The heavy breathing was over, the silence inside the van now deafening. Short’s back was to the camera, so it was impossible to see what he was doing. Three or four times he reached into one or more of the compartments contained within his chair and came out with tools. He’d lean into the rear of the truck, fiddle around with something, lean back out, replace one tool with another and begin again. The longer he worked, the higher the tension level rose.
“I hope to God he’s as good as you say,” Morales muttered. “I don’t want to be explaining to a subcommittee how it was we let a civilian blow himself all over suburban California.”
“He signed a waiver,” Warren said.
“Like that’s gonna matter.”
Warren lowered his voice. “We agreed,” he whispered. “If we got the chance, we’d try to take a device intact. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Morales said, hunching his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest. “Maybe we ought to follow protocol and detonate it.”
Warren’s face reddened. “You said we needed one intact.”
Morales hugged himself tighter. “I’m having second thoughts…”
“Calm down.”
“…big time.”
“You said the lab was getting nothing from the detonated devices.”
Morales unwrapped his arms long enough to point at the TV screen. “We’re breaking…” He paused long enough to shudder. “…God knows how many regulations here.” He dropped his arms to his side with a slap.
“This is what I hired him for.”
“Maybe…” Morales began, then he scowled and walked closer to the monitor. He tapped on the screen. “Is that smoke?” he asked.
Warren moved closer. No doubt about it. A plume of smoke was rising from the area above Short’s head. “Looks like it,” Warren said through clenched teeth.
The smoke continued to rise. Short continued to work.
“Get him out of there,” Morales said.
“It’s too late,” Warren said.
“I won’t be responsible for…”
“You already are.”
They stood silent now, shoulder to shoulder, noses pressed to the TV screen. Several agonizing minutes passed before Short finally turned the chair in a slow circle and started back down the alley. The smoke seemed to be following him. Wasn’t until the camera zoomed in again that they could see the cheroot clamped in his teeth and the ominous device resting in his lap.
“Is that the…?” Morales began.
“I think so…yes,” Warren answered.
“Where in hell is he…”
“Damned if I know.”
As he breached the mouth of the alley and rolled across the sidewalk, the sight of the device in his lap sent the pair of ATF technicians hustling up the block as quickly as their bulky suits would allow. Inside the van, everyone squirmed as Short rolled out into the street. He paused long enough for them to grab a breath before heading straight toward the van. “He’s not bringing that damn thing over here, is he?” somebody asked.
Warren’s mouth hung open, but he did not answer.
“Doesn’t he know the drill?” Morales hissed. “He’s supposed to…”
“I don’t think he much gives a shit,” Corso said.
And then Short and his wheelchair disappeared from the cameras’ view. An anxious minute passed. Hearts stopped. Nobody moved.
“Maybe he’s…” Morales began.
Someone pounded on the side of the van. Internal organs contracted like dying stars. Nobody so much as twitched.
The pounding started again. Louder this time. One of the ATF men began emitting a low, keening sound. The guy next to him elbowed him in the ribs. The noise subsided. Corso broke the spell, pushed the door and peered outside. He smiled and shook his head. Warren and Morales moved to his side.
Short sat in his chair, his head encircled by a cloud of dirty smoke. A shiny steel device covered his lap. He ran his good hand over the surface as if he were petting a kitty. He grinned through the smoke.
“What’s the matter with you people?” he wanted to know. “None of you ever see a bomb before?”
Seemed like everybody’s throat was too dry to speak. “Gimme a few minutes and we’ll see what we can find out about this thing,” Short said cheerfully.
They watched in silence as he wheeled over by Andriatta to a weathered redwood picnic table set among the trees, where he put the device on a tabletop and began to pull tools from various compartments in the chair.
A young female ATF arrived at the van.
“What?” asked Warren impatiently.
“IAFIS got a match on the prints.”
“Do tell,” Warren said.
She swallowed her apprehension and began. “Fernando Reyes. American citizen. Fifty years old. Parents immigrated from Jalisco in 1947. Joined the Army right out of Glendale High School in ’71. His unit was among the last to leave Vietnam. Did his twenty. Tried to re-up but failed the physical.”
“Why?” Morales asked.
“Why what, sir?”
“Why’d he fail the physical?”
She was green. Fresh out of school. She rifled through the legal pad in her hand. “Doesn’t say, sir.”
“Find out.”
She made a note. “Yes, sir.”
“Go on,” Morales prompted.
She paged back to where she’d left off. “After that he bounced around. Worked for an uncle as a landscaper for a while. Spent time selling recreational vehicles up in Fillmore. Applied to the state for permanent disability in ’98. Was refused.”
“What kind of disability?” Warren asked.
“Doesn’t say.”
“Find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
She gathered herself and continued. “After that, he pretty much disappears from the radar until 2001, when he gets arrested as part of a demonstration at the California Department of Veterans Affairs in Sacramento. Detained and released. No charges.”
“Demonstrating for or against what?”
“I’ll find out, sir.” She flipped a page. “He’s been living in Oxnard, in a mobile home he inherited from an aunt. Neighbors say he gets by on some kind of government check and by doing odd jobs around the neighborhood.” She flipped another page. “As far as they’ve been able to ascertain, he’s pretty much just a regular Joe.”
“Let’s get his complete military record,” Warren suggested.
Morales agreed. “If he’s got some kind of beef going with the vets, I want everything we can get on that, too. You get any resistance, use the Patriot Act to get whatever you need.”
She nodded and started for the door.
“Did he speak Vietnamese?” Corso asked.
She paused and looked to Morales.
“Find out,” he said.
“Vietnamese?” Morales asked.
“Just something I’ve been wondering about.”
“You want to enlighten us?”
“Let’s see what she gets.”
Andriatta ambled over from her perch on the curb. “Short says he’s ready for you guys,” she said. She tapped the side of her head. “That guy’s crazy,” she offered.
“Sometimes it takes a crazy to catch a crazy,” Warren said as they filed out of the van and headed across the lot.
“The stunt he just pulled—” Morales began.
“Like I said—” Warren interrupted.
“—could have killed us all,” Morales finished.
“He didn’t. And now we’ve got something to work with.”
Morales shrugged as if to say he wasn’t sure the risk was worth the reward.
Short had completely dismantled the device and had it laid out on the picnic table like the skeleton of some long-extinct monster.
“Looks harmless enough,” Andriatta said. “Kinda pretty, actually.”
Both Morales and Warren looked at her like she’d gone mad.
“You know…with all the different-color wire and all.”
Morales grunted his disbelief. Short wheeled a one-eighty. “Ah…the brain trust,” he said with a smirk.
“What have we got here?” Morales asked.
Short turned back to the pieces he’d arranged on the table. “What we have here is a very nice piece of work,” he said. “The stainless-steel work is machine-shop quality. This wasn’t manufactured in somebody’s basement with a hacksaw and two pairs of pliers.” He looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “This thing was very lovingly and professionally constructed.” He pointed down at the collar apparatus. “Notice the flat two strands fixed inside the collar. Creates a circuit. Any attempt to cut through the collar breaks the circuit and sets it off. The rest of the thing is Teflon-insulated. The kind of stuff NASA uses in its rockets. The stuff isn’t all that easy to come by, at least not without attracting some attention. I’m betting it’s part of a burglary.”
“What else?”
“The electronics are digital and completely up to the minute. Stuff you can buy in any Radio Shack store.”
“What about the explosive?”
Short reached over and picked up what appeared to be an unbaked loaf of bread. He tossed it to Morales, who caught it with great care. “Military grade C-4—120 percent the equivalent of TNT. Very pure, very high velocity. Comes as a powder in fifty-five-gallon drums. The minute you begin to handle it, it plasticizes into something you can manipulate into any shape you’ve got in mind. It’s got excellent mechanical and adhesive qualities. Hell…a block that size…you could stretch it from here to the roof without it breaking.”
“Stolen from Twenty-Nine Palms?”
“Gotta be. This stuff is very tightly controlled. You’d need both an explosive authorization and an end user certificate.” He threw his good hand into the air. “We were in Beirut or someplace like that, I’d say maybe we could fake the paperwork. Here…I don’t think so. Gotta be stolen.”
“It have a shelf life?” Morales asked.
“Ten years, at least.”
Morales took a deep breath. “So, what do we do?”
Short thought it over. The wind slashed through the trees. “Long term, you try to trace the wire. Then you work the Secret Service to see what they know about the break-in at Twenty-Nine Palms. Short term, you follow whatever directions these people give you. That way, maybe you keep the carnage to a minimum.”