by Linda Reid
“I think so, but I still don’t get how Miller could have activated the device when I know he never left the base either of those days.”
“Obviously, he had a partner,” Pappajohn interjected.
“Or wireless transmission,” Keith added. “It could have been done remotely. How far away was the base?”
“A quarter mile, more or less. Think that’s possible?”
“Not only possible,” Keith said, “but if your friend Miller wanted to keep his nose clean, very likely.”
The LAPD officer covering the B2 level shone the flashlight’s beam up and down one corridor, while her partner did the same in the other.
“Nothing,” her partner said, meeting her near the stairwell. “You see anything?”
“Nada. Only the dead down here.” She pointed back toward the morgue with her light.
At the end of a corridor just beyond the elevators they stopped in front of a pair of fire doors and tried turning the handle. “Locked.” The female officer peeked in through the split. “Just a black wall. Doesn’t look like it goes anywhere.”
“Okay, then, let’s make our way upstairs to the evac zone and help Dee.”
As the two climbed the stairs, neither realized they’d missed the elevator maintenance room, whose nondescript entrance was hidden in the shadows behind the locked fire door and the quarantine shield.
The black Tahoe quietly backed up to the entrance of the Schwarzenegger Hospital, and discharged the four-man FBI field team. They’d arrived in civilian clothes without their trademark company jackets, just in case the perpetrators were tracking their movements. Their supervisor, sporting the same Marine-style buzz cut as his men, waved the white unmarked van following the Tahoe toward a secluded parking spot near the ER entrance next door, and instructed, “Secure the building.”
“Detective!” Ana cried, recognizing De’andray silhouetted against the doorway of Teddy’s hospital room, flashlight in hand. Her voice carried a mix of wariness and relief.
Sammy jumped up from her chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hospital’s lost all power. We’ve started evacuations,” De’andray said. “Just a precaution, but we need to get everyone out as quickly as possible.”
Ana froze, her expression pure terror.
“We have to get moving.” De’andray came over to Teddy’s bed and leaned in to scoop him up.
“I can walk.”
“Elevators are out, son. That’s seven floors.”
“I can do it!” Teddy was already sitting up and reaching for his crutches.
“Okay, but—” De’andray’s walkie-talkie buzzed. He pulled it off his belt to answer. “Yes?”
“Bomb squad’s here. They’re working from the lobby down. We’ve just searched every area on B3 and B2 we could access. No sign of your suspect. Fire doors are locked beyond the elevators and the morgue. We can’t get in. But neither can anyone else. We’re moving to B1 and lobby. Over.”
Clicking off, De’andray turned back to Teddy. “I’ll finish putting the word out and meet you all on the way down.” He shined the light so the three could see their way into the hall where the generator-powered runner lights provided enough illumination to guide them to the stairwell.
“We’ve just lost oxygen,” the ER nurse told Reed as he rushed back into the treatment area. She gestured at the wall unit whose monitor now indicated a zero liters flow.
“Portable unit, STAT,” ordered Reed, helping two orderlies transfer a heart attack victim to a rolling gurney. “Bring the defibrillator,” he added, hoping they wouldn’t need it. As he followed the last of the ER staff and patients to the parking lot outside, he glanced at his Casio digital blinking 11:10.
With three of the five stairwells dedicated to stretcher cases and Evacuchairs for those needing wheelchairs, more than two hundred ambulatory patients and visitors were channeled to the remaining two, making progress down to the lobby slower than expected. Stopping to let the more able-bodied pass, Teddy, leaning on his mother’s arm, had only arrived at the fifth floor by the time De’andray reached them.
“Sammy’s not helping you?” De’andray asked.
“She’s gone to get her father,” Ana explained, checking her watch. Eleven fifteen. “You said midnight, right?” Hesitating, she added, “We’re doing good. You need to help the children who can’t walk at all. We’ll be down in five minutes and meet my dad outside.”
De’andray patted her on the shoulder as he hurried down the stairs. “I’ll be back.”
Whipping winds made it hard for Bishop to maneuver the LAU Med golf cart as he rounded the perimeter of the hospital for the second time. Through the hazy darkness, he strained for signs of Miller, so far with no success. After his conversation with Keith, Bishop was convinced the resonator had to be activated remotely. That meant the bastard must be somewhere close by. Despite LAPD’s all-clear report. Even if Miller wasn’t running the show this time, he’d never be far from the stage during a performance.
This was one performance Bishop had to shut down. He glanced over at his Army-issue Beretta M9 pistol laying on the seat beside him. Since he’d received the strange warning call the other night, he’d taken the gun from his closet and locked it in the trunk of his car. A premonition that he’d need to use it soon? Perhaps. All he knew was that Miller had to be stopped. Should have been years ago.
When Bishop had volunteered as an MASH unit commander for the U.S. mission in Kuwait, he’d sworn an oath to protect his country. Then he’d met Miller and seen that patriotic mission perverted. This resonator Miller had helped develop was not a weapon that would protect innocents at home and abroad. The device that took civilian lives was instead a way to create fear, making foreign and domestic control and conquest easier. Bishop understood that now. Men like Miller were traitors, not patriots.
How many innocent lives might have been saved if Bishop had continued to pursue the doubts inflamed when the dying young soldier whispered resonator, murder? Instead, he’d climbed inside a bottle. He brushed his hand over the pistol as he accelerated the golf cart. This time, he wouldn’t give up his pursuit. At eleven twenty-three, he had less than thirty minutes to stop Miller.
By eleven twenty-eight, Sammy and Jeffrey finally caught up with Ana and Teddy shuffling onto the second-floor stairwell. Groggy from his pain medication, Jeffrey was leaning heavily on Sammy, slowing her down. “Keep going,” she told Ana as they stopped to rest. “Your father will be getting worried.”
“No, you saved our lives.” Seeing that Teddy was taking the steps one by one on his own, Ana moved to Jeffrey’s injured side and gently put an arm around his waist to help hoist him up. “We’re not leaving you now.”
De’andray found the FBI team supervisor outside near the holding area and shared the status of the evacuations and the bomb squad’s searches.
An FBI technician stuck his head out of the back of the parked white van, signaling for attention.
“What’s up?” The supervisor hurried over with De’andray at his heels. Inside the open door, they saw the tech staring intently at a series of monitors hooked up to several computerlike machines.
“Sir, scan shows a hot footprint on Level B3.” He indicated a large patch of bright red at the base of an overlaid map of the hospital. “Better call back your search teams.”
De’andray asked for clarification.
“Nuclear radiation leakage,” the supervisor said. “Seems we’re dealing with a dirty bomb.” He surveyed the clusters of patients, staff, and family crowding the holding area, watching the police activity. “Better start moving everybody back. Way back.”
Reed was busy rolling a stretcher across the parking lot when he saw Pappajohn hurrying toward him, waving his arms and shouting. It was impossible to hear above the blustering winds and the din of the crowd outside.
Reed handed off the patient to a nurse and ran over to meet Pappajohn halfway.
“Have you seen Ana and Teddy and Sammy?
” Pappajohn gasped and coughed.
Reed propelled Pappajohn over to a nearby bench. “Slow down or we’ll lose you too.”
“I’ve been all over the triage area, the lobby, the ER,” Pappajohn wheezed. “I can’t find them anywhere. Didn’t they get out yet?”
“If Sammy’s with them, I’m sure they’re fine.” Reed pointed to the hordes of people being herded to a more distant parking lot. “They’re probably there, looking for you. Sit and catch your breath. I’ll see if I can get away or send someone to find them.”
At precisely eleven thirty p.m., Fahim picked up his PDA and began typing in the code Miller had given him, setting the bomb’s timer controlling countdown to detonation. In less than thirty minutes, as Y2K crept over the horizon, the bomb, packed with nuclear residue, would explode, taking out much of the hospital’s central core along with every escape route for hundreds of patients and staff remaining in the floors above. Those who did avoid injury in the initial blast would later wish they’d perished instantly. The radiation released in the explosion would blanket at least an entire city block, poisoning thousands more in the next few weeks and months, and changing the landscape of the American empire.
A shame so many people would die, but not my problem. This was the doing of men like Miller and al-Salid. By midnight he’d be in the Bentley, hightailing it away from the disaster, toward San Diego and, if needed, the Mexico border. After a short snooze at that Oceanside motel, he would catch the seven a.m. flight to Montreal for his connection to Paris and points south.
Entering the last number, Fahim nodded to al-Salid who walked over and gave him warm goodbye kisses on both cheeks.
“Ma’ Alsalam.”
“And to you, my brother,” al-Salid said. “A safe journey.”
Turning to leave, Fahim wondered where the terrorist leader’s next assignment would be. Asia perhaps? No matter, al-Salid knew how to reach him whenever he needed his next buy. Fahim didn’t really care to know this much about what his customers planned to do with their weapons ever again. In fact—
The flash lasted only a microsecond, searing over Fahim with the pain of a thousand knives. A millisecond later, all that was left to identify Fahim, al-Salid, and al-Salid’s cell were fragments of tissue and DNA. And several intentionally hardy counterfeit ID cards.
The resonator’s seismograph recorded the explosion at exactly 11:40 p.m. Miller swore that the ground waves even jostled his truck some distance from ground zero. Al-Salid, his men, and especially that fool Fahim, would not have known what hit them. Fahim was a vicious bastard, not worth one shed tear, and al-Salid had become a man who knew too much. Both men had outlived their usefulness. Safely dressed in his hazmat suit, Miller smiled at the thought that the last of his “loose ends” were out of the way.
He typed in the codes that would activate the resonator’s wave amplification, launching the program within seconds. Instead of dampening the quake-like vibrations caused by the bomb blast, the resonator’s wireless remote control of the top floor sensor and counterweights would enhance them. Minute by minute, the shaking and swaying of the building would grow stronger and stronger, and the ride would begin.
De’andray watched the FBI team supervisor don his hazmat suit.
“Radiation’s localized to the B3 level,” the technician said, studying his monitors. “There’s shielding that’s partitioned off the blast area.”
“Good,” his supervisor responded, “not everybody’s out of the building yet.”
The LAPD rookie ran over to De’andray. “We moved the triage area back three hundred yards,” he reported, peeking in the open door of the FBI van. “Great setup. Looks just like the L.A. Edison van I saw a couple of hours ago. Wish we could afford equipment like that.”
De’andray frowned. “When did you see an electric company van?”
The rookie scratched his chin. “Around ten, I think. In the parking lot south of the Falk Building. Repairman was trying to fix the power.”
De’andray looked at his FBI colleagues. “Any of you ever seen L.A. Edison get to a site within minutes of a power failure?” He didn’t wait for their answer.
The explosion extinguished even the dim lights and dissolved all sense of calm among the dozens of evacuees still struggling down the stairwell. Pandemonium. Cries of pain and terror filled the air. People tumbled over one another, first from the sudden violent shake, and then as they pushed and shoved to escape from the building.
Sammy, Teddy, Jeffrey, and Ana had just reached the mezzanine and now lay next to each other in a crumpled pile on the landing. Jeffrey writhed in pain after jamming his injured arm against the cement where he fell.
“Teddy!” Ana screamed, reaching out blindly for her son.
“I’m okay,” came a whimper from the darkness. “But I lost my crutches.”
“Earthquake!” someone yelled as bits of plaster from the ceiling above began raining down.
Sammy hadn’t experienced an L.A. quake yet, but somehow she doubted this was one.
“It’s not a bomb is it?” Teddy whispered.
“No, no,” Sammy said gently. The luminescent dial on her Timex read 11:45 as she felt the building shake again, more violently than before. Wasn’t it early for the worst-case scenario Pappajohn and Bishop had discussed—the resonator that would make buildings sway and collapse like the Canyon City tower? The groaning sound of joints between the stairs twisting and the walls cracking made her wonder if this hospital would become their tomb.
Her face slick with sweat, Sammy inhaled a deep breath, forcing herself not to panic. Still one floor to go if they were to make it out to safety. “Get up,” she ordered the others. “We’ve got to keep moving. Dad, come on. Ana, let’s each take an arm with Teddy and help carry him down. Time’s running out.”
Miller observed his camera feed, knowing that in minutes the glass-and-steel hospital tower would reach its breaking point and crumble to the ground like unstable Pick-Up Sticks. His plan was unfolding before his eyes like the well-orchestrated drama he’d envisioned. So far everyone had played their part. Fahim, al-Salid, and his men. Now it was time for the rest of the cast.
He typed in the keyboard commands to ramp up the resonation and pressed Enter. At this highest level, the resonator would make the weights amplify the vibrations and sway of the building, causing its steel beams to snap at their joints. All the signals were go. The monitors scanning from his truck showed the resonator operating flawlessly. As soon as the hospital itself collapsed in a ball of steel, concrete, and dust, the Santa Ana winds jostling his van would spread the radiation from the dirty bomb over the entire West side.
Panicked residents would be calling for drastic security measures to protect the health and safety of the country. Plans already drafted and ready to be implemented by his party as a new administration dawned. Happy New Year, Los Angeles! Happy New Century, America!
In the dark, Ana tripped and tumbled down to the next landing, grabbing the railing to avoid banging her head. Her sharp cry of pain and a new limp made Sammy fear she’d twisted her ankle. Teddy clung to Sammy as hard as he could. The shaking and swaying of the building made every step treacherous—even for the able-bodied.
“Can you walk?” Sammy shouted.
Several people dashed past them, unwilling to stop and lend a hand.
“It hurts, but I have to.” Ana’s voice became higher pitched as the swaying threw her against the stairwell wall. “We’re not going to make it!”
“We’ll make it,” Sammy said. “Dad, can you keep going on your own?”
Jeffrey’s reply was weak, but audible. “Yeah. I’ll go down and bring help.”
Sammy waved him on and turned to Teddy. “Okay, hang on to me.” One more set of stairs. They were so close.
The building pitched to the other side and Teddy’s inertia pulled Sammy off balance. Stumbling over a step, they were both flying. She threw out an arm to catch Teddy and braced for a hard landing.
> After circling the perimeter a third time, Bishop realized that the L.A. Edison van he’d seen parked near the Eye Institute hadn’t moved, despite the fact that the hospital had been dark for more than an hour. Driving closer, he noticed the small dome on its rooftop—a camera and an antenna. Damn, how had he missed it? If Keith was right and the resonator was being operated remotely, this would be the perfect location.
Hopping out of the golf cart, Bishop grabbed his gun and raced over to the back of the van. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open up, Miller, I know you’re in there,” he shouted, banging on the door.
No response. Angry, Bishop fired his Beretta into the lock, blasting it open. He stuck his fingers in the joint, pulled the door wide, and climbed into the back of the truck with his gun ready.
Seated at his console dressed in his hazmat suit, Miller didn’t turn his helmeted head to acknowledge Bishop. “Thought I might never see you again, Frank,” he said with icy calm.
“So this is it.” Bishop waved his gun at the large box at the end of the cargo bay that resembled a mainframe computer. “Your resonator.”
“Took a long time to get it right, but we finally did it,” Miller acknowledged, eyes focused on his keyboard “Tonight is the gala performance.”
“Shut that thing off now!” Bishop ordered.
“Or?” Now Miller turned his head and nodded dismissively at the gun in Bishop’s hand. “You’ll shoot me? Really, Frank, you don’t have the guts. Besides, you’re too late. The die’s been cast. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“You always were a liar. Telling me what I’d heard from that soldier in Desert Storm was all in my head.” Bishop released the safety on his pistol. “Not this time. I won’t let you do to my hospital what you did to me and my army career.”