The Scent of Revenge

by Russell Moran

  “So it’s actually more than a rumor,” I said, “it’s an informal survey.”

  “Yes, it is, Rick, and I’ll get right to the point. President Reynolds is toying with the idea of suspending the right of habeas corpus, the right to a hearing on the issue of unlawful detainment. Gentlemen, the president is considering martial law.”

  She looked at her notes.

  “According to Article 1, Section 9 of the United States Constitution, ‘The Privilege of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion, the Public Safety may require it.’ Hey, is it a stretch for someone to argue that we’re under ‘invasion,’ and that ‘the public safety may require’ a suspension of habeas corpus?”

  “Oh my God,” said Buster, “this could lead to a fucking dictatorship. I don’t want to credit those sand monkeys with far-sighted planning, but could this be what 10/15 and all the shit since then has been all about? Put so much pressure on us that the president concludes that ‘public safety may require’ an abandonment of our most basic constitutional right? If they pull that one off, they’ve gone a long way to changing the basic structure of American society. Will Sharia Law look so bad next to a system of martial law?”

  “The four of us represent law enforcement and intelligence,” I said. “Without habeas corpus, you can replace us with drones and robots. I hope to hell Sarah Watson from the FBI and Bill Carlini at CIA try to talk some sense into his head.”

  “As I told you guys when I made this announcement,” said Barbara, “at this point, it’s a rumor; but it’s a rumor with a purpose, and that purpose is to gauge public response. Well the response from the four of us appears to be unanimous—the idea sucks. I can tell you that Sarah Watson feels that way too.”

  “I’m sure you can count on Director Carlini to be on the side of daylight,” said Buster.

  “Okay, guys, but here’s what worries me,” I said, “and I know it worries you too. With every plane or train that gets blown up, for every cruise ship that sinks, for every random act of explosive terror, the public gets more and more fed up. That’s how Stalin held power. He kept things peaceful on the home front by murdering the opposition. People were willing to look the other way because he made their lives relatively peaceful. That’s the way any dictator works, which is why we studied in political science that a dictatorship is the most efficient form of government. It may be the worst, but it’s the most efficient. Mark my words, guys, there may come a tipping point when the American people are going to scream for law enforcement to ‘lock ’em up’ and ask questions later. That’s exactly what a country looks like without a right to habeas corpus, except there’s nobody to ask questions, even later.”

  “At this point,” Buster said, “I’d say the jihadis are ahead.”

  ***

  “I have something important to show you guys,” I said.

  I walked over to the corner of the office and lifted a 40-pound box.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you what that is, Rick,” said Barbara.

  “This small box,” I said as I held it up, “has enough explosive power in it to blow up a house.”

  “How the hell did you get that stuff in here?” said Barbara.

  “It was quite simple. I ordered it online from Dick’s Sporting Goods Store in New Rochelle, and had it delivered here. I used my private credit card. Security stopped the UPS driver, and let him through when they saw it was addressed to me. I also had the same-sized box delivered to my apartment. No questions. The doorman just held it for me in the lobby.”

  “What the hell is it?” asked Buster.

  “It’s called Tannerite, and it’s perfectly legal. It’s used by gun sportsmen to blow up targets.”

  “Wait, Rick, how the hell can it be legal if it’s explosive?”

  “It’s a loophole, Barbara. The contents of this box are not classified as explosives—yet. The shipment includes containers of ammonium nitrate along with containers of aluminum powder. Mix them together following the simple instructions and you have one hell of a bomb. You may remember that 60 Minutes did a show on this a few months ago. They quoted a spokesman for Tannerite Sports LLC, the people who make the stuff. ‘No additional regulations are needed beyond current laws because the product is safe when used correctly,’ the guy said, and ‘the only injuries that have ever happened were results from the shooter misusing the product.’ The man then added, ‘Only girly-men want to regulate Tannerite Rifle Targets.’ ”

  “Well count me in as a ‘girlie man,’ ” said Buster. “This is fucking ridiculous. You can buy explosives by mail order with no questions asked? I remember that ammonium nitrate, which is also used to make fertilizer, was the main ingredient in the bomb that took down the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City back in 1995. But with this Tannerite crap, a jihadi doesn’t even have to know about bomb making. Just mix and detonate.”

  “I’ve been following up on the investigation of the bombings since 10/15,” I said. “The forensic reports all showed traces of ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder. Nobody connected the dots to discover that the shit is commercially available.”

  “So let me get this straight,” said Barbara. “All a lone-wolf jihadi has to do is go to a sporting goods store, take out his cash, and walk out of the place with bomb materials.”

  “That’s pretty much it, Barbara. There’s all sorts of political noise about banning the stuff, but it won’t do much good. You’ll still be able to buy ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder separately and make your own bomb, just without the trademark Tannerite. Blowing things up has gotten a lot simpler.”

  ***

  Barbara cleared her throat and took a sip of water.

  “Rick, you’ve managed to scare the hell out of us this morning with this Tannerite stuff. But besides that and the possibility of martial law, there’s another important thing I want to cover this morning. I’m happy to see that our friend Zeke Martin, Rick’s former partner, is here with us. Zeke’s been transferred to FBI headquarters in D.C. because of his amazing handling of our massive database. Zeke doesn’t need a database, he is a database. Zeke’s going to give us a summary of everything that’s happened since 10/15. He’s also prepared a detailed handout for each of us.”

  Zeke walked to the head of the room. We all applauded, especially me. I miss him as a partner but I recognize that his talents are needed at the top. I raised my hand and asked Barbara if I could say a few words of introduction for my former partner.

  “You all know Zeke, but I’m not sure how well,” I said. “Let me tell you a few things about this guy. After he graduated from the University of Michigan, where he was a runner-up All American wide receiver, he was tapped by the New York Jets as a first-round draft pick. Zeke could have been a millionaire professional athlete and, in this media market, he would have also made a bundle on TV selling stuff with his handsome face. But no, he chose to serve his country instead. After serving with the Army in Afghanistan, he went to law school. Then he wrote a book that hit The New York Times Best Seller List, Running for Glory, a cautionary tale about the physical dangers of college and pro football. After that, he could have capitalized on his celebrity status, but he chose instead to continue to serve his country, now with the FBI. Zeke is one of the best people we have, and we should all be proud to serve with him.”

  That brought another round of applause.

  “Zeke, please talk to us.”

  “After an introduction like that, Rick, I can’t wait to hear myself. I remember Rick and I sitting in Barbara’s office on October 15 when the shit hit the fan. Rick’s office had just been wrecked by a bomb that blew up downstairs, and Barbara was sitting there with a cold compress against her head wound. We were shocked at what occurred, but we had no idea what would happen in the following months. Train wrecks, building explosions, two sunken cruise ships, two college football stadium attacks, and of course, the biggest terror spectacular to date, the Super Bowl. Ben
nie is absolutely right—we’re becoming numb, emotionally drained, but we can’t let that happen.

  “FBI Director Watson asked me to deliver a message to you folks. As the key team in the FBI’s counterterrorism task force, the country looks to you. It’s as if Director Watson heard what Bennie said a few minutes ago. She wants us all to keep our emotions in check, but not to forget that we have them. It’s only by keeping in touch with our emotions that we’ll be able to recognize the difference between us and the barbarians who want to kill us. My job is to keep you all up to date about our findings at headquarters. Without your input, our records would be empty. I want you all to know I’m honored to serve with you.”

  Zeke’s a good man. I’m glad he’s on our side. Both he and Bennie, as well as Barbara, made damn good points about our emotions.

  My emotions would soon be tried to the breaking point.

  Chapter 14

  The USS Gideon Welles, an Ohio Class nuclear ballistic missile submarine, was on patrol in the North Atlantic off Norway under 400 feet of water. The Welles, named after the Secretary of the Navy in the Lincoln administration, was the second Navy vessel to carry the name. The first was a destroyer that was decommissioned in 1940.

  In addition to its complement of Mark 48 torpedoes, the Welles carried 24 Trident nuclear ballistic missiles.

  Lieutenant Commander Roger McCue, the weapons officer, lodged a chair under the door handle of his stateroom to ensure that he wouldn’t be interrupted. He reached into his locker and took out his prayer rug. Checking the compass on the bulkhead, he arranged the rug to face Mecca so that he could perform his evening prayers.

  After he finished praying, McCue placed his rug back into his locker and removed the chair from underneath the door handle. McCue, also known to a select few people as Ali Shabana, put on his uniform and headed to his watch station in “Sherwood Forest,” the compartment on the sub that held the ballistic missiles.

  While in port, McCue, over a period of weeks, lugged small bags of plastic explosives, the same quantity that had blown open the hull of the USS Cole in October 2000. Every time he was on watch, McCue would lower the bags into a void between the inner and outer hull. Each bag was equipped with a remote control firing mechanism.

  He saluted Lieutenant Commander Douglas Pittman, the officer he was about to relieve. After they went over the log of the watch, Pittman left the compartment.

  He had just opened a hatch leading to the void when Lt. Juan Cordoba, the assistant watch officer, approached him and said, “What the hell?”

  McCue removed his pistol from his belt and shot Cordoba through the chest.

  “Allahu Akbar,” he chanted three times before he pressed the detonator button.

  The blast ripped through the hull of the Welles, causing an implosion as the seawater under 400 feet of pressure roared in to fill the void.

  The USS Gideon Welles, with its crew of 140 men, sank to the bottom of the ocean in thousands of pieces, including the remnants of the nuclear missiles.

  Chapter 15

  I got home later than usual, about 8 p.m. It was great having Ellen stop by the office yesterday. I think Barbara Auletta is serious about trying to recruit her into the FBI, not that Ellen would ever go for the idea.

  Ellen usually meets me at the door, but I saw that she was sitting in the den. The TV was off.

  “Hey, hon, gimme a kiss,” I said as I sat next to her.

  We kissed, but it wasn’t our usual smooch. The look on Ellen’s face told me that she was upset about something. No smile, not a word. She didn’t even look at me.

  “Everything okay, honey?” I asked. “You’re not still worried about forgetting your bank PIN are you?”

  “What PIN?”

  Ever since I’ve known Ellen, her response when seeing me always began with a smile. But she wasn’t smiling. She sat upright on the couch with her hands clasped together in her lap. I reached over and stroked her face. She continued to look straight ahead at the blank TV screen.

  “I’m going to change into jeans, honey” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “My name is Ellen.”

  I went into our bedroom to change. I had no idea what the hell was going on. All I knew was that my heart was pounding like a drum. After I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, I sat down again next to Ellen. Her hands remained in her lap and she stared at the blank TV screen. Still no smile.

  “Hey, honey, tell me what’s new with that big school project you’re working on.”

  Ellen always gets excited about big new projects, so I figured my question would cheer her up.

  “I don’t go to school.”

  My cell phone buzzed, telling me that I had a text message. Before I tapped on the message, I cracked up, thinking about a Jerry Seinfeld joke as per Ellen’s de-stressing plan for me. I saw that it was Buster, just texting me a message that he’d be a half-hour late for our meeting the next day.

  “Hey, babe, did you notice? I just did my Jerry Seinfeld routine?”

  “Who’s Jerry Seinfeld?”

  ***

  Something was wrong. Something was crazy wrong.

  When Ellen and I went to bed, I began one of the worst nights of my life. I hardly slept at all. After we crawled under the covers, I put my arm across Ellen and pulled her closer to me, something I do so often it’s almost a ritual.

  Ellen turned her face toward the wall and said, “Why are you doing that?”

  At about 2 a.m., Ellen got out of bed. Five minutes went by, then ten. I got up and put on my robe. I walked into the guest bedroom to see if she was there. Sometimes, when one of us couldn’t sleep, we’d go to the guest room so as not to keep each other awake. She wasn’t there.

  I went into the darkened den and turned on the light, expecting to see her asleep on the couch. She sat, just as she did when I got home, upright on the couch, hands in her lap, staring at the blank TV screen. She didn’t seem to notice that I turned on the light.

  I sat next to her and put my hand on her leg. She moved my hand from her thigh and rested it on the couch between us.

  “Hey, honey, talk to me. We never keep anything from each other. What’s wrong, and don’t tell me nothing. Is there a problem at the office?”

  “Office?”

  “Yeah, office. Is something wrong at the office?”

  “What office?”

  “You know, the office you go to, your architectural firm.”

  “I work here. What do I do?”

  “Why don’t you lie down, honey? You need some sleep. You can stay on the couch if you want. I’ll get you a comforter.”

  She just nodded and said, “My name is Ellen.”

  Chapter 16

  My alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., my usual waking time. One of the more enjoyable events in life is awakening from a nightmare, only to realize it was just a dream. But it wasn’t a bad dream, it was real. I woke up in the middle of a nightmare that wouldn’t go away.

  I went into the den, where Ellen was finally asleep on the couch. She heard me and opened her eyes. I went to kiss her, but she turned her face.

  “I’ll put on some coffee, hon.”

  “My name is Ellen.”

  Ellen didn’t want to eat, but I convinced her to have some cereal with raisins. We sat at the kitchen table. She stared at the opposite wall.

  “Do you have anything pressing at the office, Ellen? I thought maybe you and I could take a day off.” No way in hell was I about to let her out of my sight.

  “Office? What office?”

  “You know, Whitney, Cox, and Bellamy. Hey, babe, you’re now a big-time named partner.”

  “Who’s my partner?”

  I cleared the dishes from the table. I was having the same feeling in my stomach that I get when someone tells me about another terrorist attack.

  “I have some phone calls to make, honey. Why don’t you sit in the den and watch some TV? I can play that Forest Gump video that you love.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t like forests.”

  “You’ll like this one.” Something told me that she shouldn’t watch any upsetting news reports.

  “Whitney, Cox, and, Bellamy,” the receptionist said.

  “Hi, Joan, it’s Rick Bellamy. Is Phil Whitney there?”

  “Hi, Rick, it’s Phil. Is everything okay?”

  “Phil, Ellen can’t make it in today. She’s feeling under the weather.”

  “That’s why I just asked you if everything is okay, Rick. Yesterday, Ellen seemed, I don’t know, not herself. She kept forgetting a lot of things. Maybe you two should take a vacation. You’ve both been under a lot of stress.”

  “I may take you up on that, Phil. I’ll call you later.”

  I then texted Barbara Auletta to let her know I’d be working from home today.

  ***

  “Ben Weinberg here.”

  “Bennie, it’s Rick. I don’t know what you have on your schedule, but I need you to have lunch at my place today.”

  “You need me to have lunch?”

  “Yes, Ben, need is the word.”

  “Rick, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Ellen, Bennie. She’s acting strangely. Something’s wrong. I don’t want to say more than that. I want you to see for yourself.”

  Bennie Weinberg is a good friend and a brilliant shrink. He’s also a guy who’s there when you need him. And I needed him.

  ***

  Bennie is one of Ellen’s favorite people. We often have dinner with Ben and his wife, Maggie. Both Bennie and Ellen share a love of opera, something I’m working on. They also have similar senses of humor. I couldn’t wait for him to show up. If anybody can snap Ellen out of this crap, it’s Bennie.

  Ben rang the bell promptly at 12:15. He walked in carrying a bouquet of flowers. I led him into the den, where Ellen sat.

  “Hello, beautiful. These are for you to celebrate your making partner at the firm.”