Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  “Yes, sir.” Griffin makes the call down to the deck and stands and stretches, waiting for the targets to be deployed. His mind is churning, trying to think of ways to sabotage the dry-fire exercises. Am I willing to flush my career down the toilet? Maybe, he decides. His wife, whose father rose to the rank of rear admiral during his time in the navy, would be none too happy. But she’s not here and I am. Griffin sighs and retakes his seat as the admiral steps up to the raised platform at the front of the room.

  For the next hour, the USS Stark performs flawlessly during the dry-fire drills. The guns track their targets with precision and the two gun barrels look as if they’re performing a ballet on deck as they rotate, raise, and lower, never losing track. As for the missiles, the computers track simulated targets and deliver their pretend payloads on target every time. Even the two smaller 30-mm machine guns prove lethal as they destroy target after target with an accuracy not achievable when guided by human hands.

  The admiral, grinning from ear to ear at the front of the room, declares the exercises an overwhelming success. He steps off the podium and works his way toward Griffin. “Mr. Griffin, load weapons.”

  “But, sir—”

  Malloy cuts Griffin off with a wave of his hand. “Did you detect any anomalies, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir, but—”

  “No buts, Lieutenant. Load weapons. And that’s a direct order.”

  “Yes, sir.” As the admiral departs, Griffin continues running scenarios through his head. How much time can I buy? He grabs the phone and dials Hensley again, who quickly answers.

  “Let me guess,” Hensley says, “the ship performed perfectly.”

  Griffin ducks down below the video monitors. “You got it. Did you get a chance to talk to the chopper pilot?”

  “No. Malloy placed a guard on my door.”

  “Who is it?” Griffin asks.

  “Petty Officer Perry.”

  “Can you order him to stand down?”

  “I tried. No go.”

  “What’s his usual job?” Griffin asks.

  “Engine room and damage control.”

  “Damn it. Okay, let me think about it. Maybe I can talk the admiral into running a drill while the weapons are being loaded.”

  “Drag your feet for as long as you can, Griff.”

  “I’m trying. Keep checking your door and, when it’s clear, make a break for the chopper.”

  “I will. And, Griff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hurry.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Chicago

  Peyton, still traumatized, looks out the front windows and spots Eric striding up the street. She wonders what he’s thinking as he slows, trying to pick his way around the pools of blood and the dead bodies near the entrance.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Eric asks, walking across the lobby.

  “I don’t know,” Peyton says before breaking into sobs.

  He wedges his way into the chair and wraps an arm around his wife.

  “What happened out front?”

  “The . . . National Guard . . . shot . . . shot . . . some looters. What took . . . (sniffle) . . . you so . . . (sniffle) . . . long?”

  “Aaron the asshole wouldn’t let us leave. But, hey, I got tomorrow off.”

  Peyton burrows her face into Eric’s chest. “You’re probably . . . (sniffle) . . . going to have . . . (sniffle) . . . a lot of... tomorrows off.”

  Eric gently puts a hand under Peyton’s chin and lifts her head so he can look her in the eye. “What do you mean?”

  Peyton runs the back of her hand across her dripping nose. “I had a . . . a . . . partial . . . conversation . . . with . . . with Paige. She told me to . . . to . . . get out . . . and then the call . . . dropped.”

  “Out of where? The office building? Our condo?”

  Peyton shrugs and wipes the tears off her cheeks. “I think it was more.”

  “What? Like get out of Chicago?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why? They’ll probably have the power back on before we get home.”

  Peyton shakes her head. “Paige’s voice was . . . urgent. And she’s in the know.” Peyton wipes away the last of her tears and blows her nose into a fabric remnant she continues to lug around. “I think the power could be off for a long time.”

  Eric leans back in the chair, stunned. “How long?”

  “I don’t know, Eric. I don’t even know if I’m right. It was just a feeling I got listening to Paige.”

  “Is that why you’re so upset?”

  “No, but I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “My feet are cut up pretty bad.”

  Eric leans forward to see Peyton’s feet wrapped up in her homemade shoes. “What do you have on your feet?”

  “My attempt at making shoes.”

  “Where are the new heels you bought?”

  Peyton nods toward the coffee table on the other side of the lobby. “Over there. My feet were blistered something awful after climbing down the stairs.”

  Eric glances at her makeshift shoes again. “I don’t think you’ll win any design awards.”

  “Probably not.” Peyton wants to tell Eric everything that has happened, but she can’t. Not yet. She doesn’t want to relive seeing Ranjeet’s severed head on the desk. She pushes out of the chair and stands. “Can we go home now?”

  “Of course.” Eric gets his first glance at Peyton’s tattered skirt. “What happened to your new skirt?”

  “Another long story.”

  “How come you didn’t hit one of the looted stores for a new pair of shoes?”

  “That’s one part of the long story. Can we just go?”

  “Yes.” Eric takes her hand, grabs her bag, and steadies her as they shuffle out the exit. Eric is struck with an idea when they arrive at a looted CVS on the next corner. He walks carefully across the broken glass and grabs one of the shopping carts and drags it back. After some cajoling from Eric, Peyton dumps her backpack in and climbs aboard.

  It’s frightening to see the looted stores that stretch on and on, block after block. Eric pushes the cart onto the DuSable Bridge and takes a short break at the midstream point of the Chicago River. Abandoned buses, trucks, and cars litter the bridge’s surface and there’s a steady stream of people, mostly business types, heading north to their homes.

  “God, I’m thirsty. I wish we had some water,” Eric says, using his already-saturated shirt to mop the sweat from his face.

  “We did have some at one time, but it got stolen.”

  “Let me guess. All part of the long story?”

  Peyton nods. “Let’s just say it’s been a very long day.”

  Eric steps over to one of the abandoned cars and puts his nose to the glass, cupping his hands around his face for a look inside.

  “What are you doing?” Peyton asks.

  “Looking for water,” Eric says as he moves to the next car in line.

  “Don’t you think they’d take the water with them when they left?”

  “You’re probably right.” Eric checks one final car and returns.

  Peyton climbs back in the shopping cart and they continue their journey. Across the river the parade of looted businesses continues. “I wonder where the National Guard troops went?” Peyton asks.

  “They’re probably off marshaling their forces, waiting for the madness darkness will probably bring.”

  Peyton shivers at the thought.

  Eric makes a left onto East Oak Street and they travel toward the setting sun. “How much further until we’re home?” Eric asks, the sweat dripping off the tip of his nose.

  “You want it in miles or blocks?” Peyton asks.

  Eric groans. “That far?”

  “I think. We never really see this part of Chicago because we always take the subway, but I’ve been coordinating street names with subway stops and we’ve still got a ways to go.”

  Eric groans. He pulls
the cart to a stop and wipes his face again. “I’m taking a cold shower when we get home.”

  “I hate to rain on your cold-town parade, but we’re not going to have any water at home.”

  “Damn, I didn’t think about that. And that means no air-conditioning, either. It’s going to be a long, miserable night.”

  “Right now, we need to focus on getting home and worry about all that stuff later.”

  Eric has to push hard to get the cart going again. A short while later, the road they’re on dead-ends into some type of medical complex. Feeling like a coxswain sitting in the shopping basket, Peyton raises her arm and points to the north. “That way, Eric. We should run into the road we’re looking for.”

  “Are you sure that’s the right way?”

  Peyton knows Eric is terrible with directions—so bad he couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. “The sun sets in the west. That way’s north,” she says, pointing. “I promise.”

  Eric turns the shopping cart around and picks up North Crosby Street going the way Peyton pointed. Unfortunately, that road, too, ends at the next cross street. Peyton looks up at the street signs. “This is Division Street. There’s a subway stop for it. I told you we’re going the right way.”

  “Now which way?” Eric asks. “It’s going to be dark here in a little bit.”

  “Let’s go right and then take the first left. That’ll put us back on course.”

  “You’re the navigator,” Eric says, straining to get the cart going again. Not designed for rough terrain, two of the cart’s wheels have lost some rubber and it’s now wobbling, making it that much more difficult to push. A block and a half down the street, a nearby burst of gunfire shatters the silence. Eric jerks the cart to a halt and grabs Peyton’s hand. “Get out. We need cover.”

  There’s more gunfire, this time a sustained burst from what sounds like multiple weapons.

  Eric tips the cart over and Paige crawls out. Their options for cover limited, they scamper across the street to a vacant lot and dive to the ground. “Did you see where it’s coming from?” Eric whispers.

  “No, but I think I might have pissed in my pants,” Paige whispers back. “And I lost one of my shoes.”

  Eric lifts his head a few inches, trying to see over the tall grass to find a spot that will offer better cover. “That’s the least of our worries,” he whispers. There are buildings on either side of them, but they’re too far away to do them much good. Their only option is a half-dead elm tree in the far corner of the property. “We need to crawl—”

  The last of his sentence is obliterated by more gunfire. And this time it sounds closer. Much closer.

  He taps Peyton on the shoulder and points to the large tree. She nods and they both start crawling, hugging tight to the ground.

  CHAPTER 46

  Buffalo, New York

  After the call-up from the governor of New York and a hasty retreat to the armory for weapons and gear, sixty members of the New York Army National Guard out of Buffalo are now in a convoy rolling down Highway 354. All sixty are outfitted with body armor and battle helmets, and all are heavily armed for the dangerous mission that lies ahead. Call it luck or bad fortune, but it was proximity that determined today’s call to duty. Situated along the eastern shore of Lake Erie and just downstream from Niagara Falls, Buffalo also happens to be the closest major city to a small village that lies thirty miles to the east—Attica, New York.

  Captain Scott Butler, the unit commander, gave his men a briefing about their destination and the ongoing unrest at the Attica Correctional Facility, but little else. The reason the briefing was lacking in details is because that’s everything Butler knows at the moment. More info is promised upon arrival at the prison but, deep down, Butler knows they’re heading into a slaughterhouse. And that’s not something a majority of his men see every day.

  Butler glances out the side window at the tree-covered hills and sighs. Hell, to be honest, it’s not something he’s ever seen before. Every man in the unit—this is a mandated male-only mission—has a regular job and families that depend on them, Butler included. Yes, his group contains six police officers, five firefighters, and three paramedics who might work a bloody car wreck or a bloody crime scene every now and then, but that pales in comparison to what they might find inside one of the nation’s most notorious prisons. Butler made a point to emphasize one thing before rolling out—they will be entering a war zone.

  The power in Buffalo remains on, but no one is sure how long that will last. Butler, a dentist, had to cancel his remaining patients and, on his way to the armory, called his wife to tell her he wouldn’t be home for dinner. The remaining members of the group made similar changes to their schedules along with similar calls to loved ones. His band of soldiers is a diverse group. In addition to the police officers, firefighters, and paramedics the group includes teachers, small-business owners, city employees, two auto mechanics, and several college students. Some have prior military experience, but many don’t—relying on the two weekends a month and the two weeks of summer drills for training. Their socioeconomic status varies widely, as do their ages. Butler is the oldest at forty-two and Private First Class Shawn Turner is the youngest at nineteen.

  While his team members are busy with their own thoughts as the trucks rumble down the highway, Butler is busy working the radio. The National Guard is unique in that they serve a dual role. Soldiers can be called up by state officials to manage a local crisis, or, as a reserve unit of the United States Armed Forces, they can be called up at any time by the federal government. If the feds activate a unit then most likely those soldiers are headed overseas to fight in the ongoing conflicts. And as the number of active military soldiers declines, more guard units are being activated. At the moment, Captain Butler would much prefer a flight overseas rather than this road trip to hell. Butler triggers his radio and says, “Say again, sir?”

  “I said the schematics of the prison are in the e-mail I just sent you,” Major General Lawrence Moore says. The adjutant general for the state of New York, he’s tucked away in his office back at headquarters near the Albany airport.

  “Roger, sir,” Butler says. “Will we have reinforcements?”

  “Unfortunately, no. With all that’s happening, we’re getting stretched mighty thin. There are state troopers at the prison and hopefully more on the way.”

  “I assume they will be under my command.”

  “That is correct, Captain,” Moore says.

  “Do we have any intel from inside the prison?”

  “Very little. My understanding is it’s a real blood—hold on a sec, the governor is calling.”

  Butler tries to imagine what the scene may look like, but he doesn’t have any real reference points, having never served in combat.

  After several moments General Moore comes back on the radio. “Are you there, Captain?”

  “I’m here, sir.”

  “This is highly unusual, but the order comes directly from the commander in chief.”

  Or, in other words, he’s talking about the governor of New York.

  “Go ahead, sir,” Butler says.

  There’s a long pause and then General Moore says, “Scott, I have to be honest with you. I don’t know what to make of the governor’s order.”

  “What is it?”

  “He orders us to protect the remaining guards, but he also orders that we take no prisoners.”

  “What was that last part, General?”

  “You heard me, Scott. Take no prisoners.”

  “Jeezus, Larry. No way. My men and I aren’t going to prison for murder. And that’s exactly what it would be. For Christ’s sake, I’m a fucking dentist, not some hired mercenary.”

  “Scott, it’s a direct order from the commander in chief.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a direct order from Jesus Christ himself. We aren’t murderers, General. If the governor wants them killed tell him to get his ass on a plane and head this way. I’ll
save a rifle for him.”

  “Listen, Captain, I know the order is highly unusual, but if the power grids across the rest of the state fail, the last thing we want is for those murderers to be out on the street. Think about that for a moment.”

  “Okay, I’ve thought about it—no. That’s the reason we have laws in this country. And what makes you think the rest of the grid is going to fail?”

  “Just a hunch. Manhattan is currently without power and the governor called up other guard units to patrol the streets. Think about what those killers up there would do to a bunch of unarmed civilians.”

  “Manhattan is four hundred miles away, General. How are the prisoners going to get there? Walk?”

  “Okay, they might not make it to Manhattan, but they sure as hell could make it to Buffalo. Do you want them loose in your town?”

  “Of course not.” Butler pauses and stares out the truck’s windshield at the road ahead.

  “To add a little more food for thought,” General Moore says over the radio, “looting has already started in Manhattan and the governor issued a shoot-to-kill order.”

  Butler triggers the radio. “I’m not doing it unless we get a formal immunity letter from the attorney general that covers the entire unit.”

  “How far are you from the prison right now?”

  “We should be there in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “There’s no time for a letter, Captain.”

  “Then I’ll assess the situation and run the operation as I see fit.”

  “Are you disobeying a direct order?”

  Butler pushes the transmit button and says, “Butler out,” before reaching up to turn off the radio.

  CHAPTER 47

  Chicago

  Peyton and Eric make it to the elm tree and duck behind the tree’s massive trunk. Upright, they now have a better view of the area. Neither has been able to pinpoint the location of the gunfire because it’s difficult to do when you have your faces buried in the dirt. Eric leans forward and takes a peek around the base of the tree, zeroing in on the Target across the street. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Everything else in the area looks to be residential buildings with a few small businesses occupying a smattering of the ground-floor spaces. The construction site next door obstructs Eric’s view of the rest of the block, but from all appearances there’s nothing here to spark a war other than that one large retail store.