The top hinge of the door broke free. From the stairwell above a knot of business people ran for the exit, yelling. The second blast must have scared the shit out of them.
Her hand slammed against the unhinged door. She bolted inside, pulling the ruined door as closed as possible.
She stepped into a silent, pitch-black hallway, and froze.
Red targeting lights crawled over the floor and walls. Shit. Natalya pulled out her gun. Four lights, four guards. Blowing the door open probably wasn’t the best idea. She knew firing at the source of the beams would be a death sentence. Quietly, she grabbed the remaining bits of the putty, jammed another detonator into it, and tossed it in an arc toward the beams.
She dived to the floor and turned curling up into a ball. So much for shielding myself.
Cries of men torn to pieces followed a moderately large explosion. Her hands covered her ears and arms protected her face from the blast. The screams got through.
Natalya felt her leg grow warm. Shit. She reached a hand toward the bottom of her leg and removed a small piece of metal and groaned. She put her fingers over the wound but didn’t feel the blood pumping out. Good, it’ll take me longer to exsanguinate.
She strained upright, then reached into her purse and grabbed a couple pills of dextroamphetamine. She swallowed the pills. A bitter taste lingered. Natalya hoped the military go-pills would keep her alert for the escape.
Light flashed brightening the hallway. “Natalya?”
Natalya hissed. “Yuri, you idiot, here now!”
The light swept over her. “You’re bleeding!”
“Here’s the canister. I’ll watch the door. No one will get through. You’ll have to crack the safe and carry down both suitcases, I can’t do it.”
“I won’t have to. Apparently, Sokol doesn’t trust us.”
The face of Sokol’s driver, Erik, appeared in the flashlight’s beam when he knelt beside Natalya. He pulled out a handkerchief and wound it around her leg to slow the bleeding.
“More like Sokol didn’t trust where I was staying, so he put me to work. I would’ve been here sooner, but there seems to be a problem at the entrance. There isn’t one.” The big man stood up.
Competence, it’s about damn time. “Did Sokol brief you?”
“No, he said to follow and help.” He shrugged his shoulders. “This is me following and helping.”
“Building’s plans show a safe room on this floor, around the corner from this hallway. Expect more guards. You armed?”
“Yes. With an extra clip.”
“Take this idiot with you. I’d slow you down. Yuri has a canister that will more than blast through the safe room wall. You have one chance. Go.”
Natalya sunk to the floor, propping herself against the wall, gun in hand and pointed toward the door. Yuri and Erik trotted away. At least Yuri had the sense to turn off that damn flashlight.
She counted twenty breaths before hearing shots, then an explosion and a scream. Too small of an explosion. Grenade?
Whatever the explosion, suddenly it did not matter. Natalya braced her arms against the wall when a huge tremor reverberated throughout the building.
Nice! I should toss some of those around Sokol’s new neighborhood. She stood up. “Blyad!” She got up. Limping, she walked toward the explosion but didn’t get far before footsteps came at her. She slung the strap of her purse across her chest and raised her gun with both arms, aiming at the sound.
Erik’s voice came from the darkness. “These are damn heavy, but I have them. Let’s go!”
“And Yuri?”
“Wounded, an artery’s cut. Your friend Yuri will be dead before we reach the ground floor.” With suitcases in both hands, Erik used one foot to slam the stairwell door open. “Your car is in pieces. Mine is a few blocks away if we get that far. Everything’ll be on lockdown soon. Can you make it?”
“Is Yuri in a lot of pain?”
“If his screaming is any indication, then yes.”
Natalya grinned. “I guess that is better than nothing? Damn right I’ll make it!” She turned to Eric. “Thanks big boy, you want a date tonight?”
“You fucking nuts?”
Her cheeks dimpled, and the corners of her eyes wrinkled. Yea, I’m nuts.
The Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago building formed the right-hand side of the ‘U Shape’ intersection at the Board of Trade. Inside it contained a bullet-proof domed enclosure containing 50,000 twenty-dollar bills. The strength of the case preserved several thousand of them, but the rest blew out the other side of the building. Nearby streets were littered with Jacksons. No one in the immediate area was alive to care.
No one other than Natalya that is. Natalya picked up one for a souvenir.
Another blast erupted several miles away, technically called a duplex blast: a smaller blast fueling another larger blast. They were a thousandth of a second apart and added to each other’s destruction. The beams supporting the Spaghetti Bowl collapsed onto the roadway below.
Rubble buried several cars and trucks. Others crashed into each other avoiding the debris.
The American people had nothing to be ashamed of. Once the survivors realized help would not be coming, they did what Americans always did, became heroes. Their dedication and effort saved countless lives.
A WCN TV news van on the way to another story survived with a mild fender bender. The crew may not have gotten the story they planned, but the news footage they shot told a story of over a hundred vehicles involved in a deadly occurrence.
A still of the news van footage showed a restaurant manager rescuing a set of twins, a boy and girl. He was tattered, bloodied, and carrying the unconscious children. Flames filled the background. Billy, the restaurant manager, became a national hero.
A few seconds later, the last blast tore apart the machinery of the Jardine Water Plant. Water pressure fell to nothing throughout a significant portion of the city. Tourists at the plant got a little more than they bargained for, but most got to keep their lives. The bomb was placed to cause maximum damage to the city’s ability to deliver water, not to maim.
When the bombs finished their task, a thick smoky haze hung over the city.
CHAPTER 20
An Enemy Of Your Enemy Is Your Friend
Mike woke to loud barking. “Lokai, shut up!”
Lokai ran to him, poked his cold nose into Mike’s face, a streaking a wet, sandy tongue crossed his cheek.
Last night Mike had lowered the sliding blinders in place, covering the windows before collapsing on his bed to block the glare of the streetlights and headlights, but the blinders weren’t perfect. The only light in the basement this morning were the dusty beams of sunlight that broke through the gaps. Why is it so dark and cold in here? He shivered.
He rolled on his back to see what time it was. The alarm clock’s LEDs were off. He encouraged Lokai to move away with a gentle push, got up and stretched to pull the light bulb string. He tugged until it clicked, but no light.
No roar came from the furnace. The television and appliances all were off. Shit, no power. Oh well. “Stay, sit, I take you out in a little bit.”
He hot-footed to each of three windows in the basement and tugged on the shades. They snapped in place. Light found a way into the underground apartment. “Great, look how high the sun is. Must have slept in.” He glanced across the street.
A few of his neighbors stood outside. A couple across the street hugged each other, apparently crying. No lights in any nearby apartment windows. No moving cars. The neighborhood was still.
“Surely they’re not crying because power’s out?” He snatched his phone, no data bars, no mobile service. “Come on, Lokai, outside with you.”
Mike sprinted after the dog until his back reminded him he’d been in a wheelchair not long ago. Once he warmed up, the reminders were few. But on cold mornings after waking up, he normally knew to be careful. He slowed to a trot and swung open the front door.
Lok
ai snuck between his legs and ran outside, sniffing the bushes.
Mike yelled. “Don’t go far knucklehead.” Mike caught a glimpse of a bright red piece of paper neatly taped to the door. Watch it be an eviction notice. He leaned closer to read the note. “Boil water. Great.” No cell service, now this? Let’s see if I have service outside? He checked, and he had one bar. Normally he had full bars at the house.
Keeping one eye on Lokai, he surfed his phone. “Let’s see what happened.” He navigated to a major network’s up-to-the-minute site which had posted random links to articles without any care for where it landed, but he had enough pieces of the story. “Stay in the yard, Lokai.”
Mike scrolled through the headlines. Chicago had been attacked. He read the list of targets: Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the Spaghetti Bowl, a water treatment plant. Nuts, one hundred and twenty-nine dead, several more injured. He raised his head to the sky. Mike was not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but in a crisis, he often said a short prayer.
God, please help the injured. He stared at an odd shaped cloud. It brought back a memory from his youth. Hi mom and dad.
The news stated that a nationalist group known for wanting to return Russia to its former Soviet glory claimed responsibility. The President would convene a news conference at noon.
Mike’s memories of fake FBI agents, and of real ones who shot him sprung from the recesses of his mind.
The site promised to keep viewers updated. A number to call the FBI scrolled across the bottom.
His eyes traced a line of parked cars to the end of the street. He saw what he thought was a National Guard truck blocking the road. Two guys in camo fatigues milled around, locked and loaded, hands resting casually on their weapons. A car approached, and the men gestured for it to reverse course. One of the men stepped away from the truck, allowing Mike to see ‘U.S. Army’ clearly painted across it. Confused, he struggled to think of situations when regular army units would be deployed rather than the National Guard.
He came to a conclusion. Marshal law. “Come on, Lokai, get inside.” Mike’s suspicion was confirmed a few seconds later when a gaggle of Apache Helicopters swarmed on their way downtown.
Mike woke up the next morning, shivering from the same cold nose as yesterday’s, pressed into the back of his neck. “Yeah, I got the hint.”
Lokai plastered another one across his cheek.
He flung off the covers, buried Lokai, and stood to stretch. He stomped upstairs and into the kitchen to the stove and checked its pilot light before cupping his hands over it. Lokai obediently followed nipping at footsteps. “Not the best heat but something, right doggy?”
Lokai looked at him and whined.
“Yeah, I know. Give me a minute, my hands are freezing.”
Lokai barked when the lights suddenly came on.
Finally good news. Mike walked into the living room, past the yakking head on the television that he hadn’t turned off, and let Lokai in the backyard. He verified the furnace produced heat.
“Hurry and do your duty, I want to warm up.” He glanced outside. The army truck had returned.
Standing in the doorway, Mike turned to keep tabs on the news broadcast.
“…In a slip-up this morning, the President, looking exhausted in his second press conference in as many days, accidentally revealed that the National Security Agency had intercepted several communications, all in Russian, immediately before and during the attack. No word yet from the White House as to what the Russian group who claimed responsibility hoped to achieve, but as you just heard, administration officials have repeated that they’re in contact with their counterparts in Moscow and are working with them to learn more.”
“Moscow claims that the terrorist were rogue elements outside their realm of influence. Tensions are high in both capitals, with Russian police attempting to control small, unorganized, Pro-Soviet demonstrations in the streets of Khimki and Barvikha, both hamlets outside Moscow, while lawmakers on Capitol Hill called for sanctions against Russia, including a unilateral U.S. trade embargo.”
Mike's heart stopped when a map of Chicago flashed across the screen.
“In Chicago, the Governor deployed National Guardsmen throughout most of the downtown area to protect residences and businesses from further looting while U.S. Army troops have been spotted both in and near the city, sparking fears of martial law being declared against a possible uptick in unrest, but our network has not received any…”
Mike brushed aside the rest of what the news anchor said, instead focusing on the map displayed on the television. He had seen the map before and suddenly understood where: on the server he’d broken into. Shit. That wasn’t a map for sightseers. It was a map of escape routes.
“Come on, Lokai, get in here.” He shut the door once Lokai had brushed past him. He ran upstairs, his back no longer a concern. Mike opened Eddie’s office door, yanked out the laptop from the drawer, and sat.
His cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. It was Eddie. Back to full bars.
“Mikey, that the hell is going on? You okay?”
Mike had to take several deep breaths to calm his nerves. “Yeah, I’m fine man. Didn’t have power all day yesterday that was all. A bit cold in the house but the power came on a little while ago.”
“Jesus you sound like crap. It’s all over the news, you see this shit?”
Mike thought of the map. “Yeah. I caught a bit of it a moment ago.” Time to change the subject. “How are the two of you doing, where are you now?”
“Nowhere near fucking Chicago, that’s for sure. The wife decided she wanted to visit her sister in Pennsylvania yesterday. We got into Wilkes-Barre late and saw the shit on the news. Fucking Russians are taking us down, man. We’re staying right here.”
Mike starts tapping the mic’s speaker on the phone. “Eddie, you’re breaking up. Circuits are probably overloaded. Stay safe.”
“My brother-in-law’s got a fridge full of beer, I’m fine. You just keep shit together over there, I’ll hold down the fort here until he runs out of beer.”
Mike flicked on the laptop. “Yeah. I will. Take care of--” He pressed the end call button, and the line went dead. Mike put his phone down and leaned over, playing with one of Lokai’s ears between his fingers. “Lay down. Time to talk to people who I’d rather not.”
He dialed the FBI number he had seen on the website earlier, but all circuits were busy. He tried again, dead air. One more try, dead air. He took Lokai for a long walk to think. Fifteen minutes later he attempted again, busy.
He drummed his fingers on the laptop’s keyboard and stared at its blank screen. “I’ve another way to get hold of those assholes. Probably land my happy ass in prison again. Think I should do it doggy?”
Lokai barked.
The house’s Internet circuit was down. He entered the setting section on his phone and turned on the hotspot.
He launched some of his hacking software, loading a list of server IPs into his pinging tool, which sent a small packet of information to each computer on the list. If he received a reply, it was an active server.
The list wasn’t long. The laptop took only three minutes to return pings from two IP addresses. Mike checked his notes. One was an old IRS computer for an out-of-date business. The second far more promising.
Perfect. Mike keyed the IP Address of the server. A simple black and white login screen appeared. The operating system name and the version were displayed in the lower corner. An old Linux installation.
He became intimate with the system’s limitations and installed the programs and files he needed. He didn’t have time to hack. He decided on a brute force attack. Just for the hell of it, he tried 123456, the magical password that opened over hundred and thirty thousand accounts on one adult website. Well, that didn’t work, time to get serious.
He ran his password guessing program. The software contained ten thousand common password combinations. He avoided the thre
e attempt rule by changing the IP address and the timing of password feed. He did not have success with the terrorist server, but he suspected this server would be easier. It was the US government IT personnel in charge.
After an hour, Mike’s hopes faded. The progress bar indicated the percentage of attempts. The list was halfway exhausted. Suddenly the bar froze. He was in, PryingEy3s2016 the key.
His screen displayed the first menu page of the server. Mike selected menu item number five, Administrative Functions. In return, he received an error message. “Supervisory Rights Only.”
Not deterred, he scooped out other permissible areas and took advantage of an unpatched security flaw. He downloaded a specialized program on the hacked drive. “And there we are.”
Mike typed a message and saved the file to the laptop. He rebooted the server. He removed all the software and cleared every trace of him using the computer and placed carefully in the drawer.
He pulled the pick out of his pocket. He locked the room door the same he open it.
Even though Mike looped through several routers, his hack into the server triggered an alarm.
A thousand miles away, a nervous system administrator ran to a server. He waited for the server to reboot.
What happened? Power outage? The UPS should’ve kicked in. The damn thing should not have rebooted.
Not part of the boot sequence, oversized letters magically scrolled across the screen.
To no one. “What the hell is this?”
DO NOT BE ALARMED. I NEED TO MEET AN FBI SUPERVISOR TO DISCUSS THE TERRORIST ATTACK IN CHICAGO. I HAVE VALUABLE INFORMATION! I WILL BE AT A BAR CALLED “THE MEETING PLACE” ON THE CORNER OF 63RD AND SOUTH ROCKWELL AT 7:00 PM TOMORROW.
I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE ATTACK. I WILL BE WEARING A CUBS HAT AND SITTING NEXT TO THE PINBALL MACHINE. YOUR SYSTEM IS NOT HARMED OR ANY FILES CHANGED; PRESS ANY KEY AND THE SYSTEM WILL REBOOT WITH ALL TRACE OF THIS FILE DELETED. PLEASE USE A MORE SECURE PASSWORD!
I Will Not Yield Page 14
