He turned to watch bodies and limbs as they fell from the air and back to the lawn. People began running and screaming from the meadow. A crater nearly 20 feet across and several feet deep was created at the base of the steps. The people on the steps were blown back nearly to the doors of the Conservatory. Concrete and pipe tore through those beyond the crater. Those above it were blown to bits. Others were sprawled out like so many twisted, broken dolls. Smoke wafted around the crater, and the water pipes below the manhole where he placed the bomb sprayed into the air. Car windows all along the street were shattered, and glass spread across the asphalt. Car alarms were nearly drowned out by the screams of the injured and fleeing.
Reed turned and leisurely made his way back across the park. At Stanyan Street he caught the Muni bus. In 20 minutes, he was back at the boarding house where he rented a room. He took the footlocker from under the bed and the suitcase he bought at Goodwill from the closet and put them both on top of the bed. He unlocked the footlocker, taking out parts for a bomb, and laid them gently on the bed.
Reed had no rubber gloves and was uneasy about handling the two rods of uranium. He took the blanket from the small window seat and threw it on top of the bed. He left the house, walked to the Circle K store around the corner, and bought a pair of blue rubber gloves, a box of heavy duty garbage bags, two candy bars, and a two-liter bottle of root beer. He slipped back up the stairs and to his room without seeing anyone.
He practiced the assembly of the bomb over and over in Pakistan. A year later, he taught two groups of Palestinians to break down the bomb and reassemble it blindfolded. At this moment, though, Reed was in a panic. He couldn’t remember how to put the bomb together. His whole life had been building to this moment. He felt ashamed of his nervousness. He just killed at least 100 people. He bombed and poisoned hundreds of others. His commitment to global revolution was unwavering. What was this feeling?
Reed shuffled the papers in the bottom of the footlocker until he found his pencil drawing of the bomb instructions. He sat in the window seat and stared at the yellow lined paper. His vision was blurred. Around the paper was a flickering aura. Reed was seldom ill. Could this be a flu or cold coming on? He laid the paper down. He slipped to the floor, pulled his knees up, and wrapped his arms around them. He rocked gently, and a while later, he fell asleep.
One hundred and four people were killed by the blast in Golden Gate Park. Another 80 or so were hospitalized, many in critical condition. A number of people suffered bumps and bruises from being knocked down in the panic that followed the blast. The police and FBI closed off a large section of the park, and investigative teams combed the meadow area for clues. Teams from the coroner’s office gathered tissue and remains from the grass to try to identify bodies so badly dismembered that visual identification was impossible.
Chuck Waddell asked Cole to go to the scene. Carter Washington provided an FBI pass to get him through the roadblocks. Since Cole was an active participant in the ongoing case, he was granted permission, even though all media were being kept away until various law enforcement units completed their work. It was understood that Cole would be onsite as a citizen witness, not as an employee of the Chronicle.
The city was in a state of shock. The mayor made a plea for calm. The President made an appeal to the people of San Francisco to show resolve in the face of this cowardly act. He assured the nation that we would never bow to the demands of faceless cowards who murder innocent people. The President was scheduled to attend the memorial for those killed in Chicago. Wrigley Field would be used for the services, and all major league baseball games would be canceled. Many teams were flying in for the services, and a Who’s Who list of celebrities and entertainers were scheduled to appear.
As Cole drove to Golden Gate Park, he saw people everywhere standing on the street in small groups. Motorists were driving slower than usual. Blocks from the park, people stood on the sidewalks just staring in the direction of the bombsite. Cole circled around a bit and parked on Second Avenue about a half block from the corner. He walked up Fulton to Arguello and the police barricade. It was a little past 12:30.
A tall black SFPD officer examined Cole’s FBI pass and called over a woman in a blue nylon windbreaker.
“Mr. Sage?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“Agent Washington is expecting you. Please follow me.”
Cole kept his eyes on the large yellow block print that spelled “FBI” on the back of the woman’s jacket. Neither spoke as they walked a footpath through the trees that came out on the backside of the Conservatory of Flowers. As they rounded the beautiful white building, Cole caught his breath.
The beautiful gardens and spacious lawns looked like a war zone. The flowerbeds were trampled to the point of looking plowed. The lawn was covered with investigative personnel in blue, white, and yellow jackets. Squatting, bending, and sifting as though harvesting some unseen crop. Cole’s eyes scanned the area and rested on the bomb crater. The devastation was immense. The bottom of the hole was filled with water and looked like a shallow pond. Large chunks of the sidewalk were broken away and lay as far away as 200 feet. He turned and looked at the front of the elegant Conservatory. Windows were shattered and missing, like a giant jack o’ lantern of white.
Six weeks ago, Cole and son-in-law Ben met Erin and Jenny here for a picnic. Ben left the hospital and Cole played hooky from a meeting. They ate off white paper plates—chicken sandwiches on whole wheat bread that Erin baked that morning and potato salad of new red potatoes. Erin spread out on a red-checkered cloth. Jenny rolled on the lawn. After lunch, Erin laid back, arms behind her head, smiling at the sun—just to the left of where Cole now stood, watching teams picking up tissue and body parts from the grass.
“There’s Washington,” said the female agent, interrupting his thoughts. “I’ll leave you here.”
Washington waved from about a hundred yards away. He was in a group of four men, all dressed in dark suits. From Cole’s vantage point at the top of the small rise, he could see all the harried activity. What would he write? What could he say that would help the reader, give them solace? No one needed to see the images he was seeing: black bags and plastic containers methodically lay out across the meadow to be tagged, sealed, and transported. Cole walked slowly toward Washington.
Two miles away, Reed awoke and stood at the end of his bed. He slipped the blanket off the bed, exposing the components of the nuclear device that he knew would change the world. In his dreams, he determined that his plan must change. He would be the sacrifice that would bring light to a dying world. He would not escape the judgment of this device. He would bring on the rebirth of understanding through his death. The DNA he saw in his peyote vision he now knew was his own. It was hovering over a new world. He was no longer worried about what was to come. He had already won.
Jason Reed went to work on constructing the bomb. The first component was the firing unit. This was the most important part of the mechanism and the only part not an original piece of the device. The concept was simple. A neutron generator powered by a large 9-volt battery charged the uranium rods. The two uranium rods must be rammed together with such force as to cause a fusion blast. The most basic means of ramming the rods was a variation on a bullet. The “gunpowder” for this firing device was dynamite. The primary rod was encased in a stainless steel reinforced barrel, while the secondary and moving rod was at the opposite end of the tube and propelled by the dynamite. The detonator was a blasting cap tied to an electrical firing mechanism that could be coded and remotely activated, or, in this case, a manual switch that Reed would flip when ready. The speed of the rod’s movement coincided nearly with the detonation of the device. In the twinkling of an eye, the dynamite would create the nuclear blast.
Under the handle of the suitcase, Reed wired a toggle switch to explode the dynamite. When everything was securely mounted to the wall of the suitcase and, to the best of Reed’s knowledge, ready to fire, he clos
ed the suitcase and locked the two chrome latches. Across the switch, he placed a piece of black electrical tape to prevent it from being tripped before he was ready. If the Russian who sold him the bomb was right, the blast would take out nearly half of San Francisco, and the fallout and radiation would take care of the rest. San Francisco was the perfect target—heavily populated and accessible by only bridge or water. More importantly, the only evacuation was by bridge. The traffic jam and the time it would take to clear the city would allow the radioactive materials to contaminate 99% of the people.
The major radioactive contamination would be carried through the air. San Francisco, being a windy city, would ensure this within a matter of a few hours. The first to be contaminated would be skin, resulting in radiation burns. The material that entered the body through breathing would contaminate the lungs, then travel to the cells of every tissue and organ. Extensive damage would occur in the liver, kidneys, thyroid, and even bones. In the case of Jason Reed’s bomb, it would be 12 days before radiation levels would drop to where it would be safe to enter the city again.
Market Street is the heart of San Francisco. Reed walked the south end of Market the previous night, trying to decide where to detonate the bomb. Near a busy intersection and blocked from view by a Muni streetcar, Reed stole a test telephone hanging from the door of an SBC telephone truck. Reed spotted it coming across the street, and he simply reached out and took it as he passed. He stuck the bright orange handset under his coat, did an about-face at the curb and never missed a step. A half block later, he crossed back in mid-traffic and continued his reconnaissance of the area.
In the morning, he walked the other end and made his decision. He was ready. One last statement before he acted, one more chance for mankind. He would call the newspaperman; Sage would hear his last words. First, he had to be in a place where the vision could return to him. He must void his mind of the physical and return to the place where the spirit could speak and refresh the visions from the peyote ceremony.
On his way back to his room, Reed stopped at a small shop called Computers ‘N’ Stuff. It was run by a man in his mid-30s, prematurely grey, soft, and pasty white. From the looks of him, he never went outside and never ate anything that wasn’t from a microwaved package.
“Welcome to Bits and Chips!”
“It’s not a computer store anymore?” Reed asked, a bit confused by the pale man’s greeting.
“It is, I just can’t afford to change the sign. Bits—like bits of data, and chips—like, you know, computer chips.”
“Clever. That’s pretty clever.”
“Thanks. I thought of it myself.” The pale man was obviously starved for human contact.
“How’s business? Looks like you got some cool stuff.” Reed smiled broadly trying to put the man at ease.
“Little slow so far.”
“I’m new in the city, so I’ve just been walking around. I’ll need to get set up with a computer soon. I hate big superstores, though. This place is more my speed. You look like you don’t make people feel stupid when they don’t understand something.”
“Exactly!” The pale man jumped to his feet. “I’m Dale, I used to work at Best Buy. They fired me ’cause they said I took too long explaining things to customers. How dumb is that?”
“I know what you mean.” Reed lowered his voice. “They just don’t understand guys like us. We are ‘people people,’ you know?” Reed winked and gave a conspiratorial nod of his head. “Hey, maybe you can help me with something.”
“If I can.”
“I have an old friend here in San Francisco who doesn’t know I’ve moved here. Trouble is, I can’t find his phone number or address or anything. Is there a way we could find him on the computer?”
“Legal or illegal?”
“Does it matter?” Reed laughed.
“Only if you snitch!” Dale laughed, too. “What’s his name?”
“Cole Sage. We went to college together and, boy, would I like to surprise him with a visit!”
The sound of the keyboard clicking started before Reed finished his sentence. Dale hummed and bobbed his head as he typed.
“Here we go. Aah, unlisted. There’s your problem.”
“You found him already?” Reed said in false admiration.
“Yep. So, is it going to be a party? Or a private reunion?” Dale was obviously hoping for an invitation to continue hacking. “Phone Company keeps unlisted and limited-access numbers in a separate database, supposed to keep them safe. But not if you know where to look….” Dale gave Reed a big grin and awaited his approval.
“You really know your way around that thing.” Reed forced a smile. “If I know the Sage-ster, the party’s already started. You married?”
Dale looked down at the keyboard. “Tough here. Lot of lesbians. Hard to get a date. Your friend lucky with ladies?”
“Usually has a harem. Used to hook me up all the time. Don’t worry, we’ll be set once I get back in touch.”
Dale took a business card from the holder on the counter in front of him and scribbled information from the monitor. “Okay, here’s the phone and address. Hey, he’s down by the Marina. Got bucks, huh?”
“Didn’t used to! It all got spent on beer, babes, and bratwurst!” Reed gave a thumbs-up.
“Hey, you from the Midwest?”
“Chicago born and bred. You?”
“Twin Cities.” Dale beamed.
“Well, there you go.”
Dale offered the card to Reed. “Parties, yeah?”
“Unless he’s in an iron lung!” Reed looked at his watch and lied. “Damn, dead again. What time you got?”
“6:05.”
“You’re closed.”
“Looks like. Want to grab a beer?”
“Rain check? I need to finish reading an annual report for an interview in the morning.”
“God, I hate interviews. Next time’s fine. Hey, I got a good deal on a sweet upgrade. Built it myself, 200 gigs of hard drive. Six hundred, and that’s with a flat screen.” Dale needed a sale.
“If I land this job, I’m in,” Reed said seriously.
“Then double good luck to ya.”
“I better go and let you close up. Great to meet you.”
“You, too. Don’t be a stranger.”
Reed made it to the door, then turned. “Beer, babes, and bratwurst!” It drowned out Dale’s “What’s your name?”
Reed was out the door and on his way to Cole’s house. Dale went home in hope.
* * * * *
Cole saw no reason to go back to the Chronicle after he left Golden Gate Park. He listened to a briefing by the West Coast director of the FBI. Cole was asked if Reed made any contact since the letter. The behavioral science people told Cole to be prepared to be called again. They already had a tech team on the phones at the Chronicle, so any incoming calls and especially those to Cole would be monitored. Jason Reed was a classic case of repeat contact, a person who must assure himself that he was still in charge by contacting victims’ families, the media, and even sometimes law enforcement.
As Cole was leaving the park, he saw trucks entering from the west end with large floodlights. The investigative crews were going to continue working until the fog made it impossible. Carter Washington was put in charge of a review team to oversee the operation and report directly to the West Coast director. Washington and Cole planned to meet at 7:30 for breakfast and go over Cole’s statements. The director asked specifically for Cole to write the bureau media release. This was highly unorthodox and sure to be controversial, but it had been approved all the way to the top. This, too, would be coordinated with Washington’s team.
On his way home, Cole stopped at the Hunan Chinese Restaurant and picked up a quart of hot and sour soup. He kicked off his shoes at the front door and went straight to the kitchen. He poured half the carton of soup into a large ceramic bowl. Even though he knew it was a gastronomic violation, he took a loaf of sourdough bread from the b
readbox and tore it into chunks. One at a time, Cole dipped the dry chunks into the soup. The hot soup and bread was a comfort he sorely needed. He hoped it would help soothe away the pain and suffering that haunted his thoughts.
While Cole ate, Jason Reed was making his way to the Marina District. He got off the bus just three blocks from Cole’s street. Reed took the business card from his pocket and checked the address one last time: 2712, just ahead. He knelt, pretending to tie his shoelace as he took in the neighborhood. The sun was low in the sky, and the fog was blocking the harsh glare of a clear day. Most of the houses on the block were dark and looked lifeless. The soft lilting strains of an Indian raga floated in the air, but Reed couldn’t tell where the music was coming from. As he approached Cole’s house, Reed made sure he was on the opposite side of the street.
The light of the kitchen showed from behind the blind. As he watched, he saw a shadow go across the window. Cole Sage was home. Reed wanted to just go up and ring the doorbell, introduce himself, and show the know-it-all newspaperman that he was a serious warrior for the earth. He would tell the award-winning Mr. Sage that his precious San Francisco was about to die. It would die for the sins of a world drunk on oil and unconcerned with the consequences. He would tell him that Jason Reed would be the one to bring on the revolution to stop the rape of the earth. He wanted to see his face when the light of truth came over him.
Sadly, their talk could not be face-to-face. Too many things could go wrong. He would just have to use the phone. This time, there would be no eavesdroppers from the FBI to trace the call. He could talk as long as he wanted, he could tell it all. Reed thought of Mel Lyman. If he could only see what Reed had become. Reed sat at the feet of god, he listened. They thought he was too stoned, but he learned. Maybe not everything, but he learned. He refined Mel’s words, his message, and now through the truth they shared he would save the earth.
Helix of Cole Page 16
