Before any of the bodyguards can move, the man collides with the mayor and the car.
The roar of the explosion blows a huge fireball into the sky.
The heat from the flames reaches and melts the paint on the gates.
Chicago, 8:30 a.m.
America’s third largest city nestles along beautiful Lake Michigan. The Chicago River encircles a large section of its commercial downtown area, winding quietly around some of the world’s most spectacular architecture and tallest buildings. A 47-mile system of interlocking tunnels used mainly for freight and a network of roads allow traffic to flow smoothly and efficiently underground, easing congestion above the surface. Chicagoans know it as Lower Wacker Drive.
Cars with their headlights on move speedily along Wacker Drive. It is rush hour. Trucks are pulled tight up against their loading docks and every type of merchandise is being off-loaded. As they normally do each morning, people rush to get to work by 9 o’clock.
Tony Beckman, like most commuters driving into the city, is tuned into the news radio station. He’s been listening to traffic bulletins, interspersed with breaking news of the assassination of the governor and the mayor. The line of cars ahead of him starts to move. He eats a pretzel and takes another sip of coffee from a Chicago Bears mug. No question, he thinks, today’s going to be a bummer.
He is nearly at the traffic light when it turns red. “Shit, I know it, assholes. Now I have to waste more shit in this traffic time.” In disgust, he once again reaches for his coffee. The wall next to him explodes. The line of cars he is traveling in is swept away as tons of water erupts into the tunnel. Within thirty seconds, more cracks start to appear and the rush of water becomes stronger, cascading and enveloping the cars. Soon, the tunnels and roads are filled by millions of tons of river water pouring into Lower Wacker Drive. Electrical systems and generators in basements short, their sparks causing fires.
Where roads were, water has taken over, and continues to pour in. The quietness of crushing shock surrounds each building, as one by one, Chicago’s tallest buildings lose electricity and cease to operate. It has taken less than an hour for the center of the city to effectively stop functioning.
Hours later, air bubbles and small whirlpools can still be seen all along the river as rescuers struggle to haul floating bodies onto the decks of Coast Guard patrol and fire boats. Doctors seek patients who have a fighting chance of surviving, and jam pack ten or more into ambulances. Those near death are left on the sidewalks. Ambulances with lights flashing and sirens yowling manically screech through the streets, fighting tangled traffic snarls, desperately seeking routes to the nearest hospitals.
Chicago, 8:35 a.m.
Marc Flowers takes a bite out of his bagel and opens the sports page of the Chicago Times. Mounted on his desk, four TV monitors show different parts of the building. A portable radio placed next to his coffee is tuned to a new Golden Oldies station, FM 97.9. He had heard enough about the bomb that had killed the mayor and governor on the car radio while driving in. Same old news, nothing new of substance yet, same old, same old. The mayor was a prick, so was the governor. They must have done something to somebody who didn’t like them much, he muses, turning a page and readying himself for another bite of the bagel.
He thinks to himself, Chicago ain’t changed at all since Al Capone knew how ‘to show an example, and as the Godfather says, it isn’t personal, just business.’ The mayor and governor must have been into some deep, deep shit to be taken out
like that.
Marc knows it will be a relaxing day. Makes a note to contact Ronnie later, hot coffee, good music, and a sports section with three pages devoted to the Bulls’ win last night in their quest for a ninth world championship. Even without Jordan, the Bulls are a team destined to dominate the NBA for at least another ten years. A badge on Marc’s uniform reads “American Television Network, ATN Security.” He turns a page, which briefly obscures the monitor. The portable radio continues playing nice, slow, and easy music.
Marc hears the revolving door turning slowly. Reluctantly steering his eyes away from the newspaper, irritated to be disturbed, he looks up. Four men with briefcases and tote bags walk in. He sits, waiting for them to approach his desk and sign in. Three men turn right, walking fast toward the staircase. The fourth man walks toward him. Marc starts to rise up out of his chair, looking at the three men, he shouts, “Hey, you gotta sign in first.” They continue walking, ignoring him. Annoyed, he turns toward the man who is approaching. Marc sees that the man’s arm is extended, a gun pointing at his face. He begins to say something as the bullet smashes into his forehead.
The force of the impact throws him spread-eagled against the wall.
Golden Oldies on FM 97.9 are still playing softly when the police arrive.
Chicago, 8:45 a.m.
The telephone shrills five times before I pick it up. Josh says tersely, “The attacks have started, three so far in the last hour, another minutes ago. Pick you up in five minutes.”
Moments later, we are heading for the situation room. I’m still buttoning my shirt.
Josh says, “In the last hour, four incidents. Iran has declared open season on Chicago. They have taken over ATN., the American Television Network, and are holding the Morning News and Views anchors as hostages.
He updates me about the other incidents, his face etched deep and grim from lack of sleep. Instinctively, I know that the thunder and fury of war has once again become a part of
my life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
All chairs in the situation room are occupied. At least another twenty people are milling around. A loud hum of voices ripples through the space. Shouts quiver into telephones, some animatedly, others just listening, one man laughs too loudly, causing the person next to him irritably to press two fingers against his eardrum momentarily trying to hear what is being said above the laugh.
Nearly all of them have their heads angled awkwardly to one side to hold telephones caught in the crooks of their necks. Concentrating as they speak, their hands free to scribble hurried notes, jotting them on yellow legal pads next to each phone. Four TV sets with VCRs placed on top of them are each tuned to a different channel brought into the room on three-foot-high metal trolleys. They are pushed off to the far side, beneath the wall of Chicago street maps. Growling radio frequencies emitting clipped, stop-and-go police jargon add to the growing din of a room that is now seething and swelling with controlled, frantic activity.
Josh nods to each one around the table. A few acknowledge his greeting, looking up briefly, then eyes downcast, continue to make their notes. No one looks at or speaks to me, avoiding me by staring out to some other place in the room as they maneuver past, holding onto Styrofoam cups filled with steaming coffee. Fatigue lines of hollow tiredness sit deeply in their faces.
The men and women of the Chicago police force somehow seem to be holding themselves together much better than I am. I feel a slight nudge. Josh says, “Drink this. It’ll wake you up.”
I begin to sip greedily, trying to drink as quickly as the scalding liquid will allow me. I have no idea how I’m going to function during the next few hours. I am totally exhausted.
I stretch for a few seconds, then cock my head, listening to Josh yelling savagely into the telephone. His posture indicates that the person he is talking to is his mortal enemy. A long pause, then Josh slams the receiver down with a violent clatter. It spins out of the phone rest and falls onto the floor.
Someone passing picks it up and replaces it into the cradle.
Josh makes a dismissive gesture, not noticing or acknowledging the courtesy. “Fucking asshole. Who the fuck does he think he’s fucking talking to?”
Then he looks around the room, acknowledging no one, seeing everything, aware that any failure and blame will be pointing directly at him and only him. Sweat beads his upper lip and forehead. He is fuming. Ready to do battle, his bearing and body language signal dangerously that no one should
come near him or speak to him.
Minutes pass. He turns to me and beckons with a slight head movement. I move to stand next to him. “That over-acting was for the audience, so they know not to waste my time. I want the pressure cooker atmosphere to inch up a few notches. I need 100-percent concentration of every person in this room until we find those motherfuckers and kill them all.”
He takes a toothpick from a stash in his breast pocket, places it between his teeth, cups his hand, and whispers to me, “Subversive has to take a back seat. Hostage situations become the sole responsibility of the Chicago Police Department. A hostage negotiation team is activated and they immediately put into effect one of five plans, depending on the severity of the situation.
“A negotiation team is also on site, trying to make contact with the Iranians. All outgoing and incoming telephone calls are blocked and the negotiators have control of all communications. The building will be totally evacuated. and engineering plans for the sewer, roof, and room floors are being closely studied. A deputy superintendent will be in charge. He or she’s the highest-ranking officer on that shift. S.W.A.T. teams and canine units will be waiting for instructions, as will a team of twelve squad cars that surround the building, blocking off all roads.”
“Are the five Iranians in the studio?” I ask.
“Not sure yet, but we’ll know soon. The war wagon will be parked close by. It’s modified to hold robots that will be used to explode bombs. Small, medium, and heavy assault weapons with enough ammunition to arm a small army are ready and waiting. S.W.A.T. will be deployed on roofs on all four sides of the building. Your Iranians will be coming out of the front, back, or side exits, or maybe the roof. Sharpshooters will be waiting for them. Helicopters and unmarked cars are also standing by. Police and FBI policy is that if one person is killed, immediate steps are instituted to kill all the hostage takers. Until then, we talk.”
Someone shouts, “10 a.m., Josh.”
Josh turns toward the bank of televisions and using the remote, turns up ATN’s sound. ATN’s logo and morning show music are interrupted by a flash appearing on the screen: “Breaking News…Live as it is happening.”
A pretty and neatly coiffed blond newscaster informs listeners in a controlled, matter-of-fact voice that gunmen have entered Studio 3 and taken anchors John L. Grogan and Irene Lampart, as well as six technicians, hostage. Contact had been made with the gunmen, and as news becomes available . . .”
Abruptly, the screen goes black, cutting her off in midsentence. No sound, just flashes of light.
Josh said, “Turn up ABC. Leave this on.”
ABC is reporting on the siege, showing police activities around the building. As yet, no demands had been made.
As the TVs drone on, I remember what I’ve read about Grogan. High priest of broadcasters, gray hair, bearded, with a sincere, toothy smile, interviewer and confidante of presidents, popes, pop singers, terrorists, and dictators.
Anchors are supposed to be neutral chameleons, objective outsiders, deliverers of detail, leaving listeners to form their own opinions. Not Grogan. His interviews of America’s enemies, especially the left—the far, far left, Communists and terrorists—were deferential, polite, and eager to please. He kissed asses, apologizing whenever possible for America’s past, present and future sins while ready at any time to proclaim support to the person being interviewed. Their obvious hatred of America were the sound bites used by the station to tease viewers into watching the exclusive special.
I had first seen Grogan on TV when Khomeini, after arriving in Teheran and being declared ruler for life, welcomed his first official political visitor, Yasser Arafat. With great pomp and fanfare, the PLO was given the Israeli Consulate building to house their accredited representatives. This was the first time ever that the PLO had taken over an Israeli building peacefully.
Grogan’s interviews with both Khomeini and Arafat clearly showed which side he was on. He fawned over them, respectfully feeding them questions so they could espouse their hatred and venom over American networks. In summing up their remarks, he always sided with them, was always negative toward America, Israel, the UK, and most of Europe. As expected, the ratings went through the roof. That was Grogan’s power—achieving top ratings for his studio.
In contrast, a month after that, when interviewing the Shah of Iran, his aggressiveness was humiliating and embarrassing. But what he wanted most, he achieved. He scored points with the Communist, third-world countries and Arab nations. All of them considered him an honest broker and good friend, enabling him to get interviews whenever or wherever he wanted them.
Seven months later, Khomeini discovered that the PLO, realizing how weakened Iran had become since three quarters of the military generals had been executed, had set up underground cells, stored arms, and began looking to overthrow Khomeini and take over Iran with Iraq’s help. Through his network of spies, Khomeini learned what was afoot and immediately expelled the PLO. Grogan studiously avoided that subject whenever it was brought up.
John L. Grogan was a ruthless man to work with or to work for if the tabloids could be believed. I was sure AT.N. has been chosen for the hit because its main anchorman was Grogan, their most sympathetic and helpful spokesperson.
Irene Lambert was the obligatory pretty face morning shows found necessary. She knew her job depended on being in Grogan’s shadow and not overshadow him.
The two news anchors were probably scared stiff, yet the show biz side of them must have been excited by the attention they would be receiving around the world. Nielsen ratings are what counts. Being experienced professionals, they are probably planning what their first profound words and observations will be to their colleagues when they are released—talk shows, interviews, maybe even a book.
On ATN, the TV monitor hisses and crackles, black and white snow intermixes with static. Suddenly, flashes of light burst across the screen, noisily increasing in volume.
The anchors and their captors appear.
John Grogan’s face, tight-lipped, appears on screen. Strain, uncertainty, and fear emanate from the corners of his lips and nostrils. His eyes try to pretend bravado, projecting himself as being in control and asserting his statesmanship, but his hands betray him by shaking uncontrollably, telegraphing the monster of his fear.
Grogan has center stage on the screen, but no one is looking at him. Instead, we peer at the man seated next to him with a red and white checkered scarf, a kaffiyeh, wrapped around his head and face. Only his eyes and the top part of his nose can be seen. He holds a paper in his hand, and is reading a statement in heavily accented English.
“Every hour, we will broadcast to the world about the conduct and disciplines needed so that all men and women can change their ways and become one with us all, praised be Allah. We will show you how to build a beautiful world together, united as brothers and sisters, helping one another, caring for one another, eliminating violence, unjust wars, starvation, trickery, and deceit. We will eliminate corruption, the wealthy scavengers, and distribute the country’s resources evenly to every person who lives in that country.
Good people of America, your ways have failed. Fear, violence, poverty, hatred, tyranny, and conquest are what your nation consists of. Turn the page of your pain, embrace our new-world order, and overthrow your leaders. We will help you. We are the good; they are the evil.”
His soft voice is soothing and reasonable.
“In conclusion, we will broadcast to you our friends, for from now on you are our friends, once every hour for the next twelve hours. If this station refuses to broadcast live, we will punish the eight people who are in this studio. Listen carefully.
“Number one, we do not want violence.
“Number two, we do not want to negotiate. We are capable of number one and incapable of number two. We are not negotiators. We are soldiers of the soon-to-be new world order, the soldiers you too will become when you join our glorious cause. You are our brothers. Take our hands in fri
endship. Your brothers and our brothers are rising up all over the world, for our time is now, our time has come.
“Your President Bush promised you a thousand points of light. We promise you, dear friends, millions upon millions of points of light. The dawn is about to turn into magnificent sunshine. Come, people of America, come join us. Become free once more, like you were before your government took total control or you and made you its servants, it slaves, intruded in your lives, and made you its puppets. Come join us.”
The man pauses, turns over the page and continues. “We only want twelve hours or your time, then we will leave. Twelve hours is not too much to ask. Do not do foolish things. Tell your government thugs not to do foolish things. If you make a rescue attempt, all will die. Our lives are not important. Life is but a flutter of an eyelid. History, though, as your prophet, the Christ Child, proved two thousand years ago, is forever. If we die in a few days a few weeks, you forget us. Only history will not forget us. History has not forgotten your Christian religion and its beginnings. Today is that same new beginning. Do not try to rescue these people, for we are all expendable. Look behind me and you will see.”
A camera pans, showing the whole room. Three men have red and white kaffiyehs over their faces. One of the three is standing in front of a door marked EXIT. Across the door, wires are strung and connected to a detonator and plunger on a table next to one of the other men. All three standing have a live grenade with a pin primed hanging from a belt around their chest. Three TV technicians, blindfolded, arms raised, are standing at the door. Tied around each person’s chest are two sticks of dynamite.
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