Chronicles of War
Part 1: Way of the Storm
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Now there was a day when the sons of
God came to present themselves before
the Lord, and Satan also came among them.
"And the Lord said to Satan, 'From where
do you come?' So Satan answered the Lord
and said, 'From going to and fro on the
earth, and from walking back and forth on it.'"
- Job 1:6-1:7
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 1: The Mall
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
He sat near the back of the bus, slumped into his seat, sitting low in
the shadows of obscurity; unremarkable in every way. He was dressed in
blue jeans that had seen better days, a huge blue flannel shirt that
hung on his shoulders like a tarp, and a pair of leather work boots. An
ancient scratched steel watch held onto his wrist, marking the time 9:58
a.m., while a bored expression camped out on his face.
The fair skin covering his generic blank face had been weathered from
many hours outdoors, and his hands were covered in light callouses. His
dirty blond hair was cut in a short, almost nerdy style, parted to one
side. His cold blue-gray eyes seemed to take in his surroundings as if
nothing could affect him, scanning and watching without seeing. For the
most part, they remained fixed on some indefinite point in the distance,
staring into something only he could see.
The bus was parked at the edge of the Columbia Center mall parking lot.
Built in the largest and fastest growing city within the Tri-City area,
it was not much to look at. From the generic building-block design to
the uninspired blue wavy lines meant to represent the Columbia River not
a half mile down the road, the mall oozed mediocrity. It was equipped
with the bare necessities for a community of this size--the Sears, the
JC Pennys, the Bon Marche, a smatter of smaller chain stores carrying
everything from cigars to video games. The obligatory food court rested
in the center of the mall, and the entire mess was done in desert
colors with mild southern influence.
The Tri-Cities, as the center of the Columbia River Basin was called,
were situated in the middle of a large desert in southeastern
Washington. The land was well farmed, irrigated by the Snake, Yakima,
and Columbia rivers along with several tributaries supplied by run-off
from the mountains bordering the basin. Little of interest went on in
the quiet community. The entire basin, including the massive
government-owned Hanford Nuclear Reservation--covering dozens of square
miles--was home to barely 100,000 people despite covering more area than
the city of Los Angles and it's outlying districts. It was truly a
boring place to live--only cows, horses, and fields of onions, potatos,
corn interrupting orchards of cherry and apple trees.
Home, for a decade and a half.
Near the front of the bus, the driver stepped on board. She was a short
woman with long brown hair drawn into a pony tail, and a round face
screwed up into a severe expression colored with a permanent, knowing
smirk. She wore a dark blue windbreaker with the bus drivers' union
symbol monogrammed over the right breast.
The man quickly glanced at her, taking in the passengers on board in one
look, before returning his attention to that something in the distance
as if it would only stay still while he watched it. For ten in the
morning, traffic was heavy. It was a day after Thanksgiving, and while
most sane people knew better than to brave holiday stressed drivers, the
roads were packed. Apparently, the lure of a good deal and the thought
of Christmas shopping that didn't start Christmas week and end the
following February was just too tempting.
The parking lot of the mall was buzzing with activity. It was a good
thing the busses where parked at the furtherest corner, in a reserved
space next to the least-used entrance. Without that small advantage,
they wouldn't stand a chance in the traffic jam that filled the parking
lot.
The driver closed the doors and stood under the exhaust from one of the
bus' heater vents, rubbing her hands together rapidly. The fingers were
ivory in color and about to loose all feeling from the wind-driven cold
outside. Dark clouds combed the sky outside, heavy and depressing. The
storm hovered over the entire valley like a curse, driving away clear
sunlight for more than a week. Thoughts of clear skies were so distant a
memory as to be thought dreams.
Over the slumbering diesel engine doing its duty at the rear of the bus,
came a short electronic shriek. The driver picked up the vehicle's long
range radio, answering with her route number. During the next minute,
while she didn't say a word, her face slowly turned pale, eventually
matching the color--or lack thereof--in her fingers. At length, she
nodded to herself and responded with a quiet, "Yes sir."
Then she turned to face the few passengers on the bus, and called out
over the noise in the vehicle. "Is there a James Rahn here?"
The blond man picked his head up at her call, then stood to his full
height. The large flannel shirt, which seemed to be drapped over him
while sitting, fit his upper body comfortably, almost snugly. His jeans
were well wrinkled and the shirt hung low, making it difficult to tell
if most of his height was in his legs, as it seemed. He suppressed a
yawn as he answered.
"That's me." James said.
The driver looked worried, her ice-blue eyes shimmering with fear and
uncertainty. When James stepped up to her, standing a head taller, she
leaned towards him and spoke just loudly enough for him alone to hear.
"It's the police. They want to talk to you."
James' face was that of a man who had just won a hundred bucks by eating
a live slug. "Okay," He said, taking the handset, which looked almost
exactly like a common telephone receiver. "This is him." He said into
the mouthpiece. There was a click from the other end. "Hello?"
The speaker crackled with a distant voice. "Ah, Rick. So good to hear
your voice."
James frowned. Who would ask for him by name and then call him 'Rick'
once he was on the horn? He took note of the electronic buzz in the
background, overlaid with radio static.
"Forgive me for the verbosity, but who might you be?"
"Someone who knows about you, Mr. Genoni. 'Trouble' could be my name."
The implied threat was clear, clearer than the sky outside. James
narrowed his eyes, looking absently out the windshield of the bus at the
mall. The place was doing brisk business, busiest shopping day of the
year indeed.
"Oh, that." The voice continued.
"What about what?" James asked.
"The mall."
A chill went down James' spine. He wondered to himself, *The mall? What
does this guy want with the mall?* Out loud, he asked. "Who am I talking
to?"
"My name is not important, Rick. What is important is that you have a
situation on your hands--"
Feeling reckless, James pressed for an answer. "I want to know who I'm
talking to."
"--a very serious situation, which requires your attention."
"And why do you keep calling me Rick?"
There was a pause, then. "Why, it sounds much better than that dumb-ass
alias. C'mon, Rick. 'James Rahn?' What do you think this is, a spaghetti
western?"
James closed his eyes, sure he was dealing with someone who was mentally
unhinged. "Okay, what about the mall?"
"There's a job you need to do."
"I don't wanna do it." James shot back.
"Well, I'm afraid there's a problem with that." The voice was cold.
"Problem? What problem?" Asked James.
"There's a hostage situation." It said.
James looked around the bus. "I don't see anyone with a gun. Oh, wait.
Let me guess, they're _inside_ the mall."
"The sarcasm is coming through loud and clear, Rick. But that takes
guts. Hey, How about I give you a gun."
"Nah, I think I'll pass."
"But without a gun, you'd have an awfully hard time getting rid of the
terrorists and if you didn't get rid of the terrorists then finding the
bombs would be rather difficult and if it took you a long time to find
the bombs they might--"
"I get the point." James snarled.
"Six bombs, that's it. Rick, all you have to do is put that wonderful
brain of yours to work, and follow my instructions. Trust me, this will
end quickly and painlessly. Fight..." He trailed off.
"And you'll kick my ass. I get the picture."
"That, and--"
"You'll put me in a dress and fuck me? Don't get me wrong, I'm an out-
going person, but I've got all sorts of contagious diseases."
The bus driver stared at James, mouth agape. He winked back at her.
An electronic sigh came over the connection. "I can see you're going to
be difficult."
"Difficult?" Asked James. "Difficult? My mysterious friend, I have not
yet _begun_ to be difficult. Just you watch."
The voice retorted harshly. "Take the gun under the driver side bench.
With your wit to protect you, the bullet proof vest isn't necessary; you
can leave it there. Consider the badge a gift; carry it if you want."
Then the voice got very quiet, enunciating each word with an edge. "Six
bombs. Ten pounds of explosives each. If you want an open casket
funeral, I suggest you get your ass moving."
Another click followed.
"What is going on here?" Balked the driver, hands on her hips.
James answered nonchalantly. "There's a big sale. Someone just advised
me to pick some hardware. Rock bottom prices and all." He handed the
radio to the driver. "Tell the cops I'm already inside."
He brushed past the startled woman and ripped the cushions to the bench
away, revealing a folding trap door underneath. Under his breath, he
said, "I bet this isn't standard equipment."
The driver looked frozen in place for a second, then glanced around the
bus nervously. No one else had heard James speak--they had no clue what
was going on.
James pulled the panel open. It obeyed without a squeak, revealing its
contents. In the space that one would normally expect to see a very big
tire with associated suspension equipment, he had found a two-inch deep
metal box that had been constructed in the very top of the wheel well.
Inside sat a Glock 23, the most reliable semiautomatic pistol made in
the world. The gun was made of ceramic and plastic, which made it light,
was respected for it's accuracy, and could not be purchased by
civilians. A cop gun. Two extra clips were sitting next to the gun, but
no holster for it could be found. A police badge, very genuine looking,
and a cell phone rounded out the package. Lastly, there was a small
nylon tool case with some small tools inside. James quickly put the
equipment on his persons as the bus driver stammered out questions to
the police.
He was gone before they asked to speak with him.
----------
He was practically to the entrance when to paused to take in his
surroundings. The wind pushed trails of cold air through his hair like
liquid ice. It was an experience to be lived, treasured, one of those
precious moments of reality. Morning person or not, James liked things
that tickled his nerves--that made him feel _alive_. Adventure,
excitement--that which was a thrill was his only entertainment. And yet,
and yet...
Forebording clouds masked the sky and sun, showing the earth their dirty
gray underbellies. What meager, subdued light did reach him made him feel
like he was standing in a beam of sadness. The light, the sky, the
whole... _scene_ held an almost tangible feeling of dread against his
heart.
He hadn't known this feeling still existed within him.
James was an engineer, an amazingly skilled one that enjoyed his work.
He was young, barely twenty-four years old, but had made valuable use of
his considerable intelligence. He'd finished college in less than three
years... well, less than one year, actually, and found a quiet job in
North Dakota where he could disappear into wilderness on the weekends.
It was a nice job, a nice life. He regretted leaving it behind, but
there was work elsewhere. Once the last of his belongings was out of his
psycho parents' hands, he could move on. Maybe to somewhere in Nevada;
he rather liked the climate there.
Now he was walking into a death trap orchestrated by persons unknown. In
the blink of an eye, he had cast aside what promise his life held for
what appeared to be certain death.
There was one thing left to do. One task he had committed himself to a
very long time ago. It needed doing. He couldn't begin to fathom how
fate had put him here, now, in the perfect position to begin...
This wasn't even a distraction. This wouldn't even slow him down.
James mentally shook himself, flinging off unnecessary thoughts like a
duck flicking water from his feathers. He stopped before the southern
entrance to the mall, and let his hand rest on the metal for a split
second, willing old memories to the back of his mind.
He slipped through the entrance, watching for anybody that looked
suspicious as he tried to blend in with the shopping crowd. So far, so
good. The mall had opened early this morning, and had probably been
packed to the gills since. On account of the bus stop being near the
west wing of the mall, James made good time to the security chief's
office.
As he stepped up to the door, he calmly noted it was an _empty_ office.
Fitting. Of course, the Chief had to be gone when he made it to the
office. That was just the way his luck was running, it seemed. Locked
door. "Will return, for emergencies please call..." sign posted. Gone.
He waited outside, keeping an eye out for anybody that looked like a
terrorist. He knew the cops and guards were moving, putting him at the
center of attention.
Speaking of which, the cell phone clipped to his belt began ringing. He
answered on the seventh ring, not used to having such a piece of
technology at his belt. "This is James."
The voice was back, clearer and more menacing than before. "You made
good time. I appreciate your sense of punctuality."
"What do you want?" James said quickly.
"To say good luck, and to remind you of the rules."
James frowned. "Rules? You plant explosives in a shopping mall that is
filled with holiday shoppers and expect _me_ to follow rules? Pal, when
I catch up with you I'm going to give you a headband made from your own
nut sack."
"Oh, threatening me? Whatever. Well, I don't have a secure remote
trigger on these devices, so don't do anything rash. You have to keep
fifty hostages inside the mall at all times. You can evacuate everyone
else, but you can't bring in any cops to replace them. Just some average
Joes, got it?"
James bit his tongue for a second. The answer was obvious. The answer
was already here. He un-checked his tongue. "Yes."
"Now, the bombs are wired to a sequential trigger and a timer. They go
off at 1 p.m., and if you tamper with them out of order, you'll get
blown sky-high."
And the final twist in the mystery, James thought to himself. "What do
you mean, out of order?"
"The bombs have to be diffused in a particular order--if you want to be
successful. You're a smart guy, you can figure it out."
"I'm really not liking these rules, pal."
"That's okay, there's just one more."
"And what's that?"
"If you really feel you need the help, I'll let you draft the services
of one security guard."
One security guard. Great. He might as well have told James to sequester
the entire mall with a Popsicle. "Thanks. That's just great."
"I'm glad we could see eye-to-eye."
Click.
James stared at the phone for a second, but his mind wasn't on the piece
of plastic in his hand, it was on the piece in his belt.
A gun. Why did he get a gun? Surely the voice wasn't serious about
terrorists.
He looked up to see a short man built like a bulldozer come up to him.
He had a year-round tan, skin the color of bronze. A Hawaiian native, by
his looks, with salt and pepper hair trimmed into a Marine's
high-and-tight. A hard set of black eyes gazed at James emotionlessly.
The younger man smiled back, reading the brass badge on his shirt. "Mike
Kitawaoski" filled out the top line. "Chief of Security" took up the
bottom.
"Mike, it's been a while." James said.
"James? Is that you?" The man squinted, then smiled hugely, his eyes
suddenly coming to life and twinkling. "It's been a long time, my boy."
Mike offered his hand to the young man and shook it like a shark
shredding its prey. "Come into my office! We'll catch up on old times."
The smile faltered. "I'd love to, Mike. I really would, but I have a
problem."
"Oh?" Mike paused, one hand on the doorknob, the other shifting through
his keys. The mall was a one-story affair with huge skylights throughout
the place and his face looked pale under the baleful gray light
filtering down from above.
"Terrorists, in the mall."
The Chief's smile faltered too, for a second. "Heh... you had me going
there."
James' lips were a tight line.
"It's a joke, right?"
"You got a line to the police?" James asked directly, his expression
grave.
"Shit." Mike pushed the door all the way open, stormed inside without
inviting James, and yanked the receiver from the phone in his desk. All
the while, he made it look like a single motion. "Shit!" He cursed
again.
James leaned on the door frame. "Mike. Look, I didn't want to bring this
down on you now, but--"
"Are you absolutely sure?" The man said, still bent over the phone.
James nodded.
James and the Chief went way back. When this city was James' home town,
Mike had worked in the Hanford area, the nuclear reservation to the
north. Just before James graduated from high school, Mike had been
working his way into the commercial sector. It surprised James to see a
Vietnam veteran, a former Marine Sargent, happy with working in a _mall_
of all places. After the Hawaiian had married a friend of James' family,
a polite woman with a thing for cats who had treated James like the son
she never had, the pair had swapped a few tales and become friends of a
sort. Mike had a son he brought to the marriage, a few years younger
then James and full of problems in the making. James had given his best
advice to the struggling father and never found himself with anything
bad to say about the man. It was honestly hurting him to tear apart the
Chief's world so suddenly, but...
But the man was a Marine, dammit. He was a man of honor (odd and
respectible for an ex-Marine) and he didn't deserve to be lied to.
Besides, he might notice if James tried to evacuate the mall all alone,
and right now James needed some help.
Mike slammed the phone back into its cradle after but a few seconds of
intense conversation. Neither James or Mike held the local police in
very high regard, but they both had to admit that when the situation
demanded action, the black-and-whites could really move.
"What'd they say?"
"They said they monitored your conversation with that psycho-fuck. Your
phone's probably wired, too."
"It should be. It's not mine."
Mike paused for just a split-second, locking gazes with James. Then he
dug into the bottom drawer of his desk, again fiddling with his keys.
"One security guard, huh? I don't suppose you'd mind me tagging along."
"You say it like I have a choice."
"It shames me to say so, but this is your show."
James chewed on his lower lip for a second. "You know this place well?"
"Like the back of my hand." Mike said, setting a small pistol on top of
his desk. James eyed the gun quickly. A colt 1911, military model. An
excellent basic handgun. "You want me to provide support?" Mike asked.
"Better than soaking up bullets." James said.
Mike stood up from behind his desk, grabbed two radios off a pair of
chargers sitting on the shelf next to him, and tossed one to James.
"What makes you think we'll be under fire?"
"Mike, I've owned a single twenty-two rifle for target shooting in my
lifetime, and I sold that gun years ago." He pulled out the Glock, black
as death under the fluorescent lights. "Do I look like the kind of guy
who would be carrying one of these in broad daylight?"
"Only if you're a cop." Mike said, slipping his own pistol into the back
of his belt after checking its magazine.
"Son of a bitch." James said under his breath. "This means trouble,
Mike. I can feel it in my bones."
"Combat." Mike said flatly as he handed James the keys. "Makes you
nervous. Like it?"
"No." James said quietly.
"I wish I was saying this to anyone but you. I wouldn't wish this on my
worst enemy, but..."
"Good luck, I know. I'd rather suck a bowl of month-old tuna salad
through my nose, but peoples' lives are at stake."
"Well," Began the Chief, looking up at James. He closed his mouth firmly
and stuck out a hand. James took it and the two exchanged a look, one
filled with hope, but knowing reality.
Mike put his hands on James' shoulders and looked the younger man in the
eye. "James, you're one of a kind. Good luck."
"I'll make you proud."
The Chief beat a hasty retreat, yelling into his radio. In seconds, a
pleasant voice asked the patrons to leave in a calm, orderly fashion,
that a minor mechanical problem was, blah blah blah. Some things never
changed.
James spoke into his radio. "Who's near the southwest arm of this
place?"
A voice came from the radio immediately. James stared at the device,
noting that the whole mall was simple enough for an idiot to work in as
an answer came to him. "Flemming, right there. What on earth are we
doing? People are looking a little panicked and there's cops outside."
"Not Ed Flemming?" James said after a second's pause.
"Yes sir. Hey, who is this?"
"James Rahn, you old windbag."
"James fucking Rahn? What are you doing here?"
A grin twisted James' face. "Stay right there, Ed. I'm coming over."
"Uh... roger."
(
geocities.com/tokyo/subway/1888/txt) (
geocities.com/tokyo/subway/1888) (
geocities.com/tokyo/subway) (
geocities.com/tokyo)