Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  After spending several more minutes crunching the numbers and finding no easy solutions—layoffs are the only option—Gavin closes the lid on his laptop and reclines his chair. The train begins to slow as the grimy underbelly of Philadelphia flashes past the window. The intercom chirps and the conductor announces the next stop will be at Penn Station. The train lurches as it rapidly accelerates.

  An hour later, a pit the size of the Grand Canyon forms in Gavin’s gut as he cranes his neck to look ahead. The train is less than half a mile from Penn Station, one of the busiest train stations in the country, and instead of slowing the train is accelerating.

  A small girl screams and clambers onto her mother’s lap as a pair of train conductors rush into the first-class car. “Please take your seats and brace yourselves,” one shouts as they race past. Gavin doesn’t know whether to stay where he is or find another place to take cover as the train continues to speed up. Brace ourselves? What the hell does that mean? Power poles flash past the window as screams fill the cabin. Gavin glances around at the other people aboard. Some people are weeping, while others sit, their eyes closed, their lips trembling out a remembered prayer.

  Gavin sits and braces his legs against the seat in front of him. He grabs his cell phone and begins typing a message to his wife as the train sways violently from side to side. Before he can hit send, the train tips to the right and slams onto the ground. Gavin is aware of shrieking metal, sparks, and screams before the car he’s in rams into one of the waiting trains. Slamming against the forward bulkhead Gavin’s brain registers a sharp, intense pain before his world goes dark forever.

  Daily News Website

  —BREAKING NEWS—Stock trading halted because of computer irregularities.

  All stock trading has been halted due to some type of computer glitch. More details to follow . . .

  —BREAKING NEWS—Chemical plant explosion south of downtown Seattle. Some residents to be evacuated. Still no word on types of chemicals manufactured at the plant. Witnesses describe strong smell of chlorine. Reports of numerous fatalities at nearby water park. More details to follow . . .

  CHAPTER 31

  North Atlantic Ocean

  With the weapon systems disabled and completely severed from Stark’s computer systems, Captain Hensley crosses his fingers and orders the generators restarted and the power turned back on. The lights and computer screens on the bridge flicker back to life and the guns, for now, remain silent. Hensley breathes a sigh of relief. The ship’s e-mail system still isn’t operational and with the radio down, he’s desperate to know who and what was targeted when the ship’s weapons went berserk. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check for a cell signal and finds no service now that they’ve sailed farther from port.

  There had been much discussion during the design phase of this next-generation destroyer about enabling the ship’s computers to allow Wi-Fi calling via smartphone. The lead admiral on the design committee, Rear Admiral Richard Malloy—who grew up watching three channels on a black-and-white TV back in the ’60s—nixed that idea and wanted to limit or eliminate Wi-Fi capability altogether. His reason was an old one: loose lips sink ships. It wasn’t until some of the younger officers, Hensley included, got involved later in the process that ship-wide Wi-Fi was put back in the plans.

  The Wi-Fi signal is strong and operates at fast speeds when it works, which it does—sometimes. The big question now is, will it work at all after the system reboots? This is the first time the crew has completely powered down the ship while at sea and those on the bridge are somewhat nervous to discover which systems will restart and function as they should and which won’t. If the ship’s track record so far is any indication of the outcome, they’ll be lucky if they’re not dead in the water. Hensley walks over to the communications desk. “Where are we on the radio, Lieutenant Taylor?”

  “We’re still waitin’ for the systems to come online, Skipper,” Taylor replies. A red-haired, blue-eyed young man out of West Texas, Taylor looks more like a defensive lineman than a sailor.

  “What are the odds the radio is going to work?” the captain asks.

  “Well, sir, we didn’t do a lot of wagerin’ back home, but I’d put the odds somewhere around fifty-fifty. In other words, sir, it’ll be a crapshoot.”

  “If the radio doesn’t work is your team capable of repairing it?”

  “Yes, sir. We about had her whipped before we killed the power, Skipper.”

  “Is the satellite uplink operational? Could we send a flash message to Norfolk about our wonky weapon systems?”

  Taylor shakes his head. “It’s all part of this new computer system, sir. It’s either all or nothin’. I don’t know who designed it that way, but somebody needs to find out who it was and fire his or her ass. Sir.”

  “So what you’re telling me is we are now aboard the most sophisticated warship ever built and we can’t make a phone call, send an e-mail, or talk on the fucking radio?”

  “That ’bout sums it up, Skipper,” Taylor says. “If we had loaded on the helicopters we could have used one of their radios.”

  “Little late now,” Hensley says.

  Taylor glances over when his video screen powers up. He swivels in his chair and types out a series of commands and waits for the system to respond. When it does, radio chatter fills the speakers. “We need ambulances on piers fourteen, twelve, ten, nine, and eight, stat,” a voice shouts.

  Another voice, one the captain recognizes as belonging to the admiral designated as the commander of the Atlantic Fleet, says, “I want a fucking status report and I want it now. How many ships have taken fire?”

  Someone starts reading off a list of ships and the blood drains from Hensley’s face. “Is that radio traffic out of Norfolk?”

  Taylor mouses over to check the radio frequency. “Yes.”

  Hensley hangs his head as the horror show from Norfolk continues to play out over the radio. Lieutenant Griffin returns from downstairs and approaches Hensley. “Sir, we have thirty-nine remaining missiles on board.”

  “How many missiles did we load on before leaving port?”

  “Eighty, sir,” Griffin says.

  “This is the Forrest Sherman. We’re taking on water,” a voice shouts over the radio. Hensley winces at the name of the ship, one he’d served on early in his career.

  Griffin nods at the radio. “Where’s that from?”

  “Naval Station Norfolk,” Hensley says.

  “Oh shit. Did we do that?” Griffin asks.

  “Unless the Russians decided to attack in the last forty minutes, yes,” Hensley says. “I need a detailed report of what went where, Mike.”

  “I’ll get it, sir. Have you contacted Norfolk and told them our systems have been hacked?” Griffin asks.

  “Not yet,” Hensley says, and turns back to Taylor. “Is the radio transmitting?”

  “I haven’t tried, sir,” Taylor replies.

  “Try now. Contact Norfolk and tell them . . . Fuck, what am I going to tell them? Tell them . . . tell them our weapon systems are . . . ?” The captain pauses. “The weapon systems are compromised—screw it. I’ll talk to them.”

  While the captain is occupied, Griffin takes the opportunity to slip away.

  Taylor nods and puts on his headset. He tries hailing Norfolk and gets no response. He changes to an emergency frequency and tries again with the same results. Taylor grimaces as he looks up at the skipper. “No go, sir.”

  Hensley throws his hands up in the air. “Does anything on this ship work the way it was designed to fucking work?” He doesn’t really expect a reply and one is not forthcoming. He glances up at the video screens to see a pair of heavily armed helicopters inbound on the stern camera. A moment later one of the chopper pilots hails the ship over the radio. “This is Seahawk one-niner-two calling the USS Stark.”

  Connelly returns from the engine room. After a quick briefing on recent developments Hensley says, “Send someone out to the helipad. Have
them wave a white shirt before these helicopters blow us out of the water.”

  Again over the radio they hear another call from the Seahawk pilot requesting a response, his voice more urgent. The Seahawk is a highly modified version of the army’s Black Hawk helicopter and just as deadly.

  “Hurry, Kat,” Hensley says.

  “I’m on it. Maybe you should go out on the deck. Let the pilots see you.”

  “Good idea.”

  As Connelly picks up a ship’s phone to convey the captain’s orders, Hensley grabs a pair of binoculars and a portable radio in case it starts working again, and hurries down the steps to the rear deck.

  CHAPTER 32

  Chicago

  With no more gunshots echoing down the street, Peyton tiptoes back to the front window. She cups her hands around her face and leans in, closer to the glass. There is still no sign of Eric and she glances at her watch and mutters a curse word or two. Most are directed at Eric’s boss but one or two are reserved for Eric, who obviously needs to grow a pair of balls. “What the hell does he have you doing when there’s no electricity?” she mumbles to herself. Yes, Eric makes good money, but, jeez, does he earn it, having to put up with the asshole running the commercial lending department.

  The streets are still clogged with cars, but Peyton notices that most of the autos are now empty, abandoned where they sit. No doubt some ran out of gas after hours of trying to get out of downtown. Peyton looks farther up the street to see delivery trucks, buses, taxis, and an assortment of other vehicles abandoned, many with the doors hanging open. Peyton realizes that even if the power were somehow restored soon, it would take days of around-the-clock work just to clear the streets. Her gaze drifts across the street to the shoe store. The stream of people entering the store has slowed to a trickle and Peyton doesn’t know if it’s the lack of available inventory or lack of interest. When Eric gets here to guard their supplies, she’s planning on finding out with a firsthand look inside.

  There are no bodies evident in the street or on the sidewalks and Peyton wonders what the results of the gunfire were. She glances to her left and her heart nearly seizes when she spots a group of ten or twelve heavily tattooed young men coming down the sidewalk. Peyton hates to brand them gangbangers just by their looks because the last thing she’d ever want to be is racist, but there’s no two ways about it—they’re gangbangers. Several have guns tucked into their waistbands and those who aren’t fortunate enough to own a pistol are armed with baseball bats, machetes, or tire irons. As they continue down the sidewalk, it looks like Moses parting the Red Sea as other walkers shift to the opposite sidewalk.

  Peyton glances at the lobby entrance and feels the first real stab of fear. Yes, there had been gunshots fired, but this a different form of terror altogether. All they’d have to do is push open the doors and waltz right in. Peyton looks at her reflection in the glass. She’s not a knockout, but she does consider herself attractive. With an hourglass-shaped body and a narrow waist, Eric tells her all the time that she’s curvy in all the right places. Or would they even care what I looked like? Would I be just fresh meat, ready for the taking? As the group of hoodlums grows closer, Peyton’s breathing quickens. What if they come inside and discover I’m alone? Peyton begins to tremble as images of a gang rape from some horrible film she’d watched as a teenager flash through her mind. She slowly slinks away from the glass and hurries across the lobby, ducking behind a chair.

  Sliding around where she can see out the window, Peyton’s rapid heartbeat is thrumming in her ears. Should I run back to Ranjeet’s store? Peyton eases her head to the side, one eye and half of her face exposed beyond the edge of the chair. He would be no match for one of those guys, much less an entire group. The people on this side of the sidewalk start veering to the other side of the street and Peyton knows the group of goons is close. The tremble turns into a full-on shake and Peyton is on the verge of hyperventilating, her imagination out of control. Stop it! Why would they want to come into an office building? Get a grip, Peyton. Jesus, they’re looking for things to steal, not women to ravage. Peyton focuses on her breathing. Or are they looking for both? Just take whatever they want because they can? Where are they? Shouldn’t they have already passed by? Peyton moves to the other side of the chair and eases her head out for a peek. Maybe they changed course.

  Peyton jumps when the loud crash of shattering glass echoes through the interior of the lobby. Oh no. No, no, no. Not Ranjeet.

  CHAPTER 33

  Chicago

  Peyton is frozen with fear as laughter and chatter drift down the corridor from Ranjeet’s store. She doesn’t know if Ranjeet escaped or if he’s now in a fight for his life. Either way, there’s not a hell of a lot Peyton can do about it. Still hidden behind the chair, her eyes dart around the lobby, searching for a better—safer—place to hide. The circular desk in the center of the lobby where the security guards usually sit is an option, but it also might be a magnet for the thugs if they venture down the hall. Still scanning, her eyes land on the door to the stairs—her old go-to. Would they have any reason to leave the main floor? Not much upstairs but offices, and the basement is just parking. What about those ritzy condos? The residences start on the twenty-second floor and Peyton can’t see them putting out all that effort when there’s easier pickings on the street. But if they get me in the stairwell they’ll run me down like a cheetah chasing after an antelope.

  Peyton shifts her gaze to the lobby entrance, praying Eric will walk through the door. Why? Eric’s not going to be much help. Peyton hears the squeak of tennis shoes on the polished marble floors and her heart, already hammering, redlines. She cups a hand around her ear and tilts her head, straining to hear as her brain screams for her to leave. More squeaks, then a loud bark of laughter. They’re definitely heading her way. Fuck! Her eyes dart to the case of water, then to the stair door. There’s no time. Peyton grows more frantic as the voices grow louder. Lunging to her feet, she grabs her bag and runs for the exit. Pushing on the dead automatic doors, she glances over her shoulder to see the group of thugs rounding the corner, their bats splattered with blood.

  “Hey,” one of them says. “Need some help?” Others in the group laugh as they move closer. “I bet you got a sweet li’l pussy on you, huh?” the man says, obviously the leader of this ragtag army.

  Grunting, Peyton pushes on the doors with all her weight. She feels the left-side door give and she bears down, dropping the bag in the process.

  “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you,” the leader says.

  Sweat is dripping down her face and burning her eyes. She steals a quick glance back to see the group of thugs only a few feet away.

  “I axed you a question,” the man says. “If you’re not goin’ to answer, I guess we’re gonna have to find out for ourselves. I call first dibs,” the man says, eliciting more laughter from the group.

  Peyton’s body is trembling from the exertion and fear. With one final hard shove, the doors part just enough for her to squeeze through. She reaches back for the bag, but it’s too large and won’t fit through the opening. Tugging on the one handle she can reach, it rips off, sending her sprawling on the sidewalk. She glances up to see the leader pushing on the doors. Scrambling to her feet, she takes off down the sidewalk, running headlong into the crowd and screaming for help. The shattered glass rips through the soles of her bare feet, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in her wake. Her pleas for help go unanswered as the hordes of people trudge onward, ignoring her. She glances over her shoulder to see the group of thugs spilling out onto the sidewalk, carrying her bag and the water she’d worked so hard to get.

  An older gentleman dressed in a suit stops and asks, “What’s wrong, young lady?”

  Out of breath, all Peyton can do is point at the gangbangers now coming their way.

  The blood drains from the man’s face. “I’m sorry. There’s little I can do to help,” he says before crossing the street.

  Peyton watches in horro
r as the leader reaches for the pistol tucked into his waistband. Her feet bloody and raw, she turns and hobbles forward, waiting for the bullet to pierce her back.

  A shot rings out.

  When she doesn’t fall over dead, she feels momentary joy, thinking he had missed. Another shot echoes down the street and Peyton remains upright, still breathing. It’s only when she lifts her head and looks ahead that she knows the guy didn’t miss.

  Advancing down the street are three members of the National Guard, rifles braced against their shoulders. “Everybody down!” one of the soldiers shouts as people dive for cover.

  Peyton turns to see her tormentor dead on the street and her hope soars until one of the gang members fires off a shot that shatters the windshield of the car next to her. Move your ass, Peyton. She drops to her belly and crawls across the broken glass, taking cover behind the car. She peeks around the side to see the gangbangers scattering. A couple of bigger guys are slow to react and they pay for it with their lives.

  The soldiers pass Peyton’s location and continue down the street, their rifles at the ready. Peyton turns and looks longingly at the looted shoe store. It’d be my luck to get shot for stealing a pair of shoes. But what if I sneak into Bloomingdale’s? It’s just right there. She turns to look at the looted department store. What are the odds the soldiers will come back this way? Still arguing with herself, she pushes to her feet. Glancing back toward her office building, all thoughts of shoes flee when she spots a woman tiptoeing around the pools of blood to snag the case of water she climbed seventeen floors to get. “Uh-uh, bitch,” Peyton, mutters, hobbling out from behind the car and up the street.