Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

A sustained burst of rifle fire outside is the last sound Spicer hears before a violent kick to the head snaps his neck. Like a pack of rabid dogs, the inmates march through the prison, killing and maiming. Areas normally protected by electromagnetic locks are now fair game as the prisoners take revenge on the guards before turning on their own. The corridor leading to A-block is awash in blood as the carnage escalates.

The violence is not restricted to A-Block. Much of the same is occurring in the other three cellblocks. For Corrections Officer Lydia Darnell, the shrieks of the aggressors and the wails of those being attacked create a cacophony of sounds straight out of hell.

Inside the control room in Times Square when the power went off, Darnell’s currently ducked down beneath the glass, trying to open the iron gate to the weapons locker behind her. Times Square is the small, secure booth that looks out over the hub of the prison where the tunnels from all four cellblocks meet. She doesn’t know if the door to the booth is still locked now that the power is out, but the last thing she wants to do is rattle the knob or make any noise that will draw attention to her presence. She finally finds the right key—it’s not a gate that gets used often—and quickly unlocks the door and darts inside. After relocking the gate, she grabs a shotgun and a box of shells and begins loading the weapon as she shuffles to the far corner of the room and sags to the floor. Once the gun is fully loaded, Darnell braces the shotgun against her shoulder, waiting for the inevitable.

North Atlantic Ocean

Out on the chopper deck of the USS Stark , Captain Hensley tried waving at the two Seahawks hovering off the stern to signal that the ship hasn’t been hijacked. There have been no visual clues that the helicopter pilots understand, or they’re wary it’s all an act and the bad guys are holding the crew hostage. Admittedly, it’s not normal for one navy ship to fire on other ships sailing under the same flag, but Hensley is running out of options on how to convey the message that he and the crew aren’t under duress. And looking at all those Hellfire missiles hanging off the helicopter’s stub wings is giving him heartburn.

He turns and scans the deck, looking for anything he can use to convey the ship’s radio is broken. “Piece-of-shit ship,” he mutters as he walks over to the helicopter hanger. He rolls up the door to find the space empty, not so much as a screwdriver in sight. Yes, the sea trials involving the helicopters are way down the road, but he’s pissed they didn’t build out the space. He curses the manufacturer and slams the door down. He walks back to the center of the helipad, fuming. Then an idea pops into his head. Unclipping the useless portable radio from his belt, he rears back and slams the radio onto the deck. It breaks into pieces and Hensley steps back, gesturing at the shattered remains as if he were highlighting an item in the showcase showdown on The Price Is Right .

One of the choppers breaks from formation and edges closer. Apparently finally getting the message, the chopper pilot flies forward and hovers over the helipad, forcing Hensley to move out of the way. Once the helicopter settles on the deck, the back door opens and Hensley’s bad day gets worse. Rear Admiral Richard Malloy, his commanding officer, climbs out with an angry scowl on his face and a sidearm strapped to his thigh. Hensley snaps to attention and salutes as Malloy approaches and the helicopter takes off. Malloy doesn’t return the salute nor does he issue an order to stand at ease. He pins Hensley in place with a glare and steps forward until they’re nose to nose. Once the helicopter retreats far enough away that they can have a conversation, Admiral Malloy says, “Captain Hensley, you are relieved of command.”

Still at attention, Hensley says, “Yes, sir.”

“What the fuck happened, Captain?”

“We’re not sure, sir.”

“Not sure? Half the goddamn fleet has been shot to shit and you don’t know how it happened?”

“We’re still dissecting the problem, sir.”

“You’re not dissecting shit, Captain. You’ll be lucky if your ass doesn’t get dissected by another inmate when you’re shipped off to Leavenworth.”

“Permission to speak, sir?” Hensley asks.

Malloy leans in closer. “What makes you think I want to hear some bullshit excuse?”

“Sir, we think the weapons systems were hacked.”

“I did not give you permission to speak, Captain. And your goddamned weapons weren’t hacked. This ship’s fucking computer systems are bulletproof. I know because I’ve spent the last eight fucking years making sure that can’t happen.”

Rear Admiral Richard Malloy is in his early sixties and he has to look up in order to address Captain Hensley. With Malloy’s dark, beady eyes, a sunken chin, and a slender build, Hensley can’t get the image of a rat terrier out of his mind. Hensley wants desperately to wipe the spittle off his face yet he remains at attention. Finally, Malloy breaks eye contact. He steps back, removes his hat, and wipes the perspiration off his balding head as he gazes out to sea. He puts his cap back on, turns to face Hensley, and continues his tirade. “Why were your weapons even loaded, Captain?”

“We were scheduled for live-fire exercises, sir.”

“Exercises means practice, Captain, not shooting up the fucking fleet.”

Sweat is dripping into Hensley’s eyes as he remains at attention. “Yes, sir.” With his career probably swirling around the toilet bowl, he’s tempted to tell Malloy to go fuck himself. But he doesn’t. He stands rigid as Malloy circles him like a pit bull searching for the right spot to chomp down.

“Sir, how many ships sustained damage?”

“Did I tell you to speak?”

“No. Sir.”

“To tell the truth, Captain, I don’t think they’ve finished fucking counting.” Malloy runs an index finger across the bridge of his nose and flicks the accumulated sweat onto the deck. With the ship stopped, there’s not even a hint of a breeze and the afternoon sun feels like they’re standing under a heat lamp. “Where’s your weapons officer?”

“I’ll take you to him, sir.”

“You’re not taking me anywhere, Captain. You’re confined to quarters until I can get a handle on what the fuck happened here. Dismissed.”

Hensley salutes and hurries to get back inside before Malloy changes his mind and puts him on one of the choppers. He steps through the door and nearly plows over his executive officer, Kat Connelly.

“How bad is it?” Connelly asks.

“Bad. I’ve been relieved of command and banished to my quarters.”

“He can’t do that. It’s not your fault.”

“He can, Kat. That’s why he has those two stars on his sleeve. And, although what happened was out of our control, I’m the commanding officer.”

“So, what, then? You going to your cabin to fall on your sword?”

Admiral Malloy comes stomping in the door and stops. “To your quarters, Mr. Hensley.”

Kat comes to attention. “Sir, with all due respect—”

Malloy cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “Would you like to join him, Lieutenant Commander Connelly?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s what I thought.” Malloy heads for the stairs. “Ms. Connelly, tell the sailor in charge of weapons to get them up and running.”

Hensley clears his throat. “Sir—”

Malloy whirls around. “Why am I still looking at you, Mr. Hensley? You’ve been ordered to your quarters. Move your ass.”

Hensley ducks through the hatch and heads down the corridor.

“Sir?” Connelly says.