by Bill King
Tears began to well up in Rhonda’s eyes, as she handed the phone back to Cortez. Rebecca Shaughnessy was also crying as she handed the phone back to the female FBI agent, who was sitting next to her in the family’s living room in Butte, Montana.
“Rhonda, we’re running out of time, here,” said Cortez, his voice rising in anger. “Either you disarm it, or I will…and we all know how that will end.”
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Rhonda walked over to the device and said to the NEST engineer, “Okay, I’ll talk you through the disarming sequence,” she said. “It’s an eleven-step process that must be done in order, so listen carefully ….”
◆◆◆
Epilogue
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL Sunday morning and the sun was shining brightly in Washington, DC.
“It is with great pride that I announce that the leader of the terrorist cell responsible for the recent rash of bombing attacks on Federal Reserve buildings throughout the United States has been taken into custody,” said the distinguished looking man in the dark suit to a throng of reporters gathered around him.
It had been a long night and morning for the FBI Director, but he looked as relaxed and refreshed as if he had gotten eight hours of sleep. In reality, he had gotten none. He had spent all night in the FBI’s situation room, while also keeping the White House informed of every step of the hunt.
Standing behind him were three senior FBI officials, two men and a woman. Like the director, they were also dressed in dark business suits and sporting American flag lapel pins. None of them looked as refreshed as the Director but, then again, none of them had a private shower attached to their offices, either.
“A joint federal, state and local law enforcement task force thwarted an attack on the Dallas Federal Reserve Bank earlier this morning, capturing the leader of this ruthless criminal enterprise, a Venezuelan citizen by the name of Mateo Calderón, who is also known throughout the terrorist world as Fósforo,” the Director continued. “Mr. Calderón is the founder and leader of the notorious terrorist group, M-28, which was attempting to expand its murderous presence into the United States. He was severely wounded during the capture operation and is in critical condition at an undisclosed federal facility.”
At the mention of the word undisclosed, the gaggle of reporters began to get antsy. It wasn’t that they weren’t happy that the notorious “Fed Bombers” had been captured—it was, after all, an exciting story with a happy ending—but they were much more interested in the apprehension itself and, of course, the present whereabouts of Calderón. Several reporters began to shout out questions, but the Director raised his right hand in the air, palm outward.
“Before I answer your questions, I’d like to finish my statement by saying thank you to the thousands of men and women in law enforcement throughout our nation, without whose courage, tenacity and sacrifice we would not have been able to bring these vicious criminals to justice.”
The Director took one step back from the microphone stand and was seamlessly replaced by the woman, the Bureau’s public affairs chief, who spoke into the microphone, “The Director would be happy to entertain a few of your questions.”
At least a dozen reporters all began shouting questions at once.
“Yes...Fred Holgorsen,” said the public affairs spokesperson, an attractive blonde in her late forties or early fifties, pointing to one of the national news reporters.
“Can you give us some detail on how the apprehension of Mr. Calderón went down?” asked the Post reporter, a pretentious middle-aged man with perfectly groomed hair.
“A joint task force working on the federal reserve bombings recently uncovered information concerning Mr. Calderón and his cohorts,” the Director replied with practiced ease. “We had reliable information that the group’s next target was in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex and, though interagency cooperation at all levels, we were able to intervene before the attack could be carried out.”
The Director paused to catch his breath but, in the split second that took, several reporters began shouting out questions again.
“Woah, slow down. One at a time, please,” said the public affairs spokesperson, holding up the palm of her right hand and smiling.
“Was the Dallas attack also centered on the Federal Reserve?” asked a distinguished-looking older man whom she recognized as a cable news anchor.
“Yes, it was,” said the Director, smiling brightly and pointing to another reporter.
“Was anyone else taken into custody?”
“Yes, two American citizens have been taken into custody for questioning,” he said, his facial expression now serious.
“Can you tell us anything about them?” a different reporter called out from the back of the gathering.
“No, not at this time. You’ll have to remember that this just happened a little more than an hour ago. We’ll have more information to share as the day goes on.”
“Is there any truth to the talk that the apprehension took place on the Mexican side of the border?”
The FBI public affairs woman ignored the question, pointing to a young reporter wearing fashionable glasses and a yellow sundress, and saying, “One more question…Alice?”
“Picking up on my last colleague’s question, we’ve been hearing reports that Mr. Calderón and his colleagues were already across the river and on the Mexican side of the border when the actual capture itself occurred,” the twenty-something reporter named Alice asked earnestly. “Were the Mexican authorities involved? Also, did any U.S. law enforcement officers cross into the sovereign territory of a foreign country and, if so, did they have proper authorization?”
“Alice, I don’t know where you got such a crazy idea,” said the public affairs woman, laughing as if the reporter had just told a naughty joke. “Okay, that’s all for now. My office will let you know when our next update will be. Thank you all for coming.”
As the three FBI officials turned around and walked back into the FBI building, the group of reporters continued to shout out questions for them, none of which were answered.
◆◆◆
Two days later, the two men sitting in a spartan office in northwest Houston were laughing and groaning loudly. Jack Gonçalves and Pete Cortez had been watching the latest daily Washington press conference on the flat screen television in the comfort of Gonçalves’ office.
“You know, it’s only a matter of time, Pete, before the fact that we took them down on Mexican soil becomes too hot for the politicos to handle,” said the ASAC, wadding up the wrapper of the candy bar he had just eaten.
With great pomp and ceremony, he tossed it into the waste basket about five feet away. When it went in, both men raised their arms in the air, as a referee would signal at a basketball game after a three-pointer had been made.
“You’re preaching to the choir, boss, but, you know, if I had it to do all over again, I’d still do the exact same thing. The very concept of a sanctuary for violent criminals is just something I can’t make peace with.”
“I agree, Pete. I also knew at the time that if I had told you not to go, you would have just ignored the order.”
Cortez said nothing, his silence tacitly acknowledging the truth of Gonçalves’ statement.
“What really bothers me is that we still don’t know very much about Graciela Montoya and her role in this whole thing,” said Cortez, choosing neither to confirm nor deny Gonçalves’ speculation. “I have a feeling this is not the last we’ll hear of Ms. Montoya.”
“Yeah, but I think it’s the last time we’ll hear of your old friend, Fósforo. The Agency has him buried so deep in some godforsaken hell hole where he’ll never see the light of day again.”
◆◆◆
By the time two weeks had gone by, the events in Dallas were barely even mentioned in the news. The federal government never acknowledged that a nuclear incident had taken place in Dallas, despite the fact that rumors to that effect began surfacing almost immediately. The sto
ck response from the government was always something to the effect that they could not comment on an ongoing investigation.
A small group of congressional leaders attended a highly classified briefing in the situation room at the White House and were given a reasonably accurate accounting of the operation. These same leaders were asked—begged might be a better word—to stifle any efforts by their colleagues at launching a congressional investigation into the matter.
Everyone agreed that it would be best if word never got out that a metropolitan area of almost seven million Americans came within a few minutes of being vaporized…and that their elected leaders—federal, state and local—had chosen not to give anyone a head’s up.
The FBI had immediately notified their Mexican counterparts about Rancho Buena Fortuna. Four days later, the Mexican Federal Police conducted a very public raid, after which they reported that nothing of interest had been uncovered. The Justice Minister publicly apologized to Graciela Montoya for any embarrassment or inconvenience he may have caused her or her family.
Rhonda Shaughnessy was allowed to plead guilty to violations of the Espionage Act and was sentenced to fifteen years in federal prison. As part of the plea agreement, she would be isolated from other prisoners for the first five years of her sentence. The alternative would have been a public trial for capital offenses for which life imprisonment, if not death, would almost certainly be the result.
As for Gwen Thompson, the Feds lived up to their part of the bargain and placed her into witness protection in an isolated rural community in southern Kentucky.
When the Venezuelan government formally enquired about Calderón and Isabela, the U.S. government replied that it had no record of an Isabela Sanchez ever having set foot in this country. As for Calderón, the Venezuelans were informed that he was being held at an undisclosed location and was still being interrogated by intelligence officials.
Mateo Calderón was never seen or heard from again.
Pete Cortez, without whom this saga would have turned out tragically different, received an official letter of reprimand in his personnel file for the unnecessary use of excessive force in the fishing incident three months earlier.
Two weeks later, the letter and all references to it were removed from his file and destroyed at the direction of higher authority.
◆◆◆
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bill King is a retired Army officer and former business magazine editor-in-chief who has spent nearly a quarter of a century living overseas in Europe, Asia, South America, the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent.
He is also a Texan, living amidst the diverse blend of languages and ethnic cultures that make up the Lone Star State. His firsthand experience living abroad as a guest in an exotic array of countries and cultures gives him a unique perspective on the magical blend of cultures that continues to marinade in America’s majestic melting pot, a truly unique treasure that we Americans sometimes don't fully appreciate or understand.
A graduate of Texas A&M University and The Johns Hopkins University School of Advanced International Studies, his writing attempts to weave the often misunderstood caricature of Texas and Texans with the sometimes unfathomable events going on in the world at large...fueled by a mixture of wry humor, action and suspense that will keep your adrenaline pumping.
He and his wife live in Nacogdoches, a small college town in east Texas.
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