Vengeance and Reckonings

by Todd Turner

  The other FBI personnel were now in the maintenance building looking for the proud owner of the newly dismantled little red car in the parking lot.

  The thirty-eight-year-old Caucasian man, Benjamin Richards, would go to his high-security federal penitentiary cell a year later following his prosecution. He would continue to deny he had any knowledge the car was a delivery device for a nuclear bomb. He would claim to his last day that he was a victim of an overzealous government, that he innocently bought the car from the local dealership, never knowing its ultimate purpose. His denials fell on deaf ears.

  July 2

  Various target cities, United States

  At Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and San Diego, California, the tactical response teams proceeded with nearly the exact same sequence of events as their actions in New Mexico.

  The one thing they all had in common was that the primary target was either within a military facility or so closely associated with one that using a satellite to search for the small cars was relatively easy. As a target, the Naval Base San Diego, near downtown San Diego, was one of the worst-case scenarios for those charged with protection of the homeland. It is both a valuable military target and one where a large number of civilian fatalities likely would occur.

  When the FBI’s request came in to close Interstate 5 at Interstate 805 connector on the north and at the Mexican border on the south, there was initial resistance from local authorities. Yet when it was made clear that if the bomb car wasn’t located, traffic between the Los Angeles basin and San Diego would be diverted to Interstate 15 farther inland, the plan was immediately implemented. The evacuation of North San Diego County would be directed to the east, out into the desert communities and on to Palm Springs or even as far as Arizona, if necessary.

  While South Orange County would be evacuated to the north, residents were encouraged to travel as far north as possible while avoiding Interstate 15, which would be used to clear Las Vegas.

  In the meantime, Scott was using his father’s name to re-aim every military and spy satellite onto areas they knew to be targets. The paranoia of the country’s intelligence services ramped up into high gear. Director Sessions from the FBI was bitching about the possibility that the plan was to divert America’s attention away from the real threat. He was silenced by President Barton, who in a very short phone call made it clear they weren’t going to play second-guessing games. They knew these bombs were real, they’d seen one and taken it apart. This was America’s first priority and, for the time being, its single security mission. Barton ended the conversation by letting Sessions know that as far as he was concerned, the director’s accusations were those of a man whose pride had been wounded by having the CIA take the lead on the investigation from the beginning. If the director continued on this course, he’d be charged with treason and obstruction of justice.

  A digital image of the top of a Chevrolet Spark was programmed into the NSA’s visual mapping and recognition software. Human eyes would never be able to discern the subtle differences in a car from the top. Even a veteran car designer would struggle to identify his own design when seeing it from that perspective. The system worked flawlessly, thanks to the fact that the Spark is not a common car. The thing was never a hot seller, even in the days when customers were flocking to fuel-sipping cars during the gas price drive up. The Spark sat unsold on car dealership lots.

  They found the cars in San Diego, North Carolina, and New Mexico, and thought they knew the location of the one in Colorado.

  July 2, 11:00 EDT

  Broadcast from an undisclosed location

  There was no attempt to make President Barton’s address warm and friendly. He was not seated in a cozy living room with a crackling fire in the background to project a sense of calm and ease. Some of his advisors had wanted exactly that, but he did not feel that was appropriate.

  The broadcast clearly took place in a bunker, for all to see. He told the American people he had taken cover and had ordered the entire cabinet, House of Representatives and Senate to do the same.

  “My fellow Americans, as your president, I am charged with the task of telling you there is a credible threat to three of our great cities. This threat has the capacity to cause extreme devastation to New York City, Washington, D.C., and Las Vegas.

  “This is not a guess or a rumor. It is conclusive, with one hundred percent certainty. These cities are in grave danger. We have obtained irrefutable evidence, some of which can and will only be released long after these next few days have ended. During the past ten days, our intelligence and military service agencies uncovered this threat and have already eliminated a similar danger from several other cities. Based on the physical evidence we recovered in those cities, we know the threat is genuine. For the last three cities, we have run out of time, and now must completely evacuate them.

  “A mandatory evacuation order, organized by state and local authorities, is in effect for the cities of New York, Washington, D.C., and Las Vegas. The evacuation of the New York metropolitan area began early this morning. It is imperative that anyone not in one of these cities remain in their homes, stay off the roads as much as possible, and keep the phone lines clear for emergency use.

  “I have ordered all airlines to cease scheduled operations and stage their largest aircraft to assist in the evacuations. Buses and trains also have been routed so as to move as many people as possible and to ease the burden on highways. Every American’s cooperation is necessary and expected. As Pearl Harbor was the event that defined a generation, this will be the defining moment of this generation.”

  The president’s message was loud and clear. “Our actions in this time of crisis will define us. We all must find ways to be part of the solution, and not add to the problem. God bless and keep us all!”

  People’s eyes were steadfastly fixed to TV screens. There was no chatter or discussion, just unwavering shock and horror. It was like watching a train wreck compounded by a factor of ten. You couldn’t move. No matter how much you wanted to look away, you couldn’t.

  July 2, 16:30 EDT

  New York City

  In New York City, the evacuation had been in progress for close to eight hours. There was a massive law enforcement presence at every exit point of the city. If you were driving your own car and could take more passengers, strangers were put into your vehicle. Everyone was searched for weapons. The entire country was under martial law by executive order of the president.

  The ferry ports were swarmed with people, and ferries were coming from every possible nearby city. They were taking people mostly up the Hudson River to points deemed far enough north, or traveling the East River and into the Atlantic to drop people in Connecticut or Rhode Island.

  The New York Port Authority Bus Terminal on Eighth Avenue between Fortieth and Forty-second Street had mobs of people feeding back into Times Square and beyond. The scene was the same at Penn Station six blocks south, and Grand Central Station in Midtown, at Forty-second and Park, over time these masses merged becoming one huge horde of people. Were it not for the massive mobilization of the NYPD and the National Guard, surely the cases of isolated violence would have turned into full-scale riots.

  Tonya Johnson, a single mother with her six-year-old son, Kobe, was among the throng of people at Penn Station, and she was one of the few who was exactly where she was supposed to be. Not typically one to make her voice heard, she was fighting for her son. Never underestimate the power of a mother protecting her child.

  She had her pass for transport from Penn Station. Such a document was issued to most New Yorkers who were “in the system”—that is, registered with the city’s evacuation authority as directed. Sadly, that was true for only 30 percent of the city’s residents.

  When a man tried to steal her pass, Tonya beat him down with the umbrella she’d brought solely for that purpose, creating a commotion that drew the attention of a nearby armed Guardsman, a thick man of Irish ancestry known by his compatriots affect
ionately as “Bull.” He grabbed the umbrella on the upswing and took one look at the terrified Tonya and realized she was the victim.

  “Miss, you can’t go around beating the living tar out of folks. So what’s going on here?”

  The man who’d tried to steal the pass started screaming she’d gone nuts and was attacking him trying to get ahead in line. Bull, seeing the pass in the man’s hand, asked to see it. When the man resisted, Bull sternly said, “Hand it over or I’m going to do a lot more than beat you with an umbrella.”

  Reading it quickly, he handed it back to Tonya and asked if that was her son standing next to her, which she confirmed. Addressing the man, Bull said, “Drop to your knees, put your hands on your head.” He approached the man from behind and used one knee to push him forward while he holstered his pistol, and took one of the hundred or so nylon zip ties from his pocket to bind the man’s wrists. Then he picked him up, literally throwing him to his feet.

  Bull then told Tonya, “Pick up your son and grab my belt with your free hand and don’t let go, miss!” He pushed the man in front, literally using him as a shield while yelling, “Make a hole! Make way! Prisoner coming through!” The whole point was not only to subdue the one man but make him an example to those thinking they could take advantage of the chaos.

  He reached the entrance to Penn Station on Seventh Avenue, a long flight of stairs leading down into a labyrinth that is a combined shopping mall and train station. Bull pushed ahead and handed Tonya’s pass to the first guard controlling access to the stairs. “Miss, you can go ahead,” said Bull, as he pushed the man off to the side. There another set of guards were taking prisoners in a deliberate show of force designed to provide deterrence. The goal was to have everyone out of the city in twenty-four hours. It was possible. Well publicized too was that those arrested would be last to leave.

  If it came down to the last train, ferry, or bus out of town and there was no more room, those prisoners would be left to whatever fate befell them.

  It was a scene repeated dozens of times, but surprisingly not anywhere near as much as the authorities had first feared.

  While this small drama was unfolding in NYC, by some miracle, the NSA satellite caught the car on I-95 in Newark—trying to go against the reverse traffic flow—on its way into the Lincoln Tunnel from New Jersey. This was one of the cars purchased by a sleeper agent, who had a hard time getting the dealership to finally release the car (he couldn’t provide proof of insurance). The agent was desperately trying to get the car to its intended location near Time Square in the midst of an evacuation. It was clear the thirty-year-old sleeper agent from Syria would never succeed in his mission—to get the car into the heart of the city when every bit of traffic was flowing out—yet he was hell-bent on trying. A strategy doomed to failure, which revealed the illogical desperation of a zealot.

  From the satellite image, the law enforcement vehicles looked like a pack of wolves descending upon the Spark as it attempted its move into NYC. Air support, of course, arrived first, followed by land vehicles. Eventually, police, military, and FBI vehicles and choppers surrounded the bomb-containing car. There was simply no exit and no surrender. The fear, of course, was the driver could activate the bomb—even though authorities had been assured by the CIA this wasn’t possible; but no one liked to trust that kind of intelligence with their lives.

  The circle of law enforcement closed rapidly. The driver had been fighting his way against traffic when he heard the helicopters overhead. He knew he’d been caught for sure when the traffic suddenly cleared, leaving him an empty highway. He knew the road was blocked ahead. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor and the car reached its top speed of 112 miles per hour. While capable of such a speed on a road with no incline, the Spark’s suspension, tires and steering capabilities were being pushed beyond their limits, and the car was most certainly not under control.

  Any slight jerk of the wheel or decent-sized pothole and this chase would end badly. The driver had already made up his mind that he was not going to be caught. Capture, prosecution and punishment at the hands of the infidels was not an option.

  Looking ahead, he noticed the roadblock beyond a bridge where the road he was on passed over another highway. He thought, Why the hell do the Americans always put a roadblock on the opposite side of a bridge? Do they truly think that’s going to stop someone? It does, of course, because most people want to live. In this case, though he’d not been known as a suicide bomber, no one could see the slight widening of his eyes: the expression of one who has come to a realization. This is the look of someone who believes he or she has just gotten a message from God—the fanatical zeal of faith reaffirmed. There was no question he would take this to the end.

  The distance to the bridge was closing fast at this speed. The choppers could see he wasn’t slowing down. One of them lowered in front of the car, enough to be visible and provide a warning, but the driver did not ease off the accelerator. The chopper dipped lower, coming within a few feet of the car’s windshield. The driver’s eyes were fixed on the road, and he showed no response whatsoever to the helicopter.

  The pilot was able to see the man’s face and knew he’d never surrender. He radioed command, requesting orders. The order was clear. If you have a shot, take it. He communicated the orders to the shooter hanging out the open door of the chopper, an expert aerial marksman. The marksman aimed, steadied and, as he slowly exhaled his breath, squeezed the trigger of the M39 EMR.

  The driver’s head jerked back, hitting the headrest now covered with blood spattered from the exit wound, then slumped to the left, coming to rest on the driver’s side window. His eyes were still fixed and staring ahead. Death was instantaneous. As his foot slipped off the accelerator, the car quickly slowed but was still going in excess of seventy miles per hour. It began to swerve left, and the sudden deceleration forced the pursuing officers to take evasive action. One of them passed on the right and positioned his car in front of the Spark. He slowed to allow contact to be made, then gently braked his car.

  Despite the fact the police car’s driver was an expert at gentle braking, the Spark’s steering obviously could not be controlled, and the inevitable rotation could not be avoided. It turned sideways in a perfect ninety-degree hard left and began a new course headed across the median.

  The collision into the side of an all-black government-issue Chevrolet Tahoe was a near perfect hit on that vehicle’s rear axle, crushing the Spark’s front end like an accordion all the way back to the bottom of the windshield. Minor injuries were suffered by the agents.

  What looked to be a hundred vehicles from every conceivable law enforcement agency arrived before the dust could settle. Everyone was very glad that road had been closed off, and people needing to use it to evacuate now could be told to go home.

  Within minutes, four helicopters landed near the crashed vehicles. One of them, a medevac, evacuated the survivors and the dead sleeper agent. Another chopper contained the bomb squad. Immediately inspecting the car, then taking into consideration the number of people in the area, they determined it would be safer to transport the crashed vehicle than attempt to disarm it here.

  Marines used Geiger counters to check for any radiation leakage and found all readings to be minimal. The tiny car was dragged onto an army tilt bed tank transporter—complete overkill for the size of the Spark—that was nearby after dropping off a tank to encourage orderly evacuation. The car was covered and sent on its way to Earle Naval Weapons Station in Monmouth County, New Jersey, where the weapon would be defused and dismantled.

  With all the chaos of the past few days, the highway chase wouldn’t warrant a report even on the evening news; and while plenty of those witnessing the commotion would have a story to tell, it would remain just that, a story.

  Craig’s phone beeped and vibrated, signaling a new text message: newark target neutralized. no captive. no intel. weapon recovered and secured. evacuation ended.

  While it would have
been nice to question the target, Craig doubted they would have gotten much new information. He let out a long, cleansing sigh of relief, pleased that one more of the weapons was now accounted for and secured. That it was one of those intended to cause the most human carnage was an additional relief.

  July 2, 17:15 MDT

  Colorado Springs

  The car destined for Colorado Springs had gone missing on GM’s distribution computers. Rezeya assured them it was most likely a scanning error, that the car would be at the dealership. When the sales manager was paged at Daniels Chevyland in Colorado Springs, like most managers, he didn’t take it as urgent.

  The flustered receptionist-cashier paged the sales manager a second time, but this time over the speakers came, “God damn it, Harry, get your ass to the parts counter!” Harry heard the stress in her voice, prompting him to quickly take his feet off his desk, return his chair to its upright position and set his coffee cup on a stack of papers where it sloshed out of the cup and all over the paperwork. He was still cursing as he hurried out to the parts counter.

  “Where the hell’s the fire?” Harry demanded. The frightened receptionist directed her eyes to the two men in black suits. Harry stood before them in the summer uniform of a sales manager for a small new car dealership: short-sleeve ill-fitting polo shirt and light-brown khakis, comfortable loafers and a pair of cellphones clipped to a belt constraining a plentiful gut.