The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Cavalino shouted into the radio for backup and kicked open the ground-floor door in front of him. Ejecting the spent clip, he jammed a fresh one into the Glock while racing through the deserted shoe store, looking for a staircase. He could hear some of his men behind him as he burst into the back storeroom. Two men carrying AK-47s were rushing down the back stairs, heading for the rear exit, when they saw Cavalino. As both automatic weapons opened up, he dove to his side into a narrow aisle with floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with shoe boxes. Their rounds ricocheted off the floor and tore into the wood shelves and shoes. Nick could smell burned leather as he rolled back onto his feet and dashed to the far end of the aisle, hoping to circle around to the exit door. He keyed his mike and warned the officers who had been following him, instructing them to circle around to the back door and block the exit.

  He reached the end of the aisle to find that it was a dead end. The shelving extended all the way to the masonry wall. The only way out was back to the center walkway, obviously being watched by the gunmen. Crouched low and creeping back to the middle of the storeroom, holding his pistol at arm’s length, Cavalino aimed it at what he guessed would be chest height, thankful that his backup had not burst through the stockroom doors behind him. He heard a soft message in his earpiece, telling him that they had the back door covered, and he clicked his mike twice to acknowledge.

  The room was unnaturally quiet, compounded by his hearing loss that was a result of the twin blasts from the AK-47s and the fact that one ear was filled with his transceiver. With his free hand he pulled the device out of his left ear, rotating the ear clip so that it would fit on his right, and switched it to the other side, hoping that it had protected his hearing enough to make a difference. It had, and it did. He immediately noticed a soft creaking of wood and looked up in time to see one of the gunmen ten feet above him, standing on top of the shelving racks, bringing his weapon to bear on Cavalino. Nick instantly realized that the gunman, who had climbed the back row and stepped over each intervening aisle until he found him, was only part of the trap. If he tried to run, the other man was undoubtedly covering the main aisle and would rip him to shreds. All of these thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant as he realized that he was trapped like a rat in a maze.

  Knowing it was futile, Nick dove and rolled, hoping to get off a lucky shot as the machine gun peppered the narrow aisle. The first volley somehow missed, and Nick tried to bring his handgun in line for a shot, when he noticed that the gunman balanced on top of the shelving was wobbling, trying to regain the balance he had lost from the recoil of the gun. It was then that Nick noticed the shelving was only the width of two shoe boxes, maybe twenty-four inches deep and nearly ten feet high. Still lying on his back from the roll, he spun his feet around, bracing them against a vertical support while pressing his back against the opposite shelves. Pushing mightily, he failed in toppling the shelving but did get it to waver, the motion amplified at the top. The gunman, still trying to steady himself, suddenly fought the back and forth movement, arms flailing madly, somehow still retaining his grip on the gun.

  Like a driver stuck in the mud and trying to rock the car out, Nick waited for the second sway of the shelving and pushed again, using the growing momentum. This time the unit swayed farther, and the gunman, unable to ride it, fell off, toppling down into the aisle next to Nick. Instantly, Nick swept shoe boxes off the second and third shelves, letting them scatter. He then reached through and pushed the farther ones into the other aisle, sticking his pistol and arm through the hole that he had made, followed by his head and shoulders. The gunman was scrambling to grab his weapon, obviously favoring his left arm, probably broken by the fall, when Nick, twisting his wrist around to aim, pulled the trigger. His first round took the man in the forehead, which was only two or three feet away.

  Not waiting to watch the gunman collapse, Cavalino pulled himself back out of the hole he had created in time to see that the other gunman had arrived at his aisle. A slight smile played across the bad man’s face, and Nick realized there was no time to bring around his own weapon. Actually able to see the trigger finger tightening, Nick braced himself for the inevitable pain, when he simultaneously heard the chatter of another gun and saw the side of the gunman’s head blown away. Obviously having entered abruptly through the door that Nick had used minutes earlier, two men in black SWAT gear approached the dead gunman and kicked his weapon away, while a third cautiously entered Nick’s aisle, lowering his weapon upon recognition.

  “Is there another?” the SWAT member asked.

  Nick pointed his thumb at the next aisle and said, “Dead. Don’t know if there are any more down here or upstairs. Only saw two.”

  The SWAT team checked out the rest of the stockroom before going up the stairs. Nick listened to the reassuring sounds of their routine…doors kicked open…shouts of “Clear” as they checked each room before they finally descended. He was content to let them do their job while he slowly stood and did some deep breathing, trying to neutralize the bombardment of adrenaline still pulsing through his body. His hands had nearly stopped shaking by the time they returned and reported that the rest of the premises were empty.

  It was not until that moment that Nick noticed they were all wearing gas masks. A sudden panic caused his shakes to return as he asked, “Outside? What happened?”

  The team leader, speaking through the mask, said, “Looks like about twenty teams, set up like this one. Second, third, and fourth floor windows. Canister launchers. You stopped this one. The snipers were able to get two others before they shot.”

  “So seventeen of the teams succeeded?”

  The team leader only nodded.

  “What’d they use?”

  “Modified sarin.”

  Cavalino suddenly felt very sick. Sarin gas was notoriously last used on a subway in Japan. The effects were horrible.

  One of the other three unclipped a spare mask from his utility belt and handed it to Cavalino, along with the oxygen tank. Nick pulled it over his head and securely strapped it to his face. One of the others checked the cinches and connected the tank, strapping it to Nick’s belt. He did a quick positive-pressure test and nodded that it was working properly. Nick slowly walked through the stockroom door and the sales area toward the front. As he approached the windows, he saw bodies strewn across Times Square, none of them moving. His first thought was about Stanley Witherspoon. He wanted to find him, or actually he wanted to not find him. There were already HazMat crews on scene, thanks to the mobile command posts that had been dispatched hours ago. Nick could see them, clad in full airtight suits, stepping carefully through the bodies, desperation evident in their demeanor as they searched in vain for survivors. Nick was about to go out, when he felt a hand on his arm, restraining him.

  “Sorry, sir.” Nick turned to see that it was the team leader. “We’re all stuck here inside this building until they can get full suits to us. The masks aren’t enough with this stuff.” Cavalino saw that the SWAT team or one of the crews from outside had already taped plastic over the door that he had kicked open, trying to protect the interior from what was outside.

  Still staring out the windows, Cavalino asked, “What about my guys? They followed me in here to back me up.”

  Even though the team leader’s face was completely obscured by the mask and his voice was muffled, Cavalino could still make out the emotion in his answer. “We caught the call for backup and happened to be about a hundred yards away. When we got here, your guys were covering the stockroom door, waiting for a break so they could go in to help you. When they got your call to go around back, we let them go and told them we’d cover this entrance. That was the last I saw them. They’ve been off the radio since then.”

  Still staring through the window, Nick saw something that made his heart feel as if it would break. About fifty yards away, in the midst of the fallen bodies, he spotted a bright pink Styrofoam chest, lying open on its side, the coffee urn and several Danis
h visible inside. The weight of failure felt as though it would crush him as he stumbled over to a shoe salesman’s stool and collapsed. The three SWAT team members respectfully turned away as Nick’s shoulders shook with sobs.

  א

  Margo and Bill stared silently at the live video from Times Square, taken by a circling helicopter. The scene on the television was the worst nightmare for anyone having sworn to a job of protecting the public. Unable to stomach the inane comments from the news reporters, Burke had muted the sound.

  “Not that it matters,” Margo asked, “but does anyone have a count yet?”

  “When I talked with our bureau chief a few minutes ago, he mentioned 18,000 as a rough figure.” Burke’s voice was bitter and subdued.

  “Oh, my God.” Margo sighed deeply. “What about the perps?”

  “Nothing yet. Most of them got away in the chaos. The ones who didn’t are dead. We’re trying to work our way in and pick them up. If we can get them to a lab, maybe we can put together some IDs. The sarin gas is slowing us down.”

  “What about the rest of the country? Any more events coming together?”

  “Don’t know yet. There were several in the works…I just hope that this” – he gestured toward the television – “changes their minds.”

  As in any major situation, the Director’s door was open. Staff had instructions to enter without knocking. Ricki Darling, deceptively named as her appearance and demeanor were all business, came in holding some papers. Ricki was the head of the domestic intelligence unit. It was her job to catch on to the Times Square plot before they could strike, and her failure weighed heavily, showing on her troubled face.

  “Burke…Jackson,” she said, nodding at both. It was her habit to address people by their last names. Margo suspected it was because that was how she organized information in her files, in her computer, and in her mind.

  Bill was the first to acknowledge her. “What’ve you got, Ricki?”

  “NSA picked this up a while ago…before the attack. No traces…no owners…disposable phones at both ends. Their signals went dead moments after the call, including the continuous signal between the phone and the system. They had been immediately disabled.” She handed a copy of the transcript to each of them, keeping one for herself, rereading it for the thirtieth time, hoping to glimpse something new from the words.

  Both Bill and Margo read the words, as well as the comments added by the intelligence officer who had caught the call from the computer that sifted through the thousands it picked up.

  “How about the hardware? In place and ready,” Margo read aloud.

  “Ricki,” said Bill, “I noticed by the IA’s comments that one of the speakers on the call had an accent. Do we have a read on that yet?”

  “No. European maybe. The language experts say he probably speaks several languages. There are, according to them, influences from more than a few in his words and sentence structure.”

  “Did you bring the recording?” Margo asked.

  Ricki reached into her brown folder and pulled out a CD, handing it to Bill. Burke dropped it into the tray on his PC, clicked the mouse, and the phone call instantly issued from the speakers. The lab had cleaned up and enhanced the voices so well that they sounded as if they were in the room with the three of them. The matter-of-fact inflections gave all of them the chills when they considered the nature of the call.

  “That voice sounds familiar,” Margo said when it ended.

  “Which one?” asked Burke.

  “The accent. I know I’ve heard it before. I just can’t place it.”

  “Anything in the backgrounds that would help?” asked Burke.

  “No. We’ve run it through the wringer, and there’s nothing.”

  “What else do you have, Ricki? We need some kind of break on this.”

  “I know, Burke, believe me. Nothing yet. Whoever they are, they’re good at covering their tracks. I wish we had just one of the perps in custody and alive.”

  “Me, too,” said Bill, looking disgusted at the direction the investigation was taking.

  “The good news,” said Ricki, sounding no brighter, “is that the other planned meetings are falling apart…fast.”

  Margo chimed in, “Nothing like it happening on this side of the ocean for people to believe it’s real.”

  Ricki Darling left, and Bill Burke picked up his phone. Glancing at Margo, he explained, “I think I’d better check on Elohim’s flight…see how it’s going.”

  As he punched the numbers, Margo responded quietly, “After seeing what happened on the steps of the State building yesterday, He’s the last one I’m worried about.”

  א

  Whether it was the intensity of the previous day or the subtle thrum of the engines, everyone was asleep but Elohim who sat quietly, staring out his window. His eyes were not focused on the clouds or the ocean below, but darted about, in constant motion. As the events in New York had unfolded earlier, tears had welled up in his eyes. In the time that had passed since the massacre, the tears had dried, the eyelids had partially closed, revealing only slits, and the sadness had been replaced with a growing anger, gradually escalating until anyone awake would have recognized a complete, unadulterated fury on his face.

  א

  Brad Dillon watched the crawl at the bottom of the screen, spotting key stocks – “barometers,” as the trade liked to call them. The disaster at Times Square had closed the stock market. The mayor was essentially putting the whole city in lockdown mode, and Brad could almost feel the selling pressure build. The stock prices moving from right to left across the screen were frozen as a result of the closure, just displayed in an endless repeating loop of the last trade value. His regulars, even the clients who remained bullish during the worst situations, were dumping their portfolios. The bottom-feeders, the ones who smelled blood in the water and bought stocks during a panic, profiting on other people’s fear or misfortune, were nowhere to be found, which was the additional impetus that had driven the Dow down from 12,000 to 7,300 in the last twenty-four hours.

  His attention flip-flopped between the financial information on one monitor in his office to the television screen. The news was also caught in an endless loop, showing nothing but the aerial view of the dead bodies in Times Square. Having long ago finished his stash of stale Winstons, Brad pulled a fresh pack from the new carton in his desk drawer and ripped the cellophane away. When his smoking had escalated from an evening indiscretion with no one around to a full-blown chain-smoking habit right at his desk, he had expected protests from the others in the offices, but none came. Certain he was busted when one of the senior partners dropped by to chat, he was instead surprised that the old timer bummed a cigarette and plopped on the rarely used couch to smoke with him.

  One by one, the world markets east of New York announced their closings, attempting to hunker down and stanch the bleeding. Brad just assumed that the Asian markets would do the same. Other than take sell orders from the last of his clients which he could not act on until the markets reopened, there was not much for him to do. For the tenth time he checked the current gold price and again was amazed that it had nearly tripled since his purchase. Doing the math, he reconfirmed that he had now reached his self-imposed financial goal that just a few days ago still seemed years away. For some reason he did not understand, the thrill of attainment he always expected still did not come.

  א

  Mario Bonavente knelt praying before the small crucifix that rested upon the nightstand in his room at the Vatican. News of the early attacks in Europe had struck him like a piledriver, each successive one slamming him lower into a pit of despair. New York being his adopted home and Manhattan being the location of his first parish, the Times Square attack was more than he could bear. As he prayed, he could not help but wonder how many of his own flock had been among the group so viciously killed…upon how many of those now lifeless tongues he had placed the Blessed Sacrament…how many of those now-departed souls ha
d been bared to his ears in the confessional.

  The Cardinal was unsure, as these thoughts filled his mind, whether God expected him to embrace them or force them out. Embracing them…vividly seeing and feeling the pain and sorrow…caused anger to well up within him, and he feared that, if left unchecked, the anger would consume him…would cause him to seek a wrong path. Struggling to force the images out of his mind felt like a betrayal to the faithful who had died. Torn by this dilemma, Mario Bonavente clenched his hands even tighter in prayer, his fingers screaming in pain, as he waited for God to give him guidance. His mind, for a moment, relinquished its grip on the agony and the trauma, reflecting that for once Mario Bonavente would receive his guidance from God in just a few hours and in person.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Reese had only seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel. Now that he actually stood before the frescoes, he felt a sense of awe and wonder fill him. Reynolds and McWilliams were also silently staring, moving slowly and reverently through one era to the next as the paintings told the stories of the time before Moses, the intermediate time from Moses to Christ, and the period that followed Christ.