Soft Target

by Rachel Brune

  The pilot banked hard again. With Alan’s knife at his throat, he had rerouted their flight path to loop under Manhattan and take a long, low approach towards the caverns and lights of midtown. Now that the man was otherwise occupied with the stranger in the back of the plane, the pilot desperately tried to fly himself out of the New York City airspace. He opened the throttle as much as he dared, banking again to attempt to upset the balance of the fight in the cabin, as much as to look out the window for the jets he expected any moment now.

  Neither he nor the copilot knew what was happening in the cabin—they had closed and bolted the door once the man with the knife had gone after the other man. Now, they raced against inertia to get themselves out of the radius. The copilot kept trying to reach ground control, but had no luck. Even the redundant comms were offline.

  In the cabin, Scott found himself at the end of his stamina. Every move he made required more than he thought he could muster. He held Alan at bay, the two men wrestling in the narrow confines of the aisle. He caught another downward slash from the terrorist, locked his wrist and forced him to finally drop the knife. Squirming to create the smallest bit of space between the two of them, Scott kicked the knife down the aisle.

  Alan attacked with renewed vigor, punches landing as fatigue dropped Scott’s hands from guarding his face.

  Scott attempted to block and parry, clumsy and numb from pain and blood loss.

  Very little grace or precision marked each blow.

  Alan jabbed again at Scott’s throat. Luck, and skill, guided Scott’s parry and return jab. The punch caught Alan full force in the face, opening his nose to drip blood thickly over his mouth.

  Alan shook his head, wiped at his mouth. Scott punched again. From his back, the blow carried little power. Alan deflected and counterpunched.

  Scott dropped his hands, tried to counter Alan’s strike with one of his own, but he reached too far. The pain exploded again in his back and he doubled over. Coughing, he spat blood.

  On the floor, a glint of polished ceramic illuminated in the glow strip of the cabin aisle floor. Scott followed Alan’s glance.

  The terrorist erupted toward the knife, scrambling. Scott wrapped both arms around Alan’s legs, holding him desperately as the two men fought, grabbing for the knife.

  Scott pulled, gritting teeth against pain, using his size to force Alan back. He reached for the knife, felt the brush of its ceramic hilt at his fingertips.

  With the last of everything he had, Scott grabbed the knife, convulsed his body up, grabbing Alan in a tight embrace, knife hand seeking the space between the terrorist’s ribs. He found the sweet spot and drove the knife in, holding Alan as the terrorist shook and was finally still.

  Somewhere in the darkness outside the city, fighters whined through the lightening sky toward the city that, tonight especially, couldn’t sleep.

  “Is he all right?” A passenger two rows down poked his head over the headrests. When the fight started, he had grabbed his daughter and covered her in the small space between the seats.

  The two bodies lay in the aisle, unmoving.

  “Should someone check?” asked a woman in a business suit.

  The first passenger set his daughter down in her seat with strict instructions not to look anywhere except out the window.

  “Look, daddy!” she said, pointing to the brilliant lights outside the window.

  “I know, honey,” said her father. “Keep looking down.”

  The man gingerly sidled to the two men. With his foot, he nudged Alan’s body. No movement. He nudged it again. No response.

  The passenger bent to one knee. Heaving, he rolled Alan to one side.

  Alan stared straight back at him. Scott’s hand death-gripped the ceramic knife buried to the hilt in the terrorist’s back. The stroke had penetrated his thin shirt and stopped his heart.

  “You all right, man?” the passenger asked Scott.

  “Fine.” Scott coughed blood.

  “Here, let me help you.” The passenger laid his hand on Scott’s, prying his fingers gently from the knife. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Doctor?” whispered Scott.

  “Nurse practitioner,” the man answered. “Nurse Miles, nice to meet you.”

  He rolled Scott over, noting the blood staining his back and pooling beneath him. “Hang tight. I’m going to see if there’s a first aid kit.”

  “Pilot?” asked Scott.

  “He’s fine,” said Miles. “He’s flying the plane.”

  “Gotta get out,” said Scott. “Airspace.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Miles. “Try to relax. You’ve done the hero thing; he’ll get us home safely.”

  Nose against the window, Miles’ daughter watched as the canyons of midtown approached.

  Wright’s teammate, Dan Sanchez, spotted the plane first. Initially, he mistook the engine sound for that of the promised approaching fighters, and looked up for confirming reassurance.

  “Yeah, Eden TOC, this is Wright, I’m still not getting any sign of movement…” Wright broke off his report as Sanchez tugged on his sleeve. “What is it?”

  “Sergeant Wright…” Sanchez pointed.

  Wright looked up, following where Sanchez indicated.

  One by one, the reporters, their crews, the first responders, the bystanders—all fell silent.

  The white belly of the plane barely missed the tops of the buildings in its path with the gentlest of tremors.

  On the ground, silence reigned. Each man and woman staggered under the force of a mass flashback, revisited by a nightmare that many of them witnessed once already in their lifetimes.

  “Please tell me you got that,” Mark muttered to his cameraman.

  The cameraman lowered his lens. “All of it.”

  One of the news reporters coughed and sobbed at the same time. The spell was broken.

  Mark and his cameraman began running, following the path of the flight toward the river.

  Nina said, “It’s time to take care of this fucking truck.”

  Alan’s carefully laid timetable included an hour of prep time at the truck, enough time for Said and Abdel to double check every connection, battery and wire. The foreshortened plan excised that extra hour from the plan. In consequence, Said and Abdel worked furiously in the back of the truck, attempting to diagnose the reason why the second explosion failed.

  “Try it again, brother,” said Said.

  Abdel pressed the detonator. It clicked, but the spark failed to ignite and they once again sat in the dark.

  “Is the wire loose?” asked Abdel.

  “There is nothing hanging,” said Said. He turned on a small flashlight, holding it between his teeth as he searched the equipment once again.

  “Could it be missing?” asked Abdel. “I mean, the wire?”

  “Ya’allah!” said Said. He closed his eyes. “Quick, reach inside that box. I need you to pull out a pair of pliers and the orange wire spool.”

  Abdel opened the box, rummaging to find what Said needed.

  “Pliers,” said Abdel, handing them to Said. He took several items out of the box. “Wire.”

  “Shukran.” Said cut and carefully striped the wire.

  “Kyle, get back here!” Nina watched in disbelief. MacAllister surged to his feet, drew his weapon, and began marching down the center of the street toward the truck. “Mac—that thing could blow any minute.”

  “I’m not waiting around for that to happen,” said MacAllister.

  Sanchez groped for his radio, fumbling for the switch. “Eden TOC, this is Sanchez.”

  “Go Sanchez,” came the reply.

  “MacAllister is approaching the vehicle.”

  “Tell him to stop approaching the vehicle!”

  Nina Morris stared at the radio in disbelief. Making a decision, she put the hand mic down. She opened the door to the command center and walked toward the perimeter cordon. She sensed the situation was drawing to a close, and preferred to
be an eyewitness than a suit in the command center.

  “Dumbass.” MacAllister muttered to himself as he walked slowly toward the vehicle. He moved in a tactical crouch, weapon up and aimed at the vehicle. “And you told Scott not to be a hero.”

  He cornered the truck, the barrel of his weapon drawn and leading the way. He pointed it at the back of the truck, finding it closed.

  Inside the truck, Said wrapped one end of the wire to the detonator.

  MacAllister aimed at the lock.

  “We are ready,” said Said.

  Three well-aimed shots from Mac’s Glock shattered the lock. Keeping the pistol up, he reached for the door handle, swinging it wide.

  The boy and the man turned to face the police soldier. MacAllister glimpsed a movement in the man’s hand before plowing a single shot into Said’s forehead.

  With precision, Mac trained his barrel on the boy and drilled a hole through his throat.

  The bodies fell without a sound. The detonator slipped to the floor.

  Kyle MacAllister forgot to breathe. He stared at the walls of the truck, and backed slowly away. He didn’t stop until he reached the perimeter.

  Nina Morris met him at the cordon.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded.

  “Nina, good to see you. There are two dead guys in the back of the truck,” said Kyle. “I think we need to call bomb disposal now.”

  Mac’s hand shook. It took him two attempts to replace his weapon in its holster. He tried to draw a breath, but couldn’t seem to get any air into his lungs. He knew the image of the inside of the box truck, its walls lined several inches thick with explosives, would remain seared into his eye forever.

  He bent over and was violently and publicly sick.

  Marcus took a last sip of coffee. He briefly wondered where Eddie was then decided he didn’t really care. He had ditched the phone in a dumpster. A television played in the corner of the Port Authority, and stranded commuters gathered around it for the latest news from midtown.

  One of the people in the crowd was a bike messenger, distinguishable in his spandex shorts and matching courier bag. Marcus eyed him, noticing his total absorption in the fireworks on the screen.

  Marcus tossed his cup in the garbage and walked slowly outside. He scanned the sidewalk, finding the bike as expected.

  Marcus pulled a long, thin piece of metal from inside his dreadlocks. With expert ease, he picked the lock on the bike. It was time for him to disappear.

  Inside the cockpit, the copilot finally got through to ground control. The plane was safely rerouted to La Guardia, where it was met on the tarmac by an assortment of every emergency response vehicle and personnel that could convince dispatch to let them onto the flightline. Mark pulled the one string he had on the Task Force and got MacAllister to get him a pass onto the tarmac.

  The consensus was that Scott was a hero. The men and women on the plane told the responders later that if it hadn’t been for him, none of them would be there. The pilot and the copilot backed up the story, adding that the terrorist seemed to have some personal grudge against the detective; otherwise, he never would have opened the cockpit door.

  The reporter and his cameraman stood as witness as the paramedics brought out Alan’s body, covered in a cloth. Following the body of the terrorist, and then that of the flight attendant who had bled out before Miles could get to her, Scott’s stretcher was lifted gently down from the plane. Mark craned his neck, trying to see if his friend was awake or alive. He was relieved to see that although the detective was covered in tubes and surrounded by an army of emergency personnel, his eyes were open, if slightly glassy.

  “You get that?” he asked the cameraman.

  “Hell yeah, I got that,” said the cameraman. “That dude’s a badass.”

  Final Tally

  Ground Zero was curiously empty this morning. The early morning breeze carried a bit of a chill, but the June sun felt good on Scott’s back. Eventually, the day would shake off the dew and the temperature would climb until it was just another summer scorcher. Scott was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, comfortable for the flight to Texas, carrying a light jacket over his forearm. He was on his way out of the city, and just wanted to stop by the familiar places one last time.

  Scott had quit the Task Force. Nina had offered him an easy out, back to the force to serve out the rest of his time with the NYPD. After a few months, the department acquiesced to his request to go back on active duty with the Army. With all that happened, everyone thought it was really for the best.

  Nina and Kyle had returned to the rhythm of the Task Force, although Kyle had put in a request to return to the NYPD full-time. When Nina signed off on the paperwork, he had asked her to dinner. He was still waiting for her answer.

  In the meantime, she had told him, they had finally found the missing link from the attack on the warehouse. The serial numbers on the weapons were in direct numerical sequence that matched the number found on the weapon one Linus a.k.a. “Dodger” Templeton had used at the site of the New York Central News attack. That solved the mystery of both the intended destination for the weapons, if not the small-time criminal’s inane nickname.

  Eddie had turned evidence, which had led to Marcus’ arrest, but the rest was mainly academic as the rest of the terrorists were dead. The final body count of the crisis tallied surprisingly low.

  Citizens set up spontaneous memorials around each site to commemorate the dead, and for two weeks, Mark couldn’t get to work without almost breaking down at some new photo posted by a friend and coworker of someone from the station.

  It would be easier, Mark thought, if they had died for something, but he couldn’t help feeling both guilt and anger at their deaths.

  On his way to the airport, Scott stopped by Mark’s new network offices. With the story had come a promotion, and the reporter was on his way to bigger and better things. Scott found he harbored no bitterness. He understood obsession and ambition.

  The two men went out for a beer in the time before Scott took off for the airport.

  Mark insisted on paying for the beer. Scott raised a glass.

  “To the luckiest reporter I know,” said Scott.

  “To the luckiest son of a bitch I ever met,” said Mark.

  Scott laughed.

  “I’ll take luck any day,” said Scott. “But I’ll back it up with a gun.”

  The men talked for a time. Scott spoke of his future assignment, Fort Hood, Texas, which sounded as foreign and exotic to Mark as a distant desert country. Mark told him of the possibility of his reassignment to work in Washington, D.C. He had had some conversations with one of the bureaus down there, and was hoping to get to do some actual news reporting.

  A woman stopped by their table, asking for an autograph. Mark obliged. She glanced curiously at Scott.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

  “No,” said Scott. “I just have one of those faces.”

  The woman nodded, smiled, and left.

  Scott finished his beer and looked at his watch. “All right, I’ve got a train to catch.”

  “And I’ve got a story to file,” said Mark.

  “What is it this time?” asked Scott. “Nuclear spinach?”

  “Ha ha,” said Mark. “Crime, corruption, graft, all kinds of good shit. Sure you don’t want to stick around?”

  “Nah,” said Mabry. “I’ll leave that watchdog of the government stuff for you. I’m going to go put my uniform back on.”

  He pulled his suit jacket on. Buttoning up, he extended his hand. Mark shook it.

  “See you around,” said Mabry. He saluted casually with two fingers.

  Mark finished his beer. His phone beeped. His cameraman was waiting for him downtown. Pulling on his hat, he flagged a taxi at the curb and headed on his way.

  # # #

  Acknowledgments

  No author worth her salt could finish a book without acknowledging those who helped h
er make it to the end. First and foremost, a heartfelt "Thank You" to Mike Lynch, editor extraordinaire, whose keen eye passed over these pages not once, but twice, and pointed out each minute grammatical transgression. To him, I owe all the credit for the cleanliness of these pages. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

  Jim Reader, friend and fellow writer, also provided invaluable guidance and critiques of the entire manuscript. I hope to return the favor someday. In addition to his critique, members of the Round Rock Writers Guild in Austin, TX, read the first few chapters and gave me many words of wisdom and priceless encouragement. They are a great bunch of people, and I have long enjoyed being a member of this group.

  As with any piece of writing, I owe a great debt to George Lightcap, teacher and friend. I was not a writer until I took his creative writing workshop. I would love to once again sit in his classroom. Thanks as well to my husband, Rob, who supports me in everything I do, even if sometimes he is not quite sure what I'm up to.

  Last but not least, a debt of gratitude to the many men and women I have served with. I have nothing to add—their service speaks for itself.

  # # #

  About the Author

  Rachel A. Brune graduated from the NYU Tisch School of the Arts in May 2000, and was immediately plunged into the low-stakes world of entry-level executive assistant-ship. Her unexpected journey out of that world and into the military is chronicled in her self-published book Echoes and Premonitions.

  Rachel served five years as a combat journalist, including two tours in Iraq, and a brief stint as a columnist for her hometown newspaper. After her second tour, she attended graduate school at the University at Albany in NY, where she earned her MA in Political Communication, and her commission as a second lieutenant in the military police corps.

  Although her day job has taken in her in many strange, often twisted directions, Rachel continues to write and publish short fiction. She blogs her adventures, writing and otherwise, at The Infamous Scribbler. You can also follow her on Twitter, where she goes by the handle @siegerat.