Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“Mr. Griffin, how many howitzer rounds were fired?” Hensley asks.

“I won’t know the exact number until we power up the computers. A rough estimate based on duration would be somewhere close to a hundred rounds.”

Hensley shakes his head. “And missiles?”

“I won’t know how many or type until the computers are back on.”

“I’m not turning those sons-a-bitches back on until we find out what happened. Call downstairs and have someone count how many missiles are left on board.”

Griffin grabs a radio and pauses. “Sir, I can’t call down there with the power off.”

“Fuck! Run downstairs, Griff, and tell your men to count the remaining missiles.”

Lieutenant Griffin stands and hurries for the exit.

“Wait, Griff,” Hensley shouts. “Any idea if there was a specific target?”

“I won’t know that—”

Hensley cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I know, I know… until the computers are back on.” Hensley runs a hand across the top of his head and steps over closer to Griffin. “What the hell happened, Griff?”

“The only thing that makes sense is that someone hacked our weapons systems.”

“Who?”

“Unknown, sir. Might find something when we power back up.”

“While you’re down there, put a crew together. I want those weapons immobilized.”

“Yes, sir,” Griffin says, hurrying out the door.

Hensley walks over to the communication’s center. “Any luck with the radio?”

“Not yet, sir. But I think we were close before the ship was powered down.”

Chicago

Peyton is dripping sweat and her feet are aching as she climbs down the final few steps to the ground floor. She’s uttered every curse word in her vocabulary on the trip back up to her office—all aimed at the sorry bastard who stole her case of water. Peyton had remembered seeing a case of water in the company’s break room and she’s now lugging it, and her heavy bag, back down the stairs. She hits the door and spills out into the lobby. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she hauls her stuff to a chair and plops down. Her new pencil skirt is in tatters after Peyton used the scissors to cut slits to allow for a wider range of movement. The slits grew to long rips during the journey, and it now looks as if Peyton is wearing a hastily cobbled together loincloth. She pulls her right foot onto her lap to pick the grit out of the scrapes and cuts on her sole. She’d love to use one of the bottles of water to wash the blood and grime off her feet, but the fear of not knowing what lies ahead wins out in the end. Instead, she wipes her foot with a section of her tattered skirt and does the same for her left foot and calls it done.

Sitting in the vacant lobby, she begins to worry about those same cuts and scrapes. How many germs on those stairs? She glances around the lobby. And not just the stairs. How many potential bacterial infections are lurking along the surface of the lobby floor? A floor that gets trod on by shoes that have probably tromped through pigeon shit, or dog shit, or worse? Think how much trash and garbage collects on the sidewalks. “Stop it, Peyton,” she utters out load, surprising herself. She glances at her new heels lying on the floor, but the thought of having to put them on roils her stomach. Peyton turns her gaze from the shoes to the window, hoping to see her husband’s familiar face. She doesn’t see any sign of Eric, but she does see a nicely dressed woman stop midstride, pull her skirt up, and squat. The woman appears nonchalant as her urine puddles around her shoes. “At least I opted for a stairwell,” Peyton mutters. The woman stands, lowers her skirt, and continues on, as if urinating on the sidewalk were an everyday occurrence for her, which, judging by her clothing and expensive handbag, it’s not. Jeez, if it has come to this after only a few hours without power, what’s it going to be like after a few days?

Before Peyton can give that question much thought, she’s startled by the sound of shattering glass. She stands and hobbles over to the window as the cascade of breaking glass continues. Peyton gasps at the sight of people pouring in and out of the nearby stores, their arms laden with stolen goods. Peyton isn’t that surprised that looting has already started, but she is surprised and somewhat unsettled by the people doing it. They aren’t street thugs or gang members, they’re people like her. People who have jobs, apartments, families—people who ought to know better. Peyton hears more glass shattering and steps closer to the window to see which place has been hit now.

It’s the shoe store down the street.

She ponders that for a moment. Huh. No, absolutely not. I’m not a thief. My parents raised me better.

Peyton watches as men and women leave the store, their arms loaded with boxes of shoes. Two well-attired women spill onto the sidewalk, both clutching the same shoebox. They are shouting and spitting at each other, tugging on the distinctive black-and-white box that Peyton knows contains an expensive pair of shoes. When it looks as if one of the women is getting the upper hand, the other turns loose and Peyton thinks that’s the end of that. She’s shocked when the other woman winds her arm up and slaps the other woman in the face. The injured woman sags slightly and the box slips from her hands. The slapper leans over, grabs the shoes, and takes off while Peyton looks on, horrified.

More windows are broken and more stores are looted. Peyton cranes her neck to look up the street at Bloomingdale’s. It looks like Christmas Eve as people exit the store carrying overstuffed bags filled with stolen bounty. Peyton’s eyes drift away from the scene and down to her bruised and battered feet. Is one more missing pair of shoes really going to matter to the owner of the store? Heck, they probably have insurance to cover incidents just like this. Her gaze returns to the unfolding horror show outside. Besides, there’s glass everywhere and I’d have to put on those damn heels just to go outside. She watches as two men square off in the middle of the street, about to come to blows over a Gucci bag that one has stolen from the high-end department store. Both are wearing khakis and button-downs, but that’s where the similarities end. One is tall and overweight, his gut lapping over his belt; the other a head shorter and about sixty pounds lighter. The larger man makes the first move, throwing a big roundhouse punch that misses by a mile. The smaller man ducks the punch and delivers a short quick left to the larger man’s solar plexus and he doubles over, obviously out of breath. Fight over before it even began. The man grabs the bag and melds into the crowd.

Peyton checks the shoe store again. More people are flooding into the store as others exit, one man carrying an armload of shoes minus the boxes. Peyton looks down at her poor feet again. It’s easier to put on the damn heels now and walk across the street for a pair of comfortable shoes rather than try to wear the damn things home. Besides, it’s just one measly pair of shoes and these assholes are carrying them out by the handfuls. One pair. That’s all. Peyton remains frozen in place with indecision. Plus, how much glass are we going to encounter on the way home? Probably lots, right? But wait… Shit. If I lug that food and water outside I’m going to be mugged. Peyton turns and scans the lobby, looking for a better hidey-hole. She walks along the perimeter of the lobby, trying doors to see if any are unlocked. None are and she’s back to square one. Standing in the center of the lobby, she places a hand on her hip, deep in thought.