Doomsday Apocalypse

by Bobby Akart

  Hayden considered her mental acuity while in public to be a form of managed paranoia. She practiced staying in the present when in vulnerable situations rather than thinking about the rigors that accompanied her career.

  Managed paranoia. Both hands on the wheel.

  Hayden smiled to herself as she stepped onto the train for her quick, ten-minute ride to Congress Heights and home for a quiet evening with Prowler.

  Chapter 25

  Delta Flight 322

  “Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, this is Captain Bowen. I’d like to thank you for joining us on this short flight to Mobile this evening. We’ve received an updated weather report from our folks on the ground, who’ve advised us that we’ll be experiencing a little boost from those cold, northerly winds, which will place us in Mobile a few minutes early. However, the turbulence and shortened flight time requires me to suspend cabin service for the safety of our flight attendants. I know that you have a choice of airlines when you fly, and on behalf of Delta, let me say thank you, as well as wish you a happy New Year.”

  The men seated in the exit row in front of Cort moaned and lamented to one another how they were being prevented from keeping their buzz going with another drink. After some complaining back and forth, they finally quietened down, and within a few minutes, one of them was snoring loudly.

  Cort checked his watch and made the adjustment from Eastern to Central time. Their scheduled arrival was 10:47 local time, an hour earlier than DC time.

  The aircraft shook and wobbled slightly as a gust of wind grabbed the wings. Cort instinctively leaned toward the porthole window to look outside. Although it was pitch black, when something happens on an aircraft as a result of turbulence, most passengers believe they can catch a glimpse of the culprit, giving them a sense of relief that nothing further is going to occur.

  Cort saw darkness, but a hint of frosty ice forming on the window. His dad used to say bad weather always looks worse through a window. Growing up on the Gulf Coast, the bad weather didn’t ordinarily resemble ice on glass, but rather, pummeling rain and high winds brought by hurricanes. This past hurricane season had come in like a lamb and left like one as well, leaving many dumbfounded. For the second year in a row, a major hurricane had not made landfall in the United States.

  Cort sighed as he considered that a storm of a different kind was coming. One that had been brewing for many years and was truly giving credence to the saying that history often repeats itself.

  His melancholy mood carried him right back to Washington and the visit with his father-in-law. George Trowbridge came from a long line of New Haven, Connecticut, aristocrats dating to the early 1800s. The Trowbridge name was synonymous with shipping and the founding of the Wisconsin Territory before it achieved statehood.

  Like many families, the Trowbridges had risen and fallen over the centuries as they made a living in America. George was a self-made man, parlaying his connections in New Haven with the Bush family into a career in politics, although not in public service. George Trowbridge had learned that true power was wielded with money, which bought influence, and that in turn provided him power.

  Nothing happened on K Street—the major thoroughfare in Washington known for its lobbyists, political think tanks, and public advocacy groups—without Trowbridge’s knowledge. Over many decades in Washington, Trowbridge established connections within, and outside of, government. Without a doubt, he had a pulse on everything that was happening in Washington, and was rarely surprised by an outcome.

  Trowbridge was a Yale graduate, having attended undergraduate there with his friend, former President George W. Bush. While President Bush was floundering with a 2.35 grade point average, so low that the Texas School of Law rejected his application, Trowbridge excelled in his studies and rose to the top of his class. Over the next five decades, he epitomized the movers and shakers of Washington, establishing contacts on both sides of the aisle to benefit his clients.

  Now he was withering way, suffering from failing kidneys, and forced to remain at home near his dialysis machine. His mind, however, was sharp. And while he was no longer an imposing, physical force, like he once was, George Trowbridge was still dialed into the secrets of K Street, Capitol Hill, and the White House.

  Cort was a senior at Yale when he met Meredith Trowbridge. She was a stunningly beautiful girl, who, as a freshman, set the male population abuzz when she arrived that fall. She was not necessarily at Yale because of her desire to follow in her father’s footsteps. She had little interest in politics and didn’t intend to pursue a postgraduate degree. Her goals were to obtain an education degree and pursue her passion of teaching. If a nice young man came along during the process, then all the better.

  Cort met Meredith at a fraternity event following an early-season basketball game, and the two hit it off immediately. They began dating and he eventually was offered the opportunity to meet her parents.

  For a small-town Alabama kid, it would’ve been easy for Cort to be intimidated by his first visit to the Trowbridge home. An imposing house overlooking Long Island Sound, the Trowbridge home represented years of successes achieved in Washington by Meredith’s father.

  At first, his interaction with her parents was somewhat cold. She was a freshman, and Cort was a senior and four years older than she was. However, after a private conversation with her father, Cort was accepted with open arms. As it turned out, he and his would-be father-in-law had a lot more in common than one might surmise at first glance.

  It was a commonality that sealed his fate.

  Chapter 26

  Delta Flight 322

  After that fateful dinner party, Cort’s life was never the same, nor did it belong to him. Prior to meeting George Trowbridge, he planned on returning to Mobile and getting a job. He was an above-average basketball player, but on an Ivy League team like Yale, he was never bound for the NBA. Cort had no interest in politics, unlike the vast majority of students at the university.

  He was, however, a student of history, especially from a political perspective. Cort couldn’t read enough about the founding of America. He studied historical accounts, and when he felt like the modern treatises were skewed to lead the reader to a particular conclusion, he sought antiquated books from the seventeenth and eighteenth century.

  To Cort, in order to understand what the Founding Fathers had in mind when forming the United States, you had to read their words, not someone else’s summation. He read The Way to Wealth and Poor Richard’s Almanac by Benjamin Franklin. A constant source of reference was The Federalist Papers written by James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and John Jay. He even read the Two Treatises of Government, written by John Locke, that was a major influence on Thomas Jefferson in his writing of the Declaration of Independence.

  In short, Cort was a history nerd, intent on studying the past in order to make an impact on the future of America. His frame of mind suited him perfectly for the policy wonk positions he was inserted into by his father-in-law early in his career.

  As his relationship with Meredith grew closer, it became apparent that Cort would be the Trowbridge son that George never had. As a result, he was taken under the patriarch’s wing and was groomed in George’s vision.

  George Trowbridge viewed politicians with a jaded eye. He’d seen them bought and sold over the years. Some were swayed by emotional arguments, while others were directed through promises of future accommodations and power. All were interested in money, the universal means of gaining influence.

  Cort’s future was not as a politician. Instead, he was being groomed to be an influencer—the person the politician turned to for sage, unbiased advice. Cort’s advice was, in fact, based upon good judgment and wisdom. Although he’d never admit this aloud to anyone except his mentor and father-in-law, his advice was biased. Anyone who claimed to be unbiased, in Cort’s view, was lying. It was not possible.

  To be sure, Cort gave excellent advice and had the best interests of the country in m
ind when he helped his boss, the senior senator from Alabama, who also happened to be the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. As a senior aide on Senator McNeil’s staff, Cort sat in on every policymaking meeting involving the intelligence apparatus of the United States. As a result, Cort held a very high security clearance.

  The only meetings he was excluded from involved political matters. This would change at some point in his career as Trowbridge maneuvered Cort into a higher position, either within the White House or as chief of staff for another influential senator. With a potential power shift coming in Washington, it might be time for Cort to prepare for the future.

  Despite the change in the political winds, his future was bright and financially secure. The hours were long and the travel schedule was tedious. Even though they’d lived apart more than they were together in recent years, he and Meredith agreed it was better to raise their daughter in Mobile than in Washington. Not only was the cost of living less, the schools were significantly better. That benefitted both daughter and wife, who pursued her dream to teach grade-school kids in Mobile.

  Cort’s mind eventually wandered to the other passenger on the flight who held a position of power and influence in Washington—Congressman Pratt. He was an anomaly in Alabama, a state dominated by republican voters. He was the lone democratic congressman in Alabama, representing the seventh congressional district.

  Gerrymandered many years ago to cover a large swath of the rural areas of South Alabama, including Montgomery and Selma, Alabama-7 encompassed almost all of Birmingham and a sliver of the state along the Alabama River where Pratt Farms was located.

  Congressman Pratt, a longtime democrat, was seen as a centrist who was willing to reach across the aisle to strike an accord when it was in the best interests of the country. But, like all politicians, sometimes a three-way tug-of-war existed between constituent interests, national party demands, and personal principles.

  Of late, the demands of the Democratic National Convention, or the DNC, overshadowed what Congressman Pratt believed in his heart. However, after being in office for two dozen years and continuously winning reelection efforts with little or no opposition, Congressman Pratt found himself in a position that placed national party demands ahead of all other considerations.

  Cort knew Congressman Pratt well enough to realize he was in an untenable position as chairman of the House Judiciary Committee. The stresses of Washington were beginning to take its toll on the man anyway, and the upcoming change in power would likely test his limits, especially in light of what he was tasked to do. That said, Cort knew Congressman Pratt was highly respected by all, making him nearly immune to partisan attacks.

  Cort shook off the machinations of politics, and his thoughts turned to how much he missed his girls. He checked his watch again. It was 10:22. They were only twenty-five minutes from touchdown at Mobile Regional Airport.

  He decided to use Delta’s in-flight internet connection to FaceTime with them, even if it was only a couple of minutes. He was glad he did.

  Chapter 27

  Mercedes-Benz Stadium

  Atlanta, Georgia

  “Dammit!” Will had been walking behind the food-service vendors in the other direction when he heard an older woman yell out the profanity. Within the bowels of Mercedes-Benz Stadium, the noise from the concert was somewhat muted, allowing stadium personnel to carry on a conversation or utter a word in frustration.

  Will turned to find the woman struggling with a garbage bag that she’d attempted to hoist into one of the roll-off dumpsters parked behind the restaurants. In her attempt to lift it over the edge, the bag had caught the sharp corner and torn, spilling its contents onto the concrete floor.

  When Will approached her, she was on her hands and knees, picking up the garbage and throwing it into the dumpster. He knelt down to help her and glanced at the name tag of the distressed woman.

  “Hi Esther, I’m Will Hightower. Let me give you a hand.”

  The woman stopped and noticed Will’s uniform. “Thank you, officer. This bag was too heavy for me to carry, and the young man who’s my partner on the 200 Concourse is more interested in watching Beyoncé jiggle than doing his job.”

  Will stifled a laugh at the older woman’s description of the performer’s dance moves. He continued to help her gather up the debris, which had fallen all around the dumpster. Fluids covered the floor from half-empty soda cups, mixed with ketchup and mustard left over from hot dogs or burgers.

  He scooped the last of the trash and dropped the pile over the edge of the dumpster. As he did, Esther reached underneath and began mopping up the liquids using a large bundle of blue cotton material.

  “Here, let me help you with that, Esther. Do you have access to a mop and a bucket of water?”

  “Sure do,” she replied. She fumbled through her pockets and produced a set of keys. “I’ll be right back.”

  As she walked away, Will continued to use the material to clean up the spillage. He turned it over and used the drier side to swipe up some mustard and suddenly stopped. He unfolded the bundle and discovered it was a stadium maintenance uniform. He spread it out on the floor and searched its pockets. They were empty.

  The sound of Esther rolling a mop bucket down the hallway grabbed Will’s attention. He stood and ran to her side.

  “Esther, where is this trash from? One of the restaurants? Or on the concourse?”

  “It was in front of the ATL Grill, just in front of gate two-oh-eight.”

  Will looked frantically in both directions and grabbed his two-way radio from his utility belt. He turned to Esther.

  “This is very important. You stay right here and don’t touch anything, okay? Leave the uniform as it is and wait for my return. Esther, do you understand?”

  “But what did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing, but please wait here.”

  Will didn’t wait for a response. He found the door that exited the maintenance hallway into the 200 Concourse. Without slowing his pace, he forced his way through the crowds of people amassed outside the entrance to Harrah’s Cherokee Valley River Casino Club on the southernmost point of the concourse and searched for the trash cans at gate 208.

  A tall young man wearing a food-service uniform like Esther’s stood in the opening, watching the concert.

  Will grabbed him by the arm. “Hey, do you work with Esther?”

  “Yeah, man. I don’t know where she went,” he replied as he jerked his arm out of Will’s grasp.

  “Listen to me. We’ve got a problem. I need you to come with me. Now!”

  “Man, I don’t work for you.”

  Will was frustrated, but he kept his cool. “Please, it’s important!”

  “Yeah, always is. What do you want?”

  “Help me look through these trash cans.”

  “For what, man? This crap’s nasty.”

  “I’m looking for blue maintenance worker uniforms. You know, the coverall type. Come on!”

  Will hustled to the first hard plastic, Rubbermaid trash receptacle and removed the lid. He began digging through the trash without regard to the mess he was making of himself. There was nothing there. He looked all around the concourse for anything out of the ordinary, such as abandoned packages, boxes, and bags.

  While he moved on to the next one, Esther’s partner slowly picked through a can, looking for a dark blue uniform. Neither found one.

  Will abandoned the search and gave up on his helper, who’d wandered back into the gate opening to resume watching the concert. He pulled his radio out again and forced his way back through the crowd until he reached the maintenance hallway. Esther was dutifully standing guard over the uniform.

  He called in the suspicious find to his superiors on the AMBSE Security Management Team. Within minutes, he was surrounded by men in suits and an armed member of Atlanta’s SWAT team assigned to the stadium.

  The group was doing an honest assessment regarding the importance of the uniform. They c
ontacted food services and the maintenance department to determine if any of their staff had failed to show up for work tonight or had left early, claiming to be sick.

  After several minutes, both departments reported nothing out of the ordinary other than the fact that service personnel were being reprimanded all evening for straying from their posted areas to watch the concert.

  Will tried to make sense of this. Most likely, this was an employee who used his last night on the job as an opportunity to see the concert and decided to dump his uniform in order to wear his street clothes. Then he put himself in the mind of terrorists and other perpetrators of mass violence.

  Regardless of motive, killers watch others in action to study their methods and law enforcement’s reaction. If something works, they adopt it. Unfortunately, widespread media coverage, which was itself a main goal of any mass-casualty attack, brought public awareness to the methods and served to inform future attackers. Whether it be a teenage school shooter or a terrorist, successful attacks were studied, and their tactics used.

  Suddenly, the cell phone of the lead member of the Security Management Team rang. He wandered away from the group, but his voice could be heard by the others.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” He paused as he listened to the caller. “The feds have been alerted? They’ve made the decision?”

  He looked over at the group and began to walk back toward the group. He concluded the conversation. “All right. All right. I concur. Let’s clear the stage first, and then the stadium.”

  Chapter 28

  Delta Flight 322

  Delta Flight 322 banked to the right and took up a westerly course as it turned parallel to the beaches. The aircraft was over water and would remain so for the remainder of the flight until touchdown in Mobile. The copilot, along with passengers on the right side of the plane, had an unobstructed view of the sparsely populated coastline of Florida.