BlackStar Bomber

by T C Miller

  “Wish that’s all there was to it. Assuming we get out of this mess, we’re still gonna have a dozen agencies crawlin’ up our butts with flashlights. We don’t make it, they’ll be Monday-morning-quarterbacking us for the next fifty years. Won’t matter, though, since we won’t be around to hear it. . .”

  “What’ll it be, Colonel?”

  “Continue to analyze. . .Choose the solution that looks best. Love to let higher-ups make the decision, but they’re not here. Don’t know how much stress this jerk can take, but I’m gonna go in and talk to him about givin’ up that remote.”

  “Think he’ll go for it?”

  “Won’t matter. . .I’ll maneuver him under you while I’m distracting him with talk. When I say, listen, Rick, I’m just trying to make this come out okay, you drop down on him. Between the two of us, we should be able to get the remote away.”

  “Sounds like a plan, sir.”

  “Joe Anthony, head of security, is here. We agree the bomb has to be in reach of the remote’s signal. . .probably no more than a thousand feet or so, especially through concrete. His staff is searching the casino from top to bottom.

  “Casino security says Eichner’s wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch. First, he jumped out of the chair and paced up and down. Now, he’s sitting there tapping his foot and muttering to himself. A technician is working on the audio. Says we should have it in a sec.”

  Sounds from the card room suddenly got louder. Eichner was shouting at some of the hostages to line up in front of the windows, facing out.

  Bart mumbled. “Sounds like he’s close to goin’ over the edge. . .Talking to himself and he’s ordered hostages to form a cordon in front of the table barricade.”

  “Why’s it quiet all of a sudden? What’s happening?” Asked Jake.

  “Not much. . .He sat back down,” Bart answered. “Staring at the floor with his head in his hands. One minute he’s agitated. . .Next thing he’s quieter than a mouse peeing on cotton.”

  “What about the control?”

  “Don’t see it. . .Probably still in his lap.”

  “Getting back into position,” Jake whispered.

  “Good idea. Say a prayer for both of us. . .Winfield, over and out.”

  Jake passed through the fire wall door and moved silently down the catwalk until he was crouching near the partially opened ceiling tile. He could see the top of Eichner’s head. Jake carefully slid the ceiling tile back an inch at a time.

  A few bits of acoustic tile drifted down and clung to Eichner’s hair and shoulders. He sat up and looked around. Jake moved away from the opening and froze, barely breathing.

  Eichner stood up with the control in his left hand and began gesturing emphatically with it. Jake couldn’t make out all that was being said, but it was obvious that Eichner’s blood pressure continued to go up.

  He eventually calmed down and sat back down in the chair with the remote on one arm and the pistol on the other. He began mumbling to himself again.

  Jake clicked his mike once, paused and keyed it two more times to indicate he was in position.

  Bart Winfield’s whisper came through, “He told us we have five minutes to get a negotiator in there. . .Guess I’ll take Johansen and go in. Hopefully, the asshole will decide I’m the figure of authority he’s been asking for.”

  Jake whispered. “Took the FBI Negotiations and Tactics Leader Course, didn’t you?”

  “Couple years ago. . .But how do you train for something like this? The tiniest thing can spell disaster. . .And it all depends on a suspect who’s becoming unhinged. Not exactly the scene you want to drop in on. . .”

  “Roger that, sir. . .Ready to save the day?”

  “Settle for saving our butts! Remember, the goal is to go home when the shift’s over.”

  “Good point, sir.” He focused his attention on the sliver-like view of the suspect sixteen feet below and slowed his breathing to calm himself. “Hope I don’t break a leg landing on him, sir.” Distance and angle. . .Go for the remote and the gun. . .Subdue Eichner.

  “Don’t worry, son, we’ll tape an aspirin on it.”

  Jake considered the possibilities over and over as he crouched above the most dangerous man in the world and waited for the cue from below. . .

  “Waiter, what’s your name?” Eichner asked the eager young man.

  “Gregory, sir.”

  “Gregory. . .not Greg?

  “Greg is my father.”

  “Okay, Gregory it is. I like your take charge attitude. . .as long as you realize who’s in charge.”

  “Yes, sir.” The tall, thin waiter stood still, waiting for more directions.

  “Looks like they found somebody for me to talk to. Let’s hope he cooperates as well as you. . .let him in.”

  CONSORTIUM SAFE HOUSE

  SACRAMENTO, CA

  “In bed with this really nice redhead chick when the phone rings,” Chance, the newest member of the strike team, lamented. “How long you think this’ll take?”

  His question was directed to Jim—no last name, another member of the six-man team, who looked like he could be a high school teacher or bank clerk. Unassuming in every way, he could easily fade into a crowd at any shopping mall or movie theater. “Could be a day, maybe a week. . .depends on how things unfold and what kind of orders we get. Best to plan on a couple weeks. . .That way, you don’t get all tied up in knots.”

  Part of Jim’s assignment was the indoctrination and field training of the latest recruit to their team. He knew a little of Chance’s background—most of which was biographical in nature and might be false. He was supposedly reared in a middle class family in Thousand Oaks, California and dropped out of community college after the third semester to join the Marine Corps, despite the protests of his parents. He served six years, including two overseas tours. “You were Recon, right?”

  “Yeah,” was the terse reply.

  “They always tell you how long a mission would last?”

  “Wouldn’t know. . .Injured on my first real one. . .Couldn’t requalify, so they stuck me in the office. Got tired of listening to war stories from guys on the team. Beat up one who ribbed me about how capturing a desk was my only real accomplishment. . .Put him in sick bay for a couple weeks. CO busted me to Private and transferred me to supply. Got old in a hurry. . .didn’t re-up.”

  “You get here the usual way?”

  “Don’t know. . .What’s usual?”

  “Bar or martial arts class. . .sometimes a gym. Our recruiters keep an eye out for the right kind.

  “They can tell by looking if you’re right?”

  “Not always. . .Although people we’re looking for do have a certain way of carrying themselves. Usually, there’s an incident that points them in the right direction. . .Something as simple as two guys bumping into each other. They watch for a reaction. On rare occasion, they see an actual fight and pick out a possibility.”

  “Bingo!”

  “Huh?”

  “Throwing iron around at a local gym when this big dude tells me he needs to use the squat rack I’m working on. Told him I’d be done in a minute. . .Walked over to the lat machine. His buds teased him. . .Said he should teach me a lesson.”

  “Then what?”

  “Came over and said I should apologize for being in the way. His friends kept egging him on. I didn’t say anything, so he shoved me, trying to get my goat, I guess. Warned him not to put his hands on me again. . .But, of course, he did. Took him down. . .choked him out. Then went after his buds.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “The usual. . .nothing. They were all smaller than him. Guess they figured I could probably take them just as easy. They split in a hurry. . .Left Billy Bob Badass laying on the floor.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Revived him. . .Didn’t want to face charges if the asshole died on me. Told him to stay away from the gym when I was there. Then I left.”

  “End of story?”


  He chuckled. “Not exactly. . .Shit-For-Brains followed me to the parking lot with a knife. Took it away from him and buried it in his leg. Stupid is forever. . .figured he needed a reminder. Thought that’d keep him away from the gym for awhile.

  “That’s when Dave came up to me and asked if I worked in law enforcement or something. Told him no. . .I was in between jobs. Bought my lunch. . .Then offered me a job.”

  “Who’d you think you’d be working for?”

  “Close security firm specializing in protecting high-dollar assets. . .people and facilities. Didn’t matter. . .Pay sounded good and I was bored out of my mind.”

  “Long as you understand the stakes. . .Doesn’t take a whole lot of screw-ups and you’re gone. . .And I don’t mean fired.”

  “Got that part right off the bat,” Chance replied. “Don’t intend to make a lot. If I do, whatever happens is righteous.”

  “Sounds like you got a handle on it. Not being nosey, but where did you get the burn scars on your neck?”

  “Happened when I was a teen. . .Bad car wreck. Don’t remember anything ‘til after I woke up in a rehab hospital. . .not even my parents. Told me they were killed in the wreck. . . Ended up in foster care. . .No relatives, other than a grandmother who’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. Lawyer says my father was a gambler who was deeply in debt. . .Everything went to pay off loans. Joined the Corps soon as I could. . .Sort of like a family.”

  “Sorry about your parents.”

  “Shit happens. You get over it or die.”

  “True. Let’s go back to the equipment room and get the gear we’ll need. What’s your favorite sidearm?”

  “Brought my own.” Chance patted the pistol under his left arm. “1911A with extended mag.”

  “Somebody should have told you. . .no personal firearms. Leave it in a locker and use a company piece. It’s untraceable. . .Throw it out the window if you’re pulled over.”

  “What about sighting it in?”

  “Armorer does that. . .But if you feel you must, there’s an indoor range in the second subbasement. Also a crate of 1911s to choose from. Laser sights if you want. . .flashlights, too, including infrared. There’s a pretty good selection of other weapons on-hand. . .Everything from S&W 59 or 559s to MAC-10 and 11s, UZIs, H&K MP-5s. Don’t see what you want, tell an armorer and they’ll get it for you. They’ll also make sure your favorites are stocked at all other safe houses. . .And you can take one of each home with you after the op.”

  “Seriously? I like that. . .What about ammo?”

  “We stock a wide assortment for various mission types. . .Pistol loads of different kinds, including Glazer. . .Shotgun shells, including, double and triple-ought, and slugs, of course. Door-breachers, armor-piercing, flash-bangs, terminators, flechettes and even flares.”

  “Couldn’t ask for more.”

  “We aim to please. . .We’ll also suit you up with a SWAT uniform. . .Personal body armor, holsters and rigs. . .Extra mags and ammo. Comm gear with earpiece radios, sat phones and company cell phones. Flash bangs and concussion grenades, along with whatever police or martial arts gear you feel you need. Again, anything else. . .tell the armorer.”

  “Think I’m gonna like it here.”

  “Hope so.” Jim smiled. His earpiece beeped. “Call coming in from one of the big guys. Let’s go see what he wants.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 16

  PREFERRED PLAYERS LOUNGE

  MAJESTIC CASINO

  Gregory carefully turned the lock on the double door, slowly poked his head out and looked up and down the hallway. Bart and Jay had separated from the group of security people huddled in the elevator lobby and moved toward the card room.

  “You the negotiator he’s waiting for?”

  “I am,” Bart replied.

  Gregory watched the elevator doors, expecting them to burst open and disgorge a horde of black-suited, helmeted goons who would shoot everyone in sight, including him. “Alone?”

  “Just me and him.” Bart pointed to Johansen and they slipped through the partially opened doors.

  Once Gregory was satisfied the cavalry wasn’t coming, he faded back into the room, locked the door and let go a deep sigh of relief.

  Bart approached the table barricade and spoke to Eichner. “Howdy, Bart Winfield’s the name…with security.” He extended a handshake, which was ignored. “Okay, pardner, you wanted to talk to somebody…Guess I’ve been elected.”

  Eichner flew out of the chair in a rage, once again waving the remote in his fist. “What the hell’s going on here? First of all, I’m not your pardner…I’m the one who’s in charge, so get that straight…And this isn’t a democracy, nobody elected you. I want a negotiator, not some Mickey Mouse rent-a-cop!…And who’s that?” He pointed to Johansen. “Some other third-rate flunky? I ought to blow the shit out of this place just to prove a point!”

  “Whoa, there…how about we slow things down a bit? Johansen’s here as a witness…to make sure we get everything straight. And as far as that goes, since I’m here anyway…Can’t we just chew the fat for a while…Make my bosses think I’m earning my pay?”

  “Chew the fat? Where you from anyway, hayseed?” Eichner went on before Bart could answer, “Doesn’t matter…Yeah, I guess…At least until somebody with real power gets here.”

  He pointed to Johansen and then to a corner of the room where hostages were huddled. “He stays over there, got it?”

  “You got it, amigo.”

  “Hey, asshole, I’m not your friend!…I thought that was clear. So, try anything and I’ll end this in a flash.” He held his finger over a large red button in the center of the remote.

  Johansen moved toward the corner of the room while Bart climbed over the tables. “Got it. Now, tell me what you need to make everything hunky dory.”

  Eichner laughed.

  Bart gave him a puzzled look. “What did I say?”

  “You must really be some kind of hillbilly…Don’t know if I’ve ever heard a real person say hunky dory.”

  It was Bart’s turn to smile. “Haven’t heard the word hillbilly in a long time, either…I’m river bottom…Tunica, Mississippi. Where you from, son?”

  “Long way from here.” Eichner’s face darkened. “Let’s cut the small talk and get down to business.”

  “Sure ‘nough, son, just tell me what you want.”

  “Don’t call me son!”

  “Okay, then…mind if I call you Rick?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Does it matter? Look, I don’t want to be here any more’n you do…Rather be out in my bass boat terrorizing the local fish population.”

  “And I’d rather be playing cards…All right, you can tell them what I want…Some food, since the kitchen’s apparently closed…And a bulletproof vest for me.”

  “Sure ‘nough, Rick…no hill for a stepper. What kind of food?”

  “Sandwiches are fine…and something to drink.”

  Bart used the radio to convey the order to Joanna. He ended with a code phrase for Jake. “Get that done in a heartbeat…you hear, darlin’?”

  They would have held off a little longer if he had ended it with sweetie. Instead, Jake slowly slid the tile back until the space was wide enough for him to drop through.

  He grabbed onto an overhead pipe and waited for Bart to maneuver Eichner under him. It didn’t take long. Eichner stepped backward as Bart moved toward him. Couple more steps…

  The crouched position on the catwalk was awkward and he longed to stretch out his legs to restore normal blood flow. The control in Eichner’s left hand was tantalizingly close. Still, the sixteen-foot distance seemed like a yawning chasm.

  Eichner stepped slowly backward as he talked with Bart and stopped directly below the breach in the ceiling. Jake could hear the conversation between them.

  Bart was cajoling Eichner with soothing words that a skilled negotiator would use. He ended a sentence with, “Listen, Rick, I’m
just trying to make this come out okay…”

  Jake thought of his martial arts instructors teaching him to blend into the environment and to move with confidence. Endless repetitions had trained his body to act in fluid motions that delivered devastating blows with pinpoint accuracy. He concentrated on the shoulder of the arm that held the control and released his grip on the pipe.

  Eichner looked up to see Jake dropping toward him. He instinctively turned away from the falling body and the heavy combat boot glanced off his shoulder as they fell to the floor. The impact was strong enough to dislodge the remote from his grip. It bounced once and Bart scooped it up.

  His fingers had barely wrapped around the control when something hit the floor behind him with a thud as an acrid cloud of yellow smoke began billowing all around them. He could see Johansen through the haze as he prepared to pull the pin on a second grenade.

  The hostages scattered and surged toward the exit in a blind panic. The locked glass doors stalled their progress and they pushed frantically against them until they finally burst open. The unruly crowd spilled out into the rest of the casino and moved toward the elevator lobby.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bart yelled in anger at the NSA agent.

  Jay froze in place. “Distracting him…”

  Jake jumped up from the floor, spun around and yelled, “Hey, where did Eichner go?”

  They searched through the blossoming smoke, but he was nowhere to be seen. The nose-stinging fog blanketed the room and obscured the view. It took precious moments for them to search the card lounge.

  It was soon obvious he was gone. Casino security had tried to screen everyone who left the room through the glass doors and he did not appear to be among them.

  Gregory stumbled out of the smoke and yelled, “He got out through the kitchen!”

  Bart started to move in that direction when Jake grabbed his arm. “Wait a second, sir…I gave him a pretty good shot and casino security is in there. Besides, he doesn’t have the remote control anymore…Speaking of…look!”

  Bart stared down at a built-in timer on the remote that read 43 minutes and 22 seconds as it steadily counted down. “Damn, son…Not red numbers again! Looks like we have a bomb to locate in less than an hour.”