Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  She sniffs and smells a funny odor as the cloud envelops the car. Seconds later, her eyes and lungs begin to sting. Elise wakes and immediately begins screaming as Melinda slams on the gas and steers onto the main road. Hoping to clear the odor and smoke from the car, she triggers her window down.

  And that proves to be a fatal mistake.

  The toxic cloud of hydrofluoric acid invades the car. Now unable to breathe or see, Melinda loses control of the car and it slams into a ditch. Dazed, she’s wondering why Elise is no longer crying and that’s her last thought before her body shudders one final time and goes still.

  CHAPTER 50

  Manhattan

  Paige and Hank are moving north on Broadway, trying to make their way to the East 34th Street Heliport. And it’s a tough slog. The sidewalks are jammed tight as teeth and no one seems willing to give an inch. Having visited the city many times, Hank knows New Yorkers can be brusque, but most of these people are downright surly and he gets the feeling things could spiral out of control at any second.

  Passing St. Paul’s Chapel, Hank’s not surprised to see a steady stream of people filing into the church. He knows many people fall back on their faith during times of duress, hoping divine intervention will intercede on their behalf. But unless their deity knows how to fix the power grids, Hank thinks, they’re probably wasting their time. He grabs Paige by the hand and leads her through the crowds and into the street. It’s slightly less crowded, but the abandoned automobiles do allow them room to take a breath.

  “How much further?” Paige asks.

  “Sixty-two blocks. Goin’ to make it?” Hank asks.

  “Don’t have much choice. How do you know it’s precisely sixty-two blocks and not sixty-one blocks or sixty-three blocks?”

  Hank shrugs. “I just know.”

  “What? You just dial up a map of Manhattan in that big brain of yours?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much how it works.”

  “Do you ever get lost?”

  “Sure, if it’s a place I’ve never been to before or if I haven’t looked at a map of a specific area.”

  Paige shakes her head. “Weird. Shoot, half the time I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.”

  “That’s not uncommon for most people. But if you stop and think you’ll eventually remember.”

  “Do you have to stop and think? Or do you just pluck it from memory?”

  “It depends. In this case I did have to count the blocks.”

  Two blocks up, past a looted Staples and a ransacked Starbucks, people are lining up around City Hall, already chanting protests.

  “What are they protesting?” Paige asks.

  “I guess they want the mayor to wave a magic wand and make everything better. Most people have no idea how the power grids work. They just assume when they flip a switch that the light will come on. It’s somethin’ we all take for granted. But, unfortunately, there are no magic fixes.”

  “How long have we been without power? A few hours, maybe? And it’s already this chaotic?”

  “It’ll get worse. Much worse,” Hank says. “A day or two without water and food and this city will turn into a hellhole real fast.”

  “How are they going to survive?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “That’s rather cold-blooded. Don’t you have empathy?”

  “Of course I do. But there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. The only thing we can do is try to prevent this from happenin’ elsewhere.”

  “Do you think Tomás is going to come through with a helicopter?” Paige asks.

  “It’ll be there.”

  “You sound sure.”

  “I am sure. Tomás can pull a lot of strings.”

  “How did you two get to be such good friends?” Paige asks.

  “We’ve worked on several cases, but I think the main reason is that we both came from similar backgrounds. He’s half-Mexican and I’m half-Indian—or Native American if you’re into bein’ politically correct—and we both had to overcome multiple hurdles to get where we are today.”

  “He seems like a great guy.”

  “He is,” Hank replies.

  Three blocks up, they pass the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, home to the FBI’s New York field office. The building, a highly secure place on any normal day, is now even more so, with a dozen or more armed agents, wearing full body armor, guarding all of the building’s entrances and exits.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to head inside and work from here?” Paige asks.

  “I’m sure. Our best chance to crack this thing is back in D.C.”

  A few minutes later, while crossing Walker Street, Paige and Hank run into the first hint of real trouble when a fusillade of gunfire erupts in the middle of Broadway.

  Daily News Website

  —BREAKING NEWS—Norfolk Naval Station attacked! Significant damage reported.

  Details are slow to arrive on the situation at Norfolk Naval Station. We do know the port and several ships were damaged. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Reports of second chemical plant explosion near Los Angeles. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Horrific train crash snarls traffic in Northeast Corridor. Acela Express train plows into Penn Station. Witnesses report train was speeding up when crash occurred.

  First responders on the scene report significant loss of life. Cause still undermined. Witnesses report the train was speeding up as it approached the station. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Massive explosion at army munitions depot in McAlester, Oklahoma. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Stock trading halted because of computer irregularities. Experts fear loss of financial transactions. Monetary losses expected to be astronomical.

  All stock trading has been halted due to some type of computer glitch. Officials believe computer issues may be deeper than first expected. Experts we’ve spoken to fear there could be a significant loss of financial transactions. More details to follow . . .

  CHAPTER 51

  Attica

  If Attica Corrections Officer Lydia Darnell were willing to take her hands off the shotgun, she’d use them to cover her ears. She doesn’t know exactly what’s happening out in the prison, but judging by the howling screams and insane blubbering, it’s bad. Real bad. It can’t be fellow officers being killed because every guard she saw was already dead. But there’s no doubt some old grudges are getting settled and in a barbaric way. And they have all the necessary tools to get the job done with ready access to every kitchen utensil inside prison walls. Still locked away in the armory, Darnell is trying to stay alive long enough for the cavalry to arrive. She’d love to have access to the prison’s camera system, but that would mean opening the steel cage door, and that’s not something she’s willing to do.

  Prisoners have been in and out of the Times Square booth, no doubt plotting ways to get their hands on the last remaining guard and the weapons inside. So far there has been no direct attack on Darnell’s position—the bodies piled up at the door may be acting as some type of deterrent. But Darnell is ready if they do come. She now has four fully loaded shotguns stacked up on the floor next to her, along with a nice selection of fully loaded pistols. The inmates’ only chance to get to her would be to send in a wave of cannon fodder in hopes she’d run out of ammunition. And that’s not entirely out of the question. With over two thousand inmates inside the prison walls, Darnell doesn’t have enough ammunition to kill them all.

  Her radio squelches and the tower guard, Walt Taylor, says, “Darnell, you there?”

  Darnell takes one long look out the armory door before triggering the radio. “I’m here, Walt. Status?”

  “National Guard is five minutes out.”

  Darnell exhales a sigh of relief. “How many soldiers?”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Gardez, Paktika Province, Afghanistan

  May 18, 2010

  TARGET: Bomb makers for the Taliban

  CONFIRMED KILLED: 33

  CIVILIANS KILLED: Unknown

  Decimated 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.

  Turning and leaning against the bridge, he allows the sun to warm his face. A moment later, he opens his eyes and notices a trail of smoke streaking across the sky. It’s moving too fast to be an airplane and he wonders what it is. With no obvious answers, he shrugs and turns for home.

  As he’s turning into his neighborhood something explodes and
the blast wave nearly knocks him off his feet. Raahim, stunned, watches as smoke rises from somewhere in the neighborhood and balloons across the sky. His heart now hammering, he begins to run.

  Turning down the street he lives on, Raahim slows then stops when he discovers his home is no longer there. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he sinks to his knees and buries his face in his hands.

  Two weeks later, after burying his parents and two brothers, Raahim shuffles through the Kabul airport in a daze, waiting for his flight to be called.

  Present day, somewhere near Boston

  Raahim closes out the web browser he had been looking at and sits back in his chair. Every few months he’ll scan the Web to see if anyone has taken responsibility for killing his family and the results are no different today, eight years later. Raahim rubs his eyes. He’s been going for twenty-four hours straight and is in desperate need of sleep. Pushing back his chair, he stands and walks into the break room and grabs an energy drink from the fridge. Already jittery, he knows the caffeine jolt is only going to make it worse. He puts the unopened drink back in the fridge and leans against the counter.

  He made it through the plane crashes just fine, but as the day wears on Raahim is losing his taste for killing. He turns and searches the upper cabinets for some antacids. He finds a bottle of Pepto-Bismol with a couple of swallows left in it and unscrews the cap and drains it. Looking at the empty bottle he wonders if some of the others are having similar thoughts.