Authors: Nathan Goodman
97
Cade put down the stack of Rupert’s oldest writings and fanned them out across the table. The yellowed, faded papers were dated starting in 1965 during Johnston’s tour of duty in Vietnam. Cade’s eye locked on one particular sheet.
“What the hell is this?”
“What cha got?” said Knuckles.
“Look at this piece of paper. It’s not old and yellowed like the rest. Hell, it’s dated a couple of days ago. Holy shit, that’s the same day he died. But it’s all gobbledygook. I can’t read any of it.”
“Let me see that,” said Knuckles.
Knuckles took the paper and studied it. Then his eyes lit up like a kid tearing the wrapping paper off a new train set on Christmas morning.
“It’s encoded! He’s using some kind of manual encoding to prevent prying eyes.”
“Can you crack it?” said Cade.
“Does the pope shit in the woods?”
“I’m not sure I should justify that with an answer,” said Cade.
“Yes, yes, I can decode it. Christ, it’s probably a cipher he got off of a decoder ring from a box of Cheerios.”
Knuckles rushed out into the main room, scanned the handwritten paper, then pulled it up on one of the large screens.
“What do you have, son?” said Bill from across the room.
“This was one of Johnston’s papers. It’s dated a few days ago, but it was buried in the stack of letters he wrote in 1965. Not sure how it got stuffed in there. Must have gotten shuffled somehow.”
“Or he put it in there on purpose so no one at the office would find it,” said Cade. “He was scary as hell. I doubt anyone would snoop through his personal war letters.”
Bill said, “Hidden in plain sight, eh?”
“Exactly,” said Cade.
Knuckles worked for a moment and looked up. “Okay, I was wrong; it wasn’t a decoder ring in a box of Cheerios, it was a decoder ring in a box of Wheaties, the breakfast of champions. The decoded version is coming on the screen now.”
If anyone finds this note, maybe you’ll understand the actions I’ve taken. I hacked into their server and downloaded as much as I could onto my hard drive. I just don’t give a shit anymore. I’ve been studying these files, and now I think I know why they’re so scared. The server is bloated with files the CIA has stolen from the laptop of someone who works at a nuclear facility. Maybe he’s the subject of their investigation, I don’t know. They exported all of the Internet searches from his computer, and it looks like a laundry list of events going on all over the country. I’m sick to my stomach. These are the same type of events where Americans have been dying in terror attacks. Since the CIA is onto someone at a nuke facility, I can only assume they’re afraid the terrorists will detonate a device at one of these events. They were supposed to catch the terrorists, not finance them. This whole thing has to be exposed. I love my country. I want people to know that. I’m a patriot, and I can’t let this continue.
Uncle Bill started yelling again, “All right, people, listen up. The CIA was investigating a terror cell, right? It looks like that file of Internet searches is probably one they hacked from the computer of one of the terrorists. Did anyone cross-check each one of the events on the Internet search list against all the targets already hit by a terror attack?”
“Yeah, we did,” said a woman from across the room. “There was no overlap. This list is completely separate from the events that were hit in earlier attacks.”
“That means we might be looking at the list of Internet searches for events that terrorist number thirty-eight will select from,” said Cade. “That’s the list of possible targets for his final objective.”
“But that leaves us at square one,” said Knuckles. “We still don’t know which of the fifteen hundred events he’s going to hit, or when.”
“All right, people, new priority,” yelled Bill. “We’ve been concentrating on what was contained in the encoded data that Mr. Williams brought us. That’s everything encrypted or hidden. Let’s start looking at all the files in plain sight. Team three and six, I want you looking at every file that’s sitting on that computer. Look in all the usual folders, My Documents, My Pictures, My Videos, all that crap. Now move!”
98
Agents along the perimeter of the bluegrass festival were again checking in with each other on the secure radio frequency and updating their status.
“Sector eight, all quiet. 100 percent coverage.”
“Sector five, all quiet. 95 percent coverage.”
Every large truck that had been used to bring in equipment for the various bluegrass bands had been searched. Other trucks that were used to bring in equipment for stages, lighting, and sound were equally empty. All of the stages themselves had been searched, including underneath. One agent even got into a tussle with a roadie when the agent insisted on opening a set of huge amplifiers to see what was inside. The only area that hadn’t been fully covered at this point was vendor row, and even that didn’t seem like much of a possibility.
There were a lot of vendors, but most of them had pop-up awnings stretched over folding tables. Many of their vehicles were open pickup trucks, hardly good places to hide a nuclear device, even a small one. Not to mention that virtually no one at this event looked even remotely Middle Eastern. The crowd was at least 99 percent Caucasian—pure southern Kentucky.
Jana radioed back to the other agents, “Sector four, all quiet. I’m at 50 percent coverage here.”
Her head pounded. She must have covered a hundred vehicles, tables, and tents, and there were still many more to go.
At the top of the hill, Jana turned in a full circle; the view spanned the entire venue. In spite of her headache, she drank in how beautiful this place was. The headache itself felt like a water pot at a low simmer—strong enough to put out steam, but not strong enough to boil over. She rubbed her neck, trying to loosen the tightening ropes.
An old man’s voice called out to her. “Little miss? Miss? Ya don’ look so well,” said the man from a mouth that had once held more teeth. “Kin I git cha somethin’ fer that head a your’n?”
His blue-jean overalls were faded, and he reminded her of her grandpa standing on his wide-open farmhouse porch.
“Now, don’ be polite and go off’n say no,” he said. “I’ll jes make ya take them aspirin anyway. I seen that look in my own mirror more’n a time or two in my day. Ain’t pleasant, but it’ll pass.”
He stood behind a table full of the most colorful display of antique glass bottles Jana had ever seen.
“Thank you,” said Jana. “Yes, thank you. I’d love some aspirin. Your antique bottles are wonderful, by the way. Just wonderful.”
She squinted into the colors kaleidoscoped against the sun’s rays, which pierced a lime green bottle, bounced sideways through a pinkish red, and finally into deep, azure blue.
“Yer not from ’roun’ here, is ya? Well, don’ worry ’bout that none,” said the old man. “We don’ hold it agin ya. And we won’ bite none, neither.”
He pulled out a small box labeled “Goody’s,” removed one of the folded wax paper packets, and walked to her.
“Here, pour this’n powdered aspirin on yer tongue and drink ’er down with some of this here water.”
Jana accepted his hospitality and felt her own grandfather’s gaze in the soft crinkly eyes. She could almost smell her grandpa’s Aqua Velva aftershave.
The man looked across the sea of people and smiled through his remaining crooked teeth.
“It’s a sight, ain’ it? Festival’s been goin’ on since I was jes a youngin. My grandpappy used to take me here.” Holding out his hands, he inhaled deeply. “Breathe it all in, missy. This is what the Bible means when it say thy kingdom come. This is heaven come to earth, right cheer in front of us. These days though, I don’ know; seems they’s lots a youngins jes wanderin’ ’round like they’s lookin’ fer sumpin. Reminds me of the d’pression; folks wanderin’ to and fro, always lookin’ fer sumpin. Ain’ no d’pression no more,” he said, tilting his straw hat. “Like them youngins in the sixties; they’s lookin’ fer America or sumpin. Well, if they’s still lookin’ fer America, you ain’ got to go no farther. America’s here. She’s right here.”
A single thought crossed Jana’s mind. The terrorists were attacking things uniquely American.
America, it was right here.
She became uneasy, and a cold shiver rode the length of her spine.
99
A man on team three yelled across the room, “There’s only one file in the My Videos folder. I’m watching the video now, but I don’t know what it is. It’s some kind of military special ops raid or something.”
Bill ran over to the monitor and peered down. The dark greens in the video vibrated almost to a point of complete distortion, and a digital time stamp in the bottom right corner counted off the seconds.
“Night vision goggles,” said Bill. “This is being recorded through night vision goggles. It’s definitely a special ops raid; you’re right about that. But where the hell is this? It’s inside a house or something. I don’t get it. What’s the significance?”
They watched the video as the military unit breached doors and scaled flights of stairs inside a building.
“Oh shit, they just shot that guy,” said Bill. “Jesus, yeah, this isn’t some clip from a movie, this is real.”
“So why is this the only video in the whole folder?” said Cade. “What’s the file name of the video?”
“Ah, the file name is ‘2011-05-01-BL.wmv.’”
Bill stood up straight, and his mouth dropped open. “That’s a date. Five-one, two thousand eleven? May first, 2011?” Bill glanced at a clock high on the wall. The clock read 2:10 p.m. “Oh my God.”
100
Bill bolted towards team six who was analyzing images found on the laptop. “Anything?” His eyes screamed desperation, like he might vomit.
“There’s a bunch of images, sir. But it’s all like, family stuff,” said a balding man with glasses and at least three chins. “Pictures of a dad and some kids.”
“Yeah,” said Bill, “but that’s an image of Shakhar Kundi! Flip through these as fast as you can.”
Bill wheeled around, tripping on the edge of a desk, then yelled, “Anybody else got anything!”
“Well, sir,” said the same man, “here’s one that’s out of place. I don’t know what it is. There are a thousand family photos in here, then all of a sudden there’s this.”
Uncle Bill spun back around. The photo was taken from inside a business office, high above a metal desk and office chair. Manila folders and files were scattered across the desk.
“The photo’s just stuck in the middle of all these pictures of him and his kids.”
“Ah, all right,” said Bill, “put it on screen six. Look sharp, everyone. See anything? Shit, there’s not much to see. Why is this picture in here?”
“What’s that on the bottom of the screen?” said Knuckles. “Looks like some kind of brochure or poster or something. Let’s zoom in on that.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the man. “It’s all obscured by the folder sitting on top of it.”
In the image, the small, tan poster sat underneath a manila file folder. Only a small section of the poster was visible. It read:
arty and Hog Roast
ille, Kentucky
aturday, May 1
“No, no, no, no! Gimme the phone!” screamed Bill.
101
At the mobile command center, Latent looked over his shoulder.
“Hey, is that the satphone I hear ringing?” he said to the sheriff. “Hey, Deputy? Can you grab that call for me? Probably another one of the teams checking in. Should be on the front seat. Yeah, just hit the red button.” Then Latent continued his conversation with the sheriff.
The deputy answered the phone but yanked it away from his ear, wincing in pain against the volume. He ran to Latent.
“Sir! Call for you.” He clutched the phone tightly as if he was holding his mother’s antique china and was terrified he’d drop it.
“Tell them I’ll be there in just a sec,” Latent said to the deputy.
“Sir,” implored the deputy. “He, he says it’s urgent! Something about a bright boy? He says his name is Uncle Bill.”
Latent’s eyes rocketed wide, and he grabbed the phone.
“Holy shit. Bill? Bright boy? What do you have?”
“Stevethere’snotimetoexplain!” yelled Bill. “Get out of there! Get everybody out of there. You’ve got to evacuate! You’ve got to evacuate RIGHT THE FUCK RIGHT NOW!”
Latent spun around and stared into the vast sea of people sprawled out in front of him.
“Jesus Christ, Bill . . . we . . . we can’t! There’s no way to get these people out of here quickly on these mountain roads. What? What is it? What do you know?”
“He’s there! He’s there! We’ve got files from his old work laptop. There are searches, Steve! Internet searches. My God. It’s right in front of me. He searched the term festivals. Then he spent a lot of time on a website that was all about a festival called ‘Tammy Lynn’s Bluegrass Pickin’ Party and Hog Roast,’ Pineville, Kentucky. That’s you! He’s going to detonate!”
Latent’s worst fears flooded over him, and his knees went weak.
“God help us . . . Bill, there are sixteen thousand people here. How am I going to get them out? These mountain roads . . . how much time do we have?”
“Steve, listen closely. This terrorist group is all about timing. This is a timed event. It’s all about Bin Laden. This is retribution for Bin Laden . . . they’re going to detonate on the anniversary of his assassination, at the precise time of day he was killed in Pakistan. It’s today! May 1. Don’t ask me the details, it’s today!”
“But what time today?”
“Adjusted for your local time, the Bin Laden assassination was at 2:16 p.m. Eastern.” Bill’s voice settled into a low, defeated tone. “You’ve got four minutes.”
102
Shakey looked at his watch. 2:12 p.m. Four minutes to go. He reached inside the mouth of the thick, steel-walled canister, its faded pea-green paint flaking off in spots around the rim. His hands shook as he reached in to remove the smaller canister of helium nestled at the top. As he pulled it out, the pressure hose thudded against the thick steel and caused him to freeze. He laid the helium canister on the prayer rug to prevent any sounds coming from the van’s ridged metal floor. Beads of sweat matted against his hair. His breathing was choppy.
Inside and halfway down the length of the canister hovered a perfect sphere four inches across—the uranium core. It was suspended in midair by a series of powerful magnets on all sides. His instructions were simple. To initiate the nuclear reaction, push the core downwards out of the first magnetic field. It would enter a second magnetic field and would be propelled downwards into an industrial-strength magnet at the base and smash into the detonator. From there, the nuclear reaction would ensue, and within seconds, every living thing at the festival would attain an internal temperature of 1500 degrees Fahrenheit. A small-scale Hiroshima.
He looked at his watch. 2:13 p.m. Three minutes to go. Staring at the sphere, Shakey’s breathing slowed. There was no point in fretting the inevitable.
103
The deputy stood motionless and watched as the satellite phone dropped from Director Latent’s hand. He didn’t know what a bright boy alert was, but the look of terror in the FBI man’s face was paralyzing, and it infected all around him. The satellite phone seemed to hang in space for just a moment and then dropped towards earth, bouncing hard on the rock-like dirt. The deputy jerked backwards as Latent yelled into his radio, “ALL TEAMS, ALL TEAMS. BRIGHT BOY, I REPEAT, BRIGHT BOY. The bomb is here! We’re out of time! Report in! Any sector not 100 percent contained?”
Jana spun in her tracks and looked back in the direction of the mobile command center, accidentally knocking the old man into his table of glass bottles. Several bottles rattled and knocked into one another.
“Good Lordy, missy,” said the old man.
Jana yelled, “Sector four! Sector four. I’m only at 50 percent coverage! This is the only unsecured sector.”
“All teams, converge on sector four,” yelled Latent. “The center of the park, the vendor booths. This is a timed event! We’ve got two minutes! Two minutes before detonation! Move, people! Run!”
“Start on the north end,” yelled Jana into the radio. “The north end!” From all directions, agents dropped anything they were doing and sprinted towards the center of the park. People yelled as agents crashed through the crowd, knocking several down in the process.
The old man grabbed Jana’s arm to steady her and noticed the radio earpiece. It was as if he knew something terrible was about to happen.
“I’ve got to think! I’ve got to think,” she said aloud, looking in his soft eyes. “There’s no way we can search all the rest of those booths.” Her body shuddered.
“Okay, okay,” said the old man. “Now calm down, missy. Jes calm down. Ya kin always think better when yer calm!”
The pain in her head was almost dizzying as she thought about everything she had searched down the hill in the direction she had come.
“Close yer eyes, youngin. You kin concentrate better,” he said as he temporarily placed a soft, arthritic hand across his own eyes as an encouragement.
“What was out of place?” She was almost whispering. “Was anything out of place?”
“Stay calm now, stay calm! It’ll come to ya.”
The old man was shifting back and forth like a five-year-old schoolboy.
She had searched everything up the hill. There must have been over a hundred booths down there. There was nothing, not a thing out of place. Then she thought about the van.
“Ya got sumpin? What is it, missy?” he said.
“Well, there was that van,” she said, shaking her head. “That van down the hill. It was locked. I couldn’t see inside, but . . .”
“What else? Think! What else ’bout the van?” In his excitement, he bounced up and down. “Think, missy, think.”
Jana’s eyes landed on the table of bottles whose colors swirled together almost like a bouquet of balloons.
“Balloons,” she said. “Balloons. The van was a balloon vendor with a great big painted bouquet of balloons on the side.” Then, a thought crossed her mind that made her throat tighten.
Mama loons
. “Oh my God, Mama loons. Loons! Loons! Bal-loons,” Jana yelled. “That little boy at the house in Queens . . . he, he kept saying those words. Loons, Mama! Loons! Mamaloons! Maybe he saw a balloon truck drive by his house?”
She snapped her head back to the old man, “Do you see any balloons around here?”
“Heh?”
“Balloons! Do you see anyone holding balloons?”
They both spun around, looking in all directions and scanning for any hint of color.
“I ain’ seen no balloons, missy!” bouncing in his boots and laughing. “Not a dang’d one!”
Jana tore off down the hill. Behind her, the old man jumped up and down and knocked into his own table. Bottles rocked into one another and fell, bouncing and breaking as they hit the ground.
“Go git ’em, missy!” he yelled, jumping up and down. “Go git ’em! This is America, gosh dangit!”
Jana bolted down the hill, darting in between people, vehicles, and booths, and yelling into the radio, “Abort! Abort! It’s a white van! A white van. A huge painting of balloons on the side. South half of sector six! Converge on the south half of sector six!”
Latent yelled back into the radio, “All units, all units. Move! Sixty seconds! I say again, we’ve got sixty seconds before detonation! Converge on the south half of sector six!” Latent himself broke into a sprint up the hill. The sheriff’s deputy watched in horror, having no idea what was about to happen, but knowing, whatever it was, it was bad.
Latent had another flashback to the football field at Georgetown. He shouldered into two people, never slowing.
Jana was at a dead run, weapon in hand, and screaming at people to get out of the way. Just the sight of her elicited screams as she smashed into one person after another. She leapt over a large cooler, gasping for breath as she reached the van. She slid just past, skidding to a stop at the back doors. Without a thought or an instant’s hesitation, she raised the gun and fired three rounds in rapid succession into the door lock, then ripped the door open. People screamed and ran in all directions as she was greeted with a hail of gunfire coming at her from point-blank range. The man was firing with his right hand while his left hand reached deep inside a large metal cylinder. The first few rounds sizzled by her face and shoulder as she fired back, squeezing the trigger in rapid succession and unleashing a spitfire torrent of flame and bullets from her Sig Sauer. Jana felt loud, crashing thumps smash into her torso as everything in her vision went hazy. The next instant, her head slammed into the ground, and everything flashed an electric black. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung thick against her nostrils.
The firefight had lasted less than two seconds. Everything was buzzing in her head, and she could no longer hear the screams as people scrambled in all directions. As quickly as the cacophonous gunfire had ruptured the relative calm of the festival, everything in her hearing went suddenly silent.
Moments passed, and people from all sides began to stand up. Latent charged forward, panting to catch his breath, and saw a small circle of people gathered around the back side of a van. Another group formed about fifty feet away as apparently a bystander had been hit in the crossfire.
As the blackness faded, Jana’s eyes focused onto the gloriousness of the blue sky above. And there, silhouetted amongst the clouds, was a picture from her oldest memory as a little girl. She was sitting in her grandpa’s lap, rocking back and forth on the porch of his farmhouse. Rocking. Just rocking, ever so slowly . . .
“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special report. Reports are coming in now that a large-scale terrorist attack may have just been thwarted by federal authorities. Details of the type of attack are unknown at this time, but AP News is reporting a full-scale evacuation is under way at this hour, for all people in a fifty-square-mile radius of Pineville, Kentucky. Speculation is swirling that this may have been a nuclear threat, requiring the massive evacuation; however, federal authorities will neither confirm nor deny this allegation. There are fifteen known casualties at this time—two are confirmed fatalities. An FBI agent is one of the casualties and is listed in critical condition with injuries that are described as grave. The agent’s identity is being withheld. WBS News has learned of the two fatalities—one, the alleged terrorist, the other, a woman identified only as Atlanta resident, Alyssa Josephine McTee, twenty-three, who lived in Atlanta’s Little Five Points area. More on this breaking story . . .”