Bayou Brigade (4 page)

“We know nothing of the terrorists’ identity?”

“Only that their arsenal encompasses an unheard-of spectrum, from Makarov pistols to sophisticated rocket launchers such as
the SAM7. Belogorsk’s report makes considerable mention of an American crew supposedly in charge of this subversive group.
Since they all used code names while dealing with the Soviets, it’s impossible to confirm identities.”

“But you’re certain they are operating in the States?”

“Almost certain.” Winship crumpled the paper coffee cup and missed a shot to the round file. “This enlargement of the microfilm
is our only clue. The dates and number of weapon units are designated by code-word Pond’—Pond 1 is Chicago, Pond 3 is Washington,
no doubt. There’s only one reference to Pond 2, but its location is not revealed. Make note of that, Ben; Pond 2 received
the largest shipment of arms.”

“And the story about these memos from Conklin and Donovan?”

Winship skimmed a hand over that bald spot again, stooping to pick up the scattered messages. “There’s no explanation for
that,
at least not yet.”

“You said something about an investigation?”

“Oh yes, yes,” Winship shot back, bracing his leg with one arm as he straightened up. “Two senators, Parfrey and Beducci,
were murdered last night under bizarre circumstances: Parfrey’s head was blown off by an explosive hidden in a telephone receiver;
Beducci was killed much in the same manner as Son Quo Park. I’d say there’s connection between those killings and the terrorist
threat from China. The Justice Department agrees, but several colleagues of the late senators feel any inquiries at this time
would waste the taxpayers’ money.”

Slayton evaluated the situation. “When do I leave for Chicago?”

“Later this morning, if I can get a hold of anyone with the authority to cosign the orders.”

Thinking of Maximillian Parrish and a relaxed fishing weekend made Slayton twist in his chair. “I gave up a beautiful woman
and two days of fun and frolic on the ocean with my best friend for this, y’know.”

Winship smiled for the first time since Slayton arrived. “All in the line of duty,” he said.

A rumbling noise echoed across Washington, alerting the two men; they both took for granted it was a bomb. They scampered
to the window as a cloud of smoke rose into the air near the Potomac River.

“Good heavens,” said Winship, “what do you suppose that was?”

“Incendiary explosion?” Slayton strained his eyes to determine its origin. “Is there any construction going on down there?”

“I didn’t notice any driving in yesterday.”

The phone was again ringing insistently. Winship acknowledged a message and hung up, reaching for his overcoat. “Let’s move.
There’s been an explosion inside the Lincoln Memorial!”

It was a five-minute ride from the
Washington Post
newsroom to the scene of the bombing. Wilma Christian, the Northwestern University journalist major from whom the editors
were expecting Pulitizer Prize-caliber reporting, sped down Constitution Avenue in her Corvette, ignoring red stoplights and
anything else in her way.

After three or four more wake-me-ups in the company of Maximillian Parrish (the booze warmed her up for the morning, but a
throbbing headache dulled her senses), he had agreed to drive her into town.

“Ben will fool you with his harsh exterior,” he had said, pulling to the curb fronting Wilma’s Georgetown apartment. “But
I can tell when he’s really hooked on someone.”

She had thanked him for the lift. “I know, there’s the seed of a great relationship somewhere in him. But he has yet to commit
to anything.”

“Keep trying,” Parrish had said, shifting his GM truck into reverse to maneuver around a parked car. “You’ll get satisfaction
if ya hang in there.”

As he drove away, she had made a mental note,
Sure, I get satisfaction, but when do I get my reward?
Parrish confirmed what she had always suspected, that Ben Slayton had a warm, soft heart. Unfortunately for her, it was buried
under a ton of confidence, regret, and pride.

Why was she thinking of such things on the short drive down Constitution Avenue, toward the scene of
a
spectacular explosion at the Lincoln Memorial? It didn’t make sense. She had
her
job to do, too, and nothing, even Ben Slayton, could substitute for that.

Television reporters were already lined up behind the police cordon, their mini-cams cranking out instant coverage to millions
of early morning boob-tubers. The Memorial was still intact, contrary to initial accounts of severe damage, although the central
portal was smoldering, a bit charred; the interior black as coal.

Government officials were starting to swarm over the scene as Wilma parked her car three blocks away. She rushed to one group
of long-faced Secret Service men, pressing them for a comment, but instead receiving a grim warning to “stay away.” She made
her way through the crowd. Amateur sleuths milled about, snapping Instamatics and offering their own interpretations of the
bombing.

Wilma pushed through the crowd to the front of a police blockade. The explosion was not devastating enough to destroy the
statue of the sixteenth president, although two marble columns appeared severely damaged. Gray fumes continued to pour out,
caking the ceiling near the east portal, occasionally blowing into the crowd and stinking of sulfur.

“You’ll have to stay back, ma’am.” A boyish-looking policeman blocked Wilma’s path. She wanted to get a close look at the
Memorial interior.

“Press,” she said, flashing her press pass card.

The policeman didn’t seem impressed. “I can’t let you through just yet. They haven’t cleared away the debris.”

“What debris?” she asked, followed by a rapid-fire, “When did this occur? Is there any evidence of terrorist involvement?
Can I have a comment?”

The ploy worked. The officer blinked—confused, unable to respond. “Wait here, I’ll get the lieutenant.” Wilma slipped past
the barrier as the young man went off to look for his supervisor.

In the distance, she caught the tail end of a conversation between two technicians in white coats loading a massive, thick-walled
container on the back of the trailer truck. “…can’t see how the mixture was ignited,” wondered the first technician aloud.

“They obviously utilized secondary fuses,” replied the other man as Wilma approached them.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m with the
Washington Post;
could I ask you some questions?”

They looked at one another, blank expressions receding into friendly grins. The second technician pointed up to the portal
and said, “They can help you.”

She gazed behind them, through the entrance to the east section, and saw an elderly gentleman holding a small particle of
metallic plating outstretched against the sun. Behind him, emerging from inside the Memorial, was Ben Slayton. Wilma stood
beyond their line of vision, shielded by a section of pink marble pillar.

“This plating,” said the older man, as Wilma stretched forward to catch their conversation above the din of the crowd, “was
held in place against the wall, positioned in line with the first explosion.”

Slayton conjectured, “The heat from the blast must’ve been tremendous to…” Two women near Wilma began crying loudly, cutting
through Slayton’s voice and disturbing her reception.

After a moment, the older man disappeared into the Memorial, leaving Wilma free to rush up to Slayton. “What happened, Ben?”

He led her away by the arm. “We don’t know yet, and this is a restricted area.”

“Look, no one’s commenting on anything. Can’t you tell me just a little bit?”

“I’m not at liberty—”

She cut in, adopting a typical newswoman’s stance, “The public has a right to know.”

Slayton remained quiet.

Continuing, she was adamant. “This building belongs to the people.”

“We can’t comment officially until the lab boys dust everything and formulate a professional opinion.”

“Come off it, Ben, don’t you have any opinions?”

Slayton looked helpless. “No comment.”

“Okay,”she conceded, “when
can
I know?”

A throng of arm-waving reporters gathered on the south wall of the building. Placing a hand on Wilma’s shoulder, Slayton directed
her toward them. “Join your colleagues. I think the lieutenant is holding a press conference.”

She scampered off, leaving Slayton to help a group of technicians remove another load of debris.

“We have no confirmation that this was the work of terrorists,” said Lt. Daniel T. Clarke, holding up his arms to silence
an eruptive cacophony of reporters’ questions. “No one has as yet claimed responsibility for the act.”

Wilma got off the first inquiry. “Do you deny the involvement of terrorists?”

Clarke did a slow burn. “I just answered that.”

Another question: “Who is conducting the investigation?”

“The Washington PD, the special bomb squad, the Treasury Department, the—”

Someone interrupted loudly, “Why is the Treasury Department here?”

“No comment.”

Another question: “If it was a bomb, was there any structural damage to the Memorial?”

Clarke rolled his eyes. “No substantial damage.”

“Did you say
no damage?”
It was Wilma.

“Yes, I said no damage.”

And so it went. Reporters asked a variety of pertinent questions mixed in with ridiculous ones (“Where did you get the coffee
in your hand, Lt. Clarke?“). For Wilma, all it added up to was a sketchy profile of what had occurred, very little acknowledgment
from authorities (par for the course), and absolutely no help from Ben Slayton.

Winship studied the Memorial’s interior south wall. The stone was covered with a blend of carbon residue and a sootlike tarnish.
The explosive, a nondestructive combination of gases and weak gunpowder, made one hell of a noise, but did little else, other
than turn Lincoln’s statue jet black. What remained of the explosive pack lay scattered across the floor, and the plating
which held the bomb unit against the marble was scorched and detached in several pieces. Winship held a fragment in his hands.
It reminded him of a stencil—letters were cut out and placed in sequence two feet from the bomb. Once the explosion sent condensed
heat onto the plate, a tremendous amount of pressure left impressions on the marble.

Permanently embossed directly beneath Lincoln’s statue were the words:

STOP US IF YOU DARE

Under that, in smaller, imperfectly burned characters,

S NTA      AS B    G DE

Winship was approached by Slayton and Dr. Stewart Llewellyn, senior science officer for the Treasury Department. Llewellyn,
in his’ mid-forties, with whitening hair and a Holmesian pipe, inhaled and puffed frantically while piecing together a possible
motive.

“An extremely professional job,” he said with free-spoken puzzlement. “The message makes no sense.”

Winship coughed. “That is for me to decide. What about the explosive?”

“Quite unlike anything I’ve seen.”

Slayton sniffed the air. “A faint trace of sulfur.”

“We can’t account for that,” said Llewellyn, “although my theory is that this blackening of the marble is caused in part by
sulfuric acid. That accounts for our inability to clean up the mess. In a sense, the black layer is ’glued’ to the stone.”

“That’s just wonderful,” Winship snapped.

Llewellyn picked up a fragment of plating lying at his feet. “The explosive was installed to blow outward, against the plating,
and burn in the message. The bomb contained three compartments with varied chemical mixtures, some of which we haven’t identified
yet. Mostly, though, a sack of gunpowder caused the big bang. Everything else was a chain reaction. Whoever did this was not
interested in a full-scale demolition.”

“That could rule out terrorism,” remarked Slayton.

Glancing at the words on the stone, Winship said, “It reads like a warning.”

Llewellyn took another drag. “What’s so amazing about this bomb is the level of mechanical engineering. Each fuse was timed
to dispatch a certain premeasured amount of the acids and reagents. Its designer must be a genius.”

“Well, he’s not working for our side,” said Winship.

Continuing, Llewellyn gestured dramatically, as though reconstructing the bomb’s activation in abstract terms, “Thermite and
phosphorous, timed by six variable fuses, all controlled electronically right down to the split second.”

“Have you found the electronic receiver?” asked Slayton.

“No, it was destroyed in the blast,” said Llewellyn, “but we did find a small radio transceiver behind the building, hidden
under some brush. Its only apparent function was to send a signal to the explosive from an undesignated location.”

“And if it’s inactive now,” said Winship, “there’s no telling who pressed the button.”

Slayton detected a mild concussion or shock wave floating through the Memorial floor. It felt like the prelude to an earthquake.
Winship lifted one leg and said, raising his voice, “What was that?” A second ripple passed through the stone floor, followed
by a stronger impact that swayed the building.

“An underground explosion?” pondered Dr. Llewellyn.

Outside, Wilma was knocked clear off her feet by the first temblor. As she regained balance, other people were either yelling
incoherently or lying injured on the pavement. Lt. Clarke had been hit in the face with a television cameraman’s boom microphone,
and was cursing obscenely.

One woman screamed, “The Washington Monument!”

Across the Reflecting Pool, directly behind the Lincoln Memorial and running some distance to the 16th Street parking lot,
people were dropping to the ground, getting up, falling over again, as three earthquakelike tremors rippled beneath them.
The Monument was pitched to and fro—the explosion momentarily raised its foundation a couple of inches. Tourists standing
in line to enter the Monument were showered by large chunks of dislodged stone. The obelisk did not appear damaged enough
to topple, but it seesawed precariously, crumbling near its mid-section. Yet after the violence subsided, it remained upright,
resembling a pillar of swiss cheese.