Excerpt: Unraveled

Chapter 1

The scene was chaos. Bodies lay everywhere. The smoking remnants of vehicles were being doused by firefighters, while all manner of emergency vehicles raced about with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Triage was in full swing. EMTs hovered over dozens of wounded bystanders who had been caught in the blast. Some had shrapnel wounds, others were missing limbs or worse. Some would make it. Some would not. Emergency personnel did what they could for each of them, but an even more serious threat hovered over the entire scene. The device that had caused this devastation had been a dirty bomb. Everyone present, even now, was receiving likely lethal doses of radiation. The order was given for all emergency personnel to withdraw immediately.
Fortunately, it was only a drill. One of many coordinated in various cities around the country by the Department of Homeland Security, in conjunction with local authorities. The first responders on the scene were real, but the casualties were volunteers in stage make-up, acting the roles they had been assigned. All would survive, though many of the organizers and participants would be exhausted by the end of the weekend-long event.
Rich Michaels’ cell phone rang. It was the director of emergency services at Oregon State University in Corvallis. “I take it from the fact that you answered,” he deadpanned, “that you’re having a drill. Please tell me I’m right, Rich.”
“Oh, God,” Rich sighed. “You mean the alert went out live?”
“Yup,” the caller confirmed. “‘A radioactive device has been detonated in North Portland. Implement emergency contingency plans immediately,’ he said, reciting the message that had come across the Connect & Protect network.
“Oops. Sorry ‘bout that. It was supposed to go out over the test network only.”
“Well, if you wanted to get my attention, you certainly succeeded!” The director’s tone was goodnatured, but Rich knew that there was a touch of reproach there as well. As he ended the call he made a note to bring up the issue at the post-mortem on Monday morning.

The baby had napped for two hours, but now she was crying. Anita was already on her way to the changing table to retrieve a clean cloth diaper. She still debated whether she had made the right choice. She and her friends had gone ‘round and ‘round on whether the water, bleach, and detergent that cloth required were more harmful to the environment than the waste produced by disposables. But she and Rich had finally settled on cloth, reasoning that water was plentiful—and cheap—in this part of Oregon, and by using a diaper service that employed environmentally friendly cleaning agents they could minimize their family’s footprint.
The inconvenience of washable diapers was offset by the fact that Freya was a happy baby. She rarely cried unless there was an actual problem. She slept well, socialized well, and was about as easy to care for as any baby could be. At least that’s what the mothers in Anita’s neighborhood association kept telling her. As a first time mother, Anita had her fair share of stress at times, but she never held it against Freya. She cooed at the baby as she lifted her from the crib and carried her to the changing table. Freya had stopped crying by the time they got there.
No sooner than Anita was elbow deep in the process, the phone rang in the other room. Wasn’t that always the case? Well, it would just have to go to voicemail. Rich wouldn’t be calling while his terror simulation was underway, and nobody else was important enough to make her run to the phone. Freya was always priority one now. Anita wondered again why they even kept a landline phone anyway. She and Rich both used cell phones almost exclusively. With rare exception, only pollsters and telemarketers ever called on the landline. It was time to get rid of it. She made a mental note to bring it up again with Rich.

It was nearly 10 o’clock when Rich finally came in. The baby was asleep and Anita was dozing in front of an old black-and-white movie that she had tried to watch on AMC. He stooped to kiss her on the forehead. She opened her eyes and smiled. “Hi.” She kissed him back. “How did it go?”
Rich sighed. “Don’t ask.” He tossed his coat on the bench in the entryway and strode into the kitchen. “How was your day,” he called from the other room. Since the baby was born he had learned to ask this question every evening. Anita had been a career woman before leaving her energy consulting job to be a fulltime mom. Deprived of adult conversation and responsibilities she quickly began to feel isolated and marginalized, “living in a parallel universe” as she had described it. Unless she could discuss her day with someone—and that usually meant Rich—she became sulky and depressed.
“Fine,” she answered. She knew that at this late hour Rich didn’t really want a lengthy recitation. “Freya was really good. We went to Laurelhurst Park and fed the ducks. I got the grocery shopping done too.” She could hear the cupboards banging, the refrigerator opening. “Didn’t you get dinner?”
“No,” Rich admitted, hoping not to get a lecture for his honesty.
“Well let me fix you something,” Anita said, jumping up from the couch.
“No, really. I’m fine,” Rich protested. “I’ll just have oatmeal.”
“Oh, Honey,” Anita began, reminding herself not to whine—Rich hated that. “Let me at least make you a grilled cheese. It only takes a minute.” She was already removing the Tillamook Extra Sharp Cheddar from the fridge. Rich knew better than to argue. Besides, that did sound better than oatmeal.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Anita said when they were seated at the kitchen counter. Rich was halfway through his meal and she was sipping a Sleepy Time tea. “You’ll never guess who left a message today.” Rich raised his eyebrows over his glass of water, waiting for her to continue. “Remember that Arab guy who showed us around Vienna?”
“Jassim?” Rich was surprised. “The Kuwaiti?”

Chapter 2

The cropduster took a few hard bounces as it touched down in thick grasses of Summit Prairie. If the pilot was concerned about the nighttime landing on an unimproved surface, he didn’t let on. He had been largely silent since they had refueled in Harlowton, Montana. Jassim had no idea how many such illegal flights the pilot may have made previously, but his skill in execution of the difficult approach, not to mention flying below radar all the way from the Canadian border, suggested that this was not his first such attempt.
The pilot remained silent as he opened the cockpit door. Professional detachment, Jassim thought as he disembarked. He stood motionless as he watched the plane taxi to the far end of the meadow for what was to be a slow and wobbly take off.
Jassim turned a full circle to survey his surroundings. Moonlight-painted silhouettes emerged from the forest edges as his eyes adjusted. It was hard to judge distances, even with the aid of the nearly full moon hanging low in the west. It would be setting soon and dawn was still several hours away, he guessed. He had set his watch to local time—it now read 4:47 a.m.—but he had no idea when sunrise was. He’d never been to the United States before, and he knew little about Oregon, let alone where the time zones changed.
Judging from the position of the moon, he stood in a shallow mountain valley running roughly east to west. To the south, maybe 100 meters from where he stood, the valley was edged by a thick pine forest. On the north, at about the same distance, a thin line of mostly deciduous trees zigzagged along what was likely a creek bed. He could not see both ends of the meadow in which he stood, but he estimated it to be about 500 meters to where the leafy boundary met the dense evergreens.
The sooner he met Rich, the better. Jassim may have looked rugged to the casual observer, but he was no outdoorsman. He’d gone for a few day hikes in the Vienna Woods, and on a couple of easy Alpine jaunts with friends, but he’d never been this far from civilization before. And certainly never alone in the middle of the night. He adjusted his rucksack over both shoulders and began moving east. His instructions were to parallel the road that separated the field from the forest and walk east for approximately a kilometer. The mountain road was little traveled and almost certainly not at this time of night. Still, he kept his ears attuned to the possible sound of approaching vehicles as he walked.
In under fifteen minutes he had reached the Ochoco Ranger Station, still closed for the season. About thirty meters behind the main building he spotted the parking lot he was looking for. There stood the black SUV, as well. All was as expected, but seeing the vehicle made his heart jump with anticipation. What if this was a trap? Maybe it wasn’t Rich. Anybody could be driving a black SUV. What if it was a coincidence?
He brushed away the wholly unreasonable apprehension and made for the vehicle. At five paces he saw the dome light come on. He hadn’t seen Rich Michaels for nearly ten years, but he was reasonably sure the now-illuminated face belonged to the same guy. He opened the passenger door and got in. “Hi. Thanks for coming.”
“Bitte,” said Rich with a crooked smile. “Now what the hell is this all about?”

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