Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  Shockwave

  Also by Norm Applegate

  The Prisoner

  First to Die

  Blood Bar

  Into the Spell

  Into the Basement

  Sadist (Turkish translation of Into the Basement)

  Jumpers (a short story)

  For Cheryl

  Author Online!

  Visit Norm Applegate's web site at

  www.normanapplegate.com

  The selections in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  Shockwave

  Copyright 2011 by Norman Applegate

  All rights reserved.

  Applegate, Norman

  Shockwave / Norman Applegate – 1st Edition

  Chapter 1

  Jack Dwyer was alive because he observed things. He observed things because life had taught him that if you can’t see it coming you can't stop it. He was ex-military and had a good sense of what was going on around him. He was sitting in Starbucks. Late afternoon, still light out. To his left was a pretty woman. He didn't know her. Never seen her before. She was drinking coffee. To his right, two couples. Talking loud, having fun, life hadn't taught them to be observant. The place was busy. All around him people were chatting, students, homemakers, mostly young. Dwyer liked the look of the pretty woman. He was studying her, watching her play with the white plastic lid, watching her lips press against the cup. Watching her because he was observant.

  The Starbucks was new; small corner location. Not like the big ones in the mall. Lots of seats, and room to move around. This one had a few tables inside; most people sat outside. Held maybe thirty to forty guests. Tables and chairs arranged kind of tight on a large patio. Inlaid brick covered the ground. Small wall to the left, flowerpots, peaceful.

  Jack Dwyer was on vacation. Not looking for trouble. Didn't expect to find any. He was retired after fifteen years serving as a military psychologist. Got a job working for an oil company observing things. Human behavior, terrorists, bad people. He had taken a couple of weeks off. Thought he would travel around the south, Miami, Tampa, check out the beaches see how the sane people live.

  Jack Dwyer sat by himself, off to the side. Not close to the front. Not close to the sidewalk. He liked his back protected. Old habit, safe habit. He was reading the news. Not a newspaper but an iPad. Modern, efficient, not old school. Headlines read something about a man shot in the face felt the bullet four years later.

  It was a warm day. Sun was still high in the sky. He was in Tampa Florida. Close to the University, north of the city, east side. Not far from the highway. He pulled off, took the exit. He'd been driving for a few hours. Left Atlanta early morning. Made good time on I-75, not much traffic heading south, kind of relaxing. He wasn't in a hurry, wasn't expected anywhere.

  He saw a van pull to a stop, close to the front, close to the sidewalk. It made a noise when it stopped. Bad brakes. It caught his attention. It was old, rusty, out of place. The driver got out of the van and moved around the front. It was a Dodge Ram 250. Two-toned, blue and white. Nineteen-ninety, maybe ninety-two. The guy was tall, white, dark hair. Crew cut style, military look. He was thin made him look even taller. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. He put some kind of a cap on. Adjusted it to his head. He was nervous. Dwyer watched him from the corner of his eye. He wore black pants, a dark t-shirt and an old red baseball cap. Never saw his shoes. But he was definitely nervous, looking around too much. He stood still for a moment. Looked left and right. Stepped onto the sidewalk. Looked left then right again.

  Jack Dwyer put his coffee down. Paid attention.

  He was ninety, ninety-five feet away. Dwyer knew the distance. He measured it with his arm span. Knew his arm span was six feet. Calculated the distance, did the math. The guy was focused on the Starbucks. He studied it for a beat. Pretending not to look at it. But Dwyer saw that. The driver turned and walked the other way, quickly. Looked back over his shoulder. Crossed the street. He didn't walk; he jogged across. No traffic. Kept looking back to his van, to the Starbucks. Didn't seem right.

  Dwyer knew if he was going to do something, now was the time.

  The nervous guy disappeared around the corner. Dwyer stared. The guy appeared again. Only partially this time, his upper body. Like he was shielding himself. Like he was hiding. He was now further away, one hundred and fifty maybe one hundred and sixty feet. Staring at his van. Staring at the Starbucks.

  Dwyer got up. Moved quickly. Pushed his table over; blocking the pretty woman. He kept walking. She yelled at him. He ignored her, there wasn't time. He was looking at the driver. The guy's mouth was thin. Eyes were dark. Kept looking around.

  Dwyer got to the sidewalk. Glanced down the street to the truck. He was seventy-five feet away. Nobody inside, it bothered him. Then he walked to the curb. The driver was looking past him. Past the Starbucks. Something about where he was looking. Dwyer followed his line of sight. There was a car parked down the street, two guys in it. He kind of nodded. Then something caught his attention, he shifted his focus. The pretty woman.

  The first thing Dwyer saw before the sound hit him was a blinding flash of light hitting his retina. White light, bright, blocked everything out. Almost painful, like getting hit in the eye with a fist. This wasn't a small explosion like a pipe bomb or a large one like Oklahoma City in '95. It was a medium explosion.

  Explosions are a buildup of pressure and a sudden release of energy. At some point the pressure is greater than the container and then things happen. The container blows apart and a shockwave travels like a rocket from ground zero to some distance depending on the power of the explosion. It's not the detonation or the searing temperature that is so destructive. It's in the air. The shockwave, a thin layer of rapidly moving air is what you have to look out for. This one produced a shockwave traveling over three hundred meters per second.

  Jack Dwyer was on the sidewalk. Sprawled out on his back. He moved to his side. Propped himself up on one elbow. Stunned at first, took a few seconds to come to. He wasn't knocked out, maybe close to it, but he was shook up. His leg hurt, kind of twisted. Not broken, just a sprain. Ears ringing, eyes blinking. He knew what had happened. He'd seen it before. Dwyer knew about bombs.

  Dwyer had seen a few in the invasion of Iraq. He remembered two bombs hitting a home. It was a large structure, three stories. He was sitting in a vehicle across the street from where they exploded. He was doing fieldwork. It was a safe zone. He was talking to soldiers. Assessing their mental state. Then it happened. The first one penetrated the roof, hitting the central heating unit sending boiling water over the women and children below. The second bomb, a few seconds later blew the house apart. Dwyer was knocked out of the vehicle. When he stood up he saw the bodies of dead women and children charred from the intense blast scattered along the road.

  Dwyer got to his knees. He was bent over in pain. Pressed his fist into his side. He figured something from the van hit his stomach. He felt a knot. There was part of a fender lying beside him. He twisted around and looked at the restaurant. Starbucks was damaged. Part of the front blown apart, windows shattered. So was the building next door, and the one beside that. All the windows were blown out. Then he heard the screaming. Moaning, peopling crying, it was loud. Then he saw body parts. Feet, arms, faces covered in blood. Some were trapped under the debris, some were injured, and some were dead. Either way it was a mess. He switched
his attention to the guy across the street. The guy who placed the bomb in the van. The guy who had parked the van in front of the buildings. The guy who killed innocent people. He was gone.

  Dwyer sat for a moment in silence. Staying calm. Assessing the situation. He was okay. He'd seen worse. He glanced left. Where the pretty woman was sitting. She was gone. He scanned slowly. Then he caught a movement. Under the table. His table. He recognized her sweater. But it looked different. Crumpled, wet, messy. She sat upright, shaking her head. Brushed dirt from her face. Rubbed her eyes and just sat there stunned. He glanced around the debris field. People were running to help. He looked back at the pretty woman; she was staring at him. They held it for a moment. He got to his feet. Staggered once, twice. Made his way to her. He reached down, put his arm around her and helped her up.

  Chapter 2

  North Florida, old farmhouse about a five hour drive on I-75 north of Tampa. A solid thirty minutes east doing the speed limit, fifty miles per hour and difficult to see from the road. The guy in charge was instructing two workers. They were putting away materials. Boxes and bags of stuff. He kept barking orders and pointing. They had loaded everything into a cinder block room in the far corner inside the barn. It wasn't used as a barn. Those days were long gone. Beside the cinder block room was a heavy wooden table, eight feet long it still needed to be cleared.

  "Now this stuff doesn't need to be locked down," he said. "Put the pipes in the corner and the cotton in the bin, keep it dry, got it?"

  The two men nodded.

  "Now follow me."

  They walked out of the small room in the back of the barn. The leader, a large man, overweight, short hair, kind of reddish complexion. Dressed in dark green pants and a shirt that matched, military look. Reached into his pocket and pulled out eight or ten keys on a ring. Fiddled with them and locked the wooden door behind him. The main area of the barn was a big space with two vehicles parked inside and plenty of room for working. Thirty feet high with light coming in from a window above the double doors. It was quiet. Between the two vehicles was an open space. He led them to a blanket thrown over something in the middle of the room.

  The leader smiled.

  "We ready?" One of the guys asked.

  "You betcha," the elder said.

  He pointed to the blanket. One of the guys reached for it. But stopped short, checking with his boss before pulling it away.

  "Go on now," the leader said.

  The guy pulled the blanket up from the bottom. The wooden legs of the chair were scratched where metal cuffs had scuffed up the finish and sawed away some of the wood. Secured to the cuffs were legs. Thin legs, male with sneakers on his feet. White Nikes.

  The blanket was lifted higher.

  A young man twenty, twenty-five was seated in the chair. Arms cuffed behind his back. Mouth taped shut, eyes big as saucers. He was wet, sweating, shaking. Breathing fast, blinking rapidly. His eyes shot to the three men staring at him. Then to the pipe bomb in the leaders hand.

  The leader nodded. The guys moved toward the twenty year old.

  Panic. The cuffed guy bounced around the chair, hopping up and down. The chair bounced around the floor. The leader walked over and slapped him across the face, hard. He stopped bouncing. Started crying. No sound, his mouth was covered tight. Two-inch duct taped wrapped twice around his head. He sat still. His stomach heaving up and down. The guy was gasping for air.

  The leader looked at him. He was about three feet away. Something about the eyes is very telling. The cuffed guy’s eyes were wet, big pupils. He had blue eyes, but they were black now. Big black saucers. They were pleading, as if to say this can't be happening. As if to say let me go, I won't tell anyone.

  The leader stared at him. He moved his arm kind of raised it a bit. Turned it over, palm side up. Held a pipe bomb in his right hand. Laid in on the cuffed guys lap with a thud.

  "You know what this is?" he asked.

  The cuffed guy glared at it. Focused on it. Started crying again. Hyperventilating, bouncing up and down.

  "Yeah, you know what it is, don't you Jimmy?"

  The cuffed guy wet himself.

  "That's right! You know what I'm going to do?" the leader said. "Ten inch pipe loaded full."

  He picked it up. Held it close to the cuffed guys face.

  "You know what kind of damage this does?" he said.

  The cuffed guy's eyes shot back and forth. The leader, the bomb, the leader.

  "Blows things apart. All kinds of things."

  Jimmy, the cuffed guy moaned.

  "Two inch pipe. Threaded ends, tight. Industrial twisted cord, the fuse, placed in a drilled out hole at one end of the pipe. The blast will kill you. The shockwave will just scatter what's left over around the farm."

  The cuffed guy screamed muffled noises into the tape. His nose was running.

  The leader nodded to his workers. "Stand him up."

  The two guys jumped. They undid the ankle cuffs. They undid the handcuff holding his arms behind the chair. They stood him up. His knees collapsed. They had him by the elbows. He was crying. They twisted his arms behind his back. Something cracked. The guy yelped. They cuffed him again. They started to walk. He froze. His legs went stiff. They dragged him out of the barn. They hit the sunlight. It hurt the guy's eyes. He was squinting, trying to see where they were taking him. They dragged him seventy-five feet to a pole. Took two minutes, the guy was resisting. His body went rigid. His feet dug into the dirt. It was standing by its self, an old wooden pole about two feet in diameter. A rough pole, looked like it was chewed up, lots of splinters. Maybe thirty feet tall. They turned him around, pushed him up against it, and held his back to it. The leader tossed them the tape. One of the guys wrapped it around him a couple of times. Two-inch wide duct tape, the grey stuff, very strong. The other guy had his hand on his chest pinning him to the pole. The guy was having trouble breathing. They backed away. Five feet at first, then a few more. The guy swayed back and forth straining against the tape. The leader moved closer.

  Explosives are very dangerous. Pipe bombs are simply explosive filler placed inside a closed metal pipe and detonated by a fuse. High explosives like TNT are not used, because they explode prematurely. The leader had taught the men to cut the tops off match heads and pack them tight with cotton balls into one end of the closed pipe. Then fill the pipe with gun power and Double-ought buck, which they got at a local gun shop. Double-ought buck serves as shrapnel. Any remaining space was filled with more cotton balls. Cleaned threaded caps wrapped with Teflon tape were screwed on the pipe ends and sealed with glue to prevent them from coming lose. A hole was drilled in one end of the pipe where the fuse was placed.

  The leader pulled the guy’s pants open, placed the bomb in the man's waistband. He undid the button on his trousers and forced the pipe in. When he buttoned up the pants, the pipe bomb was tight against the guy’s stomach. It was cold against his wet skin.

  The guy was shivering. Uncontrollable shaking.

  The leader paused. Shook the pipe bomb to make sure it was snug. The guy made a snorting sound. He was screaming into the tape around his mouth.

  The guy looked down at the bomb then adjusted his focus on the leader. Begging.

  The leader looked at his eyes. Big black saucers.

  "I have nothing personal against you. But when your family does the kind of work they do you give up all rights. Religious bullshit. I have the moral authority to stop you from using God to steal money," the leader said.

  The two guys watching were silent. They were holding their breath. Backing away slowly.

  "We're not the bad guys," the leader said. "Any good American would stand up against you. You and your family. We'll stop you."

  The leader moved to the cuffed guy's side. Pulled a lighter from his pocket. Held it up to the guy's face so he could see it. Flicked it once, only a spark, then again and held the flame to the fuse. There was a sizzling sound. The fuse ignited.

  The leader lo
oked at the burning fuse. Looked at the guy's face and smiled.

  The leader turned and walked away. Took his time. He knew how long the fuse was. He was counting it in his head. His two men raced ahead. Launching themselves like rockets to get clear. The leader smiled. He watched them run. They reached the barn before the leader, placing themselves against the wall for protection. One of the guys stuck his fingers in his ear. When the leader reached the barn there was an explosion. The noise of it was deafening. They felt the shockwave. A pink cloud appeared where the kid stood. Pieces of something flew through the air.

  The leader watched for a moment. Watched the debris fall from the sky. Off in the distance a flock of birds scattered.

  Then it went quiet, but after a few moments the leader turned and faced his two workers.

  "That's how you build a bomb, got it?"

  Chapter 3

  It had been less than ten minutes since the explosion in front of Starbucks. Jack Dwyer had been thrown to the ground and managed to get to his feet. In the hysterical chaos on the patio Dwyer knew what had happened, but not why.

  He was holding the woman in his arms. The pretty woman. She was shaking. He'd brushed the dirt away from her face and helped her stand up. At first they didn't speak. Just stared at each other. Stunned.

  His immediate thought was safety. They had just been victims in a roadside bombing. They were out in the open anything could happen next. There was no cover. Dwyer figured his best move was to get them both away from ground zero. He led her to the street. Past bodies, past carnage. He looked to his right. A young man on the ground, dead. He'd seen dead people before, he knew what dead looked like. He stayed calm, surveying the situation. Looking for the bad guy, gone. Looking for the car down the street. It was moving, slowly. Drove past him. The two guys stared at Dwyer. They looked upset. Not from the explosion, upset from something else. They had an angry look, mean eyes. They stared at Dwyer. He stared back. They drove off toward the corner, where the driver from the van had been standing. They were a team, on a mission. It didn't go as planned. Something went wrong. Then Dwyer realized that he was that something.