“You don’t want to die today, and neither do we, so just
tell us what we need to do to disarm that device,” Cloverdale said, trying to
growl, but sounding more congested then fearsome.
The bomb maker’s biggest mistake today was finding himself
left in the city with the nuclear weapon he’d spent eight months constructing.
Getting in was easy for him. Getting out became a God-damn Venus fly trap. He
was in a room without a clock, but he knew that, by this time, he was supposed
to be on a flight bound for Seattle. And from there Indonesia.
Instead, he was 12 blocks away from – and a few hundred feet
below – the thermo-nuclear explosive.
Yep, Cloverdale decided, it was going to be an awesome book
to write. With it, he could retire from the agency early – because he’d
certainly get some sort of million-dollar publishing advance – the kind
presidents and movie stars get. And it was going to make an even better movie.
Kinda like Die Hard, but based on actual, patriotic events. Maybe he could be
played by a Humphrey Bogart-type actor. Strong cheek bones; classic leading man
look.
And this terrorist he was slapping around? He looked like
Napoleon Dynamite. Thin and awkward with thick glasses apt to the stereotype of
a genius. But instead of making millions starting an online social network or
porno website, he’d built large bombs instead. That’s the difference between
going to Harvard and MIT, Cloverdale thought.
Right now, Little Mr. Dynamite here was very sweaty and
bleeding. He wasn’t nearly as funny as Napoleon Dynamite. But he looked
defeated. Spencer Cloverdale’s job was about done. It all seemed almost under
control. The bomb maker was ready to piss his pants. He wanted the bomb defused
as much as the mayor of St. Louis, the governor of Missouri and the president
of the United States.
The material witness didn’t want to die. He wasn’t in this
job for a political statement, although he didn’t care much about other people
living. He was smart, and atheist, and wanted a few million to live comfortably
in the warmth and seclusion of the Far East. He wasn’t trying to spark a
revolution by igniting a nuclear weapon at the top of the St. Louis Arch. He
liked the challenge of building a nuke. The purchaser of his talents compensated
him in many ways. After he planted the weapon with a few of the billionaire’s
other contract employees, they were supposed to board flights out of the area.
Except for the one suicide-bomber who was going to stay and protect it and get
all the glory for the devise.
Of course, the suicide-bomber had nothing to do with it. He
ended up getting himself killed before he could take his position by the side
of the weapon.
It all fell apart when a national park ranger at the Thomas
Jefferson Gateway to the West Arch Memorial noticed the suspicious activities
of the dozen men. It was too early for this many people to be here; they wore
the khakis of park rangers, but he didn’t recognize any of them. The park
ranger watched as the suspicious crew overpowered the Arch’s elevator operator,
and quickly one of them took the operator’s place – putting up a sign that said
the Arch was closed for maintenance for the next three hours.
The FBI knew something was planned for today – they just
could never figure out where. They’d cracked many of the group’s codes, but the
location for the strike was never established.
Washington, D.C. had been quietly on high alert, along with
Los Angeles, Boston and New York City; but St. Louis – it took the FBI a bit by
surprise.
Like Oklahoma City.
The FBI also hadn’t been sure of the main participants. The
agency had been watching Mr. Dynamite – his actual name was Peter West. They’d
lost track of him a month ago until Cloverdale tackled him along Market Street
just south of Kiener Plaza in the chaos of the last two-and-a-half-hours.
Because, unlike Oklahoma City, the folks involved were
noticed by a good guy – and now three were in custody, seven were dead and two
were on the run. Bomb maker Peter West, a graduate of M-I-T and a victim of a
dozen toilet swirlies during his senior year of high school carried out by high
school sophomores, had been escorted to a nearby stealth office of the federal
government after Cloverdale’s tackle.
The park ranger – a guy Cloverdale only knew as Jones at
this point – was now trapped at the top of the Arch with the weapon ticking
down. In the chaos at the Arch’s entrance, he was outgunned and dove into the
Arch’s elevator to take cover. He feared he was going to be dead – he’d
essentially made a bad mistake by not giving himself any way out. But instead
of filling him with bullets, the surviving terrorists sent him to the top of
the memorial and disabled the elevator. As he sat in the elevator on the way
up, he found the box containing the bomb.
He used his cellphone to contact other park rangers, and
then local police, and now the FBI. He was talking with a special agent named
Cloverdale.
Now he was working exclusively with Cloverdale. A bomb squad
was on its way, but the terrorists had booby-trapped the entrance and it was
taking time to disarm the simple mines.
Cloverdale was happy Jones had a simple pocketknife,
although he would have preferred Jones had a cellphone with a camera and WiFi.
Must’ve been an older park ranger who didn’t like bright colors and technology.
“Alright, I got the box unscrewed, just like you said,” Jones
spoke into his cellphone.
Cloverdale wondered what Jones looked like. What actor could
play Jones? From his semi-frantic and sometime confused questions on the
cellphone, Cloverdale thought he could be represented by a Peter Lorre-type
character actor. A modern day Peter Lorre, who would that be, Cloverdale
pondered.
And that kid who played Napoleon Dynamite would be perfect
for the terrorist. Whinny little bitch. Yeah, people would watch this movie.
Maybe it would even be in 3D. There would be Hollywood parties and star-studded
premieres. Maybe an honorary Oscar would be presented to the real-life heroes,
Spencer Cloverdale and Jones. That would look good on his desk in his office.
Cloverdale acknowledged the situation.
“Unscrewed. You should see a main panel now, right?”
“There’s a panel, yeah. And the time. Jesus. It’s at 54
seconds, sweet Christ.”
Cloverdale looked back at the terrorist, blood dripping from
his nose and over his top lip. Peter West could taste his own life leaking
away. He was going to be in prison, for a long, long time. West had fucked up,
royally, but he was still alive. Maybe he could get out of prison quickly if
this FBI abuse would be acknowledged. If only he was able to convince a jury
that his life was targeted if he didn’t help the other terrorists. It would be
difficult, but if he hired a good attorney, it could work. And maybe his infamy
would help in this job market. Sure, he wouldn’t be doing any top secret
government research, but maybe he could be a consultant for one of those cable
news shows. The talking heads made a pretty good living. Maybe he could write a
book and go on tour.
“Alright, 50 seconds is enough time,” Cloverdale said, looking
at West. “It’s a simple procedure from here.”
West looked at Cloverdale. West definitely wanted to live.
Making bombs was just a challenge and – had it gone right – he would have felt
revenge against all the bullies of his life, and would have lived comfortably
in the Far East. Alas, first he had to live, and then he had to rebuild his
life. Maybe the government would cut him a deal if he told them a bit of what
he knew.
“It’s the red line,” West said. “Cut the red line, and the
device will be in a safe mode. From there, it’s not difficult for a bomb squad
to disarm.”
Cloverdale was zealous in his response.
“West, you fuck, you may have just won yourself better
treatment in the eyes of the law,” he said, pausing, and then slapping him
again. “But you’re still a traitor.”
“Yeah, but I’ll need witness protection to save me if you
want me to testify,” West said. He came up with the idea on a whim. Witness
protection would be pretty sweet. A comfortable place to stay.
“We’ll work on that,” Cloverdale said, realizing the traitor
was probably right.
On the cellphone, Jones was sounding a little bit hyper. The
device was down to 45 seconds.
“Hey! It’s kind of concerning here. Words of wisdom,
please.”
Cloverdale smiled. It was going to be a good day. He and
Jones were going to be hailed as heroes by the 6 p.m. news. He wished he’d worn
his better tie to work. Maybe he’ll stop by home between now and the time news
cameras were going to focus on him.
The screenplay wouldn’t freak out with 45 seconds left.
They’d have to close it into about five seconds to cut the red wire, just for
the sake of tension. He looked at his watch, in 43 seconds, it would be exactly
4 p.m.
“Okay, okay, Jones. No problem. Now, you should see four
cords above the timer, right?”
“Yeah… yeah.”
“Okay. It’s all simple now. All you have to do is cut the
red cord. Not the green. Not the yellow. Not the black. Just the red cord. Cut
it with your knife and we’re all good to go.”
There was silence for about 20 seconds. At first, Cloverdale
figured the dutiful park ranger was busy saving the sunny St. Louis day. This
action was going to garner him many front page stories and awards from his
country – along with as many lovers he wanted. He was going to be one of the
modern American heroes. Cloverdale looked at his watch. It was 21 seconds until
4 p.m.
“How’s it coming, Jones? Cut that red cord yet?”
Jones finally responded, sniffling as he spoke into the
cellphone.
“Which one is the red one?” he said. Is it the closest one?
Farthest one? One of the two in the middle?”
“What?” Cloverdale asked.
“The red one. It’s the red one,” West said looking up, his
face flush with confusion. He didn’t remember which one it was. One of the two
in the middle, he thought. Although it may be the furthest one back. But maybe
it was the first one. It was never supposed to be seen, he thought. Why doesn’t
the dumb ass see it?
Cloverdale repeated himself, although he wasn’t sure why.
Maybe he didn’t make himself clear enough the first time. This moment would not
be a part of any screenplay he approved.
“Red,” he said. “Cut the red cord, Jones.”
“Which one is that, Mr. Cloverdale? I’m color-blind. I can’t
tell which one is the red cord.”
It was the first time a terrorist organization
was successful in detonating a nuclear weapon on American soil.- end -
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