by Tim Washburn
She reattaches the radio to her belt and glances out the window again. If she goes out there the likelihood of being overpowered and killed is a near certainty. With a very low probability of finding any guards still alive, she decides to return to the armory and the safety of a locked door. Darnell makes it to the end of the corridor before she hears the squeal of the outside door opening. Then voices echo down the hall. She glances over her shoulder to see a large group of inmates turning the corner.
Darnell’s first thought is that she didn’t bring near enough shotgun shells. Yes, she does have the pistol and extra ammo, but trying to hit anything much beyond twenty feet is dicey and Darnell has no plans for them getting that close. She hugs the wall of cells and quickens her pace. She makes it to the end of the cellblock, sucks in a lungful of air, and hurries toward the center gate.
“Hey, bitch,” one of the inmates shouts.
She turns and fires the shotgun, jacks another shell, and fires again. The inmates break for cover and she turns and hurries on, stepping over and around bodies as she feeds more shells into the shotgun. Another glance back reveals that the inmates have regrouped and are in pursuit. Darnell rips the handgun from her waist and squeezes off fifteen quick shots, scattering the inmates again. She hadn’t been aiming at separate targets, just firing at the group. If she’s lucky she wounded a few, but she’s not hanging around to find out.
She ejects the magazine and slaps another in as she hurries along the cells in A-Block. She tries to hurdle a large puddle of blood and her plant foot slides out from under her. The shotgun skitters away as she braces for the fall. She hits the ground and rolls onto her stomach. Where’s the shotgun? She glances around and spots it up next to a cell.
“Get her,” a voice shouts from behind her.
She pushes up to all fours and attempts to stand, her feet seeking purchase on the slippery floor. She glances behind her to find the inmates now only about twenty feet away. She drops to her knees, pulls the handgun, and fires another salvo then ejects the magazine and replaces it with a full one. Carefully, she bear-crawls forward until her feet reach a portion of dry floor and she stands. She hurries to the shotgun, scoops it up, and fires a round down the corridor, and the inmate in the lead drops. Trying to jack another shell, her blood-soaked hands slip from the stock. She wipes her palm on her pants, pumps another round into the chamber, and fires. Another inmate spins away from the pack, holding his arm. The others break rank, seeking cover in the cells. Darnell loads two more shells into the shotgun as she turns and hurries on.
She makes it to the end of the last cellblock and slips in another pool of blood while trying to turn toward Times Square. She stumbles forward and the shotgun goes flying down the hall. Screw it, she thinks as she stumbles toward the door. With the power now on she’ll need to enter the six-digit number into the electronic lock. What’s the combination? Her brain is spinning through the possible combinations. The code changed recently. What the hell is it? This is not one of her normal work areas. She sneaks a peek down the hallway. Judging by the size of the group, the number of inmates has grown significantly, no doubt drawn in by the gunfire.
They’re much too close and, as an image of Sueann flashes in her mind, she pulls the pistol and takes a shooter’s stance with both hands positioned on the gun. Rather than spraying bullets this time, she takes direct aim and squeezes the trigger. Altering her aim, she fires again.
Two down and too many to go. She aims at four more prisoners and shoots then sprays a few more bullets into the group and switches out magazines. She’s down to her last. She punches a series of numbers into the lock and tries the handle. No go. Another glance down the corridor reveals the inmates are regrouping. What is the damn number? She clears the last numbers and tries again. And still the handle doesn’t turn. She resumes her firing position, and counts the shots as she fires. She wants at least one round left in the chamber, just in case.
The inmates scatter again as she turns back to the lock. Think, Lydia. They announced the new code at morning roll call. She steals another glance down the hall. The inmates are using the sides of the doorway for cover as they creep forward. Damn it, Lydia. Punch in the right combination or prepare to eat your gun. Clearing the last set of numbers, Darnell punches in a new set of numbers that pop into her head. She takes a deep breath, turns the handle, and the door opens.
She charges into the room and relocks the door as the inmates draw abreast. One snatches up the shotgun and takes direct aim at her. Although the glass is allegedly bulletproof, she wonders how many direct hits from double-ought buckshot it can withstand. The inmate fires and the glass fractures into a spiderweb of cracks. The inmate steps forward and places the barrel against the glass. He fires, and a small hole appears. He jams the barrel through and racks another shell. Darnell lunges inside the weapons locker and slams the gate shut as the shotgun roars again. She grabs another shotgun and begins loading while her mind spins. Did I reload the shotgun? Yeah, I did. Three shots fired. Oh shit, two left.
The sound of shattering glass echoes through the office. She braces herself behind a file cabinet and takes aim. A head pops around the gate door and Darnell fires, the head erupting into a spray of blood. With no doubt another inmate will pick up the shotgun, Darnell jacks another shell. Seconds later another inmate steps out, the gun tucked tight to his shoulder. Darnell ducks down behind the filing cabinet. Peeking around the side, she sees a pair of feet in the doorway. The dumb ass is just standing there waiting for her to stand up. Can I get a shot off before he does? Maybe. But, maybe not.
She ponders it for another moment before lying down on her belly. Silently, she eases forward until the man’s legs come into view. She pulls the trigger and the blast in such a confined space temporarily deafens her. Pumping in another round, she pushes up to a squatting position and slowly duckwalks forward, the shotgun up and ready. The injured inmate’s screams are echoing off the walls, but she does her best to block out the sound.
There’s movement out of the corner of her eye and she lifts the barrel and fires just as the inmate pulls the trigger. The inmate shoots high, blowing one of the overhead cabinet doors off. Darnell sinks to her knees and takes a deep breath. If her calculations are correct, she will have to dodge death one more time before the inmates are out of ammo.
But time is not her friend. She has to eliminate the gun threat before the inmates get creative and try to burn her out. Once the gun is eliminated from the equation, Darnell will have free rein inside the armory to fend off any other assault attempt. She takes a moment to look around the room, searching for something she can use for a distraction. Her gaze is drawn to a rolling chair tucked under the desk with a Department of Corrections jacket draped over the back. Easing the chair out, Darnell runs through the sequence of events in her head as the injured inmate continues to wail. Moments later, when the man with the shredded legs pauses to suck in a breath, she hears a loud crunch and the screaming stops.
Darnell can guess what happened, but she’s trying not to think about it as she runs the scenario through her head again. Once she’s satisfied, she shoves the chair toward the gate and quickly repositions the shotgun against her shoulder. An inmate beyond the door fires the last shot, shredding the chair and jacket. Darnell stands and starts pumping rounds into the room, as the inmates scatter.
Then, much like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, Darnell pushes her face up to the bars and shouts, “Who’s next, motherfuckers?”
As the remaining inmates scurry away, Darnell retreats and takes cover behind the file cabinet. She pulls the radio from her belt and puts it to her lips, “Hello? Anybody out there?”
An answer comes back. “Ten-four.”
Not knowing if it’s an inmate or guard, Darnell triggers the radio and asks the man to identify himself.
“This here’s Walt Taylor in watchtower one. Who’s this?”
Darnell sags with relief. She triggers the radio and says, “This is Offi
cer Lydia Darnell, Walt. Please tell me help is on the way.”
“Help’s coming, Lydia. The National Guard out of Buffalo should be here within the hour,” Walt responds. “There are several state troopers on scene, but not enough to try an entry.”
“Walt, are the outside gates secure?” The last thing they need is for any of these savages to escape.
“Ten-four, Lydia. They’re being guarded by the troopers. What’s the situation in there?”
“God-awful. All the guards here in cellblocks A and D are dead, as are a bunch of the inmates.”
There’s a long beat of silence, then Taylor says, “Lydia, you might want to find a place to hunker down until the troops arrive.”
“I’m hunkered. Radio me when they arrive.”
CHAPTER 43
Manhattan
Hank , Paige, and Tomás Morales exit the stock exchange building to find chaos. It appears Hank was correct in his assumption that the power is out in Manhattan. Nearby traffic lights are dark and traffic is already gridlocked as angry drivers pound their horns, creating a symphony of sound that’s almost deafening. The situation is not much better on the sidewalks—already clogged with people. Workers continue to pour out of the now-dark high-rises, pushing pedestrians out onto the streets, further snarling an already terrible traffic situation.
“I don’t think we’re getting the truck out of the parking garage anytime soon,” Morales says. “I guess we’re hoofing it back to headquarters.”
Hank puts the extra ammo clips in his front pocket and strips out of his FBI Windbreaker and crams it into his bag. “There’s nothin’ at the office for us, Tomás. We need that jet.”
Morales points at the jammed streets and says, “How are you getting to the airport, Hank? You going to walk?”
“No, we’re goin’ to fly when you have a chopper pick us up at the Wall Street heliport.”
“Hell, Hank, do you think I can just pull aircraft out of my ass?” Morales asks. “Even if I could find you a chopper it can’t land there. The heliport was hit by a barge a couple of weeks ago and it’s still under repair.”
Hank pulls up a map of Manhattan in his mind. “Okay, then have the chopper pick us up at the East 34th Street Heliport. C’mon, Tomás. You’re the assistant director in charge. You have ready access to all the agency’s goodies.”
“Why can’t you two work here at the field office?” Morales asks. “We’ve got backup generators so the power outage shouldn’t be an issue.”
“We need some help with this if we want a fast fix, Tomás,” Paige says as she slips out of her own jacket. “Back home we’ll have access to not only our computer programmers, but those at the NSA as well. And face-to-face is always better for brainstorming, especially when we’re dealing with such a sophisticated piece of malware.” Paige wipes the sweat from her forehead. The temperatures are pushing the mid-90s and, coupled with the hot exhaust gases from the gridlocked vehicles and the body heat from growing crowds, it feels as if they’re standing inside a giant oven set on broil.
Morales pulls out his cell phone and checks for service. He’s surprised to see he does have it, but he figures it’s not going to last long. “Cell service is going to be very spotty with the power outage. How are we going to communicate, Hank?”
“We don’t need to communicate. We’ll head to the heliport and you send the chopper.”
“What if I can’t find a helicopter?” Morales asks.
“C’mon, Tomás. What are the odds of that happenin’?”
Morales pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes the sweat from his face. “I’m not a magician, Hank. And this power outage could be an issue. Might temporarily limit available resources until it gets restored.”
Paige glances around at the crowds then steps closer to Morales and lowers her voice, saying, “Tomás, it could be months before power is back on.”
Morales rears back in surprise. “Wha . . . what?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“Hank and I stumbled across some internal power company e-mails back in D.C. Apparently the hackers overloaded some of the large transformers and burned them up.”
“Can’t they just replace them?” Morales asks.
“Yes, if they had spares available, but many companies don’t stock replacement transformers. They’re too expensive. A single transformer costs millions of dollars, and the main reason for the delay is that most have to be shipped in from overseas.”
“That figures. We don’t make anything anymore. So you think the hackers have done the same thing to the power grids here in Manhattan?” Morales asks.
“Almost certainly.”
“Jeezus.” Morales glances around at the thousands of people now crowding the streets and sidewalks. “How are we supposed to survive?”
“Grab Cecelia and get on the plane with us,” Hank says.
“Can’t, Hank. I’ve got a field office and five resident offices to run.” Morales’s voice is subdued as he tries to get a grip on the enormity of the situation.
“Then send Cecelia with us,” Hank says.
“She won’t go without me, Hank.”
“You’re probably right, Tomás, but you might ask her anyway.”
Morales shakes his head. “No, if things get too bad here we can always hop on an agency plane and head to our condo in Virginia. You two head out. I need to get a few things out of the Tahoe.”
“Don’t forget your service weapon,” Hank says.
“I won’t.”
Hank puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t stay in the city too long, Tomás. Things up here could turn dangerous in a hurry.”
“We’ll be okay. You two head for the heliport and I’ll find you a chopper to take you to the airport.”
“What about our bags?” Paige asks.
“We’re headin’ back to D.C.,” Hank says. “I don’t think you’re goin’ to be hurting for clothes.”
“I’ll ship them to you as soon as I can, Paige. That sound all right?”
Paige nods, glad she’d slipped on her running shoes on the plane. They don’t coordinate well with her outfit, but they’re a hell of a lot more comfortable to walk in.
“Last chance, old friend,” Hank says, squeezing Morales’s shoulder.
“No. We’ll be fine. But we need to catch these bastards and put a stop to this madness.”
“That’s what we’re tryin’ to do,” Hank says. “See you around, Tomás.”
The two men shake hands and Paige gives Tomás a hug. “Be safe,” she whispers in his ear.
“Same to both of you,” Morales whispers back. “Stick with Hank. He’s pretty damn handy to have around.”
CHAPTER 44
North Atlantic Ocean
Rear Admiral Richard Malloy continues to pace around the USS Stark’s Ship’s Mission Center barking orders. The ship’s weapon systems are being reintegrated into the computer network, and a majority of the sailors working inside the center are wishing they were elsewhere. No one knows what might happen next and those same sailors don’t really care to know because it will inevitably be something bad. That’s just the way it is aboard the navy’s newest destroyer.
Malloy steps over to the weapons control station and asks, “How much longer, Lieutenant Griffin?”
“We’re close, Admiral.” Mike Griffin looks up from his computer screen, a pleading look on his face when he says, “Sir, we aren’t arming the weapons, are we?”
“Not yet. We’ll run the computer program through a few dry-fire exercises first. If those go as I expect they will, then we’ll talk about rearming.”
“Sir?”
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Well, sir, we didn’t find any glitches in the systems during our earlier computer simulations. It was only after we loaded the armaments that something went terribly wrong.”
“What’s your theory as to why that happened, Lieutenant? Operator error, maybe?”
Griffin’s fac
e turns crimson. “No, sir. It was not operator error.”
“Then, what?” Malloy asks.
“I think the computer software has been compromised.”
“Impossible. I’ve spent the last eight years of my career working with some of the brightest minds in the industry to implement this new concept of ship-wide computer integration. So this bullshit about the systems being compromised ends here. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”
Griffin sits up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir.”
“Carry on. Notify me when ready.”
“Yes, sir.” Malloy moves on to terrorize someone else and Griffin returns to the task at hand. What Malloy doesn’t know is that weapons systems are up and ready to go and have been for some time. Griffin is trying to delay as much as possible, but that ruse will last only so long before the admiral demands action. Griffin looks around to pinpoint Malloy’s location before reaching for the phone. He punches in the four-digit extension from memory and waits for the phone to be answered, all while keeping close tabs on the admiral’s location.
Captain Hensley, still confined to quarters, answers on the first ring. “What’s happening, Griff?”
Griffin cups a hand around his mouth and the phone and whispers, “How do you feel about mutiny?”
“Is Malloy rearming the ship’s weapons?” Hensley asks.
“He plans to after a couple of dry runs. Can you contact Norfolk?”
“Hell no. The radio is still down.”
Griffin spots the admiral looking his way. “Malloy’s coming. Talk to the chopper pilot. See if he’ll relay a message.”
“I’ll do that. Keep me posted, Griff.”
Griffin hangs up the phone and returns to his computer screen, just as the admiral arrives at his station.
“Where are we now, Mr. Griffin?”
“The weapons have synced with the ship’s computers, sir.”
“Good. Deploy some targets. I want to see how well the guns track.”
