Nick and Matt found themselves splitting their attention between Rutherford and the small TV set atop a shaky wooden table against the wall. The monitor showed an empty podium with the presidential seal attached. Newscasters interviewed supposed terrorist experts and retired generals as the nation impatiently awaited President Merrick’s press conference.
“Why is it,” one female newscaster asked, “that there isn’t a consensus on the subject of this speech?”
An unseen political pundit replied, “Well, this is still Washington, Susan, and at this late hour, so close to the White House missile deadline. . I’m sure the President is making certain that every option is explored before making any decisions. There’s even some speculation that he is negotiating right now with Kemel Kharrazi himself trying to find a way out of this catastrophic event. Although that has not been confirmed.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Good thing they have specialists available, otherwise we could be misinformed.”
A bead of sweat dripped from Carl Rutherford’s nose as the timer passed the five-minute mark. Nick wondered if the brightness of the LED display should be fading while the battery drained. Since the display didn’t seem to lose any intensity, he didn’t ask. He was afraid of the answer.
“Hey, Carl,” Matt said, reading Nick’s mind. “Maybe you should speed it up a little. Those headlights still seem pretty strong.”
Carl gave him a dirty look, then nodded to Kelly to quicken the pace.
McKenna came in with a stranglehold on a thin man, his arm twisted behind his back causing a painful expression. The man wore khaki fatigues and made no eye contact as McKenna shoved him into the room toward Nick.
“You know this asshole?” McKenna said, pulling up on the man’s contorted arm.
“Hasan Bozlak,” Matt said. “Yeah, we know him.”
McKenna grasped a handful of hair and snapped Hasan’s head back. “Why don’t you see if he knows anything? He doesn’t seem to understand English.”
In plain English Nick said, “Where is it, Hasan?”
Hasan stared up at the ceiling. McKenna looked confused.
“The tunnel,” Matt said. “Where?”
This got Hasan to shoot a glance at the wall behind Kharrazi’s desk. It was ephemeral, and if Nick weren’t looking for it, it would have easily gone unnoticed. It was the only wall in the room with any covering. Nick slammed his hand up against the wood paneling and banged around until he found the dead spot. He motioned to a Marine who hammered the butt of his M-4 into the composite panel and quickly broke through. Matt peeled back the flimsy section exposing the dark opening of a tunnel. A couple of Marines looked at Nick expectantly.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll be full of traps and probably explosives.” Nick faced Hasan. “How long has he been gone?”
Hasan grimaced as McKenna continued the pressure on his arm. Nick could hear the ligaments pop in the soldier’s elbow.
“Maybe he knows about the traps in the tunnel,” McKenna said.
“No,” Matt said. “He wouldn’t know. The traps were set for him more than they were us.”
McKenna looked at the two FBI agents with disdain. Information was the FBI’s main currency and McKenna seemed uncomfortable converting his military energy into reconnaissance. He tightened his hold on Hasan and said, “So what do you want with this guy?”
“Leave him with the others,” Nick said. “He’s already given us more information than we could ask for.”
“Under a minute,” someone said. And the room became still.
Rutherford and Kelly were the only ones moving. Everyone else just stared at the timer, their peripheral vision taking in the presidential podium. Still vacant.
Suddenly the camera switched to an outside shot of the White House. In the bottom right of the screen a timer counted down to midnight. Nick could practically see network executives rubbing their hands together with glee over the impending disaster. He felt like a spectator at a NASCAR race just after a severe oil spill. He found it hard to believe anything less than a catastrophe could occur.
Outside, the car lights flickered.
“Hey, Carl,” Matt said. “How much voltage does it take to set off that detonator?”
Rutherford furiously worked the wires with a renewed sense of urgency. “A volt, maybe two.”
Kelly stood next to Rutherford with a handful of primed wires; his neck craned toward the open basement doors, exasperation etched on his face.
“Thirty seconds,” the same voice said.
“Don’t you have a voltage meter, Kelly?” Matt asked.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Kelly said, stammering to gather his thoughts. He reached into his black bag, then turned up to Matt. “You really want to know?”
Matt looked at Nick.
Nick shook his head. “No point.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Matt snapped, “Shut the fuck up. We can see the timer.”
The last ten seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. The intensity of the car headlights seemed worn down, but the timer appeared unfazed by the effort.
With five seconds remaining, Rutherford grabbed a handful of wires and desperately jammed the entire mess up against the battery pole.
Jennifer Steele found her way next to Matt and clutched his hand.
McKenna still had a stranglehold on Hasan Bozlak, yet Hasan’s face was now serene.
In the stillness of the basement, Nick noticed the TV journalists had learned something from sports announcers when an astonishing event was about to occur. They were completely silent. This gave the room a muted feel. It seemed as if the entire world was now holding its breath.
Kelly dropped his head in anguish.
Nick fixated on the red numbers tumbling toward the inevitable.
When the number three flashed it appeared to stutter. Nick couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to take a moment before the number two hiccupped to life.
Steele gasped as the number two hung there, suspended in time. Three seconds had passed, four seconds, five seconds, and yet the number two remained frozen. Its neon edges crackled with an ominous foreshadow. Rutherford seemed paralyzed. He held the handful of wires against the batteries pole, his mouth pursed shut, his nostrils sucking in air.
Then, an eerie darkness fell over the room. The TV and the lamp on the desk became the only sources of light. The stream of headlights had extinguished in unison, leaving everyone in shadows. Nick stared at the dim number two for an exhaustive minute of pure agony until it too finally surrendered to the darkness, its neon tracing forever etched into Nick’s brain like a phantom pain.
“Two seconds,” someone mocked.
A nervous chuckle.
A stifled snicker.
Jennifer Steele giggled.
Nick would always remember Matt’s face still staring down at the impotent timer, not ready to pronounce it dead. When their eyes finally met, Matt had Steele tucked into his shoulder for a relief cry. He winked at Nick.
A smattering of applause began to bubble into a cheer. Starting as a whisper the Marines began to chant, “USA. . USA.” In only seconds the entire basement swelled into a cry that would make an Olympic Stadium jealous. “USA! USA!”
Carl Rutherford was a statue. His hand was still frozen to the battery like he had his finger in the hole of a dike.
Nick waved at Rutherford. “It’s okay, Carl,” he yelled over the din. “It’s over.”
Rutherford slid to the floor. His entire body sagged from the release of tension.
Suddenly, Nick felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He stepped into the adjacent room to escape the noise. A smile broadened his face as he anticipated President Merrick calling to congratulate him.
He pushed the button and put the phone to his ear, “Bracco.”