Chapter Ten: Picking Up the Pieces

“This business will get out of control. It will get out of control, and we will be lucky to live through it.”

— Adm. Joshua Painter, The Hunt for Red October

            “Holy God in Heaven…”

            George watched in horror from the window five stories overhead as the patio, along with what looked like every single guest in the building, broke away and crashed into ruin. The impact seemed to reverberate through his whole body in waves of shock and pain, and for a long time he could do nothing but stare down into the vortex of dust and ash below him. Then he staggered back and collapsed into a chair, letting the shock wash over him.

            They were all dead. Everyone on the balcony. Had Ben or Martha or anyone else he knew been on there? It was more than likely. That meant…

            He couldn’t even complete the thought. He buried his face in his hands, breathing hard. Here he had hoped that calling the police might save everyone, but it hadn’t helped at all; everyone was dead.

            Had it been an accident? Was anyone still alive?

            George lifted his head. He had to know. He had to find out.

            He stood up, hefted his gun, and went to the stairwell.

            “What the Hell happened?!”

            Strasser slipped into his native German in his rage and bewilderment after seeing the patio collapse under the weight of nearly all his hostages. The few who had managed to scramble back were now cowering and trembling in the corner. Out of almost sixty guests to start with, there were now seven still alive.

            Ben and Martha sat huddled together with the other shell-shocked hostages. Martha hadn’t been on the balcony, due to Strasser’s accosting of her, but she had had a front-row seat to watching the whole disaster unfold before her.

            It was hard to say which of the two of them seemed more traumatized.

            Strasser paced the room in agitation. The police might think they did that on purpose, or at least that it was now too dangerous to leave the remaining hostages in their care. They’d become reckless, and what was more, he’d lost most of his leverage. He’d have to conserve his remaining bargaining chips, and the police undoubtedly knew that, which meant that they had the advantage.

            He tried to call Hans, but there was no answer. Of course, the lobby had been blasted to pieces by the impact; everybody down there was probably dead. That meant that they needed to cut the last paths up: disable the last elevator and destroy the last stairway. Gidan had already been sent to see to that. 

            Then there was the one who got away; the man who had slipped through their fingers and called the police. Well, no sense worrying about him now; damage done. Much as Strasser would love to find the little bastard and snap his neck for this, he had more important things to do, and he’d just lost half his men in one moment; five on the balcony and five in the lobby. Now there was only himself, Gidan, Antony, and Julius here in the ballroom, four in the upper floors, and three working on the vault. He would need all of them and didn’t have time to waste a single man chasing after some nobody. 

Strasser checked his watch. In less than an hour, his meticulously crafted plan had all but fallen apart. And all because of some damn idealistic security guard and a bit of faulty masonry.

            But all was not lost. Not by a long shot. All they needed was time, and he could buy that. 

            The four Tanzanians he had sent to secure the helipads came racing into the ballroom, jabbering in Swahili. Strasser sighed. Leave it to the Soviet Government to train him in ten different languages and then go start a war in a country that didn’t use any of them. He’d picked up some of the language over the past year, but not enough to understand what they were saying.

            “Speak English, damn it!” he snapped.

            “Sir, what do we do?! Were those all our hostages? How…”

            “No,” he said. “We still have seven hostages, and in any case, the police have no way of knowing how many survived. We are not altering the plan! This is a set back, yes, but it changes nothing. We will go on as before. Now get back to your posts.”

            They looked at each other, as if confused.

            “Perhaps your English needs a little work,” said Strasser. “I said go! Roof! NOW!”

            The hurried from the room like whipped dogs. The sight made Strasser feel considerably better. He’d needed to exercise a little dominance after what had just happened. 

            Now it was time to negotiate.

            Strasser reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the CB Radio he had brought, but hadn’t yet used.

            “I wish to speak with Deputy Chief Joseph Webb.”

           

            Deputy Chief Webb had lost hostages before. It was always a rotten thing, even when there wasn’t anything they could do about it. This, however, was something different. This was a full-on, historical disaster. People would be listing the Huston Gold alongside the Triangle Waist Shirt Company or the South Forks Dam. He had just been a witness to…no, a participant in, one of the greatest disasters in the history of San Ignatio.

            And the worst part was, the night was just beginning.  

            For the first few moments after the impact, everyone had been too stunned to react. Then Webb frantically attempted to assess the damage. There was still too much dust to get a clear view, but he could tell that the whole courtyard, including the driveway, the immaculately manicured patch of garden and the ornate fountain was simply gone. The entire façade of the first few floors had been ripped off by the impact, exposing the shape of the rooms inside.

            Debris had been hurled violently in every direction. One sixty-pound piece was later discovered more than a half-mile away. The emergency responders and gawkers all instinctively ducked, but some not fast enough. One officer had the whole top of his head taken off by a bit of masonry the size of a tennis ball, while a news anchor lost three fingers on live television when she instinctively put up a hand to ward off shrapnel. Webb was still trying to find out exactly how many people on the ground had been hurt. He knew they’d lost any cars that were within a few hundred yards of the courtyard, and any people who hadn’t been able to get away from them in time.

            At this point, he wasn’t even counting the hostages. The only way any of them could have survived was if they had gotten off the patio in time.

            A fine layer of dust mingled with the moist air and settled over everything, painting the red fire vehicles and blue and white police cruisers a pale gray. It was like being in a snowfall, except snow didn’t get in your lungs and choke you. Snow was beautiful. This dust was ugly as hell.

            Webb tried to wipe the stuff off his face and it grated against his skin like sandpaper. Ignoring his own discomfort, he barked instructions to his men as they tried to assess just how bad the damage was.

            It was bad. After about ten minutes of searching the initial count came in at four lost cars, six dead emergency responders, thirteen dead reporters and civilians, and maybe fifty of both groups with varying degrees of injury. Webb wondered that the civilians had taken more casualties than the emergency workers, who were after all closer, but then he realized that his people had had cars and fire trucks to shelter behind, while the crowd had been mostly out in the open.        

            Damn, I knew we should have gotten them out of here. 

            He sent orders for the remaining crowd to be pushed back, out of sight of the building. That didn’t take much doing, since most of them had started heading that way on their own initiative.

             If this was an accident, then it seemed maliciously unfair that it should happen just then. If it was deliberate…then it was going to be mighty hard to stay professional tonight.

            Fortunately, there was someone nearby who was, possibly, partly responsible for it.

            “Mr. Calvan,” he said, very slowly and doing his best to keep his voice even. “Do you have any idea how that happened?”

            Calvan took a moment to answer. He was staring at the mangled front of his building as though stunned.

            “I…I have been warning the board that the building was falling into disrepair,” he said. “I’ve recommended for months that we ought either to move or to undergo a severe restoration, but I never dreamed it was that bad.”

            Webb watched him closely. Calvan seemed stunned, as if he had just been hit over the head. Webb knew most of his men probably looked the same.

            “Why didn’t you fix it then?”

            “The board did not think it necessary,” said Calvan. “Their inspectors declared that the building was safe, and so they decided it wasn’t worth the cost.” He shook his head, as though dazed. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

            Webb suspected Calvan was at least bending the truth to avoid taking responsibility for the disaster, and he was on the point of pressing the issue when Bill spoke up.

            “Joe, someone on the inside wants to talk to you.”

            It’s about time; I’ve got a few questions for this asshole.

            “Patch it through,” he ordered.

            “Am I speaking to Deputy Chief Joseph Webb of the San Ignatio Police Department?” said a low, cool, accented voice.

            “That’s right,” Webb answered. “To whom am I speaking?”

            “The man currently in charge of the Huston Gold,” said the other. “For now, you may call me Alpha.”

            “Alright, Mr. Alpha,” said Webb. “Do you care to explain what exactly just happened?”

            “A most regrettable accident,” said the man called Alpha. “Believe me, it was not our intention; we had hoped for as little bloodshed as possible. It seems Mr. Calvan has not kept up on his maintenance.”

            Webb glared over at Calvan, who appeared lost in thought.

            “Did anyone make it out?”

            “Yes; there are still more than a dozen hostages here with us. If you will look to the open side of the building, I will send a few out to let you know that I am telling the truth. Don’t worry; we will be cautious.”

             Webb trained his binoculars on the ugly gash in the building’s side. Four or five people, visibly hesitant to approach the damaged area, walked slowly into view: three men and two women. 

            “Alright, I see them,” said Webb. “Move them back; away from the edge.”

            The hostages retreated.

            “So just what is it you want, Mr. Alpha?”

            “The United States is currently involved in an imperialistic war against the People’s Republic of Tanzania,” said Alpha. “In the course of this infamous and unjust conflict, America has captured several key Tanzanian citizens. The following men and women are to be released and sent back home to their families: General Yaphet Kadhi. General Joseph Al Jassori. Major Jakaya Kagame. Colonel Assan Mushikiwabo. General Didas Buthelezi. When these citizens have been set free, you are to provide us with a Bell UH-1 Helicopter equipped with a single pilot. We shall then take the helicopter, leave the pilot, and depart, leaving the hostages to your care. I will give you until precisely eleven o’clock pm. If these prisoners are not in the process of being freed, I will execute the first hostage. I shall then proceed every hour on the hour until my demands are met. Despite the incident with the balcony, I still have enough to last ‘till dawn.”

            “Mr. Alpha, two hours is not enough time to arrange something of that magnitude…”

            “It is enough time to begin,” said Alpha. “If, at the deadline, you can show me some evidence of your good faith and progress, I will spare my hostage. But make no mistake, Captain; we remain her until these citizens are safely on their way home to Tanzania and freedom or until every last hostage is dead. It is your call which it shall be. Remember; ten o’clock.”

            The line went dead.

Webb looked at Morgan and sighed.

            “Better get the governor’s office on the line,” he said. “We’re going to have to figure out some way to buy us a little time…”

            “Good,” said Strasser. “That should buy us some time.”

            George watched from the corner of the band loft as Mr. Strasser concluded his call and turned to the huge Tanzanian who had just come out of the stairwell. “Gidan, what is the progress on the vault?”

            “They’re still working on the first layer,” answered Gidan.

            Big, scary one is Gidan, George thought. He’s trying to break into the vault.

            George had snuck out of the stairwell on the forty-first floor; just above where the party had been. This floor had several points where it ended as a balcony or loft over the lower story, and it was by very carefully exploring these that George had found the remaining hostages, huddled up in the great dining room off the ballroom. The ballroom was now a real mess; the Sky Patio had taken great chunks of the floor along with it when it had fallen, and there was now a cold wind blowing in through the wound on the side of the building. Strasser had accordingly moved the hostages back into the more sheltered dining room after displaying them to the police, leaving only one man behind to keep an eye on the activity below.

            George had nearly exclaimed aloud with relief when he saw that both Ben and Martha were among the survivors. Neither looked especially well, and Ben in particular looked badly shaken, but they were both alive, and that was something to be grateful for.

            “That isn’t fast enough,” Strasser said. “We’re going to have to move up our schedule. Is there any way to speed up the process?”

            “Not if you want anything inside to still be intact.”

            “It is a sturdy object,” said Strasser. “Don’t worry about being delicate.”

            Gidan nodded, but he didn’t leave. He was watching Strasser with an expression that George didn’t like.

            “This situation wouldn’t have happened if we all had those earpieces,” said the Tanzanian.

            “That would have been an unnecessary expense, not mention we would have risked them falling into the hands of the Americans.”

            “They already have, if Hans is dead downstairs.”

            “I doubt they will look that closely, but if all of us had one they would be much more likely to discover them.”

            Gidan glared at him.

            “You people,” he growled. “You’re just like all the rest; you think you’re so much better than us; like we’re children. You think you can keep all your secrets to yourselves so that we have to come crawling to you for help.”

            Strasser didn’t seem at all intimidated by the Tanzanian’s obvious anger. George was impressed, in spite of himself. Gidan was at least a head taller than Strasser, and much more massive-looking, yet the German simply stared coolly back at him.

            “That’s funny, coming from you,” he said.

            Gidan’s hands curled into fists. George almost thought he could hear knuckles cracking.

            “It isn’t…perfect,” he said. “It isn’t what the other…the bantu who works for you has.”

            “Not my department,” said Strasser. “Now what do you think would be more productive; listing the ways our alliance is not living up to your expectations, or going upstairs and breaking into that vault?”

             Gidan looked as if he wanted to rip Strasser’s head off, but whatever was in the vault was apparently worth holding his temper. With a growl he turned and stalked off to the stairwell.

            George backed away from the balcony as silently as possible, considering what he had heard. Strasser and Gidan were after something. They were on the same side, but different teams, and Gidan’s team – obviously the Tanzanians – didn’t think that Strasser’s team – he had a sneaking suspicion who they might be – were treating them right. That was interesting. What was more interesting, though, was this object hidden in the vault that they were so eager to recover. What could that be?

            He didn’t have time to sit here and puzzle about it, or to wait for the next conversation. He had taken enough of a gamble as it was, and now he needed to pass what he had learned on to the police. Very carefully, he rose to a half-crouch and crept to the stairwell. He listened for any of the sounds of the big Tanzanian’s movements, heard none, and descended ten flights. Now that he knew all the bad guys were congregated in the upper floors, he figured he’d be safer farther down.

            But at about the thirtieth floor, looking down the central shaft, he noticed something odd about the stairs below him. Descending a little more, he found that at about the twentieth floor, the stairs had been smashed to pieces, leaving only bent rebar and chunks of masonry. The destruction wasn’t continuous; there were still a few steps visible on the landing below him, and a few flights seemed to still be intact, but it would be impossible, without a lot of climbing gear, to either ascend or descend. And George had a suspicion that, the farther down he went, the more thorough the destruction would be.

            Gingerly, he felt the jagged edges of the concrete steps and wondered at the terrible power it would have taken to reek this kind of destruction, and only in the relatively short time since the terrorists had taken the building. The more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed. Even if they had brought a jackhammer or something, this would have taken hours of coordinated effort. And then there was the way the rebar had been bent and twisted…

            George couldn’t imagine what had done this, but it was looking like these were no ordinary terrorists. He climbed up to the next landing, found a suitable office in the back of the building and began to signal.  

            “Got him again,” said Laura Lotus. “Looks like he went down a few levels.”

            She responded to his call, and for the next few minutes she watched as he spelled out the situation.

            “Okay,” she said. “So far, he’s counted four remaining terrorists and seven surviving hostages. But he says that he’s certain there are more terrorists somewhere in the building. But he says the lobby is cut off and…check their ears?”

            Officer Dunn, who had been relaying her message over the secure channel, looked up.

            “Ears?”

            She shrugged.

            “That’s what he says. He also says that they somehow broke the stairs…not really sure what that means…oh, they…they smashed the concrete stairwell?”

            She looked at officer Dunn, who appeared just as bewildered as she was.

            “How’d they do that?” he asked.

            She relayed the question.

            “He wishes he knew, but he wants us to be aware.”

            Dunn relayed the message, but got a question of his own back

            “Do you think he might be snapping under pressure?”

            “How should I know?” she answered impatiently. “At this point I’m not I’m not snapping under pressure. Now shut up; I’m trying to concentrate.”

            She read his next message, her brow furrowed.

            “They’re after something in the vault. Apparently, there are men trying to break into it as we speak. No idea what, except they say it’s ‘sturdy.’ Alrighty then. As far as he knows, they’re just armed with rifles, but he wants you to know that he’s not sure about that.”

            Officer Dunn dutifully repeated this information.

            “The man in charge is named Otto Strasser, a German. Then there’s also a big Tanzanian named Gidan. Looks like it’s actually two groups; a couple of Germans and a larger force of Tanzanians, most of whom are now dead. Apparently, Strasser’s group is allied with Gidan’s and has been supplying them, but Gidan doesn’t think it’s been enough.”

            There was a brief pause, then the next message came. This one made Laura feel like her stomach was decompressing. She asked him to repeat.

            “Uh,” she said. “His guess, and it’s only a guess, but he thinks the people behind this might be the U.S.S.R.”

            Dunn paused.

            “The Soviets?” he said. “Why would they be doing something like this?”

            Laura shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the flickering light from the other building.

            “He says that’s just a hunch.”

            Dunn relayed the message.

            “So…what have we gotten ourselves into?” he asked after he’d finished.

            “That’s what I want to know,” she sighed.

            Captain Webb listened to the message from their contact with growing alarm. This thing was just getting worse all the time.

            “Bill, call the governor or the senator, or someone with clout in Washington and see what they have to say about this.”

            Dealing with rouge Tanzanian agents was one thing. Dealing the Soviet Union was something else entirely. This was spiraling way out of control, and they needed to get a lid on it right away.

            The good news, at least, was that it sounded like the impact had either killed everyone in the lobby or at least cut off their ability to communicate upstairs. Webb sent the SWAT Teams in to secure the ground floor. From what their friend inside said, they wouldn’t be able to reach the fortieth floor that way, but at least they’d have a foothold inside the building.

            The team took the lobby without much effort; turned out all but two of the terrorists there were dead, and the survivors didn’t put up any resistance. Webb would talk to them later.

            Right now, though, he needed information from a different source.

            Xander Calvan stood a little ways apart, gazing at his now-mangled building as if deep in contemplation. Webb went over and stood next to him, watching his serene, but stern face.

            “What’s in the vault, Mr. Calvan?”

            Calvan blinked, but didn’t look at him.

            “I told you, Mr. Webb, a considerable amount of money in negotiable bonds...”

            “Yeah, I know what you told me. But I find it hard to believe that a bunch of Tanzanian agents would come all this way and take over a high rise just to steal a few million. So what else is in the vault?”

            Calvan took a moment to answer, and still he didn’t take his eyes off the building.

            “I am not at liberty to say.”

            “You are if I say you are,” said Webb sharply.

            Calvan said nothing.

            Webb’s eyes narrowed. He dropped the respectful policeman and shifted his mind back to the D.I. He stepped in front of Calvan and leaned in so that his face was barely an inch from that of the richest man in the world.

            “You listen to me, mister,” he snarled. “Almost seventy people just died here tonight, so I don’t give a damn about any security agreement you may have, got it? I need to know what these people are after, and you are going to tell me right now!”

            Calvan’s cold blue eyes met Webb’s, and for a while it seemed as if their wills strove against each other like competing magnetic fields. Calvan had not so much as flinched while Webb was berating him. That unnerved Webb. He’d never before failed to intimidate anyone with his sergeant routine, but he didn’t let his discomfort show by so much as a twitch. He just kept glaring into the businessman’s eyes, daring him to push back.

            Finally, Calvan spoke.

            “It is a top secret project we were working on for the government. I cannot tell you the specifics, and they would not interest you anyway, as Strasser cannot make use of it here and now. He is merely trying to acquire it. However, you may rest assured that he will not be able to retrieve it. My security is far too tight for that.”

            “Your security,” said Webb, stepping back and returning to his police persona. “Just like when they took the building?”

            “The vault is much stronger than the building,” Calvan answered. “If they came for that they will assuredly never find it.”

            “Alright, if you say so,” said Webb. “But for the sake of argument, just supposed they did break through your vault and find it. What’s makes the thing so important?”

            Calvan returned his gaze from Webb to the building.

            “They won’t,” he assured him. “Which you might call fortunate, because if they did…if the Tanzanians or the Soviets or whoever it is that is behind this were able to secure this item and escape with it…then nothing on this earth could stop them.”

Next Week:

Chapter Eleven: The Cyborg