by Todd Turner
One of them asked, “Are you in charge of this dealership at the moment, or is there an owner here today?”
Harry would have been only too happy to steer these guys to someone else, but regrettably he was the highest-level manager on duty today. “Yeah, the general manager and owner are both off today.”
“I’m Special Agent Cross and this is Special Agent Roosevelt, FBI Denver Office,” said Cross as both flashed their IDs and badges in a way that offered a glimpse of their guns.
No average citizen is comfortable with FBI agents, and that was no different for Harry. He was racking his brains to figure out what he had done.
“What can I do for you?” was about all he could manage.
“You said the general manager is off today?”
“Yes, sir, he takes Tuesdays off to go golfing with the owner. It’s usually a slower day.”
“What’s your title, then?” asked Agent Cross.
Harry noticed only Agent Cross spoke. Agent Roosevelt was taking notes.
“I’m the sales manager, and I report to the general manager and have authority when he’s not here.”
“Your name?” asked Agent Cross.
“Harry Weston, sir—er, Harold, but everyone calls me Harry.” Automatically he stuck out his hand. Agent Cross looked at it, then back into Harry’s face. All righty then, thought Harry.
“We are here about a car in your inventory,” said Cross.
“You want to buy a car?” asked Harry. It was second nature.
“No, but we need to locate this car immediately. I have a VIN number,” said agent Cross.
“OK, let’s go to my office. I’ll check it out.”
The agents followed Harry into his cluttered office, noting the sales board and wondering what the 1s and ½s meant. Harry took his seat behind the desk while Roosevelt closed the door behind him.
Harry heard the click of the latch and became agitated, feeling his control was being usurped. He didn’t bother offering them seats.
The agents remained standing. To Harry, they were hovering.
“OK, what’s the VIN number?” he asked.
“It’s K L one C D six six A six K C one zero seven four four nine.”
Harry tapped on the keyboard, and the screen popped up with the information: a 2019 Chevrolet Spark, red LT sedan, followed by TRADED 7/01/19.
“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, “I remember this car. We traded it while it was en route to us. It was never delivered to the store.”
Cross was confused and wondered if this was why the GM location system had lost track of the car; but for now he asked, “What do you mean traded?”
“A nearby dealer had a buyer for that car and offered to trade us with a car in his inventory so he could make the sale. We do it all the time, though not so much while the car is en route. We usually get a more desirable vehicle for our inventory.”
“I see,” said Cross, still not clear about the details. “Where is the car now?”
With a shrug, Harry said, “Unless it’s been delivered, it’s still at that dealership, but usually with a trade it goes right to the customer.”
Not the scenario Cross wished to contemplate. Impounding a car from a dealership is one thing; seizing a brand-new car from a citizen would be damn complicated.
Remembering that most of these cars were ordered by customers, Cross asked, “Wasn’t this an ordered car? Don’t you also have a sale for it?”
“Yeah, but I called the customer myself. When we knew the car was on its way and got the call for the trade, the number had been disconnected. No longer in service. Can’t understand why the guy would disappear. He had a one-thousand-dollar deposit and everything. But since we couldn’t contact him, I approved the trade.”
“I need you to call that dealership. Find out if the car is still there, and then put the guy on hold so I can give you further instructions.”
Harry picked up the phone and called the manager at Burt Chevrolet in Parker, Colorado, a suburb of Denver some sixty miles away.
“Yeah, hey Pete, it’s Harry at Daniels. You know that Spark we did the trade on? Do you still have it around?”
Harry was nodding and saying uh huh and yeah, then asked Pete if he could put him on hold.
“OK, he still has the car,” Harry explained to the agents. “Says something about it being scratched in transit, so it’s still on the lot waiting for the body shop to fix it.”
Cross breathed a huge sigh of relief, motioned for the receiver. Without salutation Cross said, “Listen carefully. This is Special Agent Cross with the FBI. I want you to lock that car up, out of sight, in your service bay. Don’t do anything with it. Close the dealership, send everyone home. And I mean everyone, except for you.”
Harry looked at Cross as though he’d lost his mind. There was no way Pete would do any such thing. Managers are constantly playing jokes on one another, partly to build comradery and partly through sheer boredom.
Pete just laughed into the receiver. “Good one. Tell Harry he’s really gone off the deep end.”
“Pete, is it?” asked Cross.
“Yes, who is this?” Pete asked with a more than impatient tone.
“I’ve given you my name, Pete, you’ve seen the president’s address to the nation, you know what’s going on, right?” asked Cross.
A much more contrite Pete responded, “Yeah. But he never mentioned Colorado at all.”
“No, that’s right, he didn’t, he had been assured we would have this threat neutralized and didn’t see the need to alarm people here. Now do as I’ve instructed, we’ll be there in less than an hour.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it, but don’t you want to speak with the owner, Mr. Ramsey?”
Cross cursed himself for not asking in the first place. “If he’s there, absolutely, I want to speak with him.”
The phone began to play music. Pete never said anything like sure, hold on please, he just pressed Hold.
Cross became extremely agitated.
Minutes passed. No doubt there’d be confused and curious discussion between Pete and the owner; three minutes turned to four. Cross had mere seconds to decide his next move when the phone clicked and Mr. Ramsey picked up on the other end.
Neil Ramsey—he still considered “Mr.” his dad—at thirty-six was the third-generation owner of Burt Chevrolet. He was capable, not entitled, with a natural humility.
“Hello, this is Neil Ramsey, and I have to tell you right up front I was skeptical of even taking this call.”
“I can appreciate that, though you’re a smart man, as I am sure you pondered the potential consequences of not taking the call?” Cross countered.
“Yes, sir, indeed, especially with the news today. Now about the car?” asked Neil.
“Mr. Ramsey”—Neil interrupted and asked to be called Neil—“OK, Neil. If you don’t do precisely as I say, you will be surrounded by more police, FBI, and military in twenty minutes than you ever dreamed possible, and they will carry out the instructions I already gave Pete. Do we understand each other?”
“I would never be uncooperative, I don’t think there’s even a choi—”
“Yes or no!”
“What do I do?”
“Close your store. Send everyone home but you stay. Tell them a bomb threat has been called in. That will explain our presence there in the next few minutes. Get them out!”
“OK, that’s easy, what else?”
“The car I discussed with your manager: I only told him part of the truth. There’s no time to fill you in. That car is dangerous and we need to recover it now. Your financial loss will be handled, how exactly, I don’t know,” Cross explained.
“Can you hold the line for a minute please?” The line clicked and the canned music came back on. Cross held the receiver in front of his face and stared at it in disbelief.
Neil was back in less than a minute. “Everyone is going home. They are already leaving. The car will be in the service shop. Have you
r people come directly to the service bay door number four. I will be the only person here and will let them in. You guys take what you need. Just leave me a number of someone to contact. Not to be selfish, but I do have a business—”
“I understand.”
Neil heard a click and the line went dead.
July 3, 10:00 EDT
Washington, D.C.
After the car in New York had been located and neutralized, residents there were directed to return home as quickly as possible. It was utter chaos, since the National Guard troops and basically all but the NYPD had been pulled out and moved south to help execute the final evacuation of Washington, D.C.
With just fourteen hours left until the anticipated detonation, the acting director of Homeland Security reallocated all resources from Boston south to Richmond, Virginia, to descend upon D.C. to begin evacuation.
To be in the metro Washington, D.C., region, no matter what the media—TV, radio, podcast or web video, the same message from President Barton was played on a loop, and even text messages were sent to every reachable mobile phone. It was a communications blackout and total success thanks to lessons learned after 9/11.
“This is President Barton. The region of Washington, D.C., including its suburbs, is hereby ordered to evacuate. This is not a drill. This is not voluntary. This is a mandatory evacuation. If you are hearing this message, you should be leaving the region. Your goal is to move at least one hundred miles either west, north or south. Let me repeat: all movement needs to be west, north, or south only. Anyone going east will be arrested. Those who are on the Delmarva Peninsula are requested to go north. Do not stop until you reach at least Philadelphia. If you are located west of the Chesapeake Bay, all roads leading out of the area will be using both sides of the road. Follow the instructions of the authorities. I have declared the United States to be under martial law. You can and will be arrested without any due process.”
Door-to-door, local police and National Guard personnel were using military-spec infrared and ultrasonic sound detection. If any door went unopened and there was indication of life inside, the door was busted down.
There are two reasons someone would be holed up and not evacuating as ordered. The first is innocuous: he or she incapacitated and can’t get to the door, or is suspicious of authority, not sure those in charge can be trusted; and the person’s beliefs, depending, can range from mild mistrust to schizophrenic paranoia. The second class largely consists of criminals holed up to guard their inventory, ranging from stolen electronics to valuable property to illegal arms and drugs.
Orders were orders: no one was to remain in the city. The options were leave on your own, leave with assistance if you couldn’t leave on your own, or—lastly, leave in custody.
No one knew the true reason why people were being evacuated, but rumors were rampant and they weren’t often wrong. Still, there’s an element of hope in the thought that knowledge is uncertain.
Dark conjecture, through word of mouth, often leads to panic. An emergency can bring out the best and the worst in us. When life is in the balance, people are capable of just about anything. Panic may be helpful too in lighting a fire under people’s asses. Making a ghost town out of an area thirty miles in every direction from the Washington Monument in a period of twenty-four hours wouldn’t have been possible without a hefty dose of it.
July 3, 11:30 PDT
Las Vegas
When President Barton called the governor of Nevada a little before midnight on July 2 to explain the situation, he ordered the complete and total evacuation of southern Nevada, and he thought the order would be carried out. The governor declined federal assistance, in no small part because he carelessly didn’t agree with the threat assessment. He was a member of both classes of resisters: he didn’t trust the administration, and he had every intention of protecting the interests of a group of casino operators whose stated desire was to “let things be.”
As such, thanks to the governor’s lack of action and failure to engage the Emergency Broadcast System, the citizens of Las Vegas were not issued warnings.
Las Vegas has a population of roughly one million, but that number can swell to more than three million when the city’s hotels are near to capacity. This happens every Fourth of July, when despite the oppressive heat, there is rarely an empty room to be found.
People in their homes who were watching the news did begin an exodus. Geographically, Las Vegas is a horrible city to evacuate. Interstate 15 is the main artery out of southern Nevada. While Highway 95 can handle some traffic over the Hoover Dam and into Arizona, that route had been closed for fear the dam was a target. Going south, I-15 narrows from three lanes to two, creating a bottleneck famous for causing traffic jams 100 miles long. Going north is the same: beyond the city boundary the road is two lanes in each direction. Even using reverse flow, evacuating people in time would be an almost insurmountable difficulty.
Worst of all was the challenge of getting two million visitors to safety who had arrived on flights and used taxis.
Lack of routes is hardly the problem when people don’t know they are supposed to be leaving. By 5:30 p.m., far too many tourists hadn’t heard the news; the casinos notoriously block cell phones on the casino floor. The only way the message to evacuate was getting around was by word of mouth, and that only served to create a panic. When people started to notice casino employees leaving, it all became real and panic spread. The situation was fast becoming dangerous.
At 6 p.m., the president asked the governor about the progress of the evacuation. He told the governor he was very disappointed to learn that many of the available aircraft had left with less than two-thirds their capacity. Further, he was amazed to learn that the casinos had not stopped operations and evacuated their guests.
At 6:15 p.m., President Barton informed the governor of Nevada that Colonel Jack Robbins, commander of Nellis Air Force Base would be taking over. At that moment, twelve armed soldiers entered the governor’s office and President Barton explained to him over the phone, “These men are here to arrest you. You are being charged with treason.” And with that he hung up.
Once troops were in place and could direct both pedestrian and vehicular traffic, the commander ordered all power cut to the Las Vegas strip and to any casino located off the strip. As elevators no longer worked, people were to use the stairs. It went much faster.
No car was allowed to enter a lane to the Interstate not at full capacity. Anyone dumb enough to refuse someone transport would be put in restraints and a stranger ordered to drive. Once a safe distance was reached, the ex-driver would be taken into custody.
People in the United States had never been under martial law. They had no clue that in that moment, civil rights do not exist. It was akin to being a prisoner of war, a concept most could barely comprehend.
At last, the cars were on the road. The monster hotels, some with more than five thousand rooms, were emptying out and I-15 came to a standstill.
Traffic stopped. Police and media helicopters confirmed that traffic was almost entirely choked from as far away as San Bernardino, California. It was a parking lot. Off-road trucks and SUVs were trying their luck on the shoulder and in the medians, only to find themselves inevitably at an impasse, some obstacle that prevented them from going any further.
It was at this point the military personnel were called in from Fort Irwin just outside of Barstow, California. Their mission: to create the world’s largest parking lot in the desert around Baker, California.
July 3, 23:20 EDT
Washington, D.C.
The car in Washington, D.C., would never be found. The terrorists had planned the location of that car for more than a decade. They had placed a sleeper agent as an employee at the embassy of the Republic of Tunisia. It was someone at a low enough level he or she would never be looked at too closely, but high enough to have parking privileges in the embassy’s underground parking area.
While subterranean placement of
the bomb wasn’t ideal—it would severely lower the blast radius—it was better than to risk it being discovered. An embassy is considered the sovereign territory of the country to which it belongs. Even under martial law, no law enforcement agency of the United States would have the right to enter any foreign embassy.
While all the embassies within the evacuation zone did manage to get their people to safety, what precise vehicles were parked in their secure facilities was unknown. It was a brilliant plan.
The location of the Tunisian embassy was the reason it was selected. Located at 1515 Massachusetts Avenue NW, the embassy was barely more than half a mile from the front door of the White House.
Being the epicenter of the blast that occurred precisely at 12:01 a.m. on July 4, the square-shaped boring white building with pale green exterior louvers covering the windows and a green iron fence wrapped around its lawn—was nothing but a massive hole. In a virtually perfect circular pattern around the site more than a half mile in diameter was debris, ranging from small fragments in the center to large parts of mostly standing buildings at the outer edge.
The embassies of Australia, El Salvador, and the Philippines were destroyed, as was the landmark Metropolitan AME Church and National City Christian Church. Numerous hotels, apartments, institutes, and museums were laid to ruin, in the quarter mile diameter of the epicenter.
Hundreds of other structures at the outer part of the half-mile diameter suffered severe damage, including the White House. While it was still very much recognizable, it was devastated, mostly by being rained on by massive chunks of debris. Even farther outside the destruction zone there was serious damage. The Washington Monument, even with the reinforcements it had recently undergone, was no match for the shock wave and falling debris, which caused it to blow apart.
The majority of Washington’s other monuments and the Capitol Building suffered significant damage, most of which could not be repaired without major reconstruction; it would take years and billions of dollars before Washington, D.C., would be the place people once knew. That was if the radiation didn’t dictate it could never be inhabited again.
