Stephen White - Warning Signs

They were. The whole pack of them was squatting in their robes and edging down the angled wall away from Ramp toward Lincoln Street. From this distance, they looked like a pack of nuns trying to walk away on their knees.

Ramp noticed, too. He barked at me, "Tell them to stop moving. Tell the cop, now !"

I said, "Rivera? He wants the justices to stop moving."

Rivera looked to make sure I'd covered the microphone with my finger. "Screw him. They're almost away."

As though he'd read Rivera's lips, Ramp reacted. An audible little boom sounded and a tiny puff of smoke emerged from the steel rack on the back of the truck.

Sam, the binoculars still at his eyes, said, "Oh shit."

One of the tall green tanks began spewing its pressurized contents with an immense hiss and roar. The volume of the noise of the escaping gas was incredible.

As they heard the blast and the subsequent roar, the justices stopped their progression from the plaza and dropped back down to the ground.

Blunt end first, a green tank lifted from the steel rack on the back of the truck like a missile leaving its launcher.

I held my breath.

Another small explosion followed, and then came the roar of additional escaping gases. A second tank immediately lifted from the rack.

Rivera screamed into a megaphone, urging the hostages to run. I'm sure they couldn't hear him. I was five feet from him and I could barely discern his words above the hiss of the ruptured tanks.

Although the first of the tanks launched into the air like a slow-motion rocket, it returned to the ground no more than thirty feet from the truck. It bounced off the stone plaza like a smooth rock on a glass lake, hopping across the wide expanse with a speed and ferocity that should have belonged only to objects launched by the Marines. A stone bench slightly changed the tank's trajectory: It skidded up the angled wall about twenty feet from the huddled Supreme Court justices before it vanished over the top of the roof.

The second tank stayed airborne at least twice as far as the first one had before crashing blunt-end-first into the plaza. From there it tumbled once end over end like a child's jack, finally bouncing high and disappearing into the second floor of the building, demolishing all the windows in its path. The destruction was only fifteen feet above the huddled hostages.

As the hissing died away, I could hear screams. I could also hear Rivera yelling for someone to take Ramp out.

A third puff of smoke emerged from the back of the truck and a third tank launched into the air with an enormous swoosh. A fourth tank followed two or three seconds later.

My eyes followed the two new hurtling tanks until Sam-Rivera's binoculars still glued to his eyes-screamed into my ear, "He just busted out the back window of the truck. Watch him!"

Ramp dove athletically through the empty space where the window had been and immediately disappeared into the void between the big equipment box and the steel rack full of tanks.

I didn't hear any shots from sharpshooters' rifles.

I looked over in time to see one of the newly fired tanks skittering through the justices like a bowling ball through a fresh stand of pins. Black-robed bodies went flying into the air.

I didn't know where the other tank had gone.

T he binoculars stillat his eyes, Sam yelled, "He's turning the rack this way. Everybody run!"

The steel rack was now pointing right at us, the blunt end of the remaining tanks shining brightly like polished coins.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Ramp launched three tanks in rapid succession. Cops, firefighters, and paramedics scattered like ants. I was pinned by two Denver Police patrol cars. My only route to safety was following Sam across the road toward the front end of the parked flatbed truck. Ramp couldn't rotate the rack that far-if he did, the cab would interfere with the launch of any more tanks.

I could feel the impact of one of the newly launched tanks as it crashed into a patrol car behind me. The concussion was so intense that I almost fell to the asphalt as I sprinted after Sam.

The patrol car burst into flames. A second or two later the whole thing ignited like a bomb as the fire reached the fuel in the gas tank.

Sam and I were enveloped in heat; the force of the explosion threw us to the ground. We crawled the rest of the way across the street and crouched out of sight in front of Ramp's truck. I looked back to discover that the other two tanks had made it all the way across Broadway and impaled themselves in the façade of the Philip Johnson-designed Denver Public Library.

I tried to find Rivera in the chaos. I couldn't spot him.

Sam said, "He only has two tanks left."

A new roar filled the air and another rocket left the launcher. Sam held up his index finger and mouthed, "One."

M y instinct was to turn my head to follow thetrajectory of the missile as it lifted from the back of the truck. But Sam held my face firmly with both his hands, forcing me to stare into his eyes. As the roar of the newly launched tank diminished, he said, "I'm going to shoot him, then I'm going to compress the switch on his foot. You're going to press the button on his hand every five seconds until the bomb squad tells you to stop. You are not going to hold it down. Every five seconds. You got it?"

I nodded.

"You're sure?"

I nodded again.

He moved around to the passenger side of the truck. I followed him.

Ramp turned just as Sam was leveling his weapon. Ramp's eyes were soft and inviting, at once disbelieving and trusting. I sensed that he knew what was about to happen, and that he welcomed it. My ears were so overwhelmed by the hissing gases and the fomenting chaos that I'm not sure I even heard the explosion from Sam's handgun. But I think I saw a dark hole emerge three inches below the collar line and two inches left of center on Ramp's chest.

Ramp's face registered no surprise before he fell.

Sam screamed, "Alan, now! Every five seconds. Count out loud so I can hear you."

Ramp had collapsed into an awkward heap in the confined space between the steel rack that had been full of tanks and the big metal equipment box. Sam and I were bumping into each other, clawing at Ramp's limbs, desperate to find the correct hand and the correct foot.

Sam yelled, "I got his foot! I have the switch."

Ramp's right hand was pinned beneath his body, which seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. I yanked at his elbow. It didn't free his hand.

"You got it?" cried Sam.

I didn't answer. I put all my weight into another tug on Ramp's elbow. In my head I was counting to ten and was already at eleven.

Ramp's hand came free.

I traced down his wrist, turned his hand palm up, and pressed maniacally with my thumb.

The red button was gone.

"It's gone."

"What do you mean it's gone?"

"It's gone."

"Get Lucy and get out of here. Do it! Now !"

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

I crawled backward off of Ramp's body and almost fell before I ripped open the door to the truck. Lucy was huddled in the footwell on the passenger side. Her eyes were streaked red and tears stained her cheeks. As she saw me, she pushed herself up onto the seat. I raised her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry and ran north on Broadway, waiting for an explosion to sever Lucy's body and end my life.

I screamed, "Bomb squad! Bomb squad! Over here! Bomb squad!" until Lucy and I were just inside the taped perimeter near Fourteenth Street. But when I arrived at that spot and looked around, I realized we were alone.

The aftermath of the impact of the last few tanks that Ramp had launched and the destruction caused by the exploding patrol car had created enough carnage and confusion to occupy all the emergency personnel on the scene.