Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

  Chapter 27

  Delaney Park Strip

  Friday, June 24th

  05:55 a.m.

  Hilde and Mike stayed with the FBI and Secret Service teams until late, making their way back to the Captain Cook after midnight for a few hours’ sleep. At four thirty, they were both back on the green, walking, searching, inspecting barricades and police officers and park workers.

  At that hour, every second person on the park strip was an armed officer, soldier, or undercover agent. Warner, dressed in jeans and a crisp green polo shirt, looked like a TV stereotype of a not-so-inconspicuous undercover agent. There was no hiding his military bearing. Even if he wasn’t wearing an earpiece and bone mic, anyone looking at him would have automatically assumed he was Secret Service. The man simply could not blend in. Tonia, on the other hand, looked like a grumpy office clerk who had been ordered outside without explanation at the unreasonably early hour and was very pissed.

  Marcus was still back at the hotel, trying to talk Lonnie into staying inside. Hilde had given her an earpiece so she could hear what was happening and monitor from the restaurant tower, but Lonnie insisted on being on the ground.

  The steel-gray morning brightened quickly. By six a.m., the city was bathed in sunlight. It was a beautiful start to the day. Hilde inhaled deeply, letting fresh air fill her lungs, then let out a sigh. She and Mike crossed 9th Avenue and I Street toward the center section of the park where the Veteran’s Memorial flag poles stood at attention atop the raised concrete platform flags twisting lazily in the light breeze eighty feet up from the ground . 9th and 10th Avenues were barricaded several blocks in either direction, as were all the cross streets, E through P. The presidential stage was set facing west toward the ocean, with the flag poles framed by the backdrop of the majestic Chugach mountains.

  “This feels like a movie,” Hilde said. “Like it isn’t real.”

  “Yeah,” Mike replied. “I pray it isn’t real. That we’re overreacting and we’ll all be laughing about it in a couple of hours.”

  “Do you think Kharzai really turned?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Tonia saw them from the raised platform, where she was watching a group of technicians laying cables for the microphones and speaker system. She left the work and crossed toward them quickly, an uncharacteristically serious expression on her face, her lips pursed and her eyes hard with what was either determination or anger.

  “Hey,” she said. “Have you seen Tony?”

  “No,” Hilde answered.

  “He’s supposed to liaise with me during the speech so we can make sure our agencies talk to each other.”

  As she spoke, Tomer’s huge frame lumbered around the stage and moved toward them. Tonia’s expression instantly brightened until she noticed Hilde restraining a smile. She cleared her throat and forced her face back to a stern expression. Her eyes still sparkled as he approached.

  “Sorry, got hung up with some last-minute orders from the SAC. We just got a set of frequency jammers to block cell phones and the majority of frequencies used in most types of detonators. We tried them out and discovered a bit too late that they also block the same frequency as a lot of the radio equipment.”

  “What?” Hilde said. “Didn’t anyone think to check that ahead of time?”

  “Apparently not,” Tomer said. “Any agency radios less than fifty feet from the stage will be fine, but anything outside of that is likely to be jammed. We can’t jam right around the stage because we need to guarantee the security detail radios work, but our guys put together the stage and everything, and we’ve been manning it from the beginning so I can’t imagine a bomb up there.”

  “Man, oh man,” Mike said. “So you’re telling us that we won’t be able to talk during this whole?”

  “ Outside that fifty-foot zone, even the Secret Service headsets only work about half the time. Same with our FBI radios—best we can do. Local police are out of luck.”

  “Can't we just not run the jammer?” Hilde asked with a tone of exasperated sarcasm.

  “Nope,” Tomer said. “President's security chief insists we use it. Said that since the Secret Service can mostly hear each other, they can just speak slower and it should be all right.”

  “That makes no sense.” Mike shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. “Speak slower? Are you serious? That's like shouting so a deaf person can hear you.”

  “Yeah, I know, but there's nothing I can do. The president's personal security chief insists we keep the jammer on. By the way, the city is giving away free breakfast burritos over by the rose garden. Anyone hungry?”

  “Damn right I’m hungry,” Tonia said. “Let’s go, big guy.”

  “You guys?” Tony motioned to Mike and Hilde.

  “You two go ahead,” Hilde said, then mumbled, “We’ll grab something later.”

  The couple moved toward the food stand on the far end of the park. Tonia stopped even trying to look like the hard Secret Service agent and morphed into a thirty-five-year-old love-struck teenager as she walked beside Tomer.

  “This is insanity,” Mike said. “What if this doesn’t involve a bomb or radio waves?”

  “I'm a technology person,” Hilde replied, “and I hate it when people rely on technology to do the detailed work.”

  Mike pointed across the field to the corner of 9th and L. Marcus moved past a group of police officers. Hilde had gotten security badges for both him and Lonnie so they could move freely prior to the crowd’s arrival. Mike waved his arm, and Marcus jogged the distance toward them.

  “Morning,” Mike said. “How’s Lonnie?”

  “Grumpy,” Marcus replied. “She didn’t want to stay behind. She was coming this way, but her back was hurting so bad, I convinced her to take a spot in the hotel across the street.”

  Marcus pointed to the Hawthorne Suites Hotel across 9th.

  “There’s a sitting room in the second story on the corner looking over the park and the mountains. She’s my overwatch. If she sees anything, she’ll call my cell phone’s two-way radio.”

  “Good. I’d hate for her to be down here if a mess starts,” Hilde said, “but her cell phone may not work. They're running a jammer that covers all but the area around the stage.”

  “Do your radios at least work?” Marcus asked.

  “According to Tomer, only half the time,” Hilde said.

  “What?” Marcus face displayed stark disbelief.

  “Yeah,” Mike muttered, “It’s a wonder this president has lived this long with a security detail that thinks like his.”

  “Anything else new about Farrah or Kharzai?” Marcus asked.

  “The lovebirds were both here a few minutes ago and had nothing to add. Warner is roaming around, looking very conspicuously like a government undercover agent. Other than that, two hundred National Guard soldiers, a hundred police officers and state troopers, and a few dozen other Secret Service and FBI personnel are watching very closely for our men.”

  “I would be very surprised if they show up here,” Mike said.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “They're both here for revenge. They may want to be on the front row when it happens.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Mike pointed to the first groups of spectators entering the park grounds and heading toward the stage area.

  “The Secret Service has screening booths set up on the streets,” Hilde said, “funneling folks in through a limited number of access points. They've also locked the entrances to the underground tunnels and we've got plenty sets of eyes that'll be mixed in with the crowd. I can't imagine them getting too close—especially Kharzai, with all that hair.”

  “Let's just pray you're right,” Mike said.

  A voice called out from nearby. “Hey! Mojo Johnson!”

  Marcus turned around, eyes scanning the slowly increasing stream of people milling about the park. A short, wiry man waved his arms to get Marcus's attention, a wide smile on his face as he approa
ched.

  “Jim Walters,” Marcus said, his expression stretching in a smile as memories of the past drifted to the front of his mind. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “I heard you were in town and figured you'd freakin' need someone to haul your ass around somewhere.”

  They clasped each other in a back-slapping man-hug, both talking over each other at once.

  “It's been nearly six years since I saw you in Iraq,” Marcus said. “Good to see you made it out of there.”

  “Yeah, no thanks to you and Wazzy,” Jim replied turning to Mike and Hilde. “Mojo and that Seal Wasner put me in spots that got four boats shot out from under me. Twice I found myself swimming the Euphrates ducking Republican Guard lead. Good thing they weren't as motivated to kill me as I was to stay alive.”

  “Yeah,” Marcus said, “those were some hairy ops we went on.” Turning to the Farris's, he said, “This is Mike Farris, former recon officer, and his wife Hilde.”

  “We met at the airport last week when they came in, actually,” Jim said. He pointed at Farris. “You didn't mention you were an officer. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have been so cordial.” He grinned mischievously.

  “So what are you doing here so early?” Marcus asked.

  “Wife wanted to come see the president. Said I needed to come too, since I worked for the past several Oval Office tenants for so long.”

  “What time did you get here to be on the ground so soon?” Hilde asked.

  “Three a.m.,” Jim replied. “Can you believe it? Waking up at one in the freakin' morning to drive an hour into the city, then stand in line for an hour just so I could find a front row seat for my lovely bride to watch a speech by a president I didn't even vote for.”

  “As I recall,” Marcus said, “you're not in to politics that much.”

  “I wasn't,” he replied, “but since retirement, I somehow got into listening to those knuckle-headed talk radio hosts on the squawk-box and they got me all riled up with their nonsense crap talk and started me into following politics. Nowadays, would you believe I actually fill in on the radio for the local guys sometimes?”

  “Seriously?” Marcus said, truly shocked. Jim Walters was the last person he expected to be a talk radio host, especially in a conservative town like Anchorage. While in the Navy, Jim never took sides in a political conversation, even going so far as to walk away if the talk was headed that direction. He usually spouted off about the military oath meaning serving the office of the president, not the man in the chair.

  “So, you're like the local Rush Limbaugh?” Mike asked.

  “Hell, no!” Jim replied. “I'm on the other side for the most part, Libertarian style. Definitely not a whiny-assed, limp-dick, tweed-jacket-with-elbow-patches rammed-in-the-ass liberal dweeb, but not a stuffed-shirt, hypocritical, blow- hard, fat-ass, giving-blow-jobs-to-big-business conservative butt-head, either. I've got my own agenda, and if they ever put me in office, I'll fire the whole lot of the good-for-nothing pecker-woods.” Turning to Hilde he, added, “Please excuse my French.”

  “That's not any French I know,” she said. “I imagine that’s why they call it talking like a sailor.”

  “Sounds like you haven't changed much,” Marcus said.

  “Wife says I have,” Jim said, “but I think she just never knew me all that well for the first fifteen years while she was second wife to the Navy. Now that I'm at home all the time, she says I talk too much and need to get a job somewhere other than in the garage makin' freakin' things outta wood.”

  A forty-something Korean woman advanced toward them, her face partially obscured by a huge wide-brimmed sun visor. Lonnie referred to the kind of sunshade popular among Korean ajummas (middle-aged women) as a “Darth Visor.” The woman’s body language was tight and purposeful, and energy pulsed out of every short, sharp stride as if she were forcing the earth into submission with each step.

  Jim turned to her and smiled. “Yobo, c'mere and meet some of my old chingoos.”

  “I don't need no mo' trouble.” She spoke with a harsh Pusan accent that turned her r's into d's, l's into r's and f's into p's. “You nuf po me to handle.”

  “Yeah, yeah...I'll handle you all right,” Jim said. “Suki, this is Marcus 'Mojo' Johnson. I told you about him before. And this is Mike Farris, also a Marine, and his wife, Hilde.”

  “Onyong haseyo.” Marcus greeted her with a slight bow and the traditional polite Korean greeting, followed by saying how nice it was to meet her. “Manabeyoso pangapseumnida.”

  “Heh?” Suki's eyes widened at hearing her native language from him. “No too many Medicans speakuh Hangul. You got no accent. Wheh black man like you learn dat?”

  “I was stationed there for two years with the ROK Marines.”

  “Ooh, tup guy.” She turned to Mike, “You speakuh Hangul too?”

  “No, ma'am,” Mike replied, “Marcus’s brain is bigger than mine. I have a hard enough time with English.”

  Suki gave Hilde an overtly judgmental look, her permanently tattooed eyebrows crunching in an expression that could cut diamonds.

  “You bedi pretty. You mussa be lots younguh den you husband, heh?”

  Hilde blushed. “Thanks, it's only a couple of years. You're very pretty too.”

  “Don't lie me,” Suki scolded. “Jimmy just blind, but he good husband and he like kimchi, so I keep him.”

  “Marcus's wife is Korean too,” Hilde said, deflecting the intimidating direct attention.

  Suki's eyes brightened. “Yah? She makee kimchi po you too?”

  “Not really—we usually buy it from the store. She’s adopted, grew up here in Alaska.”

  “Too bad. You come my house, Jimmy you drinkee beeyuh and I teach you wipe how makee kimchi. I makee bess kimchi, bess you evah tase, gayentee!”

  Marcus smiled at the thought of Lonnie learning to make kimchi from this firebrand of a woman.

  “I’m sure she’d love that, ma’am,” he said.

  “You betcha,” she replied.

  “We’d better let them get back to work,” Jim said.

  “Work?” Suki blurted. “You seeket subis? You peziden bodigod?”

  “Not exactly,” Mike said, “but we are working with them at the moment.”

  “Jimmy, you friends all tup guys like dis? Maybe you get us pron low sheet, heh?” Suki said, her eyes wide in anticipation.

  “Get you what?” Hilde asked.

  “Front row seats,” Jim translated

  “Sure,” Hilde said. “ You’d better head up now, though.”

  “Hurry up, Jimmy.” Suki grabbed her husband and pulled his arm toward the stage. “We got pron low sheet ip we go now.”

  “Looks like I gotta make my yobo happy,” Jim said. “See you guys later.”

  Marcus barely suppressed bursting into laughter as he watched the tough retired Navy chief warrant officer get dragged toward the stage by his tougher wife.

  “Match made in heaven, that,” he said. “I don’t think anyone else could’ve tamed Jim Walker like that ajumma could.”

  “Scary,” Mike said.

  Crowds were now flowing into the park, making their way toward the stage to get a spot to watch the speeches by some of the most powerful men in the world.

  By ten a.m., the park was packed by thousands of onlookers. Reporters and television crews hedged the crowd along the sides. Cameras fixed their fields of view toward the stage and the small podium with the presidential seal affixed to its front. Although the president would not be arriving for another hour, the park was already full. Access to the park was closed off, no more spectators allowed through the security cordon. If Farrah and Kharzai were coming, they were already onsite.

  The president’s motorcade pulled into the park at five minutes before eleven a.m. Immediately behind the presidential convoy came several limousines and a half dozen Suburbans carrying the president of South Korea, the prime ministers of Japan and Canada, and the foreign minister of the United Kingdom
. The president and his entourage made their way across the lawn toward the stage.

  Chapter 27

  Delaney Park Strip

  Friday, June 24th

  08:33 a.m.

  Steven Farrah stepped lightly across the crowded green, scanning the length of the park as he moved through the throng of people making their way toward the stage area. The faces around him glowed expectantly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the most powerful man in the world and his international peers. Farrah fingered the small, round Audi starter fob in his pocket. He looked into the face of a soldier standing nearby. The soldier nodded a polite greeting. Farrah smiled in return, imagining the soldier torn to bits in the coming chaos.

  A minimal application of makeup, change of hair style and color, and modified wardrobe had done the trick to get him past the watching eyes. Bits of silicone skin applied to the eye sockets, nose, and jaws altered his features just enough, enabling him to walk past any hidden facial recognition scanners, or human eyes, that may be focusing on him. They would eventually ping on his face, but the changes meant it would take time to search the databases and he didn't need to keep hidden forever. Farrah would try to escape, but he did not expect to survive. He only wanted to accomplish the mission. Vengeance was within his reach.

  News crews ringed the crowd and television cameras sent digital signals to satellites hovering at the far reaches of the atmosphere, prepared to beam live feeds around the world. They would get an eyeful indeed, the absolute best in television news, an attack unrivaled since 9/11. Farrah would watch the horror on the faces of these world leaders as they witnessed the kind of destruction their own bombs rained down on other nations.

  He found a space in the crowd just ten meters from the stage. To one side, a family of obese people shifted on their feet, sweating and uncomfortable in the already-hot morning. The husband and wife both looked like they weighed well over three hundred pounds, and the child, who could not have been more than eleven or twelve, was at least two hundred pounds. They smelled like old cheese. On his other side were a man and woman whose appearance was the polar opposite of the fat family. Tall, muscular. and chiseled, adorned with designer clothing that seemed out of place in the Arctic, they looked like they both stepped out of a Swedish fashion magazine and carried themselves with the haughty air of cold Nordic deities.