by LC Champlin
“It backfired.” Shaking his head, Nathan stood back from the rail. “I’m curious what the authorities know about it and about this.” Sweeping gesture to encompass the city. “Maybe they know why the terrorists targeted me.”
“One only wonders what they will do with the information.”
“The ball will be in their court. If they have enough brains to hit it, then we congratulate them. If not?” Nathan shrugged.“We duck and cover.”
“I shall keep my eyes open for a fallout shelter.”
Silence fell.
Phone out, Nathan thumbed to the gallery. He swiped through until . . . there. This one he’d taken last week. A woman who’d give any Miss America a run for her money without makeup or surgical revision smiled back at him. Wits the equal (and sometimes superior) of his danced in her emerald eyes while she held her fiery hair out of her face. She’d just made a sarcastic remark—its edge glinted in her smile.
On her left hip she supported a round-faced monster, three months short of four years old. He clung to her neck but had twisted around to make a face for the camera. Green eyes identical to his mother’s sparkled with enough attitude for five wolverines. He shared his father’s black hair and (to his mom’s mingled frustration and amusement) tenacity. To his dad’s mingled frustration and amusement, he had inherited Janine’s knack for debate.
We’ll be back soon, team. Nathan pocketed his phone.
“There.” Albin pointed toward a helicopter whose strobes neared. A spotlight swung across buildings, streets, cars.
“Shall we light the beacons of Gondor?” Click. Flame hovered at the end of Nathan’s lighter.
“On your mark, sir,” Albin replied as he trotted toward the final E.
“Fire at will.” Flame blazed to life in Nathan’s line, hissed in either direction along the trails of accelerant. The terminal beacons ignited at almost the same moment. Across from him, Albin’s line followed suit. Nathan grinned in the light. If this didn’t attract attention, at least it looked impressive.
“Flashlights!” he called over as he moved to the letters. PD22, P2X, and twin H-777 beams flashed over the chopper, or at least attempted to reach it. Clickclickclick. The P2X blinked in rapid succession. Click . . . click . . . click. Clickclickclick. Nathan repeated the SOS Morse code. Twenty feet away, the PD22 also signaled.
With Nathan at one H and Albin at the other, they watched their hope of rescue wander leftward. Not so fast, Rex. “Time to send the text message.”
Lighters down, flames up. Fire snaked along the letters, licking gasoline. Fifteen seconds maximum, then they’d have to reset the type and hope to find more accelerants in the vehicles.
The spotlight stopped, then—Nathan squinted against the beam that blazed full in his face. Yes! He waved his arms in the universal signal for “I’m royally screwed, come get me!”
Rotor thrumming grew louder, the strobes closer. The blades’ beat reverberated in his chest. Downwash blew out the last of the fires but fanned his spark of triumph into an inferno. The sheep could stay in the refugee camps; he would get a first-class ticket home.
Ash blasted past him as he raised a hand to shield his eyes. Landing lights illuminated the roof as the Eurocopter settled onto the improvised helipad. ABC 7 HD in white against a blue field gleamed along its hull. A red nose finished the scheme.
“Good dog.”
He trotted over to secure the duffel bag with the weapons, then forced himself to wait instead of charging the aircraft. Damned chopper etiquette.
The door slid open to reveal a woman wearing a helicopter helmet and wielding a handheld video camera. “Get in, guys!” she yelled over the rotors.
She barely got the last word out before Nathan and Albin started jogging toward the chopper. They climbed in, Nathan hauling the door closed after them. Albin slipped the VTAC off and stowed it beneath his seat. The duffel joined it.
No strangers to choppers, the newcomers secured their harnesses. Headsets? Under the seat.
Nathan fired his most charming, charismatic smile at the reporter—and her camera. “Thanks for the lift.”
Albin, also with headset in place, leaned forward to tap the pilot on the shoulder. Thumbs up. The man nodded, his visor hiding most of his expression. His copilot spared Albin a glance.
“My pleasure,” the reporter replied as she locked the camera into a wall mount and plugged it into a cable jack.
Gravity tugged at Nathan’s stomach, then came flight’s lightness. Outside, the garage roof receded. At last, off the Hell-licked ground!
He turned to his host. Late twenties, brunette, intense. Her camera-friendly face hailed from the news-anchor mold. Bloodshot blue eyes looked back at him with a media-dog edge, strung out yet hungry for more. Hours in the chopper had dulled her makeup while amping her adrenaline. Excellent.
“Nathan Serebus, Arete Technologies.” Let the terrorists just try to take him now. They would probably curse him to Hell if they watched the news. “This”—he gestured toward Albin, who craned his neck to see the action in the cockpit—“is Albin Conrad, my associate.”
The blond nodded acknowledgment. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Josephine Behrmann, ABC 7 News. Arete Technologies? You sponsored the technology summit this weekend, correct?”
“I called it, but it was sponsored jointly.” He wouldn’t take all the blame, if she was striving to somehow link the attacks to the summit. “Not that any of it matters now.”
“It looks like you’ve been through a lot tonight,” she remarked, taking advantage of the opportunity to give him a once-over.
“Tonight’s been difficult for everyone in San Francisco. But we’re in the process of trying to keep the situation from worsening.” Pause, slight enough for—
“Care to elaborate, Mr. Serebus?” Newshound lust in her voice and tension in her posture.
He summoned his earnest face as he replied, “We were trying to reach the incident command center with critical information, but emergency services are overwhelmed, phone and data services are down, and traffic is stopped.” Pained smile. With intel given, interest captured, and need intimated, the Law of Reciprocity would activate. Albin played along, nodding.
“ABC 7 is here to help Bay Area residents.” She flashed a mannequin smile. “In case the emergency management isn’t already watching this, we can lend you our radio.” She turned toward the pilot despite the headset, a habit like gesturing while on the phone. “Marc, put us through to incident command.”
Marc gave a thumbs-up. “Standby, Jo.”
Behold, the Big Damn Newsmedia Hero in action. “That’s very helpful. Unfortunately, I need to deliver a lot of the information to them face to face.”
“We have video here. ABC 7 is the official emergency update station.”
“I have one of incident command’s operators on the radio,” the copilot relayed before Nathan could do more than glance at the camera.
Chapter 31
Truth Will Set You Free
I Get Wicked – Thousand Foot Krutch
Nathan turned up the headset volume. “Go ahead.”
“This is the communications division. What do you have to report?”
“This is Nathan Serebus. I am inbound on an ABC 7 helicopter. There was an attack by gunmen, likely terrorists, on the St. Regis Hotel an hour ago. There were twenty”—he glanced at Albin, who pointed upward—“perhaps twenty-five. They’re taking specific hostages. Casualties are on the first six floors and the nineteenth.
“Listen, there will likely be an attack on Hotel Vitale as well. I have more information, but I need to speak directly with the emergency manager in charge.” No risking the information slipping through the buttery fingers of an underling.
Rabid light in Josephine’s face indicated she saw herself accepting a medal that bore George Foster Peabody’s bearded visage.
Pause. “We’ve had some reports already.” Th
en, when the dispatchers brain caught up with her ears: “You say there will be an attack on the Hotel Vitale? When will this happen?” Mild interest.
“It may have already happened, given how poorly the police are responding out here.” Did FEMA or DHS even know what kind of hell swarmed over the city? “SWAT or National Guard need to cordon off the area. These terrorists are highly trained and will kill without hesitation.”
“We’ll notify the communications liaison, sir.”
Nathan’s grip on his headset muffs tightened. Liaison? One like Corporal Carp? “As I said, I need to speak to the emergency manager at incident command personally.”
“It may not be possible to talk to the manager himself, sir, but we will want to speak with you in person.”
“I’ll see about it when I arrive. Out.” Nathan sat back with a sigh.
Middlemen and more middlemen. Hadn’t an agent or two in the FBI tried to warn their superiors about Al Qaeda’s plans for 9/11? Red tape would destroy the country faster than any crazed Islamic group.
What now? Option A involved bureaucrats in sickening numbers, but if he played the game with enough skill, they could catch a ride on an eastbound C-130.
Option B involved reaching Half Moon Bay Airport, chartering an aircraft, and getting as far from San Francisco as possible. Option A offered the most security, and opportunity.
“Mr. Serebus?” The reporter’s voice sawed into his brooding. “Rumors have been flying about terrorism, and people have been reporting gunmen, but authorities aren’t saying anything definite. Is it safe to assume you were present when the gunmen attacked the St. Regis?” She leaned forward, but her frown betrayed skepticism.
Time for the steak. “I’ll show you.” He produced his phone as he spoke, then queued up the video of the terrorists. “This is the ground floor of the St. Regis roughly thirty minutes ago.”
“Incredible!” Josephine remarked after the video ended. “You said they were taking specific hostages. Were you, as owner of Arete Technologies, a target?”
Albin tensed beside him. Caution . . . “Suffice it to say I was face to face with the murderers.” He wore a wry smile as he slid the phone back into a pocket.
“Why are they so interested in you? Is it the tech summit?”
“I don’t know that they were. I escaped, but whoever’s still at Hotel Vitale may not be so lucky.”
“Any idea how the terrorists plan to go about the attack on Vitale?”
“With precision and lethal force. Islamic State is a real threat, not a Mickey Mouse operation using C4 underwear.” IS—not a verified fact, but the odds favored their involvement. Dropping their name might add weight to his warning, as viewers knew the carnage the Daesh wreaked.
“The gunmen are with ISIS, then? You’re certain it’s not Al Qaeda or Boko Haram?” So ABC didn’t know if the groups had claimed responsibility yet.
“Does it matter? They all mutilate and murder noncombatants. They all want to unleash chaos by hitting critical points in the city. The Department of State building and the Federal Reserve Bank were already targets tonight.” Thank you, radio newscaster.
“Ms. Behrmann,” Albin spoke up, “have there been any reports of people behaving strangely? Specifically, have there been unprovoked assaults on civilians by other civilians?”
She blinked at him as if just noticing his existence. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
The news couldn’t have missed widespread cannibal attacks. Unless . . . they wanted to hide it to prevent more panic. “He means, has anyone reported people acting like they’re under the influence of Spice or PCP: attacking people with their bare hands or shrugging off gunshot wounds.”
Leaning back, Josephine adjusted her helmet as she shook her head. “We’d be in a real horror movie if they did!” She forced a Barbie-doll grin. “I think gunmen, earthquakes, and fires are enough for now.” No questions regarding why they were mentioning drug-amped attackers?
Time for another trick from the hound after that treat. “Do you have a satellite phone aboard? I’d like to call my wife, let her know we’re safe.” Half-charming, half-pleading smile. It worked wonders on Janine. ABC 7 News, savior of the San Franciscan populace, couldn’t refuse a man’s request to reassure his beloved. Not on air, anyway.
Apparently sensing the human element that just dropped into her lap, Josephine requested the copilot grant access to the IsatPhone-Pro.
A moment to configure the system while the reporter turned to her camera and added commentary about the previous story, then, dialing…
Chapter 32
Support Your Local DHS
The Call – Regina Spektor
Nathan’s heart hammered his sternum. Come on, come on! Shoulder muscles bunching, he waited. “You have reached the voice mailbox of . . . Please leave a message after the tone.”
Shit! Maybe Janine’s phone’s battery had died. One, two, three—
“Janine, it’s me. I’m calling the sat phone.”
Attempt two, Dialing. He hunched around the phone, knuckles white on the receiver. “Please leave a message after the beep.”
“We’re fine, but a sat phone is the last resort.” As the rest of the song went, Nothing’s all right. “You know what to do.” Get somewhere safe, apprise Arete Tech’s management of the situation. “No need to say goodbye.” Leave it to Janine in a fit of feeling to select Regina Spektor lyrics as code. “I love you both.”
He handed the terminal back as Marc informed the passengers, “We’re approaching Taraval Police Station. It’s incident command.”
Ahead, a chopper gained altitude over a flood-lit baseball diamond. Another helicopter thrummed north, strobes receding as it increased velocity. Nathan pushed up in his seat for a better view of the ground: Emergency vehicle lights flashed over the streets. Flood lights poured over the ball diamond and, to the north, a football field. Rows of olive-drab inflatable tents ran end zone to end zone. For once FEMA and the DHS had moved quickly and chosen a wise location. Even a stopped clock told the correct time once a day.
Marc negotiated a landing with the ground controllers. In moments, Nathan would again face the authorities. Grunts, middlemen, then the emergency manager. The terrorists and oily cannibals were beginning to look preferable.
The Eurocopter descended on center field.
He glanced over his shoulder at Josephine, who unfastened the camera and held it aloft for a shot of incident command. “Ms. Behrmann, they probably won’t appreciate cameras in the command center, but you’re more than welcome to accompany us. People deserve to hear the full story, even if it’s not live.”
“Oh, I intend to get to the truth, Mr. Serebus.” She wore a determined smile behind the camera.
“Good.”
Having a news hound around might prove useful. The press seemed to encourage responsibility among government employees who didn’t have a lobbyist or a media exec in their pocket.
Officers in black fatigues with Police DHS in white across their chests surrounded the chopper. AR-15s accompanied the officers. Josephine slid the door open. Gear in tow, Nathan and Albin ducked past her. Light made Nathan squint, while downwash whipped his hair. The blades’ thrum rattled his chest. Sans camera, Josephine joined them as two officers separated from the pack to address the newcomers.
“Nathan Serebus?” the taller of the paramilitary men yelled over the rotors.
Nathan shielded his eyes from the wind and glare. “Yes.”
“Come with us.”
The men hustled their charges between tents and vehicles, across the street, and into the imposing brick police headquarters.
Inside the standard-issue station, the officers escorted the trio through the intake door, halting just past the counter.
Two more officers, a female and a male, stepped forward to take over. They also wore tac vests, but they held metal-detector wands instead of automatic weapons. The first two DHS croni
es guarded the door behind the civilians.
The short Hispanic female tapped the counter to Nathan’s right. Her name badge read M. Rodriguez. “Place all metal items here.”
“Easy now.” Nathan set the duffel on the counter. “I have weapons on my person.”
“As do I,” Albin added. Thud. The VTAC joined the duffel. “There is a handgun inside.”
“Do you want to disarm us yourselves?” Nathan inquired as the towel came off to reveal the plate carrier and pistol.
Behind, AR-15 barrels snapped up.
“All of you put your hands on the wall and spread your feet,” Rodriguez ordered.
“Slow down!” Josephine protested as one of the officers pushed her toward the wall. “He’s here to warn you about terrorists, not be one.”
“Is this necessary?” Jaw clenching, Nathan leaned straight-armed against the wall. “We need to speak with the emergency manager as soon as possible.”
“Standard protocol, sir,” drawled the other officer, a middle-aged man with a gray buzz cut and the name J. Jordan on his chest. “The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you can get on with your meeting.” Judging by his bored tone, he’d probably say the same thing to Paul Revere.
Jordan stepped forward, removed the 1911, and dropped its mag. “Do you have concealed carry permits?”
“In New York.”
“A little far from home, aren’t you, gentlemen.”
“Around three thousand miles.” Keeping a civil tongue required effort. At least when terrorists and gangbangers inconvenienced him, he could retaliate.
“The weapons are part of the evidence for your superiors,” the attorney added.
Rodriguez grunted, hand on her Taser. “Just keep your hands up.”
With each weapon that migrated to the counter, the sense of vulnerability grew. Then Jordan confiscated the armor. Why didn’t he take the Blackhawks and Nikes, too?
“What, no strip search?” Nathan snapped after the pat down.
