

### The Vengeance Below...

By

J.E. Moore

Copyright © 2020 J.E. Moore

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Dedication and acknowledgement

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter One: In the Beginning

Chapter: Two: On its way

Chapter Three: Crash & Burn

Chapter Four: You need to know

Chapter Five: Going forward

Chapter Six: Begin the Investigation

Chapter Seven: The Search is on

Chapter Eight: Say what?

Chapter Nine: Who are you?

Chapter Ten: Digging in

Chapter Eleven: A new player in town

Chapter Twelve: The Pentagon

Chapter Thirteen: Who's next?

Chapter Fourteen: What if?

Chapter Fifteen: What the Hell?

Chapter Sixteen: I see you

Chapter Seventeen: We need to talk

Chapter Eighteen: On the run

Chapter Nineteen: What's this?

Epilogue

Other publications by J.E. Moore

# Dedication and acknowledgement

"I think I can do this."

"You can do anything you want," she agreed.

This book is dedicated to Joyce, my wife and soulmate who has loved and supported me in all my endeavors. _This_ is what she does. We shall share this victory together.

And... a special thanks to our friend, Gary J. Chapman for his proofreading and analysis.

# Foreword

Sorry, but I must advise you most assuredly the events which transpire here are completely technically possible. Right now, any and every day... and there is _no_ viable defense.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. I, and all of our Miami-based crew would like to thank you for selecting Delta Airlines for your travel today. In a few minutes we'll begin our descent and final approach into the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. The weather is a pleasant eighty-one degrees and partly cloudy with a light breeze from ocean-side. It's a beautiful day for an afternoon visit to the beach and perhaps enjoy a frosty brew in Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville located on the Hollywood Beach Boardwalk." He chuckled, "But, _please_ don't forget your sunscreen down there. You could get fried like an egg on a summertime Texas sidewalk, and not realize it until the next morning. With that pertinent, special service information aside, I must now ask you to raise your seats and place the food trays in their upright position and fasten your seatbelts. We also request you turn off _all_ your electronic devices, _including_ cellphones and especially laptops. Again, thanks for joining us here on Delta Airlines and please keep us foremost in your mind for future travel plans. Good day, folks."

Delta Airlines flight 1705, Chicago to Fort Lauderdale, cruised smoothly through the clear, warm Florida skies... it was the first.

Someone or group was seizing aircraft in midair by remote control and dashing them to the ground. Crash and burn, no survivors. Were they foreign Terrorists... or _another_ Home-Grown Madman? Who? Why? How?

America's safest mode of travel was under attack. As a result, many of the airlines in the industry teetered toward financial collapse. Washington feared a snowball reaction, sparking another recession, or worse - a total Stock Market crash which would bring the entire Free World's economy to its knees.

Sleepless nights, suspicion, anxiety... a young woman in Tampa had been reached out to via the Internet and touched by The Angel.

"This could lead to hundreds more being killed, maybe thousands."

"It's now a frig'g race!"

"In view of the _possible,_ and or repeated carnage, our team had better well get our act 'All in' right now and stop these psycho bastards."

"I serve as the Angel of Retribution."

Will the F.B.I.'s Behavior Analysis Unit working with the ultramodern biochemical laboratory in Washington and the C.I.A's Star Wars Lab electronics analysis center in Langley, Virginia be able to identify, track or stop the assassin(s)?

Suspense, action, tragedy, even some unexpected humor is entwined in this hunt for a deranged killer.

Join Wayne Atkins, a rookie F.B.I. Special Agent and his veteran partner, Gary Taylor in the hunt for the most feared mass murderer in U.S. history.

A roaring, spine-tingling conclusion - intended to make you feel safe again. But, will it?

# Prologue

And for himself, he must prepare the instruments of death; Psalms 7:13

# Chapter One: In the Beginning

Delta flight 1705, nonstop from Chicago to Fort Lauderdale, cruised smoothly through the clear, warm Florida skies thirty miles west of Tampa International Airport. Below, TPA, similar to all major American facilities, had its own dedicated airspace which entailed a fifty mile outward sweep from its main tower being manned by the F.A.A.'s ever vigilant air traffic controllers. Flight plans showing the entire trip's route were filed well in advance to insure no crowding or overlapping of airspace at the same altitude. 'Passing by' flights as this one routinely stay in close proximity to as many F.A.A. operations centers as economically feasible and over the years have established fixed routes and corridors similar to the sea lanes used in global shipping. Once the aircraft is within one of those zones they can tune into the airport's Auto Terminal Information System (ATIS) to receive current data regarding local weather conditions, wind shear, runway approach and availability. But most importantly, the real reason why airlines zig-zag to their destinations instead of taking a straight shot as the crow flies, is to cover something else. The dreaded: Emergency Landing.

On this particular day, an ex-Navy and seasoned Delta pilot, Mike Stockley was at the helm, figuratively speaking – another carried over nautical term. The airline industry had borrowed many from the sea faring days of yesteryear. In actuality, the ship's Captain was cruising on 'auto pilot', the preferred and safest method used by commercial airlines. It was less fatiguing to monitor a craft's performance than to 'drive' it for any extended length of time. Computerization had clearly made a gigantic, positive impact.

Both the Captain and copilot had completed their required scans and recordings of the plane's high-tech, digital instrument panels and data terminals which their earlier pioneer pilots had labeled, the new and improved, Sweetheart package. It had been an incredible technological upgrade from the propeller planes with their little round glass gauges which occasionally required a tap with the heel of the pilot's shoe to get the needle unstuck. The N.A.S.A. space shuttles were the first to incorporate the computer cockpit controls and were also built to be accessed by remote control which enabled a ground operations center, such as Houston, not only to monitor but to diagnose system credibility and take control of the craft if necessary. However, its usage was deemed to be impractical and dangerous for today's commercial aircraft due to the large number of planes with identical guidance systems flying within close range of each other. Later, the nonmilitary applications without remote control began filtering down and the first Lear jet with its 'glass cockpit' was introduced. From that point on, innovations led by the Boeing and McDonnell-Douglas Corporations were being developed and employed on almost a monthly basis. Unfortunately, some electronically created guidance and control systems were later declared to be 'soft access' due to their not being encrypted or hardened, thus vulnerable to modern day Cyberattacks.

"Daddy, daddy can we go now?" pleaded little four year old Stephanie as she danced around her father, Ron Jenson. "I'm all-ready. I've been ready _forever_!" as she bounced up and down, full of endless energy.

"Do you have your flip-flops, Sweetheart?' playing the 'list game' with her.

"Uh-huh," see my feet, Daddy?" wiggling her pink painted toes.

"Good girl. How about your sun hat and sand pail?"

"Yes, yes," as she did a cartwheel across the living room.

"Well then I guess you're all set," as he grinned at one of his bundles of joy. "Let's get Mommy and the baby out-o-here!"

"Yea, yea!" she cheered. "Hurry, Mommy, we're going to the beach and build the biggest sand castle in the whole world. It will be Gy-normas!"

Mommy came from the bedroom toting their freshly changed baby in his carrier, a diaper bag hung across her shoulder. "Let's hope this will last him awhile... at least until we get there," and they both chuckled.

"Yeah," added Stephanie. "The baby's a stinker, the baby's a big stinker."

"Oops, wait just a minute," as Ron theatrically rushed to the hall closet and grabbed a small set of binoculars off the shelf. "We'll be able to see the planes coming in and landing up close with these puppies."

"Oh, Daddy, can I use them too?" exclaimed his daughter.

"Why sure, Sweetheart," and winked at his pleased wife, both knowing she was the real reason they were taking them to begin with. "Here, I want you to carry it for us. Now, don't take them out of the case until we're in the car. Okay?" Big-eyed and extra cute in her little yellow swimsuit, she clutched the parcel tightly as her father slipped the strap over her tiny shoulder. "It's your job to take care of them today. Can you handle it?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Daddy. I'll do a _wonderful,_ extra special, good job."

"I know you will, Sweetheart. Well then, let's get this show on the road, the beach is waiting. I can hear it calling your name!"

As the happy Jenson family piled in the car, the child remembered a key word and asked, "Daddy, you said, puppies... I want a puppy, are we getting a puppy? How about a kittycat? We could have both. I'll take care of them!"

Inwardly he cringed, "Er, sorry, no. That was just a figure of speech, Sugar," knowing he'd definitely opened a can of worms with the dreaded _puppy_ word and would surely be hearing a lot more about it in the very near future. "I've got enough pets already," he surmised to himself.

Not much traffic at that time of the day as he drove up the Interstate 95 north bound ramp entrance, leaving their small but comfortable three bedroom home in North Miami. "Daddy, which beach are we going to today?" Little Stephanie already had the field glasses out of its case and was staring intently at the car right next to them. She waved to them and they returned her gesture but all she could see were big, blurry heads so she kept waving until the two cars separated and she lost track of them.

"We're going to see the big jets today on our way to Hollywood Beach. We'll stop and park on Perimeter Road," which was situated right in front of the runway. "They'll be so close you'll feel the 'whoosh' as they land at 130 miles per hour. And even before that... if we're lucky. We'll see the planes on the horizon as they come in over the Everglades. That's more than ten miles away. They'll look like teeny, weeny little dots. Don't worry, I'll help you find them and we'll watch them together!"

"I'd like that, Daddy. Would you like it too, Mommy?"

"Very much so, Darling. We'll watch them for a while then go to the beach and go for a swim. Then we'll have a picnic. How does that sound?"

"Yea! Swimming and picnic. Drive faster, Daddy!"

Gino Lombardo pressed his positions' not available/bypass activation button and rose from his swivel chair, coffee cup in hand to go on his scheduled fifteen minute morning break. His current air traffic control load was instantly split and switched to the other terminals on either side of him. No 'hot traffic' was on his screen.

"Gino, how about bringing me back a coffee?" asked Rick to the left of him.

"Sure. Are you still using that cup with the cute little ducks on it?"

"Hey, guy. My niece gave me that for Christmas last year. Someday, maybe you'll be an old fart me and appreciate those little things," chastised his workmate then passed him his favorite cup.

"I hope so, Grandpa," as he gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "How do you want your poison this time Uncle Rick?"

"Cream, no sugar, can't you remember anything, boy? ... and don't stir it with your finger. I'll see that greasy, oil slick you Whops make and know what you done." Good natured razing. After all, they were uncle and nephew on his sister's side and shared an Italian family dinner together on the first Sunday of every month.

As he was sipping the fresh, hot coffee at the long standup table in the break room, another fellow Controller sauntered up next to him. "Morn'g, Gino, how's it going on your side of the Magic Kingdom?" The Kingdom he referred to consisted of a circle of twenty consoles. Each position was equipped with a v.d.t., a transceiver, a data terminal with keyboard, a com system and an oversized radar screen which monitored and displayed approximately ten aircraft flying within a designated zone. The Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport's controlled radius had twenty zones. Two supervisors were positioned on opposite sides of the tower's circle of A.T.C.s to oversee the operations center.

"Hey, Jeff," he returned. "Doing okay, how about you?"

"Same old, same old. So, what's your assignment today, kid?" asked the crew's most senior Controller. "I have the military corridor... as usual. It's slow and boring which is perfectly fine for us old guys waiting to retire."

"Yeah, I should be so lucky," responded Gino. "But, hey you've paid your dues and deserve some easy time. I've got the incoming Naples approach today."

"Naples over the Everglades?" chided his friend. "Ain't you the Superstar? I tell you true kid, after a few more tours of that hot-seat traffic, you'll be sitting in the Catbird's (supervisor's) seat."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll see," answered Gino. "You know how it is. One little fuck-up and your ass goes to back of the line... or out the door."

"Amen, so true,' agreed Jeff Hodges. "It's really because of all those stupid, globbly-goop government regulations which were made expressly to cover the sorry ass Management's stupidity. _We're_ the guys carrying the load and making the important front line decisions. Those useless Yahoo's take all the credit if it's right and we get a kick in the ass if it's wrong. Reminds me of my good old days in the Air Force during Desert Storm. Different stage, same old shit."

"Sorry, I wouldn't know about that, never having served in the military, but I clearly get the picture, Bro," returned Gino.

Jeff took another sip then asked, "You said you got the Naples incoming?" Gino nodded affirmation. "I saw on the crew schedule today my old buddy Mike Stockley is flying in on a Delta. I think it was flight 1705 due in about twenty minutes."

"Oh, yeah? An old friend?"

"You bet,' explained Jeff. "We flew together way back in Desert Storm. He was the pilot and I was his right hand."

"Desert Storm? His copilot? Wow, I'm impressed," responded Gino. "So... how come you're here riding a desk and he's still in the sky?"

"Ah, yes, an auto accident twenty years ago bummed up my leg... and you wouldn't believe what the physical requirements are for military flying."

"Yeah, I heard they're pretty stringent," as he glanced at Jeff's cane which he always carried. "That explains a lot," he thought to himself.

"If you get his flight and have a minute would you tell him I'll be waiting for his ugly mug at the gate?" He laughed, "I keep missing him because he usually flies the Redeye." He snorted, "I ain't seen that scurvy son-of-a bitch in years!"

"I sure will, Jeff and I'd better get going now if I don't want another Controller to guide that ride. Oh, and by the way, are you going to be around during your lunch break?"

"Yeah, sure," he answered. "Whatta think I'd be doing, going ice skating on this bummed-out leg?"

"Well, if that's case, how about dropping by the conference room for a piece of _your_ birthday cake?' asked Gino. "We all chipped-in a nickel and bought you a soggy, day-old cupcake with a really big candle." He smiled, "Hey, you didn't really think we'd forget your birthday you did you? So, Happy Birthday you old fart. And, _please_ tell us you're finally considering retirement." He then happily filled a to-go coffee for Rick and left with much added respect for the Old-timer who appeared to be genuinely touched.

"Jesus Christ, where you been?" grumbled Rick as he stared at his watch. "Did that old fart, Jeff Hodges, trap you with one of his Desert Storm yarns?" He took a sip, "It's still hot and no oil slick... so okay I forgive you. But do it faster next time."

"Roger that Uncle. Hum'n, Desert Storm? No, not exactly but close enough," answered his nephew. "It turns out he's got an old war buddy he used to fly with coming in on one of my flights," as he activated his position and visually scanned the screen. "And, there he is, Delta 1705. He's just entered our air space and hasn't been hailed by another Controller. You're all mine, Captain Stockley. Lucky you."

On a deserted rural dirt road bordering one of the scores of man-made canals created by the Army Corp of Engineers fifty years ago, awaited a solitary figure. In front of him stretched the Florida Everglades, behind, the towns of Davie and Weston. They were directly in front of the Naples Incoming landing approach to the FFL airport. A cigarette dangled from his thin lips as he searched the western skies with his high-powered binoculars to find what he knew to be somewhere soon on the horizon. Alone on his mission. Months of planning and years of training had prepared him well to do what no other had ever done. He checked his watch again; it wouldn't be long before Delta 1705 flew into 'his' range. "Come to me Baby and I will set us free."

# Chapter Two: Just a little earlier

Capt. Stockley's scan of the instrument panels and v.t.d.'s (video terminal display) informed him of the craft's exact G.P.S. position in relationship to the flight plan. Even without those readings he knew perfectly well where he was, having flown the route numerous times. He also possessed a rare sixth sense; a feeling of orientation. He was the type of person who could get spun around blindfolded and still know which way was north every time. It sure had come in handy during his stint in the Air Force, especially on combat missions.

To Jim, his copilot, "Log us in at 10:20 hours, one hundred miles SSE of Tampa and ten miles east of Naples at 650 knots. I am decreasing power to begin our descent into FLL and disengaging the autopilot."

"Yes sir," responded James Ogden, the First Officer and an ex-Air Force pilot, who he had flown with numerous times on other routes but this particular one was his first.. Jim then recorded the Captain's orders on the ship's log and retrieved two landing procedures check lists he knew his boss would want next.

Captain Mike continued, "We'll begin our check down list after I touch base with our crew and passengers." Jim nodded acknowledgment and started filling in the basic items on the first list. Stockley then buzzed the galley's intercom located in the rear of the aircraft.

It was the head flight attendant's station. She answered the hailing, "Good morning sir. How may I help you?"

"Good morning to you also," he returned. "We're fifteen minutes from touch down, what's your status?"

"Our aisles are clear and the galley will be secured within three minutes. Our Coach Class attendants are making their final breakfast clean-up inspections," she answered.

"Sounds good. How's the handicapped gentleman in 46D?"

"He had three drinks and is sound asleep. He'll probably remain so until we awake him after landing. We'll keep an eye on him, sir."

"Very good and thank you," returned the Captain. Next he buzzed the First Class section's attendant. Although she was physically less than fifteen feet away there was no direct communication due to the cockpit door being closed and locked per F.A.A. regulations. Unknown to most, a silly, little embarrassing incident not too long ago had prompted this 'antiterrorist' security procedure which is now required industry wide. The story goes that a tipsy First Class passenger on a different airline tripped and fell into the cockpit. The door had been left open when the copilot had left to use the rest room. The fellow picked himself up and decided to take the vacated copilot's seat and chew the fat with the Captain since he himself was an amateur pilot and would surely be welcomed. Again, he lost his balance and fell across the back of the pilot's chair while he was manually making a turn. The startled Captain, along with a little help from the man's failing arms, jerked hard left, turning the plane into a downward forty-five degree angle dive which dumped a quarter of the passengers into the aisle or other people's laps. It also catapulted the First Officer off the toilet in the lavatory and into the now even more surprised occupants of First Class. Service with a smile and a moon. Luckily no one had been hurt, nor sued or even asked for a refund. In as much, more than one woman had later declared to her friends that this was the highlight of her trip since the First Officer was certainly a handsome fellow to lay eyes upon. That incident, coupled with the new startup fad of hijacking planes inflight, mandated locking the cockpit doors from ground to ground. And, from hence forth, it was strongly recommended by all airline administrators: Take care of your personal business before you take care of the Company's.

'Buzz... buzz' went the intercom with its flashing blue light in First Class. "Good morning, sir," she responded.

"Good morning, how's it going back there with everyone and the pregnant lady in 1C?"

"All passengers and Missus Azrael are doing quite well," she answered. "She took one of her prescribed motion sickness pills thirty minutes ago then asked for a pickle and ice cream. We didn't have a pickle to go with her ice cream but she appears to be just fine. The lady is presently happily chatting away with Missus Satinosky next to her. Life is good."

"Oky-doky, offer your last round and secure the liquor cabinet. We are twelve minutes from touchdown." She acknowledged and hung up.

Captain Mike turned to Jim and said, "We'll lineup for a manual guidance test and continue our slow descent. Let's take this puppy home." The seasoned veterans quickly completed the check lists in flight and were on an In-line approach within two minutes.

"A.T.I.S. advises all clear with no surprises anticipated ahead," reported Ogden.

"That's what I want to hear. Sometimes we get severe thunder storms over the Everglades at this time of the year... or a tornado in November. Those are really dangerous."

"I've got it, I'll give him a blowjob!" she proclaimed. Bobbing her head in an all-knowing manner, "You know, all men _love_ blow-jobs."

Missus Satinosky had been stopped in midsentence and stared at Tessa Azrael sitting next to her. "Par... pardon?" The gentlemen passengers in their section collectively raised their eyebrows and gave a wry smirk.

"Oh, so sorry to interrupt you," responded Missus Azrael. "It just popped into my mind," as she snapped her fingers. "After all, my husband, deserves something extra special for letting me visit my Mom. Ya know, me being pregnant and all... and there being the no sex 'tween us until after the baby comes. Yeah, no sex cause I'm a good momma and sure don't want him poking me and causing the baby brain damage. I gotta protect my child!" as she vigorously shook her head up and down. "As for this here trip, he's usually just a cheap bastard for whatever I wants but by golly-gee here I am sitting with the rich people!" Gazing around, "Yes sir're, this is really fine." A dark thought slowly crossed her mind, "Hey, I wonder if'n he done all this to trick me and's been foolin' around while I was gone. Is that's why he bought me this here High Class ticket?" She scrunched up her face, "Whatta _you_ think, girlfriend?"

Missus Satinosky didn't respond and listened to more ramblings while wondering, "Did she wash her motion sickness pill down with a vodka or two... or three or is this their everyday nutty lifestyle?"

"Nah, I better not do it," stated Tessa. "At least not to him," and gave a mischievous grin. With much wisdom, "Cause then he'd be pestering me all the time for some more and believe me the less I see of his ugly pecker the better. If you know what I mean."

Missus Satinosky nodded a fake agreement and thought, "And to think, I was considering inviting them over to our home on Key Biscayne for dinner. Good God in heaven, my husband would have had a stroke!" She pondered for a moment then offered, "Why don't we gather our things together now, Dear? It won't be long until we land."

"Yeah, okay if you say so. I ain't feeling too good right now." Then added, "Maybe I'll buy him an app for his stupid smart phone instead. That's all he cares about. It's never outta his hand. Screw him _and_ his phone," satisfied with her choice.

"Dispatch, this is unit one ninety-three requesting a 'twenty-two' (a 15 minute personal break) at U.S. 1 and Sterling Road. (in Dania Beach, Fl.) Q.S.R." (Do you receive?)

"Roger, unit one ninety-three," returned the Broward County Sheriff's Office police dispatcher. "Call Detective Hanson, in Auto Theft after your 'twenty-two'. Q.S.R?"

"Roger that Dispatch. Q.S.L." (Signing off.) Officer Carlos Lopez wheeled his patrol cruiser into the parking lot of Jaxon's Ice Cream Parlor Restaurant and Country Store at 10:30a.m. Saturday. It was the Department's favorite establishment to take their 22's when assigned to this district in the county... which Jaxon's management, patrons and local residents all loved as well. There had been no crimes committed in that immediate area since the Parlor had opened its doors 60 years ago because of the ongoing police presence. He drove to the rear of the facility and backed into the last parking spot so he could see anyone approaching (for his own protection) and also to be pointed in a forward position in order to leave in a hurry if necessary. He whipped out his own personal cell phone on the way to the takeout counter and dialed a non-police number.

The line rang twice, "Hello," answered his newly wedded wife, Felicia. Reading the caller id she oozed, "Es this the hombre with the big gun?"

"S?, Bonita," answered Carlos. "And, I have _two_ big guns," he said while smiling into his phone.

"Ooo, is that so? Lucky for you there's only one big gun for me. Why don't you come home and let me shoot it off?" she teased.

"Don't I wish," remembering their morning's steamy shower and after breakfast ardent 'Goodbye'. "I miss you so much already m? Bonita but I'm just checking in. I'm over at Jaxon's and only have a few minutes. I'm gonna grab a quick bite then call some guy in Auto Theft. Maybe he's got some news regarding one of the reports I turned in," he explained.

"Well, okay then. Just as long as it's not with another senorita," she giggled.

"No way, Lady," while thinking, "I sure wish I had another week's vacation. That three day weekend Honeymoon hadn't been enough. "Love you, Bonita. Got to go, see you soon."

"Not soon enough, Lollipop. Come home rested... you'll need it. Adios, m? amor," she bade in her sweet Hispanic accent and hung up.

With a grin on his face, he next called the B.S.O.'s Central Station, "Auto Theft, Detective Hanson, please."

"Hanson here," answered the twenty year veteran in a gruff voice.

"Deputy Lopez. You wanted to speak to me, sir?"

"Lopez? Oh, yeah. Look kid, I'm in a hurry. I was supposed to be in a meeting ten minutes ago. They're glaring out the conference door and making ugly faces at me." He held up a single index finger in response. "Remember that report you made on a stolen 2014 Lexus two weeks ago?"

"Yes sir, I do!"

"Well, we nailed the Perp speeding up the Interstate yesterday, he was arrested and the hearing is set for next week."

"Great, score one for the good guys," beamed Carlos.

"Maybe, maybe not," shot back the detective. "I'm reading _your_ report and you misspelled the victim's name twice and skipped a number on his license plate. If this punk gets any kind of lawyer-type mouthpiece who can read and write he's gonna walk. Which means a lotta people did a buncha work for nothing. Pretty damn sloppy on your part, kid."

"Oh, no," Carlos lamented. "I'm _so_ sorry... I don't what to say. I... I was getting married in a few days and..." his voice trailed off.

"Married, huh?" A pause, "Ah, well, been there done that, kid. I feel for you so I ain't gonna report this to your patrol sergeant cause I know you're a rookie and still learning the ropes. But I tell you son, you gotta start thinking with the head on your _shoulders,_ not with the one on your pecker. Or, your T.O.'s (training officer) gonna tear you a new A-hole if you don't get it together. I know 'cause I used to be a T.O."

"Yes, sir. Thank's for the heads up."

"Yeah well, good luck and one more thing, kid. You only call _officers_ , sir. Use the titles of sergeant, corporal, detective and so on for all us working people. Comprende, Chicko?"

"Yes, Detective and thank you again." He shuffled back to his patrol car - he'd lost his appetite. "Good grief, I didn't see _that_ coming. I hope nothing else bad happens today."

Delta flight 1705 scooted south of the Fort Myers area and descended to twenty thousand feet. The next turn was a left around Naples to establish a straight-in final approach through the Alligator Alley air corridor - the one hundred and twenty mile, west to east coast stretch across the Everglades. First Officer James Ogden continued down the check lists... "Air speed: 500 knots, flap settings: 10%, fuel pressure 122 p.s.i., air pressure: equalized, stabilizers: on line," he called out each item which in turn was verified by Captain Stockley's assent. "Hydraulic: full and primed, recognition lights: are on," reported Jim as he tuned into Lauderdale's A.T.I.S. They both listened to an array of 'ground info' and learned the visibility was 'eight by eight', meaning the flying conditions were optimal.

"Looking good," assessed Capt. Mike. "Time to button down our guests," then activated the p.a. system. He spoke cordially into his microphone: "Good morning again folks, as you can see I've turned on the 'fasten your seat belts' sign. It's time to go home now. May I remind you per F.A.A. regulations, to turn off all electronic devices including your cellphones until we are safely on the ground and have come to a complete stop. Thank you."

Switching to the intercom and again speaking to the First Class attendant, "Please ensure the luggage compartments are secured, the galley is battened-down and the aisles are clear. After completion, take your seats, buckle-up and report in. Thank you."

The Captain returned to the p.a., "I'm back," he joked. "Did you miss me? You may have noticed we have decreased our speed and altitude after passing by Naples. We are presently at eighteen thousand feet and will begin our final descent shortly. Fort Lauderdale reports: party sunny with clearings and a temperature of seventy-eight degrees. It's another beautiful day in south Florida. We expect to arrive 'on time' at 10:55 a.m., approximately twelve minutes from now. For those of you continuing on and are in need of connecting information or assistance, please see the agents waiting at the arrival gate. They will be happy to direct or assist you to your next point of departure. Once again, thank you for flying Delta Airlines."

"Here we go again, another landing," fretted Debbie to Clairetha seated next to her in the galley. "I know I've been through this a thousand times but I always get a little nervous. It must be the bumpiness or being worried about the wind shear. Silly me, a girl who flies for a living." She checked her silver-banded watch out of habit, "On time again, at least that's comforting." She then noticed the necklace on the other flight attendant. "I don't recall seeing that necklace before. Is it new?"

"Why yes it is," answered her coworker. "My mother gave it to me two weeks ago for my birthday," then held it out to display its detail. "It's an Infinity Loop to show her eternal love for me. I will wear it forever."

"How sweet and its beautiful... and the message even more so," responded Debbie. She laughed and noted, "Now you need somewhere special to go and show it off."

Clairetha smiled and returned, "All taken care of Girlfriend."

"Oh, really? Wait a minute. Do I remember you telling me you _were_ going to the Airline Pilots' Association dance tonight?" asked Debbie. "I've never been to one. I hear they're a blast and the guys really let it all hang out... which would be a far cry from the way they act on the job. They are so fake friendly and formal. I probably wouldn't recognize half of them in street clothes and acting like normal people."

On cue with a theatric, snooty upper lip grin, "Yes my Dear, I shall be in attendance," answered her associate flight attendant. "Are you making an appearance also?"

"Nah, sorry, I couldn't handle it," returned Debbie. "This flight was a turnaround for me; I only had a two hour layover between hops. I'm dragging. I think I'll totally crash out until tomorrow morning. Besides, as far as the dance goes I haven't a date anyway." She noticed her friend's put-on smugness, "And, what's that silly expression doing on _your_ face? Who are _you_ going with?" Clairetha pointed a thumb in the direction of the plane's forward. "The cabin steward? Are you kidding, I thought he was gay," and received a negative head shake and the thumb again. She thought for moment, "James Ogden! No way... the company's up and coming superstar?" Wide eyed, "Oh, yeah, you go Girlfriend! We're talking Major league here. That's a fine-lookin' hunk of a man; he surely ain't no cabin boy. But seriously, I want you to have all the fun you can have legally, or whatever, just as long as I don't get a call from the jail asking for help. But hey, I want you to ring me first thing tomorrow, not a text. Okay? You gotta tell me everything and I do mean everything. Remember and be truthful, call me as soon as you crawl out of bed... whoever's bed that may be!" They both gave a raucous, throaty laugh.

There once existed one of Toyota's many auto parts outlets adjacent to the interstate I-95 highway on the eastern border of Davie, Fl. Immediately across this expressway was the western perimeter of the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. The outlet was one of seventy-four other service providing shops within this thriving commercial industrial park which was buffered by a large, three-quarter mile swath of Florida scrublands from it to the residential communities to the west... and all were in direct line of the Naples air corridor. Brian in his auto dealership's utility van threaded his way thru the park's labyrinth of roads toward the Toyota outlet for a pickup and reflected, "It sure is different out here. It's hard to believe there's still so much undeveloped land so close to the ocean. Let's hope it stays this way for a while, but I wouldn't bet on it." He pulled into the small parking lot and stopped next to the store manager's S.U.V, which then made only three vehicles there so far. Half the outlets were closed for the weekend and the others were staffed by a minimum of personnel. He reached for the door handle and his ears were filled with a piercing whine and deep rumble. Startled, he looked up to discover an American Airlines jet 300 feet above roaring in for landing on one of the airport's runways. He shuddered, "I don't think I could ever get used to this if I lived close to a flight path."

But in reality, his discomfort had been triggered by more than just the noise above. When he was a young lad of seven visiting his grandparents during a summer in New York City they all went to take the subway for a shopping excursion in Queens. Their group stood waiting for the train immediately behind the yellow warning line of the concrete staging platform and were certain to get good seats on the rail car when it arrived. It was during the rush hour morning traffic and the subways were one of many modes of commuting to and within the city.

Brian was excited by the massive crowd's energy and leaned forward holding Grandma's hand in order to look down the tracks for the train's lead car to break thru the darkness. It was very crowded and the people behind them began jostling so they could rush the subway's timed opened doors when it came to a stop. He watched intently, curious of all these new sights. Almost immediately he saw in the distance the oncoming engine's sweeping light and heard the clickity-clack of the trailing passenger cars from afar even though it was an electric powered people mover. The underground station was very warm and his little hand un-expectantly slipped out of his grandmother's grip. The grown-ups waiting behind their group weren't aware of his small body - he being below their normal eyesight. A burly, harried man perceived an open space in front of his grandparents and surged forward to claim it. Brian, jolted by the oncoming man's large legs, started to tumble toward the cold, deadly steel ribbons waiting below. Instantly, he looked down the tunnel to discover the nearing juggernaut – the train's lead car! Hot sparks flew beneath its speeding wheels. His little arms flailed to regain his balance, to no avail. He began to fall to a gory death - to be shocked numb by high voltage then shredded to pieces under the wheels of an unfeeling metal mechanism. Too scared to even cry out. The horror on the faces of grandma and grandpa – unable to move, frozen in place. In a flash, a giant African-American's hand shot out! Claw-like, iron-strong fingers grabbed his frail upper arm, a mighty yank and the boy was literally tossed back thru the air into a puzzled crowd. The train stopped, the waiting commuters rushed in as if nothing had happened and all the subway cars were out of sight within one minute. His savior, a N.Y.C. fireman who was on his way to work, stayed on to help console the traumatized family but alas he also had to leave on the next train ten minutes later. This was 'everyday stuff' in the Big Apple.

"Delta 1705 this is the Fort Lauderdale tower. How do you read?" The airship had just entered their fifty mile radius with Gino Lombardo watching the new blip on his radar screen. His position's v.t.d. displayed their altitude and speed plus similar info on five other planes approaching within the same Naples air corridor. A digital twenty-four clock was mounted on the left side of his terminal and a red 'hot phone' direct line to his supervisor who was seated on the right side.

Captain Mike Stockley answered the hailing, "Tower, this Delta 1705 we read you loud and clear. Request instructions for landing please."

"Roger that, 1705. Use runway two-zero west, again that's two-zero west. Switch to Home Run channel seven-three. Acknowledge please," directed Gino.

"Roger tower," returned Capt. Mike. "Home Run channel seven-three," which put them on a private communication connection, separate from the other airport traffic chatter. "I'm activating my Pulsar now. Do you I.D?"

"That's affirmative 1705. We see your ship's Pulsar I.D. and have locked on. We are engaging your autopilot now. Do you concur?"

"That's affirmative tower," answered Stockley. "You have control Lauderdale."

"Standby 1705, I have someone here that wants to talk at you," then waved to Jeff who was watching and waiting patiently for his signal.

His old friend had already happily camped-on channel seven-three in the monitor mode. He switched it to 'active', "Hey there, Bucko. Guess who."

A short pause then, "Jeff... Jeff Hodges is that you?" Stockley returned in surprise. "I'd know that voice anywhere, you old horse thief."

"Yeah it's me, Bucko. I know you only got a sec. so, is there any chance you can you stop by for a few minutes when you're down?"

"Of course, see you in thirty at the gate, Jeff."

"Great, the gate in thirty. And... you know I only _borrowed_ that horse in Mexico," clarified his friend and they both laughed."

Gino ended the banter, "Tower out."

"Delta 1705 out," echoed Mike.

"This Pulsar is certainly an amazing instrumentation package... real Star Wars stuff," commented Ogden. "This system makes it almost too easy to fly at least for the landing part. Say, in your opinion, do you think they'll ever try to cut back to having only one man in the cockpit?"

"I've heard some scuttlebutt to that tune but I don't foresee it actually happening," answered Mike "The Airline Pilots Union would win that fight pretty easy by playing the Safety card and I'm positive the public would back us up. However, it sounds like something the military would implement in a heartbeat if Congress would approve the cost." Jim agreed.

Both men sat wearing their headsets and were watching their v.t.d. displays. Everything they saw was being controlled by the airport F.A.A.'s central processor Pulsar program. Mike said, "I can see Fort Lauderdale's city skyline on the horizon but not the airport. It's still too far away at fifteen miles." The plane had descended to 5000, feet, reduced speed to 160 m.p.h. and was now in a long, slowing landing glide path.

Ogden blurted, "Hey, look what's ahead! We're going to pass right through the middle of a rainbow."

Stockley saw it also and pressed the button for the craft's p.a. system. "Good morning this is your captain speaking again. A moment ago we spotted a rainbow directly in front of our flight path. We shall be passing below it in approximately one minute. It will appear on both sides of the plane. It's very rare occurrence indeed. This must be your Lucky Day folks, enjoy!"

As soon as he switched off the p.a., "Did you feel that?" asked Jim.

"I sure did," responded Mike with a questioning look on his face. Both men immediately began scanning the instruments and indicators to find the source of the plane's apparent deviation from their programmed flight path. It didn't feel like turbulence nor were there any sudden shifts or jolts, both were experts in that area. It felt controlled, similar to a gear change in a stick shift, manual car engine. They quickly ascertained there were no systems in alarm or failures and began reading more closely the v.t.d.'s and gauges for an answer to their uneasy feeling. A hissing noise filled their headsets and they were momentarily distracted by the new problem. It became louder and Stockley ripped his headset off. Ogden tried to turn the volume down of its increasing loudness to no avail then tossed his also. "Sounds as if we're being jammed by an A.W.A.C. (an Air Force scanner jet). He then tried to switch the com. onto their cabin's p.a. system with no results. "We've lost contact with the tower. We'll have to wait until that A.W.A.C. flies out of range." He was angry and spat, "Those flyboys are supposed to stay in the military corridor north of Lauderdale and not practice their jammers until they're a hundred miles out to sea. "Somebody's going to answer for this big time!"

Suddenly, Ogden snapped straight up in his seat, straining against his seatbelt and stared out a side window to verify what he had read on a screen. "Captain, take a look at this!" as he pointed to the terminal. The altimeter displayed that they were dropping at a thousand feet per minute. Their eyes raced to the wing flap settings. They all displayed 100% full flaps down! "Holy crap! How'd that happen?" There was no panic but a hell of a lot of concern.

The seasoned, ex-Navy fighter pilot ordered his First Officer, "Disengage the Pulsar autopilot, I'm taking manual control." Ogden grabbed the keyboard, his fingers poised to type. A high pitched whine had been building and accompanied by an increasing roar which permeated the cabin. They sat a little deeper in their seats. Both set of set eyes flashed to the engine thrust display to find, 'All engines full throttle!' Mike jerked his head back to Jim, "I said pull the plug. Do it now!"

"Yes, sir," he shot back as he typed in the command, 'DIS AP'... no response. He did it again and again – no change. Their air speed had increased to 200 knots but they didn't have to see the display to know that; they could feel it.

Stockley saw his copilot was getting nowhere and seized the keyboard and typed in the same message. Ogden searched the captain's face hoping for an answer.

Mike, next began pounding in all kinds of commands to force the system to let go. "DIS AP', 'ABORT', 'INIT', 'TRNSFR', 'CLR SYS', 'OVRD', 'REBOOT', nothing worked. "God damned Pulsar, it _must_ be the Pulsar! This is what happens when you let machines take control away from the hand of man." Jim began to sweat. "I know!" blurted the captain "We'll power-down our central processor. It'll reinitialize after being repowered and therefore break the tower's prior Pulsar link."

"That may take up to a full minute, sir... and we are presently under 3000 feet," informed Ogden.

"I know, I know it could be close, but we have no choice," asserted Stockley. "We _must_ break the Pulsar's ground lock," as he flipped off the main circuit breaker to the ship's computer and held it open for the required ten seconds. The aircraft's computer and all its instrumentation lights went dark and the static roar from the radio com went silent. The engine noise remained unchanged. They looked at each other with apprehension. Counting down, "Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen." then he reset the circuit breaker to 'on'. "I waited an extra five seconds to make certain all the computer's component pathways are fully released," in answer to Ogden's unspoken question. "Get on the horn and have the attendants check all passengers to ensure _all_ electronic devices are turned off immediately. Just to be on the safe side."

The Jenson family arrived at the small observation/parking lot on Perimeter Road located on the west side of the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. It was a short trip, ten minutes from home and everyone was feeling party-time great. It was going to be an extra fun day. The two busiest runways were situated east to west and the planes landed from the west side ninety percent of the time due to the almost never changing winds blowing in from the east side - the Atlantic Ocean. Ron parked the Bronco headed northward so they could observe from either side of the S.U.V. The planes would be flying a mere hundred feet above them before landing and their engine's powering down roar would rival any rock concert's noise. It wasn't too crowded that day and when they were finished he would jump up on state road eighty-four and dash over to the Hollywood Beach picnic area in almost nothing flat.

"Mommy, may I have a cookie, please?" implored Stephanie.

"Yes dear, here's two. That's all for now, sweetheart. We don't want to spoil your lunch."

"Thank you, Mommy," replied the child. "I'll still be real hungry at the beach," assured the child.

"You're always hungry, Kiddo," chimed-in her father. "That's my healthy, growing young lady," with a voice filled with pride.

"Daddy, do you see the red plane? What's it called? And, that big, fat silver one over there?"

"Whoa! One at a time please. The red one is from South America, Air Peru I think... and the really big one appears to be an old-time seven forty-seven. No, that can't be, it must be one of those new Air Bus's. Even so, that's strange. I could'a sworn they weren't allowed down here in south Florida because they make too much noise and require such a long runway."

"Where are they supposed to land, Daddy?"

"New York's is the only place I know of on the east coast," he answered.

"Why in New York?" continued the ever-curious child.

"Because the noise they make can't hurt Yankees. Their heads are too thick and the air pollution has already turned their brains to mush," he explained.

"Oh, okay... and, what's a Yanky?"

"It's someone who lives up North," answered Mommy.

"Uh-huh. So, then what's a poe-lew-shun?"

"It's the stinky air the Yankees like to smell," chuckled Ron.

His wife tapped him on the back of his head and said, "Daddy's only messing with you Stephanie. Yankees are good people also." Then in a semi-hushed voice, " _Ronald,_ suppose she repeats that garbage in school?" chastised his better half."

"Hum'm, well okay, I concede... this time." A pause, "Mommy's right, Stephanie. There are good Yankees too... a few somewhere, maybe... but I personally have never seen one!" He then called back to his wife behind him and asserted, "In your heart Darling, you know I'm right." A Georgia cracker talking to a Florida native.

"Mommy, Daddy," I see another big, fat one far away," reported the excited child as she squinted hard through the binoculars.

"Wow! Good for you. Can I see too?" implored Ron. "I believe only Delta has those big un's coming in down here." He located and scrutinized the craft also, "I think you're right, Sunshine. It's a big boy and it seems to be about ten miles out... and flying a little lower than usual. I wonder why."

The plane's computer had repowered and initialized; there were green lights across the board.

"Delta 1705 this is tower control, do you read?" Gino paused a moment then repeated the message twice more. No response. He continued, "Delta 1705 you are fifteen hundred feet below assigned altitude and your air speed has increased. Respond please." Gino detected a faint hissing in his headset, it sounded far away. He picked up the red phone which immediately rang his supervisor.

"Ralston here."

"Lombardo, sir. There could be a possible trouble with Delta 1705 in sector three, incoming Naples. It's below altitude, increasing speed and will not respond to hailing."

The A.T.C. supervisor put Gino's sector up on his screen then listened-in on his headset. "Maybe a part of their com. is down. Did you advise them of their deviation?"

"Yes, sir," returned Lombardo.

Ralston then transmitted himself, "Delta 1705 this is tower control, you are below assigned altitude and increasing speed. Respond immediately." He paused and listened... nothing.

Gino asked, "Do you hear a faint hiss sounding noise?"

"Yes, it's similar to what's referred to as 'white noise' which is high speed multi-frequency, garbage data. The last time I heard it I was serving in the Navy. It's used for jamming radar and off-ship communications." They both raised questioning eyebrows at the same time.

Uncle Rick, who could hear his nephew close to him, saw the two men's motions and knew there had to be a problem. Jeff Hodges, who had been monitoring Gino's channel in order to listen to his friend's voice, got up and hobbled over to the A.T.C. supervisor's position as fast as he could and advised, "Excuse me sir, I want you to know there are no military or unidentified aircraft in the area and the operating range for military jamming is less than thirty miles. I know because I was once assigned to an A.W.A.C."

"Hearing that, "So now what?" piped in Gino.

Ralston transmitted again, "Delta 1705 this is tower control, you are ordered to pull up and do a fly-around (circle the airport in ten mile loop). Answer me, over."

The other A.T.C.s have noticed the commotion and concern written on the four men's faces and began split screen adding-on of the Naples route. They saw the aircraft was only eight miles out and roaring in like a bat out of Hell. In unison everyone physically turned toward the west windows where then a couple of them were able to discern a low, small dot afar on the horizon.

"Holy shit!" yelled Jeff. "What's going on?"

"Get back to your position," ordered Ralston, "I need you there, now." Jeff obeyed, cursing all the way. The A.T.C. supervisor then pressed the public address system button. "All Controllers, reroute your traffic east. Execute now!" Six A.T.C.s grabbed their 'horns' and began barking instructions to the twenty-one airborne planes within Lauderdale's airspace. Ralston next hit the emergency 'red alert' button which connected him directly to the fire station dispatcher who immediately answered and to whom he shouted, "We've got a 'hot one' coming in on runway two-zero west. Cover both ends. Now!"

"Yes, sir, two-zero west," she repeated.

'Clang! Clang, Clang' burst the normal, peacefulness of the fire station located on the airport complex. Seven men and one woman geared-up on the run as they raced to their assigned emergency vehicles. Sirens pierced the airport's morning's tranquility as two E.M.S. units and Pumpers sped away from the fire station, each pair speeding toward an end of runway two-zero in under a minute after the alarm sounded. They were the best of the best. Thousands of eyes from the terminals searched the skies for a reason why.

"Lombardo, disengage the Pulsar!" commanded his supervisor.

"Sir, it's not linked to the plane. The connection was broken three minutes ago."

Ralston fretted, "Then why the Hell are they coming down so fast?" His mind flashed to the worse case scenarios: "Equipment failure? Pilot error?" He shuddered, "Another 9-11 type terrorist attack!"

Captain Stockley had returned the circuit breaker to 'normal' and both men's eyes were glued to the processor's v.t.d. for the results. 'SYS INIT INPRGS'... and after thirty seconds came "INIT COMP'. "Come on baby," urged Jim. Fifteen seconds later, which felt like forever, "SYS NORM' appeared and all displays showed normal operation. "All right!" the copilot cheered. Except for one little thing, the hissing noise remained on their radio. Their eyes switched to the navigational information: Altitude - 1000 feet, Air speed – 300 knots, Flap setting – 0%, Control – MANL.

"Atta, girl!" cheered Mike and grabbed the 'steering wheel'. The plane had almost leveled off and the engines had ceased increasing. "Hold onto your hat Jim, here we go!" Stockley pulled back on the 'stick' to direct the craft upward and out of harm's way. Nothing happened. "What the hell... this is impossible!" exclaimed the captain.

Ogden looked away from Stockley and back to the Nav. Con displays which _had_ now changed. "He yelled, "Altitude – 500 feet, Air speed – 350 knots, Flap setting – 100% down, Control – UNKN!" All engines were at full throttle again.

"Unknown control? What the hell is that?" Mike then furiously tried again to input computer commands, still no response and soon stopped. Their 'sweetheart' state of the art, billion dollar computerized avionics control system had morphed itself into a useless piece of caca. He unbuckled his seatbelt, rose and stood facing the front windshield. A heavy, depressed realization had penetrated him to the core, "This is hopeless." He saw in the distance, perhaps two miles away, rows of warehouses – the Davie industrial park. Jim Ogden popped out of his seat like a hot slice of toast. His eyes darted back and forth between his window view and the captain. Mike stared at the p.a. button briefly and thought, "What can I say to them? Assume crash position and kiss your fanny goodbye?" He elected not to panic the passengers' last few seconds of their lives. Their air speed displayed 350 knots (400 mph). The complex was only a half mile distant – dead ahead. Mike instantly felt so sad and very tired. Ogden, remained ridged – a frozen stone, disbelieving, mouth agape as sweat dripped off his chin, his eyes resembled two large, hardboiled eggs. Softly, Stockley whispered, "Sorry, Jim," who then winced and lost his bowels.

Brian stepped away from the Toyota outlet's front door, loose gravel crunched against the asphalt under his shoes. A small bright green chameleon who had been sunning itself scurried away. The morning's heat felt good, it was always too cold inside those buildings. He pulled out his keys and squinted toward his company van. His keen mind was just beginning to form, "An airplane in the parking lot?" In a fraction of a second he had achieved a common bond with all the road kill on U.S. highways... except there wasn't as much left of him.

'IMPACT !!!'

# Chapter Three: Crash & Burn

The noise was impossible to describe. Loud, didn't come close to giving it justice, perhaps deafening. The impact was clearly heard more than two miles away. In a blur to the human eye, tons of soft white painted metal, flesh within, screamed down from a peaceful sky. There were so many sounds ingrained together: tempered glass crinkling, aluminum twisting and tearing, high pressured tires exploding. A dull thud as the nose of the cockpit struck hurricane re-enforced concrete. Mortar and steel collapsing. Building' walls crushed by the one-two-three punch of runaway turbines. The clanking of aircraft metal meeting automobile metal. The whining, roaring jet engines as they blasted though the first three buildings and finally became embedded in the backside of the forth - their internal, spinning blades dying a slow death. The cargo's protesting rumble as it were being torn apart and expelled all over the industrial complex. And most importantly: the snap of bones and the whoosh of air escaping deflated, crushed lungs was all but lost in the thunderous crash.

Surely, a befitting, sensational crescendo of another Grim Reaper Concerto de Carnage.

Behind one untouched building toward the east, at the beginning of the complex, laid two homeless men sleeping under the open lid of a trash dumpster. Protected from the elements by the warehouse's back wall and a dumpster's siding, they had found a haven for their weekend jaunts into the industrial park. It was safe and profitable by their standards, much better than begging in the city streets and sleeping under a bridge. On the weekend evenings when all the customers and outlet employees had gone home they took their 'borrowed' Winn Dixie shopping carts and made the rounds of the numerous dumpsters and waste piles located behind the rows of buildings. Aluminum and other metals were the primary acquisitions but sometimes there were other prizes to be found... such as food scraps from discarded meals. One man's trash is another man's treasure and food certainly holds true in regard to the homeless. After their weekend search, on Monday mornings they'd roll their carts to the junk dealer a half mile away and hopefully receive enough to get by on, with a little help from the liquor store, until the next time around. Just staying alive.

The violence of the crash awoke the two hungover slumbering gentlemen. Shocked wide awake, Hutch scrambled to his knees then reflexively threw himself against the perceived safety of the warehouse wall. He was trying to get out of the way of what he believed to be an unexpected trash truck pickup. Coughing, he peered thru the billowing dust and quickly determined there was no truck. He mumbled, "Okay, no freakin' truck. So, what the hell was that hellacious commotion?"

Slim, who was sleeping next to him, bound straight up on his feet and banged his head on the overhanging dumpster lid then took a seat just as fast. Dazed, he said, "Wha' happened? Somebody declare war? Son-of-a-bitch," as he felt a bump beginning to rise on his head.

"Don't know," answered Hutch. "I can't see shit with all this dust."

After a couple of minutes it cleared a little bit and Slim exclaimed, "Check it out! Half dat buildin' is gone and de utter one's smashed up too."

"Uh-huh, and it looks like smoke coming out of the back of that one over there," as Hutch pointed to the shell of auto parts store. "I'm going to check it out." There were dozens of small patches of burning aviation fuel scattered about for three hundred yards.

"No, no, hold up there!" yelled Slim. Dat surely was a bomb... and, there might be another one," he stuttered. "I'm gettin' da fuck outta here!"

" _You_ stay put," ordered Hutch, the dominant one. "This, may be our _lucky_ day," then hustled over and peered inside the blown-out walls. The dust had begun to settle pretty well and he thought, "We'll grab some auto parts and high tail it. Lots of metal... good money!" It cleared a little more which stopped him cold when he realized, 'Holy shit, the rear part of the plane is jammed inside here and the tail section's broken off and laying in the f-ing parking lot.' "Slim, get your sorry butt over here and help me!" His cohort reluctantly came as he was told, peeked inside and found his partner scrambling around - picking through the wreckage. Hutch motioned to a suitcase (a red carry-on grip) lying next to some crumpled store shelving, "Empty out that suitcase and bring it to me." He did as instructed after forcing the lock and brought it to Hutch who was sorting thru hand tools – selecting the biggest and heavier the better. "Fill up that case with every metal tool you can find then get another suitcase and do the same. I'll keep searching for more but we've got to act fast. Lots of folks are going to be here real quick."

"Okay, okay, I'm on it." He crinkled his nose, "Hey, what's that smell, Hutch?"

Who then sniffed the air, "Could be gasoline, toilet bowl cleaner... whatever."

"Nah. I knows both dem smells. I worked in a gas station washing cars and cleaning the crappers for a while," informed Slim. "It be somethin' else." He watched Hutch pull out a purse then a wallet from a compressed mass. Next, Hutch removed a silver-banded watch from a mangled arm then threw all the items into Slim's open suitcase. Then it hit him, "There's people here... and they all dead! They be squashed together. Dat smell is _blood_. Hutch, you be stealing from _dead_ people."

"Shut up you fool," shot back his partner. "We need this stuff more than they do. They'll never miss it. As you said, they're fricking dead and we're not. Hurry up and help me put this stuff in the carts. Make sure that suitcase is wrapped up real good. We don't want it seen."

The eerie quietness was broken by voices coming from a nearby building. Small gatherings had begun to form outside the unaffected warehouses while on the other hand many other bewildered workers in the damaged buildings poured out of their shops in haste to escape the perceived impending danger or were seeking a reason for the horrendous noise which had assaulted them. One lady fretted, "The building shook. I thought it was going to cave in. Was that an earthquake?" Another, a man stated, "I knew one of those damn foreign planes would fall on us one day. It was probably South American. They're the worse, they don't maintain shit." A panicky woman shrieked, "Did anyone call 911? Is someone coming to help me!" Thankfully, an Army vet declared, "All right everybody, let's calm down and check around to see if anyone needs help. You all seem okay. Come with me... please. We'll begin a search," then cautiously began inching toward the Toyota outlet's blown-in walls.

Beyond, in the distance, the shrill of First Responder sirens cut thru the air. "Time to go," declared Hutch. "Close up that suitcase."

They heard someone call out, "I think I see some movement over there."

Hutch grabbed Slim by his shoulder and pushed him toward where they had entered. Then something odd caught the corner of his eye. It was a partly covered tool box only a few feet away. He pulled it free while gauging its weight. It felt heavy. "Great, it's loaded with tools. Big money here," and tucked it under his arm. He took a step to leave and glanced to check his footing and spied a shining, bloodied necklace. Hutch scoffed it up and added it to his collection. He called to Slim and said, "I found a real pretty necklace. It's gold and has a charm that looks like a figure eight. Cool, more money. They don't need it anymore."

Slim appeared troubled and mumbled, "We shouldn't be stealing from dead people."

Hutch ignored him and peeked thru a crack in the back wall to find flashing red and blue lights approaching the complex from several directions. He quickly realized they wouldn't be able to leave the crash site undetected with their booty until after darkness fell. "We'll go back to our spot and hole up," and did so without discovery. "Sit down and act like you don't know nothing," he directed. "If somebody comes, I'll do the talking. Stay cool, I got it." They decided to stash their bounty in the dumpster and cover it. Slim seemed dejected, more so than usual. Hutch offered, "Partner, I haven't always been the man of leisure I am now. I did some time when I was younger and learned a lot. I know the system and what's going down. Trust me, we're gonna be fine," then patted Slim's arm which made his friend feel better.

A few minutes earlier Ron Jenson had watched the fire control and rescue units speeding toward each end of a runway. They appeared to be coming from a fire station located in the middle of the airport complex. He knew for certain the two runways closest to them were being used for the primary live traffic and this was no drill. They never perform exercises on runways which interfere or distract normal operations. This could be exciting, it may be on tonight's news," he reasoned. "Look Stephanie. See the fire trucks?" Then all of a sudden Eastern flight 401 popped into his mind, he really didn't know why. It was another big jet that crashed into the Everglades while approaching Miami a number of years ago. He quickly turned to the west – no plane in sight. "Maybe it veered off," he thought. Ron then checked north and south – nothing there either. The buildings bordering Interstate 95 had blocked their low level line of vision to the west. Stephanie had been standing on her seat, head out the window and following the aircraft with the binoculars for a few minutes. Her father began to say, "Sweetheart, where did the..." when a horrendous explosion filled their ears. Ron observed a growing cloud of dust and debris rising from the industrial park. 'Oh, my god! It, it must have crashed and hit something awful solid to make a sound that loud. He watched a few moments more then jerked his daughter back inside and hurriedly rolled up all the windows. Just in time. The expressway, the observation area and most parts of the runways were showered by jagged pieces of glass and metal.

"Daddy, Daddy, the big fat plane fell down. It went pop."

"Ron, what's happening? What should we do?" implored his wife.

"Daddy, can we go see?"

"No, Sweetheart. That's a very bad place to be right now," assured Mister Jensen. "We have to go home right away, while we still can. This area is going have the worse traffic jam in Broward County history in less than ten minutes. We'll come back next weekend, that's if the roads are cleared by then. No guarantees."

Unit one ninety-three this is Dispatch. Request you switch to channel seven. Q.S.R?"

"Roger that, Dispatch. Channel seven. Q.S.L." and made the change. It was one of the two channels, the other being thirteen, which were used for patrol off-net communications. When Carlos got up on the channel he heard several people talking in a similar manner of being on a conference call and waited for an opening to check in. "Unit one ninety-three, Deputy Lopez reporting in."

"Lopez, this is Lieutenant Vesley. I have Sergeant King and Deputies Franklin and Pitts on here with us. There's been a plane crash in Davie, a large Delta jet with hundreds of passengers. The crash site is inside the industrial park located between Stirling and Griffin Roads, west of I-95. You are to assist the Davie P.D. by keeping the park's entrances open to emergency responders only. Do not allow any onsite news media coverage until the area has been cleared by the N.T.S.B. The Florida Highway Patrol will be handling Interstate's 95, 595 and state Road Seven. Report to Sergeant King at the park's main entrance immediately. More units will be scrambled as soon as they become available. I'll join you shortly. Lights and sirens are _on_. Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes sir's," snapped back."

"Good. Now get your butts on the road!" he shouted. Squealing tires and wailing sirens sliced thru the air.

Back in the control tower after the initial shock, a gloomy silence had descended upon all in attendance. One A.T.C. member ran to the restroom and ejected his breakfast. He had been an ambulance driver in his younger years but had to give it up due to a queasy stomach. Jeff Hodges, the longtime friend of Captain Stockley was totally devastated. He stood at the window facing west sobbing, his face covered by trembling hands. "My friend, my oldest friend and best buddy... gone, he's gone! This can't be..." more tears.

The Day Shift's head supervisor Ralston went to Jeff, then called Gino over to them. "Lombardo, take Jeff down to the employee lounge and stay with him until he's calmed down then drive him home. Come back as soon as you can. This is going to be a _long_ day." The other floor supervisor had joined them and had been instructed to gather the support staff and begin bringing in all the 'on call' and off-duty controllers for the Emergency Protocol Response. "After you have that in motion I want you to be the local Disaster Coordinator and handle interdepartmental communications until our other two supervisors arrive." He then returned to the circle of on-duty A.T.C.s awaiting instructions. "Men, redirect the incoming traffic to Miami or West Palm Beach until we get the 'all clear' from our ground crew inspectors. Hopefully, the north-south runways will be operational. Put a 'Temporary Delay' status on all flights for the same reason. You will be advised of runway availability as soon as possible. Thank you all." He quickly returned to his desk, "Dear, God in heaven, how did this happen?" as he picked up his red phone to deliver the catastrophic news to another dozen different agencies.

"National Transportation and Safety Board, how may I help you?"

"Hello, this is Chief Blackburn, Davie Police Department. I need to speak to whoever's in charge immediately. This is a Class One Priority."

"Inspector Oswald is in charge today, sir," returned the switchboard operator. "He's in a meeting, I shall interrupt. One moment please, I'll connect you."

Oswald saw the 911 page and quickly answered, "Clarence Oswald here, what can I do for you, Chief?"

"We have a Class One Priority here in Davie. An aircraft has crashed inside our eastern border while attempting to land at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood Airport," he answered.

"Oh, great," thought Oswald. 'We're still working on seven cases from four months ago. Those light, single engine aircraft flown by student pilots are always falling on somebody's damn house or in a lake. There's just too many small airports within residential areas.' "Are there any casualties, Chief?" he inquired in a matter-of-a-fact tone.

"Surely," he returned. "There could be over a hundred. Fort Lauderdale Air Traffic Control said there were close to three hundred passengers and crew on board a large Delta jetliner and it appeared to crash at a very high rate of speed. We have our Davie police and fire units en route. The F.H.P. and the B.S.O. departments are doing likewise. We will be coordinating with them to secure the site shortly."

"You said a large aircraft crashed? What the hell!" sputtered Oswald as he bolted from his chairman's position at the conference table. The other attendees abruptly curbed their chatter, surprised by the unusual actions made by their normally unflappable host. "Over a hundred!" he shouted. "Speak to me sir! I need details"

"The County's 9-1-1 Call Center reported that the aircraft struck the ground at least three hundred yards west of the complex. According to the local ground observers' reports, the plane was so big and travelling so fast it skidded at least a half mile before it plowed into and through numerous warehouse structures before finally coming to a stop. But that's their initial layman's assessment, they're not trained experts such as yourselves... I'm confident you'll determine the actual parameters. Hold please... I've just been advised that our responding officers have arrived and verified the Delta symbol and colors from what's left of the tail section. And, according to the F.A.A, the craft's sudden grounding occurred less than eight minutes ago. That's all the information I have at this time, sir."

Recovered from the initial shock Oswald responded, "Very good Chief and what kind of manpower do you have available?"

"I have four Davie police cruisers and six fire/ rescue units at the crash site now with a total of sixteen addition police vehicles that will be joining them within fifteen minutes. Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood and the County are also sending fire/rescue units."

Now taking charge, Oswald declared, "I'll get you the necessary backup and relief you require, Chief. There'll be two full companies of Florida National Guardsmen dispatched to your location within six hours. The first will be from Hollywood and should there much faster. As for you sir, I'll take point on the situation from here. Your job is to secure the perimeter and coordinate the local departments. Thank you for a job well done and God help us all." He then dialed a code which rang his secretary's desk, "Get me the Governor's office, a.s.a.p. Priority One. Next, call the Homestead Air Force Base and get us a ten passenger chopper. Instruct them to pick up my team at this locale. Expedite, national emergency." He then explained the details to his anxious conference attendees who had been listening quietly in awe of the possible ramifications.

Special Agent Wayne Atkins stood close behind his wife Laura with his left hand resting on her shoulder. They, along with an estimated fifty other happy souls, were watching the sun setting on the Gulf of Mexico from the Lorelei restaurant on Islamorada in the Florida Keys. Shortly, as the sun appeared to touch the water it begot bright, yet soft colors of orange, yellow, blue-green and violet. A small but distinct 'dry' rainbow developed between the fleeting clouds within the indigo sky. The assembly became silent in respect for its beauty. A few "Ooh's" and shutter clicks from the old-school camera buffs was all that they heard. "If you're real quiet, you can heard it sizzle as it touches the water," he whispered. The scent of her Obsession perfume filled his nostrils, a wisp of streaked blond hair brushed his face.

"Silly you," she returned while giving him a hug. "This is wonderful. Don't you wish we could see this every day?"

"Of course," he agreed. "But in reality, and maybe for the next thirty years, it'll have to wait until I retire or we win the Lottery. Ha, ha, fat chance. Our weekend jaunts and mini-holidays may have to suffice. Will that be enough for you, Jewels?" (a nickname he gave for her sparkling blue eyes).

"Certainly, Wayne. Anywhere we're together will _always_ make me happy." She smiled, "But hey, don't forget to include your regularly scheduled vacations from the Bureau."

"Oh, yeah... the vacations," of which he had heard that most of them were spent working and missed. It seemed the Federal Bureau of Investigation was always dealing with another major problem or hampered by a shortage of manpower. The sun sank quickly. One final golden ray raced across the water – then darkness befell the island and the flying insects emerged to reclaim their domain.

They returned to the pavilion, the sand and crushed shells crunched beneath their beach shoes. They were seated at their reserved, two person dinner table with pink linens under a slow turning Hunter fan. The veranda with its aged wooden floors offered a stunning view of the adjacent marina filled with jet-set type boats berthed within. Laughter and Caribbean music floated from the outside Tiki hut bar - revelers toasting the weekend. Wayne studied the menu intently then declared, "I'll have the New York strip."

Laura laughed and said, "You always have the strip steak, everywhere we go. Is that because you were born in New York City? Why do you even read the menu?"

"For show, of course," he answered. "I don't want Lorelei's management to think the rest of their menu wasn't worth considering... just in case they or anyone else had a camera on us."

"Good grief, Wayne. You were a Miami police officer for four years after graduating from Florida State University with your Criminal Justice degree. Now that you're starting your new job with the F.B.I. in two days do you think there're secret enemy agents shadowing you? Someone trying to turn your loyalties and make you their spy asset?"

"Er, no," he answered. "But, we _were_ warned during indoctrination to be wary of strangers trying to get too close to us in our private life in order to steal classified information. That's not a situation I had to deal with as a Miami cop. Haven't you ever watched that t v show, The Americans?"

Her Florida lobster dinner with a side of Stone crabs arrived along with his 14 oz. steak and they dug in. Wayne raised his wine glass and made their usual toast, "To us, and our future." They clicked and he commented, "This is my second and last of the bubbly until we're away somewhere on vacation. Agents are not allow to drink on the job and I was informed that a Special Agent is always on the job 24/7.

"Whoa, that's pretty hardline," she replied. "That sounds like something carried over from the J. Edgar Hoover era."

"You are absolutely on point. However, I don't believe it's strictly enforced but why take a chance?"

"Poor you," she chided. "So sorry, but I'm still going to tip a glass or two when I visit my parents. Ta, da," and took another sip. Changing the subject, "Do you have any idea what department you'll be assigned to?"

"Not really. I realize now that having a law degree carries more weight with the Bureau than any other type. So, I'll probably get the Grand Tour, which comprises of working in multiple departments until they feel I have found my niche. A lot of things could happen. It's even possible my college Computer Science minor may come into play. That would be nice. _Everyone_ knows, there's an awful lot of cybercrime being committed these days."

"Well, you're young, only twenty-nine. You've got plenty of time to find your niche." she agreed. "I also believe that the two years you served in Naval Intelligence after you graduated from F.S.U. will help."

Absolute chaos. The media vehicles nearly outnumbered the emergency response units. Three television and four radio news teams were on the scene in nothing flat. Two eye-in-the-sky helicopters circled overhead along with one B.S.O. chopper which hovered directly over the three warehouses which took direct hits. On the ground, the news crews literally ran pass the local Davie police officers in their quest to interview the outlet workers and take footage of the destruction. Shortly, after receiving more of their own reinforcements, the police secured the front and rear impact areas then flushed out the last few persistent news hounds who were taking pictures of the crushed and dismembered passengers. 'If it bleeds, it leads', was their motto.

Davie police Chief 'Bubba' Blackburn arrived in his Range Rover, took a quick survey of the fiasco then began issuing orders. "Lieutenant, get on the horn and see if any other departments can spare us a few addition units until the National Guard arrives. Sergeant, have two patrolmen find out who's in charge of these news Ya-hoo's running around here and bring their sorry asses to me. Apparently they need some education in disaster control procedures." He exited his country-style, marked police s.u.v. cruiser from the driver's door. He relished being in charge of everything – even driving. A striking figure at six feet three, 240 pounds, wearing cowboy boots and Stetson hat, all of which complimented his tan suit with a western Bolo tie. A .357 Magnum was strapped to his side by a thick Western belt and cowboy buckle.

No sooner than his two men had left, three microphones were pushed into his face as a cluster of news reporters nearly pinned him to his Rover. The lieutenant was considering to drop back to assist his Chief when he was met by the steely, blue glint in Blackburn's eyes showing that he was definitely not in need.

"I repeat Chief Blackburn, tell us what happened and what are your plans for handling this catastrophe?" a reporter yelled.

"Yes, Chief, how are you going to safeguard this area from looters?" challenged another.

"Do think there's any danger from explosives or chemicals and what measures are you going to use to insure _our_ safety?" pressed a third. Then, all went silent as two fire trucks rumbled by and positioned themselves in the center of the cordon. Everyone watched with respect as the firemen and paramedics scrambled to render aid.

Just as the brief lull in their demands ended and the reporters began to return their attention to Blackburn, he snatched away all the microphones in one swoop of his large burly hand and banged the instruments repeatedly together. He then tossed them toward the unfortunate sound techs, now with ringing ears, who were assembled in the rear. Holding up his hands to request/demand silence, he spoke quite loud enough for all to hear. "Now let me tell ya'll fine inquiring minds what we're gonna do. First off, all nonessential personnel will be moved to a designated 'safe area' where they can't interfere with the disaster team's operations... and for their own safety of course. And guess what? _You_ people happen to fall in that particular category. Second off, and all the other 'off's' are none of your concern. So act accordingly and stay far away from those brave firefighters and E.M.T's".

"You can't do that," blurted a protesting t.v. news reporter. "We have a right to be in the middle of the action!"

"Yes I can and will control this scene, including you," responded the wooden, scary-faced Chief. "And, if any of you refuse a lawful order to withdraw and remain within to your assigned area you will reevaluating your so-called rights inside my jail cell. I hope you all wore warm clothes 'cause it sometimes gets rather cool in there late at night. That being said, you now have two minutes to retreat from this area. Have a blessed day folks." Just as he was finished giving the Media the riot act nine more cars from other police agencies arrived. "Good timing men." The Chief called after the protesting group being led away, "The officer assigned will keep you apprised of all pertinent developments. So everyone relax. Don't worry, be happy. We'll keep you informed." Then under his breath, "In a pig's eye you s.o.b. blood suckers."

He gave them a friendly wave then returned to his lieutenant who had returned, "If any of those wannabe paparazzi gets out of line, send them packing or lock 'em up. Your choice partner. Next, get the names and contact numbers of all the people who were present when that plane came down, workers, customers... whomever. Then send them _all_ home pronto. I don't want them gum'n up the scene jawing with those media vultures just so they can get their fifteen minutes of fame." Blackburn then heard and gazed up to find a fourth helicopter maneuvering in for a landing. This one was grey and had United States Air Force on its sides. "About time," he thought. "Thank you, Lord. My job has become a _lot_ easier. The Government always take point on this kind of thing, as they should. Fine with me but they'll have to find their own parking space inside all this crap. I ain't got time to play a kiss-ass, traffic cop right at the moment."

"Hey! What are you guys doing here? Stay put, don't move," ordered the B.S.O. patrolman Carlos Lopez who had been sent to help secure the crash site.

"Geez, I knew we were gonna get caught," lamented Slim.

"Shut up you fool," ordered Hutch. "We ain't doing nothing but sitting here. I told you I'd take care of it if anyone showed up."

Deputy Lopez walked slowly toward the two apparent homeless vagrants, clipboard in hand and eyed the two men with caution. "You fellows been here long?"

They rose timidly with their ragged hats held close to their chests. "All night long, sir. We stays here on the weekends," answered Hutch. "It's safer than the city's alleys. Some people likes to hurt us in 'em," and bowed his head. "We don't do no bad things here, this is our safe place after the workers have gone home."

"I understand," agreed the young police officer. He pointed at the ground, "Were you right here when the plane crashed?"

"Yes, sir," they answered emphatically while nodding their heads in the same manner as a bobble-head toy.

"Are you hurt or have you seen anyone else who may be injured?" continued Carlos to which they responded 'No' in a similar manner. "Have you been wandering around these buildings after the crash?"

"No, sir! We afraid to. We was gonna gather our stuff and git outta here before someone thought we were doing bad things. We don't wanna cause no trouble."

Lopez scanned the two 'borrowed' Winn Dixie shopping carts filled with ragged clothing, blankets, plastic bottles, broom sticks, etc – the usual assortment of street treasures coveted by the needy. "Moving on. Yeah, that may be a wise decision guys. But before I let you go I need a little information. Paperwork, you know. We have to document everything. And I mean everything... even when we take a break or use the crapper. Sometimes it makes you wonder what the F is going on. That aside, what's your names?"

"I'm Hutch. This here's Slim," giving a rotten toothed smile.

"Your full given names, please."

"Yes, sir. I'm Delvin Edward Hutchinson, mister police officer," returned Hutch.

"I see. You've been through this before I suspect," assessed Carlos as he logged the name on his ledger. "Ever been arrested before Hutch?"

"A couple of times... nothing important, he lied – hoping the officer wouldn't have time to do a computer check and find the B&E conviction he had when he was nineteen. "It was for vagrancy and loitering, dat kind of stuff."

"Okay," and turned to Slim.

"Arnold P. Riley," stammered the second man.

"What's the 'P' for Slim.

"Nothin'. No name for it," he explained. "My Daddy liked the letter P. Don't know why."

"Yeah okay. Have you been arrested too?"

"Yes, I has, officer sir. I be the same as him, Hutch. No count stuff."

Lopez gave them another 'once over' and realized he'd seen these harmless bums many times before walking and pushing their carts along the side roads of Dania Beach, doing nothing but trying to survive another day.

Hutch glanced at Slim who appeared far more nervous than what he would have liked who then blurted, "You gonna arrest us officer sir?" The antsy vagrant kept looking back and forth at the dumpster, their shopping carts and the building they had pilfered their ill-gotten booty.

"I don't know," answered Carlos. "Should I? Are you hiding something in that dumpster? Is that where you keep your stash? How about the both of you hop in and show me what's in there. Now!" They complied, tossing and revealing all its contents. Satisfied, "That wasn't so bad was it guys? Now, get your butts out of there. Grab your carts and walk away from here as fast as you can before I change my mind and haul you in for obstructing an official police investigation."

Lucky for them the pair had changed their minds and decided to hide their goodies in the carts instead of the dumpster in case they had to make a fast getaway. After clearing the police cordon Hutch said, "Slim you had me worried for a minute. I told you to stay cool and let me handle the situation," chastised his partner.

"I's sorry Hutch. It was those dead people we were stealing from. I could feel their eyes staring at me."

"They were staring at poor little you? Do you mean the ones who still had heads?" Slim groaned and Hutch laughed. "Okay you little pussy, I'll take the suitcase from now on... and my funny-colored tool box or whatever it is."

"I ain't never seen no orange tool box before Hutch."

"Whatever," countered his sidekick. "People now days make their shit any color they want. They be showing off. Ever seen a kid's lunch box? I have no idea what the fuck they're trying to do. Don't worry about it. We'll stop under a bridge and _I'll_ wash the blood off everything so it's all real pretty. Satisfied? Then we'll go to the junk yard and unload the metal tools. After that we'll go to the pawn shop and get some real money."

"What about dat tool box?" asked Slim.

"I'm not sure," answered the leader. "It's got some kind of weird combination lock built into the lid. One of the shop guys will have to bust it open. I ain't got nothin' that can do that." He patted his cart, "Yes, sir. We're gonna be sitting pretty. We can go to McDonalds... _then_ the liquor store. We're going to party tonight. Big time!"

# Chapter Four: You need to know

A few months earlier...

"Scored again last night," boasted his drinking buddy, Teig, a manager of equal level from a different division of their same employer: Aero Support Industries located in the outskirts of Pompano Beach, Florida. "Looks like I've still got the charm, old boy," rubbing it in to his associate, Victor Butler seated next to him at the Shooter's Bar & grill on the Intercoastal Waterway in West Palm Beach. "As I recall, you used to be a cocks-man such as myself a few years ago... or has it been more? Are you still trying to get a little Strange on the side or have you given up the quest in your old age? Oops, or is it... Oh yeah, I forgot you're married!" He laughed hard, "Me too and it ain't slowed me down. Not one bit!"

"Stick it in your ear," shrugged Vic Butler. "It's no big deal. Maybe I love my wife. Did you consider that?"

"Yeah sure. But, as I recall that didn't hold you back ten years ago. Admit it Amigo, your hunting days are o-ver."

They both glanced at the wall-mounted television, another European soccer game was beginning. "I hate soccer," spat Vic. "It's never on the tube until all these goddamn illegal immigrants from Mexico and South America invaded us. I enjoy football, American football. I'll be glad when the season starts again."

"Me too," agreed Tieg and made a toast. "Here's to hard helmets and cheerleader's big boobs."

"Amen, brother. Finally, we agree on something," spoofed Vic. "So, how long did this big Score of yours take you to bed her down? Not that I really give a rat's ass."

"About a month," answered his friend. "She's married, that's why it took so long. But it was worth it. You should see her nipples, they stick out an inch," and held out his fingers gesturing their length in front of Vic's face.

"Up yours. I could do the same if I wanted to," retorted his friend.

"I think not. Your days came to an end when you put on that extra weight and started doing comb-overs," charged Tieg.

"B.S, that ain't got nothing to do with it!" refuted Vic. "Besides, I've humped ten times more women than you have in your entire life!" The patrons in the bar began turning to check out then snicker at Butler's pudgy, pink face and bloodshot eyes. A sad sight indeed. "Sorry folks," he slurred. 'Dis' bum's challenging my masculinity" then quieted down. After an uncomfortable pause, they both checked around the room - sizing up the bar-hoppers trying to score for themselves.

"So Bud, you think you still got it?"

"Fucking A," answered Butler.

"Then prove it or be deemed forever a Has-been."

"Well, er... I would but I'm kinda busy right now... with the job and all."

"Ha, all mouth. I knew it," taunted Tieg. "Appears the Stud's wood has turned to sawdust. Maybe you should move into an Old Folk's Home."

Vic ordered another double. "Okay, cocksucker. I'm had enough of your ridicule. It's time for me to Double Down and prove myself to your sorry ass."

"All right!" exclaimed Tieg. "That's the old Stud we knew and loved. But, in view of today's different environment we have to have some new ground rules to make it a 'certified score'."

"What? What new rules?"

"We gotta have some new playing rules," explained Tieg. "Banging some Hooker, a desperate bar-hopping ugly dog or cougar doesn't count. The lady has to be of Quality."

"Er, okay. Fair enough. Anything else?" sarcastically challenged Butler. "The bitch doesn't have to be some kind of royalty or a movie star, does she? I heard the Kardashian's are busy having babies with only Jet-Setter's and professional athletes of color. So, how much time do I have to do the deed? How does six months sound?"

"Six months!" repeated Tieg as he almost fell off his barstool. "That's ridiculous. Whatta you going to do? Get divorced and marry her? I'll give you three, four months tops. And, I want to pick the target."

"No can do," vetoed Vic. "Personalities are a key factor."

"Well, okay, you're right... but she still has to be a quality score." They agreed. Vic raised his eyebrows in question. "How about that cute little blond who works for you?"

"Which one? My receptionist?"

"Sure," answered his challenger. "She's single and sitting right in your lap. You don't even have to chase her. A piece of cake... I'm being too easy on you."

"Hum'n?" Butler paused to consider his chances. He figured his odds were at least 50% straight up, but then having the ability to pressure or threaten her continued employment swayed the odds heavily in his favor. He reasoned, "All I need is one time to cover the bet. These are good Poker odds. Hey, I'm a good-looking guy. She'll be lucky to have me. And, to top it off, I'll give her a small raise afterwards. We'll both be winners!" He smiled to himself. "I accept the challenge, Bucko. What are we playing for?"

"Great," said Tieg. "How about two Super Bowl tickets? I know a guy who can get forty yard-line seats, but they're very expensive."

"Expensive? What do I care?" scoffed Vic. "You'll see. I'll be the fan you see on the tube in the stands eating the hot dog and downing a cold beer! Maybe I'll bring you back a game program. Or maybe not, Loser."

The laptop p.c. user typed in the desired website and hit 'enter'. It was directed to another semi-secured program which required an additional login and password of which he had dozens of such for all the multiple, advertised to be protected, secret chat room-type voyeur access sites. A menu unfolded offering numerous selections. He picked Groups, then SciTech. He read the community board messages posted by its members, of which he was one, with little interest then switched over to the mail addressed to his own personal offered I.D. These postings were still not in a totally confidential, for your eyes only file. There were three unread entries: The first was for a membership into another specialized website which had just proved by hacking into _his_ website that it wasn't as secure as he thought. The second came from some 'scalper' selling Orange Bowl football tickets for the January 2, Classic in Miami. "How in the fuck did _he_ get in here?" Number three came from Sparkie in Tampa of whom he had given her his own personal Alias before. She liked to talk to anyone who would listen and the woman certainly wasn't stupid which was very refreshing. This time she was presenting a critical review on the new, shortwave screener/blocker app. being sold by Radio Shack for H.A.M international radio operators. Good old Sparkie, the Consumer Protection Advocate of the electronics industry." He erased the messages and requested another menu. This time it was America-Off-Line, a national lattice confined to only the United States. He was not a member of any group in this network. So, instead he selected a few 'public' sites with juicy names such as Joy Sticks, Pussy Widows, Bi-ways and for the in-progress, open conversations he could monitor. He found the usual, sexually-oriented adolescent prattle of young teenagers and the smooth-talking pedophiles pursuing them. "This is a waste of time but it's sometimes funny listening to how stupid they are. Clearly, they are a blight upon the Earth. There is not one Innocent among them. They shall reap their just rewards." Then signed off: The Angel.

"Vic is at it again." bemoaned the receptionist, Patty, while on her lunch break in the employee lounge.

"Victor Butler, our boss?" asked another member of his staff, a data input clerk named Joan.

"The one and the same," asserted her associate. "The crap fades in and out. There's what I call an incident, he backs off for a week after being rebuffed then starts back playing the same games again."

"I thought he had quit that silly stuff. You hadn't mentioned him for a while," answered the data clerk. "What happened this time?"

"More of the same shit. It's been going on for at least two months now," advised the receptionist. "This sudden change in him, it's as if he's on a mission. I haven't said anything lately because I didn't want to bore or burden you with my problems. Hey, everybody's got problems. I gotta stay focused and keeping my job is the number one priority. Right?"

"Sure, but maybe not so much for your type of problems," agreed her coworker. "Look at me, I'm fiftyish and forty pounds overweight. I don't have the misdirected pleasure of being hit-on like you skinny, big-breasted young girls. Are you sure it's just not him acting like a dumb ass when trying to be cute which is causing you to feel falsely demeaned or threatened? Even if it's the real deal and you are a hundred percent correct in your assessment, you have rights to be treated decently under Federal Law. Are you aware that our company's Human Resources Department is required by law to investigate all sexual harassment and discrimination complaints? We have some weapons in place, lady."

"I understand where you're coming from. Even so, after my having to jump through his cute trick's loops and me possibly being the proverbial, naïve, young girl, I still believe his conduct has been way outside the box."

"Okay, I believe in your conviction but could you be more specific?" consoled the clerk. "Some details?"

"Sure," she agreed. "For example, and the most recent occurrence. Yesterday I wore my pink dress. The one with the kinda low neckline... but I'm careful if I lean forward. I don't want make a false impression. I just like that dress and it's not too short."

"I remember it," recalled the clerk. "It looked good on you. I didn't think it was provocative in the least. Stylish, is how I'd judge it. So, what happened?"

She began, "This morning I bought in a report he asked for and laid it down on his desk. When I turned to leave, he _accidently_ knocked off a pencil holder plastic cup on the floor. He just swept it off with his hand. He was looking right at it. It was so damn obvious."

He grinned and said, "Oh, dear, clumsy me. Would you pick those pencils up please?"

"I did so as he watched and almost fell out of his chair from leaning over too much. He then said, "You've made my day, Sugar. Now can we start working on the nights?" I came back with, "I don't think so, Mister Butler. I don't believe your wife would think well of that." He laughed and called to me, "It's only a matter of time, Sugar," as I went out the door.

"Has he touched you or said anything in front of anyone else?" questioned the clerk.

"No, he's been careful regarding those two things. But, I think he's getting close to _accidently_ touching me," she returned. "And I swear, I haven't done a single thing to encourage him!"

"I believe you. You're being a cute little blonde apparently is all he needs to get him going." She then whispered in her ear, "There are rumors going around that there have been _others_ he's tried to get touchy/feely with."

"Aha, I'm not surprised," retorted the receptionist. She rolled her eyeballs then added, "Okay, so tell me what you think about this one. Three weeks ago I brought in coffee for him and four visitors attending a business meeting. As I stood there, he told them how I'm such a 'good' employee and what a pleasure it is to have me 'working under' him. The sleazy way he said it, it was very clear what it implied. The visitors, all men, wanted to know if he would loan me out for some 'weekend overtime'. It was great fun... for them. I don't want to have to hunt for another job. The hours and pay are within my budget. Everything would be all right if he would just back-off. Any suggestions?"

"Yeah, sure, I can think of a couple," offered Joan. "I had a friend back in Toledo who experienced a similar situation. Here's two things you can try. Number one, document everything – dates, time, words and actions. Write them down; don't leave anything to memory. Number two: have a short, one-sided private talk with him... in an open area such as the lobby. Secretly record it if you can, that would be aces if he said something incriminating. Tell him you already have a boyfriend, a jealous boyfriend or a fiancé if necessary. Anything that seems to work. Hell, as a last resort I'll even kiss you in front of him to show we're secret Lesbian lovers... but you'll owe me big time for that one. The last resort is to tell him you're going to quit and tell Human Resources the reasons why. That should be the show stopper. He may not want to lose you as his receptionist for one thing and most certainly doesn't want Human Resources prying into his fun and games. Cheer up girl, we're going to set this sucker straight one way or the other!"

"All right, it sounds like a good plan... for a start," she agreed. "Maybe I won't have to blow his balls off after all." Her new 'best friend' gave her an uncertain glance. "Hey, I'm only kidding. I' don't own a gun." Patty smiled, "Did you know Florida has the third-most gun owners in the United States?"

'Boom, ba rappa Boom!' 'Boom, ba rappa Boom!' "I'm black, that's a fact!" 'Boom, ba rappa Boom!' "Work together, make it better," blared from the old car's four stereo speakers. The bass drivers were max'd out causing the ashtray and rollup windows to vibrate from the volume's deep resonance. The Rap music from the Soul Train radio station blared, very loud. Elroy Glover enjoyed his music, getting down to the beat, on his way to work in his uncle's Liberty City Supermarket. It was dark, nine-thirty at night and he wanted to get there a little early for his ten to six a. m. shift just in case his favorite uncle needed a little extra help. No charge of course – a loving family member.

The traffic heading south toward Miami was sparse, the massive rush hour glut crawling northward had cleared out two hours ago. He lived with his parents in Carol City, a large predominately black community located in unincorporated northwest Dade County. The aspiring young man, only eighteen years of age, had recently graduated from high school with a 3.4 g.p.a. and been accepted for the local branch of Florida International University' incoming freshman class. Elroy felt more than happy to be working as a stock boy to help out with his school's tuition costs which were far greater than the partial scholarship grant he had been awarded could cover. His long term goal was to earn a full, four year degree in Reading Development Skills so he could become a school teacher in the same area where he had grown up. He'd seen that the children's greatest obstacle in learning was their inability to read comprehensively. Elroy was headed east on the Palmetto Expressway and about to turn southward onto I-95. Ahead were two long, curving lanes which narrowed to one then dumped into the other interstate highway.

Syed Azrael was beginning to straighten out his Ford Escort headed toward the upcoming junction with I-95. The left lane would begin to merge into his right one shortly ahead. 'Boom... Boom!' "What the hell is that God awful noise?" An old Impala, an unpainted heap, pulled up quickly on his left side. It appeared to be racing toward the merge of the two lanes. Syed could see by the overhead street lamps and the following traffic's headlights the left driver's head and shoulders were bobbing to the beat of the music. "Asshole," he spat out. "He's trying to shoot the gap!" Grabbing the wheel tightly he mumbled, "Let the bastard sweat some," and did not reduce his speed to let the other car cut in front.

Elroy, after being distracted by his music, finally realized he missed seeing the Merge Right sign and had become parallel to, but moving just a little faster than the car next to him. A quick glance at the other driver's scowl told him, "That man's really up tight... and this lane's gonna end in a couple of seconds! Traffic behind me – I can't break safely. I gotta floor it!" His uncle's old, but still powerful V8 engine burst to life and barely shot through the narrow remaining gap by a mere inches between the retaining rails and Azrael's car. Cleared of the barrier, but then going too fast he began to apply his breaks. Elroy had become more than a little rattled and pressed the sensitive, power breaks too hard. The Ford behind him closed-in quickly. Too quickly. Syed slammed on his breaks. The pedal had been worn smooth, down to the metal and his right foot slipped off and landed on the accelerator. 'Crash', a hard, rear-ender at over 50 m.p.h. Fortunately, neither vehicle spun out. Both drivers pulled over into the right-side breakdown lane to inspect the damage. The Impala was built like a tank and the newer Escort's rubber bumpers had absorbed the impact. Syed was ready to blow his stack. Elroy felt ashamed and guilty. The teenager opened his driver's door to go back and apologize to the other motorist. Neither the door's or overhead light came on, they had burned out years ago.

Azrael sat fuming, watching intently the Impala's driver actions who's tail lights were still burning brightly thirty feet in front of him. " _His_ rear end seems okay to me. _My_ front's probably smashed all to Hell and _he_ probably doesn't have insurance, as usual. Goddamned, irresponsible kids!" Elroy stopped and reached over to retrieve a flashlight from the glove compartment. Syed saw his motion and stiffened in his seat. It had become dark and this was a bad part of town. There had been a rash of roadside muggings and a tourist had been killed close to there. Last week a German visitor had been forced off the road, robbed then shot. Azrael's foot was firmly planted on the brake when Elroy stepped away from his car with a small black flashlight at his waist. Azrael saw that he had dreadlocks and a pulled-back hoodie. "Oh, shit!" The young man fumbled with its on/off switch. 'Click'. He stood there with his head down and his back to the Impala's open door.

'Click, click', still no light. "Dead batteries, just great," he mumbled.

Syed saw the black teenager holding a small object at his waist. "Did I hear a click? My God, he's got a gun! He's jacked a round into the chamber!" He immediately jerked the steering wheel to left as he stomped on the accelerator petal. The little four cylinder engine roared for all its worth and the Ford jumped in that direction – directly at Elroy. The young man froze in his headlights. Syed hunched down in his seat to avoid being shot as he passed the certain, roadside robber/killer. He saw the intended perpetrator being brushed by his right fender and in his rear view mirror the kid spinning awkwardly to the ground. As the Escort sped away he declared, "That'll teach that son of a bitch! He'll think twice before trying that stunt again. I hope he goes back to the Hood and warns all his hoodlum friends." Elated, "Yes, sir. I did the community a _big_ frig'n favor."

Elroy Glover laid broken on the warm asphalt. Two disks in his lower back were cracked by the car frame and a femoral artery severed when his leg was pinned against a previously damaged -jagged piece of chrome door trim. Through labored rasps for breath he saw dreamlike streaks of light passing by. Hazy whites, reds and yellow; they were beautiful. 'Swish, swish' from the passing traffic, - his was just another broken-down car on the side of the road. He felt an increasing sleepy heaviness as the blood spurted from his groin and couldn't move his legs due to the damaged vertebrae. There was no pain. Eventually, one of the passing lights stopped. It was a Florida Road Ranger's truck. Its driver ran to the prone figure to render aid. Alas, too late. The future Reading teacher laid forever still. He had bled to death three minutes earlier. After-all, it was a bad neighborhood.

'Bang' the restroom door was thrown open. In strode Victor Butler in a huff. Agitation and concern were written all over his face. His longtime friend, Frank Russo, standing in front of a urinal was startled and snapped his head toward the entrance. "Christ, Vic! What the hell? It's a good thing I wasn't zipping up and caught my pecker. Ever do that? That's pretty much at the top of my, 'Very bad things to happen' list."

"Yeah, yeah," answered Vic. "Been there, done that. Sorry, Bro," while hurrying to another receptacle.

Frank did a double take and said, "Man, you look like shit. Did the I.R.S. call you for an audit or something?"

"Worse... I think," then began to tell his associate about the call he had received from Tessa Azrael. Unbeknownst to either of them, Syed Azrael occupied the last stall in the row, reading a magazine while waiting for the call of Nature. As soon as he heard his wife's name he picked his feet up and quietly placed them against the cubicle's door.

Frank put a finger to his lips to stifle Vic's imminent tirade and lowered his head to scan under the half dozen toilet stalls to make certain were alone. "Okay, it's clear. Go ahead," instructed his friend. After they both had washed their hands, they stood discussing Vic's phone call. "At the Christmas party?" marveled Frank. "Are you kidding? How in the hell did you pull that off with all those people around? I heard there were over three hundred guests and employees there."

"We snuck behind the enclosed pavilion, next to the woods," described Butler. "She drew me away from the ballroom complex by saying, "I want to show something." I suspected she may have had a couple of drinks too many but I was trying to be a gentleman and went with her. My wife was tied up in some ladies gab fest and her husband had begged off attending citing some dumb-ass work project. We were out of sight and all of a sudden she turned her back to me, pulled up her dress and bent over. The woman had already removed her panties. She said, "Merry Christmas, now give it to me big boy!" She was hotter than anything I'd ever dreamed of. It lasted less than two minutes, maybe one. She laughed and said, "Sorry, Vic Baby. I gotta run and spread some more Christmas Cheer around to all you good, deserving men folk."

"Wow, talk about a quickie," joked Frank. "Damn, and I was stuck in Europe on assignment. Talk about bad timing. Damn, Damn! I would have banged her in a heartbeat."

"Oh? I thought you had some regular strange on the side already," questioned Vic.

"Yes, I do... sort of," he returned. "Did you forget my wife Rhoda and I have been legally separated for over two years? She's been dragging her feet about the divorce. I believe it's because she doesn't want to lose my company benefits. Anyway, I have Zola, my Bahama Mama who has some really big knockers. We've been going at it for quite a while, several years."

"Yea well, good for you but on my side this is one encounter I may seriously regret," fretted Butler.

"Why? Who did you say her husband is?" asked Frank.

"Syed Azrael."

"Can't place him," returned his friend. "Not even the name sounds familiar."

"He's a scrawny, little foreigner, maybe Lebanese, with a hairy wart on his neck," described Vic. "He works in Instrumentation... and to top it off he's probably a goddamn Muslim."

"Oh yeah," responded Frank. "Now I know who he is. I've seen him around but I couldn't remember his name. I always thought of him as, the Weasel. But wait a minute, I didn't know you were anti-Muslim. When did that happen?"

"Nah, I'm not really," explained Vic. "I'm upset at the moment. _Very_ upset."

"From the phone call?"

"Damn right. Big time. Are you ready for this?" asked his former high school classmate. "I got this toxic call from Tessa Azrael around thirty minutes ago and I recorded it. I record all my calls and messages. I have a compact, portable recorder I can plug into my phone when I'm in the office and I carry it with me all other times. I never know when someone's going to bare-face lie, or unjustly threaten me or we have an erroneous, yet critical misunderstanding. My ass will be covered. I've used it many times. This is a cut-bait industry and we need all the protection we can get from those lying bastard 'ladder hoppers'. I hit the record button immediately after she said her name. He then played back the device for Frank. "Hello Vic, this is Tessa. Tessa Azrael, Syed's wife from the Christmas party. I'm sure you remember the 'gift' I gave you."

"Oh, of course. It's been a while... what's it? Three months or so? That was quite an unusual surprise. Er, I hope you didn't take that little 'hook-up', incident' too serious. A few drinks and a little unexpected fun. Right? It was for me... and, as I recall you said you were making the rounds. I have to admit, I felt very fortunate to be on your 'to do' list. Thank you so much." He was grateful for any Strange he got even though he knew it wouldn't be regarded as a 'quality score' in regard to his bet with his drinking buddy Tieg.

"Yes, it was fun," she agreed. "Quick, but fun." A silence ensued then she dropped the bombshell, "I'm pregnant. I thought you'd want to know."

A longer pause, "Ah, okay... congratulations, I think. But, I'm a little surprised. Aren't you in your forties? And, why are you telling _me_? I really don't know you that well. You can't be implying it's mine due to that one-time pop? That would be _highly_ improbable."

"It's yours," she assured.

"And, how did you come to that conclusion?" he challenged. "You being a married woman and apparently a bit loose to boot."

"No need to get your bowels in an uproar Victor. I'm not calling to make trouble."

Slightly relieved he said, "Okay, nice to hear. So what's up Tessa?"

"It's like this Loverboy," she began. "Syed and I haven't had sex in over six months, maybe a year. I can't remember... I don't _want_ to remember. He's disgusting. Half the time he sticks it up my ass. Perverted creep. It hurts. He says, "The wife should always submit to her husband's desires'.

"It's in the Quran," informed Butler.

"Well, guess what? I'm not a fucking Muslim! I wish I'd known that before I married the Sicko."

"That sort of explains why you were so hot. You were overdue horny, the same as the rest of us. Please continue."

"You're the only one I've done it with in months," she advised.

"I find that hard to believe in view of the Christmas party," he rebutted.

"Guess what Sweetheart, you were the only one. I got shutdown," informed Tessa. "It appears you guys all prefer the younger, prettier broads. After three unpleasant rejections of: "No thanks, Honey", I pulled up my panties and called it quits."

Vic pondered that for a moment then said, "Okay, I accept the 'extremely remote possibility' it may be mine. What do you want of me?" He waited and grimaced into the phone. "I can have your husband sent out of state for a while so you can get rid of it. I'll pay the medical costs if you wish."

"No, I'm okay moneywise. We have insurance." She hesitated, "Besides. I've decided to keep the baby."

"What? Why? Abortions are commonplace. It's not frowned upon any more. Is your decision based on religion or are you a Pro-Lifer?"

"Neither," she answered. "I don't have any children and I surely don't want any of Syed's. I married him because he had a good job and I wanted security. I've made up my mind I'm going to divorce the creep right after the baby's born. It'll be covered by his insurance and I'll get substantial alimony later. You see, I want to have someone in my life who will truly love me and not treat me like a servant – not a piece of meat that cooks and cleans for him. Hey, I know this could be a little upsetting to you but everything should be all right. I don't believe other people need to know... except for my parents and maybe some other close relatives. Anyway, I felt I had you tell you."

"I understand," he consoled while thinking, 'No you _didn't_ have to tell me or anyone! Why didn't you leave me out of this? You stupid whore!' "May I give you a suggestion Tessa? Have sex with Syed as soon as possible, he may be fooled into thinking it's his and it'll help keep your stress level down."

"Way ahead of you on that one Vic. I screwed him this morning and made sure the bastard stuck it in the right hole."

"Good thinking," agreed Butler. "I can't think of anything else to tell you. Keep in touch if you feel it's necessary."

"I don't anticipated any problems so I guess this is, goodbye," she answered.

"Yes, that that may be the most prudent course of action. Oh, and one more thing Tessa. I may require a paternity test later, in confidentiality with the results staying just between you and me. Okay? So, goodbye and good luck."

"Whatever," she responded and hung up.

His agitated mind cried out, "I've got to do something! I can't have this shit hanging over my head for the rest of my life. A baby whose d.n.a. can be tracked back to me? I've got a job, family, responsibilities." He turned off the recorder. "And... on top of it all, I don't want to get stuck having to that bastard Syed's ugly face for the rest of my career even if they _do_ get divorced. Or what's worse would be always be waiting for another disastrous phone call from that bitch, Tessa. You know what I mean? Whatta _you_ think Frank? Can you help me? Got any ideas?

"Not really, nothing comes to mind right off my head." answered his friend. "I'd say she's got you by the shorthairs and I personally wouldn't trust _anything_ she said. And... your part in this sticky situation could get a hell of a lot uglier at any minute if her husband ever found out the truth regarding the baby. The crazy bastard might go Jihad on your sorry ass. It appears to me _you're_ the one who's going to need the good luck, Buddy. Not her, right now she's holding all the cards."

Syed was steaming but remained silent in his stall. He waited ample time before exiting the restroom to make sure both men had cleared the area. He fumed, "That worthless, whoring cunt – especially after all I've done for her. She was a poor, pool hall waitress when I met her. I gave her everything. I can _not_ let this transgression pass unpunished!"

# Chapter Five: Going forward

Syed Azrael sat on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table watching another rerun of: 'May Allah's Kingdom come and bring eternal peace to the world' again for the umteenth time. 'Buzz, buzz' sounded the cellphone in its charger as it cut through the living room's darken serenity. He let it ring a few more times. Syed had been expecting this call - he knew how the system worked. Azrael switched his glass of wine to his right hand and answered the noisome irritation. "Hello."

"Hello, is this Syed Azrael, the husband of Tessa Azrael?" inquired a deep masculine voice.

"Yes, I am he."

"I'm very sorry to disturb you sir. I'm Scott Elderling, Vice President of Delta Airlines Operations." A pause... no response. "I regret to be the bearer of bad news sir. Terrible news." He waited for a response – none. "Are you still there Mister Azrael?"

"Yes, please proceed," directed Syed.

"Ah, well," Elderling responded. "According to our flight manifest your wife was a passenger on Flight 1705 from Chicago to Fort Lauderdale earlier today. Do you agree she was on that flight?"

"Yes, she was," confirmed her husband. "She called me from the O'hare Airport prior to boarding," while remembering she wanted him to pick up some pickles and ice cream from the 7-11 before arriving home. Obviously to satisfy a pregnant woman's craving's - to feed her bastard baby! Before the Delta executive could continue he stated, "I am fully aware of the crash and the possible consequences. I have seen the news and the probability of her demise."

"Oh, I see, Mister Azrael," returned Elderling. "At this time, there has been no cause yet determined. When more information becomes available I, myself or another representative of Delta will be in touch with you. The National Transportation and Safety Broad is handling the investigation. It is their top priority. We are all so sorry for your loss."

"I understand your personal and Delta's position in the distasteful assignment you have been tasked in contacting the respective families," returned Syed. "I am aware of the process. You need not spend any more time on me. Please continue on with the other unfortunate families and thank you for calling."

The Delta executive was a bit surprised at how easy that notification had been and became anxious to get on to the conclusion of his allocated portion of the casualty list. "Again, we are so sorry for your loss and please feel free to call our Customer Service Department anytime between 8a.m. and 6p.m. if you have any questions. Goodnight, sir."

Syed hung up then turned off his cell phone and thought, "I don't need any more distractions tonight." He took another sip of wine and pondered, "How will my future be without my beloved whoring wife?" He smiled, "Better, much better."

Monday morning at the F.B.I.'s Fort Lauderdale Regional office

Wayne Atkins and Gary Taylor sat facing their new supervisor, Wilma Redman, the Supervising Agent for the Fort Lauderdale District which covered all of Broward Country but was a newcomer to the Fort Lauderdale branch office. She was the proverbial Rising Star, destined to become a member of the upper administration's hierarchy within ten years. Redman had a Law and Master's degree from Brown University plus a few other Latin camp-on tags the two men had never heard of. Her two years of service so far had been spent in Washington being exposed to the F.B.I.'s executive side of the numerous departments which fell within their 100 + categories of jurisdiction. The word upstream was that she's not too pushy, willing to listen and worked well with others. Taylor, an agent with twelve years of service reflected, "How refreshing for a change. Most of those 'You're guaranteed two promotions just for joining the Bureau. Except for the fact that later these privileged Jet job seekers soon come to think they're too good for the rest of us commoners and eventually quit. Those so-called Super stars next join a major law firm for the easy big bucks. Which is most unfortunate for the many bodies they leave in their wake in their abandoned quest to climb the Bureau's ladder faster. Maybe she'll be the one that sticks and makes a positive difference. We'll see."

"Mister Atkins I see this will be your first assignment," then turned quickly toward the other man. "And, that you Mister Taylor are due for a different assignment since you haven't earned a promotion recommendation within your current department as yet. All your evaluations have been a disappointing, 'satisfactory' therefore it's time for you to move on. Don't you agree?" without awaiting an answer. "We expect all our agents to do 'outstanding' work," as she stared at Wayne to get her point across. She superficially shuffled a few papers then stated, "I'm placing you, Mister Atkins in the Mail Fraud division to help fill in for some of the unexpected retirements we've had. We're hoping to get some new clerical hires to free you up later. But who knows what will happen when you're dealing with the almighty Budget," as she shrugged her shoulders."

"As for you Mister Taylor, your new assignment is Public Relations." Gary sank a little further down in his seat and stared at the floor while thinking, "The absolute bottom of the barrel, screwed again." "You'll both be in the Sunrise office. Maybe you can carpool," making a little joke to herself, knowing it was impossible for _any_ agents to carpool \- anywhere.

Wayne, semi-stunned, gazed intently back at her. "Is something wrong Mister Atkins?"

"Ah well, I was led to believe that 'Mail' was purely an entry level position. I expected that with my background of police work and Naval Intelligence I would be assigned to something of a little more high profile. That's what I was told by the Bureau's job recruiter." He turned to Gary, "Sorry, I'm not saying I'm better than you, sir. I respect your being a seasoned agent and I know nothing of your qualifications or experience. I hope you're not offended that I speak out."

"No, not at all, it's fine with me. We all have our opinions. Please continue," returned Gary.

"No, please _don't_ continue," ordered Redman. "These assignments are final. Mister Atkins, later if we find the Budget has hindered your being replaced by qualified new hires I will assess the particular situation and your performance in one year's time. As it stands, you both are to report to your respective departments at eight a.m. sharp tomorrow morning! You're lack of enthusiasm and disfavor by each of you will be so noted. Good day, gentlemen, I have a busy schedule. Dismissed."

The two agents filed out of their supervisor's plush office and stopped in the hallway to mull over the meeting. "Shat on again," complained Taylor. "You get used to it after a few years," as he tried to console the other visibly disturbed fellow agent by offering him a stick of gum with a bit of condescending dialog. "Here you go buddy, pretend it's a nail or a bullet. I know that Mail is a downer. You've never seen such a collection of Nerds. I've had the misfortune to be stationed there before. But, take my word for it Public Relations is the abyss of eternal frustration. It's the Bureau's face to the public and you take the heat for everything that go's wrong in the whole fucking Company no matter what the facts or situation were. There's no way you can make everyone happy. You have to smile and say nothing using a whole lot of meaningless words and double talk. P. R. is purely a punishment detail. As for myself, I realized quite a while ago there must be some kind of memo in my file saying: 'Screw this man whenever possible'. Perhaps years ago, I may have unknowingly stepped on _somebody's_ toes. If that were the case it had to have happened many years ago when I was an idealistic young go-getter pup such as yourself. Today, I really don't give a shit anymore. I'm sitting on cruise control now until I get my twenty-year retirement requirement then its Hasta La-vista, baby. I tell you true, in this business in-house, personal grudges never go away so be very careful not to create them. They always come back to bite you in the butt."

"Yeah, that's easy for you to say now considering all. It sounds as if you may have received a raw deal a time or two and I feel for you. However, I'm seriously disappointed," returned Wayne. "I'm new out of the gate and I now have the distinct impression that something is very wrong here. I gave up a good police job. I feel like I've been hoodwinked... tricked. If this is how it's going to be I may be job hunting again. After I go home, I'm announcing to the world: Muggers beware! I'm a runner and if some asshole tries to jump me tonight while I'm training I'm going to fricking total his ass."

"Now, now kid. Take it down a notch. You're assigned to Mail not Totaling Asses. Always remember, The Total Ass Department is firmly located in Washington and has no money or personnel shortages. On the other hand, it could be the new boss is only testing your resolve and that great background you're carrying on your back to see how you react. I recommend you stay cool and show those yahoos you can't be rattled and strive to do your best."

"You may be right, Gary. They may be just trying to stoke me up. I'll give it a go. Calm and collected, that's me."

"Atta, boy," chuckled Taylor. "Say, since we're in the same building, drop in and see me sometime. It's the door marked Public Relations, a.k.a. the Liar's Club and Public Restrooms."

Hutch and Slim pushed their overloaded, extra heavy, 'borrowed' grocery cart down the side of U.S.1 in the bicycle lane toward the nearby outskirts of Dania Beach, Florida. They had spent the night under one of the many canal crossover bridges to stay out of sight and for safety, as usual. They certainly didn't want to draw any attention from the scores of police vehicles darting about the crash site only a half mile distant. Their first stop was a junk yard, Mo' money for U, which bought metal in any form – scrapped, new or used that could be melted down. Gross weight was what counted unless it was copper which earned far better money but was always hard to come by.

"Morning, guys. It's been a while," hailed the yard's owner, Tony. "Has the world been treating you all right? Were you around here yesterday when that plane crashed? It came down right across the road in the industrial park. That's some scary shit. I live out back in a trailer inside the yard. I could've been squashed like those warehouses." He laughed out loud, "The Devil works in mysterious ways to protect his sinners such as myself." The homeless pair smiled and nodded understanding. The owner then extended his multi-tattooed arms across the counter and said, "Okay boys, show me what you got."

The two men had already wheeled their cart through his double wide doors and began placing their stolen loot on his counter top. The owner pawed and inspected the offerings as he placed them on a scale. He commented, "All this stuff appears to be new," and gave them the suspicious eye.

"I's knows that," responded Hutch. "It seems that every month one of them dang outlets over in the park throws out perfectly good stuff. Slim said he's seen it before. Something about keeping the inventory up to date? Even so, it don't make no sense to me tossing away good stuff."

"Yeah, I've seen it before too," returned Tony. "I saw it a lot of it when I had a yard up in northern Virginia close to D.C. There were bunches of companies vying for the government contracts and they always had to present a new and improved product every year. Most of it was basic stuff like tools and other shit like that. The majority of the bidders had already discarded last year's inventory and written it off as a developmental generated tax loss so they could present their so-called new products. In reality, they were the same screwdrivers in different colors and so on. Get the gist? It's all in the marketing. If you have smooth talking salesmen you're gonna reap millions no matter what the product. And believe me some of those dudes could sell ice to an Eskimo. Hu-rah for free enterprise." Hutch and Slim smiled wide as the owner kept stacking their loot on his scale. "There you go boys, ninety-seven pounds. What the hell, I'll round it off to an even hundred for it being in such good condition! You alright with that?" Slim acted so happy that Hutch thought his buddy was gonna pee on the floor. "I'll go get your money. I don't keep cash up front. Two minutes, guys."

"This is our lucky day," declared Slim.

"Half our lucky day," corrected Hutch. "We still got the pawn shop to go. That's where the _big_ money's gonna be. I'm willing to bet my left nut our jewelry is real gold! As I told you before, tonight is par-tee time!" as they both laughed their asses off.

Just before the owner came back, Slim noticed a partially covered item still in the shopping cart. "Hutch, Hutch. We forgot that funny looking orange tool box. I don't thinks the pawn shop's gonna want it."

"You're right. I clean forgot about it too," then hoisted the twenty pound goodie up on the counter.

The owner returned with a ten dollar bill in hand. "I think you'll be happy with this..." as he spied the new addition. "You got something else?"

"Yeah, sorry Bro," said Hutch. "We missed it. We think it's some kinda tool box. It's heavy so it must have some good stuff in it."

"Maybe, maybe not," countered Tony. "It could be full of rocks. I've seen it before when some bum tried to scam me," then gave them a suspicious eye.

"Oh, no!" both men recoiled. "We wouldn't do that. We would _never_ do that. See how fancy it is. It must have some really good tools in it. It also has a combination lock built into the lid. We couldn't git it open it but we knew you could," asserted Hutch.

"Hm'm," as he picked it up and stared closely at its casing and the lid's lock. "It's not metal," the prospective buyer commented. "It's some kind of heavy, fire resistant plastic." He then flipped it over and shook it – there was no rattling. "Ain't no hardware in it either," he declared. "Oh ho, what do we have here?" He pointed, "See this little round hole in the bottom and the wires broken off inside?" The two sellers stared in disappointed disbelief. "It appears to be some electronic piece of shit a teenager must have built for God only knows why. It's nothing I want... besides it's busted all to hell. Nobody will pay any money for this this piece of crap." The two homeless men acted as if they had been stabbed in the heart. He thought they were going to cry right there on the spot and he'd have to call the police to get them off his property. "Okay fellows, tell you what. I see how disappointed you are. I feel for you. I'll give you two bucks for it and use it for a frig'n door stop. But, now I'm only paying you for the _ninety-seven_ pounds you brought in, not a hundred. Take or leave it, final offer."

The slightly downhearted homeless pair took the deal and wheeled their cart away toward the pawn shop. "Didn't see that coming," lamented Slim. "Thought we were gonna git lots bigger money the way you were carrying on 'bout that pretty, orange tool box."

"Yeah well, you gotta look at it this way, Slim. We still done good, _real_ good. Scrap metal only pays around 9 cents on the pound. I thinks the man gave us a fair price. Maybe he once lived on the streets too. 'Sides, as I said before we still got the pawn shop and we have some pretty fine trinkets to sell. You gotta keep the faith, bro. I won't steer you wrong. Tonight's our night!"

Two days after the crash.

"Detective Hanson, I want you to sit in on the first N.T.S.B. meeting Wednesday morning. See if there's any reason for us to stay and get further involved in it," directed his department's commanding officer. "I know you're in Auto Theft but we have that section pretty well covered at the moment and I need someone who's been through the plane crash drill before. Your record shows you've covered a couple of these. Is that correct?"

"Yes sir," he agreed. "But they were on a much smaller scale."

"Doesn't matter Hanson. "You've seen the show before," explained his boss. "Besides, I think we're there just for decoration. It's my understanding every fucking agency in America will be represented because of all the possible terrorist connotations. If that's the case the government will sew it up and carry the load. We'll be in the initial showing of colors for the media's sake and won't have to continue. The U.S. Marshalls will pick up the police work part. But first, I want you to go the site and look it over and get a feel for who's doing what and document as much as you can. Take a patrolman with you to take some clandestine photos if you know what I mean. We can't rely on the press or curious citizen's smartphones if the Fed's actually put an Area 51 lid on it. Do you have a patrolman in mind or do you want me to pick one?"

"No thanks," he answered. "I know just the officer."

"All right," the lieutenant assented. "Give me a name and they better not be some pretty face you have the hots for."

"No, sir!" Hanson assured. "He's a young fellow I met at the crash site yesterday. He seemed quite competent and also speaks fluent Spanish. We need more like him in the department. I know of only a handful of officers who can communicate with the hundred thousand Latinos who currently reside in the Broward and Miami-Dade counties."

"I'm fully aware of our present language shortcomings Detective. I deal with its consequences every day. Nevertheless, I prefer to think the Department is making progress to correct this unbalance. For example, the next police academy is loaded with multilingual cadets. And... I recently heard the City of Miami is seriously considering giving a fifty dollar a month bonus to all their bilingual police officers. If they do, I'm sure we'll follow closely."

"Good to know sir. The patrolman's name is Carlos Lopez and he's presently assigned to the Southeast District."

The superior officer keyed in his name, "It says here he's only twenty-two and still a rookie. However, being such, he can be temporarily assigned to any department for training purposes without officially being transferred. Which is very good for me, less paperwork. You can have him for a month maybe more if necessary. But, if it turns out there's nothing cooking with the N.T.S.B. as far as sitting in, you may assign him solely to the meeting's security or cut him loose to return his unit's road patrol. Your call. File your reports, no need to respond directly back to me unless it's of an urgent nature. I warn you from past experience in these type of situations, there's always some want-to-be politician who tries to blowup these tragedies to get themselves in the limelight. Stay out of their cross hairs. And, if this particular N.T.S.B.'s Official Finding follows its usual suit they'll declare: 'Pilot error' no matter what the facts are or the circus fanfare generated. So, don't be surprised by its outcome, you're merely another fly on the wall. And, DON"T ever say anything to the press! If one of them says, Good morning, you just became a deaf-mute. Any questions?"

"No sir!" answered Hanson. "We'll stay out of the way and don't worry. I'm confident patrolman Lopez won't be any trouble. I'll keep a tight leash on him. Thank you again sir," and they hung up. He thought, "Aha, this gig could be entertaining as hell. For starts, he's the same young kid I chewed out a few weeks ago for submitting a sorry-ass stolen car report. The rookie reminds me of my good old days as a Training Officer. Not to mention, this will be a most pleasant break from the mountains of paper work I'm saddled with every day in Auto Theft." Walking down the hall he laughed out loud as he remembered the trick he had played on him at the crash site yesterday while they were both temporarily backfilling cordon security. He and Lopez were walking the perimeter when he said to the young man, "Hey kid, can you give me a hand?"

"Yes sir, whatever you need." happily responded the eager young man.

"Then give it to me, son."

"Er... yes," as he looked around. Baffled, Lopez stuttered, "What do you want me to do sir?"

"The hand, kid. Pick up the hand," as he pointed to a small, severed hand – a child's, lying among the debris.

Carlos leaned over, his face only a foot off the ground and exclaimed, "Madre de Dios!"

Hanson retrieved the appendage himself and stuffed in Lopez's hands. "Someone's going to want that before the red ants eat it. Put it in an evidence bag."

"An evidence bag? I don't have one."

"What? Whatta carrying in your utility belt besides your own personal smart phone? Gum balls? Rain coats for your girlfriend? All those compartments have an actual _police_ purpose you know," chastised the detective. "Didn't you have a training officer? Don't tell me they cut you loose to roam the streets after the academy solely because you could speak _Spanish_."

"No..." Carlos stammered. "I had Corporal..."

"Stow it!" ordered Hanson. "I don't want to know who they were." He then reflected, 'Poor kid, it's not his fault he hadn't been fully trained when he hit the street.' "Okay Lopez, sorry I got a little riled up there. In the good old days, the rookies were partnered up with a seasoned officer until _he_ became a seasoned officer also and the cycle repeated itself over and over. Now, we have Bureaucrats in City Hall cutting corners to save a dime." He thought and sighed about his brother, a County fireman, "But it's far better than the damn Fire Department. Trust me, you don't ever want to know what happening over in that pile of crap. Their job related injuries and ongoing medical conditions are ten times greater than ours. Did you know that? The recruiters sure as hell don't disclose that kind of info when they're trying to sign up candidates for the fire academy." He paused, "Chin up son, I'll hold on to you as long as I can and get you squared away." Then he changed the subject and grinned, "Say, what if after our shift we have a beer and cruise Fort Lauderdale Beach? Maybe we'll get lucky and hook up with a couple of those hot, Spanish babes. Whatta ya say buddy? Sound good?"

Carlos immediately declined the prospect then wondered, "Is this some kind of test? Is he checking up on my personal character?"

The next morning...

A small convoy of four army personnel carriers, a moving van sized eighteen-wheeler truck and one staff car passed through the police blockade and sequentially the National Guard's. Not much attention had been given, there had been a steady stream of vehicles in the last few days. Dump trucks, flatbeds, cranes and busses – anything and everything on wheels. A dark military, blue sedan stopped in front of the large portable tent the National Guard had erected for their onsite command post. A U.S. Army master sergeant exited the car quickly and stepped smartly inside to find whoever was in charge. A moment later he returned with a gunnery sergeant in tow. The much surprised National Guard sergeant stopped in his tracks to salute the full-bird Air Force colonel waiting by the staff car. "Good day sir. Sergeant Inez at your service sir! as he snapped to attention." This brought many curious eyes their way – the Guard's brass didn't require such formality.

"Good morning sergeant. I'm Colonel John Doe. Are you in charge here?"

The enlisted man thought, 'John Doe', are you kidding? I haven't heard that one lately.' He almost smiled until he realized the officer had no name tag nor did any other soldiers. 'Oh, shit. He's Special Ops. I haven't seen one of these guys since my tour in Afghanistan five years ago.' He then answered, "Yes, sir. Temporarily until Lieutenant Sykes returns this afternoon."

"Very well sergeant, I'm advising you I'll be taking charge of this site and all operations. The first order of business is for you to move the police line a hundred yards further out and yours another fifty. Next, clear out that media observation area completely. I don't want to even see them using scopes at three hundred yards. This is now a United States Government secured compound. Is that clear? My Top sergeant will act as my liaison and direct you. Have your lieutenant report to me as soon as he returns. Carry on."

"Yes sir, right away sir." The Gunny held any questions he may have had; he knew better than to question an officer's authority. This was a matter for the Brass to sort out, not a non-com. After the colonel had moved on to inspect the facilities he noticed a civilian wearing a dark suit and sun glasses who had remained seated in the rear of the staff car. He wondered, "Is he C.I.A, N.S.A, a civilian contractor?" The Gunny then deliberated whether or not to contact his Guard's Headquarters to verify the convoy's unexpected arrival. He chose not to. In the military you obey the last order first and shut the hell up.

Chief Blackburn of the Davie P.D. had been observing this new scenario from a distance back at the main entrance's road. Standing with a cowboy boot resting on his rear bumper, he and two of his patrolmen watched the guardsmen herd up all the civilian workers and media personnel and escorted them clear out of the industrial complex. At this same time two different groups of the convoy's soldiers exited the troop carriers and took up positions around the semi. Half were wearing green camouflaged uniforms and were armed. The other half wore light blue technician-type apparel and were attending to the crates being removed from the truck.

"What's up Gunny?" Blackburn asked of Sergeant Inez who had joined him.

"The Colonel said to move everyone further out, including your personnel and for our unit to form a new, expanded security line. Also, nobody goes in or out until he gives the go-ahead."

"Zat right?" responded the Chief but decided not to make an issue of it with a soldier just following orders. "How long do you think they'll be here Sarge?"

"Really don't know Chief. He didn't say," returned the Gunny. "But I got the distinct impression, it'll be as long as he damn well pleases."

"Yeah, I can believe that. I remember my days in the (Marine) Corps," agreed Blackburn. "The big Brass don't want to hear _you_ to ask a question. They regard it as a challenge to their decision making. That'll never change in the military and perhaps it shouldn't." He patted his fellow service man on the shoulder and said, "Don't worry about us Gunny. We'll be around if you need us." Then casually, "Oh, by the way did you happen to notice what outfit they're from?"

"The Colonel is Air Force and the rest of his men in blue are wearing some kind of Signal Corps patch I've never seen before. The men in green are airborne rangers out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Army–wise, the tip of the spear."

"The Signal Corps?" repeated Blackburn. "Hum'm, that equates to communications and data processing in today's applications. Therefore, those crates they're unloading probably all contain sophisticated test instruments. Also, there could be some additional gear for ordinance detection. I wouldn't be surprised. But manpower-wise, a mixed bag such as these guys - isn't that a little unusual, Gunny?"

"I agree Chief. I've never seen it here in the states," concurred the Guard's man. "Only in Special Ops overseas."

"Ah, well," commented the Chief. "I might as well mosey back to the office. It's hot out here and there are clearly far greater players than I and my lowly department involved in _this_ show."

# Chapter Six: Begin the Investigation

Four days after the disastrous crash...

The tall, thin, well dressed gentleman stood before a much larger than expected group. The meeting took place in an aircraft repair hanger on the north-side of the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. A large conference room had hastily been built within the same building that Delta's flight 1705 aircraft was being reconstructed. It created a sobering effect as each attendee passed by the drawn canvas curtains separating them on their way to the fateful meeting. The Board's normal ten-seater conference table had been replaced by a twenty and all its positions were occupied as well as an additional two dozen portable chairs placed against the back and side walls facing the Chairman. Detective Hanson's commanding officer had been correct – it appeared every agency in America was in attendance with its representative and their aide. Plus, there were two Federal Marshals standing, posted inside with them and two more stationed at the entrance way to the building and in the corridor. It resounded of a national security type setting with a 'Keep the damn Press in the dark agenda'. Absolutely no media were allowed!

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I am Clarence Oswald, the Investigator in Charge for the National Transportation and Safety Board." He silently read the names of the departments and their representatives to himself. "What a collection. I better choose my words carefully. There's no script for this one." He turned and pointed to the assigned federal court reporter behind him and an electronic recording device in the center of the table. He made an attempt at loosening up the room's stiff atmosphere. "It appears we're being put on record so let's play it nice," and as a result was subsequently met by silence and stoic faces. He had never presided over more than the local, 2-4 seater aircraft mishaps and was perplexed by the Board's decision to let him handle a matter of this importance. He wondered, "Shouldn't they have brought in a more seasoned, senior investigator from Washington to oversee these proceedings or were they trying to insulate themselves from making erroneous deductions? Are they keeping me here for show because the Government already knows the conclusion?" He continued, "I see we have some newcomers amongst us today. Welcome and I hope you didn't have too much trouble getting here; this is not our usual location." Most attendees had no trouble at all – they were chauffeured in by their staff drivers. "And, please excuse our makeshift, temporarily thrown together assembly room," referring to the floor fans and two wall-mounted air conditioning units." No one blinked an eye, many were familiar with urgent situations and hastily assembled command centers. The Big Boys were in town.

Representatives from the National Security Agency, Department of Homeland Security, USAF Colonel John Doe, Mister Perkins, with the presidential seal stamped on his place card, the F.A.A. and two men with a blank card in front of them. "Could they possibly be C.I.A.?" Oswald speculated. And, a person from the Environmental Protection Agency which wasn't normal for any investigations he'd ever heard of. He decided it would be better not to chat with the Big Guns – obviously they were the people carrying the real weight and would take over the proceedings in a New York minute if they deemed it necessary. However, he was still curious regarding the E.P.A's presence. "And a very Good morning to the E.P.A." he beamed. "We've never seen a rep from your department before," as he gave her a questioning smile. "Are you a local?"

"No sir, and a good morning back at you," she returned. "I'm from the Southeast Regional Office in Birmingham, Alabama. Roll Tide!" and laughed. "The Agency has recently expanded some existing policies regarding fuel and chemical handling. Plus, we have updated guidelines regarding radiation poisoning and containment since more and more companies are shipping toxic materials by air. Most of their products are in small quantities and used for medical or industrial applications but they still must be properly regulated and safeguarded. Working with and seated behind me is a gentleman from the C.D.C. who can answer your questions regarding the effects of any contaminate if it is released into the general population," who then in turn nodded his presence. "Our departments will be in attendance for all future incidents of this nature involving commercial aircraft."

"Nice to know," acknowledged the Chairman. "An excellent idea. Now to the task at hand," he continued. "Lying before you in the blue booklet is a preliminary report containing statistics related to Delta flight 1705 such as aircraft specifications, flight plan, manifest and so forth. It has many sections, all of which are important and you should review each one thoroughly before our next meeting which is scheduled in only one short week from today. Technicians and mechanical crews are working around the clock to reconstruct the aircraft in order to help ascertain the cause of this catastrophe. This incident and its investigation has been fast-tracked by Washington for possible national security reasons as reflected by some of our esteemed guests present.

Wayne Atkins was seated two feet behind and off the left shoulder of the F.B.I.'s Deputy Director of the U.S. East coast command, Allen Flagstaff. He had been shocked when he received the call from Wilma Redman for him to report to the meeting and act as the Director's aide. He reasoned that it must have been generated by his service in Naval Intelligence judging from the military and government personnel in attendance. He had been informed that every passenger and crew member on the flight manifest, plus the ground crew, were already being screened by a newly formed task force and the results were to be reevaluated by the Bureau's elite Behavior Analysis Unit (B.A.U.). In addition, all laboratory work would be conducted by the C.I.A.'s Star Wars Lab in Langley, Virginia. The President had pulled out all the stops. He demanded to know if this was another terrorist's attack. And, he wanted to know, _Right now_!

Wayne studied the faces of those in attendance. The aides had a common demeanor – do whatever it takes to make their boss happy with no personal involvements of their own. The government representatives – were making sure all official procedures were followed with the proper paperwork. The military – were attentive, yet non-committed until directed what to do by their superiors. Only the Delta and union reps displayed true emotional distress. The N.S.A. and probable C.I.A. people were loose and trying to pick the best complimentary pastry items. After-all, thousands of people dying was an everyday occurrence to them.

Oswald continued... "There are no references or opinions in the booklet inferring the cause. There's too much data still to be gathered. Unfortunately the flight recorder has yet to be found but we are certain it will be soon since it hadn't been a deep water crash. We do have all the verbal communications which were recorded in the tower between the F.A.A. controllers and the aircraft. In addition, we have the tower's printout of all the Pulsar transmissions between the two. Inside the booklet it will explain in detail how the Pulsar operates. Simply speaking, it is a fairly new landing guidance system which functions similarly to the existing in-air autopilot."

Detective Hanson whispered to Deputy Lopez, "This could get a little rough kid when they get into the body count and details, not to mention the technical stuff being complicated as all hell. We're tucked into this far corner solely to listen quietly and provide additional security."

"No problem," returned Carlos. "It can't be worse than walking around and scooping up body parts. And, as far as the technical stuff goes: 'That's not my job'. I thought we were here to stop any demented perps from trying to crash the party. Right?"

Hanson thought, "Atta boy kid, you're catching on."

The representative with the Presidential Seal, Mister Perkins shot up. "Excuse me, sir. I am perplexed as to why the most important piece of equipment, the flight recorder, the famous black box, has not already been recovered. We believe this device would have been your top priority. I personally have seen hundreds of people scouring all over the industrial complex. How is this possible with a dry landing? The White House Staff is under the impression the instrument is always located in the most secure, hardened part of the aircraft. Do you have a comment on this?"

"Well, as I stated before, we expect to find it shortly and its data should be available for our next meeting," answered Oswald.

The Executive Branch's rep was not satisfied and addressed the aircraft's manufacturing attendee. "Do you, sir have a plausible explanation for this?"

He appeared uncomfortable, hesitated then answered. "The first thing that comes to mind in a crash landing of this nature is that you are perfectly correct in your assessment. You'd expect it to be easy to retrieve, except that this plane crashed at four times the normal landing speed. It had been ripped to pieces. Any part of it could have been thrown a half a mile away or further."

Unexpectedly, the Broward Sheriff's Office attendee, Detective Hanson piped up, "It could have been taken. There were a lot of working people in that industrial complex. Maybe someone wanted it for a souvenir. I've seen worse."

All eyes turned towards the new speaker then back to Perkins who appeared to be taking control of the meeting. "Stealing the box amid all that carnage and destruction?" he retorted. "Risking your life in such dangerous conditions for a souvenir is ridiculous and a felony."

One of the C.I.A. reps. spoke out next. "Stealing it? Maybe, maybe not. What if someone wanted to retrieve the recorder so we couldn't determine what _actually_ caused the downing?"

"How could that be possible?" countered Perkins.

The second Agency rep. answered, "By knowing exactly where the plane was to hit, then rushing in and extracting the device before detection. After-all, it's been rumored that our side does it all the time."

"That would lead me toward thinking it was terrorism," stated Perkins. "Colonel Doe, I've been informed your team has searched and tested the craft's remains for explosive residue or radioactive materials. Therefore, what are your findings?"

"Yes, we have made our inspections and tests," he returned. "And to date, we have not found any evidence of an explosion or any other type of foul play. We have taken samples of every possible source and sent them to the Langley lab for retest and validation. Their analysis will also be available by next Thursday's meeting."

Oswald attempted to regain control by asserting, "Gentlemen, we seem to be getting ahead of ourselves. Let's stick to the game plan," and held up the blue booklet. "This will answer many of your questions and I'm confident much more data will be available by next week's meeting. These proceedings take time but I assure you each and every one of your departments and mine included, are expediting the gathering of sound information." He paused for a moment for effect then said, "It's been a pleasure meeting you, now let's get to work. Thank you, we are adjourned."

Perkins eyed the NTSB chairman and reminded him, " _Your_ department had better remember that the President is waiting."

The FBI's Deputy Director turned to Wayne Atkins and said, "I know we have a task force working on this already but now we have to determine who else was in the industrial park prior to and at the time of impact. Get with the Task Force leader to add the park people to his agenda - workers and supposed customers. Tell him and anyone else with cleared access you are my liaison on this project and if he needs additional manpower to put it on my tab. I have to return to Washington. You'll be the acting coordinator for the Bureau in regards to the NTSB. I'll see you two hours before the second meeting to review your updates. Call me if you need any authorizations or if there's a major development. Here's my direct line," handing him a card. Good luck."

"Thank you sir," as he watched his new boss walk to his waiting staff car. WayneAtkins felt he was in the big game then. "Bye, bye Mail Fraud. I think I'll pay Gary Tayl or a visit and get his take on all this."

"Hey, kid, whatta think of my idea that someone could have stolen the frig'n flight recorder?" asked Detective Hanson.

Carlos thought for a moment then answered, "It sure opened up a bunch of other possibilities - National security-type possibilities." The young man smirked, "This is super. It feels great to be a part of this." His partner/instructor grinned in agreement.

A few days more passed...

Sparkie hit the Microsoft Edge icon and the page quickly displayed on her laptop. She then typed in her favor site, the SciTech Group. So far, it's been a bad day. Her financial advisor informed her that all her major investment stocks were heading into a nose dive. Several of her companies which were financed exclusively by a top ten Saving and Loan t had recently announced they needed alternate financing or they will be forced to consider bankruptcy. Which equated to: You my dear, have been screwed royally. Her advisor called to see if she wanted to bail-out and take the loss or hope for the best and tough it out. "What the heck, another I.R.A. shot to hell." That, coupled with the cruise line tickets she bought in January and never received because the travel agency folded two weeks later was a good start for the making of a bad year indeed. "At least I'm not fifty-nine and a half and need that money to retire." She figured by the way things were going and she finally got to that magical age in fourteen years, she'll be completely broke and on welfare. "Ah well, there's always Social Security and Medicare - one small step away from poverty. And, the way Congress keeps pushing up the age requirement I'll have to be eighty before I get a fucking dime! Yes sir, I'm living the dream." She needed a pick-me-up and searching through the Internet and being in chat rooms was just what the doctor ordered. For most woman shopping was their therapeutic fix, but for her new ideas and intelligent conversation kept her head on straight. There were a hundred million users at her fingertips and she was beginning to drift into a better mood already.

The SciTech site came up. "Let's see who's online tonight," and sent a greeting to the Group as a whole. Six messages tagged to her came back. "Nice, more than I expected. There must not be any big ball games on yet," she reasoned. She recognized four of the six with two new ones. "Great!" she said. She usually thought and spoke aloud to herself – a habit of being alone most of the time and an only child. "Let's see what kind of shit can I stir up. Oh yeah baby, I know," remembering the ongoing television coverage of the Delta tragedy, then typed: 'Anyone close to where that Delta plane crashed?' Three affirmatives answered, giving no exact locations. Continuing, 'What do you think happened and were you affected?' She waited, the far-end users were formulating their responses. The first came back from Jolly Roger of Fort Lauderdale relating how it royally screwed up the traffic and gridlocked everything within ten miles for hours. Next came from Model Inc. who Sparkie knew was a real life model in Miami. She swore she heard it hit... thirty miles away. "Hm'm, I don't think so, Model. She must'ta had a camera in her face or she's a true blond." She waited and remarked, "It seems that my number three has bowed out," and got ready to type another question. "Oh-oh, here it comes." Her screen displayed the sender's, direct-to-the-point answer. 'It was necessary'. The Angel.

"Necessary? That doesn't make sense," and decided they must have had a transmission problem between the two of them. Sparkie decided to resend her message to only The Angel and added, 'Garbled data, please resend, thanks.' A moment later her laptop displayed, 'I said it was necessary'. The Angel.

Alarm bells went off in her head saying, "Get this sucker recorded before you lose it!" she then hit the save and print buttons. Every transmission for the evening had been saved and placed in her document file. Next, she quickly put them in a backup thumb-drive which was always plugged in. Was The Angel still online? She ventured typing, 'Why did you say it was necessary?' again to only the Sender. She waited... a minute became ten. The Angel had signed off.

At the Davie Mayor's office

Chief Blackburn had been requested to drop by City Hall for a casual lunch with the Mayor, Sol Goldstein. They had always gotten along since they were in office. In fact, Goldstein had been the driving force in his selection and winning the acceptance of the Town Council to make him Chief of the department five years ago. He reflected as he drove his Range Rover from the Police complex located three miles to the west, "It'll be good to see him. It's been weeks, we need to catch up a bit. He's probably curious considering that N.T.S.B. meeting and I want to hear his thoughts. He's smart and been around the block a lot longer than I have."

"Bubba, thanks for dropping by," as he stepped away from his desk with a smile and extended his hand. "It's been too long," and the Chief agreed. "This won't be an official meeting so we won't need my secretary to record it. Sometimes those Florida Sunshine Laws can be a pain in the ass. Last week the mayor of Dania Beach got arrested on a whole slew of charges, including violating the Sunshine Law. Did you know that?" Blackburn said he was aware. "Sometimes I feel as if I'm living in a half empty fish bowl. What say we adjourn to the courtyard? The food truck should be here by now. The chow's not bad if you favor hotdogs and crisp, fried tater chips with homemade mustard sauce. But the best part is that we can get a picnic table and have some privacy. The folks here know not to bother me when I'm in the yard with someone." Sol enjoyed talking to people as if they were family – an old-time, natural politician.

"You were right about the grub Sol. The hotdog was fair to meddling-good but these chips are something else," commented Bubba. "It reminded me of something my grandmother used make back home years ago in southern Georgia. Unfortunately, I don't remember what they called it. Were the husband and wife cooking in the truck Cuban?" Sol grinned and nodded back, yes. "Well, how about them apples. Talkin' about learning the culture."

"Those people got some skills and they're damn good workers," agreed the Mayor. "They get along with everyone. I've got several on my staff. They're the biggest part in the changing face of Davie. When I became mayor some twenty years ago the town's population totaled less than fifty thousand. Now, it's right around a hundred and the largest increase has been in the Hispanic section. If they ever get organized they'll be a very strong voting block to contend with." He ended his dissertation and waited for Blackburn to finish his food. "I hear you went to the N.T.S.B. meeting. How'd it go?"

"They said we're not supposed to talk about it, just like a juror in a trial," answered the Chief.

"I understand," returned Goldstein.

"I got the impression they were trying to hide everything from the media," explained Blackburn. "They had some representatives from departments I never would have expected to be there. I don't think I'm breaking the rules here. You can readily see them come and go. There are Military, N.S.A, D.H.S, a White House rep... and maybe the C.I.A. too"

"This sounds serious to me," returned Goldstein. "Something more than a plane crash. I don't even want say the things which are coming to mind." He paused, "This is all very disturbing and I'm glad to see you sitting at the table taking it in. Which brings me to the real reason why I asked you to join me today."

"Sir? Is there something I can do for you? Have I done something wrong?"

"No, you haven't done anything wrong" answered Sol. "And yes, there's something I want you do, but not for only me. It's for the both of us and all the residents of Davie."

Blackburn had been caught off guard. He thought, "There something I need to correct or am I being warned?"

Sol read his reaction and eased his friend's mind, "No, no Bubba, you're good as gold." He patted the big man's shoulder, "And now we have to make all the voters in Davie know it too. You see, I'm stepping down as Mayor and I want _you_ to take my place. You deserve it, you're the man for the job."

"Sol, you're the best mayor this town has ever had. The people of Davie love you!"

"Thanks for saying so, I really appreciate it. But I'm getting a little long in the tooth. I'm seventy and I believe a younger, more energetic man such as yourself should take the reins."

"But Sol you've got a great mind, Davie has made such enormous progress under your direction. Seventy is not old for a man such as yourself," rebutted the Chief. He waited to see if Goldstein had anything else to add.

And he did... Sol sighed, "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news my friend. I have pancreatic cancer and it's as bad as it gets. Stage four, terminal."

Blackburn's breath had been taken away, his eyes welled with tears. Inside the Tough Guy beats a soft heart. He stuttered, "How... when?"

"It was first diagnosed six months ago. It's not as aggressive as most strains but it is incurable. The best estimates are between eight to twelve months. And, as you know the elections are in early November. I will simply choose not to run for reelection and throw my full support behind you. Other than that, I want to spend as much time as I can with my family.

"Of course!' agreed Bubba. "Family first, always."

"And it's a large family at that," beamed Goldstein. "Have you ever noticed how many picnic tables we take up at the Davie Days Spring Festival?" He pointed a finger below his belt and bragged, "This little pecker is responsible for bringing twenty-four beautiful babies into this ugly world and I'm as proud as hell. Of course that large number includes my wife and I's children, our grandchildren and the great-grand kids. Bless all their pointed little heads."

"Yes sir, I've see a bunch of them, but I didn't realize how many there actually were."

"So, don't be concerned in regard to my needing support, my dance card is full," reassured Sol. "That doesn't even count in the Synagogue bunch".

The Chief stared at his boots. He didn't know whether to laugh at his friend's jokes or cry at the reality.

"Enough of this: 'Life sucks' stuff," directed Goldstein. "I want to be your behind the scenes campaign manager if you'll have me. But, first and foremost, do you want to step up and _be_ the mayor? I know you like your job and you're the best at it but you could serve Davie in a greater capacity. What do you say, Bubba?"

"Honestly, I never gave it a thought but I'll do whatever you suggest. I trust your judgement completely and I _am_ here to serve."

"Atta boy, that's just what I was hoping for. In fact, if you had said no, I would have retired next week. Since you agreed, we're going to need a game plan and some on-the-job training. Number one, son you're not much of a politician at the moment. Those hard edges you require in your current position need some smoothing out. A _lot_ of smoothing out in order to deal with Media and those who _will_ oppose you at every opportunity and in every manner. You need to learn how to turn those people into assets and make them work for you. I know you can do the mayor job but first you have to learn how to be a con man. I'll teach you. For starters, let's talk more about that N.T.S.B. meeting."

"Well, as I said Sol, I'm the proverbial a fly on the wall," explained Blackburn. "We're here to be observers and not to disclose any details."

"Yes," agreed Goldstein. "Details... sensitive information. Correct?" the Chief concurred. "Nor, shall you. However, this most unfortunate disaster would be a prime example of a golden opportunity for a politician. The fact that the crash happened within our borders gives us an inside track to the people's ear. Especially our Davie's voters. Number one: They will automatically assume there's more to know than what the government's telling them which is true. Number two: They want to believe their local government is personally involved and compassionate. They want to trust in _us._ They want to see _our_ town represented in the news coverage even if it's only to make them feel included. That's where you have to be a politician by showing your personal concern and involvement. I'll be quietly standing at your side directing you. Although I will be saying nothing of importance my presence will carry much weight. Bubba, are you beginning to see how the game is played? During the next meeting let your voice be heard. If it doesn't turn out to be a sensitive, national security issue then whatever you say it will become a matter of 'public record'. We want your face and name out there."

"By my speaking in broad terms to win over the media and gain public confidence?" verified Blackburn.

"Exactly, Bubba. Now, do you have thoughts on how to become more than just a fly on the wall? Get involved? Get attention?"

"Er, no. The other departments in attendance seem to have everything covered," answered the Chief. He became pensive, remembering some parts of the meeting. He then reported that, 'The flight recorder hadn't been found and the plane's manufacturer said it could have been thrown far from the crash site.' "Are you sure I'm not doing something illegal by disclosing this to you?"

"No, you're good. They're trying safeguard communications, recorded data, verbal testimony and the decisions being made," assured Sol who happened to be a lawyer also. He repeated: 'thrown far from the crash site.' "I take it that would be outside the military's cordoned-off area?" The Chief nodded agreement. "Why don't you send some boys out there and find it first? You're not going to tamper with the data. You, and I mean you yourself, by turning it over it to the N.T.S.B. with a bit of news coverage fanfare would be a very big P.R. feather in your hat down the road. There are no government rules being broken, just the good old Davie Police Department and Chief Blackburn taking initiative." They both smiled like a couple of Cheshire cats sharing a juicy, dead mouse.

"So, Sol, why in the hell haven't you ever run for President?" goodheartedly, asked Blackburn.

The figure tramped thru the main doors of Aero Support Industries' Assembly and Installation work center. He stood on its entrance mat fiddling with the release button on his umbrella – it was stuck. There had been another passing shower going by that morning. Such things routinely occur every afternoon in south Florida, except someone must have forgot to tell the weatherman that day that there's a difference between morning and afternoon. You have radar and satellites, right? All the residents consider the local forecasters to be a joke anyhow. All their predictions are 80% sunny, 20% showers in the afternoon from April to December. They wouldn't change the rain forecast to over 50% even if they saw the QE2 floating down a flooded street.

The gentleman's face was blocked from the receptionist's view by the opened umbrella. It finally released and he tapped it on the floor to shake the water off. Doing a double take, her jaw dropped slightly. Recovering, she stammered, "Good morning Mister Azrael. I'm surprised to see you, I thought you would be..." he held up his hand and cut her off.

"Yes I know," interjecting. "I had to do something. It's too depressing sitting idle at home. We have no children or family close by... you understand?" He was trying to calm her being startled by his returning to work in less than a week after the death of his wife in the Delta crash.

"Yes, Mister Azrael, perhaps work will help ease your mind... you have friends here," while silently concluding to herself. "What a strange bird, I'd be far, far away from this place."

Syed hurried through the long hallway which surrounded a massive interior work space where many brands of commercial jets were inspected, tested and retrofitted if necessary on a regular basis. By walking around the work area he was able to bypass many other clucking, sympathetic lip servers. As far as he was concerned, his loss was his own private business and he was dealing with it just fine. He closed his small office's door where he had a desk, several large storage cabinets which were filled with guidance systems specifications for most major airline lines and test equipment. "Ah, peace and quiet. Perhaps I'll poke my head out at lunch time to deal with my condescending coworkers who have always disliked me." He pressed the office com for the receptionist he had hastened by. "Yvonne, Azrael here. Would you do me a personal favor and not tell anyone I'm in please? I need a little time to adjust. I'll see them later. Except for the boss if he happens to call, patch him through."

"Certainly, Mister Azrael. If there's anything else I can do to help, please let me know."

"Thank you so much Yvonne. Although you've only been here a short time you've been so helpful," in the sweetest, most syrupy voice he could muster. He imagined, "In a few months after things have cooled down, I can think of a number of things you could do for me." He removed his jacket and when he tossed it over an adjacent chair the corner of a business card popped out of a lower pocket. Spying it he said, "Oh yes, now there's that other little matter to attend to." He extracted it and flipped it over in his thin fingers while reflecting on the key points of the Ambulance Chaser's proposition. Syed had been caught quite off guard yesterday afternoon when the fellow came to his house offering his services. "How did he get my name so quickly? But, I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later." He propped up his feet, leaned back and put his hands behind his balding head. "Time to put on the old thinking cap." He then removed his glasses and closed his eyes. "The man guaranteed me a million dollars, up front, fast and tax free. However, he would get a piece of it too. Yes, it would be a quick fix but Delta will have to eventually submit their own settlement too. Do I take the fast cash or wait for possibly more later? I didn't disclosure my ace in the hole to him, actually two aces in the hole. The fact the bitch was pregnant will pull in another million easy. They'll never be able to determine that the baby wasn't really mine. They wouldn't even try. The lawyers would bury them for years for every piece of nitpicking shit to make an extra buck. Lawyers – thieves, the same word. I'm sure that asshole Victor Butler who knocked her up will keep his mouth shut. Then, you add the sympathy factor of my only to-be child being ripped away from me. Tears will flow and Delta will be begging me to accept three mil. And, I wouldn't have to lose a dime to that unscrupulous Ambulance Chaser. I think I'll wait it out, it can only get better"

"Yes, I'm going to take it one step at a time, carefully. No more accidents, like when I tagged that black teenager on I-95. The cops lied through their teeth. They had their own Accident Reconstruction so-called experts backing them up. And the press, they made that kid out as if he was some kind of All-American hero. As usual, they were trying to stir up the black community to get more tv face time and sell newspapers. That punk was rotten to the core. It was only a matter of time until one of his own gangsta bro's took him out."

Azrael decided he really didn't want to be at work, his brain was overloaded with questions and uncertainties. He told Yvonne he may return next Monday or possibly consider taking a couple weeks of vacation. He'll let her know and would be thinking of her kindness... and to credit him for two hours worked today on the payroll.

It had stopped raining and he didn't have to race back to his white Ford Econoline van as he had to do this morning. Normally, a good sign except an unsettling thought kept creeping through his head as he drove home. "What if that prick Butler tries to make trouble? Would he try to cut in on my money? I don't know what his financial situation is. That asshole could cost me two million dollars! He has to be stopped before he falsely soils my beloved wife's reputation and jeopardizes my employment. Besides, he sorely needs to pay retribution for his immoral conduct." He smiled, "Praise Allah for giving me this peace and clarity.

Yvonne had instructed the company's internal mail courier to stop by Azrael's office to deliver his current and past mail which had been on hold. The man dumped it into the employee's 'in tray' sitting on a desk which was labeled: Syed Azrael: Electronic Systems Technician.

# Chapter Seven: The Search is on

Jeff Hodges sat in his recliner staring dejectedly at the purveyor of death and destruction - the six o'clock evening news. He hadn't returned to work as yet and his A.T.C supervisor, Mister Ralston had recently called to see how he was doing. He gave him the day off after the crash then granted Jeff a week's vacation at his own request. "When that's up I'll call in sick, I got plenty of 'sick time' saved up. Then I'll turn in my retirement papers and get paid for the rest of my unused vacation. I'm never going back to work. I know I'd have a f'ing heart attack if I took even just a peek out that damn window to the west. I've got enough problems already without falling dead on the tower floor. Perhaps I'll go visit my daughter and her family in Trenton for a while. It'll be good to see the grandkids again and get away from this unbearable south Florida summer heat. Hell, I may decide move up there. After all, I got nobody down here and this condo was only a place to hang my hat when working. My old friend at Century 21 should be able to sell this puppy quick. Yeah, I think I'm gonna do it! I don't give a damn what the price is. I have to get away from this fucking airport!"

The television continued its parade of gloom... "two hundred and fifty-seven passengers plus six crew members were killed in the crash. And, possibly a dozen more yet unaccounted for who may have been shopping or working in the crushed warehouses. And, there was even more deadly collateral damage," announced the commentator. "A driver headed south on I-95 apparently saw the plane's crash a mere few blocks off to his right and lost control of his vehicle. According to witnesses, his car careened over an overpass wall and landed upside-down on the crossing street underneath. The driver and his two passengers were killed immediately. Their names are being withheld pending family notifications. In addition, Josif Satinosky, the husband of one of the Delta passengers, Olga Satinosky, had a stroke and subsequently passed away an hour after receiving the tragic news."

Which provoked Jeff to comment, "I'm sure the network's rating service was more than just pleased regarding those last two items. More fuel for to fire."

"And now for a live feed from our Eye in the Sky," announced the happy commentator. The camera panned the site showing the National Guard and various work crews for around fifteen seconds then switched back to the newsroom to report the usual collection of local crime such as tourists being mugged.

"Ah ha, here's a new twist," stated Hodges. "A Cuban Mig fighter jet, piloted by a defector, has landed at the Homestead Air Force base. It appears he flew in undetected and unchallenged. Ain't that a kick in the ass? What's to say those Commie's won't send a couple more loaded with atom bombs next time? One thing for sure, that base commander will never see _that_ day. His career is o-ver."

Rounding out the cheerless presentation: Black community leaders are demanding action regarding what they deem was a callous, racially motivated murder of a black youth. They are alleging that Elroy Glover, age eighteen, had been wantonly run down on I-95 while apparently checking his car for a problem solely because he was an African-American and vulnerable. His uncle, the owner of Liberty City Supermarket is offering a reward and some big shot in the N.A.A.C.P. has proposed initiating a scholarship fund in his name to Florida State University where the young man was to attend this upcoming semester. Jeff surmised, "Good for the scholarship, Bad for the reason. And, how did they come up with this scholarship idea so fast? Is someone trying to stoke up trouble... or make a name for themselves? Probably another damn politician." He popped the top off another Bud Lite, "Yes sir, I've had enough of this big city misery. I'm moving outta here right after the N.T.S.B. investigation. I hope I get to testify to my buddy, Mike Stockley's outstanding character. Fuck south Florida."

Wayne knocked on the door frame of the office labeled Public Relations. The man inside glanced up from his daily crossword puzzle. "Hey, Wayne. You found me," greeted Gary Taylor. "Welcome to my _little_ slice of Paradise," referring to the tiny room consisting of a beat-up desk, his half broken rolling chair and two scarred, wooden chairs facing him. An ancient, rusty file cabinet was the only other piece of furniture in the office. "Pull up a seat and take a load off. Be careful, the one on the right has a wobbly leg."

Wayne looked around and thought, "Gary was right. This is the bottom of the pit." He asked, "Did this used to be maintenance closet?"

"No, it was for storage, there's no sink." Moving on, "Hey, I tried to call you a couple of times but whoever was answering said they didn't know a Wayne Atkins. I figured I had the wrong extension. And, as you can see I've been much too busy to get away," making a joke. "So, how's it in the fast and furious Mail Fraud Department my friend?"

"I wouldn't know," he answered. "As soon as I checked in I got a call from Wilma Redman advising that I was being 'loaned' to the Delta Crash Task Force on the seventh floor."

"No shit!" returned Gary. "I heard they've taken up the whole floor. There must be thirty agents with a support staff. And, it's being overseen by some big shot out of Washington."

"That's true," agreed Atkins. Actually, there are forty agents assigned and more coming. My part is that I'm acting as an aide for the Bureau's Deputy Director of the East Coast, Allen Flagstaff attending the N.T.S.B. meetings and acting as his liaison with our task force. Do you know him?"

Taylor shook his head, 'no'. "Way to go for you, Buddy. It appears that your stint in Naval Intelligence is paying off. I believe your days in 'Mail' are have come to an end and you'll be getting a real assignments with some meat on them. I hope you remember me lingering here in the pits."

"Don't worry I, won't forget you Gary. In fact that's why I'm here, to pick your brain. Have you ever sat in on one of these Board meetings?" Taylor's spirit immediately picked up, then responded again 'no'. "It doesn't matter, I like your way of thinking." He then proceeded to relay everything he could remember regarding the meeting. Atkins was confident. It had always been permissible to discuss such details with other agents and officially cleared persons within the Bureau. Before leaving he gave Gary the blue booklet from the meeting and said, "I've already read it and will need it back before the next meeting. Check it out and if you pick up anything odd give me a call and I'll come down and we'll talk it over.

Gary inputted his number in his smartphone and answered, "Got it, Buddy." He seemed truly appreciative.

As Atkins left he noticed a sign to the right of Taylor's office entrance. It read 'Public Restrooms' with a faint arrow pointed down the hallway. He smiled, "The man had been correct again. Public Relations, The Liar's Club and Public Restrooms, all one in the same."

Carlos and his wife were seated at their dining table tucked in a side of the kitchen having a traditional Spanish dinner of arróz con pollo, yucca y plantains. Felicia was an excellent cook even at her young and tender age of twenty-one. Unusual it would be today for an America city woman to be so proficient - not so for those raised in the Olde Latino customs. Traditionally, their young girls learned cooking early from Mama and Abuela and by the time they were Felicia's age they had already accrued fifteen years of experience. Interwoven aromas of garlic, saffron, oil and other seasonings filled their small Hollywood apartment. It drifted outside where an occasional passerby would turn their head in delight and reminisce about their Homeland, Cuba.

"Carlos, mí amor, you haven't said much about your new assignment with the detective, Hanson és his nombre? Si?" as she scooped out the chicken and yellow rice from a pot onto his plate – an old Spanish custom of the woman serving the man. És everything okay?"

"I think so," answered her husband. "We're sitting in and providing security for the National Transportation and Safety Board's meeting on the crash of Delta flight 1705... and anything else they may want us to do."

"Bueno! That sounds _muy_ important," she gushed. "I'm so proud of you, as usual," and kissed the side of his face. "Afterwards we kind of hang around the crash site searching and helping the National Guard. Sometimes we visit other police departments to see what they are doing. Mostly, we drive around a lot while Detective Hanson talks about everything in the world except organized crime and terrorism." He omitted the man wanting to go cruising and look for spicy ladies. Hanson wore his usual jacket and tie and Carlos had on his uniform which put a damper on his partner's personal side aspirations. But even so, he was learning a lot and grateful for the opportunity to be with the man. He also didn't tell Felicia about the body parts he occasionally had to pick up; that would really kill dinner. He merely said the man had a lot of valuable information and experience... and an unusual sense of humor.

"It all sounds wonderful Carlos, so much for you in only a few days."

"Oh, it will get a lot better when I finally get to tell you what's being said in the meeting," stated her husband. "It's a big secret now and everything's being treated similar to a hushed-up court trial. You won't _believe_ who are some of the people there. I feel as if I'm in a secret agent movie production. I can't wait to share it with you."

"Ooh, m? esposa, my Carlos, a big movie star. So sexy," she teased.

"Yep, that's me, sexy and hungry," he playfully agreed. "And while I'm at it, I have to say this dinner looks and smells absolutely delicious. It has everything, thank you so much my Bonita." He glanced around searching for the traditional desert, a flan would be perfect. "Not to get ahead of myself my love, but what's for dessert?"

"Me," she giggled.

They both grinned like a couple of children sharing a hot fudge sundae with a cherry on top. He said, "In that case I better have an extra scoop. I'm a growing boy, already."

"Can you believe this?" asked Detective Hanson of Deputy Lopez. The Davie Police has been scouring this crash site for three days." Hanson and Lopez were also on site but assisting solely with perimeter security and were not involved in searching anymore. "They must be using over a hundred people. I've seen officers, service aides, their entire volunteer assistance force and a few off-duty firemen. This is very similar to a missing child search. Why weren't the other Broward County agencies called in and I wonder who's responsible for this explosion of manpower which has to be using massive amounts of their town's financial resources. And personally, if I were a Davie home owner I would say to myself: If everyone's here then who's the hell is patrolling and safeguarding the rest of the town? What are they looking for and why?"

"Carlos reasoned, "Why don't we pull over a couple of their volunteers aside and ask them? They're the type of people who would gladly talk to any police agency."

"Great idea kid," responded Hanson. "I see an older couple over there," pointing to the south perimeter. "Let's go and strike up a friendly-type conversation."

They sauntered over to an older couple in their early eighties – members of their town's volunteer group. "Good afternoon folks. I'm Detective Hanson and this is Deputy Lopez, we're from the Broward Sheriff's Office. How are you today? Nice to see to you helping out."

"We're okay," the man answered.

"My legs are tired and it's too hot," complained his wife. "We're too old this kind of stuff."

"I know Dear but think of the prize... and, they said this would be the last day," reassured the husband. "We'll get in the hot tub as soon as we get back to the condo."

"If I don't have a stroke first," she muttered. "Never again, Harvey. In fact, I think we should un-volunteer ourselves if this is what they expect of us. If we get lucky and win the prize we won't be able to use it. We'll be in the Hospital! Or dead!"

"The prize?" repeated Hanson. "You're spending all this time out here to win a prize? And what might that be? It must be awful good."

"Oh, it is, it is," declared the husband.

"Only if we live long enough to use it" she moaned.

He grunted then explained, "It's a three day Bahamas' Cruise for two. It's on Carnival out of the Port of Miami!"

"For whoever spends the most time out here walking around? Cleaning up?" inquired Carlos.

"No, you silly goose," laughed the old man. "The police told us that all the messy stuff has been taken away for processing and the area is safe. The prize is for whoever finds the flight recorder!"

"The flight recorder?" repeated Hanson? "You'll win a cruise if you find the flight recorder?"

"Yes!" they chorused.

Hanson turned to Lopez and whispered, "That's a new one on me partner." He turned back to the couple and said, "Yes indeed, that's quite an incentive. I'd do it myself if I weren't already on the job," giving them a condescending, toothy grin. "And, who might be responsible for this nifty idea?"

"Why Chief Blackburn of course," the wife gushed. "He and our Mayor are always looking out for the residents of Davie. We are so lucky to have them."

"Yes indeed you are," fallaciously agreed Hanson. "Well, it has certainly been nice talking with you but we have to be moving on now. Police work you know," while mimicking the tipping of his hat. "Have a nice day and good luck hunting," as they strolled away.

"That sure was thoughtful of Chief Blackburn," noted Lopez.

"Are you kidding?" retorted the detective. "Take a look around, there's been at least a hundred people out here every day. That recorder's not to be found. If one of these volunteers accidently stumbled upon it, it would be a pure miracle. I doubt if any of these old folks know what one even looks like. No, I think Blackburn's playing this card for show. Remember what I said in the meeting about someone else could have picked it up? Probably a worker or a customer is my guess. I don't believe that ridiculous story the C.I.A. cooked up about enemy agents waiting for a plane traveling 400 hundred miles an hour to crash on top of them then grab and go. That's down right stupid... unless the C.I.A is deliberately trying to be misleading. Trust nothing the government tells you, son. They've got their own agenda."

His cell phone rang, it was his commanding officer. He listened for a minute, then said "Sure and yes sir," then hung up. "We have a new assignment Lopez. I'll explain on the way. As they were travelling Hanson explained, "That was my boss. He said some pawn shop owner in Dania Beach called in on our non-emergency line reporting he may have bought some suspicious jewelry. The boss wanted to know if we were still in the vicinity and if so to drop by and check it out. Which is very fine with me. I don't know about you kid, but I've had enough of stomping around in these weeds and rubble. He's at the Airways Pawn Shop. Do you know it?"

Carlos answered, "Yes, it's at the intersection of U.S.1 and Dania Beach Boulevard. It's within my usually assigned patrol section and I know the proprietor."

"Great, we'll be in and out then come back and make some more easy Overtime money.

'Ding', rang the doorbell as they entered the typically built 1950's store for that area. "Being in Dania is as if the clock had been turned back sixty years," noted Hanson. "I suits me just fine."

The owner came from the back and made his appearance behind a bulletproof window with a small cash-pass tray at its bottom. "Hey, fellows, that was fast," then came around and stood behind a waist high glass showcase filled with rings and other pawned low-cost jewelry. "Lopez?" reading the young man's name tag. We've met before, right?"

"Yes, sir and this is my partner Detective Hanson," answered Carlos.

"Pleased to meet you," as he extended his hand. "I'm Doug, the owner, cook and bottle washer," making a bar type joke. "There's probably nothing to this but I wanted to pass it along... in case it actually does mean something. I don't want to be charged later for hiding something important, understand? I'll be right back, I've have the items separated in a cloth bag."

"This could be interesting," mused Hanson. "But it's probably a bag of junk. I used to work Pawn a dozen years ago. Most of these guys are ex-cons and trying to stay on the right side of the law. I give them credit for that. Not so for the ones who try to get by making a few extra, shady bucks and eventually get caught. They lose their license and their business. Trust me kid, it ain't worth it."

Doug returned in a flash and poured the items out on a napkin on the counter. There were two watches: a man's and a silver-banded women's, both valued less than two hundred dollars. Three rings, again of no consequence. But wait, there sat a gold chain necklace with an Infinity Loop on the end. Hanson held it up to the light.

"Yep, that's the real deal," stated Doug. "A beautiful, eighteen carat, genuine gold necklace with an attached custom made Infinity Loop. Gotta be eight to nine hundred dollars, minimum. Probably more, I'd have to check with a buddy of mine, a jeweler. It's something else, right?" Now, Hanson was really interested. "But that's not why I called you. I was ready to clean them up and place them in this display case except the necklace. It goes in a more secure, reinforced glass showcase. Before I wash and put a little glycerol on to make them shiny, I examine each article with my jeweler's eye piece to detect nicks which would devalue the article. That's when I discovered this!" He placed a magnifying glass on the counter. "You don't need a jeweler's eye to see it. "Take a look at the silver watch and the gold necklace."

Hanson scanned both with the magnifying glass. "I'm not sure what I'm looking for," then handled the tool to Lopez who didn't notice anything either.

"Well, okay fellows. First, the watch. Examine the connection between the band and the watch casing," directed the shop owner. "See that teeny bit of brown gunk? Now look where these two links are connected in the necklace," as he pointed to them with a pencil. Both police officers appeared puzzled. "That my friends is dried blood," which prompted his two visitors to taken a second and third inspection. "Someone tried to clean them up but missed some spots. I know you'll send them to the lab but I guarantee you that's blood. I've seen it too many times," he concluded.

"I believe you," said Hanson. "But now you know we have to take everything here in for lab tests and cross referencing in the computer to see if they're connected to a crime. If nothing comes up you'll get them back. It could be a while, as much as up to a year."

"I know the drill," returned Doug. "As long as I get a receipt. And, if they are connected you'll send me the state reimbursement tax form so I can file for the co-op business loss?"

"For sure, and if it turns out to be involved in a criminal action and you haven't received your form then give me a call and I'll personally get it to you," as the detective handed him his card. Doug nodded agreement. "Which next brings us to: How did you acquire these articles?"

The owner then opened his daily transactions log to the date of purchase. "Why how about that," showing it to them. "It was only one day after that Delta jet crash in the Davie industrial park. I'll never forget it." He paused a moment lost in thought then continued, "There were these two guys who came in that morning. I figured they were homeless since they were pushing a grocery cart filled with their worldly possessions. They were grubby, thin and wearing the usual hobo street clothes. I hadn't seen them before. They both had the state issued Id-Only cards generated by the Census Bureau from many years ago. I don't think they had the means to buy upgraded fakes. I recorded their names," and showed them to Hanson who made a note. They called themselves Hutch and Slim. See, I wrote it in the margin." Carlos's eyes lit up but decided to remain silent until he and his partner got outside. They said they found the jewelry beachcombing in the sand on Dania beach. Which is another reason I decided to give you a call. The city's Beach Patrol doesn't allow their type to linger around there, it scares off the tourists. And, the resident's don't appreciate their panhandling either. "I gave them the standard scale of twenty percent with the required thirty day guaranteed buyback declaration and sent them on their way. They were happy as pigs in shit."

"Do you know where they went?" asked Hanson.

Doug laughed, "Yeah, they said they were going to McDonalds to celebrate, then I figured probably to the liquor store so they could stock up to get good and drunk that night."

"Did they mention where else they'd been or anywhere where else they may go?"

The owner thought, "No-o. Oh, I think one of them mentioned something about a junk yard. There's one roughly six blocks to the north of here. I don't recall its name."

Carlos jumped in, "I know it."

"Okay then, I think we're about done here," said Hanson. "Thanks for calling in, sir. Give me a call if you can think of anything else," and handed him his card.

The partners walked back toward their car. "Okay kid, take us to the junk yard."

"Yes, sir, returned Lopez. "That'll be the Mo' money for U yard. But first, I may have a several important things to tell you." Officer Lopez described his encounter with Hutch and Slim at the industrial park the day of the crash. "They could have had stolen items in their cart. I didn't search it." Appearing dejected, he confessed, "That's my fault, I thought they were Innocents just spending the weekend nights searching for scraps and sleeping by the dumpsters."

Hanson asked him if he had made out an Incident report. Head hung, Carlos shook his head, No. "Hum'm, it's not the end of the world, yet. I hold your alleged 'Training officer' partially responsible for this omission. But, you're not off the hook. "Incidents' are the backbone of field reporting. Number one: Fill them out and keep them in your briefcase even if you don't turn them in. Sometimes they could be very valuable months or _years_ later. It's far better to overwrite than not make a note at all. Second: You've got to use a little common sense to protect your job, especially since you're still a rookie. You could have been written-up for this. Remember your stolen car report earlier? These errors add up fast and suddenly you could be turning in your badge and walking out the door. Especially, if some prosecutor gets his case tossed out of court because of your bad paperwork. Understand, kid?"

Carlos seemed as if he'd been beaten with a stick. "I'm sorry sir," he stuttered. "I'll try to do better."

"You _will_ do better. I'll make sure of it! And, number three: When you're being dressed-down, you stand tall with your chin and chest out. It's a sign of respect to the speaker. You obviously have not been in the military." Hanson waited for it to sink in. "That being said, let's not go any further on this subject at this time. I'm not going to report you. I _am_ going to request you be assigned to me for at least an six additional weeks. You need more _real_ training. After that, you're on your own. Agreed?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir." Lopez reflected, "There won't be any more cutie calls home. He's going to show me the correct way to be a police officer." They then drove to the junk yard.

"Good day gentlemen," hailed Tony, the owner, upon seeing Hanson's coat and tie and Lopez's police uniform. "How may I help you? I'd venture a guess you're probably not here to buy replacement engine parts."

"Nope, not this time," answered Hanson. "We were told by the pawn shop owner down the street that you may have been visited by a couple of homeless guys during the week."

"Homeless guys selling scrap? See em all the time," he answered. "They usually don't have anything of value. Maybe a bag of tin cans or a hubcap or two they found on U.S.1. I give them a couple of bucks and send them on their way. I don't want them hanging around, it's bad for business."

"I see," returned the detective. "Do you have a transaction log we can check out?"

"Sure, but you won't find anyone like that in it. State law says I don't have to record any transactions under a hundred dollars. If I did my bookkeeper would fire me in a heartbeat," assured the owner.

"He's right," said Hanson to Lopez. "That kind of paperwork would be a nightmare. Sorta similar to my working in Auto Theft, a.k.a. Paperwork Hell." He returned to the owner, "They may have been here the day after that Delta crash over in Davie."

"That plane crash?" repeated Tony. "Whoa, that sure scared the hell outta me! I live out back in direct line of the landing path. Had that plane stayed up a half a minute more I would have been nothing but a red and brown smear on the ground."

"Lucky for you sir," offered Carlos.

"Yeah, lucky I must be," agreed Tony. "Why only a few days ago I was telling a couple of guys about how the Devil protects his sinners 'cause I didn't get squashed. Hey, since that was the day after the crash... could they be the two fellows you're after?"

"Maybe," responded Hanson. "They went by the names of Hutch and Slim. Sound familiar?"

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed. "They stuck in my mind because of the stuff they were dumping. A bunch of _good_ tools which have never been used, that's unusual. Most of the stuff the Homeless bring in is street kill, bottom of the barrel junk."

"Would you happen to have an inventory of what you bought?"

Getting a bit irritated he snapped, "I told you I don't have to declare the small shit. I think their crap made a grand total of about ten bucks and I don't know where it's stashed around here at the moment. You're welcome to search the place, if you get a warrant."

Hanson ignored the warrant crack and continued, "Did they attempt to sell or did you buy anything of an unusual nature?"

"Okay, gentlemen. Let's call it a draw. I think it's time you went out and found some _real_ bad men. Have a blessed day and don't let the door hit you in the ass."

"The door hit you in the ass?" repeated Hanson. Speaking to Lopez while staring the owner directly in the eye, the detective said, "That doesn't sound very hospitable to me... you are speaking to a police officer sworn to serve and protect the people of this county. How about you?" to which his partner agreed.

The owner realized his error right away, "Yeah, yeah you're right. I'm sorry," he returned. "Believe it or not, I _am_ a little busy, but you guys can look around all you want. I'll be out back if you need me. Okay? Again, sorry fellows. Have at it," as he departed.

After the man left Hanson said, "Let's have check around."

Carlos asked, "What are we searching for? The flight recorder? What does it look like? Do you think it could be here?"

"No, it's probably not," answered Hanson. "But I'm beginning to suspect _somebody_ picked the damn thing up for who knows why! Let's do a quick walk-about in his store room and move on. Junk yards are not one of my favorite places. They're known for 'dead bodies' and chemicals that ruin your clothes – not to mention the smell. Lead the way, kid."

Carlos passed through the propped open doorway to the rear, a large non-air conditioned storage room. Hanson, following close behind holding a flashlight, glanced down and stopped. "Hold up kid. What kind of doorstop do we have here?" He put his foot against the door to hold it open then picked up an orange colored tool box. He carried it back to the counter for inspection. The first thing he noticed was that it was relatively clean. He wondered aloud, "A tool box on the floor of a junk yard with no dust on it? I think not, or it must have been recently placed there." It had a combination lock built into its lid. "Hum,m." He flipped it over – bottom's up and inspected an inch round hole with dozens of broken off wires going inside.

Carlos asked, "What is it? It seems to be part of a homemade alarm system monitor or a busted-up control unit package to me."

Hanson smiled and answered, "That's a pretty good guess, kid. However, you're close but no cigar. This my friend is the famous, missing black box from the Delta flight. I'd bet my pension on it. Those two bums probably thought it was a tool box. Oh, and by the way, f.y.i, the black-colored boxes were changed to orange a long time ago so they'd be easier to find." He snickered then questioned, "I wonder if Chief Blackburn, the hero of Davie, is going to award us a cruise!"

The owner, Tony came back in just as the detective was putting it under his arm. "Hey there, you can't take that. It's a piece of junk... but even so, I paid good money for it."

"You don't say," returned Hanson while scowling. "And now all of a sudden it's your family heirloom? Whatta pay for it?"

Tony appeared a bit uneasy and returned, "Four dollars." Hanson stared him down. "Well, maybe it could have been two... two U.S. dollars."

Hanson handed the precious recorder to Lopez, took a five out of his wallet and flipped it on the counter. "Consider this your second lucky day, sir." As the pair left, he said, "Now, we'll go and give this puppy to the people at the F.A.A. I'm not getting a warm and fuzzy feeling from that N.T.S.B guy, Oswald."

# Chapter Eight: Say what?

The flight recorder was immediately shipped to the C.I.A.'s Star Wars electronics analysis center in Langley, Virginia where technicians and data specialists from the F.A.A, N.S.A. D.H.S. and the unit's manufacturer attempted to recover and decipher its information.

"Beep, beep, beep, chimed Clarence Oswald's phone. It was a call from his secretary at the office. "Hello, Inspector Oswald here."

She knowing the sound of a cell phone being used on the road said, "Oh, weren't you supposed to be in the AMTRAK meeting twenty minutes ago?"

"The Brickell Avenue drawbridge has been stuck in an up position again," he explained. "I called them, they'll wait for me."

"Oh, dear," she remarked. "I wish they'd fix that thing. It seems to happen every week."

"Indeed," he agreed. "What's up?"

"Two messages sir. Both within the last ten minutes. The first was from the Hollywood National Guard Commander, Lieutenant Sykes. I forwarded you his text. The second was a call from your boss, Mister Nelson in Atlanta. Both want to be called a.s.a.p."

"Of course they do. Thank you, I'll take care of them right away." He thought, "Okay folks, first come first served." He pulled off the side of the road for safety and called the Guard Commander who wanted to know if Oswald had known in advance of the military mixed unit who stormed the crash site with globs of test equipment. Who were they? What were they after? Who authorized it and why hadn't _he_ notified? Oswald said he knew nothing about it and suggested he speak to someone in the M-i-l-i-t-a-r-y. "Bub-bye." Wet-nosed kids out of college responsible for our nation's defense? Perhaps his next call to Nelson would shed some light on several items of confusion.

"Nelson speaking," answered a gruff voice. Oswald identified himself. "At least you aren't out playing golf... or are you?"

"Er, no sir," answered his subordinate. "I have neither the time nor the money. He laughed, "That's a rich man's game."

"I play golf and I get a lot of important things accomplished in doing so," asserted Nelson. "In fact, I hammered out several issues regarding railroad crossing safety with the Secretary of Transportation last week." Oswald developed a lump in his throat. "But that's not why I called you. As you are aware, or at least I think you know that the Delta flight recorder is in the C.I.A.'s lab and being deciphered as we speak. There was some damage to it but they think they can retrieve enough of the data to support an official statement of the cause. My first concern is that the device had been found and turned in to the F.A.A by someone else. Not you. Our agency is supposed to be in the lead, the controller of _every_ facet of this investigation at your end. Didn't you make that clear to the participants of the first meeting? You have given us a black eye. Me, a black eye. That little White House staff prick there implied our Board was inefficient and slowing up the process." Oswald was beginning to sweat. "So, this is how it's going to play out. I personally have heard enough of the recording, even though it's fragmented, to conclude it was deliberately caused by the Delta pilot, not outside factions. And, I need you to make that announcement during your second meeting in three days."

"What?" Oswald stuttered. "They've only had the recording for _one_ day and it arrived damaged. How is such a finding possible so fast? Yes, I agreed if a rocket had shot it down it would be an easy call but I was under the impression it was caused by something else." He waited for a response.

"Are you questioning my judgement... or authority?"

"Of course not sir," he returned. "But, I really don't feel I can say with any degree of certainty it was pilot generated without at least reviewing, hearing or reading a printed copy of the recorder's data myself."

"I see," said Nelson. "You apparently need to understand that this Board and I shall not be subjected to any more political cheap shots which tarnishes our reputation. It seems you have lost sight of a few key, serious articles regarding your condition of employment. Need you be reminded of the basic doctrine, 'You' work for 'me'? Therefore, I'm not asking what you think you should do, I'm telling you what you're going to do. Let's put it this way, someone in the near future is going to be on the evening news presenting the N.T.S.B.'s official findings. Will it be you or will you watching it on tv as you prepare your future job application résumé?"

Oswald, always confident and in control, never having been chastised like that before stammered, "Uh, er, well, ah. Yes, yes it will be me. You can depend on it sir. I'll declare the official Cause to be Pilot generated"

"Good, and keep it concise," accepted his boss. "State that the Board will follow up with credible and tangible material to prove true its decision in a few days. Do not answer any questions. Advise that all will be explained to their satisfaction at that time. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, sir." Embarrassed and uncomfortable, he imagined all the passing motorists were staring at his vulnerability. He sought another question, "If I may, would you please tell me why we're making these procedural deviations so quickly? Off the record, between you and me. I've never released information in this matter before."

"And, you've never been involved in an incident of this magnitude either," retorted Nelson. "There are many other factors in play here." Oswald envisioned the wheels turning in Nelson's head. "Very well, Clarence, all I can or will say, is that it's from the Top. Something to do with economics, the airline industry, maybe national security or some other such bologna. I'm not high enough in the food chain to be in the loop with the White House or the other big boys around here. Understand? However, one thing I have been advised of is that these procedures won't have any bearing on the individual personal injury law suits. The relatives of the deceased parties' shall receive fair, unbiased and expedited settlements. The Attorney General's office will devise a scale of payouts based on the standard weights of determination similar in structure to an armed forces member being killed. No outside litigation will be permitted. I think it falls under a National Catastrophe tenet I'm not familiar with." He took a breath then continued. "That's all I know and now I'm passing it on you, threats and all."

Oswald decided to chance another question, "Do you have any knowledge regarding that military group who swooped down on the site gathering samples?"

After a short pause he answered, "Yes, that was done under the authority of the E.P.A."

Clarence almost laughed but checked himself. "Since when does the E.P.A. carry machine guns and sweep in and out as if they were a bunch of commandos? Were they testing for radioactivity, chemical weapons... W.M.D's?"

"No, they weren't," stated the Board's Assistant Director. "That's enough questions. You have more than you need to know. And, I strongly advise you to pretend you never knew those E.P.A. people existed."

"It's too late for that sir," returned the befuddled investigator. "I've got a National Guard commander on my back wanting to know who and why they were there without his knowledge. He's suspects I had prior knowledge they were coming to the crash site, which I didn't."

"Very well, as I said before, tell him they were from the E.P.A. doing a routine check for toxic chemical spill," Nelson directed.

"Chemical spill?" mumbled Clarence while thinking 'What a crock'.

"Just say it," ordered his boss. "And if he persists, tell him to follow _his_ chain of command. Period." Then with finality, "I'll be watching you on the evening news, maybe. Good day."

The Investigator-in-charge rescheduled the AMTRAK meeting then headed back to his office to do Washington's bidding, knowing his boss was hiding a whole lot of something. He reviewed, "He said it came from the top. Which top? There are many tops in Washington. This has been one of the worst disasters in American transportation history and they're trying to hide the details? What's the point? Many things could have been the cause and they made a determination in less than one day? A cover-up is a cover-up anyway you cut it. Absurd!" His voice trailed off, "Unless... the plane had been bombed or shot down by terrorists and they're trying to stifle a panic."

"Anyone ready for lunch?" said Victor Butler while poking his head out his office door." It was quarter to twelve and both Patty and Joan were still there. He had just gotten off the phone with his good friend, Frank Russo who still had his longtime, Bahama Mama mistress. They had been discussing strategy of what Vic could do to score with Patty. So he led out with, "My treat today ladies. I figured we'd step out to that little café down the street, Ciro's. You know the one with the great bread sticks, nothing fancy. The women exchanged glances and shrugged a, Why not? Vic grinned then said, "Oh, one thing Joan, you have that inventory summary ready for me don't you? I need it for a two o'clock call."

"Oh, no Mister Butler," she answered. "I thought you said it was due tomorrow morning."

"No, don't you remember the change in plans? I need it no later than one-thirty today to check it over. Patty, what happened?" who responded she didn't know of the change either. He faked distress, "Oh, crap. I must have forgotten to tell either of you. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry Mister Butler, I'll get right on it. I brought my lunch anyway. You'll have it _before_ one-thirty."

"Thank you so much," he gushed. "You're a jewel." He frowned, "It appears our lunch date is a wash. Sorry, ladies."

"Oh, no, exclaimed Joan. "You two go ahead. Besides, Patty actually forgot her lunch today," which he had already figured when he didn't see her lunch box in the employee's lounge refrigerator. "I'll eat at my desk, no problem."

He turned to Patty and offered, "Shall we?" and she consented. As they were leaving he said, "I owe you a lunch, Joan. How about you and I next week?"

"That'll be fine. Let me know the day before so I won't bring one in."

The café was less than two blocks away and since the normal afternoon rain shower shouldn't occur for another three hours they elected to walk. Vic was quite pleased with himself thinking, "Frank's suggestions went perfect. I deliberately didn't tell either of them of the conference call change. I had to split the two up so I could take Patty to lunch for a one on one. I knew if I asked her directly she'd refuse. My buddy, Frank correctly stated I couldn't be effective with Joan sitting on her shoulder. Yes sir, old boy you still got game and a good coach."

They chatted about nothing in particular and arrived shortly at the eatery. A lady, the owner, escorted them to a small booth in the no smoking section. "This is nice and it's quiet too," remarked Butler. "We can split a pizza if you prefer," he suggested. "If that doesn't appeal to you I can recommend the pasta fagioli soup or if you're not into Italian the B.L.T.s here are excellent."

After reading the lunch menu she said, "I'd like a cup of chicken noodle soup and a side salad if that's all right with you."

"A cheap date," snorted Vic. "Whatever, Honey." He then ordered for himself a hot meatball sub with extra garlic and a tall, frosty mug of draft beer.

"Thank you, Mister Butler." Trying to be cordial she asked, "Do you eat here often?"

"No, and I really prefer you and Joan call me Vic or Victor." He shook his head, "Unfortunately, calling me Mister Butler is a habit I've never been able to break Joan of. Even after all these years of working together, her and I. And, at one time we were much closer. Very close." He reached across the table and seized her hand and said, "And, we could be also." Batting his eyelids, with a sly grin he continued, "Like we should be."

Patty snatched her hand away and placed them in her lap. Sitting ridged, but not caught completely off guard, she pronounced, "Let's keeps everything on a business only basis Mister Butler."

Rebuffed, his mood changed abruptly. "Are you aware that you could enhance your career and improve your finances if you would act a little friendlier towards me? No one would have to know. As I explained previously, Joan has done quite well by it. You see, I'm a man who doesn't forget the 'favors' given him. There's a nice little motel close by, we could take an extended lunch hour." Before she could reply, "And, if it works out as well as I think it will, I've got a working weekend conference scheduled in Jacksonville in two weeks from Saturday. We could drive up there together on Friday and _really_ get to know each other..."

"I said, no!" as the veins in her neck popped out. A few nearby diners glanced their way.

"That was rather uncalled for," retorted her boss. "Get a hold of yourself woman. It's not a lifelong commitment or anything, just a little work place stress management. Fun among friends. Everybody does it."

"Well I don't!" She then rose up, threw her napkin on the table and stormed out the restaurant and back to the office.

"Joan, why didn't you warn me!" as she began gathering up her personal items about her desk.

Her coworker was taken aback. "Warn you of what?"

"He's still a disgusting leech. It was a trap. He tried to get me to go to a motel and then on a trip!" howled Patty. "He talked about extra money and career advancement... and passed it off as if it was nothing at all. Everybody does it, a quote." She stared Joan in the eye and said, "He also mentioned your name."

Joan, embarrassed but now understanding, consoled, "Oh that. Take a seat, Sweetie. It's story time. It happened nearly twelve years ago when I was single and a bit of a free spirit. I had been tricked also. He said he was legally separated and I had no reason to doubt it until the day his wife made a surprise visit to the office. He and I kind of joked about it later but I did cut it off right away and never had any problems since. Apparently, he still thinks it's all a game. Remember our earlier discussion regarding possible methods to control him? Did you record this incident?" Patty shook her head, no. "That's a shame. That would have stopped him cold. Girl, there's no need to quit your job over his childishness. Why should you be put out on the street for his self-centered stupidity? Sometime casually remark you can't wait to meet his wife and oh, by the way you recorded that incident at Ciro's. I know him, his nuts will turn to stone. He won't know whether to believe you or not. Maybe, we'll get lucky and he'll have a heart attack."

Forty minutes later, Butler returned. He had eaten his lunch in the diner in spite of their fracas and had two more beers as he collected his thoughts. "I'll act as if nothing happened if Patty is still there. She may have gone home sick. I won't penalize her for that, after-all I'm a standup guy. She's obviously far too sensitive, clearly too much so for her own good." Upon returning he was met with stony silence by the two women. He passed them by without making eye contact, went into his office and closed the door. "This may be a little tougher than I expected." After dismissing this latest of many rejections he reasoned, "Why, with my face and charm, it's still a done deal. Soft persistence is the key for this girl. What's the matter with that woman anyhow? Doesn't that silly, little twat realize _who_ I am?"

Syed Azrael folded his newspaper, left a 10% tip (50cts) and slid out of his booth in the same eatery that Butler had left three minutes earlier. He was seething. He had been seated in the next booth directly behind Vic and Patty. His back was turned toward them and she blocked Butler's vision to him. Even after she had stormed off, her boss wasn't aware of Syed's presence nor did he identify him at any time. The man's mind was obviously concentrated on and disturbed by the woman's brief interaction. Syed had milked his green tea and English muffin far longer than intended in order to avoid his being recognized by the minion of Satan. After exiting, they both entered the same restricted, manned entrance of the massive airline repair complex but from that point on they split into different directions for their return to their respective work locations. He thought, "This is the same disciple of the Devil who assaulted my beloved wife at that infidel Christmas party and impregnated her with his demon child. How dare he be allowed to continue preying on more hapless, innocent victims? Where is the justice and reckoning due these wonton sinners? Oh, great Allah, please choose me to be thine instrument of your divine retribution."

The second and final N.T.S.B. meeting

It was 10 a.m. and time for the meeting to begin. Inspector Oswald glanced around the makeshift conference room taking note of the many empty chairs. He held up the rooster of the previous attendees and determined that most of the government representatives and their aides were absent. Plus, the dozen U.S. Marshalls had been replaced by a mere handful of local law enforcement personnel.

"What is going on?" Wayne wondered. "Has there been a scheduling mix-up?" Several other attendees were wondering the same, including Detective Hanson and Deputy Lopez. As the meeting progressed, Oswald seemed to be jumping around in his presentation in no particular order as if he hadn't fully prepared himself or was in a hurry to get it over with.

"As you have guessed by now that the crux of this investigation centers around the data recovered from the flight recorder." Before we get into its contents, I'm going to present another report which concurs with the tests results Colonel Doe's team made of the wreckage. The Langley lab has agreed there were no explosive residue, radiation, evidence of an E.M.F. pulse or any other known inside or outside source which could have caused the downing of the craft. That having been confirmed let us continue on with information contained in our blue booklet." He stated, "Although many components had been damaged in the recorder, the labs were able to piece together the probable missing links. We don't have an audio copy of the crew and tower's transmissions but we do have a printed version of their oral communications in your updated blue book. Please turn to the section titled: Flight dialog and electronic commands. I'll read the critical parts for clarity and to insure we're all in the same spot. Not as before, you will not be able to take this document with you for further inspection so if you have any questions now is the time." He paused and scanned his attendees - a few appeared slightly puzzled. "Don't worry, by the time we're finished all will be clear," he assured. "Let's start reading at the seven minute mark of the recording. The pilot requested and received landing instructions to use runway two-zero west, Home Run frequency seven-three and the Pulsar system lock on."

A hand shot up. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir. I'm Lieutenant Sykes, the Hollywood National Guard commander for the crash site. I don't understand some of these terms and I can't find any reference to them in this booklet." He held it aloft and scanned the other listeners, "Am I the only one having this problem?"

"No, I'm sure you're not," answered Oswald. He went on to explain, "The Pulsar system guides the aircraft in for the landing. The runway has four transmitters, two at each end which form a 'geometric, rectangular plane' which the aircraft's autopilot homes in on. It's similar to a laser directing a cruise missile. A particular frequency is selected, in this case, seven-three so as to distinguish it from any other aircraft landing close by. It is very high tech and has a guaranteed accuracy of ten feet from the plane's wheel base to the point of runway touchdown. It's so precise, you virtually can not feel the wheels touch the runway. All right to continue? Next, at the six minute point we refer to the instrument readings: Twelve miles, 200 m.p.h, five thousand feet. At the five minute mark is where the audio irregularities began. We hear a hissing noise on the recorder. Apparently, the unit was damaged beyond recovery for that particular segment. It appears the cockpit refused the tower's hailing or couldn't hear their request. The wing flap settings were 100 percent down and the engines were beginning full throttle. Take note that there were no alarms or malfunctions being indicated. This means the craft was responding to manual commands and had locked out the tower's Pulsar control. Next, we see at three minutes someone has turned off on the main circuit breaker for the onboard computer. At two minutes to impact, the breaker was returned to its on position which resulted in the flaps changing back to their normal position. Meaning, the aircraft was beginning to level out. Again the controls were changed to 100 percent flaps down and accelerating at full throttle." He paused then reread the same two minute portion. "And this is the clincher. Even over the loud hiss these damning words were clearly extracted by our audio experts. They being: Sorry, Jim." The listeners sat stunned, afraid to look at each other, not really wanting to hear the Investigator in charge's determination. "Yes, the conclusion is undeniable, as I know you all have deducted by now. The Delta captain, Mike Stockley deliberately crashed the aircraft."

Several jaws dropped, the union reps were beyond stunned silent and the federal court reporter sobbed, her tears sprinkled on her lap. Carlos stared in disbelief at Detective Hanson who remained stoic as did the two F.A.A. representatives – all of whom were beginning to suspect a terrible ending when they heard Oswald read, 'Damning words... extracted'.

Wayne uttered, "Unbelievable. Are you sure?"

Clarence Oswald eyed the speaker and answered, "Quite sure, Agent Atkins. Unfortunately this has happened too times before, but not of this magnitude." He then added, "in America." Hearing no other comments he continued, "We might as well move on to the next phase which is, what your role is to be going forward. Those of you associated with law enforcement will continue to assist the National Guard with security and traffic control until conclusion. The E.P.A. and F.A.A. may make addition inspections if they so desire. Agent Atkins, the Bureau shall continue their investigations to determine Captain Stockley's motives. Once all the loose ends have been cleaned up a full report will be delivered to the F.A.A. and any other Federal agency upon their request." He next addressed the newly added representative from the U.S. Attorney General's Office, "I suggest you prepare your department for the greatest onslaught of lawsuits in American aviation history. I've heard that your branch is planning to try to handle this incident using a National Catastrophe tenet I've never heard of to block excessive and frivolous lawsuits." He snickered, "Well, all I can say is good luck with that. As you must know, thousands of blood sucking lawyers will smell money in the water and come at you full bore. I believe the Supreme Court is going to be jammed-up on this issue for many, many years."

"One last thing before we're finished. We will be preparing a statement shortly to be released to the media on the eleven o'clock news this evening. So, until that time you are still required to keep this information confidential. We are now adjourned and I wish you a safe return home. Thank you."

Later, after all had left except Oswald and the E.P.A. representative she asked, "I'd like to review the recording with you again, please." He appeared a bit surprised but agreed and they sat down together one on one. When finished she requested, "I want to take my blue booklet copy back to Birmingham for further review by our agency... and we hope to have the final report sent to us as soon as it's available."

"Sorry, as I stated before, I can't permit anyone to take the booklet. And, you'll have to make an official request through the proper channels for the final report." Trying to be cordial he smiled at the lady and stated, "However, the sooner your agency submits their request the faster they'll receive it. It's more or less on a first come, first served basis."

"I see," she returned. She winked at him and said, "You obviously don't know the new pecking order yet. This president has a different way of thinking. Everyone of importance is not lined up in the previous order. Loyalty is number one in his book and versatility is number two. Thank you so much for your time Inspector Oswald. We'll be in touch again real soon and don't forget, Roll Tide!"

Special Agent Wayne Atkins called his Washington based boss, Deputy Director, Allen Flagstaff who hadn't attended the meeting either, to give him an update. The man didn't seemed surprised at all at the N.T.S.B.'s findings – it was as if he already knew its foregone conclusion. He wondered, "Did everyone else at the top know of it also?" Dark thoughts continued to seep into Wayne's mind which were generated by his Naval Intelligence training and experience. The: Why and How? The Board's so-called evidence against Shockley seemed shallow and forced in his opinion. He also wanted to actually 'hear' the recording himself, not read a transcript. "I wonder if our F.B.I. Task Force leader is going to receive a blue booklet? How could he and his team not have access to one immediately? It could be essential in determining a motive... or a lack there of. I'm going to ask if I can be included in the investigation. I already have some questions in mind. By my joining, he may be able to free up and return some of the agents from out of state. Plus, it wouldn't hurt to have the man believe that I still have a connection to Deputy Director Flagstaff in Washington. If he lets me in, I'm going to call my immediate supervisor, Wilma Redman to see if she will allow Gary Taylor to join me. I believe we would work well together."

Later that day Atkins approached the Task Force team leader and he agreed to take him on. In fact he seemed quite happy since they now were in the process of releasing all the non-Fort Lauderdale home based agents. The Bureau had decided there wasn't a need to further investigate all the passengers, crew and personage on the ground since the N.T.S.B. declared that Stockley had been the sole culprit.

His immediate superior, Redman, also approved of letting Taylor join him to shore up the diminishing investigating agent pool. She and the Task Force leader agreed that the Delta 1705 incident should be cleaned-up within 3-4 weeks. Wayne then dropped-down within their same building complex to give Gary his opinion of the second Board meeting and to let him listen to and review what he had input into his smart phone during the session. Everything had been recorded: all the speaker's audio, the pictures and printed reports of the air to ground communications detailed within the secretive blue booklet. He thought, "The playing field is soon to be leveled."

Later, on the six o'clock evening news.

The woman announcer, Nilsa Dopico, sitting in her chair delivering the day's coverage was interrupted by a gentleman who had walked hurriedly to her desk with a sheet of paper. She stopped and quickly read its message then held her hand against her earpiece to better hear the operating booth's instructions. She then announced, "Sorry for the interruptions folks. This is breaking news just in." The camera backed-up its image of her and refocused on a large live feed screen towards her rear-left. A scene quickly appeared of a reporter with a microphone standing outside in front of some kind of municipal building. There were a score of police in attendance and a dozen reporters from other news agencies facing two men standing behind an old fashion, wooden podium. She asked, "Good evening, Rebecca, (the on-site reporter) where are you and what is the situation there?"

"I'm standing in front of the Town of Davie's city hall awaiting what we have been told is an extremely important civil announcement by their presiding mayor, Mister Sol Goldstein." The speakers were not quite ready so she improvised with a small bit of local color. She surveyed the assembly of less than a hundred and smiled, "Davie has always prided itself in its projection of giving a small town feeling with its horses, rodeo's, country roads and homes. In fact I've lived here many years and currently serve on the town commission. I love it. But perhaps that aura existed as a taste of yesteryear. Today it has over a hundred thousand residents not counting the massive influx of French Canadians who come down for the fun and sun and especially golf during the tourist session. Now, it's a town/city caught in a growing limbo. I'd bet it had been a quite unique place to live forty or fifty years ago. Ah, I see they are ready to begin."

The camera refocused on the two gentlemen standing together then centered solely on the mayor who began, "First of all we want to bid you all a Good evening and Thank you for coming to our beautiful, country town. I'm the mayor, Sol Goldstein and this fine looking, hunk of a man next to me is none other than our very own Chief of police, Bubba Blackburn. We are so happy for this wonderful turnout on such short notice." He smiled and continued, "I'm gonna get right down to the grits before the mosquitos drain us all like a road killed possum. As you all know of the horrific Delta Airline crash which occurred 'bout a week ago. I regret to say that the plane was downed within own town's borders and took many of our family and friends... and visitors to our fine state. We are deeply grieved for the loss of all those souls and especially our own beloved residents. Davie is and will always remain a family-oriented, close-knit community." The camera switched to the flag flying at half-mast over the town hall then back to the speaker. "What you may not be aware of is that our own Chief Blackburn has been sitting in on the National Transportation and Safety Board's meetings. He has been a key member and contributor in its investigation to determine the cause of this horrendous event... a true leader representing all citizens. The Transportation Board has reached a determination in such a short time that I personally find it hard to believe a task of such magnitude could have been achieved by anyone so quickly... but they say they have and they are the Government. Our Police chief, and all the other agencies representatives, have been under a Federal gag order to not reveal any information until the official cause has been established. Well, now it has been determined and its results are to be released shortly by the N.T.S.B. to the nation's media. I assure you that during this investigation Chief Blackburn has at all times fully complied by the rules set forth by the Board and now since the investigative process has run its course he has come to me and disclosed its member's participations... which I find disturbing. The bottom line is that they are prepared to declare shortly that Captain Mike Stockley, a son of Davie... a resident of our Southwest Ranches community... a loving husband and father of three... a longtime member of the Cornerstone Baptist Church... a life time contributor to our town – his town and the state of Florida... that he, and he alone, deliberately crashed Delta Flight 1705 into the ground!" The crowd gasped. The mayor's shoulders drooped and his head turned slowly, painfully from side to side as he whispered, "God save us all." The camera next flashed to the onsite reporter, Rebecca, who appeared to be in a speechless state of astonishment then back the podium. A rising murmur of shocked listeners rose through the still air. The mayor raised his arms to quiet them. "Therefore, I am declaring, we the people of Davie can not believe in good faith that this conclusion could be true in any way shape or form. I and our town council are challenging their findings and will be partitioning the U.S. Attorney General's Office to oversee and direct the Federal Bureau of Investigation to form a different unbiased task force. We will be officially requesting first thing in the morning that they conduct a new, vigorous and more thorough examination into the cause of this terrible tragedy." Many observers began clapping and cheering including the covering onsite reporter. The mayor next slapped his neck and declared, "Got that sucker! More of 'em to come I'm sure so let's wrap this puppy up. The Chief and I will now answer your questions if you have any."

A score of hands shot up as the camera panned away and returned to Rebecca who basically choked-out, "Good evening from the Town of Davie," as the station returned to their regular news reporter host.

"Well that certainly was a surprise," asserted Missus Dopico. "A rural, country town taking on the National Transportation and Safety Board's findings which usually takes forever and a day to make any kind of a decision... and a 'little town in America' requesting yet another U.S. Government department to help them." Then she became a bit sarcastic, "But then again, aren't we becoming all too accustomed to seeing one government agency investigating another under our current administration?" She superficially shuffled a few papers and continued, "And now, coming up next is our daily report on the weather and the week's forecast."

"Nice job (of reporting) Rebecca," offered Jim the camera man and Jack of all Trades for the news station. I didn't know you were a big shot city commissioner. Should I ask for your autograph?" he joked.

Smiling, she returned, "If you really want it I'd be happy to oblige."

"I'll think I'll wait until you're the mayor. It'll be more valuable then," he quipped. "How do you find the time to do so much? Don't you have a family, a daughter? I thought you mentioned her a few times."

"You're right," she answered. "I'm a single mom with a teenage daughter in high school. And, I'm also a licensed real estate agent. I do a lot of juggling between them and this job. The little bit of exposure I get from the reporting helps in the realty work. Keep in mind they're all only part-time jobs and the commission position is mostly volunteer work with very little pay. Which I do because I _want_ to, not for money."

"Still impressive Rebecca," commended her coworker. "And going forward... in the future?"

"Ah yes, the future," she began. "The truth is I'm getting a little old for this news reporting gig. There aren't many forty-plus year olds on the tube. The networks want the young faces to counter their competitors"

"Forty-plus? Are you kidding?" he marveled. "I took you for the early thirties. You always look fantastic. I'm forty-three and look every bit of it. I'm single also... I lost my wife ten years ago in that Afghanistan mess. She was career military. She could have retired in only two more years. I also have a teenager at home. He's a good kid, fifteen and in high school too. How about that? So many similarities all these years and we or I never knew."

"Yeah well, that's because this job consists of jumping from one incident to another. You don't have time to learn each other's habits and routines like the folks who work together every day in the studio," she surmised.

"Yeah, that makes sense." He paused then, "Er, not to put you on the spot or anything Rebecca, but would you possibly consider having the four of us meet-up somewhere for breakfast or lunch... if you could find the time? My son and I would really appreciate the company." He laughed and said, "Maybe we should make plans for your becoming the new mayor. I heard there's an election coming up there soon. You'd have my vote if I lived in Davie."

"Thanks a lot Jim. I appreciate it. I'm sure my daughter and I could find the time," and then exchanged phone numbers.

# Chapter Nine: Who are you?

It was 9:00am and Inspector Clarence Oswald had just arrived at his office. His secretary promptly brought him his regular cup of coffee and handed him a note to call Mister Nelson on his personal line a.s.a.p. "A.S.A.P. again," he muttered. "Everything is always a.s.a.p. with that guy." He eyed his beautifully decorated coffee cup which he bought three years ago when he returned home to Trinidad for a short vacation. He grew up not too far from the mountain pictured on the mug in the small seaside town of Chaguanas. Those were the good old days. His uncle, a fisherman with no children, raised him by himself but was frequently gone 3 or more days to ply his trade. The weather was his master. Therefore, Clarence learned quickly how to fend for himself, do chores, shopping and school work. He made it through high school with excellent grades which was rarely achieved by no more than 5% of the island's children with his family's low income and living conditions. Oswald, now in his early fifties, his uncle had passed away a dozen years ago. There was no one left – no other relatives. He had nothing there now except hard-earned, fond memories and a dilapidated eighty year old, boarded-up, coquina limestone house located four blocks from the fishermen's docks. His best memories were of himself, his uncle and a dozen neighborhood families and friends having a weekend fish fry with fresh island fruits and greens as they watched the evening sun sink into the western sea. There was laughter, gaiety, music and rum – lots of homemade moonshine/rum for the adults. Of course, the teenage boys on occasion would sneak around pilfering a near empty cup or two as the grownups turned a blind eye. After he had graduated he was awarded a scholarship/work vista to the United States. He did well because he had learned early in life that hard work always paid off in the long run – so to speak. He now possessed a good government job with a big-sounding title with a modest salary. It was still far better than if he had remained at home following in his uncle's footsteps. He was living what he thought to be the Trinidad Dream – to leave the island and work in America, the Land of Plenty.

Then, while he was day dreaming and to his surprise, his office door burst open and in strode Mister Nelson. Being sarcastic, his boss snapped, "Sorry to interrupt your working so hard. Didn't you get my message to call me, Mister Oswald?"

"Er, why yes. I just arrived and was about to call you, sir."

His supervisor glanced at his watch and stated, "At ten after nine? I'm pretty sure we're in the same time zone or do you work banker's hours down here?"

"Ah, well er, yes or no." he stuttered. "I thought since the newscast was late and I didn't get home until after one, I'd take a few extra minutes this morning to be fresher."

"Fresher?' Nelson repeated. "Do _I_ appear fresher? I got up at five this morning to catch the Redeye here because _some_ people don't follow their boss's orders when they're told to. Something you may want to reconsider in the future."

"Certainly, sir," he responded. "You took the Redeye here... is everything all right?"

"No! Nothing is all right! Your presentation on the news last night made our Transportation Board appear as if we're all a bunch of incompetent fools! You fumbled around with your material and babbled like an idiot. Especially when you tried to explain why that country bumpkin mayor and his sidekick Sheriff made the announcement concerning Delta's Captain Stockley being responsible for the crash. _That_ was our call to make not a couple of cow chips from Podunk! I told you that _you_ had to be the man in control. You're supposed to run the show not a bunch of redneck yahoo's who want to get their faces on television." Oswald dropped his head and stared at the floor. "I warned you Oswald." He then turned his head to the still open doorway and called out, "You all may come in now. The first person through was his secretary carrying two large, empty cardboard liquor boxes. She was followed closely by a plainclothes police detective and a uniformed officer, Hanson and Lopez. His secretary gingerly placed the boxes on her boss's desk and silently tiptoed away. Nelson stared his subordinate directly in the eye and declared, "Inspector Clarence Oswald you're services are no longer required. Hand me your company i.d. and building keys. Pack only your personal items in these boxes. Do not take any documentation with you or you _will_ be arrested. All reports and records are the sole property of the Board. When you're ready these two police officers will escort to your private vehicle." Oswald moved super-slowly as if he were zombie in a class B movie. As he gathered his things Mister Nelson added, "And, your saying in your conclusion last night, 'It seems we'll finally get to find out how many Jewish law firms are practicing in America.' Are you out of your mind? That was the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Our own Director and the President of the United States are appalled, outraged. Because of your stupidity _the Transportation Board_ is probably going to be sued also! There's no place for you in the American workforce! We'll make damn sure of that. You might as well go back to wherever the hell you came from. Oh, and by the way as a point of interest, these two police officers are the ones who found your precious, missing flight recorder," as he pointed to them. "Good job men, but please next time turn it over to us first." They nodded and agreed to do so.

Oswald's head snapped up and his eyes popped out. With his mouth open he stared and stared at the policemen as if he were transfixed by some subhuman creatures from another galaxy. Suddenly, he exploded and screamed at the top of his lungs, "This is your fault! Your fault! You should have brought it to me first! Me! Me! All this, _you_ caused it!" as he flailed his arms in a rage. "You did this to me!" he bellowed as he attacked Hanson and Lopez with his fists flying. Carlos caught a shot in the mouth which busted his lip. Hanson had seen people flip out before and knew to block their punches first then gain physical control. In less than a minute they had him subdued and cuffed. They did not muffle his continuous screams to insure he wouldn't be accidently choked. Within ten minutes he had been secured in the back of the patrol car and on their way to the country jail. Oswald's car was towed away and his personal effects were placed in storage by Nelson until the charges were resolved.

Sparkie's smart phone gave three beeps signaling she had received a message directed at her by The Angel on the SciTech Group Internet site as opposed to a one beep for all other incoming messages. She quickly went to her locker in Home Depot and retrieved her tablet to view its contents which had been automatically saved when her trap was triggered by the key words: The Angel. Sparkie signed in and there it was. "Technology _does_ have its good points. Score one for the Nerds. I'll bet the F.B.I. and the N.S.A. use this shit all the time... and the Russian spies and their hackers too." She started to read what he had posted and expected it to be short but not necessarily sweet – more in tune with his previous posts, bizarre. Sparkie believed he was already off line and immediately activated the Store to the file command she had built specifically for him. "Gotcha," then as she began to read she discovered he actually was still online. "Oh, wow. This could be interesting."

It began, "Salutations to the believers of the one true God. May you have peace and his bountiful blessings. I am happy to say that preparations are being made for the next cleansing. I have again been chosen to be an instrument of the Almighty to render justice and deliver his revenge."

Sparkie shot back," What do you mean by revenge? That kind of talk could easily be taken as a threat. Could you be a more specific? I sincerely hope you're not referring to people being hurt or dying. Are you?"

"No, my child," he answered. "I am not alluding to death at all. I am to bring peace and comfort to those who have been wronged and tormented by the Evil One."

"Really," she returned. 'I'm not sure what to say. Being an American and probably have watched too many 'spy movies' you sound very close to being a classic crazy, religious psycho. I'm hoping that's not the case."

He replied, "You are most certainly correct. I'm not demented, merely a man of the faith. I personally feel pity for the condemned souls who will be interred within the everlasting Lake of Fire for their transgressions. But, dwell not on them for they are beyond redemption and we must move onward in His glory."

"Okay, the peace and comfort stuff," she returned. "But I'm still a little unclear. You call yourself The Angel but even I know there are many types of angels. Which do you associate yourself with? I hope it's not the Angel of Death!"

"Of course not, oh Chosen One," he answered. "I am being sent forth to bring relief to the innocent souls who were violated unjustly. I serve as the Angel of Retribution." He stopped as if he were thinking over his next words or listening to someone directing him. Then, "That is enough for now my child. Watch the skies to soon behold the glory of the one true God again." The Angel.

Sparkie doubled checked that she had saved all three of his entries then wondered, "Should I refer this to the police or the F.B.I?" She soon dismissed the notion (she had always assumed The Angel was male). "Nah, I'm going to need a lot more than this. So far, he's no worse than some spaced-out, mouthing-off, Jesus Freak working in a soup kitchen. We'll see. I'll leave my trap up and go from there."

Early morning the next day, Special Agents Wayne Atkins and Gary Taylor reported to the Task Force leader, a middle aged man, William Redman, on the seventh floor. During the introductions Wayne said, "My immediate supervising manager is Wilma Redman. Any relation?"

He answered, "She's my superstar little sister, Wilma. Who has a habit of sending me her 'problem children' agents to straighten out. I didn't get any warning this time so I hope you two aren't any of those. I've been trying to lead over thirty agents already and getting _my_ butt kicked on this Delta mess. First, the Bureau wanted immediate results and poured people in here expecting miracles in only a week. Then they dropped it like a hot rock and pulled everyone out. They took away my local agents who normally work in this building and loaned them out to who knows where." Atkins and Taylor surveyed the operations center to find only a handful of support personnel. "I've been told the Bureau is sending me a new, fresh team to review our current material. I don't know when they're scheduled to arrive." His phone ran, it was his sister in Washington. Apparently she was very to the point and only allowed him a few 'Yes' replies with his "a Florida mayor?" and "the Transportation Board?" interspersed within. He had finished the one-sided conversation in less than two minutes. He stood silently inspecting his two new additions then said, "Welcome to the Delta Airlines Task Force gentlemen. Oh, and by the way, you _are_ the entire Task Force now. So, find a couple of empty desks. I'll have the clerks put all the evidence boxes and investigative research we have accrued so far in the conference room for your review. Good luck and take all the time you need. As far as the Bureau's concerned, this case is unofficially finished. Officially, to the public it's still under vigorous investigation. It's very similar to one of those police cold cases which never really ends. So, catch up, then and go out and ask all questions you want. Do not under any circumstances speak to the media. If they approach you tell them to schedule an appointment with Public Relations," which gave Taylor a smile. "Give me an update once a week until the top Brass are happy and we actually pull the plug on this albatross. I'll be in my office if you need me."

He left and Wayne said, "I'm not sure how I feel. Am I coming or going Gary?"

Gary grinned and returned, "Welcome to the Merry-go-round. In a mere ten years you may get used to it." He patted Wayne on the back and said, "Let's choose a couple of desks facing each other close to the conference room. Then, I'll show you how _this_ game is played," as the clerks began wheeling in the boxes on dollies.

Their first order of business was drafting an official request to the N.T.S.B. for two copies of the infamous blue booklet of which they did reluctantly provide in their own sweet time of three weeks. Atkins chose not to stir the pot and remained cool in all his communications with them. After all, he already had his own copy. After another week had passed since the crash and their burning the midnight oil to catch up on all the material contained in the dozen, fully packed documentation case file boxes the pair were finally ready to go out and do some investigating on their own behalf. "I believe our first stop should be the F.A.A. tower in the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood Airport. We'll interview all the Air Traffic Controllers and their supervisors who were on duty... especially a fellow named Jeff Hodges. He's the only one that called _us_ to volunteer information. His statement was basically, 'Mike's a good guy and wouldn't do that,' per the agent he spoke to on the phone and then dismissed him as irrelevant. I believe we need a sit down, face to face to determine the 'Why' of what he said and what else he may have seen or heard. As for determining the motive behind Stockley's actions we need to dig deeper, a lot deeper."

Taylor flipped through the stacks of documentation before him and read aloud that the pilot had three sons all of whom had graduated from the Harvard Business School which may have drained the family's coffers. He also said that the last two, the twins, had recently been accepted into their Grad School Program to pursue their Masters and possibly a Doctorate. Money, money and more big money over another four years, minimum. They also found that Stockley was facing the mandatary retirement from Delta in less than a year because of his age. And, the real kicker was that he had a two million dollar life insurance policy in place. Very suspicious."

"I agree," concurred Wayne. "But only to a point. Keep in mind the Task Force had very little time to research him thoroughly. No fault on them, they were hamstrung to begin with."

Supervising agent William Redman was clearly pleased. It appeared there hadn't been any panic nor confusion with his newly assigned agents and they essentially left him alone. He was silently impressed but didn't attempt any 'hands on' direction or assistance per his sister's orders.

A light swirling cloud of dust formed behind the northbound white van. There was no breeze and it took a while for its quarter of a mile trail to settle. The powdery dirt road running alongside Florida irrigation canal C-122 seemed to stretch into infinity. The driver had traversed approximately a mile down this single lane, tree lined access road built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers over sixty years ago. His watch displayed six p.m. - still plenty of light left. It wouldn't be dark until eight-thirty. He calculated that he'd be finished and long gone in thirty minutes. Solitude, peacefulness, a closeness with nature engulfed him. The van made a turn to left which pointed it west and came to a stop inside one of the thousands of hamlets, a cluster of trees on dry land within the Everglades. A small, brown wild rabbit sat on the edge of the tree line unconcerned as it chewed the dandelions. Chirping birds and buzzing beetles echoed through the dense surrounding foliage. This resembled the Florida of a thousand years ago. The driver/adventurer sat alone. Exiting the vehicle and out of his a/c, he stretched and took in a deep breath of fresh but warm air. The mosquitos were leaving him alone, he had been in Florida long enough to learn you don't go out of the city without copious amounts of insect repellant. A plane passed above headed toward the West Palm Beach International Airport four miles behind him to the East. Another could be seen approaching on the horizon. The gentleman removed an expensive, German-made pair of high powered field glasses which were lying on the passenger's seat. From his vantage point on this thirty yard turnoff from the canal road he should have been able to observe many types of animals in their natural habitats if he remained quiet. Soon he heard a splash in canal waters behind him and surmised, "That could be a bass or a mullet. Not a catfish, they're bottom feeders. Scanning the surrounding area he spied a snowy egret stalking a small, bright green lizard. In a flash the bird struck then pointed his long, yellow beak skyward to ease the victim down his slender neck. Continuing, he next observed a cluster of turtles sunning themselves on the canal bank. He reflected, "So peaceful, I could stay out here all day. But no, I've come to do God's work."

He opened the van's double rear doors and began removing and placing his homemade electronic instrument packages on the ground for assembly. The first were two sets of tripods on which he mounted a three foot wide circular dish on each which appeared similar to a television dish attached to the side of a house. Next, he connected a coaxial cable to each and ran them the fifteen feet back to the van and plugged them into his main control unit which housed the central processer. From there he connected a pulse code modulator on one side and a frequency generator on the other. Sitting on top and connected to the rear was a smaller version of an F.A.A. Air Traffic Controller's digital screen monitor with a keyboard sitting in front. Lastly, he plugged in a headset in order to listen in-on the flight's chatter between the control tower and the to-be selected aircraft. All the units powered up with green lights, then ran their own self checks which a.t.p.'d. (all tests passed) which allowed them then to be recalibrated (fine-tuned) by the user if required. Next, they were placed in synch with each other which made them a coordinated, multifunctional operating system. "Excellent," stated the driver/technician. He consulted the airport's flight arrival schedule, his watch and eavesdropped on the dialogue between the tower's A.T.C's and all the aircraft still on the Open Channel. Listening carefully, he could hear the runway assignments and their appointed Home Run radio channels to be used for their private landing communications. Next, he viewed his 'ghost' monitor of the air traffic and saw that his flight of interest, American Airlines 404 had penetrated the West Palm Beach airport's controlled air space fifty miles distant. Upon viewing their particular green dot and its identification on his screen he said to himself, "Very good, but I should have given myself a greater cushion for my onsite setup. Next time I'll research my ground control access and the possible obstacles to my operation more thoroughly. This location is more difficult than the last." The man then 'dialed up' that flight's chosen Home Run channel and listened-in. He next set his left transceiver dish to match the aircraft's central computer control frequency and sent a lock-on data burst and received back a 'system interlock' signal and message. His second dish had been built for the Bit Stream coding which would control the plane's guidance systems whenever he chose – to be a few minutes later. The F.A.A's airport Pulsar link had not been establish yet, they were still a little too far out so there wasn't a need for him to disable that connection yet. "Synchronization, seize control, block-out and send new commands... easy as one, two, three. Ka-Boom," he whispered to himself. He had only a moment ago activated the White Noise generator to jam their communications after learning they had established their Pulsar link when he heard something quite unexpected.

"Wow, check out all this cool stuff!" Startled, the man whirled around, his binoculars spun out of his hands and flew with a thud into the gritty road gravel. One of the large lens popped out. Before him, staring fascinated at all the electronic gadgets stood two young boys, judging to be roughly eleven in age. "Neat, look at this Terry."

The man stood rooted in surprise but still managed to bark out, "Don't touch that!"

The boy on the right side, Nicky, pulled his hand back defensively. "We're not going to touch anything mister. We're just looking."

The operator quickly positioned himself between the kids and his main control unit. "Please back up and be careful," he directed.

"Yes sir," as the young lads continued to stare in fascination.

"What's all this stuff for mister?" asked the other boy, Terry.

"It's for my hobby." A roar permeated from above. He jerked his head up to observe a jet streak by - a little lower and faster than expected. The United Airlines logo was on its tail. It wasn't the flight he wanted. "They must have a tailwind," he reasoned. "I'll have to factor in wind speed in the future." Glancing at his watch he noted, I still need two more minutes"

"What hobby Mister?"

He stalled for time, checking the cables and gently pushed the inquisitive children further away from the van. "Airplanes. My hobby is listening to the planes communicate with the tower."

Cool," remarked Terry. "That's why you're using a headset?"

The man thought, "These children notice everything. They must be two of the very few who actually which watch the Science Channel instead of having a fucking smart phone stuck in their face." He answered, "Yes, you young men are quite observant."

"My Dad can do that with his ham radio in the garage," bragged Terry.

"Not like this," assured the adult. "I can pick the particular plane I want to listen to and it's much clearer out here. By the way boys, where did you come from? I didn't see you when I drove up."

"Over there," answered Nicky. "Our bikes are under that tree," pointing at it. "We were fishin'! Our fathers made a camp up the canal road at the next turnoff. It's not far."

"I see," He acknowledged when he saw the two skinny cane poles leaning against a small palm tree. "Did you catch anything?" as he checked his watch again and the video screen.

"Nope. Our plastic worms must be the wrong color today," guessed Terry. "Dad says the fish are funny about that."

"Yes, I'm sure he's correct," agreed the alleged hobbyist. The man then decided it was best to abort and turned off the noise generator which had run a little less than a minute and began to power down his equipment and disassemble the connections. He reasoned, "The kids will see the crash on the horizon and may be able to figure out what happened. Maybe not immediately but I don't think their fathers and the children together will have much trouble in doing so if they talk it over. I must leave quickly before their parents come to check on how their fishing is doing."

"Are you finished already mister? You weren't here very long," asked Terry.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I have to cut it short today. There's a problem with one of my pieces of equipment," the man explained. "It's not working properly. I'll have to go home and fix it."

"Oh too bad. We wanted to see more and listen-in too,' they said in disappointment. "Maybe my Dad could help you fix it," offered Terry. "He knows a lot about radios. Do you want me to go get him?"

"No, no thank you. I'm very fussy regarding who touches my equipment," he explained. "I have to fix everything myself," as he gave a superficial, phony grin. "Besides, it's more fun that way!" to which both boys agreed.

Nicky scurried over to the fallen binoculars to retrieve them for their new friend. Picking it up and the popped out lens, he handed them to the man. "Looks like they broke mister. Sorry."

"No problem and thank you. I'll merely snap the lens back in," the owner stated. He held the lens up to light up and saw a large crack running through the center. "Oops, if I try to push to back in it will break off in my hand. Drat, I'll have to buy a new one," and tossed the broken lens by the side of the road." He quickly finished his disassembling and repacking the equipment then slammed the van's rear doors closed. "Gotta go boys. Maybe we'll meet again someday." He started his Econoline and called to them, "Good luck fishing guys," and they waved back. He left the youngsters in another cloud of dust. Admonishing himself he said, "I most definitely have to scout the area better next time."

Victor Butler quickstepped through the plane's exit tunnel toward the West Palm Beach Airport's arrival gate for the American Airlines flight 404 from Jacksonville. He was headed for the men's restroom, always his first stop. The seats being a little too tight for his pudgy body which felt bad enough but those onboard restrooms were impossible. It had been a short flight of 55 minutes so he held it until they landed. "And, I read it in the paper last week that most major airlines are going to downsize themselves more," he mumbled. "Insanity! All, just so they can squeeze in _one_ more f'g seat. Damn those greedy corporate bastards, we're all going to end up wearing adult diapers!"

However, in spite of his bladder's discomfort, he stopped on his way off the plane to say Thank you to the flight attendant because Vic's a standup guy. Not really, the woman had a very fine looking ass so he slipped her his private cell phone number and said he wanted to show her around town. He also spoke to the Captain, saying the playing of music on that silent part of the landing from the beginning of the final approach to touchdown had been a welcome improvement. Although it only lasted for around a minute, probably because it was experimental, everyone enjoyed it. "You have plenty of quiet time during that stretch, I think you should have played the whole song. And, that he loved the selection. Angel of the Morning, by Merrilee Rush. It's one of my favorites." Butler then shook his hand and moved on after giving the attendant a sly wink.

The captain and his copilot looked at each other and thought the same thing, 'Another passenger playing their radio too loud'. "Yes, it was nice," agreed the flight attendant. But, I personally prefer Country Western. We should do it more often."

"What do you mean?" questioned the pilot. "We didn't hear any music and we definitely didn't put any on the p.a. It must have come from a passenger's radio or smart phone."

"No, it wasn't from a passenger," she refuted. "It came clearly from the p.a. which was directly over my head. The two attendants seated in the galley said they heard it also."

The copilot queried, "Do you recall exactly what time it happened?"

"Not the exact minute but it was shortly after we began the final approach," she answered.

"That was right after we had the Pulsar lock-on," said the captain.

"And, that's when we heard the static on our comm coming from the tower," added the copilot. "I wonder if there's a connection?"

"Probably not but we still have to report it," stated the captain. "F.A.A. regulations. Not to worry, the Tower and our flight recorder will have a copy. It was most likely a ham radio operator playing music for a buddy overseas," the two pilots agreed. The flight attendant didn't say anything because she couldn't understand how it occured, but she knew what she heard.

# Chapter Ten: Digging in

"May I read you some information in regards to Captain Stockley before we visit his widow and family?" asked his partner Gary Taylor.

"Please do," answered Wayne Atkins. "The more information the better. I don't want to be tripping over my tongue by asking stupid or painful questions while interviewing a bereaved wife.

"I agree," returned Gary. He held up a stack of reports, then sorted them into types while saying, "I had his personnel file sent over from Delta's Human Resources. It's quite thick, he had over twenty-five years of service. There's over a thousand hours of training, his on the job performance evaluations, attendance... the whole ball of wax plus all his past supervisor's personal observations. It's far more thorough than our record keeping, which makes sense to me because we don't fly a multimillion dollar aircraft with hundreds of passengers on board. I'll hit some highlights, it would take you hours to read it in detail. Of course, it's always here if you need it. I also visited and discussed in length many items which are not in the files with his last supervisor, Senior Captain Reszetucha, who he's known more than fifteen years. He said and assured me his opinion was universal within the company that our captain had been an outstanding person in every regard. Stockley had been a Board member on the Airline Pilots Association and served many years with distinction as a Union Officer before that. He also said he believed Mike was a Deacon in his church but we'll confirm that later when we talk to his widow. His financial records indicate he had plenty of life insurance – two million dollars," to which Wayne raised his eyebrows. "Yes, that could be suspicious," noted Gary, "except he hadn't made any increases in the last ten years. And, their joint and saving accounts totaled over a hundred thousand to cover their everyday living expenses. Also, they have roughly two million in other assets such as annuities, bonds and such. Oh, and a fully paid vacation home in Colorado. The whole family are skiers."

"What about the money their boys will require for their very expensive Ivy League education?" asked Atkins.

"Saved up and put away in a special bank account by using one of those 'Start saving for your children's education' funds which they did when the kids were born," he answered.

"So, it appears, 'I did it for the insurance money' motive is out," deduced Wayne. "However, there could be many, many other reasons which would produce a motive. For instance: hidden gambling debts, organized crime, being blackmailed by mistresses, a secret terminal illness, to name a few. Investigating those items in itself may take a long time to uncover and difficult to evaluate." He shook his head and continued, "And, the F.B.I. and the N.T.S.B. who would normally take a year to determine who made a fart on a plane, both have unofficially shut down the investigation? Something smells fishy here, but we have to prove it. Anything else Gary?'

'Hum'm, as for a hidden illness, he was in excellent health per his yearly company required physical and was planning to retire at the mandatory age six-two in a year and a half with no creditors," he answered. "I should be so lucky. How about you, got anything to add?"

"No, basically the same," returned Atkins. "I've talked to a number of his coworkers – nothing there. A great guy, pillar of the community and the company."

"All right, do you think it's time to visit his family?" asked Taylor.

"Not quite," answered Wayne. "I want to interview a few more people in the A.T.C. tower first then that fellow Jeff Hodges who had to stop working due to grief and stress. They must have been very close."

The results of their trip to the airport's control tower and interviews with the A.T.C's and the supervisor on duty practically mirrored the information collected by the previous task force agents. One controller casually knew Stockley and two other knew and worked-out at the gym with the copilot, James Ogden, once or twice every other week – the aviators had ever changing schedules and hours. It seems that the only plus they gained was that they were able to listen to the Tower's one-sided communications with the plane which Wayne recorded. And, when they compared it later with the N.T.S.B' version they matched except the hissing noise sounded louder in the plane's recording. Wayne remarked to himself, "I've heard something similar to that before but I can't remember where or when. I'll get back to it later."

While they were still at the tower they took the opportunity to call Jeff Hodges who was still visiting his daughter in Trenton. Most of it was the same, the 'Great guy' stuff with a few military history stories added in... except for one interesting tidbit regarding a birthday cake. Stockley had agreed to meet Jeff at the gate immediately after the flight and go with him to have a piece of his birthday cake. "That doesn't sound like a man who's planning to kill himself," surmised Atkins.

"Or one who was about to neutralize his copilot who's thirty years younger and in great physical shape," added Gary. "And, also to tell his disabled partner that he's sorry before crashing the plane. It doesn't add up to me."

"I agree," echoed Wayne. "I believe it's time for us to visit his family now."

The two F.B.I. special agents pulled into the long circular driveway of the large, two story estate home located in a well-to-do, gated community in Southwest Ranches. Atkins estimated the property to be at least three acres and could see screening at the rear of the house, indicating an enclosed swimming pool. Affluent to say the least, but then again you wouldn't expect a senior airline pilot to be living on food stamps. A Mercedes sedan and a smaller B.M.W. two seater were parked in front of the oversized two car garage. Colorful flowers adorned the home's surrounding perimeter and several small, circular clusters were scattered about the property. "Boy, someone must have a green thumb," commented Wayne.

"Or a gardener," countered Gary.

Wayne rang the doorbell and waited several minutes. No answer.

"I'd say a gardener – yes, a maid – no," assessed Taylor.

They decided to walk around to the rear since there was no restraining fence or 'bad dog' postings and soon came upon a lady kneeling on the ground with her back to them. Gardening paraphernalia laid all around: a water bucket, spade, hose, a bag of potting soil, etc. She appeared to be working earnestly at the base of one of the most spectacular rose bushes he'd ever seen. Wayne's eyes swept the massive rose bed and estimated there were over fifty bushes in an unparalleled presentation of color. Atkins commented, "Cypress Gardens in central Florida couldn't hold a candle to these beauties," to which Gary nodded agreement. "Good afternoon Missus Stockley?"

Upon hearing a man's voice she returned, "Are you early Reverend? I'm sorry, I must have gotten carried away." She glanced behind her and said, "Oh! I thought you were Reverend Uhde. Your voices sound very similar. And yes, I am she. What can I do for you young men?"

They both showed their credentials then Wayne said, "Sorry to interrupt you. We rang the front door bell."

"Oh? I guess Junior and Cindy went shopping. He's our oldest son and his wife. They're newlyweds and are temporarily staying with us while they search for a house to buy... hopefully in this neighborhood, but you know how iffy that is in today's housing market."

"Yes, I do," answered Taylor. "It's so volatile and pricey. I probably couldn't afford to buy the house I own now if it were on the present market due to the property tax and homeowners insurance increases over the last ten years."

"Indeed," she agreed. "That's why so many young people are renting today."

"We were admiring your roses," said Wayne. "I've never seen more beautiful."

"Thank you, kind sir. Mike always takes a cutting with him when he flies. He carries a tiny vase to place in the cockpit," not realizing she spoke of her husband as if he were still alive – a common error of those who've recently lost a loved one. She stood and asked, "May we step into the gazebo's shade and have a seat? It's cooler there."

The three did so and the two agents asked many questions which had been omitted earlier regarding her husband's personal life. In a few weeks the whole family was going fishing and camping in a Blue Ridge Mountain's cabin. Also, Mike and his wife were to have a special dinner at the Mai Kai Polynesian restaurant this coming weekend. And more, much more – their lives were continuously filled with family, friends and celebrations. These clearly were not the acts of a man hell-bent on doing away with himself and taking everyone with him. He and Gary left shortly thereafter and decided to advise the N.T.S.B. that Captain Mike Stockley did not fit the profile of a mass murderer nor could they find that he possessed a suitable motive for such heinous actions. And, in their opinion the N.T.S.B. should consider exploring other options. Atkins said he would draft it when they got back, then submit it to William Redman and forward a copy to Inspector Oswald. As they were leaving another car turned into the driveway. It was a brand-new, white Cadillac Escalade with a matching white front vanity plate sporting a blue cross surrounded by creamy, floating clouds. Taylor voiced, "The good Reverend Uhde, I presume. Here to comfort the grieving widow?"

On their return to the Task Force center their new supervisor responded with a, "Good work men. File it and send a copy to the N.T.S.B. then begin on the second-tier subjects who possibly could have been involved in the crash without Stockley's or Ogden's knowledge. Starting with the onboard crew, ground crew, F.A.A. technicians, etcetera. Get the drift? Feel free to call in the D.H.S, the C.I.A, or anyone else you wish. They all volunteered to offer their services at the beginning. Right?" He _didn't_ tell them that if they did request assistance they would most certainly be stone-walled per his sister Wilma in Washington.

Which they learned rather quickly when they received an answer back from Oswald's supervisor, Mister Nelson, in Atlanta that he no longer worked for the Transportation Board and that their findings would be filed in the ongoing investigation Delta flight 1705 crash file. Thank you so much and please keep us updated.

The following afternoon when they returned to their offices after doing their first round of interviews with several second-tier subjects they found their Task Force supervisor, William Redman, beckoning to them to deliver a message. "There's a fellow here to see you. He came an hour ago and is waiting in the conference room. He said he's a member of the N.T.S.B. team you're on also and knows you quite well."

"Really?" wondered Atkins. "Gary wasn't in either meeting so he must be referring to me. I can't place who it could be." Wayne and Gary both stepped inside to be met by a lawman. "Oh, good afternoon Chief Blackburn. Nice of you come for a visit. This is my partner, Gary Taylor. Is there something we can do for you?"

'No, probably not at this time gentlemen. I'd heard that the F.B.I's Task Force had been trimmed down to new, fresh investigators, as we requested of the U.S. Attorney General's Office. Mayor Goldstein and I wanted to remind you that the members of the Davie Police Department still stand ready to assist you at any time. Personally, I felt very pleased that you two were selected for the assignment. It seems to me to be a big job for only two men but you've shown all of us some true grit Atkins." In no time at all the two agents were thanking him for his offer and the police Chief quickly disappeared with very little fanfare.

"Well, that was a pleasant surprise," noted Wayne.

"Yes," agreed Gary. "Having someone offering to help cover your back. Sorry to say, but I'm not getting the same warm and fuzzy feeling from our side of the fence. I sense some manipulation going on."

"Maybe so, but we have the ball now and we're going to play the game the best we can," added Atkins. "Right?"

"Frig'g A, partner."

They didn't know that Chief Blackburn had surreptitiously perused their desks, reading reports and messages while waiting for the two agents to return. Their boss, Redman didn't stop him because he had already identified himself as a police officer and being a fellow member of the Transportation Board Investigation team.

Patty, Victor Butler's secretary had taken far more abuse than she thought she could. The man would not desist, even if he didn't say a suggestive word, his body language and eyes were always on the attack. Patty thought she had him in check when during his last sexually oriented advance she mentioned wanting to meet his wife. But apparently it had no effect because he shrugged it off by countering with, "She and I are on very fluid grounds now. What some people might say, is an open marriage," and laughed. Was he lying? Bluffing? It was true that Patty hadn't employed all the suggestions Joan had offered but she wanted it to stop without playing any more games. The young woman was sincerely afraid of losing her job. And, if she did have to quit, how would it appear to a new, perspective employer? Her word without proof against her old Company? Good luck with that. No, it was time to play hard ball. Yes, I will now always have a recorder hidden on my body or at my desk. However, I will go a step further and also be carrying a can of mace and a pistol in my (large) handbag. I talked to a sales person at Tropical Guns a week ago and I know what to buy. A small, lightweight and very effective short-nosed, five shot, twenty-two caliber pistol loaded with hollow point bullets. "A little bang making a big hole," was how he described it. "One shot anywhere on his body and the son of a bitch is going down! It's the perfect fit for the single woman."

The next day as she sat at her desk checking Butler's schedule of appointments and itinerary Patty saw that he had the second and final part of his 'working weekend' in Jacksonville. In less than two weeks He'd be commuting on American Airlines from West Palm Beach. She commented to herself, "Maybe I'll get lucky and some hooker will rob and kill him in a sleazy motel room. Or even better, give him an s.t.d. that rots his f'g balls off. Let him try to explain that to his alleged 'open marriage' wife." She sighed, "Nah, no such luck. Everyone knows only the good die young and the slimy bastards like him live forever."

Five weeks after the Delta crash...

Ex-inspector Clarence Oswald had returned to his home town Chaguanas four days ago. He had used up his meager savings running all over trying to find new employment in the U.S. to no avail. Nelson had been correct, he was on the maybe not so mythical, 'Don't hire for any reason' list and decided to retreat to the cheaper economy of his homeland, Trinidad. He quickly discovered there were no jobs available there either but for different reasons. First: He was too old for the new hires. Second: The island's work force had become industrially oriented – they were the fifth largest exporter of natural gas in the world coupled with also being a substantial supplier of crude oil to the Caribbean and South America. Oswald knew nothing regarding the island's economics nor had any working knowledge of his uncle's old-time fishing skills or operations either. His country's civil support services for the unemployed were the same as all the other islands in the Caribbean – none existed. If you don't work, you'd better have a family to care for you. There was no public welfare nor free medical services – your children were your life support and burial insurance. Even the prisoners in their jails had to rely on family or friends to keep them healthy. As for Oswald, two thirds of the community he was raised in had been decimated by the new progress and in doing so it had polluted the surrounding ocean waters, now making near extinct fishing grounds. He had no family, no friends, no one even knew the Americanized old man's name who was now living in squalid conditions in that weed infested, shamble of house across the dirt road.

"You children stay away from dat house over there," ordered the few mothers still living in the neighborhood. "Dat man be up to no good, he may be dangerous. All he do is drink rum and stare out dat old stone shack. It ain't got a door on it and dey windows still be boarded up. We called the Po-lice a few days back. They come and say nothing could be done 'cause he be staying on his own property. If you see dat man outside you come running home. You hear me child!"

Evening was drawing nigh and the shadows were beginning to fall. Clarence sat on a wobbly chair facing the open doorway. He glanced at the mattress on the floor then at his near empty rum bottle he held in his right hand. No drinking glass nor table – it had been burned for cooking kindling many years past. His uncle had lived his last days in poverty, the same as many others in their ever shrinking, dying-out community. "So this is what's it's come to. The American dream with its streets of gold... Poof." And, the Trinidad dream of been being a success at home... he never tried and therefore it never could have existed.

Early the next morning, the community's children were walking in a in a small group on their way to school. They came up parallel to the scary, old man's house on the other side of the street. Dawn had just broken and full daylight was still in the making when one child called out, "Looka at that. Dat man's floating in de air!" They all turned and gasped in unison. Sure enough Mister Oswald could be seen 'floating' inside his house through his open doorway. "He must be a demon!" one little girl screamed. Shrieking, they all turned around and ran as fast as they could back toward their homes. In no time at all, all the mothers had defensively assembled and were following the four husbands who worked the late shift down the dirt road to investigate and protect their families. They wielded clubs and axes. They quietly approached Oswald's dwelling, they didn't want to antagonize him if he really were a demon. They figured the growing sunlight would cause him to retreat then the Po-lice with a priest could capture him. The bravest snuck-up to side of the door with a silver cross in his left hand touching his chest and peeked in. He gazed at the 'floating man' staring down at him. But wait, it was merely a dead man tethered to the main beam in the ceiling. Ex-inspector Clarence Oswald had checked out of his misery by hanging himself.

There was no ceremony, nor words spoken before, during or after as a cemetery worker placed his ashen remains which were contained in a tin box into a pit along with all the other indigents who had perished on the island within the last month.

Two days later back in the States

Again, the evening news: The pretty, talking head newswoman, Nilsa Dopico was announcing that Clarence Oswald, of the National Transportation and Safety Board, had taken his life in his hometown of Chaguanas, Trinidad. She reported, "It appeared to be a suicide by hanging within the house he grew up in. Mister Oswald was noted for his being the N.T.S.B.'s chairman for the investigation of the ill-fated Delta flight which recently crashed in south Florida. Almost immediately there were rumors of some kind of cover-up being made by the government in regard to the culpability of the pilot Michael Stockley. The allegations arose quickly due to the unprecedented short amount of time it took for the Transportation Board to make its declaration. We now take you again to the Davie Town Hall where their mayor, Sol Goldstein and their Chief of Police, Bubba Blackburn are about to make a statement."

The camera focused in on the mayor's pudgy, little face. "Howdy, folks. Nice to see you again. Tonight we're pleased to inform you that the U.S. Attorney General has granted our request for a new investigation with fresh eyes regarding our son of Davie and the pilot of Delta flight 1705. As you may know our Chief Blackburn served as a prominent member of the Transportation Board's Investigation team. But you may not know of his close relationship with his counter parts in the F.B.I," as he gave a wink and a, 'We've got a hell of a surprise for you' smile. "I now turn it over to Bubba, your Davie Police Chief," and began clapping.

"Thank you Sol," as Blackburn took the microphone. "I'll make it short, folks 'cause the skeeters' ain't no better than last time," which created a few chuckles. "Yes it's true, I've been working closely with the members of the F.B.I's new Task Force and it's been determined that our stalwart friend and resident of our beloved Town has been found innocent of the charges that he caused that awful tragedy. Yes, his dignity has been preserved as we vehemently previously asserted. The Special Agents of the F.B.I, my friends who I have been diligently working with have only a few minutes ago reported to the N.T.S.B. and WASHINGTON, that he didn't do it! And... and that you fellars better be looking elsewhere!" which prompted much cheering from the small gathering.

The camera broke away and returned to the newsroom. "How do you like them apples folks?" she was mimicking the rural town people's manner of speaking. "The village of Davie... oh sorry, the _town_ of Davie took on Big Brother and made him blink. Good for them. And, a special thanks to Chief Blackburn who many believe his political star is on the rise. We'll pause now for a short commercial and then it's time for the weather!"

Victor Butler's flight had begun its descent to land in the West Palm Beach International Airport. It had been a short trip, only an hour and five minutes from Jacksonville where he had concluded the second and last of his 'working weekend' training gigs. The class had been let go at 4 p.m. so the away students could catch early evening flights. The captain had announced they were ten minutes out from landing and Vic didn't have to pee yet. "Yea me," he celebrated. However, the rest of the flight had been quite uneventful. He was on one of American Airlines smallest jets which carried only 120 passengers with a crew of four. A pilot, copilot and two flight attendants – a young gay fellow and a late-fiftyish woman who could have passed for a grandmother. The two best things about the trip were its shortness and that he had been able to down three little bottles of scotch. Unfortunate for him, he had to buy them for himself since he had been seated in Coach because it was cheaper for his employer. The attendants were finishing their trash collections and telling the passengers to place their seats in an upright position. The captain came on the public address system and gave his usual landing approach speech regarding the weather, thanks for flying with us, turn off all electronics, yada, yada. The same stuff you hear on every flight for takeoffs and landings which your brain automatically tunes out. Butler heard the engines powering down to reduce speed and the landing gear dropping into position. The 'fasten your seat belts' lights were on and the seat belts had been checked by the two attendants on their way to the galley in the rear to take their positions. Seven minutes to touchdown and the inside of the plane had grown quiet. A few window passengers tried to see the ground but couldn't because they hadn't passed through all the cloud layers yet. It was old hat for Butler, after all planes were his livelihood. At five minutes till landing he heard a distinct hissing sound on the p.a. system for a few seconds before a Country-Western song came on. It was the old, original version of Angel of the Morning. "Nice," he thought sarcastically. "They shrink the lavatories and play you a song while your bladder explodes. Who said those C.E.O's don't earn their money?"

After another a minute and a half while checking his briefcase so he could make a quick exit he heard the engines rev-up and felt the craft accelerating. He thought, "Are we doing an abort and fly by?" The horizon was visible out the window seat's porthole. "What the hell?" the plane was still tilted downward. As he stared, his senses began to accentuate. He heard the engines shut off and restart, the flaps were changing up-down-up-down. The song had finished and restarted. He discerned that the engines were at full bore again and hit the 'request for an attendant' button to no avail – they were not allowed to leave their seats until after touchdown. He unsnapped his seatbelt and stood up to run to the galley in the rear to have them call the cockpit to warn the pilot that his navigation system was malfunctioning. They needed to make an emergency pull up, right away! He peeked out a side window as he took a step into the aisle and murmured, "Shit, we're going _way_ _too fast_ and less than a hundred yards off the ground!" No other passengers saw the terror on his face nor knew anything was amiss. Then: Blackness.

Breaking news!

Again Nilsa Dopico's face flashed across thousands of t.v. screens throughout Florida. She appeared grim and unsettled, a far cry from her usual composure. "The horror has happened again!" she wailed. The announcer seemed as if she were searching for words. Every viewer immediately reasoned that she hadn't had time for the station's customary preparation. "Another passenger jet has crashed! This time it was American flight 404 returning to West Palm Beach International from Jacksonville, Florida. The plane carrying an estimated two hundred people came down very fast and crashed into and completely through a mobile home park a mere mile short of the runway at the airport. It's been less than _five_ weeks since a very similar Delta crash at the Fort Lauderdale/ Hollywood airport. We now switch you to our man on the ground." The camera zoomed in on a lone figure, a young man of less than twenty-five, standing outside the cordoned area established by the first responders. He appeared very nervous and unsure. The fellow had been the only person available to the network and had been thrown into the fray without having any real-time, action experience. After-all, their station wanted to be the first on the scene in order to garner the largest audience. Later and fuller coverage would be presented by the veterans. "Hello young man, I'm Nilsa Dopico and who may you be?"

"I'm Joe," he answered as he fumbled for the transmit button.

"Tell us Joe, what do you see and what is your estimation of the situation?"

He stared back at the camera as if he had been asked to calculate Phi to thirteenth power.

Joe then glanced around and reported, "Everything's all smashed up. It reminds me of a tornado touching down back in Kansas. There's lots of fire and smoke. And... a big, giant skid mark going clean through the trailer park." To his relief an older fellow, Pierré, who worked as the development's caretaker and handyman stepped up next to him to help with the park's details. He said he had assisted in a few news coverages in Canada which allowed Joe take a sigh of relief. Pierré also explained that fifty percent of the sixty-three units in the park were owned by French-Canadians and their units were vacant because they only came down during the winter season – they were Snowbirds. The rest of the residents were seniors, Florida retirees and many of them may have been at the local restaurants having dinner when the plane hit. But, yes, there probably would be some casualties. And... there wasn't much of the plane left, only bits and pieces. He didn't see how it could be possible to have survivors. 'Blam!' a large explosion reverberated over fifty yards away. A police officer and a fireman soon rushed to their group and ordered them to clear the area, saying, "There must be propane gas cylinders on some of the lots." Pierré verified, "Qu?, many of our older trailers use gas for cooking and heat." In a few seconds the onsite camera went dark as the caretaker and news crew packed up their gear and ran toward their directed safety.

"There you have it!" reported Missus Dopico, quite pleased that they had scooped the other stations. "We will stay on this tragedy in its entirety. Please remain with us for the best and most complete coverage. But first we must take a short break for a commercial and then it's on to the weather!"

7:00a.m. the next morning

'Ring-g-g' sounded his smart phone lying on the bathroom sink counter as he shaved. 'Ring-g-g' again, which prompted him to stop and utter a soft curse, "Who in the Hell is calling at _this_ time. It better be important and not some new hire trying to make points." He wiped his face with a damp cloth as he let it ring again. He finally read its screen and saw: M. Perkins. "Who?" then remembered he was that young, pretty boy presidential aide from the White House who Oswald said tried to take over the Transportation Broad meetings on the Delta crash. He answered, "Hello, Nelson here."

"Nelson, Mister Andrew Nelson? This is Monroe Perkins calling you from the White House." Before he could reply, he continued, "Where in the Hell have you been? We been trying to reach you all night! Two more minutes and we would have sent the police to knock down your damn door!"

"My... my cell battery died," he answered. "I replaced it only a few minutes ago."

"The President doesn't give a shit about your battery. When he wants you, you'd better be available!" as he continued his barrage. "And, what the F do you expect me to tell the Boss in order to cover your sorry ass about what were you doing last night which you obviously thought was more important than your job? Why didn't you watch the late news? You couldn't come up for air with the guy? Watching the news, it's a g'damn job requirement! Forget it! Forget I asked because the President and I really don't care a rat's ass what your worthless excuses are. So, I'm warning you fellow, you better get your head on straight real fast or you'll be hitting the door."

"Er, so sorry. You said the news," repeated Nelson. "What news?"

"Yes, the NEWS," Perkins spat. "Am I talking to a parrot? This tells me you don't listen to the morning news either, Your ignorance forces me to believe that I must be the first to inform you that another damn commercial jet went down in south Florida. That's on your turf Mister N.T.S.B. supervising Chief Investigator. Now get your sorry ass on the job and find out why! And, while you're at it get back on that Delta crash also. And, don't fuck it up like Oswald did. That little town of country bumpkins, Davie, made you look like idiots for stating prematurely and erroneously that the pilot intentionally caused it. What's the matter with you people? _Washington_ will not accept such unprofessionalism again. Make it right or face consequences far worse than that incompetent, coward Oswald did."

Nelson meekly whispered, "Yes sir. I'll take care of it, sir." His hands were shaking as he pressed the off button. "Don't they remember? Don't they care?" He searched his memory to determine whether or not he had documented or recorded any of their instructions to blame the pilot. He had not. He had failed to protect himself. "Make the Delta mess right? How? I did what they told me to do." He could feel the noose tightening. "Am I their next scape goat?"

Later that afternoon a news channel reported that the Federal Aviation Administration announced they were shutting down the operation of the automated Pulsar guidance and landing system in all U.S. airports. They had lost faith in the N.T.S.B's ability to find the cause of the Delta and American crashes in an expeditious manner and were temporarily suspending the Program as a precaution. The F.A.A. had decided they were going to launch their own investigation regarding the technical applications. The White House immediately issued a statement commending their actions and vowed the government's 'unlimited support' saying, "The F.A.A. has taken an unprecedented leadership role and we will back them all the way to protect our transportation system and safety. Sleep well tonight my fellow Americans, your Uncle Sam is on the job!"

In a small apartment in Fort Lauderdale there was a man who _did watch_ the news on a regular basis. Syed Azrael had viewed the 'Breaking news!' and everything else the network offered in their coverage. It was entertaining watching the first responders scurrying around and performing so many maneuvers in trying to control the crash site. And the best part were the popup, expert news commentators who presented the material in a manner that made you feel that if you didn't watch _their channel_ exclusively then _you_ must be mentally ill. "These Americans are so full of themselves. They have completely missed the message. Do they think that by running around in circles and making a great noise and pretentious lamentations they will circumvent the will of Allah? Never shall that be!" He paused and reflected, "Yes, I must stop watching these fools and get my prayer rug. I shall pray for his direction and hope that I again may be chosen to be an instrument of his divine retribution."

# Chapter Eleven: A new player in town

Quetta, Pakistan

The news of the second major airline crash in America had spread quickly halfway around the world. The West's media loved to get their 'shocking, breaking news' out first in their never ending race for readership or viewers. Capitalism at its best or worse – your choice. Seven men sat in a circle inside the main room of a typical Middle-Eastern rural sandstone house. It's appeared the same as any other of the hundred other dwellings within the 500 hundred year old village of farmers and goat herders. Five of attendees were Pakistani citizens and the non-government leaders within their respective provinces. The other two were respected visitors from their allies in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan. All were well known yet seldom seen, their names graced many capture or kill lists. They were tribal captains representing the al-Qaida leaders of their three countries. The small pack had assembled to discuss the recent incidents in America. They had been chosen to evaluate and make suggestions to further the Cause – the righteous fight against The Great Satan and his infidel puppets. The saving of the enemy's souls by conversion was no longer a consideration. Only by establishing a total cultural separation and an actual physical isolation could they protect the believers of the one True Faith. The false god/ devil worshipers must be made to withdraw from all Muslim territories. Incurring fear, the fear of Allah's wrath had always been their greatest weapon of persuasion and it was their duty to deploy it.

"We have all learned from our largest Arabic news station Al Jazeera of the two recent airline incidents in America," stated the senior Pakistani. "The leaders of our three countries and many other Muslim nations are confident that these occurrences were guided by the hand of Allah himself. Does anyone here have any knowledge otherwise? Could there be soldiers of the Almighty involved that we are not aware of?" No one spoke up, they hadn't heard of any movement of that nature. "Then to be sure we need to check all our networks to find out if there exists a secret, virtuous group or a man of valor involved. We must show praise and support for them. Of course, the wicked American government will declare some other reason for the crashes no matter what the truth may be. Lying to their own people and the world is their way of life. Either way, even if we don't find the actual cause, this is an enormous opportunity to strike a greater fear into the soulless disbelievers. If they become afraid of flying and knowing that _we_ are in control of their destiny they will heed our warnings and open the doors to so much more. The possibilities are endless. Praise Allah!" To which they all repeated in unison. "So, go forth and find the root of this blessing. I, in five days' time, will send a message to my contacts in Kandahār to have Al Jazeera declare that the soldiers of the one true god, Allah, were responsible for downing the planes. And, demand that the Great Satan must listen and adhere to the words of our messengers.

"It is now time for prayers. Gather your mats and join me in facing toward the Holy City Mecca. Oh blessed Allah, hear your son's prayers," he began.

It had begun as a normal Saturday morning for Wayne Atkins: Arise, pee, wash-up, make coffee, fetch the newspaper then begin to read it on the sofa with his wife Laura... until he saw the A section's bold headlines. It jumped out at him. 'Al-Qaida claims responsibility for airline crashes! They vow more to come unless all the freedom fighters illegally incarcerated in the Guantanamo Bay prison are released!' "Uh oh, I didn't see that coming," said Wayne.

"What's that Dear?" she hadn't noticed the headlines when she passed the paper to him. He held it up for her to see. "Oh my... what's that about? There was no mention of anything like that while we were watching the 11 o'clock news last night."

"It must have happened later," he answered. "Let's see why. Oh, here it is. The Al Jazeera news station made the announcement a little after ten our time." He explained, "There's at least a nine hour difference between here and the Middle East so it would have been too late for our stations to screen and process. The complication is that there's so much 'fake news' being generated toward the U.S. It takes a little while to sort out all their garbage before putting it on the air." He glanced at the top of the page and read, Special Edition. "I haven't seen that in a while. Not since the Miami Dolphins had a winning season"

"You're the football guy, not me" she posed. "Haven't they had at least five different coaches in the last ten years?"

"Yeah at least, don't remind me. Lot-sa hype during the off and preseason, then when it's the real deal they're a 'no show'. That's the Dolphins' M.O.P." (method of procedure) he explained. "Enough of that grief please. What say we get back to this ball-busting announcement by our friends in Al-Qaida?"

"Would you sort through it and give me the highlights?" she asked. "I'm sure it's _very_ lengthy."

"Certainly my Dear," as he flipped the pages trying to judge its volume. "This may take a few minutes. I'll bet everyone and his brother has an opinion on this puppy." He read quickly and returned, "Basically, the headlines tell the whole story. Whether or not it's true or not is something else. If the U.S. releases the prisoners it would be a monumental change in policy. In my opinion there's no way in Hell that's going to happen. The F.A.A. believes a particular airport guidance system could be the cause and has removed its involvement in future landings nationwide. I know this firsthand by being on the Transportation Board's Delta investigation that our government, by using the resources of many agencies, had ruled out external actions as the cause of the incident. So what does that mean in my opinion? Is it an al-Qaida scare tactic or a credible threat which our so-called 'experts' haven't been able to determine yet? I don't know."

"I don't quite understand what you mean by external actions," she questioned.

"Oh sorry, external actions, that's Spook jargon... er, C.I.A. language," he clarified. "For example, for a terrorist group such as al-Qaida it would mean taking actions involving bombings, or 9-11 type high-jacking... or shooting down aircraft with ground to air missiles and so forth. For the I.S.I.S it would be a different set of terrorist actions such as suicide bombers and a host of other heinous actions which I really don't want to get in to... and neither do you. Trust me."

"All right," she returned. "I trust your judgement and thank you."

"Personally, I think al-Qaida is only trying to stir up the pot to get what they want by using fear, as usual. On our part, the F.A.A. feels that by shutting down the Pulsar guidance and landing system they have eliminated the problem. I mean, what the Hell, someone has to do something fast to stop the snowball effect. The stock market dropped a thousand points after the first crash and another three thousand during the last week. All the airline stocks are headed for the crapper. People are losing confidence in air traffic safety and already demanding more passenger rail service which could take at least five years to attain. What's worse if it were proven that these terrorists groups actually were controlling the safety of our commercial air traffic it could set back America transportation a hundred years and destroy the Stock Market in a few weeks."

"I find that hard to believe Wayne. In only a few weeks?" she challenged. "Is our economy that vulnerable?"

"Maybe. The big stock market crash of 29' was exclusively based on fear and created the subsequent panic. The following investor pullbacks made it a reality, "answered her husband. "If another similar situation occurs we're going to be in a world of shit. Then al-Qaida will begin controlling other countries in a similar manner. A couple of more airline incidents here may have the potential to cripple the entire free world's monetary system."

"That sounds overly extreme," Laura remarked.

"You'd be amazed how many major economic catastrophes have been generated by far less," he countered. "History is full of them."

"Well, I certainly hope that shutting down that Pulsar system will put an end to it," she offered. "All of it, and especially al-Qaida."

"Me too," he agreed. "But, I suspect Gary and I are going to be pulled into it somehow before it's all over."

"Hum'm. I know you both will do a wonderful job." She thought a minute then said in an 'Off the wall' manner, "Suppose it's not the Pulsar. Could the crashes have been caused by a person living on U.S. soil similar to the Oklahoma City bombing or by an enemy sleeper cell? Perhaps, you and Gary should consider other people or groups who have a different skill set or resources to bring down an aircraft. What would it take?"

"Ha," he laughed. "You've been watching too many corny spy and science fiction movies. This has instrument failure written all over it. Rest your pretty little head Jewels. We've got this covered."

"Yes, Wayne. I'm sure you do. _But,_ if it doesn't work out the way you think it should perhaps you and Gary should consider other possibilities."

He snickered, "Yeah, okay. I'll keep that in mind and take it up with my partner if it comes to that." Silently he thought, "Come on Laura, let the big boys handle this. This is what we're trained for."

The phone rang. It was Wilma Redman on a conference call with a dozen others including her brother and Gary.

"It appears that this neighborhood has totally gone to seed," reflected Zachariah Farnsworth a self-employed attorney, a.k.a. an ambulance chaser. The legal services solicitor had called Mister Azrael a few weeks earlier. He surveyed the adjacent townhouses and commented to himself, "This one appears to be the worst, but then there are lots of shoddy housing in the city of Lauderhill." He made a self-confident, smug smile and reached to rap on the door. It swung open before his knuckles could knock more paint off its peeling structure.

"I saw you drive up," stated the occupant, Syed Azrael. "You didn't touch the doorbell did you?"

"No," answered Farnsworth. "I saw it hanging by the wires and thought I might get shocked."

Syed stood aside to allow the visitor to enter and said, "There's only ten volts on it. It won't hurt you if you accidently touch it. I'm going to cut the wire and tape the ends as soon as I get a chance. If I wait for our Building Maintenance people it'll never get done. We homeowners pay them a maintenance fee every month and they don't do squat."

Zachariah thought to himself, "I know what he means. They _might_ take care of it right after they remove the dead palm tree, reseal the driveway, paint the house and make a dozen other far more important repairs. I've seen this too many times. Mister Azrael we _need each other."_ He walked inside, gave a sympathetic smile and remarked, "Yes indeed, when you own a home there's always plenty to do. It's a never ending battle." Trying be upbeat he added, "However, at least with all this rain we've been having it should help bring back the grass from the dry winter we had."

"Not my grass," corrected Azrael. "My yard is all weeds, no grass, and I'm not going to spend another dime to do their upkeep. Besides, I have more important things to attend to." He gestured and pointed, "Would you please take seat?" The attorney brushed some cracker crumbs off the couch, sat down then placed his briefcase in his lap. "As you can see I still haven't fully adjusted to the loss of my beloved wife. She was the housekeeper, a wonderful cook and so much more. Tessa has always been the love of my life and I depended on her for almost everything. I miss her every hour of every day."

"Yes, please accept my condolences sir," offered his visitor. "The Delta incident. A horrendous tragedy. It's a wonder how a loving spouse such as yourself can function at all after that. Shall we say a prayer together before we begin? I have been through this many times," he lied.

"Thank you but I must decline. My beliefs are probably not the same as yours," answered Syed. "However, I do agree with your teachings that life must go on so may we proceed?"

"Certainly," agreed Farnsworth as he opened his briefcase. "As I told you over the phone the U.S. Attorney General's Office has decided not to pursue the use of the National Catastrophe tenet which they proposed doing after the Delta disaster. They cited that due to the addition of the second incident, American Airlines, it would overload their resources and they would not be able to properly administer settlements in a timely manner. Therefore, they are returning the task to the private sector in the interest of the injured parties. Which means you and I will be dealing with the airline's insurance company, not the government. Believe me this is far better. I assume you've taken a few additional minutes to reflect on my previous offer to represent you?"

"Yes, I have Mister Farnsworth. It seemed rather straight forward. You would represent me in an unlawful death suit against Delta Airlines for twenty-five percent of the settlement. But since then there has been a new factor. Are you aware that the terrorist group al-Qaida is now claiming responsibility? How will that affect me?"

"Yes, I am aware but it makes no difference Mister Azrael," he returned. "The chances of their claim being proven true are extremely slim. Most people believe it's a propaganda scare. No matter what the findings reveal the bottom line is that Delta was negligent in protecting its passengers. That's the way the Underwriters have structured their coverage. You see in your case initially the Transportation Board blamed the pilot which it later reversed and declared to be untrue. But even so, it still leaves the airline as being negligent. All the rules are written in favor of the defenseless traveler. It's the most generous reimbursement program within the American legal system."

"I am truly surprised," remarked Syed. "I had no idea."

"Very few people do," explained the lawyer. "Most claimants take the Low ball offer right away and the insurer goes on his merry way. Not me, not _us_ Mister Azrael. _We_ are going to get a _fair_ settlement. You deserve it! Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, I do," answered Syed. "Please correct me in my reasoning if I'm wrong but it appears to me that I'm right back where I was a month ago. Delta is going to offer me a million dollars and you plan to take a quarter of it. If they don't offer more than that then I'm losing money. So, what do I need you for?"

"A fair question indeed sir. May I clarify that the actual settlement comes from their insurance provider, not Delta. In this case it's U.S. Fidelity and Guarantee Group of Georgia. If you wish to file an independent claim with them you could, but you must have an attorney to negotiate in your behalf. Of course, it will take more time but the settlements are always far greater because they want to avoid extensive litigation. There will be over three hundred claimants just for Delta and the longer it goes on the more it cost them. Meaning that the one million could change into one and a half or even two very quickly in order for them to get you off their docket. They'll be saving money by making a private settlement because they are not required to disclose your details with the other pending claimants. That being said, I believe the sooner we begin the better. Don't worry, I'll take care of everything. I'll provide you with weekly updates and be available whenever you desire to ask a question. Also, I will not initiate any actions without your prior approval."

Azrael weighed the attorney's arguments and quickly decided in his favor. He reasoned, "Why not? I'm in no hurry." Then asked, "Okay, what's next?"

"Excellent," agreed Farnsworth. "There are a few information and release forms for you to sign. Next, I'll have the claim placed in the County records tomorrow morning then submit our claim to Fidelity in person in the afternoon. I'm sure you've heard, 'The squeaky wheel gets the oil'. Well there's another adage that's better which is, 'The first wheel gets the _most_ oil' and that's going to be us. That being said, do you have anything else relevant to disclose before we begin?"

Syed, thought a moment then presented, "Yes, I do. What if there were two claims?"

"Pardon, two claims?" he repeated. "What do you mean by that?"

Syed answered with a Bombs away declaration, "My beloved wife Tessa was pregnant with our only child."

"Oh my god!" blurted the attorney. "I had no idea."

"No one knew," returned his new and most favorite client. "We were keeping it a secret." Syed wrung his hands in despair and stared downcast at the papers spread before him. A tear came to his eye and he brushed it away with his sleeve. "We were going to make the announcement to the rest of the family after she returned. She took the trip to Chicago to tell her mother first."

"I am _so_ sorry," he offered to his new, best friend Syed as the dollar signs rolled through his mind's eye. "How far along was she?"

"Ten weeks, she was just beginning to show,"

"You say no one else knew? Not even her primary physician or gynecologist?"

Azrael pretended to search his memory, "She saw a gynecologist last month. I'll give you his name and number."

"That would be most helpful," said the attorney. "I'll get an affidavit corroborating her condition. Unfortunately and as distasteful as it be may be for you to hear this, I must inform you that Fidelity may require an autopsy for verification. At the present, all the victims are being held in several funeral home storages until the state release forms have been processed. Are you aware of that? Is it a problem?"

Syed said, "No. Do whatever is necessary. "Will this new information have much bearing on our case?"

"Significantly." Farnsworth was doing everything he could to suppress his overwhelming glee. "I'm now envisioning at three to five million dollars and a faster settlement. And most importantly, we'll be getting closer to bringing you peace of mind."

"By the way how much time do you think this will take?" asked Azrael.

"I won't try to fool you sir. It could be six months to year, maximum. The wheels of finance turn slowly. However, I personally feel they will try to fast track this dual claim due to the child."

"That's not too bad considering," assessed Azrael.

"No, not in view of your terrible loss." The lawyer delicately placed his hand on his client's shoulder. "Again, I'm so sorry regarding the baby." He walked to the door, "You'll be hearing from me very soon, and often." The litigator walked slowly across the housing project's parking lot. Had he been a younger man and unobserved he would have been doing cartwheels. As he unlocked his leased car he fantasized, "If I only had a few more clients like him I could open a real practice with a staff next year. Who said these airline crashes were tragedies?"

Syed watched him between broken Venetian blinds, "He's driving a Lincoln Towncar, he must be very successful. Perhaps I'll buy a different colored one for each day of the week... no. On second thought that would be a frivolous, Capitalistic waste of money. I don't mind living here, it's a simple way of life. As for my personal needs I'll buy an Asian indentured servant off the Dark Web. I'll use her as a housekeeper and cook. She will sleep in the second bedroom and attend to my sexual desires there. I know that for people such as this fool, Farnsworth, it's all about money. Someday he'll learn at the gates of Hell that there were far greater things than the pursuit of worldly riches. The selfish, denying usurpers of the True Faith will all feel God's wrath."

"Beep, beep, beep chimed Sparkie's smart phone signaling again that The Angel was on the SciTech Group Internet site. "Oh good. I haven't heard from him in at least a month. I wonder if he's going to say some more weird, mumbo-jumbo stuff about the American Airlines crash. It's a good thing I'm recording it. I may have to turn it over to the authorities someday. But not yet, I'll see how it goes. He still could be merely some kind of mouthy, religious freak." On this occasion, she was at home in her Tampa apartment when she signed on.

"Whoa, this is odd," Sparkie commented to herself as she viewed his entries. He had logged into the Group site and made greetings to the members then switched to her personal Alias in order to keep their dialogue private. He had been waiting for her to acknowledge his presence almost as if he knew she had made an Internet trap to alert her when he came online. She wondered, "Does he know I placed a trap on 'The Angel'? How?"

She answered the hailing, "Good evening, Sparkie here. Are you The Angel?"

"Yes, I am he and salutations to you oh Chosen One."

"Uh, thanks," she returned. "What's up? Anything new with you?"

"Why yes, thank you. You being an intelligent young lady who obviously keeps herself abreast of worldly events as well as technology innovations, I have some observations I want to pass on to you. It is in regard to the now two crashes of American passenger aircraft. I see in the media that the terrorist group al-Qaida is claiming credit for their demise. It is clearly a ruse in order to force the United States government and its allies to meet many of their old demands beginning with the releasing the prisoners of war in Guantanamo. This is nothing new and would only be tip of the iceberg if they succeeded. Do not let their baseless ploy cause you anxiety. Their claims are false, trust me."

"Being surprised and skeptical she shot back, "How can you say that? Are you in the C.I.A. or a foreign spy? Don't take me wrong, that would be wonderful news if it were true and I'd love to believe you but I live in Florida not La-la Land. Do you have any facts or proof to debunk their claim? If so, please enlighten me. From what I've read our government believes it could be a credible threat. And, due to the large dumping of airline stock in the Stock Market apparently a lot of people are afraid it could be true also. Your response please?"

"The first, and the least of importance, Americans are always losing in the Stock Market," he chastised her. "Their inherent greed destroys them one by one and they will never learn of the true treasures in this life's journey."

Sparkie interrupted, "This sounds like a lesson from Gandi. How about we return to your reasons for the crashes."

"All right my child but I must say that you speak as if you may have suffered some monetary downfalls yourself. I'm sorry if I touched a nerve and will return to the purpose of this call. Thank you for thy patience."

"Thy patience," she thought to herself. "Are we returning to the fanatic, religious dialogue?" She waited and waited for almost a minute which is a long time online. "Did he drop off and I didn't notice?"

Then he continued, "I don't feel as if I have presented my views properly, I apologize. I wanted to keep this simple for I am a simple man of few words. As for the hard evidence you seek I can not disclose it to you at this time. It could jeopardize my position and perhaps even my physical wellbeing. The enlightenment to be found within the demise of the aircraft is obvious to the Faithful. It served as merely a means for the passage of their souls from this sinful world to the Hereafter. The righteous do not fear death. They welcome the journey at the Almighty's chosen time. These two incidents were made by God's direction I can assure you. Therefore child, as for thyself go forth, become purified, live in peace and await his beckoning." He signed off, The Angel had signed off.

"What the Hell was that about?" she muttered. "Did I cross over into the Twilight Zone? I'm not sure how to classify this delusional freak. I'm going to let this ride for now, he's clearly living in a different dimensional plane. I'll leave my trap up and keep recording. Maybe someday I'll have a psychiatrist review it with me and we'll have a good laugh."

Wayne Atkins, joined by his partner Gary Taylor found themselves sitting in yet another N.T.S.B. meeting. This one was chaired by Andrew Nelson from Atlanta, who had replaced the deceased Clarence Oswald, and his assignment was to determine the causes of both airplane crashes. This time the black box had been found quickly because the American Airlines aircraft had not been damaged as severely as the Delta. The reason for such was because it hadn't plowed through an industrial park filled with concrete structures that ripped it to shreds. Therefore, the passengers were in much better condition which made it easier to identify them. However they were all just as dead. The proceedings went pretty much the same as the others but something felt different – a vibe that Wayne couldn't quite put his finger on and chalked it up to his lack of experience. He and Gary discussed it later and his partner said he felt the same. Was there something of relevance not being disclosed? If so, by whom and why? As before the phantom military team led by Colonel Doe swooped in, made their tests, took samples and disappeared. Followed by the Star Wars Lab coming up with the same results – nothing. The military attendees sat silently wearing stone faces while the rest of the committee appeared confused or lost in the same manner as their new Chief Investigator Nelson. Who impressed everyone as being merely reciting a meaningless script. The one positive note was that this flight recorder had been undamaged and they were able to listen to the exchanges between the tower and the aircraft. Everything seemed good before and after they began their landing approach. The Pulsar landing system had locked-on and sync'd and the pilots were going through their check lists. Then as before at five minutes to touchdown a hissing noise came on the comm. Channel and their loss of contact with the tower.

When Wayne heard the actual noise instead of reading about it as before, his eyes lit up upon realizing its origin. He was going to speak out when he caught the USAF Colonel John Doe glaring at him and shaking his head slightly from side to side indicating for Atkins to keep his mouth shut, which he did. Wayne quickly realized the military already knew the cause and were keeping a lid on it. The session concluded in less than an hour with no announcement of the next meeting's date or time. Nelson ended with, "We'll let you know." The White House aide, M. Perkins had sat quietly through the proceedings – not as before when he tried to take charge and threatened Oswald. This time he attended solely to insure that Inspector Nelson followed the prearranged script and he had been satisfied in his role.

Atkins and Taylor left and decided to have a little pow-wow in their car before returning to the office. Gary asked, "What happened in there? You seemed as if you had something to add."

"I did," answered Wayne. "I was about to speak up when I caught that Air Force colonel staring me down – warning me not to, so I stopped. I finally realized what that hissing sound was. I've heard it several times when I served in Naval Intelligence. It's White Noise from a data/sound generator. Someone was jamming their communications." He hesitated then declared, "Those aircraft were under attack!"

"Whoa there, partner!" Gary shot back. "I believe you have seriously misinterpreted a couple of things here. First, may I remind you that the F.A.A. has already determined that the Pulsar system had been responsible for the two mishaps. And, they are now in the process of proving in the C.I.A.'s Star Wars Lab that the hissing noise we heard had been induced by its malfunctioning equipment and subsequently have shut down all its operations. Secondly, it appears quite clear to me that the Air Force colonel was trying to prevent a panic by shutting _you_ down. Can you imagine the chaos which would be created if even the slightest hint of a rumor of an enemy attack made it to the public's ears? Sorry my friend, I think you jumped the gun."

"Oh," answered Wayne slightly embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess I may have gotten a little carried away. And if you're right, it makes me wonder. I'm not sure how our Bureau's going to be involved ongoing if the Pulsar truly proves to be the source. Are you and I going to be discarded and sent back to the pits of Mail Fraud and Public Relations?"

"I have no idea. I suppose we'll be hearing from one of the Redman siblings shortly," assessed Gary. "Oh well, either way it's been nice working with you Bro." He smiled then added, "Look at the bright side. At least Chief Blackburn wasn't here to blow smoke up our ass again."

Atkins and Taylor sat waiting to be called into Wilma Redman's office again in downtown Fort Lauderdale. They both felt uneasy, remembering their previous visit. "She'll see you now," bade her receptionist and in they strode.

"Good morning gentlemen," she offered.

Gary immediately thought, "She seems to be in good spirits maybe she got laid last night." Then reality took over and it morphed into, "Or maybe she just enjoys sticking it to us."

"Per my brother, you two have been doing a very good job during your short stint in the Task Force and it will be so noted in your personnel file. As you may suspect there will be many changes in the Bureau's involvement in the now two aircraft incidents. Because of your performances I want you both to remain in yet another revamped Task Force. We will be recalling all the agents which were temporarily loaned out to another departments and place them in the new, revised Task Force with you. Agent Taylor, I want you to report back to my brother William who will remain the group's leader. You will still be teamed with your present partner, Agent Atkins who will be frequently moving in and out within the unit. The reason for that is there will be two separate investigations of the aircraft events being conducted at the same time. There is ours of course which will still be interacting with the F.A.A, N.T.S.B. and the other agencies who are usually assigned to these large aircraft incidents. In addition, the military has asked and received presidential approval to conduct their own investigation. Agent Grant Kennedy in Washington has been requested by the White House Chief of Staff to sit in on those proceedings and act as a liaison between our two branches. He will serve as the pipeline delivering their requests and the returning of information between us. I require that everyone, my brother and both of you work together. William will keep me abreast. Are there any questions? No? Good. As for you Agent Atkins, you are to report to Colonel John Doe at the Air Force reception desk in the Pentagon tomorrow morning at seven a.m. sharp. An Air Force staff car will pick you up at your home at three p.m. this afternoon and deliver you to the Homestead Air Force Base where a jet will transport you to the Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. Your quarters will be provided on the base. Still no questions? Excellent. It appears you boys are beginning to learn. At this point this meeting is concluded and I recommend you both be on your way _now_." As they left she added, "Everything's going to get very hectic soon gentlemen. Stay sharp and good luck."

The two agents mumbled, "Thank you," and left with their heads spinning.

# Chapter Twelve: The Pentagon

Wayne Atkins arose at 4:30a.m, showered, shaved, dressed and was picked up by a staff car driver and taken to the air base's officer mess hall. He was met by Grant Kennedy, an F.B.I. special agent acting as the liaison between the Bureau and the other Washington based government agencies regarding terrorism and culvert operations. Kennedy was experienced, smart and affable. Kennedy had twenty years of service and a law degree from nearby Georgetown University where his son was following in his footsteps. Being a typical tall, thin African-American, basketball was his favorite sport. He bragged that his son played better than him because the young man played first string on the team and Grant never made it off the practice squad. "The wife and I love to see those home games," he said. Then added, "whenever the world's not going all to hell." As they were finishing breakfast he joked, "You better scarf-down everything you can and take a couple of packs of crackers with you. When the military's Top Brass get into to one of their marathon pow-wows no one wants to take a break for something as silly as eating. That would be showing weakness and I can assure you you're never going to see a larger collection of testosterone driven egos." Wayne nodded and grinned, then wrapped-up two muffins and stuffed them in his jacket.

As they approached the Pentagon from a mile away Wayne declared, "I've never been inside. The building appears _very_ large even at this distance."

"You have no idea," said Kennedy. "Let me give you a little narrative before we arrive so your jaw won't fall off. Many people know it's the largest office building in the world, but don't realize it's only five stories tall. Of course it's built in the shape of a pentagon, hence the name. That's the usual extent of their knowledge. The structure and ground measurements are so expansive it makes the Egypt's pyramids look like a comparison of a cornerstone to a child's toy block. During the Vietnam War more than thirty-five thousand people reported to work there every day. It can handle more now and its outward appearance is the same. There are five sets of _thick_ concrete walls within called rings designated A thru E. They are so strong that when that 9-11 jet liner struck the outside E ring it didn't make more than a hundred foot square hole. The building has underground roads for busses, trucks, military or construction vehicles. There's a 24 hour cafeteria that holds a thousand, a shopping mall with a movie theater, a parklike courtyard, a gymnasium with a pool, a full service bank and much, much more. Get a small piece of the picture? But maybe you might still say to yourself, 35,000 people? I can't see it. And you would be correct. That's because more than one third of the building is underground and I mean 'hard target' underground that has never seen the light of day. And that my friend is where we will be headed. To a place that makes the White House's Situation Room resemble a kindergarten romper room.

Their staff car pulled up to a section of the concourse designated for the military only. Wayne exited and stood waiting for Kennedy to join him. "I feel like I'm standing in a subway station," he thought. Scores of people were scurrying all around the hundred yard long platform with all kinds of vehicles coming and going. There were row after row of florescent lights that never turned off which illuminated the giant cavern coupled with giant, humming overhead vents containing fans to suck up the fumes and maintained safe air quality. "This reminds me of the London Tube underground rail system," he noted to Grant.

"Indeed, it does," he returned. "Let's step over to those two check-in counters for our clearance." They displayed their F.B.I. credentials to the marine guards, had their pictures taken and signed the ledger. "We're here to report to Colonel John Doe at the Fifth Floor Air Force reception desk," stated Kennedy which prompted a quick call to verify their expectance.

"You are cleared to go gentlemen. Do you require an escort?"

"No we are fine," answered Grant. "I've been here many times," and were waved through the checkpoint. Atkins and Kennedy then walked to the elevator and entered as the marine sentries watched their every step. Grant pressed the number five and said, "And now the real security begins." The door opened and they were greeted by a pair of armed U.S.A.F. airmen who performed the same procedures after they were scanned by a bug and a metal detection wand then frisked by a third sentry. Again they were cleared and subsequently escorted to the desk of Colonel Doe.

"Gentlemen, glad you could make it," as he stood and shook their hands. He glanced at his watch and said, "We should be on our way. The meeting is at zero nine hundred." They left and walked down a fifty yard long corridor to another elevator located inside an A ring office complex – also guarded, of course. Wayne noted that there were buttons and matching lights for floors 1-5 plus an M for Mezzanine and B for Basement... and something else. Under those was one unmarked light with a mounted keypad beneath.

After the door closed the colonel requested the two agents to turn and face the rear as he keyed-in that day's six digit access code to take them down to one of the deep, subterranean multi-levels. The true bowels of the Pentagon. As Wayne exited he found himself standing in the center of an X shaped tunnel system marked solely by E.W.N.& S. for directions. He thought, "This reminds me of something out of a science fiction movie." They walked until they came upon a steel door designated 12 SL A. He knew how navy ships' interiors were designated and guessed to himself, "12th floor down, subterranean level, complex A," and he was correct. This time instead of sentries there was another keypad and a retinal eye scanner. A slight chill ran up his spine.

The colonel again did his part and the steel, blast proof door slid open to reveal an 8'x4' lighted, glass door frame. "Step slowly through one at a time," he directed. "This gateway is similar to an airport body scanner but it also makes facial recognitions." The process for all the men took a short three minutes. By the time the last and final door slid open Atkins fully expected Tom Cruise with his silly smirk to be standing there with a machine gun.

Instead it they found a well-lit conference room with a table for thirty attendees. Wayne noted it was 0845 hundred and the table was half full as an Army military policeman led the three to their assigned seats. He saw that the Navy's contingent were already in position, then remembered the ship's officers always had to report to the bridge twenty minutes early for shift changes during inclement weather. More people were coming in – mostly military. This meeting was going to start on time! There were no goodies on the table but had several pitchers of water – to wet their mouths after yelling at each other? At exactly 0900 hundred a two star general stepped up to the chairman's podium and Atkins knew there would be no discourse in this room, this man was clearly in charge. All branches of the services were represented by a high ranking officer and their aide plus the other government agencies, C.I.A, D.H.S, N.S.A, D.O.D, the White House and a few others he didn't know but knew that Kennedy did. The Chairman made it clear they were there to discuss the viability of al-Qaida's claim of responsibility for downing the two planes. They also evaluated a myriad of related items such as: How many known Arabic enemy agents were in the U.S. and their location, And any other movement of foreign operatives, The chatter of every type of communication domestic and worldwide, Or was it a ruse to create terror? Should we use a limited retaliation? Also, how do we determine that the Pulsar, which the F.A.A. asserts, actually had been the true cause of the two incidents? Our military background leads us to believe it was a signal jamming. What if it was a Cyber Attack? If so, how did they do it? Will the Pulsar system being offline really nullify further occurrences? Will the culprits use other methods and targets to snowball their list of demands – the first being the Guantanamo Bay prisoner release. Was this a new stage in worldwide warfare? At the conclusion the bottom line transformed into: What the hell is our _first_ step going to be? Everyone had plenty of opinions to contribute, even Kennedy but not Wayne – he remained silent and acted as his silent, note-keeping aide. The spirited session went on until midnight and thankfully the Government Services Agency cafeteria workers under tight guard, delivered lunch and dinner. The group agreed to reconvene in one week or sooner if something major broke which required multiple agencies to be in physical attendance. They each parted with a bucket load of information gathering assignments and deferred the retaliation issue until they had more data. But definitely, some degree of punitive action was coming, sooner than later to someone deemed to be an enemy, even if it was only to save face. The world had to know the United States government wasn't going to be pushed around by a bunch of third world, mouthy terrorists!

As they returned to the elevator which carried them down, Atkins spied another, smaller, unmarked door on the other side of the hallway. It was steel and had four welds to seal it. Wayne looked at Kennedy for an explanation.

"That is a one-way escape tunnel," he relayed. "There are several. They have to be opened with a blowtorch or a small, controlled explosive charge to blow off the seals in order to gain access. Each tunnel connects to a different perimeter building outside the Pentagon." He smiled and added, "You still haven't seen everything yet, and never will. I don't believe anyone knows all the intricacies of this building. Remember, in here every section no matter how small, is on a Need-to-know, Top Secret basis."

"Frank, Frank Russo, are you listening to me? This is your _wife_ speaking! We may be separated but I'm still your _wife._ "

"Yes Rhoda," he answered. "I hear you."

"I said these kids need a father. No, more than that. They've become too much for me. I need you to take them."

He rebutted, "If they need a father so much then why don't you allow us to get divorced you so you can get remarried? You took them when you moved out two years ago and my attorney says I can't gain custody without a proper divorce decree and your agreement." He smoldered to himself, "Her remarried? No one in their right mind would have her. She's a slut with a capital S."

"Me? Remarried?" she whined. "Don't you think I've been trying to find someone worthy of me... and the children?" Then it began, "Yacky-yack, yacky-yack," she continued." He dropped another shot of Wild Turkey into his glass followed by two ice cubes. Frank listened to the squawking noise pouring from the phone and waited for a pause so he could put in another meaningless dig. It was always the same – an endless stream of complaints until she got finally tired and got down to the reason of why she called.

"You should have thought about those things before you took the kids away from me," then gently laid his phone on the kitchen counter top. Her volume increased. He decided to record an X-rated movie for himself and Zola, his Bahama Mama to watch on Saturday night. Having quickly grown tired of yet another of her harassing calls, he bluntly cut in. "Hold up. Stop talking. Tell me, what do you really want this time Rhoda other than to bust my chops? We've been through all this crap too many times. Is it more money? Is that what you're driving at? Spit it out."

She continued as if he hadn't said a word, "They're both failing in school _Your_ son is cutting classes and has stated smoking. _Your_ daughter ran away from home last month and stayed away for two days. The police found her roaming around Holiday Park with a pack of other misfit runaways. I found birth control pills stashed in her purse... and a marijuana butt! Can you believe marijuana? That's how you start out to become a drug addict!"

"Hum'm, you don't say. And why are you surprised by any of this," he challenged? "Aren't you still a chain smoker who quit school when you turned eighteen and got pregnant? As for her pills and recreational smoking, isn't it better than her getting knocked up, _Mommy_? And another thing, the last few times the kiddies visited me they made it quite clear you spend a great deal of time away from home. And, on top of that, they say there's always a different unemployed bum passing through every week. Where do you dig up these derelicts? In the alleyways?"

She replied in an aloof tone, "What I do in my house is my own personal affair. I shall not accept criticism by you or them. Do you understand? I'm going to contact my staff of lawyers for another settlement hearing. I'm confident after the court assesses my current situation they'll award a substantial increase to my measly interim child support."

"Another child support increase?" he repeated. "I volunteered to temporarily give you that support until you decided to make our so-called 'pending' divorce final... and you're doing nothing to make it happen!"

"Whatever," she returned coolly.

"Go ahead," he fumed. "Let's set up another court hearing. Make it for the first of the month. I'll take my chances."

"I may not be available then," she answered. "I'm planning going on what could be an extended trip to upstate New York with a gentleman friend. I'm unsure exactly when I shall return. The kids are old enough to take care of themselves. If they need anything they can call my mother in Vero Beach. They've done it before."

"I see," he retorted bitterly. "Two young teenagers alone with no parental supervision."

"I've grown weary of this discussion Frank. Let's just say, I require an additional hundred dollars a month per child. After all, I have to update my wardrobe for the ski resort, there are so many activities."

He wanted to scream at her, "I know damn well you don't ski! And since when does any of your activities require clothing?" but held it in check.

"Make sure the check's in the mail on time," she advised. "I wouldn't want my law firm to have to intervene. They're so stuffy and formal. Oh, and by the way, don't forget Dear _you_ caused this ugly situation. You and your black ass, Island girl you took up with years ago. So, ta-ta, Franky baby. We're done here," and hung up.

"God, there it is again. The knife in the heart." He seethed, "You worthless cunt, you drove me to her! I sure wish I still had my buddy Vic to share a drink with. Vic, God rest his soul. _He_ was a good fella. We'd down a few brews and figure out a plan to deal with your sorry butt! Poor Vic, he always understood me because his wife lived like a worthless whore also. Even so, and after putting all that shit aside, everyone knows a real man needs a little strange occasionally. No harm in that."

Quetta, Pakistan

Another Al-Qaida meeting had been called. This time there were ten delegates in attendance. There were the seven original plus three additional representatives from Saudi Arabia which made four of theirs. After all, that's where the most money and best trained suicide mission volunteers came from. The one in charge, the senior Pakistani announced, "I'm pleased to say we have been joined by three more of our brothers from Saudi Arabia. Although we were unsuccessful in determining if there were any of our courageous soldiers involved the downing of the Great Satan's aircraft, progress has still been made in the fight. As you know, the Al Jazeera news media released a statement of our claiming responsibility for the incidents and included our subsequent warnings and demands. Our sources have reported that many of the ungodly infidels are cowering and hiding in caves to flee the coming wrath of Allah. Of course, they shall not escape. But today, I must share with you another cause for jubilation. Our followers of the one true faith and the Prophet himself were so pleased to learn of the new, magnificent plans being devised by our brothers to the East. Listen to these blessed men of valor," then turned the meeting over to their visitors.

"My brothers, may Allah's grace be upon us," the Saudi leader began. "We too were unable to determine the source of the airline crashes. Therefore it most certainly had to be God's divine will. Praise, Allah. But our hands have not been lying idle either. Preparations are nearing completion for striking another dagger of fear into Satan's evil heart. We have as I speak, righteous soldiers poised to strike again within their den of iniquity. Their vile homeland."

This was fabulous news the others agreed. "It has been far too long since the infidel's Twin Towers of Corruption fell. Please continue."

"Yes, I will. In only a matter of days we shall again wreak panic into those using their vaulted, supposedly safest modes of transportation. This time it will be their heralded Staten Island Railway." He glanced around and saw that they didn't understand what he had been referring to. "It is a heralded railroad line which transports thousands of people daily from a large residential island to their work places in New York City. It is what we call a 'soft target' with high visibility. The conveyance is named a Bullet Train because its many lightweight aluminum passenger cars speed very quickly through several long stretchers between certain towns. The rail tracks and route are unguarded and there are a couple of small bridges crossing waterless gorges. The bridge we have chosen passes over the largest chasm. Its structure is old and still made of wood. Their money grabbing capitalists mongers have refused to upgrade such structures to steel and concrete to protect their citizens out of greed. If we were to blowup a small section right before the train approached at a high rate of speed all its cars would plunge into the depths. Their destruction would be total. There will be no survivors." He paused for effect. "There are hundreds of targets similar to these in all the infidel countries. These loathsome American sinners will be paralyzed in fear of using any form of their transportation! We will strike often with impunity. They will feel God's grip of death around their throats every hour of every day!"

"An excellent plan!" his listeners chorused. "Surely then they would heed our warnings and free our brethren!" They were filled with joy and anticipation. The group departed with the usual agreement that none shall speak of this meeting under the threat that they and their entire family would suffer the pain of an excruciating death and all would be denied passage into the blessed, eternal Paradise.

Hudson, New York

Khaled and Jamal, two Saudi nationals living in the U.S. on student visas, were on a mission. They were to procure the explosives to be used in destroying a rail section of the Staten Island Railroad five days later. Khaled had been living in a motel room outside Hudson, New York for two and a half weeks. Every day he drove his rented van to observe from a distance the construction of a new water management levee a few miles upstream on the river. He had been learning the system of their materials storage, especially the explosives which had been used several times to breakup large rocks embedded in the river bank. It was a small crew, only seven men working from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday through Friday and the foreman left at five when the first night watchman began his shift. The overlapping security hours were required by the State for sites which housed explosives. Normally that would provide ample coverage except that when the second guard arrived at midnight they both left to go on break at the all-night diner in nearby Hudson. They were gone for an hour and were as regular as clock work. It was Wednesday and Khaled was to pick up his partner, Jamal, at 3 p.m. at the small Greyhound bus stop in the Walmart parking lot adjacent to the highway leading back to New York City a hundred and twenty miles to the south.

The bus arrived early and Jamal was waiting with a large, near empty luggage grip in hand. Khaled could tell by the expression on his face that he was going to greet him in Arabic and quickly put his index finger to his lips. As soon as his partner had been seated he warned him, "English only! Never speak our tongue in public. Do you understand?" Jamal meekly nodded assent. "Good," acknowledged his leader and smiled. "It is good to see you again my brother. We will go to the motel and I will tell you what I have learned. Then we will eat, rest and take our prayers. At eleven-fifteen we will begin our travel to my observation point and wait for the second watchman. Did you complete your locksmith training satisfactorily? Are you proficient? Did you bring adequate tools and a prayer rug?"

Jamal answered, "Yes, I have my rug and locksmith tools. I feel sufficiently skilled for the task, providing the locks fall into the standard families... which excludes safes."

"I don't see why they would have a safe in a small construction trailer," Khaled surmised. "Don't be worried. I'm bringing heavy duty bolt cutters along in case you are confronted by an unknown device. Tonight we shall retrieve our quarry and continue on the mission with the blessings of Allah."

Later, as they were waiting in Khaled's black minivan at the observation point. It was very dark at 11:30 when he asked, "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Jamal confessed. "This is my first full mission."

"Your first?" echoed his partner.

"No, I've helped with other small assignments and procurements," explained Jamal. "But I've never been on a mission from its beginning to end. I realize it is a great honor but I feel the weight of responsibility on me also. I hope I am worthy."

"You are correct," agreed Khaled. "It _is_ a great honor, and responsibility my brother. The Council has chosen you because of your inner strength and devotion. We all feel a bit uncertain at the beginning. Every mission is a learning process. Each operation is a unique challenge and every successful link in its completion has an unparalleled feeling of satisfaction in our serving the Almighty. Prepare thyself to embrace the glory!"

"Thank you for your understanding and guidance," returned Jamal. "However, may I disclose what may lie as a fault of mine? Please believe me it is not the weakness of cowardice. I must confess that I am an overly suspicious person. Sometimes I see things which are not really there."

"What do mean?" wondered Khaled aloud. "Explain please."

"Well, this may be nothing and I'm not trying to alarm you but it's in regard to the lack of determining by the U.S. Government in finding the cause of the airplane crashes. And, as you know they have increased their security in their armories and all locations where C4 explosives are stored. I assume that's the reason we are going to use dynamite instead. Correct?"

"Not exactly Jamal," answered Khaled. "First, dynamite is easier to obtain if you require but a small quantity such as the twelve sticks we'll use. We can buy or steal them from many outlets such as farming or construction suppliers. Secondly, dynamite and the caps are small and easy to hide. Third, we don't need military grade power for this job. The bridge's support is made of wooden beams. Two sticks on six legs will be more than enough to create the desired collapse." His partner understood and appeared a little dejected at the logical explanation. "But please go on. What was your concern? The Council said you were a thinker. We welcome such. We need people who can evaluate."

"Thank you for your faith in me my friend. But, I was thinking doesn't stealing their dynamite seem too easy? Could this be a trap because of the airline situation? Are they expecting us to try another hurried-up event? And, catch us in the making?"

"Hum'm," reflected Khaled. "I don't know. That's a good point. But, I do know how to find out. We'll leave now, we have plenty of time to cruise around the town and highway. The city of Hudson is small and its outskirts are open and flat. If they have assembled a task force to capture us it will be easy to see. We'll abort and drive back toward New York at a normal speed so as to not draw their attention. Let's return to your concerns of our being apprehended. Suppose we _were_ caught in any mission we still must instill fear into the ungodly infidels any way we can. Remember, that is the true purpose of all missions."

All appeared clear in the surrounding area and they returned to their safe observation point ten minutes later. Jamal felt relieved and the second guard arrived right on time. The two watchmen exchanged words, had a few laughs then drove away towards the town with only one to return at one o'clock... after it was too late.

Jamal had been correct. It seemed too easy. They crossed the river and backed the van up in front of the trailer's rear door where they felt the supplies should have been stored.

Their access was so simple. Jamal used a small screwdriver and a plastic credit card to trip the door lock. Inside, they found that the administrative desks and file cabinets were in the front half of the trailer. The tool cabinets and foot lockers were in the rear where they expected. A locked wooden case on the floor was the obvious choice. It had a single, standard, Master padlock on it. The young man had it open in less than ten seconds. They didn't know how much dynamite was inside and when they peered in they discovered it had less than desired.

Khaled was the explosives man and noted, "Eight sticks and four blasting caps. I hoped for at least twelve but this will be sufficient. Less and we would have to find an additional source." He wrapped each stick and cap in a separate towel and placed them gently into his small gym bag. "We're done," he stated. "Close and relock the case. If all goes as planned they may not detect the loss for a week or until the rail bridge is destroyed and the F.B.I. begins searching for the source of the explosives." The pair loaded their quarry and closed the trailer. The entire operation took a mere fourteen minutes before they were over the river bridge and driving towards a motel in Jersey City. The next phase was to transport the package into Staten Island via the Bayonne Bridge then proceed to the chosen railway bridge on the south side of the island. All was going well, very well. "See Jamal, everything is based on good planning... with God's blessing and guidance, of course."

6:00 Monday morning

Khaled and his partner had spent two nights in a Jersey City motel verifying their plans and memorizing the rapid transit routes of the Staten Island map. The leader had previously familiarized himself with the island's local road system four weeks earlier by driving about, especially from end to end of the railroad's route. Jamal and he had to agree on every detail. They saw there was a four lane highway which ran parallel to the tracks on the south side with many small crossovers to gain access to the country dirt roads on the north side. Very few structures existed there – no one wanted to live next to the busiest train track in America. Its two commuter trains ran simultaneously, making double-backs at each end of the island to establish coordinated, continuous loops on the double set of tracks. The Saudi's were to blow the half of the bridge which carried the traffic headed toward the ferry between eight and eighty-thirty a.m., the peak, rush hour traffic thus sustaining maximum loss of life. The islands commuters debarked the train in Saint George, the end of the line, then boarded the ferry. It was a scenic twenty minute ride across the New York harbor which then docked in a lower Manhattan port station. From there it was a short people-mover walk through the Whitehall terminal which connected to the city's extensive subway system.

6:15 a.m. The two young men were traveling across the Bayonne Bridge which connects New Jersey to the North side of the island. Jamal asked, "Will we have enough time? There appears to be a lot of traffic. Perhaps we should have stayed in a motel on the island."

"Not a problem," answered Khaled. "The road system here is very good, very fast. And, as you can see almost all the traffic is going in the opposite direction. Every weekday there are thousands of infidels going to their jobs in New York and New Jersey. We will be at our jump-off point in approximately ten minutes. The entire length of the island is only fifteen miles. I chose the motel in Jersey City to eliminate the local traffic cam's from seeing my van at an island motel the night before we destroy the bridge. And, this being the only non-toll road connected to the island, it has fewer traffic cameras. We'll be undetected and far away if they try to seal off all the highways and tunnels."

"I agree, Khaled. "You are the most thorough person I have ever known. It is a privilege to work with you."

"You are most welcome brother." As they sped by the turnoff to the town of Grasmere the leader pointed out, "This is the beginning of the longest open stretch of the rail system. The train increases to full speed before coming into the next town, Clifton. Our exit is very close now." He pointed to a small intersecting road in the distance. "There," and soon veered off and drove down a single off ramp. They came to a stop and turned left onto an old, potholed, blacktop street. Next, they passed under the bustling expressway and the street then became a narrow country road.

After a couple of minutes and peering ahead Jamal remarked, "Wow, the landscape has changed drastically. It seems like we drove a hundred years into the past." Two hundred yards ahead they could distinguish the grey glint of train track crossing their road and a railroad warning sign so old you felt it belonged in a nineteen twenties silent movie.

Khaled smiled, "This isn't bad at all. There's an even more rural road which runs parallel to the tracks on the far side. Actually, it's really not a road at all. It's a dirt path made for jacked-up, railroad four wheel drive maintenance vehicles. Our target, the gorge is only a quarter of a mile beyond, headed back south. Once we're in it we may get our feet wet. There could be a foot of water, probably less since it hasn't rained in the last few days. We'll have be extra careful with our explosives and the remote detonator. Not because of the rugged terrain or an electrical malfunction. It's because dynamite must always stay dry, not like C4. Suppose it accidently gets wet then dries out it still has become useless. Don't worry, I've worked in far worst conditions with explosives." He turned onto the last pathway. It was rough, uneven and there was all sorts of debris scattered all over. The van had standard tires. They rocked up and down and side to side during their short trip. Finally, Khaled declared, "We'll have to stop here and walk the rest of the way. If not, I won't be able to back the van out. The bridge isn't far. We'll be finished in less than thirty minutes." Their van had tilted down toward the front left. He said, "We must be in a hole. It doesn't matter. I can rock us out, we have four wheel drive. Let's grab the gear." They hopped out and proceeded to the rear to retrieve their equipment. After picking up their grips and a duffle bag containing the explosives, caps, wiring and ropes the pair started their short trek to the bridge. Khaled glanced down at the front tire in the hole. Except there wasn't a hole. The sidewall of the tire had been punctured by a piece of discarded metal and become completely deflated! He knew the rental didn't have a jack or a tire iron, nor a spare tire. "Oh, shit," he exclaimed.

Just then a New York Police Department patrol Range Rover with two officers inside pulled up behind them. After reporting in to Dispatch and taking a picture of the van's license plate with their dashboard-cam they hailed the stranded motorists through their vehicle's p.a. system, "Good morning gentlemen. Do you require assistance?" The policemen had been parked out of sight on the far side of the overpass monitoring the traffic for speeders traveling toward New Jersey when they saw the Saudi's van pass by and turn left onto the rail maintenance path. Naturally, they assumed them to be tourists who were in the process of becoming lost and went to help. The officers stepped out of their vehicle to go and speak to the visitors.

Khaled and Jamal had been overly preoccupied by their tire dilemma and hadn't noticed the patrol car approach. They had been caught off guard but quickly realized they were blocked in. Instantaneously they concluded it had been a trap. Their weapons, 9mm. hand guns were not readily accessible having been buried within their clothing inside the zipped grips. Running away to detonate the dynamite without neutralizing the officers beforehand was a physical impossibility. The two would be bombers glanced at each other, sighed then dropped their gear to the ground. Khaled slowly knelt to his knees and raised his hands high overhead. Their unexpected actions appeared very suspicious and alarming to the officers who both quickly unsnapped their holsters and began to draw their weapons. No Tasers this time – they were 9mm semiautomatic's held in both hands.

"On your knees and lock your hands behind your head!" they ordered. Suddenly, Jamal leaned over, unzipped his grip and seized his pistol. He screamed, "I won't go to Guantanamo! Allah is great!" When he pulled his weapon free of the bag both officers shot him in the chest. Khaled, after watching that, threw himself face-down on the ground and yelled, "Don't shoot, don't shot! I'm unarmed!" The policemen held their fire and rushed to cuff him. Jamal was checked and found to be very dead. They called in the incident and requested backup. Shortly afterwards, the officers discovered the explosives and realized immediately the pair were clearly there to destroy the railroad bridge. Within a few short minutes there was a chopper overhead and a dozen patrol cars speeding towards them. And, the F.B.I.'s Rapid Response team dispatched from New York City was not far behind.

# Chapter Thirteen: Who's next?

The al-Qaida terrorist, Khaled, had been captured and interrogated by several agencies. Extraordinary measures were not required. He spoke willingly, openly and spared no words regarding his part in the mission – almost to excess. He remained proud to be a participant but regretted they weren't able to destroy the bridge. He had no pity for those who would have perished and maintained, "I am a faithful soldier of Allah, the one true god! There will be many more battles carried forth by my courageous brothers in my footsteps very shortly. We shall prevail and force you to free the innocents held illegally in the bowels of the death camp you call Guantanamo. After those victories we shall drive you from all our lands and our people will finally live in peace and bask in the glory of Islam."

Unfortunately, he could not or would not pass on any names of new or other fellow operators. He insisted that the valiant warriors of the Almighty had taken down the two American aircraft and there would be many more to come. When questioned in regards to how it had been done he said he didn't know the details but had heard they had taken control of the cockpit in the same manner as on that glorious day of 9/11... which earned him a missing tooth by one of the interrogators who had a relative in one of the Twin Towers. He laughed and begged for more.

The White House Press Secretary released a short, no questions permitted, statement saying to the effect that one terrorist had been captured and another killed. Coupled with, "Every mode of our transportation system remains safe and fully operational," she stated. "And, all measures are being taken to keep them that way. The President assures you that America may again sleep in peace this and every night."

The Bureau had decided to call it a Win and to give all its agents and support personnel a three day weekend in celebration. Wayne Atkins, Gary Taylor and Grant Kennedy were to meet with Wilma Redman and her brother William the following Monday.

The Florida Keys, Saturday morning.

"Your boss told you to get your affairs in order and get your ass back there Monday morning? To resume working twelve hour days until the end of the world? How thoughtful," chided his wife Laura. "Naturally, _your_ interpretation of the directive was for you to go the Keys and catch as many fish as you could." Wayne grinned in agreement. "I like the way you think Mister Atkins. I'm not a fish but you can catch me whenever you want," she teased and squeezed his butt."

They were walking south on the Three Mile bridge which connects Long Key to Conch Key in the string of islands that leads to Key West. It was 6:30a.m. on a clear day with a slight, easterly breeze. "I saw in the sports section's fishing guide that high tide will be at seven-fifteen and a run of Kingfish was expected today. That sure sounded like an affair I needed to get in order. Fish first, dessert later," referring to his wife. "Unless it rains, then reverse the order." Wayne peered over the side railing, "It appears to be deep enough already. There could be a few of those elusive grouper hiding down there also. They taste much better than King or Snook but they're kind of fished out. I'm going to set my rig for three foot below the surface because most of the fish will be passing through on their way the Gulf. I put the squid we bought in the bait shop in a freezer baggie so they won't stink-up our snacks in the cooler."

"Sounds like you really know what you're doing Big Guy," she complimented. "Are you guaranteeing we're having fresh catch for dinner?"

"Not hardy," Wayne returned. "Most of the time the fish don't read my playbook and all I end up with is a sunburn. That's why I made a reservation at Bud and Mary's Marina Grill just in case."

"Do you think there are any sharks down there?" she asked.

"You bet," he returned. "All the time, no matter what the water level is. The Hammerheads will cruise in less than three feet and the other types of big boys lurk under the bridge where you can't see them when the tide's in, like now. So, don't even think about jumping in for a cooling dip. _You'll_ end up being the bait."

Surveying the long straight bridge they observed several parties with extinguished night lanterns. "I wonder how they did in the dark," questioned his wife.

"Probably not so well," answered Wayne. "See how the water's flowing?" as he pointed at a piling. An hour ago it had to be roaring through there like a freight train. A six ounce sinker couldn't have held on the bottom. You gotta fish a little before or after the tide's at its peak."

"I see," she responded. "Very insightful. I understand now why our house is filled with so many fishing trophies." (there were none)

"Funny, very funny Jewels. You sound like someone who wants to bait her own hook," countered the ever optimistic fisherman.

"Ooh, noo," lamented Laura. "Squid are so icky." She glanced up to observe and point out, "Hey, Wayne, see how pretty the orange sun is? And, look over there," as she pointed. "I see some pelicans flying. This is so neat."

"Yeah, it's a beauty." Then got down to business, "Your pole is ready. Don't lean over too far, drop your line straight down and don't get close to the piling. Keep your thumb lightly on the reel so it doesn't backlash. As soon as you hit the bottom turn the handle and take up the slack plus a little bit more. Okay? As for me, I'm going to put on a bigger triple hook on my rig. Bigger hook, bigger bait, bigger fish. It's so easy, one, two, three. Ta-da!"

Before he could open the tackle box, she exclaimed," I got a fish!" which turned out to be a four-inch Grunt. "Yay me. I got the first one. Let's keep score. This is fun."

Thirty-five minutes later after unhooking another of her catches, throwing it back because it had been undersized, then rebaiting the hook a dozen times more, the score tallied at twelve to one. Laura suddenly reeled up her line and placed the pole against the railing. Ignoring the seriousness of her husband's venture she declared, "I've done enough fishing for now. I'm going to walk over and see how that older couple is doing," as she pointed at the pair forty yards away. She smiled and said, "Give me a yell if you hook the Big One and need help bringing it in." Laura returned twenty minutes later, "Have any luck yet, Honey?" She peeked in the empty cooler and commented. "Too small to keep? Too bad." Continuing, "Let me tell you about the couple I've been talking to. They're retired and live in a condo in Key Largo. They said the fishing from these bridges is so good they don't need a boat. The man told me how the tide changes the techniques you use when fishing at night... especially at the break of day. I asked him about the current being too fast this morning. He said, "No, it hadn't been too fast. You don't need weights. You want the line to ride on the surface floating away from you. Using live bait is best. Today's weather conditions dictated using shiners for Kingfish and live shrimp for Snook and Tarpon. A plus also is that a lot of the other types of big, bottom feeders will swim up and strike either one of them. See their long, blue ice cooler with the wheels on it? They have three Kings in it and two Snook, all within the legal limit. Plus, there's a couple of other big, pretty fish I don't remember the names of. A snipper and a groper? They said they caught too many and had to throw some catch and releases back before the other people arrived who they could have given them to."

"Humph," Wayne groaned. "I could have done that too if I had live bait, but there aren't any bait shops open that early."

"Oh yes, there are. The man said that tackle shop right across the street from our Dolphin Motel opens at 5 a.m. Isn't that convenient?" She then noticed the man waving at her while holding up a reddish colored fish, "That must be their final catch. They're finished," and waved back. "When I left they were using a lightweight lure with yellow feathers and a piece of leftover, dead shrimp. He said to bounce it around the pilings and the Redfish would take it. Tonight they're going to grill their catch outdoors for their neighbors. There'll be a dozen other home owners to share in their fish fry. The man's wife said, 'It'll be party time! Music, dancing and of course, lots of ice cold beer!' "Isn't that thoughtful of them? Have you ever done anything like that Wayne?" to which he muttered, no. Soon, the happy retirees rolled by with their bounty. "Bye now, nice to meet you," bade Laura. "Have fun tonight." After they passed, "Oh, Wayne, I'm so sorry. Did you want to check out their catch? I'll call them back if you want to see it. Their cooler is filled to the top!"

"Er, no. I think I'll pass," he responded as he checked his phone for messages. "Uh oh, trouble. I forgot to charge the battery last night. We better hustle back to the motel so I can check in with the Bureau." Later, after replying with a questioning, "Yesterday?" and a series of, "Yes ma'am's" which concluded with a final, "Yes ma'am, ten o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. I'm looking forward to it. Thank you and goodbye." He hung up the motel's room phone and remarked, "You wouldn't think a woman with that kind of education, position and responsibility would use that kind of language." He sighed, "Jewels, I regret to say but it appears my phone has been dead a little longer than I thought. I believe I may be in the proverbial doghouse."

Sunday, 10:10a.m.

Wayne Atkins poked his head through the doorway of the conference room. He arrived ten minutes late. "He fretted, "Of all days to have a flat tire and have to borrow Laura's car." In the back of his mind he remembered his father telling him, "Bad things happen in threes so don't be surprised when the third one comes. Keep your poise and stay the course son." Eleven faces turned toward his intrusion.

Ice cold daggers beamed from the eyes of the chairperson, Wilma Redman. "Agent Atkins, how nice of you to find the time to join us." He spied the single empty chair next to his buddy, Gary Taylor, who quickly looked down at the printed material lying in front of him. Ms. Redman's voice trailed him, "That's an interesting cologne you're wearing. Is it Essence of Fish Guts? Please select something more appropriate tomorrow. I wouldn't want our colleagues to think you had been working undercover on a shrimp boat. But rest assure, if I see an assignment of that nature, I'll definitely keep you in mind," which brought snickers from around the room.

Mason remaining silent, checked his fingernails. They were clean but the odor of squid still lingered. He reasoned, "It'll probably take two days to remove the stench. I'll scrub them with vinegar tonight."

She then stated, "That wraps it up for today gentlemen." Staring at Wayne she informed him, "We discussed the material and gave out assignments two hours ago when the meeting began... this meeting which was _scheduled_ at eight a.m. Your team leader, William, will fill you in. "I must leave, I have many other pressing matters to attend to," and departed in a heartbeat.

Atkins was stunned. He was absolutely positive she told him the meeting had been scheduled for 10 a.m. Atkins wondered, "What's going on? Am I being set up? I thought we were on good terms." He glanced at Gary and wondered, "Is this the _third_ bad thing my father forewarned me of? Wow!"

Her brother William saw the surprise and bewilderment on Wayne's face and pulled him to the side. He said, "A time mix-up? That is one of my sister's most annoying faults. She's done it all her life. Wilma's juggling so many projects these things sometimes happen. Especially if there's not an advance hard copy schedule available. Don't be concerned. I'll take care of it later, there'll be no repercussions. However, don't expect an admission of error or an apology from her. It'll never happen. She's always been very headstrong. Now, let's put it aside and I'll fill you in regarding the meeting."

"You and Taylor will be teamed again. Kennedy will return to Washington and resume his role as a liaison between the various agencies and the military. The resident agents assigned here in our office will be handling the new assignments along with you. We shouldn't require additional outside manpower this time. I assume you've heard about the two Staten Island would-be bombers. The leader was apprehended and the other had been killed by the local police. The survivor had been extensively interrogated. He insisted that the two recent airline disasters were perpetrated by their fellow soldiers of the faith who were onboard the aircraft. He was confident they had taken control and sent the evil minions of the Devil, meaning us, into the flames of Hades by crashing them into the ground. And for all, including us, to give praise to Allah for his guidance along with all their other crappy rituals." Then William Redman gave his personal opinion. He was steamed, "Those brainwashed, fanatical bastards know nothing about Islam or the Koran. I have family members who are converted Muslims. Islam's core centers around everyone living together in peace." He paused, "Sorry about that guys. I went a little overboard. I shouldn't be preaching in opposition to other people's religious beliefs. Let's get back to _our_ assignment. Regarding the two aircraft crashes. There were no unaccounted for, or unidentified victims in either incident. So now our job is to determine if any of them had ties to the al-Qaida network and proceed from there. Could, and or, did one or more of them actually do what the attempted bomber asserted? Other government investigative groups will be handling the technical aspects and the military will do their thing, in secret as usual. Agent Kennedy will continue to keep us apprised of the other department's developments. I still have both flight manifests and will provide your assignments for your team shortly. Now let's get to work and find the truth!"

The agents split up and headed upstairs to await their assignments. Wayne and Gary huddled off to the side to further catch up. "Some people in the Bureau have voiced that it could be a home grown group or a madman as opposed to al-Qaida," informed Taylor.

"My wife, Laura, suggested the same thing a few weeks ago," returned Atkins. "I don't believe anyone really knows at this point. We collectively, need to do a whole lot more digging. One thing which seems particularly odd to me is why did they change their m.o.? (method of operation) Especially if they were so successful in taking down planes? This suggests to me that there are two different factions involved."

"I agree," answered Gary. "But they both could be under the influence of al-Qaida."

"I'm not trying to stir the pot," said Wayne. "But if it were only one faction, not influenced by al-Qaida, and having so much success, I believe they'll strike again in the same manner... soon... and often. Why stop what works for them?"

"Oh, crap!" exclaimed his partner. "They're picking up the pace? That changes everything. It's now a frig'g race!"

The gravity of his own words sank in. "Gary, do you realize this could mean hundreds more killed, maybe thousands?"

Taylor led, "Well then I say in view of the _possible,_ and or repeated carnage, _our_ team had better well get it 'All in' right now and stop these psycho bastards. However, I personally feel it has to be those damn Middle East terrorist groups again!"

Wayne semi-agreed, "I'm with you on your assessment. I'm confident we can rule out an individual, even a technological genius madman. Logistically, it would be far too complex for a single person to commit those crimes. I think there would have to be at least two suicidal men on each aircraft to gain control of it. Ever since nine-eleven there are no more unlocked cockpits and a hell of a lot more onboard security. There's an Air Marshal on every flight which carries over a hundred and fifty passengers."

"In addition to those measures, all the flying schools in North American are required to report to the Bureau of any foreign students seeking training on multiengine aircraft," added Taylor. "I tell you what, I've got a friend over in the B.A.U. in Virginia. Let me run it by her regarding the possibility of it being a single perpetrator and see what they think. I'm sure they're up to date on both incidents."

"Good idea," answered Wayne. "I see Redman coming with our assignments"

"Oh, by the way Wayne," as he sniffed the air. "I think you should stay away from cats for a while," joked Gary. "They may try to chew your fingers off."

Syed Azrael was furious. "How dare those common terrorists lay claim and seek credit for my work? Which I alone undertook under Allah's divine direction! They are wrongfully misleading the entire world! God's message of retribution is being buried under their endless squabble with the non-believers. They may be my brothers in the faith but their words are lies. This tells me there will be more required of my services. And... I know just where to continue. Perhaps after another eradication of the blatant, loathsome sinners the infidels will come to see the light and repent. I shall resume God's work beginning with that swine, Frank Russo. With Allah's blessing I'll send him to join his despicable friend Vic Butler in the flames of Hell. Tomorrow I'll access our Internal Operations website and find out what kind of training or trips he has been scheduled to take. The Company is always wasting money by sending their beloved management cronies around the country. Most of it goes into their frivolous activities and drunken parties. So be the vile, unrepenting sinners. I can not, nor do I want to help those minions of the Devil. Besides, I being a most deserving person would greatly benefit in taking a road trip if it were to facilitate another cleansing. It would be exhilarating and refreshing. It always is when serving thy Master."

The following morning. He pulled up Russo's schedule by using Yvonne's, the office receptionist, passwords which he stole from her when he snuck-up behind her back some time ago. Syed reasoned that it was appropriate since it made many of his job operations easier. "The managers should have let me have system wide access to begin with. They can't operate this division without me. I, not those fools, am indispensable." He keyed through the program. "Ah-ha, here he is," and read the man's schedule for the next six months. H'mm, not too much going on." Then, "Oh, this is interesting. A three day Environment Safety and Hazardous Material Control symposium by OASHA three weeks from now in Birmingham, Alabama. It begins on a Wednesday and concludes that Friday which means he'll be arriving there on Tuesday. United Airlines flight 794. Perfect. I have plenty of vacation time saved up. I'll take that week off, ride up and find a suitable operations site. First I'll check in at well-established Atlanta hotel and begin a paper trail. It's less than a three hour drive on I-20 and I-59 to Birmingham. After the plane is downed I'll return to Atlanta and continue being seen and recorded in multiple restaurants and tourist attractions. It'll be fun." He felt very good concerning his plan. "I now shall contact Sparkie. I haven't talked to her for a while. She's always intelligent and stimulating.

Sparkie's smart phone gave three beeps signaling that The Angel was on the SciTech website again. She smiled and whispered, "Well, see who's back on line. My old friend, the religious fanatic. Always interesting... and very weird. The key in dealing with wacko's like him is to not take them too seriously. You haft-ta dial down their rantings and read between the lines"

"Salutations, oh Chosen One" immediately flashed up on her screen when she signed-on. Syed had learned the computer programing game also and installed auto Answer Back Recognition on Connection software to camp on to a specific user. After-all, he was an electronics wizard – computers were merely child's play. Even so, he rarely wasted his time on such trivia. Sparkie was his exception. He felt there something special between them. Perhaps, he should meet her in person after his missions were complete. The position of a domestic companion had been vacant since his wife had chosen her wonted path and subsequent demise. He fantasied, "Who knows how long it will take to receive a settlement from the insurance company so I can purchase an indentured servant (slave) on the Black Market? "Or, maybe I won't need one at all if I can convince Sparkie to come live with me. I know we would be more than just compatible." A sly grin crossed his face, "On the other hand, I could still buy a female servant and do the both of them. As a devout Muslim I am permitted to have as many women as I can provide for."

He began his message, "Sparkie, my beloved friend. I felt the need to contact you regarding the confusing and false statements being generated by the Arabic news station Al Jazeera. Their latest release centers around the claim from the young Saudi recently captured that al-Qaida's freedom fighters were solely responsible for all three incidents. They were not. It's true the attempted destruction of the New York rail system was of their doing. And, perhaps they may make more such attempts elsewhere if that's their chosen method of doing battle. However, I'm here to inform you that the attack on the train had been made by mere mortals who were not under His Divine Direction. The fruitless attempt on the train had been merely a part of their endless war with the West. As for the downing of the two airliners, those were orchestrated by God himself in order to carry forth a specific action to punish the arrogant evil doers... and to help lead errant sinners to repentance. See the difference? Should she reply? One method will be judged as an act of war and the other as a heavenly lesson imparted to help the unknowing, misled souls. All praise be to Allah! May he, in his mercy, continue to offer enlightenment to the lost, wandering and undecided so they may learn the one true faith. Dear child, I care for you dearly and wanted to illuminate this contrast so that when you learn of, or experience such an incident, you will comprehend his divine reasoning."

The young woman in Tampa sat there staring at her screen in a bewildered state. "What in the hell is he talking about? Isn't this really about different ways to kill hundreds of innocent people... while saying that one way is good and the other is bad? How can any sane person reason or justify those actions? I'm not sure how to respond or if I want to!" She thought for a while. Azrael waited. He knew she was still online due to his newly installed Recognition software. Sparkie finally answered, "That sounds rather complicated and beyond my comprehension at this point in our relationship. I may require some clarification later on certain issues as they arise."

"Yes, of course my child. Well said. I fully understand and am confident you will learn quickly. I know this because I immediately sensed you were a fellow Chosen One early in our first communications. Now, I eagerly await _your_ own personal enlightenment and the embracing of the truth. It may take you a little while longer. But less time than most because of your being an extraordinary and very gifted young woman. God and I both have faith in you and soon you will have faith in us also. However, I must leave you now. I have many preparations to make. Keep your eye on the sky and learn from of its revelation. The Angel," and he was gone.

Irritated, she glared at the abrupt ending, "Holy shit. Eye in the sky? Revelation? _Who,_ am I dealing with?" she wondered. "Or is it more like, _What_ am I dealing with?"

Grant Kennedy, the F.B.I's liaison with the other government agencies in Washington had been contacted with updates and was relaying them to Wilma Redman. The meat of the matter was that the Pentagon, the C.I.A. and the N.S.A. with their combined, extensive resources had conclusively determined that the two aircraft had not been controlled or destroyed by persons unknown in flight, nor could their agencies ascertain that any other extraneous actions had caused the groundings. The F.A.A. still leaned toward a Pulsar landing system malfunction but hadn't yet determined the exact component failure at this time. To the Pentagon and the other agencies it equated, 'no terrorist involvement'. When this information had been finally passed down to Atkins' and Taylor' level they both felt it was pure B.S. "That's a Hell of a lot of co-incidents and existing unknowns lumped together. Something doesn't feel right." Again they pondered, "Could a single, suicidal person really be able do this on each aircraft?" After more consideration they agreed, "That would be near impossible with today's safeguards. We'd better continue on our assigned background checks of the passengers and crew until told to do otherwise. "Let's put that scenario of a single perpetrator out of mind for the meantime."

Three weeks later, Syed's van was packed and en route on Interstate 95 up to Atlanta. Azrael was in excellent spirits. "What a beautiful day!" he exclaimed. "On vacation, a road trip, sightseeing, no home cooking and the best of all – doing God's work. I am such a lucky man to have been chosen to deliver God's vengeance upon the Devil's soulless disciples." He had made reservations at the Hilton, their cheapest room of course. Syed had selected that particular hotel because of their excellent record keeping system and high visibility. It would be easy to build a paper trail there in order to create an alibi if necessary. Breakfast in their restaurant, showing his excursion tickets to Six Flags over Georgia and Stone Mountain to the hotel's service personnel for several days while being extra friendly so they wouldn't forget him. And, take lots of pictures with them and anyone else he could find to cement his whereabouts. Time stamps on the back of drugstore made photos were pretty much proof positive in a court of law. Then on Tuesday he would slip away after breakfast and drive to nearby rural Fairfield located west of the Birmingham-Shuttleworth Airport and greet Mister Frank Russo as he comes in for a landing. "He and all his infidel friends on the flight shall have their own special session to listen to and appreciate my recording of Angel of the Morning... but not much more. I do so love that song. It always reminds me of my beloved wife, Tessa. I play it every night before I go to bed. May the bitch burn in Hell for all Eternity."

# Chapter Fourteen: What if?

It had been a wonderful conclusion directed by his Master and Lord of the Universe. The plane had crashed just short of hitting the passenger terminal. But wait, was his god showing him a better way to punish the unrepentant sinners? Should he devise a plan to include the terminal next time or another structure containing a large number of infidels? "These questions and many more will be answered in my prayers," Syed reasoned. Azrael had already learned that he must to continue on his path. But the: who, when and where could only be revealed by Allah himself later, after the current recipients had enough time to interpret his latest, saving-grace message. "Should I help in the next selection... and offer a few of my own ideas? Would it be presumptuous of me? Or is that what's expected of one of his righteous soldiers? I have much to reflect on before I beseech Him in prayer with these questions. Although the task is complex and taxing I am comforted. For He knows my heart and will reveal all. We are at war with the Devil's minions and my mission is to pass unto them his enlightenment and glorify his name!"

Syed closed his eyes momentarily in reverence and drifted out of his highway lane. A sharp blast from another vehicle's horn quickly snapped him back to reality. After he returned to his proper lane a pickup truck roared by and he heard he driver yell, "No texting in Alabama you fucking Florida asshole!"

Azrael proceeded unfazed, then smiled, "Hmm, perhaps _he'll_ be in the flight path of my next cleansing." With satisfaction he peered into his rearview and side mirrors and saw the billowing smoke on the horizon coming from the Birmingham airport. It pleased him greatly. "Another testimony to the wrath of God. His retribution shall not be denied." Within fifteen minutes he was leaving Alabama on the one mile stretch of Interstate 20 which connects to Georgia and where many tens of thousands of colorful wildflowers filled the median separating the highway's four lanes. "Beautiful, just beautiful. Bountiful, as in his glory. A fitting exit and entrance leading to more victories."An hour later...

As expected the news of the third crash exploded across America then quickly around the world. To most it felt as if we were having another nine-eleven. Then the real panic began. Every commercial flight in the air was searching for a place to land. Their passengers had gone ballistic. Screaming, fighting, people throwing luggage, the nonstop beating on the cockpit door. A thousand onboard medical emergencies had erupted within minutes of their learning the news. An Air Marshall had to shoot a man, not fatally, who had attacked a flight attendant. Next reaction had been the inevitable, the stock market dropped a thousand points in a heartbeat – Big Money couldn't unload their airline stock fast enough. The market continued its slide and an hour later all trading on Wall Street had been suspended. The few successful sellers were then buying gold and diamonds from anywhere in the world as fast as they could find them. Another Recession which would make the past 2008 _correction_ seem like a baby's fart loomed right around the corner. By this time tomorrow every bank in the U.S. would be dry. Had this been al-Qaida's end game all along? Could it be that easy? Doesn't the government have safeguards to protect its citizens against this? We'll see... very soon. Sorry Mister President, America will _not_ sleep peacefully tonight no matter what the White House press says!Gary Taylor's friend in the B.A.U. had answered him back saying that there didn't exist enough information to lead them to suspect that either of the first two crashes were caused by one person or a particular group. However, she had had a friend in the Star Wars Lab who said his team would check into it right after they receive and had analyzed the third flight recorder's data.A few days later a Lab representative contacted Grant Kennedy, the F.B.I's liaison in Washington regarding its new, combined findings and preliminary assessments. He, in turn reported to Wilma Redman that the Lab wanted a face to face with the Bureau before distributing the material to any other departments. She then assembled a team consisting of her brother William, Wayne Atkins and Gary Taylor to meet with the Lab personnel the next morning.Langley, Virginia.

There were no conference tables nor printed material to be reviewed. The F.B.I's three reps were joined by two N.S.A. representatives, one D.H.S member and a N.A.S.A. supervisor plus one C.I.A. (spook-type person). The Lab team of four young technicians and a fiftyish, silver-haired spokesman, all with no name tags, greeted them inside a vast electronic laboratory equipped with scores of testing machines. "Thanks for joining us this morning gentlemen. I'm Joe," who everyone knew to be probably false. The Lab personnel were one of the few groups of American workers who all were required, trained and carried guns off the job, and their homes were patrolled by government paid, private security.

Wayne whispered to Gary, "At least they didn't put hoods over our head like they do in the Pentagon... so far."

Joe continued to his group of visitors, "What we're going to show you hasn't been disclosed to the military or even the President yet. We don't what them to jump the gun and start firing missiles while keeping all of you in the dark,' which caused a few eyebrows to shoot up. In their response he added, "You'll see why very soon." He led them into the Spectrum Analysis lab to a screen mounted on the wall at eye level. On a long table beneath it laid numerous printouts, graphs and crossover charts. "Let me explain what we have here. For those of you lacking a solid background in physics and applied electronics I'll keep as simple as I can but please feel to ask questions so I don't lose you. Agreed?" He pointed at a fuzzy line which ran continuously across the l.e.d. screen. "I shall begin here. This thin stream of data is what we'll call 'the capture' mechanism used in forcing down the three commercial jet airliners. It's an oscillating jamming frequency, pretty standard military stuff. And, which is commonly referred to as 'white noise'. Its function is to block audio radio transmissions and it can heard by the human ear. It sounds like a hissing noise. The closer you get to the source, the louder its volume. The best effective range for the type of generator which drove this device is between five and six miles, depending on the manufacturer and the weather. Combat equipment usages range from ten to fifty miles which is based on the generator's structural core strength. This particular one _appears_ to be transmitted by something similar to a portable or mobile generator, as were the rest of the signals involved in this 'capture'. He stopped, "Oh, sorry folks, I didn't have time to rehearse or dry-run this presentation. I should have first told you that these images are composites from the data gleaned from the three downed aircraft's flight recorders. My bad. Is everyone still on board?" They nodded, affirmation. "Excellent, thank you so much. I'll endeavor to do better." He turned to his fellow technicians, "Okay guys, you gotta backup the old man, me. We've here to give these nice people the Big Picture." He returned to his eager to learn audience. "Now comes the complicated stuff. The digital electronic controlled applied mechanics," and smiled. He then pointed at one of the five charts lying on the table. "Note these groups of squiggly lines. These were how the sender operated the various functions of the plane while bypassing the Central Computer's normal access routes."

"The computer?" questioned Taylor. "Do you mean the craft was in a computer driven condition? What about the autopilot and manual controls? The third aircraft should have been under direct pilot control. We were told the Pulsar landing systems were deactivated."

"I'm getting there," Joe answered. "All forms of navigation were attempted by the crew to regain control but they were either blocked or locked out. For example, this printout depicts a frequency being applied with the superimposed modulations required to block the local administrative input via the onboard terminals. In other words, the cockpit personnel could type in whatever they wanted and it wouldn't have any effect on the navigation. This other chart here has the necessary alien signals to fool the wing flaps into thinking it had the correct commands from the computer to operate itself to a 100% flaps down. The same principal on the printout lying to the right, the engines recorded that they had received an acceleration command... and so on. See how it works?"

"But Joe, why didn't the alien sender use the airplane's computer directly instead of going around it?"

"Another good question Mister Taylor. First, the crew would have seen the alien's messages on their video display terminals and been able to react faster. Next, and most importantly, the pilot would have been inputting his counter messages on the same data channels as the alien. This would have caused a queue backup. Both parties would be typing in so many commands the plane's navigation controls would be going on-off, on-off and diminished the flight path's decent rate. Therefore extending the landing length to where the craft would have become out of range of the alien transmitter. All three planes would have made jerky motions and created upset stomachs but it also would have given them enough time to pull up and avoid the crash. However, the crew never saw the intruder's input messages, so they after they realized what was happening, they correctly broke the extraneous link by powering down the computer. Alas, to no avail because the alien re-seized them immediately after the power had been restored and of course then all three aircraft were flown very quickly into the ground."

"How do you know the alien signals were from the ground and not another aircraft close by?" asked Redman.

"Another aircraft?' repeated Joe. "Yes, we considered that. "I agree that could be a reasonable consideration. But rather unlikely when you factor in all the other conditions which were required for _three_ separate, identical incidents of three different airlines... at three different airports. Also, it would have required an easily seen intruder aircraft flying parallel. And to complicate the matter, it has definitely been ruled that it could not have been a Pulsar malfunction. All Pulsar systems nationwide were already offline before the third incident."

"Well, this sounds somewhat depressing," said Redman. "You've shown most of the How but there are still gaps and nothing in regard to the Who or Why. But that's really not your job, that's ours. Do you have anything else to add? We'd love to listen, even if it's speculation."

Joe became pensive and his associates appeared a little uneasy as if the man was being asked to reveal delicate or sensitive information. Finally he acquiesced, "Yes, we still have many missing pieces and certainly not all the answers, yet. As to our making far out speculations... well let's just say that it takes less power to transmit control frequencies and data bit streams from space than it does through the Earth's normal ground based atmosphere."

Every invitee had the proverbial deer in the headlight expression as they glanced around at each other. Finally all eyes rested on the N.A.S.A. representative. Gary whispered to Wayne, "I wondered why in the heck _he_ was here. I couldn't make the connection until now."

Atkins understood the inference right away, "He's referring to a satellite. A fricking satellite sending signals to crash the planes!"

"I think I know what some of you must be thinking," said Joe. "A military satellite. Yes, that could do the trick... even if it were three hundred miles away. How? Because space has zero resistance. From Earth we communicate via satellites all the time. Worldwide, tens of millions messages are being transmitted every minute. It requires very little power to shoot data downstream through the atmosphere. The density of the atmosphere is the defining factor in ground based transmissions. How or who owns or controls the alien's satellite is a complete mystery, at this time. I believe we have some pretty good analysts in the N.S.A. on our side to find out who did it. And, after its identity has been determined it's going to be hard as hell to hold back the Dogs of War. And, that's why we're giving you fellows the heads up first."

All the listeners were stunned speechless. Finally the Department of Homeland Security asserted, "A foreign military satellite, a secret weapon? That would be an outright blatant act of war. The missiles will fly. It would be World War III in a heartbeat."

"I agree," affirmed Joe. "I hope your investigative departments can find some missing pieces and neutralize this looming Armageddon scenario. We'll hold off disclosing our enemy satellite 'speculation' part from the military and the White House as long as we can. But let's face it, this big bad cat is going to get out of the bag very soon. Especially, with hundreds of investigators and analysists all of a sudden searching for a Bogie in the sky."

The N.A.S.A. rep's hand shot up for recognition to speak. "I agree with keeping the lid on this for as long as possible. However, an idea popped into my mind almost immediately. If the aircraft downing's were actually caused by a weaponized satellite I would definitely be leaning towards it being caused by civilian or corporate means. As to date, there are over a hundred private enterprise satellites circling above. Many could be equipped with unknown hardware. Their payloads are not fully regulated by any agency or government. Basically, all that's asked of them is: Do you have anything dangerous onboard? I don't believe any foreign government would want to get into a nuclear war with the United States. And believe me there are numerous corporations who would profit greatly by almost crashing our stock market and gobbling up the pieces for a song. Money is always a major catalyst."

"I have a thought also," added the D.H.S. representative. "Shouldn't we be considering the fact that all three craft were flown by different Airline companies and the planes were different models?"

"Another excellent question," beamed Joe. "It's because they all use the same digital clocking and bit steaming to communicate with the ground and other aircraft," which again left a few listeners with blank stares. "In other words, all the communication equipment – ground and air were speaking the same input and output language. That's synchronized navigational data transfer. It's sort of like everyone being on the same H.A.M. radio channel," he explained. "My what excellent dialogue we're having!" gushed Joe. "Positive and realistic considerations. I feel so much better now that this _may_ not be the end of the world! I believe our course is becoming clearer and in the right people's hands. Thank you all so much, I may be able to sleep tonight." After no other new ideas were added the meeting adjourned.

After discussing the lab's findings with his sister Wilma and her going up through the chain of command William had been told to continue their investigations as is. That nothing had been totally definitive regarding the alleged alien satellite perpetrator. However, the proverbial cat escaped its bag in only two days later. Thankfully cooler minds had prevailed in the White House and the United States didn't nuke any of its numerous known enemies for the moment. They were waiting for N.S.A.'s tracking info. However, the President said he would not sit on it indefinitely. "Someone's going to pay Big Time. And soon!"

Very shortly thereafter the Langley lab advised the government and all the investigative agencies that further testing and results had revealed by identifying software induced product markers. Those distinctive markers indicated that all of the alien's devices were made in the U.S. or Germany. This gave the Bureau a new direction to pursue... that the attacks could have come from an American source. Even so, the U.S. War Machine began making contingency plans to launch immediately against any foreign foe if they were identified as the culprit.Sparkie had another restless night. Disturbed sleep finally came in the wee hours before dawn, again. "This is no way to live my life," she decided. A couple a glasses of wine had finally helped her to drift off, but the morning after and having to struggle though another work day as a cable repair technician for the phone company - she was taking a heavy toll. "I can't go on like this. I need to pass this burden of what I think is damning information on to someone else." The news of the third airliner crash in Birmingham had driven her mind into a 'What if?' overload. The Angel with all his weird crap had finally scared her to the core. The first contact with him had not disturbed her but as they continued it got progressively worse. It eroded from being interesting, to perhaps a religious zealot, then in the last two exchanges: "Is he a crazy man? Am I dealing with a mentally ill serial killer? Should I stop answering his Internet hailing and ignore him? Blow him off? I think I need to talk to a professional who deals with this kind of shit on a regular basis." She had her printouts from every one of their online dialogues and stored the hard copies in a box labeled SciTech/The Angel. The young woman had the necessary documentation and could backup her concerns and fears if she were asked to.

"Hello, Florida Department of Law Enforcement. I am C.S.R. (Customer Service Representative) four sixteen. How may I help you?"

"Hello, my name, er, my nickname is Sparkie. I'll like to talk to someone regarding the three airline crashes. I may have some pertinent information."

"Yes, thank you for calling Sparkie. You have the right place. We have received many tips regarding those incidents and are very happy that you also are offering information. However, Sparkie, we are going to need your full name, social security number, phone number and home address. I assure you all of your personal information will be private and protected under the National Security Act."

"Oh, I hoped I could remain anonymous," she answered. "Is that possible?"

"Yes, but if your material appears to be credible and an investigator wants to speak to you we need to have your contact information on file. As I said, everything you disclose to us is completely confidential."

"Yes, ma'am," she responded then passed on her personal info. The young caller, whose real name was Susan Anderson, reasoned, "Hell, I'm one of the few people who are still listed in the phonebook. _Anyone_ can find me if they want to... including The Angel. "All right, you know how to contact me, now what?"

"Thank you again, Susan. I will now transfer you to one of our Route Directors. They will analyze and determine which agency to pass your information to. Again, thank so much for calling your Florida Department of Law Enforcement. I am transferring you now." 'Click'

"R.D. Twenty-seven. How may I help you, Susan a.k.a. Sparkie?" as he read his computer screen. "The tragic airline incidents? You have some related information for us?"

"I believe so," she answered. "But first, doesn't anyone there use names? Even only first names?"

"No, Susan," returned the Referral Director. "It's for our safety and yours. It's to help protect us both from a hacker retrieving classified, delicate information. Now, please tell me what you have regarding the airline crashes or anything else that you would like to pass on. We are here to help you and all our fellow Americans. You and I will talk it over and make a decision of which is the best agency to evaluate it further. Please begin whenever you are ready. What have you seen or heard that has made you feel uncomfortable?"

"The information I have is from Internet open group conversations I had with a user who calls himself, The Angel. I assumed he was a male and possibly a Muslin because of the many phases and religious jargon he used."

"Were they similar to what you have read in the news or heard on the radio or television? Did he mention by name al-Qaida, the Taliban, I.S.I.S. or any other well-known terrorist group?"

"No, he never stated an affiliation. May I read to you some of his excerpts from our five online encounters?"

"Please do so, I'm all ears... and taking notes," (and recording as required by the federal government).

"Okay. I've had five contacts over the last few months which lasted only a few minutes apiece."

He cut in, "Only five contacts in that time period?" "First off, that can't be regarded as harassment, especially on an open group. Were any of them of a sexual or threatening nature?"

"No," she answered. "Let me tell what he said, please."

"Certainly. Sorry to interrupt you. I have lots of boxes to check. You know how we're always getting jammed with documentation."

"I understand. My job is three minutes of paperwork for every one minute worked." She began, "The material in question actually started in the second session. He stated that the Delta crash had been necessary. In the third session he used the term, next cleaning. Also, he said he had been chosen to deliver God's revenge on the condemned souls and was the Angel of Retribution. On the fourth contact he called to say that the American Airlines' crash hadn't been caused by al-Qaida... that it was made by God's direction and created by his own hand. For the fifth and last he said all the news releases were false and for me to keep my eye on the sky to learn its true revelation. Then the JetBlue crashed and burned. Doesn't this all sound a bit suspicious? Threatening? As if he had inside information before the planes were downed? And, he was always spouting religious doctrine, which was crap in my opinion. He inferred that the crashes were justified. Created by God's will? I say Bullshit. What do _you_ think Mister Evaluator? What more do you want of me?"

"I believe you may have some valid concerns," he answered. "But the first thing which comes to mind is that it sounds like a bit too much bravado. It's not uncommon on a group Internet site for a person to try to impress a new contact by using material which is off color or bizarre. For example, by declaring he was a secret undercover agent or perhaps a crime kingpin to gain your attention. It happens all the time. Some loser or teenager learns of something juicy in the media and tries to capitalize on it to gain access to a hopefully perspective partner. But it usually pans out to be nothing. However, rest assured. I will definitely pass this on for further evaluation. You live in the Tampa area correct? Did the Angel give any indication as to where he resided?"

"No," she returned. "The SciTech Group we were using has members from all over the U.S... the world."

"No problem, Susan. "And, you have hard copies of all the conversations correct?" he verified again.

"Yes, sir. I can send you whatever you want."

"No, don't do that. I'm going to refer this to the F.B.I. field office in Tampa. An agent will evaluate our discussion and decide if it merits further follow-up. In my experienced opinion it will be. Someone will contact you for a face to face most likely at your residence or a meet at the Tampa branch office. Under no circumstances are you to send any of your material over the Internet, by mail or by fax to _anyone._ As before, this is for your protection."

"How long will it take before I know either way if they want to talk to me?"

"It depends on its level of priority. If it goes to the top of the pile, a week or two. At the bottom, four to five weeks... either way you will receive some kind of acknowledgement. They won't leave you hanging in the wind. I'm going to give you a case number and you may call back here to add or update information. And of course, to get a status if you need to, but don't expect much beyond a, 'We're working on it'. That said, now I must strongly advise you not to disclose this reporting or anything else regarding the airline incidents to anyone else. Not even your family or friends. No one! Do you understood? Do you agree?" She acknowledged, 'Yes'. "Remember, this conversation has been recorded. This type of disclosure and your recordings will now fall under the jurisdiction of the Federal government. And just to warn you, there could be penalties or prosecution for falsified reports. Do you understand?" and again she affirmed so. "Excellent, Susan. I believe that concludes our business for today. Thank you again and if you're satisfied, may we say goodbye now?"

She felt better and they disconnected. "Looks like I'm in the Big Leagues now," she commented to herself. "I got what I wanted... the heavy hitters to carry the load."

Two days later, Special Agent Quinn of the local Tampa F.B.I. office who had called in advance was knocking on her apartment door to have a sit-down and collect her hard copies."How faired your visit to the lab at Langley yesterday Wayne?" asked his wife Laura. "Did they give you the usual, 'I'm going to impress and confuse you with my high tech gibberish'? I'm sure they didn't lose _you_ with all their scientific jargon considering what you learned in the Navy. Was Gary in attendance also? Was he okay with all their razzle-dazzle?"

"Yes, he was there and handled their assumptions-evaluations just fine," Wayne answered. "Don't forget Gary's a seasoned Special Agent. Even so and thankfully, the Big Brains were kind and made their presentation at our lowly human level. I've never heard anything like it. Now I know why those guys work in a fortress and are paid the big bucks. And, they're also protected around the clock."

"Oh, that's impressive. Do you have anything interesting to disclose which I could understand on my lowly, earthworm level?" she joked.

"Hum'm, I guess I could, if I was allowed to, but you probably wouldn't believe it if I told you. Their findings, deductions and assessments fell into the vast realm of pure science fiction." He paused for a moment, "At least I hope it was merely corny old nineteen fifty's sci-fi stuff."

"What in particular if I may dare ask," she continued. "Assuming it doesn't involve the usual National Security coverall."

Not exactly, just a nuclear World War Three and the end of civilization. That about sums it up," without giving the details. "Everything will be fine," he assured. "Providing, the cat doesn't get out of the bag and it's buried properly along with the hundreds of other Armageddon scenario's they're hiding from the public."

"Oh, it that all? I'm glad it wasn't anything serious," in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Wayne thought for a moment then offered, "I understand your reaction. I hope you know I value your opinion and sound reasoning. You've backed me up on so many things, even before we were married. You realize since I'm now with the Bureau if I tell you something in confidence it can't go beyond us. As for the job, I'm beginning to learn everything is not life and death as we were led to believe. Sometimes these far out speculations are almost comical. Besides that, I learned that those superstar lab guys have a habit of changing their minds at least twice a day. Everything is an immediate world-ending crisis to them." She smiled in appreciation knowing she was still his best confidant. "I'm going to tell you what those genius's proposal was for three reasons. First, and foremost, I know you won't divulge it to anyone else. You don't want me to get fired or prosecuted. Right? So secondly, they didn't make me sign a nondisclosure document like they usually do... or maybe that part was understood. Hum'm, I don't know. Third, it's so ridiculous it's almost comical. The whole meeting revolved around the three fatal airline crashes. Their conclusion was that they believe the planes were taken control of and crashed into the ground by an enemy satellite. Ha! Has someone been playing too many video games or what? Maybe it could be remotely possible. I doubt it. But really, what kind idiot would try it? The N.S.A. could identify and track it back to the point of origin like right now," as he snapped his fingers."

Are you going to be involved in that?" she asked.

"No, the last word is that we are sticking to our prior assignments... investigating the passengers, crew and such. But, it's pretty much of a circus right now. The boss, lead agent Redman, said it usually is whenever politics gets involved. Who knows? Next week it all may be resolved and I could be back in Mail emptying waste paper baskets. Gary says he's been through it a dozen times. Hey, at least I don't have to work the weekends for free now."

"Yea, good for us! Do you think we could squeeze in another weekend getaway?"

"I'm sorry but I doubt it," he answered. "At least until the whole airline mess is put to bed."

"Pity. Oh, by the way. Wayne, can you drop by the electronics store sometime and get a new tv remote control? I changed the batteries and it's still acting up. A universal unit will work fine and they're cheap." He agreed. "And, your speaking of bed. I need you to tuck me in very soon... now would be a good time. And, I'll be very grateful," while giving him a wink.

# Chapter Fifteen: What the Hell?

Deputy Carlos Lopez's coupling with Detective Hanson for an addition six weeks had become three months. They had been riding all over Broward County during the evening shift in an unmarked cruiser backing up active calls being handled by the regular road patrol. The young rookie had been exposed to far more incident handlings by experienced officers than he could have been by being on his own for a year, but this was their last day. Come next Monday he would be by himself again working out of the Fort Lauderdale substation doing who knows what on any of the three shifts.

Hansen with his left arm resting in the left window and with his right wrist on the top of the steering wheel commented, "Hey kid, you've been in an unusually good mood today. This being our last day and all or are you happy because you're getting rid of me or what?"

A big smile lit-up the young man as he began to explain, "It's Felicia, my wife, she's pregnant. We're going to have a baby! I'm going to be a father," he gushed.

After stopping at a traffic light his partner responded, "Hot damn, kid. Congratulations! Your first one?" Carlos nodded happily. "Frig'g wonderful. I tell you true, your life is going to change completely... for the better. That child will be the main focus point for the both of you for the next twenty years. How far along is she?"

"Two months." He eagerly disclosed.

"Only two months?" repeated the detective. "You've got a long way to go and everyday will be an adventure." Then he added in a fatherly tone, "Don't take this the wrong way kid, this is the voice of experience speaking. You better poke her every chance you get. In a short couple of months she won't let your weenie anywhere near her. And, after it's born she'll act like you're Jack the Ripper for just _thinking_ of the 'verbieten' sex." Before Carlos could reply Hanson requested, "Turn the radio on to the Lauderdale P.D. channel. Let's see what the local boys are up to."

It was 8:30 p.m. The radio squawked to life: "Unit 401, respond to a 317 in progress. Location is the eastside of the Freedom Tower complex, (which is in the Fort Lauderdale northeast quadrant and consists of 100% low income and welfare housing) Suspect is a black male, approximately 5'8' tall, estimated age 15 to 18, weighing 150 pounds, a thin beard, wearing blue jean cutoffs and a dark muscle shirt. Code: Red. (which means lights & siren) Unit 422, back up 401."

"Hm'm, sounds like something bad's going down. Pull out Lauderdale's code sheet," Hanson instructed. "What's a 317?"

Carlos retrieved it from the glove compartment and read, "317, Crimes against persons, sexual."

"Sexual? Makes sense. It's probably a rape or attempt. We're not far from that housing complex, let's hustle over there. No bells and whistles for us. We'll be watching the perimeter for a runner," he stated as a F.L.P.D. patrol car raced by them headed east. Another siren shrieked a few blocks to the north.

"The perp must be right around here," assessed the rookie.

"Yep, we passed that development a few blocks back" acknowledged the veteran as he u-turned and pulled into an abandoned, rundown service station. "We'll watch from here, this is a good vantage point."

"Beep' an all-attention signal burst over the radio. "All units in the northeast quad be on the lookout for a black male wearing cut-offs and a dark muscle shirt. Last seen running due west toward the warehouse complex on the south-side of Sunrise Boulevard. Unit 437, backup units 401 and 422."

"It's dark now, it may be hard to see him. That sonna-bitch might get away," snorted the detective. "These jitterbugs know this terrain a hundred times better than we do."

Carlos nervously tapped the older man on the arm. "Look!" Two blocks away they observed under the overhead streetlights a skinny, black teenager scampering across the railroad tracks. He was headed toward a warehouse alleyway.

"That's our boy!" exclaimed Hanson. He then slammed the gear shift into Drive and peeled rubber as they blasted away from the gas station. The car bounced when it jumped the street's curb, rocking it from side to side as the driver made an accelerated right turn onto the Boulevard. "Gimme the horn!" he ordered. Lopez, while hanging onto the car's side panel, picked up the radio's transmitter and passed it to Hanson then checked his seatbelt – again. "Take off that seatbelt kid. You're gonna have to hit the ground running." He keyed the mike, "Lauderdale, this is a B.S.O. unmarked unit at Commercial and old U.S. One. We have your suspect in sight trying to cross the tracks two blocks north. We are in pursuit."

"Roger B.S.O," returned their dispatcher. Then they gave another "Beep'. "All units..." and relayed the B.S.O.'s info.

When Hanson turned on his lights and siren the boy stopped in the middle of the street running parallel to the tracks. He saw the flashing lights to the north and behind him coming from inside the housing development. He then jumped the tracks and raced toward the warehouse complex fifty yards ahead. There were more than twenty buildings within a labyrinth of service roads and alleyways called the Maze by the local thieves. With only three cars in pursuit he knew he could evade them and pop out lotsa places without detection. He'd be long gone before the cops could set a perimeter for containment. The young man entered the alley ten seconds before the deputies could get to its entranceway. When they arrived Hanson slowed to walk speed and yelled, "Jump out and get in the alleyway! Chase him down but be very careful," to Carlos. "I know where the sucker's going. I'll cut him off and force back him to you." The detective then spun the car around toward the west end of the building and floored it again. As he drove, he commented to himself. "I know this f'g building, it used to be a chop shop back in the day. It's a hundred yards long and there's only one way out on the west side before he reaches the Maze. If he makes there before me, that little prick will be gone!"

Carlos proceeded cautiously with his weapon drawn, wary of being attacked in the semidarkness. Hanson screeched to a stop with his tires smoking at the cutoff - the alley's exit. The young man saw ahead that he had been blocked in by a patrol car which could have several cops inside and decided to retreat back down the alley. Carlos was in sight and coming toward him. He also saw that this cop was alone and there wasn't a second patrol car backing him up at that entrance. He reasoned, "Dis' pig be by his-self," then picked up a discarded three foot long metal pipe and hid in the shadows behind two dumpsters. When the deputy got parallel to his position he charged out from between the two trash containers with his makeshift weapon raised overhead. He was aiming for the back of the policeman's head. "I got's to get dis over fast and get the fuck outta here." Lopez's peripheral vision caught the movement. He ducked his head and took the blow across his back. For a second the youngster paused to see why he had missed which gave the young officer a chance to recover. Carlos spun around and blocked the kid's second and third swings with his forearms but in doing so his service weapon had been knocked free. The suspect charged again and they both went to ground. The teenager was young, very agile and quickly straddled atop the cop lying on the ground. Exerting all his weight, he tried to crush Carlos's throat with the iron pipe. Except that Carlos was thirty pounds heavier, stronger and pushed the young man back-off a little bit. Then crunch, he struck a powerful knee into his attacker's groin. A paralyzing groan then it was Game Over.

Hanson rushed up to the pair as Lopez placed the cuffs on. "Atta boy partner," he commended. Then they both jerked the lad to his feet. "What's your name boy?"

To which he responded by smiling as he stared at his shoes. All the while thinking, "Fuck off pigs. You ain't got nothing. Me spending a few days in Juvie? Assholes, that be a three day vacation with good food and a bed. Bring it on suckers!"

Hanson then slapped him on the side of his face so hard it twisted his head sideways. "How would you like it if I knocked your sorry ass down again and fill your ugly mouth up with dirt? I said, "What's your name cocksucker!" This time youth appeared genuinely concerned and answered, Dion.

"How old are you Dion?"

"Sixteen," but he didn't smile that time. Dion didn't want to spend a week in a prison hospital before his hearing of which he fully expected to be freed.

"Shit, only sixteen?" then Hanson spat on the ground. He turned to Carlos and said, "I advised Lauderdale Dispatch where we are. They'll be here soon. And when they do I'm going to turn this prick over to their officers."

"But why?" asked Carlos. "I caught him. Don't I get the Collar? We're Broward _County_ deputies. We have the authority countywide and I've never made a _felony_ arrest."

"Sorry about that kid," he answered. "There are a lot of things going on here that you're unaware of for now," he advised as a Lauderdale cruiser pulled into the alleyway on the east side. "I'll explain later," as they observed two of the City's Finest got out and started walking toward them. "Watch and learn grasshopper."

Their sergeant said, "Well how about that? They caught the little prick... and he's all tied-up with a bow (handcuffs) like a present. And so young and tender. The bad boys in lockup are going to have a fine time with you tonight," and laughed.

Hanson turned him over to the Lauderdale police who then swapped out the handcuffs and returned Lopez's. The captured kid, seeing where this was headed, blurted, "It wasn't me. I weren't nowhere near dat lying little cunt."

"Is that so?" returned their sergeant. "In that case I guess we should let him go," to his partner. "But wait a minute. Let's check out a couple of things first." Hanson was enjoying the show while Carlos wondered what's going on. "Let's see. You were running from the housing complex. You fit the description. And well, what's that?" as he pointed at the teenager's cut-offs. "Hey kid, do you know your fly's open? No? Then why are there pecker tracks running down your shorts? Although I'm sure it wasn't you that done it now since you said so... and I _know_ you wouldn't lie to us. But just to be fair, we're going to take you down to the station and see what that poor, little thirteen year old girl has to say. Is that okay with you?" and then began walking him back to their cars. He called back, "Thanks for the catch guys," to the deputies. "We owe you one."

Lopez looked at Hanson and questioned, "Why did you give up my Collar?"

As they returned to their own vehicle the detective explained. "First, this is their jurisdiction and we turned him over to them as a courtesy. It's a gentleman's agreement. Second, we would end up being buried in paperwork for a month in a 'no complainant, no witness' arrest. Which means no credit for you."

His young partner asked, "Why do you say that?"

"Number one, the act was most likely called in by a passerby who won't come forth to attest to the crime... or wouldn't give their identity. Likewise with the victim, she sure as hell won't press charges. Both parties are juveniles and aren't going say anything about an incident in the Hood, especially when no family members were killed. This whole pile of shit is going to end up being a nothing as far as the Law's concerned... until later when there's the Reckoning."

"The Reckoning?" repeated Carlos.

"Yeah, when this prick's little three day vacation is over and he returns to the Hood. Somebody's going to even the score. The girl's family, her boyfriend or the 'peacekeepers' in the neighborhood. He'll get his then or if not we'll get him later. These buttholes always end-up being career criminals." They got into their cruiser, "Hey kid, it's been a hell of a day to spend as our last one together. It's been a real pleasure. Drop by and say Hello if you get a chance."

"Thank you and I will. Today has sure been different from when we were running errands for the N.T.S.B. and found the Delta flight recorder. I wonder how that situation is working out."

"I heard the F.B.I. is running point on it," answered Hanson. "They have plenty of manpower. I don't think we'll hear from them again."

"Good. This kind of stuff right here is what I want to be doing," Carlos returned. "In the street and performing front line police work." It had been Lopez's first down and dirty 'action day' but it wouldn't be his last. He hadn't crossed paths with 'The Angel', yet. "I think it's all beginning to come together," he reflected. "But why did you call me a grasshopper?""Are people deliberately trying to avoid me?' wondered Syed Azrael. "Not that I give a rat's ass. I don't have any _friends_ here anyway. Except that ever since I walked into the building people change direction and head away or pass by with their eyes glued to the floor." Just before he arrived at his new boss's office he saw a fellow Electronic Technician scurrying toward him in the hallway with a sheaf of aircraft structure drawings in his arms. Syed stopped, turned and said, "Good morning" to his coworker who jerked his head up and halted dead in his tracks. Caught off guard, he stared at Azrael as if he were seeing a ghost. He finally mumbled a 'Morning' in return and scurried away. Syed wondered, "What's wrong with him? Does he know something I don't? Something bad?"

Azrael entered the office still wondering. He then spied the receptionist's name plate on the empty desk, Tamika Samiya, and deducted the new guy must have brought her with him. "Happens all the time when company decides to play musical chairs with their management people. They're under the delusion that anyone who has a college degree and wears a tie can supervise any work group. Moron's. That's why I've never asked my boss's anything technical. They know nothing. It's people like me who carry this company, not these revolving fools."

Tamika came out of manager Howe's office and said, "Oh, you must be Mister Azrael. Nice to meet you sir. Mister Howe is waiting for you. Please step right in."

He nodded and said, Thank you, then walked in with a smile on his face. He thought, "Wow, she's a cutie. A big improvement." The young woman was a stunning beauty with a body to match. She struck him as being Malaysian or Philippine and thought, "From now on I've got to make my own trips here for office supplies instead of calling for a runner to deliver them." His new supervisor motioned for him to take a seat. Syed remarked, "I see there's been some personnel movement within the company. Are you permanent or a temporary fill-in?"

Ron Howe, who had the demeanor of a drill sergeant, sized up the subordinate in front of him and stated: "Permanent. You have been out of touch for a while haven't you?" referring to his wife's death, vacation and the light workload given by his predecessor.

"Yes, being stationed at one of the company's satellite operations centers is like being on an island and out of the mainstream."

"I disagree," he retorted. "The company makes every effort to keep its employees up to date on all related matters by using memo's, network messaging, posting bulletins and every sort of media incorporated. Perhaps it is you who hasn't been paying attention."

Inside, Azrael was offended and thought, "Doesn't he know how valuable I am? More so than he. Within a month he'll learn that I'm carrying _his_ worthless ass! So shut the fuck up and show some respect to your superior."

Howe spun his pen around between his fingers then continued, "In as much, I'll personally make sure you receive the updates as a courtesy due to your recent personal hardship. However, I expect from hence forth that you to stay up to date with company operations, even those in other departments. Understood?" Azrael nodded assent. "First, your previous supervisor, Mister Blankenship, won't be back. He has been sent to replace Victor Butler who was killed on the American Airline tragedy a few months ago. Did you know Mister Butler?"

"No, not really," Syed answered. "We may have passed each other at some company function but I don't believe I've met him in person. Still, it was a terrible loss... of him and all those other passengers. I can relate to what his wife must be going though. My beloved wife was a victim of the earlier Delta crash."

Howe waited for Azrael to finish what he felt was a 'faking concern' act then gave his own opinion. "From what I heard on the grapevine, Butler spent a lot of time _trying_ to be a womanizer and that his marriage was on the rocks. I doubt if his wife shed too many tears. But that's none of my business and I don't want to discuss it further. You and I have more important issues to discuss other than old news."

Syed reasoned, "So that's why some of my fellow coworkers are still avoiding me. They're still embarrassed for me because of that dead, whoring slut. Who knows how many of them were banging her too? I wonder if they knew she was pregnant and were scared that the baby may be theirs? Ha, good. Let them squirm. They all will burn in Hell."

Mister Howe broke his train of thought. "I'll be frank with you Mister Azrael, I'm not a personable or friendly guy. Never have been and don't expect to ever be. The company nationwide will be trimming down and consolidating many positions in management and various other groups. Your work title will be affected."

Syed thought, "Whoa, this bastard is a Hatchet man. That's what he is. Good thing I'm senior man here in my job. A couple of those young college boys below me may be getting their walking papers. Serves them right. I never liked those privileged, assholes anyway."

"The restructure will take effect at the end of this quarter on December thirty-first. January first we'll have a new lineup. And after reviewing your file extensively my estimation of your work is that it has been substandard... and has been for quite some time. I have decided that you will not be a member of the new, restructured work force. As of January 1st you will become, as they say in sports a Free agent."

"What!" as Syed jumped up from his chair. "Is everyone here being fired? You're closing this work center? I find that impossible to believe."

"No," answered Howe calmly. "You have jumped to an erroneous conclusion. It will be only you in your particular job title. And to be clear, you're not being fired. There's a difference between termination and being laid off. Due to reduced government and private enterprise contracts the company can no longer afford to carry employees such as yourself. We've already had to layoff 'good' men and women all over the country and it's appears to be ongoing. I don't know how you have gotten away with hiding in your office and doing practically nothing for so long and I don't care. I suspect my predecessor stashed you there to get you out of his sight. Again, it doesn't matter now. My job, in these lean times, is to trim the fat. And, you're fat. Consider yourself trimmed on December thirty-first."

"But wait," argued Azrael. "Perhaps I was slacking a little bit but it wasn't my fault. Mister Blankenship kept giving me nothing-to-do assignments. If anything, it's _his_ fault. Remember I'm an Electronic technician, an instrumentation specialist. I know fully well there are other Tech's here who are junior to me. Are they being laid off also?"

"No. As I said, only you," he answered. You don't listen very well. Obviously it's a major contributing factor in your unsatisfactory job performance. "The other workers who will not be affected are excellent, productive employees. You are not."

"Well, all the same, I am the senior man and must be retained," he argued. "You clearly have evaluated me improperly. You apparently are not aware of my skills and capabilities. Losing me would be a huge mistake and it won't bode well for _your_ career either when the people at the top hear of this. Sorry, but you're going to have to let one of the others go, not me."

"Or what Mister Azrael? _We_ , the Company don't see it that way. And, the Top of our employer, Aero Support Industries has already approved it. Perhaps you should take it up with your Union representative."

"Union rep?" he repeated. "You know full well we don't have a union. Never have. What planet did you come from? Or did they hire you off the street solely to be the Hatchet man?"

He ignored the 'planet' dig and rebutted, "No union? Pity. Then I guess you're out of luck Mister Azrael," bantered his new boss. "Like I said, we have no room for slackers and your work has been unsatisfactory at every level. There is no point in belaying this subject further. The decision is final. I suggest that when you get close to the end of the quarter you take your remaining vacation. The Company will not pay you for your unused vacation or sick days."

"But wait," countered Syed. "If I'm being let go aren't I entitled to severance pay? An exit package of some sort?"

"No," Howe answered. "Terminations and Layoffs are different from each other. If you were terminated, even with just cause, you would be entitled to compensation. But this is not the case. This is a work force reduction due to economic conditions. We don't have to give you anything and your contract states as much. Granted, there is little for you to do in your present capacity but if I find there's any inconsistencies in your current assignments you will be 'Laid off' immediately. Good day, Mister Azrael. Make sure my secretary has your current home or post office address to send your final paycheck."

Syed slowly left the room. Tamika bade him, "Have a nice day Mister Azrael."

He reasoned, "She obviously doesn't know what happened," and didn't say anything negative in response. Azrael steamed as he trudged back to his office. He considered, "Perhaps I should quit now and be done with these assholes. I think can hold out financially until I receive my insurance settlement. But if it draws out for more than another year I'll be screwed. I don't have much in savings. So, I guess I'll have remain here until they knock on the door and toss me out. How humiliating for a man of _my_ stature. This is so unfair to have to carry your personal possessions out in a cardboard box as you're being escorted to the parking lot. This Company has really pissed me off especially in the manner that bastard did it. Such audacity! He had no compassion at all. No respect! The Hatchet man's probably laughing in the mirror right now. If he _personally_ sends me any company updates I hope they're on paper so I can wipe my ass with them. Maybe, I can even the score later. I must reflect and pray in regards to this unrighteous injustice.""Good morning Mister Parks. How are you doing today?" hailed Wayne Atkins.

The gray haired, clerkish-type, grandfather wearing bifocals glanced up from his clipboard to answer the speaker's inquiry. "Hey, look who it is," and quickly shook the visitor's outstretched hand. "Wayne my boy, it's been a long time, too long. How's everything at the G-man factory?"

"Always busy. Crime never sleeps. How's Sarah (his wife) and your business doing?"

"Sarah's fine and the business is running the same old, same old. Terrible. Our financial bottom line last year was the worst it's ever been. The online shoppers are killing me. Very few people actually travel to a store and inspect the products before making a purchase anymore. As a prime example did you notice what happened to Circuit City? Not many years ago they were one of the most prominent electronics retailers. Now they're gone. Ka-put! All the major players who still sell my type of products in store only are taking it on the chin big time. See all these boxes sitting around here? They haven't moved in four months. I can't continue to do business like this." Wayne surveyed the stacks of VCR's, small tv's, audio packages and a ton of miscellaneous electronic goods. A fine layer of dust had settled on some of the no longer popular selling items Smart phones, Silicone Valley and the Internet had rendered 75% of the store's inventory obsolete. "If something radical doesn't happen soon I may not be here at this time next year. Lucky for me I've got my grandson Freddie to help me out until next fall when he graduates from Florida Atlantic College. After he earns his degree he'll enlist in the Air Force as an Officer's Candidate. He wants to be a fighter pilot. Freddie has always been a blessing to me and our family," while placing his arm around the young man's shoulders. Ollie Parks next introduced him to his old friend saying, "Wayne's family and ours used to live in the same neighborhood back in North Miami some years ago. He and my two boys used to go trick or treating together on Halloween when they were in grade school. Later they hung out together all through junior and high school. We made a lot of good memories on those family's outings."

But, speaking of needing something radical to happen regarding your business," began Atkins, "Why don't you get on the Internet bandwagon and make _your_ products available?"

"Good idea, Wayne. Actually a great idea, but believe it or not I'm way ahead of you. We implemented that exact plan six weeks ago. We began by placing ads in all the local, community and college student newspapers. The numbers of orders were small at the beginning but it's picking up. Those college kids may be the solution. They like to build all kinds of gadgets in their free time. Most of our orders are from them. A few said they use the equipment for science projects. Some high school kids have joined in also. The word must be getting out. It appears they like our competitive prices and selections and know that if we don't have a particular item we'll get it. We also have a website. It's listed under Electronics and called Parks' Sparks, the same name as our store here. Sarah handles all the Internet requests on the p.c. at the house. At end of the day and I'm home she gives me a list of whatever the customers requested. Of course, they can always call here for additional information but she handles the ordering."

"Wow, I'm impressed all to hell Mister Parks. I love your game plan," gushed Wayne. "You've truly adjusted to these changing times. By this time next year you're not going to be closing the doors. Instead, you'll have a dozen employees here running the shop while you and Sarah are soaking up the rays in the Bahamas or on a world cruise. Good for you, my very smart, adopted grandfather. Do you have many walk-ins or are you evolving to solely being an Internet-related hardware provider?"

"No, that's not the direction we want," he answered. "We'll always have a storefront. I like to meet the customers and keep the personal service connection alive. Even though everything we offer is cataloged online they can still come in here and browse through our store catalog. The plus to that is they can ask all the questions they want and in many cases have a hands on with many of the items. We have three catalogs available on that counter over there," as he gestured to a long table with six chairs. If they find what they like I write the order on the spot and call them as soon as it comes in. We can also have it shipped directly to wherever they wish. I personally would handle all defective or any equipment requiring repairs, which so far has been zero."

"Again, I am so impressed with you and Sarah. You're definitely going to need some extra hands on deck very soon. Maybe a few of those college tech hotshots could help you out part time," suggested Wayne.

"Another great idea," he agreed. "I see why you were in Naval intelligence. Someday if you ever get tired of chasing bad guys, I think I could squeeze you in here. Do you like licking envelopes?" All three laughed. They paused to savor the moment then, "So, Wayne what brings you my way today? Are you here to check up on me or are you shopping for something in particular?"

"Laura sent me to pick up a new tv remote control," he said. "She thinks ours is dying a slow death. I believe it could have lasted longer if maybe I hadn't dropped it five or ten times. I'm not sure. So, all I need is one that's generic and cheap. For some strange reason they don't seem to have a very long life around me."

"Gotcha. I'll see if we have one with a sponge wrapped around it," then sent Freddie off to the stockroom to search for it. "Why don't you go over and browse through our catalog while you're waiting? You may find something of interest."

"Well, I'm not much of a tinkerer Ollie. But, I am a little curious to as what is of interest to all those people who have smartphones glued to their face and wear earbuds all day long" When he arrived at the table he found the publication to be the size of a small phone book. There was an extensive index, sectioned by functions, descriptions, operating specs and pictures of every item. "Where did you get all this information?" he questioned. "This is a first rate catalog. Do you understand what all these products do?"

"Pretty much so," returned Parks. "The manufacturers were very happy to send me their ads and specs for their products. I sorted them into Function sections and had it printed. Freddie built the website and loaded our own ad explaining what our store has to offer. He next inserted the catalog with it which I compiled. I told you he was a God-send. This young man is the total package."

"It sounds like you three are one hell of a team" complimented Atkins. He scanned the index, reviewing their listings. Some items appeared to be so high tech that he couldn't determine why they were being made available to the general public. He had gained adequate knowledge regarding most of their functions from his military service. Why would a college or high school student be involved with this type of equipment? He made a mental note: Synchronized bit stream coding clocks, frequency and white noise generators, power plants, data transfer dishes, scanners and the list went on and on. He called Ollie over and asked if he knew of any applications being used for some of the items.

He responded, "Well, yes I do. For example, a college student built an extended range drone for a project. Normally you're limited to line of sight for its range but he had so many 'extras' built in he could control it for up to two miles. It had a camera, a minicomputer and received its commands from a ground based transmitting dish about the same size of a dinner plate. I remember that one well. It was compact and portable. He put it in his mother's s.u.v and brought over here to show me. Very impressive. Kids today have great imagination and the brains to make it work if they can find the proper hard and software... of which I can provide the hardware part. I could pull up some more examples if you need them. They're very interesting. All I have to do is review last month's order forms and invoices. They'll remind me of what they're building. And, one of the best parts is that the kids love to describe them to me. It's fun for them and all of us."

"I'll bet it is," Atkins agreed. Soon after that exchange ended Wayne bade Ollie and Freddie, Goodbye and left with his new remote control, without a safe-to-drop, sponge attached. He mulled while he drove driving home, "I need to talk to Laura and Gary regarding Ollie's new stock of electronics. There are some very strange thoughts running around inside my head especially after Mister Parks remembered a few more projects the kids had built. I want to get Jewel's opinion after dinner and Gary's later when we meet up Tuesday night at the Mayfair Bar."

# Chapter Sixteen: I see you

Gary Taylor thought to himself as he sat on a bar stool waiting for Wayne Atkins, "This has got to be the worse looking bar I've ever been in my life." He checked the address listed on his smart phone for the third time. Mayfair Bar, at the corner of Northwest Seventh Avenue and a Hundred and Second Street. "This must be the place because there sure as hell couldn't be two of them." The patrons inside the small, open-doored establishment seemed harmless enough, openly friendly, but then most drunks are. If you parked right in front you were okay, but walking from the parking lot across the street alone in the dark, might be chancy. Gary had his 9mm and still felt a bit edgy. "I can't believe Wayne is training around here with his running club buddies in _this_ neighborhood," as he eyed the open-aired laundromat across the street on the west side of Seventh Avenue through the bar's multi-cracked windows. He noted that the Asian _massage_ parlor next door to it appeared to be doing a brisk business. "Imagine that, getting a massage in only fifteen minutes."

Finally, Wayne and three other runners came in, still dripping sweat. Atkins searched the dimly lit 'L' shaped room for his partner Gary. He found him at the far left of the bar trying to be inconspicuous. He waved for him to come join him and his buddies in the back corner which had been unofficially reserved for the running club members on Wednesday nights from 7 to 8 p.m. More athletes trickled in and within twenty minutes their cadre of a dozen had taken over the north section of the establishment. Wayne surveyed the smoky interior. Most of the 10 bar stools were taken and the 2 ratty booths along the wall were filled also. There was a dust covered 1960's era jukebox in the far corner which hadn't played a song in thirty years. You could hear laughter coming a group of pool players in an adjacent back room.

"Why in the world did you pick this place?" asked Taylor. "It's gotta be twenty miles from your home.., and it's a dump."

"A dump?" countered Wayne. "No... no. You're seeing it through the wrong eyes."

"I'm not so sure about that," rebutted Gary. "Most of the _patrons_ here are missing half their teeth and anyone's whose t-shirt or jeans aren't filthy or ripped all to hell is way overdressed."

"That may be true," countered Wayne. "This place is definitely Blue Collar. It used to be a local grocery store back in the thirties and a few other small businesses up to 1962. Then it was converted to this bar and as far I know it'll remain this way until the walls crumble to the ground. Our club has been coming here for more than a dozen years. First, we do our speed work on Barry University's track for an hour then drive the six blocks here. This is a safe, hands-off base even though it's located within a rather seedy neighborhood. However, there's never a fight and no one gets robbed while they're inside this building. It's been rumored that a local gang is still protecting it for some unknown reason from long ago. Which felt good to hear but I still wouldn't want to push my luck and hang around after midnight. After then it's time for Whitey to get out of Dodge."

"I'm amazed," conceded Taylor. "As for me, if I were a runner, I'd sure hell would find somewhere else to quaff down a few suds after a workout. And, if this place collapsed on us right now I wouldn't be surprised in the least."

Atkins smiled and motioned for the bartender to bring a couple of brews. She did and plopped down a couple of frosty, sixteen ounce mugs for only a dollar fifty cents apiece. He introduced her, "This is Kate. She's the best barkeep in Florida. She doesn't let any of us get into trouble."

After she moved back to the bar Gary commented, "She impresses me as being a little on the hard-side."

"That's fact," agreed Wayne. "Hard as nails. She done some time. "But Kate will make sure you get home safe. On the other hand, she'll also knock you into tomorrow if you step out of line." He looked around and declared, "Yes sir, this old bar is loaded with character. As for some of the colorful clientele who frequent this establishment, see that heavy set guy on the last stool? Everyone knows he's a Metro cop, vice and off-duty. And, the two fellows next to him are house painters."

"Okay I get the picture," conceded Taylor. "The joint is loaded with a bunch of working class _characters._ "

"Yep," preened Wayne. "But wait even better, we have two celebrities present tonight. See the guy in the yellow t-shirt? He won a Fantasy Five quick pick for $234,000 and brought in a copy of the check to prove it. It's pinned the wall behind the bar."

"He still acts like an illiterate, homeless beggar," assessed Gary.

"That's because he is," explained Atkins. "He partied it all away with his friends in here for three months and now he's back to where he started. It was great. Our running club guys got free beer until the well went dry! However, I saved the best for the last," savored Wayne. "Check out the fellow wearing the old Marlins baseball cap." Gary viewed the thin, raggedy clad, stained teeth, chain smoking patron sitting with a pile of loose change in front of him on the bar top. He was busy stacking it into a pile to see if he had enough to buy another beer. Appearance wise, he stuck out as the worst of the lot. "He was, and still is, a frick'g millionaire! Remember, when the Lottery first started with the million dollar scratch-offs? He got one. He brought in a copy also. It's pinned right next to the other guy's. But, there's one major difference between the two of them. The millionaire is cheap as hell and has never bought a single brew for anyone else so far as I know. He has zero friends here and always sits alone counting his coins and smiling at himself in the bar's rear mirror. According to Kate, he still lives in a rundown, third rate, motel room around the corner."

Gary shook his head and admitted, "What a diverse collection. If I hadn't seen it for myself it would be difficult to believe this place exists here in the twenty-first century. Maybe a hundred years ago but not now." He made a frowny face and bemoaned, "Gee, I wish I could have been a part of it too." Then he laughed, "No, not really. Sorry, I was just messing with you Wayne. I hate running and everyone knows all distance runners are no more than pain seeking introverts. Thanks for all the history and insight but now it's my time to add some pizazz to this overly colorful landmark. You may initially find this impossible to believe considering all these interesting characters but I'm certain I can top all of them in relation to you and I. There has been one more person of interest in attendance here tonight who has already left. I believe you will find their presence to be quite unexpected." He paused a moment to make sure he had his partner's full attention. Wayne waited with raised eyebrows. "It was our own esteemed supervisor and leader, the Bureau's rising star, Wilma Redman... decked out in professional hooker attire."Wayne was taking a swig and almost choked as the suds bubbled up his nose. "Agh! Don't do that to me Gary. I could have fallen off my stool and busted my ass... or worse, sprained an ankle."

Taylor waited for him to recover then stated, "It was Wilma, I'm certain. I saw her clearly. She was engaged with two young, white men and had her back to me. I assumed they were grad students from the university. From what you've told me about Kate I'm sure she would have tossed them out if they were underage." They sat in the left booth outside the entrance to the pool room. I walked pass them with my hat pulled low and took a quick peek at her. She didn't notice me. She was fully occupied with her company and I heard and recognized the voice. When I was in the game room I stood behind some of the rowdy pool observers and could see her clearly straight on. She acted like a working girl picking up a couple of John's." Atkins sat wide-eyed with his mouth open. "Her short skirt had a slit on the side that went up to her hip. Her blouse was completely unbuttoned. I was right, she's got a nice pair of knockers."

Wayne finally regained his composure enough to stutter, "It must have been her double. Everyone's got a double you know."

"Yeah sure," said Taylor. "As I returned to my bar stool she still didn't see me. Oh, I forgot to mention her purple fingernails. Remember those? In addition to my observations and testimony, I also have proof positive for you doubting Thomas's. I took several pictures with my phone from the pool room. When they were leaving she had one guy on each arm and her excessive ruby-red lipstick had been smeared." He then showed the evidence to his partner. "They all piled into her silver Lexus while giggling like school children and drove away."

"Atkins reviewed the pictures. "That's her all right," he conceded. "And, I remember those purple fingernails from when we had our first meeting with her. Strange, I'm certain she doesn't live around here. North Lauderdale I believe. She must be on a special undercover assignment."

"Get serious Wayne," Taylor disputed. "Undercover? We're all still working over twelve hours a day on the airline mess. No secret assignments going on here my friend. It's how it appears. She most assuredly impressed me as someone trying very hard to get some work _under_ the covers."

"Well now, this is all certainly interesting," admitted Wayne.

"Interesting hell," spouted Gary. "This calls for a toast!" as he clicked his partner's mug. "I have a very good feeling that once this airplane investigation is over we won't be getting anymore stinky jobs like Public Relations and Mail."

"Gary, that sounds a lot like blackmail," cautioned Wayne.

"No, I wouldn't do anything as underhanded as that," rebutted Taylor. "I want to have some leverage to protect us from unfairly getting the shaft again. Don't forget this woman has a history of taking other people's credit. Stepping over dead bodies on the way up the ladder. No, these pics are our protection. And if I'm correct we'll continue to be working diligently with our dear Wilma to improve the Bureau and catch bad guys. I'm sure she's aware that improper or disgraceful morale conduct warrants immediate dismissal. So, cheers Bro, cheers. To fairness and security. Long live Queen Wilma."In Tampa the F.B.I. Special Agent, Mister Quinn, who received Sparkie's tip from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement regarding the suspicious comments made by The Angel, had reviewed his set of printouts and notes. He decided after his interview with her at her home that the matter necessitated further investigation. The first two items on the agenda were to learn The Angel's true identity and his location. After receiving approval from Homeland Security he obtained a warrant to have the National Security Agency place a digital trap on Sparkie's I.P. address, with her permission. They were to monitor and record only transmissions involving The Angel. Further review would be made then followed by a decision to continue or to bring the person in for direct questioning. Of course, there was always the prospect of obtaining a search warrant for his property and personal accounts if he had been deemed a possible or credible threat to national security.Atkins and Taylor were seated in the Bureau's break room having their quick thirty minute lunch. Although their two desks were butted-up to and facing each other this location gave them more speaking privacy. Wayne opened his small cold pack food carrier and placed its contents in order of consumption on the small, square four person table. "Geez, Wayne don't you ever eat like a real human being?" bantered his partner. "I mean what? Another tuna salad sandwich on multigrain bread, an apple, a bottle of Dasani water and a protein bar for a snack later? It's almost the same every time. A health freak's delight. Where's your creativity?"

"I left it behind on the starting line." answered Wayne. "When you're in a ten kilometer (6.2 miles) race every ounce counts. You curse yourself for every carbohydrate you've foolishly consumed which put you over your ideal weight. We competitors don't run forty miles a week just to get up-ended by a pretty donut the day before the race."

"Oh, it's that running obsession again," conceded Gary. "Speaking for the sane people in America, this is my rebuttal to all your huffing and puffing while sweating a bucket. Feast your wonton eyes on my beautiful provolone cheese meatball sub with extra garlic," which he had heated in the microwave. "Smells yummy doesn't it? Would you like a bite or merely be just content to dream about it?" Wayne agreed regarding its enticing aroma but declined the offering.

As they ate, each one happy with their selection, Atkins relayed the conversation he had with Laura last night. He described the catalog's selection of products he had seen in the electronics store, Parks' Sparks. "Some of the projects the students had created were pretty high tech. And, I found many more instruments and devices were available which I've only seen in military usage. It made me wonder why that type of equipment was being offered to the general public. For example, a white noise generator – a jammer. I also discussed with Laura the Star War's lab people presenting the possibility of a satellite taking control of the planes. I know our commercial aircraft don't have digital/frequency protection – only the military does."

He next repeated more portions of his discussion with her. "She said, "If you're alluding to a 'seize control and crash' scenario that wouldn't be feasible or practical in my mind. There are so many foreign arms dealers selling almost anything you want. I suspect you could probably buy a portable missile launcher if you had enough money. That would be a lot easier as far as I'm concerned."

"I agreed with her in part," said Wayne. "Then argued, but what if you didn't have the extra hundreds of thousand dollars to buy one, two or three, or more? Or, didn't want to reveal your identity on a web site? Or, a hundred other things which would scare off or deter you? The Dark Web is far from being another Amazon. It sells _illegal_ goods. It's far more complicated than merely having the money. The sellers have to know and accept you in order to protect themselves. They screen their buyers by using tools you probably never heard of. They're not a bunch of dummies. And the real downer is that y _ou_ can go to prison for just buying _any_ of their products."

Then she said, "All right, let's put aside the concept of one or two individuals launching a ground to air missile for the reasons you gave. Even so, large terrorist groups do have the resources and connections, right?" I agreed. "However, and I must sound like I'm beating a dead horse. But, is there any way it could done by one person using a similar method of an enemy satellite? What skill set would they need and where could they find the materials to construct the hardware and software? Who could do it, Wayne? Think about what you said earlier. Park's Sparks catalog? Does it have the right products to construct a weapon? If so, who could build it? Surely someone with far greater training than a student." She asked me, "Is this what's been bugging you since your visit to the electronics store?"

I replied, "Maybe so and I didn't realize it until our discussion. Some of your points certainly have merit and need further evaluation." Her analytical mind made me smile and I had to tell my beautiful, smart wife, "Jewels, you're always an inspiration. I'm going to kick this around with Gary as soon as I can."

"You two still sound like a couple of lovebirds," complimented Taylor. "Even when you're discussing a life and death topic. I hope for your sake it never ends buddy. Oh, by the way, Redman passed on a report from N.A.S.A. It stated that there definitely had not been a hostile satellite involved or an aircraft in close enough proximity to seize control of the three commercial jetliners. First, they reviewed the footage of all three planes in relation to the satellites passing overhead. No common denominator had been found. The same with the air traffic in the vicinity of their final approach paths. That puts a pin in the satellite theory balloon."

"Too bad," responded Atkins. "I kind of liked that killer satellite idea. That's the sci-fi geek talking inside me."

"Yeah, maybe next year," added Gary. "We both know satellites will be weaponized someday. It's only a matter of when. Hell, they could be already! No one's going to admit it."

"So, the question is where do we go from here? Of course we still have our task force assignments. But Laura's question of: "If it were a single person or a pair what kind of skill sets would be required to build their own weapon?"

"An engineer of some sort I suppose," suggested Gary. "I don't really know. I think you'd be more familiar with that kind of tech stuff than me."

"I should be," answered Wayne. "But nothing is coming to mind." They contemplated in silence for a few moments then Atkins tossed out. "What if we tried to ascertain the reason Why rather than the Who first? Did there exist a connection between the planes... a people connection?"

"I never considered that scenario," answered Taylor. "We just follow our job assignments. We're not involved in the Think Tank part."

"Of course, that's our role," agreed Wayne. "But what if we take a little time to think outside the box and see if there's a different motive other than terrorism? Maybe a human, personal reason? We need to return to work upstairs. Our lunch time ended over twenty minutes ago. There may be inquiring eyes staring at our desks. Let's think on this tonight. We'll talk more tomorrow and form a plan."

"Should we get the two Redman's involved?" asked Taylor.

"No, I believe that could blow up in our face," answered Atkins. "William may be supportive but I don't trust Wilma. She wants things done _her way_ and her brother reports to _her._ Maybe later if we discover something concrete which would require further backing. The Bureau doesn't tolerant rogue investigations. Let's keep it between you and I for now."Syed Azrael called in sick to Miss Tamika Samiya that morning. He reported that he had the flu and his doctor ordered him to take the rest of the week off (3 days). He had been neither sick nor seen a doctor. He reasoned: "If you're not going a pay me for my accrued sick days after you illegally kick me out the door then I'll use them up before that happens. After consuming an adequate breakfast delivered by Lyft from Denny's he then sat at his small, six-seat kitchen/dining room table which had been covered by a Miami-Dade County map, note pads and his latest technical manuals. He was devising a new plan for his next and greatest act of retribution upon the disciples of his God's arch enemy Satan. He was still steaming from the confrontation with his new supervisor, Ron Howe, the Hatchet man from Hell. He assured himself, "Howe needs to die for so many reasons. I know he's only the tip of the iceberg... a mouthpiece representing a company filled with the vilest corruption. Liars, cheats, thieves and every sort of unspeakable evildoer. None of them, not a single soul of theirs is worthy of salvation. Nor any of their spawn either. My killing Howe by himself would be meaningless. Again, Allah has answered my prayers. This time by giving me an unmistakable sign in a dream. There were a pack of wolves in a cow pasture being shot by a farmer just before they tried to pounce on a covey of quails. Down here in south Florida, we have lizards and pythons by the thousands but no wolves or quails. Clearly, I represent the farmer, the quails are the innocents and the wolves are the company's minions of the Devil. My path is again made true."

He had reviewed the application manuals of his existing seize and control equipment. Syed had to increase their range from five to ten miles for targeting and capture. Azrael also needed to increase the power base and upgrade the stepdown transformers. Also, he had to replace his transceiver dishes to attain stronger data flow. Upgrading his radar display screen would also be required for night operation. The other devices: synchronizing clocks, various data bit and frequency generators would still function with the new power plant. "It should only take a few weeks to complete the upgrades. Well before Aero Support Industries annual Christmas Party, this time at the Doral Country Club in Miami." The facility was not in direct line with the aircraft's landing path into Miami International Airport. Therefore, he had to steer the plane a mile further west to the Doral target, thus the need for more range and power. Forcing the aircraft to make a turn and dive wasn't a problem, only expanding his range of control. It would be tricky but he already possessed the knowledge and skill set to maneuver the aircraft perfectly. "After I send all those sinners to their proper place in Hades what's left of the company's administrators will be begging me to stay on. Perhaps, to be the new Chief of Avionic Navigation. That would be a tremendous promotion and rightfully so. After all, I am the most qualified and deserving."

"With so much work and planning still to be done I'm going to have to delay my request to the Syrian government for a mail order bride. The U.S. will allow entry of young women for marriage who meet the legal age to marry within their country of origin. I want and _will_ receive a young female of thirteen without challenge. It's the law. For the first year I shall not violate her sexually because I am kind, considerate and righteous man. And, while I'm waiting for her flower to mature and bloom at fourteen we will utilize other methods to satisfy my rightful needs. I also will teach her English and how to perform all the household chores. Of course I must lock her in a closet at night so she can't escape. Everyone knows that is the accepted and humane custom for controlling indentured servants which in reality she will be. I have absolutely no intention of actually marrying her and being forced to share my assets as required by the State of Florida. Especially after I receive my insurance settlement from that irresponsible Delta Airline Corporation. Which reminds me I haven't heard from that ambulance chasing, sleaze-ball lawyer of mine, Zachariah Farnsworth. I shall call him first thing in the morning. Hum'm, the time has flown by and it's drawing nigh on nine o'clock. I think I'll hail my new best friend Sparkie in Tampa. Much has happened since our last contact and much more is forthcoming.""Salutations, oh, Chosen One. This is your best friend and teacher, The Angel." He waited a few minutes for a Answer back Recognition message denoting she received his hailing and was online. It came and he continued, "I pray all is well with you. I hope you observed and gleaned the holy message from the last grand revelation."

Sparkie answered back right away, "I'm not sure of what you're referring to. There have been so many revelations in the news since we last talked. Are you referring to the weather, the stars or what?"

"No, my child. Nothing so trivial. It's regarding the grounding of the aircraft in Birmingham, Alabama."

"The third crash? An airplane smashing into the concrete and killing everyone on board is in no way considered to be a grounding. It was a horrible tragedy," she rebutted.

"Smash, crash, grounding. Mere semantics," he corrected. "The message of retribution is the important thing here. God's way of punishing unrepentant sinners. It was quite clear. Please tell me you understand now what I am expressing to you."

"Uh sorry, but no," she answered. "I don't believe any god would kill so many innocent people... women, children and babies to destroy just one evil person no matter how bad they were. I'm not trying to use any particular faith to back up my argument. I'm not affiliated with any of them."

"I can understand your non-affiliation," he agreed. "None of them are worthy of your devotion. You are still unknowing and haven't come into the true fold as yet. However, I am surprised and disappointed you didn't interpret such a clear message after learning of the previous other two cleansings. I thought I explained those incidents satisfactorily. Do you want me to send you some literature to help you find your way into the righteousness of the one true god? I would be very happy to do so. In fact, I may have plenty of time after the first of the year and I could bring it to you. We could review it together. I, as the teacher and you, as my student. Perhaps other things will be revealed between of us on a personal level. Only God knows where it may lead. All praise to Allah!"

"I am going to sign off shortly. Before doing so, I can see that I need to reiterate and perhaps clarify an essential doctrine. Sometimes a righteous follower of the Truth may be taken suddenly by the hand of god himself as he's reeking vengeance on the disciples of Satan. Do not mourn them. Their souls are safe and basking in Paradise. Secondly, He has blessed and sent me a sign, a clear direction for me to again deliver his revenge. His retribution on another festering, cluster of abomination. And I, as a faithful soldier will again follow his instructions in a few weeks. I sincerely hope you observe and understand. My dearest Sparkie, I beseech you observe and learn. Pray for his guidance. Love always. The Angel."

"He's gone, thank God," she whispered. "This is getting down right creepy. I'm happy he doesn't know where I live. I wonder if I should buy a gun. It probably wouldn't make any difference. He impresses me as being the type who would sneak up on and overpower me before I knew it was coming. I don't believe I could reason with him. I understand that he's a religious fanatic but I also believe he's demented... and may be dangerous. I sure am glad the F.B.I. is monitoring my internet connections. I think I'll call them tomorrow to make sure they got this last one. I want them to tell me if I'm in some kind of danger. I have places and friends to stay with if I have to leave for my safety. Of course, I could always stay with Mom and Dad but I don't want to put them in danger too."Before Sparkie was able to call Special Agent Quinn of the Tampa branch for an update the Department of Homeland Security had already sent him a message containing the last Angel/Sparkie conversation. It also listed the I.P. address of The Angel's computer, his real name and home address which they had received from the National Security Agency. Agent Quinn then called the D.H.S and they concurred that this person required further investigation and needed to be referred to the closest Bureau office to Syed Azrael's residency. A federal search and seizure warrant had been issued based on the possible Threat to National Security government decree under the Patriot Act. Sparkie was contacted and advised to go to a safe place until the issue had been resolved.

The D.H.S. called Wilma Redman, the Supervising agent for the Fort Lauderdale District, and transferred all of Sparkie's material plus a copy of the warrant. They explained what they wanted of the F.B.I. and agent Quinn's involvement. She in turn passed it on to her brother William, who was still leading the expanding Task Force working on all three crashes, the same data for him to investigate Syed Azrael. "Check out this guy when you can," instructed Wilma. "There's no hurry. I don't like outsiders peeking over my shoulder and telling me how to run my shop."

"I know just the pair to put on this," he returned. "Atkins and Taylor. They're good working as a team but they are also our two least experienced investigators."

He called them both to his desk. "Check out this Azrael fellow," as he passed a copy of the material which had been sent to him by the D.H.S. "Learn his background and if he has any connection to the airline crashes. A woman in Tampa has reported him as a possible person of interest but he may merely be a religious nut trying to get into her pants. There's no hurry. Work it in between your current assignments." Redman did not advise them of the search warrant. He reasoned, "We'll see what they come up with first without knocking down doors based on that he scared some girl on the Internet. We don't need the bad publicity. Wilma wants to keep this low key."

# Chapter Seventeen: We need to talk.

The F.B.I, the D.H.S, the N.S.A. and the F.D.L.E. weren't the only agencies involved in the investigation of the airline crashes. On orders from the President, the military had been brought in to protect the largest airports in Florida, Georgia and Alabama under the direction of Colonel John Doe. He served as the commander beginning with the first incident—the Delta crash in Davie, Florida. He also led the military teams involved in the two subsequent occurrences, all with the same results – basically nothing. At the present his special units were deployed on the ground, roughly a mile out at both ends of the designated airports runways. They required two teams do to the fact that if the winds changed direction then the aircraft would also have to alter their landing approaches from coming in from the west. Every airport which allowed passenger jets carrying a hundred or more were covered by troops and a manned machinegun Apache attack helicopter. The chopper would be sent a.s.a.p. to the coordinates identified as being the source of the jammer signal. However, after tracking the signal back to its location they had only five minutes or less to locate and neutralize it. This was all the time they had according to the F.A.A. for a plane travelling at an accelerated landing speed before its impact. The military wasn't sure if they could intervene fast enough to prevent another disaster. But, they were fairly certain they could locate and contain the terrorist perpetrators before they escaped. And as always, a certain level of collateral damage has been an acceptable byproduct in combat.Miami International Airport – this routine and dialogue was basically the same at each airport being covered.

"The listening posts are in place on both ends of the runways sir."

"Thank you sergeant," said the field operations lieutenant. "You are now free to rejoin the Recon team stationed in the Command Center," which had been established inside the F.A.A. control tower. Captain Langston was in charge of three platoons of soldiers which featured Signal Corp technicians as well as regular quick response fire teams (a dozen soldiers each). Two helicopter crews were on call and had to be in the air within three minutes. The Air National Guard was on constant patrol over every major airport in the three states.

Captain Langston had finished explaining his deployments to his immediate supervisor, a visiting major, by using a blown-up county map displaying the two east/west takeoff and landing zones. Using a pointer he stated, "We have two surveillance positions: Alpha and Charlie which are situated on the perimeter's east and west roads. Each site has a scanner/receiver dish to detect any white noise signals being directed at incoming aircraft. They are connected to a twenty foot tall antenna and the com apparatus is camouflaged. The package of sensors, detector, receivers, and scrambler do not require hands on control. There are no personnel at these sites which decreases the possibility of discovery. Our computer in this F.A.A. tower will identify the jamming signal and track it back to its source within a hundred feet in less than thirty seconds. Our standby chopper with a gun crew will be airborne in less than three minutes."

"How far out are the dishes?' asked the major.

"One mile from the beginning of the runways, sir," answered the captain.

"Why that distance?" queried the major. "It's already been determined that the attackers had previously initiated their contact between three and four miles to their target. Shouldn't you be further from the airport?"

"You are correct regarding the distance sir," the captain agreed. "But that staging distance would be impossible for concealment for this airport. The terrain in that area is densely populated with residences and commercial properties along an interstate highway. If we setup our detection equipment within the public domain it could generate some level of panic and most assuredly tip off our presence to the enemy. Intelligence has advised us that we must be closer to the airport in order be concealed. It also will give us a little more time to intercept and confront them. The best location for the terrorists to situate themselves would be in the abandoned military installation located one half mile to the west. However, it may not be feasible because it's so close to the runaway and they may accidently bring the plane down on themselves."

"Maybe, but what if it was a suicide mission? The Jihadist are well known for sacrificing themselves. Or even worse, by driving the plane into the concourse or this tower to increase the body count? Did you consider those scenarios?" challenged the major.

"Yes sir, I have," answered the captain. "We have a fire team deployed inside the abandoned installation 24/7. If the terrorists show up there, it'll be game over for those assholes in a heartbeat."

"Excellent, excellent planning captain!" commended his superior. "I guarantee if you kill or capture these people you'll be wearing more brass very soon soldier."

"Thank you sir. May I ask you a question?" The major nodded, Yes. "It's my understanding that no one has figured out how they do it," started the captain. "Why are we using this method of detection? The last I heard, an enemy satellite had been involved."

"Yes, that was the theory at one time," answered the major. "But the Brain Trust has backed away from that and moved on. So far, they're still at a loss on all the particulars. The one thing they all agree on is that a white noise generator jammed the communications between the tower and the planes first. So, that's what they're focusing on... and yes I know it won't give us much time to respond, confront and neutralize. We are fully aware that the operation could go sideways very easily in so many ways. And, all the endings would be very bad. It's a hard pill to swallow but this seems to be our only option at this time. I personally hope the Feds apprehend the bastards first and this nightmare ends soon. For now I'll report to Colonel John Doe at Patrick Air Force base that Miami is secure and ready. Well done captain."Wayne and Gary have been dispatched to help a team searching for clues in the Everglades along the C-122 canal, four miles west of the West Palm Beach International Airport. The fathers of the two young boys they took fishing there had been discussing the airline crashes then remembered their sons telling them about the strange man with all the neat electronic equipment. They spoke to their sons again and their story hadn't changed a bit from what they saw several months ago on their fishing trip. The two men got on the phone together and called the F.B.I.'s tip line and passed on the information. This time there were no hesitation or delays. A van picked up the four of them at seven the next morning and a fleet of eight vehicles made their way to the Everglades site under the fathers' direction.

From the helicopter hovering a thousand feet above they resembled a swarm of ants running amok below them. The Bureau's personnel had been joined by dozens of County deputies and Florida State troopers. "Take me down," ordered Grant Kennedy who had flown in overnight from Washington then joined up with Wilma Redman and her brother William at the Homestead Air Force Base for the chopper transport.

"Welcome to our haystack," greeted the local West Palm Beach special agent. "As you can see we are literally on our hands and knees searching for the broken camera lens the kids reported, plus whatever else we can find. So far we've got a big zero. We had a reconstruction team go through first to make molds of tire prints. But they didn't have much luck either. At least a score of cars have been through here after our mystery man's appearance. Not to mention the powdery road and it's rained a bunch of times."

"Too bad," sighed Kennedy. "Did the kids give a description of the vehicle? The color?"

"One said blue and the other said black. Later, it was grey or green. However, they both agreed it was a van because he had a lot of high-tech equipment, too much for a car to carry."

"Oh well then, how about the model of the van?" asked Kennedy.

"The same response as the color," answered the local agent. "They had no idea. But they both said that there were radar dishes on tripods, coaxial cables on the ground and a bunch electronic stuff stacked up in the opened back doors. The truth is they were so intrigued by his 'cool stuff' they didn't notice much else. He told them he liked to listen in on the incoming air traffic. The kids asked if they could too. He said no, that there was a problem with his equipment and had to go home to fix it. They described him as being skinny and thought he might be a foreigner. They also said he seemed very nervous then loaded up his van in a hurry and left... right after they told him that their fathers could come over to help him to find his equipment problem."

"So, we have no usable descriptions which makes the camera lens so much more important when we find it," assessed Kennedy. The agents, with the Redmans, Wayne and Gary in tow, went over to the boys who were having a rock throwing contest at a log floating in the canal.

"I think you mean: If we find it," clarified Wilma.

Her brother William added, "Suppose he came back later to retrieve it? So far, he seems to be clever and very good at not leaving evidence."

The agents spoke to the children a few minutes with their fathers in attendance. Then Terry piped up, "You guys are in the wrong place that's why you can't find nothin'.

"Yeah, the wrong place," echoed his friend.

Kennedy furled his eyebrows and said, "What do you mean by the wrong place boys?"

"All these policemen kept asking us where we went fishing," answered Terry. Holding up his arms as he while looked at the canal he declared, " _This_ is where we went fishin'."

"Yeah and we didn't catch anything," explained Nicky. "Because we were using the wrong colored worms. That's what my dad said. The man in the van was parked around the corner, down the road some. Not here."

Kennedy rubbed his forehead and glanced at the local agent who was staring into the sky with a, 'Oh, no' expression on his face. Grant asked gently, "Okay boys. Would you take us to where he set up his equipment?"

"Sure mister," and off they went with the embarrassed pack of law enforcement officers on their heels. The young lads scampered down the dirt road which connected to the canal on a 45 degree angle and soon they were pointing down to three imprints in the dirt. "See, here's where he put one of his dishes." The second set of tripod holes were found a few feet away.

"We see them," answered Kennedy. "Very good kids and thank you. Is this where the man stood when he threw his broken lens away?"

"Yes sir. He tossed it right over there," they chorused while pointing at a clump of brush alongside the road. Kennedy took a quick glance at the foliage then began waving at the rest of the search team to join them.

Ten minutes later Wayne Atkins who had also joined in on the search which was a little further away from the rest of them. He reasoned that if the person who tossed the lens were angry it may have flown a little further than the kids assumed. He saw a sparkle under some sawgrass. Wayne pulled back the blades to reveal a dancing prism reflecting beautifully in the sunlight. He called out, "Kennedy! Over here." Grant and a host of searchers converged on him. Atkins pulled back the sawgrass to expose it better. Eleven mesmerized heads formed a circle like a football team huddle and stared at their found quest. "Boola, Gotcha, Good job" cheered the team members.

Kennedy wearing sterilized plastic gloves, lifted the lens gently and placed it in a clear evidence bag. A mobile crime scene investigation unit parked at the beginning of the access road was on location to run preliminary tests. "Get this to the C.S.I. lab pronto," he ordered. "Now we're getting somewhere. We'll fax the prints to Quantico right away and I'll deliver the lens in person this evening. We may be able to close in on this guy within 24 hours."

A little while later... Grant Kennedy, the Redmans and the other team leaders waited outside the lab trailer for the results. Wayne and Gary sat on the canal bank, still in sight. "Good thing we wore these old clothes, huh?" said Gary. "I like doing searches. They break up the boring, monotonous assignments I've been getting stuck with the last five years."

"Yeah, thanks for the heads up," returned Wayne. "Did you see Wilma's face when she stepped out of the van with her high heels on? Her expression was as if she'd gone to the wine store and found they were out of merlot."

"Apparently her majesty hasn't been on a rural search before," mused Gary. "But then, you don't need old jeans and shoes in the Ivory Tower. Strange that her brother didn't advise her."

"Yeah, _strange,"_ agreed Wayne. "Maybe brother William wanted her out of the way so he could do his job without Big Sister leaning over his shoulder."

They observed the optimistic crowd cloistered in front of the trailer. "I don't mean to be a party-pooper," threw out Taylor. "But there's a fairly good chance that if they get a print, it won't be in system. Especially, if it's from an unknown terrorist or a home-grown psycho with no criminal record."

"I know," concurred Atkins. "But even so, this person was here alone trying to operate very sophisticated tracking equipment only a few minutes before the crash which shows _me_ that indeed a single person could be capable." " _That_ in itself is a hell of a game changer. And, to think that had been my wife's first consideration. I told you she is one smart lady."

"Hey, someone's coming out of the mobile lab," said Garry.

A hundred eyes riveted upon the opening door. Two grim technicians emerged and stepped down to ground level. Reading their faces Grant Kennedy expected the worse. "Well guys, what have you found?" as his previous elation began to turn to apprehension.

The lead tech stated, "It's definitely the correct lens. It has the boy's prints on it. No adults. The owner must have handled it by its edge like you did."

Disappointed but not beaten Kennedy directed, "Send your report in and wrap it up. I'll take it to Langley. They should be able to determine the make and model of the binoculars. If we're _real_ lucky maybe the lab will be able to get d.n.a. from the edges. He then addressed Wilma Redman, "I hate to think it'll come down the military having to make a 'hot catch'. That makes me very nervous." Another jetliner streaked overhead heading for a touchdown. "I wonder how many more safe landings do we have left in the book before the next disaster? Only God knows." He squinted into bright sun and said, "And, I ask him every day."

Atkins and Taylor had drawn closer and heard everything Kennedy said. Wayne reflected then passed on a new consideration to his partner. "This is truly frightening. If this turns out be what it appears to be, a single person or even a team of two, who are able to down an aircraft with over the counter electronic devices... then how terrifying would it be if this faction had dozens of trained teams all over America... all over the world? How could it be stopped? Ground to air missiles are tracked and accounted for. Cyberattacks are a completely different animal. Welcome to the twenty-first century! This Worse Case scenario without a whole lot of help could propel the U.S. into yet another overseas war... if we could ever determine who the actual enemy is."

Two days later, the Star Wars Lab at Langley reported they could not find any fingerprints other than the boy's. Nor any d.n.a. They did determine that it was a well-made German optical product which has been readily available in many countries for over twenty years. There were tens of thousands still in circulation. Dead end.Syed Azrael was cruising the area one mile northwest of the Miami International Airport. For his next deliverance of God's retribution he didn't have to be positioned directly in the incoming flight paths as before because he had extended his equipment's strength of signal range. The new target was the company's annual Christmas party. However, this year the swine in top administration had decided to host two separate celebrations on the same night. One for management-only in the Doral Country Club's glamorous ballroom and the other in some high school gymnasium in Green Acres, Florida, wherever that is. Talk about a put down. He fumed, "The high and mighty don't want to rub elbows with us lowly peons. So be it. I wouldn't attend either one of their functions if they paid me. What an insult. It's going to be management's loss since my beloved wife Tessa won't be in attendance this year. Those self-serving, bloated windbags such as Ron Howe, the Hatchet Man, will have to bring their own whores. I sincerely hope the real workers of this back stabbing company will boycott the sham and those penny pinching cocksuckers at the top lose their asses."

He had circled the airport on its perimeter roads and noted that the Army must have set up an operations center within due to the numerous vehicles scattered about the control tower. And, of course the Attack military helicopter had been a dead giveaway in itself. He reasoned, "They must have placed detection scanners in line with the runways. Probably placed to zero-in on my noise generator. Yes, they will be able to detect it when it's on but they won't be able to trace it to the source. Their system is based on the assumption that my equipment is located in the direct line of the approaching aircraft. Except, this time I will be on a forty-five degree angle over a mile away toward the northwest. Very quickly they'll realize something catastrophic is imminent and they are powerless to stop it. I shall enjoy immensely their helicopter flying around in circles and imagining the fear on the faces of the alleged guardians in their secret Command Center. Fools! They will never be able to stay the hand of God. Will another display of his might cause them to finally understand and repent? I seriously doubt it. Therefore, I shall continue as directed until Allah himself tells me to desist or all the infidels have perished." He laughed, "Who said you can't have fun doing God's work?"

He turned off the Palmetto Expressway (S.R. 826) into the very small town of Medley. A completely rural community of 800 residents squeezed between the large, bustling cities of Miami-Dade County, in south Florida. "What a gem to hide in for a nighttime operation. It's all farms and warehouses. When the sun sets these people have gone to bed. It's like turning the clock back a hundred years. And, it has easy accesses to escape routes. I may take an extra few minutes to enjoy the flaming horizon and listen to the sirens. It's too bad I won't be able to actually see the carnage up close but isn't that what's the news stations are for? It'll be a welcome break from the Weather Channel's trying to panic us every day."Atkins and Taylor had been working diligently on their initial assignments previously given by William Redman but soon found themselves spending more time on the task of their own choosing.

Wayne and Gary were in the office evaluating the passengers and crew's backgrounds on the three manifests for connections to each other. Gary reported, ""I've crosschecked and marked at least a dozen similarities on the three airline crews and their ground support personnel. But the connections are so 'soft' I don't believe there's anything worth investigating further. How are you doing?"

Wayne's tasks were the passenger's manifests for the ill-fated Delta, American and United crashes. "No not a whole lot going on over here either I'm sorry to say. I'm the same as you, a lot of 'soft' connections. I would think there'd be more crossover with so many victims. So far, I have only two 'hard' correlations. A Mister Victor Butler on the American flight and a Mister Frank Russo on the United flight. They were both employees of Aero Support Industries. But that's really not a red flag. Their company is located here in south Florida and their people do bunches of job related flying." He reviewed his notes. "Oh wait, there is one more 'soft'. "A Missus Tessa Azrael, her husband also works for Aero Support Industries."

Gary repeated, "Azrael. Why does that name sound familiar?" The partners both looked at each other and simultaneously reached for their desk drawer where they each had stashed a copy of the material William Redman had given them with his 'No hurry' directive. "Syed Azrael," said Taylor. "That's certainly not a common name. It should be easy to determine a relationship, if any exists.

Atkins, after again reviewing the material from Redman, said, "I'll find out who his employer is and if they know of a connection to Tessa." After speaking to the Internal Revenue Service he learned Tessa was his wife and he also worked for Aero Support Industries. While talking to the company's Human Resources Department he ascertained that Mister Azrael was employed as an Electronic Technician/ Instrumentation Specialist. Wayne queried, "I know what an Electronic Tech basically does but I'm not quite sure about the Instrumentation part. Is that regarding the using and maintaining of test equipment?"

"One moment please, I'll pull up that job description." A minute later she came back and stated, "No, not test equipment. Mister Azrael specializes in the aircraft's navigation and flight control." He waited for more. Then, "Is there anything else I can help you with Agent Atkins?"

Wayne responded, "No, and thank you. You have been very helpful."

"Thank _you_ for calling and please feel free to do so at any time. You may drop by this office anytime to discuss this further or obtain copies of our records. Good day, sir."

Wayne relayed the info to his partner and said, "I believe it's time for us to visit William. They walked over to his office and Wayne knocked on the door frame. "Boss, I think we need to talk."

"Come on in gentlemen. What's on your mind? Have a seat."

With their copy of the Azrael report in their hands, plus the findings they had recently learned, they took a seat. Wayne began, "We have reviewed the data you gave us from the other agencies and put it on the back burner as you directed. However, we have received addition information which _may_ connect Syed Azrael to all three of the airline incidents." They then proceeded to discuss what they learned and/or considered possible. We believe we should put ourselves, Gary and me, on this full time. Which, would probably include to a visit with Mister Azrael to clear up a few matters. It would also require us to set aside our initial assignments temporarily to investigate him properly. We know and fully concur with your sister's directives and don't want you to think we're running around 'rogue'."

William thought for a moment then said, "Good work men. I'll back you up. This is what we do. Investigate. However, I believe you should do more than just visit this fellow Azrael and have a fireside chat." He opened a folder and extracted a document. "This a court ordered search warrant obtained by D.H.S. I want you to go in with backup and a Bureau search team. This warrant permits us to restrain and hold him under the Patriot Act for as long as necessary in order to clear or charge him with a specific crime. I hope you read the Internet dialog between him and an online user named Sparkie who reported him on a tip line. He impressed me as thinking of himself as God's superstar avenger. He calls himself, The Angel. It may be only a line of crap to impress her. But never the less, we're going to approach him as if he's the real deal. Understood?" The partners nodded agreement. "Oh, by the way, our upper echelon has decreed that we will have members of the local police authority involved in our operation. It's due to a new, ridiculous, 'Working together for the betterment of our community' interagency pilot program. Therefore, there will be a couple of Broward County deputies hanging around also. They will be under your direction so keep them out of the way and don't let them try to fuck it up like that glory seeking Davie police chief, Blackburn, tried to do. I'll call the Broward Sheriff's Office shortly. I want you guys banging on or knocking down this self-proclaimed Angel's door at the crack of dawn."

"Excuse me sir. May we make a request regarding the extra help from the Sheriff's office?" asked Atkins. "Would you inquire if Detective Hanson and Deputy Lopez are available? We worked with them earlier in these airline incidents. They impressed us as being team players and we got along well together."

"I'll see what I can do," answered Redman. "We'll go over the details of the raid when all the parties meet back here at 9 p.m. tonight. So, go home kiss your wife and children goodbye or whoever's your squeeze is and be back here with your overnight bag. It's going to be a long night and a fun filled morning."

# Chapter Eighteen: On the run

"Where _are_ those guys!" bellowed William Redman. "We should have been rolling out at 7 a.m.! It's eight-thirty and they're nowhere in sight. I'm calling the B.S.O. (Broward Sheriff's Office) _again_! But first I'm calling Wilma to let her know that the raid is now in jeopardy. If this guy, Azrael, gets away it's not going to be on my head." He got her on the phone as the team stood by. The conversation was clearly one sided. "No. they're not here. We're going to leave without them." He listened and replied. "What? Why? He could escape... We can still make the search? That's not nearly half as good. If the evidence is decent and he's present we can make the arrest right away." Suddenly his eyes lit up and his face turned red then he repeated her words, "The pilot program? Are you serious? The, Working Together for the betterment of our community program? We _have to wait_ for the Deputies!" A moment later, "Oh, sorry for yelling at you. Yes Wilma, I know _you_ are in charge of all operations. Yes, yes, I'll keep you informed," and hung up. He turned to his group of rifle carrying agents who had spent the night getting prepared for a dawn raid when Detective Hanson and Deputy Lopez casually strolled through the meeting room door at 8:45.

"Good morning gentlemen. Hanson and Lopez reporting as requested. We thought we'd come in a little early so as not to cause a delay in the operation. Carlos stood there smiling, happy to be invited to such an event. Hanson saw the mixture of reactions to their arrival and said, "The brass told us to report at nine. Is there a problem?"

"A problem?" repeated William. Being sarcastic, "Oh no... thank you so much for stopping by here so early at seven. I hope it wasn't an inconvenience."

"Seven a.m.?" returned the detective. "We were both told it was at nine... twice... by two different supervisors."

Redman frowned and said, "I'm sorry to say but I believe you. This is the kind of shit which happens when there too many people thinking _they are_ the only one running the show. I understand your bureaucratic confusion. We have our problems too." Addressing all he declared, "Apparently our Brass feels the Working Together program is more important than operational coordination and efficiency. Azrael, our person of interest, has probably left for the day and could be anywhere... and I do mean anywhere! His employer said his attendance has been sporadic in the last few weeks. Atkins, check with Aero Support Industries to see if he showed up today." With more than a touch of sarcasm he stated, "We'll just sit here on our hands until the _boss_ decides what to do next." Wayne soon reported that the suspect had again been a 'no show' at work today. William then got back on the phone with his sister Wilma. "I'm baaack. You said to keep you informed," then proceeded to explain the f'g Working Together program's timing mismatch between their agencies. "Yes, I understand the plan," then quickly hung up. He looked at and said to the waiting men. "I love my job... sometimes. The new and approved plan is that our two of Broward's finest will stake out Azrael's home and call us if and when he shows. So, in the meantime let's break out the playing cards boys and order some pizza. You guys only _thought_ last night was long."

Wayne said to Gary, "Really, pizza for breakfast? This _is_ going to be interesting."

"Interesting?" his partner returned. "Ha, it gets worse. It's going to be that microwave heat-em-up out of a box pizza from Public's... for breakfast _and_ lunch. We'll get indigestion and fat at the same time. So much for your storied runner's training diet."

"So you say. Maybe, maybe not buddy," Atkins countered. "Did you know Denny's delivers, even breakfast?"Syed Azrael returned to his neighborhood complex at three o'clock that afternoon. He had been running everyday type errands before taking lunch at McDonald's then decided to make another sweep of the Miami airport and his selected site in Medley. He had vowed to become more cautious since the aborted mission in the Everglades. The army was still at the airport and nothing had changed in Medley. He was satisfied with his scouting and preparations. "This will be a glorious event," he assured himself. "I hoped the media arrives quickly and takes a lot of footage. I can't wait to watch it on the evening news. You know for something this spectacular they'll probably cut in to the regular programing. I wonder if those heathens would ever consider asking a true believer their opinion of these obvious messages from God? Probably not. The truth would be revealed and they couldn't hide from their sins.

He turned his van into the complex and immediately saw the police cruiser parked directly in front of his house across the street. Syed drove down his street without slowing down or glancing at the car's occupants. Azrael continued two blocks, circled back and stopped a block behind his townhouse where he could observe the officers. He saw the figures point toward his residence several times and it appeared they were having a discussion about it.

"Lopez, did you see that white van pass by?" asked Detective Hanson. "Doesn't our report state that Azrael owns a white van?"

Carlos read the printout, "Yes sir. A white Ford Econoline. I don't remember seeing any of those parked on the street."

"You won't," his temporary partner answered. "They stopped making them over a dozen years ago. They were a piece of crap. Back in the day F.O.R.D. meant Fix Or Repair Daily. The company has since cleaned up their act. Actually, the Mustangs and F150's are pretty good. They're the backbone of the company. Even so, I'm still a Chevy man. Now, returning to the white van we saw pass by. Did you get the tag numbers?"

"Partial, the rookie returned. "It was a Florida tag but he turned the corner before I got it all."

"Tell me, what did you see for sure kid?"

"The first three letters. They were, JXH," he answered.

"What does the D.M.V. show?"

Carlos recited, "Florida JXH 647."

"That's close enough to justify a stop and search," stated Hanson. "He probably made us and kept on going. Let's go find him. He might still be in the neighborhood. If he's not our boy then it's no harm, no foul and we'll return to our stakeout. Also, if it isn't him I'm calling in for another unit to take this over. This ain't my kind of gig, we're supposed to be support. Active support. I'm too old for this shit of sitting around in a car for ten hours. Besides, I think my bladder exploded two hours ago. And, I don't want to call Fire Rescue for an impacted colon either. If we have to stay here any longer I'm going to go pee on this prick's doorstep... for a start."

Azrael saw the police cruiser pull out and drive slowly toward the route he had recently taken. "They're hunting for me," he reasoned. "It must be regarding that punk black kid I hit on I-95. It can't be about my righteous missions bestowed on me by God. I have left nothing to connect me. Yes, it _has_ to be that accident the kid caused. Those people lie about everything!" He started his van which had all his equipment in it, excluding the testing and calibration sets. They were kept at home and not needed for the airplane captures. He zig-zagged away from his pursuers within the development so they couldn't get a direct line of sight on him. There were multiple exits – it wasn't a gated community and he left unnoticed.

Hanson and Lopez drove up and down every street in the complex within ten minutes. "Nothing. We know now for sure he saw us. That was my fault, kid. I should have parked a block away or out of sight. Sorry. I'm going to report to Redman that he drove by. And, to me it appeared that he decided to keep going as if he had forgotten to bring something home. That's what we saw and ask them what they want us to do next... after I get a bathroom break."

"Yes, tell them what happened, minus our tactical error," suggested Carlos.

William Redman listened to the stakeout info and told them to remain on site. A search team would be there within fifteen minutes. They expected to learn a lot from the contents of his home. Especially since he hadn't had time to move out anything incriminating. Redman then issued a countywide B.O.L.O (be on the lookout) for Azrael's van. "Hanson said to Lopez, "This may work out alright. But for now we're headed for McDonald's, America's restroom, before I explode. We'll be back before the gang arrives. Then I'm going to find the maintenance man and ask him to open up his place. I'll say it's all official police business. We'll be waiting in front holding the door open when the search team arrives. That should nullify my little screw-up.As planned, the stakeout pair met the search team with Syed Azrael's front door standing wide open. The lead C.S.I. asked, "You didn't touch anything did you?" To which Hanson returned, "Of course not. We haven't been inside. It's all yours. May we enter first for your security?" The F.B.I.'s equivalent of a S.W.A.T. team didn't take the trip because the home had been reported unoccupied. Hanson and Lopez led the way with their guns drawn like on television. They checked each room and gave a, "Clear!" Carlos grinned the whole time.

Wayne Atkins and Gary Taylor waited outside for the theatrics to conclude then also entered, but with their plastic gloves on and notepads in hand. The F.B.I. had to send the loaned B.S.O. officers outside to control the neighborhood's growing, curious, fellow residents. The inside his town house was rather sparse, it contained mainly the basic no-frills furnishings. There were no decorations on the wall or pictures placed in the unit. He had striped it down after his wife's death. Syed didn't want reminders of the whoring slut. "This shouldn't take long," noted Taylor. "I'll search for his computer. Would you check out that electronic equipment on the bedroom floor." The rest of the search crew focused on finding his paperwork and personnel effects. The C.S.I.'s were dusting and bagging most of the loose items. Everyone took a lot of pictures. Shortly, Gary reported, "No computer here. He must have taken his laptop with him."

Wayne contributed, "All of these instruments here are for testing and calibrating other equipment."

"So, you didn't find any of the gear the kids saw in the Everglades?" asked his partner. "Finding a jammer would be great... for us."

"No, his other equipment must be in his van or a storage unit." He then called out to the other searchers, "Be on the lookout for a public storage key or a contract to rent one," directed Atkins.

"That'll slow us down a bit," assessed Gary. "We may also have to start taking things apart." However, no one found anything of interest as two hours of searching passed.

Later, Wayne remarked, "I'm a little surprised we haven't found anything that would link Azrael to the aircraft crashes. There's no hard evidence here. His Internet conversations with Sparkie were suspect but not a declaration of involvement. And, the boy's rendition of his actions in the Everglades doesn't go beyond what he said of his being an enthusiast ham operator-type listener of flight dialogue with the F.A.A. tower. Have we been led astray by the Bureau's head hunters?"

"No, I don't think so Wayne," answered Taylor. It's our job to _investigate._ I always remember the newspaper article when Albert Einstein had been asked by a reporter, "Aren't you concerned about all the time and money you've spent on testing projects that turned out to be of no value or an absolute failure?"

The world's greatest inventor answered, "Not at all. We proved it couldn't work in a particular way which is a necessary step in the process of moving forward to success."

"Oh well, hopefully a road patrol unit will stop and hold him before he ditches his electronics. Our search warrant also covers his vehicle and anyplace else he could hide evidence. Even his post office box if he has one. Finding a white noise jammer would be the most incriminating article. And, I'm pretty sure the Star Labs could determine if it matched the bit stream pattern sent to the flight recorder. Each machine is unique... there are very similar to identifying submarine engine noises. If they are a match it would be hundred percent solid evidence. It's far better than a fingerprint.Azrael was almost in a state of panic. He first thought he's go to Aero Support Industries and sneak in to collect whatever notes he may have left in his office. "No," he reasoned. "The police will have a unit stationed there for sure," then turned back on I-95 toward the Miami/Fort Lauderdale area. He stopped for gas along the way, his mind churned and his head began to ache. "First things first! My first concern is money. I'll go to one of my bank's branches and withdraw everything I can from the outside teller. I think I have around five hundred dollars which is below the maximum withdrawal amount allowed so no flags will be generated. Dam it to Hell. Unfortunately my bank is one of those Mom and Pop's which has less than a dozen branches in south Florida. I'll go to the most distant one from my house which should be the safest. The police can't cover all the branches. They probably don't know which bank I use. After the withdrawal I'll drive up to Atlanta to unload my electronic equipment. I know of a couple of outlet stores who will buy these goods, no questions asked. After all, they are the top of the line in quality. Big bucks here, well over twenty-five thousand in value. I'm sure they'll pay at least ten thousand for the lot. Then I'll go to New York City. Anyone can get lost in the Big Apple. Later, I may relocate to Chicago or L.A... or Central America." He felt better. "Yes, South America! There's a _big_ demand for people with my skill set. I wouldn't mind making lots of money working for a cartel as a high-tech consultant."

He learned that his bank's most distant branch office was located at the intersection of Broward Boulevard and U.S. I in southeast Fort Lauderdale. He quickly emptied his account down to five dollars which wouldn't alert the bank personnel because there were still funds available. Syed next had to work his way through more city traffic to get back on Interstate 95. He knew he couldn't use the Florida Turnpike to travel north to Atlanta although it was safer and faster because they take a picture of your license plate every time you pass through a toll booth station. And, if the Highway Patrol were alerted and chased him they'd block the few and far in-between exits immediately. He'd be captured within minutes. No, I-95 was slower and more dangerous but it had tens of thousands more vehicles and many more exits. Even though many of the drivers were certified maniacs your chances of being stopped by the law was pretty much nil.

Azrael decided to stop at a Seven Eleven to stock up for his twelve hour journey. He bought four packaged sandwiches, a two liter bottle of water, a box of cheese crackers and a bag of ice to put in the cooler he kept in his van. Syed next stopped at a gas station to top off his tank and refill his five gallon portable gas can. He was all set and ready go back on the city streets headed for the interstate. He was feeling _much_ better. "Screw that townhouse I abandoned. It's no loss. I'm three months behind on the mortgage anyhow. The bank can have it. Besides, I hate everyone in that fricking community. They're either a believer of a false god or an atheist. There's not one soul, other than myself, who is a follower of the one true god, Allah. In a few weeks, after I've rented an apartment, I'll contact that prick of a lawyer, Farnsworth. I'll tell him to keep on Delta's ass for a settlement without revealing my location. I'll say I'm out of the country on assignment. Insurance-wise, I most certainly and deserving to be handsomely compensated for my grief and suffering due to Delta's lack of security. Zachariah Farnsworth, even though he's a scumbag, ambulance chaser, I'm confident he will be able to figure out a way for the both of us to get our fair share of money. I mean really, _everyone_ knows _all lawyers_ are either greedy, thieving crooks or political advisors.

Syed turned north on U.S.1 to travel up the ten blocks to the intersection with Sunrise Boulevard. It was slow, only 30 mph. which was good due to the heavy traffic and he appeared to be just another ordinary van in a cluster of cars, busses and trucks. There were only two traffic lights between his making a left turn onto the boulevard and then I-95 would be less than two minutes away. Home free. As he approached the first stoplight he noticed a Fort Lauderdale Police cruiser on his right side toward the east waiting for the light to turn green. There were three cars in front of him when Azrael passed through the intersection. He saw the driver/ police officer turn his head and stare at his van. The officer had recently received the B.O.L.O. and began to visually check him out. By then all the vehicle's tag letters and numbers had been identified and broadcast but the policeman couldn't see the van's plate because of his angle on the traffic. The officer decided to check it out for himself anyway. When his traffic light changed he made a right and began weaving in and out without using his flashing lights or siren to catch up with Syed. They were six blocks from the boulevard. The second traffic light a block ahead showed red.

Azrael saw the police car maneuvering and getting closer. Finally, the cop was able to read his license plate. He called in the B.O.L.O. and was told to stop and detain the van by using his car's p.a. system and not to leave his patrol car. "Wait for backup before approaching the suspect's van."

Detective Hanson and Deputy Lopez were returning to the B.S.O. county substation after the completion of their stake-out. They were on Sunrise Boulevard traveling east towards U.S. 1 when they heard the Lauderdale P.D's All Units Alert. "That location is right ahead of us," announced Carlos.

"Let's join the party," said Hanson. "Could we be so lucky? Finding the flight recorder and now catching the Perp?"

Syed saw the trailing patrol car's lights turn on and the 'Chirp, Chirp' of his siren. The traffic had thinned a little. He floored the accelerator and whipped around the only vehicle between him and the red traffic light a quarter block ahead. From 30 to 40 to 50 mph. up went the speedometer needle. The police car behind him had been hemmed in. Azrael shot through a miracle gap in the crossing traffic. "Allah be praised! He protects his righteous servants!"

Two blocks away coming from the west of the intersection Hanson and Lopez saw the suspect's white van make a hard right turn onto the boulevard and head toward the Intercoastal Waterway's bridge. Azrael had panicked and turned right instead of left toward I-95. "Jeez!" blurted Carlos. "Did you see that? He was going so fast I don't see how that van didn't flip."

"Whatever," spat Hanson. "Lucky butthole. His sorry ass is _mine_ now!" as he flipped on his own lights and siren.

Syed, headed east toward the Intercoastal Waterway, got his speed up to 60 mph. He weaved in and out between the other traffic on the four lane boulevard. He could hear multiple vehicles chasing him two blocks behind. "Oh no! I made the wrong turn!" he fretted. "I should have turned left toward I-95. Now I'll have to cross the bridge and go either north or south on A1A. What to do? But wait, if I get far enough ahead and can't see me they'll assume I turned north toward the congested part of Fort Lauderdale to hide," he reasoned. "I'll slow down once I get over the bridge and head south to Broward Boulevard where I can cut back toward I-95. It'll take less than five minutes. They'll never suspect I made a loop back to where I first started at the bank." The police, who now numbered three cruisers in pursuit, were losing ground, especially when their suspect blew through the last red traffic light before the bridge. "I'm going to make it!" Syed cheered. "Allah is clearing my way."

Suddenly, he saw ahead that the drawbridge's lights were flashing and its warning bells ringing. A schooner with a tall mast was approaching from the south in the waterway. The guard-arms were dropping and the traffic began to slow. The bridge was about to open! It would take at least fifteen minutes before the boat passed under and the bridge reopened. Azrael had become _trapped!_

Detective Hanson ordered Lopez, "Get on the horn and get one of our B.S.O. choppers over here asap! The bastard's getting further away."

Carlos, who had pulled out a small pair of binoculars countered, "I see him. I don't think he'll get far. The guard-arms are down and the bridge is starting to go up. There must be a large boat going to pass underneath."

"What? What the Hell?" returned Hanson. Then, "Great. We've got the sucker boxed-in and we'll be the first ones on the scene. As soon as I stop the car you run over and slap the cuffs on. I'll be right behind to cover you in case he has a gun. We're not going to give _this_ collar away partner! Hell, we'll probably both get commendations for the catch."

Azrael eyeballs were bulging out. "I can't believe it!" he shouted. "There must be a way! Allah, give me deliverance. Don't let the cursed infidels put me in jail!" He thought for a moment and a solution flashed in his brain. He stared at the traffic stopped in front of the guard-arms. They were parked at least fifty feet back. There was a breakdown emergency lane to the right of the two regular traffic lanes and it was clear. Syed calculated, "The road going up is a long, small grade rise with over 200 yards to the center of the bridge from the guard-arm. These old bridges take more than five minutes to unlock before its two joining steel meshed grates begin to separate and rise skyward. I have at least a two minutes to spare! Thank you, Allah for showing me the way not to fall into the arms of Satan's minions!" He jerked his van into the breakdown lane and floored it. He raced pass the regular traffic stoppage and jumped back in the gap between the cars and the guard-arms. His peddle was to the metal.

From out of nowhere moving figure appeared in the corner of his eye. A fifteen year old boy riding a bike was crossing in front of the guard-arms in order to watch the boat traffic from the other side. Syed make a slight swerve to the right in an attempt to miss him head-on and the bike bounced off the side of his vehicle. The teenager was knocked backwards 10 feet through the air and landed on the bridge's asphalt. He broke his left arm and collarbone. His safety helmet had saved his life.

The van burst through the lowered barrier with ease. 'Whomp, whomp' as Azrael's tires ran over the small speedbump denoting that the crossing speed was 25 mph. His speed had increased to 45 mph but it still moved at slower rate than he wanted due to its age. "I wish this piece of crap ran faster." What he really should have hoped for was his reading the newspaper and the learning that the bridge's mechanism's had been updated last year to open and close in under two minutes per operation. The people in the bridge traffic were screaming and honking their horns to make him stop or turn back. He did neither. Syed took a fleeting glance at the sprawled boy and mangled bike in his side mirror and yelled, "Stupid kid! You're supposed to _walk_ your bike across the road! That's the law! I am blameless."

Detective Hanson watched in disbelief and shouted, "He's trying to beat the bridge opening... and I think he just hit a kid on a bike. The fool must be crazy!"

"Madre de Dios," whispered Carlos as they slowed down before driving around the stopped traffic to render aid to the boy. People were pouring out of their cars to also help.

Azrael's speed gradually increased to 50 mph, 55, 60... fifty yards to go! He saw a slight gap between the two rising grates. "You're opening too fast!" screamed Syed. The separation was already at ten feet and the incline had risen ten degrees. "I have to jump it!" and mashed the gas petal as hard as he could. The van was now doing sixty-five mph just before reaching the quickly growing chasm. Except that by the time he arrived the rising grates had increased to twenty degrees and the open space between its two edges were twenty feet apart. Azrael's van went airborne. The frontend heavy vehicle, which had abruptly slowed down to 50 mph when it encountered the additional incline, took an immediate nose dip. It flew through the air and almost made it across the gap. The front of his van hit the edge of the retreating grating halfway up his wind shield. The top three feet of his van had been cleanly sliced off as was his head from his torso. The bottom half of the chassis was still being propelled by its momentum and hurled under the rising steelwork. It crashed into the east side's concrete bulwark, bounced off and flipped into a bottom-side up position. It fell into the waterway, making a tremendous splash. All of Syed's precious equipment spilled out into the twenty feet deep water and rapidly sank into the hundred year old muck due to the added weight of the van pressing on them. Fortunately, the schooner hadn't arrived yet but it certainly had the best seat in the house for the show. At the same time above, the van's top haft continued and slide all the way down the bridge road on the opposite east side. It caught the edge of its speedbump which caused the van top to flip to a vertical position and sling its contents high in the air over the guard-arm.

The first car stopped on the east side waiting for the bridge to reopen had been none other than the Jenson family returning from yet another to be fateful beach outing. (from the 1st and 2nd chapters) End over end came down the expelled object from the interior of the severed van top. The Jenson's watched the unidentified article f lying toward them. 'Thud!' The projectile, Syed's head, had landed perfectly on their s.u.v's hood two feet from the windshield. There was no bounce or roll. The bloody, sticky stub of a neck stuck instantly to the car's hot surface. His right eye opened and gazed at the each of them before it clouded in death. Missus Jenson screamed and quickly covered their daughter Stephanie's eyes. Ron, the father and a Middle East War veteran, thought, "Just great. We're going to be caught in another fricking colossal traffic jam. And, now I'm going to hav-ta wash the car when we get home. Swell." He considered the situation then said, "Hey girls, what do think if I turned this car around and we go to I-Hop? Stephanie, would you like to have strawberry pancakes for dinner tonight?"

Blind to what sat on the car's hood she cheered, "Yes, Daddy. With whipped cream. Yea!"

Satisfied, Mister Jenson exited the vehicle with a two liter water bottle in hand. He punched Azrael's head with it until it popped free and fell to the side of the car. Ron then proceeded to empty the water bottle on the spot where the head had been stuck. He declared, "That'll do for now," and got back into the s.u.v. There were two screaming women in the car next to them who were utterly transfixed by the head lying on the ground. One of them later soon passed out. Ron smiled and waved at the traumatized ladies as he made a u turn on the bridge. He declared, "I-Hop here we come." Missus Jenson barfed in her purse.The attempted/partial retrieval and cleanup took five days. Azrael's body, since he had not been wearing a seatbelt, was washed away by the never ending current. Its bloated body cavity caused it to surface a mile away ten days later. The lower part of his van was hoisted out two days later by a mobile crane brought to the bridge. A few of the instruments and connecting peripheral equipment were retrieved by police divers who had to wait for the powerful current to ease up. Some items such as cabling, dishes, tripods, a cd player and some the less heavy items were not really anything of value in proving they could have been utilized in capturing or controlling an aircraft. The key equipment for doing that task had been buried in the muck so deep that they couldn't be located by a scanner or radar. Therefore, the Bureau had no hard/conclusive evidence he had been the culprit. Was he a terrorist serial killer or merely a hobbyist who listened to the airline traffic exchanges like he told the boys in the Everglades? More time passed and the F.B.I. began trimming back the time/money and manpower for the triple crash investigation. Washington had ordered them to issue a statement that the issue had been resolved, but they couldn't share all the details due to National Security. The White House did say that the Bureau could reveal that the incidents were caused by a single perpetrator and that the investigation has been satisfactorily concluded. The skies were safe again. And, it must be true because the President said so on Twitter.Wayne Atkins and Gary Taylor were discussing the White House's directives when a staff support associate came to them and relayed that William Redman wanted to see them in his office. For the last few days they had watched a steady exodus of loaned-in agents being returned to wherever they came from. Was this their time to see the Turk? (an expression of being cut from a football team roster). They entered his office with a degree of apprehension. Both felt they had been instrumental in identifying Azrael as the mad genius perpetrator and wanted to be regarded as more than just another pair of passing-thru, extra bodies. Gary read the confliction in William's eyes. He had been down this road before and said, "Wayne would you please give Agent Redman and I a few minutes of privacy before we begin?" Atkins didn't understand why but of course consented and stepped outside.

After the door closed Gary addressed their superior and stated, "I think we all know what this is about... and, where it's coming from. It's your sister, Wilma," to which he didn't deny. "We understand, that's her job but we feel we have done better work than most of your permanent agents here. And, we got the message from her before we started that she wants only the best to be under her command, especially on the Task Force. Right?" Again, he didn't deny Taylor's assertion.

William began, "You're correct in that this operation is being cut back... and the source of who's requiring it. Unfortunately, it's a little more complicated than merely the choosing of a new team. Granted, we have to return to our previous work force size. And again, you are correct in your assessment of your performing better than some of the original staff. But, it doesn't mean that these other agents aren't worthy of retaining their positions. They are still very good investigators... and they all have seniority and tenue over the two of you. Do you see the problem? Personally, I'd like to keep _all_ of you but we both know the bean counters rule the world."

"Yes, I know," responded Taylor. "It's not so much for myself but I feel for Wayne. He's really a smart guy and it would be a crime to send him back to do mundane assignments far below his capabilities such as Mail."

"I agree," concurred William. "I'd keep you both if I could...but. Now, would you please call him back and let's get this ugly issue over with?"

"Yes sir," answered Gary and turned to leave. "Oh, but wait. May I have one more minute of your time, sir?" He withdrew his smart phone from his pocket and flipped the lid open to read the menu. "We've all been so busy I forgot to show you some pictures I took a few weeks ago when we had that break for a few days. These pic's were taken at the Mayfair Bar in North Miami. Wayne and his running club buddies hang out there after their Wednesday evening's track workouts. I was to meet him and got there a little early. As he told me, there were a lot of interesting patrons in attendance. The most fascinating person that I had seen had already left with her two customers, er, escorts before he arrived." Gary handed him his phone said, "Here. Just scroll through by sliding your thumb to the right," then stepped back to observe his reaction. He watched and stifled his urge to laugh. He'd never seen a black man turn that white before.

Finally, Redman said, "This is... interesting. May I keep this for tonight? I'll return it tomorrow."

"Sure," as Gary locked eyes with him and stated. "Besides, I have everything backed-up on a thumb drive.

"Thank you, Agent Taylor. Would you and Agent Atkins please return to your work stations and carry on? I'll be in touch with you both again some time tomorrow." Gary and Wayne returned to their desks and Taylor said nothing to his buddy concerning the Mayfair Bar.

William Redman placed a call. 'Ring, ring,' "Wilma Redman here. How may I help you?"

"Wilma, it's me William. I'll get right to it. Have you ever heard of the Mayfair Bar in North Miami?"

The following day after lunch William summoned them again and had Atkins come in first while Taylor waited outside. He said, "There been some changes in your reassignments. No, you still can't remain here. Taylor may have told you that our agents who were here before you arrived, they will remain. However, I believe I have some good news for you Special Agent Atkins. Wilma Redman did some research last night and found a vacancy which appears to be a better fit for a man of your talents. The opening is in the Southeast Counter Terrorist Division which is located here in Fort Lauderdale. However, there is one prerequisite. You will have to become bilingual. Russian or Spanish preferably. They will teach you on the job and you have one year to become proficient in order to retain the position. Are you interested?"

To which Wayne responded, "Sí senor. I studied Spanish a year in high school, a year in college and had a refresher course in the navy and the Police Academy. No problema."

"Excellent. I didn't know that. You may take the mandatory proficiency test whenever you'd like to get it out of the way. You are to report next Monday morning. See our staff Scheduling Clerk before you leave for directions and instructions." William shook Wayne's hand and asked, "Would you tell Agent Taylor it's his turn on your way out please?"

Atkin's walked out and gave Gary a thumb's up sign. "It's your turn partner. I'll see you back at our desks and fill you in on my new assignment. Good luck."

Taylor entered the boss's office. Redman sat stone-faced at his desk, "Thank you for waiting Special Agent Taylor," said his immediate supervisor. 'Would you please take a seat?" and promptly handed back his smart phone. The door was closed.

Shortly later. Gary returned to his desk where Wayne anxiously waited. "Well Bud, what's the good news? Are we still working together?"

"No," answered Taylor. "Redman said there was only one opening in the group you're going to. He offered to let me pick a position from several others, good ones. I declined them all and ended up back in Public Relations."

Wayne's face dropped. "Oh no, Gary. You should have chosen one of those good assignments. See what happened? He and Wilma got mad and she gave you the shaft again. I'm so sorry bro but I think you dug your own grave on this one."

Taylor smiled then continued. "I thought you'd feel that way," and grinned. "William let me _choose_ Public Relations. He checked the computer and saw that the position had been filled by a temporary since I left it. So... in reality, he and Wilma are giving it back to me at _my_ request. That's what I wanted all along!" and gave a hearty laugh aloud.

"But why Gary? I'm confused all to hell," asked Wayne. "I thought you _hated_ P.R."

"I understand your reaction," explained his soon to be non-partner. "After this stint on this investigation I realized that P.R. is a nine to five, no stress, gravy job suited for a fellow such as myself. I'll make the same money for forty hour's work as you will for sixty plus. I've paid my dues over the years. Now I'm going to cruise on out. The Bureau created this waste of resources farce and I'm going to reap its benefits. I'll be the best Public Relations representative they ever had! Nine more years of the easy life and I'm gone with a full ride."

"Wow," responded Wayne. "To each his own. But if for any reason you ever want to team up again just give me a call. I'll vouch for you anytime."

They shook hands and Gary said, "I'm taking a week's vacation before I return to my so-called punishment job," and laughed all the way to the parking lot."

Wayne watched him leave and smiled. He said to himself, "That son of a bitch is a whole lot smarter than I thought. He really _knows_ how to play the game. Good for him."

# Chapter Nineteen: What's this?

Two weeks later...

Joey, what are you doing?" asked his mother.

Her son pointed toward the water and answered, "I see something down there Mom. I'm gonna get it." Then quickly hopped off the seawall onto the large rocks sloping into the water.

"Virgil, do you see what he's doing!"

The boy and his father were fishing from the Intercoastal Waterway seawall a little north of the Sunrise Boulevard drawbridge where Syed Azrael met his grizzly demise. The man responded, "I'm watching him Dear."

It was early afternoon and the family had spent the morning having a picnic at John Lloyd State Park. It's a dog friendly facility and they went there often, bringing their well-trained Labrador during good weather.

"Those rocks could be slippery," she warned.

"They seem dry enough," but condescended and handed the rod to his wife Irene. He then walked over to the large outcropping of coral rocks their six year old son was climbing down. "Relax Dear. Kids have great balance," as he stood a mere dozen feet away from the young boy who had already reached the water's edge. "What's you got there, son?" The youngster reached into a crevice recently exposed by the receding tide.

"I don't know Daddy." He freed the bundle and pulled it out for display. "It's a big envelope. It feels like papers inside."

"Bring it on up and we'll check it out," directed Virgil. The boy nimbly returned the short distant and handed the curious package to his father. The three family members backed away from the rocks and seawall to a nice swale. They all took a seat on the grass to get comfortable as the father read the water-faded, hand written label on the front of the 8X10 manila envelope. "Private Property of Syed Azrael."

"Who's that Daddy? That name sounds funny. Is it foreign? The envelope is kinda messy."

"I see that son," as he brushed off a bit of seaweed. "It appears to have been in the water for a while. But not a long, long time or we couldn't read the label at all. Let's see what's inside."

His wife commented, "Oh Virgil, it's so nasty. There may be _creatures_ or jellyfish in that seaweed. Throw it away please."

"Not yet," he responded. "It may have fallen off a boat. It could be important to someone... and we might be able to return it." He glanced at his son, winked and said, "Or, Arrr, me matey! It also could be filled with pirate's treasure which will now be _ours!"_

"Yea, Daddy," cheered Joey. "Open it! Open the treasure!"

The father, very carefully released the metal clasp and slid out the contents of the weakened, water soaked envelope. There were five items, but alas, no treasure. "Sorry Joey, maybe next time."

He laid them on the ground. There were four cutout pieces of a road map and a compact disc. He was able to read the labeling on the disc with ease and commented, "Someone, or this Azrael fellow, must have used a magic marker to label it. It's held up quite well in the sea water. It's a single recording of 'Angel in the morning' by Merrilee Rush. That's a beautiful song. I've heard it many times on the radio. Okay for that item. Let's move on and take a peek at these maps." He spread them out very carefully so as to not tear the softened, faded paper. Virgil arranged them side by side and determined, "They're all county maps." He pointed at them one by one and identified them. "This one is Broward County and there's the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood airport," which had been circled. Then another was of Palm Beach County and again the airport had been circled. The third was an airport in Birmingham, Alabama. The last was Miami-Dade County but on this particular one the circle was a half mile northwest of the airport. Virgil deducted, "These must have belonged to a tourist and he dropped his envelope while walking over the bridge to the park. Or perhaps it was an Uber driver and it had been accidently blown out of his car window."

"Too bad," said Joey. "He's going to have to buy new ones."

"Right son," Dad agreed. "But enough of this, these maps can't be returned they're in too bad of condition." Gathering them up he then noticed a folded white piece of paper stuck under one of the maps. "Oops, what's this?" The father again carefully unfolded this new item and read it silently to himself. It was a list of names. The first one read: Tessa Azrael the Unfaithful Whore and had a check mark in front of her name. Beneath that the second line read: Victor Butler the Despicable Womanizer and it also had a check mark. The third listed was: Frank Russo the co-conspiring Adulterer had been also checked off. The fourth and last: Ron Howe the company's Hatchet man from the Devil... but didn't have a check mark. After reviewing the paper twice, Virgil decided that this wasn't the kind of speech he wanted his family to be exposed to. He set the c.d. aside then wadded the papers into a soggy ball and stuffed them back into the envelope.

"What was that last paper Daddy?"

"Nothing important son," he answered. "It's all just messy trash." He scanned the area, there were no garbage receptacles in sight. He returned the rocky part of the seawall, picked up a large stone weighing roughly a pound and placed it inside the envelope. The father refastened it and took a stance to make a throw. He first stated, "These papers are biodegradable. They won't hurt the environment. I'll dispose of the c.d. at home." Virgel then made a mighty toss of the package into the center of the Intercoastal Waterway. It created a less than spectacular 'Splash'. He declared, "There, that job's done. Hey Joey, whatta say we catch some more catfish now for tonight's dinner?"

The weighed-down, conclusive, Hard Evidence against Syed Azrael, the terrorist and mass murdering serial killer, quickly sank to the bottom... never to be found again.

The End

# Epilogue

The United States Government banned the production, importation and/or the sale of White Noise generators, a.k.a. Jammer devices.

The Federal Aviation Administration followed suit and disallowed the playing of, 'Angel of the Morning' in U.S. airports and on all American based commercial flights. Naturally, the record company's sales soared.

# Other publications by J.E. Moore

The Time Doctors' Chronicles

The Omega Seed

Twisted all to Hell
