by Chris Pike
“Dream on,” Chandler said.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Uncle Billy quipped.
Tatiana walked in. She had been busy preparing for her part of the risky rescue plan. She had on a low-cut light-colored casual dress that fell above the knees, showing off her shapely legs. She had pinned up her long hair into a loose bun, and had tied a frilly apron around her dress to make her look the part she needed to play.
“You’re wearing that?” Luke asked. “No, Mom. There’s no way Dad is letting you wear that. You might get hurt, or worse.” Luke shot a glance at his dad. “Dad! Do something.”
“Your mother doesn’t need my permission,” John said. “You should know by now she’s a determined woman.”
“But, Dad—”
“The decision is mine,” Tatiana said. “And that’s final.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Don’t you think the flower in your hair is a bit much? It might draw attention to what’s in your hair,” John said.
“Not at all,” Tatiana said. “I kinda like it.” She walked over to where John was sitting and stood behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and addressed the room. “We’re a team. We’re family, we’re neighbors, and we need to stick together. Besides, people at the university know me from when I worked there in kitchen services. Remember, I stayed there to help out a few days after the grid went down. Before Zack took over. People know me, and they won’t question why I’m there.” She leaned down and kissed her husband on the cheek. “Honey, after this is over, please take a bath. You smell like gas, like you’ve been mowing the lawn.”
“If you had been mixing napalm, you’d smell like gas too,” John replied.
John had been mixing napalm using ingredients he had in the garage and kitchen. An old cannon fuse used for fireworks would serve as the delay for his homemade black powder detonator.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Tatiana said.
“I promise.”
Tatiana and John excused themselves, telling Uncle Billy they’d meet him in a few minutes.
“I think we’re ready to go,” Uncle Billy said. “Ralph, you and your sons come with me. Luke, you and Chandler meet us at the truck in five minutes. Aren’t you glad I still have that old jalopy?”
“For once your hoarding has come in handy,” Luke said.
After everyone had left, Chandler and Luke were still sitting at the dining room table, checking their weapons.
“We’ll get Amanda,” Luke said. “Don’t worry. Remember what Dad always said. Aim small, miss small.”
“And when everything else fails, spray and pray.”
Chapter 29
Luke reached Dobie center, a twenty-seven story private dorm located eight hundred meters south-southwest of the UT Tower.
It had become deserted in the weeks after the EMP struck, which suited Luke’s purposes just fine.
He pried open a door, and stepped into the staircase leading to the roof. Shutting the heavy door was like closing a vault. A musty odor permeated the stale air. Too dark for him to safely navigate the stairwell, he took a lightstick from his pocket and ripped open the foil packet. Grabbing both ends, he bent it until it snapped then shook it, letting the motion activate the chemicals.
Twenty-seven flights of stairs later, Luke came to the door leading to the roof. Breathing hard, he waited a moment to catch his breath. He cracked the door open, brought up his McMillan, and sighted the Tower to determine if anyone was watching him.
The unattended Barrett M107 loomed dark against the limestone walls of the Tower. Satisfied he was not being watched, Luke assessed the situation. The HVAC equipment served as the only concealment on the roof, but the huge holes in the sheet metal, no doubt made by the Barrett M107, confirmed the HVAC would not serve as cover. As he predicted, he would have to disable the shooter or the weapon or he would never leave the roof.
Luke shook out a cape-like camouflage sheet, formed a hood over his head and tied the sheet to his shoulders. From a distance, the sheet matched the roof color, allowing Luke to blend into the roof. Taking careful, slow steps, he moved into position, trying not to attract attention to his movements.
He peered out over the campus. The morning sun brushed the tall buildings, and shadows on the land grew shorter, announcing the start of another day.
Luke’s thoughts went to his dad. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer to the Almighty to keep his dad safe and to let him proceed undetected, since a man moving a pack filled to the bursting point would undoubtedly attract attention. John had taken the extra ammo and magazines from Luke’s pack and added it to his own load. Luke had offered to accompany his dad when he saw how the pack straps bit into his shoulders, but John had told him an unequivocal ‘no’, insisting they stick to the plan.
* * *
The sun rose higher in the morning sky. A flock of pigeons glided to an adjacent rooftop, then swooped down to the ground, pecking. People stirred in the courtyard, shadowed by the Tower.
John had moved unnoticed, hugging the corners of the university buildings and using concealment wherever he could find it. Ahead of him, he spotted a ratty ball of English ivy that had grown wild and uncut on the south side of a building, the dark leafy vines of the ivy twisted and curled, jutting up in the middle. It formed a mass of tangled foliage upon a decomposing stump, perfect for an animal den or even better, a perfect spot to drop weapons.
John inched closer to the ivy. Checking left and right, he disappeared behind the ivy where he dropped the weapons.
Minutes later, he emerged with a backpack containing explosives slung over his shoulders. Whistling to himself as if he had no worries, he strolled along the side of the Student Union where he spied a gardener’s cart with a half-empty sack of mulch along with a bag of fertilizer.
It gave him an idea.
John nonchalantly placed his backpack under the flap of the mulch sack then took the fertilizer and set it gently next to the hidden backpack. Pushing the cart along as if he belonged there, John managed to smile pleasantly at anyone passing by.
Ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of Tatiana going into a side door leading to the cooking area. It pained him not to show recognition in any way, or else he risked exposing them both. He pushed the cart toward the generator room, his destination.
The generator room contained several metal vents, but only one solid metal door. It had a standard key lock as well as an external padlock. Due to the carbon monoxide buildup, workers could only stay in the room for a few minutes. Obviously in violation of OSHA regulations, it had been hastily put together after the EMP, and it was unlikely any OSHA inspectors would pay a visit.
John assessed his entry options, pleased to discover that some lazy person had chosen to put the padlock in position without locking it. Although John could have picked the lock with a paperclip, he slid a thin blade between the door and the frame then pulled it towards him.
The latch bolt slid back into the door, popping the door open. Taking his backpack with him, John moved stealthily inside. A closely fit metal screen surrounded the generator’s controls and main body. He used a crowbar from the pack to bend back the part of the screen touching the wall behind the generator.
John slid the Napalm-filled jugs and the black powder bomb between the generator and the wall, creating enough containment for explosive damage to occur in addition to setting a fire. He went to the door and cracked it open. The area was quiet. Glancing toward the predetermined window, he noticed Tatiana peering at him. His nod was answered by hers, which meant everyone was now in place.
If the twenty-eight seconds per foot burn rate of his cannon fuse was accurate, the explosion should happen in just short of five minutes. Striking a match, John lit the fuses then exited the generator building, briskly heading to where he had stashed the weapons.
Time for the party to begin.
* * *
Chandler had been waiting unobserved within seeing distance of wh
ere Tatiana was located. She looked south, nodding once more. Taking the cue, Chandler, dressed in a maintenance jumpsuit he’d swiped earlier, entered the west door of the Tower building.
Two guards stood halfway down the hall near the elevator entrance. They were both armed with H&K MP-5 submachine guns.
“Who are you and why are you here?” the head guard challenged Chandler. “Put down the toolbox so we can search you.” The other guard patted Chandler down, checking the obvious places of his waist, ankles, legs, and underarms.
“Nothing here,” the guard said.
The head guard tapped the name tag on Chandler’s uniform. “Mark Whitmore, huh?”
“Actually, I’m his brother. He’s sick and I’m filling in.”
Chandler handed over the driver’s license he had found in one of the pockets. Fortunately for Chandler the photographer at the DPS had obviously failed photography school. The picture was so bad it could cover half the male population. The guard squinted at the picture then handed the ID back to him, eying him suspiciously. “Why are you here?”
“To check on a possible gas leak upstairs,” Chandler said.
While Chandler was being grilled, the other guard checked the contents of the toolbox. “What the hell is this brown crap?” he asked, drawing back his hand.
“Probably sewage. I was working on a sewage backup earlier this morning. Maybe I got some backs platter in the tool box.”
“That’s sick,” the guard said. He made a face and wiped his hands on his pants.
The main guard said, “Okay, let’s go on up. The elevators are to your left. Just don’t touch anything.”
“Whatever you say,” Chandler said.
As of now the plan was going as anticipated, but as with a stack of dominoes, if one fell, the others would fall, bringing everything down. Currently, one domino was poised to fall. Chandler thought quickly, trying to come up with a diversion. When one of the guards reached to press the call button, the door to the building opened.
“Wait a minute,” one of the guards said. “Someone else is coming.”
Chandler breathed a sigh of relief. The domino wouldn’t fall after all.
* * *
Right on time, Tatiana entered the cavernous first floor of the Tower pushing a food cart. It clattered and echoed along the light-colored marble floors which had been recently mopped. Two wooden benches sat on each side. The ceiling must have been fifteen feet high. Ahead of her were two grand staircases and two more wooden benches with curved backs. Across from the staircases were two elevators powered by a generator. Ambient light filtered into the long hallway from doors on each end.
The food cart contained several items to choose from, including energy bars, several boxes of cookies, along with potato chips, Cheetos, Fritos, and canned soft drinks.
“Snack delivery for Mr. Durant,” Tatiana announced. Despite being in her 50s, she still had the figure any thirty year old would be jealous of, and only a hint of gray in her thick red hair. She was still wearing her light colored, low cut dress which showed ample cleavage. She had dressed provocatively on purpose in order to distract the guards.
“I haven’t seen you before,” the guard said.
“I’m new,” Tatiana said. She smiled teasingly and batted her eyelashes.
“I got this,” the guard said. “Take what’s-his-name on up to Mr. Durant. You don’t want to be late. And take the food cart too!”
“You get all the fun,” the head guard grumbled. He took the food cart then pressed the call button and told Chandler to go on in.
Once the elevator doors closed, the guard asked, “What did you say your name was?”
“Tatiana.”
“Russian, huh?’
“You’re a smart man. I like smart men.”
“Oh yeah?” the guard said. He ran a hand over his chin and stepped closer to Tatiana. “Maybe you and me can get together later.”
“Later?” She huffed. “I’m an impatient woman. How about now instead of later?” She seductively teased him with her green eyes and inviting smile.
The guard gave her a look that sent chills through Tatiana, although she showed no emotion. She twirled once and tossed a smile to the guard. “Got a closet or someplace we can be alone?”
Without missing a beat, the guard said, “I know the perfect office. It even has a sofa.”
“Leather?”
“Uh huh.”
“Time’s a’wasting.”
The invitation had been too tempting for the guard to resist. Taking her by the elbow, he escorted Tatiana to the empty office.
When the door shut, Tatiana positioned herself so she could face the guard. The guard set his MP-5 to the side then cracked an evil grin.
Her green eyes and inviting smile encouraged him to come closer to her.
He lunged for her.
She slapped him and sent him backwards.
“What kind of game are you playing?” he said roughly.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“Huh? You said you were an impatient woman.”
“I am. Let me take my hair down first.”
Both of Tatiana’s hands went to the back of her head where she pretended to fiddle with her hair to let it down. She licked her lips and dropped her gaze to his lips. Taking the cue, he stepped closer to her and in one deft movement, snatched the four inch knife from her hair and thrust it upwards into his throat, twisting it into his lower brain. The guard’s eyes bulged and he stumbled back, hitting a wall. He tried to say something, but only uttered gurgling sounds.
Seconds passed and the guard slumped to the floor.
Tatiana went to him and checked for a pulse. Satisfied he was dead, she withdrew the knife from his throat, then cleaned the blood from the knife using the guard’s shirt. She positioned the knife back into her hair, fluffed the bun a couple of times, and clipped the flower into place to cover the knife handle.
She had no time to regret her action. He was an evil man, one who needed to be deleted from the gene pool. Using all her might, she grabbed him by the boots and dragged him behind a sofa. Thrifty as always, Tatiana took his MP-5 and the extra magazines. Before she left, she checked herself in a mirror. Her lipstick was still in place and she didn’t have a drop of blood on her. She hadn’t even broken out into a sweat.
She closed the door behind her and went to the elevators. One of the elevators had not gone all the way to the top, and this worried her since it would be the one Chandler had taken.
* * *
Chandler was a cool cat, one who kept his emotions to himself, so he knew what signs to look for indicating nervousness. Perhaps a bead of sweat on a forehead during a cool day or the twitching of a leg not accompanying the beat of music, and the guy standing to the side of Chandler in the elevator had been twitching without the benefit of elevator music.
Domino theory.
The elevator continued to climb.
Each time the elevator passed a floor, it dinged. Two, three, four dings, and right before the number fourteen appeared at the top of the elevator, the guard pressed floor fourteen.
Domino theory.
The elevator doors opened. The guard said, “Get out. We’ll leave the toolbox and cart on the floor.”
Chandler stepped out onto the floor. An empty desk sat to the side. It contained an unusable black phone, a rolodex, loose pens and pencils, post-it notes, a tape dispenser, and a note pad. It was quite neat. Behind that were stacks of musty-smelling books. Rows and rows of the confounded things.
The fuse on the bomb in the generator room must be reaching its end, and he could not afford to be stuck in an elevator when the shit hit the fan. The rest of the trip would be in the stairwell.
That made two teetering dominoes to contend with.
The guard had placed the toolbox on the food cart, and had pushed both out of the elevator and onto the floor. He held the MP-5 in his other hand.
“Whitman never mentioned he had a broth
er. You just walk your ass over there.”
Chandler remained silent.
“Why’d you use his ID if you’re his brother?”
The selector on the MP-5 was in the full auto position; the guard meant business.
Chandler didn’t reply.
“That’s what I thought.”
The guard emptied the contents of the toolbox onto the floor, scattering a plethora of dirty tools. The bottom of the box had crude, unpainted welds. The guard cocked his head and looked at it suspiciously. Taking a screwdriver, he worked to pop the welds.
While the guard had been busy with the toolbox, he didn’t notice Chandler slip his hands inside his pants toward his crotch where, fortunately, he had not been searched. Taped to his left thigh was a small suppressor, while a Walther P22 had been taped to the right thigh.
Once the AAC suppressor was in place, Chandler said, “Hey.”
The guard glanced up and received three 22 subsonic rounds to the forehead. The look of surprise on his face was comical. He slumped to the floor.
The sound of the explosion in the generator room rattled the building, and Chandler wobbled on unsteady legs.
A few books fell off the racks and tumbled to the floor. The pens and pencils on the desk rolled off and scattered about on the wood floor, and when the sound subsided Chandler thanked his lucky stars he was not in the elevator.
The lights flashed off, and surprisingly, battery operated emergency lights flickered on automatically. The University of Texas scientists had been thorough in their restoration of power to the complex.
Chandler’s uniform was getting hot, and the need for subterfuge was now gone, so he ditched it. He put on the guard’s combat vest and looked down at the six spare thirty-round magazines secured by Velcro flaps. He slung the MP-5 over his shoulder and placed it at instant ready.