by Wes Lowe
Rayna peered into the medical bag, moving different items around until she saw the “cantilever.” She palmed it and removed a pair of scissors and a roll of gauze and began cutting.
Less than thirty seconds after she started, Jean, the driver, shouted, “Enough! Let’s go.”
Rayna got up and handed the bandage to Steve. She mouthed, “Got it.”
20
Frantic Preparation
Two Weeks Ago
* * *
With the official announcement party less than a week away, Carter was busier than he had ever been in his life. Interviews on television, cable, radio, print newspaper, digital news outlets, blogs… not to mention the logistics of setting up bank accounts, organizing campaign finances, discussing “targeting” and “branding” with strategists, and another thousand minutia that his father insisted be taken care of.
He was glad to get Marlena out of his hair for a few days but it wasn’t entirely pleasant; he had to tell her, her mother, and Stacey, that going to Paris was not an option. With American protectionism in full swing and all other candidates spouting some variation on ‘Buy America’, his candidacy would have been dead in the water had they made the shopping spree to the City of Lights. They grumbled all the way to New York’s luxury designer boutiques in the creature comforts of first class travel.
In order to keep up with the hectic schedule of sixteen to twenty hour days, he insisted on a fifteen minute break every three hours where he could not be disturbed. Everyone on the team assumed he used the time for a power nap.
Nothing could be further from the truth. This is where Carter was doing his “real work” of conferring with Davy, Becky, and Diego. Precision planning was mandatory as they strategized what would happen before the announcement party, the announcement party itself, and its aftermath. If one part of the operation failed, the whole house of cards would tumble, and that was something he could not allow.
It was decided that despite his hectic schedule, Carter had to be the logistics coordinator because he had the most familiarity with the players and the locations. Unspoken between Carter and Davy was that Davy was not physically capable of handling the juggling required. Building the dirty bombs had to be Davy’s priority, and Carter made sure that his compatriot was able to keep single-mindedly focused.
Between coordinating with Becky on the East Coast, Davy in the Midwest, and the details of the announcement venue on the Pacific Coast, Carter’s schedule was crazy. But at least Diego was in the same time zone as he was.
Top of the list for Carter and Davy was the operation at CNP. It’s not that the two did not trust Becky. It was that they had to rely on her insight and intel more than the two control freaks would have liked.
For her part, Becky dove into her new role as the CNP insider with a relish. She had spent her final days at CNP getting further particulars of the plant’s layout, copying room and building entrance keys, and determining which locations might be most suitable for the bombs to be planted. She was able to accomplish this virtually in plain sight, because of the nature of her job; at CNP, a maintenance worker could be called to work anywhere. When asked by a co-worker why she was being such an eager beaver, Becky responded, “Who knows? They might change their mind, but even if they don’t, I gotta make sure I get a good recommendation for my next job.”
No one questioned her logic, and some even followed her example.
Becky’s additional pictures, videos, and intel helped Davy refine the bombs as he supervised Willie in their construction. With accurate measurements, he was able to better calculate potential best positions for the bombs’ placement.
Davy considered the gamut of possibilities at opposite ends of the spectrum. At one end was the five thousand pounds equivalent of TNT that Timothy McVeigh used to level the Alfred H. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. At the other were the one hundred and twenty pound nuclear “suitcase bombs,” that were supposedly the equivalent of over a hundred thousand pounds of TNT. The term “supposedly” was used because there was no evidence that one had ever been detonated.
Ultimately, Davy chose to build bombs with seven hundred pounds of TNT equivalency. After detonation, the chain reaction from the radioactive material would do the rest of the work.
His solutions were not ideal, and would take longer to enact. The enclosures would be heavier because they would need to be made of lead to prevent radiation leakage; the bombs would have to be considerably larger—almost the size of small crates. Because of the weight and size, it would have to be a two-person job instead of one. Finally, they would have to bring the bombs in by ground and manually place them at the strategic target points.
After Davy made his proposal to Carter, the lawyer insisted on certain changes. As he would be one of the persons involved in the actual operation, he wanted maximum protection against exposure to ionizing radiation, even if it added extra hassle.
Carter wanted thicker lead shielding for the cases, which added to the weight.
Carter also insisted upon the usage of Hazmat suits during the actual operation, which would slow the process down as well as lessen mobility.
While Davy argued that these two demands were overkill, he had to cave in—these additional measures would definitely make the operation safer.
One decision that Davy didn’t have to make was the kind of explosive to use. Although it was finicky and sometimes unpredictable, the fact that Willie had already purchased the ingredients for TATP made that an easy decision.
The real problem that Davy had was the need for a growing amount of fissionable material. The actual design of the bombs was fairly easy, but the extra weight and shielding required more usable nuclear material, especially since he wanted to deliver bombs that made the maximum impact, with the largest blast radius and area of contamination.
This put additional pressure on Sonny and Willie.
Sonny was painstaking in his removal of the radioactive material from the devices—he had no desire to suffer from radiation poising. No matter how much Davy tried to speed him up, he refused to take any shortcuts.
21
Operation Governor
Two Weeks Ago
* * *
Operation Governor was in full swing.
Carter, Harold, Marlena, and Stacy were meeting in Harold’s home study. An oak-paneled room, the walls were covered with pictures taken throughout Harold’s political career and his time at Sommers Dawson Archer. Noticeably absent were any photos of his tenure at Three Mile Island.
This room had become an informal headquarters for Operation Governor. Carter had driven everyone crazy in the past month with his attention to all the picky details about his announcement party to seek the Democratic Party’s nomination for governor of California. Even though a month was extremely short notice to hold such a major event, he insisted on certain parameters for the venue and caterer.
His logic was irrefutable. “If I’m a bust, people will still remember what a fantastic place they were in and how good the food was. That will leave a positive taste in their mouths about my candidacy. If I wow them, which I plan to do, they will open their wallets even more.”
While Harold, Stacey, and Marlena wanted to hold Carter’s announcement party at a prestigious, well-established Beverly Hills hotel like the Waldorf Astoria, the Beverly Hilton, or The Peninsula, Carter wanted something newer and less established. That would announce that he was not part of the old guard; that he was a new face with new ideas and new directions.
The new Conquistador Hotel in Santa Monica would be perfect for that. It was an oceanside venue that had lots of parking and was far from the crazy bumper-to-bumper traffic that California was noted for. “Guests will love it from the moment they drive to the location without having to fight traffic, to taking a sip of wine on a sun-kissed beach, to stepping into a grand ballroom with the ambiance that says this guy knows how to do things right.”
Carter won that argument.
&n
bsp; While Stacy argued for Italian or Japanese-themed food selection, Carter nixed that too.
“Are you crazy? Hispanics make up at least forty percent of the population of California. Even though our guest list demographic is less than half that, we have to serve Mexican. Even if you don’t like it, Mexican reigns supreme in California. Besides, it’ll show our guests that we are in tune with what the average Californian is all about, and that’ll make them take out their checkbooks too. Remember, this party isn’t just about showing everyone what a great guy I am. That’s almost understood by their attendance. It’s about raising dough. And to do that well, I’ve got to be in tune with the average Californian.
Harold nodded. Carter was more politically astute than he gave him credit for.
Marlena, despite her Hispanic heritage, was not so understanding. She blew up. “I’ve been calling everywhere, and there’s no place available that’s anything like you want. And you want us to serve a bunch of enchiladas and burritos that you can get at Taco Bell. It’s disgraceful. You’re an idiot.”
It was typical of many arguments that she and Carter had had over the years. Carter long ago decided fighting back was a waste of time. Besides, he had an easy comeback. “I’m bringing in Mateo Aguilar.”
“Who’s that?” asked Harold. “Sounds like a mariachi band singer.”
Marlena gaped. “No, no, no. Mateo Aguilar is the executive chef at Sirocco, the first and only three star Michelin restaurant in Mexico City. He’s only twenty-nine and he’s a genius. My father loves his food. How did you pull that off? And how much is he charging?”
“Mateo wants to open a restaurant in California. I promised him that I would help finance the venture if he would help me out. And I used some of the same tactics on him that I used to get us a fantastic deal at the Conquistador. I showed him a partial list of the big shots who are coming to the party, people that could easily afford his prices, people that he could showcase his Mexican delights to. Neither could resist the offer,” smiled Carter.
Especially when the person presenting the offer was Diego Gonzalez.
Having had the assassin pay both Mateo and the new owner of the Conquistador personal visits, the message was clear - do this or die.
Carter won this debate as well.
“Good thinking, Carter.” Harold gave a loud single clap of his hands. “Time to get back to work. I want to come out of the party with a million bucks after expenses.”
That was ambitious. The guest list was already at three hundred and Harold wanted to target five hundred. They were going all out to impress, and each invitee was estimated to cost about a thousand bucks. Including all the other miscellaneous expenses, they were going to have to raise at least two million to meet Harold’s goals.
Barry sat at his computer studying the profiles of the Board of Directors of a marijuana stock that he had just been invited to join. His approach toward analysis had nothing to do with finances or earnings potential. Barry had heard that there were certain underground elements associated with the company, and he wanted to know if any of them might be targeted for further scrutiny by Fidelitas.
The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Call for you, Mr. Rogers, from Senator Harold Johnson.”
“Tell him I just need to wrap up a call. Will be with him in a minute,” said Barry.
“Will do,” replied Gina.
Barry wasn’t wrapping up a call but just buying time. Every year, Fidelitas donated over ten million dollars to different politicians and parties. How much the organization donated was dependent on how much influence the politician had, but in every case it was enough to make sure that his phone calls were always returned. He needed to see what their record was with Harold, and quickly accessed his file on the computer screen. Harold had had more than his share of indiscretions, but all the women were of legal age. There was nothing in his voting record that indicated he did anything other than toe the party line, and as Chair of the Environment and Public Works Subcommittee on Clean Air and Nuclear Safety, nothing he did raised a red flag. About the only time he ever heard from people like Johnson was when they were fundraising for re-election, but elections were almost four years away.
He picked up the phone and greeted his caller with a friendly smile in his voice; “Good morning, Senator Johnson. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“The pleasure is mine, Barry. I’ll make it quick. Sorry for the short notice but my son, Carter, is throwing in his hat to be our party’s gubernatorial candidate for the state of California and will be making the announcement at the new Conquistador Hotel in Santa Monica next week. I’m hoping you and your lovely wife Diana might attend.”
Barry’s eyes continued to scroll down the screen through the info he had on Carter. There wasn’t much but enough to ask, “Now why would a smart guy give up a rising career at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country to enter the dog-eat-dog world of public service? A chip off the old block?”
It was Harold’s turn to laugh. “You might say that. I’ve been mentoring him ever since he was a kid. While he’s wanted to do this for years, I told him to wait until he was ready, and now I know he’s ready. He’s going to be a superstar and this will be your chance to see the future president when he’s at the beginning of his political career. Come to Los Angeles next week. I think Diana will love it too. Make a long weekend of it. My treat.”
Barry restrained an exasperated gasp. The donations that Fidelitas gave to Harold and other politicians every year made treating a donor to a five star hotel for a weekend seem like small potatoes. “You don’t have to do that, Harold. Diana and I would be more than happy to see Carter at the podium.”
“That’s great to hear. Carter’s just the kind of man we need in these difficult times and he needs all the support he can get.”
And then, without prompting, Barry provided the answer to the unspoken question which was the real reason for the Senator’s call. “And I’ll contribute ten thousand to the cause. Got to get more of the good guys in!”
“Thanks. I knew we could count on you.”
“Look forward to it. See you on Friday?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
After the Senator hung up, Barry did a Google search on Carter. From what he could find, Carter had had no political inclinations at all. He hadn’t joined any political party until two months ago, and had no prior involvement in civic, state, or national causes. Barry wasn’t terribly impressed, but voters had a habit of choosing style over substance. With Carter’s tennis player frame, leading man looks, and infectious smile, he knew the senator’s affable son would definitely be a prime possibility to get the party’s nomination.
But why? There was a disconnect.
He made a call.
“Yes, Barry,” replied Julio, the super-geek charged with operating Fidelitas’ intelligence division.
“Let’s start building a file on Carter Johnson, Senator Harold Johnson’s son. He’s putting in a gubernatorial run and wants to nail down the Democratic Party’s nomination.”
“Got it.”
Barry’s next call was to his wife, Diana. “Hi, sweetheart. Just got an invitation for next Friday for a function in Los Angeles. Carter Johnson, Senator Harold Johnson’s son, is announcing he’s going to run for governor for California. Are you available to join me?”
It was a courtesy call. Diana hated mingling and socializing but she knew that Barry counted on her. Diana was an excellent judge of character and her insights would complement Julio’s concrete data.
“You don’t need to ask, Barry. Of course, I’ll come.”
Harold opened up a drawer on his massive oak desk and pulled out a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Kentucky Straight Bourbon. He poured himself a tumbler full and took a long slow sip.
I deserve it. Been on the phone to every a-hole in the media or anyone that might throw a few bucks at Carter’s campaign.
He did deserve it. Barry was an “old relia
ble.” He knew that Barry would contribute something. Ten grand right now was twice what he expected, but he was sure that he could put the squeeze on Barry to triple that or more after next Friday. He raised his glass in the air and toasted silently.
To me.
22
Melky will Die
Steve felt helpless. The child in front of him had been brutalized violently and gang-raped. Even if a miracle appeared and she managed to escape being infected by HIV or another virulent STD, she would be psychologically destroyed for life. He had nothing that could help her other than some painkillers and ointment that he applied on her superficial wounds. All he really hoped when he stood his ground was that his stalling tactics might give Rayna a better chance for survival.
Barely two minutes had passed before Emil shouted, “Enough!” He pulled Steve off the girl and pushed him into the large tent.
And then Steve’s heart sunk lower.
He knew as soon as he entered and saw the elder’s sixteen-year-old son lying on a cot, that the boy had almost no chance of living. Was there anything that Steve could do that would delay the inevitable?
He also knew that the teenager did not have the Voodoo kout lair, but before he announced his verdict to the father he needed to confirm his suspicions.
But this was not the environment for questioning. The white-dressed women had moved inside the tent with the musicians, continuing their chanting, dancing and rhythmic, relentless drumming.
The talc-covered Kervin shook a bell, while reciting chants and leading the singing. Gyrating in unnatural movements, the holy man called on the Haitian Loa, Barone Samedi, the lord of the dead, for healing and resurrection.