by J W Brazier
Staggered several hundred miles apart, two other vessels with identical tows, the Miss Allison and Miss Carol, approached similar locks and dams.
In a rigid iron grip of steel cables, ratchets, and rope, each vessel pushed fifteen hazardous red-flagged barges. Lashed two abreast, each barge contained gasoline, jet fuel, and liquefied natural gas.
The stout old workhorses had originated in a bygone era, built from strong Pennsylvania steel when the phrase “Built in America by Americans” had meaning.
Five river miles away stood Miss Jean’s next scheduled stop: New Cumberland Locks and Dam. The old two-chambered lock, built by the Army Corp of Engineers in the early 1970s, accommodated both northbound and southbound river traffic.
Captain Jack Cook, a temporary trip pilot, sat at the controls in the wheelhouse of the Miss Jean. The regular pilots for the company’s three-vessel fleet had disappeared. Distraught wives and family members were frantic, searching for the missing twenty-year-plus veterans. Law enforcement agencies hadn’t found a single lead to follow, though. The three men had vanished without a trace.
Baffled by his employees’ sudden disappearance, the owner of the three vessels needed replacement tugs pilots, and fast. His first call for substitutes went out to a new employment agency, Marine Pro. The company owner thought it convenient, but odd, that Jack Cook and two of his friends were available on such short notice. Qualified river pilots were hard to come by in a beg-borrow-or-steal industry. At first glance, the resumes of Captain Cook and his two friends evoked serious concerns. They showed minimal experience handling hazardous red-flagged barges, but the owner had little choice. The cargo had to move on schedule.
A deeper background check would’ve shown Captain Cook and friends had falsified their Coast Guard marine credentials. The three men were on the FBI radar, suspected but not charged with sabotage, and profiled as environmental extremists and professed revolutionaries.
Jack Cook, nicknamed “Cotton,” proclaimed himself a preacher of sorts, one who’d applied his own Jim Jones twisted logic to fit perverse passions and distorted visions of grandeur. He’d cultivated a mixed bag of loyal devotees from poorer towns among the Appalachian, Ozark, and Smoky Mountain areas. Cook and his band of misfit thugs worked for anyone in need of black-market projects, as long as the covert job required no critical thinking.
The locks and dams outlined Cook’s radar screens from two miles out, but were still hidden from view through the dense fog. Cook radioed the lockmaster, giving his current position and speed, and requesting permission to lock south. The lockmaster asked that he hold up on the bank while he prepared the lock.
Cook pulled his engine throttles into full reverse. Miss Jean’s twin Fairbanks Morse diesel engines shuddered and fought against the river’s fast-flowing southbound current that sucked the barges toward the dam’s spillways.
While the lockmaster flooded his chamber, Cook maneuvered the barge string into the safer slack waters. He’d nudge the lead barge’s nose into the shallow mud bank. Jim checked his watch; it was 4:45 a.m. He picked up his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number.
A nasal, high-toned voice answered, “Hello.”
“Brother Greg, are you in position?” Cook asked.
Greg Jensen piloted the Miss Carol. A scrawny man at five-four, with stained bad teeth from twenty years of chewing tobacco, Greg prided himself as head deacon in Cook’s Kentucky group.
“Yeah, Pastor Cotton, I’m in position and ready, waiting to go in my chamber,” Greg said before spitting into his spit-cup, a constant companion.
“Greg, have you heard from Charlie?” Cook asked. “We need to get a three-way call going.”
“I talked with him earlier. He was idling on the bank waiting to go in the lock.”
“Roger that,” Cook said. “Give me a minute. I’ll call him and bring him on with us.”
Cook connected with Charlie Johnston, pilot of the Miss Allison. Charlie hailed from West Virginia and was the oldest member in Cook’s sadistic faction. Charlie was a gruff-talking, beer-barreled, ex-gang biker who couldn’t ride anymore because of severe arthritis. He’d broken almost every bone at one time or another.
“Brother Charlie, get on speaker phone,” Cook said. “Greg’s with us on a three-way. Where are you now?”
“I’m next up to lock southbound, Cotton. I’m ready.”
While the Miss Jean waited on the bank, pumps flooded the massive concrete-and-steel chamber. Before Cook’s tow could enter the chamber, the water level had to rise over sixty feet to equalize with the river’s pooled water behind the dam.
The three men had timed their lock arrivals to match. Cook sat waiting at the New Cumberland Locks and Dam at mile marker 54.3, near Stratton, Ohio. Farther downriver, Greg’s tow drifted in slack water near RC Byrd Locks and Dam in Gallipolis Ferry, West Virginia, at mile marker 279.2. Finally, Charlie floated his barges to mile marker 606.8 at McAlpine Locks and Dam in Louisville, Kentucky.
Finally, Cook heard his radio squawk: “New Cumberland Locks to the Miss Jean on 13, over.”
“Miss Jean back to New Cumberland on 13,” Cook replied.
“Captain, my chamber’s ready. I’m opening the gates. Come on down to the wall.”
“Roger, New Cumberland. My mate is out there and has your lock report.”
“Roger, Captain, we’ll meet you there. New Cumberland over and out.”
Captain Cook took a deep breath. He picked up his cell phone. “Okay, boys, I’m cleared to approach the wall and enter my chamber. How much time you guys need for your chambers?”
Charlie spoke first: “I’m making my approach now, Cotton.”
Greg’s lockmaster spoke on the radio in the background: “RC Byrd to the Miss Carol on 13. Come in, Captain.”
“Miss Carol back to RC Byrd on 13.”
“Captain, you can get on the wall. I’ve got the chamber ready for you. What’s in your tow?”
“Miss Carol back. All red flags: jet fuel, gasoline, and natural gas. Deckhands got the lock ticket for you.”
“Okay, Captain. Have you altered your tow since your last locking?”
“Miss Carol back. Negative, same cargo—New Orleans bound.”
“Good. Saves paperwork. You boys take it easy on my wall. The chamber’s ready. I’m opening the gates.”
“Roger that. Miss Carol clear.”
“Cotton, you hear that?” Greg asked.
“Sure did. Okay, guys, I figure our lock approach’s less than half an hour and about fifteen to tie off inside the chamber. Say another fifteen to descend. Let’s do this thing at 5:45.”
“Sounds about right to me, Cotton—5:45,” Charlie said.
“Roger on the 5:45, Pastor,” Greg said.
“Okay, men, we’re almost there,” Cook said.
The pause seemed long as Greg and Charlie waited for more.
“No need for speeches, men,” Cook said. “We’ve done our good-byes. We choose to make this sacrifice. Our cause is justified; we’ll bring the whore of Babylon to her knees. Stay focused on the plan. Don’t fret over your families. They’ll never want for money. Abram’s taking care of that, so let’s do this thing. They’ll remember us for a long time, and if something goes wrong, remember the button. They’ll get our message loud and clear when they feel it in their pocketbooks.”
Captain Cook ended the call and tossed the untraceable cell phone aside. He tried to stay focused. He’d memorized and gone over Abram’s instructions a hundred times. Just stick to the plan, he kept thinking. Cook picked up the boat’s radio to call Ted, his mate, waiting at the head of the tow. Ted’s job was to radio back their approaching distance to the New Cumberland locks.
“Ted, can you hear me?”
“Roger that, Captain. I hear you fine.”
“Ted, when we’re secured inside the chamber, I want you to come back to the boat and gather the entire crew into the galley. We’ll hang out in the chamber for a few minutes before we depa
rt southbound. That means everyone, Ted.”
“Okay, Cap. What’s up? It sounds important.”
“Yes, I guess you could say that. I’ll tell the crew when everyone’s together in the galley.”
Cook had argued with his cohorts in crime for showing one last act of compassion, not a trait he’d usually practiced, he knew. But he had decided to warn the boat’s crew. The forewarning would allow the men a chance at escape—a small chance. Charlie and Greg didn’t think it mattered and couldn’t understand why they would start thinking that way now, but both agreed to do the same.
“Okay, Cap,” Ted radioed in, “your bow’s six hundred feet to the bull nose, closing fast, and five wide to the wall, closing the gap all the time. Three … two … one—you’re against the wall.”
“Against the wall, understood.”
The tension tightening inside him like a vise, Cook listened to his mate’s radio calling out their distance. Silently, except for the noise of an engine room generator, the boat and tow slid past the giant gates and inched deeper into the lock’s chamber.
Ted made his final lash on the lead barges’ port bow timberheads. Another deckhand made fast his line on the aft barges’ port stern. Captain Cook eased into his chair. Eleven hundred feet of heavy steel and volatile liquids rested inside the dam’s lock chamber. Cook placed both rudders amidships and his engine throttles in neutral. He’d delivered his package, as planned.
“All secure, New Cumberland. We have two lines on her,” Cook announced to the lockmaster.
“Roger, Captain.”
Cook watched the giant steel gates close behind him. The plan was to wait until the boat and tows dropped low in their chambers. Their position in the chambers enhanced the desired shape-charge effect. The blast would have maximum outcome on the northbound and southbound chambers.
Then Cook made one last call. He spoke three words to the silent party—“Five forty-five”—then powered the cell phone down and tossed it into the trash can. He grabbed the sound-powered telephone, set the dial to ring the galley, and cranked the handle several times. By now, the entire crew should be in the galley, as he’d instructed Ted.
“Galley, mate speaking,” Ted answered.
“Everyone’s there, Ted?”
“The whole crew’s here, Captain. Mind telling us what’s up?”
What’s up? I’m giving you a chance to live, Cook thought, wanting to scream it into the phone.
“Listen careful,” Cook said. “Tell everybody what I’m about to say, because you haven’t much time. This isn’t a joke or prank. Every barge void is packed and wired with enough military-grade C-4 explosives to take out all of Cincinnati several times over, and I’m holding the button.”
“What the blazes are you talking about?” Ted said. “Are you—”
“Quiet! Listen, just listen! I’m setting this puppy off at 5:45 sharp. You’ve about ten minutes by my watch to get off the boat and up the chamber wall. I wouldn’t waste any time, Ted.”
Ted cursed, but Cook went on.
“Oh, and don’t anyone even think about being a hero. I’ve locked the wheelhouse tight, and like I said, my finger’s on the trigger. I’ll just lift my thumb. Tell them what I said, Ted. Now. You all should start moving your tails while you still can.”
Ted cursed again, then shouted, “You sick piece of garbage! I hope you rot in hell!”
Cook hung up the phone and settled in to wait until 5:45.
*
Sleepy-eyed crew members in the galley sprang wide awake when Ted started shouting obscenities. He didn’t even bother to hang the telephone back in its cradle. Instead, he flung it against the wall and then whirled around to face his gawking crewmates, their eyes wide and mouths ajar.
“Holy … That new pilot is insane!” Ted shouted. “The tow voids are packed with explosives, and he’s going to push the button at 5:45. And he wasn’t joking! Get your tails moving, everyone!”
*
At the window of his small control room, the lockmaster watched the slow descent of the Miss Jean and her string of barges deeper into the chamber. She was his last vessel before his 6:00 a.m. watch change. He saw Captain Jack Cook smile and wave from the wheelhouse as the vessel descended out of sight.
Then the lockmaster bolted from his chair, his eyes bulging at what he was seeing. The crew members began scurrying up and out like panicked rats piling over one another along the lock chamber’s walls. Frightened men soon ran full sprint past his control booth, motioning and shouting.
“Bomb! Bomb! She’s gonna blow! Run for your life!”
The men ran toward the parking area away from the locks. The lockmaster couldn’t believe what they were saying. He started to move from his control room to investigate. The lockmaster stopped, though, when he heard Captain Cook’s voice on his radio.
“Miss Jean to New Cumberland, I’m giving you fair warning. Abandon this lock now. I am a warrior in the Army of God, and we are about to strike a blow against the whore of Babylon and its capitalist pigs destroying our environment. This tow will explode in six minutes.”
“What?” the lockmaster whispered.
Time stood still for the lockmaster; he felt the thunderous beats of his heart in his temples. His locks and dam were about to be obliterated by a terrorist. He struggled to accept the reality of the unfolding horrors. Fear held him in its numbing grip. He couldn’t make his body move. Those precious seconds lost accelerated to fast-forward as he refocused on the certainty of his plight.
The lockmaster lunged for the alarms. Emergency sirens and horns began to wail their warnings. He grabbed a phone with a direct link to the FBI and Homeland Security.
“Bomb in the lock chamber at New Cumberland! Not a drill or a hoax!” he shouted.
He threw the phone on the desk, turned, and ran out the door, shouting at his approaching partner, “Bomb! Run!” the lockmaster yelled.
In an act of futility, both sprinted for their lives, following the escaping Miss Jean crew members. Within moments, the New Cumberland Locks and Dam would vanish in a blinding white-hot instant, as if it had never existed.
*
One mile south of the locks, an Ohio state trooper walked out the door of an all-night convenience store with his full thermos of fresh coffee. The air felt colder, and the fog looked thicker. He was thinking of his wife and children, looking forward to getting home. His shift was over in two hours.
He waved good-bye to the night attendant, but halfway to his cruiser, he stopped and turned toward the loud wail of emergency sirens and horns coming from New Cumberland Locks. Then he saw a gigantic fireball boil upward, lighting the sky for miles. The thick fog reflected and amplified the effect, as if the sky were ablaze.
The convenience store attendant stepped outside next to the trooper. In their remaining seconds of life, both men experienced a tremendous concussion wave and intense white-hot heat. In an instant, the store disintegrated into fragments, its gas pumps exploding geysers of flame and heat.
The blast furnace concussion wave crushed the patrol car like an aluminum can. The propelled bodies of the store attendant and state trooper: shredded and scorched, melding into the patrol car’s unrecognizable form. Their instantaneous deaths: merciful.
Concussion waves and tremendous heat continued outward in an annihilating radius of over eight miles. Homes, businesses, and structures on both sides of the river vaporized and incinerated in its hellish path. The surrounding areas resembled the impact of a nuclear blast.
The ground continued to heave, shake, and crack with each successive explosion. What Jack Cook and his co-conspirators didn’t know was that Abram had GEM-Tech design a lethal airborne biological agent to be released by the blasts.
What death, destruction, and mayhem the explosions hadn’t accomplished, the release of Abram’s deadly toxin would, killing on contact during its short lifespan as it drifted for miles.
The same sequence of events and destruction were occurring
simultaneously around both the RC Byrd and McAlpine locks. Louisville, though, was the hardest hit, as McAlpine was closer to downtown—the population denser, road traffic heavier.
America’s heartland had suffered a major act of terrorism. The three blast zones were reminiscent of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atom bombs had been dropped. Thousands of innocent lay dead and dying, with untold numbers injured. Bodies floated in the river like driftwood piling up after a spring flood. Mangled and charred corpses lay strewn across lawns, pastures, and highways for miles, like debris scattered after a storm.
Control room alarms began to sound at the nuclear power plant at Shipping Port, Pennsylvania. Technicians raced into action with emergency shutdown procedures. The possibility of a complete loss of cooling water or cracks in the reactor meant a potential meltdown and nuclear explosion.
New Cumberland’s blast affected three coal-burning power plants, while RC Byrd crippled four and McAlpine another five.
Water once held behind the three dams now gushed in free fall. Nothing remained of their structures but gaping holes. A cascading effect in dramatic water levels rose and fell up and down the Ohio River Valley in an unstoppable flood.
News outlets were quick to spread the gory details of the disaster, complete with film footage. Cooler weather had increased energy demands and exhausted the national power grid to the verge of collapse, short-circuited under the strain from twelve major power plants going offline.
Eastern seaboard power stations scrambled. Blackouts were snowballing. Early morning financial news followed suit, predicting commodity prices across the board to skyrocket.
*
Secluded at his estate, Abram sipped cognac while gazing into a crackling fireplace. His untraceable throwaway cell phone rang twice. A deep, gravel-throated voice spoke fast.
“It’s done. Complete destruction. Death tolls high. I’ve informed New York and the White House. The president is ready to move.”
Abram smiled, tossed the small phone into the fire, and spoke two words: “Phase three.”