Six Seconds

by Rick Mofina

Waving and smiling from the window, just as he’d done a lifetime ago on the last day they’d been together at home. Only now, Logan hadn’t seen Maggie yet.

  “Logan!”

  Maggie shoved through the crowd to the barricade.

  “Hey, lady!”

  “What the-”

  “I have to get to my son, please let me through! Logan!”

  “Where’s she going? Call that officer! She’s crazy!” The passengers were directed to step off the bus for further inspection. They formed a neat line before entering the school. Parents were formally dressed, children wore their Sunday best-boys in blazers, white shirts and ties, girls in white dresses.

  Stone-faced soldiers and police officers guided them through metal detectors, boys and girls extended their arms, removed shoes, jackets as security wands passed over them and dog handlers patrolled at close proximity.

  Once he was cleared, Logan moved with the line toward a school entrance.

  Maggie was going to lose him.

  “Logan!”

  He turned at the sound of shouts but did not see Maggie as she launched herself over the metal barri cade, stumbled onto the cleared road and ran toward him calling his name.

  People yelled to police and pointed.

  At that moment, officers and soldiers rushed Maggie, reaching for their weapons. Radios crackled with rapidfire transmissions. Security breach Sector 27! We have a security breach at 27! A Montana Highway Patrol he licopter turned and pounded toward the scene. TV news cameras wheeled, focused, capturing a hysterical woman running across the empty road to the school live on network television. A cameraman said calmly into his headset, “Alert New York, we’ve got something here.” On the school roof, FBI sharpshooters advised that they had “the target” in the crosshairs of their scope and could drop it in a heartbeat.

  “Standing by for green,” one FBI shooter whispered into his headset, then placed his finger on the trigger of his rifle.

  A rookie Montana patrolman, who was a former tackle from Missoula, got to Maggie first. He took her to the ground hard. His six-foot-four-inch body covered hers and in one smooth motion he got one metal cuff on her right wrist.

  The chopper whooped above.

  Other officers swarmed the scene.

  Standing there in his new blazer, Logan had wit nessed the incident, but without recognizing that the woman at the center of it was his mother.

  Maggie screamed for him, reaching through a forest of legs and boots toward him with her soon-to-be-cuffed left hand. But his eyes never found hers. The prop wash from the chopper was deafening, but Maggie saw a question form on his face just as a hand clamped his shoulder and turned him from her, nudging him into the school.

  The hand belonged to the person in the picture in the truck stop restaurant.

  Samara.

  Across the chaos, the two women met in one intense gaze.

  Anguished mothers from different worlds, heart broken by events not of their making, willing to pay any price for their family. Samara’s eyes were fixed with purpose, forged in some hellfire of unwavering love that burned into Maggie’s.

  “That woman abducted my son!” Maggie shouted. “She could threaten the pope! You have to arrest her! You have to alert Special Agent Blake Walker! Now! Logan!”

  None of the deputies, troopers or agents understood Maggie over the chopper, let alone gave a second thought to her words.

  To them she was the threat.

  Maggie offered little resistance as they pulled her to her feet, told her of her rights as they completed hand cuffing her hands in front of her.

  “You have the right to remain silent…”

  “Logan!”

  As Samara entered the school with Logan, she took a deputy and a Secret Service agent aside and showed them several badges of identification.

  “I’m a nurse with the county helping with this event,” Samara said, then nodded to Maggie. “That woman is psychologically disturbed. She came to the school last week and indicated that she would ‘get rid of the pope’ if he ever came here.”

  The deputy and agent nodded as they copied Samara’s ID information, took notes then reached for their microphones.

  78

  Indian Head, Maryland

  Immediately after the test, Takayasu assigned team members to alert specialists in an array of fields with federal security agencies.

  Calls from Takayasu’s unit were rare, but when they came, they were given priority status. Today, they were deemed an “extremely urgent matter of national secu rity.” No effort was spared to contact the experts, who were reached at offices, homes, labs, airports, funerals and vacation resorts.

  Encrypted password-coded files containing calcula tions, formulas and findings of the incidents at Pysht, Malmstrom and the test at Indian Head were instantly e-mailed and a teleconference call was convened from the lab’s meeting room.

  A quick round of introductions showed that the tech nical expertise on the line came from the highest levels of national security, such as the National Security Agency, the Central Security Service, Army Intelli gence, NASA security, the Naval Security Group,

  Six Seconds 441 members of the Computer Network Defense Red Team and others from Fleet Information Warfare Center. Before Takayasu led the call, a question was put to him.

  “Is this for real?” a man from the NSA asked.

  “This is real and we have to move fast. We need to jam the signal, or hijack it with a disabling protocol. Can it be done?”

  “We could do something with SDI technology, or, NSA or NASA satellites,” another caller said.

  “What’s the target zone?”

  “We believe the target zone is Lone Tree County, Montana,” Takayasu said.

  “That’s where the pope’s just landed. We’re watching it live!” said one expert. “Didn’t they already arrest some hysterical woman who breached security?”

  “We’re cutting this close! Just cancel the event,” the Army Intelligence chief said.

  “We’ve tried. The Vatican refused,” a supervisor from the Secret Service Intelligence Division said. “The threat is not confirmed. And yesterday, in Seattle, we had two incidents we thought involved assassination attempts. Both were false alarms. The Vatican almost never cancels an event, even when a threat emerges. As we speak, the pope’s got one hundred thousand people waiting for him in Montana.”

  “We think this new weapon’s in play right now against the pope in Montana?” the CSS caller asked.

  “Or his next stop in Chicago,” the Secret Service caller said. “We’re concerned about all the dots: the intel from Issa al-Issa, the intel about a ship, the material found on the coast and at Malmstrom. We can’t risk this. We’re down to minutes.”

  Everyone heard the clicking of a computer keyboard.

  “Lone Tree County is two thousand two hundred twenty feet above sea level. Longitudinal and latitudi nal position is- Hang on.” One of the satellite experts on the line was doing the math. “Our best chance at this stage is to send a pulse. But we have to program the nearest bird.”

  “How long?” Takayasu said.

  “Not sure, twenty minutes at least.”

  “This is going to be close.”

  “It might not work. And if it does, there’s a huge risk that goes with it,” the satellite expert said.

  79

  Cold Butte, Montana

  Sirens yelped and emergency lights wigwagged as the papal motorcade made its way through Cold Butte. Cardiac time again.

  Walker was in the SUV among the lead vehicles preceding the papal car. Along the route he scanned the faces of people at the barricades, relieved the pope was not walking at the rope but waving from the moving popemobile.

  It was safer.

  After Seattle, security had been heightened.

  The entire route had been swept seven times. K-9 teams had conducted building probes. Bridges, vantage points and streets were patrolled by deputies from five counties. O
fficers from the Great Falls, Lewistown and Billings police departments and the Montana Highway Patrol supported federal agents.

  All were advised “to check everything again and jump on anything out of place! Anything!”

  Four helicopters circled above. Three were security; one was the press pool for aerial news pictures.

  Sharpshooters and spotters with binoculars were positioned on all rooftops overlooking the procession. Walker was grateful no building was taller than three stories. Skyscrapers were an assassin’s dream.

  Huge banners, along with U.S. and papal flags of all sizes, waved and rippled from the street sides. Cameras were ever-present. People smiled, called out to the pope. Some were enraptured, some prayed while news crews captured it all.

  As the parade neared the school, Walker’s cell phone vibrated against his chest.

  “Blake, it’s Jackson.” The agent calling was out of breath. “We just had a breach on the street at the school. No weapons of any sort.”

  “What was it?”

  “Lone, hysterical woman jumped the barricade, ran to the school as the choir kids arrived. She was scream ing gibberish about an abducted kid. We grabbed her. According to a nurse at the school, our woman was here a few days earlier making verbal threats against the pope.”

  “You got it under control?”

  “Yes, but the stranger thing is, the woman is asking for you. By name.”

  “Me? How does she know me? You get an ID?”

  “Margaret Conlin, early thirties, from Blue Rose Creek, California.”

  Blue Rose Creek, California.

  Something about it was familiar but Walker could not put his finger on it.

  “She say why she’s asking for me?”

  “Don’t know, she’s a bit incoherent.”

  “Hold her in the command center truck. I’ll take care of it after we get through this.”

  80

  Cold Butte, Montana

  Graham entered the bedroom in Jake Conlin’s house. Dim light splintered through shutters, casting the room in shadow.

  A man lay on the bed; his face was turned. “Jake Conlin!”

  Graham touched the man’s shoulder, his fingers found tacky wetness. Nothing moved. The darker shad ows were blood-drenched sheets.

  Jake Conlin’s throat had been cut.

  Graham retreated from the room, found a cordless phone. Carefully, he picked it up by the edge of its frame and used a pen tip to press 911.

  “This is Lone Tree emergency, do you require police, fire or paramedics?”

  “Police and paramedics to 1023 °Crystal Creek Road.”

  “On their way. What is your emergency?” “White male approximately thirty-five years of age.

  Deceased in an apparent homicide.”

  “Homicide? Out on Crystal Creek Road?” “Yes. Are they rolling?”

  “Sir, it will take a bit of time to reach your location.

  Stay on the line. I need your identification, sir.” Graham identified himself with his regimental num ber, then said, “Please listen carefully. I request that you immediately alert the Secret Service detail on papal security. And the FBI. This homicide could be related to the two traffic fatalities on Highway 87 east of Lewis town and a pending attack on the pope at Cold Butte.” “Repeat that, sir.”

  Graham did, then with his free hand he fished his cell phone from his pocket and tried to reach Blake Walker as he returned to the living room.

  He’d glimpsed something here. What was it? Some thing repeating?

  He couldn’t reach Walker.

  Staying on the phone with the dispatcher and search ing the living room, he stared at the TV’s live coverage then noticed the laptop on a desk. The computer was wired with a Web cam.

  The screen was lit.

  The machine was running a number of programs and features.

  Walking toward it, he saw pictures of Samara, the same woman in Maggie’s restaurant photograph with

  Jake and Logan.

  But these photos were different.

  She was with another man and another boy. They were happy, smiling. Joyous. Standing in front of a palm tree, standing in a public square, the entrance to a city.

  Middle East? Baghdad, maybe?

  Drop by drop, the awful realization fell on Graham as he got closer to the computer.

  In one corner of the screen a small video was running, repeating itself in a continuous loop.

  It was Samara.

  Wearing a white hijab. As she stared back at Graham, her eyes burned.

  “…I am not a jihadist…”

  In seconds as Samara spoke of her pain and her vengeful plan, Graham recognized what he was view ing.

  The “martyr’s video” of a suicide bomber.

  No!

  Graham then noticed several cables wending from the back of the laptop to and through an open window. The cables continued outside to a tripod and a satellite dish. Inside, affixed to the cords just behind the laptop, there was a small box with an antenna. The box had several small blinking red and green lights, and a display window with red flashing numbers.

  Graham’s knees nearly buckled as the enormity landed on him.

  All the spit in his mouth vanished and his stomach quaked.

  Something would be activated from this laptop!

  The small box was a timer clock.

  It was counting down!

  81

  Cold Butte, Montana

  The papal entourage arrived at the school.

  The pope entered the foyer, where he first embraced

  Father Andrew Stone.

  “God bless you, my brother.” The pontiff smiled. Brilliant light flashes rained on them as news cameras from around the world photographed the meeting. “Welcome, Eminence.” Stone introduced the pope to the line of local officials and school staff backed by hundreds of wildly happy students.

  After small presentations and a brief tour, the pope entered the gym, triggering applause and camera flashes as TV crews jostled for angles.

  Having hosted state basketball championships, the gymnasium was the largest in the region. But today it seemed small. Nearly eight hundred people in their

  Sunday best filled rows of folding chairs and bleachers, and crammed the balcony at the back.

  Amid the clapping, Walker pressed on his earpiece while he responded to a radio status check and took stock of the venue.

  The children in the choir were in place on the stage. Uniformed police and newspeople lined the walls.

  FBI and Secret Service marksmen were concealed in strategic points throughout the gym. Federal agents in plain clothes had been inserted into the audience. Special closed-circuit security cameras had been in stalled to watch the crowd. They were monitored from the command post truck parked among the scores of emergency vehicles encircling the building. Walker and the other Secret Service agents took points at stage right and stage left.

  Onstage, the pope stood at his chair, spread his hands and smiled to the audience, telegraphing his love. Next came welcoming remarks from more local, county and state officials as the agents and security cameras continued scanning the crowd.

  They were as ready as they would ever be, Walker thought and offered every cop’s prayer.

  Lord, please don’t let anything happen on my watch.

  82

  Cold Butte, Montana

  As the choir prepared, bits of information buzzed in the back of Walker’s mind.

  Yesterday’s false alarms, the unconfirmed intel from Issa about a planned attack, the explosion at Malm strom.

  Did the pieces go together?

  The traffic deaths, the call from Graham, the Mountie, still pursuing Tarver- why call now? — the security breach by the distraught woman. Something familiar.

  From Blue Rose Creek, California.

  She knew Walker’s name. How could that be?

  Walker began making a mental link. Didn’t the Mountie go to California? Blue Rose Creek, Cal
ifornia? Didn’t Tarver’s final wild theory concern a planned attack?

  Walker’s earpiece crackled.

  “Agent Walker, this is Baker in command. Sir, please go to your cell phone now for a call patch from Lone Tree emergency dispatch.”

  “What? No, I can’t take one now, pass it to-”

  His response was ignored, his phone vibrated. He cursed then answered.

  “Agent Walker, this is Corporal Graham of the RCMP.”

  Gripping her digital camera, Samara sat in the front row of the gym in her new suit.

  Her fingers caressed the camera’s buttons as she tried to bring her pulse rate to normal. Any anxiety she betrayed fit with the event.

  Her heart was still racing from her encounter with Logan’s mother. It was fortunate Samara had recog nized her from Jake’s photos.

  How did she track them down to Cold Butte? It meant she knew something.

  Samara looked around.

  Did others know?

  Thank heaven she was able to turn Logan away before he recognized her. It confirmed that her mission was destined because she was protected.

  Soon. Very soon.

  Three songs and six seconds. One minute to activate, then she could detonate. She brushed the button and welcomed a kaleidoscope of memories, giving her the sensation that she was floating.

  She was a few feet from the pope.

  Before anyone could stop her, it would be done.

  Once the applause faded, Sobil Mounce-Bazley, the choir director, tapped her baton on her podium.

  The shuffle of programs and throat-clearing under

  Six Seconds 453 scored the nervous tension as the magnitude of the event registered with the children.

  The helicopters, the police, TV news lights, camera flashes and all these people.

  This was such a huge deal.

  The man sitting over there was the pope.

  This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

  Sobil commanded the full attention of her singers but Logan couldn’t stop thinking about his mother.

  He had to find a way to call her again. And that incident with the crazy lady a few minutes ago was freaking him out. She’d sounded a bit like his mom.