I turned and left.
When I got outside, I had to control my frustration. The Committee entrusted with nuclear security at Prairie River consisted of a bunch of overconfident, myopic bureaucrats, bent on avoiding occupational discomfort. Most of them couldn’t recognize a terrorist if one stuck a pipe bomb up his ass.
I had expected better of Gunner.
Security had certainly gotten lax at Prairie River. It made me nervous. Even if my plane attack scenario proved folly, what other terrorist approaches were they leaving undefended?
I sat in my car with the windows open, stewing, until Gunner came out of the building. He saw me and kept walking, head down, toward his car.
"Hey, Gunderson," I yelled through my window. "Come here! I need a word."
Reluctantly, he came over to my car and got in the passenger seat. He faced straight forward and remained silent.
"Way to hang me out to dry in there, Gunner!"
I was pissed.
"Damn it! I told you that your story was lame. Don’t blame me because everyone else thought so, too."
"What’s your usual order of business in there? Trying to figure out how to divide six bananas between seven people? I think my IQ dropped ten points just by osmosis. And damn it, Gunner, you know in your gut that there is a risk here. And you know the consequences."
There was a long pause. I stared at Gunner — he, at the windshield. Finally, he spoke.
"Okay. You’re right… Shithead!"
I choked down a laugh.
"I didn’t like the answers I was hearing in there any better than you did. A lot of huffing and puffing and just plain bull. I’ll do what I can… unofficially. How can I help?"
"I don’t know right now. But I’ll think of something. Thank you."
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."
CHAPTER 33
It was 6:30 in the morning when the phone on John Sigler’s bed stand rang. He was disoriented at first — partly from fitful sleep, and partly because of the heavy dose of Oxycontin he had taken to make any sleep at all a possibility.
He reached for the handset, but the stab in his gut laid him flat on his back.
The phone kept ringing.
John slid sideways to the edge of the bed and gradually rolled off it and onto his knees. From this position, he was able to answer the call.
"Yeah?"
"Sigler?"
It was the man with the Midwestern accent. His overseer.
"Yeah. Whatta ya want? It’s pretty damn early to be calling."
"The bosses want you to do something. That damn lawyer’s been sniffin’ all over town with talk of a potassium bomb and an attack on the nuke plant."
Still on the floor, John rolled onto his back, the phone at his ear. "Well shit! Ain’t that just peachy! I thought you guys were gonna take care of him."
"You just do what I tell you and everything’s gonna be fine."
"Yeah… just peachy!"
"He’s looking for a potassium bomb, but can’t tie it to the nuke. So we need to give him a potassium explosion. You understand?"
"You want me to waste some of that high-powered stuff we’ve been cooking for months to set up some kind of diversion? You’re shittin’ me."
"Listen up," the man said. "Here’s what you’re gonna do."
John didn’t like the plan. But he feared that if he disobeyed orders, the whole shootin’ match might go south. Where would he be then? No bomb. No retribution. Nothing to show for his patience and labors.
He would go along with the plan.
CHAPTER 34
Every summer, Beth and I enjoyed sitting on our front porch while we watched Red Wing’s Independence Day fireworks display. The firework shells were launched from an island on the far side of the main channel and detonated above the Mississippi itself. We lived close enough on Jefferson Avenue to appreciate the entire experience. We could even hear the "ooos" and "ahhhs" of spectators from Baypoint Park — the official viewing location — and the appreciative horn-tooting from pleasure boats as their passengers watched at anchor in the river.
The generosity of a local pyrotechnic engineer significantly enhanced Red Wing’s annual display. He was a nationally recognized importer and wholesaler of firework shells — some, up to 18 inches in diameter — which he regularly donated to benefit Red Wing’s celebration. As a result, it was always a great show. Being able to enjoy it from our mosquito-free porch was a bonus.
Shortly after the fireworks started, an earthshaking vibration rolled through our neighborhood. At first I thought it was a new type of pyrotechnic. I was impressed by the subsonic rumble I felt coming up through my feet, and the dramatic rattling of our windows. But when the fireworks display suddenly came to a halt, and the sound of police sirens echoed from downtown, I knew in my gut that what I had heard was not part of the show.
Something else had happened.
With a significant portion of the Red Wing police force on vacation for the holiday, and most who remained on duty working traffic control at the fireworks display, local law enforcement was caught shorthanded and unprepared when the explosion rocked City Hall. By the time police arrived at the scene, there was little for them to do but cordon off the area in an effort to protect bystanders from injury.
As crowds gathered at the police lines, they marveled at a watery inferno emanating from a huge hole in the street just outside City Hall’s main doors. Shooting nearly fifty feet into the air, the eery juxtaposition of multicolored flame mixed with spraying water held the gawkers transfixed.
Some viewers maintained that the explosion had resulted from a large firework shell gone astray. Others even said they had seen a shell hit the street. Still others claimed to have seen firework-like sparks jetting from the turbulent crater after the initial detonation.
As imaginations ran rampant, rumors of an errant cruise missile began to circulate.
The fire department scrambled its men and equipment, fogging the fire from all sides to contain the heat from the flames. The local utility raced to cut off the source of natural gas feeding the inferno. And Red Wing Public Works located the appropriate water valve to seal off the ruptured main.
In less than twenty minutes, the water and gas were turned off and the show was over. The Mayor had arrived. Holding a bull horn, he announced that the explosion was most likely caused by a gas leak under the street. In any case, he said, everything was now under control. No one had been injured. Everyone should disperse and go home.
Technicians worked through the night to reroute water, sewer and gas lines, restoring utility services to surrounding homes and businesses. Most were reconnected and operating by sunrise.
The crisis appeared to have passed… for now. But exactly what had happened was far from clear.
At 8:00 a.m. Sunday morning, Gunner and I accompanied a group of forensic specialists, all of whom were closely examining the scene of last night’s explosion. The hole had been pumped nearly dry — its contents collected in a tanker truck for later analysis. Rubber booted BCA crime scene investigators worked down in the crater, sampling water, mud, piping and every tiny bit of material that might not belong there. Since Gunner and I were not officially part of the investigation, we could only observe the goings-on from street level with interest… and concern.
The BCA had brought its Portable Crime Lab down from St. Paul to aid with preliminary findings. It was parked crossways in the street, just down the block from the twenty-foot-wide, ten-foot-deep crater.