Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  Sadie spins around, searching for shelter. Her eyes dart across the room, finding nothing that could survive the approaching storm.

  “The cellar,” Jackson shouts. It was built for protection against Oklahoma’s many tornadoes and the group rushes for its outside door.

  “Wait,” Sadie shouts. “We’re going to need water.” They race to the communal fridge and grab all the water they can carry. Sadie glances out the window to see the flames only a few feet from the building. “I don’t know if we can make the cellar.”

  “We don’t have any choice,” Jackson shouts. The noise from the fire sounds like something straight out of hell. Jackson grabs her hand and pulls her toward the door. They burst outside and the heat is so intense it’s like walking on the surface of the sun. They race toward the cellar and Brian arrives first. He flings the large steel door open and the others race for the steps.

  “Hurry,” Brian shouts.

  Sadie is the last to enter and Brian nearly knocks her down as he dives in behind her. He reaches for the cord to close the door but the wind is too intense. “Help,” he shouts. The oil is raining down as liquid fire. Jackson races up the stairs and together he and Brian pull the door shut and slam the bolt home. The heat in the confined space is suffocating. They begin to strip off their clothes as they burrow deeper into the cellar.

  What they don’t know is the cellar is not airtight. It was designed that way to keep those in the cellar from suffocating. Sadie, kicking herself for not bringing a flashlight, feels something drip onto the top of her head. She touches it with her hand and it feels oily. She takes a sniff and her gut clenches. “We have to get out of here!” Sadie shouts. “Oil’s coming in!”

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Jackson says.

  The drips soon turn into a river and seconds later Sadie can see flames licking down the wall. Sadie is two words into her prayer when the oil inside the cellar ignites.

  CHAPTER 61

  Attica

  Butler had thought he had prepared himself for what they might find inside the prison. But he was wrong—very, very wrong. Just walking through the prison is a treacherous task because of all the blood. Bodies litter the corridors—both guards and inmates. Several of the bodies have been disemboweled and the stench—oh Lord—the stench is god-awful. A few of his men have already vomited and Butler is working overtime to keep the bile surging up the back of his throat in check. And the worst part is—they haven’t even entered the cellblocks yet. So far they haven’t found a single living thing.

  After entering the prison and passing through the administration building, half the team went left toward cellblock C and half the team, including Captain Butler, went right toward cellblock A. The plan is to sweep the cellblocks and meet somewhere in the middle before clearing any of the outbuildings, such as the mess hall and recreation center. Butler clicks the radio that’s clipped to his vest and positioned near his mouth. “Lieutenant Clark, what’s your status?”

  Lieutenant Gary Clark, a loan officer at one of the local banks in Buffalo, responds, “Still proceeding toward cellblock C, sir.”

  “Any friendlies?” Butler asks.

  There’s a long pause before Clark responds. “Negative, Captain.”

  “None here, either. Butler out.”

  The prison has dozens of windows, but they don’t offer much illumination as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. The windows do, however, offer a slight breeze that allows the troops a breath of fresh air occasionally. When they come to the end of the corridor, Butler, walking point, holds up his hand and the troops come to a stop. He turns his head and says, “Johnson, Foster, scout ahead, but not too far.” Two men break from the ranks and walk to the corner and take a peek down the hall. One moves out and the other steps out to cover him, the rifle braced to his shoulder. To watch them work you wouldn’t know that Wayne Johnson owns a tree-trimming company or that Kevin Foster teaches middle school math.

  While they search ahead, Butler orders the man with the keys, Art Robinson, front and center. Around the corner and down the hall about sixty feet is the gate that leads into cellblock A. Butler says to Robinson, “Unlock the gate, but don’t open it. We’ll do that. Got it?”

  Robinson nods, the keys rattling slightly in his trembling hand.

  Johnson and Foster return seconds later, their faces ashen. “Clear to the gate, sir,” Johnson says. “But—”

  He’s interrupted when Johnson groans and leans over and vomits, splattering the shoes of everyone nearby. Again, Butler has to tamp down the urge to join him.

  Butler dry swallows a couple of times and says, “Continue, Mr. Foster.”

  “It’s bad, Captain. A couple of the guards we are decapitated and . . . and . . . it looks”—Foster pauses and takes a deep breath and then another before saying—“it looks like whoever killed them . . . played kickball with . . .” Foster blows out a shaky breath and bends over and puts his hands on his knees.

  Butler puts a hand on Foster’s back. “I get the idea. Take it easy, Kevin. Take some deep breaths.”

  While they’re waiting for Foster to recover the lights suddenly flash off. That’s followed a second later by a chorus of groans from the troops.

  “Mount flashlights,” Butler orders. The M4 rifles have a mount on the barrel where each soldier can attach a tactical flashlight. While they’re doing that, Butler makes a radio call. “Major Pierce, generator status?”

  “Hold on, Captain,” Pierce replies.

  While he waits, he radios Clark. “Butler to Clark, over.”

  “Clark here.”

  “What’s the power situation over there?”

  “We still have power here, sir.”

  “Roger. Be prepared in case it goes out.”

  “Ten-four. Mounting flashlights now, Captain.”

  “Roger. Butler out.” He waits a second and then says, “Major Pierce?”

  “Pierce here. I was waiting on an update from the maintenance people. The generator that powers cellblocks A and D overheated.”

  Butler’s brain is clicking through a long line of obscenities as he pushes the transmit button and asks, “Timeline?”

  “Unknown, Captain. Apparently they don’t get used very often.”

  Butler takes a deep breath and releases it. “Roger. Keep me posted. Butler out.” Butler turns around to make sure everyone has their flashlights mounted. “Squads one and two move out. Squad one, you’re point.” Butler had separated his team into four-man squads so they wouldn’t all be tromping around as one large group. “Squads three and four, you’re next.” He nods at Robinson to go with them.

  As the eight men brush past, Corporal Reed stops and asks, “Rules of engagement, sir?”

  Butler sighs. Reed is only twenty-one and he’s been known to jump at his own shadow. “Keep your finger off the trigger for now, Todd,” Butler replies. “The last thing we need is you shooting someone in the back.”

  “Roger, sir,” Reed says before disappearing around the corner.

  “Everyone else, hold your position,” Butler orders before proceeding around the corner. The flashlights are dancing all over the place—looking like some kind of funky light show at a disco inside the gates of hell. From the jittery movement of the beams, it’s readily apparent to Butler that his team is either juiced up or stressed to the max. As he draws closer to the gate, he sees it’s already open and that squads one and two are already working their way forward. He grabs Robinson by the elbow. “I told you not to open the gate.”

  “I didn’t, sir. It was already open when we got here.”

  “Fuck,” Butler mutters. He triggers his radio. “Squads in reserve, watch your six.” Then he says, “Butler to Foster.”

  “Foster here,” Foster says over the radio.

  “Kevin, when you were scouting ahead, was the gate to the cellblock open or closed?”

  “It was closed, sir,” Foster replies.

  Butler turns and shouts to the men ahead, �
��Halt! Maintain your positions.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Manhattan

  Hank is berating himself for not grabbing a flashlight from his go bag. With the sun now diving toward the horizon, they’re moments away from absolute darkness with twenty blocks still to go. Growing up in a small town in Oklahoma, Hank is accustomed to the dark. Back home he could drive two miles out of town, kill his lights, and be absorbed inside the inky darkness of night with a blanket of stars and the occasional moon providing the only glimmers of light. But it’s altogether a different thing to be in a lightless city with millions of other humans, many of them confused and angry. And that’s not including the predators who prefer the gloomy obscurity for fulfillment of their heinous appetites. Yet, even they will find life difficult with the total absence of light, Hank thinks.

  Hank and Paige cover two more blocks in their journey to the heliport before the last of the sunlight fades. Surrounded by towering buildings, it turns dark fast. Even at high noon, many of the streets in Manhattan are shaded, but navigable. Not now.

  Hank and Paige slow down, trying to minimize the risk of running into something.

  “This is ridiculous,” Hank says. “At this pace it’s goin’ to take us all night to even get to the heliport, much less back to D.C.” Hank stops. “Hold up, Paige. Stay right where you are for a moment.”

  “Why? It’s only getting darker,” Paige replies.

  “I have an idea. Just sit tight.” Hank veers left. There’s just enough light that the outlines of the abandoned vehicles are still visible. He works his way around the nose of a sedan and tries the door. Locked. After thinking for a second or two, Hank pulls out his pistol, grabs it by the barrel, and smashes the driver’s side window. He reaches inside and clicks on the car’s headlights. A few people on the street stop to applaud while others follow his lead and, within seconds, the street is awash in light. Spotting a delivery truck ahead, Hank walks up to it and opens the door, searching for a flashlight. After searching the door’s side pocket and coming up empty, he climbs up into the cab and pops open the glove box and finds a flashlight buried under a mountain of food wrappers. He clicks it on to make sure the batteries are good and finds that they are. He climbs out and rejoins Paige on the sidewalk.

  “The person that owns that car is not going to be happy,” Paige says.

  Hank shrugs. “I hope they have auto insurance. That won’t cover the dead battery, but it might cover the glass.”

  With the sidewalks now lit, they make good time. Either someone had the same idea that Hank had or word spread, because block after block is now lit with automobile headlights. Paige sidles up close to Hank and asks in a quiet voice, “Where are all these people going to sleep?”

  “I guess they’ll head for their apartments or wherever they live and hope they can get a window open. Otherwise, it’s goin’ to be a long, hot night.”

  “What are they going to do for a bathroom?”

  “That open window will be handy, I guess. Or there’s always the fire escape on these older places.” Thinking of that, Hank steers Paige away from the buildings and toward the street.

  The farther north they walk on First Avenue, the more it opens up. Most of the buildings in this area run in size from four to six stories with a few taller buildings interspersed, but nothing like the colossal skyscrapers that New York City is famous for. As they approach East 14th Street, the silhouetted redbrick towers of Stuyvesant Town come into view. Hank had read about the place but this is the first time he’s been in the neighborhood. New York City’s answer to a postwar housing shortage, “StuyTown,” as residents call it, consists of eighty-nine large residential buildings all crammed into a small, eighty-acre parcel. Add in Peter Cooper Village, Stuyvesant Town’s sister development just across 20th Street, and the number of residential buildings grows to 110, with over eleven thousand apartments and more than 25,000 residents. What that means to Hank is that there are more people in these thirteen blocks than there are in all of Ada, Oklahoma, a town that covers fifteen square miles.

  They pass StuyTown and Peter Cooper Village and on the next block they discover a long line of people trying to enter the VA hospital. The why is unclear—most appear upright and walking—but as far as Hank’s concerned if a person served this nation then he or she is entitled to all the benefits the Veterans Administration offers. It doesn’t matter that the city is without power. There wasn’t any electricity in the foxholes they manned, either, Hank thinks.

  They pass the City University of New York and several hospitals, and they’re now on the homestretch, only three blocks from the heliport when they walk past a looted restaurant and hear a woman screaming inside. Paige comes to an abrupt halt but Hank never misses a stride. Paige hurries to catch up and grabs Hank by the elbow, pulling him to a stop. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “What? It’s not our fight, Paige. Besides, we’ve got a helicopter waitin’.”

  “You’re just going to walk on by?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That is not acceptable, Hank,” Paige says, stomping her foot. “Give me your damn gun and I’ll go.”

  “You can’t have my weapon.”

  “Then get your ass in there and stop it.”

  “We don’t even know what it is. How do you know it’s not some people playin’ around?”

  “Did that sound like a woman”—Paige makes air quotes—“ ‘playing around’? Huh? Did it?”

  When Hank doesn’t answer, she says, “Then I’ll go handle it without your damn gun.” Paige turns on her heel and Hank grabs her by the arm.

  “Stop it.” He sighs. “Stay here.”

  Hank walks back to the restaurant and tries to get a peek inside. The automobile headlights do a decent job lighting the street and sidewalk but very little of that light spills into the surrounding buildings. He can see some movement inside yet little else. Then the woman screams again—a heartbreaking wail that spurs Hank into action. The restaurant appears to be fairly shallow, but other than the woman who’s screaming, he doesn’t know if there are two or twenty people inside. Access isn’t a problem because all of the glass has been shattered and it now litters the sidewalk, making a silent approach impossible. Hank draws his weapon, pulls out the flashlight, and sidles up to the edge of the building.

  The only safe approach, Hank reasons, is to hit it hard and fast. After taking a deep, calming breath, Hank steps over the lower glass frame, brings his weapon up, and clicks on the flashlight. What he sees makes him both nauseous and furious. Two men have a young girl bent over a table, her skirt puddled on the floor. One of the men, his trousers around his ankles, has his hand on the girl’s neck, grinding her face against the table surface while the other stands behind her, his dick in his hand. And that’s exactly how he dies. Hank doesn’t shout a warning, or FBI, or anything. He pulls the trigger twice and the man behind her drops to the floor. Hank swings the gun left and double taps the second man in the forehead. It’s all over in about five seconds.

  Hank turns his head to the side and shouts for Paige. When she arrives, Hank steps outside and replaces the partially used clip for a new one. Several minutes later, Paige helps the now dressed sobbing young woman outside and Hank’s anger burns hotter when he sees that the girl is maybe fourteen years old at best. Paige wraps her arms around the girl and spends several minutes trying to comfort her. Eventually the sobbing subsides enough to find out the girl lives in an apartment building just up the street. Other questions about how she ended up in the restaurant or how long she’d been there go unasked—they’re pointless questions and the answers aren’t going to change what happened.

  Hank and Paige walk the girl home and continue on to the heliport in silence. Paige doesn’t ask about the shootings and Hank doesn’t ask for any specifics about the girl’s injuries. Both know exactly what happened.

  They find the promised helicopter waiting and climb inside. The pilot revs up the engine, and seconds later t
he chopper lifts off with Hank staring out one window and Paige staring out another, both wondering about evil and why it exists and, in the back of their minds, both are wondering what’s next.

  CHAPTER 63

  Somewhere near Boston

  Hassan Ansari sighs when he loses the link to the USS Stark again. This is the second time the crew has taken the ship off-line, and now that he has lost access to the ship’s onboard cameras, he can only assume that they’ve powered the ship down. He doubts they’re dumb enough to bring the weapons online a third time, so he makes a note to check on the ship later, once it’s closer to port.

  Hassan leans back in his chair and takes off his glasses, giving his eyes a momentary rest. He spots Nazeri pacing on the other side of the room, talking on the one landline phone in the building—a phone that Nazeri unplugs and keeps under lock and key when he’s not using it. Hassan wonders whom Nazeri is talking to and whether their discussion concerns his fate and that of his fellow students. He replaces his glasses and leans forward, opening a program Jermar created that allows the five to communicate inside an encrypted chat window and away from Nazeri’s prying eyes. At this point, Hassan doesn’t trust Sheezal and he decides to leave him out of this chat. Hassan types: We need to know whom Nazeri is communicating with and what is being discussed.

  Jermar replies first: Hack phone company?

  Yuusef joins the conversation: Be easier to tap the phone line here. We need another phone. Check all the closets?