Matt Hilton: Blood and Ashes

He found the entrance to the arm, looked up the undulating tunnel. What if he lit a real flame up there inside Liberty’s torch? He could imagine the after-effects posted on the internet for the entire world to see. It would be iconic, like the Berlin Wall coming down, the Twin Towers collapsing. But he decided, no. He wanted to poison the entire monument, and if he blew the torch most of the fallout would drift away on the wind and rain. He continued towards the next landing and the observation deck in Liberty’s crown.

From one of the twenty-five windows in the crown, he peered out towards Manhattan as he caught his breath. Lights darted high over the tall buildings, there one second, gone the next as they streaked through the tattered low-lying clouds. Either he was witness to an alien invasion, or these UFOs were police helicopters responding to the calls for assistance from the maintenance crew who’d fled earlier. For a second he glanced down, saw the tablet held in Lady Liberty’s left hand. Roman numerals depicted the date July 4th, 1776. Independence Day, my ass! More like the beginning of the end. He spat at his feet, saying out loud, ‘The white man built this nation. We allowed others to come in. That was our mistake, and now it’s our duty to put things right.’

He looked for the lights again, and others had joined them, this time on the water. They were coming. Time to get this done.

He crouched down and pulled the contents from the rucksack he’d lugged here. The two flasks of plutonium he placed carefully on the floor, but then yanked out the makings of an IED he’d scrounged from the engine room and galley of the yacht. There was nothing fancy about it, nothing as glamorous as plastic explosive or Semtex, just gasoline in a large tin container, rags, gaffer tape and a lighter. Exploded here inside the head of Lady Liberty the highly inflammable fuel would erupt everywhere, spill down the stairs and over the copper sheets and steel structure, spreading and poisoning the entire statue with the radioactive particles.

He laid out his materials and reached for the first flask. He unscrewed the cap and teased out the glass vial inside, placed it down gently. He repeated the process with the second one, then gaffer-taped the two vials to the outer surface of the gas can. He started wondering: can I do this without killing myself?

He looked down at his high-top boots and the red laces he wore with pride. Quickly he crouched down, unfastening each lace until he had enough. He cut them away with a knife he carried, leaving just enough to tie over his insteps to keep his boots on. He knotted the strands together, dipped them into the neck of the gasoline can. He was careful not to get too much fuel on them, just enough to ensure a constant flame, and ended up with almost two yards of fuse. That should do it.

He wadded rags and fed them into the neck of the can, letting another trail out so it gave him another few seconds of leeway, then tucked one end of the impregnated lace under the rag. He positioned himself at the head of the stairs, fed the fuse down the first four steps and left it hanging there, because flame always travelled upward.

All he had to do now was light it before running like hell.

A flash of movement through the billowing rain caught my attention, and I recognised the panther-like figure of Rink as he rushed over the grassy approach to Fort Wood. There was nothing to be done for the dead Park Ranger over whom I’d stooped, checking for nonexistent vital signs. I set off after Rink. My friend had obviously responded to the rattle of gunfire, rushing to give aid.

Pounding up the shallow incline to the eleven-pointed plinth, I searched upward but got no sign of where Gant could be. Rink had already sprinted to the right and out of view. There were voices shouting in alarm, and the dulled pock-pock-pock of machine-gun fire from somewhere inside the building. I put my head down and raced hard to cover the distance. I reached the fort’s thick wall; placed it between me and a sniper’s aim from above. I followed the wall to the northern end where visitors to the landmark could file inside.

Rounding the final corner, I found Rink standing at the front of a small group of people. They were all extremely agitated, some of them wanting to flee while Rink tried to direct them around the side of the building and out of any possible line of fire.

I ran up to them, aware of but ignoring the pulling in my thigh. A couple of people flinched and were about to run, taking me for one of the mysterious gunmen assaulting the statue. Dipping my hand in my pocket, I dragged out the identification badge I’d lifted from Vince earlier. ‘Hunter, FBI,’ I called out, sounding officious. ‘Everyone listen to me. We have a situation here, people, and I need every one of you to leave the vicinity immediately. Do as my colleague says, and head around the back there. Keep close to the wall and you should be fine.’

One of the group, an older woman wearing a beige uniform, pointed at a woman lying close to the entrance door, her cleaning cart overturned next to her. She blinked raindrops or tears from her eyes. ‘What about Mrs Lopez?’

‘We have back-up coming,’ Rink reassured her with a hopeful squint towards me. ‘Mrs Lopez will be taken care of. For now, y’all are our priority and we need to get you out of here.’

‘Bill Jefferson is still inside,’ the woman said.

Recalling the machine-gun fire and the scream that followed, it wasn’t likely that Mr Jefferson would be coming out on his own two feet. I spared the woman that insight, though, saying, ‘We’ll find him. Now… have any of you any idea where the gunman is?’

A younger male who looked like he might have spent time on a football field pointed up. ‘I heard him upstairs. But he fired at me and I had to get away. Jeez, I didn’t want to run, but what could I do?’

‘You did the right thing, son.’

The youth wasn’t fully satisfied, but he went on, maybe in an effort at reconciling himself to his perceived cowardice. ‘But I didn’t keep on running. I stopped a couple flights down and I’m sure I heard him going up the metal stairs into the statue. Then I-’

He was about to launch into some tale of heroics and I cut him off. To preserve his sense of honour I gave the boy a way out. ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Liam Walsh, sir.’

‘Well, Liam, I’m looking for a good man to help us out here. Can I rely on you?’

‘Uh, sure, sir,’ he said, while blinking at the faces of the terrified group who were now focused him.

‘This is what I need you to do, Liam: I need you to get these people safely away from here while we go and stop this maniac. They need someone they trust to lead them. Now… do as I said, OK? Keep close to the walls of the fort, then when you know you can’t be seen from any of the viewing platforms make a run for it to the far shore. From there you can backtrack down to the head of the island. The police are coming and they’ll take over from there.’

‘Won’t one of you come with us?’ asked a third member of the group, another woman, this one thin and dark-skinned. Some of the others nodded in agreement, their faces full of concern.

Rink opened his mouth, but Liam saved him the trouble. ‘Come on, you heard what they said. We’re just holding these good men back from doing their job. Follow me; I’ll get us all outa here.’

The boy couldn’t know how right he was. I nodded at him, respect. He gave me a lopsided grin, pushed his hand through his hair, then led the group away, round the nearest point and out of sight. Not a one of them challenged his leadership, though someone was yelling frantically into a radio and I caught an incredulous squawk in response.