by Todd Turner
July 3, 23:30 PDT
Las Vegas
The FBI was conducting a floor-to-floor search of every parking garage in Las Vegas. The NSA’s supercomputer was not finding the Chevy Spark that had been picked up two days earlier by the customer who had ordered it back in April.
Evidently, just as in Washington D.C., the car was not in an open space or in a place where it could be seen from the sky. A severe limitation of the NSA’s program, “Eyes in the Sky” can’t see into garages, houses or buildings unless it knows what specific house or building to “look” into.
Even then, if the resources are directed to a particular building or house, they are directed to listen and search for heat wave patterns that are signatures of human beings, not cold cars sitting parked.
As midnight approached, it was becoming more and more clear that this car would not be found. There was nothing anyone could do; the manpower was not available to search room to room to ensure the evacuation of the city. It was estimated that the evacuation of Las Vegas had been less than 90 percent complete.
If the intelligence was correct—and based on the explosion in Washington, D.C., there was no reason to believe it was not—a nuclear blast would occur somewhere in Las Vegas in approximately thirty minutes.
Craig Stout was on the SAT link with Colonel Jack Robbins. Since Robbins had been volunteered by President Barton to take charge of the Las Vegas evacuation, it had been clear the incompetence of the governor ultimately would cost thousands of people their lives.
“Jack, what the fuck is happening? Our satellite recon indicates heat sources that are consistent with human forms in the city in the thousands. Is this shit right?”
“Your eyes don’t deceive you. I am afraid the delay these numbnuts caused is not something we are going to be able to entirely recover from,” said the colonel. “Furthermore, as you know, our staffing at Nellis isn’t huge, and most of them are trained to fly, not handle ground operations of this sort. The men from Irwin have been leading, directing my men with what to do, and there were some turf wars until I cracked a few heads.”
“But … where are we? How many are still in harm’s way?”
“My estimate is three hundred thousand,” the colonel answered. “In a little fewer than five hours we’ve managed to get two and a half million people to what is considered a safe area. And, sir, I sure as hell hope it is a safe area, given that many of them are baking in the California desert at the moment!”
Craig grumbled, exhausted and defeated. “We can only do our best. At some point our human limitations are met, and then all we can do is hope. I am not a spiritual man as you may or may not know … but at this point even I have to say … it’s in God’s hands.”
“Not spiritual, hell, you’re a goddamn heathen! But sir, there is no one I’d rather be taking orders from on this one.” The colonel’s words rang in Craig’s ears as a source of pride; he still had dreams of hearing such praise from his father.
“Thank you, Robbins. Now I need to know when you guys have to ditch.”
“Sir, it’s your call. I don’t go until the job is done. I’m not going till you give the order.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” said Craig. He had to weigh 300,000 lives against the odds of getting the heroes who were trying to save them out in time. No matter what he chose, untold thousands were going to die, and there was no point in further loss of life by keeping the evacuation teams on any longer.
Craig’s voice was raspy. His head hung low as he asked, “What’s the plan for your men?”
“Fort Irwin’s men need ten minutes to get to safety. They’ll blast across the desert in Humvees. My men have choppers and we have room for the FBI guys, and they all need five minutes to reach the choppers, two minutes to take off, and five minutes to reach safety. They all have a go command on my word.”
Craig looked at the clock: T-minus twenty-four minutes. He gave the order. “Get all evacuation teams out now. And Colonel, when I say now, I mean it. No fucking heroics, are we clear?”
Craig couldn’t see it but the colonel saluted. “Crystal clear, sir!”
Robbins was familiar with death. He was trained to accept loss of life as part of combat, but not civilian life. That was never acceptable. “And the rest of the people?” he whispered.
“We’ve done all we can do. That will have to rest on the shoulders of those who caused the delay.”
“Yes, sir. God help them,” said Robbins, noting his use of them was not at all clear.
July 4, 12:01 a.m.
Las Vegas, Nevada
For the past three hours, from living rooms and coffee shops to bars and sidewalks where one can see a television, people were transfixed and frozen, staring at screens, staring at their phones that were flooded with images of similar scenes, beginning with what occurred at one-minute past midnight Eastern Daylight Time, 2,426 miles away.
Nearly everyone across the globe was equally transfixed, silently waiting and wondering if it would really happen to Las Vegas, too. Suddenly, the flash of light temporarily blinded the cameras and the satellite transmission went to snow. Slowly, the picture returned with the telltale mushroom cloud in the sky and the world stood still.
A blinding flash followed by a vacuum in space that seemed to stop time, silence, then an expansion of air, with a percussive force so massive it signaled the end of everything. For the people in this moment in this place in the universe, it was the end of everything. A force so strong and powerful, it seemed it could only have come from God Himself.
This is what thousands of people saw and felt at 12:01 a.m., July 4. They were the lucky ones, as that is all they saw and felt. A glimpse of white light, accompanied by a brief sensation of a rush of hot wind: a force that instantly overcame them with an expanding energy that consumed their being.
The bronze glass of the sail-shaped structure of the Wynn Casino was first shattered on the west side as the force of the blast blew out walls, furniture, televisions, and beds—some complete with their sleeping occupants—through the glass on the east side of the building. For moments, a twisted iron and concrete skeleton of the building stood virtually empty before it too finally groaned and screeched as it crashed to the ground under its own weight.
The massive Venetian and Palazzo hotels were two of the terrorists’ primary targets: the only casinos on the Las Vegas strip owned by a Jew and therefore the most meaningful to destroy. The Venetian’s thirty-five stories of concrete, iron, glass and marble crumbled under the shock wave of the blast. The Palazzo, being newer, fared only slightly better.
Moments before, just down the strip, an innocent-looking Chevrolet Spark was parked on the fourth level of the self-parking structure of the Harrah’s Hotel and Casino. Since September 11, security had been tight at the Venetian and Palazzo casinos and all entering vehicles were subject to inspection, much to the annoyance of taxi and limo drivers, who have to go through the process even for drop-offs. This meant that the Spark had to be parked at the nearby Harrah’s even though it was not the intended location. It was close enough, though, to do the damage desired.
At the epicenter of the blast was Harrah’s and its neighbor, the LINQ Hotel, better known by its former name, the Imperial Palace, now a pile of dust and rubble. All that remained of the tacky and dated Mardi Gras were small parts of its iconic clowns.
Famous for its fountains that performed in synch to songs such as “Luck Be a Lady,” the water of the lake in front of the Bellagio Hotel was blown out and vaporized. The empty cement crater was later filled with debris from the atomized buildings.
Across the boulevard at the Paris Hotel, small parts of the legs of its kitschy Eiffel Tower were the only identifiable remnants of the painstakingly accurate one-half scale replica of the original in Paris.
The devastation continued for nearly a mile in every direction, beyond which there were lessening degrees of damage fanning out at least two miles: Bally’s, Barbary Coast, Caesar’s, Pla
net Hollywood, The Mirage, Treasure Island, and the recently opened multibillion-dollar Crystal City hotel-residential-commercial towers all were total losses.
The MGM and Mandalay Bay on the south side of the strip were ruins, and on the north side, the vulnerable Stratosphere’s supporting tripod crumbled to dust, plummeting the huge sphere to earth.
The failure to fully evacuate the strip in time was evidenced by the sickening sight of human bodies and, more horrifically, body parts spread far and wide like grotesque litter.
They will soon … her words floated back to Craig, who woke from a trance into a nightmare. They just choose never to acknowledge.
EPILOGUE
While the terror of what if resides in all of us, I remain compelled to remember this guidance from one of the men in history I most respect, Benjamin Franklin, who wrote, as early as 1755, “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Barbara Tipton, mother of my best friend, Jim, who bravely took on reading this book in its early stages to provide advice on grammar and structure. Her support and encouragement greatly helped.
Donald Lucas, my ex-husband, who tolerated all the hours with my nose in my laptop while we were supposed to be enjoying a show together. Sadly, it was a meager example of how I should have been more attentive.
Marjorie Lucas (Mom), Don’s mother, who genuinely believes I can do anything, even though it’s not true. (Isn’t that the definition of motherly?)
Michael Wilde and Kelly Tomkies, my editors, each of whom provided wise guidance and many, many corrections!
Michael Dobrin, a fellow writer, who encouraged and helped me gain access to the Benicia, CA, port and vehicle processing facility.
Larry Brown, who helped me visit the Long Beach, CA, port and vehicle processing facility.
Hyundai Motor, for graciously being my host on my several trips to Korea as an automotive journalist over the past twenty-five years.
“David M”, for taking me to the gym at Pope Air Force Base, where I saw the lay of the land and made up the rest.
Tonya Munden, Troy Turner and Tiffiny Dunn, my siblings. No matter what, they always have my back, even when it’s not at all comfortable for them.
Susan Turner, my supportive and kind stepmom, and Richard Price, her husband and a voracious reader who I hope enjoys this book.
Kristy Roberts, a dear friend, who early on proofread pages, shielding me from numerous embarrassments.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Ten years prior to the tragic events of 9/11 I was on a flight taking off from John F. Kennedy International Airport. It was on Good Friday, one of those wonderful, bright, clear, sunny spring days when New Yorkers rejoice that winter is over. As we climbed, we had a brilliant view of the New York City skyline and I had a thought: What if a plane flew into those towers?
When it happened, it occurred to me afterward, What if I had written that? I couldn’t help but wonder if such a fiction might have served as a warning.
I’ve spent most of my adult life working in the automotive industry; I’ve toured car factories from Alabama to Korea, and something has always bothered me about how cars are imported all over the world.
Prior to 9/11, cargo freight came into this country without much scrutiny. In the years since, there are tighter controls on freight that is shipped in containers, including random scans for radioactive isotopes common with what might be found in a nuclear bomb or a dirty bomb. Yet, the thousands of imported cars are driven off ships and parked at port processing facilities for distribution inland with very little inspection. This book pursues a what-if scenario: What’s the worst that could happen?