by Joe Nobody
Ambulances, fire trucks, and additional officers soon began to arrive, some of the drivers hesitant to enter what appeared to be a combat zone. The more time that passed the more everyone began to accept that the fight was over. No one had any doubts over who had won.
It was also obvious that the suspect was no longer in the library. Monroe observed his team standing around, helpless to do anything but watch the beehive of activity. He began shepherding his people back to their home building. It wasn’t good for morale to watch the wounded being evacuated from the battlefield.
Trekking back to their headquarters, the FBI team was sullen and quiet. The police had cordoned off the area, the normally bustling street quiet with an eerie sense of abandonment. The silence was broken by the jingle of Agent Monroe’s cell phone.
Looking at the device as if he expected the devil himself to jump out, Monroe almost didn’t answer. He was expecting harsh words from Washington as soon as word of the fiasco reached the nation’s capital. His sense of duty forced him to answer.
“Monroe.”
“Agent Monroe, Dusty Weathers here. I’m feeling optimistic, hopeful that you are in a better frame of mind to discuss my terms.”
“You son of a bitch!” Monroe yelled at the phone. Catching himself, regrouping quickly, the lead FBI man glared at one of his team, mouthing the words, “Trace this call.”
“Now, now, sir. Calling a man names isn’t wise, especially when he just issued your sorry ass one class-A butt whooping. Now be a good sport and reconsider my previous offer – before I get really pissed.”
Monroe’s face knotted into a scowl, his imagination conjuring up images of Weathers in his gun sights, hot slugs of lead piercing his body. “I’m not reconsidering anything, you scum. You are a terrorist and a traitor. We’re going to hunt you down and kill you – of that you can be sure.”
“So I was correct, rule of law in our great country no longer exists. The government executes citizens at will without benefit of juries of their peers. You’re convincing me I’m on the right track. Perhaps I should take even stronger action.”
The federal agent reached to disconnect the call, but some fiber of his soul was touched by Dusty’s words. A quick look ahead at the fire trucks arching streams of water onto the still burning federal garage terminated his hotheaded, vigilante attitude.
“Okay, Weathers. I’ll give you my word; we won’t shoot you where you stand. I’ll wait and watch them stick a needle in your arm after the trial is over.”
Again, the man on the other end laughed. “Bump my offer up the ladder, Agent Monroe. Do so quickly. I’m detecting an attitude from you, an official representative of the US government, and it sounds like you’re declaring war. If you want war, Mr. Ambassador, I’ll give it to you. I might decide to use my little invention on the San Andres fault and accelerate the inevitable slide of California into the sea. How about I take aim at the Indian Point nuclear power plant just 38 miles north of New York City? I could stand in the center of the Washington Mall and fire one shot in both directions. Reconsider, sir. Let’s end this before someone gets killed, or I change my mind and decide I want to run the country. I’ll be in touch.”
Dusty tapped the disconnect button, pulled the battery from the case and crushed the phone under his boot. The now-scrap electronic components were tossed into the back of the trash hauler parked nearby. He strode briskly around the corner and entered the lobby of a bank building, proceeding directly down an escalator into the Houston Tunnel System.
The nation’s fourth largest city sat upon an extensive network of pedestrian tunnels, the massive complex stretching throughout most of the downtown area.
Air-conditioned, wide walkways, many over 30 feet wide, connected most of the area’s larger skyscrapers. Shops, restaurants, newsstands and even clothing stores lined many of the subterranean passages. The system was popular, workers flowing down from the high-rise offices and cubicles en mass, using the cool venue to avoid walking the hot summer streets or the occasional downpour of rain.
Dusty didn’t take the time to browse the stores, nor did he intend to grab a bite. What he did want was distance, and the lack of traffic lights and intersection walk signals made the tunnels the fastest route.
He covered four blocks in little time, riding up an escalator to the marble floor of an oil company headquarters, out through the revolving glass doors and into the street. He jaywalked after noting no law enforcement in the area and entered a parking garage.
In a dark, back corner, he located the equipment stored a few hours earlier and began to change his shirt and shoes.
Five minutes later, a bicycle messenger zoomed out of the facility, his helmet, sunglasses and backpack appearing like any one of the dozens of other such delivery riders prowling the streets. The disguise was rounded out with a slightly soiled white tee shirt, the logo clearly indicating the rider was an employee of the Monroe Delivery Services. He had laughed with glee two nights ago when the idea had popped into his mind.
Dusty hadn’t ridden in some years; his only practice was zipping around his hideout’s neighborhood. True to the old saying, he hadn’t forgotten how to ride a bike.
He headed south, staying in residential neighborhoods and carefully crossing busy intersections. His destination was the Medical Center, a city within the city of Houston, a little over a mile from the site of his attack.
A collection of over 30 hospitals, teaching facilities, labs and research centers, the Medical Center could have been a major metropolitan area all its own. With an impressive prospect of high-rise buildings adding a second skyline to the horizon, the area was densely populated and quite upscale.
It took Dusty only 20 minutes to cover the distance. He had memorized a map of the area, realizing a real messenger wouldn’t stop and pull out a street guide. Without delay, he found his destination. Steering the bike into a small adjoining garage, he lowered the kickstand, locked the bike, and then hurried to the front entrance of the Midtown Lofts.
A client of Maria’s had a listing in the building, a one-bedroom condo on the third floor. According to his ex, the doctor who owned the unit had “completely priced it out of the market.” She assured Dusty that no one would be coming to see the property until she convinced the seller to lower his asking price.
Dusty rode the elevator to the third floor, his backpack riding easily on his hip. He found “312” on the door, and sure enough, a realtor’s key-box hung from the knob. He punched in Maria’s code, and the little container opened with a clang. The condo’s door key was nestled inside.
The place smelled of stale air and inactivity. He opened the balcony’s sliding glass door and the bedroom’s windows to circulate a breeze. The water worked, as did the air conditioner. It was exactly what he had expected from a dwelling that had been abandoned for almost a year, and he was content with the space.
After overcoming the restlessness of new surroundings, Dusty eventually settled on the couch. His curiosity peaked as he stared at the blank television, his mind speculating what the newscasters were reporting about the attack. On one side, he was worried that he’d taken a human life, the unexpected effect of the shock waves fueling those concerns.
On the other side, he wanted to see if his message had been delivered. His purpose had been to raise awareness and cause people to ask why. Why had this madman attacked Houston? Why had this idiot disrupted everything from my lunch break to my commute home?
The batteries in the remote control were dead, prompting him to operate the television the old-fashioned way. Kneeling in front of the boob tube, he found the power button and was immediately disappointed to see that the cable had been turned off, no doubt an effort by the owner to save money.
It took 15 minutes of fiddling to figure out how to source the TV from the inactive cable connection to the somewhat-workable rabbit ears. He sat back on the floor and sighed, three local channels broadcasting strong enough signals to maintain a clear picture,
one of those a Spanish language station.
Still, the local newscasts were all over the story. He was glued to the screen as helicopters provided aerial coverage of the “destruction,” while on-street reporters interviewed “survivors.”
It was at least 15 minutes before he heard the magic words, “So far, Bruce, local hospitals are reporting 26 people injured, but luckily, no causalities at this time.” Dusty grunted, disgusted that the reporter sounded disappointed in the lack of dead bodies.
Next began a parade the law enforcement officers, all of whom offered no comment regarding what had happened or who, if anybody, was responsible. The journalists did their best to draw out the cops, but they wouldn’t budge. The lack of official explanations didn’t hamper the reporters’ speculations, however. Varied opinions were offered that ranged from terrorist bombs to gas main explosions. One fellow even commented that the scene in front of the library looked like the site of a meteor strike.
Finally, a cycle of eyewitness accounts and interviews filled the airwaves. Dusty, having been there, was amazed at the discrepancies vocalized to the on-scene reporters. One woman claimed to have seen several masked gunmen carrying assault rifles, while another recalled seeing utility trucks in the area. One guy was sure it was a dual bombing, much like the Boston Marathon incident some time ago. On and on it went, the faces of ordinary citizens spouting a wide range of fiction and conjecture.
Dusty muted the coverage, leaving the images flashing silently on the screen. Sitting back and exhaling, he wondered how long it would be before there was official word that today’s events were indeed an attack. How long before his image was displayed on every news broadcast in the country? He actually wanted the coverage – the attention. It was critical to his plan.
Dusty hoped his message would resonate with the American public. He wanted people to seek an understanding of his actions to question his motive. Once they did, he’d be happy to answer, and hopefully, Hank and Grace would go free. Even more importantly, he prayed his government would reform – returning to the principles that had made the nation so great.
“You pissed him off, boss. You did it on purpose, and I think we’ve all learned something from the experience,” Shultz blurted out, no longer able to contain his opinion.
The junior agent’s timing wasn’t impeccable by any sense. Since the attacks four hours ago, Monroe’s phone had rung constantly, the callers including the director, both Texas senators, and a host of representatives. The governor and mayor had added their voices as well.
The head of the Houston office didn’t have the energy to explode at his subordinate. While most of his conversations had been positive, there had been a few heated words. Many of the elected officials seemed genuinely concerned, asking if he had enough resources at his disposal, what kind of assistance he and the Houston office might need. On the surface, it all seemed so positive – supportive.
Monroe knew better. The politicians were already calling news conferences, boasting of their involvement, bragging of their support and concerns for the people of Houston, vowing to get to the bottom of whatever had happened. How illogical, concluded Monroe. How can you promise to fix something when you don’t know what occurred in the first place?
“And what would you have me do, Tommy? Negotiate with a terrorist? Violate 30 years of bureau policy? Release prisoners just because some guy called and threatened us?”
Shaking his head, Shultz calmly replied, “No, sir, that’s not my point. I would suggest we bring in the bureau’s hostage negotiators – trained psychologists and other experts to handle Mr. Weathers the next time we have contact with him. You tried brute force, and he responded in kind. It’s clear that method isn’t going to work; the man won’t be intimidated.”
Monroe seemed to consider the younger man’s advice. “Why should we treat this man any differently than a bomber? If we had a guy running around planting C4, he could do the same damage. Would you be recommending that we negotiate with such a person?”
“What about the airplanes, boss?”
“The final report isn’t in from the NTSB. We don’t know if those jets bumped each other, if there was mechanical error, or if the pilots just freaked out as a side effect of Weathers shooting at them. I do not doubt that the guy has a powerful weapon, I’m just saying it’s not God’s gun.”
Shultz didn’t hesitate, “I’ve read the interrogation transcripts and all of the interviews. I think Weathers is a West Texas gunsmith who stumbled onto something by accident. He did what any of us would do. He sought the expertise of a family member or trusted friend. I’ve not seen one iota of evidence to support the bureau’s official position that the guy is a terrorist, or that he is under the influence of foreign powers.”
“I must disagree, Tom. The average US citizen doesn’t shoot at warplanes. We know he did because the satellites picked up the pulse. The average West Texas cowboy doesn’t knock down high-voltage towers or run from police. For sure, our fellow Americans don’t make a habit of launching an attack against a federal facility followed by a premeditated attack against law enforcement.”
Shultz sighed, appearing to hesitate over his response. Finally, he announced, “I think we’re going to see a lot more of this type of pushback. The Patriot Act, NSA scandals, public disclosure of our monitoring techniques and that mess at the IRS are all contributing to a growing distrust of our government… us. If I put myself into Weather’s head, and I had such a device as his brother claims, I would think twice about turning it over to our government.”
Monroe rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard this abuse of power argument over and over again. We don’t set the rules, Tom; the lawmakers do. I’m given a set of tools to use, and I implement them to the best of my ability. I, for one, am glad we are given these liberties. I’m fighting drug cartels that have a larger budget than most countries. They use sophisticated technology, advanced banking and accounting methods and play the corporate game better than most of the Fortune 500. We are fighting terrorist cells and jihadist movements that are as motivated as any Special Forces military unit, and almost as deadly. I’ve got organized crime syndicates from the Far East that make the Italians look like Boy Scouts. I’ve not even mentioned foreign intelligence services spying on our manufacturing, a spike in cybercrime that is more than concerning. I could go on and on, and you know it. I need every tool I can get – and then some.”
“I agree with that sentiment, sir. I’m just pointing out that many of our fellow citizens think we’re infringing on their rights.”
Nodding, Monroe replied, “On Monday they run around screaming, ‘Protect us from terrorists and thugs,’ then on Tuesday the marchers in the streets are calling us Nazis. The public is manipulated and fickle, Tom. If they don’t like how we are doing things, then they need to take the legal actions granted to every citizen. Vote, pressure representatives, and become involved in the process, not shoot super weapons at government aircraft and vehicles.”
“Aren’t we citizens too, sir? Don’t we hold some responsibility in defining what’s right and wrong?”
Shultz’s point entered territory that his boss wasn’t willing to navigate, the entire discussion leading towards the slippery slope of “Just doing my job,” and “I was only following orders.” Both men knew it, but the senior agent wasn’t in the mood to deliberate the underlying, ethical quandaries that had evolved in law enforcement. Monroe rubbed his temples with both hands. “Do I need to reassign you, Tom? It’s sounding like your heart isn’t in this one anymore.”
“That’s up to you, sir. It’s my job as your second to propose alternative theories and play devil’s advocate. If you don’t feel like I’m meeting my obligations, then you should reassign me.”
Shaking his head, the Agent in Charge grinned. “No, I don’t see the need - yet. Forgive me, but right now I’m exhausted and frustrated.”
Shultz’s reply was interrupted by Monroe’s desk phone ringing. Glancing at the caller ID, h
e answered the call with a gruffer than normal “Monroe.”
Shultz sat listening to a series of “Uh huhs,” “I sees,” the short responses accented with the occasional Okay.” The call ended quickly.
Peering across the desk, the senior agent announced, “They’ve finally figured out how he placed the call without being in the library at the time. The tech is on the way up.”
A few minutes later, a soft rap sounded on the office door, immediately answered with a, “Come in.” The two agents were fascinated as the FBI technician carried in a tower computer, complete with a cell phone duck taped to the back of the cabinet.
“He must have set this up ahead of time. The computer was logged into an internet-based voice system, commonly used to make free phone calls to others over the web. The cell phone was attached to the computer’s modem, configured to automatically answer when the cell rang. I was quite surprised to find they still made computers with dial-up modems, but then I learned that the models in the library are a few years old. Most people don’t even know how a modem works, let alone how to configure it.”
Shultz scratched his head, “So Weathers went into the library and set this up, and then left?”
“Yes. He knew the cell number of the unit attached to the computer and could dial it from anywhere. A simple DOS script was then used to have the computer’s modem call this office. Simple, easy, and very clever. It is also incredibly old school. Most hackers today don’t even know DOS script exists – 1990s technology.”
“So can we trace what cell number dialed the one in the library?” asked Monroe.
“Already done,” replied the tech. “From the triangulation of the cell towers, we have a generalized local about 6 blocks away from the garage. That number then made a second call to your cell, Agent Monroe. The suspect had moved closer to the vicinity of the second attack. The signal ended four seconds after he ended the second call with you.”
“I’ll bet my next pay check that second phone ended up down the sewer or in a dumpster somewhere,” commented Shultz.
