine.

  “Mrs. Dwyer, may I borrow five dollars?”

  One of the deals Missy made with the other parents when she agreed to chaperone was that the boys would be responsible for paying for their own food and drink while at the park. But, as usual, Liam didn’t bring any money. “What do you need the money for, Liam?”

  “I saw Dylan eating an ice cream cone and it really looks good, Mrs. Dwyer.”

  Something about Liam just irritates the hell out of Missy. It could be that he’s Eddie Haskell reincarnated.

  Missy mutters a curse word under her breath, angry at Dylan’s choice and angry at Liam’s parents for not sending money—again.

  Missy opens her case and peels off another five, handing it to Liam. “I want you to pay me back.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Liam says before racing off.

  “You’re welcome,” Missy shouts to his retreating backside. She stands and pushes her lounge chair deeper into the shade. It took a dozen blistered burns during her early years to convince Missy, a redhead, that the sun isn’t her friend. She did wear a bathing suit today, though—a tankini—but has yet to venture into the water. And not just because of the sun. Lithe and lean before birthing two kids, Missy is now carrying forty extra pounds on her small frame and she knows it’s not a good look for her. Even with visits to the gym and a low-carb diet, the pounds refuse to leave now that they’ve taken up residence on her thighs and belly. Her husband, Mike, hasn’t mentioned the extra weight—bless his soul—but their romps in the hay have tapered off over the last few years. Missy works hard to convince herself it’s because they’re busy with the kids’ activities, both Dylan’s and his older sister, Megan’s, and not a result of her ballooning weight. She glances up and pauses to watch a well-chiseled older man parade by. She sighs and returns to her magazine.

  She’s into the meat of the article, finally finding out who cheated on whom, when there’s a massive explosion not far from the park. Missy clambers to her feet to see what’s going on. In the distance she can see a building engulfed in flames, the dark smoke roiling skyward. As the smoke drifts closer, blown by the coastal breeze, Missy’s nostrils flare at the scent of chlorine. She glances around to see if the workers are adding chemicals to the pool, but doesn’t see anyone with a bucket of chemicals in hand. People crowd against the fence, many with their cell phones out recording the scene, as the fireball rapidly expands. Missy looks around and notices that people are beginning to cough. She scans the crowd for her son and the other boys under her charge, but the crowd is too dense.

  Now the chlorine odor is stronger, and Missy feels the first tendrils of p
anic inching down her spine. There are ten boys somewhere here that she’s responsible for. She has to find them.

  Now.

  Missy wades into the crowd, elbowing people aside as the chlorine smell intensifies. Her eyes are burning as she scans the crowd, searching desperately for a familiar face. She breaks through an opening near the rim of one of the pools and spots Dylan near the entrance to the lazy river at the outer edge of the park. She waves her arms and shouts his name, but with most of the crowd now coughing, he can’t hear her. Missy wades back into the crowd, her eyes now watering. Her sinuses are burning from the chlorine and she pulls her top up to cover her nose and mouth, leaving her belly exposed.

  But that’s the least of her worries at the moment.

  She pushes through a group of young girls, many of them vomiting. In the distance, Missy can hear approaching sirens yet she doesn’t know if they’re on the way to the fire or on their way to offer medical support here. Her breathing ragged, Missy reaches into her bra, pulls out her cell phone, and unlocks the screen to dial 911. When the call is answered, Missy stops for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She mumbles out the details and disconnects the call, shoving the phone back in her bra. She bends over and puts her hands on her knees, overcome by a sudden wave of nausea.

  The chlorine smell is stronger near the ground and she struggles to think why that’s important. But she can’t put her finger on it with her thoughts laser-focused on Dylan and his friends. She stands, sucks in a lungful of air, and regrets it immediately when her lungs begin to burn like she’d swallowed a flaming torch. She tries three shallow breaths and pushes through the crowd, nearly tripping over an older couple writhing on the ground. Her first instinct is to stop and help them, but her maternal instincts prevail and she sidesteps the two, elbowing her way forward. Finally, she reaches Dylan to find him kneeling and coughing uncontrollably. She does a quick head count of the other boys who are kneeling around her son.

  Nine.

  “Who’s missing?” Missy shouts.

  She counts again, this time really looking at the boys’ faces. “Liam? Where’s Liam?”

  Could he still be over by the food court? While her mind spins with possible locations where Liam might be, she’s hit with a sudden thought from moments ago. She grabs Dylan by his arms and lifts him to his feet. “All of you, stand up.” She pivots from boy to boy, helping them all to their feet. She scans the park then squats so she can look the boys in the eyes. She waits for a momentary break in the coughing. “We have to climb to the top of the water-slide tower.” She looks from one boy to another. “Understand?”

  Those able to nod, do, and she begins herding them toward the tower.

  “Liam?” Dylan asks, his voice raw.

  “I’ll find him, but I need all of you at the top of the tower first.”

  Dylan nods and reaches for his mother’s hand.

  Wading through the crowd like a rugby scrum, they finally reach the water slide that towers over the park. On a normal day, the line of waiting riders would stretch from the top of the tower to the kiddie pool two hundred yards away.

  But today is far from normal.

  Missy orders the boys to climb and they begin slowly ascending. Missy waits until they reach the top of the tower, then turns and hurries onward, wondering where Liam could be. When she reaches the other side of the kiddie pool area, there’s another tremendous explosion that is so large Missy is hit with the pressure wave a second later. It’s as if the explosion has sucked all of the oxygen out of the air, and Missy is struggling for the tiniest breath. Stopping, she leans against the wall of the Shake Shack. She does have the presence of mind to glance over her shoulder to make sure the boys on the tower are okay. Her eyes are watering and stinging so severely, all she can see are shapes, but from what she can tell they’re still there. Missy pushes off the wall and continues on, desperate to find Liam.

  A few moments after the second explosion, the chlorine smell increases tenfold and Missy’s seared lungs begin to falter. Staggering forward, she has to grab on to the back of a chair to keep from falling. It feels as if someone has put an ignited blowtorch up her nose and Missy’s vision is now so awful it’s like looking through a pair of glasses smeared with Vaseline.

  Missy staggers forward another few steps and trips over something that sends her crashing to the ground. After several moments spent trying to regain her strength, she rolls over to see what she’d tripped over and discovers it was a person. What little she can see of the colors on the swimsuit triggers something in her brain. Burning through the last of her energy, she pulls herself over to the body. She leans in until she’s six inches from the person’s face and discovers it’s Liam. She tries to reach out to feel for a pulse, but her synapses begin to misfire and she becomes confused. She rolls over on her back, her entire body feeling like it’s on fire. All Missy wants now is to die.

  And that’s exactly what happens a moment later when her throat swells shut, sealing her airway.

  CHAPTER 22

  Cruising at an altitude of 35,000 feet

  Hank doesn’t know which government agency actually owns the Gulfstream G550 they’re currently cruising in on their way to Manhattan, nor does it really matter. Although he’s flown on this aircraft multiple times, this jet, the newest in the fleet, is usually reserved for the bigwigs, like the director of Homeland Security or high-ranking congressional members. As such, the jet has all the trappings of a well-appointed living room, including Wi-Fi, satellite television, a well-stocked galley kitchen and bar, and comfortable, plush leather recliners. Paige and Hank raided the kitchen earlier and scored a couple of fresh sandwiches the crew had brought on board for them. Now sitting on opposite sides of the aisle, they’re sharing a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips and sipping diet sodas with CNN on the television, the audio muted.

  “I thought you were calling some of your contacts to get us a few new software toys?” Paige says around a mouthful of chips.

  Hank grabs a chip from the bag, pops it in his mouth, and chews. “I am. I’m tryin’ to decide who’d be best to call.” Hank hands the chip bag to Paige and digs out his phone. After pulling up his contacts, he begins scrolling through the list. He knows the person he wants to call at the NSA, but the last time they were together things didn’t turn out so well. He scrolls to the name anyway and pauses, debating. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he mumbles as he touches the phone number.

  The call is answered after four rings. “What?”

  “Hey, Natalie. Long time, no talk.”

  Paige glances up when Hank mentions the name.

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Hank,” Natalie Lambert says, her voice dripping with venom. “What do you want, Hank?”

  “Come on, Nat, don’t be like that.” Natalie is a computer programmer at the NSA.

  “How would you feel if I didn’t show up for a dinner and left you sitting at the restaurant?”

  “I got called away.”

  “Yeah, well. They have these devices called telephones, Hank. Have you heard of them?”

  “I believe I’m talkin’ on one right now,” Hank says. He gives Natalie a moment to cool down. He really had tried to call, but trying to get a cell signal on a helicopter is hit or miss.

  “You could have at least called the next day to explain.”

  “I was on assignment. And if you’ll recall, I did try to call when I returned but someone wasn’t answerin’ her phone.”

  There’s a long pause and then Natalie sighs. “Okay, let’s start over. Hi, Hank.”

  “Hi, Natalie.”

  “Okay, that’s better. Now, what do want, Hank?”

  “You guys workin’ on the hackers?”

  “That’s all we’re working on at the moment, even though we can’t do shit until we get access to some of the software.”

  “C’mon, Natalie, this is me you’re talkin’ to. If you want access you can get access.”

&n
bsp; “It’s different on this, Hank. The higher-ups are being real squirrelly about it. They want everything done all nice and legal like.”

  “Huh. What’s that indicate to you?”

  “I can’t say over the phone, but you can figure it out.”

  Hank thinks about it a moment and the only thing he can think of is that Natalie is suggesting an insider may be involved. “That makes no sense and, frankly, I don’t believe it. Most of those people want to steal classified information so they can release it to the world and get their fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “I don’t know, Hank. Something’s going on.”

  “Strange. Hey, we did a little pokin’ around in . . .” Hank pauses, trying to frame his statement, knowing the conversation is being recorded “Well, I’ll let you guess, but we didn’t find much. My partner suggested the malware might have self-destructed.”

  “Whom are you working with?”

  “Paige Randall. Know her?”

  “Of course. All of us programmer chicks like to hang out once in a while. Paige knows her way around. Tell her I said hello.”

  “I will, but back to the reason for my call. We’re headed to Manhattan to get a look at some of the stock market software and I was wonderin’ if you’d be willin’ to share a few of your special software tools.”

  “Are you going to share that source code with me?”

  “Oh, so we’re barterin’, now? Sure, I’ll ask Paige to send you everythin’ we get.”

  “Deal,” Natalie says. “What do you need?”

  Hank thinks about it a moment. “I guess what we don’t already have.”

  “Put Paige on the phone, Hank.”

  “She wants to talk to you,” Hank says, passing his phone over to Paige. He scowls when the second thing out of Paige’s mouth is a deep, hearty laugh. Hank has no doubt Natalie’s comment had something to do with him. Paige glances over and smiles. Yep. No doubt. He glances up at the television to see a full-screen graphic: BREAKING NEWS. He digs around in the seat for the remote and cranks up the volume.