Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Connelly has to concentrate to keep from shaking her head. “Yes, sir.” She turns to look at Griffin and shrugs.

“How much longer, Mr. Griffin?” the admiral asks.

Out of alternatives, Griffin says, “Two minutes, sir.”

“Good,” Malloy says. “Bring up our list of targets.”

Griffin types out a command on his keyboard and the list of deployed targets and their locations appears on the large screen at the front of the room. The mood inside the Ship’s Mission Center is tense. Members of the crew are waiting for what they know is coming. The lights on Griffin’s console flash green. He could kill the power again, but he would risk being court-martialed for insubordination. Griffin exhales a long, shaky breath and says, “Weapons online, sir.”

“About time, Mr. Griffin. Sound battle stations. Helm, all ahead full. Let’s start with the deck guns.”

Chicago

Inside the police station, Peyton is offered a turn at the water cooler and she takes advantage of it, drinking cup after cup as Jacobs strips out of her body armor. Moments later, Campbell and Evans return, half carrying and half dragging Eric between them, his arms draped over their shoulders. Eric is conscious and groaning in pain. “Clear off one of the desks,” Campbell orders, hauling Eric past the reception area and into the squad room.

Peyton and Janice Jacobs sweep the contents on the closest desk to the floor and Campbell and Evans lower Eric onto the desk as Jacobs hurries off to grab a first aid kit. Peyton walks over to the water cooler and fills a cup and returns to her husband, gently lifting his head and dribbling water into his mouth. “How bad is the pain?”

“Mostly numb,” Eric mumbles.

Jacobs returns moments later, gloved up, masked up, and wearing a plastic face shield. She glances at Peyton and says, “I’m also the team medic, so your husband is in good hands.”

“Thank you,” Peyton says. Exhausted, she pulls over an office chair and sits, taking Eric’s hand in hers. Campbell and Evans stack their rifles in the corner then unclip and remove their heavy armored vests.

Jacobs gently peels Eric’s shirt back. “Tilt him onto his left side,” Jacobs says.

Evans and Campbell roll Eric onto his side and Jacobs continues gently pulling the bloody, sweaty shirt away from Eric’s torso, revealing a gunshot wound near the lower part of Eric’s rib cage. She quickly cuts the remaining fabric and tosses the bloody shirt to the floor. She leans down for a closer look at the wound.

“Looks like a through-and-through,” she says. “It missed the lung, but the bullet could have nicked his liver.”

“How will you know?” Peyton asks.

“I won’t. Not without a CT scan. But judging from the amount of blood lost, I’m leaning toward the positive that the liver remains intact.”

“A through-and-through means the bullet passed through his body?” Peyton asks.

Jacobs twists the cap off a large bottle of saline. “Correct. He has both an entrance and an exit wound. Okay, guys, lay him back down and scoot him a little to the side so that the wound is beyond the edge of the desk.”

Evans and Campbell do as instructed and Jacobs says, “Sir, this might sting a bit.”

“His name is Eric,” Peyton says.

“Okay, Eric,” Jacobs says, “this is going to be cold and it might—oh hell—it will sting, but I need to irrigate your wound.”

Eric nods.

After ripping open a package of gauze, Jacobs pours about half the bottle of saline around and over the wound.

Eric winces and squeezes Peyton’s hand as Jacobs dabs with the gauze, cleaning away the dried blood. She leans over and cleans the exit wound, dabbing and wiping with a new patch of gauze. A fresh rivulet of blood trickles out and Jacobs applies pressure to the wound. “Sorry if this hurts, but I need to stop the bleeding.”

“It’s okay,” Eric says, clenching Peyton’s hand again.

After several moments of applying pressure, Jacobs removes the gauze and checks for more bleeding. “I think we’ve got it stopped for now, but don’t be surprised if you find some oozing.”

“How will I know if it’s too much bleeding?” Peyton asks.

Jacobs glances up. “You’ll know. Just put some pressure on it. When I’m finished, I’ll dress the wound with a hemostatic dressing that has a clotting agent in it. That’ll help.” Jacobs stands and says to Campbell, “Sarge, will you shine your flashlight down here?”

Campbell grabs a small tactical flashlight off his belt and clicks it on, focusing the beam on Eric’s wound. Jacobs pulls out a pair of tweezers and leans in close. “Okay, Eric, I need to do a little probing here, looking for shirt fibers. I’ll try to be as gentle as possible, but it’s going to hurt.”

“Go ahead,” Eric says, clenching his body.

“Relax, Eric,” Jacobs says. “At least try to relax your abdominal muscles. That’ll make my job a lot easier.”

Eric nods and tries to relax his midsection. But with the first touch of the tweezers, he clenches up again.

“It’s hard, Eric, but try to relax,” Jacobs says as she continues to probe the wound. “There you are, you little suckers,” she mumbles as she removes a few tiny threads, laying them on Eric’s chest. After several moments of digging around she says, “I think I got them all.”

Eric blows out the breath he had been holding.

Jacobs stands and drains the rest of the bottle of saline over the wound. “Infection is going to be the primary concern.” Jacobs turns to look at Peyton. “Do you have any antibiotics at home?”

“I don’t know,” Peyton says. “Maybe.”

“If you do, start them immediately.” Jacobs returns to dressing the wound and strips off her gloves.

Peyton stands and helps Eric up and he sits woozily on the edge of the desk.

Jacobs snaps on a new pair of gloves. “Now, ma’am, let me have a look at your feet.”

“I’m Peyton, by the way,” she says, sitting back down and stripping off the one remaining makeshift shoe.

“Nice to meet you, Peyton,” Jacobs says, peering at Peyton’s attempt at a shoe. “Pretty good handiwork on the fly. But I have to ask, where are your regular shoes?”

“That’s a long story, Officer Jacobs.”

“I bet,” Jacobs mutters. She pats the desk. “Put your feet up here where I can look at them.”

Peyton leans back in the chair and props her feet on the desk as Jacobs grabs another bottle of saline and a fresh pair of tweezers. After several moments spent picking out glass fragments and grit, Jacobs wets a piece of gauze with the saline and wipes Peyton’s soles clean. “What size shoe do you wear?”

“Seven,” Peyton answers.

Jacobs opens a tube of antibiotic ointment and slathers it over Peyton’s feet. “I wear an eight, but I’ve got an old pair of sneakers in my locker that are just a tad bit tight.”

“I don’t want to leave you shoeless,” Peyton says, “especially after everything you all have done for us.”

“Nonsense,” Jacobs says as she strips off her gloves. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

“Are you sure?” Peyton asks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jacobs says before disappearing down the hall.

Peyton turns to look at Sargeant Campbell. She’s dying to ask about the shoot-out, but instead says, “What do you know about the power outage?”

“Not much,” Campbell says. “We’re operating on a generator at the moment. Why? Do you know something different?”

“I don’t know anything certain, but I did talk briefly with my sister, who’s an FBI agent in D.C. She said something about getting out before the call dropped.”