Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Griffin sits up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir.”

“Carry on. Notify me when ready.”

“Yes, sir.” Malloy moves on to terrorize someone else and Griffin returns to the task at hand. What Malloy doesn’t know is that weapons systems are up and ready to go and have been for some time. Griffin is trying to delay as much as possible, but that ruse will last only so long before the admiral demands action. Griffin looks around to pinpoint Malloy’s location before reaching for the phone. He punches in the four-digit extension from memory and waits for the phone to be answered, all while keeping close tabs on the admiral’s location.

Captain Hensley, still confined to quarters, answers on the first ring. “What’s happening, Griff?”

Griffin cups a hand around his mouth and the phone and whispers, “How do you feel about mutiny?”

“Is Malloy rearming the ship’s weapons?” Hensley asks.

“He plans to after a couple of dry runs. Can you contact Norfolk?”

“Hell no. The radio is still down.”

Griffin spots the admiral looking his way. “Malloy’s coming. Talk to the chopper pilot. See if he’ll relay a message.”

“I’ll do that. Keep me posted, Griff.”

Griffin hangs up the phone and returns to his computer screen, just as the admiral arrives at his station.

“Where are we now, Mr. Griffin?”

“The weapons have synced with the ship’s computers, sir.”

“Good. Deploy some targets. I want to see how well the guns track.”

“Yes, sir.” Griffin makes the call down to the deck and stands and stretches, waiting for the targets to be deployed. His mind is churning, trying to think of ways to sabotage the dry-fire exercises. Am I willing to flush my career down the toilet? Maybe, he decides. His wife, whose father rose to the rank of rear admiral during his time in the navy, would be none too happy. But she’s not here and I am. Griffin sighs and retakes his seat as the admiral steps up to the raised platform at the front of the room.

For the next hour, the USS Stark performs flawlessly during the dry-fire drills. The guns track their targets with precision and the two gun barrels look as if they’re performing a ballet on deck as they rotate, raise, and lower, never losing track. As for the missiles, the computers track simulated targets and deliver their pretend payloads on target every time. Even the two smaller 30-mm machine guns prove lethal as they destroy target after target with an accuracy not achievable when guided by human hands.

The admiral, grinning from ear to ear at the front of the room, declares the exercises an overwhelming success. He steps off the podium and works his way toward Griffin. “Mr. Griffin, load weapons.”

“But, sir—”

Malloy cuts Griffin off with a wave of his hand. “Did you detect any anomalies, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir, but—”

“No buts , Lieutenant. Load weapons. And that’s a direct order.”

“Yes, sir.” As the admiral departs, Griffin continues running scenarios through his head. How much time can I buy? He grabs the phone and dials Hensley again, who quickly answers.

“Let me guess,” Hensley says, “the ship performed perfectly.”

Griffin ducks down below the video monitors. “You got it. Did you get a chance to talk to the chopper pilot?”

“No. Malloy placed a guard on my door.”

“Who is it?” Griffin asks.

“Petty Officer Perry.”

“Can you order him to stand down?”

“I tried. No go.”

“What’s his usual job?” Griffin asks.

“Engine room and damage control.”

“Damn it. Okay, let me think about it. Maybe I can talk the admiral into running a drill while the weapons are being loaded.”

“Drag your feet for as long as you can, Griff.”

“I’m trying. Keep checking your door and, when it’s clear, make a break for the chopper.”

“I will. And, Griff?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry.”

Chicago

Peyton, still traumatized, looks out the front windows and spots Eric striding up the street. She wonders what he’s thinking as he slows, trying to pick his way around the pools of blood and the dead bodies near the entrance.

“Are you okay, honey?” Eric asks, walking across the lobby.

“I don’t know,” Peyton says before breaking into sobs.

He wedges his way into the chair and wraps an arm around his wife.

“What happened out front?”

“The… National Guard… shot… shot… some looters. What took… (sniffle)… you so… (sniffle)… long?”

“Aaron the asshole wouldn’t let us leave. But, hey, I got tomorrow off.”

Peyton burrows her face into Eric’s chest. “You’re probably… (sniffle)… going to have… (sniffle)… a lot of… tomorrows off.”

Eric gently puts a hand under Peyton’s chin and lifts her head so he can look her in the eye. “What do you mean?”

Peyton runs the back of her hand across her dripping nose. “I had a… a… partial… conversation… with… with Paige. She told me to… to… get out… and then the call… dropped.”

“Out of where? The office building? Our condo?”

Peyton shrugs and wipes the tears off her cheeks. “I think it was more.”

“What? Like get out of Chicago?”

“Maybe.”

“Why? They’ll probably have the power back on before we get home.”

Peyton shakes her head. “Paige’s voice was… urgent. And she’s in the know.” Peyton wipes away the last of her tears and blows her nose into a fabric remnant she continues to lug around. “I think the power could be off for a long time.”

Eric leans back in the chair, stunned. “How long?”

“I don’t know, Eric. I don’t even know if I’m right. It was just a feeling I got listening to Paige.”

“Is that why you’re so upset?”

“No, but I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Are you injured?”

“My feet are cut up pretty bad.”

Eric leans forward to see Peyton’s feet wrapped up in her homemade shoes. “What do you have on your feet?”

“My attempt at making shoes.”

“Where are the new heels you bought?”

Peyton nods toward the coffee table on the other side of the lobby. “Over there. My feet were blistered something awful after climbing down the stairs.”

Eric glances at her makeshift shoes again. “I don’t think you’ll win any design awards.”

“Probably not.” Peyton wants to tell Eric everything that has happened, but she can’t. Not yet. She doesn’t want to relive seeing Ranjeet’s severed head on the desk. She pushes out of the chair and stands. “Can we go home now?”

“Of course.” Eric gets his first glance at Peyton’s tattered skirt. “What happened to your new skirt?”

“Another long story.”

“How come you didn’t hit one of the looted stores for a new pair of shoes?”

“That’s one part of the long story. Can we just go?”

“Yes.” Eric takes her hand, grabs her bag, and steadies her as they shuffle out the exit. Eric is struck with an idea when they arrive at a looted CVS on the next corner. He walks carefully across the broken glass and grabs one of the shopping carts and drags it back. After some cajoling from Eric, Peyton dumps her backpack in and climbs aboard.

It’s frightening to see the looted stores that stretch on and on, block after block. Eric pushes the cart onto the DuSable Bridge and takes a short break at the midstream point of the Chicago River. Abandoned buses, trucks, and cars litter the bridge’s surface and there’s a steady stream of people, mostly business types, heading north to their homes.