by Alex Lukeman
"Nine mil. Doesn't tell us a lot."
"There might be prints on them."
There were dark stains in the dirt under the trailer where blood had pooled and coagulated. The flies had come. Hundreds of them crawled about in the dirt and buzzed through the air.
"Lots of tire tracks," Nick said.
"Gee, I hadn't noticed that," Sorenson said.
Nick ignored him. They came up to the trailer. The doors were closed. More loud buzzing came from inside.
"Anyone look to see what's in there?"
"Well, now," Sorenson said. "That's what we would've done until you jerked our chain and shut us down. But now that you're here, maybe we can find out if there are any bombs inside. What do you think?"
Nick took off his sunglasses and looked at him. Sorenson moved back a step.
"I think that if you don't drop the attitude, we're going to have a problem. Get someone to open it up. "
The FBI man started to say something, looked at Nick's eyes, and thought better of it. He turned to one of the agents standing nearby.
"Eddie, get the doors on that trailer open."
"About time," Eddie said.
Eddie put on a pair of disposable gloves, reached up to the handles on the doors, and pulled them open. The stench of death filled the air. The buzzing got louder. A cloud of flies burst out of the open doors. Eddie covered his nose.
"Jesus, what a stink. There's a bunch of bodies in here. It's a slaughterhouse."
Sorenson and the other agents crowded close to look. Nick and Selena backed away and stood apart from the others.
"That explains the blood," Selena said.
"Are the bombs there?" Sorenson asked.
"No bombs."
Eddie climbed up into the trailer.
"Looks like eight, no, nine bodies. Somebody used these guys for target practice. Then whoever it was shot them all in the head."
Nick turned to Selena. "I think we just found our hijackers."
"This isn't good," Selena said.
"Hey, Jack," Eddie called. "This one looks like he might be the leader. He's better dressed than the others. Got a suit on."
"Go through his pockets. See if he's got any ID."
"Got it. I'm going to roll him over."
Selena called over to him. "Maybe you should wait for forensics to…"
The trailer vanished in a burst of white light and overwhelming sound. Nick sensed something hurtling through the air toward him. Then, nothing.
Chapter 6
Nick drifted. He was lying somewhere, surrounded by light. There was something he was trying to remember. He couldn't pull it in. Sometimes it seemed like someone was talking to him, but he couldn't make out the words. He felt light, free, as if his body wasn't there.
That's not right. How can I not have a body?
He thought about that for a while, became aware of someone talking again. Telling him something he didn't want to hear. Something nagged at him, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Then he was moving, slow at first, then faster, being pulled somewhere he didn't want to go. He couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. He felt a hard jolt, like hitting the ground after a jump. The light disappeared. He felt thick, heavy.
He tried to open his eyes and failed. He tried again and they came open. Above him was a white ceiling. He was lying in a hospital bed. An IV fed into his right arm. He hurt all over. Someone was nearby.
"Nick. Thank God."
Nick turned his head.
"Steph," he croaked. His voice was raw, raspy.
Stephanie picked up a glass of water with a bendable straw and held the straw to his lips.
"Just a little."
He sipped. His throat and mouth were dry as desert sand. The water was liquid nectar.
"Where am I?"
"Houston. Methodist Hospital. You had us worried for a while."
His mind worked at it. He remembered standing with Selena while the FBI looked inside the trailer.
"What happened?"
"The trailer was booby-trapped," Stephanie said. "It blew up."
Selena.
Adrenaline surged through him. A monitor next to his bed began beeping .
"Selena?"
Stephanie put a hand on his arm.
"She's all right. The explosion knocked both of you down. You came off worse than she did. She got away with cuts and bruises. You were hit in the head by a piece of the trailer. It caused massive bleeding. They had to open your skull to let the pressure out."
He had a terrible headache. It felt as though someone had stuck a spike in his head.
"That explains the headache."
A nurse came into the room.
"Mister Carter. You're awake."
She looked at the monitor, checked his IV feed, looked at Stephanie.
"Are you his wife?" she asked.
"No, just a friend."
"I'm afraid you have to leave," the nurse said. "He needs rest."
Stephanie got up from her chair.
"Don't worry about anything, Nick. I'll be back later."
"Okay…"
The next time he woke, Selena was sitting next to the bed. Her face was marked with cuts and bandages.
"There you are," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
"You did. A piece of one anyway. You should see yourself. With that bandage around your head you look like a mummy. You also have some really colorful bruises."
"I'm getting really tired of getting hit in the head with something."
"Good thing you've got a head like a rock."
"I'm not sure how I should take that. What happened to the others?"
A shadow flickered across Selena's face .
"Sorenson's dead. So is the guy who went into the truck, along with two other agents. Three more were critically injured. Whoever planted that bomb knew what he was doing."
"Have you noticed how many times we've said that?"
"Said what?"
"That somebody knew what they were doing. If the hijackers were the ones in that truck, who killed them? Who's behind this?"
"We're back to the big question, aren't we?"
"Bigger question right now is where are those bombs?"
"If we get the answer to that one, we'll know the answer to the other."
"I have to get out of here," Nick said.
"Soon, Nick. Not yet."
Someone was standing behind Selena. Nick couldn't see his face.
"Who's that behind you?"
Selena turned around. "What are you talking about? There's no one else here."
The figure was gone.
"I thought I saw someone. But I don't see him now."
"You're tired, Nick. I'm going to leave and let you rest."
"Are you here, in the hospital?"
"No, I'm staying in a hotel nearby. I'm going to hang out until you're ready to go home. It will just be a few days."
"Selena…"
"Anna is taking care of the kids. I told her we'd been in a car accident. Someone has to keep an eye on you. It might as well be me."
Chapter 7
Dzhamal Abdulayev sat in the passenger seat and watched the Missouri countryside roll past, thinking how different this vast land was from home. He rubbed a hand across his newly shaven face. Americans had become suspicious of men who looked like him. He'd been instructed to shave as part of his cover. The feel of naked skin on his face was a strange sensation. In his wildest imagination, he had never thought he would cross into Paradise without his beard.
The journey to Paradise was near, of that he was certain. Dzhamal had no illusions about surviving this mission. The truck and the bomb were headed for the city of Washington. Why Washington had been chosen as the target instead of New York or some other city, was not his concern. Dzhamal assumed there were good reasons. The reasons didn't matter. When the bomb detonated his time on earth would be over and he would be a martyr, welcomed into Paradise, fav
ored by Allah.
They were traveling on an interstate highway headed toward St. Louis. Dzhamal's friend Akhmad was driving, keeping a few miles under the speed limit of 70.
Back home, the two of them had joined the rebellion at the same time. They'd become friends as they went through training together. The friendship had lasted, and now here they were. In the heartland of the enemy, chosen to strike a blow against the Americans who had encouraged and betrayed them.
The sun was shining, it was a fine day. There'd been no problems with the vehicle. Traffic was moderate. They were already halfway across Missouri. The next stop was St. Louis, where a room had been reserved for them in a motel outside of the city. Two days after that they would arrive in Washington, go to ground, and wait for instructions .
"What a strange country this is," Akhmad said. "It's so green and lush. Not like home."
They were passing a farm where several cows grazed in a pasture.
"Look at those fat cows," he said. "One of those could provide an income for my family for years. How did these people become so rich?"
"By exploiting everyone they could," Dzhamal said. "They are a greedy nation."
They passed a sign welcoming them to the town of Rollo.
"If I didn't know better, I would think Allah had blessed them," Akhmad said.
"They are all doomed to hell, you know that. They can't take their cows with them into the flames."
The truck came around a long, sweeping curve.
Red and blue lights began flashing in Akhmad's mirror. A police car had appeared out of nowhere, right behind them.
"Police! Where did he come from? What shall I do?"
"Remember what Ruslan said. Pull over to the side of the road. Use your turn signal."
Akhmad used the signal, pulled to the side of the road and stopped. He left the engine running. The police car sat behind them, lights flashing.
"What's he doing? Why doesn't he get out of the car?"
"He will. He's probably checking the license plate number. Stay calm. Remember, speak English."
A minute later, a state trooper got out of his car and walked up to the truck. He wore a flat brimmed gray hat and a gray blue uniform. A black belt crossed his chest. A shiny black holster held his gun on his right hip.
Akhmad rolled down his window.
"Yes, officer. Is there a problem?"
"Sir, are you aware that you were speeding?"
"Speeding? I was going under the speed limit, maybe 65, no more. "
"The speed limit here is 60 miles per hour. I clocked you at 68. May I see your license and registration, please?"
Akhmad pulled down the sun visor, where the registration of the truck was held under a rubber band. He took the phony license from his wallet and handed it over with the registration to the cop. Dzhamal pretended to be disinterested.
The trooper looked at the Texas license and at Akhmad, comparing the picture with the man. He looked at the registration.
"You're from Dallas?"
"Yes, sir. My father owns a store there."
"What kind of store?"
"Furniture. He buys furniture and sells it all over the country."
Beads of perspiration began to appear on Akhmad's forehead.
The cop noticed the sweat. He noticed the different skin tones on the driver's face.
He just shaved a beard.
"What's in the truck?"
"Furniture. Like I said, my father sells it. We're going to Washington."
"Sir, you seem a little nervous. Is something the matter?"
"No, nothing's the matter."
It had been a long time since trooper Costello had been a rookie. He knew the signs when someone was lying or trying to hide something. Alarms were going off in the back of his mind. He unsnapped the strap on his holster, kept his hand on the butt of his pistol and backed away a step .
Costello didn't know about the stolen bombs. At roll call the duty sergeant had told everyone to be on the lookout for anything suspicious involving a truck twenty feet long or bigger that might be carrying drugs. The cover story fed to police all over the country was that a large heroin shipment was coming up from Mexico. This truck fit the description, and the driver was acting as if something was wrong.
"Sir, would you mind getting out of the truck and showing me the load?"
Akhmad and Dzhamal looked at each other.
"Do as he says," Dzhamal said, softly.
Akhmad got out of the truck and walked around to the back. Costello kept a few feet away. His hand never left his gun. Akhmad opened the rollup door on the back of the truck. Used chairs, tables, and bookshelves were piled to the top of the space.
"Sir, please stand to the side."
Akhmad waved his hand. "As you can see, just furniture."
With his left hand, the trooper took a heavy flashlight from his belt and shone the beam into the interior of the truck. The light reflected from something white inside. It didn't look like a file cabinet or a chair.
"Sir, what have you got in there besides furniture?"
By now Akhmad was sweating.
"Nothing. There's nothing in there except furniture. Please, can we go?"
"Why are you sweating, sir?"
"I don't know. It's hot."
A light breeze was blowing. It was a pleasant day.
"Sir, I'd like you to unload some of the furniture so I can see what else is in there. Can you do that for me?"
"This is much work to me."
Akhmad's English was starting to break down under stress.
In the cab, Dzhamal listened to the conversation.
You know what to do if the truck is going to be searched .
Ruslan's words pounded in his head. He started to get out of the cab.
"You in the cab, stay where you are," the cop called.
"Okay."
Dzhamal pulled the door shut. He heard the cop tell Akhmad to start moving furniture out of the truck. He knew what he had to do. He reached under the dash until he felt the detonator.
He began to recite the Shahada.
"There is no God but God…Mohammed is his messenger…"
Dzhamal pressed the button. Twenty kilos of Semtex exploded under the bomb. The truck and its load ceased to exist. Officer Costello, Akhmad, and Dzhamal were pulverized into red mist. The metal surrounding the warhead shattered.
A cloud of deadly plutonium drifted over the peaceful Missouri countryside.
Chapter 8
It was late afternoon in Houston. Nick was sitting up in his hospital bed reading a Tom Clancy novel when Selena came into the room. Her face told him there was bad news.
"What happened?"
"One of the missing bombs was in a truck headed toward St. Louis," Selena said. "The truck got stopped for speeding and something made the trooper suspicious. He told the driver to open the back, took out his flashlight and looked inside. The truck blew up. It was a big explosion. Semtex, C4, something like that. The passenger must have triggered it."
"How do they know what happened?"
"They recovered the camera that was in the cop's car."
"What about the bomb?"
"It wasn't armed, so it didn't detonate. But the casing was destroyed in the blast. The plutonium core disintegrated. There was a breeze that spread it around. They've cordoned off twenty square miles. No one is sure yet how far the contamination extends."
"What about radioactivity?"
"Ground Zero where the truck blew up is hotter than hell. The immediate danger is airborne particles. It doesn't get much more toxic than plutonium. One small particle in your lungs can kill you. Once those particles settle out, the area is going to be a no go zone for a long time. The damage is incalculable, and it wasn't even in a city. They're evacuating the region, thousands of people."
"I wonder where that truck was going?"
"It could have been anywhere. The next big city is St. Louis. Maybe there. Or they could have been headed fo
r the East Coast or Chicago."
Nick sat on the edge of the bed.
"My clothes are in that closet. Can you get them for me? "
"It's too soon for you to leave, Nick."
"Maybe. I'm checking myself out anyway."
"I don't suppose it will do any good for me to argue."
"Nope."
Selena sighed, went to the closet, and brought the clothes over to the bed. She watched him get dressed.
"My. Your butt has all the colors of the rainbow. It's kind of cute."
"Funny," Nick said.
The doctor argued with him but they had to let him go. They gave him a bag of pills and a sheet of instructions and made him sign a release absolving the hospital of any responsibility. They made him sit in a wheelchair and rolled him to the entrance.
Then they washed their hands of him.
An hour after that, Selena and Nick were at the airport. By early evening they were back in Washington. By the time they got home, the twins were asleep.
"Oh my God," Anna said when she saw them. "Nick, you look like you got run over by a truck."
"I almost was. They've got some bad drivers in Texas," Nick said.
"I'm glad you're all right. The kids are down for the night. Katrina's been crying a lot, poor baby. Her gums are really sore."
"Thanks for being here," Selena said.
"You know I'm happy to help anyway I can. Now that you're here, I need to go visit my mom. I probably won't be back until late."
"Take your time," Selena said.
After she was gone, Selena went into the twins' room to check on them. When she came out, Nick was sitting by the kitchen counter.
His head throbbed where they'd cut into his skull.
"I've got the mother of all headaches. "
He washed down a couple of pills, went into the bedroom, and undressed. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. A white bandage wrapped around his head. His face was bruised. His chest, back, and ass looked like a psychedelic painter's palette.
He thought about taking a shower and gave it up. After he lay down on the bed, colored flashes of light began flickering behind his closed eyelids. He listened to the refrigerator in the kitchen. It sounded like someone talking in a language he couldn't quite understand.
