‘What’s the pilot doing Lieutenant?’ Mahoney asked, looking up at the circling biplane. ‘Don’t they know what’s going on down here? And why are they letting them get away with it? I thought there was supposed to be an exclusion zone above the island?’
‘There is…but for some reason they’re letting that thing enter the exclusion zone. It just don’t make any sense!’ O’Brian replied tersely. He picked up the radio mike once more and demanded, ‘Control, this is patrol boat Whiskey Delta Two Fiver…that vintage biplane is now flying circuits right over the top of the Statue of Liberty, towing an aerial banner. There’s no sign of anyone trying to intercept it! Has anyone got any idea what’s going on?’
‘NYPD have been informed O’Brian. Don’t worry about it,’ the response came back quicker than expected.‘You just concentrate on keeping them pleasure boats out of the way and let NYPD air division deal with the pretty little biplane…’
Mahoney turned and gave O’Brian a quizzical look, ‘What the frack? What sort of response is that? Have they all been smoking weed or something? It’s as if they don’t care…what’s going on? I’ve never heard control talk like that before!’
O’Brian frowned, ‘Something ain’t right. A few minutes ago they were keeping the news drones at bay, now they’re happily letting a vintage warbird fly promo circuits around the statue… it don’t make any sense!’
His frown turned to a look of alarm as the note of the Pratt and Whitney changed and the pair watched as the biplane started to dive towards the harbour waters, gathering speed as it went. Then, from a height he reckoned to be about five hundred feet, the Stearman pulled up into an aerobatic loop, the long aerial banner streaming behind it. ‘Dammit to hell, the idiot’s now trying low level aerobatics with that bloody banner still on tow! What’s the fool doing?’
The Stearman just about managed to go over the top of the loop, with the banner gamely following the biplane’s circular path. However, the added drag of the advertising banner meant the Stearman lost height in the manoeuvre and was now flying well below the height of the Statue of Liberty. With a growing sense of horror O’Brian watched as the pilot paused in level flight for barely a couple of seconds before starting to pull up into another loop.
‘Oh my God, the moron’s not gonna make it! He’s too low to do another loop!’ he cried.
‘And it’s flying directly over that bomb and crane!’ Mahoney added, sharing in the growing sense of doom.
The Boeing Stearman, its nine-cylinder radial engine roaring, staggered to the top of the aerobatic loop, the long aerial banner still being dragged behind it. However, this time it was clear that the drag of the banner message “Only through penance can you seek redemption” was too much for the bright blue and yellow biplane. It seemed to hang in the air for a brief moment, the Pratt and Whitney engine and two blade propeller, clawing at the morning air in vain. Then, all air speed lost, the inverted warbird began to fall out of the sky. Without sufficient height to recover, it was obvious to O’Brian, Mahoney and the hundreds of onlookers, that the Boeing Stearman had made its last flight. Helpless, they all watched as the mass of canvas, metal and petrol, tumbled out of the bright blue sky and crashed right next to the crane and extended jib, which still supported the replica atomic bomb ‘Fat Boy’.
There was a ‘crump’ as the biplane smashed into the paving of the plaza, in front of the Statue of Liberty, right beside the mobile crane with its extend jib and swaying payload. O’Brian and Mahoney gasped involuntarily in the expectation that there would be a fire and maybe some sort of explosion, but there was nothing except an eerie silence. The pilot had clearly perished in the crash. The cockpit area was completely smashed, crushed by the large radial engine that was forced backwards by the impact. They held their breath, fixated by the strange scene of the crashed warbird spread out below the swaying atomic bomb replica. There were no flames, but a glow started to emanate from where the pilot had been seated. It was a strange bright light, like the blue-white of plasma and it spread until it enveloped the entire wreckage of the aircraft, pulsating and dancing across the broken metal tubing structure. As they watched, the dancing light; like a pool of flaming liquid, spread across the plaza paving stones until it reached the extended ground supports of the mobile crane. Then it flowed upwards, engulfing the entire chassis and cabin before reaching the tall jib itself. Without pause the blue-white plasma then climbed the crane arm, reaching toward the wires that suspended the replica iconic atom bomb. As if excited to find its goal, its prize, the dancing flames seemed to accelerate down the suspension wires and over the entire bright orange body of ‘Fat Boy’. Within moments, the swaying replica atomic device was almost lost behind a wall of blue-white pulsating plasma that danced so brightly, it was almost painful to watch. O’Brian thought to himself that it was perhaps the most beautiful and enthralling thing he had ever witnessed. It was also his very last thought, ever…
There was a flash of light, many times brighter than the sun. Then there was a shock wave of light green mist and air that silently emanated at hypersonic speeds from the epicentre of the explosion. Only after the shock wave had passed and done it’s damage did the sound arrive—a deafening boom. New York harbour patrol boat Whiskey Delta Two Fiver, along with its two occupants, vanished from the face of the earth and a green mushroom cloud, reminiscent of a nuclear explosion, rose into the summer morning sky.
The advert for the latest beautifying skin cream ended and the serious, but familiar features of Bruce Quaid returned to the screen. ‘Reports are just coming in of a major explosion in New York Harbour!’ he greeted returning viewers dramatically. ‘A bomb, suspended from the jib of a crane in front of the Statue of Liberty and thought to be a harmless publicity stunt, has just exploded, devastating the Harbour area!’
Footage taken by one of the news drones only minutes before, from the clear blue skies of New York Harbour, showed the Boeing Stearman crashing onto the plaza. There then followed the strange plasma light which engulfed the replica atomic bomb, followed by the explosion and shock wave, before the footage stopped suddenly as the blast from the bomb engulfed the news drone. The footage changed to another viewpoint; this time from further away, which showed a green coloured mushroom cloud towering into the sky above the New York skyline.
‘As you can clearly see, a massive explosion has sent clouds of an unknown gas towering into the skies above New York. As yet, we do not know what the gas is and whether it is radioactive, or poisonous. Reports are coming in of casualties in the Harbour area, with great damage to buildings and structures. It is a terrible and scary scene ladies and gentlemen! I urge you, if you live in New York, to seek shelter and close doors and windows. As the contents of the green cloud descend upon the city, we can only presume that it’s contents are deadly! This is a terrible twenty four hours for the great city of New York! Riots on the streets, UN senators being taken hostage, and now a huge explosion and deadly green mist! Where will it all end? We shall be discussing this and other issues right after this word from our sponsor…..’
Senator Jacqueline Caxton tried to open her eyes, but when she did, everything was blurred. She tried to focus her mind and her vision, but it was hard, really hard. It felt as if she was burning up, feverish and sweating profusely. The last thing she could remember, before falling unconscious, was trying to shelter from the green mist being sprayed over her head by that bizarre radio-controlled flying contraption. She tried not to breath in the damp gas, but with nowhere to run and being only able to hold her breath for so long, she had succumbed and breathed in a lungful of the tasteless, but moist, green air. Soon after, she passed out, but not before hearing the anguished shouts and screams of the other UN senators as they too tried in vain to escape the green mist being sprayed over the UN auditorium. Images of her teenage son and daughter entered her feverish mind and she began to panic. She was a single parent trying to juggle a hectic political career and the needs of her children. For their sa
ke, she couldn’t just lie there and accept her fate. She had to do something, she had to escape!
With a gargantuan effort, Senator Caxton opened her eyes once more and attempted to lift her head. With still blurred vision, she looked about her and took in her surroundings. Around her lay other bodies, some weakly moving, some inert. From her limited view, positioned as she was on her back, under one of the many work stations, she couldn’t see anybody standing. There was just the vague outlines of her colleagues collapsed on the auditorium floor, much the same as herself. She attempted to sit up, by rolling her body and placing an elbow on the floor, but the effort was too much. Sweat dripped into her eyes and she slipped back into unconsciousness, but not before she saw the shape of a person in an environment suit approach and peer down at her from behind the visor of a protective hood. ‘Help me…. Please…’ she croaked before the fever overcame her once more.
It was like being deep underwater and trying to reach the surface, the amount of effort required was almost too much. It was only the fear of leaving her children without a parent that gave Senator Caxton the strength to reach toward the light. Once more, she opened her eyes and winced at the bright overhead lights that shone into her face. ‘She’s regaining consciousness,’ she heard a distant voice say. She turned her head toward the source of the voice and saw a nurse call to somebody outside the curtained cubicle she lay in. Clearly, she was in a hospital and judging by the noise around her, a very busy one. Senator Caxton could hear the cries and groans of other patients nearby, as well as the terse, almost panicked voices of medical staff.
‘Where am I?’ she asked the nurse. When the male nurse turned to reply, Senator Caxton was alarmed to see that he was wearing some sort of improvised protective equipment which appeared to have been made from plastic bin liners. What the hell was going on? Just what was in that gas they all breathed in? And why the DIY kit? Wasn’t there enough protective clothing for all the medical staff? Just how many casualties were there? It dawned on her that the fact she could ask herself so many questions, meant that at least her cognitive skills were returning. Small mercies…
‘You’re in the Boston Medical Centre ma’am,’ the nurse replied, talking through a basic surgical mask. ‘Please lie back and rest, a doctor will be hear in a moment…’
‘Boston, Massachusetts? That’s miles away, why aren’t I in a New York Hospital? What’s going on?’ she demanded suddenly alarmed. Her children were in New York waiting for her. She couldn’t just lie around in Boston! This was all insane…
‘The hospitals in New York are full ma’am. That’s why you were brought here. Now please remain calm, being agitated just makes it worse.’
‘Make what worse?’ the senator demanded. ‘Just what is wrong with me? I demand to know!’
She could feel her pulse quickening and beads of sweat popping out on her forehead once more; and her skin, it felt as if it was on fire! She tried to scratch herself, but she discovered her arms and legs were secured to the medical trolley she lay on. Desperately, Senator Caxton fought against restraining straps, tossing her head and body from side to side. It felt as if thousands of insects were crawling inside her skin, moving up and down her limbs.
‘Please ma’am, try to remain calm. A doctor will be here any moment,’ the nurse told her in a panicky voice. He kept his distance, remaining at the very edge of the cubicle and made no attempt to approach his patient.
She looked down at her body, mostly covered by a medical gown, but her arms and legs were exposed. She stopped thrashing around long enough to see the skin of her upper left arm rippling and moving of its own accord. It was as if there were things under the skin trying to escape. To her horror she saw the flesh of her arm part and a green goo pour out of the open wound. Within the green slime were thousands of small crab-like creatures that scattered down her arm and off the edge of the medical trolley. Senator Jacqueline Caxton opened her mouth to scream, but found she couldn’t. Out of her mouth and throat vast quantities of the green goo poured, each drop containing dozens of the small crab-like creatures. The last words the senator heard before she mercifully passed away, was the terrified scream of the male nurse who stood petrified and unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific scene.
‘As you can see from our aerial footage, ambulances are queuing to deliver patients to New York hospitals. Accident departments, inundated by casualties from the riots, have now become overwhelmed by the influx of injured from the horrendous Statue of Liberty explosion!’ Bruce Quaid, lead anchorman of streaming channel CNK told his audience. There were the beginnings of a slightly wild look about his face as the enormity of situation began to dawn on the seasoned presenter. Never in his thirty two years of network news had he seen so many major news stories take place all at once.
‘Ambulances and emergency vehicles carrying dozens of injured at a time, are being diverted to hospitals in neighboring states as NY State can no longer cope. However, we are now receiving reports that hospitals in Boston and Philadelphia are also at saturation point and are turning casualties away.’
The streaming transmission changed view to the interior of one of the hospitals. It showed a corridor filled with the groaning injured, mostly lying on the floor in bloodied clothes, some lucky ones lying on make-shift stretchers, a few very lucky ones lying on medical trolleys. Medics and nurses, clearly overwhelmed by the influx and wearing whatever protective equipment they could; mostly bin liners, ran from patient to patient in an attempt at some sort of triage.
There was an audible cry from the far end of the long hospital corridor, some distance from the camera and medical staff could be clearly seen running away from whatever had happened.
‘For the sake of God, run!’ A wild-eyed doctor yelled at the camera operative, who to his credit and ultimate stupidity, remained where his was to record what was happening. A green fluid ran down the corridor towards the camera, running into and over the unfortunate souls lying unprotected on the corridor floor. Faintly visible when the camera zoomed in, were a horde of small crab-like creatures that ran just ahead of the advancing green goo; their numbers multiplying all the time. The fluid ran to the feet of the camera operative and the very last transmission was of thousands of small crab-like creatures pouring over the shoes and up his trouser legs. There was a loud scream and the transmission abruptly ended.
There was a pause, as the normally unflappable Bruce Quaid was lost for words. ‘And now a word from our sponsor,’ he eventually said weakly. The picture cut to an advert for extra soapy dishwasher tablets.
After the green mushroom cloud came the rain, in thick black droplets that stained everything it touched. Debris, dirt and dust, sucked up into the initial post explosion cloud, had risen high into the atmosphere, before combining with water vapour and falling back to earth as black rain.
Castle Williams sat on the corner of Governors island overlooking New York Harbour, and in direct-line-of-site with the Statue of Liberty. Built in the early 19th century to defend the harbour, it was a circular fortification that sat on the northwest point of Governors Island. Designed to withstand the onslaught of a full naval-broadside it still stood, somewhat battered but defiant, after the explosion on Liberty Island. Which is more than could be said for many of the buildings close to the waters edge of New York Harbour.
The black rain stained the red sandstone walls of the old fort, which simply made it look even more forbidding than before. On top of the ramparts, dwarfed by the sheer size of the castle, stood two solitary figures who looked towards the remains of the Stature of Liberty. The mist and vapour from the initial explosion had now dispersed and the pair looked on as the black rain stained the green copper of the fallen icon. It lay with its raised arm and head under the murky harbour water and its base and feet pointing at an awkward angle, but remaining on its plinth.
‘I never did like that thing…’ Miss Smith commented dourly. ‘All that rubbish about “liberty, equality and fraternity”. What sort o
f fool believes in such things?’
‘It was designed by Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, a Frenchman, in the 1870’s. I used to go drinking and whoring with him in Paris. The Franco-Prussian war effected him you know…’ Bishop Dydnski responded wistfully looking over the water at the tumbled remains.
‘You didn’t tell him did you? That the Franco-Prussian war of 1871 was one of your little pet projects?’ Miss Smith asked, not bothering to look at her companion, but continuing to stare into the far distance.
‘What? Me? No...’ Dydnski answered in a shocked tone. ‘At least I don’t think so…Absinthe does funny things to your head…’
Miss Smith glanced over her right shoulder and noticed two figures approaching them from the other side of the ramparts. She elbowed Dydnski and said, ‘They’re here…. Leave the romantic reminiscing for another day…’
The pair turned away from the view of the harbour and looked at the approaching couple as they walked around the ramparts of Castle Williams towards them, avoiding the post explosion detritus and debris as they went. On the left was a stocky white-haired man casually dressed in a pair of faded dungarees and worn lace-up boots. He was of middle to senior years, with a worn-leathery face and a short, but well kept beard. Beside him was a lithe, handsome woman with dark black hair that was braided all the way down her back, leaving the nape of her neck exposed; whilst her aristocratic features were made up subtly, to highlight her steely dark eyes and somewhat thin lips. Oddly, the heavy black rain seemed to avoid the pair and they remained totally dry.
‘Myrddin, Nimue!’ Dydnski called out to the visitors as they approached. ‘What a pleasant surprise! Such a pleasure to see you both! Have you come to admire the results of our handiwork?’
‘Nothing pleasant about it Derek,’ Myrddin responded. They stopped about a metre in front of Miss Smith and Bishop Dydnski, but made no attempt to greet or shake hands. ‘We’re only here at the behest of “head office”. We’ve been told in no uncertain terms to keep lines of communication open. So, here we are… unhappily…’
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