Sebastian took all this in, placed a hand on Cal’s shoulder and deftly steered him away. He glanced over his shoulder to the desk and said, “Lauren, please ask Mike to bring the car around.”
Before Cal could say anything, mostly that he couldn’t afford a private car, Sebastian steered him toward the coffee machine and poured him a coffee before adding cream and two sugars; how the man knew how he took his coffee was beyond his comprehension and the question struggled to compete in his half-asleep brain for priority, but it was headed off.
“Mike will get you to Battery Park,” Sebastian said, holding up a hand to stop any objection. “He isn’t needed for an hour, and it’s compliments of the Waldorf—”
“I know,” interrupted Cal. “Compliments of the bloody hotel. Why are you being nice to me?” he said, instantly regretting the harshness in his voice as he crossed way over into aggressive ingratitude.
“Cal,” said Sebastian, patient and calm, “don’t argue, just take the car, sir.”
Cal locked eyes with him, seeing a kindred spirit capable of more kindness than he felt he deserved, and softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, failing to fully convey how he felt, “I’m just angry all the time …”
“I know,” said Sebastian, still patient and understanding despite Cal’s behavior, “and I’m sure it will pass. Don’t you Brits have a saying about looking gift horses in the mouth?”
“Yes,” replied Cal, “but I never understood it.”
“It means,” Sebastian said patiently, “that if you’re given something for free, don’t check it out like you’re buying it. Now take your coffee and get in the limo.”
He smiled, turned away and greeted another guest by name, switching into another language with effortless grace. Cal sipped his coffee, good coffee, and walked outside to see a shiny, black town car with a dark-suited man holding the door open.
“Good morning, Mr. Calhoun,” he said. “Battery Park shouldn’t take us long at this hour.” He smiled, gestured Cal into the back of a car he couldn’t afford the insurance for, and closed the door after him.
Cal, as grateful as he was for the kindness showed him, did not enjoy the cold and windswept tour around the Statue of Liberty. He was hungover, despite the three cups of coffee he had poured down his neck in standard NATO form of milk and two sugars—a distant memory from his younger days which had become an ingrained habit—and he was suffering. As much as he suffered, he was still pissed that the Ellis Island ferry seemed to offer better views of the Statue. He spent the tour close in under the shadow and constantly craning his neck upwards. By the time the ferry brought him back, complete with his obligatory ‘Statue of Liberty in the background selfies’ on his phone, he was hungry and he was pissed.
Stopping off at the first hot dog stand he found, he paid cash for two with everything, not that he knew what everything entailed, and ate them both as he walked feeling cheated out of the ten dollars he had just been charged.
I must look like a tourist, he thought.
He knew he was near the monument at ground zero, the site of the former World Trade Center and home to an incredible monument to the fallen, but he couldn’t face the sadness he might feel seeing it.
Maybe tomorrow, he told himself.
Feeling better with a full stomach he rode the subway, which he found was an experience unlike any other, and he had used the London Underground more times than he could count. He wasn’t prepared for the differences, which were accentuated by his thinking that he knew what to expect. The noise and sheer number of passengers deafened him, and the trains seemed so much louder than he had expected. He had even intentionally missed two trains to stay and watch the incredible street performers in a subway station, after finding himself drawn to the music as though his bad mood needed the company of music. He uncharacteristically dropped money into the collection box and exchanged a happy nod with the front man playing an oversized saxophone.
Eventually, he found himself in Midtown where he stood and marveled, not caring if he looked like a tourist or not, at the gargantuan flashing neon lights of Times Square. Finding quickly that the daylight fireworks display of flashing lights soon lost its appeal, he told himself he had to come back at night to fully appreciate it.
A tall man with a bright yellow snake draped across his shoulders made straight for him, flashing an almost maniacal smile. Cal fought the urge to turn and run, to ignore the strict rules on jaywalking and flee across lanes of busy traffic, but the mood he carried from the subway performers stayed with him and he held his ground, posing for awkward pictures as the huge constrictor wrapped itself slowly around his neck.
A few photos taken on his phone later, taken purely for social media use and to prove to everyone, including his ex-fiancée who he was certain would be indulging in some online stalking, that he was enjoying life, he turned and headed south again.
An hour later, he shuffled in line waiting to get into the Empire State building, taking his tourist headphones and listening to the voiceover of a stereotypical New York cabbie inundate him with facts and history about the tower.
As he rode the long elevator to the top of the world, Cal’s ears popped uncomfortably long before he had to get out and move to a different elevator to reach the observation deck.
ORGANIZED CHAOS
Thursday 10:20 a.m. - Manhattan South District
Leland sat in the bland and empty apartment with two Movement soldiers acting as his security detail. The door knocked occasionally and one of the soldiers would admit a man or woman who sat at the small table with him. No names were exchanged, but each gave the code phrase which Leland gave the correct response to.
Another knock at the door and a heavy-set Hispanic man with a fearsome beard entered. He nodded to the man who admitted him, sat down heavily after stomping the wet sludge from his boots, and looked into Leland’s eyes. He had the look of a trucker, Leland thought, which made sense.
“Cold for this time of year,” the man said woodenly.
“Better weather is on the way,” Leland replied, emotionless.
Their exchange held no tone of conversation; it was simply a question and an answer: Can I trust you? Yes.
Leland produced a stack of papers and asked the man if he knew his target. He confirmed that he did. Leland asked if he knew the timings. He answered, “Affirmative, Gunny.”
A former Devil Dog then, thought Leland. Judging by his age, he guessed the man had probably served in Beirut.
Leland shook his hand before he left, and ticked off a line on his list.
Manhattan, Williamsburg, Queensboro, Kennedy, Willis, 3rd, Madison, West 145th, Macomb’s Dam, the ’95 in both directions, Washington on both sides of the island, West 207th, Broadway, Hudson Parkway, and all of the tunnels. Only the Brooklyn Bridge was left untouched, by whatever design the colonel intended, but that wasn’t his concern.
The logistics of the operation were massive, but the execution was simple.
~
Carlos Rodriguez took the stairs one at a time, the pain in his back returning. He had good days and bad, and recently spending long hours behind the wheel aggravated the old shrapnel wound. He was entitled to disability, but it wasn’t enough to live on so he was forced back into work. He got through by trucking, a skill he had obtained in the Corps, and he found himself easily recruited to the Movement.
He had to admit, the plan was brilliant. Stealing C4 and blowing bridges with precision charges would have a high casualty rate, not to mention permanently harm the infrastructure with millions of dollars’ worth of damage caused. This way was effective, more temporary, and easily achieved.
Stealing or stockpiling enough explosives to achieve their objective was more than risky; someone would notice, they would alert the authorities and they would likely fail. Rodriguez only knew a small portion of the plan, his higher involvement necessary because he was a key player in obtaining the materials they needed, and for months he had pl
anned his role ready for the following day.
The Movement would look after him and his family, and those Wall Street assholes would find out what life on the other side is like.
Thursday 11:10 a.m. - Empire State Building
Cal was unhappy at spending another $34 on top of the $12 he had spent getting into the zoo the previous day. He read the sign advertising the NY Pass, listing all the attractions it would get him into. By his rough math, he was already going to be out of pocket by paying individually. That was Angie’s remit; she had always been the organized one who found the deals online and got them into places at a discount.
Bitch, he thought bitterly again, still costing me money.
He paid his fees, went through security, and headed for the top of the building, shuffling his feet during the long elevator ride as they were still hurting him from all the walking he wasn’t used to.
The observation deck was packed, and more disappointingly, Cal saw that he was actually nowhere near the top. The place was literally thronging with tourists. The fact that he was a tourist escaped him briefly, and he inched forward to get a good view.
In spite of his dark mood and his aching feet, he had to admit that the view really was something special. The clouds had broken, and, despite the wind chill, he could see for miles. The East River to one side, the Hudson to the other, the Statue of Liberty clearly visible, and a skyline that made his jaw drop, even if all he could see essentially was miles and miles of concrete laid out below adorned with air-conditioning units sprouting from the buildings like so many small parasites. How mankind could cram so much activity, so many people, into a small island was a wonder to him. Getting out his phone he took a few panoramic shots, the resulting pictures jumping from frame to frame as the mass of people made his footing unsteady. He settled on a 360-degree video, overshadowed by the loud commentary in multiple languages, when the crowd began to make a similar noise all at once. He had abandoned the audio commentary, partly because he refused to shuffle along to the relevant numbered boards to be told what he could see, and partly because the borderline-offensive stereotype in his ears annoyed him.
Turning instinctively toward the source of the interest, people around him everywhere broke out into spontaneous applause.
What the fuck? he thought, before a person in front of him shifted position to take a picture of the scene. There, at the top of the goddamned Empire State building, was a man on one knee holding up a ring box to a tearful, emotional, and embarrassed girl.
“Oh, fuck my life!” he groaned aloud before his brain could intercept the words from reaching his mouth.
All around him people tutted and made disapproving noises, heightening his sense of shame. One woman even tapped him on the shoulder.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him. “It’s a beautiful thing.”
Cal couldn’t take it. Wordlessly he pushed through the cooing crowds and headed for the elevator. Remarkably it wasn’t too full as he turned himself sideways to disappear into a gap and hang his head. Tears pricked his yes, feeling simultaneously angry and sorry for himself, when a voice behind him spoke.
“I thought it was lame too,” it said. Female, rich in humor and sarcasm, and seemingly directed at him. He turned to face the woman who spoke.
Tall, slim, with a ring in her nose under eyes framed by dark makeup, she tucked her straight, dyed-red hair behind one ear and revealed a line of piercings there too. Cal didn’t say anything. Her voice didn’t sound like the accents he’d heard in the city. Like him, she didn’t seem native.
“Everybody clapping though? What the hell was that about? Like they’re actually going to be happy!” She laughed, earning sighs of disapproval from the others in the elevator.
The way she said everybody, Errybody, made him smile.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Louise.” The smile flashed at him, making him blush. “And y’all ain’t from around here, are ya?”
“Cal,” he muttered, “and no, what gave it away?” He tried to return the smile and suspected he may have crossed from awkward into creepy.
“Just a hunch,” she said, one corner of her mouth curling up and making his heart skip a little.
They rode the rest of the way down in awkward silence, him trying to think of things to say to her, and her watching him with a smile of amusement at his discomfort. The doors opened and the elevator disgorged them all onto ground level. Cal walked slowly, hoping she would continue the conversation. He glanced behind him and saw that she had gone.
Shit, he thought, kicking himself for a wasted opportunity of some human contact to smother his sullen loneliness. Turning back to the doors, he found himself staring into her amused face as she stood blocking his path.
“So, what are y’all fixin’ to do now?” she asked him, the smile still there.
“Oh,” Cal stammered, not understanding her use of her native vernacular, “it’s just me actually …”
“I can see that, silly,” Louise said. “Wanna grab a cup of coffee?”
Cal thought that sounded like a good idea. The best idea he’d heard in a long time actually. She indicated that he should follow her and set off at a brisk pace for the exit, forcing him to scurry to make up the lead she had extended. Cursing himself for falling in line so easily to chase another woman, he did the most British of things, and had a word with himself.
Play it cool, he thought, or at least try to play it cool …
They walked in silence for a while, Cal because he didn’t know what to say and Louise because she evidently enjoyed a comfortable silence, even if it was only comfortable for her. She walked into the nearest coffee shop with its familiar green and white livery, bought herself a coffee with cream and two sugars, and stepped back for Cal to make his order as their barista, complete with his ironic moustache, wrote names on the paper cups.
“I’ll have the same please, mate,” he said to the vendor, feeling as though he’d made a mistake and Louise would think he was copying her.
“Funny,” she said, “being from England and all, I thought you’d have tea.”
Cal had never liked tea, had even refused it when it was the only hot drink—or brew as he would say—on offer when he desperately needed the comfort of one. He had even refused tea when he was offered a hot mug of it after finishing the last forced march, the final test to pass out as a Royal Marine so many years ago, even though he was frozen to the bone.
“Can’t stand the stuff,” he told her, earning another amused curling of her mouth. Dammit, he thought, she’s seriously cute. So why is she talking to me?
Cal had been in a relationship with Angie for years, and had remained faithful throughout. When they ran out of things to talk about they moved in together, and when that exhausted their conversation points they—she—talked about getting married. Cal had taken the hints and bought an engagement ring, knowing her high expectations for what that ring should be like and how expensive it had to be. She’d said yes, and for the next year and a half he had saved and worked overtime to pay for the wedding. Her father had never approved of Cal, had told her that he wouldn’t amount to anything because he lacked any vision of his future, and refused to pay for any part of it.
Working for a company which specialized in pouring concrete for mostly commercial buildings, Mr. Holt, the prospective father-in-law, had disapproved of him and his prospects, and had even once called him ‘nothing but a lackey’ to his face.
Cal didn’t see it that way. He worked hard, and he had progressed as far as he could in that business, graduating to running projects on his own with laborers working under him. He had a company van which he could drive for personal use if he wanted to, and he was paid well enough. Since the engagement he had worked six, sometimes seven days a week and had offered to take the biggest jobs which involved the most travelling. He had almost doubled his usual wage in a few months, and every penny was saved for the wedding.
Which was all gone now, the only
exception being the ridiculously expensive hotel room that was his for another few days and the flight home. The agreement was that Angie would save up for the spending money, which was why he was seeing the sights of New York City on a shoestring budget and still managing to max out his last credit card.
“So,” Louise said, snapping his attention back to the present and out of his pit of self-absorbed misery as he followed her to a vacant booth to sit, “where y’all from exactly?”
“England,” said Cal, not looking directly at her as he took a sip of the coffee, which was too hot to drink. Fighting the urge to react to his burning mouth he swallowed it, intensifying the pain and fighting his body not to show it in front of the woman who seemed not to think he was a waste of good air. She looked at him, her face saying, well that much was obvious, and he added a little more information to his answer.
“South of London,” he said, trying to make his very boring hometown sound more interesting, “but I get into the city as much as I can.” He had no idea why he added the last comment, a complete lie as he hated travelling into London and avoided it whenever he could. He supposed he was trying to make himself sound more metropolitan and interesting to her, and failing. Louise regarded him with another smile, head titled ever so slightly over as though she were gauging his responses.
“Should’ve come to the Empire State at dusk,” she said, flipping the subject as though small talk was boring to her. “I’ve heard the views are much better when the sun’s going down.”
Cal struggled to find an appropriate response, anything which would make him sound smooth and mysterious, something James Bond would say. As the seconds ticked by and he realized he was just ignoring her, he clutched to the one part of her sentence he had picked up on.
“You’ve not been here before then?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than he thought it would be.
Burning Skies (Book 1): The Fall Page 4