by Brad C Scott
I resist the urge to tell her not to be. Because she’s right to be worried: our raid at the church revealed a terror attack planned for the ceremony today. In his rush to get away, Krayge failed to destroy all the evidence. Our tech specialists were able to reconstruct data off one of the laptops that included casualty projections based on different delivery systems and detonation sites in and around City Hall. Access to the old security arrangements made them chillingly realistic. That data and the two jihadists dead at the scene led us to the group hired to carry out the attack, Jund Ansar Allah, or Soldiers of God. Just in time, too – Task Force 1115 raided them yesterday. Otherwise, the ceremony wouldn’t have gotten the green light today.
She locks eyes with me. “Leeds is still out there.”
“We’ll get him,” I say, unsure even as the words leave my treacherous mouth. Turns out, Leeds is as slippery a bastard as Krayge. He drove his car off a pier into the Mississippi to throw off Gypsy and evade capture by Sam’s people. Neither he nor the merc with him was recovered despite a thorough sweep of the river. I’d say Leeds had breathing gear and drove off the pier as part of a pre-planned escape. And anyone with the balls to pull that off –
Sam takes my hand, gives it a squeeze. “We will.”
Erasing the scowl that crept onto my face, I bring her hand to my lips for a kiss. Sam thinks I give our adversaries too much credit. She’s wrong, I’ve given them too little.
She tries again: “We stopped them, took out their crew –”
“One of their crews.” I shake my head. “Subcontracting out to jihadists. Not even very good ones. They have better resources than that.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be comforting me?”
I try a feeble grin. “Yeah. Sorry. How’s the interrogation going?”
Task Force 1115 took a lone prisoner from their raid yesterday, leaving the other five members of the terror cell KIA. A high-yield stationary device was also found at the scene – seems this group of death-worshippers had a competent bomb maker. We figure Krayge and Leeds were sponsoring Jund Ansar Allah to build and put the bomb in play, either by doing the job themselves or handing it off to another group, the sort of brokered exchange that Los Santos excels at. The prisoner’s held up well so far under interrogation. I wouldn’t mind a crack at him myself. Assholes that monstrous deserve every layer of hell we can show them.
“He hasn’t broken,” she says. “Yet.” Letting my hand go, she frowns and looks over the crowd again. “We need more intel. They could carry out an attack without using the jihadists.”
“The mayor wasn’t buying it, not without proof. Even if they do try, they’d have a hell of a time dealing with the updated security. Simmons did an airtight job.”
She looks me in the eye again. “Anything new on the datastick we found?”
“Nothing yet.” The CSI team discovered a datastick in the church basement, stomped into the dirt but still intact. Whether it was the one Leeds got from Connor or not, whether it was dropped on purpose or not, we don’t know. It contained shipping documents – manifests, bills of lading, packing slips – for products identified only by serial numbers, no manufacturer listed. The products were shipped from a distribution center in Tennessee where Strategic National Stockpile assets are kept. To a warehouse in St. Louis run by the local Department of Health. Mysterious shipments of what, though? Vaccines? IDs? NIDs? I sent the data on to Cato for analysis. “My guy’s still looking into it.”
She chews at her lip. “Could be a false lead. We should be careful with what’s on there.”
“My paranoia’s rubbing off on you,” I say, placing my hands on her hips to draw her in. “I’m supposed to be the doom and gloom in this relationship.”
“Funny, old man. I spoke with the team’s handler this morning. You didn’t even budge when he called! I could murder you in your sleep and you still wouldn’t wake up.”
“That’s your fault, wearing me out.”
“Just you wait.” She chews at her lip.
“You spoke with Simmons about your concerns?”
“The chief was more dismissive than you are,” she accuses. “So was your boss.”
“We still on for dinner?”
“Only if you don’t screw up. How’s that for motivation?”
We share a long look in which the rest of the world, the sounds of thousands mingling nearby mixed with the patriotic music playing over the PA system, fades into unreality. She’s got me all spun around, and no use or reason to complain. Going on five days since Gatekeeper and only work has kept us from spending most moments together since. I wonder –
The sound of Evans clearing her throat breaks me out of it.
Sam and I step apart. Evans gives me a bland look, which I return in kind.
“A pleasure to see you again, ma’am,” says Hawk with a respectful nod for Sam.
“You too, Senior Chief.” Sam turns to Evans. “You were in LA with Malcolm?”
Evans lifts her chin and raises an eyebrow.
Sam nods. “I’m sorry for your losses. I hope their killers pay the blood price.”
The tension eases, quick as it came. “Thanks,” says Evans. “They will.”
“I’ll tell you what I already told Malcolm: if you want my help, it’s yours.”
Evans nods. Well, one less bullet to dodge, at least.
“This may be the last time they get to raise the real flag,” says Sam, drawing my gaze to the two pairs of fire engines forming islands within the crowded street. Their raised ladders hold two huge flags: one, the Stars and Stripes of the old United States of America; the other, the Star and Bars of the Democratic Republic of America. Like most zones, St. Louis chooses to honor past and present. But once St. Louis gets repatriated, the Stars and Stripes will be prohibited.
“Change always carries a price,” I say.
Expression stony, she says, “Some prices aren’t worth paying.”
By the bustle on the platform, the ceremony is about to begin. Checking my neural interface confirms it – five minutes until ten.
Patton, I send via thoughtspeak, how we doing?
No change in threat status, he replies from his position on overwatch two hundred meters above the crowd. Gypsy circles with him, our silver and gold eyes in the sky. No guarantee they’ll catch every threat, but no one wearing a suicide vest should sneak past.
Samantha believes there’s still a potential bomb threat.
There is insufficient data to support her belief, he replies. The probability of a pending mass-casualty attack remains low. But I will remain vigilant.
“Friends in high places,” remarks Sam, eyes raised to the sky.
“Gypsy was in on the raid yesterday, wasn’t she?”
“How did you…” Sam gives me that intense, now-you-die look. “Because I just told you. I’m going to make you pay for that.”
“Something to look forward to. Come on, we’d better take our places.”
◊ ◊ ◊
The 11/15 Memorial Ceremony begins with the flag-raising. The honor guards run both the Stars and Stripes and the Stars and Bars up the flagpoles, followed by the singing of the National Anthem, same as it ever was. When it’s done, the crowd is quiet.
Mayor Joseph Slay steps up to the podium. Each time we’ve met, he struck me the same: good-natured and unpretentious. Nor does he look the part of a career politico, taking no steps to cover up his receding hairline. Appearances, though.
“My fellow Americans,” he begins, his voice carrying via the PA system, “my fellow St. Louisans, distinguished guests from the Capital and elsewhere: on behalf of myself, my wife Margery, and the city aldermen, welcome. Today, we gather here to honor what we lost.” He looks down, jaw quivering with emotion, before looking out at the crowd again. “Who we lost. And we’re here to renew our commitment to our shared values, our shared past, and our shared vision of the future.”
Sam cocks her head – must be something coming in over her com
mset. She gets up and sidesteps down the aisle to find a place to take the call in private.
“This is a special time,” continues the mayor, “and I’m honored to be here to share it with you. For this ground we occupy, by virtue of our resolve in the face of adversity and our refusal to allow evil to triumph – this ground is sacred. You made it so. So today, we honor not just the sacrifices of those who lost their lives, but yours. Thank you for making St. Louis live again. Thank you for making this a place to call home, to transact business, to raise our families, to lead our lives. Thank you, my fellow St. Louisans, for making this city shine again after a tragedy so monstrous that most said it would never recover. Well, they were wrong, weren’t they?”
The crowd roars in the affirmative. During the ovation, I notice Sam beckoning to me. Scowling at the impropriety, I get up and sidestep down the row of occupied seats toward her.
“That’s right!” shouts the mayor, encouraging more applause. “We’re still here!”
Sam leads me around the base of the platform and up the concrete steps behind it.
“Twenty-five years ago,” continues the mayor, “on this date, November the fifteenth, the greatest tragedy to ever befall this nation occurred. Our enemies detonated nuclear bombs in thirteen of America’s greatest cities: Washington, New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Philadelphia, Houston, Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, Detroit, Las Vegas, Seattle, and here in St. Louis. Millions of Americans lost their lives - over ten million innocent American lives. It was not a military engagement conducted under the rules of war. It was not an act that any sane, moral human being could justify. No, it was an act of violent desperation and supreme cowardice. It was an act of profound evil, the ultimate embodiment of terrorism.”
“What’s going on?” I ask as Sam turns to face me beneath the arched entranceway to City Hall. Only a pair of constables is within earshot.
“Bomb threat,” she says. “The team’s handler just called me – the prisoner’s talking now. Mostly nonsense, but he claims they made a second bomb.”
I tune out the mayor though his speech continues. “What? So where is it?”
“Handed off two days ago. It’s still out there.”
“Who has it? Do they have the capability of using it?”
“The prisoner claims he doesn’t know who took it. Decrypted comm traffic indicates they were working with another group, but we haven’t been able to ID it yet. Whoever they are, they must be working with Leeds. The team’s handler believes they intend to put it in play. Today.”
“Do we know how?”
“No.”
“Have you talked to anyone else?”
“I came straight to you.”
“Fucking great.” I look past the participants arrayed on the platform and the mayor at the podium toward the vast crowd. Over five thousand innocent lives with no shortage of women and children. A suicide vest detonated in their midst could kill and injure hundreds. A high-yield stationary device would breach the bloody gates of Hell.
“Chief Constable Simmons,” I send over the security channel, “this is Redeemer Adams.”
“Go ahead, First Redeemer,” responds Simmons.
“The DOD team that Miss Mathis briefed you on just relayed that there were two bombs made for the attack today. The team only recovered one. The remaining package is still in play.”
“I thought those terrorists were neutralized.”
“They were,” I say, “but they were working with another group. It’s possible, maybe even probable, that this other group will try to carry out the attack using the second bomb.”
“What are we looking for?”
“High-yield stationary device, we don’t know the delivery system.”
“I assume your source for this is Miss Mathis?”
I search Sam’s eyes, steely with defiance. “It is. I suggest an immediate evacuation.”
“Alright, stand by.”
“What did he say?” asks Sam.
“To wait.”
I sweep my gaze around while running down the list of locations for a stationary device. The security arrangements called for regular scans on all of them: the platforms, the fire engines, the porta-potties, the 11/15 Memorial, and the building behind us, City Hall carved in the brown stone above the arched entranceway. Roadblocks and air cordons should prevent any vehicles or drones used as delivery systems. We even put sensors and drones in the sewer tunnels.
“First Redeemer,” transmits the chief, “I’ve confirmed that everything within a two-block radius was checked. We’ve got no suspicious vehicles or packages. There’s no sign.”
“Chief, this is a credible threat. An evacuation is warranted.”
Keeland jumps on the channel: “I agree with Malcolm’s assessment, Chief. Once the evac begins, I’ll send in our EOD team and activate the jammers to block any remote triggers. Your people can handle crowd control.” From his sequestered spot in our emergency ops center, a silver trailer parked on a side street, he’s got his fingers on all the triggers. “Just say the word.”
“I hear you,” replies Simmons. “Put security on high alert, but there’ll be no evacuation at this time. The mayor will make that call after his speech. Simmons out.”
“Well?” asks Sam.
“He wants to run it by the mayor. Unbelievable. You should go.”
She gives me a blank look. “No. You’re staying, so am I.”
“Then stay in touch with your team, let me know anything new.”
“I will.” She gives my hand a squeeze, then descends the concrete steps.
Patton, I send. The threat level is elevated. You were monitoring?
Affirmative, he replies. I will be vigilant.
Sam heads back to her seat as I make my way to the stage, the mayor’s speech wrapping up with an introduction of the singer to perform God Bless America. A young woman in a red, white, and blue dress steps up onto the adjoining platform holding the brass ensemble and, with their accompaniment, launches into it.
I find my spot on the platform and shake hands with the other keynote speakers, noting the mayor talking into a commlink, his wife looking at him with concern. Simmons must be explaining the situation to him. The mayor has a quick exchange with his wife, who exits the platform accompanied by an aide. He strides over and pulls one of the dignitaries aside, the two of them speaking into each other’s ears. The esteemed representative of Missouri then exits the platform. It seems the mayor has more sense than Simmons.
The singer finishes the last refrain of God Bless America, the brass ensemble performing the final flourishes. As the performance ends, Mayor Slay approaches the podium while finishing a commlink call. The crowd murmurs and shifts, sensing something’s amiss.
“My fellow St. Louisans,” says the mayor over the PA system, “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Representative Akin has been indisposed by some urgent business, so he’ll be unable to speak today. I know all of you were looking forward to hearing him, myself most of all, but rest assured, our other two keynote speakers will still do justice –”
I tune the bastard out. Are you kidding me?
“Mal,” transmits Sam, “what is he doing?”
“Hedging his bets.” Either there’s a credible bomb threat or there isn’t. The mayor knows there is, but is compromising like all good politicos, evacuating some people – those he deems important – while leaving everyone else to fate. Never trust a politician to do right by everyone.
I tune back into the mayor when I hear my name: “…First Redeemer Malcolm Adams of the Department of Recovery and Reclamation!” The mayor turns at this, hand open and out toward me. The crowd offers warm applause. I blink.
“Mal. Mal!” transmits Sam.
I put on a smile and raise up a hand. Over the applause, I say through clenched teeth, “Get out of here. Now.”
“Mal, I’m not –”
I tap my commlink and walk to the podium on wooden legs.
Through his
smiling veneer, I see the fear in the mayor’s eyes. Shaking his hand, I lean forward to say in his ear, “Order the evacuation, sir.”
“No,” he says, “not yet.” He turns and walks to the platform’s rear.
The applause subsiding, I grasp the podium’s sides and lean into the microphone. I’m still doing this? “Thank you, Mayor Slay,” I say, voice blaring from the PA system. “Thank you, everyone, for being here today. Thank you all for your warm welcome.”
I glance down and note that some of the VIP seats in front of the platform are vacant. Or being vacated. Plain-clothes constables shepherd the dignitaries away in small groups, trying to avoid arousing suspicion. At some point, the crowd is going to wise up.
I stare out at the thousands of upturned faces, the long moment of silence getting longer.
I can’t do this. Calling for the evacuation is the mayor’s prerogative, not mine, but the fact that they’re escorting the dignitaries away means the call was made. I’m sure as hell not going to help them hide it.
“My apologies,” I say over the PA, “but something has come up. The mayor has an announcement to make. I turn the podium back to him.”
I turn and walk away, noting with grim satisfaction the look of resignation on the mayor’s face. He composes himself and heads for the podium, ignoring me as I pass by. Reinstalling my commset, I resume my place at the rear of the stage and watch as the crowd begins to disperse in reaction to his words. Good, he’s through with the bullshit. And give the man credit: he knows how to keep people calm. Here and there, a bit of pushing goes on, but the evacuees are civil, there’s no panic. St. Louisans have ample experience with dignity under pressure.
◊ ◊ ◊
While monitoring comm traffic, I notice the blonde head moving through the milling throng in the street: Sam, pushing her way through against the current. She’s beelining toward Memorial Park across the street. Why?
I hustle off the stage and down the steps, weaving around the remaining dignitaries being escorted away. “Sam,” I send, “what’s going on?”
“The team’s translator missed something,” she transmits, “something the prisoner said. I caught it while reviewing the transcript. He thought it was a boast about the attack. Translated from Arabic: ‘monument to jihad.’ That sounds like the Memorial.”