The Screaming Eagles (17 page)

He was nearly at the traffic light when it turned red. “Shit, I knew it. Fucking assholes. Now I have to waste more fucking time.” In disgust, he once again reached for his coffee. The wall next to him exploded. The line of cars was swept away as tons of water erupted into the tunnel. Within thirty seconds, more cracks started to appear and the rush of water became stronger, cascading and enveloping the cars. Soon, tunnels and roads were filled by millions of tons of water pouring into Lower Wacker Drive. Electrical systems and generators in basements shorted, their sparks causing fires. Soon flames found oil floating in the water.

One by one, the world’s tallest buildings lost electricity and ceased to operate. It took less than an hour for the center of the city to effectively stop functioning.

Hours later air bubbles and small whirlpools could still be seen all along the river as police struggled to lift floating bodies onto decks of naval patrol boats.

8:35 a.m.

Marc Fleisher took a bite of his bagel, opened the sports page of the Chicago Tribune. Mounted on his desk, four TV monitors showed different parts of the building. A portable radio placed next to his coffee was tuned to a new Golden Oldies station, FM. 97.9. He’d heard enough about the assassination on the car radio while driving in, same old news, nothing new yet. Marc knew it would be a relaxing day, he made a note to contact Aaron. Hot coffee, good music and a sports section with three pages devoted to the win last night of the Bulls playoff game in their quest for a ninth world championship. Even without Michael Jordan, the Bulls this time were a team destined to dominate for at least another ten years. A badge on Marc’s uniform read “American Television Network, A.T.N. Security.” He turned a page, which obscured the monitors briefly. The portable continued playing slow nice and easy music.

Marc heard the revolving door turning slowly. Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the newspaper, irritated to be disturbed, he looked up. Four men with briefcases walked in. He sat waiting for them to approach his desk and sign in. Three men turned right, walking fast toward the staircase. The fourth man walked toward him. Marc started to rise up out of his chair. Looking at the three men, he shouted, “You must sign in first.”

They continued walking, ignoring him. Annoyed, he turned towards the man who was approaching. Marc saw the man’s arm was extended, a gun pointing at his face. He began to say something a split second before a bullet smashed into his forehead. The force of the impact threw him spread-eagled against the wall.

Golden Oldies on FM 97.9, was still playing softly when the police arrived.

8:45 a.m.

The telephone rang five times before Michael picked it up. Perry said tersely, “The attacks have started, three so far in the last hour. Pick you up in five minutes.”

Minutes later, they were heading for the situation room. Perry was driving fast, his face grim. Michael knew war had once again become a part of his life. In the last hour the Iranians had declared war on Chicago. They had taken over A.T.N., the American Television Network, and were holding “The Morning News and Views” anchors as hostages.

Dani had brought in a large conference table. Chairs around it were occupied by people talking on telephones, some animatedly, the others just listening. One man laughed too loudly, causing the person next to him irritably to press two fingers against his eardrum momentarily trying to hear what was being said above the laugh.

Nearly all of them had their heads angled awkwardly to one side so as to hold the telephone balanced in the crook of their necks. Concentrating as they spoke, their hands were free to scribble hurried notes, jotting them on yellow legal size pads next to each phone. Four TV sets with VCR’s placed on top of them were each tuned to a different channel and had been brought into the room on three-foot high metal trolleys. They were pushed off to the far side of the room underneath the wall of Chicago street maps. Growling radio frequencies, emitting clipped stop and go police jargon, added to the growing noise of a room that was now seething with a controlled frantic activity. Perry nodded to each one around the table. A few acknowledged his greeting looking up briefly then eyes downcast, continued to make their notes. No one looked at or spoke to Michael, avoiding him by staring out to some other place in the room, as they maneuvered past holding onto Styrofoam cups filled with steaming coffee. Large multi-pack boxes of donuts were stacked next to each of the coffee machines on a table situated nearest the door. People were eating donuts mechanically, not showing any enthusiasm for the food, rather eating because it was there. Their movements were heavy and slow, bodies wilting and lethargic, fatigue lines of hollow tiredness etched deep on their faces.

The men and women somehow seemed to be holding themselves together much better than Michael was. He felt a slight nudge, “Drink this, it’ll wake you up.” Nodding his thanks, he began to sip greedily trying to drink as fast as the scalding liquid would allow him to for he had no idea how he was going to function during the next few hours, he was so totally exhausted. When he sat down he stretched for a few seconds then cocked his head listening to Dani yelling savagely into the telephone his posture indicating that the person he was talking to was his mortal enemy. A long pause then Dani slammed the phone down with a violent thud. It spun out of the phone rest and fell on the floor. Someone passing picked it up and replaced it into the cradle. Dani made a dismissive gesture not noticing or acknowledging the courtesy.

“Fucking asshole. Who the fuck does he think he’s fucking talking to. Jeee-zuz, what a fucking prick.”

Dani looked around the room acknowledging no one, seeing everything, aware that all failure and blame would be pointing directly at him and only him. Sweating slightly on his upper lip and forehead, Dani was fuming. Ready to do battle, his bearing and body language signaled dangerously that no one should come near him or speak to him.

Perry, used to the pressure cooker atmosphere, was relaxed and comfortably sitting in his chair, impassively chewing his toothpick. He whispered to Michael, “Subversive has to take a back seat now. Dani’s pissed off. Hostage situations become the sole responsibility of the Chicago Police Department. A hostage negotiation team is activated and they immediately put into effect one of five plans, depending on the severity of the situation.

A negotiation team is also on site trying to make contact with the Iranians. All outgoing and incoming telephone calls are blocked and the negotiators have control of all communications. The building will be totally evacuated and engineering, sewer, roof and room floor plans will be closely studied. A deputy superintendent will be in charge. He or she’s the highest-ranking officer on that shift. S.W.A.T. team and canine units will be waiting for instructions as will a team of twelve squad cars that surround the building blocking off all roads.”

“Are the five Iranians in the studio?”

“Not sure yet, but we’ll soon know. The war wagon will be parked close by. It’s modified to hold robots that will be used to explode bombs. Small medium and heavy assault weapons, with enough ammunition to arm a small army is ready and waiting.

S.W.A.T. will be deployed on roofs surrounding all four sides of the building. Some time or other, your guys will be coming out of the front, back or side exits or maybe the roof. Sharpshooters will be waiting for them. Helicopters and unmarked cars are also standing by. Police and FBI policy is that if one person is killed, immediate steps are instituted to kill all the hostage takers. Until then we talk.”

Someone shouted, “Ten o’clock, Dani.”

Dani turned toward the televisions and using the remote turned up A.T.N.‘s sound. A.T.N.‘s logo and morning show music was, interrupted by a flash appearing on the screen “Breaking News live as it is happening.” A newscaster informed listeners in a controlled matter of fact voice that gunmen had enteref studio three and taken John L. Geocaris, Irene Lampart and six technicians, hostage. Contact had been made with the gunmen, and as news became available …

Abruptly, the screen went black, cutting her off in mid-sentence. No sound, just flashes of light.

Dani said, “Turn up CBS. Leave this on.”

CBS was reporting on the siege, showing police activities around the building. As yet, no demands had been made.

As they droned on, Michael remembered what he’d read about Geocaris. High priest of broadcasters, gray hair, bearded, with a sincere toothy smile, interviewer and confidante of presidents, popes, pop singers, terrorists and dictators.

Anchors were supposed to be neutral chameleons, objective outsiders, deliverers’ of detail, leaving listeners to form their own opinions. Not Geocaris. His interviews of America’s enemies, especially the left?the far left, communists and terrorists?were deferential, polite and eager to please. Michael first saw him on TV when Khomeni, after arriving in Teheran and being declared ruler for life, welcomed his first official political visitor, Yasser Arafat. With great pomp and fanfare, the PLO, were given the Israeli Consulate building to house their accredited representatives. This was the first time ever that the PLO had taken over an Israeli building peacefully.

Geocaris’s interviews with both Khomeni and Arafat clearly showed which side he was on. He fawned over them, respectfully feeding them questions so they could espouse their hatred and venom over the American networks. In summing up their remarks, he always sided with them, was always negative toward America. As expected, the ratings went through the roof. This was his power, achieving top ratings for his studio.

In contrast a month later, when interviewing the Shah, his rude aggressiveness was humiliating and embarrassing. But what he wanted most, he achieved. He scored points with the Communist, third world countries and Arab nations. All of them considered him an honest broker and good friend, enabling him to get interviews whenever or wherever he wanted them. Khomeni, however, discovered seven months later, that the PLO realizing how weakened Iran had become since three quarters of the military generals had been executed, had set up underground cells stored arms and began looking to overthrow Khomeni and take over Iran with Iraq’s help. Khomeni discovered what was afoot and immediately expelled the PLO. Geocaris studiously avoided that subject whenever it was brought up.

John Geocaris was a ruthless man to work with or to work for if the tabloids could be believed. Michael was sure A.T.N. had been chosen because their main anchorman was Geocaris who would be their most sympathetic spokesperson.

Irene was the obligatory pretty face morning-shows found necessary. She knew her job depended on being in his shadow, not overshadowing him.

They were probably scared stiff, yet the show biz side of them must have been excited by the attention they’d receive around the world. Nielsen ratings were what this was all about. Being experienced professionals, they were probably planning what their first profound words and observations would be to their colleagues when they were released?talk shows, interviews, maybe even a book.

On A.T.N., the TV monitor hissed and crackled black and white snow all over the screen. Suddenly flashes of light burst across the screen, noisily increasing in volume.

The anchors and their captors appeared.

John L. Geocaris’s face, tight lipped, appeared on screen. Strain, uncertainty and fear emanated from the corners of his lips and nostrils. His eyes tried to pretend bravado projecting himself as being in control and asserting his statesmanship, but his hands betrayed the fear he felt by shaking uncontrollably, telegraphing his fear. Geocaris had center stage, but no one was looking at him. Instead, they were looking at a man seated next to him with a red and white kaffiyeh wrapped around his head and face. The man was reading a statement in heavily accented English.

“Every hour we will broadcast to the world about the conduct and disciplines needed so that all men and women can change their ways and become one with us all, praised be Allah. We will show you how to build a beautiful world together, united as brothers and sisters, helping one another, caring for one another, eliminating violence, unjust wars, starvation, trickery and deceit. Good people of America, your ways have failed. Fear, violence, poverty is what your nation consists of. Turn the page of your pain, embrace our new-world order, and overthrow your leaders. We will help you.”

His voice, though it was soft, was soothing, and reasonable.

“In conclusion, we will broadcast to you once every hour for the next twelve hours. If this station refuses to broadcast live, we will punish the eight people who are in this studio.

Listen carefully. Number one, we do not want violence. Number two, we do not want to negotiate. We are capable of number one and incapable of number two. We are not negotiators. We are soldiers of the soon to be new, world order, the soldiers you too will soon become when you join our glorious cause. You are our brothers. Take our hands in friendship. Your brothers and our brothers are rising up all over the world, for our time is now, our time has come. Your President Bush in the old days promised you a thousand points of light. We promise you, dear friends, millions upon millions of points of light. The dawn is about to turn into magnificent sunshine. Come, people of America, come join us. Become free once more like you were before your government took total control of you and made you its servants, it slaves, intruded in your lives, and made you its puppets. Come join us.”

He paused, turned over the page and continued. “We only want twelve hours of your time, then we will leave. Twelve hours is not too much to ask. Do not do foolish things, tell your government thugs not to do foolish things. If you try a rescue attempt, all will die. Our lives are not important. Life is but a flutter of an eyelid. History, though, as your holy prophet the Christ Child proved two thousand years ago, is forever. If we die, in a few days, a few weeks, you forget us. Only history will not forget us. History has not forgotten your Christian religion and its beginnings. Today is that new beginning.