Dorado looked at him for a second before answering. “Officially, encouraging the city to give everyone a hard time on any official permits for assembly or parades. Unofficially, they plan to make some arrests of key opposition leaders by July second on any charges that'll probably range from unpaid parking tickets to illegal assembly.”
Taylor spoke in a deep rumble. “The police won’t hold them long on those issues. Most judges will kick that out.”
Dorado replied. “They don’t have to. The arrests occur late July second or third. The judge has left for the long holiday weekend. No arraignments occur until Monday morning. By then, I imagine most of the folks will be free to leave with the official apology of the FBI. It’s a tactic we’re going to use too.”
McAfee grinned, “That’s pretty shitty. Effective, but shitty none the less.”
Dorado didn’t return the grin. “It should stop anything escalating out of control. Meanwhile the DCPD help with crowd control at their hotel on the days before and after the Fourth. We're using street cops for that so it won't affect our work here. Cardell heads that effort. In the meantime, he’s working with us by going over the normal daily incidents.”
Olsen’s eyes narrowed, “Cardell?”
Dorado gestured with one hand up, palm outward. “He’s pushed Starker to be on this task force. We’ll keep him apexed working crowd control on the day. Before that, we’ll put him on reviewing all incoming police reports to see if he finds any patterns. He doesn’t get the right to hassle anyone. I’ll make sure of that.”
Taylor smiled, “That’s a lot of paperwork. Think he’ll find anything?”
Dorado shrugged, “I think that Sherrie’s computer work is far more likely to find something. You never know though. Wasn’t it one of the New York serial killer cases that got solved by checking parking tickets? Anyway, it’s a shit job that I don’t want and it keeps him out of my way.”
McAfee shifted around. “As an official task force member, shouldn’t he be here?”
Dorado grinned, “Guess I forgot to email him the notice.”
“Still sounds like we’re suspecting every-fucking-one.” Charro growled.
Dorado paused. He shifted around to face everyone more fully. “We’ve got two issues to deal with.” He held up one finger, “Someone wants to take out a lot of property or do a lot of physical damage.” The second finger rose, “They want to kill a lot of people.” He leaned back in his chair. “Okay, let’s break it down by personalities. Traditionally, your basic corp-clone doesn’t self-destruct on a holiday. Statistics show they blow their microchips at the height of their stress, usually in the office, often taking out significant coworkers with them like bosses and secretaries. Eighty-five percent blow up there, the other thirteen percent in front of family members.”
Olsen spoke up, “The last two percent?”
McAfee answered, “On the street, in their car, the subway, basically impulsively, often in transit and usually very messy.”
Dorado nodded, “True, but less than ten percent occur on holidays and even then it’s money-oriented holidays like Christmas. I think we’re pretty safe from this type. Also, they’re not into property damage.
“Next, your average greenie. The back-to-nature folks are far more likely to drug up on one of nature’s wonders rather than plan a terrorist event. Historically they’re all about property damage as it relates to high tech stuff. They raid nuclear plants, destroy computer systems, that sort of thing. Maybe they’ll look at blowing up the IRS building because of its new social security tracking system but that makes it a federal problem. We’re not dealing with a high tech event here so I don’t think they'll be a problem. Groups of the greenies want permits to sell foodstuff on the side streets but that's normal every year. We might get some protesters screaming their lungs out over some hot issues with the Chinese but they’re usually not killers. If protesters show up, Park Police are to arrest them immediately. Unofficially, no one, not even the local VFW groups are going to be given assembly permits. No protests allowed and no one enters the secure areas with signs or wooden poles. It's too easy to turn signs into blunt-force weapons.
“Anyway, greenies don’t bomb unless someone's screwing with their heads. However, you can get the extremist type. If that’s the case, it will be a small, tightly organized group. Hopefully, they’ll have some website manifesto and Sherrie will find it. The other option is a lone crazy hell-bent on fixing the world's karma.”
“Hard to catch,” Taylor nodded. “Lone gunmen have all kinds of reasons and there's no way to predict them ahead of time.
“Yeah, but at that point you’re not talking ideology anymore. Lone gunmen have motives but they don’t advertise. We can't track them. I don’t think the greenies will go in for mass killings. It doesn't feel like their kind of thing. So unless a specific group sends warnings, we’re going to have to hope they catch loners at the gate. We’ll keep an eye on the blogs for some kind of message of that type.”
Sherrie nodded, “I’m setting up a program to run through the Internet and Hypernets that cues in on key words. It helps but still returns hundreds to thousands of hits. I can eliminate many of them pretty easily but it’s a lot of sifting through blogs and websites.”
“Ask Jacobs to give you more support people if you need to.” Dorado replied.
Olsen swiveled in her chair, “Okay, we have the corp-clones, loners and greenies. The federals are looking into political groups. Who does that leave?”
Charro replied, “What about the religious freaks, nihilists, and shut-ins?”
“And lions, and tigers and bears, oh my.” McAfee added.
Charro snarled, “This is serious shit. If you can’t hack your stuff together...”
“Just a joke, friend,” McAfee replied, “just trying to lighten the mood.”
Dorado fought hard to suppress a grin. McAfee liked to joke a lot, more so when he was nervous. But when the pressure shot up, he became all business. “Officially, we’re watching the cults to see if anyone decides to group-crash and unplug together. There’s some concern that a group will try to group-crash on the Mall and take a few innocents with them. Not common but not completely unlikely when you think about the Japanese suicide cults and their use of sarin gas. Sherrie, as you have time, go through the latest material put out by the known cults in Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, and West Virginia. I don’t think cult types travel far from home. The FBI investigated the known groups but so far, their analysis doesn’t indicate that this July 4th is significant symbolically more than any other holiday. There's no weird planet configuration or comet event or whatever to set anyone off. If you come up with something, notify me and we’ll check it out. Unofficially, policy dictates that we let them unplug any way they want then clean up the bodies later unless intel indicates innocents may be involved. As long as they don’t crash out on the Mall and they’re not including innocents, they’re not our problem.”
Olsen spoke up, “Surely you don’t mean that. No one tries to stop them?”
Taylor shrugged behind her, “Makes sense. There have been too many Waco-acts where it all goes wrong. The group in Wisconsin two years ago took out ten officers when they stormed the main building and the Children of God leader activated the bomb. Too many lawmen get killed trying to save some self-righteous fool. They want to meet their god, who are we to stop them?”
Dorado looked at her, noting the pale behind the tan and the tightening of the shoulder muscles. She knows someone in the middle of that shit, he thought, and it’s someone close to her. He said gently, “It’s regarded as a federal PR problem, not a police affair.”
Taylor softly laid a big hand on her shoulder. It looked startlingly dark against her pale blue blouse. “You okay?”
“I’m fine!” she snapped and swiveled away.
Taylor backed off, “No harm meant.”
Dorado quickly continued. “The shut-ins may be instigators or co-conspirators but they won’t p
ull the trigger themselves. By definition, they rarely leave their holes. About twelve thousand live somewhere throughout the Metro area. The social dropout type living with their parents isn’t a threat. Their psychosis usually doesn’t let them work with others. However, many of the brighter ones are wired into computers. Charro told me that they work for local gangs or underground groups. They’re champion hackers. They’re the ones we need to monitor. They might brag about helping someone on a blog or through word of mouth or they find something we missed and are willing to share it. DCPD has a list of twelve wired-up shut-ins that are known to dip into some illegal hacking. I’d say that they bear watching. Brian, can you help with that?”
Charro snorted, “The number is actually closer to twenty primo wired men and about three hundred wannabes in the entire metro area. The primos are the ones you should worry about.”
McAfee nodded, “I’ll make some visits. See if anyone knows something. Some of those guys can count the fillings in your teeth from miles away. Can we offer money for info? It’ll encourage them to search for us.”
“We’ll offer some ‘consulting fees’ as long as it’s good intel. Charro, help Brian develop a list.”
Olsen spoke up, “A lot of them frequent chat-rooms too. I can set up some kind of monitoring program on the main chat lines.”
“The twitchy, brain-fried nihilist is our second biggest problem. Charro and Taylor, both of you monitor the gangs and give me some idea of risk assessment. If there’s a problem, then we raid the whole city block if we have to, search it, arrest some people and worry over legalities after the big day. Taylor, you check into the white-collar crime area. If we’re talking something big like a large conventional weapon, surely it needs heavy money backing.”
Taylor replied, “Sounds good. Don’t know if I can come up with much but I’ll check with the country club set. Sometimes the organized crime groups will give us info. It’s all about business to them and messing with tourism is bad business.”
McAfee spoke up. “That leaves the worst for last, the small terrorist group.”
“Honestly, it’s the group that we haven’t heard from. The Timothy McVies or the Unabombers of the world—the small-timer, the relatively unknown and quiet person or group who has a grudge against the government and an itch to be famous. This group will be smart, organized with something more than an average weapon. Historically, this type likes shrapnel bombs, chemical weapons such as sarin gas or something biological. They’re near impossible to pick out of a crowd or catch unless one of their members is into bragging. We’re going to be heavily dependent on FBI info for these cases. They may have foreign backing but the American-based members themselves are the ultimate trigger.”
Olsen replied, “Sounds like you’ve had some experience.”
Dorado nodded, “A lot of this profiling is from some research I did years ago. Back in 2018, I worked on loan to Norfolk PD during the Republican Convention. Six fellows carried in gas bombs in plastic containers strapped to their chest. Metal detectors never picked them up. By pure dumb luck, we caught all but two. Those two managed to kill twelve people before we took them out.
“Truth of the matter, lady and gentlemen, is that this isn’t the CIA’s or NSA’s, Homeland Security’s, or even ATF’s city. It’s our city, our problem and our job. If local shit happens here, it’s going to be because we failed. I for one don’t plan on failing.”
Mitchell turned on the computer. The editing software wasn’t difficult. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the second day recording what happened at BL-4. The first recording session done yesterday was clear but would definitely need cleaning up. Time now to finish the story.
He turned on the recorder and started again. “It was the dawn of the twelfth day of our imprisonment. Only five others and I still lived. Most of the other members of BL-4 had requested mercy in the last few days. I gave it to them. How could I possibly deny them the pain-free peace that they craved? On day ten, I moved the few survivors to the BX/Commissary building. We needed warmth and food. Continuing to walk from house to house proved to be too exhausting. Also, I suspected the snipers might finish off anyone they saw upright…”
Exhausted, he lacked the energy and the strength to bury his friends and coworkers. The survivors isolated themselves because the putrefaction of the bodies led to other diseases that might kill them in their weakened states. The supplies were easier to access here and a fire in the middle of the cement floor kept them all warm. They ate food in the form of canned goods taken off the store shelves and they drank only bottled water.
“Katie,” Mitchell moaned and then shouted again, “Katie, no!” He jerked awake on the floor, disoriented as the nightmare faded away. Breathing hard, he looked around the large room. Torn empty packages littered the corners of the cafeteria and the tables lay folded and jammed against the wall. A few people huddled in sleeping bags by the meager fire pit in the center of the large room. The morning chill left people shivering and the pit produced only thin smoke and embers. No one moved to lay more broken furniture bits on. Aching stiff and exhausted, Mitchell rose and moved towards the makeshift woodpile of smashed furniture.
Through the last week of horror, one thought kept Mitchell going. Geller was right. The military wanted the samples. Orders had been very precise in how to pack the product, vaccines and antibiotics. The vials still waited in their battery-fed cryo-units.
In the meantime, Mitchell prepared by gathering useful materials and hiding his stash. As people died, he searched their houses. Many of the families stashed old bills away as coin collections or retirement funds. He also found a mint condition 2003 chrome pistol and ammunition. He assumed all the IDs, credit cards and social security numbers were useless and therefore he left them behind. His treasures fit into two carefully packed waterproof cases that he buried deep by a large tree in Stegan’s backyard, sandwiched between houses and invisible to the distant gates.
The cold dawn filtered through the fog that blanketed the road outside the windows. It took a few moments of rubbing the sleep from his eyes before he realized that mechanized rumbling sounds woke him up. The deep bass noise grew steadily louder. He dropped the armload of wood and grabbed the service revolver. Tucking it in the top of his pants, he walked through the back door, edging along the building.
The pale morning light filtered through ground fog that ate away the distant view. It blanketed the now empty houses except the vaguest outline of the Administration Building. He jogged from building to building, staying close to the walls. He reached the edge of the barracks building when the front gate crashed inward, ripping off the hinges.
A bulldozer and three Army trucks moved in and blocked the compound’s center road. Men enclosed in yellow spacesuit-like gear jumped out of the back of one truck, carrying rifles. Mitchell recognized the hazard gear as similar to the emergency use ones tucked away in his lab. Each suit totally enclosed the man and each man breathed through the air units on their backs. The soldiers broke into groups of five, each heading towards a residential street. Mitchell’s breathing came in sharp shallow gasps as he saw one group headed directly towards the barracks.
He ducked round the back, sprinted along the street and into the first neighborhood. He picked a house at random, opening the back door and slipping into Mendoza’s old home. Hidden by a window, he watched the figures down the street. A group of two split up, each man taking one side of the street and moving in and out of each house. They walked in briefly and then exited each house, taking nothing.
Mitchell jumped and cringed as five shots close together ran out in the foggy morning. The area sounded like the BX/Administration area. Mitchell closed his eyes against the tears. “They were survivors, dammit,” he whispered. He gritted his teeth and looked around.
A shadow fell across the window and then the doorknob rattled against its lock. Breathing hard, Mitchell scrambled farther back into the house. He pushed himself flat behind the large couch
along one wall. His eyes fell on a wooden bat and baseball glove, thrown in a corner besides the couch. Mendoza’s son loved baseball, playing catch with his dad in almost any type of weather. Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Mitchell stretched fingers out and slowly pulled the bat towards him.
He heard the sound of glass smashing and the door opening. The yellow suit man walked slowly through the house, slamming open all the doors. The hood almost totally hid the face except for the glass square for the eyes. The man paused at the hallway to the bedroom, his plastic boots inches away from Mitchell's head. The boots shifted as the man turned slowly. Mitchell froze, holding his breath. Finally, the man moved on down the hallway, kicking in each room's door. Mitchell knew from experience that the suit's hood and breathing apparatus would dampen out other sound. Still, he silently rose to crouch, his heart hammering in his chest.
As the alien-looking man walked into the bedroom, Mitchell scrambled up and sprinted down the hall, bat in hand. Mendoza and his wife laid in death wrapped in each other’s slowly rotting arms. Mitchell pressed flat against the doorjamb outside the room. The man turned and the gun tip appeared first through the doorway. Mitchell held his breath and swung hard.
He drove the bat head deep in the man’s abdomen, doubling him over. The second blow came from above, knocking the HAZMAT man down to the floor. A trickle of blood leaked down the soldier’s forehead and between his wide-open eyes.
He stood over the body while trembling and breathing hard. Only the man's wide and empty eyes could be seen through the faceplate. He heard more crashes outside and began to look around wildly. They'll burn everything, he thought. Where do I hide? He looked down at the dead body again and his breathing slowed. The HAZMAT suit looked standard issue. To his knowledge, they came one-size-fits-all with straps to tighten and conform to the body. Mitchell quickly pushed him over and felt for the sealed connection between the hood and the body of the suit. He worked quickly to strip him. Once the suit and uniform was off and pushed to one side, Mitchell took one last swing with the bat, crushing in the man’s face.
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