Chapter 5: There For the Taking

  “It is amazing what you can learn in an afternoon on the internet,” thought Clark.  He had all his wits about him, no alcohol in his system, and was intensely focused on the task at hand.  Not once did the thought ever cross his mind that he was doing the wrong thing.  Elaine’s killers had been revealed to the world less than two days prior and something needed to be done.  That sense of urgency is what drove Clark from the New World Reporter back to his apartment to get sober, then to Washington D.C. and into his current situation: crouched next to an air conditioning unit on the roof of the Smithsonian Museum of Modern Warfare in the dead of the night.

  It was 3:15 a.m. and Clark was dressed in black from head to toe: a ski mask pulled back to expose his face, a turtle neck underneath a hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants, and running shoes.  He felt like a ninja, or a spy; excited but calm.  His black backpack was loaded and heavy.  Inside was a map of D.C., several printed Map Quest routes from the museum to New York, a nylon repelling line, glass cutting tool, and instructions from a website detailing “how to build a homemade shape-charge bomb.”  In Clark’s hands was a pieced-together copy of the blueprints for the museum.  It truly was amazing what you could learn on the internet in one afternoon.  He had no identification on his person and his fingertips were covered in candle wax underneath black neoprene gloves.  Over his left shoulder he slung an empty duffle bag large enough to carry hockey gear, football pads, or if necessary, something much larger.

  Inside, the museum was dark.  Security spotlights dimly illuminated individual displays.  The corridors were black and only visually interrupted by an occasional flashlight which was being wielded by one of three unarmed guards.  The youngest one, Raymond, was in his late sixties and entirely out of shape.  He strolled the corridors lazily shining his light on displays, reading the plaques, and eating peanuts from a bag in his pocket.  The other two guards mostly stayed around the security desk, which was at the south end of the main atrium.  Occasionally one of them would patrol the atrium, but neither was in any shape to climb stairs or do too much walking, so mostly they stayed close to base.  Raymond was mostly on his own for the patrol sweeps.

  While researching, Clark was shocked to find out that some of the world’s most deadly weapons were extremely accessible and very loosely protected.  He knew there were only three guards, he knew their names, their ages, and knew they were unarmed.  He was also pretty sure that, on the off chance he dropped in right on top of one of the old-timers, he would not be overtaken.

  The blueprints had put Clark twenty-five feet west of his target directly above corridor H.  The charges were set.  Clark pulled the ski mask down over his face, took four deep breaths (holding the last one,) and shielded his eyes with his forearm.

  “Base, I think we got raccoons on the roof again,” squawked the youngest guard over his hand held radio.  “Somethin’s definitely up there, over.”  He shook the loose peanuts in his palm and popped them in his mouth.

  “I’m writing the report up now, over,” replied one of the guards from base.

  “First time in a long time you had to do anything down there, over” joked Raymond.  He could not remember the last time anything of any consequence had happened at the museum.  His routine had become mundane.  Walking the hallways and flashing his light around was all he ever did.  Tonight, he had heard the sounds on the roof somewhere in the general vicinity of the Hand to Hand Combat Tech wing.  He followed the sound as far as he could hear, reported in to the security base, and found himself gazing lazily at the personal flight suit displayed behind thick glass.  The suit was lit from above.  The shadows cast by the dimmed spotlight made the it appear even bigger and mightier than it was in reality.  The guard looked the display over from helmet to boots and turned to walk away.

  He radioed base with one last check, “All quiet now, I’m headed back, over.”

  With that, an explosion rocked the corridor and shook the building to its foundation.  The hanging airborne weapons on display in the main corridor swung with the blast.  A large portion of the corridor roof collapsed in and dust rushed around the displays blocking out all vision.  A piercing alarm sounded and the hall lights flickered on and off erratically making sight worse by illuminating the cloud of debris in a dizzying strobe.  The guard was knocked across the hallway into the adjacent wall, hitting so hard that his head left an indentation.  He fell to the floor, unconsciously shaking and coughing.  The lights flickered again and went out.  It was pitch black.

  Being knocked out for three minutes seemed like a much longer nap.  When the guard finally regained his bearings he rolled from his back to his stomach and pushed himself up onto his forearms.  His radio was not within reach and he could not see.  His head pounded in a way it had never before with each thump of his heartbeat sending daggers into his skull.  The taste in his mouth was a mixture of dust, roofing tar, and blood.  Fighting not to loose consciousness again, he heard a voice calling from the black behind him.

  “Raymond!” the voice called.

  “Here,” he moaned, “Here.  I can’t see!  I’m hurt.  The back of my head is wet.  I think I’m bleeding!  Help, please.”

  The lights flickered again.  He could see the dust starting to settle, but could not make out much else.  He wasn’t even sure where he was in the building anymore.  He heard his rescuer now more clearly.  It was the third guard who had been strolling in the atrium.

  “Raymond!” he heard again and felt a hand on his back.  “Don’t move, Ray.  I’m gonna get you some help.”  He turned his fallen co-worker over onto his back again and called back to base, “We need medical, now.  I can’t see but I think Raymond is hurt bad.  Give the manual override.  We need light up here.”

  The radio came back, “Paramedics are on their way.  Overriding now.  What’s Ray’s condition?”

  Then, in a blinding flash the lights came on and this time stayed.  The rescuing guard was able to get a first look at his comrade.  Raymond was unconscious again.

  “Tell ‘em to hurry!” he reported on the radio with urgency, “Ray’s head.  He’s hurt real bad!  Over!”  He looked on the injured guard and pleaded, “C’mon Ray.  Help is coming.  Stick it out.”

  Never leaving his friend’s side, he glanced upward and saw the dust starting to settle.  The individual display lights were flickering, trying to come back on.  And when they did, with a buzz and flash, the guard leaning over his fallen friend was confronted with the reality of what had just taken place.  Hardly believing his eyes, he reached for his radio one more time.  It had been used swiftly to radio for help only moments ago but now he fumbled and shook as he pressed his thumb in to speak.

  “Base, come back,” he shouted.

  “Go for base, over,” the voice on the radio came back.

  “Exhibit 46H.  The suit is gone, over,” he replied out of breath.

  “Say again?” responded the base guard in disbelief.

  “The damn flying suit is gone!  46H, the Superman suit.  It’s been taken!  Over!”

  The gaping hole in the museum roof was now clearly visible, as was the repelling line that still hung into the hallway.  As the stunned security guard surveyed the damage and started to understand the loss, he looked back onto the man whose head he held in his hands.  He felt Raymond’s body go lifeless with one last labored breath.  Horrified, the guard pushed himself back against the nearest wall and grabbed his radio.  Tears ran from his nose and lips onto the com-device in his shaky hand.

  “Base, call the F.B.I. or C.I.A. or somebody.” he called back to base, dazed.  “The suit is gone.  Ray’s gone.  Call someone, please call someone now, over.”