Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Butler puts a hand on Foster’s back. “I get the idea. Take it easy, Kevin. Take some deep breaths.”

While they’re waiting for Foster to recover the lights suddenly flash off. That’s followed a second later by a chorus of groans from the troops.

“Mount flashlights,” Butler orders. The M4 rifles have a mount on the barrel where each soldier can attach a tactical flashlight. While they’re doing that, Butler makes a radio call. “Major Pierce, generator status?”

“Hold on, Captain,” Pierce replies.

While he waits, he radios Clark. “Butler to Clark, over.”

“Clark here.”

“What’s the power situation over there?”

“We still have power here, sir.”

“Roger. Be prepared in case it goes out.”

“Ten-four. Mounting flashlights now, Captain.”

“Roger. Butler out.” He waits a second and then says, “Major Pierce?”

“Pierce here. I was waiting on an update from the maintenance people. The generator that powers cellblocks A and D overheated.”

Butler’s brain is clicking through a long line of obscenities as he pushes the transmit button and asks, “Timeline?”

“Unknown, Captain. Apparently they don’t get used very often.”

Butler takes a deep breath and releases it. “Roger. Keep me posted. Butler out.” Butler turns around to make sure everyone has their flashlights mounted. “Squads one and two move out. Squad one, you’re point.” Butler had separated his team into four-man squads so they wouldn’t all be tromping around as one large group. “Squads three and four, you’re next.” He nods at Robinson to go with them.

As the eight men brush past, Corporal Reed stops and asks, “Rules of engagement, sir?”

Butler sighs. Reed is only twenty-one and he’s been known to jump at his own shadow. “Keep your finger off the trigger for now, Todd,” Butler replies. “The last thing we need is you shooting someone in the back.”

“Roger, sir,” Reed says before disappearing around the corner.

“Everyone else, hold your position,” Butler orders before proceeding around the corner. The flashlights are dancing all over the place—looking like some kind of funky light show at a disco inside the gates of hell. From the jittery movement of the beams, it’s readily apparent to Butler that his team is either juiced up or stressed to the max. As he draws closer to the gate, he sees it’s already open and that squads one and two are already working their way forward. He grabs Robinson by the elbow. “I told you not to open the gate.”

“I didn’t, sir. It was already open when we got here.”

“Fuck,” Butler mutters. He triggers his radio. “Squads in reserve, watch your six.” Then he says, “Butler to Foster.”

“Foster here,” Foster says over the radio.

“Kevin, when you were scouting ahead, was the gate to the cellblock open or closed?”

“It was closed, sir,” Foster replies.

Butler turns and shouts to the men ahead, “Halt! Maintain your positions.”

Manhattan

Hank is berating himself for not grabbing a flashlight from his go bag. With the sun now diving toward the horizon, they’re moments away from absolute darkness with twenty blocks still to go. Growing up in a small town in Oklahoma, Hank is accustomed to the dark. Back home he could drive two miles out of town, kill his lights, and be absorbed inside the inky darkness of night with a blanket of stars and the occasional moon providing the only glimmers of light. But it’s altogether a different thing to be in a lightless city with millions of other humans, many of them confused and angry. And that’s not including the predators who prefer the gloomy obscurity for fulfillment of their heinous appetites. Yet, even they will find life difficult with the total absence of light, Hank thinks.

Hank and Paige cover two more blocks in their journey to the heliport before the last of the sunlight fades. Surrounded by towering buildings, it turns dark fast. Even at high noon, many of the streets in Manhattan are shaded, but navigable. Not now.

Hank and Paige slow down, trying to minimize the risk of running into something.

“This is ridiculous,” Hank says. “At this pace it’s goin’ to take us all night to even get to the heliport, much less back to D.C.” Hank stops. “Hold up, Paige. Stay right where you are for a moment.”

“Why? It’s only getting darker,” Paige replies.

“I have an idea. Just sit tight.” Hank veers left. There’s just enough light that the outlines of the abandoned vehicles are still visible. He works his way around the nose of a sedan and tries the door. Locked. After thinking for a second or two, Hank pulls out his pistol, grabs it by the barrel, and smashes the driver’s side window. He reaches inside and clicks on the car’s headlights. A few people on the street stop to applaud while others follow his lead and, within seconds, the street is awash in light. Spotting a delivery truck ahead, Hank walks up to it and opens the door, searching for a flashlight. After searching the door’s side pocket and coming up empty, he climbs up into the cab and pops open the glove box and finds a flashlight buried under a mountain of food wrappers. He clicks it on to make sure the batteries are good and finds that they are. He climbs out and rejoins Paige on the sidewalk.

“The person that owns that car is not going to be happy,” Paige says.

Hank shrugs. “I hope they have auto insurance. That won’t cover the dead battery, but it might cover the glass.”

With the sidewalks now lit, they make good time. Either someone had the same idea that Hank had or word spread, because block after block is now lit with automobile headlights. Paige sidles up close to Hank and asks in a quiet voice, “Where are all these people going to sleep?”

“I guess they’ll head for their apartments or wherever they live and hope they can get a window open. Otherwise, it’s goin’ to be a long, hot night.”

“What are they going to do for a bathroom?”

“That open window will be handy, I guess. Or there’s always the fire escape on these older places.” Thinking of that, Hank steers Paige away from the buildings and toward the street.

The farther north they walk on First Avenue, the more it opens up. Most of the buildings in this area run in size from four to six stories with a few taller buildings interspersed, but nothing like the colossal skyscrapers that New York City is famous for. As they approach East 14th Street, the silhouetted redbrick towers of Stuyvesant Town come into view. Hank had read about the place but this is the first time he’s been in the neighborhood. New York City’s answer to a postwar housing shortage, “StuyTown,” as residents call it, consists of eighty-nine large residential buildings all crammed into a small, eighty-acre parcel. Add in Peter Cooper Village, Stuyvesant Town’s sister development just across 20th Street, and the number of residential buildings grows to 110, with over eleven thousand apartments and more than 25,000 residents. What that means to Hank is that there are more people in these thirteen blocks than there are in all of Ada, Oklahoma, a town that covers fifteen square miles.

They pass StuyTown and Peter Cooper Village and on the next block they discover a long line of people trying to enter the VA hospital. The why is unclear—most appear upright and walking—but as far as Hank’s concerned if a person served this nation then he or she is entitled to all the benefits the Veterans Administration offers. It doesn’t matter that the city is without power. There wasn’t any electricity in the foxholes they manned, either, Hank thinks.