36: A Novel (16 page)

She pressed a button and the sounds of gunfire and men screaming filled the room.  After my time in the Army, and more recently all of my firearms training, I could recognize the difference between the lighter NATO caliber rifles the cops were firing, and the heavier reports of what I was pretty sure were AK-74s.

The battle raged for close to five minutes, hundreds of rounds being fired by each side.  Then it began to peter out and I was encouraged to hear only police weapons.  They’d gotten the upper hand.

Then the main fight was over and it was time to clear the building and mop up.  The SWAT team’s tactical radios were set to transmit and we clearly heard every word as they moved through the school searching for additional terrorists. 

“I’ve got video now,” the same operator said.  A moment later a large panel on the side wall flared to life and showed the view from the helmet cam of one of the cops as he moved down an empty hall lined with cork boards covered with crayon art.

I balled my hands into fists when I saw the image.  Not long before my fateful day, Monica’s young son, Manny, had drawn a picture of the three of us in crayon.  It was stick figures, the smallest one standing between the two adults and holding hands with them.  At the time, Monica and I were nothing more than just friends who enjoyed having great sex with each other, and it hadn’t meant as much to me as maybe it should have.

The cops came to a door, pausing as they stacked up and prepared to enter a classroom.  I held my breath as the door was yanked open and black clad bodies flowed into the room.  Then the camera followed and I heard a couple of the officers begin hyperventilating.  Soon, someone was sobbing.  At least twenty small bodies were strewn across the floor, an adult female’s bullet riddled corpse between the door and all of the dead children.

“Motherfucker,” I breathed and heard Johnson begin mumbling a prayer.

The cops quickly checked the bodies, not finding any of them alive.  Back in the hall, they moved to the next room and found a similar scene.  Only this time their weapons were up and they were shouting.  When the camera focused, I could see a wounded man lying in the far corner.  He was wearing a kufi on his head and had a thick, dark beard.  Definitely appeared to be of middle eastern descent.  A rifle was across his lap, but he was in bad shape and wasn’t able to lift it to keep fighting.

The camera blanked out a moment before there was the sound of fully automatic weapons fire.

“Charlie one, what the fuck was that?”  A voice shouted over the radio.  Had to be a commander waiting outside the school.

“Suspect was reaching for his weapon,” one of the cops answered.  “He’s down, now.”

For five minutes we listened as the cops continued to move through the school.  There were the sounds of doors being opened and closed, and once more a long burst of full automatic fire.  Finally, the building was declared clear and Patterson told the operator to shut off the audio.

20

“You don’t need to threaten me anymore,” I said softly to Agent Johnson.  “Just put me in a room with those motherfuckers.  I’ll redact all their asses before they can hurt one of those kids.”

“I thought you’d come around,” he said.  “I just wish I could go with you.”

His jaw was clenched and he spoke through gritted teeth.  The muscles all along his neck and the side of his face were bunched and bulging.  So were mine.  It’s one thing to target soldiers or law enforcement.  Or even adults.  But to go after children?  These weren’t humans.  They were just animals that needed to be erased from the face of the planet.

“Let’s go,” Johnson said a moment later.  “We need to start getting you ready.  The team is good and we’ll probably have an event point to target in a few hours.”

“Why not just send me back now?  I’ll wait outside the school until they show up.”

I was pissed.  Incensed.  Wanted to wade into this group and put my newly acquired deadly skills to the test. 

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Whitman,” Patterson said. 

He’d heard my comment and stepped closer to us. 

“But that’s not a good idea.  We don’t know how many terrorists you’ll be facing.  Did they spread out and enter the school from different points?  That would mean you couldn’t stop all of them.  And how much attention do you think an adult male skulking around an elementary school would draw?  You’d likely have the police asking you questions you couldn’t answer well before the time of the attacks.

“We do things the way we do for a reason, and we’re very good at what we do.  Stay patient and listen to Agent Johnson.  He’ll guide you through what you don’t understand yet.”

I nodded, surprised at the man’s reaction.  He hadn’t been scolding me.  It was obvious he was shaken to the core by what we’d seen, and he’d recognized that I was too.  Yet he’d taken a moment to patiently explain things to me.  Maybe I needed to reevaluate him.  Maybe.

Johnson tapped my arm and I turned and followed him out of the room.  We headed straight for what was called the “prep”.  It was a combination gym locker room and military armory.  All different styles and types of clothing hung in a dozen different lockers.  Each piece was in my size and I would dress appropriately for the event point I was being sent to.

One wall was covered with just about every type of personal weapon I could imagine.  Pistols, rifles, shotguns, grenades, knives, collapsible steel batons, stun guns, pepper spray… if the armorer could think of it, it was there.  And none of them had a serial number or any identifying marks.

“We need to go over a few things that haven’t been addressed yet,” Johnson said, waving me to a seat.

“What do we need to go over?  Give me a gun and point me at them!”

“Patience, Mr. Whitman.  Patience.  You should have learned that in the infantry.  Rushing headlong into a battle when you’re not properly prepared and don’t have all the information is a recipe for disaster.  Correct?”

I nodded my head, forcing down my impatience and desire to go dispense some good old fashioned justice.

“First and foremost, you need to remember that you are our one and only shot at redacting this event.  If you don’t succeed, those children will remain dead.  If you get impatient and go charging in, guns blazing, and the terrorists kill you, those children remain dead.  Do you understand?”

“Yes.  Sorry,” I mumbled, his words sobering me.

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiled.  “I understand exactly how you feel.  I feel the same way.  But this has to be approached methodically and professionally.  Odds are already stacked against you.  You will be outnumbered, most likely significantly.  But you will have the element of surprise on your side.  They won’t be expecting you.  And you must take full advantage of that.

“Remember what all of your instructors have been teaching you.  Don’t telegraph what you’re about to do.  Remain calm until it’s time for action.  But when it’s time, you strike with every weapon and skill we’ve given you.  No mercy.  You’re not a cop.  It’s not your job to disable or disarm the perpetrators and leave them for law enforcement to scoop up.  It is your job to take these assholes off the table.  Permanently.”

I nodded, meeting his eyes.  He didn’t need to worry about what I intended to do.  These fuckers were dead the instant I had my shot.  But the rest of what he was saying was something I needed to hear.  To be reminded that I had to go into battle with intelligent forethought.  I’d have one opportunity to stop the event, and if I fucked up, there wouldn’t be another chance.

“One final thing,” he said.  “All of these weapons, even the brass of the ammunition, have been specially coated with a silicone based compound.  What that means is that nothing will take a fingerprint.  Don’t worry about cleaning up brass, and if you have to leave a weapon behind, it doesn’t matter.

“But that only applies to what’s being sent with you.  Any hard surface you encounter
after
being sent will take and hold prints.  Avoid that if at all possible, but we understand it can happen.”

“What about DNA?”  I asked.  “What if I get shot or cut and leave some blood behind?”

“Even traces of blood, or hair for that matter, are still part of you that was sent back and will be returned to real time when the clock expires.  That will leave the investigators with nothing to test.  Assuming they are on the ball and test a sample before you’re brought back, we’ve already erased all records of your DNA.  They’d have a panel, but nothing to match it against.”

“Wait.  Won’t my fingerprints come forward with me, too?”

“No,” he shook his head.  “The body is constantly producing oils to keep our skin healthy and flexible.  It will be producing those oils in the past.  Anything that is produced in that time will remain in that time when you come back to real time.  Understand?”

“I think so.  Kind of,” I said.  “OK.  What if something happens and I’m caught?  Arrested?”

“It’s really best if that can be avoided.  But if you can’t, do not resist the police, and do not say anything.  If that happens, the
me
that is in
that
time will be immediately notified the moment you’re taken into custody and printed.  You’ll still be brought forward when time is up, and there is a team of agents on call to clean up any record of you being detained.”

“You mean I might be in an interrogation room or jail cell and will just disappear when time’s up?”

“Exactly,” Johnson said.  “Not necessarily what we want, but it’s happened before.  Now, we need to get you ready to go.  The analysts could identify the event point at any moment.”

We stood and surveyed the clothing available to us.  It was Southern California.  That typically meant pleasant days and chilly nights this time of year.  It also meant casual, comfortable attire.  Jeans with a T-shirt, a pair of Nike running shoes and a light jacket.  The reflective stripes on the Nikes had been replaced with a dull black plastic, and the shirt was navy blue with no printing.  The jacket was also dark.

The outfit would look perfectly normal in the daytime, and would maximize my stealth once the sun went down.  A black, knit cap with a cuffed brim went into a jacket pocket.  It could be worn like a beanie, or unrolled and create a ski mask to cover my features.  It would hide my identity and conceal my white face which might show up and give me away in the night.

Dressed, we stepped over to the cache of weapons.  Larger items, such as an assault or sniper rifle, were dependent upon the conditions identified when an event point was determined.  If I was being sent back to a shopping mall or restaurant, or any public place, it might be difficult to arrive with a long gun hanging down my back.

But pistols and knives and other goodies are easy to conceal.  Soon, three guns, four knives, a stun gun and a steel baton were secreted on my person.  Spare magazines for what would be my primary weapon were also added.  Unused to being so heavily armed, it took a while of walking around the locker room for me to get everything adjusted so I felt I could move without giving away that I was ready to start World War III.

“What about body armor?”  I asked, pointing at a locker stuffed full of different vests.

“Depends on the event point,” Johnson said, looking me over and adjusting my jacket to ensure the pistol at the small of my back wasn’t outlined by the fabric.

“Remember, you’re going to be in California.  Gun laws are strict.  If a cop even thinks he detects a concealed weapon, he’s going to want a closer look.  Be careful to not give them a reason to take an interest in you.”

“But I’m going to arrive and start fighting.  Right?  Isn’t that what the event point is all about?  A moment in time when I can put them down before they attack?”

“I thought you were paying better attention than that,” Johnson sighed.  “OK.  Make sure you get it this time.  The event point is a point in time that is determined to be your best opportunity to interdict the terrorists.  That doesn’t mean you go hot and start shooting the instant you arrive. 

“It may be decided that you need to be there an hour ahead of the event point so you have time to prepare.  Or ten hours early.  There’s no correct point to arrive.  Each situation is different.  Right now, the analysts are looking at everything that has been learned about the perpetrators and back-tracing them from the moment they launched the attack.

“Once they identify the event point, they will begin running simulations and make a recommendation on
when
and
where
you should be sent.  Once that is ready, Director Patterson will review the results and make the final call.  But in five years, I’ve never seen him not take the team’s recommendation.”

“Got it,” I said.  “Sorry.  I was paying attention and I do remember that.”

“Slow your roll, grasshopper,” Johnson grinned briefly then realized he’d slipped again and the smile disappeared from his face. 

“You’ll do fine,” he said in his officious voice.  “Just remember your training and focus on making sure you get it right the first time.”

“Hey.  What do I do once the terrorists are dead?  If you send me back really early, it could be a whole day and night before I return.  Right?”

Johnson sighed deeply and glared at me for a moment.

“You weren’t paying attention,” he grumbled.  “When you get back, you’ve got some remedial training to go through.”

I grinned sheepishly.  I kind of remembered the briefing I had received on the subject.  But there had been one small problem.  The woman who’d delivered it.  She was smokin’ hot and it had been a very long time for me.  I’d probably been more interested in staring at her tits and ass than paying attention to what she had to say.

“I kind of remember, but tell me again,” I said.

“Jesus H,” he began, then took a deep breath.  “You know what?  You need a blow job worse than any white man I’ve ever met.”

For a moment I was stunned this had come out of Agent Johnson’s mouth.  Sure, he’d shown glimmers of being more than an uptight FBI agent, but this was as much as he’d ever shown of the real person behind the mask.