by Steve Richer
He was bent over an opened drawer with his hands deep inside. He was in a hurry as he fiddled with the thing and his face was covered with sweat. He should have been done ten minutes ago. No amount of deep breathing was helping.
Without warning, the door opened and a grad student entered. “Professor, I got your mail.”
Fry just had time to push the drawer halfway in to conceal what he was doing. The girl had a bunch of documents in her arms and she dropped a stack of letters on the desk. She didn’t notice the copy of the New York Express-Ledger which was flipped to page 36.
“Uh, thanks. Thanks. I… Could,… could you hold my calls this afternoon? I’m gonna be busy, very busy.”
She creased her brow, not exactly getting it. “Sure.”
She was acting as a secretary basically for class credits and after two years she still couldn’t presume to understand the inner workings of the faculty. Professor Fry had always been kind of normal though. Now he was just plain weird. She shot him one last probing look and walked out, closing the door behind her.
The moment she was out, the guy reopened the drawer and made some final adjustments. He was sweating more than ever and ran a hand through his unkempt blond hair. He was pleasantly surprised at his handiwork.
He never thought that he would ever feel pride about a string of dynamite.
* * *
Frustration was still coursing through Spicer’s body even though he was back in the plushy leather seat of the Gulfstream jet. They were flying back to Washington, this time without the three-star general and his entourage.
He was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake by taking this job. He had been working alone for so long that having to depend on others would take some getting used to. Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back to his former position? Come to think of it, maybe he could simply retire now and turn his back to this life forever.
The attractive Air Force Sergeant came down the aisle and stopped next to him.
“Sir, we’ve just received an urgent message for you. You have to call Dr. Michaels.” Spicer reached for his phone but she puts his hand on his, stopping him cold. “I’m sorry, I can’t allow you to use this. If you want, you can use the in-flight system up front. Or you can wait, we’ll be landing in just a few moments.”
“I’ll take it now if it’s all the same.”
She nodded and he was quickly out of his seat. The lady got him a phone from the galley and even though she urged him to strap himself in, he remained standing to make the call.
“Michaels?” he said once the man answered.
“Spicer, we have a goddamn problem.”
“What is it?”
In his office, Dr. Michaels turned to his television which displayed news coverage from the University of Virginia. Cops were running around, students were scampering away, SWAT teams were aiming at a brick building.
“It’s a clusterfuck,” he said before explaining the situation in more detail.
With his marching orders, Spicer hung up and pulled out a map book which was in a magazine compartment next to him. He flipped to the right page and rapidly located the University of Virginia. He snapped his fingers to get the flight attendant’s attention.
“Sarge, we need to divert this plane.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Forget Andrews, I need to go to Charlottesville. They have an airport.” He looked at the map again. “Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport. We need to get there now.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re already in final approach. We’re landing.”
“Let me talk to the pilot.”
Talking to the captain proved to be futile. The Navy Chief of Staff was already scheduled to use this aircraft in a few hours and they wouldn’t budge. Spicer walked back to his partner who by now was overtaken by curiosity.
“What’s going on?”
“Can you fly a chopper?” Spicer asked, recalling how he’d been told they could commandeer military aircraft.
Ned shrugged. “I’m qualified. It’s no Hornet but if it got an engine I can fly it.”
“Goody.”
Then he explained to him what was going on.
* * *
The UH-1N had been loaned by the 1st Helicopter Squadron. Spicer was curious to see what Ned could do behind the controls but the squadron was eager to provide a crew. Quick deployment to transport VIPs was their primary mission after all. They even kept the aircraft cocked, some switches fully set ahead of time to be able to leave at a moment’s notice.
It took an hour for the white and blue Huey to reach Charlottesville. They swooped over the campus but avoided Gilmer Hall where the situation was unfolding. Buses were parked outside the perimeter to evacuate students. It was incredible how dense the campus was. There were dozens of buildings, narrow streets, and vast wooded areas. They had to land in a park several blocks away.
Ned handled getting themselves accredited so they could walk into the police perimeter. It was chaos. There was a homogeneous blend of campus police, local police, and state troopers. Within moments they were directed to the man who was in charge. Wearing civilian clothes, he was standing behind a Virginia State Police command bus.
“You’re Captain Darrow?”
“That’s right,” the man replied, visibly annoyed by the visitors.
Spicer handed him a business card.
“We’re from The Anchises Foundation. We’re funding some damn important research going on in there and we’d like to know what the hell’s going on.”
The Anchises Foundation was a genuine Sigma Division front which made their operations smoother.
Darrow was the dubious at first but he obviously figured that anyone who could go this far into the perimeter had to be important. He handed the older visitor his binoculars. Spicer peeked through them.
“Second floor, on the left,” the grizzled, balding cop said.
Spicer found the window where Harland Fry was. The man was pacing, talking to himself. Totally hysterical.
“Associate professor Harland Fry, 32 years old. He’s been working there for the last five years. So far we’ve made out 21 sticks of dynamite strapped to his chest. Says he’s thinking about blowing up the whole Psych department.”
Spicer lowered the binoculars and turned to the cop. “Has he made any demands so far?”
“Nothing but incoherent babble.”
A young trooper in uniform approached them. “Sir, he’s opened the window again.”
Darrow stole his binoculars back and looked at what was going on. Even from his spot and with a naked eye, Spicer could see the suspect had his head out of the window.
* * *
Scott Stadium offered the best vantage point for the sniper team. The Chemistry building was closer but the angle was wrong. This said, the sniper had seen much worse in Afghanistan, having spent most of his career as part of Marine Force Recon going up against the Taliban. He’d had much more difficult target and way longer ranges.
However, that was the first time his target had 20 pounds of dynamite strapped to his chest in the town where his wife and daughter lived.
He had the subject in the crosshairs of his Leupold VX-R scope and he worked on controlling his breathing. Unlike in the military, he didn’t have the benefit of a spotter to guide him.
“I got a clear shot at the suspect,” he said into his microphone.
All he needed was a green light.
Chapter 6
Captain Darrow promptly lifted the radio to his lips. “High ground, you have a red light. I repeat, red light.”
Spicer frowned at that statement. Maybe it was a personal bias from his past employment but he would have given the kill order.
Fry pulled out his head from the window even more to shout. “They won’t get me! I won’t be part of it, you hear me?”
Darrow raised a bullhorn to his mouth.
“We understand, Harland. Why don’t you come down so we can talk about this? Or let my
guys bring you a phone, all right? I just want to talk.”
“It’s all gonna be over!” Fry screamed. “Don’t you see? The government is after us! It’s coming! Their day is coming. The shepherd will annihilate us all!”
As he ducked back inside the building, Spicer leaned toward the captain so that he didn’t have to speak so loudly.
“You had a shot, why didn’t you take it?”
“Because on the other side of this building we have a bunch of student housing and we haven’t finished evacuating yet. And this building on the right is the Chemistry Building. If this guy goes boom I wouldn’t wanna be in the area.”
His look of disdain made it plain that he didn’t like having to explain himself to a civilian. He walked away to confer with an officer in SWAT gear. Meanwhile, Ned came closer to Spicer and handed him his phone.
He said, “Higher power on the line.”
Spicer took it and walked a few steps away from the commotion.
“Spicer.”
* * *
Dr. Michaels was standing behind his desk, his knuckles digging in the hard glass surface and yet feeling no pain. Houseman was standing in the doorway, coming for some news. The TV was muted but both men were watching the coverage. The phone was in speaker mode.
“They say on TV that they’re about to raid the guy,” Michaels said. “Is that accurate?”
“They’re waiting for the bomb squad first,” Spicer replied.
Houseman nodded, lost in thought. He came closer.
“Do you think there’s any doubt that they won’t capture him alive?”
There was silence on the other end of the line as Spicer processed the comment.
“The question is, do you want him alive?”
Dr. Michaels didn’t miss a beat. “No.”
“Maybe it would serve us to talk to him first. I think this may be the guy who wrote the article in the paper.”
Houseman shook his head. “He’s threatened the integrity of his research. Should he walk out of this building by himself, I would hold you personally responsible.”
* * *
The line went dead and Spicer killed the phone. “Un-fucking-real.”
He handed the phone back to Ned.
“Bomb squad’s here.”
They both turned and saw a SWAT team in green tactical gear running with two Bomb Unit technicians. They were in full ballistic armor and looked like aliens. They went the long way around and entered Gilmer Hall.
* * *
The SWAT team was leading the way, carbines aimed forward as if a threat was lurking around every corner. They reached the stairway, took a moment to make sure this wasn’t an ambush, and then scurried up the stairs. Time was of the essence.
Once on the second floor, the SWAT leader made a fist and everyone stood fast. They inspected their surroundings but the hallway was empty.
The leader gave the go ahead and they advanced again, single file and pointing their M4 weapons everywhere, until they reached the closed door of a lab.
“Team one in position,” the leader said into his throat mic.
* * *
By now, Spicer and his assistant had followed the ranking cop into the bus. Past various officers, there was a row of monitors which displayed images coming from many cameras which had been installed to give an overview of the entire situation.
More important right now were two monitors which themselves were split into four squares. They showed live images coming from minicams which were mounted on the tactical operators. It wasn’t the best resolution but it gave an accurate portrait of the events unfolding.
Darrow was calm. He brought his radio to his mouth.
“High ground, you have a green light. I repeat, green light.”
* * *
In spite of his regular serenity, the sniper was now feeling the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He thumbed the safety off and worked on controlling his breathing. The secret to precision shooting was breath control, you had to time your breathing between trigger pulls.
He scanned the window through his scope but the guy wasn’t in sight anymore.
“Negative. I lost the visual,” he said.
The bastard was hiding below the window but the moment he popped out he would blow him away.
* * *
In the hallway, the SWAT team was silent. The leader didn’t have to say anything, his men knew the drill. The senior trooper next in him produced a fiber optic camera and he didn’t waste time sliding the small semi-rigid black tube under the door while another kept an eye on the monitor.
“He’s on the far side corner,” he whispered. “On the right.”
The leader nodded and pointed to another man chewing bubble gum nervously. “I breach, you flashbang.” He then turned to the others. “Watch your fire in there. Head shots only.”
Nods and soft grunts told him everyone understood. While they gripped their carbines tighter with the thrill of upcoming combat, he reached up and carefully tried to turn the doorknob. It was locked.
It was to be expected but disappointing nonetheless. He reached for his lock-picking instruments and went to work.
* * *
Inside the lab, Fry was sitting on the floor, propped against a cabinet running below the windows. His shirt was soaked with sweat and so was his face. Things had escalated quickly but then again that’s what he’d been hoping for. He had to make a point.
He had to show the world.
Chapter 7
Maybe he should have taken a more passive approach, he thought. Then Fry shook his head. No, the government would have found a way to discredit him. He needed the public attention, he needed the TV crews out there witnessing firsthand what would happen after speaking the truth.
He wiped his hands on his pants and heard a sound. It was some sort of jingling coming from the door. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, doubt once again creeping up within him.
But then the doorknob turned.
There was no backing down, he had to do it! He rummaged through his pocket and found his Zippo lighter.
* * *
Spicer’s eyes were riveted to the bank of monitors. He didn’t know where to look because there was so much activity. The radio came alive.
“I got some movement.”
The voice belonged to the sniper and Spicer quickly located his camera feed.
At the same time, they could see on the screens, the SWAT team launched their assault. A flashbang was thrown in. It exploded loudly and caused the monitor to white out.
Spicer found a different screen to watch and witnessed the cops storming in with a dynamic entry, their red laser sights cutting through the heavy smoke.
“Police! Get down! Police!”
The SWAT team rounded counters, chairs and furniture strewn about, getting closer to the subject.
Spicer had his orders. He couldn’t allow Fry to be captured. Thinking fast, he pointed at one of the screens.
“Hey, he’s reaching for his detonator!”
Darrow glanced at Spicer for a second, but there was no time to argue. He couldn’t jeopardize the life of his men. He brought his radio up.
“High, ground, green light. Take the shot now!”
* * *
The sniper became jumpy as much from the order shouted in his ear piece as from the sight of the nutjob through his scope. But that edginess only lasted a fraction of a second. He was a professional, he knew how to keep his nerves in check.
He again controlled his breathing while he gently took out the slack from the trigger. He ever so slightly moved the rifle on the tripod’s gimbal and made sure the crosshairs were directly on the subject’s head.
When he had started out in the Marines, he’d figured that he would utter clever little one-liners with each kill. It didn’t take long to realize that death was a serious business and that there was nothing funny about it. This was especially true since he’d returned from overseas.
Exhalin
g one last time, he finally depressed the trigger.
* * *
The .300 Win Mag round flew from the football stadium at over 3,000 feet per second, passing through the open window, and punching into associate professor Harland Fry’s head. The body was propelled forward and out of the lingering smoke from the stun grenade.
The SWAT team stopped in their tracks when the man was immobile at their feet. They all aimed their weapons down at him but it was a given that he was dead. Half his head had been blown apart by the sniper’s bullet.
“All clear,” the team leader said for the benefit of his guys.
Within seconds, the explosives technicians rushed forward to inspect the device strapped to the dead terrorist.
“Jesus…”
“What is it?”
“He didn’t have a detonator.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Both technicians pointed at the setup around Fry’s chest.
“He was using a fuse, not a detonator. It wasn’t even lit up.”
“Shit.”
The SWAT leader was understandably relieved that the level of danger hadn’t been as high as expected. On the other hand, if the sniper hadn’t been ordered to take the shot, they could have arrested this man in a matter of seconds. Somebody had fucked up.
* * *
It was sunset by the time the commotion died down. There would be one hell of an inquiry, there always was, but for the time being Spicer allowed himself to relax. For once the pressure wasn’t on him. His mission had succeeded.
He had managed to talk the authorities into accessing Fry’s private office and it was bathed in an orange glow from the setting sun. Spicer flipped through a notebook but found nothing except for scientific formulas and notes.
Captain Darrow finished a conversation with a couple of uniforms in the hallway and then joined the CIA man.
“Some tech guys reviewed the tapes, said it might’ve have looked like he had a detonator.”
