Time Bomb Town - Prologue
A lonely desert road stretched out into the night. The moon was rising over the mountains far off to the east. It was weirdly too large and its light illuminated the desolate landscape, casting long shadows of Joshua trees and scrub brush. The wind gusted across the chaparral sending a wave of dust rippling over the blacktop.
A Caltrans sign by the side of highway read “Niland 20 Miles”. Nailed underneath it was another sign, much less official and hand-painted on plywood in crude lettering. It read “Slab City – 25 ¼ Miles”. The plywood sign shook in the wind, its rusted nail working loose from the post with every vibration.
In the distance, where the highway vanished as hazy darkness met the light of the moon, there was a low rumbling. It was slowly rising. Getting closer. Rising to a roar. Out of the night, suddenly, there were headlights burning. A plain, blue Ford Crown Victoria rocketed past the sign, its engine being pushed to the max.
The hand-painted sign, caught between the blustering desert wind and the wake of the Crown Vic, tore off and spun into the middle of the highway. The taillights of the Ford vanished as quickly as the car appeared.
Inside the car, desperate hands gripped the steering wheel. The speedometer climbed over 130 miles per hour. The tachometer bounced off the red line.
* * *
Slab City. The dusty end of nowhere in the California desert. Named after the endless slabs of concrete left behind by a military base evacuated in the sixties. A destination for travelers who either didn't want to or couldn't pay rent. Slab City was filled with the ebb and flow of seasonal retirees in their RV's and the riff-raff that hung on the edge of society. It sprawled for miles. But the “community” centered around strange semi-permanent structures that dotted the landscape. A BYOB bar, an outdoor library/book exchange. A ramshackled church built from a rotting mobile home.
Dozens and dozens of RV's parked haphazardly on the slabs. Some in groups, like the circle of a wagon train, some in rows. Others skewed apart, wanting to be left alone.
Far from the “center” of Slab city, away from everyone else in this highly populated desolation, was what looked like a cheap concrete version of a medieval castle wall. It protected a compound inside. The wall was topped with concertina wire. Shards of broken glass jutted out from where they were set in the mortar, between the bricks.
Also set in the wall was a gate, arched in a parody of Gothic architecture and made from rough iron bars. Welded together by a madman, like spider-webs spun by arachnids on acid. Insane. With no discernible pattern, but still imposing. And closing out any intruders. Several heavy chains padlocked the gate shut. The locks hung on the inside. Someone had locked themselves in.
Moonlight doused the compound behind the gate in a pale, sickly glow. The structure, guarded by the mockery of ancient castle walls, was just as bizarre. Light blazed from inside what could only loosely be called a very large “house”.
It was a combination of several prefab buildings, slammed together and stacked on top of each other. Mobile homes and fifth-wheels were attached, affixed at random. Stuck on to the central unit like the legs of a deformed bug.
* * *
With both hands on the wheel and driving at speeds close to a hundred and forty miles per hour, he was screaming, seemingly at no one, into the cell phone miked into the dash. Anyone watching him from outside the vehicle would have thought he looked like a raving madman.
“I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, PATCH ME THROUGH!”
“Sir!” said the voice on the other end of the line. “I can't. That operation is locked down-”
“It's been compromised! PATCH ME THROUGH TO TURNER RIGHT NOW!”
“Agent Vance, that violates operational protocol. A senior level agent would have to authorize-”
“Then put me through to Bob Fielding! They know! Don't you get it? Our people are in danger! NOW DO IT OR I WILL HAVE YOU FIRED!”
“Sir-” And the line went dead. Agent Vance yanked his smart phone from the cup holder. No bars. Signal was lost. No cell service.
“Damn it!” Vance hurled the phone across the car in a fit of rage. He glanced at the clock on the dash board. There was still time. He could still make it. He pressed down on the gas pedal until it hit the floor.
Suddenly, a 4x4 truck with oversized tires screamed out of the desert, sideswiping Carter Vance's car. It was a hard hit, rattling Vance and sending his Crown Vic swerving dangerously. Carter managed to keep his vehicle under control. Then a second car, a Chevy Camaro, cut out of the desert at high speed and pulled up along his passenger side.
Carter reached into his jacket and yanked his Colt .45 handgun out of his shoulder holster.
* * *
In the field of RV's parked on the empty, dusty slabs of Slab City, one rundown Winnebago sat a bit farther off. Just far enough to be left alone. The windows were blacked out. And the antennae coming off the junk heap were worth more than the vehicle itself.
Inside the Winnebago, it was clear this wasn't a normal resident of Slab City. It was a command center. Banks of high-tech gear lined the walls of the RV. Three men hunched over highly-advanced computer surveillance equipment. They were dressed in all black, wearing baseball caps and windbreaker jackets that read F.B.I. in bright yellow letters.
Standing behind the men, pacing in the narrow walk-way, was Agent Jack Turner. He watched the numerous camera views of the strange compound on the monitors that lined the walls. The monitors gave multiple angles and satellite shots of the gated compound. All seemed quiet. Agent Turner glanced at his watch.
“Everyone's in place?” Turner's question keyed off several radio responses. The three agents Turner was overseeing responded; the affirmatives coming in. Everyone was ready.
“Let's do it.”
The three agents began to bark orders into their headsets.
* * *
A motorcycle leapt out of the darkness. Two more were right beside it. The riders wore all black, but emblazoned across the back of their jackets was F.B.I. ATVs and SUVs streaked out of the desert towards the compound, coming from all directions, trails of dust streaming behind each vehicle like the exhaust of jet fighters. They headed unerringly towards the brightly-lit target of the strange structure.
* * *
Only a couple of miles away, back on the desert road, Special Agent Carter Vance was in an all-out war. The Chevy Camaro crunched into and off the side of the sturdy Crown Vic, but the 4x4 on the other side slammed hard in, jarring Vance brutally. Vance held the wheel firmly with one hand and pointed his hand-gun up at the windows of the truck. Without bothering to roll his window down, Vance fired three times. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Glass and paint splintered on the 4x4 and the truck jerked away for a moment before whipping the wheel back over and slamming into Vance's vehicle so hard his rear-view mirror shattered and cracks splintered across the windshield like lightening encased in glass.
Vance didn't hesitate. With the wheel of the 4x4 only a foot or so away, he fired twice into the massively oversized tire. The EXPLOSIVE decompression of the wheel spun the truck out of control. It rocketed off the road and rolled into the desert.
A staccato of automatic gunfire ripped through the Ford Crown Vic. The Chevy was on the right side and a bit behind, the driver hanging out the window, spraying Carter Vance with an Uzi. Carter cringed and ducked as the spray of bullets finished the job on the windshield. Carter was cut up from flying glass.
* * *
C-4 explosive hung on the wrought-iron gate. BA-BOOM! It was blown off its hinges. Black-clad operatives rushed inside, crossing the courtyard with speed, professionalism and precision. They quickly moved to secure the many exits.
But there was no response from inside the home. Eerily, the lights inside the house danced and flickered, but not a single sound, movement or person came out.
* * *
Inside the Winnebago, commanding the operation, Agent Jack Turner watched the video monitors. The helmet-cams of dozens of different agents, surrounding, swarming towards the house. Turner paced back and forth, chewing on his thumb.
The first agent kicked open the front door and moved inside. Turner watched as the agents moved through a maze of junk. The inside of the house was stranger than the outside. Flat screen TV's lined the walls in no apparent pattern or rational intention. Dozens of them, end to end, showing anime cartoons and violent movies.
In the main gallery, a giant mobile hung from the ceiling, its carousel spinning lazily. Instead of kids toys, a grandfather clock, a bundle of empty five gallon water bottles, a chandelier (brightly-lit) and a dozen other strange items hung from the slowly spinning web of crossbeams attached by chains, to the iron girders that ran across the ceiling.
On the floor below was an Escher-like chessboard/game-path pattern. Giant game pieces from Chess, Monopoly, Sorry, Risk, Battleship and others littered the floor as if engaged in some war with the deranged.
Turner stared at the scene from several views on his monitors.
“What the hell...”
Calls of “Clear” began to ring throughout the house as the agents secured each room. No one was there.
“Keep looking. The place was crawling with people this morning.” Turner paced and chewed the cuticle of his thumb even harder. He finally bit down on a thread of it and yanked. Blood welled between his thumbnail and his skin. Turner didn't even notice. He just stared at the monitors. Then he realized there could be only one option.
“Underground. They're underground.”
Turner leaned over his three computer operatives and grabbed a mic himself. “Look for a hatch, a staircase. They've got to be underground. The whole lab is probably underground.”
* * *
At the highway, Vance, in the Crown Vic and the Chevy Camaro were weaving in and out, crashing into one another, firing wildly at each other. Neither driver saw what lay ahead.
Across the road was a spike strip.
Both cars RIPPED right over it at full speed, BLOWING out all their tires. The Camaro spun out and vanished in a cloud of desert sand.
Carter tried to bring his vehicle under control but couldn't pull it in. It SKIDDED hard, going into roll. Tumbling sideways, it finally came to a stop, landing on the passenger side. It teetered as dust and sand swirled around it.
In the vehicle, Carter Vance was in bad shape. Blood spilled from a gash in his forehead. He hung from his seatbelt. He scrabbled at it, trying to unsnap the latch but with his weight on it, it wouldn't come undone. Across the car, out of reach, was his weapon. It was the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness.
* * *
The assault team made their way to the lower level of the strange compound. A huge room, almost the size of a football field, waited below. The walls were held up by two-by-fours and plywood. Cracks rippled through, letting desert sand spill in. The ceiling was iron girders and metal siding. It was dark, but by their headlamps and flashlights, the assault team could make out rows and rows of tables and chairs. Empty and bare. Formerly a chemical meth lab, but all the gear was long gone.
At the far end of the room, something flashed and flickered. The team moved towards this light. It was an 80 inch flatscreen TV. As they approached the television, the team could make out a huge tunnel off to the left, leading away from the room, down into darkness.
“Are you seeing this, sir?” The agent in charge of the assault team shined his flashlight down the tunnel. Tire tracks lead off into the darkness.
“Unbelievable.” Turner's voice crackled over the radio. “Just unbelievable...”
Laughter cackled from the flatscreen TV and the signal coalesced into a figure. Everyone's attention focused on the screen. On it was a live-feed showing an odd-looking man. He was wearing aviator sunglasses. His hair was a blond mane streaked with black and gold highlights. On top of this styling nightmare was a cheap, plastic gold crown. But the most striking thing about his face was his obviously prosthetic nose. It was forged from pure gold and cast a glittering golden light.
This was Midas Jones. He laughed again. “Did you really think you'd get the drop on me, Agent Turner? Didja mate? Yeah. YEAH! I know it's you behind these stormtroopers. I know it's you skulking in that shitty Winnebago. I knew you wouldn't actually have the balls to come down here and try and find me yourself. Too bad. But I'll be coming for you next. Time to say good-bye. Buh-bye!”
Jones waved, turned and said something incoherent to someone offscreen.
Turner, in the Winnebago, went nuts. “GET OUT! GET OUT OF THERE! GET OUT! PULL EVERYONE OUT!”
His men in the Winnebago barked brusque orders. The assault team began an ordered, disciplined retreat. But it was too late.
* * *
The earth shook slightly. The fireball lit up the sky over Slab City. It illuminated Niland and the Salton Sea. In Slab City itself, fire, scraps and shrapnel rained from the heavens. The huge forbidden compound in the heart of Slab City was completely engulfed in flames. As the flames burned hotter, the structure collapsed into the basement, a chasm that seemed to swallow everything. It burned. It burned hot.
In Slab City it was a night that was never forgotten. Drunks, speed freaks, and Snowbirds watched as meteorites from hell crashed down all around them.
No one noticed the old Winnebago, with all the antennae, start up her engine and pull away.
* * *
He was a dead weight and didn't struggle. Once he was clear of the window, the two men tossed him to the ground. He hit hard, almost losing consciousness for a second time. Vance realized he must have a concussion and then forgot this realization a few moments later.
He stared up at a van about a dozen feet away. It was white and clean and so very, very neat. Light came from inside. Golden light. A golden figure on a golden throne....but the throne....looked like a toilet. Vance squinted and struggled to stand again, but couldn't. A golden toilet? In a van? The golden figure got off the throne (or was it a golden toilet?) and stepped out of the van.
“Pick him up,” said the golden figure. He seemed to glow like an angel. Vance was jerked to his feet by his arms, but couldn't seem to stand.
“Agent Vance.” The golden glow seemed to emanate from his golden nose. “I've been wanting to meet you for so long. To congratulate you on a job well done.”
Vance tried to speak and instead drooled. The spittle, mixed with blood, spilled from his mouth and hung for several feet. He thought to himself that this was very undignified so he spat out the remainder.
The golden-nosed angel spoke again. “I've been looking forward to putting a bullet in your face, for a very, very long time.”
All of a sudden, for a matter of moments that Carter Vance would never remember or understand how he pulled off, everything came together. He had been on his way to stop the betrayal and murder of his fellow F.B.I. agents. Someone had tipped off one of the worst, most murderous meth manufacturers and dealers in Southern Cal that the F.B.I. was coming. He had been unable to reach those actually in charge of the operation. And now he was facing the insane visage of the kingpin himself. With his fake gold nose and his weird hair and his crown.
Carter shoved himself away from the men holding him up. For a moment he was standing free on his own two feet. He grinned stupidly at Midas, then raised his left arm and casually pressed a button on his watch.
“Timebomb...t...own...” He mumbled, still grinning. And then he crashed back into unconsciousness.
Midas stared at the agent lying in the dirt. “What was that? What did he say?”
A thug standing next to Midas squatted down by the unconscious agent. “Sounded like 'Timebomb Town', boss.”
“What does that mean?”
The thug grabbed Vance's wrist and held it up for Midas to see. A watch. But this watch was spinning off a count-down. Counting down fast.
Midas crouched down as well and stared at it. Twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. “Twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes until what?” Midas muttered.
The thug was about to strip the watch off Vance's wrist. With shocking speed, Midas' hand shot out and stopped him. “No. Look at it.”
The thug turned over Vance's wrist. This wasn't just a simple watchband. Midas studied it. His eyes narrowed and he adjusted the plastic crown on his head.
“It's monitoring his pulse. We take it off or he dies and something... something happens.”
Midas stood up and paced around the fallen agent. Thinking. Thinking and getting angry. Getting really, really angry.
Furious, he kicked Carter Vance in the head viciously. “TWENTY THREE HOURS AND FIFTY-NINE MINUTES UNTIL WHAT?” he shrieked.
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