Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  The air in the room felt charged, containing a soft constant hum. Seven men and women were working at the various stations. They wore the same blue jumpsuits as some of Lang’s people. Two people stood off to one side, conversing. One was an older man with gray sideburns. He looked up from a tablet the two were concentrating on.

  He called out, “Kilpatrick, this is a restricted area. Who are these people? You know better than to bring unauthorized personnel in here. Especially today.”

  Lang’s team ignored the man and rushed into the room, spreading out to the right and the left. Guns drawn. The operators watched them, apprehension in their eyes as the gunmen advanced and spread out. They glanced at the man with gray sideburns. The man in charge.

  He took a step forward, but his confidence wavered, “I demand to know—"

  “We’re taking over the facility,” Lang said, interrupting him.

  Tyler Kilpatrick stood next to Lang. He glanced at the floor and wrung his hands.

  Lang pressed the barrel of his handgun against Kilpatrick’s temple.

  Kilpatrick snapped his head up, looking terrified. Before he could speak, Lang pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed in the big room.

  Those at their workstations recoiled and gasped. One woman screamed.

  Kilpatrick fell to the floor. Dead.

  Blood splatter on the side of his face, Lang arched an eyebrow. “Any other questions?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At two-thirty that afternoon, as it did every school day, a yellow school bus pulled to the corner of the intersecting street of Kate Holloway’s cul-de-sac in Falls Church. Its breaks squealed as it came to a stop. A stop sign, opposite the bus driver’s window, folded open. The bus’s red lights began to flash. On the corner stood a group of parents; waiting, chatting, huddled in winter coats and scarfs. Their breath fogging the air.

  The bus door opened with a bang and seven little people of various ages bounded down the steps and across the street confident the flashing red lights and extended stop sign would prevent any oncoming traffic from mowing them down. Among the children was Karley and Kacey Holloway.

  Laughing and carrying on, amid backpacks thumping against legs, winter jackets half on and half off, papers clutched in small fists rustling in the crisp breeze, the children made their way to their parents, anxious to greet their children and excited to hear about their day.

  Kacey hung back from the others. Normally shy and reserve to begin with, she wore a worried expression on her face. She clutched the family portrait she drew in art class, wanting to show her dad. Ahead of her, Karley crossed the street, talking with Brian and his brother Ricky, whose mom met them. The bus pulled away and the group began to walk down the street, making their way towards home.

  “Karley,” Kacey called out.

  Her sister ignored her.

  Beside her, Mr. Anderson held his daughter Addie’s hand. She was two years younger than the twins. He looked down at her, noting her furrowed brow. “Is everything all right, Kacey?”

  “I…our dad was supposed to meet us off the bus.”

  Mr. Anderson glanced around. He didn’t see Roger Holloway. One of the other moms shrugged her shoulders, indicating that she hadn’t seen him either.

  The girls were old enough to walk from the bus home on their own. And Anderson knew from experience, it wasn’t all that unusual for either Kate or Roger to not be there to greet the girls. Both were very busy Washington people. Mr. Anderson smiled. “I’m sure it's fine. Maybe he got delayed at work.”

  “But he said he’d be here,” Kacey insisted. “He promised because mom’s away.”

  Karley called out over her shoulder, “Don’t be such a baby, Kacey.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s on the phone talking to someone at work like he always is. You’ll see.”

  “Your sister’s probably right, but I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Anderson said. “Addie and I’ll walk you home, make sure you get inside safely.”

  “Okay,” Kacey said but continued to frown.

  Karley shook her head annoyed. She walked ahead with Ricky and Brian. They talked about the big superhero movie that was due to come out in the theater next month. Kacey didn’t like them. She thought they were stupid. And she thought Karley was stupid for liking them, too.

  The girls only lived a couple of houses down from the corner where the bus dropped them off. As they walked, the other parents and their kids split off, with a wave of hands and a series of goodbyes.

  Mr. Anderson pointed. “See? Your dad’s car’s in the driveway. Like Karley said, he probably talking to work and lost track of time.”

  Kacey brightened a little. It was true, Daddy was on the phone all the time. It wasn’t the first time he wasn’t there to pick them up like he said he’d be.

  “Told ya,” Karley teased. “You’re such a worrywart.”

  She ran toward the front door.

  Mr. Anderson said, “You kids can get inside? You’ve got keys?”

  “Sure. Mr. Anderson. Thank you.”

  He and Addie watched them go up the sidewalk and climb the front steps. Karley had already barged through the door, leaving it to swing open. She bellowed. “Daddy! We’re home!”

  Kacey climbed to the top of the steps. She went inside, grabbed the doorknob, turned, and waved goodbye to Mr. Anderson. He was a nice man.

  He waved back.

  She slammed the door close. The knocker banged with a heavy tinny thud. Inside, Kacey called out. “Daddy!”

  He didn’t answer. She dropped her backpack next to Karley’s at the foot of the stairs going upstairs. Then she went through the foyer on her way to the kitchen, feeling much better. Safely home, she brightened. Maybe Daddy made something really good for a snack. She was starving.

  “Daddy,” she called out again at the top of her voice. “I’m so hungry my stomach’s eating itself.”

  When she reached the kitchen, she stopped in her tracks.

  Daddy was sitting at the eat-in-kitchen table but a cold fear gripped Kacey.

  He sat away from the table, facing the foyer. His legs and arms and chest were taped to the chair with silver tape. Duck tape he called it. Kacey remembered seeing her dad use it once. She called it quack-quack tape. That had made Daddy laugh.

  Why was daddy taped to a chair? Was this some kind of game?

  A scary-looking man in dark clothes stood next to him, a gun pointed at Daddy’s head.

  There was also a woman and another man. The woman had a scar on her cheek. The man held a Karley struggling in his arms. She twisted and stomped her feet, trying to escape and mumbled under the hand pressed against her mouth, but she couldn’t break free. Her eyes were big and full of fear.

  “Run, Kacey!” Daddy shouted. “Run!”

  Kacey turned but stopped and screamed when the woman grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back. She pushed Kacey toward the man with the gun. He grabbed her and picked her up. She kicked her feet out and struck his shin. He winced but held on, his grip getting tighter as he tossed her under his arm and carried her like a sack, kicking and screaming. “DADDY!”

  “Don’t hurt her! Please!” Tears made Daddy’s eyes wet and shimmery. She’d never seen Daddy cry before. “What do you want? Take whatever it is and go. Just, please, don’t hurt my children.”

  The woman nodded to the man holding Karley. He dragged her over to the table and pulled out a chair. This one didn’t have arms on it like the one Daddy was in. The man pushed Karley down into the chair and used the roll of quack-quack tape to hold her to the chair. The tape made a terrible ripping noise. He pulled her arms behind the chair’s back and taped them together, too.

  The man holding Kacey did the same thing to her. Kacey struggled against his efforts. She screamed, “Daddy, make him stop! Make him stop!”

  With the back of his hand, the man slapped Kacey across the face. She cried out.

  So did Daddy. “Noooo!”

  Stunned, Kacey stopped fighting and start
ed to cry. The man finished taping her to the chair.

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” Daddy said. “Just let my kids go. Please.”

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “That’s not how this is gonna work.”

  Taped to the chairs, the girls sobbed. The two angry men watched over them. The woman turned to the kitchen counter. On it were Daddy’s keys, his cellphone, wallet, some money, and a bunch of candy mints.

  For the first time, Kacey noticed her father’s black eye. “Daddy,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “Everything’s going to be fine, Kacey. I promise. We just need to do what these people want. Then everything will be fine.”

  “Now, that’s being smart, Mr. Holloway.” The woman pushed through the wallet, the keys, the coins, and other things until her long dark fingers landed on Daddy’s cell phone. She turned around and opened it. She activated the screen. Without looking up, she said, “Passcode, please.”

  Daddy didn’t say anything.

  Without looking up, the woman pointed her gun at Karley. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Daddy said five numbers.

  The woman tapped the surface of the phone. She flickered her finger across the screen, searching through the apps, then tapped the screen again. Her nails made a tapping noise.

  “What are you looking for?” Daddy asked.

  “Nothing. I found it.”

  The others in the room could hear a ringing sound coming from the phone. She was calling someone. It rang several long times. Then the call connected.

  From the phone came Kate Holloway’s voice. She spoke in a whispery tone. “Oh, sweetie, I can’t really talk now. Is everything all right?”

  The woman turned the phone and faced it toward Roger then panned it to include the girls. They could see their mother’s face on the screen. The woman had video-chatted her.

  She looked shocked and scared. “Roger. What the hell—”

  Daddy said, “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t get a chance—”

  The woman turned the phone back to herself.

  “Who are you? What have you done?”

  “Names are not important, Agent Holloway. You and I will never see each other, nor speak to each other, ever again.”

  “What—”

  “We have your family.” The woman nodded to the man standing beside Daddy. She turned the phone around again. The man slammed the bottom of his pistol across Daddy’s face.

  Daddy cried out and slumped to the side, spitting blood.

  From the phone, yelling, “No! Stop it!”

  “Listen to me very carefully, Agent Holloway,” The woman said, turning the phone back around. “I’m only going to say this one. We know where you are. We know what you’re doing there. You will be contacted shortly by someone who works with us. When you are, you will do everything he tells you to do. You will do it exactly as he tells you to do it and you won’t tell a soul about it or about us. If you deviate from your instructions in any way, attempt to tell anyone,” the woman panned the camera once more, giving her a final look at Roger, Kacey, and Karley.

  “If you do anything but what you’re told,” the woman said. “Your family will die.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On the Putnam, lunch had included; a cup of New England clam chowder, Caesar salad, jumbo shrimp cocktail, a choice of grilled rainbow trout with garlic brown rice and broccoli, or a fisherman’s soup with whitefish, mussels, clams, and sausage in a tomato broth, and Boston cream pie and coffee for dessert. Not a cutter’s typical fare, even for officers, but it wasn’t every day the President of the United States dropped by for lunch.

  Afterward, Tolliver escorted the group to the stern of the Putnam once more.

  Along the way, Bannon learned a handful of press and other invited guests had arrived while they ate, and were given a similar presentation by Dr. Nomura in the general mess hall, which explained his abrupt, earlier departure from lunch.

  Before going back outside, a seaman handed out dark, fur-lined parkas to those that didn’t have them.

  Tolliver pushed the hatch door open onto the flight deck. As they crossed the helipad, Larson turned to the group. She had a hand clamped down on her fedora to keep it from blowing away in the cold sea breeze and she again wore her dark designer sunglasses.

  “Folks, this is where the adventure begins.”

  Bannon felt her enthusiasm and shared it.

  Tolliver led them past Marine One, now tied down and secured, to the launch ramp at the stern of the ship. Rather than housing a rigid hull inflatable rescue boat, which would’ve been standard for a cutter like the Putnam, in its place were four vessels that to Bannon looked like the mutated offspring of a Bell helicopter’s cockpit, a hamster’s exercise ball, and a Florida Glades airboat that had been fused to a pair of seaplane’s pontoons.

  Bannon had seen a vessel like them once before, at the in-water Boston Boat Show a few years back.

  A six-passenger submersible with space for a single pilot inside a transparent ball-like cabin. The pilot sat forward of two-tiered rows of black leather captain’s chair. From inside the clear globe, each person would have a near three-hundred-sixty-degree unobstructed view of the underwater world around them.

  From what Bannon recalled from the boat show, the submersibles had a maximum depth rating of one thousand feet. They were powered by a state-of-the-art lithium battery system. The vessel he saw had a stated mission time of eight hours, a standard speed capacity of three knots, and with six electric propulsion thrusters, it boasted superior underwater maneuverability unlike anything operating today.

  According to the brochure anyway.

  McMurphy had hunted down a salesperson and spent an hour trying to talk the man into letting him take one out for a test drive. He bribed him, threatened him, and failing that, he swore to Bannon: I’ll steal one.

  Bannon leaned toward Grayson and whispered, “Now Skyjack’s really going to kill us when we get back.”

  Near the launch ramp, Larson excused herself to take a phone call. The President stopped and conversed privately with Amal Haddad and Captain Tolliver, while Bannon and Grayson strolled farther down the ramp toward the submersibles. Loitering near the top of the ramp was a man Bannon recognized. Not because he knew him, but because he filled his TV screen every evening at six o’clock.

  Jerry Little, the face of WCVS News9, a local Boston news station. A talking head, in Bannon’s opinion. At the moment, he spoke into a mike, facing a cameraman who was filming him. The newscaster’s full head of brown hair didn’t move in the brisk breeze.

  Near the rear of the submersibles, four men dressed in midnight blue jumpsuits busied themselves around the four vessels. Bannon pegged them as pilots, making their final pre-launch inspections.

  “What’s the plan?” Bannon asked Grayson.

  “We’ll travel with POTUS in the lead submersible. With us will be Agent Holloway, Jerry Little, and his cameraman.”

  “And Dr. Larson?”

  “She’ll be accompanying us in the second submersible along with Dr. Nomura, Amal Haddad, and a few others.”

  “What about them?” Bannon indicated a small group of well-dressed men and women off the side, waiting and watching with a large contingent of guardsmen there to witness the event.

  “More invited guests,” Grayson said. “Lobbyists, CEOs, political allies, and a small press contingent. They’ll follow us down in the last two submersibles.”

  Grayson looked around. “Speaking of Agent Holloway, where is she?”

  She’d been with the group when they left the Officer’s Mess, Bannon was sure of it. But he hadn’t seen her since. She must have slipped away sometime before the group came outside. That was odd, leaving the President’s side that way. He did notice two men a discreet distance away wearing dark suits and dark overcoats. They had on dark sunglasses and the classic tell of a POTUS Secret Service protection detail, including earpieces with coiled wires snaking down under their
collars. Kingsley was not without protection, even here.

  Grayson checked her watch. “We should be getting underway.”

  “There she is.” Bannon nodded as Agent Holloway emerged from the Putnam’s superstructure and walked briskly across the deck. She slipped on a pair of Ray-Bans even as she dropped her cellphone into her jacket pocket.

  She approached Kingsley and pulled him from his conversation with Tolliver and Haddad.

  They spoke. Kingsley nodded several times then waved to Grayson and Bannon to join them.

  As they approached, Haddad brought Little and the cameraman—whose name turned out to be Malcolm Leary—into their group.

  One of the pilots came over and introduced himself as Trevor Garcia. He and the other pilot’s worked for Tiamat Bluff, hence the matching dark blue jumpsuits. He gave the group a five-minute safety spiel, akin to what flight attendants do on commercial airlines, then guided them to the rolling steel ladder they’d have to climb to descend through the open transparent hatch on the top of the submersible’s bubble-like cockpit.

  The President climbed in first, the others followed, with Bannon and Agent Holloway the last to board. As they waited for the others to climb in, Bannon said, “Looking forward to our trip under the sea, Agent?”

  She leveled time with a stern look. “It’s time we boarded, Commander.”

  “Ladies, first.”

  Her smooth forehead furrowed. “Don’t be misogynistic.”

  Bannon shrugged and climbed in before her, taking the unoccupied forward seat next to the pilot, Garcia. Holloway dropped into the seat next to Kingsley behind them. A Tiamat Bluff pilot secured the acrylic-bubble hatch from outside and banged on it, indicating they were good to go.

  Amal Haddad stepped back from the submersible and waved. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  After checking everyone’s five-point safety harnesses were properly secured, like the operator of a carnival ride, Garcia signaled a thumbs up to the Coastie seamen manning the guide ropes securing the vessel to the launch ramp. They signaled a go to the ramp operators.