by Tim Washburn
Before the pilot can respond, Hensley pushes open the door and hurries toward the aft entrance.
* * *
Griffin’s shoulders sag when he spots Captain Hensley climbing out of the helicopter only seconds later. He’s served with Hensley long enough to be able to read the boss’s body language and the captain’s red face is a dead giveaway. Griffin turns back to Malloy and points at a schematic of the vertical missile launching system on his computer monitor. “That’s the issue, there, sir. I think with some fine-tuning it’ll work like a charm.”
“Good eye, Lieutenant. And that’s a minor fix.” The admiral stands, places his hands on his hips, and arches his back. “Are we locked and loaded?”
Griffin picks up a phone. “I’ll call down to the weapons room to make sure, sir, but I believe we are.” Griffin waits for the admiral to move on, then dials Hensley’s extension and waits for him to answer. He does on the third ring. “What happened?” he whispers into the phone.
Hensley is out of breath when he says, “They won’t allow me . . . to make a radio call without . . . Malloy’s permission. Where’s my guard?”
“Engine room,” Griffin whispers. “The admiral took my suggestion and ran a damage drill while we waited. What now, Bruce? I’ve stalled about as long as I can.”
Hensley sighs. “I’m out of options, Griff.”
“Mr. Griffin?” Admiral Malloy shouts across the room.
“Do you have a cell signal?” Griff whispers over the phone.
“No.”
“Well, sit tight, because the shit show is about to start up again.”
“Reset the power to the weapons, Griff. That’ll buy us a little time.”
“He’ll skin me alive, Bruce. I’ll try to think of something else.” Griffin hangs up the phone and his fellow crew members turn to look at him, fear painted on their faces. He reaches for the power switch and says, “Admiral, we’re locked and”—Griffin triggers the switch off then back on—“wait one, sir. The weapons are resetting for some reason.”
“Goddamn it, Mr. Griffin. What the hell is going on?”
“Some type of power interruption, sir. It’ll take a few moments for them to come back online.” Griffin shoots a pleading look at Connelly.
“Sir,” Connelly says, “maybe we should hold the live-fire exercises until we can diagnose this computer issue.”
“There is no computer issue, Ms. Connelly. The systems performed flawlessly during the dry-fire exercises.”
“I know, sir,” Connelly presses, “but the weapons shouldn’t just power off, should they?”
“The ship’s computer is designed to reset itself if it discovers an anomaly. That’s simply the case, here.”
“But, sir,” Connelly says, “wouldn’t that be a major problem if we were in the heat of battle?”
Malloy waves at the monitors. “Look around, Ms. Connelly. Do you see any other ships on the screens?”
Connelly scans the array of video monitors. “No, sir. Not at present.”
“Exactly. We’re conducting sea trials. We’ll have to make some minor tweaks to the ship before we send her out on patrol. We’ll fix the computer issues. That you can be assured of.”
Connelly has to concentrate to keep from shaking her head. “Yes, sir.” She turns to look at Griffin and shrugs.
“How much longer, Mr. Griffin?” the admiral asks.
Out of alternatives, Griffin says, “Two minutes, sir.”
“Good,” Malloy says. “Bring up our list of targets.”
Griffin types out a command on his keyboard and the list of deployed targets and their locations appears on the large screen at the front of the room. The mood inside the Ship’s Mission Center is tense. Members of the crew are waiting for what they know is coming. The lights on Griffin’s console flash green. He could kill the power again, but he would risk being court-martialed for insubordination. Griffin exhales a long, shaky breath and says, “Weapons online, sir.”
“About time, Mr. Griffin. Sound battle stations. Helm, all ahead full. Let’s start with the deck guns.”
CHAPTER 56
Chicago
Inside the police station, Peyton is offered a turn at the water cooler and she takes advantage of it, drinking cup after cup as Jacobs strips out of her body armor. Moments later, Campbell and Evans return, half carrying and half dragging Eric between them, his arms draped over their shoulders. Eric is conscious and groaning in pain. “Clear off one of the desks,” Campbell orders, hauling Eric past the reception area and into the squad room.
Peyton and Janice Jacobs sweep the contents on the closest desk to the floor and Campbell and Evans lower Eric onto the desk as Jacobs hurries off to grab a first aid kit. Peyton walks over to the water cooler and fills a cup and returns to her husband, gently lifting his head and dribbling water into his mouth. “How bad is the pain?”
“Mostly numb,” Eric mumbles.
Jacobs returns moments later, gloved up, masked up, and wearing a plastic face shield. She glances at Peyton and says, “I’m also the team medic, so your husband is in good hands.”
“Thank you,” Peyton says. Exhausted, she pulls over an office chair and sits, taking Eric’s hand in hers. Campbell and Evans stack their rifles in the corner then unclip and remove their heavy armored vests.
Jacobs gently peels Eric’s shirt back. “Tilt him onto his left side,” Jacobs says.
Evans and Campbell roll Eric onto his side and Jacobs continues gently pulling the bloody, sweaty shirt away from Eric’s torso, revealing a gunshot wound near the lower part of Eric’s rib cage. She quickly cuts the remaining fabric and tosses the bloody shirt to the floor. She leans down for a closer look at the wound.
“Looks like a through-and-through,” she says. “It missed the lung, but the bullet could have nicked his liver.”
“How will you know?” Peyton asks.
“I won’t. Not without a CT scan. But judging from the amount of blood lost, I’m leaning toward the positive that the liver remains intact.”
“A through-and-through means the bullet passed through his body?” Peyton asks.
Jacobs twists the cap off a large bottle of saline. “Correct. He has both an entrance and an exit wound. Okay, guys, lay him back down and scoot him a little to the side so that the wound is beyond the edge of the desk.”
Evans and Campbell do as instructed and Jacobs says, “Sir, this might sting a bit.”
“His name is Eric,” Peyton says.
“Okay, Eric,” Jacobs says, “this is going to be cold and it might—oh hell—it will sting, but I need to irrigate your wound.”
Eric nods.
After ripping open a package of gauze, Jacobs pours about half the bottle of saline around and over the wound.
Eric winces and squeezes Peyton’s hand as Jacobs dabs with the gauze, cleaning away the dried blood. She leans over and cleans the exit wound, dabbing and wiping with a new patch of gauze. A fresh rivulet of blood trickles out and Jacobs applies pressure to the wound. “Sorry if this hurts, but I need to stop the bleeding.”
“It’s okay,” Eric says, clenching Peyton’s hand again.
After several moments of applying pressure, Jacobs removes the gauze and checks for more bleeding. “I think we’ve got it stopped for now, but don’t be surprised if you find some oozing.”
“How will I know if it’s too much bleeding?” Peyton asks.
Jacobs glances up. “You’ll know. Just put some pressure on it. When I’m finished, I’ll dress the wound with a hemostatic dressing that has a clotting agent in it. That’ll help.” Jacobs stands and says to Campbell, “Sarge, will you shine your flashlight down here?”
Campbell grabs a small tactical flashlight off his belt and clicks it on, focusing the beam on Eric’s wound. Jacobs pulls out a pair of tweezers and leans in close. “Okay, Eric, I need to do a little probing here, looking for shirt fibers. I’ll try to be as gentle as possible, but it’s going to hurt.”
&n
bsp; “Go ahead,” Eric says, clenching his body.
“Relax, Eric,” Jacobs says. “At least try to relax your abdominal muscles. That’ll make my job a lot easier.”
Eric nods and tries to relax his midsection. But with the first touch of the tweezers, he clenches up again.
“It’s hard, Eric, but try to relax,” Jacobs says as she continues to probe the wound. “There you are, you little suckers,” she mumbles as she removes a few tiny threads, laying them on Eric’s chest. After several moments of digging around she says, “I think I got them all.”
Eric blows out the breath he had been holding.
Jacobs stands and drains the rest of the bottle of saline over the wound. “Infection is going to be the primary concern.” Jacobs turns to look at Peyton. “Do you have any antibiotics at home?”
“I don’t know,” Peyton says. “Maybe.”
“If you do, start them immediately.” Jacobs returns to dressing the wound and strips off her gloves.
Peyton stands and helps Eric up and he sits woozily on the edge of the desk.
Jacobs snaps on a new pair of gloves. “Now, ma’am, let me have a look at your feet.”
“I’m Peyton, by the way,” she says, sitting back down and stripping off the one remaining makeshift shoe.
“Nice to meet you, Peyton,” Jacobs says, peering at Peyton’s attempt at a shoe. “Pretty good handiwork on the fly. But I have to ask, where are your regular shoes?”
“That’s a long story, Officer Jacobs.”
“I bet,” Jacobs mutters. She pats the desk. “Put your feet up here where I can look at them.”
Peyton leans back in the chair and props her feet on the desk as Jacobs grabs another bottle of saline and a fresh pair of tweezers. After several moments spent picking out glass fragments and grit, Jacobs wets a piece of gauze with the saline and wipes Peyton’s soles clean. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Seven,” Peyton answers.
Jacobs opens a tube of antibiotic ointment and slathers it over Peyton’s feet. “I wear an eight, but I’ve got an old pair of sneakers in my locker that are just a tad bit tight.”
“I don’t want to leave you shoeless,” Peyton says, “especially after everything you all have done for us.”
“Nonsense,” Jacobs says as she strips off her gloves. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
“Are you sure?” Peyton asks.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Jacobs says before disappearing down the hall.
Peyton turns to look at Sargeant Campbell. She’s dying to ask about the shoot-out, but instead says, “What do you know about the power outage?”
“Not much,” Campbell says. “We’re operating on a generator at the moment. Why? Do you know something different?”
“I don’t know anything certain, but I did talk briefly with my sister, who’s an FBI agent in D.C. She said something about getting out before the call dropped.”
“Get out of where?” Campbell asks, taking a seat on the edge of the desk.
“I don’t know. But her voice sounded urgent. I think she meant get out of the city.”
“We haven’t been told squat, but leaving the city is not a bad idea,” Campbell says. “We’ve been without power for a few hours and it’s already going to hell. I hate to think what tomorrow will bring if the power doesn’t come back on.”
Jacobs returns, carrying a beat-up pair of sneakers. She hands those and a pair of socks to Peyton. “They’re well used, but they’re a damn sight better than what you had.”
“Thank you,” Peyton says, gently pulling on the socks. “I don’t know how we can thank all of you enough.”
“We’re here to serve,” Officer Evans says. “Just doin’ our job, ma’am.”
“I think you’ve gone well beyond the call of duty,” Peyton says, slipping on the shoes. “So, thank you very, very much.” Peyton stands to give the new shoes a try. They’re a bit big, but they’re a hell of a lot better than the heels she started the day in and much better than those she created from the sofa cushion. She puts a hand on Eric’s back. “Can you walk?”
Eric stands to test out his injured body. “Yeah, I can walk.”
“I’d offer to drive you, but I don’t think we’d get very far,” Jacobs says.
“You’re right,” Eric says as he walks forward a couple of steps. “I don’t know how you are going to clear all of those abandoned vehicles.”
“That’s not something we’re going to worry about right now,” Campbell says. “It’ll work out, eventually.”
Peyton steps over to Jacobs and gives her a hug, before moving on to Evans, and finally to Sergeant Campbell. She breaks the embrace and steps back. “Thanks again for everything.”
Jacobs says, “Hold up a sec,” before turning and heading down the hallway.
She returns moments later with a half a dozen bottles of water in a grocery sack and a T-shirt for Eric. She hands both to Peyton. “Eric, you need fluids. Try to drink as much of that water as you can.”
After one final round of good-byes, Eric and Peyton venture out into the unknown.
CHAPTER 57
Attica
After studying the floor plans of the prison, Captain Scott Butler now believes that Officer Darnell is correct—the only safe approach is through the front door. Laid out in a square, the four cellblocks form a perimeter around four separate outdoor areas. They’ll enter through cellblock A, which runs north and south with cellblock B on the opposite side of the prison. Cellblocks C and D run east to west, completing the square. To make matters more difficult, each cellblock has access to a tunnel that divides the four fields, with Times Square positioned at the intersection of the four tunnels.
Butler closes the lid on his military-provided laptop and runs a hand across his face. He knows his men are getting itchy and the longer they delay the more time they have to think about what might lie ahead. Butler steps over to the side window of the truck and places his computer on the front seat. They could plan for days and still not come up with a scenario where he and his men wouldn’t have to enter the prison. After hitching up his pants and tightening his armored vest, Butler picks up his M4 carbine and walks over to the gathering of state troopers to coordinate radio communications.
Troopers from Troop A will take their long guns and head for the watchtowers that are situated on the four corners of the inside prison yard. Correctional officers will continue to man the watchtowers along the exterior wall and they are also armed with rifles. State policemen from Troops E and C, armed with shotguns, will accompany Butler and his men inside. The officers in Troop B will stand in reserve and all the external traffic will run through Major Clyde Pierce, the area commander for the New York State Police. Butler takes Pierce by the elbow and leads him away from the group.
“What have you heard from headquarters?” Butler asks.
“Concerning what, Captain?” Pierce asks. A short man at five-six, Pierce is built like a fireplug.
“Our orders.” The commingling of troops hasn’t been an easy process and Pierce has made it known that he’s pissed his well-trained troopers are under Butler’s command. Not that Butler gives a damn.
“Apparently you’ve received all the orders. They haven’t told us shit,” Pierce says, crossing his arms across his thick chest.
Butler, a head taller than Pierce, takes a step closer and lowers his voice, saying, “You better shape the fuck up, Major. We don’t have any idea what we’re going to run into inside those prison walls, but I’m not going to have you out here fucking up my mission. If you don’t like it you can haul ass and I’ll find someone else. Otherwise, be the leader you’re supposed to fucking be.” Butler takes a step back. “Understood?”
Pierce takes a moment, but eventually says, “Understood, Captain. You can rely on me.”
“Thank you, Major Pierce. We’ve got a lot more serious shit to worry about rather than trying to mark our territory.”
Pierce smiles, moment
arily breaking the tension. “You don’t talk like any dentists I know.”
“That’s because at this moment, I’m not a dentist. Today, I’m a soldier just like you and your men.” Although they’ve reached some type of temporary truce, Butler decides to keep his orders to himself. He glances at his watch. “We’re going inside in four minutes.” Butler turns and makes his way over to a group of corrections officials who are huddled near the entrance to the administration building. “Four minutes,” Butler tells them. He steps over to the prison’s warden and asks for a word in private. The warden obliges and they move away from the group.
“Where am I likely to find the guards that might still be alive?”
The warden, Albert Diaz, takes a moment to think. “Inside the Times Square guard post and armory and the medical facility, for sure. Other than that, I just don’t know.”
Butler looks up at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon. What’s the fuel status for the generators?”
“They’re tied in to a thousand-gallon fuel tank. Shouldn’t be a problem.” Diaz pauses then says, “But the generators are old, Captain. They can be cantankerous.”
“Great. Put a couple of your maintenance men in there to baby them along. My plan is to lock down as many inmates as possible in the nearest cells available and I can’t do that if the power fails again.” Butler pauses as another ambulance passes by. Right now, there are more than fifty parked haphazardly around the entrance, waiting for the wounded. “Priority for the wounded will be staff first, followed by the injured inmates. The remaining staff will be sheltered in the auditorium.”
“It sounds like you have a good handle on the situation, Captain. But, let me remind you that some of the meanest and most violent criminals ever convicted in this state are now loose inside the walls behind me. I don’t say that to frighten you, but you need to prepare yourself for what you’re likely to find. The safety and security of your men and any remaining staff is paramount and that should be at the forefront of your mind as you enter the prison.”
