Poisoned Time – By Philip Gordon

No one would believe me, but I had to tell them. I was driving to D.C. from my office in Baltimore. Had to get to Homeland Security before time ran out. Just four hours until the attack. I parked in a garage on Constitution Avenue and sprinted to the Homeland offices. I thought about the situation. Why would they believe this incredible story? I had a decrypted file with vague instructions and a hunch about what the terrorists had brought with them. If the government gets thousands of false leads every day, what could I possibly do to convince them that this danger was legitimate? I just knew that I would be directed to a cubicle-confined, inattentive slob who would direct me to another division. I needed to pose the problem while diminishing the threat. If I revealed the true danger to some desk bum, I would be pushed away and immediately shut down. I couldn’t let that happen.

The receptionist directed me down the hall to, none other than, a cubicle. Inside was what looked like a socially inept, incomprehensive rookie.

“Terrific!” I thought. “That’s just what I need to deal with right now!”

“Hi, my name is John, what can I do for you?” he said.

I sat down and examined his desk. From the sight of the stacks of paper and office supplies, it looked like he was trying to replicate the city of Venice.

“Well, I have information on an event that will be happening in three hours and forty-five minutes. I stumbled upon an encrypted file while I was working at my job as an NSA analyst in Baltimore. I have it here with me if you would like to see it.”

“Sure, hand it over.”

I gave him the copy that I had placed on a separate drive. He looked at the message and the pictures and gave me the look I had been expecting. “This is just a message to a construction company or something. They have supplies coming in and they are working on the sewer systems.” He stared at me like I was stupid.

“I gave you this because I also checked into construction projects in the area and not one is scheduled for the next four months. I think there may be a plot to attack Washington D.C. and the President.”

With a little more concern he began checking the database for planned construction. “I’m not sure what they are going to use, but I have a feeling it will be anthrax.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “How am I supposed to know that you are not the one planning this? You seem too sure of yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer for everyone if this was checked out? The message said that they would start at three, which is rush hour here. The supply, although not said to be anthrax, was shipped in vials along with some electronics. I think that terrorists are experimenting with biological weapons.”

“This seems a bit of a stretch, but I will check it out.” I knew it. He was blowing me off.

I rushed to my car.  I pulled out my Desert Eagle from underneath the seat, checked the safety and stuffed it in my coat pocket. If Homeland Security wouldn’t believe me, then no government agency would. It seemed that the job was left to me. In the car, I re-read the file on my laptop over and over until the message no longer seemed random. The syntax seemed to be a little out of the ordinary. No one would have a conversation with such rare words. I placed the entire paragraph together without spaces. The first letter of every word created a different message when capitalized. The new message read: RENDEVOUS METRO NEAR W MONUMENT TWO THIRTY SATURDAY. It was Saturday and it was one-thirty. Tourist traffic was already horrendous. It would be best to run. The streets were crowded and Washington was experiencing its case of weekend-long rush hour. I could make it in ten minutes if I sprinted. It was an obstacle course, dodging the strollers and vendors. The Monument was in sight and so was the metro station.

Then the horror struck me. Who was I looking for? I didn’t have any idea what these people looked like or what they would be doing. The streets were packed with people. I decided to look for anything out of the ordinary. Whoever it was would probably be impatient, scanning the crowd, and fidgety. A few people around me matched the description. Closer analysis narrowed down my guess to two men standing outside the bus station. They did not look like Americans, and their choice of dressing in nothing but black told me that they were hiding something. I moved away and headed out toward the Washington Monument. Five minutes left. I stayed far enough away so that they wouldn’t become suspicious of me. Three more men came from the south and headed toward them, also in black. Could it have been coincidence? I didn’t think so. They exchanged few words. They searched over the crowd once more and then they all headed into the station. After a few seconds, I followed down the stairs.

They all purchased tickets and went down onto to the platform. Hurriedly, I purchased a pass and waited next to the wall. They were scanning the crowd yet again. They walked over to the edge of the platform at the far end of the station. I moved along the wall pretending to be busy on my cell phone, actually taking pictures of them.  One of the men, a very short European-type, pulled out a key card and opened an access door in the wall. All five of them ducked in and the door locked again. I reached a critical decision. Should I report them now, while they are in the restricted area, or should I try to get inside myself? Knowing my past struggles with the authorities, I took the second option. Ten minutes until the planned attack.

A janitor walked by. I bumped him, snagging his security card. Just then, the five men rushed out of the access door and jogged to the steps. Whatever was going to happen, they had to be far away. I opened the door and stepped inside. There was a ladder that led up into the sewer system. I crawled through the pipes underneath the streets and heard a noise; muffled because of all the traffic above, but audible. I followed it through some pipes and came out at a junction. There was a large device comprised of five small components. The timer read three minutes, six seconds. On the side was a tube with “ANTHRAX” written on it. So they were going to send out an airborne attack of anthrax. I clambered down the four connecting tubes and found seals for the entry panels. I closed them all and headed out through a storm drain. When the tube detonated, the sewer system would seal it off.

Out in the street, I saw the men running toward the parking garage. I ran after them and headed for my car. The men got into an SUV and peeled out of the garage right into D.C traffic. I followed after them, having to run red lights and dodge cross-walkers. Heading west on 50, I tried to gain some ground. I managed to get closer when a red light stopped traffic. I needed them to notice me so I came up behind them and waited for the light to turn green. As it did, I waved a paper that said “ANTHRAX” on it out my window. One of the men in the back seat saw it and started shouting. Grim determination crossed my face. These men needed to be taken down. As they left the intersection, the driver tried to weave his way out of traffic. He started driving on the shoulder, trying to get away. I followed closely, getting ready for a shot. I fired at their back tire and missed. I tried again, and again. Heart racing, I calmed myself down and smoothly squeezed the trigger. The fourth shot struck and flattened it. As the driver attempted to accelerate, the SUV started to sway. Ahead was a curve in the road as we approached an overpass. The driver hit a piece of debris as he made his turn, sending him across two lanes. The SUV struck the side of the Jersey barrier and came back across the road toward me. I jammed the brakes and avoided the collision. The SUV struck and rolled over the opposite wall, plunging to the highway below. Traffic stopped and a few seconds later the vehicle exploded.

The threat was over. The device had been contained, and the terrorists had been taken down. I could now report my idea with real evidence. It felt good that the safety of Washington and the President had been preserved once more.