The Siren Project (36 page)

Programmed? Slow reflexes!
Mitch thought as he ducked and fired at the closest guard, felling
him before he got a shot away.

The guard fell face down onto the gantry as
his companion fired. The bullet grazed Mitch’s left shoulder, spinning him off
balance against the railing. He suppressed the sudden pain, knowing without
looking it could only be a flesh wound, and emptied his gun into the third
guard, who staggered a moment and collapsed. Mitch dropped his empty gun and
ran forward, his mind racing. He knew there was no hope of stopping the
electric arc now, and once the charge ignited the balloons, the city would
become a blistering inferno.

When he reached the central release point
of the web of cables that spread in all directions, he saw immediately the
simple mechanism that would launch the spheres of liquid explosive into the
deadly arc. Mitch hesitated, just long enough to see the tiny sensor mounted in
the ceiling overhead and for the idea to flash into his mind. One look below
confirmed every exit was wide open and jammed with fleeing people on the verge
of trampling each other. Red jacketed guards stood passively against the walls,
pushed aside by the surge of people rushing for the exits. Other less fortunate
guards lay on the floor, overpowered by the panicked crowd, no longer an
obstruction. He was struck by the fact that in spite of everyone else running
to escape, the red jacketed guards stood mindlessly waiting, as if the mass
movement was outside their programming, leaving them unable to decide what to
do.

Mitch tore the gun out of the hand of the
third security guard and aimed at the heat ampoule in the sprinkler sensor
above his head. He fired a single shot, rupturing the sensor. Instantly, the
fire control system activated hundreds of sprinklers simultaneously, unleashing
a deluge upon the densely packed throng below. More shocked cries rose from the
rapidly thinning crowd as the water began to drench them. None of the
conditioned security guards, standing abandoned in the hall, showed any
interest in the sprinklers or the water now spraying down over them. He waited
another anxious minute, giving the last people time to escape through the exits
and for the water to soak the floor below.

Mitch yelled down to the oblivious security
guards. “Run you idiots, get out!” But not one of them even looked up.

The positively charged loud speaker
flickered with hundreds of tongues of electricity, and Mitch knew he could wait
no longer. He released the cables from the first control point, then ran along
the clanking gantry toward the second. The rigging had been designed to allow
the balloons to be released together if three men worked in unison. Working alone,
only part of the net sagged, causing an avalanche of fuel filled balloons to
slide out of the net and crash onto the floor, bursting into a black oily lake
that slid across the pooling water. Mitch released the second cluster of cables
and a second wave of balloons cascaded onto the floor below like a massive
multicolored landslide. The security guards standing below were drenched in the
petrochemical, but seemed hardly to notice. The last of the people fleeing the
convention center disappeared through the exits, leaving behind the red
jacketed guards, isolated and oblivious to what was happening. Black fuel
floated around their ankles on a layer of water that spread across the floor. The
sprinklers continued pouring water into the hall, which ran out through the main
doors and seeped into the fire exits, carrying the oily substance away with it.

Mitch reached the third control point and
released the last of the balloons, sending them hurtling to the floor like a
wave crashing onto the shore. The guards were now drenched in the black oily
chemical, and most were covered by the fallen netting. Some tried to wipe the
black chemical from their faces, instinctively reviled by its noxious smell,
yet unaware of the imminent danger. He watched as water swept layers of oil out
through the exits, diluting the concentration remaining in the auditorium. A
blinding lightning bolt erupted from the positively charged speaker, arced
through the air across the convention hall, into the negatively charged
speaker, shattering both boxes and igniting the black oily lake between them. A
firestorm instantly swept across the floor of the convention center, turning it
into a violent torrent of fire. The security guards in their red jackets
vanished from sight, consumed by the conflagration. Mitch heard their screams
for several agonizing moments, then mercifully, they fell silent as the
convention hall filled with the roar of the inferno below.

A sea of fire reached toward the gantry,
boiling up toward him, searing everything it touched, while water blasted down from
the sprinklers, starving the inferno of the power to devour the gantry. A wave
of intense heat filled the hall, forcing Mitch to shield his face with his
arms, as the sprinklers drove the worst of the flames back and soaked him
relentlessly. He gasped, as the air was consumed by the fire. He pulled his
coat over his mouth, trying to filter the fumes and acrid smoke from what
little air remained. Flames ran out through the exits, chasing the accelerant
that flowed from the hall, incinerating parked cars and threatening nearby
buildings. Terrified crowds outside scattered before demonic snakes of fire, that
swept along street gutters and poured into subterranean drains.

Mitch was plunged into a flickering half
night as the power failed, and only the light of the fires burning furiously
below lit the hall. He started back along the gantry, stumbling through the
blasting water of the sprinklers, gasping for every breath. He waited at the
ladder while the inferno gorged itself on the fuel, then as it receded, he
began his awkward descent. His left arm, weakened from the flesh wound,
couldn’t be trusted to take his full weight on the ladder, making his climb
down clumsy and slow. He waited until the flames immediately below were finally
extinguished by the sprinklers, then he completed his descent. The lowest part
of the auditorium, in front of the podium, had trapped a large pool of the chemical
accelerant, which continued to burn with unrestrained ferocity. Waves of heat
radiated towards where Mitch stood among the highest seats, at the far end of
auditorium. The convention center was a charred ruin, soaked from water, and
reeking with the toxic smell of gasoline and smoke.

Mitch coughed, fighting back nausea from
the fumes and the lack of oxygen. Keeping his nose and mouth covered, he edged
his way around the rear of the hall toward a fire exit, passing the charred
remains of several security guards. The exit light had gone out, and the fire
exit itself was a black cave, but he knew very soon there would be no
breathable air left in the building. He plunged into the concrete stairwell, holding
the guard rail for guidance as he stumbled down through the darkness towards a
dim glow below. When he reached the bottom, he found the fire exit door to the
outside had been wedged open.

He stumbled into the street, doubled over
and coughed uncontrollably, trying to clear his tortured lungs. Rivers of fire
were everywhere, snaking across streets and following gutters for many blocks in
all directions. Cars and trucks burned furiously, while firemen fought a dozen
battles. Mitch took it all in at a glance, then staggered toward the cross
street where he'd last seen the ENP satellite truck. The cross street was
crowded and chaotic, as fire engines tried to squeeze their way in and fire
crews rushed to hook up hoses, while the media throng jostled with the police for
pictures.

Mitch dodged between running reporters, dripping
wet conference attendees being treated by paramedics, and shocked spectators. Every
few steps, he croaked out a rasping cough, as he staggered past firemen spraying
foam at the flames that ran along gutters into the city's drains. News
helicopters circled above, filling the air with the thump of rotor blades as
black smoke billowed skyward from the convention center. He pressed on towards
the ENP satellite truck, which he soon found to be abandoned. The black cable
linking the satellite truck to the large ENP semi was missing and the flimsy
FBI barricade had been pushed over.

He headed toward the rendezvous point,
looking for Mouse and Gunter, while uniformed police cleared a cordon around
the smoking building. As they moved the crowd back, a military Blackhawk
helicopter came in low over the buildings, and landed in front of the
convention center. Lamar stepped through the police line as it touched down, and
walked toward the chopper. The helicopter’s doors slid open, and an athletic
looking general in his early fifties jumped down and hurried forward. Mitch
pressed forward through the crowd to see Lamar shake hands and begin talking
rapidly to the general, explaining the situation. He couldn't hear what Lamar
was saying, but his eyes were transfixed by the silver pin clipped to the general’s
collar.

Three stars!

He remembered the video of the Blackhawk
helicopter landing at the Newton Institute and of the three star officer who'd alighted
from it. There was no way of knowing if this was the same officer, but the
coincidence was hard to ignore. Reporters tried to push past the police lines,
calling out questions to the general and thrusting microphones toward him for a
response. Mitch edged his way through the crowd as the police pushed back a
path for Lamar and the general as they swept past toward the FBI command center.

A young anchor woman yelled, “General Gray,
why are you here, sir? What does the military know about the explosion?” The general
ignored her question, leaving the reporter to curse under her breath and motion
to the cameraman to switch off his camera.

Mitch pushed through the crowd to the
reporter. “Do you know that officer?”

“I’ve seen him around Washington a few
times. Why?” She noticed Mitch was soaking wet and covered in sooty grime.

“What does he do?”

“Mostly lobbies for money for the military.
What happened to you? Were you inside?”

Mitch nodded.

She waved quickly to her cameraman to switch
the camera back on. He immediately hefted it onto his shoulder as she raised
her microphone. “Can you tell me your name, sir, and what happened inside?” she
said, then pointed the microphone at Mitch for an answer.

Gunter reached up behind the cameraman and switched
the camera off.

“Hey!” The cameraman said as he pulled the
camera off his shoulder, wondering what had happened.

“No interviews,” Gunter said, as Mouse took
hold of Mitch’s arm and pulled him away. Gunter fell in beside them as the
reporter wondered if Mitch was worth pursuing, then a loud speaker hissed at
the far end of the street. A police officer announced the building was in
danger of collapsing and requested everyone to vacate the area immediately.

“We thought you were dead,” Mouse
whispered.

“I almost was,” Mitch replied hoarsely.

“Christa radioed us,” Gunter said. “Something
about a fuel air bomb.”

“Next birthday, no balloons.”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Mouse said
urgently, glancing around. “This place is going to be low rent, real soon. I
saw Bradick arrive with some muscle, at the other end of the street.”

“Did you see the general?” Mitch asked. “Three
stars.”

“Yeah, we saw him,” Mouse nodded. “Funny
how he was so close, like he was ready to drop in after the big one.”

Gunter glanced back. “The general and Agent
Lamar seem friendly. That could explain how the ENP truck managed to park where
it did.”

“We have no proof of that,” Mitch replied. “I’m
not prepared to write Lamar off just yet.” They hurried past the FBI perimeter.
“Where’s Christa?”

“She’ll meet us,” Gunter replied, his tone
indicating she was unharmed.

“Good, because I’m in serious need of dry
clothes.”

“Worse than that old buddy,” Mouse said. “You’re
in serious need of soap. You smell like an oil refinery on a bad day.”

Mitch grinned. “You should smell me from my
side.”

“Look at this,” Mouse called from his
seat beside Christa in front of the hotel room’s television. “They’re talking
about the bombing.”

Mitch scrubbed his hair dry with a towel as
he stepped out of the bathroom naked from the waist up. His skin was pink from
the scalding hot water he’d used to blast away the last residue of smoke and
grime from his body. Watching the television, he gently dabbed the towel over
the row of fresh stitches in his shoulder and flexed his left arm
experimentally.

The image filling the screen was of a
distinguished looking man in an expensive suit, with silver sideburns and metal
rimmed glasses. The man made his way, flanked by security men through a crowd
of reporters firing questions at him like machine gun bullets. The man stopped
and waved the media frenzy about him to silence.

“A little late for your speech, aren’t you senator?”
Mitch said as Senator Fraser cleared his throat.

A famous network reporter called, “Senator,
do we know what terrorist group was behind this attack?”

Before he could answer, a woman yelled, “Senator
Fraser, where were you when the bomb went off?”