The Lights of Tenth Street (50 page)

Tiffany clapped along with the others at the right spots, scanning the festive crowd, watching the polite expressions. Her gaze lingered on two men from the advertising agency standing alone at the back of the crowd. They were clapping as well, but seemed tense, keyed up. She recognized one as a man that Marco had tried to set Ronnie up with.

Wade was wrapping up his little speech, enjoying his time in the spotlight. “We’ll be watching it live here in a moment, and the clock will begin to tick toward the most effective Super Bowl ad in the history of advertising.”

He gestured for the lights to be lowered, and the screen above him sprang to life with a scene from a popular cop drama.

Tiffany watched the two men. They were whispering together and looking at their watches, seeming hardly interested in the upcoming commercial. Odd, since they created it. And why were they so stressed? They should be enjoying themselves and their success with a major, high-profile account.

One man turned his head and looked straight at her. Tiffany realized she’d been caught staring—staring at them instead of the screen. The man’s expression tightened, and Tiffany gave him a coy grin and pointed at the screen as if to say “congratulations.”

The man relaxed and, noticing her figure and long bare legs for the first time, made eyes at her. Tiffany returned the look, confident that Wade would let nothing come of it.

The screen flashed to black, and Tiffany looked up to watch the long-awaited results of her very profitable labors.

The world was black outside the windows of the security station, set into the clifflike concrete wall above the towering dam.

Inside, two guards sat in front of a bank of monitors that flickered between
every conceivable interior and exterior view. Another two guards waited in a nearby break room for their next shift, watching a popular police drama beamed in via the satellite dish outside. Another two teams were outside in the cold keeping an eye out for anything amiss. In half an hour, each of the four teams would rotate to a different post.

No one was overly worried, but just that morning another special alert had been issued. The threat of terrorist activity was judged to be higher than usual. No specifics, of course, and the men were annoyed at having to work longer hours so close to Christmas. But these days, each industry, each company, had its own way of responding to heightened terrorist threats, and this was theirs.

One of the guards walked the path that circumnavigated the giant reservoir above the dam. Hundreds of millions of gallons of water sat silent and still, undisturbed under the stars. From his position on a gentle slope, the guard could look downward over the water and over the lip of the dam, to the dark river ravine below.

The river was managed, of course, as the dam engineers constantly let out the appropriate amount of water to keep it running smoothly—without flooding the cities and towns just a few miles downriver. This dam wasn’t one of the largest, or the most productive, but it had faithfully served the residents of this area for the many years since that time, without incident.

The guard turned and looked upriver. In warmer weather, many of those residents came here to relax amid the natural beauty of the river and the upper lake. The recreational area ended at a concrete barrier across the lower lake, a half-mile upriver from the dam, but every now and then some bumbling tourist pulling an overpriced boat on a trailer managed to get himself lost and find a little-used back road into the restricted area. Because their dam wasn’t particularly large or profitable, and was in a remote area used primarily for recreation, the massive perimeter was not fenced in. There was really no feasible way
to
fence so much land; unless what you were fencing was an army base or a missile silo or other such installation. The municipality that owned the dam relied on signs, monitoring, and sturdy fencing near the dam itself to discourage the back-roaders. But once or twice, a tourist had managed to miss all the warnings, and to put in at points on the lower lake where the firm bank made a perfect natural boat ramp down to the water.

The guard shook his head, tolerant of human stupidities. He’d been there for one such case, under a bright August sky, when the infuriated boat owners had been confronted by guards appearing out of nowhere on Jet Skis, to be told that they would have to pack up and leave forthwith. A Hawaiian-shirted man—half drunk, and in a party mood, had demanded to see a map that proved they were on restricted space before he would incur the trouble of loading up his boat. The
guards had, with some amusement, shown him their official identification—along with the loaded weapons that were strapped securely at their sides. The blustering boat owner had rapidly decided that was all the road map he needed, and had departed at speed.

Chuckling at the memory, the guard scanned the dark water—and froze. He blinked, thinking the memory had come to life. No, there it was again: A motor-boat, calmly drifting down from around a bend, was headed straight down the middle of the lake. Toward the dam.

The guard cursed and sprinted forward, grabbing his radio out of his belt.

“Code Red all teams! Code Red all teams! Unsecured boat heading toward home base, over!”

The radio crackled to life as he tried to keep pace along the shore. He pressed the transmit button again, trying to talk and run at the same time. “Appears unmanned! No one in the cockpit! Thirty seconds to home base, over!”

He heard his supervisors calm voice over the radio. “Sending team to intercept. Can you tell if it’s a threat?”

“Negative … home base …” The guard was panting now, unable to keep up with the boat. “No way … to know. But it feels wrong. Nighttime … unmanned … how’d it get here?”

He heard his supervisor ordering out a team to intercept the boat, but he knew they’d never reach it before it reached the dam. He began sprinting again, arriving at the dam and taking the downward steps two at a time, down toward the verge. His view was momentarily blocked by the high stairway walls, but he could hear the security boats engine being revved.

Inside the security station, the break room was deserted, a spilled coffee cup betraying the haste of the guards’ departure. The lonely television flickered with the final moments of an intense police scene, then went black, transitioning into the commercial break.

Perched high up along the outside of the dam, the small satellite dish received its signals, transmitting them to the television inside and any other receivers within range. One such receiver sat quietly nearby, gently rocking in the wake stirred up by the nearby security boat and the man who had come aboard in haste to hook up a towline.

The guard emerged from the staircase to see three of his colleagues busy in and around the intruding boat, which now bumped gently up against the dam. He caught his breath—and was blinded by a roaring flash of light. From fifty feet away, he was thrown back onto the steps, shielding his face from the heat of the explosion.

He shouted out for his colleagues on the boat, trying to regain his equilibrium, to stand, to do something. He saw his supervisor run out onto the deck of the security station, also shielding his face from the flame, trying to see with his eyes what couldn’t have been true on the monitor.

The two men locked eyes, and they turned and fixed their gaze on the top of the dam. A chunk looked like it had been bitten out by a ravenous giant. Cracks were forming, right down to the waterline, where two boats were burning down to empty hulks—hulks that would quickly sink or be washed over the dam. Along with millions of gallons of water.

The supervisor disappeared from the doorway, and on his radio the guard could hear the alert going out. “Breach in progress! Move away from the river! Alert the towns!” Within moments, over the crackle of the flame and the sound of the groaning dam, the old sirens could be heard far below.

In slow motion, he watched the cracks spread, illuminated by the flames in the darkness, the vision of hell. Then there was a great crumbling and a roar as a giant chunk gave way.

Tyson and the other members of the S-Group sat perched on their island wicker chairs, staring, intent, at a bank of television sets, each turned to a different cable channel. Different channels, same news.

Tyson watched the anxious reporters—some soaked or covered with mud—documenting the sudden tragedy that had befallen the river valley. The nighttime pictures were murky, lit only by the lights of cameras and emergency workers. But that was enough to see the houses torn apart, the cars flipped high on the ravine, the body bags, the shattered families. The darkness and cold added to the confusion, the horror. It was feared that hundreds, probably thousands, had been killed, one of the worst flooding tragedies of the past hundred years. Shaken reporters looked into the cameras and spoke of the impact of such a tragedy during the Christmas season.

The newscasts were full of speculation as to the cause of the breach, the theories
spreading like wildfire. But no one would stick his neck out and say the
T
word. Not until they had more information.

Tyson sipped his glass of wine. It was all part of the necessary cycle of destruction and rebirth. He was just helping it along. And getting paid handsomely in exchange.

“Turn that up!” Tyson gestured toward the man nearest a particular television set, where a reporter stood, microphone in hand, shivering amid the carnage.

“Sources now tell us this was a deliberate explosion, a bomb aboard a small boat of some kind. Again, we’re coming to you first with the news that this was no accident. This was a deliberate act of malice with—it appears—the intent to destroy thousands of innocent lives. We can only speculate who may be behind this attack and whether this horrific act will result in even greater loss. Again, let’s take you to the precarious situation on the dam just a few miles upriver from where we stand.”

A helicopter shot showed the beleaguered dam, the partial breach down the middle and across one side, the remaining mass of water pressing on the weakened structure. Sober-eyed commentators safe in their television studios interviewed engineers about the chances that the rest of the dam could go. It was astounding, the engineers said, that only that top rectangular piece had broken free so far … the pressure for a complete breach was enormous … authorities must swiftly let out more of the water in as controlled a manner as possible.

The members of the S-Group scowled. On a scale of ten, this was probably a four. But since this was just a warm-up, a test, the pressure was off. And regardless, their client was pleased.

There were yells and cheers in the dusty early-morning streets as the enemies of the Great Satan got word that another blow had been struck, another great loss inflicted. And during the infidels’ celebrations of their heretical Christmas holiday season, at that. It could not be better.

Men gave each other impromptu presents, teens fired automatic weapons in the air, chanting national slogans, and children danced in the streets.

Mr. Mohammed watched from a third-floor window, his arms crossed, his tight lips now curving in a smile. Ah, the younger generation. Passionate, pliable, and steeped in the old teachings without question. The perfect tools that they needed now and for the foreseeable future; for as long as they fought this shadow war against the great enemy of Islam. As was their custom, their team would gather at prayers soon and give thanks to Allah for their success.

He ducked back inside his informal command center—a sparse two-room
apartment—and continued the debriefing via secure cell phone with several of the operatives involved. Being infidels, caring only about money, they had not been willing to be martyrs for the cause. But it hadn’t been necessary; the boat had been remotely guided from a pickup truck parked nearby.

The bomb could have just as easily been detonated by the same operatives, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the test, and it had worked beautifully.

Mr. Mohammed turned and watched the scenes of devastation on CNN, the tragedy not two hours old. The test run had proven that the real event would be a great success, Allah willing.

He disconnected from the American operatives and punched in the number that would reach his backers. He stood at the window, watching the ongoing celebration in the streets. Just imagine what these streets would look like after Super Bowl Sunday.

Everyone clustered around the break room television set, eyes stretched with disbelief, watching the horrific scenes. Several of the girls were crying, their makeup running. Maris chain-smoked, tears in her hardened eyes, angrily jabbing out one cigarette only to light another within minutes. Ronnie sat next to her on the couch, unable, like the others, to look away from the devastation of this new kind of attack.

The room was crowded with so many staffers away from their posts, but it didn’t matter. The club floor was practically deserted, most patrons having rushed home to turn on their own televisions once the news was announced. The only busy area was the bar, where Nick had a small set turned to CNN. He plied the shocked customers with drinks, which they paid for and drank like automatons, all attention focused on the news.