The Loyal Nine

by Steven Konkoly

  “Or try to get back into our room,” suggested Sarge.

  “Even if we go upstairs, there’s no guarantee we can get in our room,” said Julia. “That guy was kicking his door pretty hard.”

  “Shit. I just thought of something. It’s not an option. The twenty-eighth floor requires a keycard. I assume that applies to the stairwell too,” said Sarge.

  “Then I guess we’re going down,” she said, starting for the stairwell exit.

  When Julia opened the door, the sound of a fire alarm filled the hallway.

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” said Sarge. “This changes everything.”

  Sarge took Julia by the hand and pulled her back into the hallway of the fourteenth floor.

  “Let’s wait here for a moment,” said Sarge. “I suspect there will be a mass migration of crazed hotel guests descending those stairs in the next few minutes.”

  “Do you really think there’s a fire?” asked Julia.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Sarge, nodding down the hallway.

  Soft, flickering light adorned a few of the doorframes, the rooms’ occupants likely using their cigarette lighters to see in the dark.

  “It’s only a matter of time before some fool catches the place on fire.”

  “This is miserable,” said Julia, shaking her head.

  He held her tight and gently stroked her hair. Julia had a tough exterior, but everybody had a breaking point. She needed a moment, and so did he. They’d wait until the stampede died down before descending into the unknown.

  Chapter 38

  February 13, 2016

  Roman Plaza Grounds, Caesars Palace Hotel

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Sarge and Julia escaped the building unharmed. Despite a few hotel guests pushing their way down the stairwell in sheer panic, the majority of guests calmly arrived in the lobby, which had been cleared by hotel staff by that point. Sarge looked for an open area to let Julia sit and rest. Her feet were raw from walking down the thirteen flights of concrete stairs without shoes. She’d wisely abandoned her Versace high heels on the fourteenth floor, or they might be dealing with a sprained ankle. Her feet didn’t require medical attention, but she needed to stay off them for now. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped her in it. High desert temperatures dipped significantly in the evening, especially in the winter. A comfortable seventy-degree day could rapidly turn into a cold, low-forties evening. They hobbled toward a display nestled between two boxed planters of flowers. No one had found this area, except for a few elderly people huddled on a bench next to the flowers.

  “Here’s a bench, darling,” said Sarge.

  She looked up at him and smiled.

  “Much better,” said Julia.

  Sarge took off his shoes and removed his socks, slipping them on her feet.

  “This is going to be a long, cold night,” said Sarge.

  “Chivalry is alive, even in the form of smelly socks,” she teased.

  He was glad to see she still had her patented sense of humor. Any different, and he’d be worried about the night ahead of them.

  “If we can stand the cold, it would be best to stay in one place. Hopefully, the fire department will check out the hotel and find there’s nothing wrong. If we get the all clear, at least we can go back inside until they let us back in our room.”

  Julia squeezed Sarge’s hand as they heard gunshots in the distance. The sounds of car horns honking permeated the darkness.

  “I’d like to stay right here for now,” she said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said, sitting on the bench next to her. “This is exactly how I pictured it, you know.”

  “Our Valentine’s weekend?” she said.

  “Ha! I knew I might see some action in Vegas,” he said, winking at her. “But this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “I wish we had stayed in our room for more of that action,” she said, taking his hand. “So, what did you picture?”

  “Societal collapse. From the moment the power went out, until right now, the reaction of people has been astonishing. There was no cooperation, much less any courtesy. There was a visceral reaction ranging from fear to panic. Every man and woman for his or herself. The level of selfishness was astounding.”

  “It’s like we’ve discussed before,” said Julia. “People appear to be agitated, on edge. It seems to be getting worse.”

  Julia kissed Sarge on the cheek, hugging him tightly. He glanced over their shoulders and gestured toward the statue behind them.

  “Besides, he’ll have our back.” Sarge laughed.

  “Who will?” asked Julia.

  “Him,” he said, standing to examine the statue behind them.

  “And who might that be,” she said.

  “I think I know, but let me read the placard,” said Sarge, squinting to read the words.

  He started laughing.

  “Come on, tell me,” insisted Julia.

  “Well, my dear, our protector is sitting in the middle of a replica of the Hindu Erawan Shrine,” said Sarge, shaking his head. “It appears that the original Erawan Shrine, located in Thailand, houses a similar gold statue.”

  “Who is it?” asked Julia.

  “Our protector here,” said Sarge, “is Phra Phrom, the four-faced representation of the Hindu God Brahma.”

  “No way, really?” Julia laughed.

  “It’s a small world, my darling,” said Sarge. “This is the original Brahmin.”

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 39

  March 14, 2016

  The Boston Herald Editorial Conference Room

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Julia reviewed her notes, waiting to address the editorial board. Her eyes darted up when Joe Sciacca, the Herald’s chief editor, activated the room’s large-screen television. Images of Massachusetts Governor Charlie Baker filled the screen.

  “The budget I have submitted is fair and comprehensive. It will require sacrifices on the part of many state agencies. I believe Bay Staters have no appetite for new taxes in this current economic environment. They also agree that a two-billion-dollar shortfall in the state budget is unacceptable. We don’t have a revenue problem in Massachusetts, we have a spending problem.”

  Governor Baker stepped back from the podium while his Chief of Staff Elizabeth Guyton whispered something to him. He returned to the microphone.

  “I’m advised there’s time for a few questions. Bob Salsberg, Associated Press,” said Governor Baker.

  “Governor, thank you. For the fiscal 2015 budget, you implemented a twenty percent increase in the funding for the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority. Now, you aim to reduce their 2016 fiscal budget by the same amount, on the heels of a string of brutal winters,” said Salsberg.

  “Bob, is there a question on the horizon?” the governor interrupted, eliciting muffled laughter.

  “Governor, is this budget cut retaliation for the criticism you have received from union leaders representing MBTA workers over the new commission convened to examine MBTA operations?” asked Salsberg.

  Julia knew Bob Salsberg well and considered him to be a fair journalist. She also knew Elizabeth Guyton to be a very shrewd political operative. Governor Baker wanted this question, without appearing to welcome it.

  “First of all, the entire Massachusetts government will see some belt-tightening. In the context of the situation we face and the circumstances we’re dealing with, these are reasonable appropriations.

  “Second, I stood up for the MBTA in last year’s budget, by providing them a sixty-five million dollar increase in state subsidies. No other Massachusetts agency received such a generous increase. However, this additional funding was not used for its intended purpose—an upgrade of the T’s infrastructure to prevent the types of breakdowns and interruptions in service we have seen this winter,” said Governor Baker. “When the people’s money is mismanaged, there needs to be an accounting. As the highest elected official in this state, I
’m willing to take ownership of the problems facing the T. But towards that end, I did empanel a committee of experts to examine the operations, which necessarily includes all of its contracts—including those with its unions.”

  Governor Baker called on another reporter.

  “Mac Daniel, Boston Globe,” said Governor Baker.

  “Thank you, Governor,” said Daniel. “James O’Brien, president of the Boston Carmen’s Union said, and I quote, ‘He’s no Scott Walker.’ He’s obviously referencing the Wisconsin governor’s success against the teachers’ union. Are you trying to break the unions at the MBTA?”

  “The Carmen’s Union is one of the oldest and largest in the city,” said Governor Baker. “But the T’s financial situation and past union contracts are more than problematic—they have made the T nearly insolvent. This cannot continue, and Mr. O’Brien knows this.”

  Sciacca muted the television. Julia looked at her notes and then immediately towards her editor.

  “Julia, what do you have on this?” asked Sciacca.

  “Joe, my sources tell me the governor has swatted a hornet’s nest,” said Julia. “Union leaders around the country are concerned about the campaign rhetoric of certain Republican presidential candidates. Governor Walker’s victories over the teachers’ union in Wisconsin had a devastating effect on union influence and power across the nation. I’m told by contacts within the union that Governor Baker’s action will have serious, potentially ugly repercussions.”

  “Did they expand on the meaning of repercussions?” asked Sciacca.

  “I asked the same question and the response I received was Vegas,” said Julia.

  Julia had been at ground zero during the Las Vegas incident. She and Sarge survived Saturday night unharmed, but the rest of the city didn’t fare so well. By the time power was restored on Monday evening, one hundred and eight citizens of Las Vegas had been killed by the power outage, with more than two thousand injured. Property damage from fires and vandalism was conservatively estimated to top five hundred million dollars.

  “Your source obviously alludes to the walkout of the CU 226 and the SEIU during the power outage,” said Sciacca. “Has there been any connection between the power outage and the work stoppage?”

  “Official statements from the FBI and Homeland are noncommittal. Based on anonymous statements by hotel management, the FBI believes an orchestrated walkout occurred. There has been no official word on the root cause of the blackout…” she said, trailing off.

  “But?” said Sciacca.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but hotel IT personnel suspect a cyberattack,” she said.

  “I don’t like the sound of this. Your union source knows more than he or she will admit—and they’re playing with fire,” said Sciacca.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised they would cite Vegas as a model for repercussions. It’s tantamount to murder,” she said.

  “Please don’t repeat that outside of this room,” said Sciacca. “All right, let’s hear from Sandra on the interest rate story.”

  Ordinarily, Julia would tune out at this point, but the Federal Reserve had just increased the rates by another half point—a move that had repercussions across all departments.

  “The fed funds rate—the rate at which one bank lends to another bank—has risen substantially over the last six months,” said Gottlieb. “It now stands at three percent. This is news, because the Federal Reserve chairman stated earlier that no additional rate hikes would be necessary in the near future. The Friday announcement came as a surprise, magnified by the size of the increase. This represents a three hundred percent increase over the last six months.”

  “Have your contacts at the Boston Fed weighed in on this?” asked Sciacca.

  “Unofficially, yes,” said Gottlieb. “The Fed appears to be concerned with inflation.”

  “We’ve experienced inflation in this country before,” said Sciacca. “What’s different?”

  “My sources tell me that Yellin waited too long to begin raising rates,” said Gottlieb. “In addition, economic growth is stagnant, hovering around two-tenths of one percent annualized. Of course, the velocity of money is increasing.”

  “Velocity of money?” asked Sciacca.

  “We are dangerously close to a hyperinflationary scenario,” said Gottlieb. “Despite a stagnant economy, inflation has increased dramatically. High velocity means banks, foreign governments and large institutional investors are dumping dollars and buying up hard assets like real estate. If this continues, coupled with the continued devaluation of the dollar, there could be a major meltdown in global financial markets.”

  And that was why Julia tended to listen when Sandra Gottlieb spoke about interest rates.

  Chapter 40

  March 17, 2016

  St. Patrick’s Day

  South Boston, Massachusetts

  Marion La Rue had the perfect vantage point from his hotel room at the Renaissance Boston Waterfront Hotel. His unobstructed view of South Boston, across the Seaport District, allowed him to take in the afternoon festivities, without getting close. The St. Patrick’s Parade held in South Boston was the second largest parade in the country, viewed by nearly one million people and countless more on live television. The parade took a year of planning. La Rue’s plan comprised eight hours of phone calls. He reviewed the notes taken during the calls.

  MBTA South Station, the closest transit station to South Boston, was the largest railroad and intercity bus terminal in Boston. On this day, it typically moved a half-million passengers. The Red Line route was the busiest north-south transportation line, and the Gray Line serviced all of the downtown area before heading east to Logan International Airport. The two lines intersected at South Station, where hundreds of specially dedicated MBTA buses stood by to transport partygoers to Southie for the festivities.

  Like clockwork, the parade kicked off at 1:00 p.m. at the Broadway T Stop. The parade route meandered easterly along Broadway, which would be packed with green-clad revelers—regardless of the weather conditions. For the next two and a half hours, floats, bands and local dignitaries would brave the damp, chilly Boston afternoon, steadily heading east on Broadway, toward the end of the parade route at Marine Park.

  By 2:00, parade planners would instruct a parade of T buses to depart Gillette Park and take a northerly route to the back of Marine Park, to pick up parade-goers and return them to designated parking areas near South Station. Not today.

  At 1:55 p.m., transit police received an anonymous call reporting a suspicious package at the corner of East First Street and Summer Street. Within moments, a second suspicious package was reported at the intersection of A Street and Summer Street. While the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority dispatch center descended into chaos, a third report surfaced, identifying an unattended backpack package on Summer Street—at the entrance to Marine Park. Transit police quickly determined that the suspicious packages were located along the return MBTA bus route and requested Boston PD’s Special Operations Unit. SWAT and EOD teams quickly descended on the packages. Before the specialized units arrived to assess the situation, Captain Richard Kavanaugh, South Boston district commander, ordered an evacuation of the route.

  A few minutes after Captain Kavanaugh issued his order, an MBTA Transit police officer reported smoke billowing out of the red line tunnels—at both entrances to the South Boston station. Amidst blaring fire alarms, MBTA personnel and transit police struggled to evacuate the complex, multilevel station, emptying buses and hustling passengers onto Atlantic Avenue.

  Within minutes of the ordered evacuations, the Boston Carmen’s Union ordered their employees to leave their jobs and seek safety at home, stranding several hundred thousand rowdy parade-goers—as snow began to fall.

  La Rue turned on the television and found WHDH, the local NBC affiliate. Adam Williams, one of WHDH’s evening anchors, stood next to an unruly crowd of young men gathered near the abandoned reviewing stand. Thick snowflakes pelted
Williams as he nodded at the camera, waiting for the intoxicated group behind him to finish their drunken cheer.

  “I want to repeat this for our viewers. There have been multiple reports of suspicious packages left along the MBTA route between Gillette Stadium and the pickup point for parade participants and attendees. We’ve also received reports of an evacuation at the South Boston station due to a possible fire. At this time, we don’t know if the two events are connected. As you can see, the snow is falling heavily now, which is certain to complicate matters,” said Williams.

  La Rue’s cell phone rang. He answered and listened intently for a moment.

  “Thank you sir. Yes, sir, anytime you need me,” said La Rue.

  Chapter 41

  March 17, 2016 (St. Patrick’s Day)

  Gillette Stadium Parking

  South Boston, Massachusetts

  Elijah “Pumpsie” Jones had spent his entire life in Boston. His mom and dad were longtime Red Sox fans, naming their youngest son after the first black Red Sox player, Elijah “Pumpsie” Green. Few were surprised when he took a job as an MBTA bus driver, spending the next thirty plus years driving around the city he loved. Naturally, he joined the Boston Carmen’s Union when he was hired in 1982. Like today, union membership was the only way to “stay competitive” in the rank-and-file MBTA organization. Nonmembers tended to quit or get fired at two to three times the rate of union members. The decision was a no-brainer for Elijah, and despite the tense work strikes, he had few complaints about the organization that had kept his pay competitive year after year. He put two children through college and had a nice pension to show for his career—an uncommon accomplishment in the recent era of vanishing corporate pensions and annual downsizings.

  A year ago, he retired and accepted a part-time position as the transportation coordinator for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade—a perk that helped pay for two season tickets to Fenway Park. One for him and one for his grandson Levon. Pumpsie could barely afford the grandstand seats, but stretching his budget was worth it to spend time with Levon. Since Pumpsie’s wife, Leticia, had died from a stroke, Levon had become his life. Family had always meant everything to him. Levon and his grandpa sat in the outfield grandstand for fifty-six of eighty-one home games in 2015—school was the only thing that kept Levon from making every game.