The IC had already caused four traffic pile-ups and an electrical cut on three buildings two blocks over. More serious casualties, because of the man's incompetence to lead the situation appropriately, were only a matter of time.
Hand steady, Devin brought the knife up and in one swipe severed the green wire.
The clock sped, counting down.
Screams issued over the COM. “He did it wrong! Walds screwed up!” The IC's panicked voice barked commands with a high-pitched yell. “Evacuate! It's going to blow! Go! Go! Go!"
Deliberately, Devin pushed aside several wires until he found a small black one. Calm pervaded. This was what he was looking for. The cutoff.
The clock ran down the minutes. Seconds remained.
The knife sliced the wire and the clock froze. Three seconds blinked at him from the digital display.
This was what he did. Defuse and disable bombs. Welcome to Navy EOD.
He relaxed. Leaning back, he settled himself in the pale butterscotch leather ergonomic chair. This one had to have cost hundreds of dollars, definitely top of the line.
Rubbing his eyes, he stretched. Luxuriating in the fact that all his body parts were still attached, he waited for command center to realize there hadn't been an enormous BOOM!
Oddly enough, chaos still ensued. Captured loudly on his COM, it was a contrast to the calm atmosphere in the office. Another Christmas carol keyed up over the office speaker. “Hark, the Herald Angel's Sing."
What was with Command Central? It was unheard of for an IC to create such a dangerous situation with so much melodrama.
He clicked the mic twice. “This is Santa One, all clear."
Looking at the bomb, he thought, Fate's a fickle creature, but skill is skill.
Devin wondered if the new CO was shaking his head and trying to calm the IC. It had been a riot listening to him explain to the heads of the Intelligence Community departments the reason why they weren't using robots right now. These latest techno toys had been encountering interference, and no one had been able to determine from what. On the last job, something had jammed the signal between the remote and the robot, and the team had lost two topnotch operators, a building, and their best robot unit. When they'd reviewed the footage afterward, it had seemed as though something else had controlled the final devastating moments. But nothing could bring back his men. The loss marked his soul.
He stared out the window. Willing the view to entice him. It was a decent day outside. No clouds, only bright sunshine. The light painted a prism of rainbows along one wall of the room. He'd noticed the tiny crystals at the sides of the window. They were mostly octagons. Some even shaped as animals.
In here, the office was serene. A nice place to work, probably. The name on the degrees on the wall read Brenda Rosing Pente.
The room had a woman's touch. He wondered what she was like. The lady who'd decorated this room. A delicate variation of blues and creams, it was gentle on the senses, and the art was engaging, too. Garden-scapes with a jewel-toned impressionist flare, but there was a texture on top of it. Like they held a dual meaning. Places he could find peacefulness in, a feeling he relished.
The Christmas tree stood next to a big credenza. On it sat several pictures-large sailboats; NASCARs; three people, perhaps a father and mother with their proud daughter at her graduation; that same woman dressed in business attire kissing a guy in a matching colored suit; and two women arm-in-arm. Sisters? The resemblance between the two was startling, except one had vivid, light green eyes. Both had athletic builds and warm expressions. Of course, trying to guess a woman's age could get a man in trouble.
He looked closer at the photos in back. The ladies had raised funds for cancer research, and one had donated bone marrow to a soldier in need. Several more shots showed her donating paintings and proceeds to hospitals, VA facilities, and shelters. These were extraordinary souls.
It shocked him to realize he'd like to know her.
Settling back in the chair, he thought about that as snowflakes dropped from the sky.
He waited for his team and word from down below. Overall, though, he couldn't complain. This was a nice setting. The office… where strangely enough, someone had set a bomb.
His military mind switched back into gear. Why here?
It was strategically located. An explosion here was capable of taking out several Washington, D.C. blocks. He was ninety percent sure the children's center below was the main target. This office might have simply been the most convenient in the building or perhaps there was a link to the occupant.
He looked again at the medical license on the wall. Dr. Brenda Rosing Pente was a shrink. Too bad the bomb-maker hadn't been able to talk to the psychiatrist. Therapy might have helped. A pretty sick guy to aim a bomb at kids, but terrorists only seemed to care about striking terror and harming children would do it.
Definitely the wrong move for a terrorist. The perpetrator would only incite entire families and groups to start hunting for him. Americans never forget and don't forgive innocent deaths. It's our culture. We're protective of what's ours. And, religion, well, that was a whole other enormous layer.
Where was the lady shrink anyway? Hopefully, the FBI or the cops were looking into it. No doubt, the Secret Service would have a finger in it too since the bomb's location could have affected the President. The Secret Service had been the original agency to report the threat. They'd received actionable documentation from a reliable source. Then the Washington D.C. Police Department put a plan into action and contacted his EOD team. With the holiday season cranking up the crisis levels, Devin was on one of five extra military teams in the nation's capital, assisting with possible threats and incidents.
Looking at the clock, Devin realized people were still in panic mode and yelling on the radio. Whoever had been watching on the hat cam had obviously tuned in to another station.
Well, nuts! Guess I better give someone the 411.
He cleared his throat. “Testing. 123. This is Santa One calling with an ALL CLEAR."
"Building's going to blow, man. Get the hell out!"
Devin didn't recognize the voice, but it was time the chaos halted. “Not unless there's another bomb someone hasn't told me about. This one's disabled."
"Wha-at?” Bennett Blicksen, IC and now Acting Command Center Chief and liaison between the Naval EOD Group and the Secret Service, shouted. “Devin?"
"With all due respect, Sir, that's Captain Walds.” He could barely contain the tautly held emotion in his voice as he addressed the IC. The man was unskilled and a glory hound. From what he'd learned so far, Blicksen was all about “acting” like a hero, not about saving lives. Unskilled and acting were a recipe for disaster. But what could Devin do?
He knew his values were old fashioned. He'd been taught to respect his elders and those in charge. But when a callous fool was playing Russian roulette with the public's safety because he didn't know which chamber held the bullet, or in this case which wire was which, then Devin felt perfectly comfortable standing up for what was right.
Among it was safety and… the familiar use of his first name. Only his friends and true superiors who had earned his respect could call him Devin or Dev. Everyone else had to take a number and seriously get to know him first. This guy… well, he didn't know his way around an incident or an operation or any other kind of scene. So, he planned to go with the formal approach and leave when he could. He'd ‘Sir’ this guy to death until then! “Sir, did you copy? The bomb is disabled, Sir."
"What do you mean disabled?” Blicksen's voice was incredulous. The sound of spit hitting the small mic was enough to make Devin wish he could ditch the thing. Not a good sign when the IC salivated this much.