The last live cops had been taken out by the ladder and firemen were beginning to collect the dead bodies when Alan came up to Lane holding a blue police light.
“They need you in Yorba Linda”
“What?”
“Orange County. They found a mine at the Nixon Library. Catherine wants you to assist the O.C. Sheriff’s bomb squad. They’re already on scene. Grab one of the motorcycle cops, they’ll escort you down there.” He handed him the blue light. “This is for your dash. Just plug it into the cigarette lighter.”
Lane looked at the light and nodded. Behind him, a fireman, reaching down from the horizontal ladder, palmed the security guard’s head and dumped it into an opaque plastic bag.
NIXON LIBRARY - 12:35 PM
With the CHP motorcycle siren in front of him, his flashing blue light and extensive use of the median shoulder, Lane made extraordinary time on the Five South and the Ninety-one East freeways.
The Orange County sheriff’s bomb squad had been staking out the rose garden for over an hour. The usual procedure, as dictated by the FBI’s HDS (Hazardous Devices School) training center at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama, called for one man to be the point, or kill-zone contact, on each call. This dangerous position rotated daily. But advances in robotic technology, largely driven by British bomb deaths in Northern Ireland, made the point man system obsolete. And most city budgets provided a healthy line item to have the latest robots. The Orange County Sheriff’s Department’s tethered robot (an $85,000 Pedsco RMI 10) was currently poised over the exposed top of the mine, its three closed circuit video cameras sending steady color images back to the cramped operations van in the preferred parking lot.
Inside the sweaty van, introductions were quickly made. Lane did not retain the officer’s names, but categorized them by their pungent deodorant choices. Sergeant Old Spice, Sergeant Mennen, and Lieutenant Canoe were all huddled around the closed-circuit monitor. The youngest member present, Officer Hugo Boss, sat in front of the monitor with his hand on the joystick that controlled the various functions of the robot. He would occasionally flip between the three different cameras that offered wide, long and close-up frames of the mine.
“What do you think, Major?” the Lieutenant asked Lane.
“It’s an OZM 4. Soviet. A bounding time-bomb. Doesn’t need contact to go off.”
“Can we move it?” One of the Sergeants asked.
Lane shook his head. “Risky. There’s no way to reverse the fuse. And there might be another mine underneath it.”
The Lieutenant took a sip of Dr. Pepper. “How about blowing it apart? Rufus can fire an interrupter point blank.” Lane could tell the squad was anxious to take some type of action. And he assumed “Rufus” was the name they’d given the robot.
“You’d probably set it off. It’s got about a fifty-foot kill zone, seventy-five or eighty injury zone once it bounds up in the air, so it wouldn’t be dangerous here. But it might be more valuable from an evidentiary stand-point to see just exactly when it was intended to go off. Have you located anymore of them?”
“Nah, but I’d be surprised if there weren’t more. And I’m sure it was meant to go off during the Congressman’s luncheon.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the outer parking lot.
Lane squinted out across the heat waves floating up from the asphalt - Congressman Boone was combing his hair, surrounded by several local news camera crews.
Hugo Boss made a slight adjustment to the joystick. “We can x-ray it for you.”
“That’s alright, I already know what’s inside. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Lane stepped out of the van. On his way to the Congressman’s news conference he thought about the mine. The former Soviet Union designed and manufactured some intricate land mines. And in this scenario the OZM was a devious choice. Meant to explode about crotch high, with seated guests it would go off at head level and kill many more people. Lane began to think that the sophistication, boldness and deadliness of the tactics almost certainly suggested they were up against a disciplined terrorist organization or even a foreign government. But at the same time, there seemed to be an intensely personal motivation behind it all, especially in the target selection.
The Congressman’s press secretary, a woman who looked like a middle-aged Miss America, handed Lane a copy of the luncheon program. Boone stepped forward and whispered something in her ear that prompted her to give the high sign to the television crews. The cameramen shouldered their cameras and flipped on the halogens. As T. Daniel Boone cleared his throat and stepped up to the fagot of microphones on top of the pressed wood podium, Lane scanned the program:
Coffee Social hour - begins promptly at 12:00
Ecumenical blessing, followed by lunch - please be seated by 1:00
Introduction by CA State Representative Carmen Gonsalves - approximately 1:30
“Leveraging Technological Supremacy” - U.S. Congressman T. Daniel Boone
Post lunch reception line to follow.
Lane looked up and noticed the Congressman was wearing pancake tv make-up thick as an opera clown. His unamplified voice boomed across the parking lot: “We are moving, folks. Moving the lunch to the Newport Hyatt. They’ve graciously agreed to accommodate us. It’s right down the 91 on Newport Blvd. Turn left at the Taco Bell. So if you were planning on coming to the lunch, we would like you to join us at the Hyatt. Your presence will help us show these people that we will not be intimidated by this kind of cowardly attempt to silence democracy. We will have much to discuss. Important issues. So I invite you to show your bravery and join me. And I’d like to thank everyone here for their support. We’ll get out of the way now and let the experts work. Let these brave men and women do their job here and restore this national landmark, this birthplace of a truly great American, this symbol of American strength and patriotism, uh, back into to something we can all enjoy. Thank you.”
Lane walked back to the bomb squad van with an idea. “Lieutenant, can your robot dust for finger prints?”
“Not really. The manipulator hand can apply the powder, but it’s not dexterous enough to lift tape. And the resolution on the camera isn’t tight enough to see prints. We could try to dust it ourselves, but I won’t risk a man for a finger-print. Especially when they didn’t find prints in Zuma.” Lane realized the FBI must have distributed reports to all of the area bomb squads.
Lane stared at the second hand as it circled his watch face. There was no question, the monkey was back. His belly felt squirrelly. He needed a distraction. Lane decided it was time to visit the gift shop.
The temperature dropped twenty degrees as Major Lane pushed through the tinted glass doors of the library. Despite the crisis, the white-haired docents in their red white and blue were vigilantly manning their posts. Lane wondered if they were paid a salary or just worked for love of Nixon.
He avoided the woman at the admissions desk and ducked into the gift shop. Lane browsed the book section – there seemed to be a definite theme to the merchandising. Signed Kissingers. Signed Powells. Signed Nancy Reagans. Signed George Schultz’s. A book by General Butler that he’d read. A book on General Lee that he’d read. As Lane picked-up a signed copy of a book by George Bush’s dog, the woman behind the register spoke to him.
“Are you with the FBI?”
“I’m in the Army. I’m working with the FBI.”
She nodded gravely.
“If you’re looking for the Special Agents they’re in the security room – watching the surveillance tapes.”
“Okay. Good.” Lane held up Millie’s book. “I’m going to borrow this for a second. Can you point me in the direction of the restroom?”
* * *
Lane sat on the toilet in the handicapped stall reading Millie’s book. The dog wrote with a dense literary style that Lane didn’t care for, but he liked the pictures. Millie and Schwarzenegger, Millie and McGruff the crime dog, Millie and Carol Channing, Millie and the Joint Chief
s of Staff, Millie and the Beach Boys.
Lane put the book on top of the toilet paper dispenser and began to disassemble his handgun. This was a trick he used often in the tropics to distract himself from intestinal distress or inaction. The opium was stopping him up like an Angolan sewer. Lane realized he was shitting once a week. Maybe twice. He checked the safety and then pulled back the slide and ejected the chambered round into his hand. He pushed the magazine release and set the 9mm bullet and fifteen round magazine on top of the book. Pressing the takedown latch released the slide and barrel. Lane looked down the muzzle and gave it a quick puff of air to blow out any lint. He put these parts down on the book as well and picked up the magazine. He methodically pushed out the fourteen bullets (he didn’t top-off his Beretta by chamber-loading an extra round) and examined each one for scratches or flaws. He then reloaded the magazine with fifteen rounds, reattached the slide and barrel, checked the safety and slapped the laser-welded magazine back into the butt, where the three-arrowed Beretta logo reminded the owner of the gun to Aim Well, Shoot Straight, and Hit the Mark. A quick slide inserted a fresh round into the chamber and he used his thumb to decock the hammer. Lane was now locked and loaded again, but he realized he was still unable to fire himself.
As Lane exited the bathroom he found another docent watching him. Was she keeping track of the book? Lane walked down the corridor to the gift shop and put the book back on the display shelf. The docent there eyed him suspiciously as well. Did she not understand that she worked in a library? He was about to wink at her when he felt the ground shake. Three small thumps followed by three sharp bangs. The bounders had bounded.
Lane found the bomb squad standing around their van looking at the colonnade area with field glasses. There was a thin layer of white smoke in the air. And beneath it the robot lay helpless on the grass. Its life-line severed. Blue smoke drifting out of its third eye - Rufus had absorbed shrapnel from three sides.
Lane could see two of the three smoldering holes in the ground. Rose petals were scattered along the colonnade like an elaborately planned wedding. He walked over to the van and Sergeant Mennen gave Lane the obvious update.
“The screen went blank at 13:35.”
Lane nodded. “Sorry about your robot.”
Lieutenant Canoe gave him a look. Hugo Boss said, “I think it’s totaled.” Most of the tablecloths were casualties as well - two of them were still on fire. And no one was making a move to put them out. If the news cameras could see them, it was solid footage.
“I got lunch, Lieutenant.” They all turned. A motorcycle officer with a white mustache and high polished riding boots held a shopping bag of foot-long hoagies from Subway. Lane noticed he was even more fragrant than the others.
“Thanks, Ben.” The Lieutenant said.
“Was that Rufus?” the motorcycle cop asked.
Sergeant Mennen nodded. “Yeah.” The motorcycle cop shook his head sadly and departed.
Lane wondered what they were going to do next. It was a nasty situation. With OZM’s you could never be sure when another one might go. There could easily be something else waiting for them out there. You could make a nice point with something like that, but it might be more fun for their adversary to watch them look for nothing and yet still never be sure. Lane didn’t have much faith in bomb sniffing robots or dogs, but there weren’t many other options. They could use high pressure hoses or a mind-clearing bulldozer, but these would tear up the landscaping. Technology was moving fast, but even ground penetrating radar could miss plastic mines. Unless they managed find the perpetrator and extract a confession, the only other possibility was hand clearing - which is how he assumed they’d ultimately proceed. So far it was the only way to get true 99% clearance. Hopefully, Lane thought, the guy just wanted to kill people at the fundraiser.
Lane fidgeted and thought more about the person who was planting the mines. Lane’s theory of an Asian connection was strengthened by the library. Nixon didn’t do much in Afghanistan. Unless the library wasn’t symbolic and just happened to be an easy target…but no, it was too much of a challenge compared to the beaches. The perpetrator definitely liked the venue. He’d had them jumping through hoops starting on Memorial Day. Lane wondered what was planned for July 4th.
* * *
After lunch, Lieutenant Canoe consulted with the FBI in the security room and told them his plan. They would collect evidence and debris with another robot, hose down the area and then send dogs in to check the rest of the grounds. Once the dogs had cleared the area they would wait twenty four hours and then do human inspection. Lane thought the plan was reasonably safe and voiced his endorsement to the FBI. You never wanted to rush land mine clearance. And as it turned out they had to wait over two hours for the back-up robot to even arrive on site and begin the tedious collection work. The cemetery footage had sparked a rash of calls reporting suspicious devices and sprinkler heads all over the county. The other robot was in the middle of a call to a judge’s garden in San Clemente when it was summoned.
After another unsuccessful trip to the gift shop’s lending library, Lane couldn’t stand waiting any longer. It was his duty to be there and help these men, but he knew he couldn’t function properly until he met Khieu.
He approached Lieutenant Canoe. “I’m going to go check on patients at the hospital. See what details I can get from them.” The Lieutenant nodded. “Do you need an escort? Ben’s not doing anything.”
“No, that’s alright. If I hit traffic I’ll use my blue light.” Lane suspected that where he was going, the police would not be welcome.
INTERSTATE HIGHWAY NUMBER 5 – 4:49 PM
Major Lane had the Explorer pointed north, averaging a steady sixty miles per hour and fifteen miles per gallon. And then he hit it, a wall of brake lights - California had 15 million licensed drivers, and 300,000 of them passed by this portion of the Five on any given day. Lane was idling in the #3 Lane when he felt the cramp coming on.
He pulled to the shoulder. Got out and bent over. Dry heaves. Retch after retch, as if someone was stomping on his stomach like a foot pump. He was happy he’d passed on the Subway.
While Lane gripped his knees, he noticed that the shoulder was, despite the threat of fines, heavily littered. In his immediate field of vision he could see a Starbucks java jacket, a scratched off lottery ticket with a Santa Claus theme, and soiled nylon panties from the Jaclyn Smith collection.
His dog heaves over, Lane looked up the freeway. He could see the source of the traffic jam. A car fire. The maroon vehicle billowing black smoke from every crevice, the dry grass beside it on fire as well. There was no sign of firemen or the driver of the burning auto. Cars crawled slowly by. Lane climbed back into the Explorer and signaled to get back into the stream. A Hyundai honked.
TONLE SAP RESTAURANT – 5:19 P.M.
Khieu was happy. He’d just closed a major capital transaction for his business. His wife had left with the truck and the check. She was happy too. And Lane was right on time, parking the Explorer across the street and marching toward him with his boots on.
Huay came out of the restaurant wearing his sunglasses and found a large American soldier standing with the man he’d just loaned 10,000 dollars. The man wore army-issue boots with jeans and a brand new golf shirt, but the bearing was unmistakable. And the shoulder holster was not a civilian accessory. Highly unusual. Huay was instantly on guard, but perhaps he was only a Marine from Pendleton.
Khieu motioned him over for an introduction. The soldier greeted him in Cambodian. Like it was no big deal. He had horrible puke-tobacco breath. Perhaps he’d been hasty lending the recycling man money. Oh, it was fine, his mind reassured himself, the wife would keep him in line.
“This is my friend, Joel.” Khieu said.
“Nice to meet you.” Huay said.
“The pleasure is mine…” The two men shook hands.
“He’s stationed in Cambodia.” Khieu said.
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