Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“I concur,” Butler says. “As my grandfather used to say before stepping into the hog pen with his pocketknife—it’s nut-cuttin’ time.” He turns to the men around him. “Squads one and two, move out and keep your heads on a swivel.” He makes a radio call to Lieutenant Gary Clark over in cellblock C and passes on the order. Once the two squads have cleared the cellblock gate, Butler orders more squads on the move. Parker takes off to be with his men and before slipping down the corridor Butler orders squad seven to remain as a rear guard. He unslings his rifle and braces it tight to his shoulder, his index finger caressing the trigger guard.

He’s six steps into cellblock A when a barrage of rifle fire from up ahead shatters the silence. Butler hurries to the front to see two inmates bleeding out on the floor.

“They tried to jump me, sir,” Corporal Todd Reed, one of the young firemen, says.

“It’s okay, Todd. Drop back and let me take point,” Butler says, knowing the young man, a jittery person on a good day, is going to start spraying bullets at everything that moves. “And, Todd?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Try not to shoot me in the back.” Butler notices that Reed’s hands are trembling. “As a matter of fact, Todd, why don’t you join squad seven at the rear? Make damn sure nothing gets past you.”

Reed salutes. “You can count on me, sir.”

As Reed retreats, Butler and his men move forward to discover the horror show continues. They find seven inmates and six more guards dead, their coagulated blood pooled into a red lake that spans the width of the corridor. Butler turns his head and whispers, “Watch your footing.” But he finds the task difficult while trying to keep his gaze centered on the area ahead. He holds up a hand, deciding to switch tactics. “Squads one and two on me.”

When the men arrive, he has them form a circle with their backs to the center. He joins the circle and they proceed down the corridor in a rugby scrum formation and make the turn into cellblock D. They find more of the same—bodies and blood. Finding no one alive, Butler is beginning to doubt the warden’s head count.

When they reach the center of cellblock D and the iron-barred gate that separates the two sides, Butler holds up a hand and the scrum comes to a halt. The gate is centered in a concrete block wall with four feet of empty space on either side—making it a perfect hiding spot. And unfortunately for Butler and his men, the opening is fairly narrow, meaning they’ll have to enter side by side rather than using Butler’s preferred formation. Butler puts a finger to his lips, trying to hear movement or other signs of life from the other side of the wall. But the heavy breathing of his men wipes out any chance of hearing anything.

Butler points at two men, Jack Coleman and Steven Perez, and waves them forward. Coleman and Perez usually spend their days patrolling the streets of Buffalo in their police cruisers. Butler motions them closer and whispers his instructions. “Go together, one left and one right, just like you’re breaching a house.” Coleman and Perez both nod and take up positions on either side of the opening. Both ditch their rifles and pull out their pistols. In such a confined space, a rifle is unwieldy and there’s a chance the bad guys could grab it by the barrel and rip it out of their hands. Butler holds up two fingers, signaling that the squad members are to form up in pairs, then he waves the troopers with the shotguns up to the front. Once everyone is in position, Butler nods at the two by the gate.

They hit the doorway together and one swings left, the other right.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Coleman and Perez begin firing almost immediately, sustained bursts, one shot after another as fast as they can pull the trigger. Butler has no idea if they’re facing five inmates or fifty. “Troopers, up,” Butler shouts. Two state troopers armed with riot shotguns step through the doorway and immediately open fire, the booms from the shotguns almost deafening. Two more troopers step through the door and open fire.

The pistols have fallen silent and Butler’s wondering what happened to his two men. He steps over to the door, braces his rifle against his shoulder, and clicks off the safety. He turns into the corridor to see inmates everywhere. It’s dark as hell, making it impossible to make an educated guess on their number. Butler sees them trying to overpower the state troopers and opens fire. He shouts for squads one and two to deploy as he moves the barrel from target to target, squeezing the trigger. The copper slugs of the 5.56-mm cartridges are deadly at a distance, but up close they’re absolutely lethal.

One of the inmates tries to grab a shotgun from a trooper’s hand and Butler drills him right between the eyes, launching a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter. Butler can hear other M4s firing, but still nothing more from the pistols. He takes a quick peek at the floor to see his two men on the ground. He looks back up as a large man comes charging toward him. Butler fires and the man drops like a sack of cement. With the gun lights and the muzzle flashes, it looks like a dance with the devil.

About a dozen inmates turn and try to make a break down the corridor, one carrying a shotgun. Butler sights in on the middle of his shoulder blades and squeezes the trigger. The man drops and the shotgun flies out of his hands. The rest of the inmates make it about six steps before they’re all cut down. Butler checks for other bogies and, not seeing any, shouts, “Cease fire.”

The gunfire stops, but Butler still hears a roar in his ears. He puts the radio to his lips and shouts for the paramedics then tells his men to secure any other firearms. He hurries over to the closest man and kneels down, gently rolling him over. It’s Coleman, and his throat has been slit from ear to ear. Butler checks for a pulse anyway and, as expected, doesn’t find one. He stands and hurries to the next man. This time it’s one of the state troopers. He has been bludgeoned to death, his face unrecognizable. His blood boiling, Butler stands and hurries over to Perez, who’s curled up next to the wall. Butler kneels down beside him. “Steve, can you hear me?”

He’s rewarded with a groan. Butler doesn’t see any apparent external injuries but he’s afraid to roll him over to look, fearful of doing further damage. Butler puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hang in there, Steve. Medical personnel are on the way.”

Butler stands and asks one of his men to stay with Perez until help arrives. Butler looks at Parker. “Body count, Lieutenant Parker?”

“I count seventy-three inmates killed in addition to thirteen correctional officers in cellblocks A and D, sir.”

Butler does the math in his head. He has no idea how many inmates Lieutenant Clark and his men have encountered, but he hasn’t heard much in the way of gunfire from that side of the prison. “Listen up, men,” Butler shouts. “We have over a hundred more prisoners to find. From here on out, it’s shoot first and don’t even worry about asking any fucking questions later. Understood?”

Baltimore-Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport

With all commercial aircraft grounded, it seems strange to look out the window and see one of the busiest airports in the region devoid of activity. There are no baggage handlers rushing to load on luggage before a plane departs, no fuel trucks zipping across the tarmac, and no food catering companies with their scissor-lift trucks loading on snacks and booze. Although all is quiet outside, Hank can only imagine the chaos going on inside the terminal.

The pilots taxi the jet to one of the air charter terminals and park. Hank stands and stretches.