The Presence of Evil

by J. T. Patten

  “Did.” Sean nodded.

  “Beverly?”

  “Beverly.”

  “I remember that situation. Sorry for your loss.” Jake initiated another handshake. “Let’s get you some binos and linked up with our high eyes.”

  Chapter 86

  The Modarris directed each bus to take a different route but had them converge on Michigan Avenue and roll up to the city’s Art Institute museum. Dexter arrived on the final bus, lagging behind the others that weaved through the Loop to the destination. He opened his bus’s back door, and as the children were brought around led by their driver, he handed them a large one-gallon Ziploc bag full of the yellow-gold powder. To his right was a large blue container.

  “Do not open the bags until you are on the parade street,” Dexter instructed. “To make it most colorful, toss the powder high into the air. And if you do a great job, you’ll get a bonus.”

  With smiles and nods, the children were led in a group, according to the bus they were on, either left or right of the museum and toward the parade.

  The bus drivers shuffled the kids toward their destination. One, however, continued to look back at Dexter as if he had some misgivings.

  * * * *

  Halliday raised her binoculars from a ten-story building just off East Balboa Drive. She was aligned to team Charlie on the southernmost end. Havens was on the mid-north end at Randolph, while Drake was atop the Art Institute’s southeastern annex school, where he had a view of Jackson Boulevard, Monroe, and the Columbus parade route a few hundred meters away. From Tresa’s view, every green shirt that had been on sale at Target, Kohl’s, or Amazon was front and center at the parade. She watched as police cut through the crowds, turning away watchers with coolers, open alcohol, and or displays of sloppy intoxication.

  * * * *

  Havens had a similar view. The SWAT team sniper had a spotter, but both men were more concerned with their coffees. The scene was a complete counterterrorism security nightmare, but despite the threat, he missed going to the Chicago parades with his family and friends. His hand and foot ached. He’d lost so much in the past year. Gained nothing. For no one. Maggie, his daughter, was safe and thriving. But she was without her father and mother. The price he paid to protect strangers was to turn his back and fail to take care of his own. As he watched dozens of orange-bearded kids running toward the parade in leprechaun hats and green shirts, he found some solace in knowing that he was protecting them from the evil that men do. Oh, to be a kid again.

  * * * *

  Drake stayed away from the shooters to his right that Halliday assigned him to, after Jay was clear from seeing Woolf. The shooters had given Drake the up and down hairy eyeball. Fortunately, they weren’t the two whose gear and clothes he had swiped. No doubt, they didn’t appreciate his wearing an FBI raid jacket when he wasn’t an agent. That or they had noticed the blackening blood spatter that Drake gave no mind to. It was okay. He wasn’t going to talk to them anyway. Drake had taken another dose of meds and was fully appreciative of the quiet in his head short of the shrieks and groans of bagpipes.

  He slung the binoculars over his head, letting them hang as he scanned the signals on his device. Nothing. Nowhere. He flipped through the app features, getting more distracted by the moment with all the capabilities literally at his fingertips. Hacking tools, IMSI catchers, and just as Mojo had said, he could even facilitate a remote, noncooperative penetration of an aircraft through radio-frequency communications, ACARS configurations, and satellite circuit mode supporting voice and data transmission broadcasts. All this he held in his palm. It was astounding, considering the loads of kit he humped around the desert for years.

  Still, with all the technology that he had, it was people who made decisions. Hard decisions against other people who were acting on their own decisions and who could mobilize others for action. Yeah, that was why people called him. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel bad about killing, it was that he felt bad only after he had killed. It rarely stopped him beforehand.

  Drake lifted his binoculars. Where are the busses of kids? Where are masses of kids running with bombs? K-9 units continued to sweep the area. He could see the dog handlers who were instructing people to not touch the dogs.

  What had Mena said? Children were the first wave. Hundreds running at the enemy. The enemy was paralyzed to shoot. Then came the next wave. After the children had blown themselves up.

  As he pondered, a yellowish puff of smoke rose through the crowd of people. And then another small cloud. The smoke rose slightly, spread, and then hovered. In other sections of the parade spectators, the plumes burst up above the people’s heads then morphed into greater clouds, and more yellow poofed up from…from the children.

  * * * *

  The children were loving every minute of the attention they received crashing the parade. Kids and adults alike were smiling and pointing at their orange beards and green bowler hats. As they tossed Azrael into the air, the crowds reached for the yellow and golden powder swirling the clouds just overhead. Young children jumped to touch the magic golden leprechaun dust.

  Then came the pain.

  It started with light coughing. Then a tightening of the chest.

  Eyes and noses started to water. Wiping them caused burning. The burning wouldn’t stop. People were screaming. Shoving. Grabbing, running, trampling.

  Chaos ensued.

  The police tried to control the mass hysteria. They, too, shortly succumbed to the clouds that hung in the air and moved outward to those who stood idly by not knowing what was happening around them.

  Drake watched dumbfounded. This was it. Azrael was spreading his wings. The angel of destruction and renewal. It hadn’t come at the hands of a Hezbollah fanatic, a rogue nation state. It came from the hands of children laughing and playing, rejoicing in the euphoria of the freedom they were taking in. He witnessed the presence of evil and stood helplessly.

  Chapter 87

  The FBI sniper called to Woolf in terror. “What are we supposed to do? It’s the WMD?”

  The spotter slowly swung his scope. “It’s kids. They’re moving through the crowd. Luke, we can’t shoot them.”

  The sniper, Luke, drew his weapon in. He peered through the scope. “They’re going to take out the whole crowd. No one knows what’s happening down the block. We can’t let them keep going.”

  You have to take out the kids. Grab the weapon and do it. They’ll kill everyone. Fifty or sixty kids are better than thousands. Go, Drake. Grab the weapon. If you don’t, who will?

  * * * *

  Halliday saw the gradual eruption of yellow smoke emerging from the crowd. “Where’s that cloud coming from? Did someone pull smoke?” she called to the FBI sniper.

  The shooter was nuzzled to his weapon, the scope reticle trained on the hostile targets. The children. “Holy shit. It’s kids. Kids are throwing the dust.” He pulled away from the lens, staring helplessly at Halliday. “Are they the terrorists? Holy fuck!”

  “Bro,” said his spotter, “we gotta stop this.”

  The shooter peered through his glass. “The kids are smiling. I can’t do it. Can’t someone flash bang the area or shoot non-lethal bags?”

  Halliday lowered her binoculars and could see with her naked eye a contained area of yellow haze that was spreading wide while rolling inward to the city. “We’re not prepared for this.”

  * * * *

  Havens, like the others, was stunned by what he was seeing.

  The sniper, who had chosen a wind drift reticle, viewed the children through a combination of crosshair lines, dots, and horizontals. He had acquired the moving targets and established the city’s wind drift. “The kids are unleashing something that’s dropping everyone around them. Permission to engage,” he called to his superior. He was as mechanical as his sitrep reports in the minutes prior.

  His spo
tter pulled up from the view. “You can’t shoot a kid.”

  “I’m not shooting a kid, I’m shooting a hostile threat.”

  The radio called back. “Do not engage. How copy?”

  “Copy that. I’ll await further, but it’s not going to get better. You’re wasting time.”

  “We’re monitoring the situation.”

  “Just give the green.”

  Havens dialed his preset for Drake’s device.

  “Yeah, I’m seeing what you’re seeing.” Drake’s voice was cool and deliberate. He offered nothing further.

  “The snipers won’t shoot. Or aren’t authorized to shoot. I can’t blame them,” said Sean.

  “Yeah, it would be a full-out panic if the crowd started seeing kids dropping dead from an active shooter threat, but it’s spreading, Sean. People are going to get stampeded.”

  “Drake, this is weapons-grade material. They’ll kill everyone down by the lakefront. Who knows how many more when it reaches the city and dissipates. Once it crosses Michigan Avenue, the buildings will create a vortex of wind and push the clouds high and low and into every HVAC for blocks.”

  “Windy City needs to blow this out to the lake.”

  “Well, Drake, that’s not going to fucking happen, so try to wrap your head around something else. You’re supposed to be the smart guy.”

  “Yeah. I am.” Drake scanned as far as he could see of the crowds, the buildings, the lakefront. The skies. “Let me hang up. I need to call in an airstrike.”

  Chapter 88

  Drake opened the Pitbull app. “C’mon, Mr. Worldwide.”

  “Dude,” the sniper shouted. “Aren’t you a counterterror advisor? You going to advise us or send texts? We’re paralyzed trying to come up with something. CPD knows it’s a chemical weapon or something, and they’re only looking to maintain security so no one gets in. Bureau is already starting to set up emergency staging area down by McCormick Place.”

  “Cool. Now shut the fuck up.”

  “Cool?” The sniper flipped his head and body over to his spotter. “Did he just say cool?”

  “And he told you to shut the fuck up. The guy’s probably shitting his pants. Worthless, headquarters piece of shit. Probably calling his wife and kids saying he was going to die.”

  Drake turned to the north, orienting himself as he clicked the display of aircraft flight paths that fit into the thirty-mile-mark legend. Drake scanned the identifiers and outbound course. His fingers tapped on graphs of speed, altitude, and route by latitude, longitude and heading. Drake scanned a digital map warning to pilots, aware of horizontal reference loss at levels below 10,000 feet when hazy or overcast, and tried to factor how that would complicate his idea. The instrument procedures for departures concerning obstacles and vectors would be preset into the aircraft computers. He decided on two aircraft and scanned for their signal emissions and receipt. “Bingo.”

  Drake sat down as he loaded the scripts to infiltrate the aviation systems.

  The sniper again called out. “Seriously?”

  Drake remained typing on his device, his head bowed over his computer exploits. “Dude, shut the fuck up, or you’ll be sucking in a radioactive weapon that will have your insides liquidated in seconds.” Whether that was true or not, Drake couldn’t gave two shits. He needed to concentrate if he was going to hijack an airplane from scratch.

  * * * *

  Drake’s first hack allowed him access to the communications system, taking full advantage of the commercial off-the-shelf components that he had penetrated in numerous other computer exploits over his legitimate years with JSOC’s Intelligence Support Activity. The SQL programming script injection assaulted another computer system’s lines of code, bypassing the encryption, and provided the Man from Orange visibility and control of the 747 aircraft.

  Drake read the systems as he typed. Box-IFE-SATCOM…interface Aeronautical Operational Control…fuck me, read only…ACARS system, okay here we go…flight management system…navigation…electronic interface autopilot…good…show me…yes, there you are, you little shit…command line kernel code…connect to IO bus…interface, yes…bypass centralized messaging unit…GIS data and navi…command instrument, you bitch…

  At eleven thousand feet and climbing, the pilot leaned forward. “AOC interface is changing something on the ACARS system.”

  “Probably data exchange. Didn’t you verify it prior to takeoff?” The copilot picked at his finger, then took another little bite, spitting the splintered nail between his legs before attacking another digit.

  “Yeah, but…whoa…we’re leveling off. Are you doing this?”

  The copilot leaned over slightly to give a curious look while chomping another nail. “Autopilot has us decreasing altitude. That’s not right. Call control.”

  Drake rode the feed link into the control tower to feed the plane additional data, dropping altitude further and increasing the aircraft speed. “Okay, buddy, let’s call the pilots with some bullshit excuse on why they’re buzzing buildings and dropping to under a thousand feet at the lakeshore.”

  “Vacation Air 452, this is control tower Aurora, flight plan route change. We’re changing your headings T six zero right and altitude due to unidentified airspace traffic at prior altitude setting. Switching to setting 0-6-7-2.”

  The pilot looked over to his mate wide-eyed. “Tower, that’s a negative. You’re sending us into skyscrapers.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Complete violation of visual flight rules.” The pilot pointed to the autopilot indicator. “We’re reprogramming coordinates or going manual. We’re not seeing anything on collision avoidance system.”

  “Flight 452, you are on a set path over market given to us by…let’s just say…defense authorities. We’re trying to keep you out of the fray by descent according to the commo we’re receiving.”

  The copilot’s head was looking across the horizon and upward to see if he could glimpse anything out of the ordinary.

  “Let the craft fly itself according to settings. System will be increasing speed to forty knots more than current setting. You’ll feel like a wild ride, but it’s the only way we can clear you of a potentially hostile aircraft above and interceptors who are coming in. Copy?”

  “Aurora tower, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  The copilot asked, “How does tower have our system settings? Who’s reprogramming?”

  “Flight 452, all I can tell you is what I’m telling you. Maintain present heading. I’ve got you on radar as passing Willis Tower. We’ve got a few more to clear. Altimeter decreasing. You’re going to have a visual of yellow smoke on the ground heading out to the lake. We’re dropping you down with increased speed under the hazard area, then giving you a quick rise. There will be no other communications on this frequency.”

  “Uh, tower, I see the visual. We’re not good with this. Trying to take controls. Everything is locked. I need a confirmation code from tower. This is highly irregular.”

  The pilot muted comms. “Any luck?”

  “I’m trying to pull us off, but I can’t. We’ve lost all instrument control. Yoke, flaps, rudders. Locked.”

  “I’m going to switch channels and declare emergency.”

  Chapter 89

  Zarielle tripped on the street curb and fell to the ground. She dropped her bag of golden powder and looked up at the sea of green people before her. To her rear, in the haze of the yellow air, people were screaming and going crazy, running about in the street.

  “You wanna get paid, you better finish.” Kayjon reached down to help his eight-year-old friend to her feet. He scooped the bag just as Dantrell ran up and threw a handful of Azrael into their faces. The breeze lifted, but still, Kayjon and Zarielle started fitful coughs. Zarielle fluttered her hands. Her eyes burned so bad. She felt like her asthma had come back. She raised her head trying to open her
airway.

  “Girl, c’mon,” Dantrell yelled, but her eyes couldn’t focus. The more she rubbed, the worse they stung.

  “Kayjon!” she screamed. “Kayjon!”

  Dantrell was on his hands and knees, spitting and vomiting. His eyes were on fire.

  Zarielle’s screaming cut the air, but with the shouts and the shrill pitch of the bagpipes and Dantrell’s own cry of pain and confusion, no one noticed the lone child as the masses rushed her way in a stampede.

  Except Drake Woolf.

  The Man from Orange panned the crowd and the yellow clouds with binoculars while the airliner sped toward their position.

  The high-pitched ring of the jet turbine engines drawing closer caused many pedestrians to look up and scream in anticipation of an impending crash on the parade.

  A glimpse of pink in the sea of green meant nothing at first when Drake scanned across. But then something clicked in his mind about the little girl tied to the bed in the Lawndale apartment. He refocused back to the pink and the flopping braids and then to the wave of crowd heading her way. Drake was three stories up. A questionable jump with the concrete below. The staircase was behind him yet had taken minutes to go down and around when he first ascended with the snipers.

  Drake looked again to the ground and this time gave more thought to the scaffolding about ten feet under the ledge, but only a few two by fours made the platform, which gave Woolf a small margin of error not to miss or hit the edge and topple the structure over and crushing the construction pickup trucks below. “Fellas, I’m heading out. Cover your ears.” He stepped up onto the ledge, readying for his jump.

  The jumbo jet flew a mere couple hundred feet overhead, the wingtip vortices and wash blowing Drake over the edge with the short turbulence blast wake.

  Chapter 90

  Drake fell the thirty feet, missing the scaffolding and hitting the roof of a pickup cab, then falling over into the truck bed laden with construction waste. The truck cushioned some of the fall but still knocked the wind out of him and gave a good smack to the side of the head, but falling over and landing in the debris cut Drake’s thigh and arm with a nasty slice from bent sheet metal. Still focused on the young girl, he didn’t give a moment of thought to the pain and breathlessness as he rolled out and sprinted to those pink ribbons tying Zarielle’s braids.