Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  As if reading his thoughts, Peyton asks, “Are they fighting over that store?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to see anything from here.”

  Both jump when more gunfire erupts. Eric ducks back behind the tree just as a random spray of bullets chews into the tree’s upper canopy, launching a storm of wood chips that pelt Eric and Peyton as they hug the ground. The gunfire ends as quickly as it began and Peyton exhales the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  “I saw bursts of flame from inside the store,” Eric whispers, “but I can’t tell who the other shooters are or where they’re shooting from. You see anything?”

  Peyton rolls onto her side and rakes her fingers through her hair, picking out the dead leaves that have accumulated there. “All I saw was dirt. I think we need to find a safer spot.”

  “Can’t. We’d be too exposed trying to get there. And it sounds like they’re using machine guns and that means they’ll be spraying bullets everywhere.” Eric tilts his head back and looks up at the tree’s underlying branches. “In fact, I think a few bullets hit during that last round of fighting.”

  “All the more reason to find a safer place.” Peyton rolls onto her belly, pushes into a kneeling position, and crawls closer to the base of the tree for another look. “What about that building under construction?” Peyton asks, pointing to the skeletal framework of a multistory building going up next door.

  “It’s fenced.” This late in the day, the construction site is buttoned up for the night. Eric turns to look at the sun as it sinks lower in the sky. “Might be best to wait until dark to make our move—” Eric, hearing the rustling of footsteps on pavement, stops speaking and turns to see four police officers creeping down the street. All are wearing body armor and helmets, and all are loaded for bear. He turns and whispers to Peyton, “I think they’re trying to flank the store.”

  “What do you know about military maneuvers?” Peyton whispers.

  Eric shrugs and whispers, “Hey, I watch the History Channel.”

  “What does the History Channel say about being in the direct line of fire?”

  Eric looks at the approaching police officers then the store, contemplating the angles. “Oh shit.”

  “Exactl—”

  The last syllable of her word is clipped when the police open fire on the building again. Those inside start firing back and Eric pushes Peyton to the ground and crawls on top of her as a salvo of bullets zings by overhead. Glancing up for a peek, he sees bullets stitching across the dirt only yards away from their position. Eric, who hasn’t been to church since Easter Sunday 2005, closes his eyes and begins mumbling the few words he remembers from the Twenty-third Psalm. But he doesn’t get very far before his thoughts are interrupted by a loud whooshing noise that sounds like a giant bottle rocket being launched. Eric squeezes Peyton tighter, and a few milliseconds later an enormous explosion detonates, shaking the ground beneath them. Almost instantaneously, car alarms in the area begin wailing as the crash of shattering glass cascades down the block.

  Lying on top of Peyton, Eric bears the brunt of the blast and is momentarily deafened by the explosion. Peyton, feeling like she’s being suffocated, elbows Eric in the gut and he rolls off her. Pushing up to her hands and knees, she pulls up her shirt to wipe the dirt from her nose and mouth. She turns her head and says, “We need to go.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 48

  Chaman, Balochistan, Pakistan

  January 13, 2006

  TARGET: Taliban

  CONFIRMED KILLED: 22

  CIVILIANS KILLED: 18 (5–6 children)

  Located 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.”

  Sheezal’s stare lingers on Nazeri for an extra moment or two before retaking his seat. After examining the targets for a moment, Sheezal picks an oil refinery near a highly populated area. He likes the fact that he’s targeting the one resource Americans can’t seem to get enough of. More, more, more is all the Americans want, Sheezal thinks, leaving few resources for the billions of other people who occupy this planet. With tentacles stretching throughout the Middle East, the U.S. government sucks up the oil and is more than willing to go to war when their interests are threatened. No, Sheezal doesn’t hate everyone in this country, but he does hate the politicians, the large corporations, and the hypocrisy.

  Using the back door that Nazeri provided, Sheezal enters the company’s network and searches through the database of attached devices. He can either target the PLCs that control the multitude of valves inside the plant, go after the pressure sensors, or attack the pumps that move the chemicals through the facility. Hoping an overheated pump might spark a fire, Sheezal chooses the pumps and launches the malware payload targeted specifically at the controllers that regulate pump speeds. Once he has control, he ramps up the speeds on the 142 pumps inside the building and sits back in his chair, waiting for disaster to strike.

  CHAPTER 49

  Delaware County, Pennsylvania

  People drive by it day after day and never give the facility a second thought. Others might drift by the collection of tanks and towers and not wonder about their purpose as they cruise down the scenic Delaware River. And some people will buy or build their homes nearby, never knowing what goes on inside the plant across the road or down the street. There are no regulations or restrictions that prohibit the construction of homes in the vicinity, and most of the residents believe that if it’s okay to build in a certain area, then it must be okay to live there.

  If they only knew.

  Located on the north bank of the Delaware River and about ten miles west of downtown Philadelphia, Clark Energy’s refinery pumps out 180,000 barrels of refined oil products every day. The chemical elements, or hydrocarbons, in one barrel of crude oil can be used to make gasoline, heating oil, jet fuel, lubricants, waxes, and propane. Which specific product is produced is dependent on the refining process used. The most common procedure, fractional distillation, involves heating the crude to a certain temperature, forcing individual carbon atoms into a gaseous state where the atoms reform, creating a specific product. Further refining follows. The resulting products may then be cracked, reformed, or pumped into a cylinder for vacuum distillation in an attempt to further rearrange the fuel’s molecular structure.

  Some refineries, including Clark Energy, use a process called alkylation to boost the octane levels in gasoline. Some communities across the United States have banded together to try and stop this particular process because of the potential dangers to their towns and cities. It’s not the end product that has them upset, it’s the main chemical used in the processing—hydrofluoric acid. A very potent chemical, hydrofluoric acid will dissolve metal, rock, glass, and ceramic, making it a favorite in the movie industry for dissolving human bodies. The one thing it won’t eat through is plastic and that’s how Clark Energy stores this deadly chemical at the plant.

  Stored as a liquid, if the hydrofluoric acid were to leak from a refinery, it forms a deadly vapor cloud when exposed to air. Any contact with the vapor cloud could produce serious, painful chemical burns, blindness, and death from asphyxiation.

  Today the alkylation unit is up and running and thirty-three-year-old Nolan Carroll is inside the plant’s control room keeping a close eye on the activity. Everything at the plant is computerized and, with a touch of a button or a click of the mouse, Carroll can make adjustments to keep the plant running smoothly.

  Carroll and his wife, Melinda, welcomed their second child, a girl, to the world three months ago. It didn’t take the family long to figure out their small apartment was no longer going to work. He and Melinda went house shopping and found a reasonably priced three-bedroom, two-bath home only a mile from the plant. After some negotiating with the sellers, a price was agreed to and the Carroll family moved into their new home two months ago. Working at the plant and knowing the dangers, Nolan fell in love with the selling price of the home and ignored his initial misgivings about the location.

  A decision he will live to regret.

  He rolls his chair a little to the left for a better look at the video screen that displays hydrofluoric acid levels inside the alkylation unit. The acid levels are rising and the pumps haven’t shut off. Using his computer mouse, Carroll navigates through the company’s computer network and clicks on the programmable logic controller that regulates the pump’s speed and attempts to dial it back. He’s surprised when the pump doesn’t respond to the computer’s commands. He turns to his coworker Jack Sandoval. “What’s up with all the pumps?”

  “I don’t know,” Sandoval says. “The computer won’t allow me to adjust the speeds.”

  “Same here. Try killing the power to one or two of them and see what happens.”

  “I tried. The computer wouldn’t let me do that, either.”

  Carroll feels a tingle of panic inch down his spi
ne. Before he can decide on a course of action, the building is rattled by a large explosion that sends shrapnel shredding through the control room. Carroll grabs his cell phone and dives under his desk. After lighting the screen, he quickly punches the speed dial for his wife and waits.

  “C’mon, c’mon, answer the phone,” he mumbles as the first tendrils of the vapor enter the control room.

  * * *

  Still off work for her last few days of maternity leave, Melinda Carroll returns home after taking their three-year-old daughter to Mother’s Day Out. Inside, she takes a long look at the mess in the kitchen and decides to rest a moment before tackling that chore. With the baby, Elise, sleeping in her car seat, Melinda sags onto the sofa, exhausted. Yesterday, Elise had been fussy and Melinda had spent a good portion of the night pacing the floors with the baby in her arms, trying to calm her. Melinda picks up a magazine, fans through the pages, and tosses it back on the coffee table. Eventually her eyelids grow heavy and she drifts off to sleep.

  Sometime later, Melinda startles awake when her cell phone rings. Disoriented, it takes her a moment to find it. She digs it out of the sofa and looks at the screen to see Nolan is calling and answers.

  Instead of his usual hello, Nolan says, “Get out of the house right now.”

  “What?” Melinda asks.

  “There’s been an accident at the plant. You have to hurry. Leave and head—”

  “Nolan? Nolan, are you there?” Now in a panic, Melinda grabs her bag, picks up the car seat with the baby still napping inside, and hurries out of the house. She flings open the car’s back door, snaps in the car seat, and climbs behind the wheel. Burning rubber, she backs out of the drive and gasps when she sees the fiery inferno at the refinery, just down the road. After dropping the car into drive, she slams on the gas. Quickly winding her way through the neighborhood, she glances ahead to see a white cloud of something hovering close to the ground and moving her way. She stops at the intersection and looks back at the plant, her heart hammering in fear for her husband’s safety.