washington, d.c. is the nation's capital. It also leads the country in murder per capita. Just blocks from the hallowed halls of Congress, the quality of life and housing diminishes quickly.
Nestled among the rotting and decaying buildings stood a two-story house painted a fading, dingy red. The house to its right had been abandoned and was now home to transients whose primary interest was stealing enough money to maintain a twenty-four-hour-a-day connection to their crack pipes. The building to the left of the red house was the headquarters for the local crack-and cocaine-dealing gang. Traffic to its back door was steady, day and night.
No one in the neighborhood had ever seen anyone go into the red house, but they knew it was occupied. All the locals knew that. And it was accepted, even by the gang members, that no one was to mess with the red house. There were vague stories of would-be burglars disappearing. The word was that they had been killed.
The man who occupied the red house had indeed killed—and more than once. Not just the few unfortunates who tried breaking in, but on the battlefield in a very different part of the world. It had not been necessary in the strictest sense to kill anyone breaking in upstairs since the four-inch-thick steel door blocking the way to the basement would have denied the criminals access to his lair, but he felt it was wise to keep any potential threats at arm's reach. There was also the possibility that some intruder might stumble across the coaxial cable that led to the satellite dish hidden in an old pigeon coop on the roof. The cable and satellite dish must never be interfered with. The man inspected both each morning and evening. Every day. He had performed the ritual for the past twenty-one months and sixteen days without missing a single one.
His tour of duty would be up in less than three months, but he had not allowed himself the luxury of anticipation. He would not think of home until he was there. To think of anything other than this job would take his mind off the task and that was when things went wrong. Combat had taught him that.
Not that anything was happening in the basement. His job was to make sure the satellite link worked and the object in the basement was secure. He slept in the basement, a cord from the satellite link tied around his wrist. If the link came alive while he slept, an electric shock would be sent through the cord.
When he'd assumed his tour of duty, the men who had brought him here had unloaded enough food for two years from the U-Haul truck they had driven. The electricity, water, and sewage bills were taken care of by others. The man had one job. There was an official title to his job, but he was known by the select few aware of his existence by an informal, but apt, title. He was the man who waited.
*****
Two blocks away, out of direct view of the red house was an old fire station. Inside the blacked-out windows, a dozen hard men with cold eyes also waited. Their weapons were in racks along the walls, next to an M-2 Abrams Fighting Vehicle whose turret housed a 40-mm automatic cannon and TOW missile launchers. A belt of rounds was loaded into the cannon and the two TOW launchers held live missiles. The Abrams had been brought into the firehouse several years ago on a lowboy carrier hidden under a tarp, the operation conducted under cover of darkness.
In the troop bay of the Abrams, several specially designed charges were carefully secured, blasting caps inserted, primers ready. The charges were checked four times a day.
These men had their own satellite receiver on the roof of the firehouse. They waited on the man who waited.