The Siren Project (35 page)

The giant speaker was covered in black felt
and had similar dimensions to the speakers used in stadium sized rock concerts,
but it was excessive for the confined spaces of convention center. He worked
his way to the rear of the towering black box, where he found a dozen heavy
duty power cables feeding into it. Neat holes had been drilled through the convention
center's wall, to allow the cables to be fed directly into the hall. From their
thickness, it was clear they carried a lot of power. Mitch knew at once, he
couldn't disconnect them by hand. It would require a team of experts with the
right tools and control of the mains electricity supply to do it. He guessed
the convention security force had been conditioned partly to permit the
installation of this equipment. He darted back to the front of the speaker
cabinet, where Christa now stood rubbing her arms.

“This feels so weird,” she said,
fascinated. “What does it mean?”

Mitch strained to see the other speaker on
the far side of the room. He couldn’t tell from that distance if there was an
empty area around it too, but he suspected there was. “Have you ever been in a
really bad lightning storm?”

“Sure.”

“That’s what this is. I bet it’s something
from their Star Wars research program, some way to build up a massive amount of
energy and release it, like a lightning bolt, from here, to the other speaker
over there.”

Christa gazed across the floor of the
convention center to the other side of the great hall. “Oh my God,” she said,
backing away.

Mitch tried to remember everything he knew
about lightning, how much damage a high intensity strike of electricity could
cause. “People survive lightning strikes,” he said, puzzled.

“What?”

“It’s not big enough! I thought it was
going to be much bigger than this.”

“What do you mean? This will kill a lot of
people.”

“But it's not extreme collateral damage!” Mitch
pushed away from the speaker and the irritating static charge building up
around it. He hurried up the stairs to get a better view, followed by Christa. Half
way up the stairs, he stopped and took in the scene. He imagined the artificial
lightning bolt of raw energy arcing across the room from one speaker to the
other, positive to negative, killing hundreds of people.

“Let’s tell Lamar and get out of here!”
Christa shouted as she joined him,

“Give me a second.” Mitch turned to a man
sitting on the nearest aisle seat and grabbed his coat's lapel. “What happens
at midday?”

The man looked surprised. “The main
speeches.”

“What else? What else happens at midday?”

The frightened man leaned back. “I don’t
know. Music, everybody shouts, people throw streamers.”

“No, that’s not it. What about the lights. What
happens to the lights?”

“Nothing, I don’t know. They get brighter, everyone
cheers and the balloons come down.”

“What balloons?”

“Up there,” the man said pointing up into
the darkened heights of the convention center, where thousands of balloons were
hidden in shadows, suspended by netting.

Mitch released the man, and looked up
slowly, studying the balloons above, which covered the length of the convention
center. The nets that held the balloons were heavily constructed and supported
by thick steel cables. They looked far too strong for balloons full of air, then
he noticed how the balloons sagged through the netting under the weight of
their contents.

“Oh shit!”

“What?” Christa said, following his gaze
without comprehending.

“The balloons! They’re not full of air! It’s
something else. Liquid maybe.”

Christa strained her eyes. “Water conducts
electricity.”

“It’s not water! It’s a petrochemical. If
I’m right, this whole building is the biggest fuel air bomb ever built!” Mitch
switched on his radio. “Gunter, can you hear me?”

He heard Gunter’s voice dimly, overpowered
by the fiercely crackling static generated by the speakers. “. . .hardly hear.
. .”

“Tell Mouse to shut down the building’s
power supply!”

“ . . .you say. . .”

“There is a fuel air bomb in here. Kill the
power, and warn Lamar!”

Static hissed. “. . .repeat . . .can’t. . ..”

Mitch switched off the radio. Seeing the
confused look on Christa’s face, he explained. “At midday, all the lights turn
on, triggering the electrical charge from one speaker to the other. At the same
time, the balloons come down, loaded with a liquid chemical explosive. The
lightning charge cuts through the balloons, ignites the chemical, and boom, you
have the most powerful non-nuclear explosion known to man. And there are
thousands of balloons up there, which means this is bigger than a tactical
nuclear weapon. You understand? There’s nowhere to run. It's more than an
attack on the convention, it'll level downtown Manhattan. We're talking Hiroshima,
without the radiation.”

Her face paled as the horror of
understanding dawned.

Mitch pushed his way through the crowd, to
the first landing, with Christa on his heels.

“But they had that truck outside?” she
yelled. “They won’t want to lose that.”

“It’s either on its way out of the city
now, or it’s expendable!”

Two red jacketed security men stood in
front of the fire stairs, ignoring Mitch until he made a bee line for the exit.
One of the guards intercepted him with a blank look on his face. “This way is closed.”

Mitch punched the security guard on the
point of his chin, knocking him to the ground. The guard rolled and tried to
come to his knees, reaching for his gun. He raced forward, tried to land a knockout
blow, but the guard blocked him, taking his weight as he ran, pulling Mitch
down to the floor into a wrestling match.

The second guard pulled his gun, moving to
take aim at Mitch, but Christa darted forward with lightning fast reflexes and
karate kicked the his arm, breaking it instantly. In a single fluid movement,
she spun expertly on the ball of her foot and delivered a perfect round house
kick to the guard’s head, knocking him out, putting into practice for the first
time nearly ten years of training. The second guard crumpled as she snatched
the gun from his hand, never for a moment losing her balance.

Mitch exchanged glancing blows with the first
guard, then he rolled on top of the guard, deflected a blow with his arm and
head butted the guard on the bridge of his nose. The guard grunted as his head
hit the floor and passed out, blood oozing across his face. Mitch stood clear,
seeing the second guard lying unconscious at Christa’s feet. “So you can do
more than shoot,” he said with genuine approval.

Christa looked from the bloodied guard to
Mitch, heaving for breath. “That was clumsy,” she said disparagingly. “Maybe
you should leave the rough stuff to me.”

“Next time, I will,” he said, then retrieved
and pocketed the first guard’s gun.

Mitch went to the wall and activated the
red fire alarm mounted near the fire exit. A warbling siren filled the
convention center, quickly silencing the hall's cacophony of voices. He pushed
the fire exit door open, motioning for Christa to go. “When that crowd starts
to panic, two guards a door won’t stop them.”

“I thought you said there was nowhere to
run.”

“There isn’t. That doesn’t mean these
people don’t deserve a fighting chance, outside.” Mitch pushed his radio into
her hand. “Take this. When you get outside, get as far away as you can. Maybe
the subway is the safest place. Use the radio. Tell Mouse to cut the power. Tell
Lamar to evacuate the area, get everyone back several blocks at least. And keep
running.”

She glanced down at the radio, confused. “Aren’t
you coming?”

“No. What I have in mind, I can do alone.” She
opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “And one of us has to get
outside where the radio will work. You’re elected. Now get going, there isn’t
much time.”

She hesitated, then pulled his face down to
hers and kissed him quickly on the lips. “For luck.”

“You do like Neanderthals!” he grinned.

“Only those who make a difference!”

He gave her a gentle push toward the
stairs. “Hurry.”

When she passed out of sight, he stepped
back inside to discover the occupants of the hall had quieted, confused by the
wail of the fire alarm. Very few were moving toward the exits. He ran back up
toward the sound crew, knocking people aside in his haste. When he reached the
sound desk, he yelled at the lead technician. “Is the public address system
working yet?”

The head sound technician looked up
irritably. “Does it matter with that damned alarm going?”

Mitch pointed a gun in the man’s face for
the second time that day. “It matters to me.”

The sound technician focused on the gun
then slowly pulled off his headset and handed it to Mitch. “Use this,” he said,
as he threw a switch on the console.

Mitch held the microphone close to his lips
as he turned to look over the convention floor. “Listen to me,” he yelled, his
voice echoing through the hall. “There’s a bomb in this building! Everyone get
out, now! The security guards are in on it. Don’t let them stop you!”

Instantly, screams of terror rang through
the convention hall, and in one movement thousands of people started for the
exits. There were brief scuffles as red jacketed security men tried to stem the
tide, but they were overwhelmed by the numbers now determined to escape. Mitch
tossed the headset on the console. The sound engineers nearby were staring at
him, shocked looks on their faces.

“It’s not a hoax! If you want to live, start
running.”

The sound men looked at each other, then
one of them started for the nearest exit. It took only a second for the other
three to follow.

Mitch looked up at the heavy nets
supporting the balloons filled with the unknown petrochemical explosive. Metal
gantries suspended from the ceiling, snaked through the darkness above the
balloons, where the supporting cables holding up the nets met at several
release points. In the gantry shadows, Mitch saw movement in several places. He'd
already guessed the balloons would have to be dropped at the right moment to
catch the full force of the electric arc, to detonate with maximum effect. That
meant someone had to coordinate the drop. He vaulted over the sound desk and
sprinted to the metal ladder at the rear of the hall. As he climbed the ladder
toward the shadowy ceiling, he glimpsed red jackets moving across the gantries
to their assigned positions.

They're programmed to
drop the net,
he realized, even at the cost of
their own lives.

He climbed two rungs at time until he
reached the level of the balloons and saw up close that they were full of
liquid. They were colored like ordinary balloons, but made of a thick plastic
material that sealed in not only the flammable contents, but any odors that the
sniffer dogs might have sensed.

Mitch glanced down, judging the height of
the balloons above the convention floor.
Too high and dark
for the FBI to realize what they are.

He climbed up onto the gantry, while below,
the large speaker with the positive charge began to flicker tiny tongues of
electricity. The charge was almost ready to be unleashed, while the convention center
was still crowded with thousands of people pushing frantically to escape. Standing
on the gantry near the center of the convention hall were three red jacketed
security men, each at a release point ready to dump the balloons onto the
detonating arc.

He ran toward them, his every footfall
rattling the metal walkway alerting them to his presence. The nearest security
guard ponderously raised a gun. Mitch dived onto the metal grating as the guard
fired. Screams sounded below as the gunshot echoed, frightening the people
pushing for the exits, driving them closer to panic. More shots peppered the
gantry around him, as ricochets sparked off the metal guard rails around him.

Mitch took aim and fired once along the
walkway. The security man stumbled as the bullet caught him in the knee. The
wounded guard grabbed the guard rail for support and aimed again. Mitch fired
another shot from the deck, hitting the security man in the chest and knocking
him back over the railing. The red jacketed body crashed into the colorful
balloons, in a splash of thick black viscous liquid as dozens of balloons ruptured.
The guard’s body came to rest when it struck the heavy netting, while the oily
substance rained down over the crowd below. Frightened cries filled the
cavernous room as the pungent smell of gasoline assaulted their senses. Mitch
jumped to his feet and ran toward the two remaining guards, now aware of the
crescendo of crackling that indicated the positive charge was moments from
release. Panic erupted below as hundreds of people surged toward the exits and
fire escapes in a tide of self preservation.

The second and third guards drew their
weapons as one, but their movements were as strangely slow as the first guard’s
had been.