by Tim Washburn
Tossing the empty bottle in the trash, Raahim exits the break room and heads for the room where they’ve been bunking the last couple of nights.
“Where are you going, Raahim?” Nazeri asks.
“I’m going to lie down,” Raahim says.
“No, you are not. We have business to attend to,” Nazeri says.
“It can wait,” Raahim says as he walks past where Nazeri is sitting. Then he stops, turns, and glares at Nazeri. “Do you have a quota for the number of dead per day? If so, feel free to use my computer.”
CHAPTER 53
Chicago
Peyton kneels next to Eric, who’s lying on his right side. Unsure if she should move him, she leans down and puts her ear on his chest, listening to see if her husband is still breathing.
He is.
“Eric, can you hear me?” When she gets no response she reaches out and shakes him.
This time there’s movement as Eric turns his head and groans.
She crawls toward his head and leans down next to him, their noses nearly touching. “Where are you hit?”
“Don’t know . . . for sure . . . upper . . . upper . . .” His words trail off as he grimaces with pain.
Peyton straightens and scans the part of his back she can see, looking for bloodstains or wounds. There’s nothing readily apparent, so she looks over his legs and finds no blood there, either. She leans back down, next to Eric’s face. “I don’t see anything here, babe. Were you shot on your right side?”
“I don’t—fuck, it burns like . . . someone . . . is . . . stabbing me . . . with a . . . hot . . . hot . . . poker.”
Peyton reaches a hand out and wipes the dirt from his lips. “Do you think it’s safe for me to roll you over?”
“I think . . . so.”
“Can you move your hands and feet?”
Eric spends a moment trying out his right hand, then his left, before giving his feet a go. Everything appears to be functioning normally, yet Peyton is hesitant to move him. What happens if there’s a bullet lodged in his spine? Peyton doesn’t know what to do. What if he’s bleeding out while I’m sitting here thinking about it? Peyton takes a deep, calming breath, trying to slow her rapidly pulsing heart. “Eric, I’m going to roll you over.”
“O . . . kay.”
She places a hand on his shoulder and gently rolls him onto his back. Eric shouts with pain and Peyton gasps. The entire right side of his white shirt is caked with blood and dirt.
“How . . . bad?” he asks before clenching his teeth and groaning.
“I don’t . . . know. I need . . . I need to peel your shirt back.” Peyton leans over and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands are trembling, making the simple task that much more difficult. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, Eric.”
“Need to . . . clean . . . the wound.”
“With what?” Peyton asks, finally finishing with the last button.
“Need . . . water.”
A flash of anger flares in Peyton’s gut for the woman who stole her case of water. But it fades almost as quickly as concern over Eric’s health returns to the forefront of her mind. “We don’t have any water, honey.”
“You need—fuck, it hurts so bad, Peyton. Maybe . . .” Eric takes a deep breath and winces with the pain. “Find one of . . . the cops.”
Peyton glances across the street. It looks as if the fighting is over for now, as several police officers file into the store. “I don’t want to leave you, Eric.”
“No . . . choice. Only . . . option . . . we . . . have.”
“Let me peel back your shirt to see how bad the wound is.”
“Leave . . . it. Get . . . cops.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” She leans over, gives Eric a quick kiss on his lips, and lurches to her feet. She takes a step and mutters a few curse words, having forgotten she’s missing a shoe. The grit and gravel bite at the soles of her lacerated foot as she hobbles across the vacant lot. When her damaged foot hits the hot asphalt, Peyton yelps with pain, but she continues on. As she nears the store, some little niggle in her brain tells her she probably should put her hands up. She reaches for the sky and limps closer. As she nears the store, she spots a police officer standing near the entrance, his backed turned to her. “Sir,” Peyton says.
The police officer whirls around, the barrel of his rifle rising as he turns.
“Don’t shoot!” Peyton shouts, startling the other officers, who immediately spring into action and, within seconds, Peyton has a dozen rifle barrels pointed directly at her. “Please, please don’t shoot,” Peyton begs, her entire body now quivering with fear.
The closest officer, the one Peyton initially addressed, lowers his weapon. “Jesus Christ, lady. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
He’s a fairly young guy, probably late twenties, Peyton thinks, and he has a wild look in his eyes, no doubt hopped up from the recent gun battle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The other officers lower their weapons, several shaking their heads.
“I need . . . I need your help . . .” She squints, trying to read the name tape stuck over his right breast. “Officer Campbell.”
Campbell waves to the burned-out store. “If you haven’t noticed we’re a little busy at the moment.”
“Officer Campbell, my husband is injured. He was struck by a bullet during your . . . your shoot-out.”
Campbell slings his rifle over his shoulder. “Okay. Where is he?”
Peyton turns and points to the vacant lot. “Over there by that tree. Please hurry.”
Campbell turns and shouts, “Evans, you’re with me.”
Another police officer hurries out of the store and Peyton, now limping badly, leads them across the street.
“What’s wrong with you?” Campbell asks.
“Feet are in pretty bad shape,” Peyton answers.
“Hold up,” Campbell says. He turns and barks out another name. Seconds later another officer hurries out of the store, this time a woman. “Janice, help her back to the station.”
“I’m on it, Sarge,” the woman replies, hurrying across the street.
“Ma’am, go with her,” Campbell says. “We’ll look after your husband.”
“I’d rather stay,” Peyton says.
“Ma’am, in all honesty, you’re just slowing us down,” Campbell says.
Peyton nods and Campbell and Evans take off at a jog.
Peyton looks at Janice, the female officer, and takes a second to read her name tag. “Where’s the police station, Officer Jacobs?”
Janice points at a beige building on the corner, a little over a hundred yards away.
Even with all that has happened today—all of the turmoil, including the death of Ranjeet, the shoot-out, and now Eric’s wounding—Peyton’s first thought is that those were some really dumb-ass looters to hit a store next door to a police station.
CHAPTER 54
Manhattan
Paige and Hank are currently hiding behind a building at the northwest corner of Walker and Broadway as the gun battle rages on. The best Hank can tell is that it looks as if a group of nasty-looking characters are trying to stick up the big bank just up the block on Broadway. The store near where they’re currently positioned, some kind of jeans and footwear place, has already been looted and empty shoeboxes and broken glass litter the sidewalk.
“Why are they trying to rob a bank?” Paige asks.
“Hell if I know. I guess because they think they can. What they don’t know is the bank manager most likely put all the cash drawers in the vault and locked it up when the power went out.”
“Then why don’t the employees just walk out the back door and let them have at it?”
“I don’t know, Paige. I’m not a bank manager or a bank robber. All I know is this is takin’ up valuable time.”
“You don’t have to be so cranky about it.”
Hank scowls then takes another peek around the corner. Those
people caught out in the open when the gun battle began are still crawling around through the broken glass, trying to take cover wherever they can. If he and Paige can just get across the street they’ll be golden. Hank spends a moment studying the layout. They could backtrack and pick up another street, but every second that ticks off the clock is an opportunity for something else bad to happen. And their exposure to ricocheting bullets will be limited by all the abandoned cars clogging the street. Hank ducks back behind the building.
He glances at his watch and calculates the number of blocks ahead of them. By his calculation they’ve covered eighteen blocks, and if they can cover ten blocks every eight minutes they can be at the heliport in about forty minutes. He turns to look at Paige. “We’re crossin’ the street.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Just stay low until you get behind those other buildin’s across the street.”
“You want me to go first?”
“It doesn’t matter, Paige. We’re wastin’ time.”
“Okay, you go first.”
Hank sighs, bends over, and races to the other side.
Paige takes a deep breath and follows. When she’s about midway across, the gangbangers on the street open up again and she has to dive behind an abandoned taxi. She looks to Hank for help. He holds up a hand as he watches the scene play out up the street. When he sees the bad guys duck back down, he waves Paige onward. Paige scrambles to her feet and duckwalks the rest of the way across, standing only when she’s safely behind the building.
Hank takes one look at her once-elegant, expensive clothing and knows to bite his tongue. Paige, noticing the expression on his face, looks down at her grease-streaked clothing and groans. “Well, hell. So much for this outfit.”
“You’ve got plenty more back at your place. Let’s roll.” Hank turns and starts walking, setting a brisk pace.
Paige has to hurry to catch up, but once she does she has little trouble. With her long legs and taut muscles honed in the gym three days a week, Paige can match Hank step for step with limited exertion. But with the heat, humidity, and having to fight through the crowds, Paige can feel her energy draining away.
When they reach the next intersection, Hank pauses and pulls out his cell phone to check for a signal. He’s disappointed—but not surprised—to find the phone has no service. “I wish we had some way to communicate with Elaine.”
“We can use Wi-Fi when we get on the plane.”
Hank glances at his watch. “That could be a while. And we’ve been out of contact with her for a good while already. There’s no tellin’ how many catastrophes have occurred while we’ve been incommunicado.”
“Does it matter?”
Hank glances at Paige, a scowl on his face. “Yeah, it matters.”
“Why? There’s not a damn thing we can do about it. At least not until we find a way to eliminate that nasty piece of malware.”
“Speakin’ of that, do you think Natalie has made any progress?”
“I hope so. I’ll call her when we get on the plane.”
They cover the next ten blocks in less than eight minutes, much to Hank’s delight. Or, rather, he’s as delighted as he can be considering the ongoing crisis. Walker Street had merged into Canal Street five blocks back, meaning they’re now only a few blocks from the East River. Over the years, billions of dollars have been spent on upgrading the city’s sewage treatment plants in an effort to clean up the East River, yet it still remains one of the most polluted waterways in the country. A fishy, briny odor lingers over the area as Hank pauses to pull up the map of Manhattan in his mind. If they turn north on Allen Street, it’s thirty-eight blocks to reach the East 34th Street Heliport. Hank glances at his watch and says, “If we can keep up this pace, we’ll be at the heliport in less than thirty minutes.”
“That’s assuming we don’t run into any more trouble,” Paige says.
“No negative thoughts, Paige,” Hank says, turning up Allen Street. When Paige catches up, he asks, “What do you think is next on the hackers’ list of targets?”
“Who knows? I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a computer network left in this country that they haven’t hacked.”
Hank wipes the sweat from his brow. “Let me rephrase the question. If you were hackin’ to inflict the most damage, what would your next target be?”
“The most damage you could inflict on the largest populations would be to keep doing what they’re doing—hitting the power grids. Cut the power and you cut off the water supply, the sewage treatment plants, and everything else that we’ve come to rely on to live.”
“I agree,” Hank says. “But I keep gettin’ hung up on the motive. If it’s a foreign nation or state they have to know we’ll retaliate with overwhelmin’ force. So what would they gain? A few days of pleasure watchin’ us squirm before we obliterate them? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense, but I think this cyber attack is much too sophisticated for it to be anyone other than a well-funded nation or state group.”
“I disagree. The hackers have spent years refinin’ their attack, and if they have access to one or more supercomputers, say, at the larger research universities or major tech companies, then why not?”
Paige licks her lips, trying to generate more saliva. She’s regretting not bringing along some of the bottles of water from the stock exchange offices. “Are you suggesting a group of college students or a few rogue employees are behind this hack?”
Hank, his shirt saturated with sweat, switches his backpack to the other shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m suggestin’. Who hates this country enough to try and destroy it?”
“A lot of people, including the usual suspects, such as Iran and North Korea.”
“But that takes us back to my original point about retaliation. All of those countries know—they absolutely know—that payback is a bitch. Who wouldn’t be concerned with our response? A group of very smart people not affiliated with a specific country, but who also have deep-seated animosity toward the United States.”
“Like a terrorist group?” Paige asks.
“No, not the usual suspects such as Al-Qaeda or ISIS. This feels different to me. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just blabberin’. But my gut tells me this is straight-up retribution.”
“For what?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
CHAPTER 55
North Atlantic Ocean
Captain Bruce Hensley, still confined to quarters, sneaks up to his cabin door for another look through the peephole and smiles. The guard is gone. Not sure what Griffin had done to cause the guard to leave his post, or how long he might be away, Hensley opens the door and hurries down the corridor. He climbs down the stairs to the rear deck and pauses. If Admiral Malloy spots him prowling around on the rear-deck camera, Hensley could be charged with mutiny. He stares through the glass at the Seahawk chopper sitting on the deck, weighing his options.
* * *
Inside the USS Stark’s Ship’s Mission Center, Rear Admiral Richard Malloy is champing at the bit to get the ship’s weapons up and running again. Having spent the last eight years of his career overseeing the designing and building of America’s newest warship, he has more than his reputation at risk. As the Department of Defense whittled down the number of ships it was willing to purchase, Admiral Malloy’s stature inside the navy ranks was also whittled down. A proud man born to blue-collar parents, all his years of hard work and ass-kissing will be for naught if he can’t prove that this new Zumwalt class of destroyers is just what the navy needs for twenty-first-century warfare. And after years of delay and budget-busting expenditures, it’s now make-or-break time for both the ship and the man. Normally not one willing to take big risks, he’d considered sending the ship back to port for a bow-to-stern review. But with his fears that the USS Stark will never sail the high seas again and with a heavy dose of ego that his intimate knowledge of the workings of the ship will prevail, he’s optin
g for an at-sea reboot and retry. Malloy turns to the ship’s weapons officer and says, “Mr. Griffin, how much longer?”
Although the weapon systems are now operational, Lieutenant Mike Griffin says, “Sir, they’re having some trouble getting the missile pods back on the rails.”
“What about the guns?” Malloy asks.
Well, shit, what now? “Well, sir, uh . . .” Griffin sputters. “They’re—” He glances up at one of the video monitors to see his captain racing across the rear deck toward the helicopter. “—Can I show you something, sir?”
Everyone in mission control can hear the admiral sigh before he marches across the room to the weapons station. “What is it, Mr. Griffin?”
* * *
Hensley swings open the rear door of the chopper and dives inside as the pilot and copilot turn in their seats.
“What the hell?” the pilot asks, none too happy about someone piling in his helicopter uninvited. He removes his headset and asks, “Who the hell are you?”
Hensley leans forward. “I’m Captain Bruce Hensley, commander of the USS Stark, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot says, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. “Why are you in my helicopter, sir?”
“I need to use your radio.”
“With all due respect, sir, what’s wrong with your ship’s radio?”
“It’s not working. I don’t have time to go into all the details, Lieutenant,” Hensley says, slipping a spare headset on. “Can you power up the radio?”
The pilot and copilot share a look, both wondering why the ship’s captain is in their helicopter wanting to use the radio. The pilot turns to face Hensley. “Sir, we’re here on orders from Admiral Malloy.”
“Christ, I’m not asking anything out of the ordinary. All I want to do is make a simple radio call.”
“I need permission from Admiral Malloy, Captain.”
Hensley yanks off the headset, tosses it on the seat, and leans forward to look the pilot in the eye. “When the shells and missiles start raining down on Norfolk again, call Admiral Young at Fleet Forces Command and tell him to mothball this motherfucking ship. Got it, Lieutenant?”
