Holiday Op

Chapter One

A bead of sweat rolled down his back. Christmas music played in the background despite the heat in the office. Eight floors high, and it was as hot as California's Sultan Sea on a spring day.

Noise battered his ears. His job was difficult enough without orders and misguided shouts coming through his ear COM. Know It All on the other end knew nothing. That's what happened when the Washington D.C. Police Department hired consultants to be Incident Commander. He had a lot of respect for the police force and the rest of the law enforcement agencies, but if personnel weren't stretched so tightly during the holidays, there wouldn't be non-professionals in such an important role. The Incident Commander had to be capable of managing a crisis, or at the very least a person who knew enough to let him do his job. Navy EOD was here, asked to participate in these emergencies, because they were known for being effective.

Did he mention yet another spoofy rendition of Jingle Bells blaring over the central office speakers? If he were a different kind of person, he just might be tempted to slip out the back after disabling the bomb.

But this was his job, what he did and who he was. He was an EOD Specialist. Performing Explosive Ordnance Disposal for the Navy, saving the public and his men from harm, was his sole reason for existing.

A plethora of someone else's family references were in this office. A tree. Candy canes. Presents. Cards. Pictures. But for him, there was no family, no gifts, and no holiday remembrances past his teenage years. When his parents had passed away, he'd traded one foster home after another until he enlisted in the Navy.

Pushing away the excess thoughts, muscles tensed as Captain Devin Walds reached out a hand and grasped the green wire. But, boy, looking at this bomb, he had to admit the holidays did encourage folks to do bizarre things. This was the strangest bomb he'd ever seen. Now, focused completely on his task, he noticed, although the wires were placed very precisely, there were all these unusual knots and kinks.

"You're about to cut the wrong wire!” The voice he wished he could block screeched over the COM. “It's the blue wire! Listen to me, Captain Walds. Don't block me out!"

"Shut up! Let him do his job!” In the background the new CO tried to silence the Incident Commander-IC. “It's an IED-Improvised Explosive Device. Get it-it's improvised. There's no manual. Walds is our best."

The IC had already caused four traffic pile-ups and an electrical cut on three buildings two blocks over. More serious casualties, because of the man's incompetence to lead the situation appropriately, were only a matter of time.

Hand steady, Devin brought the knife up and in one swipe severed the green wire.

The clock sped, counting down.

Screams issued over the COM. “He did it wrong! Walds screwed up!” The IC's panicked voice barked commands with a high-pitched yell. “Evacuate! It's going to blow! Go! Go! Go!"

Deliberately, Devin pushed aside several wires until he found a small black one. Calm pervaded. This was what he was looking for. The cutoff.

The clock ran down the minutes. Seconds remained.

The knife sliced the wire and the clock froze. Three seconds blinked at him from the digital display.

This was what he did. Defuse and disable bombs. Welcome to Navy EOD.

He relaxed. Leaning back, he settled himself in the pale butterscotch leather ergonomic chair. This one had to have cost hundreds of dollars, definitely top of the line.

Rubbing his eyes, he stretched. Luxuriating in the fact that all his body parts were still attached, he waited for command center to realize there hadn't been an enormous BOOM!

Oddly enough, chaos still ensued. Captured loudly on his COM, it was a contrast to the calm atmosphere in the office. Another Christmas carol keyed up over the office speaker. “Hark, the Herald Angel's Sing."

What was with Command Central? It was unheard of for an IC to create such a dangerous situation with so much melodrama.

He clicked the mic twice. “This is Santa One, all clear."

Looking at the bomb, he thought, Fate's a fickle creature, but skill is skill.

Devin wondered if the new CO was shaking his head and trying to calm the IC. It had been a riot listening to him explain to the heads of the Intelligence Community departments the reason why they weren't using robots right now. These latest techno toys had been encountering interference, and no one had been able to determine from what. On the last job, something had jammed the signal between the remote and the robot, and the team had lost two topnotch operators, a building, and their best robot unit. When they'd reviewed the footage afterward, it had seemed as though something else had controlled the final devastating moments. But nothing could bring back his men. The loss marked his soul.

He stared out the window. Willing the view to entice him. It was a decent day outside. No clouds, only bright sunshine. The light painted a prism of rainbows along one wall of the room. He'd noticed the tiny crystals at the sides of the window. They were mostly octagons. Some even shaped as animals.

In here, the office was serene. A nice place to work, probably. The name on the degrees on the wall read Brenda Rosing Pente.

The room had a woman's touch. He wondered what she was like. The lady who'd decorated this room. A delicate variation of blues and creams, it was gentle on the senses, and the art was engaging, too. Garden-scapes with a jewel-toned impressionist flare, but there was a texture on top of it. Like they held a dual meaning. Places he could find peacefulness in, a feeling he relished.

The Christmas tree stood next to a big credenza. On it sat several pictures-large sailboats; NASCARs; three people, perhaps a father and mother with their proud daughter at her graduation; that same woman dressed in business attire kissing a guy in a matching colored suit; and two women arm-in-arm. Sisters? The resemblance between the two was startling, except one had vivid, light green eyes. Both had athletic builds and warm expressions. Of course, trying to guess a woman's age could get a man in trouble.

He looked closer at the photos in back. The ladies had raised funds for cancer research, and one had donated bone marrow to a soldier in need. Several more shots showed her donating paintings and proceeds to hospitals, VA facilities, and shelters. These were extraordinary souls.

It shocked him to realize he'd like to know her.

Settling back in the chair, he thought about that as snowflakes dropped from the sky.

He waited for his team and word from down below. Overall, though, he couldn't complain. This was a nice setting. The office… where strangely enough, someone had set a bomb.

His military mind switched back into gear. Why here?

It was strategically located. An explosion here was capable of taking out several Washington, D.C. blocks. He was ninety percent sure the children's center below was the main target. This office might have simply been the most convenient in the building or perhaps there was a link to the occupant.

He looked again at the medical license on the wall. Dr. Brenda Rosing Pente was a shrink. Too bad the bomb-maker hadn't been able to talk to the psychiatrist. Therapy might have helped. A pretty sick guy to aim a bomb at kids, but terrorists only seemed to care about striking terror and harming children would do it.

Definitely the wrong move for a terrorist. The perpetrator would only incite entire families and groups to start hunting for him. Americans never forget and don't forgive innocent deaths. It's our culture. We're protective of what's ours. And, religion, well, that was a whole other enormous layer.

Where was the lady shrink anyway? Hopefully, the FBI or the cops were looking into it. No doubt, the Secret Service would have a finger in it too since the bomb's location could have affected the President. The Secret Service had been the original agency to report the threat. They'd received actionable documentation from a reliable source. Then the Washington D.C. Police Department put a plan into action and contacted his EOD team. With the holiday season cranking up the crisis levels, Devin was on one of five extra military teams in the nation's capital, assisting with possible threats and incidents.

Looking at the clock, Devin realized people were still in panic mode and yelling on the radio. Whoever had been watching on the hat cam had obviously tuned in to another station.

Well, nuts! Guess I better give someone the 411.

He cleared his throat. “Testing. 123. This is Santa One calling with an ALL CLEAR."

"Building's going to blow, man. Get the hell out!"

Devin didn't recognize the voice, but it was time the chaos halted. “Not unless there's another bomb someone hasn't told me about. This one's disabled."

"Wha-at?” Bennett Blicksen, IC and now Acting Command Center Chief and liaison between the Naval EOD Group and the Secret Service, shouted. “Devin?"

"With all due respect, Sir, that's Captain Walds.” He could barely contain the tautly held emotion in his voice as he addressed the IC. The man was unskilled and a glory hound. From what he'd learned so far, Blicksen was all about “acting” like a hero, not about saving lives. Unskilled and acting were a recipe for disaster. But what could Devin do?

He knew his values were old fashioned. He'd been taught to respect his elders and those in charge. But when a callous fool was playing Russian roulette with the public's safety because he didn't know which chamber held the bullet, or in this case which wire was which, then Devin felt perfectly comfortable standing up for what was right.

Among it was safety and… the familiar use of his first name. Only his friends and true superiors who had earned his respect could call him Devin or Dev. Everyone else had to take a number and seriously get to know him first. This guy… well, he didn't know his way around an incident or an operation or any other kind of scene. So, he planned to go with the formal approach and leave when he could. He'd ‘Sir’ this guy to death until then! “Sir, did you copy? The bomb is disabled, Sir."

"What do you mean disabled?” Blicksen's voice was incredulous. The sound of spit hitting the small mic was enough to make Devin wish he could ditch the thing. Not a good sign when the IC salivated this much.

Rolling his eyes, he crossed his legs and reached for his cell phone. Flipping it open, he texted to his CO. What next?

BZ on bomb! BZ was Bravo Zulu, which meant Good Job.

Devin nodded humbly. He was always grateful it went well.

The next text said: Wrap it!

A vision of the new CO sitting next to Blicksen ran through his mind. Why the government would let an untried lead take the helm was beyond them. Not to mention, it was downright dangerous. Was the agency personnel stretched that thin?

Another text: Nox is on his way up. Bellows and crew will scoop. Gab, grab, and go! Beers on Bends at Brinkley.

Roger Wilco! typed Devin. He'd have to file a ton of paperwork on the job. He took a couple of extra pictures with his phone and sent them to some registered accounts to assist with his backup later.

When the crew arrived, he slapped skin and took a ton of lip about getting off easy. Banter was always good after a job well done, and he let it roll off of him as he prepared to face Blicksen.

The trip down to the lobby was quiet. “Dashing through the snow” played over the speaker, while CNN rolled the tape showing the outside of the hotel. The visuals showed children being trampled by adults and men pushing past women. Two elderly women lay near the front door, crying. Their outstretched hands slapped away as people ran past.

His own buddies ran up and picked up the women, getting them to relief crews and ambulances. The men had been positioned on the periphery, watching for suspicious individuals and handling issues that came up. Blicksen was still yelling at everyone. It was obvious he didn't know what he was doing.

People were being brought by on stretchers. Their injuries were evident of trample marks and a few bullet holes. This guy was hurting more lives than he was helping. He'd created havoc where ordered calm would have served. It was a skill… being functional and effective in a crisis. Who was going to make sure this type of mess didn't happen again?

Devin's feet moved him through the lobby. Facing Blicksen came faster than he thought. Maybe he should have prepared better, calmed, or made his peace. Because the next second Blicksen was in his face, yelling at him about Devin's inability to follow orders.

In the blink of an eye, Blicksen lay on the ground, looking up at Devin from the pavement. The IC's eyes were open, but no one was home.

A woman broke from the sidelines and ran to Blicksen. She knelt on the ground and put her arms on his chest. Obviously, Blicksen had brought a civilian to the scene. That was a major no-no. When the woman looked up at Walds a string of comments laced with anger were directed at him. What he wanted to say to her was what are you doing here? This is supposed to be a secure area. What he said was… “Sorry, lady.” Devin took a step back, and he was too. If this man were hers, she'd put up with more chaos than she probably wanted. “I'm sure he'll be fine… unfortunately.” The last word was mumbled, but he was away from the whole mess. All he wanted was to do his job and disengage.

Blicksen would have a souvenir for a few days, to remember Devin by. A broken nose for sure. But if Lady Luck were still with him, it'd be a broken upper jaw, too.

Stepping over the prone man, Devin walked away. Leaving the IC to his unconscious state.

His new CO would chuckle in private, but without a doubt militarily he'd give Devin an earful. There was little to no tolerance when it came to fighting in public. Then again… the sidewalk had been slippery and his fist might have saved Blicksen from a very bad fall.

Devin squared his shoulders. He would take his share of whatever needed to come. It had been worth it. Besides, Blicksen was lucky, and he'd gotten off light. If I'd really had my way, he wouldn't put anyone else in jeopardy ever again. Because what Devin really wanted to do was kill the man who'd caused so much unnecessary chaos and danger to those around him.

It was empty, a blank page. The white paper sat devoid of emotion, decision, input, or treatment. Instead, it waited to become, to hold something of importance. There was no predetermination or denouncement from it, only a willingness to be patient and to accept what she would place upon it.

This was a judgment free zone. That's what she liked to call it. There were no rules here. Even the absence of them didn't make it have to be something in particular. What this environment and experience was could be classified as a continual flow. Because here she acted on her most primal instincts and encouraged those who entered her realm to do creative work to act as they must, too.

The sensation of freedom was palpable. Like a tangible quality it flowed all around as if the air held a magic elixir upon which creation could continually burst with newness.

Kathryn Marie Pente looked at the wooden plaque near her easel. It was an 8 1/2” x 11” celebration sheet and on its shellacked top were quotes sealed for their protection. They read: “A painting by Kathryn Marie has substance, and will stand as a tribute to nature's upheavals and life's remarkable beauty,” Bing, The Village Voice. “Turning your senses on edge could make you doubt your own eyes, unless Pente has inked its direction. With magnificent strokes, she has outdone her contemporaries and created watercolor masterpieces,” The Times, Xander, Art Critic. “Sharing your soul is never easy, but Kathryn Marie Pente's art opens hearts and the door for everywhere,” Courier News, Doc Beston's art column. “To the best sister ever. I love you! May your art always make the world take notice and praise you beyond your need and expectations,” Love, Brenda.

Her sister had made this cherished keepsake, to remind Kathryn Marie that her dream of painting was worthwhile. Brenda had been the first to believe, and had stood strong by her side ever since. Even her parents had eventually come around, especially when they began to see the acclaim from the public.

Her cell phone vibrated with messages. At least fifty calls this morning, but none of them buzzed with Brenda's ringtone. Billy Joel's “Just The Way You Are” was her sister's favorite song and unless that rang through, Kathryn Marie wasn't answering.

People had even come to the door, but she didn't want to see anyone. It was part of her process and there were times that she tuned out the world. No one was allowed through-not a neighbor, a cop, or anyone else-except her sister.

She frowned. Where was Bren? Why hadn't she returned any of the phone calls from yesterday or the day before? Almost Christmas and it was so unlike her sister to be out of touch this long. They hadn't even made plans for the holidays yet. It was impossible to escape an ever-increasing feeling that something was wrong. Kathryn Marie wasn't psychic or given to precognition or premonition, but something was seriously wrong when her only blood didn't call back. She loved Brenda. A sister was forever.

Stroking a hand over the soft wood, she allowed herself the peacefulness that came from admiring the Chippendale desk upon which the plaque was set. This heirloom furniture piece, overloved with use, had come from her great-grandmother. It had several deep scratches-love notes from her great-grandfather-and had decades of protective polish.

Add in her three oriental rugs and a small porcelain statue, and these were the items that had a family vibe and remembrance to them. Everything else here, the paintings on the walls, the couch, table, chairs, and bed, had been her doing. Choices made years ago when she was in college. Now, living in San Diego, across the country from her only other family member on the face of this earth, she considered picking up and moving. What was here for her? No boyfriend, a few acquaintances… though, she enjoyed the gallery she worked with in La Jolla and she adored painting. The manager, LuJean, was always kind and welcoming, and he got a terrific price for her work.

She sighed. Okay, she liked the weather, too. It was relaxing to be able to put on a bathing suit almost any day of the year and swim or kayak in the ocean. Other than missing her family, specifically her older sister, she was pretty much at ease in her world. Surrounded by paints, canvas, paper, and water. Life and the leading of it were of her own making, and these choices had been deliberate. What she made, if she liked it, carried forth into the world and if it didn't, then she destroyed it or threw it away. She was the creator, and she had control. She liked having control over her life.

Songs from “Winter Solstice” issued from the radio like a sea-salt bath for the nerves. She relaxed into the instrumental harmonies and let the music sweep her away.

Kathryn Marie wet the lapis block on her plastic pallet with a dab of water from the fan-shaped, synthetic bristle brush. The watercolor became a small pool of wet potency. Dipping her brush, she lifted it to the paper and drew a feathery stroke across the paper. The white space filled with shapes making the picture transform. The page filled with a bold and wild seascape.

Waves crashed, and the scene was tumultuous and harsh. White crests flooded over rocks and the beach, drowning the plants and covering the small caves inset in the cliffs.

The violence was intense. Something was wrong. She could feel it, and her painting showed it.

She painted nonstop, tears streaming down her cheeks as her chest heaved. Her breath hurt as she drew it in and forced it out.

"What's wrong with me?” Taking a break, she turned the radio off and walked to the TV switching it on.

Visuals assaulted her immediately. Sound in a jumbled cacophony accompanied the graphic awfulness.

Emotion poured out in a scream. Kathryn Marie saw a picture of her sister's building plastered on screen behind the announcer. “Brenda!"

The news played in the background. “This is CNN. Our lead story, the bomb that threatened to devastate several Washington, D.C. blocks close to the White House has been disarmed. It's been six hours now, and we have more information. The bomb was considered a handmade device, and happily authorities have recently given an all-clear status for the area. Residents will be able to return to their homes and offices tomorrow morning. Unfortunately…"

Kathryn Marie gulped, trying to make the air stay inside of her body. Suddenly, too much breath poured out. But her heart and lungs squeezed so tight she could barely take the pain.

Her mind screamed… no, no, no.

An aerial view of her sister's building flashed on the screen as the announcer continued. “… In late breaking news, the body of a prominent psychiatrist, well known in governmental circles and within homeland security for her work on stress recognition and hypnotherapy, was discovered in the Dumpster behind the building. The bomb had been planted in the eighth floor office by an unknown source. Authorities are still trying to contact the family of the victim.” Her phone went off again jarring her nerves.

"The private residence hotel housed several doctors’ offices as well as serving as short- and long-term housing to many government officials. No other deaths have been reported at this time. Stay tuned to CNN for more details or check our website, CNN.com."

She knew. It was her sister who had been killed.

Walking over to the vibrating phone, she dialed her voice mail and listened. Her vision was blurred by tears and breathing felt foreign. The police. And so many more individuals wanted to speak with her. Closing the phone did not end the deluge.

The news played over and over. Rage and pain poured through Kathryn Marie as it cycled again and again.

How could she go on! How was she supposed to survive the death of her sister?