Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (5 page)

10

Washington, DC, six weeks earlier

“Senator Sterling, can I talk to you for one minute?” Derrick wiped the August sweat from his forehead as he followed the senator and his bulky security guard through a maze of desks and file cabinets toward his cramped office in the Hart Building in downtown Washington, DC.

At the doorway Sterling turned to face Derrick; the security guard awkwardly ducked out of the way, straightening himself in a military stance off to the side.

“Good grief, Whittaker, you’d think the AC wasn’t working in here the way you’re sweating,” Sterling said.

Derrick followed the security guard’s eyes down to his own armpits, where his neatly pressed light-blue dress shirt was soaked with two huge dark blotches of perspiration. “I know, sir. I’m not used to this humidity. It’s hotter here than it is at home.”

“Well, come in a minute.” Sterling went into his office. “Sit down, get cooled off. We Buckeyes have got to stick together.”

“Thank you, Senator.” The only chair besides Sterling’s had stacks of papers in it.

“Just set that stuff on the floor.” Sterling dropped his notebook atop reams of paperwork spread across his desk like a mountain range. He tossed his dark suit coat onto a small table stacked with books and journals, went around, and dropped into his big leather chair. “Do you know how much reading this job entails? I could read sunup to sundown and never get to half of it.”

“I believe it, sir.” Derrick plunked into the chair, wiped the sweat from his upper lip, and flipped to the questions he’d jotted down during Sterling’s speech to the Senate an hour earlier. It wasn’t only the humidity that was getting to him; he still got nervous around Sterling, probably because the man could very well be the next president of the United States.

“A lot of senators don’t read a tenth of it. You believe that?” Sterling swiveled around to his computer screen and moved the mouse. “Some have their aides do it … Oh, for goodness’ sake. Seventy-four new emails in the last ninety minutes. And I guarantee you, half of it’s hate mail.” He shoved the mouse, turned the chair toward Derrick, and leaned way back, clasping his hands behind his head.

In the glow from his computer screen, Sterling’s thick hair, combed over in front, had the color and texture of steel wool. Although he wore an expensive suit, his wide red tie was crooked and his gray shirt wrinkled. Derrick even noticed some grayish beard stubble beneath the sides of his sharp jaw. As Sterling rolled up his sleeves, revealing dark hairy wrists, Derrick got the impression that the man’s life outside the office mirrored the mess on his desk.

“You’ve got to keep focused on your top priorities in this work and forget the small stuff.” Sterling tossed both hands into the air. “Let it roll right off. Otherwise you’ll never get anything accomplished.”

“Speaking of priorities, sir, I want to ask you about the proposed initiative you just talked about in Senate chambers—to get the country up to speed on the threat of an electromagnetic pulse attack.”

Sterling opened his hands like a bomb exploding. “We’re totally unprepared for an EMP. Our power grid is vulnerable at best. Such an attack would bring the US to a standstill. It would permanently disable electronic devices. You’ve seen the show
Revolution
, where the power goes out?”

Derrick nodded.

“That’s what we’re talking about. ATMs stop working. Water and sewer systems shut down. Transportation comes to a halt. We’d be in the Dark Ages—”

“You mentioned this threat is real, right now. It could happen …”

“A short-range ballistic missile carrying an EMP device could destroy our critical infrastructure
today.
” Sterling snapped his fingers.

“Who would this come from?”

“Any rogue nation could create a radio-frequency device that could cause an EMP that would disrupt critical systems. Heck, Iran and North Korea have ballistic missile capabilities. We are not ready! This is the platform I’m running on, Whittaker. President Brumby is burying his head in the sand. His job is to protect the people of this country. The job ain’t gettin’ done!”

Derrick had heard all of this in Sterling’s speeches. “What I want to know, Senator, is what it would cost to develop the system you talked about that would combat these vulnerabilities.”

Sterling shook his head. “Millions, maybe billions. But you see, herein lies the difference between the president and me. For me, this is a hands-down, red-alert top priority. For him”—he slashed his hand low—“it’s not even on the radar. Our nation’s defense is this administration’s lowest budget priority among the major responsibilities of the federal government. His proposed plan would
shrink
our defense budget even more than he has already, not just slow its rate of growth as he claims. Heck, everybody knows he’s financing terrorist sympathizers.”

“Where would the money come from to pay for the defense against EMPs?”

“It’s back to my mantra. Cut. Government. Spending! We are gonna be ruthless when it comes to this. I truly believe government is four to five times larger than it should be. Some of those funds we save by reducing big government will go toward EMP defense, the National Counterterrorism Center, new defenses against cyberthreats—”

“Okay, fine. I get that,” Derrick said.

“Good.” Sterling leaned on his desk. “You cooled down?”

Derrick chuckled. “Yes, I am. Thanks for letting me come in.”

Sterling rose. “Anything else?”

“One thing I’m curious about.” Derrick pointed to Sterling’s computer. “The hate mail. I can guess what it’s about, but I’d like to hear from you. And who does it come from?”

“Off the record?”

Ugh. Derrick hated when politicians did that. “I guess so …”

Sterling walked around his desk to the door and closed it. “
Off
the record—it’s from liberals and leftist advocates who are blind to the fact that this country is going straight to hell in a handbasket. They’re opposed to my strict stance on illegals. They’re opposed to my plan to root out terrorists, homegrown and foreign, and cut them off at the knees—”

“They think you’re profiling—”

He threw his hands up. “Call it whatever you want! The fact is, if America doesn’t do something—and I mean something
radical
—this country will never be the same. I hope it’s not too late already. Four more years under this president will sink the ship, I can assure you of that.”

“Can I just read something? I’d like to get your feedback on this—on the record.”

Sterling waved his hand, walked to the window, and stared out.

Derrick found the printout he’d tucked into his notebook. “Some of your opponents believe you’re advocating what they call ‘religious and racial profiling.’ They say, and I quote, ‘Profiling violates our country’s fundamental promise of affording every citizen equal justice under the law. Biased policing makes us less safe because it wastes resources and misleads law enforcement authorities away from focusing on real threats.’”

“That is the biggest load of you-know-what I’ve ever heard, and yes, that’s the type of people from whom the hate mail flows in.”

“Let me just add this,” Derrick said. “It says, ‘Since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, religious and racial profiling has namely victimized Muslims, Arabs, Middle Easterners, and South Asians, all of whom have endured disproportionate scrutiny from law enforcement.’”

“See, Whittaker, what those people don’t want to admit, for whatever reason, is that there is a very real terror threat in America. Within the last year we’ve been made aware of increased incidents involving the stockpiling of explosives, the surveillance of targets, and an increasing number of significant plots and attack plans. Some of these come from—”

“Are we on the record?”

“Yes. Some of these initiatives come from homegrown terrorists, common criminals who set out on a path of radicalization toward jihadism. Many others come from people who’ve come to the US for the sole purpose of causing havoc and ruining the freedom we have in the West. I don’t care which they are; under my presidential leadership they will be ferreted out and brought to the severest justice. Call it whatever you want. Someone’s got to do something. My administration will do whatever it takes.”

“So—”

“If people have a problem with that”—Sterling raised his voice—“they shouldn’t put me on the ballot for president. But if they have a problem with bombs going off in our subways, I’m their man. They need to support me and encourage all their friends to do the same.”

Derrick scribbled furiously as Sterling walked around his desk to the door.

“I guess the next time we’ll see each other will be back in Columbus, eh?” the senator said. “I’m anxious to get home. See the family. Who knows, in another fifteen months we may be living over on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Hold on a sec, sir.” Derrick continued to write. When he finally had it all down, he eyed the senator. “Are you concerned for your safety at all? I noticed you have security guards.”

“Back off the record?” Sterling said.

“Okay.” Derrick gathered his things and went to the door.

“I feel like this is my calling. I truly believe my becoming president will be the best thing for this country. We’re at a turning point. It’s a crucible of sorts. Someone’s got to take the reins. And, yes, with that are going to be threats. I’m not afraid.” He shook his head. “I’ve never been afraid to die, especially not for my country.”

“You never had your own security detail before …”

“I’ve had to hire my own! You wouldn’t believe the threats. But that’s a story for another day. I’ve got to get busy.” Sterling opened the office door and stepped out. “Needless to say, I’m becoming close friends with old Parker out here.” Parker, the hefty security guard, nodded while staring straight ahead.

Derrick smiled and headed out. “I’ll see you back in Ohio, sir.”

“What was it the chaplain said at the prayer breakfast this morning?” Sterling said. “Don’t say, ‘Today or tomorrow I’ll go to this city or that—for you don’t even know what will happen tomorrow.’”

That was odd, Derrick thought. He never knew Sterling to be a religious man. In fact, behind closed doors with his cronies, the senator’s language could be vividly R-rated. But then again, when you had enemies like he did, foxhole religion might not be so out of the question.

11

Festival Arena, October 6

Shakespeare stood with his hands clasped behind his back in the far corner of the buzzing room, glad to be able to hear firsthand what was going on with the arena brain trust. All the key players were there, from Martin Sterling and Everett Lester to Reese Jenkins, Clarissa Dracone, and the head of the SWAT team.

Jenkins straightened his tie, took a swig of water, and raised a hand with a thick gold ring on his finger. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.”

The room immediately went silent, and all eyes turned to the arena CEO.

“By now we’ve all been made aware of the threat,” Jenkins said. “The very latest intel from Homeland mentions fifteen insurgents planning some kind of attack or takeover here tonight. Senator Sterling has been mentioned as a target.”

Sterling cleared his throat and held his head high.

“From what I am told, there is a 38.8 percent chance this could really happen.” Jenkins nodded to a husky, sour-faced man, fully armed and shielded from head to toe in navy fatigues and combat gear. “Lieutenant Wolfski here has a top-notch SWAT crew spread out across the arena. Columbus PD will be here shortly with at least twenty more officers with shields and combat gear.” Jenkins put his hands on his waist and strolled several steps. “Senator Sterling wants the show to go on. Mr. Lester, I believe, is awaiting a consensus from all of us—”

“Can I just say a few words?” Sterling gripped Jenkins’s shoulder.

“Please.” Jenkins swept a hand toward the others. “Go right ahead.”

The senator slowly ran a thumb across his lips before speaking. “Folks, since I began my campaign, we have had threats—all kinds of threats.” He paused. “Why is this happening almost everywhere we go? Why?”

Sterling walked several steps, intently examining each face in the room. Then he spoke almost in a whisper. “Freedom. It’s why we’re here tonight. I can guarantee you that the thousands of people lined up outside this building want this event to go on.” His volume increased with each word. “That’s why they’re here. That’s what our ticket is about—stopping these evil lunatics from scaring us to death, from threatening our liberties and stealing our American way of life.”

Jenny King’s broad shoulders straightened, and her chin went up proudly.

Static blurted in Shakespeare’s earpiece. “This is Steve Basheer to base, over.”

Clarissa blinked, looked down at her radio, and adjusted the dials.

“Go ahead, Steve,” Tab said from base.

“I’m just getting up to the Sky Zone …”

There was a clattering sound. Clarissa’s head jerked up, and her eyes burned into Shakespeare’s.

“Steve?” Tab said. “Steve Basheer, go ahead from the Sky Zone.”

Nothing.

That was it.

Something was wrong up there.

Clarissa turned her back on the group in the room and walked to the corner opposite Shakespeare. “Base, this is Clarissa. What about Charlie? Any word? Has he turned up? Over.”

“Negative. Over.”

Sterling continued his speech, but Shakespeare was listening to Tab in his earpiece, pleading for Steve Basheer to answer his radio but getting nothing.

Clarissa checked her watch and weaved her way to the front of the room next to Jenkins. She whispered in his ear, and he looked down at her, his face darkening.

He spoke up. “Excuse me, Senator. We have a development.”

All heads turned to the CEO of the arena.

“One of our security people is … he’s not been heard from in a few minutes.”

The room fell even more quiet.

“We sent a man up to find him at the top of the arena, what’s known as the Sky Zone.” Jenkins turned to Clarissa, then back to those in the room. “The man we sent up made it to the Sky Zone, but we’ve lost contact with him.”

If this had been a normal group of spectators, gasps would have rung out. But these were professionals, security guards, SWAT. People stared straight ahead, jaws clenched.

Just then Karen entered the room with a sheepish look, followed by Cole. They made their way to Everett and stood next to him.

“Sir, doors are scheduled to open in exactly three minutes,” said Clarissa. “As the senator said, we have a huge crowd outside. Many, many more than expected. We could have ten or twelve thousand here tonight—many women and children, many elderly. We need to make a decision. I’m 95 percent sure that I can speak for my boss, Keefer O’Dell, who’s en route from Cleveland, when I say we should not let one guest inside this building when there are one, possibly two EventPros missing.”

Jenkins pursed his lips and nodded respectfully.

Sterling rolled his eyes as Jenny King whispered in his ear. The senator ripped his coat off and stuffed it in Jenny’s arms.

“From what I’m told, the man missing is elderly, with a history of heart issues,” Sterling said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions and go into panic mode without concrete reason to think something is amiss.”

“Sir, with all due respect, if I may …” Shakespeare couldn’t keep quiet a second longer.

Sterling scowled. “And you are?”

Clarissa spoke up. “This is Brian Shakespeare, former US marine, sharpshooter, and Desert Storm veteran.”

Shakespeare was pleasantly surprised by Clarissa’s accolades.

Sterling raised his eyebrows.

“Go ahead, Brian,” Everett said. “Give us your take.”

“Why risk it?” Shakespeare’s hands remained behind his back. “I mean, I’m with you, Senator. No one’s more against terror on our soil than I am—”

“If that’s true, you would agree this event must go on!” Sterling said.

“Sir, in my eyes, the only real defense we have in this building right now is Lieutenant Wolfski’s SWAT team. It’s just not enough—”

“More are on the way,” Sterling argued. “Plus, we have your team.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “Sir, again with respect, the EventPros staff is unarmed and untrained in the type of event we’re talking about. Why not at least wait until Columbus PD arrives before opening the doors? And also, find our two people. I’m not saying cancel the event, but get more armed people in place and make sure our people are okay.”

“I agree,” Everett said. Karen looped her arms around him and nodded.

Clarissa’s shoulders slumped in relief.

Jenkins nodded, looked at Clarissa, and tapped his watch.

The SWAT leader looked at Sterling as if awaiting the final verdict.

Sterling rubbed his forehead and leaned backward as if in pain. “You people forget we are the ones footing the bill for this venue.”

Jenny whispered something to Sterling.

“Oh, all right, all right,” he conceded. “Delay it fifteen minutes. But we’re opening at six forty-five. Not a minute later.”

“Thank you, Senator.” Clarissa hustled for the door.

Jenkins called to her. “Let me know the minute O’Dell gets here.”

“Yes, sir.” Clarissa ran out.

Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“Urgent, urgent. This is Clarissa to base and all EventPros.”

Shakespeare listened intently on his radio for her announcement while looking at his watch, then his cell phone. Both read 6:33 p.m.

“Doors are being postponed fifteen minutes,” Clarissa said.

Several shots of static sounded.

“I repeat, doors are delayed fifteen minutes!” Clarissa spoke as if a volcano were erupting. “Doors will now open at six forty-five—I repeat, six forty-five. But even then,
wait for my go-ahead
.”

Bursts of static continued to interrupt her.

“Who is talking while I’m talking?” she demanded.

“Clarissa, this is Tab.” There was commotion in the background.

Shakespeare knew immediately what was happening.

His countenance fell.

“We opened the doors already!” Tab yelled over what Shakespeare envisioned was a stampede in the lobby. “We opened at six thirty on the nose. Didn’t you hear the call?”

Shakespeare closed his eyes and waited for the bomb to drop.

“No! Close them down!” Clarissa screamed. “Shut them all down. Now, now, now!”