Chapter Nine: The Wheel Descends

“Every possible emotion of human fear, despair, agony, fierce resentment and blind anger mingled…with notes of infinite surprise, as though each one were saying ‘How is it possible that this awful thing is happening to me?”

-Lawrence Beesley, describing the aftermath of the sinking of the RMS Titanic

            Otto Strasser leaned back in Xander Calvan’s desk chair. It was very comfortable, as was to be expected. The warm, soft curves of the chair embraced his body, tempting him to sink down into its welcoming depths, enjoying the howls, screeches, and poundings coming from the vault. After setting Gidan and his people to work, Strasser had come out here, both to listen to the radio for any sign that their presence had been discovered and to examine Calvan’s desk for anything of interest. He doubted very much that he’d find the code to the vault (which wouldn’t do them any good without Calvan’s palm print anyway), but it was likely that he’d find something of value; something his superiors might be able to make use of.

At least, he had thought it was likely. After a quarter hour’s search, however, he was forced to conclude that Calvan didn’t keep anything remotely important in his desk. The only things that looked like it might have been of use were a few stacks of financial documents, but they appeared to be thoroughly prosaic examples of their type. Other than that, he had a few notebooks with indecipherable mathematical formulas scribbled inside, a bound guide to major corporations, several well-organized sets of office tools, and a phonebook. There was nothing here that would even be interesting to a rival company, let alone the KGB.

That struck him as puzzling. Surely Calvan must have his secrets; everyone did. If nothing else, he had to have classified documents related to his company’s projects. But if so, he didn’t keep them in his office.

So where else would he keep them?

Strasser considered the question for a moment, carefully drumming his fingers on his chin before dismissing it as unimportant.

Everything seemed to be going quite well so far; Gidan’s men had secured the building within minutes. The exits were all sealed and the alarms and phone lines cut. All but one of the elevators had been disabled, and the lower three flights of each staircase had been destroyed, while the security force had been swiftly dispatched. The Major’s intelligence had been spot-on, as usual.

 The only hitch had been Calvan’s failure to appear, which Strasser had learned from the news was likely due to a terrible wreck involving a garbage truck. He almost dared to hope that the smug pig had gotten crushed in the process.

His thoughts were interrupted by a crackling in his ear. Strasser had escued the use of ordinary radios to maintain contact with his men for fear that the signal might be picked up on police scanners and reveal their presence too soon – he was counting on at least an hour before the authorities realized what had happened – but he and his fellow KGB officers did have one means of communication: a miniature device concealed in a subtle little earpiece that operated as a kind of portal telephone. It was hard to see unless you were looking for it directly, and even if you did, it just looked like a hearing aid. Just one of the many brilliant inventions that had been pouring out of the MIPT recently.

Only his fellow agents had them. The Tanzanians were useful, of course, but Strasser wasn’t about to just give away such a useful toy as this to a backwards nation taking its first steps into international intrigue. Allies or not, some things you just didn’t share.

“Sir,” came the voice of Hans, his man in charge of guarding the lobby. “We have police.”

Strasser sat up sharply. It was too soon. They couldn’t have found out so soon. It must be a simple check or something.

“Send them away. Politely.”

There was a pause.

“Look out the window, sir.”

Strasser got up and went to the window. He couldn’t believe it. The street fifty floors below was a river of flashing red and blue lights.

He stood rigid for a moment, then regained control.

“You know what to do, Hans,” he said. “Retreat to cover and don’t let anyone inside. If they make contact, tell them we have hostages. I will deal with them.”

Turning from the window, he swept across the office.

“Gidan,” he barked. “We may need your special skills a little sooner than expected. The rest of you, keep working.”

            Deputy Chief Joseph Webb of the SIPD had just been about to leave the office for the night when the report came in. So ended any hope that he might at least have gotten home before his kids were in bed. A cop’s job was hell on the family life. Luckily, Dorothy was an ex-cop herself and knew the score. And she was a great cook too. At least, she had been back in the days when he had still made it home in time for that to matter. Maybe she’d fallen off in the last few years. How would he know?

            Webb had started off as a drill instructor in the Marines before transitioning to a cop in Los Angeles, then worked his way up to detective before moving north to take a promotion to the SIPD. It was a long life of hard jobs, and it had left him at forty-seven with a mind and a body as tough as alligator leather. He’d probably had as many all-night work days as not, but that didn’t mean they were fun. 

            With a cup of freshly bought coffee to keep him alert and some energy bars to keep the coffee from making him nauseous, Webb arrived outside the Centron Farms Building, formerly the Huston Gold.

“Alright, Bill,” said Webb, “What’re we looking at?”

Captain Bill Morgan a thin, bald, energetic man who was one of Webb’s oldest friends on the force gave him the summary: unknown number of terrorists, at least ten, maybe twenty, had taken over the fortieth floor and, from what the police themselves could see, the lobby. They supposedly held a large number of hostages – the boys were working on getting a guest list for the party tonight – and had fortified their positions pretty good. If the police went in the lobby, they’d not only have a shoot-out on their hands, but the bad guys might start executing people.

            If I were them, I’d save my bullets and just toss people over the edge, Webb thought. He had a morbid imagination: probably a holdover from his Marine days. It was one of the reasons he had done so well as a detective.

            No ransom demands as of yet, no demands of any kind. The only communication they’d had so far was relayed from a lady in the Coronet Building behind the Huston Gold, who claimed to be in touch with someone on the inside via Morse Code with flashlights. That was a new one for Webb.

            “Already sent a man up to stay with her,” Morgan explained.

As far as Webb could see, things were going pretty smoothly. The officers on the scene had done a good job of blocking off traffic and setting up a perimeter. Others were making sure the surrounding buildings were clear. Fortunately, at this time of night on a Saturday, hardly anyone was still working.

Except Mrs. Morse, he thought.

“Sir,” said one of the men manning the radio. “I just got a call that Xander Calvan is here and wants to speak to the man in charge.”

Webb sighed. This was already shaping up to be a long night.

“Send him over.”

Webb had never met Calvan before, though of course he’d heard of him and seen him in the papers often enough. Calvan was taller than he had expected, dressed in a tuxedo that probably cost more than Webb made in a year.

“Are you in charge here?” asked Calvan at once without waiting for the escorting officer to introduce him.

“Yes, sir; Deputy Chief Special Operations. My name’s Webb.”

“I would like to know, Chief, how this happened.”

“So would we, sir,” Webb answered. “Perhaps you can help us with that. Do you know any reason why they would target your building?”

“I can think of several,” said Calvan. “You say they are Tanzanians and we were hosting an event to show support for the war effort. Or they might be after the seven hundred million dollars in negotiable bonds that we have locked in our vault. Or it could be that they intend to blackmail us somehow using the hostages as leverage. Or they could have specifically been targeting me and were not able to escape in time upon learning that I wasn’t present. Or it could be a number of things.”

Webb nodded, as if that had been at all helpful.

“Alright, sir,” he said. “Is there anyone we can contact to get a layout of the building?”

“I can help you with that,” said Calvan.

That took Webb aback a little, but he didn’t show it.

“Is that right, sir?”

Calvan’s mouth curled into an amused half-smile.

“You’re wondering whether I know the building that well?”

“Well, sir, I’m sure you have a lot of other things to think about.”

“Yes, I do,” said Calvan. “But I make it a point to know everything there is to know about my property, and I have an eidetic memory. I assume you’ve already arranged for the blueprints?” 

            Though she’d known to expect him, Laura nearly jumped out of her skin when a big, burly man appeared in the door of her office.

            “No need for alarm, ma’am,” he said, shielding his eyes from glare of her flashlight. “I’m Officer Dunn, I’ve been assigned to assist you.”

            She lowered the beam and saw that he had a round, good-natured face and an all-around more generous-than-usual allotment of flesh. He made her think of a big teddy bear.

            “Thank God!” she said, turning the light off. “I’ve been stuck dealing with this obnoxious 911 dispatcher…”

            “Ma’am,” came the voice from the receiver, which lay on the desktop. “I’m actually still on the line.”

            “Oh, well,” she said, snatching it up. “You are obnoxious, and I don’t mind telling you so!”

            She slammed the phone down on its cradle.

            “Is, uh, there anything I can get you?” asked Officer Dunn, sounding somewhat wary of his new assignment.

            “Coffee,” she said. “Black. Very black. And maybe a back up supply of D-batteries? I keep expecting these to give out just when he’s trying to tell us where the bomb is hidden.”

            “They…they have a bomb!?”

            “No! I was just joking…well, I don’t actually know, but…”

            She sighed and rubbed her sore eyes.

            “Just get me some coffee, please.”

           

            George leaned his head against the glass, watching the sea of blue and white lights below him and feeling, for the first time that night, a very small amount of relief. From this distance he couldn’t really tell what they were doing, but the sight of them gave him hope that, perhaps, things might work out after all. In any case, he had done his part, and now, hopefully, the police would handle the rest. All he had to do was to hunker down and wait for the whole thing to be settled.

            At least, he hoped that was all he’d have to do.

            George watched the activity below for a while, trying to figure out what they were doing. Of course, it was probably best if he couldn’t figure it out, because if he could, Strasser sure would be able to, and that would be bad. 

            His friend across the street flashed a sign: “You okay?”

            “Enjoying the show,” he answered.

            “Hold tight,” the other said. “Working on it. Can you do something?”

            “What?”

            “Try to find out how many.”

            He had to think about that. His position was already insanely dangerous, and deliberately trying to seek out the bad guys was very likely to get him captured, at best. On the other hand, George was the kind of man who hated to see other people working while he wasn’t, and the thought of refusing to help the police any further was unacceptable. Besides, his folks had always taught him to finish any job he started, and fighting the Tanzanians was the job he’d ended up with tonight, so he ought to think of whatever the cops asked him to do to that end as his duty.

            “OK,” he said.

            “Wait,” came the answer. “Something is happening. People are coming onto the patio.”

            That was strange. Why would anyone be going out there on a night like this, in a situation like this? George decided he needed to see for himself.

            “I am going to see. Hold on.”

            Pocketing the flashlight and taking a firm grip on his rifle, George went back into the hall and headed for the other side of the building, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of company.

            Strasser stood at the edge of the Sky Patio, gazing down into the sea of flashing lights far below. The night was filled with a light mist, and the red and blue and white flashes cast ghostly glows upon the air. 

The timing was inconvenient, but the development itself was not unexpected. He would have much preferred to have had at least an hour of uninterrupted time to attack the vault, but he could work with this. After all, with over fifty hostages the police couldn’t simply assault them openly. He could string them along for a few hours; he’d done it plenty of times before.

            No, the police didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the question of who contacted them. Since none of the hostages could possibly have done so, nor the security force, which had been carefully accounted for…so what did that leave? Perhaps party crashers?

It was a loose end, and Strasser hated loose ends.

So far, the police had not attempted to storm the building. Undoubtedly whoever had called them had also alerted them about the hostages. That was the nice thing about having so many, Strasser reflected; it forced the police to be more cautious than they might otherwise be. He could afford to execute someone for the least infraction, and the police, of course, would look bad if even one hostage died.

            It was this, more than anything, that allowed Strasser to be so sanguine about the unexpected arrival of what appeared to be half the San Ignatio Police Department within a half-hour of the building’s seizure. He may have anticipated more time to work before they showed up, but the advantage was still his.

            Now it was time to demonstrate that.

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the assembled crowd of nervous partygoers as he returned to the ballroom. “As you can see, the police are aware of your situation and have assembled outside. Do not make the mistake of believing that this alters the situation in any way. We have planned for this eventuality, and any attempts on their part to enact a rescue will be most unfortunate for you.”

            His gaze lingered on Osborne and Aurelia, as if silently promising that they would be at the top of the list. Strasser did intend to kill Osborne, at least, before the night was over. He’d been wanting to do that for months. The endless negotiations with that spoiled, self-righteous child had been as tedious and irritating as anything the he had ever done, including the fourteen months he’d spent in a South Vietnamese prison. At least there he hadn’t had to feign interest.

            “So that there is no confusion on this point,” he went on. “You will all proceed outside onto the Sky Patio and line up along the edge so that the police understand what they are dealing with.”

            A murmur of alarm and irritation rippled through the crowd at that. 

            “It’s raining,” Mr. Fletcher pointed out.

            “Then you must decide which is more dangerous, Mr. Fletcher,” said  Strasser. “The chance of catching pneumonia, or the certainty of catching a bullet.”

            That silenced the protests, but the crowd didn’t stir. They just looked at each other, as though wondering whether they ought to move now or wait for further instructions.

            Strasser sighed.

            “I see we are having difficulty with our basic listening skills,” he said. And he drew his gun and put a bullet into the ceiling. “All of you!” he barked over the renewed screams. “Up! Now!”

            The crowd stumbled to their feet, keeping their hands up and their postures low. They were pathetic; cringing weaklings who were so used to solving problems with money and bureaucracy that they were simply undone by the slightest show of force. It gave Strasser a most satisfying feeling to make these people bend to his will; almost like playing with toys as a child, setting them up just right so that they were exactly as you had pictured them. Except his toys hadn’t whined the whole time.

            The only ones who weren’t cringing were Osborne and Aurelia. He apparently had gotten his insolence back and stood straight, glaring into Strasser’s eyes. But Strasser found his eyes were drawn to the defiance of the girl who stood next to him. There was steel in this one; she met his gaze with absolute contempt, as if she’d like nothing better than to break his neck.

            He smiled. It was a very good act.

            “Go on,” he ordered the crowd. Several of the Tanzanians began shouting orders and herding the crowd out onto the balcony. Strasser, however, beckoned Aurelia to him. She turned her back on him, but at a nod from Strasser one of the Tanzanians grabbed her and pulled her over to him.

            “Leave her alone, you…” Osborne started, but the Tanzanian hit him in the mouth with his rifle butt, knocking him to the floor.

            Martha Aurelia stood before Strasser, glaring at him.

            “What do you want?” she snapped.

            “Miss Aurelia, isn’t it?” he said. “I think it is time for us to become better acquainted.”

            “I have nothing to say to you.”

            He smiled.

            “We’ll see about that,” he laid a hand on her shoulder. “I like to keep at least one of my hostages near by, you see, just in case. Perhaps we can find something to talk about during the course of the evening.”

            After he had been knocked to the floor by a rifle butt, Ben had been hoisted roughly back to his feet and pushed along near the back of the line that was forming as over fifty people were filed through two doors out into the cold, wet night. It was always windy this high up, and that just made the party guests that much more miserable as they were forced out without coats or umbrellas. The women had it worst, since most of them were in evening dress with bare arms or shoulders. Several of the more chivalrous men risked their captors’ wrath by taking off their coats to give to the ladies, which shamed the less chivalrous into imitating them. Ben found himself rather grateful that he was in the middle of a group of men, mostly his fellow board members, then he rebuked himself for the thought.

            They all began lining up along the edge of the patio, squinting in the spotlights that swept over them and looking terrified. The line filled in steadily as more and more hostages streamed out, taking their place along the edge of the famous balcony. Five armed Tanzanians took positions behind the line, just to make sure no one did anything the German didn’t want them to do.

            It was as Ben was taking his place just about at the point where the patio began to curve sharply inward again to rejoin the main structure that it happened.

            There was a sharp, sudden crack, like a gunshot. For a split second, Ben thought the terrorists had executed one of the hostages. Then there was another, a longer, lower sound this time, and even as Ben was looking about, trying to figure out what the sound was, when thought he felt the floor lurch suddenly under his feet.

            Then he realized what was happening.

            “SHIT!”

            He didn’t stop to think or to talk or to even shout a warning. He just bolted.

            But it didn’t matter; everyone else understood what was happening a split second after he did, and as one the whole panicked crowd began to stampede to the entrances.

            Meanwhile, the Sky Patio began to tilt forward like the deck of sinking ship as its supports failed one by one.

            The terrorists who had been out on the patio keeping an eye on the hostages were now fighting and struggling with the crowd to get back inside. One of them opened fire in a desperate attempt to clear the way. Several hostages fell, and even more tripped over the bodies.

            Ben was scrambling for the entrance. The balcony was growing steeper by the second, but he was only ten feet away. He slipped, nearly fell, and caught himself by grabbing the nearest object, which turned out to be a man’s sleeve. With this he managed to right himself, but in the process he threw the other off balance. Ben was too panicked to notice and drew on all his strength and adrenaline for the final push. A figure appeared out of nowhere in front of him, and he knocked it aside, not even noticing if it was a man or woman.

            The patio lurched violently once more and seemed to fall away from his feet as he sprang over the threshold. But even as his feet touched the carpet, he felt that coming away as well. The patio was taking a great chunk out of the building’s façade along with it. Ben scrambled, stumbled on the pitching floor, then felt his feet come out from under him as he screamed…

            But then a strong, firm hand caught his and he was pulled effortlessly up and onto the still-solid floor of the ballroom.

            Ben looked up, hyperventilating, near faint with relief. His rescuer had been Strasser, who immediately made a snatch for another hostage, caught her by the arm, and yanked her back to safety.

            It was only then that Ben heard the screaming.

            The assembled police, fire, and rescue workers had watched the display of hostages with grim solemnity. Captain Webb, for his part, had already been devising a plan for their rescue, aided by Calvan’s description of the interior. The tycoon was proving himself surprisingly helpful in this crisis.

            As he watched the scene through his binoculars, Webb caught movement at the bottom of his vision. Instinctively adjusting his view, he was just in time to see a large chunk of stone fall from beneath the patio. Then another. And another.

            “Mother of God…”

            Training his glasses back on the hostages, he saw them realize what was happening. The sound of dozens of people screaming in sudden panic washed over the crowd, but they could only watch helplessly as the hostages tried to flee the collapsing balcony.

            “Everybody get back!” Webb screamed. “Get back! Take cover!”

            With startling suddenness, the balcony began to tilt violently. Torrents of dust and masonry fell as though huge faucets had opened in the side of the building. People tripped, slid, and went tumbling over the edge to land on the concrete roof twenty stories below. Still, most of them had managed to cling on, and a few had even reached the building. Perhaps…

            Then, all at once, with a thunderous noise that could be heard even by the watching crowd forty floors below, the famous sky patio, carrying its throng of screaming humanity, tore away from the front of the building and fell forty floors straight down. It smashed through the lower patio without even slowing, doubling the number of tons of stone, brick, and metal that were hurtling toward the ground.

            It struck the ground with an enormous explosion of dust and rock. The entire façade of the first few floors was blasted inward, demolishing most of the lobby in an instant. A blast of dust and debris, coupled with a roar like artillery fire washed over the police, the crowd, and finally the whole city. 

            And then, for maybe thirty whole seconds, there was the deepest, heaviest silence anyone present had ever known.     

Next Week:

Chapter Ten; Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter Eight: The Threshold of the Crucible

“Today we did what we had to do. They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong.”

-Ronald Reagan

            It was an impressive structure; twenty-by-twenty-by-ten of reinforced steel; six-inches thick, with a huge, circular door. To open it would require two combinations; one a rotary lock, the other a keypad-retinal scan. To open it, the rotary lock would have to be set in place, then the correct person would have to enter the code while undergoing a retinal scan. The vault, therefore, was all-but impossible to crack.

Strasser lay his hand against the cold metal of the vault, feeling the incredible weight of it. Behind that door lay the key to the future. Whoever possessed that key would control that future.

The plan had been to force Calvan to open the vault. That way they would have been in and out of the building within an hour or less; depending on how long it took to persuade him to cooperate. Once he had confirmed that Calvan hadn’t shown up, Strasser had moved on to plan B. Leaving about half his men to watch the hostages, he had divided the rest. Some he had sent into the wings to establish lookout posts. Others had gone to reinforce the men holding the ground floor. And a select group had come with him up to the penthouse where the vault waited.

            “Now,” said Strasser, without turning around. “You can open the vault, can’t you?”

            Behind him, the huge mass of muscle and scars that was Commander Gidan grunted.

            “What else would I be doing in this damn country?” he answered. Snapping his fingers, he barked an order in Swahili at his men, and they quickly began setting up the equipment they had brought.

            “How long?” Strasser asked.

            Gidan looked critically at the mass of steel before him.

            “Two hours,” he said. “Maybe three.”

            Strasser withdrew his hand from the polished metal surface and turned to offer the Tanzanian an icy smile.

            “Then let’s get started” 

            When George saw the gun pointing at his face, he reacted without thinking. Had he been a little more experienced with such matters, he probably wouldn’t have tried it, and if the other man had been a little more on his guard the move most likely would have gotten George killed. His hand was on the light switch, which was just under the muzzle of the Kalashnikov. He flipped it up with move like he was tossing something over his shoulder, flicking the lights off in the process. The muzzle was knocked upwards and his good ear was pulverized by the roar as it fired into the ceiling. Somehow he managed to get hold of the shortened barrel with one hand (it burned him, but he held on), then found the stock of the gun with the other, pulled, and twisted.

            The gun came free of the terrorist’s hand, but before George could get a grip on it himself he was hit hard under the right eye, then again in the side, and again in the shoulder. The gun went spinning out of his grip and his put his arms up to defend himself. In the dark, and with his eyes still adjusted to the lights he’d been flicking on and off, his enemy was little but a formless shadow barely illuminated by the lights coming in from the window and the hallway.

            He caught one incoming blow with the point of his elbow, eliciting gasps of pain from them both, but followed up with a blow to what he guessed was the man’s nose, then another to what he hoped was his stomach, but turned out to be a forearm.

            The terrorist apparently gave up the idea of boxing in the dark, because he suddenly closed in, grabbing at George, who backed away, struggling to keep his distance. He collided with a filing cabinet as the terrorist pressed up against him, one hand grabbing the back of George’s jacket, the other trying to pin his right arm. George had no experience with wrestling, so he just kept trying to pummel his opponent in the ribs and back. The man snaked his arm in under George’s elbow, trying to trap the arm. With no better options, George pushed off from the cabinet, driving his opponent back through the door and into the dimly-lit hallway, where he discovered that the terrorist was a heavy-set young man with skin several shades darker than his own, a deep scar crossing the bridge of his nose, and short, bristly hair.

            His arm freed from his opponent’s abortive grappling attempt, George aimed a cross at the man’s temple, but the other blocked it and entrapped the arm before George could withdraw it. Then, pulling him forward by the back of his collar, the man head butted George so hard that he nearly blacked out. The terrorist released him and George fell backwards against the wall, feeling as though the whole building had suddenly been transplanted to an extremely stormy sea.

            The terrorist grinned and said something, though whether because of his swimming head, his ringing good ear, or because it wasn’t in English, George had no idea what it was. Probably wasn’t friendly, though. That supposition was confirmed when the man pulled his fist back like he was going to pitch a fastball and hurled a huge lunge-punch right at George’s nose.

            George could barely think, but he had boxed in school, and his instincts, though rusty, still worked. He ducked. The fist that had been intended to smash his nose flat instead hit the wood paneling. The paneling cracked with the impact, and judging by the man’s reaction, so did the hand.

            Still feeling woozy, George drove himself forward like a tackle, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist (if he hadn’t been so disoriented, he probably would have thought to go for his knees), pushing him back into the wall. The man responded by wrapping him in a headlock and dropping his weight to the ground. If he had a better grip, that probably would have snapped George’s neck, but as it was it only pull him further off balance, which gave the other time to spring to his feet and resume the attack.

            As he rose, the terrorist drew a big, wicked-looking knife from a sheath behind his back. Holding it overhand, he slashed at George, who ducked the blow, but then the terrorist brought his injured hand up, snaked his arm around George’s neck, and pulled him back against his body in a tight headlock.

George gasped for breath as the man’s arm tightened around his neck. He tried to pull the arm free with one hand while the other held the knife at bay, but it was no good: the grip around his neck was too strong, and the knife was creeping slowly closer and closer to his heart. The only question now was whether he would black out from lack of oxygen before he was stabbed in the heart.

He never really knew where the idea for what happened next came from. It simply presented itself to him, fully formed, as though by divine grace.

Releasing the arm around his neck, George reached into his jacket pocket, fumbled a bit, and ripped out his epinephrine pen.

            The terrorist, intent on his kill, didn’t notice what he had until George flipped the cap off with his thumb and plunged the needle as hard as he could into the man’s side.

            The terrorist screamed horribly. Releasing his grip on George and dropping his knife, he clutched at his side trying to stop the pain. George lifted the still-squirting needle over his head and plunged it into the man’s neck. He gasped and grabbed at it, but George wrenched it out and stabbed it into the other side, unleashing a spray of blood. By pure luck, he must have hit the man’s jugular vein. The terrorist grabbed at the spot, trying to stem the flow of blood from both sides with only one working hand. George staggered back away from him, trembling, the blood-soaked epi-pen still clutched in his fist. The wounded man sank to the floor, gasping as the blood escaped from between his fingers.

            George stood there, breathing hard, watching his enemy choke on his own blood. He didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, this man had just tried very hard to kill him. On the other…

            Dropping the pen, George stumbled to the man’s side, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and pressed it against the more serious wound, holding it down hard. The man was already very weak, and the blood-flow showed no sign of stopping. George’s handkerchief was almost instantly soaked through with blood. He kept his hand in place, trying to at least prevent him from losing any more, but he could see from the man’s wide, terrified eyes that he was fading fast. George grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and pressed it on top of the saturated handkerchief. He had never seen so much blood.

            The terrorist’s eyes rolled up into his head. His hands dropped limp to the ground. George kept pressure on the wound, but he could feel the pulse weakening under his fingers. Then it stopped altogether.

            He was dead.

            After another few minutes, it occurred to George that he didn’t have to keep holding the wound any more. He let go and sat back on his knees, looking down at the dead man who had tried to murder him not two minutes before. It was a strange and disturbing feeling. He had just killed a man. In self-defense, it was true, and he wasn’t exactly sorry he’d done it, but he felt it. He felt the fact that he had taken this man’s life. As he knelt there, looking at the blood-soaked corpse before him, he found himself wondering who this man was. How had he come to be here? Did he have any family? And how had he come to be fanatical enough in his devotion to end up here? What kind of life had this man known?

            These and other questions passed through George’s mind as he sat there, contemplating his first kill. He doubted he’d ever know the answers. He didn’t even think he wanted to know them. But through his meditations came, like ships emerging from the mist-shrouded sea, two conclusions, as clear and as certain as the sunrise. First, that this was the first of many times he would have to end the life of a fellow human being. Second, that he must never stop asking those questions. He might have to kill. He might even get to the point where killing seemed easy. But he could never forget what it meant. He would kill these men to protect himself, his friends, and his country. But he would always recall that they were men.

            With those thoughts seared into his heart, George Adamson rose to his feet, leaving the man he had been behind forever.

            He still felt a little unsteady, and his good ear wouldn’t stop ringing, though he could still hear, thank God. His first move was to return to the office and retrieve the man’s dropped Kalashnikov and check the magazine. It was about half-full. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and proceeded to search the dead man. He found a small pouch with two spare magazines and a flashlight, a wallet containing fifty dollars and a driver’s license that claimed his name was “Alfred Miller” and that he was from Sacramento. There was also a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He took the pouch and lighter, as well as the leather sheath for the knife, but left the rest.

            Hooking the knife to his belt and slinging the pouch, George decided that it wouldn’t be either smart or appropriate to leave the body lying in the hallway, so he dragged it into Mabel Mayberry’s office and, with a vague desire to give some honor to the dead, tore one of the poster pages off of the easel that stood in the corner (containing some notes about health benefits, which he found mildly ironic) and draped it over the dead man’s face and chest. With a sigh, he left the office and closed the door behind him.

            Laura watched the other building like a cat watching a mouse’s hole. She was breathing very fast.

            Please say something, she thought. Please say you didn’t just get shot.

            It seemed as if she sat there for at least an hour, though the stupid clock said it was only about ten minutes or so, before there was a flicker of light. Not the room lights he had been using before, but a flashlight like hers.   

            “Still there?”

            “You okay?”

            “Be fine.”

            “What happened?”

            “One of them jumped me. Got him instead.”

            Laura wasn’t quite sure what he meant by ‘got him,’ but didn’t care to ask him to explain using a flashlight.

            “Police on their way,” she signaled.

            Ben awoke with a yell, flailing about him in panic. A gentle hand gripped his shoulder and he jerked away, but stopped when he saw that it was Martha.

            “Easy there,” she said. “You’re okay.”

            “I…what happened?” he gasped. He was finding it difficult to bring his recollections up to the present.

            “He just shot past your face,” she explained. “See, he thought that if Calvan were hiding somewhere, someone would say something rather than letting you get shot. When no one did, he knew we were telling the truth. Then…well, I guess he just wanted to scare you.”

            Ben felt his forehead. It was intact, without any blood or gapping bullet wound. His head was sore, though, as if he had hit it hard against something. But, at the moment, he was too glad to find himself still alive to worry about that.

            “Thank God!” he gasped.

            “Well, it was me who stood up for you,” she said.

            Ben actually laughed. He wanted to kiss her, but he restrained himself.

            “Okay,” he said. “So…how was I knocked out?”

            Martha grimaced.

            “Uh,” she said. “Well, actually…you fainted.”

            “WHAT!?”

            “Hey!” barked one of the Tanzanians. “You shut up!”

            They fell silent, but inside Ben was burning with humiliation. He was a tough guy; a world-class sportsman, an adventurer. And he’d fainted when a gun when off in his face? Fainted in front of the whole damn company?

            He looked around at the other hostages sitting on the floor. Most were watching their captors. A few glanced his way, and he thought he saw looks of disgust, or even of amusement on their faces.

            He shook his head; he was imagining it, he told himself. No one cared that he had lost his nerve. Not tonight at least. Once this was all over, once they were all back to work…Then they’d remember.

            Ben gritted his teeth in frustration. It wasn’t fair! He’d been caught off guard. No one could be expected to think clearly in a situation like that, not unless he’d been trained. Could any of them have done any better?

            There seemed to be only one thing to do; do better next time. Surely, surely before the night was over he’d have a chance to do something heroic. He’d do it right this time.

Next Week:
Chapter Nine: The Wheel Descends

Chapter Seven: Shots in the Dark

“Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and they will surprise you with their ingenuity.”

-General George S. Patton

            George had just managed to get the worst of the stain off of his tuxedo shirt when the sudden explosion of gunfire caused him to jump so hard that he rammed his shoulder hard into the towel dispenser. He instinctively ducked and crawled to the door to get an idea of what was going on. From the bathroom he could see chaos erupting in the ballroom. More gunshots slammed against his eardrums.

            Comprehension seemed to come in waves: attack, armed men, gunfire… He didn’t know exactly what was going on, only that something terrible was happening.

George frantically tried to consider his options: if he stayed here, he could try to fight back, unarmed, against an unknown number of men who were probably well trained and certainly armed with automatic weapons. If he ran, he might be able to call for help.

            Well, when he put it like that…

            Keeping low to the ground, George scrambled across the hall as fast as he could. He stumbled as he passed the corner, but by then he was at least screened from the main ballroom. The view he had glimpsed showed the invaders all focused on subduing the crowd of hostages. It looked like a few of the military guys were trying to fight back, but were being clubbed to the ground by rifle butts. George didn’t try to get a better look. He straightened up and covered the remaining distance to the stairwell at a run.

            It had taken Ben a moment to process the fact that he was actually hearing gunfire. By the time he had understood what was happening, Martha had grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him to the floor with an unpleasant bump.

            There were at least ten men in the elevator, and they all were carrying compact assault rifles. A few of them had fired over the heads of the crowd to announce their presence, while the rest had spread out and begun shouting orders and subduing the stunned party guests.

            Ben pressed his face into the carpet, covering his head with his hands, and feeling more terrified than he had ever been in his life. The sound of more gunshots, then more and louder screams. It all seemed to go on forever.    

            Then above the screams, there came a single, ear-splitting blast, and everyone fell silent. Slowly, Ben looked up.

            Otto Strasser stood in the front of the room, not ten feet away, pointing a huge, heavy pistol at the ceiling.

            “Everyone calm down,” he ordered in his slow, precise voice. The room grew still, like boiling water taken off the stove.

            Strasser? Ben thought. What is he…

            “Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Strasser. “Distinguished representatives of Centron Farms Incorporated, officers of the United States Military, you came here tonight to express your support of America’s imperialistic adventures against the Socialist Republic of Tanzania. My colleagues and I would like to express a contrary position.”

            Ben slowly picked himself up and rose to his knees, looking about him. The invaders had subdued the crowd completely. They looked to be mostly Africans, though he saw a couple white faces among them. All looked hard, rugged, and mean, and all were carrying compact assault rifles.

            His eye was drawn particularly to a grim figure standing half-shadowed in the hall doorway. Ben couldn’t see him too well, except that he was big, black, and seemed to bulge in odd ways. His eyes glittered like stars as he watched the crowd. Then Strasser spoke again, and Ben’s attention returned to him. 

            “It is my sincere hope,” Strasser went on (not sounding the least sincere). “That there will be no more shedding of blood tonight. Remain calm, do as we tell you, and you can all walk out of here unharmed and unmolested.”

            His gaze lingered on Martha as he pronounced the last word. She dropped her gaze nervously.

            Strasser paused, apparently savoring her distress, then resumed.

            “But make no mistake. We are in charge. Attempt to resist, or to disrupt our plans, and there will be dire consequences. So make your choice now; will you leave here on your feet or in a bag?”

            He let that sink in for a moment, then smiled and began to walk around the room.

            “Now,” he said. “To business. Where is Mr. Calvan?”

            Silence.

“Where,” Strasser asked again. “Is Mr. Alexander Norman Calvan?”

            No one spoke for a moment.

            “He’s not here,” Martha said.

            Strasser’s head turned sharply, almost mechanically, back to Martha.

            “Are you sure?” he asked.

            “Um…” she looked away, obviously regretting having spoken.

            “Yes,” said Ben. “Just like I told you five minutes again; he was late.”

            Strasser frowned at him.

            “Will you stand up, Mr. Osborne?”

            Ben got to his feet, trying to look Strasser defiantly in the eye.

            “Now, will you tell me – truly – if Mr. Calvan is here?”

            “No,” said Ben. “He isn’t.”

            “Perhaps he has a safe room?” Starsser suggested. “A place to retreat in just such a situation as this?”

            The repeated questioning, combined with the stress he was already feeling, brought Ben’s temper to the surface.

            “Oh, for God’s sake, Strasser!” he snapped. “Are you listening? He isn’t here! He never showed up! What do I have to do you to make you understand that?”

            “Ben!” Martha pleaded. “Don’t!”

            Strasser blinked slowly.

            “That is a good question,” he said. “How can you convince me that you are telling the truth, when you could so easily be lying?”

            There was a heavy silence. Ben swallowed hard, beginning to wonder just what he’d brought down on himself this time.

            “Any ideas?” Strasser asked the room at large. No one made a sound, except for Martha who groaned helplessly. Strasser sighed, as though he thought they were being deliberately unhelpful. Then he almost casually pointed his gun into Ben’s face.

            Ben had never found himself looking down the barrel of a real gun before. It felts as though he had suddenly been plunged into very cold water; his body seemed to constrict, the air was forced from his lungs and he began to breathe in gasps.

            “Now,” said Strasser, sounding a long way off. “I am going to count to five. Before I finish, you will have told me where Mr. Calvan is.”

            “I don’t know!” Ben gasped. “Really, I don’t!”

            “One…”

            “Don’t you think I’d tell you!? I don’t have any loyalty to that man!”

            “Two…”

            “Please…please, you have to believe me…”

            “Three…”

             Ben’s eyes were wide. He could barely breathe. Tears stung his cheeks. He was babbling senselessly, pleading for his life in a wordless stream.

            “Four…”

             This couldn’t be happening. Obviously, he was dreaming.

            “Five.”

            “DON’T!” Martha screamed. “Please! He’s telling the truth; Calvan’s not here!”

            Strasser hesitated. Ben felt oddly detached, as was to be expected when you were dreaming.

            The gun fired with a roar like the end of the world. 

            George’s first goal was to put as much distance between himself and the invaders as possible. His second was to call for help right away. To that end, he climbed all the way to the top of stairwell before very cautiously venturing out into the south wing of the forty-fifth floor. This one was mostly devoted to offices for the HR department. Tonight it was dimly lit and seemed abandoned.

            Slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible and striving to control his breathing, George eased the door shut and proceeded into the darkened hallway. His heart was thumping madly, and his bad ear seemed to be admitting twice as much ringing as ever. He kept close against the left hand wall as he went, and kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected someone to come up the stairwell behind him. There wasn’t anything rational about this; he hadn’t had time to start thinking rationally again. This was just the raw, animal fear of being stalked by someone he couldn’t see and who might attack from any direction.

            George slipped into the first office he came to, but didn’t dare flip on the lights. It was even darker in here than in the hallway, and at first he could only discern dim shapes in the gloom. Proceeding by touch, he made his way to the desk and picked up the phone. Dead. He swore under his breath and put it down again.

            Maybe that phone was simply disconnected? It was worth a try. George hurried across to the next office on the other side of the hall. It was the same here.

            Since this was an interior office without windows, George decided to risk the lights. They showed that it belonged to “Mabel Mayberry;” a stout, middle-aged woman with three kids, an even stouter husband, and a golden retriever. He checked, but her phone was plugged in.

            That meant that the invaders had cut the phone lines when they took over the building.

            George sat down in Mabel Mayberry’s desk chair, took a deep breath, and tried to steady both his breathing and his nerves. He had to think. He was locked in a high-rise building with an unknown number of armed and very dangerous men. For all he knew, he might be the only person left in the building who wasn’t either a terrorist or a hostage. That meant it was up to him to get help and to do whatever he could to protect the other innocents. With the phones out, he wasn’t sure how he could get a message to the outside world, and since the most formidable item he possessed was an epinephrine pen, he wasn’t really in a position to take on a superior force armed with Kalashnikovs.

            Where did that leave him?

            Stay calm, he told himself. What are you trying to accomplish, what means could accomplish that, and what do you have available?

            He was trying to send a signal for help to the police. The phones were out, and he had no radio. That seemed to leave the option of trying to sneak down forty-five floors and out the door. Of course, since the terrorists no doubt had men guarding the entrances and exits, and probably had somehow locked down the stairs and elevators to prevent anyone from doing exactly that, it wasn’t a very practical idea.

            George looked through the open office door across the hall to the window in the office opposite. He could see lights in the building across the way. It stuck him as rather pathetic that, in the modern world, he couldn’t get a message for help even as far as across the street.

            He began to wonder whether he could create some kind of visual signal, like a fire...that made him think of the fire alarm, and hope briefly flared inside him, but then he realized that no doubt the terrorist had thought of that and if he pulled the fire alarm it would either not work at all, or they’d just call it in as a false alarm and then come up and shoot him.

            He went back to the idea of a visual signal, which seemed more practical. He could always throw something out the window: that might get someone’s attention. Or he might actually set a fire, though had the potential to make the situation much worse.

            Then it hit him. It was so obvious that he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier: Morse Code! George knew Morse Code, of course (no one in a family as militarized as his could help learning it), and he could see at least a few lights were on in the building across the street. It was just possible that he might be able to call for help.

            He went back to the exterior office, threw open the blinds, and began flipping the lights on and off: three short, three long, three short. Three short, three long, three short. Now the only question was whether anyone on the outside would notice it before anyone on the inside did.

            Laura Lotus thought ‘workaholic’ was such an ugly word. She much preferred ‘driven’ or ‘ambitious’ or even ‘diligent.’ As in, she was at her desk at eight PM on a Saturday because she was diligent.

            Actually it was because she’d learned at her daddy’s knee that there were two ways to get what you wanted in this world: one was by working your ass off, the other was by cheating. Since he’d also taught her never to cheat, that left the first option, and since what she wanted was her first million by the age of thirty, that meant a lot of nights and weekends at her desk.

            Good thing ‘social life’ was pretty low on her list of priorities.

            Laura was twenty-four years old; tall, dark, and good-looking enough to have paid for her MBA by working as a lingerie model (a fact she sincerely hoped she would take to her grave), but had never really been that interested in the dating scene. She wasn’t in the least romantic, or even especially sociable. Her motto was ‘fun means getting things done.’ Just saying it aloud was usually enough to scare off any would-be admirers.

            Yet, even her ‘diligence’ had its limits, and she had just about reached it for that night. She glanced at the clock: eight-twenty-two. Just enough time left to catch a cab, go home, and be in bed by nine-thirty. Then up again at five and back to work in the morning. God may have rested on the seventh day, but He hadn’t been chasing a career. Laura didn’t take days off any more than she dated. Sailors didn’t get days off, so why should she? The most relaxation she took were periodic breaks to stroll down to the local coffee shop and read detective stories.

            She knew she was probably going to burn out soon at this rate, but she only needed to hold on until she got that promotion. Then she’d be able to ease back on the throttle a little. Supposedly, old man Wiley was going to make a decision sometime in the next week or two, so she only needed to keep it up until then. Besides, she enjoyed the intensity of her overstuffed schedule. It was the same kind of rush she got from intense exercise: the fevered sense of pride and achievement that came from pushing yourself beyond the limits of your endurance.

Laura put the finishing touches on the memo she had been working on, tucked it and the rest of her papers safely into the drawer of her desk and locked it. Then she stood up, stretched her stiff back, and leaned against the wall, gazing idly out the window at the Huston Gold. There were lights on there, too. Of course, Xander Calvan probably kept his people working 24/7. She admired that. Calvan was something of an idol to her; a poor farm-boy from Nowheresville who grew to be the richest man in the world by the time he was forty. That was the kind of thing she wanted to do. Not that she’d grown up poor in Nowheresville: she’d been an Ignatian her whole life, and her Dad had made a comfortable living as an electrician and had been able to pay for her undergrad. That, to her mind, meant that she should make it even further than Calvan had; she had a head start.

            As she watched the Huston Gold, contemplating her ambitions, she suddenly became aware of something odd. The lights in one of the top floor rooms were flashing on and off, off and on. First fast, then slow, then fast again. Then…          

            Laura’s brow furrowed. Her dad had been a Navy signalman, and she’d learned Morse Code almost at the same time she learned to read (though she hadn’t needed to use it in years). The pattern of the flickering lights was disturbingly familiar. It almost looked like an SOS.  

            Since she worked at night, in the city, Laura always carried a flashlight of the long, heavy sort policemen use (i.e. that could double as a club). Now she retrieved it, killed the lights to make the beam show up better and, quickly searching her memory, signaled “CT” (long, short, long, short, long) to acknowledge.

            The lights stopped. For a second she dared to hope that was it; that it had been a joke that had gotten out of hand and that whoever it was on the other end would just let it go.

            Then the lights began to flick on and off again. Laura hurriedly read off:

            “Call police. Building under attack. Terrorists.”

            She was sure she must have misunderstood that, so she signaled “Repeat?”

            The person in the other building repeated the message.

            “Serious?” she signed.

            “Serious,” came the answer. “Fortieth Floor. Tanzanians. Send help!”

            Laura didn’t know what to do. This was insane. This sort of thing didn’t happen. Tanzanian terrorists didn’t just take over an office building in the middle of San Ignatio.

            But, on the other hand, hallucinating psychos didn’t just sneak into office buildings on Saturday evenings and signal for help with Morse Code. Neither did practical jokers. So, compared with the alternatives…

            Laura got her phone and brought it over to the window. With one hand she signaled “Calling,” while with the other she dialed 911.

            And you’d better not be yanking my chain, she thought.

            “9-11, what is your emergency?” said the friendly-sounding man on the other line.

            “Yes, hi,” she said. “I’m getting signals in Morse Code from the Huston Gold saying that it’s been attacked by Tanzanian terrorists.”

            There was a brief pause.

            “Ma’am, is this a prank call?”

            “No!” she said. I hope not. “No, seriously; that’s really what’s happening. I’m in the Coronet Building across the street, and we’re communicating with Morse Code using lights. He asked me to call the police because the building has been attacked by terrorists.”

            She thought she could hear the dispatcher sighing in disbelief.

            “Okay,” he said. “Can you give me your name?”

            “Laura Lotus.”

            “Are you in any danger, Laura?”

            She looked around the darkened office. It struck her at that moment as more than a little creepy. Places that are quiet most of the time are peaceful; places that are normally busy and only fall silent at night are eerie and unnatural, like a corpse. She shivered.

            “I…I don’t think so,” she said. “No,” she corrected, shaking off the jitters. “No, I work across the street; they’re not coming in here. I’m fine.”

            “That’s good. Can you give me the name of the man you’re communicating with?”

            “Hold on,” she relayed the question to her mystery partner.

            “He says his name is George.”

“Alright. Is he in any danger?”

            There was a brief pause before he answered.

            “Seriously?”

            “Yes,” said Laura. “He says he is in danger. I think he thought that was implied by the word ‘terrorist’.” 

            “Of course, Laura,” said the dispatcher. “I just had to make sure. Now, can you tell me who he is, exactly?”

            “No,” she said. “At this point all I know about him is that his name is George, he knows Morse Code, and he says he’s locked in a building with terrorists.”

            “Can you ask him to identify himself more thoroughly?”

            Laura, who didn’t deal well with stupid questions at the best of times, let alone when she was overworked, alone in a darkened office, and possibly in the middle of a major crisis, lost her temper. 

            “Thoroughly? Did you not catch the part where we’re talking through Morse Code? As in, he’s flipping the lights in one of the offices on and off? What do you want; age, height, and job description? The building is under attack by terrorists! Can we maybe stick to the important details and not waste our time?”

            There was a brief pause.

             “Okay, ma’am,” said the dispatcher in a display of well-trained politeness. “What would you say are the important details?”

            Laura decided she didn’t like this dispatcher very much.

            “I don’t know,” she said. “What do you people need to know while storming a hi-rise full of terrorists?”

            “I actually don’t do that, ma’am,” said the dispatcher (Oh, now he’s just being a snot, Laura thought). “But I’d imagine they’d need to know how many terrorists they’re facing.”

            She asked the mysterious George.

            “Unknown,” came the answer.

            “He doesn’t know,” she said.

            “Ten or twenty?”

            “He thinks maybe ten or twenty.”

            “Okay,” said the dispatcher. “Where are they in the building?”

            “Fortieth floor,” she said, relaying his answer.

            “All of them?” asked the dispatcher.

            She relayed the message.

            “How should I know?” came the answer

            “He...he’s not sure.”

            “Are they armed?”

            Laura didn’t bother relaying that one.

            “No, apparently they took over the building by asking nicely. They’re persuasive, but surprisingly polite for Tanzanian terrorists.”

            There was another pause.

            “Ma’am, this is serious business.”

            “Then stop asking stupid questions and just send the damn cavalry already!” she shouted. “Jesus Christ! What part of ‘under attack by terrorist’ is confusing to you?”

            “Just calm down ma’am,” he said gently. “The police have been alerted, they’re on their way.”

            “Finally,” she muttered. She began to relay the message, then stopped abruptly.

            For a brief second, she thought her contact across the street was signaling furiously. The room was illuminated by a series of rapid flashes of white light, and then fell dark again. But it wasn’t the lights he had been signaling her with, nor did it appear to be any kind of flashlight.

            If the dispatcher hadn’t asked about the terrorists being armed, Laura might not have realized what it was.

            “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Someone’s shooting at him!”

Next Week:
Chapter Eight; The Threshold of the Crucible