Today we seem to feel the world is a safer place. However, the enemy in this story is out there still, and probably a lot more crazy then this tale lets on.
Certainly we can't predict what will happen in the new world we have wrought, but it is clear that terrorists hold all the cards in this frightening future. Our only hope is vigilance, strength and a will to prevail. At the worst times we have to remember the terrorist's goal is to strike terror. We must keep our courage at its highest, and not let the fools change one minute of our lives. That would not only let them win this horrible battle, but give them some sense of success.
Thanks to all those out there concerned with tracking the evil ones down and hope we never hear about most of the things you must do to protect us here in our homes.
He re-folded the wire holding the Cyclone Fence to its supporting post and began walking back toward the concession area. Satisfied now that he had covered their escape route with their last cache. Satisified now that nothing could stop their day of glory.
As he continued on towards the hamburger stand, he nodded at the lone security guard walking rounds at 12:00 am. Now Abshul would finish the cleaning of the frying vats for the french fries. As usual the boss had left him to the dirty task, happy to pay a little overtime to his best worker. Abshul hated the job, but then he hated all the jobs he "eagerly" volunteered for. The boss had been easy to convince that Abshul was trustworthy, and could be relied upon to make the place spotless for the next morning. Now he would finish up and go home, his mission completed for now. On glory day, he would finally throw off this disgusting disguise as a meek and eager to please immigrant. "Soon" he told himself, "Soon".
But alas, it was not to be, and Jud sighed again, not enjoying the frustration of waiting like everyone else for the fellow in front of him to move. "Linear parking lots" as his secretary had called them.
Then the cellular phone chimed in with its wry comment on his thoughts, and Jud stared at the horrible badge of the "Yuppie". The mayor had insisted he install the damn thing, and he had regretted it within seconds of its being christened.
"Tyler here" he answered in his best "leave me alone" voice.
"Julie here" replied his secretary in her best "Humor the boss" voice. "You have a visitor who has been waiting for 15 minutes. He acts as though you were expecting him, or should have been. You not telling me about your appointments again?"
"No, Mother" he quipped, while appreciating that Julie had kept his political ass out of the fire many a time. "So is it to be a surprise or are you going to tell me who it is?"
"I think it will be a nice surprise. Yes, that's what I'll do, thanks for the idea, click".
Well he had asked for that. Better play along with her as she had done for him. Certainly it wouldn't hurt to act as if it didn't matter this one time. If it ever became a problem, he'd just get serious with her and explain things...Right!"
Looking at the traffic in front of him he snarled. Reaching over, he opened the little hatch the German's thought to be a glove compartment (yes that's about all it would carry), and fished out the little red light and lighter plug. Shoving the plug into the cigarette lighter, he rolled down the window and jammed the magnet base of the flasher onto the top of the roof, uncharacteristicly ignoring the possibly of scratching the fine German finish.
Reaching under the dash, he toggled the special switch, and the siren lit up, screaming like a crazy two-tone klaxon. As he pulled onto the the shoulder, the warbling of the siren echoed off the hills along the highway. Making slow but regular process, he passed a fair amount of the traffic. He only had to slam his brakes on once as a truck pulled up on an on-ramp thinking, obviously, that a white bathtub Porsche did not an emergency vehicle make.
Finally he cut the siren and pulled off 280 and wound his way down Page Mill road. In a matter of minutes he had parted the traffic well enough to make it to the office in a record twenty minutes. Maybe he should be so inventive more often.
As he stepped off the elevator and resisted the temptation to polish the nameplate on the finely burnished wooden panels of the hall. He noted that the title of "Chief of Police" didn't really tell the whole story. Someday he'd write a book on what it meant to be Chief of Police in the fine city of Palo Alto, the heart of Silicon Valley.
Now most small town Police Chiefs had their own little problems to deal with, you know, wild kids, bored kids and adults, a few die hard "toughies" and even occasionally the habitual criminal. Well here in Silicon Valley, Jud had a few more classes of problems.
For instance, he had a team working on a major cocaine bust, one team working on a serial killer, a team working on industrial espionage, and another three teams tracking down a supplier of pit bull dogs. Gang rape, drug parties, major theft rings, and more. High Tech at its best.
"Hiya Boss. Enjoy your surprise" quipped Julie as he walked through the decadence of her office. It contrasted sharply with his own almost Spartan office with its large oak desk, three comfortable but not overly flamboyant chairs, and two tall thin-leaved plants.
Behind his desk, the picture of Paul Newman in his role as Butch Cassidy, hung with honor. It was there to remind Jud's people that every criminal had a family or friends, and that mistreatment of those not yet proven guilty led to the immortalization and folksy hero worship that had made Newman's film so popular. Everybody rooted for the bad guy when the good guys treated him poorly with no visible reason for that treatment.
Seated in the "quiet" chair next to the side window looking down on El Camino Real, sat a man too tall, and yet too comfortable in that particular piece of furniture.
"Good morning, Chief" said the stranger as he stood to greet the owner of the office he was so non- chalantly enjoying the sparse luxury of.
"Good morning to you, whoever you are" said Jud with his number one politician's smile.
"Carlisle, Raymond J. Call me Ray if you like" said the man with a voice which expected to receive the same polite offering of first name in return.
But in spite of being a savvy politician, Jud was still enough of a hard nose that he would wait until he knew who he was talking to, and why it was so important that the fellow couldn't make an appointment.
Obviously not a slouch when it came to politics, the other man surprised Jud as he said, "Sorry for barging in on you Sir..." winning points already, the young dip-shit, sir indeed, "...but my supervisor thought it a good idea to get right to work on this."
"On what Carlisle?" returned Jud, not in the least impressed with someone who just happened to have a supervisor. In fact, it was probably a great idea for this young fellow to have one. It was probably a major necessity. Jud enjoyed the thought, his 48 years not seeming to weigh as heavy as he might have thought it would in comparison to the younger man's 26 or 27.
"Oh, sorry again, Sir. Let me start over. Senior Agent Ray Carlisle, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My supervisor, Dan Alburger, said that if I dropped in on you before you split for the golf course, that you'd be damn happy to sit down and chat with me on a very serious matter."
Jud paused for a minute, a glare growing on his face, then, unexpectedly, laughed out loud, as he realized the poor kid had been set up by "Rolling Dan, the fire-breathing FIBBIE".
"Okay, now I get it. Dan set you up, my friend. I don't golf, or loaf off at all. Hell it takes me 10 hours a day just to keep up with the paperwork around here. And I manage also to get in at least 10 hours a week on patrol too, just to keep up the street feeling."
"I figured as much, Sir. Mr. Alburger got serious on me and told all there was to know about you...at least in the professional area, and I took the liberty of sneaking a peek at your file..."
"Oh I have a file now do I. Must have really pissed ole' Dan off two years ago. Oh well Hell. Can't please 'em all." Turning to look out the window he dimissed the present for a moment and reflected upon the past for a few minutes.
Dan Alburger could be remembered standing with both hands on his hips, looking down at Jud. Jud, who was laying on the ground, enmeshed in the arms and legs of his prisoner, one Dr. Judy, "Juice" Williams, the infamous psychologist-hooker-murderer. Jud had finally cornered her, short-stopping her flight from Silicon Valley at a roadside eatery, ten miles east of Mustang Ranch, Nevada, where, in later investigations they had found she had made the money to attend medical school.
Dan had been a little irate, cuz, not only had Jud been out of his jurisdiction, he had broken several written and a larger number of unwritten laws of law enforcement to capture her. And to top it off, the pretty blonde journalist who had been helping him in the case, had gotten this great photo of Jud and prisoner in an almost sexual pose on the shoulder of highway 80.
Turning his attention back to the young FBI agent, Jud saw the man had been politely waiting for the reminiscence to pass. "If you look over there, Agent Carlisle, you'll see a picture of what I was just thinking of. I'm sure..." he began as the man turned to read the headline and copy of the blonde's copyrighted story of the caper. "...you'll see that Dan's face is a little crimson, even in black and white."
The agent grinned now, perhaps realizing that his boss was human after all.
"Anyway, you were going to tell me WHY you were here."
"Yes Sir. We have received, via a gold source...you know what a gold source..."
"Yeah, I've been at this awhile, let's see...A highly placed and track-record-proven highly reliable source equivalent to a mole...how'd I do?"
"Just great" said the agent, obviously impressed and believing more and more of the propaganda his boss had pumped into him. "Anyway our source places a team of at least 12 Libyian nationals in San Diego, California, on November 10th. One of them has the working name of "Jihad", and his friends know him as the "Angel of Vengeance." He is rumored to be the man who planned the "Hijack of the Achille Laural'", and he has vowed to "Bring the fight to doorstep of the Imperialist Pigs."
"Not a very pleasant sounding fella' this banduk' Jihad" murmured Jud, as the agent continued. "Now obviously, we aren't certain of this, but we have a theory which, if we are right, will be major trouble for any of the LEAs, uhhh Law Enforcement Agencies, up here. We figure that the obvious targets are military in nature, you know, important, low profile DOD contractors, the blue-cube, along those lines."
Jud's mind wandered a bit, his more than adequate imagination conjuring up the image of a couple of guys in black pajamas, grease paint on their faces, attacking the cyclone fence at Onizuka Air Force Base, the Western Satellite Test Center. Having passed that "tough" barrier, then breaking into a door and mowing down ten or so Air Force Intelligence types at the front door. Not too pretty an image.
"...So, Mr Alburger thought I should let you know the story, and maybe we can work this together. Any idea why he didn't send me to the Mountain View people instead of Palo Alto?"
"Well, besides the fact that the Mountain View Police are inept and more concerned moving traffic along Castro boulevard than real police work...No, I don't understand either", replied Jud with a grin.
"Ooohhhkay" agreed the agent half-heartedly, not wanting to get too deep into local inter-city rivalry. Still confused though, he asked, "Won't we be a little out of your jurisdiction, though?"
"As I am sure your boss has told you, I don't give a damn about jurisdiction. I whole- heartedly support the concept of "The Seven". Not just seven police and county sheriffs should get together to grab drunks, but we need to recognize criminal activity anywhere in the south bay requires cooperation between departments. Nice political speech, huh. Seriously though, it has made my life a damn-sight easier. If we have to infiltrate a corporation in Santa Clara, cuz the investigation leads from a Palo Alto office to the home office, then we don't even have to let the other guys know anything other than we are investigating some Santa Clara operation."
"If the other police department has a major one working too, then they can volunteer what they are working on so we can then either work together if its the same or related case, or choose to work independent. It's only backfired once or twice in the 9 years since we implemented the idea."
"But this terrorism thing. Well it's a new wrinkle. I don't necessarily disagree with your analysis of targets. But terrorism is more personal isn't it?"
"Very perceptive, Sir. Well perhaps that's why Mr. Alburger recommended you, sounds like you're familiar with how to deal with the whole inter-city situation. To answer your question, yes terrorism is by definition a personal attack. Innocent people are taken hostage, demands are made, and in some cases simply massacred. In the last case, a message is usually delivered taking credit for the action, with some political message which by then the whole world hears. In any case, Mr. Alburger has instructed me personally to work with STC and Lockheed to insure our military targets heighten their security. But there are over a thousand military contractors in Silicon Valley. And they would seem to be better targets. We...I assumed you'd try to identify the most likely of the civilian targets, then warn and/or protect them."
"Oh sure. With nearly a hundred high tech firms in my local jurisdiction alone, and another 1000 in the rest of the county, it shouldn't be too hard to pick likely targets" he replied with a glare.
"Any M.O.s for these people, or are we guessing about that too."
The apologetic face of the young agent did not serve to calm Jud down though, despite the man saying, "No guesswork, really. Jihad is a bomb and machine gun man. In the Middle East, he loves to shoot Jews with Uzi machine guns. Likes the irony of it. We would expect him to grab a couple of red-eyes or the like to blow a big whole in a building. He also just loves to get lots of people, lots of effect. So it would probably be in the middle of the workday, certainly not at night or in the weekend. And with twelve people, he is certain to strike simultaneously at several places. At the very least he will strike multiple targets in a very short period, say within a week. His goal, we think, is to make a big splash in the media, to frighten the American people. For a week or even several months he expects everyone to feel like they are living in downtown Lebanon or in the Gaza strip. That's his style, and, unfortunately, his specialty."
Jud had grown more serious as their discussion had continued. By now all the previous levity had vanished. He had transformed from the congenial, somewhat sarcastic local cop, to the hard and deadly fighting man he had been 15 years ago. A determined look replaced the open, pleasant politician's gaze, and the agent registered some uneasiness at the rapid change.
"Sorry for the earlier bullshit, Ray," he said in a deadly quiet voice, "...but most of my days have been spent in the mundane police work of cleaning up the dirt that accumulates in a town like ours. But this shit is something I understand, and frankly never thought I would have to deal with again. When I left the Rangers, I expected that after a few years of police work, then I'd be able to retire and relax. I never thought I'd be a chief, or even involved in anything other than some rough times with a family dispute or two. If someone had told me I would have a fire-fight to look forward to, well, hell I'd still be in uniform!"
"Hungry Buck?"
"You see, that's my problem. Every time I think I'm about to really make my diet stick, some good looking wench tries to ply me with food. Everybody wants my favors, and everybody buys it with food. What's a fella' to do?"
"Suffer, baby" she said in a sultry voice.
Buck Dayton stared at the deli owner, his libido starting to turn over that extra large motor within him. There friendship had waned and then caught fire again last year. Now they were at a comfortable impasse, each sated in their desires, and a more comfortable weekly trotting out of the passions was the norm.
"I do, I do. Every morning. If I could figure out a way to do my job and also chase you around the bedroom every morning, I'd marry you."
"Oh not you. You've given up on marriage remember? No I won't wait breathless for a proposal. I'll just jump your bones until you get tired of me. In the meantime, whatcha' want for lunch?"
"Something plain. That bastard I work for has decided he likes me this week. All these nice and easy assignments. It's driving me crazy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. How much you wanna' bet he nails me next week for lousy production?"
"Tsk, tsk. Poor baby. Mommy will bring the whittle boy mile and cookies" she pouted and walked away almost unnoticed as Buck chewed on a bread stick.
"What a miserable week" he thought to himself. Nothing doing in the capital, all the action was overseas, and he was stuck in D.C. waiting for some juicy story about some Senator's wife to come through. Just miserable.