The names are real, only the incident has been changed to protect the guilty.
Incident in Kansas City
Chapter One
There were three of them that I could see, maybe more in the back of the white, non-descript van they were driving, and although they were not wearing turbans, they might as well have been. Even without the headdress, they bore a startling resemblance to Osama bin-Ladin. This was the third time I had seen them pass, and they appeared to be searching for something they hadn’t yet found. I slid lower in the seat.
I was parked in the underground parking lot of the Federal Building waiting for my wife to get out of the Council Meeting. It was running late, as usual, and I had nothing else to do except wait and feed my overactive imagination. Where was Security? I’d had to submit to everything but a body cavity search to get in here, so how did the Terrorists? Terrorists? Had I, unconsciously, discovered something? Get a grip, I told myself; you’re seeing enemies everywhere. The van had rounded the corner and was out of my sight. I let my eyes play over the other parked cars, seeing if I could pick out a possible target.
That was when I first noticed him, a little old gray-haired guy sitting in a red Beemer convertible. “Look whom I’m calling old, at least he has hair,” I thought to myself. He saw me looking at him and raised one finger over his steering wheel. I couldn’t tell which finger. I got out of my car and ambled across to his thinking I should talk to someone before my imagination went totally wild. He got out of the Beemer to meet me.
He was a little guy, built like a fat fireplug, but something about him made me like him immediately. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. He took it in a surprisingly firm grip and a grin I cannot describe.
“Stan’s the name. Did you see the van?”
“Probably a minimum wage cleaning crew looking for the right floor,” I offered.
He threw me a disgusted look, something he would do many times in the next hour. “You musta been in the military,” he grunted, looking up and down at my ample 270 pound frame. “Probably an Army puke, judging by your belly and your intelligence.”
I nodded, noting his lack of ‘people skills’. “And, you’re a ex-Marine Gunny Sergeant,” I observed.
It was his turn to look quizzical. “How’d you know that?” He grunted.
I gestured to the Marine stickers plastered all over his car. “Duh,” I said.
“Vietnam?” It was both a question and a statement. I nodded affirmative.
Again the disgusted look. “I hope you were a grunt and remember some of your training, I might need a little help.”
“I drove a truck, and what the hell are you talking about?” I asked.
“The Terrorists, you puke! We’re the only one’s here to stop them, or don’t you care about whoever you’re waiting for?”
“You’re crazy,” I replied. “What are we going to do, slap them silly with our bare hands?” I was still standing beside Denial River, I guess.
Stan grinned the only other facial expression he owned beside ‘disgust’, kind of a shining evil. “No, I’ll slap them with this.” He leaned into his car and pulled a sandblasted gray .45 Automag from beneath his seat.
“They let people like you have guns?” I asked, a sinking feeling falling upon my stomach.
“Catholic Services, boy. In my spare time I hunt down drug dealers. Watch and learn, puke.” He walked into the driveway and stood, spread-legged, holding the pistol down beside his right leg. There was that evil grin again.
Chapter Two
“This guy is a loose cannon,” I thought, looking for a place to hide.
He just stood there, waiting for the van to reappear. Now I know why Marines are thought to be crazy. From my crouch behind his Beemer I heard engine noise growing louder. His grin got a little wider.
Suddenly he snapped to a two-handed shooter’s stance, yet he hesitated for a moment, probably waiting to see if the van would stop. I swear I heard the engine hesitate, as if it were mirroring the thoughts of its master, then the sucking sound of an engine at full acceleration. I saw his pistol recoil again and again, its booming retort echoing off the concrete parking structure, the ejected shell casings seemingly floating through the air in slow motion. Then the Marine rolled away from me and out of the path of the careening van as it sped past my narrow field of vision. Stan ejected his empty magazine as he rushed back to the car, reaching in for more ammunition. He tossed me his car keys and yelled, “In the trunk, a Mossberg and more clips. He moved pretty well for a fat old fireplug.
After a moment of fumbling I found the right key and popped the trunk. I heard a crashing sound followed by the roar of the Automag. There was a small, black nylon pouch with more clips, a box of 12 gauge double ought, and a plastic gun case. I tossed the pouch to Stan and opened the case; a flat black, short-barreled shotgun stared back at me. I started to feel better, a visceral feeling replacing the sinking one in my guts. I turned the 12 gauge upside down and started pushing in shells. Hell, maybe we could do this.
Locked and loaded I stood low and looked over the cars, trying to spot the van. It had crashed into a concrete support pillar and the engine had died. There were several holes in the back doors. Stan had reloaded and was shoving magazines into his pants pockets. I moved a few cars closer to the wreck.
The rear doors of the van burst open and three bloody terrorists jumped out firing MAC 10’s, raking the parked cars with fire. Between the Mossberg’s booms I heard the Automag spitting its response as fast as Stan could pull the trigger. The windows of the cars I was using for cover exploded in a shower of sparkling glass as I continued to pump double ought into my targets. The bad guys weren’t very smart. They had ejected from the van before figuring out where Stan and I were, counting on the murderous fire of their weapons. Bottom line, we hit them and they missed us.
Their bodies jerked and twitched the dance of death as our rounds blew them to rags, blood and small pieces of terrorist flying everywhere. As the echoes of war receded down the concrete paths I looked upon the scene of carnage and felt a little sick. I looked at Stan, but his evil grin had only gotten wider. Out of a long forgotten habit, I found myself automatically reloading the shotgun.
We moved independently, this little Marine and I, moving from one car to the next, eyes riveted on the bodies and the van. Nothing moved in the deathly silence except the broken glass under our feet. We arrived at the same time, from different directions. Then it was truly quiet, and that oddity finally struck me. We had made enough noise for World War III . . . where were the security guards, the police? The sirens? Curious people streaming from the building? It was if Stan and I were the only living people on the planet.
I stifled a gag reflex while Stan squatted down over the most intact body. “Not too tightly wrapped, are they?” He observed with a grin.
I almost lost it then. Almost. I refused to become the name he had called me.
Through the open doors I saw the dead driver slumped over the doghouse. Three on the ground. Four terrorists total. So, what were they going to do? I looked into the gloom of the van interior for the bomb or whatever they had in mind for this building. There was something metal, up front, at the back of the seats. I crawled in for a closer look.
It was metal all right, a large briefcase made out of aluminum. The lid wasn’t locked, but lying partially open. I opened it the rest of the way. I didn’t like what I saw.
The inside looked like a James Bond briefcase. There were buttons and L.E.D. readout, and the readout showed 57:13. The lid had been held open by a stubby key that was still inserted in a keyway. The numbers grew smaller by the second.
Chapter Three
I carefully moved the briefcase to the back and climbed out of the van. Stan and I looked at each other, then at the briefcase.
“What the hell is that?” Stan asked.
“How should I know?” I replied. I thought for a minute, and I wished I hadn’t, because I didn’t like the thought forming in my mind. “Remember the news a year ago? The Soviet-made nuclear suitcase bombs that had disappeared from view?”
His expression didn’t change. “Well, puke-boy,” he said, “What makes you think this is one of them?”
“How many bombs do you know that require a key that looks like that?”
Stan looked closer, then reached out to turn the key. It wouldn’t turn. The numbers read 54:23. “Ok, I’ll agree it’s a bomb of some kind, now what?”
“We have about 53 minutes to get it as far away as we can,” I judged. “Where around here can we take this thing to keep from hurting anyone? We don’t have time for the cops, and they don’t seem interested anyway.” No one in authority had yet showed up.
“I know a drug dealer we could leave it with,” he said with the evil grin.
“Wait a minute! Isn’t there an Underground around here, a storage place in limestone caves? I seem to remember that from my truck driving days.”
His eyes glistened. “Yeah, over on the East side, just North of I-70. C’mon, we’ll take my car.”
He ran to his Beemer so I grabbed the briefcase and followed him. I tossed the shotgun on the back seat and folded myself into the passenger seat, among trash and fast food bags. “Don’t the Marines teach housekeeping?” I asked, reaching for the seat lever to give my belly some more room.
The Beemer’s engine roared to life and Stan dumped the clutch, causing the car to surge forward and my seat to slide back. I put my legs inside and slammed the door. “I recycle,” he said with a growl.
I cannot describe the feeling of having a nuclear bomb lying in your lap. All of the black and white movie trailers from the 50’s came flooding back, the heat and shock wave brushing the makeshift town into oblivion. The thought of being cooked from the inside out. Of course, with it in my lap, I would be instantly vaporized, so I needn’t worry. Stan’s driving soon took my attention from the bomb.
Stan threw the Beemer around the turns to the exit, fishtailing closer and closer to parked cars. “You know,” I said, over the scream of the engine, “we need to actually get to the caves to save mankind.” He threw me his disgusted look.
We blew out the exit, right through the wooden cross guard and sideways into the street. Fortunately, the streets were dark and empty, so the fact that we were headed the wrong way on a one-way street didn’t really matter.
“Uh,” I said, pushing my feet against the floorboards and back into the seat, unconsciously holding the briefcase closer to me. Before I could say more, Stan growled, “Remember the objective, puke-boy, and enjoy the ride!”
He was right, you know. This was truly a do-or-die situation so what did a few traffic violations mean? Might even wake up the cops. The L.E.D. now read 49:00 minutes.
Stan found his way onto the eastbound I-70 and put the pedal to the metal, accelerating to over 100 mph. I found it easier to sit upright.
“Where’d you get that shirt?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment. “Some mad Hawaiian?” It was beautifully wrought, but it had big, poncho-type sleeves and I could see his armpits.
“It’s African, my wife gave it to me, you got a problem with that?” He growled.
“No,” I replied, “as long as you keep your elbows close to your body.”
He threw me a disgusted, quizzical glance, but said nothing.
“What do you do when you’re not shooting people? “ I asked, conversationally. Anything to take my mind from the nuke in my lap.
“I teach at a small college in Kansas City.”
“They let you teach our children?” I asked, incredulously.
He glared at me. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothing” I said, turning away. I was getting a picture of this maniac in my mind, ranting and raving about whatever he taught. I’d bet his absentee rate was high.
We finally got noticed by the police but they were going the other way. Oh well, maybe they’d radio ahead. Stan saw me looking at them.
“You don’t want to wish for them, puke-boy,” he advised. “They see a shotgun in the back seat, an atomic bomb on your lap, what do you think they’ll do?”
I hadn’t thought about it that way. I viewed the police as reasonable saviors, always willing to make things right. But, look at it from their point, two crazy old men speeding down the highway with a shotgun and nuclear bomb. Yeah, they’d stop and listen.
What would James Bond do in a situation like this I asked myself, and said as much.
“Screw James Bond!” Stan growled, changing lanes to pass a motorist going a mere ten miles over the speed limit. “We’d be better off with General ‘Chesty’ Puller.”
The devil made me say it. “Wait, how about Gomer Pyle?” I asked.
His look was positively venomous.
I could hear sirens in the distance. The clock read 33:17.
Chapter Four
Stan stopped the Beemer about 100 yards from the gate and we looked the situation over. There was an eight-foot fence surrounding the front of the property and the road led to a wide gate, with guardhouse. The gate stood open and there was a light on in the guard shack. He leaned over the bomb and opened the glove box, withdrawing a small pair of binoculars. I commented on his preparedness.
“Be prepared,” he growled.
I had never thought of the Boy Scouts as being a farm team for the Marines. A picture formed in my mind, a Boy Scout Jamboree, a game of Capture the Flag, and there, among the small, broken, bleeding Scout bodies was Stan and his little army, struggling to erect the captured flag, its staff buried in the Scoutmaster’s chest, a precursor to the famous photo from Iwo Jima. I shook my head to clear it.
“Whaddya know about this place, puke-boy?” He inquired.
“About this one, nothing,” I replied. “If it’s similar to the one near Joplin, then it’s a series of caves carved out of the limestone. Companies that have perishable goods rent the cave to store their inventory because the cave has a constant, cool temperature. They’re usually big enough inside to accommodate a tractor-trailer.”
“There’s one open,” he observed. “We take out the guard, roll into the cave as far as we can go, drop the briefcase, and get the hell out.”
“Can’t you go anywhere without killing anybody? Why kill the guard?”
“So he can’t shut the gate, or the cave, once we’re inside.”
“I don’t think he can shut the cave, and we can threaten him on the way out.”
The disgusted look again. “No wonder the Army can’t get anything done.” “Don’t kill the guard,” he mimicked. “What were you in Vietnam, a Chaplin?”
“We’re not in Vietnam, Gomer, and the surrounding people are Americans, like us.”
“Collateral damage, puke-boy. You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few heads!”
I was going to say something about mixed metaphors but I didn’t think he’d understand. The clock was down to 20:00. Stan muttered some curses, tossed the binoculars onto the back seat, and slammed the Beemer into gear. With the engine screaming, we rocketed past the surprised guard, Stan waving his Automag at him.
“Are you happy now?” He asked, negotiating the 10 mph road at 50 mph.
We shot into the cave and its darkness swallowed half of the Beemer’s lights, forcing Stan to slow down. We followed the arrows until we reached the back of the cave. Stan slid the car to a stop.
“Drop the luggage, puke-boy, let’s get the hell outta here.”
I hadn’t seen any live people, so one was not likely to find the bomb before it went off. I opened the door and laid it gently on the ground. Stan accelerated away. “Let’s stop at the door and see if there’s some way we can close it,” I offered.
Stan grunted his assent and stopped with the headlights on a box beside the door. I got out and looked it over. It was locked, but it had electrical conduit running into it. Our motion had tripped some sensor because the cave lights had come on, so Stan pulled the car outside, and then came back with a tire iron. In two seconds we had the box open, and sure enough, inside was a switch labeled ‘open’ and ‘close.’ I pushed ‘close’ and we stepped back outside and got into the car. The heavy door slowly rumbled closed behind us.
When we approached the gate, we found that the security guard had closed and locked it, and was nowhere to be seen. Stan pointed the Automag out the window and blew the lock off. The chain dropped to the ground. I got out to push the gate open when I saw the top of a head followed by two eyes ease up through the guardhouse window. Gray hair, and old eyes. They just looked. I opened the gate, Stan drove through, and I closed the gate. Before I got back in the Beemer, I hailed the old guard.
“We just dumped a nuclear bomb in your cave. It’s gonna blow in about ten minutes. You might want to leave.”
We tore off into the night and I saw the old guard hot-footing it to his car. Hopefully that meant the place was empty. I didn’t want any of Stan’s ‘collateral damage’.
As we entered the westbound on-ramp to I-70, a whole posse of cops and flashing lights were getting off on the other side. I hoped they hadn’t seen us. I also hoped they wouldn’t try to enter the place that we had just left. Stan held to the speed limit for this trip.
After a couple of miles Stan came as close to human as he probably could. “Not bad, puke-boy, after you got started, that is.”
I was feeling the letdown from the rush of battle, lowering adrenalin levels and all that. “I didn’t kill this many people in ‘Nam,” I allowed.
“Why not? Were you wounded?”
“I told you I was a truck driver, Stan. I hauled the means of death, I didn’t provide it.”
He shook his head sadly. “No wonder we lost that one.”
I grew instantly angry. “Just a goddamn minute,” I shouted heatedly. “We . . .”
It was the first time I had seen him smile. “He also serves, who stands and waits,” he said, through his grin.
I laughed. What else could I do? Had I been alone in this a lot of people would be dead instead of a lot of somebody’s stored inventory. He was only a Marine, I had to make allowances.
We heard and felt a low rumbling roll through the car and I looked back toward the caves. There was no flash of light and no buildings fell down, but I thought I could see a lot of dust in the air. The market for warehouses was going to get bigger.
When we arrived back at the Federal Building we found that the cavalry had finally arrived. There were cops and Federal Marshals and Fibbies all over the place. The entrance to the parking garage was sealed off, so Stan found a place to park on the street. He snuck the shotgun back into the trunk while I went to see about our wives.
It turned out that the officials were letting the people and cars that could move leave the parking garage so we had only to wait until our wives appeared. I wondered how mine would react to tonight’s events. I imagined Stan’s wife merely yawning and saying, “That’s nice, Dear.”
So, that’s it. While Kansas City slept, a retread Marine and Army puke saved a lot of people from death and heartbreak, a lot of people who would never know. The radio was already attributing the events to Terrorism so Stan and I might never be discovered. We could live with that. We found our wives, or they found us, and I knew I was going to have to field a lot of questions. The truth, of course.
I watched Stan pull away and head toward home. He again waved an indeterminate finger as he drove by. I felt a twinge of sadness at his going. “Semper Fi, Gomer,” I whispered, “Semper Fi.”
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