Extinction Level Event

by Jose Pino Johansson

Back in the relative safety of the now heavily fortified structure known locally as City Hall, McCarthy watches the horror on East Alondra drive unfold through the LCD screens along with the rest of the FEMA and LAPD staff. As soon as Ramirez's command helicopter is hit and goes down McCarthy's gut, more than the frantic inter -unit police communications, tells him that the situation has deteriorated badly. An deep and acidic feeling settles itself in his stomach as he watches the massive firefight erupt between security forces and the would-be hijackers in the urbane environment of Los Angeles. It is all that McCarthy could do but sit down and watch the Mayor, Sub-Commissioner, and FEMA officials try to get a hold of the situation. McCarthy walks out of the control room to buy himself a coke from the vending machine. In addition to being his favorite drink that he is nearly addicted to, the caffeine should help him stay awake and focused after twelve continuous hours on the job. He hopes.

  Grabbing the can out of the opening, McCarthy takes a sip and heads back to the control room. The Deputy Commissioner of LA had taken command since the loss of contact with Ramirez's helicopter, directing a large number of the units in South Central to converge and secure the crash site. As he watches, force lieutenants and sergeants speak in rapid, yet controlled tones to their squads in the field, who in turn slowly make their way to the crash site. Two of the remaining helicopters had taken up a stationary patterns around the crash site, providing fire support as well as clear camera footage. McCarthy saw to his dismay that there were five visible gunmen between the downed chopper and approaching security forces, who were locked in a firefight. Ramirez and the pilot are spotted by the second helicopter, when McCarthy notices whom they have between them. A bloodied and lifeless Manjak, lying on the ground behind several crates while being protected by the Commissioner. Another masked gunman appears out of a small side street, firing his pistol wildly at the Commissioner's position but is quickly gunned down by a aerial sniper.

  Several more quick shots ring out on screen, followed by two SWAT agents hurrying down the alley to the Commissioner's position. Ramirez and the pilot stand up, picking up Manjak's limp body and dragging him between their shoulders as the SWAT officers cover them, sweeping the area for more gang members. The two men of the hour trot as fast as they can with Manjak dodging debris, garbage cans, lampposts, and the occasional tree. After what seems an eternity they reach the makeshift police line, barricaded behind store fronts and sheds. An ambulance miraculously arrives at the same time, swerving to a halt two dozen meters behind the entrenched law enforcement officers. The commissioner and the escaped pilot with the ambulance's EMTs haul Manjak's body onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. An injured police officer is also placed in the ambulance, before the EMTs hop on board and shut the doors. The ambulance rushes off at high speed, leaving the embattled police once again by themselves on the urban battlefield.

  Ramirez, though wounded slightly in the shoulder where a bullet had grazed him, seems unfazed by the events, and jumps into a waiting police cruiser which drives off. The Commissioner's voice is finally heard again in the control room, quickly stating that he is fine and retaking command of the force from the Deputy. The good news at that point, was that the firefight had become significantly less intense at that point. The reason for this quickly became obvious when the lieutenant in the corner shouted, "Sir, they're escaping! Chopper three has an eye on a convoy of four vehicles heading south on Interstate five. Chopper three is in pursuit." Now, the situation on the ground quickly reversed, as the police went from being the besieged to the besieging. The camera from one of the helicopters shifts from urban geography and dense roads to four lane highway. No cruisers give chase to the criminals yet but a swarm of three helicopters is more than enough to keep an eye on the escaping gang. McCarthy realizes that he needs to get back to his own work. First thing- check the inventory and find out how much food and supplies the bandits had robbed from the FEMA trucks.

  McCarthy looks up at the inventory for incoming convoys for the day from LAX. Food supplies are being brought in from the Midwest, where normal levels of food production is still ongoing. Cargo airlines have been chartered by the government to fly in thousands of tons of pre-prepared rations and MREs to LAX, which are then distributed by FEMA throughout Los Angeles and San Diego. The inventory of convoy 6A included rice, potatoes, ready-made bread, and 2,000 kilograms of vitamins A-D. Is that what they were after? Vitamins? In the recent months it seemed that criminals were more interested in bringing products, usually food, from the United States than importing drugs from Mexico. With food prices through the roof, it was easy to see how the border gangs had changed their commodities to a more lucrative business. While most law enforcement would not see food ordinarily as anything remotely criminal, the nature of their acquisition was still clearly again the law and as such the gangs were still criminal. In addition they had not ceased their other, more traditional operations.

  McCarthy almost immediately decided that the food lost was paltry-but that the practice obviously was not. He also realized that now convoys would need police protection from LAX to the distribution centers, whereas previously they had gone without. There have been many previous incidents of theft of food, MREs, and other supplies, but never one so violent as today's. It was clear that the gangs would be taking greater risks.

  McCarthy approaches the Deputy Commissioner and the Mayor, who are discussing what to do next. "We definitely need protection for those convoys,", he hears the Mayor say. "We can't have a bunch of crooks running this town." "I don't know how many more officers I can spare", replies the Deputy Commissioner, "We are already spread thin as it is, between maintaining constant patrols and keeping guard over the distribution centers". "Then we'll get the National Guard as well.", replies the Mayor squarely. "I'll talk to Chief Ramirez, but I think that, at this point we need them. The situation most likely won't get any better. From experience, I can say that the gangs will become more confident and risky after today's trial by fire". "I'll speak to the Governor. So we're getting the National Guard here." "Definitely. We can't keep up with criminals who have the weaponry used today, especially if they turn out equally as numerous."

  The Mayor walks off to his office, leaving the Deputy free to return to monitoring the helicopter chase.

  McCarthy instructs a FEMA employee to call for a police escort for the next convoy heading to the South Central distribution center, and then calls LAX Cargo himself in order to make sure a replacement convoy can get there fast enough. Once that is complete he logs the days' events into his personal account, from which the USDA will get a brief summary of the events transpiring. With that finished, he dials Onassis to tell him in words about the delays any food shipments to LAX will now be experiencing.

  "You!", Krishnan violently expels the seemingly poisonous word, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "You!", he repeats, standing over a table across from the sitting Jackson Medina, who is staring just as aggravatingly and intently back at him. Krishnan can barely contain the flood of anger, frustration, and desire to simply kick the man straight threw the wall. But he knew that he needed to restrain himself if they were to get to the bottom of this inconceivable loophole of events. Here, in the second-floor conference room of NBACC surrounded by two three FBI guards as well as the Secretary of Agriculture, is not the time or place for loosing coolness of head.

  "You, of all people", Krishnan states more softly, "What have you to say for yourself? Is this really you? How could you possibly, possibly explain yourself?" Krishnan pushes the play button on the security camera footage from one of the parking lot at NBACC from September of the previous year. Medina glares at the screen as a hooded man is shown entering the NBACC facility through one of the side entrances into the large red hospital-like complex. Moments later, the camera shuts down. "You shut down the cameras!", states Manjak to the silent Medina. "You have access to all the security systems in the building! Konovalov never had access to the building. Yet you cleverly fo
rged all of documents allegedly proving his involvement in the organization. Simply because you collaborated with his company is not an indication that he knew what he was involved in. And his company signed a non-disclosure agreement as well." Medina sits quietly, looking at the video. "Do you deny these charges?", asks Onassis from the back. Having heard enough, the Secretary of Agriculture steps forward to the table and slams his hand down hard, reverberating across the conference room.

  "You can plead not guilty now, and perhaps claim that the evidence here is wrong and that you are innocent. You may try to refute the evidence. Or you can sit there and accept everything we state as the truth. Either way, we will find out soon enough." Onassis paces around the table, brushing the backs of the chairs with his hand. "Theft of an illegal weapon device under your jurisdiction and indiscriminate usage of this device on civilian populations, with the full knowledge that the device is unpredictable and untested in a live scenario, is not negligence. It isn't even abuse. It is very much a crime again humanity, a crime against this planet and every living being on it. I can think of no sufficient atonement for you. The Secretary of Defense will have to face his own trial for authorizing such a weapon which was specifically banned under the 1969 Accords."

  "I just have one question, really. . . . . Why?" Onassis leans down to look at Medina squarely in the eyes, Onassis's dark brown iris directly matched to Medina's slightly darker black. "Perhaps you cannot even justify this to yourself", Onassis thinks aloud, "But there had to be some reason for doing this." "Why?!" he reiterates. Medina locks his eyes onto Onassis, answering Onassis's single word question with a deafeningly quiet single word answer, "Faith". "Faith?", asks Onassis, stumped by the simplicity of Medina's reply. The quiet in the room becomes an eerie silence with the man's words. Even the FBI guards exchange quick looks of disbelief. "Yes. Faith. I had lost faith." "Lost faith?" "I lost faith in humanity". "Lost faith in humanity?" repeat Onassis, not believing the answer. "Well, you see,", explains Medina, shifting his body in the chair, "I've seen us do some many things, and we try to save ourselves from this, that, and the other thing. We humans are such hypocrites at heart. Lying, cheating, and stealing bastards, with no respect for each other. I finally realized the true nature of humanity, and you know what? Might as well give other species a chance to live and evolve in our place."

  Onassis and Krishnan listen intently as the man previously in charge of some of NBACCs most top secret programs revealed his thoughts on the world. "I was trained as a biologist. Everything that goes on around us is a biological process. I hoped that, by going to medical school, I would be able to help those in need of help, those sick, those dying. I imagined myself as a doctor. Of course that went well, I studied at John Hopkins. I then specialized in virology. When I first got the job posting here, it was incredible- working at cutting edge bio-defense in the hopes of saving populations against terrorism. Ha. Even the word. . . bio-defense? Who are we really defending against? The environment? No. The environment needs a bio-defense against us. Especially after all the decades of exploitation that we have done in the name of so-called progress. But no, we continue, even at the risk to ourselves and our civilization. We really are a greedy species, the greediest I have yet to be acquainted with. And believe me, the competition is intense. We say we like it "green", yet then build more polluting industries and power plants instead of building renewable energy sources. We finance enough wars to build so many hundreds of new hospitals and schools but instead spent the money on more violence."

  "Even in our personal relationships, we deceive our so-called friends and make new enemies. It must be a part of human nature. Friendship is a lost concept to us. Family is barely what it used to be. I've been through four divorces, and now I've got nothing to show for it. Everything is about business, and even that is so thoroughly corrupt you could hardly call it business anymore. The underground economy is more like it."

  "So I've decided, fuck it. If the planet's ecosystem goes the way of the dodo so will we. Then perhaps in several thousand years some of the remaining species will repopulate and take over, given a new chance at life without the worse pestilence the planet has known. Maybe, in a few million years, another, more evolved, and . . . shall I say, civilized, species will become sentient and once again give this planet a chance at true life. I'm through and through with the human species. When I finally got the green light to proceed with this project, I realized its potential and knew what to do. The hypocritical Defense Department wouldn't let me engineer something like Ebola or Smallpox, even though they still keep live samples in Atlanta. And it would be obvious to the other scientists. This, on the other hand, was ingenious, not to mention executed under their very noses."

  Krishnan stood in stunned silence, listening to the man's twisted rationale. Even though there were many aspects of Medina's rant that Krishnan reluctantly agreed with, it was obvious that the man had gone completely haywire. He glanced at Onassis, who was merely silently contemplating the man sitting at the chair in front of him, no less defiant than before his admission of guilt. Suddenly, Onassis snaps- "Get him out of here.", growling angrily. Two of the FBI officers snap to attention and line themselves behind Medina, one producing a pair of handcuffs. Medina refuses to give his hands, which leads to the officers forcefully grabbing his hands and placing them in the metal handcuffs. Locking the cuffs together, the officers get Medina to stand upright and escort him, now more willingly, out of the room. Onassis grabs a swiveling chair from the conference table, moves towards the window and plops himself on it. He face seems much wearier and older than it was only two months ago when Krishnan first met him.

  "What do you think?" he asks Krishnan conversationally. "Insane", replies Krishnan. "Totally insane. How did he pass a basic psychological examination? Let alone be assigned as divisional chief in this facility?" "According to his medical files, he had no psychological problems. None that he disclosed, it seems. He was a very focused and proficient researcher and leader." "He could be covering for someone else.", warns Krishnan, debating the plausibility of the entire plan being carried out by Medina alone. "Its possible," agrees Onassis, "which is the Defense Department is going to be thoroughly debriefing everyone employed here at NBACC, as well as going through their records again. They may be worried about other security concerns as well, now that we have already discovered this major one." "What are we going to do with him?" "I don't know. That is really up to the Justice Department to decide. So it's up to the Attorney General, although due to the spread to many countries I'm sure there will be many who will be calling for his extradition. That is the State Department's responsibility." "Konovalov was fairly close to him, yet didn't sense anything wrong or out of the ordinary. I doubt that anyone else would have been able to predict his move." "Most likely not.", agrees Onassis monotonously. "Sometimes people that we think we know so well will do things so completely out of sync with their perceived character that their motives will be known only to themselves, and understood by no one else, including those considered to be their closest friends," he muses.

  Krishnan takes a seat. The only consolation to the past week's events to him is now that the world would know the real reason behind the extinction of the earthworms, and that countries would hopefully now put aside their accusations and cease finger-pointing the blame at each other. Some cases, such as several countries in the Middle East as well as India and Pakistan, had drawn notoriety for the ridiculousness of some of the governments' claims.

  "You should be heading back to LA," comments the Secretary off-handedly, "I'm leaving for Washington, with the doctor. " "I will be, soon. However, I will be taking copies of Dr. Medina's research diary as well as all the files from Project Deniability that he kept labeled as Above Top Secret. I think that may help me and my team understand every little change that Medina made to the Stomatitus virus in order to produce EWK-1. Finally, it may help with one last idea that myself and Konovalov discussed prior to his arrest. Spea
king of which, is he to be released? He is an invaluable addition to our team, and frankly I think that significant progress has been delayed due to his absence."

  "I'll see to it personally that Dr. Konovalov is released immediately and is sent on his way to UCLA.", replies Onassis, standing up from his chair. "I have to get back to Washington.", he excuses himself and heads out the door. Krishnan follows shortly thereafter, heading towards the trio of elevators in the middle of the building. Taking the elevators to the second subterranean basement floor, he walks out and heads towards Dr. Medina's lab. Taking Medina's entry card out of his breast pocket, Krishnan swipes the card onto the scanning machine next to the lab's sliding bulletproof glass doors. A small green light along the scanner lights up, and the doors hiss open. Krishnan steps into the sterile environment of Medina's laboratory, one of the highest tech bio-defense labs in the world. The dimly lit room suddenly lights up as the motion sensors kick in response to his presence. Krishnan is surrounded by a world of multimillion dollar microscopes and molecular modeling supercomputers. Krishnan walks over to the baseline computer terminal and logs on. A triple password soon appears, which is quickly followed by a log-on sign. After finding out about Medina's treachery, Krishnan requested that the NBACC Software and Network Security department remove all passwords from Dr. Medina's system in order to have access. Krishnan beings to download all of the Project Deniability files from Medina's computer onto a removable hard drive, and subsequently e-mails the smaller files and images to himself. With that task complete, Krishnan shuts down the computer and takes one last look around before leaving the laboratory.

  Beep. . . Beep. . . Manjak wakes up to the sound of a slow pulsating bleep. Looking around, he finds himself surrounded by life systems monitors, defibrillators, IV bags, and blank whitewashed walls. He realizes that he is in an intensive care unit. The beeping sound that seemingly awoke him is coming from the heart-rate monitoring system, where the graph keeps going up and down with each of his heartbeats. I'm alive. The joyous yet emotionally draining feeling sinks in. Blinking, he tries to piece back together the last several events that happened before he lost consciousness. Quickly, he remembers the frightening helicopter crash and ensuing firefight and brushes the thoughts out of his head. Taking another closer look, he sees several IV tubes connected to his right forearm, as well as the other patient lying three meters away in an adjacent bed. The other patient is reading a book.

  "Hey", Manjak tries to start a conversation with his fellow bed-ridden colleague, "What book are you reading?" "The man lowers the book, also taking notice that the patient next to him has awoken. Dark tousled hair over rugged face shows a face "Of Crime and Punishment. I've always wanted to read it. Never got the chance to, though." "Now would be a good time, I suppose.", replied Manjak. "I hope we can get out of here soon." "They told me my leg should heal within two months. I don't know about you. Sir." "You could leave the formalities behind. Trip is fine." "John.", answers the man.

  Before they could continue the conversation, the front door opens and a young, twenty-something nurse walks into the room, carrying a telephone. "Welcome back, Dr. Manjak. She's been calling for the past twenty-four hours." "Who?", asks Manjak. "Your wife", replies the nurse. "How long have I been out?", asks Manjak, worried and curious. "Three days", replies the nurse, handing him the phone, "You had a lot of blood loss and resulting hypoxia. It took a while to stabilize after you went into stage 2 Hypovolemic shock shortly after the EMTs brought you here." "I lost consciousness before." "Because of the bullet's impact and physical shock", answered the nurse, as she disconnected IV tubules from his arms. "Hey honey," Manjak coughs into the phone, trying to sound as smooth as possible. Despite his anxiousness to get out, he felt very weak and, unlike his usual self, wasn't too keep on expending energy talking. "Don't worry, I'm actually all right." "Oh dear," rasps Sofia at the other end of the line. "Its so good to hear you, Trip". She stifles back tears, trying to control her sobbing. "We were here, for two days, after we first heard the news . . . and then they call us." She cries a little. "Its ok, honey, I'm fine. Doctors say I'll be up and running in don't time. How are the kids taking this?" "They've been so worried. But then, a few hours ago, the hospital calls again and tells me over the phone that you should recover, and that they hope you'll be awake soon. And all the while my heart is breaking. . . " Manjak comforts her again, as she cries tears of joy over phone. "You've been gone for so long. . " "I'm here, baby. I'll be home soon, I promise. Tell that to Max and Isabel. I'll be home soon."

  "Ok. I'll tell them. Love you." "Love you too. " Sofia hangs up.

  Manjak, glad that now his Sofia is no longer worrying constantly about his condition, grabs a bottle of Dasani water that the nurse placed on a table by his bed and drains it. It is jubilantly refreshing. Next to the water bottle Manjak finds a remote, which he uses to turn on the TV and flip through several news channels. After finding C-SPAN showing Secretary Onassis in front of a joint session of the US Senate Agriculture and Homeland Security Committees, Manjak increases the volume to listen in onto the proceedings. About ten minutes into the program, the door swings open again, allowing a dozen people to pour in. Manjak quickly recognizes McCarthy and Ramirez amongst the faces, while the others include several city officials, police, and two surgeons. McCarthy quickly smiles, handing him a printing of yesterdays' newspaper, exclaiming, "Glad to see you're up again. Read the front page." Ramirez adds, "A pleasure to see you up, sir." "Thanks, Chief", Manjak grins weakly back, as he wrestles the copy of the Los Angeles Times from McCarthy's hands. "What is this special thing that you need me to read so quickly? I just got up like ten minutes ago., and barely finished talking to my wife." McCarthy and Ramirez simply grin in response. He scans the front page.

  Dr. Maurice Resigns as Head of FAO. Are you serious? The words leap at Manjak like a predatory cat does at its prey. He continues reading, absorbing the suddenness of the news. Secretary-General Hartaagnaan Recommends immediate promotion of Deputy Director Manjak to post, pending Well-being and Recovery after Attack. Wow. Damn. I have to get to Rome ASAP. For both the family and the organization. He sits up straight in the bed. "I have to get to Rome ASAP. I need to get to the airport." "Wait hold on.", the senior surgeon clasps his hand onto Manjak's chest as Manjak tries to lift himself out of the bed, "You're going nowhere, son." The elderly surgeon, who seems to be approaching seventy-something, "you've lost a lot of blood, experienced shock and been lying unconscious for three days. If you think you can merely walk around this hospital, let alone put in more 24/7 work in your organization, God bless you son, but that's daydreaming. You should stay here at least five more days to recover." "I can't. I'll recover better at home.", counters Manjak half-heartedly. He's right, and he's the expert, Manjak reminds himself. This is your duty, Manjak. "I'll stay for two days." "Not enough," the old surgeon shakes his head. "Well, I need to go. Is there Internet access or a phone around here." "We'll get you that.", replies the surgeon. Two medical assistant rove in and start pushing Manjak's bed through the room. Taking him through the hallway, up two floors via elevator and into another room the assistants leave Manjak by a table complete with lamp, computer, and telephone. The surgeon follows, along with Ramirez and McCarthy. "We have to go.", says McCarthy, "Busy day", as he reaches for Manjak's hand, shaking it robustly. Manjak winces slightly, trying not to show it. "It was a pleasure working with you, sir. Good luck in Rome." "Likewise", agrees Ramirez. After saying quick farewells the two men leave the room, leaving Manjak with the internet humming to life while the gray-haired surgeon lingers around still trying to convince him to stay longer.

  Manjak reaches for the laptop, turning it on. First he visits news sites around the world, browsing from Novoe Russkoe Slovo, to El Pais and Le Monde to the Washington Post, catching up on the latest news around the world. He then checks for airline flights to Rome. Finding a connecting flight via London-Heathrow, he takes out his credit card from his clothing piled on the tab
le and pays the fare through the airline's website. Yes, I'm definitely going back to Rome tomorrow. He throws a brief glares at the surgeon's back before hitting the "Pay and Confirm" web button.

  10- NIGHT OF FIRE, NIGHT OF STEEL

  City Hall, LA

  Hours later, after the sun has long gone down, McCarthy, Ramirez, and several hundred others are still on duty in the towering heights of City Hall and adjacent buildings. The building, illuminated by the many lights from the surrounding structures of the central business district, produces a seeming whitish-yellow haze. Much of the city is a source of the phenomenon known as 'light pollution', a large accumulated haze of nighttime light produced by millions of individual light-bulbs and fluorescent lighting systems across the urban landscape. Some may even mistake the 10:15pm local time for late dusk due to the high quantity of light pollution emanating from the center of the city, especially for those working in the upper floors of the CBD buildings.

  After the recent and highly publicized attack on the relief convoy along Compton Road, the Mayor had declared a curfew between the hours of 8:00pm and 8:00am. For the past two days nightlife was cut down sharply, nightclubs and bars remained closed, people stayed indoors, and in general there was little activity in the streets. Violators were subject to immediate arrest and prosecution. Naturally, in reaction to the curfew, a protest was already being organized by grassroots organizations to be held within a weeks' time.

  McCarthy was at his desk, working the late night shift checking in on inventory coming from Ohio. Ohio, being an important source of wheat, corn, and other grain crops, was not a producer of tropical fruits or vegetable crops. Despite checks several months ago, and many consultations and advice from nutritionists, the diet in the rations was heavily skewed in carbohydrates and grains, with almost no vegetables to match. Unfortunately, this scheme was based on the availability of the food material more than on the food pyramid recommended by the USDA. It was ironic that the agency had managed to fail to follow its own recommendations, but that was the nature of the situation. Now, McCarthy was trying to work on deals trying to get farms in Florida to provide more oranges, bananas, mango, and papaya. The problem, of course, lay not only in the availability of what was a quasi-cash crop but also in refrigeration for the fruit as it travelled from one end of the continent to the other. Quality transportation was in high demand and low supply.

  So far, McCarthy was able pioneer a program adding dried fruits to the new West Coast diet. This eliminated the need for having to used refrigerated rail cars to transport the food, and made the food much lighter and tighter- making it easier to pack, allowing a more substantial quantity to fit in the space provided by one boxcar.

  In addition to the slow moving rail lines, air freight had become one of the most important links from the Midwestern states to the West since the epizootic's outbreak. Carriers such as DHL and FedEx, as well as a large military fleet of C-5 Galaxies and Globemasters, were using LAX and SFO as huge staging areas for delivering supplies. So far, millions of tons of critical food supplies had been delivered via aircraft. The additional air traffic led to lengthened delays at all the major airports and may complaints from airlines and passengers, most of which were left ignored. There was little anyone could do about it short of building additional runways.

  McCarthy catches a glimpse of a C-17 Globemaster taking off from LAX as he prints out an inventory. He watches the blinking red and green lights on the aircraft for a few moments before resuming work.

  Ah, what the heck. McCarthy gets up from his chair and stretches, pulling at all the muscles that haven't moved for the past six hours. Excel documents and pdf. files do get boring after a while. Maybe I need more coffee. McCarthy walks over the coffee machine on the edge counter and helps himself to his fourth cup that day. Ughh. Leaning himself against the wall, he stares vacantly at the nighttime blackness dimmed by the urban glare.

  Unexpectedly a huge flash explodes on the horizon. A Massive orange-yellow ball of light appears in the vicinity of the airport, dominating over all the other dimmer, steady lights on the horizon. What looks like a fiery fireball mushroom up into the night sky, creating a micro sun on the dark horizon. What the shit? McCarthy nearly spills the coffee all over himself. Is that an explosion? Oh, God, yes it is. What the hell would explode like that? Now? McCarthy slams the coffee cup onto the table, sending a brown wave flying all over the countertop and floor. Rushing over to the nearest phone, he dials Ramirez's office number. The line is already busy. He dials the city central fire department. "Hello? This is Michael McCarthy of the USDA, Deputy Relief Coordinator. I've just witnessed a huge explosion near the airport. I saw a large fireball, it still seems to be burning as far as I can tell." "We have already been alerted, Mr. McCarthy. We are sending units as we speak." "Alright. Good." McCarthy hangs up. The object that exploded had now begun to burn in earnest, producing a strong orange-yellow glow. McCarthy calls the Commissioner again, and after getting a busy line again decides to head down to the police command center himself. McCarthy practically flies down the several flights of stairs, wondering to himself how this new incident will play out.

  Entering the futuristic war room, McCarthy is confronted by a scene of seemingly organized chaos. The city Mayor, red eyed, is standing looking at one of the two main screens, which show what seems to be a huge oil well ablaze. What?! Isn't that?. . . McCarthy blinks his eyes, connecting the dots as he figures out he is staring at a picture of one of the airports' kerosene fuel farms, used to store Jet A kerosene fuel. Ablaze. The tank is only partially recognizable as a tank, as a gaping hole has been blown threw the side and top of the structure. The fire, burning uncontrollably, is recorded from a camera of a police helicopter circling around the blaze. As he watches, a firefighting helicopter approaches but slow down, hesitant to approach the massive inferno. Clearly not interested in getting caught in the wind tunnel that the blaze is creating, the helicopter sweeps off to the side and dumps its water load over an adjacent tank also ablaze, though less severely. McCarthy hears a captain roar to one of his subordinates some complaint about the helicopter direction and coverage, wary and suspicious of the possibility that this incident may also have been started by saboteurs or unknown malicious elements. The subordinate lieutenant rapid fires the Captain's instructions over the radio.

  Ramirez quickly appears at the Captain's side. McCarthy hears a few exchanges about "danger" and "wind swirls" between the two men, and as he watches the screen two fire-trucks come racing along an adjacent avenue. Like ants, firefighters sweep out of the vehicles and set up the hoses and waters cannons against the blaze, now pouring into the night sky reminiscent of a locust swarm on the plains. Jets of foaming water soon hurl themselves against the wall of flames now fighting its way towards the firefighters.

  McCarthy hears one Sergeant mutter "this does not look good" to himself. His co-worker gives him a quick admonishing glare at the remark. Another line of firetrucks and police cruisers appear on screen at the site, swarming the area with officers and firemen.

  "Sir, we have something else.", calls out a lieutenant from the left corner of the command center. The Captain and Commissioner head over to the corner stations, where the Detective puts up an camera image from a squad car showing a crowd of rambunctious people tearing around garbage cans and throwing what seems to be a homemade grenade at the squad car. The camera backs away as the car retreats. Ramirez inquires with a one word questions- "Where?" "Garden Grove Plaza, sir. They are tearing up the place. A shower of rocks, bottles, and beer cans suddenly comes towards the camera. The cops on scene, turn the car around quickly and head in the other direction.

  "Get me a street view on CCTV." "Nearest CCTV coverage is at street junction Lampson Ave and Brookhurst. We won't be able to monitor from those cameras, sir, unless the crowd moves that way." "I want a battalion up there at once. Full gear." "Yes, sir.", answers the Captain. With no visual assessment of the situation in the city's southern
district, the Captain takes over, directing the deployed riot control squads over the radio. Incessant radio chatter ensues, McCarthy barely making sense of it all. Ramirez walks over to McCarthy quietly, asking, "McCarthy. Aren't you supposed to be going over our logistics?" "Yes. I came here to warn you about the fuel explosion when I saw it and the line was busy. Do you want me to leave?" "No. Just stay out of the way. And, since you're one of the big fishes still around here that aren't force officers, could you do me a favor and entertain any media pukes who show up and explain to them that everything is under control." "I'll do my best." "Good." Ramirez turns back towards his staff sergeant, just in time to receive another startling report.

  "We have a another situation in La Habra. Two gangs from the area seem to have picked this time to start a fight. We have reports of shootings." "Perfect. Just perfect", is the sarcastic reply. "Sir?" "The district units? What's their situation?" "Trying to keep clear, sir." "Make sure they do; and back them up with the 15th and 17th battalions." "On it, sir."

  The Sergeant turns to the communications officer, relaying the Chief's orders. The Officer changes two of the half dozen screens at his console to project the images from the squad cars in the field. In addition to several squad cars, two armored buses full of heavily-armed SWAT are sent over as well.

  Meanwhile, the crowd at Garden Grove broke into several shops, looting valuables and breaking furniture and merchandise. A police car gets hit by a two molotovs simultaneously, shattering the windshield and torching the interior of the cars. The officers jump out in an instant, rolling on the ground. A wave of uncontrollable and wildness sweeps the assembled crowd, as they jump around like fleas from one parked car to another, breaking windows, stealing GPS systems, and causing general mayhem. It was quickly clear that the situation had turned from an unruly gathering to an urban riot.

  After another ten minutes, the main battalions begin arriving several blocks from the rioters and dismounting from the buses. Preparing riot shields and batons, the officers assemble into a line in preparation to push the chaotic crowds away from the shops and businesses. Chief Ramirez, observing the various footage coming in multiple car and personel cameras and video recording equipment, silently wonders what to make of it all. This unrest was entirely uncalled for; even though hunger and even malnutrition were creeping up amongst the city's population, so far the USDA's efforts at managing the city had not left such a huge percentage of the people in desperate need. However, it seems that that assessment must be mistaken, considering the number of people causing anarchy on the streets.

  The Commissioner ponders if this could all be another ploy by some of the criminal leaders to devote his forces across the city. With his forces currently dealing with three incidents simultaneously, perhaps they think that they could strike at another major target while security forces were unavailable. The first conceivable target would, of course, be the make-shift granaries at the airports and rail stations.

  Immediately upon suspecting this to be the criminals' plan, Ramirez quickly orders a flight of helicopters and armored SWAT cars be prepared for dispatch to those exact locations. "Get me the National Guard. I want troops protecting granaries and all key transport hubs-especially LAX and Union Station!" Ramirez is handed a phone by an aide. "Get me General McSteele on the line. . . . . Yes, we have two civil disturbances underway right now. We are dealing with them, but I recommend your troops at our depots be on high alert; I suspect that the rioters are a diversion. . . Yes, of course. We are making sure that doesn't happen as we speak. Will do." The Commissioner puts down the phone, turning back to the screen.

  Out on the street, James Watson, Lieutenant in the LAPD, knew that this was going to be a long night. Joining the force in the aftermath of the 1992 riots, the department was more than happy to accept African-Americans onto the team to increase its standing within the community. However, those riots were entirely different from the ones occurring now. The city had often been associated with crime and unruly elements, both historically and through negatively based media attention. That image had slowly been turned around over the years as social problems were slowly solved and issues settled. The people had been given what they wanted, be it justice, fairness, or equality. Ahead of him, his squad had formed a line twenty-four strong and were preparing to push back the tumultuous waves of ruffians who had seemingly sprung out of nowhere to wreck havoc on the streets of Los Angeles.

  Now, though, a new kind of situation had sprung its ugly head. When people are deprived of their most basic needs, the behavior changes all the more for the unpredictable. You never could know or predict how a deprived person would react, but you could rest assured that it wasn't going to be pretty. The last couple of months had brought strange new happenings to the city, as many people felt left alone and without adequate support by the government- even though the FEMA authorities were making sure that every individual was supplied with enough calories for a living. Criminals had changed trafficking from drugs and weapons to food, the kind of trafficking that would be found in a third-world country-but not here in the US.

  Watson didn't make much of it all. He simply knew he had to do his job in order to help maintain what remained of a semblance to civil order in the metropolis. And that included dispersing people who were behaving as if the world was ending tomorrow. . . .

  "All right men, you know the drill!" he roars over the din of burning buildings and mob yelling. "No deadly force!" The officers start moving forward, riot shields immediately taking in a barrage of rocks, caps, and a molotov cocktail. The cocktail fizzles, and then burns, splattering burning gasoline across the asphalt. Ignoring the hazy smoke, the officers continue, slowly treading their way over broken glass ,wood, and bits of concrete. Ash and particulate matter fills the air. Suddenly a group of twenty odd rioters turns towards the line, charging in fury. Armed with baseball bats, rocks, liquor bottles, and a shovel the mob comes swinging the oddball weaponry at the officer line. The two groups clash. An officer swings with his riot shield, hitting a rioter across the chess and face. The man falls, dropping a knife. Another takes a swing with a bat at an officer, impacting the uniformed man's helmet. The Officer staggers. The officer's colleague swings back with his baton. Chaos erupts as all-out fighting erupts. Punches are thrown, kicks, jabs, plastic and glass shoved into men's faces, abdomens, and other body parts. After a series of bloody punches, bruises, and full knockouts from wooden sticks and plexi-glass shields, what is left of the mob crowd breaks and runs. Another dozen quick-footed backup officers give chase, roughing down several more rioters to the ground and hand-cuffing them. The riot line advances, leaving behind three officers wounded on the road and over two dozen rioters bloodied and bruised on the pavement. The remainder flee into the night.

  Watson surveys the scene, instructing his men to bring the newly-handcuffed prisoners to a street corner two blocks down, where they will wait until the police could figure out where to keep them. Another square of vandalism suppressed. After reporting the area cleared to headquarters, Watson readies his remaining officers to head to the next city block.

  A far uglier situation started near Union Station, where several old warehouses were being used as granaries by the administration. As Ramirez had suspected, in an uncannily coordinated effort two large groups of minivans and pick-up trucks had descended upon the granaries after the riots started in the southern and western areas of the city. The granary depots, some warehouses and others department stores and strip malls, were only several blocks away from the City Hall itself. The National Guard had promised a group of reinforcements, but they wouldn't arrive there for another fifteen minutes. That left the LAPD and SWAT to fend for themselves. Upon seeing the officers, field reports indicated that they did not even slow down, nor identify themselves. Opening fire immediately, the gangsters decided to take out every officer in sight and take what they could. Ramirez had made sure that there was a sizable and well-equipped force on hand, and made it cle
ar to keep the gangsters distracted until the Guard units showed up from the north and encircled them.

  A giant firefight erupted when the gangsters poured out of their trucks and opened up indiscriminate fire in all directions. Several minivans backed up into the one of the massive depots near the rail tracks and unleashed loads of masked men. Upon seeing the doors to the warehouses locked, the gangsters turned to another plan. A pickup truck behind them came up with two men carrying RPGs, who promptly blasted a hole straight through the walls of the storage building. Men in ski masks swarmed inside, and like a crew of professionals, went to work immediately taking boxes and crates to the minivans.

  Three blocks away, the armed gangsters' escorts were duking it out with the police, exchanging heavy weapons fire with the cops, who were using anything they could as cover.

  The fire could be heard even through the thick windows of City Hall, over ten floors above ground level and a half a kilometer away. McCarthy, who had gone back to his office shortly after conversing with Ramirez, now once again stood staring out his window at the cityscape. He spots two police helicopters flying in directly over City Hall towards the rail depots, their rotors thunder breaking through the distance chatter of weapons fire. This is insane; McCarthy tries to convince himself. This city must really be going nuts or something.

  But, he reminds himself that, bad as it is, it could be worse. Several countries around the world had declared martial law in response to massive civil unrest, ethnic clashes, violent protests, and armed uprisings. Two countries in Africa were in the process of splitting in two, while South Africa had erupted in a wave of violence that left a weak government barely in control of the country. Massive street demonstrations in several southern Chinese cities had been crushed and military law imposed. There were once again rumors of war in Southern Asia as Pakistan now eyed the fertile Ganges river basin as a last bastion of agriculture in the region, a vital resource that was feeding its rival India instead. Brazil had started a vicious new campaign to tear down its remaining rainforest, not only searching for new exotic decomposing species but creating massive tracts of new farmland. For the most part unaffected and isolated by its location, the Brazilian government saw an opportunity to become a true agricultural superpower in a time of global need.

  Here in California at least, the situation was being handled and people were kept away from starvation. Nonetheless the increase in theft and violent crime had jumped as food became a much more valuable commodity than it was before.

  The battle around the depot raged. Ramirez instructed his forces to dig in, and make sure the large gang were kept in place. He knew it was a matter of ten minutes before the National Guard would be at the scene. The field reports were talking of many casualties on both sides, military-grade grenades being thrown, officers even being hit by a sniper. The gangs were becoming better organized, adapting to the new climate. The control center was abuzz with reports from all across the city, delivering successes and retreats of the LAPD. One riot had been put down, and over three hundred people arrested. Two more were still ongoing, with police forces scattered by a large mob where backup had not come in time.

  Over two hundred officers were hunkered down by trash cans, cars, and low lying walls near the depots, exchanging fire with the raiding party. One gangster had tried to use a pickup truck to run over the officers, but the glass of the vehicle strained after a bullet barrage, shattering and killing the driver. The vehicle continued pilotless, as officers dodged out of the way. It slammed into a building and a fire started in its engine.

  One of the officers radioed in a large UHaul Truck moving southwards along N Main Street. Southwards? The officers in the control room immediately suspect the destination: Twin Towers Correctional Facility, the world's largest jail, and only several blocks south from the current war zone. The facility, composed of two large gray blocks of concrete over eight stories high above ground, houses over four hundred inmates. The large truck increases its velocity, plowing down the avenue. Officers at the gate to the Twin Towers unholster their guns, the gates security cameras giving the officers in the control room a clear coverage of the mayhem to about to happen. Soon the truck appears on screen.

  The guards open fire, plastering the truck with hundreds of rounds. The driver, probably hiding or killed by the fire, is not seen through the windshield. The black and white image blurs a bit, a shakes as the truck crashes through the gate with a loud bang.

  The LA County Sheriff's office, located across Bauchet street a hundred meters from the Correctional facility, sends out all of its reserves officers. Two of the officers immediately realize that the truck could be full of armed assailants, and take cover with a view towards the truck's rear door. As if on cue, the rear door wooshes skywards, revealing over a dozen armed men inside. The officers fire several shots in succession at the crowded truck, taking down four mobsters before the remainder jump out and return fire. Another deadly gun battle begins, as the assailants attempt to fight their way into the prison. The Sheriff's office proves to be a obstacle to be reckoned with, as they take down two more armed gangsters while the rest escape around the truck and through the mangled and torn gate. The security cameras capture the masked men as they break glass doors leading into the prison with the butts of their rifles, pushing into the complex. Shouts of "Kill the pigs!" and "free the prisoners!" are heard over the voice receiver. Inside the facility, the prison guards open fire with grenades and shotguns from entrenched positions behind corners and low walls. CCTV images show the firefight break out between the prison staff and assaulting gangsters, before the lights are hit and the corridors are plunged into darkness.

  Outside the prison, the officer's from the Sheriff's office move in cautiously towards the prison, cuffing one injured but still alive mobster on the ground while looking for any others. A kilometer to the north, a column of armored Humvees makes its way southward, sealing off the gang's escape routes to the north and west. C'mon, c'mon. Ramirez prays for the National Guard to hurry. His men, fighting for their lives to the east, have used an Elementary school as a base from which they pushed back the mobsters' defense to a row of three warehouses by a small estuary.

  Moving at a quick pace along N Main street, the Guard convoy slows down near the Golden Gate Freeway overpass. Arriving at the huge supply depot, the Humvees are quickly noticed by the mob, who open fire. The Guard vehicles disperse, forming a large semi-circle to prevent movement by the mob. The TOW missiles mounted on top of the guard Humvees soon explode into action, hitting two of the mob escape vans. Mobsters flee from the burning vehicles. An RPG rips through the darkness, arcing towards a Humvee. The vehicle swerves but is hit in the rear, lurching it into a spin. The man holding the rocket launcher collapses after quick return fire. His buddies yell, firing back wildly. Two Guardsmen go down, clutching at their body armor. More heavy fire is exchanged.

  Another three minutes into the fight, it becomes obvious to the gangsters that they are outmatched. Several drop their guns and run towards a small stream, hoping to escape. Other runs towards the fences. The last, most desperate keep fighting, realizing that their backs are now to a wall and that there is no escape. Two helicopters arrive, showering the gangsters' refuge in a rain of iron and steel. Over a dozen suddenly throw aside their arms and raise their hands in the air, losing all hope. However, two who don't merely change their aim from the National Guard units to their former comrades, releasing them from this mortal coil. Snipers take out the two assassins. Soon, it is over as the remaining gang members either drop their weapons to the ground or flee. Those fleeing are soon pursued by quick-footed cops with handcuffs and K9 units. A low cheer erupts throughout the LAPD control room as the battle's end becomes apparent. Ramirez breathes a quiet sign of relief.

  Many other smaller riots still are in full force, causing chaos throughout other districts. The main two disruptions that erupted in Garden Grove and Pico Rivera were quieting down. But the gangsters' plann
ed assault and raid on the city's food stores had been foiled for the most part. Helicopter images show dozens of gangsters being handcuffed and led away to arriving police trucks in the depot's wide open parking lot. Ramirez gives a quick word of congratulations to his men as he instructs his officers to hold the gangsters at the location until the Twin Towers Correctional Facility is secured once again. Shortly thereafter in an ironic twist of fate, half an hour later the very same gangsters who attacked the facility to free the prisoners and criminals inside now found themselves prisoners in the very same prison they were attempting the liberate. Three hours later into the night the first rays of dawn broke out onto the city coming back to life.