by Akart, Bobby
He was, however, a student of history, especially from a political perspective. Cort couldn’t read enough about the founding of America. He studied historical accounts, and when he felt like the modern treatises were skewed to lead the reader to a particular conclusion, he sought antiquated books from the seventeenth and eighteenth century.
To Cort, in order to understand what the Founding Fathers had in mind when forming the United States, you had to read their words, not someone else’s summation. He read The Way to Wealth and Poor Richard’s Almanac by Benjamin Franklin. A constant source of reference was The Federalist Papers written by James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and John Jay. He even read the Two Treatises of Government, written by John Locke, that was a major influence on Thomas Jefferson in his writing of the Declaration of Independence.
In short, Cort was a history nerd, intent on studying the past in order to make an impact on the future of America. His frame of mind suited him perfectly for the policy wonk positions he was inserted into by his father-in-law early in his career.
As his relationship with Meredith grew closer, it became apparent that Cort would be the Trowbridge son that George never had. As a result, he was taken under the patriarch’s wing and was groomed in George’s vision.
George Trowbridge viewed politicians with a jaded eye. He’d seen them bought and sold over the years. Some were swayed by emotional arguments, while others were directed through promises of future accommodations and power. All were interested in money, the universal means of gaining influence.
Cort’s future was not as a politician. Instead, he was being groomed to be an influencer—the person the politician turned to for sage, unbiased advice. Cort’s advice was, in fact, based upon good judgment and wisdom. Although he’d never admit this aloud to anyone except his mentor and father-in-law, his advice was biased. Anyone who claimed to be unbiased, in Cort’s view, was lying. It was not possible.
To be sure, Cort gave excellent advice and had the best interests of the country in mind when he helped his boss, the senior senator from Alabama, who also happened to be the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. As a senior aide on Senator McNeil’s staff, Cort sat in on every policymaking meeting involving the intelligence apparatus of the United States. As a result, Cort held a very high security clearance.
The only meetings he was excluded from involved political matters. This would change at some point in his career as Trowbridge maneuvered Cort into a higher position, either within the White House or as chief of staff for another influential senator. With a potential power shift coming in Washington, it might be time for Cort to prepare for the future.
Despite the change in the political winds, his future was bright and financially secure. The hours were long and the travel schedule was tedious. Even though they’d lived apart more than they were together in recent years, he and Meredith agreed it was better to raise their daughter in Mobile than in Washington. Not only was the cost of living less, the schools were significantly better. That benefitted both daughter and wife, who pursued her dream to teach grade-school kids in Mobile.
Cort’s mind eventually wandered to the other passenger on the flight who held a position of power and influence in Washington—Congressman Pratt. He was an anomaly in Alabama, a state dominated by republican voters. He was the lone democratic congressman in Alabama, representing the seventh congressional district.
Gerrymandered many years ago to cover a large swath of the rural areas of South Alabama, including Montgomery and Selma, Alabama-7 encompassed almost all of Birmingham and a sliver of the state along the Alabama River where Pratt Farms was located.
Congressman Pratt, a longtime democrat, was seen as a centrist who was willing to reach across the aisle to strike an accord when it was in the best interests of the country. But, like all politicians, sometimes a three-way tug-of-war existed between constituent interests, national party demands, and personal principles.
Of late, the demands of the Democratic National Convention, or the DNC, overshadowed what Congressman Pratt believed in his heart. However, after being in office for two dozen years and continuously winning reelection efforts with little or no opposition, Congressman Pratt found himself in a position that placed national party demands ahead of all other considerations.
Cort knew Congressman Pratt well enough to realize he was in an untenable position as chairman of the House Judiciary Committee. The stresses of Washington were beginning to take its toll on the man anyway, and the upcoming change in power would likely test his limits, especially in light of what he was tasked to do. That said, Cort knew Congressman Pratt was highly respected by all, making him nearly immune to partisan attacks.
Cort shook off the machinations of politics, and his thoughts turned to how much he missed his girls. He checked his watch again. It was 10:22. They were only twenty-five minutes from touchdown at Mobile Regional Airport.
He decided to use Delta’s in-flight internet connection to FaceTime with them, even if it was only a couple of minutes. He was glad he did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mercedes-Benz Stadium
Atlanta, Georgia
“Dammit!” Will had been walking behind the food-service vendors in the other direction when he heard an older woman yell out the profanity. Within the bowels of Mercedes-Benz Stadium, the noise from the concert was somewhat muted, allowing stadium personnel to carry on a conversation or utter a word in frustration.
Will turned to find the woman struggling with a garbage bag that she’d attempted to hoist into one of the roll-off dumpsters parked behind the restaurants. In her attempt to lift it over the edge, the bag had caught the sharp corner and torn, spilling its contents onto the concrete floor.
When Will approached her, she was on her hands and knees, picking up the garbage and throwing it into the dumpster. He knelt down to help her and glanced at the name tag of the distressed woman.
“Hi Esther, I’m Will Hightower. Let me give you a hand.”
The woman stopped and noticed Will’s uniform. “Thank you, officer. This bag was too heavy for me to carry, and the young man who’s my partner on the 200 Concourse is more interested in watching Beyoncé jiggle than doing his job.”
Will stifled a laugh at the older woman’s description of the performer’s dance moves. He continued to help her gather up the debris, which had fallen all around the dumpster. Fluids covered the floor from half-empty soda cups, mixed with ketchup and mustard left over from hot dogs or burgers.
He scooped the last of the trash and dropped the pile over the edge of the dumpster. As he did, Esther reached underneath and began mopping up the liquids using a large bundle of blue cotton material.
“Here, let me help you with that, Esther. Do you have access to a mop and a bucket of water?”
“Sure do,” she replied. She fumbled through her pockets and produced a set of keys. “I’ll be right back.”
As she walked away, Will continued to use the material to clean up the spillage. He turned it over and used the drier side to swipe up some mustard and suddenly stopped. He unfolded the bundle and discovered it was a stadium maintenance uniform. He spread it out on the floor and searched its pockets. They were empty.
The sound of Esther rolling a mop bucket down the hallway grabbed Will’s attention. He stood and ran to her side.
“Esther, where is this trash from? One of the restaurants? Or on the concourse?”
“It was in front of the ATL Grill, just in front of gate two-oh-eight.”
Will looked frantically in both directions and grabbed his two-way radio from his utility belt. He turned to Esther.
“This is very important. You stay right here and don’t touch anything, okay? Leave the uniform as it is and wait for my return. Esther, do you understand?”
“But what did I do wrong?”
“Nothing, but please wait here.”
Will didn’t wait for a response. He found the door that exited the maintenance hallwa
y into the 200 Concourse. Without slowing his pace, he forced his way through the crowds of people amassed outside the entrance to Harrah’s Cherokee Valley River Casino Club on the southernmost point of the concourse and searched for the trash cans at gate 208.
A tall young man wearing a food-service uniform like Esther’s stood in the opening, watching the concert.
Will grabbed him by the arm. “Hey, do you work with Esther?”
“Yeah, man. I don’t know where she went,” he replied as he jerked his arm out of Will’s grasp.
“Listen to me. We’ve got a problem. I need you to come with me. Now!”
“Man, I don’t work for you.”
Will was frustrated, but he kept his cool. “Please, it’s important!”
“Yeah, always is. What do you want?”
“Help me look through these trash cans.”
“For what, man? This crap’s nasty.”
“I’m looking for blue maintenance worker uniforms. You know, the coverall type. Come on!”
Will hustled to the first hard plastic, Rubbermaid trash receptacle and removed the lid. He began digging through the trash without regard to the mess he was making of himself. There was nothing there. He looked all around the concourse for anything out of the ordinary, such as abandoned packages, boxes, and bags.
While he moved on to the next one, Esther’s partner slowly picked through a can, looking for a dark blue uniform. Neither found one.
Will abandoned the search and gave up on his helper, who’d wandered back into the gate opening to resume watching the concert. He pulled his radio out again and forced his way back through the crowd until he reached the maintenance hallway. Esther was dutifully standing guard over the uniform.
He called in the suspicious find to his superiors on the AMBSE Security Management Team. Within minutes, he was surrounded by men in suits and an armed member of Atlanta’s SWAT team assigned to the stadium.
The group was doing an honest assessment regarding the importance of the uniform. They contacted food services and the maintenance department to determine if any of their staff had failed to show up for work tonight or had left early, claiming to be sick.
After several minutes, both departments reported nothing out of the ordinary other than the fact that service personnel were being reprimanded all evening for straying from their posted areas to watch the concert.
Will tried to make sense of this. Most likely, this was an employee who used his last night on the job as an opportunity to see the concert and decided to dump his uniform in order to wear his street clothes. Then he put himself in the mind of terrorists and other perpetrators of mass violence.
Regardless of motive, killers watch others in action to study their methods and law enforcement’s reaction. If something works, they adopt it. Unfortunately, widespread media coverage, which was itself a main goal of any mass-casualty attack, brought public awareness to the methods and served to inform future attackers. Whether it be a teenage school shooter or a terrorist, successful attacks were studied, and their tactics used.
Suddenly, the cell phone of the lead member of the Security Management Team rang. He wandered away from the group, but his voice could be heard by the others.
“Are you absolutely certain?” He paused as he listened to the caller. “The feds have been alerted? They’ve made the decision?”
He looked over at the group and began to walk back toward the group. He concluded the conversation. “All right. All right. I concur. Let’s clear the stage first, and then the stadium.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Delta Flight 322
Delta Flight 322 banked to the right and took up a westerly course as it turned parallel to the beaches. The aircraft was over water and would remain so for the remainder of the flight until touchdown in Mobile. The copilot, along with passengers on the right side of the plane, had an unobstructed view of the sparsely populated coastline of Florida.
The pilot of the aircraft, Arlie Hasselbeck, was considered to be something of a whiz kid within Delta’s ranks. He was the youngest pilot to be hired by Delta’s subsidiary, Compass Airlines, a regional airline headquartered in Minneapolis.
In very short order, he’d graduated from the Brazilian-made Embraer narrow-body jet to the McDonnell Douglas MD 88 aircraft flown by another Delta subsidiary, Endeavor Air. The MD 88, nicknamed Mad Dog within the airline industry, had over a hundred seats but was much smaller than most of the Delta jets. It was ideal for regional travel and short flights, like the trip from Atlanta to Mobile.
It had also gained a reputation for being a training ground for new, unseasoned pilots. Part of an aging Delta fleet, the MD-88s, the oldest aircraft in service with any major U.S. airline, were being sold off to discount airlines like Allegiant Air, and foreign carriers like Aeronaves and Bulgarian Air.
Over the past several years, young pilots were given the opportunity to rise through Delta’s ranks by flying routes in the Mad Dogs. Seasoned pilots who were relegated to fly the aircraft found themselves relearning checklist procedures and changing habits they’d grown accustomed to in newer planes.
For Hasselbeck, who was flying his third trip as the captain of an MD-88, everything was new and exciting. He’d logged plenty of hours in the flight simulators in Atlanta, as well as the requisite hours flying right seat as a copilot. He was willing to pay his dues despite the fact the Mad Dogs were being retired to the boneyard or sold off within three years. Hasselbeck had lofty goals for himself, and this was just one step in his ladder of success.
His copilot on this trip was a complainer. Hasselbeck loved flying and couldn’t believe Delta paid him for the privilege of doing it. His first officer, on the other hand, needed a job and cared nothing about the experience. He was content flying right seat, checking essential items off his list, and talking about anything but the wonder of air travel.
“Flying on New Year’s Eve just plain sucks,” the first officer groaned as he stared out the eyebrow windows of the MD-88, so-called because of their shape. The window design was also antiquated because it tended to let light glare in the pilot’s eyes and had been designed back in the days when many pilots navigated by the stars.
“Did you have a hot date in Hotlanta?” Hasselbeck asked jokingly as he checked his altitude. He was prepared to fly the aircraft without his copilot and would’ve preferred to do so if it wasn’t against FAA regulations.
“Nah, but I mean, everybody else gets to pop the bubbly or throw down a beer. We can’t even take a whiff of the good stuff because we have an early morning flight outta here.”
“Yeah,” said Hasselbeck, who glanced down at the digital clock in the cockpit. He was counting down the minutes to landing as well, primarily to get rid of his pissy first officer. The two had nearly nine hours of flying time that day, and a total of thirteen hours on this trip, which had sent them all over the Eastern United States.
The first officer continued to complain. “I mean, who wants a layover in Mobile freakin’ Alabama on New Year’s Eve. Say, do you think we can hit the lobby bar of the hotel tonight? Maybe a quick one will be out of our system by preflight check-in tomorrow morning.”
“Nah, you go ahead. Besides, I think we’re laying over at the Hampton Inn. I’m pretty sure they don’t have a bar.”
“Are you kidding me? I have no idea why I signed up for this trip. I would’ve been better off—”
Hasselbeck was fed up, but his good nature prevented him from blasting his first officer. He interrupted the man’s negativity. “Well, here’s the good news. I’ll be making our final turn in a moment, so we need to prepare this bird for landing. This flight’s almost over for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Metrorail System
Washington, DC
The silhouette of the train emerged from the dark subway tunnel, slowing as it rounded the final bend into L’Enfant Plaza. The passengers-to-be crowded toward the edge of the inlaid brick marking the transition
between platform and rails. Metallic squeaks could be heard as the silver nose of the green line train arrived, drifting to a stop in front of the crowd.
The crowd began to chatter in excitement, as if the famed Polar Express had arrived to take them to the North Pole. Shoes shuffled on the brick as people toward the front started to back up, allowing disembarking passengers room to leave.
Hayden had a routine when she rode the nine-car train home. It was designed to occupy her mind during the trip and to ensure her safety. She had not been approved to carry a handgun within the District. Handguns had been illegal to possess until a Supreme Court decision struck down the law in 2008. Following the Court’s ruling, DC enacted a series of stringent rules and regulations for handgun possession, registration, and concealed carry. The regulations were challenged in the courts for many years as being tantamount to a gun prohibition.
Finally, in 2017, a set of standards was adopted that passed constitutional muster, so the District was forced to accept and issue permits. The process, however was intentionally tedious. The staff assigned to review the applications was considered bare minimum. In the first year, only a few dozen permits were issued. Hayden’s application had been waiting for fifteen months.
For self-defense, she adopted a two-prong approach. One was to avoid conflict. She adopted a demeanor that let others know she was fully aware of her surroundings and was ready to fight back against any attacker. She never flashed her jewelry or pulled cash out of her wallet. She sat alone, in the middle of the railcar near an exit, not making eye contact with others, but constantly scanning for sudden or hostile movements.
