For years, the environmentally-conscious people of Chicago had voiced their concerns about rising levels of lead in the Calumet River. Cutting an unattractive gash through the city’s notorious south side, the waterway frequently topped the list of rivers with elevated levels of heavy metals. The Calumet was particularly heavy with lead, the natural byproduct of so many stray bullets falling into it every night.
The Calumet was getting its due tonight because of the sudden enormous spike of heavy metals in the water. The heavy metal in question happened to be iron, which served to actually improve the health ratings of the river, had there been any EPA officials brave enough to enter the neighborhood to take a sample. The last four who had attempted it had suffered lead poisoning, and had never again come within a block of the riverfront.
The source of the sudden infusion of iron in the Calumet’s water was the Lake Shore & Michigan Southern Railway Bridge No. 6, which now jutted out from the water like a modern sculpture. The bridge had long been abandoned by railroads, but remained a popular place to get drunk or shoot heroin, so there was a reasonable possibility of fatalities. The explosion had been reported to local television affiliates and talk radio stations, who all sent crews to the scene.
Jim Manke observed the scene for WWCT (“where the Windy City tunes in”) as his cameraman stood atop the hood of his car trying to get a good shot of the destruction.
“Have you got anything we can use yet?” Jim groused. “It’s freezing out here.” He looked cautiously back at the housing project that loomed behind him, ready to duck at the first hint of danger.
His assistant was used to his assigned prima donna’s moods. But as long as the checks cashed, he was willing to put up with it. “Almost,” he said, adjusting the focus on a different section of the disaster. “Hey, I think I got a body in this shot!”
“Zoom in,” Jim said. “We can lead with that.”
He was working on his opening line when a tugging on his sleeve brought him back to reality. He jumped a yard back with a girlish whimper before realizing the source was a boy. He looked to be twelve years old, and wore an oversized Bulls jersey and a pair of orange Reeboks. Most importantly, he seemed to be unarmed.
“You with the news?” the boy asked.
Jim smoothed down his overcoat and steadied his nerves. “Jim Manke, WWCT,” he said smoothly. “What can I do for you?”
“You guys pay for info and stuff?” the boy asked. His chin jutted out defiantly, and he carried a wadded up black cloth tucked under one arm.
“Sometimes,” Jim said warily. “Depends on what you’ve got.”
“How much?” the boy asked.
“Like I said, it depends on what you’ve got.”
The boy was not taking the bait. “Something good.”
Jim checked his watch. He had a few minutes before going on the air, and this kid was chewing into his pre-broadcast meditation. “Twenty bucks,” he said, impatiently.
The boy stuck his jaw out defiantly. “Man, you gotta be trippin’!” he said. “Fat guy over at NewsBattles gimme a hunnerd for it.”
This was probably a shakedown, Jim thought. But something in the kid’s eyes hooked him. He really thought he had something. “Okay,” Jim said, calmly. “Why do you think what you’ve got is worth a hundred dollars?”
“I don’t think it’s worth a hunnerd,” he said. “I said he’d give me a hunnerd. It’s worth two at least, way I figure. Found it when I was out on the bridge.”
“Before it got blown up?”
“Naw, after,” the kid said. He was looking proud of himself now, and grinned broadly. “I see that big old piece of iron sticking out over the river, and I’m thinking that’d be the coolest place to tag. So I climb up on it to and put a great big Shorty J right on the top!”
“Shorty J,” Jim repeated. “That’s your name?”
“Naw, man, my name’s Tyrone,” he said. “But we got fifty Tyrones on my block, so I call myself Shorty J. You want what I got or not?”
“Keep talking,” Jim said. “But hurry it up.”
“Anyway, after I’m done tagging it, I see this thing off the edge,” he said. “So I wrapped it up and figured I could sell it.” He held out the rolled up black cloth, held tight in his fist. “You buyin’ or not?”
Jim considered. “Two hundred, huh?”
“Two hunnerd or I take the hunnerd from the NewsBattles guy.”
Kid probably found a finger or a syringe he had wrapped up. Might be worth a comment, might spice up the broadcast. “That kind of money, I’d have to get approval from my producer, and he’s...”
Tyrone “Shorty J” let the black cloth unfurl, holding the top two corners apart.
Jim took out his wallet and gave him three hundred dollars without batting an eye. NewsBattles could go to hell.
· · ·
In the campaign offices of Kendall T. Rumpp, Joel Ward was sweating into his starched shirt. He nervously adjusted the necktie that all Rumpp staffers were required to wear. He did not mind wearing the tie so much, but he felt uncomfortable with the length. Rumpp insisted the only proper way to wear a necktie was so that the tip rested an inch below the waist of the slacks. Ward preferred the tip to be several inches higher—he did not have to sweep it to the side when he went pee that way. And right now, he really needed to pee.
“Joel, was I unclear in expressing my needs?” Rumpp asked. He shuffled through the newspapers that cluttered his usually immaculate oak desk. The headlines all expressed similar sentiments after the EPA results came in on the Black Hawk Bridge disaster. PLANT POLLUTION?! WASTE DUMPING: A BRIDGE TOO FAR? ECOLOGY TAKES CENTER STAGE IN PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES. RUMPP NUMBERS TAKE SWAN DIVE FROM BRIDGE NEWS.
Joel swallowed and tucked a finger behind the Windsor knot of his Rumpp tie to loosen it a fraction. “Yes sir,” he stammered. “I mean, no sir. You asked for a terrorist...”
Rumpp arched an accusing eyebrow at him.
“That is, you wanted the bridge collapses to be tied to terrorists,” he quickly amended.
Rumpp pouted as he held up one of the papers. “Do you think people are going to be terrorized by teeny tiny little water plants?” he asked. “Does algae threaten the freedoms of God-fearing Americans?”
Joel Ward bit his upper lip as he calculated his next statement. He could make the case that the algae was threatening the freedom of movement in the country, but that did not seem to be the tack that would support his candidate’s platform. It would be a tacit agreement with his opponent, and would almost certainly cost him the election.
“Joel,” Rumpp said with a steady finality. “You’re fi—” He was interrupted by the one thing that could always draw his attention—the buzzing vibration of his smart phone, which was used less as a phone and more as a means of posting every thought that passed through his mind online. The buzz was followed by a second, then a third.
Joel barely dared to breathe as Rumpp began to glide his thumb across the glass of his phone. Slowly, the expression on his face grew from a pout of disappointment to an entirely different pout of approval. “Now this is more like it,” he said. “This is exactly what we needed.”
“Sir?” Joel asked tremulously.
Rumpp held up one cautionary finger to Joel and turned on the huge flat screen TV mounted across from his desk. He did not need to select a channel, because any of them would be addressing the story. How could they ignore it? But he knew the network that would be the most sympathetic to this kind of news, and to him specifically, and his instincts proved correct. There in a little video inset box was the image of a polished male newscaster, with serious eyebrows and a helmet of immoveable hair held in place with copious amounts of hairspray. Rumpp liked him immediately. The video was being introduced by the network’s star anchor, Tegan Riley. Rumpp liked her a lot less, at least from the neck up, but he kept watching as the camera took its traditional introductory pass, zooming out from the studio, taking a tight focus on Tegan’s crossed legs, then panning up her black low-cut cocktail dress until finally focusing on her sculpted porcelain cheekbones, perfectly styled blonde coif, and vacant blue eyes.
“…go live to WWCT’s Jim Manke, on the scene in Chicago at the site of the abandoned Lake Shore & Michigan Southern Railway Bridge No. 6, which earlier this morning was laid low by a blast of mysterious origins,” Tegan explained as the man holding the microphone patiently waited his cue. “Jim, what’s the news from the Windy City?”
“Thank you, Tegan,” Jim said in his most professional broadcast voice. “Earlier this morning, an historic landmark of the Chicago riverways was viciously sabotaged by an explosion that rocked the residents of this quiet suburb.” Jim was glad the camera was focused tightly on him, as instructed, so as not to capture any of the dilapidated project tenements. Now all he needed to do was finish this broadcast before he caught a stray bullet. He put on his practiced stern-and-concerned expression before continuing. “But this reporter has learned that this explosion was no mere act of senseless vandalism. Rather, it was something far more sinister, as the evidence we have found will make clear.”
“Jim, I know we can’t make any rush to judgment until the police have completed their investigation, but is this something you can share with our viewers without prejudicing the investigation?”
Jim nodded. He knew the drill. It did not matter whether it would prejudice the investigation or not. The only court was the court of public opinion, and the only verdict that mattered was that of the Nielsen ratings service.
“Right, Tegan,” he said. “I do want to warn your viewers, however, that what we have found is shocking, to say the least. If you need to look away, now is the time.” That would guarantee nobody switched to another network as Jim put down his network microphone and held up the black bundle of cloth that had cost him three hundred dollars. This, he thought to himself, was the money shot, as he let the black cloth unfurl, much the way Shorty J had done that had sold him.
There on the television screens of millions of Americans was the signature of the vandals: the instantly recognizable black-and-white flag of the terrorist group, Daesh.
Rumpp muted the television and slid his eyes to Joel. “Is this you?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.
Joel felt his cheeks flush hot. “Yes. I mean, not directly, no,” he said nervously. “I farmed it out.”
“Delegation,” Rumpp said with emphatic appreciation. “That’s an excellent sign of leadership. Very excellent.” Then Rumpp sat down in his plush office chair, put his feet up on the mahogany desktop, and began to tunelessly warble. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas...”
· · ·
Across town from his luxurious Manhattan campaign office, things were not at all merry.
“Yaba!”
The former Secretary of State threw her remote at the television as she screeched for her assistant. A spiderweb of cracks appeared across the screen, either the result of the impact of the remote or the pitch of her voice.
Yaba Dabadouin scurried into PHONUS’s office, carrying three different coffees she had grabbed from the desk outside. The tone of her boss’s voice was warning enough that she did not have time to check each cup to figure out which one she had undoubtedly forgotten to deliver on time. Before she could set them down to artfully pick up and present the correct one, all three were sent flying from her tenuous grasp in liquid arcs of caramel and brown that would have been beautiful if they had not been so hot. Yaba gasped as the coffees soaked into the sleeve of her blouse, barely registering the glass ashtray hurled through the air that knocked them from her grasp. Having demolished the three paper cups, the ashtray continued, slightly deflected, until it collided with the lamp across the room.
“What the hell is this?” The former Secretary of State and former First Lady showed nothing of the feigned dignity she displayed when performing her official role. Her eyes burned with rage. Her nostrils flared. “Why are the DoM-FoCs fouling up my election?” She looked about wildly for something else to throw, and her eyes settled on the cast iron statuette of a razorback hog she had accepted out of political politeness from one of her home state’s colleges. Before she could reach it, she stumbled and lurched forward.
Instinctively, Yaba reached out to catch her falling mentor, ignoring the burning pain on her arms. “Please, Madam Secretary,” she pleaded. “Your blood pressure.”
“To hell with my blood pressure,” she raved. Her left eye began to follow a path completely contrary to the one her right tracked. “Why the hell is that goddamn channel showing that goddamn flag at that goddamn bridge collapse? Why aren’t they talking about the goddamn algae that took it down?”
Making sure her boss was as steady on her feet as could reasonably be expected, Yaba checked her phone for the latest news, the television screen having been rendered useless. It would be dropped off at the door of a closed Goodwill store later that week and written off the Secretary’s taxes at its full retail price.
She did not have to scroll far before she saw the headlines that had triggered her boss. “Oh dear,” she said. “This is bad.”
“You bet your sweet ass it’s bad!” Spittle from the Secretary’s lips spattered Yaba’s cheek. “You’re just supposed to have those little green bastards eat the bridge, not sign their goddamn work!”
Yaba Dabadouin looked up at the Secretary with a doleful expression. “Boss,” she said quietly. “That’s not our bridge.”
· · ·
Halfway across the world in Kussummakstan, a makeshift door of sticks and grass camouflaged the hillside opening to a Daesh compound. Nobody thought to question the shiny silver satellite dish that was mounted outside the camouflaged opening, or why the sounds of American broadcasters were frequently heard coming from inside a hill.
Beyond the concealed opening, Mohammad Al’abalah was gleaning information from the Daesh intelligence gathering network, which was composed of a satellite feed from the Continental National News Network and a Twitter account. Currently, Al’abalah was observing a report from an American with plastic hair holding up the sacred flag. He raised the volume of the set so he could hear it over the bleating of the goats with which he and his companions shared the cave.
“This flag was found mounted prominently at ground zero of the disaster,” the man said, shifting his grip to hold the sacred flag by one corner in a single clenched fist. “Leaving this reporter to wonder: Are Daesh terrorists active within our borders?”
The video of the reporter pulled back into a freeze frame image, making room for CNNN’s silver-haired anchorman. “To be clear, no terrorist agency, Daesh or otherwise, has claimed responsibility for the LS&M bridge disaster. Nor has there even been confirmation that the explosion was deliberate and not some horrible accident.”
Al’abalah reached for his phone and began thumbing characters. In moments, the organization’s Twitter account claimed responsibility, praised their brothers in arms, condemned the Great Satan, and warned of other bombings to come. He did so using a combination of letters and cartoon pictures to keep the message under the social platform’s one hundred-and-forty-character limit.
Once he had duly put the world on notice, he began to consider the bridge on the news. If no faction of Daesh had claimed the glory for this triumph over the infidel crusaders, then who had brought the bridge down? It was a stroke of genius, truly. Buildings were good targets, with all those people crammed inside. But explosive trucks only did so much damage, and getting a pilot’s license these days was next to impossible. But a bridge? One could kill hundreds of people on a bridge, perhaps thousands if one targeted one of the monstrous spans in larger cities. But even the smaller cities would feel the impact of a bridge collapse, and a martyr could simply walk up to the base of one them, or drive across one, and…
His phone chimed. Mohammad Al’abalah looked down and smiled at the lit screen. He picked it up and answered it. “Hello, cousin,” he said. “I’m disappointed. It took you nearly three minutes to call.”
“Why are the Disciples of Mohammad and Fathers of the Caliphate blowing up bridges in America?” Yaba Dabadouin demanded.
Al’abalah reclined, amused at how easy it was to bait his American cousin. “We are doing well, thank you, cousin. Your mother is fine. She sends her love.”
Yaba exhaled. “This is a very inconvenient time to promote the cause,” she said. “The elections are very, very important, especially to me, as you are no doubt aware.”
“And how is your employer these days?” Al’abalah asked cheerfully. “Steady on her feet?”
He could picture the crimson rising up in his cousin’s cheeks as he teased her. He would never do so to the point of anger, though. Woman though she was, she had an important position within the organization. “Can you please just answer the question?” she asked with forced calm.
“All right, all right,” Al’abalah relented. “The truth is, the Disciples of Mohammad—may his name be praised—and Fathers of the Caliphate did not explode your bridge. Or any other bridge, for that matter,” he added quickly, staving off his cousin’s suspicious nature. “At least not yet. You must admit, it is a good idea. Maybe next year?”
Yaba’s end of the line went silent a few moments. “Do you know who did destroy the bridge?”
“I cannot help you, cousin,” he said apologetically. “There has been no discussion among any Daesh network about American bridges. Perhaps it is just, as you say, a ‘lone wolf sympathizer.’”
“You swear to me?” she asked.
Al’abalah rolled his eyes heavenward. “Yes, cousin, I swear.”
“We cannot afford to have these bridge collapses blamed on Daesh in any form,” Yaba emphasized. “My employer has too much invested in having people believing that pollution is the cause.”
He smiled. “You mean algae,” he said. “Little bitty plants chewing up great big bridges. It is truly amazing the capacity of the American brain to believe the improbable. Although, if you truly wish that, I know someone who could help. I warn you, her price is steep.”
“I appreciate your offer,” Yaba snapped, “but we have things well in hand.”
“Hold, cousin,” Al’abalah said. “Have you already contracted the services of la chiquita loca?” He laughed. “Oh, your employer is more desperate than I could have ever imagined!”
Yaba fumed at her cousin’s bemusement. “Just keep any American bridges off the table,” she said. “For now.”
She disconnected the call while her cousin continued to laugh.