Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“Little late now,” Hensley says.

Taylor glances over when his video screen powers up. He swivels in his chair and types out a series of commands and waits for the system to respond. When it does, radio chatter fills the speakers. “We need ambulances on piers fourteen, twelve, ten, nine, and eight, stat,” a voice shouts.

Another voice, one the captain recognizes as belonging to the admiral designated as the commander of the Atlantic Fleet, says, “I want a fucking status report and I want it now. How many ships have taken fire?”

Someone starts reading off a list of ships and the blood drains from Hensley’s face. “Is that radio traffic out of Norfolk?”

Taylor mouses over to check the radio frequency. “Yes.”

Hensley hangs his head as the horror show from Norfolk continues to play out over the radio. Lieutenant Griffin returns from downstairs and approaches Hensley. “Sir, we have thirty-nine remaining missiles on board.”

“How many missiles did we load on before leaving port?”

“Eighty, sir,” Griffin says.

“This is the Forrest Sherman . We’re taking on water,” a voice shouts over the radio. Hensley winces at the name of the ship, one he’d served on early in his career.

Griffin nods at the radio. “Where’s that from?”

“Naval Station Norfolk,” Hensley says.

“Oh shit. Did we do that?” Griffin asks.

“Unless the Russians decided to attack in the last forty minutes, yes,” Hensley says. “I need a detailed report of what went where, Mike.”

“I’ll get it, sir. Have you contacted Norfolk and told them our systems have been hacked?” Griffin asks.

“Not yet,” Hensley says, and turns back to Taylor. “Is the radio transmitting?”

“I haven’t tried, sir,” Taylor replies.

“Try now. Contact Norfolk and tell them… Fuck, what am I going to tell them? Tell them… tell them our weapon systems are… ?” The captain pauses. “The weapon systems are compromised—screw it. I’ll talk to them.”

While the captain is occupied, Griffin takes the opportunity to slip away.

Taylor nods and puts on his headset. He tries hailing Norfolk and gets no response. He changes to an emergency frequency and tries again with the same results. Taylor grimaces as he looks up at the skipper. “No go, sir.”

Hensley throws his hands up in the air. “Does anything on this ship work the way it was designed to fucking work?” He doesn’t really expect a reply and one is not forthcoming. He glances up at the video screens to see a pair of heavily armed helicopters inbound on the stern camera. A moment later one of the chopper pilots hails the ship over the radio. “This is Seahawk one-niner-two calling the USS Stark .”

Connelly returns from the engine room. After a quick briefing on recent developments Hensley says, “Send someone out to the helipad. Have them wave a white shirt before these helicopters blow us out of the water.”

Again over the radio they hear another call from the Seahawk pilot requesting a response, his voice more urgent. The Seahawk is a highly modified version of the army’s Black Hawk helicopter and just as deadly.

“Hurry, Kat,” Hensley says.

“I’m on it. Maybe you should go out on the deck. Let the pilots see you.”

“Good idea.”

As Connelly picks up a ship’s phone to convey the captain’s orders, Hensley grabs a pair of binoculars and a portable radio in case it starts working again, and hurries down the steps to the rear deck.

Chicago

With no more gunshots echoing down the street, Peyton tiptoes back to the front window. She cups her hands around her face and leans in, closer to the glass. There is still no sign of Eric and she glances at her watch and mutters a curse word or two. Most are directed at Eric’s boss but one or two are reserved for Eric, who obviously needs to grow a pair of balls. “What the hell does he have you doing when there’s no electricity?” she mumbles to herself. Yes, Eric makes good money, but, jeez, does he earn it, having to put up with the asshole running the commercial lending department.

The streets are still clogged with cars, but Peyton notices that most of the autos are now empty, abandoned where they sit. No doubt some ran out of gas after hours of trying to get out of downtown. Peyton looks farther up the street to see delivery trucks, buses, taxis, and an assortment of other vehicles abandoned, many with the doors hanging open. Peyton realizes that even if the power were somehow restored soon, it would take days of around-the-clock work just to clear the streets. Her gaze drifts across the street to the shoe store. The stream of people entering the store has slowed to a trickle and Peyton doesn’t know if it’s the lack of available inventory or lack of interest. When Eric gets here to guard their supplies, she’s planning on finding out with a firsthand look inside.

There are no bodies evident in the street or on the sidewalks and Peyton wonders what the results of the gunfire were . She glances to her left and her heart nearly seizes when she spots a group of ten or twelve heavily tattooed young men coming down the sidewalk. Peyton hates to brand them gangbangers just by their looks because the last thing she’d ever want to be is racist, but there’s no two ways about it—they’re gangbangers. Several have guns tucked into their waistbands and those who aren’t fortunate enough to own a pistol are armed with baseball bats, machetes, or tire irons. As they continue down the sidewalk, it looks like Moses parting the Red Sea as other walkers shift to the opposite sidewalk.

Peyton glances at the lobby entrance and feels the first real stab of fear. Yes, there had been gunshots fired, but this a different form of terror altogether. All they’d have to do is push open the doors and waltz right in. Peyton looks at her reflection in the glass. She’s not a knockout, but she does consider herself attractive. With an hourglass-shaped body and a narrow waist, Eric tells her all the time that she’s curvy in all the right places. Or would they even care what I looked like? Would I be just fresh meat, ready for the taking? As the group of hoodlums grows closer, Peyton’s breathing quickens. What if they come inside and discover I’m alone? Peyton begins to tremble as images of a gang rape from some horrible film she’d watched as a teenager flash through her mind. She slowly slinks away from the glass and hurries across the lobby, ducking behind a chair.

Sliding around where she can see out the window, Peyton’s rapid heartbeat is thrumming in her ears. Should I run back to Ranjeet’s store? Peyton eases her head to the side, one eye and half of her face exposed beyond the edge of the chair. He would be no match for one of those guys, much less an entire group. The people on this side of the sidewalk start veering to the other side of the street and Peyton knows the group of goons is close. The tremble turns into a full-on shake and Peyton is on the verge of hyperventilating, her imagination out of control. Stop it! Why would they want to come into an office building? Get a grip, Peyton. Jesus, they’re looking for things to steal, not women to ravage. Peyton focuses on her breathing. Or are they looking for both? Just take whatever they want because they can? Where are they? Shouldn’t they have already passed by ? Peyton moves to the other side of the chair and eases her head out for a peek. Maybe they changed course.

Peyton jumps when the loud crash of shattering glass echoes through the interior of the lobby. Oh no. No, no, no. Not Ranjeet.