The World's End Series Book One: Dymond's World (3 page)

The security line for the B concourse at Chicago’s O’Hare airport literally snaked back and forth.  During slow periods there would often be only two lines with a single one hundred eighty degree turn at the end.

Today, Dillon Wexford counted six lines as he saw a uniformed TSA agent move to configure the crowd control stanchions to add a seventh.  The next couple of hours were going to be tough, not only on the passengers, but on him as well.

As a trained TSA Behavioral Detection Officer, the stress to the flying public caused by the long lines and potentially missed flights resulted in a variety of reactions.  Some people became nervous, checking the time every few seconds.  Others were visibly angry or displayed short tempers with their traveling companions or children.

All of these served to make it hard for him to find the person who wasn't quite right - who smiled too much, or stuttered when asked a simple question about how their day was going.  He stood in full uniform near the initial check-in desk, observed the flying public, and engaged in an innocuous conversation when he saw someone who sparked his interest.

He'd been trained to look for ninety four separate behaviors that might indicate a passenger was perhaps up to no good, but as he grew more experienced, he developed the ability to judge the whole "package" that was an individual.  If something set off an alarm for him, that passenger was targeted for enhanced scrutiny once they got to the screening area.

Dillon knew that, in the entire history of the TSA, they had never actually captured a terrorist in the act of trying to get on a plane.  The agency wore this as a badge of honor - if bad guys knew they were being watched, there was little incentive to risk detection.

And Dillon knew their behavioral detection program worked - just last week he'd identified a guy who appeared nervous and had tiny drops of sweat on his brow.  It turned out that the suspect had a fake ID and was an illegal alien.  A letter of commendation had been placed in his record for this act.  He'd heard that the illegal had been ordered to appear for an immigration hearing within sixty days.

***

Their first class was at eleven; plenty of time to finish their run, shower and get dressed.  It was "Exploring Female Body Images, From Temptation to Exploitation."  It was the only course that they had together since Sarabeth was a Poli-Sci major and Hoppie's was Business.  The school required a gender studies course, so they chose this one, thinking it would be an easy "A."

So far, Sarabeth wasn't sure if it would be a slam dunk "A" or not.  Professor Longfeld ran his class with a degree of seriousness that surprised her.  He would show some picture of a woman, usually naked, and they'd discuss it.  Then something would set him off and he'd spend the rest of the class talking about global warming.  Their first test was coming up next week and she had no idea how to prepare.  She sighed as she had a vision of her and Hoppie studying the night before the exam.

"Now, my friends," the Professor began, "please consider this picture."

It was displayed on a twenty feet tall screen so that all eighty six of the students could easily see it.  Sarabeth looked around - at least ninety percent of the students were women.  That wasn't unexpected given the course, but it wasn't actually a whole lot more than the university in general - she'd read that sixty nine percent of the undergrads were women.

Most of the females stared at the image with signs of serious thought on their faces.  The guys tended to grin.

Compared to some of the images they had "studied," this one was tame. It could have been a picture of any of them - a college coed rushing to class.  She wore flip flops, skin tight shorts that went to mid-thigh, and a T-shirt that was molded to her body.  She was obviously not wearing a bra - her small breasts were perfectly outlined and the impressions made by her nipples were clearly visible on the material.

"Comments?" said Professor Longfeld.

"Sister ought to get herself a boob job," someone said from the back.  The class snickered.

"Thank you for that insightful comment, Ms. Washington.  Anyone else?

"She's doesn't have her rape whistle on," said Hoppie.

"Indeed, she doesn't, Ms.Ingram."  He turned to the picture and studied it carefully.  "What you are looking at is a picture from the future - and the not too distant future at that."

He turned back to the class.  "Let's do a little experiment, shall we?  If you identify yourself as a female, please raise your hand if you are not wearing a bra."

Sarabeth looked around the tiered classroom.  She knew that Hoppie got her bras from Victoria's Secret and that hers mostly came from Target.  A single hand was raised.

"Ah, Ms. Rengle, would you mind telling us what led you to appear before us without the apparently universally worn brassiere?"

Sarabeth knew Karen Rengle enough to say 'Hi' to her.  "Ah, it's just that . . . I didn't have one clean this morning, so I wore two t-shirts under my top and . . ."

"It's a warm day, Ms. Rengle.  Aren't you uncomfortable?"

"Well, I guess so.  It was a little hot walking over here from my dorm."

"Let me put your mind at ease, Ms. Rengle.  Your secret is safe.  I don't believe anyone could tell you are completely naked under all those layers of clothes."

The class snickered again.  "Now, please direct your attention back to our picture.  I said it is a picture from the future - a much warmer future.  Global warming will do more to change our concepts of modesty that any Hollywood starlet or fashion designer.  To put it bluntly, it will be too hot for bras.  In fact, it will be too hot for tops."

He pushed the button and a new picture appeared.  It was the same girl, but she was farther away from the camera.  The sun blazed through a hazy looking sky.  Now the girl in the picture was completely topless.

He let them study her for almost thirty seconds.  "Next time, I'd like for you all to turn in a thousand word essay predicting new women's fashions in the next twenty years - make sure those fashion ideas are driven by rapidly increasing worldwide temperatures.  This will be your test."

He turned off the projector and left the podium.

***

"Write my essay for me, will you SeeBee?  I have no idea what that perv wants - studying boobs in front of a group of women.  This class cost over $500.  I'm feeling like I need to blow my rape whistle."

Sarabeth laughed.  "He's gay, Hop.  You know that."

"Yeah, and so are half the guys around here - at least they are until they get high and then anything with a heartbeat will do.  Remember when we went to that . . ."

Sarabeth cut her off.  "I remember.  That was pretty weird.  I do admit that."

"So, how about it?  Will you write my essay?  I'll give you fifty bucks."

A thousand words was nothing and she could certainly use the cash.  "Deal," she said.

***

Dillon glanced at this watch.  He was due to be relieved for a break in ten minutes.  The TSA was a stickler about breaks - being late to relieve someone would get you written up in a heartbeat.

He pictured himself walking outside and down to the smoking area.  It was a bit of a hike, but a smoke was worth it.  Besides, he didn't have to waste time waiting in the security line when he returned.

His daydream was interrupted by a passenger slowly moving by in the line.  Dillon made eye contact and something didn't feel right.  There was a moment - the smallest amount of time - when he detected surprise and fear.  That wasn't all that unusual; people were naturally defensive when dealing with armed authorities.  But this guy's fear almost instantly turned into a wide grin and a nod of the head.  Most people would look away or frown.  It was time to engage this character.

"Was it raining when you came in?" Dillon asked.  He had a dozen or so questions - all innocuous, designed not to get verbal answers, but instead to elicit physical responses.  Most people would instantly show relief and answer the question.

This guy did too as he answered that it hadn't started to rain.  He was probably all right.  Still, he hadn't marked anyone on this shift.  It was an unwritten rule that you had to mark at least one person per shift or else the supervisors might think you were goofing off.

"Can I see your boarding pass and ID?" Dillon asked, looking as non- threatening as he could.  The guy handed it over and Dillon wrote a small "Z" on it.  He studied the ticket and the ID.

"Thanks and have a good trip to Tulsa, Mr. Rogers.  You can go on in now."  Dillon removed the rope and let Rogers go on to the X-Ray area.  The guy thought he'd lucked out by being able to skip at least a little of the line, but he didn't know that the small "Z" on his ticket would get him a pat down and a hand search of his carry-on.

By this time, Dillon could see his relief on the way.  It looked like he might be on break a minute or two early.  He smiled at a pretty young woman who was passing by, pulling a wheeled carry-on.  She smiled back at him.

"Going for a smoke? It might rain you know," said his relief, a pimply faced newbie named Howard.

The smoking area had gradually been moved farther and farther away so that the public now didn't even have to look at someone holding a cigarette.  It was also open to the sky.

Dillon smiled, "Can't let Mother Nature stop what comes natural."

He started to walk away, but an image appeared in his head.  He paused and studied it.  It was that young woman, now almost to the head of the line.
There was something about her.

It took him a few seconds, but the answer came to him in a flash.  She had dark hair, pulled back.  Her face was tanned by the sun, almost red.

But not all of her face; only the front part - her forehead, and from the corners of her eyes and mouth to her nose.  The rest, the edge of her face, was all white skin as if it had not been exposed to the sun.  He knew what could cause this - a hajib, a Muslim veil.

"Wait!" Dillon called as he rushed toward the check-in desk.  The young woman turned to look at him.

She smiled sweetly as she removed a gun from her purse.  Her first shots were to the heads of the two officers at the desk.  Next, she fired at Dillon.

He saw her turn to him and dove to the ground.  He heard a sharp "crack" sound as the bullet flew overhead.  There was a wail of pain from somewhere behind him.

He pulled out his sidearm.  He'd never practiced doing it while lying on the deck, but it cleared his holster smoothly.  He pointed it at the woman who was now firing at some other targets.  Her hands jumped slightly with each shot.

Dillon didn't take time to aim, he pulled the trigger.

Almost immediately, an explosion seemed to happen inside the head of the woman.  A spray of red material geysered out the back of her head.  Her knees crumpled as she fell to the floor.

Dillon felt relief for only an instant.  As the terrorist fell, her hand let go of the switch she had been holding on the carry-on.  Once it did, electrical current ran from a set of six D cells to a detonator.  By itself, that explosion of the detonator would have been a small one, but not when twenty pounds of TNT was wrapped around it.

Dillon died instantly.  Others were not so lucky.

Jason was used to getting up early and working late, so it was quite unusual for him to still be in bed at ten in the morning.  He especially wasn't used to waking up every few hours to have sex.

But Regina Martin seemed to be insatiable.  At first, it had been surreal, almost like a dream.  After she almost broke his arm, she drove the SUV at a high rate of speed to a main road and then to a motel.  Without a word, she got out and went into the office.  She reappeared a few minutes later and walked to one of the outside facing rooms.

Her saw her unlock the door and then she turned and motioned for him to follow.

He wasn't sure what to expect; perhaps she wanted to practice her judo moves on his other arm.  But when he entered, he found her undressing.  "Hurry up," she said.  This time, he didn't need to be ordered.

***

Jason had been a virgin until he went to college.  In high school, the girls were so choosy; the pretty ones with the big racks had their pick of guys and the skanks were too slow to give it up.  One ugly girl told him she was saving herself for her husband.

But college was a whole different thing.  There were a lot more girls than guys and it seemed like they all drank themselves into a stupor on Friday nights.  At most campus parties, half the girls would be naked by midnight.  At that point, he could have his choice.

After graduation, he entered a long dry spell until he met Marie.  He was working on his battery and making some progress. She was perky - she had a perky nose and perky tits and a perky ass. They moved in together and the sex was good.  The only problem was that she kept hinting that they should get married.  She said, "I love you," at least three times a day.

One day, after he'd had a particularly important breakthrough with his battery, he knew he would be a success.  He saw the future - and she wasn't there.  He moved out the next morning.

***

The third time she woke him, just before dawn, it had become a chore.  When he felt Regina roll over and touch him, he tried to tell her that he needed to get back to his office.  "You weren't scheduled to leave until tomorrow morning," she'd said, as she took her normal position on top.  He wasn't sure he was capable, but she used her teeth and her sharp fingernails to bring him to life.

***

The coffee shop had a handful of customers.  Regina chose a table over in the corner.  They ordered and were scanning their phones.

"Shit!" said Jason.  "Someone set off a bomb in Chicago.  It looks bad.  They don't know much of anything yet."

Regina tapped her phone in several places.  "I've got some inside info.  It happened in the line to get to the security checkpoints.  It was a female with a bomb; they are looking at the video now.  In ten minutes, there will be an announcement that all airports are closed to the public.  All planes in the air will continue to their destinations, but no more will be allowed to fly until they figure out what to do."

Jason looked at her in surprise, "But I've got to get back."

"Not today you won't.  Not by plane, anyway."

The TV mounted over the counter suddenly went silent.  The image of a smiling game show host was replaced by the words, "Stay Tuned for Breaking News."

An older man sitting at the counter told the waitress, "Turn it up."  She retrieved a remote control from behind the counter and pointed it at the TV.  A graphic volume bar increased in size until it was halfway to its maximum setting but there was still nothing from the TV.

Suddenly the picture changed into one of chaos and horror.  The screen showed the pick-up area at an airport.  Jason recognized it as O'Hare; he had been there a number of times.  There were at least a dozen ambulances and twice that many police vehicles crowded into the area.  All of them had their emergency lights flashing.  People were running to and fro; a pair of paramedics carried a stretcher, while another pair worked feverishly on someone who was lying on the sidewalk.

A female voice came from the TV.  The sudden sound caused Jason to twitch in surprise.  "What you are seeing is real time cellphone video from a person on the scene at Chicago's O'Hare airport.  While details are sketchy at this time, we can report that some type of explosion happened inside Terminal Two, which is the centermost terminal.  Multiple people on the scene have told us that an evacuation order has been given for the entire airport."

A small box appeared on the lower right hand corner of the screen.  It showed the network anchor, her blonde hair and makeup impeccable.  She was looking to her right.  A hand appeared in the picture, laying papers in front of her.  She studied them, likely unaware that she was being shown.

"We are getting conflicting reports from the scene.  Some people say a bomb was detonated near the security checkpoint, while at least two witnesses have stated that a plane crashed through the roof of the building."

Regina tapped Jason on the hand to get his attention.  She held her phone so that they both could see.  It showed a long line of people - the security line at an airport.  An arrow appeared on the screen, pointing to a young woman.  She was pulling a carry-on bag behind her.  It was a common type of bag - designed with wheels to make it easy to move through the airport, and of the correct size to fit in an overhead.  A red arrow appeared on the screen as the video zoomed in on the bag.  It had a line of yellow tape running vertically and horizontally, forming a cross.

Jason got a surprised look on his face, “Is that what I think it is?”

"Yeah Jason, it's the security video from right before the bomb went off."

He started to ask how she could possibly have access to this video, when she cut him off.

"My God," she said.  She was now looking at the scene on the TV.  More ambulances were arriving.  The drop off area was choked with them.  People continued to stream out of the building.  A cop was obviously trying to get them to move along.

Jason saw what had caught Regina's attention.  Just behind the cop was a bag.  It was a carry-on.  It had yellow tape on it forming a cross.

Regina was frantically tapping the screen of her phone when the TV went blank except for the block showing the anchor in the lower right corner.

Almost immediately, the news anchor's face zoomed to fill the entire screen.  She was looking off camera, trying to understand what someone was telling her.  "Obviously, we have a fluid situation.  We seem to have lost our video feed from the scene."

Until now, she had been cool, her voice silky and controlled.  But what she was hearing in the newsroom caused her to discard that professional persona. There was audible talking, even shouting from off camera.  "What the fuck are you talking about!" she screamed at someone off camera.

When she again looked directly into the camera, her anger had been replaced by fear.

***

"Let's go," said Regina, standing.  She walked off and left him to pay the check.  He had a thick wad of bills in his pocket - mostly twenties and hundreds.  For a moment, he marveled at how he could trade one of these pieces of green paper for a good meal. 
That might not be the case for much longer.

He peeled off a twenty and then thought better of it.  He put it back in his wad and left a hundred on the table.  Benjamin Franklin's face had a look of accusation on it.