by Tom Hansen
“Yes, of course,” replied Yussef. “Why?”
“We can plot coordinates by listening to the pilots communicating with the air traffic control towers. From there, we can maneuver the jets in the direction we want. I know it sounds haphazard, but I think it will work.”
“What are the two planes we are targeting?” asked Daughtry. “Where are they coming from and going to, Oliver?”
Oliver glanced at a printout that was tucked neatly into a folder. It listed the flight schedules for the next three months of each jet that had video cameras and jammers installed in the cockpits. Oliver knew when each plane was flying and when they would be scheduled for maintenance down time.
“Coastal East 561 from Tampa to Atlanta leaving at 5:55 and Bayou 444 from Orlando to Dallas leaving at 6:10. Jack Tassett has jammers installed and ready to go in all four of those airports.
“Well then, we’re wasting time here,” replied Daughtry. “Oliver, we need to roll!”
“Scoop up what we need. I’ll rig the auto destruct mechanism. There will be nothing left but a hole in the ground.”
“What about Ray?” asked Roy. “We need to get him out and give him a proper burial.”
“No time, Roy. And even if we got him out, where would we put him?” Roy looked at Oliver but said nothing. He knew Oliver was right, but leaving his brother’s body to be blown to bits was simply wrong. Oliver detected his hesitation and embraced Roy. “Look, Roy, your brother was my best friend. This is hard on me, too. But I know he will be happy laid to rest right here where his life’s mission took him. Come on, let’s go.”
A W-54 nuclear warhead was rigged to a timing device when the underground operations center was built in the early ‘60s. In the event of an emergency evacuation due to the close proximity of an enemy, such as the Soviets approaching from the Atlantic or Cubans advancing northward from the Keys, President Kennedy wanted a self-destruct mechanism installed that would leave no trace of military intelligence. This handy device was encased in a small cylindrical container, but could wipe out three or four city blocks in an instant. While the others gathered equipment that they could carry out in a hurry, Oliver set the timer. They would have two hours to get out of Dodge or they would melt like a candle in the fission of the nuclear blast. It was 9:00 a.m.
CHAPTER 85
Monday, March 15, 1982
10:00 a.m.
L ew was fueling up the Trans Am at a turnpike service area a few miles from Leesburg, while the FBI team of sixteen identical Ford LTD’s were getting on I-4 after their slight detour to Tinker Field, when it happened. The blast sounded like ten sonic booms going off simultaneously, and a rapidly moving cloud of gray smoke could be seen rising above the horizon. Manatee sea cows surfaced in the Crystal River to sneak a peek at the phenomena in the sky sixty-five miles away, while tourists searching for eternal life at the Fountain of Youth in Saint Augustine now feared the end of the world.
Agent Jones radioed the Florida Highway Patrol and ordered them to get every vehicle off the turnpike. The Ford LTD parade of expertly trained FBI drivers was sizzling the asphalt with Goodyear rubber, moving so fast that Daytona 500 winner Bobby Allison wouldn’t even catch them in his Gatorade Buick Regal. Lew didn’t bother hanging up the gas hose before firing up the Trans Am and storming back on the turnpike. Two miles up the road he passed a state trooper who was trying to signal him to pull over and clear the highway. But Smokey never could catch the Bandit and Lew was doing his best Burt Reynolds escape artistry imitation. Pancho leaned over Otis and puked out the open window.
The SWAT team in Gainesville didn’t wait for the FBI after the explosion rocked the city. They joined every policeman, fireman and paramedic, both on duty and off duty, in their slapdash race to the University of Florida campus. Or what used to be the University of Florida campus, that is.
Seats from Ben Hill Stadium, the Gator’s football arena that set adjacent to the O’Sullivan Center just across Gale Lemerand Drive, could be seen splashing down in Lake Alice a couple of blocks away. The giant red bricks from the College of Engineering were scattered among the grass and trees of Reitz Union North Lawn, and the concrete dust, which was all that was left of Trusler Hall, completely consumed Hume Pond. The pond sat across a salmagundi of tar, gravel and crushed rock from a street that two minutes ago was known as Museum Road. Most of the college’s buildings that hadn’t skyrocketed simply collapsed into a gigantic sink hole.
Within minutes, the huge mushroom cloud darkened the skies and traffic moving about the entire city came to a standstill. Pedestrians dove to the ground covering their heads with their hands. From miles in every direction, kids could be heard screaming and dogs barking. Cars and trucks speeding down nearby Interstate 75 lost control and flipped into ditches, and small planes rolled and were whisked away like paper blowing in the wind. The Gainesville emergency rescue teams gathered at the VA Medical Center on Archer Road, which miraculously was untouched by the explosion or flying debris. But they remained paralyzed in the parking lot, shocked and stunned at what they saw. Thoroughly trained in handling automobile crashes and even gunshot wounds, the EMT’s, police and firemen had no idea where to begin searching for bodies.
But God works in mysterious ways and this day was no exception. Professor emeritus Gregory Coakley, perhaps the most well-liked member of the University of Florida faculty, a renowned research expert in the area of physics and a weekly columnist for Scientific American magazine, had retired three weeks earlier. He was affectionately nicknamed “Unlucky Coakley” by his colleagues who would take annual junkets to Vegas, and Professor Coakley would be stymied continually at the blackjack tables. Last year, he doubled down on three consecutive elevens and couldn’t be dealt a face card to save his life. He lost $3,000 at the Stardust on the first day and had to spend the evening listening to Wayne Newton woo the ladies with Danke Shoen. For all the money the friendly professor had put into the Stardust’s coffers, Wayne should be thanking him. Professor Coakley’s final unlucky hand was dealt three weeks ago, the day he purchased a ticket to Germany as a vacation to celebrate retirement with his wife Clare. On the way home, the couple changed planes in Chicago and boarded the doomed Heartland Lakes flight to Tampa, which was the last leg of their journey. Today, the entire faculty, support staff and administration attended Coakley’s memorial service in his home town of Spring Hill and the only personnel left on campus when the bomb exploded were security guards. The handful of students who remained in their dorms for Spring Break were injured, but every one of them survived.
CHAPTER 86
Monday, March 15, 1982
1:45 p.m.
P resident Donald Layman was intently watching the disaster unfolding in Gainesville via CNN from a portable television that had been placed on his desk in the Oval Office. Chief of Staff, Gordon Brubaker, had called Tallahassee an hour ago wanting to speak to Governor Daughtry, but the governor’s office said he was at his vacation home in Homestead. Brubaker ordered Daughtry’s office staff to place top priority on reaching the governor and have him call the president immediately.
Layman was waiting impatiently when the private phone on his desk rang. Brubaker reached over the president, grabbed the receiver and answered with one simple word, “Yes?”
“CIA four six one, H as in Henry, five. Agent Oliver Harfield speaking. I need to speak to the president. This is a matter of national security.”
Gordon Brubaker had met Oliver Harfield at Langley and he also knew Harfield had been retired for some time now. Why would he be calling for the president using his retired security number?
“Oliver, this is Gordon Brubaker. We are waiting on a call from Governor Daughtry in Florida and can’t tie up this line. What’s up?”
“Gordon, I have Governor Daughtry with me. You need to hand the phone over to the president.”
Brubaker pushed the hold button and gave the receiver to President Layman. He had the most inquisitive look in his eyes. “It’s o
ne of our retired CIA agents, Oliver Harfield. Says he has Governor Daughtry with him.”
Layman quickly grabbed the receiver and pushed the hold button again. “Harfield. Let me speak to Daughtry.”
Oliver had taken his last presidential order several years ago. He himself was now the man in authority and would be making directives from here on out. “Mr. President, I now have America under siege and your time is running out for doing something about it. Many, many civilian deaths will occur before the end of the day without your immediate actions. Do I have your attention?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Layman. “Are you insane, Harfield?”
“Perhaps, sir, but I also plan on becoming very rich. Do you have a pen and paper handy?”
“Yes, of course. Get to the point, Harfield. And by the way, you are in big trouble.”
“My problems are coming to a close. Yours are just beginning, Mr. President. Now write this down. Routing number is: 6877934810. Account number 45-00328654. You will transfer one billion dollars into that account before midnight tonight or two jetliners will be sent spinning out of control from 35,000 feet to whatever lies below them. Also, two nuclear weapons are aimed and locked on Los Angeles and Washington. If you attempt to put a tracer on those accounts, I will know, and the Washington Monument will collapse into your bedroom. Do you have any questions, Mr. President?”
“No one holds America hostage, Harfield. You of all men should know that. I will not be threatened by your nonsense!”
“You would risk the lives of millions of Americans, sir?” responded Harfield boldly. “And you called me insane? Get a clue, Mr., President. The midair crashes in Miami and Tampa were my doing. The bombing in Gainesville was my doing. That was to show you that I’m not playing games here. It’s two o’clock. You have exactly ten hours. You better get hustling, sir!”
Oliver didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up the phone on his Learjet as it touched down on the cracked asphalt runway at the Jackson ranch.
CHAPTER 87
Monday, March 15, 1982
2:15 p.m.
N orma Foss sat on a couch feeding her infant son while Sheriff Al Bonty sat at his kitchen table having a Coke with Jimmy and Jenny Jackson. He had just finished explaining how it came to be that their mother was in a Jasurbian harem and why Roy Jackson had raised them as his own. This was the first time he had spoken to his kids since they were infants.
“A harem? In Jasurbia? Sheriff, you’re in the business of proof. My sis and me need some evidence of this story, if you don’t mind.” Jimmy was having a difficult time swallowing the story and using sarcasm as his defense mechanism. Jenny was just sitting at the table motionless and speechless. She was beginning to think the story could be true, but like Jimmy, wanted to hear more.
From the couch in the next room, Norma, the kid’s beloved fifth grade teacher decided it was time to say something. “Kids, the sheriff is your father. Everything he has told you is the truth. We don’t have much time, so please trust me . . . and him.”
“Listen to me,” inserted Sheriff Bonty. “I promise you that it is my life’s mission to find your mother and bring her home. But I need to move quickly and I need to make sure you two are safe. Please lock the doors when I leave and stay away from the windows.”
“No, sir,” said Jimmy and Jenny at the same time, both shaking their heads.
“What do you mean, no sir?” asked Al.
“If you’re our dad, we’re going with you!” pronounced Jimmy as he rose and pounded his hand on the table. He looked at his sister and she jumped up and nodded back. “There’s got to be some way we can help. From now on, we’re in this together.”
Al stood up and stared at his children, thinking about the years he missed watching them grow up. He was frozen in time and tears were flowing down his cheeks. Jimmy looked at Jenny and their hearts began to melt. Their father’s sincerity was real, as was their own compassion toward him.
The siblings walked over and embraced their dad. Norma wiped off her own cheeks and squeezed her newborn. They were all thankful to be out from under the clutches of Roy Jackson.
* * * * *
Now that it was inevitable that Jimmy and Jenny were going to tag along, the sheriff changed his plans and asked Norma to come with, as well.
“Why?” inquired Norma, still clutching her newborn. She wasn’t about to let anything happen that could separate herself from her baby. “Where are we going?”
“There’s some laundry that needs airing before we go any further, plus I know a very safe place for you and your child.”
Norma gave Al a puzzled look, then repeated his words in the form of a question. “Some laundry that needs airing, you say? What are you talking about?”
Al asked Jenny to call Tyrone Banks and have him meet them at the Catholic church at 3:00 p.m. Sheriff Bonty wanted to see if Tyrone had any idea where to find Willy. Al was ready to tell Willy everything and to enlist his help in stopping Roy.
Seeing it was Spring Break at Seminole Bend High School, Tyrone was just hanging around the house, bench pressing 400 pounds in his front yard where all the neighbors could watch. Sure, he would love to hang out with his girlfriend, but an afternoon date at the Catholic church didn’t sound like a great time seeing they both were Baptist.
“The Catholic church?” asked a skeptical Norma. “Why? What’s at the church?”
“You’ll see. And after we’re done with some business, Father O’Shea and the nuns will take good care of you and the baby.”
No one said a word in the fifteen-minute drive to the church. Everyone had many questions, but no one was sure where to start. Tyrone pulled into the parking lot in his rusty Volkswagen at the same time the others arrived. He was wearing a muscle t-shirt and work out shorts. The sweat had already dried to his skin.
When all the pleasantries were done (Jenny hugging Tyrone and Jimmy giving him a high five), they all turned in a semi-circle looking at Sheriff Bonty, waiting for guidance and instructions.
“There’s someone here you need to see. Follow me.” The three high schoolers glanced bewilderedly at each other and Norma gave a perplexed look at Al. Then, they all moved toward the church entrance.
Inside, Father O’Shea was replacing the alter candles. He turned towards the door as it opened. He wasn’t exactly excited to see his guests, but it was his job to make everyone welcome in the Lord’s house.
“Hello Sheriff Bonty. I doubt you’re here for confession, so I’m assuming you are on official business. I see you brought Roy’s kids with you. Jimmy, Jenny, good to see you. And Miss Foss, it appears you’ve had your baby. How nice. Now, how may I assist you today?” Father O’Shea was appalled at the sight of every one of them, thus the reason his words had been cold and blunt.
“Actually, Father, I am here to confess. Would you be so kind as to hear me out?”
“I doubt all of us would fit into a confessional booth, so would you like to take a seat at the table in the corner?” Father motioned to a folding table that had stacks of brochures entitled Convert to Catholicism Today and collection envelopes so numerous that there would never be enough Sundays or generous parishioners to fill them all up.
Once they all were seated, Sheriff Bonty detailed the grand masterplan put together by Roy and Ray Jackson, Oliver Harfield and Governor Daughtry. He purposely didn’t mention that Tyrus Banks was involved, seeing Tyrone had no idea his father was even alive. He would wait for a better time to mention that detail. Bonty guaranteed Father O’Shea that he will do everything in his power to find and release the priest’s brother and sister from the place Roy is holding them captive.
Father O’Shea was in deep shock and disbelief. He had spent every evening praying for the well-being of his siblings, and also praying for the forgiveness of Roy and company for the sins they had committed. He personally had a tough time forgiving those bastards, but his faith and duties to the Lord required it. Now, like a lightning bolt sent from
heaven, Father finds out that Sheriff Al is a good guy after all!
An air vent ran from the floor directly underneath the table to the basement of the church, and Sisters Mary and Roberta could overhear the conversation taking place directly above them. Sheryl Berry came over and listened too. She was astonished to discover that Sheriff Al was actually a mole who was playing along with the scheme just to save his wife and kids.
The elephant in the room was getting bigger by the minute. Sheryl now understood why the sheriff came to the church. She started up the stairs with the nuns following right behind.
As she approached the table, Sheryl was looking at only one person. Norma Foss saw her coming and the two locked eyes. A mix of fear and anger spread across each of their faces. Then everyone else at the table turned and noticed the pregnant gal heading their way.
“Oh my God!” Jenny, Jimmy and Tyrone sounded like a choir in perfect harmony. They all stood up and covered their mouths, then Jenny ran to the coach’s wife and wrapped her arms as far as they could reach around her gravid waist. “You’re alive!” As Sheryl returned the embrace, they all could see the stump where her left hand used to be.
During his confession, Al had described the role Norma played when she disguised as Sheryl. He emphasized that Norma was forced into the plan to save her own life. Bonty had looked at everyone sitting around the table and asked them all to forgive Norma. She lowered her head in embarrassment, gripped her baby and spilled tears over the newborn’s soft little head. The sheriff had purposely failed to mention that Sheryl was alive and well in the basement of the church.
“Sheryl,” muttered Norma, half aloud and half under her breath. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me!”
“Forgive you?” replied Sheryl, trying unsuccessfully to hold back her rage. “Not even in a Catholic church will I ever forgive you! First, trying to steal my husband, and second, trying to end my life.” She then raised her stump above her head. “Nor for this, either. So, go to hell, my dear!” Father O’Shea’s eyelids opened to their fullest extent. Sheriff Al stood up to separate the ladies.