Chronicles of War Part 1: Way of the Storm ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Don't hate the path we have been pushed down. Hate who did the shoving." - Dave Handleton ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter 4: Illusion. Intrusion. Investigation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The weather was turning nasty. The biting wind had turned downright vicious, tearing into clothing and yanking off hats left and right. The mercury was in free-fall, and with the clouds growing darker and more threatening every minute, it was soon to be joined by stinging cold rain. The Kennewick City Police Department had erected a barrier around the mall with orange traffic cones, yellow 'DO NOT CROSS' tape and countless police officers. The border ran jaggedly through the sprawling parking lot, cutting between the few remaining cars. The roads for more than a mile in every direction were hopelessly clogged by disgruntled shoppers and rubber-necking locals. The former on their way home, the latter flocking to the mall as if a major sporting event were being staged there. The police did manage to maintain a single route of entry to the south, a route presumably reserved for emergency vehicles, though naturally this was a train of thought no-one wanted to contemplate seriously. There was one Ambulance parked at the extreme southwest corner of the parking lot, in a square of un-paved earth. Next to the Ambulance there was a box van painted black with the letters SWAT stenciled on the sides and back. It was surrounded by a half-circle of four police cruisers. While the media storm and the natural one brewed outside, five people worked away tirelessly inside the SWAT van. The first, Chief of the Kennewick City Police Department, was a man with a stern face and a neck not even one inch slimmer than his head. Perpetually clean-shaven, with short black hair plastered to his head like it was painted over his scalp. Piercing brown eyes focused on the detective sitting opposite him with the intensity of a laser beam. "All right, who is this guy?" Peter Bates answered in an apologetic tone. "We honestly don't know." He had a square head, thick brown hair that would look better on a carpet, and a bushy brown mustache in a shape that reminded one of a comb hanging from his nose. His clear blue eyes met the Chief's with a level, alert look. "The FBI ran down names in every DMV in this half of the United States. So far they've hit five people with the name James Rahn. The only one that matches the age of the person the bus driver described doesn't have a middle name." The detective looked at a steno pad held in his thick fingers, each of which had several thick, curly hairs. "James Rahn, twenty four years old. Resident of Blackram, North Dakota." "Name change?" The Chief asked, looking at the Chief of Mall Security, Mike Kitawaski. "It's possible." Mike said. "I mean--that's the same kid. I knew him. It's the same person, so if he's being called James Rahn it's either an alias or he changed it. You know, his family still lives in the area, and it _is_ Thanksgiving." He looked at the Chief of Police. The Police Chief considered correcting Kitawaski. "Then he might have been with them. You remember his last name?" "No." "Limbaugh?" The Chief prompted. Justin Limbaugh felt the Chief stare inquisitively at him. Slightly shorter than his partner, Limbaugh was bald with a precisely trimmed black beard and the air of a favorite uncle. He made a show of looking at his notes, and without pulling the cellular phone from his ear, shook his head at the Chief. "I've got nothing on major lines of travel yet. It'll be about fifteen minutes. I _can_ say that there's an unconfirmed eyewitness saying James Rahn left Blackram two days ago by car." "I'm surprised he would have traveled alone. Did this eyewitness say if someone was with him?" Bates followed through in his partner's silence. "Nothing that concrete. As far as we know, he traveled alone. Then again, we haven't even drawn a line on his place of employment." "So the eyewitness account it lacking." Bates chose his words carefully. "They always do, but we've got leads." The Chief nodded, then asked out loud the question that had been plaguing everyone since long before this discussion began. "Then why get on a bus?" Bates shrugged. "He's either crazy or has solid steel balls if he drove eight hundred miles across Montana in the middle of November, alone. Suppose his car broke down near town, or even on the way. If he's going to his family's house, they're probably expecting him." "Just conjecture and unreliable witnesses." The Chief lamented. "I want hard numbers." He turned to Mike. "Did James strike you as the kind of guy who would drive eight hundred miles by himself?" "I can't say." Mike said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He and his father were resourceful people, problem-solving types. I can imagine him packing the trunk with tools and doing it for the thrill...." Dan Smith, negotiator for the Police Department, stared back at Mike thoughtfully. Dan was almost completely bald, with a small ring of hair running around the back of his head, ear-to-ear. His face was permanently scarred by old burn wounds, ugly as mud thrown on a brick wall. Except for his round face, he was all square. Square hands with hard square knuckles and squared-off fingers, square shoulders under a brown sweater, ruler-straight arms and legs ending in a square stance, and probably a square heart to match his square shoes. "Is he generally a thrill-seeker, or is he reckless just with cars?" Mike thought about the question for a minute. "No, he's a bit reckless all around I'd say. Your usual stuff at sixteen years old." "He's twenty-four now." Dan countered. "He'd still do it." Mike said without pause. Dan made a note. "Does he keep secrets?" Mike thought about that one too. "In my experience?" "Yes." Dan said. "No more than anyone else. He seemed pretty honest with me in the mall." "Was he nervous?" Dan asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Yeah, kind of buzzing around. Energetic." Dan made another note. "What did he look at?" "What?" Mike said. "In the room, when you talked with him. What did he look at?" "Well, he looked at me. He looked around the room... he seemed very focused." "So he paid attention to you?" "He paid attention to what I said." Dan took more notes. "Did he seem... resigned at all?" "No." Mike said slowly. "Just very... determined." "Like he was ready for whatever was about to happen." Mike simply nodded. "What did he carry with him? What did he look like?" "He was wearing this huge shirt, long sleeved, and jeans and work boots. He had a police badge on a chain around his neck, and a gun--holstered." "Anything else?" All of the cops were quietly looking at Mike now. "Hair combed and in place. It's funny, but he reminded me with an engineer. And he... he walked really quietly. That office is noisy--that whole mall is noisy--but he didn't make a sound when he walked around. Weird." "Any identifying marks?" "No, he's pretty generic, if you get my meaning. Blond hair, blue eyes, normal build. He could fade into a college pep rally, you know." "Didn't say anything about his trip? His family? The holiday?" "I didn't think it would be on his mind." Dan shot the Chief a look, and Mike felt he was not needed here any longer. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kitawaski." Dan said, shaking Mike's hand heartily. For a moment, Mike could picture Dan putting on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and giving a lecture to an auditorium full of students. Mike quickly made his way out of the truck with some small thanks offered by the Chief of Police, with the promise that he would be kept in the loop. With Kitawaski gone, Dan shook his head, showing his worry. "We fucked?" The Chief asked him. "We're fucked." "How so?" Limbaugh asked, hanging up his cell phone. "Man doesn't talk about his family in that situation, he's got bigger worries. The question is, what is he worried about?" "Past crimes." Bates stated for everyone's benefit. "Someone could be after him. Maybe he knows who." Limbaugh theorized. "Highly likely." The Chief said. "Dig extra deep in that area." Limbaugh took this down on his pad. "What about blackmail? What about revenge?" Bates asked. Dan looked at his notes. "Nothing that would indicate either. If James it set on doing his, he's not going to talk about the why. But if it were blackmail or revenge, wouldn't he try to subtly let his old friend know why he picked up a gun and marched in there?" "What if he's just determined to end it? What if he's planning on going down in a blaze of glory?" Bates offered. "He'll want to make a statement." Dan said solemnly. "A public statement." "Kitawaski didn't mention anything like that." Limbaugh said slowly. The Chief nodded. "He didn't. Any word from the FBI?" "They've got a guy on it." Limbaugh said. "They should be in touch with us momentarily." "This reeks." Dan admitted. "If this guy drove here alone, didn't care about his family, then stormed into that mall to battle a bunch of terrorist head on, gun in hand... regardless of why, he's fucking dangerous." "Insane or genius?" Bates asked rhetorically. "Scary-smart and armed." Limbaugh noted. Each man remained quiet, wondering what had been unleashed upon them, where it came from, how it would end, and who on earth was responsible for it. Who would die today? "We're fucked." The Chief said with a sigh. ---------- In the space of time that it took FBI Agent Jason Clark to reach for the ringing phone on his desk, his mind summoned a list of potential callers, reason for contacting him, urgency of the call, proposed duration of the work said call might bring, and finally organized these according to likelihood. 'Police officer from far-flung, back-woods town requesting support involving major terrorist activities' ranked somewhere behind Stephen Tyler asking him to fill in on Aerosmith's next tour. _That_ ranked behind 'aliens announcing their intention to land on earth and begin peaceful dialog with world governments.' Thus, it was with something akin to real shock that Clark carefully took detailed and extended notes from a clinical if somewhat confused detective before asking to speak to the Chief of Police of some tiny hick town called 'Kennewick.' The police chief brought less information to Clark's list, but the man himself communicated in a straightforward manner, apparently unperturbed by the fact that one of his city's largest landmarks could at any second become a tomb for 51 people. After less than two minutes of conversation, Clark was certain the man was a rock. If aliens invaded, he was calling Cameins to help negotiate. Before the police hung up, Clark assured them he would hit the 'Big Red Panic Button' and gallop over there with as much help as he could muster. On such short notice, that admittedly wasn't much, but it was what the FBI did. It was there job, and damned if Jason Clark wasn't going to let 'impossible' get in the way of doing his job. The receiver rested on the squat body of the digital office telephone silently, and Clark wondered for a moment how something simple, innocuous, cheap, common (and probably made in China) could so radically change his world so quickly. Terrorist threatening to blow up a mall. One citizen--young--was "asked" to hold their hostages _for_ said terrorists? Fifty-one people--including the young citizen--were inside the mall, and in harm's way. Terrorist _inside_ the mall as well, and none had made demands? He quickly made a number of detailed notes and questions in red ink, next to his original notes from the phone call in black. The police were thorough, but everybody had nothing but questions. He called his supervisor, requesting and getting immediate approval to go to Kennewick--no matter how the situation turned out--with his partner. His supervisor wanted a brief in ten minutes. Clark said to do it in five, and his boss agreed immediately. He sent an e-mail to his partner, Kelly Narr, warning her of both the meeting and need to depart immediately. In less than two minutes, she replied that she was securing a flight and hotel reservations. Kelly Narr. Not a bad partner. After two years of working together, Clark didn't have any complaints. She was capable, quick, and not obnoxiously ambitious. Oddly, she wasn't interested in working for a law enforcement agency. She didn't go out of her way to tell people she was an FBI Agent. To her it really was just a day job. Yet she was good at it, and for that Clark was thankful. Kelly's body looked like someone had taken a bulldog and gotten it to breed with a mule--not be unkind, but it was the truth--she was short, stocky, fit, and moved in short bursts of energy, sometimes reminding Clark of a stop-motion film. Clay animated stuff was like that. "Claymation" he seemed to remember it being called. Kelly wasn't bad to look at. Her perky face had teamed up with her height to get her the name "chipmunk," though it was her high-energy personality that really earned that nickname. Her blond hair was kept short and had a slight curl right at the tips. A "bob" he thought it was called. Yes, Kelly was a good partner. Determined and focused, if mysteriously uncaring of "the job" outside of work, staring intently at the paper in his hands.... "Oh. Hey Kelly, is it time already?" She smiled. "Yep. Got the inside scoop there?" Clark waved the paper in a dismissive manner. "You'll hear everything. Pretty nasty if it's true." He rose from his seat and made for the door at ramming speed. Kelly spun out of his way and dropped into place three feet behind him as he made his way down the two long hallways to the building's largest meeting room. "And if it isn't?" Kelly asked. "Still pretty nasty." She was his partner. Barring an act of God or government, she'd be going with him. "Terrorists." He could tell without looking that she had on her 'thinking' face. "Really? Where?" "Like I said, you'll hear everything." Given her nature, she would have pestered him until he revealed all, right down the color of his socks, but he was spared as they reached their destination. The western Washington field office was not a particularly large office, and most of their agents were under deep cover trying to ensnare slavers that brought good (legally) and people (illegally) into Seattle's ports. There was the usual presence of DEA-types who worked with that agency and the local police to keep the city from being flooded with illegal substances, and then there was him, Kelly, four other field agents, and their boss, McGriven. McGriven was an immense man, drawfing the room's podium like a an eighteen-wheeler parked next to a Lotus Elise. He was a wrestler in Mississippi State and dominated the sport from his freshman year until graduation. Once upon a time had a shot at an Olympic showing. But McGriven's father was a police officer. His father's father was a police officer. The day after graduation, McGriven hung up his tights and went off to fight crime, sport be damned. He hadn't lost his fighting form since, though. Nearly as wide as he was tall, when McGriven walked down the street, people would see him and ask him to hold up their car while they changed a flat tire. Dressed in an impossibly well-made suit that looked like it was designed to cover a bulldozer, McGriven delivered the news to the agents in the room. "In Kennewick, not three hundred miles from here, a group of unidentified terrorists have seized control of a publicly accessible structure. Fifty-one innocent people are trapped inside. The terrorists are holding these people hostage by means a large amount of yet-undiscovered explosive. Clark, Narr." "Sir?" Kelly answered for the both of them. "You two are going to be our field contact. Denslow, Whitman." "Sir." Denslow took the pen out of his mouth. "You two are going to take all the information the Kennewick police can provide and try to identify who we're up against. I want the works on this. Feed your results back to Clark and Narr, and brief me every hour on the hour. Clark?" "Sir?" "Keep a line to the Chief and whoever does PR. We want to make sure the media doesn't start making up quotes about this. That's it. Everyone get moving." 'Making up quotes' was FBI-speak for 'unintentional information leak.' Getting the right information out via news services was an effective way to shake the tree and see any rotten apples fell out. Hopefully, the boss would have a page and a half of quotes to have them drop by the time their plane landed. The only question was, would it do any good? In a few hours, they'd be in Kennewick, Washington. And they'd know.