The reports that Jimmy Howe and the Chief had received back in the mobile command post trailer had been staggering.
The entire fleet of trucks, twelve in total, was rigged to explode. The detonators seemed to be cell phone actuated electrical charges, the type used as primer in improvised explosive devices in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The bombs themselves, however, were not improvised. They were planned expertly for maximum devastation to targets both near and far. There was enough C4 plastic explosives rigged in each truck to wipe out a city block, and enough chemicals inside the canisters wrapped by the explosives to kill and injure hundreds or thousands more nearby inhabitants.
The bomb squad had come back with a rudimentary chemical analysis of the fluids on board the trucks within the first hour.
Each truck contained the exact same quantity and mixture of the two chemical elements Ethylene and Sulfur Dioxide. The chemicals were pure, the type used in manufacturing and industrial production.
The bomb squad analyst had been certain. In this combination, the chemicals had been designed to create a chemical cloud of a type not seen since World War I, and outlawed by the Geneva Convention.
Mustard Gas.
Jimmy's eyes were closing of their own accord as he leaned heavily on the table of the mobile command post.
The call finally came minutes later.
"All clear." The call woke Jimmy immediately, and his eyes widened as he stood from his chair.
The Chief nodded to him.
The men stepped from the mobile command post through the dark of the evening, flanked by members of the SWAT Team and the FBI fast response Hostage Rescue Team.
The men were determined in their stride, but hesitant in their pace. The fact that they had stood feet from a weapon of mass destruction was not lost on them, and for the rest of their lives, they would not take their survival for granted.
The building had finally been swept for bombs and electronic monitoring devices.
Now the men were entering to see with their own eyes what the bomb squad and SWAT Teams had reported, and begin the long process of collecting evidence.
The calls had been staggering as they had come in.
The facility was outfitted as a makeshift barracks. Twelve cots were arrayed in the main chamber.
Downstairs, a small filming room was set up to resemble the studio from videos sent by terrorist leader Osama Bin Laden in the wake of the September 11th attacks.
A tape had been found at the scene. It was currently being analyzed by the local FBI field office.
As the men stepped through the blood red door of the facility for the first time, they stepped over the cold bodies which littered the gray concrete floor.
The first thing the men noted was that these four men had been shot from behind, most likely by the man found approximately fifty feet down the hall by the paramedics; the likely hostage and only survivor, a man by the name of Jackson Pike.
Jimmy Howe and the others continued down the hall and turned left past the makeshift barracks and into the stairway landing. Another body lay prostrate on the floor.
He was dead, like the rest.
But the coroner would have to wait. The crime scene needed to be thoroughly analyzed.
There could be no botching of this investigation.
The largest terrorist plot in American history was sure to be global news by tomorrow morning, and all eyes would be on the investigation.
Jimmy sighed and shook his head.
He still couldn't believe that the hostage in question, the lone survivor was none other than Jackson Pike.
Police in the area had been searching for him since Saturday morning when his ex-wife and daughter were discovered slain in their apartment.
The men stepped finally into the long narrow corridor which led to a second red door which led to the docks above.
On their right sat the makeshift film studio. Directly before the door was a corpse, dead of a gunshot wound to the head from close to point blank range.
The Chief paused as they reached the door to the makeshift studio.
The muscular Chief stepped over the cold body of the dead terrorist and began to speak. "We start here. Somehow, this room, and this Jackson Pike are central to our investigation."
The two men stepped together into the room. Flashbulbs popped in the background as evidence collection teams began the grisly work of collecting photos and data.
The recurrent flashing light from the cameras cast eerie flickering shadows in the dark and dank basement of the facility. A cold shiver ran up Jimmy's spine as he stepped into the room.
Two flags hung which framed a single scimitar bladed sword braced against the concrete of the far wall. A second sword lay on the cold concrete ground.
A black video camera was set up on a tripod.
In the center of the room, a solid aluminum chair sat tipped to its side, plastic zip ties still lying on the floor near the metal legs. The Chief looked towards Jimmy after assessing the room.
"This is where Pike was held."
Jimmy nodded.
The Chief turned to face the thick officer. "Howe, I need you to get over to the hospital. Find out what Pike knows."
Howe nodded and stepped from the room without saying a word. The Chief and the FBI could take it from here.
Howe was a born interrogator, and the Chief knew it.
Jimmy stepped down the blood spattered concrete hallway and tried in vain to avoid stepping through large pools of blood in his shiny black shoes. He shook his head, as he walked up the stairwell and overheard the buzz of dozens of conversations taking place simultaneously.
The crime scene was swimming with uniforms as well as agents in suits from a variety of federal investigative services. Each man and woman had had his or her own theory as to what had happened at the abandoned shipping and receiving dock.
Jimmy stepped onto the top concrete landing of the stairwell and walked past the barracks room on his left.
"All of them carry Iranian passports with student visas." The statement came from a pair of federal investigators huddled together sifting through the limited belongings remaining in the makeshift barracks room.
Jimmy paused.
The flag downstairs must have been Iranian.
He shuddered. He could only imagine what the repercussions of a successful, Iranian sponsored attack on the United States would be.
Chapter 44:
02:45 AM- Sunday, September 10th
Sumner, VA
Dr. Sanders held his head in his hands and began to drift into a dazed stupor at his desk. He felt like he hadn't left the hospital in weeks.
It hadn't been weeks, he reassured himself glancing at his watch as he shook his head and took another sip of coffee in a vain attempt to wake himself up.
It was, after all 2:45 in the morning.
He began to ponder what life would be like outside of medicine. Maybe he could find a cushy job where he could sleep until eight AM and be home by five PM, where he was guaranteed weekends and federal holidays off. He smiled sadly, at this stage in his career, imagining a different path was an exercise in self flagellation.
He yawned, standing up from his rolling office chair and pushing back from his mahogany desk. Treating patients, he didn't mind. It was the paperwork.
Since he had been promoted to hospital administrator, the patient care had diminished to a trickle, while the paperwork had increased to a torrent. He was still not sure it was worth the extra pay, but he had two kids to put though college.
The work of a hospital administrator was seemingly never done.
But occasionally, Dr. Sanders was drawn from his office by a particularly interesting case. Even in level one trauma centers and busy emergency departments like this one, a patient surviving a near fatal gunshot wound from an armor piercing slug at close to point blank range was rare.
Indeed, it was rare enough to draw Dr. Sanders from his mahogany desk at 2:45 AM
. He yawned heavily as he closed his heavy wooden office door and turned down the hallway towards the elevator.
According to the attending surgeon and EMTs, the patient had been resuscitated twice. He had completely flat lined; Twice.
Very few men could have survived the injuries this man had sustained. The internal trauma had been significant. His right lung had been punctured and his blood loss had been severe.
But the patient had survived.
And what's more, he had already woken up.
Sanders shook his head once more. This was a case he had to see with his own eyes before the long drive back down the cobblestone streets of Sumner to his home.
His polished shoes squeaked on the marble floors of the too clean hospital floor as Sanders walked to the elevator. The steel doors slid open and the white haired physician pressed the button for the first floor. After sinking several stories, he stepped from the elevator and walked down the long corridor which led to the emergency medicine department.
As always, he was greeted much too happily by the triage nurse who sat in the quarter-full emergency room. He guessed that was to be expected when you signed someone's paycheck, but Sanders was still not used to it, even after all these years.
"Good evening Dr. Sanders" said the pretty blonde nurse who couldn't have been much older than Sanders' own daughter.
"Good evening Rebecca," said Sanders. "The patient with the gunshot wound. Where is he?"
"He's in a private room in Intensive Care. Room 113" said Rebecca, smiling much too broadly for 2:45 in the morning.
Dr. Sanders returned the smile and turned around, shaking his head.
He stepped down the pristine hallway, his polished shoes squeakily carrying him down the hall as he read the room numbers off in his head.
Room 113.
There was a police officer standing outside of the room looking tired as the doctor approached. He seemed bored as he checked Sanders' identification and sat back down on the leather chair outside of the door.
This was standard procedure for gunshot victims. Until the full story could be ascertained and statements taken, the patients were prevented from departing the hospital. Not that this patient would be in any condition to leave anytime soon.
Sanders stepped through the door, careful to close the latch softly as he turned his head towards the bed. The patient was asleep, and there was a nurse checking his vital signs as the doctor walked in.
The brunette nurse turned as she heard footsteps on the cool hard floor behind her. Dr. Sanders nodded to her, "Good morning, Marie."
"Good morning, Dr. Sanders." She was careful not to speak too loudly as her white sneakers made nary a sound on the shiny floor while she walked around the hospital bed and handed him the chart.
She lingered, and Dr. Sanders glanced at her once again as he looked up from the chart.
"Do you recognize the patient?" She asked, her head turning back to Jackson's sleeping form as the digital vital sign readout beeped surreptitiously in the night.
The doctor paused, glancing at the patient before looking back at Marie and the chart.
In fact, he did.
Jackson Pike. The name and face were familiar. The patient had been in this very hospital less than twenty-four hours ago with a head injury with associated loss of consciousness and retrograde amnesia.
In fact, Sanders himself had stitched the wound on the patient's forehead closed.
And now, the same man was lying in a hospital bed with a near fatal gunshot wound.
Sanders shook his head. He was going to need another cup of coffee. The chances of making it back down the cobblestone streets of town to his luxurious home and loving wife had just decreased to zero.
Chapter 45:
03:00 AM- Sunday, September 10th
Sumner, VA
Jimmy yawned loudly as his patrol car shuddered to a stop in the dark parking lot of Memorial Hospital in Sumner. There was still a faint chemical odor, like that of burning rubber lingering in the air. The fire at Carmike Chemical had saturated the local area in the acrid scent ever since Friday's fire.
Officer Howe stepped exhausted from his patrol car and pulled a well worn Sumner Police Department cap over his eyes as he finished sending a text to his wife. She was sure to be worried, and though she was used to long nights at home alone, he always liked to text her when he could.
It seemed to help her sleep.
Jimmy tucked the phone away in the pocket of his trousers and stepped towards the concrete overhang that marked the entrance to Memorial Hospital's emergency department.
It was the only level one trauma center in this area, and was where Jackson Pike had been brought after suffering a near fatal gunshot wound to the chest.
Jimmy shook his head as he walked beneath the overhang past a taxi awaiting a dispatch that was unlikely to come at 3:00 AM.
He glanced at the vehicle as exhaustion began to overtake him. This weekend had been frantic, confusing and sad, to say the least.
Somehow, at the root of it all rested Jackson Pike.
The man, who was still wanted in conjunction with the brutal murders of his ex wife and daughter, had turned up the victim of a gunshot wound at an apparent terrorist staging facility.
What was more, he seemed to have played a key role in foiling one of the largest terrorist plots in American history and saving countless lives.
As Howe stepped through the sliding glass door and to the emergency department his mind continued to race as he walked to the triage nurse who sat at the counter.
"Room 113," the pretty young nurse said without looking up from the numerous papers that she shuffled around the long counter before her.
"Thanks," said Jimmy as he stepped down the shiny and pristinely clean hallway, which was quiet and empty in the night.
In retrospect, Jimmy hadn't even needed the room number, he thought.
An officer was sitting outside of room 113 drinking a tall cup of black coffee from a white Styrofoam cup and looking bored. Jimmy covered the distance quickly, his tall thick frame approaching with haste towards his bored brother in arms.
"How is the patient?" He asked curtly.
The other officer stood. "The surgery was successful. They expect Mr. Pike to make a full recovery. It's a miracle. That gunshot wound should have killed him. He is in a medically induced coma at this time."
"Thanks," replied Howe as he stepped towards the door.
The officer continued as Jimmy stopped and turned to face him.
"It's the damndest thing. The guy woke up during the surgery. The anesthesiologist said he'd never seen a patient that resistant to the drugs."
Jimmy grunted before pushing the door of the room open.
He was sick of hearing how tough this Pike was.
He shook his head as he pushed through the heavy hospital door. Immediately, Jimmy was face to face with a doctor and a nurse in deep conversation in the shadowy light of the medical devices that cast an eerie blue light in the dark room. The heart rate monitor on the far side of Jackson's bed beeped noisily as Jimmy approached the bed.
The white haired doctor turned and acknowledged Jimmy before hanging Jackson's chart on the foot of the bed. "Can I help you, officer?"
Jimmy stepped towards Jackson's sleeping form. The injured man wasn't what he had expected.
In his mind, Jimmy Howe had pictured a monster. In fact, he had half expected to see horns, teeth and fur. But all that lay before him was a man, unconscious and wounded.
Jimmy looked away and glanced back towards Dr. Sanders.
"How is he?" Jimmy said, glancing back towards the heart rate monitor that glowed and beeped in the darkness.
Sanders glanced down at the chart. "I'm not his surgeon, but based on his vital signs and what I've garnered from a cursory review of his chart, I would predict he'll make a near full recovery, though he likely won't be running any marathons soon."
Jimmy nodded. "I'll need to double the guard on
this door. If you would, please keep the entry and exit to this room to a minimum of personnel. And let me know as soon as he wakes up."
Sanders glanced at the nurse. "We can do that. Do you mind if I ask why we need to?"
Jimmy Howe grunted and turned to them both. "This man is a suspect in a double homicide that took place last night in Sumner. His ex wife and daughter were murdered execution style in her apartment. It was a bloodbath."
Sanders and the brown haired nurse looked at each other for a moment as Jimmy explained.
After he had finished, Sanders cleared his throat and shook his head. "That's not possible," he said.
"With all due respect, Doctor," replied Jimmy, anger and exhaustion creeping into his voice. "It damn sure is possible. I was the first one on the scene."
Sanders shook his head once more.
"No, I mean the patient couldn't have been there last night. He was at the hospital, under my care. He came in with a closed head injury and associated loss of consciousness. It's all in the chart."
Chapter 46:
06:00 AM- Sunday, September 10th
Sumner, VA
Jackson's eyes fluttered open and his body exploded in pain.
The fact that he was alive was no consolation. In fact, he might have preferred it the other way.
A familiar brunette nurse was standing over Jackson's bed as he came to, his eyes fighting for focus in the dim light of the early morning. He was back in the hospital.
Jackson groaned and peered around the room.
The nurse greeted him much too cheerfully. "Good morning, Mr. Pike." Her familiar southern drawl was all Jackson needed to place her, even in the fog of the medication pumping through his veins. She had been his nurse the last time he had woken up here.
They really needed to stop meeting like this, thought Jackson as he glanced up at her face.
"Well, it's morning" said Jackson. His day had started out as anything but good so far.
She nodded, a coy smile gracing her face as she turned towards the door. "If you are feeling up to it, there are some officers here who would like to speak to you."
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 16
