Chapter 8
Ellen and I walked to our favorite lunch place, Chez Amis. The maître d’ showed us to our usual table in the back. Like the Carnegie Deli, Chez Amis doesn’t take credit cards.
“How much cash do you have?” I asked Ellen.
“Only about 20 dollars.”
“I better go to the ATM.”
“I’ll get it, hon, I’m closer,” said Ellen.
After about five minutes, Ellen came back to the table. Her face told me something was wrong. Did we let the account run low? I thought.
“Rick, I forgot my friggin PIN number.”
“No problem, honey, I’ll use my card.”
I retrieved our cash and came back to the table. Ellen wore a frown and fidgeted with her napkin.
“Hey, pickle puss, how about a smile?”
“Rick, I’ve been using that PIN for years. I use it at least once a week. How the hell could I just forget it?”
“Hey, don’t sweat it, hon. With everything you have stored in that pretty head of yours, it’s inevitable that a few things will leak out.”
“Rick, how many times have you told me I have a memory like an elephant? I don’t forget things. I just don’t.”
“Listen, Ms. Stress Coach. You’ve been all over me to decompress. Stop getting upset over a little thing. The next time you go to the bank, simply get a new card and a new PIN number. Probably a good idea for security anyway. Here’s some cash.”
We talked about a new project Ellen was working on. Her new client was a suburban school district in New Jersey. They had plenty of money, thanks to the taxpayers, and they wanted Ellen to design a new state-of-the-art administration building. She made a rough sketch on her notepad to show me.
“This is beautiful, babe, but it looks like a private home, not an administration building.”
“Oh shit, I must have gotten it confused with another project.”
As we finished lunch, we went over a few chores that we had divvied up between us.
“Hey, hon, don’t forget to call Blake.”
“Blake?”
“Yeah, the painting contractor. Remember, we want an estimate to repaint our kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah, Blake. I must have his phone number. That’s Drake, right? D-R-A-K-E?”
“No problem, hon. You have a rich school district to worry about. I’ll call Blake.”
Ellen was totally overworked, I concluded. Time to think about a vacation.
Chapter 9
“Rick, it’s Barbara. Turn on the TV.”
Shit, I thought. I’m getting to hate it whenever somebody says turn on the TV. Wait, I reminded myself as I reached for the index card joke collection in my shirt pocket. As I pressed the remote, I laughed out loud over the latest Jerry Seinfeld gag on my list. I stopped laughing soon.
“Shepard Smith for Fox News, ladies and gentlemen. Law enforcement authorities the world over are bracing for the reaction from Islamic radicals over this week’s cover of Charlie Hebdo, the French satirical magazine. As you can see from this photo of the Hebdo cover, it shows a depiction of the Prophet Muhammad smoking a cigar and holding a martini glass.”
It’s about time the media started to grow a set of balls, I thought. Gutsy move for Fox to show the explosive cover.
“As you may recall, ladies and gentlemen,” Smith continued, “last year a small group of Islamic radicals stormed the Charlie Hebdo office in Paris and slaughtered 12 employees of the magazine and wounded 11. That incident was in protest of yet another cartoon depiction of the Prophet. Our bureau in Paris reports that at least 20 cars have been overturned and set on fire. I’m now going to show you live news feeds from major capitals around the world.”
Smith and his staff showed scene after scene of worldwide mayhem. Police in riot gear fired tear gas at seemingly endless numbers of rioters.
Barbara Auletta and Buster walked into my office.
“This is what I’ve been worried about, guys,” Barbara said. “I’ve been worried, but I can’t say I haven’t expected it—the backlash.”
As Barbara said that, Shepard Smith was showing scenes of mosques on fire and counter-demonstrators in pitched battle with the radicals. Cars, buses, and various other unidentifiable vehicles blazed on the streets.
“Every time I’ve turned on the TV in the past few months,” Barbara said, “I think we’ve finally hit a flash point, a point of no return, a point where radical Islam and the West clashes and doesn’t stop clashing.”
“We have reached that point,” said Buster, “but not this morning. We hit that point when President Reynolds realized the obvious and shared it with the world in his famous speech a few months ago. He announced that World War III had begun, and he was right. What we’re seeing on TV is just a spontaneous tantrum of the ‘Brotherhood of the Offended,’ just another way to vent hatred against the West.”
“Brotherhood of the Offended?” said Barbara. “How poetic, Buster.”
“Yeah, poetic but accurate, Barbara,” I said. “Buster nailed it. We’re dealing with people who take a lusty thrill in venting anger over perceived slights. How many times have you read about some Islamic group at an American university claiming that they were insulted by a public display of Christianity or Judaism, something really offensive like a nativity scene in front of a dormitory? Some universities refuse to serve pork or bacon in their cafeterias. It’s almost like radical Muslims consider it a successful day when they’ve managed to be insulted by somebody, somewhere. Hey, I don’t applaud Charlie Hebdo for what it does—insult people. But I love the fact that free societies allow satirical magazines to say it. The Charlie Hebdos and Mad Magazines of the world aren’t about to stop hurling insults, or even simple jokes. And what Buster calls the Brotherhood of the Offended will be ready to strike out and kill people as a result.”
Buster’s phone went off. He didn’t stop to laugh at his list of jokes.
When Buster got off the phone, his face was pale.
“That was CIA Director Carlini. He talked about the surface-to-air missile attacks, and it just got worse. So far, we’ve seen attacks with light shoulder-mounted SAMs, useful for firing at a plane landing or taking off, but we’ve just found out that ISIS has captured a large cache of heavy-duty SAMs, including Patriot missiles. They’re not as easy to conceal as a shoulder-mounted weapon, but that doesn’t matter. These things have a range of over 90 miles, and can shoot down a plane at cruising altitude, not just when it’s landing or taking off. So our tracking devices are useless. We came up with the idea to have drone surveillance of takeoff and landing zones, but that no longer means anything with the big stuff. A truck can hide in the woods and fire a missile at a plane 90 miles away.
“I remember my father telling me about his Marine experience in Viet Nam. The plane carrying military personnel into the country would fly at a high altitude and then go into a steep dive as it approached Tan Son Nhat Airport, the big American base. The purpose was to avoid SAMs. And that was in the 1960s. This front of the war isn’t going away any time soon. It’s already had a huge impact on the aviation industry—90 percent cancellations.”
“So what’s next?” I said. I figured I’d ask a stupid question to ease the tension in the room.
“I’m afraid to tell you guys what’s next,” said Director Auletta. “You’re not going to like it.”
Chapter 10
On April 3, United Airlines flight 439 was en route from Bermuda to Logan Airport in Boston, flying off the coast of New Jersey. The flight attendants busied themselves serving a mid-flight snack.
A tractor trailer with the logo “Key Foods” painted on its sides lumbered into a wooded area of a state park in southern New Jersey. Two men got out of the vehicle and opened the rear doors. Inside was a MIM-104 Patriot Missile launcher. The men wheeled a heavy-duty ramp to the end of the trailer, and the Patriot vehicle was slowly lowered to the ground with an electric winch.
A state police car pulled up to the
truck and the officer shouted to the men, “This park is closed until May first. Can’t you people read the sign?”
One of the men raised his AK-47 and fired a short burst at the cop, killing him instantly.
The Patriot missile struck Flight 439 in mid-fuselage, causing it to erupt in a fireball. The plane, in thousands of parts, fell to the ocean, along with the remains of 273 passengers and crew.
***
Delta and United Airlines Declare Bankruptcy
The New York Times
By Randolph Cummings
Within hours of the latest surface-to-air missile attack on an American plane, United Flight 439 from Bermuda to Boston, both United and Delta Airlines have declared bankruptcy. The latest missile attack was different from previous incidents, in that the missile used to strike the United flight was long-range. It struck the jet as it flew at an altitude of 30,000 feet. The FAA, in conjunction with the United States Air Force, had instituted a policy of drone surveillance of landing and takeoff zones for every arriving and departing flight, a policy undertaken at enormous expense and that was responsible for snarled traffic and huge flight delays. The purpose behind the surveillance policy was for an unmanned drone to detect a missile launcher’s location and then attack it.
Yesterday’s United disaster, however, has put a new and startling face on the nation’s air travel.
According to Ken Williams, CEO of United, “The use of heavy-duty long-range missiles creates a brand new ballgame. Simply put, with the enemy deploying long-range SAMs, no aircraft is safe, whether it’s landing, taking off, or simply cruising at high altitude.”
When asked why United had chosen to seek bankruptcy, Williams stated, “The airline industry, when you boil it down to essentials, isn’t complicated. We sell seats. No seat sales, no revenue. No revenue, no profit. Our sales are off 90 percent since the surface-to-air missile crisis began a few weeks ago. Our industry has had to change overnight.”
According to Elizabeth Jones, Secretary of Transportation, “These attacks have caused the most dramatic reversal of an industry that the country, actually the world, has ever seen.”
Air France, Alitalia, Lufthansa, and British Airways have all reported similar historic decreases in ticket reservations.
A White House spokesman, who asked not to be named because of the sensitive nature of the problem, said, “For the near future, the world is grounded. Both the Air Force and civilian aviation leaders are feverishly working on plans to equip all commercial aircraft with anti-missile defenses. The cost will be enormous and the effectiveness, with our current state of technology, cannot be guaranteed.”
Chapter 11
John and Dolores Shankman, both in their mid-60s, had recently retired from Oracle Corporation with comfortable pensions. They had always discussed a dream vacation—a train trip through the Canadian Rockies. They carefully planned their trip for April, a time when spring was getting its bloom on.
They boarded the Royal Canadian Pacific train in Vancouver, British Columbia. The train would take them through the Canadian Rockies to Banff, where they would meet their son and daughter-in-law and their three grandchildren.
The train had just rolled onto a bridge a few miles outside of Calgary.
A man seated on a rock outcropping 500 feet from the bridge pressed his detonator button and dived behind a boulder. A 40-pound bag of the explosive Tannerite blasted away the middle of the bridge and sent the train in an accordion-like spiral of death to the valley floor 300 feet below, along with its 350 passengers. No one survived. The man had purchased the Tannerite, consisting of ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder, at a nearby sporting goods store. He paid cash.
Chapter 12
Regina Townsend, age 38, became the first woman president of the New York Stock Exchange on March 11. Long a “Wall Street Darling,” according to Forbes, Townsend was also a recognized face in living rooms across America. Because of her wit, her wry sense of humor, and her piercing intellect, she was a favorite of news anchors and talk show hosts across the nation.
Townsend graduated from Duke University with a degree in economics. She then went on to get an MBA from the Wharton Business School of the University of Pennsylvania, and a law degree from Yale. She became a partner at Goldman Sachs at the age of 35. Nobody questioned her credentials or background when her Stock Exchange presidency was announced. “The New York Stock Exchange,” the Wall Street Journal gushed, “may have just found the leader it desperately needs.”
Townsend was on Fox Business News being interviewed by Neil Cavuto.
“Welcome to my show, Your World, Regina, and thank you for joining us.” They were longtime friends, and Cavuto always used her first name. “You have your work cut out for you, Regina. The New York Stock Exchange is under a ton of pressure from the online trading industry. Please tell our audience some of your ideas going forward.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Townsend said, looking at Cavuto with a wrinkled brow.
“I’d just like you to give us some of your ideas for bringing the New York Stock Exchange back to its former glory.”
“Glory me, I don’t know.”
“Come on, Regina,” said Cavuto with a smile, “we’ve known each other for a long time. Don’t be so cagey. Tell our viewers some of your ideas.”
“Can I have a glass of water?”
“Hey, you can have a beer if it will open you up,” Cavuto joked.
“Yes, a beer would be nice. Do I know you?”
Cavuto put his right hand to his earpiece as his producer told him they were cutting to an unscheduled commercial break. The producer walked next to Cavuto.
“Regina, we’re off the air on a break. Is everything okay? Talk to me, my friend. You seem like you’re upset about something. Should we cut the interview short? I can have you back at another time.”
“Who are you? Please tell me why I’m here.”
Regina Townsend broke down sobbing. The producer told a man in the control booth to bring on the next guest. When the commercial break ended, Cavuto told his listeners that Townsend was called away on sudden business.
That evening, Regina Townsend, age 38, was taken to Bellevue Hospital. Her husband waited for her at the entrance. She didn’t recognize him. She underwent a battery of mental exams, and three days later was transferred to a nursing home. Her diagnosis was severe sudden-onset dementia.
Chapter 13
Barbara Auletta clicked on the TV as her assistant suggested over the intercom. Auletta had called the meeting. Besides Buster and me, Bennie Weinberg and my former partner Zeke Martin were there.
Dr. Benjamin Weinberg, a psychiatrist and detective with the NYPD, was on loan to the FBI. Bennie is nationally famous for his skills in detecting lies, especially from people on the witness stand. Bennie, age 45, is a short man at 5’8,” slightly overweight, and has a bald spot on the top of his head. After he graduated from Harvard Medical School, Bennie served as a combat physician with the 82nd Airborne Division and served in Afghanistan. After he mustered out, Bennie went on to complete his residency in psychiatry. Along with his academic credentials, Ben is an expert marksman. He’s popular with prosecutors across the country. His nickname, which he hates, is Bennie the Bullshit Detector. Although his academic credentials would lead you to think he’d come across as an intellectual, Bennie opts for the tough demeanor of a cop. His sentences are copiously sprinkled with f-bombs. He’s also a good friend.
Barbara hit the remote so fast I didn’t have time to read a Seinfeld joke, my usual routine before watching anything on television.
Fox News anchor Gretchen Carlson was reporting the wreck of a Royal Canadian Pacific train outside of Calgary, Canada.
“It was clearly a deliberate act, from what we’ve learned in the past few minutes,” said Carlson. “Four eyewitnesses reported seeing a massive explosion in the middle of a bridge just as the train approached it. The train, carrying 350 passengers, plunged 300 feet to the valley be
low. Emergency crews are on the scene, but it’s doubtful there are any survivors.”
Somehow, this news report seemed like an apt way to start the meeting of the FBI’s New York Counterterrorism Unit.
Auletta clicked off the TV and began to discuss our agenda, which was the surface-to-air missile crisis.
“Excuse me,” said Bennie, “but I have an observation. We just heard about a horrible train wreck that killed 350 people and which is most likely terror related. It’s definitely an intentional act—a train bridge was blown up. And I want us all to notice something, including me. We haven’t even mentioned it. A train disaster would once consume our entire attention, but now we don’t even give it a thought. We’re becoming numb, folks, fucking numb. I just want to raise a flag of caution, and I’m waving it in front of my own face as well. We can’t abandon our emotions. We need them. To the extent we abandon our emotions is the extent to which we’ll become like robots, and the enemy is anything but.”
“Bennie,” said Auletta, “God bless you, and thank you for your gentle criticism. You’re absolutely right. We’ve talked a lot about keeping our emotions under control with the constant barrage of horror, but there’s a big difference between controlling emotions and forgetting that we have them.”
We all applauded. It seemed like a strange thing to applaud, but I think Bennie and Barbara both told us something that we needed to hear.
“And speaking of emotions,” Barbara said, “I have an announcement that will get us all emotional. I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.”
Barbara stood and walked to the front of the room. She knows how to get attention and how to position herself when she needs to say something important.
“What I’m about to tell you guys is, at this point, a rumor,” Barbara said, “but it’s a rumor that was passed to me by Sarah Watson, Director of the FBI. She said it came as a high-level leak from the White House, and whenever that happens, somebody is usually running something up the flagpole to assess public opinion.”
The Scent of Revenge Page 3
