Cyber Attack

by Tim Washburn

  They sit in silence for a few moments, watching the crew work in what was supposed to be a state-of-the-art Ship’s Mission Center. Most of the debris from the helicopter explosion has been cleaned up, but there are still several shattered video screens hanging from the ceiling at odd angles. Hensley thinks how lucky the helicopter pilots were to have come inside for chow only moments before their chopper was obliterated. Then his thoughts turn to the damage Norfolk sustained. The deaths haven’t been tallied yet and, according to the radio, search and rescue operations are ongoing. Hensley looks at Malloy. “Admiral, have you served as a member of the court during a general court-martial?”

  Malloy blows out a long, shaky breath. “Many times. It comes with the job.”

  “What do you foresee happening?”

  Malloy glances at the captain. “To you and me?”

  Hensley nods.

  “I don’t know.” He thinks about it for a moment then says, “I believe my punishment will be much harsher for not listening to you or your crew.” Malloy looks down at the floor. “But you wouldn’t believe the tremendous pressure we were under from the higher-ups to prove the viability of this ship.”

  “I felt the pressure, too, Admiral.”

  “I know you did, Bruce, but it was my name attached to this project.” He looks up at Hensley. “So to answer your original question, I’ll probably be stripped of rank and drummed out of the navy. I don’t believe you will be facing the same type of punishment. You didn’t know the computer systems were compromised. Oh, they’ll raise a stink, but I think you’ll be okay in the end.”

  “Does ‘okay’ mean I retain my current rank?”

  “If I have anything to do with it, you will. I’ve been in the navy for a long time, Bruce. I’ve made a lot of friends and a lot of enemies along the way. Fortunately, most of my enemies have retired or they’re pushing up daisies. I’ll do everything for you that I can.”

  Hensley takes a deep, calming breath. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain.” The admiral slowly pushes to his feet, looking as if he’s aged ten years in a single day. “How much longer until we dock?”

  Hensley looks at his watch and quickly calculates speed and distance. “An hour and a half or somewhere thereabouts.”

  “Mind if I use the officers’ wardroom for a bit to make some calls?”

  “It’s all yours, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Malloy shuffles out of the mission center and disappears down the corridor.

  CHAPTER 67

  Kansas City

  Todd Thornton found a few candles buried at the bottom of a drawer, lit them, and placed them around the living room. Now he’s standing at the front door, waiting for the flare of headlights that will announce the homecare provider’s arrival. He glances at his watch—again. Doris is late. With no electricity and no cell service, he has no way to contact her to find out if she’s on her way or, if she is, how long before her arrival. He hears something beeping and he turns to look for the source. It’s coming from Grace’s wheelchair.

  He hurries across the room and kneels down next to Grace’s chair. As he feared, the beeping is the low-battery alarm for Grace’s ventilator. He’s read the ventilator directions a dozen times, but he can’t recall how much time is left once the alarm sounds. It’s not something he’s ever had to worry about.

  He silences the alarm and stands.

  Grace looks up from her iPad. “What . . . is it?”

  Grace may not be able to move her limbs, but her mind is as sharp as ever. And Todd has never lied to her and doesn’t plan to start now. “Your vent, Gracie. I’m going to run outside and start the generator.”

  “Okay . . . I’ll be . . . fine, Dad,” Grace says.

  Todd leans down and kisses Grace on the forehead. “I’ll be back in just a second.”

  Gracie nods. Todd grabs the flashlight, takes one more look around the room to make sure the candles are safely placed, and hurries for the door. Having second thoughts, he stops, turns, and says, “Gracie, come sit by the front door so that I can talk to you.” He can’t see her face, but he knows his request probably earned him an eye-roll from his daughter. With her dark hair and big, beautiful, blue eyes, Grace is the spitting image of her mother.

  Grace rolls over by the door and Todd props it open with one of his boots. “Shout if you need something, okay?”

  “Jeez, Dad . . . you’re just going . . . around to the side . . . of the house.”

  Todd sidesteps the ramp and walks down the porch stairs and cuts around the side of the house. After popping the lid on the generator enclosure, he puts the flashlight in his mouth and checks the wiring first. None of the wiring looks frayed and he moves on to the gas connection. Tied into the natural gas line that runs into the house, the generator allegedly has an infinite supply of fuel, but Todd knows the gas company could also have a problem. He pushes the manual start button and nothing happens. He mutters a string of curse words as he pulls off the front panel to check the battery connections. There’s a clock ticking in his head and he hurries around the front to check on Grace. He nearly blinds her with the flashlight. “Everything okay? Still getting a good supply of air?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Grace replies. “What’s wrong . . . with the . . . generator?”

  “Battery, I think. I need to get some tools out of the garage and pull the battery out of my truck.” Todd opens his truck door and hits the garage door opener then remembers the power’s out. “Can anything ever be easy?” he mutters as he jogs back in the house. He ducks into the garage, pops the latch on the opener that will free the door, and groans when he lifts it overhead.

  He grabs some wrenches from his toolbox, hurries back to his truck, and pops the hood, one ear listening for the low-battery alarm again. He climbs up on the bumper to loosen the battery cables and lifts the battery out and carries it around to the generator. “Gracie,” he shouts, “how ya doing?” He kneels down and starts loosening the bolts on the dead battery, waiting to hear from his daughter. When she doesn’t respond, he shouts, “Gracie!” and waits for her response. The low-battery alarm hasn’t sounded again or he would have heard it.

  When she doesn’t respond a second time, Todd scrambles to his feet and races around to the front of the house and shines the light on Grace. His heart plummets when he sees her slumped in her wheelchair. Todd lunges up the steps and shines the flashlight on the ventilator to see a message that takes his breath away: VENTILATOR INOPERATIVE.

  Todd sidesteps the wheelchair, hurries into the kitchen to grab the manual resuscitator, and rushes back. He puts the flashlight in his mouth and gently pulls the ventilator tubing from her trach tube and attaches the resuscitator. Todd squeezes the bag, pumping air into his daughter’s lungs. “C’mon, Gracie,” he moans, scanning the street for Doris’s approaching headlights.

  But the street remains dark and there is no response from his daughter.

  Reaching across, he nudges the chair’s joystick into reverse and backs Grace into the living room. Placing a hand on her neck, he feels for her carotid artery, and moans when he discovers she has no pulse. Unbuckling her seat belt, Todd gently lifts Grace out of the chair, stretches her out on the floor, and kneels down beside her. He gives the bag a big squeeze as his other hand searches for her sternum. When he finds it, he places his other hand on top and begins chest compressions. After thirty hard, fast pumps, he squeezes the bag to inflate her lungs.

  Thirty minutes later, Todd is dripping sweat and tears onto his daughter’s chest as he continues to try and resuscitate her . . .

  . . . An hour later, Todd, his arms trembling from exertion, sits back on his heels, buries his face in his hands, and weeps.

  CHAPTER 68

  Chicago

  As they near their condo, Eric is struggling mightily and Peyton slows to help him along. They had retrieved Peyton’s bag from the battered shopping cart, which they left behind. “How are you doing, babe?” Peyton is ligh
ting the way with the flashlight she’d taken from the goody closet at work hours ago.

  “I’ll live.”

  “You’re the last person on the planet I would have expected to end up with a bullet wound.”

  “Especially with your sister being an FBI agent. I guess I’m just lucky that way.” Eric looks up at the lightless sky. “I can’t believe how damn dark it is.”

  “It doesn’t feel like we’re in the city at all. And listen to the silence.”

  “Yeah, dark and silent. Just like a scene out of a horror movie before the bad guy fires up his chainsaw,” Eric says. “How much farther?”

  “A couple of blocks.” Peyton shifts her heavy bag to the other shoulder. “What’s the plan when we get home?”

  “Rest and sleep. See what the morning brings.”

  “You don’t think we should try to get out of the city while we can?”

  “I’m beat, Peyton. We both need rest. We’ll take stock of what we have and get a fresh start in the morning. But, even then, I don’t see how we’re going to make it all the way to your mother’s place in Champaign. Hell, it’s a two-hour drive on a good day. How long is it going to take us to walk that far?”

  “I don’t know if we have any other options, Eric. What are you suggesting?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re looking at four or five days of hard travel with God knows what now running around out there. I think we’d be better off to wait it out here.”

  Knowing Eric is dealing with a good amount of pain, on top of being exhausted and hungry, Peyton bites her tongue. A fight is not what both need now. “Let’s see what the morning brings.”

  “Deal,” Eric says.

  They turn onto their street and, moments later, climb the stairs up to their third-story condo. When Peyton opens the door, it feels as if she has stuck her head in an oven.

  Eric shuffles past. “Jesus, it’s like a furnace in here,” he says, sagging onto the new leather sofa they bought last month.

  Peyton and Eric purchased the recently renovated two-bedroom condo last year. Located on the top floor of a three-story redbrick walk-up, the condo is open and airy with one large space that features the living room and kitchen. Down the hall is the master bedroom, the lone bathroom, and another, smaller bedroom. Altogether, it’s a little over 1,900 square feet, more than twice the size of the apartment they rented downtown. The first two floors of the original home are owned by the Singleton family, which includes two school-aged daughters. The Singletons lucked out because they’re away this week on a short, end-of-summer trip up north.

  Peyton props the front door open, drops the bag on the kitchen counter, and walks around the condo with the flashlight, opening windows. A feeble evening breeze drifts through, but does little to dissipate the heat. In the bedroom, Peyton peels off her tattered skirt and blouse and slips on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt before returning to the kitchen.

  She lights a few of her scented candles and scatters them around the living room.

  Back in the kitchen, she pulls down their small basket of medications from over the stove and paws through the bottles, searching for antibiotics. She finds a bottle of amoxicillin that expired three years ago and unscrews the cap to see four furry tablets inside. She dumps two into her palm, grabs a bottle of water, and takes them to Eric. “Take both of these pills. Maybe we can get enough onboard to stave off an infection.”

  “How many pills are left?”

  “Two.”

  “Maybe I should space these out. Take one now and another later.”

  Peyton brings a candle from the kitchen and places it on the coffee table before kicking off her borrowed tennis shoes and dropping onto the sofa. “I think two together would be better, but do what you want.” Peyton carefully peels off the blood-spotted socks and with the flashlight takes a closer look at her damaged feet.

  “I guess I’ll take both now.”

  “Good choice.” A few of the cuts have reopened and are oozing bloody pus. Peyton’s mind flashes back to the filthy sidewalks. “Didn’t you have some antibiotics left over from your root canal?”

  “If I did, they’d be in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

  “I’ll look in a minute, but first I want to check your wound.”

  Peyton scoots closer as Eric peels up his T-shirt. She leans in and wrinkles her nose. “You stink.”

  “Thanks, but your body odor doesn’t remind me of a bouquet of spring flowers, either.”

  “Touché.” Peyton pulls back one edge of the gauze covering Eric’s wound. “I see a little blood, but it’s not much. I think it’s best to leave it alone for now.”

  “Sounds good. Now, go back to your side of the sofa. It’s too freaking hot to snuggle.”

  Peyton scoots back to her side. “Hungry?”

  “Maybe. What do we have to eat?”

  “On the menu this evening, we have our roomtemperature chicken noodle soup or our carefully selected slices of minced ham with locally sourced crackers.”

  “Enticing. Cold soup or Spam? That’s a tough decision.” Eric takes a deep sniff. “I smell sugar cookies. Please tell me you didn’t light that candle. You know we both start craving cookies every time you light that thing.”

  “It’s not like we’re blessed with an overabundance of candles. That’s the best I can do if you don’t want to sit around in the dark. So, soup or Spam?”

  Eric groans. “I bet the Singletons have peanut butter and jelly and bread that we could borrow.”

  Each family traded keys in case of emergency once they got to know one another.

  “We are not raiding the neighbors’ pantry.”

  “The bread will be stale before they get back,” Eric whines.

  “No, Eric.”

  Eric shifts around on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position. “It’s too damn hot to eat anyway.”

  “I agree. Besides, I think I drank too much water back at the police station.” Seeing her husband’s discomfort, Peyton asks, “Would it be more comfortable if you stretched out on the bed for a bit?”

  “Maybe.”

  Peyton stands and helps Eric off the couch. She grabs the flashlight from the kitchen counter and lights their way down the hall to the bedroom. Eric kicks off his shoes, slips off his slacks, and flops down on the bed. Peyton decides to stretch out for a few minutes to give her aching feet a break. She lies down beside him and clicks off the flashlight. The heat, mingled with their exhaustion and the dark, is a recipe for sleep and, within moments, both are snoring.

  Sometime later, Peyton stirs awake, an alarm going off in her head. She sits up and that’s when she smells it. Smoke! She jumps off the bed and races down the hall, the smoke growing heavier and filling her lungs with each breath. She turns into the living room and her heart stutters when she discovers the living room engulfed in flames.

  She screams Eric’s name and turns, racing back to the bedroom. “Eric, Eric, get up. The condo’s on fire. Hurry, Eric. Wake up! We have to get out!” She scrambles to find the flashlight and clicks it on to see the room filling quickly with smoke.

  Eric struggles to sit up. “Call 911!”

  “We can’t.” She grabs Eric’s hand, helps him off the bed, and pulls him down the hallway.

  “My shoes,” Eric says, trying to free his hand.

  “No time,” Peyton shouts, giving his arm a hard tug. “C’mon.”

  Entering the living room, Peyton discovers that the fire is spreading rapidly, with two walls now engulfed and flames flickering across the ceiling. With smoke stinging their eyes and filling their lungs, Peyton grabs Eric’s hand and pulls him out the door. When they reach the ground, they stagger onto the front lawn and collapse to their knees, coughing, as the fire roars behind them.

  CHAPTER 69

  Newark Liberty International Airport

  With much work to do, Hank and Paige snap out of their melancholy moods as they board the agency plane at the private jet terminal
at Newark International Airport. That location was chosen for one reason—New Jersey still has power. Hank follows Paige up the jet stairs. The pilot takes one look at Paige’s grease-stained clothes and says, “Rough day?”

  “You could say that,” Paige says, dumping her bag on one of the seats and plopping down. This is a different jet and a different flight crew from this morning’s flight. Hank steps inside and offers his hand. “How ya doin’, Michelle?”

  “Still waiting on my phone to ring, Hank. You?” Michelle Miller asks.

  “Been a long day. I still have your number, I just haven’t had the time.”

  Michelle smiles. “You’re a busy man, Hank. Are we going back to Davison?”

  “No, Baltimore. Is that a problem?”

  “No, I just need to modify the flight plan. We loaded on some food. You two make yourselves comfortable and we’ll be in the air momentarily.”

  Hank ducks his head inside the cockpit and the copilot, Carlos Torres, turns in his seat. “Damn, Hank, you travel more than the president.”

  “You may be right, Carlos. You doin’ all right?”

  “Living the dream, Hank. Living the dream.”

  Hank walks deeper into the cabin and drops his bag on the floor and takes the seat diagonally opposite from Paige. This jet has seating for eight with two clusters of four leather chairs that face one another.

  “How do you remember all their nam—never mind. Forget I asked. But, hell, you can’t do that, either.”

  Hank offers her a tired smile as he digs out his cell phone. “There’s food.”

  “I heard. Don’t have much of an appetite at the moment.”

  “Can’t blame you for that.” Hank powers on his phone and finds a dozen missed calls and ten text messages, most from Elaine Mercer, but a couple of the recent calls are from Nana. He decides to return her call first. He touches Nana’s picture, puts the phone to his ear, and the call goes straight to voice mail. He disconnects and tries her home phone, but the call won’t go through. Worried, he scrolls quickly through his text messages and finds out why Nana isn’t answering in Mercer’s last text. “Looks like the hackers have been busy.”