The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Ashley heard the first explosion as did Walter and Assault Leader Davis. They dashed out of the tent in time to see a bright column rise above the land and form a tornado-like funnel lit by the ruby red fire within the cloud of churning smoke. Ashley thought of Cebeck.

  "Walter," she shouted. "I have to go." She ran for the Humvee, and jumped behind the wheel, with Kent right behind her. He didn't have to ask where she was going. "Hit it," he said, swinging into the front seat beside her. The tires tore through the sandy soil as they swerved onto the dirt road heading for Highway 82.

  While they jerked over the rough terrain, several new explosions occurred in the distance. Once on the hard road, Ashley floored it, determined to make fifteen miles in ten minutes. Gripping the steering wheel her eyes never left the yellow centerline. As they approached the geyser of smoke and fire, it grew larger, swirling overhead like a blazing dirt devil.

  Walter checked the odometer. "One mile," he shouted, as they neared the inferno. He searched south of the road for signs of the two story house, but couldn’t find it. As they neared the site, a wall of heat engulfed them. Ashley slowed and left the highway on the north side. A barbed wire fence lined the right-of-way. "I'm going through," she yelled steering into the fence and hitting a metal post square on. "Tally-ho," shouted Walter with a taste of satisfaction in his voice.

  They swerved back and forth covering a wide swath of land with the headlights, as they searched for that clump of trees amidst layers of smoke. The heat became suffocating. "Over there." Kent pointing to the right. The lights reflected off a white patch between several shattered junipers. Ashley geared down and pulled near the crumpled vehicle, its hood, bent back. Only bits of the windshield remained. Kent leaped out and ran as Ashley set the brake and jumped out, too. The van, its front end lifted off the ground two feet, sat pinned between several tree stumps bent at awkward angles. Ashley, holding back a scream, felt the scorching heat on her body from the nearby fire. Stumbling over debris in the darkness, she yanked on the driver's side door. The hot metal burned her hand. Wedged shut, the door didn't move. She heard Walter shout for her to come to the back of the van.

  In the headlights of the Humvee, Ashley saw Walter pulling on the rear right door with both hands, one foot on the center of the left rear door. She grabbed him around the chest. "We pull together...now!” The door moved only an inch. "Again!" It moved two inches. "Again!" The door gave way and they both fell back crashing to the ground. They faced each other with grim satisfaction, and then leaped toward the open door.

  Together they crawled into the van and began a frantic search for Cebeck. The fire created heat, but also light. Surveillance equipment lay scattered about the interior. Choking on the smoke, they moved forward. On their knees, they searched as much with their hands as with their eyes. Ashley pulled herself up with the back of the passenger seat. "He's over here." Walter moved to the driver’s side. On the floor jammed between the dashboard and the seats lay a man–not moving.

  Walter catapulted over the driver’s seat and touched Cebeck. "He's alive. He's breathing."

  From behind the seat, Ashley tried to open the passenger door, but couldn’t. "Kick the door. Kick it hard," she shouted, then reached down near the floor for the seat release. Her hand scraped into the tiny space between the door and the seat controls. It touched a lever. She pulled it. The seat snapped back. Walter, with more room to maneuver, kicked the door, bracing himself against the steering wheel. He kicked with both feet. With an abrupt grating noise of metal against metal, the door cracked open. Another kick and it opened just enough. Kent jumped outside, turned and grabbed Cebeck by the shoulders. Ashley, now in the front seat, locked her hand under Jerry's belt and lifted. "We have to be careful, we don't know his injuries." Walter nodded and pulled with care, sliding Cebeck off the front floor, a few inches at a time. He got a better hold on him and pulled as Ashley lifted. The semiconscious man moaned when he slipped to the ground. Ashley vaulted out of the van. "I'll get the Humvee."

  The headlights let Kent do a quick examination. No compound fractures. No profuse bleeding. Together they moved Cebeck onto the back floor and Ashley stayed with him as Kent drove east toward Lovington and the nearest hospital. Ashley called in their medical emergency.

  Sprawled on the floor, she cradled Cebeck on her lap. He moaned and opened his eyes; one nearly swollen shut. "Jerry can you hear me?" she asked pulling his head toward her. He stared at her with a blank expression. Blood and dirt stained his face. She brushed his hair back and felt angular grains of glass from the windshield. "We're getting medical help, Jerry." His mouth moved, but no sound came out. "It's okay. Hang in there."

  Cebeck focused on her face, and brought his hand up, but it fell back. In barely a whisper he said. "Ashley...Ashley."

  "I'm right here," she reassured him.

  He tried to lift his head. "I saw it.”

  "Yes, I know, a terrible fire."

  His head shook slightly. "No. I saw it."

  She cradled his head. "You're going to be alright."

  With an expression of urgency he touched her arm and struggled to speak. Ashley knew he wanted to say something. She leaned near his face. "What is it Jerry? What are you trying to tell me?"

  "I saw it...next to...the house."

  "What did you see?"

  His lips moved, but again no sound. She put her ear next to his mouth. "What did you see, Jerry?"

  In a faint voice he choked out two words. "Explosion. Suburban."

  Ashley straightened. Her face grew ashen as she processed those words. He nodded his head slightly. She nodded back.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  EARLY TO BED AND EARLY to rise described Ed Delong's daily life cycle, but this Friday night it would be late to bed. The FBI Director had to attend the President's Council on Crime and Constitutional Rights. His major contribution to the meeting was chomping down on a cigar and staying awake. After the meeting, and a brief round of handshakes, Delong slipped out of the building and into the backseat of his car. He dozed off as his chauffeur drove him to his home in Arlington, Virginia.

  After a hot cup of decaf coffee, spiked with a shot of Bailey's Irish Cream, he started for his bedroom upstairs. That’s when his home phone alarm, wired to the emergency line at headquarters, sounded off. Frowning he reached for the downstairs phone. "Delong here,” he barked.

  The night desk chief answered, "Sorry to disturb you sir, I have a POISN alert. One minute, please, while I arrange a transfer of this call."

  Delong hated that acronym. Someone, years ago, figured out a title for the Emergency Operations Manual, that would phonetically spell a word descriptive of the name: Personnel Operations Information System Network or POISN. How bureaucratic can you get?

  He heard a click on the line and thought he'd been cut off, then a voice spoke. “This is Agent Ackerman, sir, Norman Ackerman. I...I'm calling you from the Command Center downtown about Operation Full Moon. There’s been a God-awful explosion. I don't know who else to call. Sorry sir."

  Delong leaned against the entry wall. "Calm down Ackerman and tell me what kind of hell broke loose."

  "Davis and Perry both report a big explosion and a bad fire out in New Mexico. Real bad. Several observers got burned. Director Johansson is real upset. I'm not sure what to do. I'm real sorry I called you, but I hope I did the right thing. You know I just got assigned yesterday, and..."

  As Operation Full Moon came into mental focus, Delong cut him off "Okay, I understand. Put Johansson on the line."

  "That's just it, sir. Director Johansson he's, well, he's real upset right now. I mean he's–how can I say this–emotional, sir."

  A chill came over Delong. No one in the Bureau had more resolve to get a job done then the Big Swede. This sounded wrong. "I need to talk to him. Tell him I'm on the line."

  "Yes, sir. I'll tell him."

  Distant background voices filled the void as Delong waited. He reviewed the facets of the operation and realized
the potential dangers. Finally, a flat monotone voice, he did not immediately recognize, came on line.

  "Ed, they tell me everyone is gone. Rashid is dead. The whole place got blown to hell. The meeting house has disappeared. I did everything to prevent this. I should have stopped him from going." Ed heard a sobbing sound. "Hesse will never forgive me for what I've done. I can't believe this."

  Delong's hand tightened on the phone. "You had a solid plan. Youris volunteered. You knew there were risks."

  "Risk, yes. But not this. Not my friend."

  Delong focused. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mike. Collateral damage happens."

  "Ed." A choking sound. "I know. I know, but Rashid was my partner."

  "Listen Mike, I want you to go home."

  A long pause. "I can't leave my post."

  "You're not abandoning your post. I'm ordering you to step down, temporarily. You're in no condition to stay. I regret this happened. I understand your grief. Now go home. I'll take it from here."

  Silence, then, "Yes, sir. Of course you're right."

  "Is there anyone to take your place in the Center?"

  Another silence. "No, sir.”

  "I need your recommendation for an On-Scene Commander.”

  Johansson thought a moment. "The assault leaders are in the field, but this situation needs executive leadership, not commando tactics."

  Delong, losing patience, demanded, "Give me a name. Mike."

  "Kent. Walter Kent. It's his case. His jurisdiction. He would be my pick for an OSC. A good man."

  "I agree, now put Ackerman on the line, and you go home."

  "Yes, sir."

  Special Agent Ackerman had worked the communications console as his primary duty. He quickly forwarded Delong to Mark Ramirez in the Albuquerque Field Office. The director told Ramirez that he was appointing Walter Kent as the On-Scene Commander of the Maljamar incident and Operation Full Moon, effective immediately.

  At 9:45 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time, Ramirez reached Kent as he pulled into the Artesia General Hospital Emergency Room entrance with Ashley holding Jerry Cebeck's unconscious body on her lap.

  FIFTY-SIX

  WHEN WALTER AND ASHLEY arrived at the hospital, paramedics lifted Cebeck onto a hospital gurney they had shoved against the Humvee. Ashley followed the medical techs into the Emergency Room.

  At ten o’clock Ramirez called Kent. "I got a call from Director Delong. He has appointed you On Scene Commander with full authority. He'll give you whatever you need to deal with this."

  "What about Johansson?"

  "No comment, but Delong will get back to you with an official declaration."

  Kent paused to focus on his new responsibilities. He knew that as the OSC he had extraordinary powers, and that few agents were given this level of challenge during their career. "Okay, Mark. Write this down.”

  "Yes, sir."

  "First, contact Leaders Davis and Perry and brief them on my appointment. They must keep the scene secure, and maintain its integrity. Only allow firefighters access. No media or local law enforcement. This is one big-ass crime scene and I don't want a bunch of people stomping around there." He stopped a moment to think. "Next, I need more personnel on the ground. Review staff assignments and send me everyone you can free up."

  Ramirez, used his personal shorthand to get everything down.

  "Call the SAC in the El Paso Field Office. Explain the situation and ask him for a dozen people–more if he can spare them. Stress that we have a large crime scene and need extensive evidence collection.” Kent took a deep breath. "I want our forensic team with full gear. This will be a large area for documentation. It will need a photographic and video walkthrough. Finally, call Doctor Zumbeck in the State Medical Investigator's Office and invite his staff to join our search. Tell him there will be body parts. Any questions?"

  "What about the State Police?"

  "Call them. They can deal with traffic. Anything else?"

  "How's Cebeck?"

  "He's in the ER. I think he'll be okay."

  "Agent Kohen?"

  "She's with Cebeck right now, but I need her with me. I'm counting on you for all communications. I'm heading back to Maljamar. My estimated time of arrival is ten thirty. Okay?"

  "Yes, ten thirty. I’m on it."

  THE FIRE IN MALJAMAR painted the horizon pink. The night crew at the Navajo Refinery in Artesia reported what they saw to the fire department who scramble into fire engines and trucks equipped to fight hydrocarbon fires in the Permian Basin. Artesia’s night dispatcher alerted Lovington on the other side of Maljamar, to the explosion. Both departments carried all the Class B foam possible.

  The Joint Terrorism Task Force was overwhelmed. Assault Leaders Davis and Perry formed two six-member crews to search for trapped or injured people. The remaining personnel moved into position to cordon off the rural highway in both directions.

  The Lovington Fire Department arrived on the scene first. They assessed conditions and determined the main fire uncontrollable, and would let it burn itself out. The lighting crew cranked up generators and erected floodlights. The fire suppression units built containment dikes and dispensed a blanket of Class B foam on the east side. Fifteen minutes later the Artesia firefighters arrived on the west side and made the same determinations. They attacked the fire using similar tactics. Both departments coordinated and settled in for a long night.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE SILHOUETTE OF A MAN in the doorway cast a long shadow into the bedroom. He advanced to the bedside of Ed Delong and put his hand on his shoulder. "Director Delong, wake up." He shook him with more vigor. "Wake up sir."

  Delong moved barely conscious. "What?"

  "Sir, you have a message."

  He opened his eyes.

  "Sir, you have another POISN call."

  Delong rolled over to face the man. "Watson. What is it?"

  "It's Mike Johansson," said Watson, Delong's personal assistant.

  "What the hell time is it?"

  "It's three o'clock, sir. He says it's urgent."

  "Damn well better be." He rolled over on his back and reached for the phone in Watson's hand. "It's three in the morning, Mike. What's this all about?"

  Johansson responded without hesitation. "Sorry, Ed. I wouldn't call if it wasn't serious."

  "Okay, I'm awake now. What's so damn important?”

  "After we talked earlier I went home, like you ordered. I kept thinking about Rashid. Then I remembered I got several personal phone calls yesterday while working, and shut my phone down. So I checked my messages and discovered Rashid had sent me a text about four o'clock in the afternoon."

  With the mention of Rashid's name, Delong winced.

  "It's a short message, Ed. I'll read it to you." A second passed while the director fidgeted. "It says, WMD RA-115-01."

  Delong frowned. "That's it? That's all?"

  "Yes, and it's more than enough."

  Delong searched his mind for an interpretation. "Save me a little time, Mike. What's it mean?"

  "WMD. Weapon of Mass Destruction. RA-115-01. That’s the designation for a Russian nuclear bomb in a suitcase."

  Delong bolted upright in bed. "Holy shit!"

  THE WEST WING of the White House is the most secure patch of ground in the United States. Even well-known members of Congress and the administration undergo vetting by the Secret Service before entering.

  Delong and Leo Adornetto were the first to be seated in the reception area next to the office of the President's Chief of Staff Edmond Pruitt. Pruitt, a craggy faced man with a prominent belly he hid with an out of fashion double-breasted suit coat, had entered the building minutes earlier. He asked Margret Madden, National Security Adviser to the President, to join him in his office. "It’s six in the morning. What the hell is this all about, Maggie?" Pruitt asked.

  Ms. Madden, who needed no make-up and wore a leather belted cowl neck dress, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Something to do with national securit
y and an undercover operation out west."

  Pruitt continued, "We have enough damn politics around here without bringing in some cloak-and-dagger mystery. In addition to the men outside my office, I understand the Attorney General is sending his deputy, Aaron Perlman, over and Admiral Smithy of the NSA is coming, too. All this and I'm not included in the loop."

  Madden stifled a smile. "What about President Steward, is he alerted?"

  "Yes, of course. Secret Service took care of that."

  By 6:15 Aaron Perlman and Admiral Smithy joined Delong and Adornetto. Pruitt led the procession down the hall to the Oval Office. Irked by the fact no one had briefed him on the purpose of this meeting, Pruitt waited until everyone had taken a seat before he unloaded. "I'd like to know who called this meeting. There is such a thing as protocol. All matters of importance to the President go through me." Before anyone answered, President Graham Steward entered the room and everyone stood.

  The President headed for his desk and gestured for all to sit. "Good mornin'. Nice to see you all workin' overtime on a beautiful Saturday," he said with his down-home accent. Steward, a lean man with square shoulders and silver hair, stood behind his desk wearing a plaid polo shirt, and golf pants. "We have more than enough for a foursome here." He opened his arms to the group. "Of course if you play with me you can't have an average score of less than ninety-two." This comment caused a ripple of well-mannered laughter. "So, my fellow Americans, what's all the fuss about?"

  The room remained silent until Aaron Perlman spoke. "I received a call from FBI Director Delong early this morning. I think when you hear what he has to say, you’ll understand why we are here." All eyes focused on Delong, who stood.

  The President assumed a false seriousness. "What is it Ed? Did you find a member of Congress stealing from his postage fund?" Another wave of nervous laughter.