The Killing Machine

THE KILLING MACHINE

By

Richard Van Doren

Killing Machine, The

Van Doren, Richard

Copyright 2023 Richard Van Doren

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From THE OVAL OFFICE

"We knew the guy was a lunatic when he took over the Presidency, a certifiable sociopath. Now, he’s launched a war of aggression against a much weaker nation and he has his finger on the nuclear button.

"We cannot engage him directly. There can be no military exchange between us. We can’t be party to triggering a nuclear offensive, so we have to calculate how much we help our ally against how much we provoke our enemy into potentially catastrophic behavior—and I mean on a global scale.

"No matter what you do, or don’t do, many millions of lives will be affected. If we fail to commit the full power of our military—short of nukes—civilians will die by the hundreds of thousands—at least - in addition to the inevitable toll on their ground troops. If we join in driving out the invaders by force... well, I’ve already described the potential consequences.

"Because of the sanctions we’ve placed on that madman, every economy in the western world has suffered. We’ve got runaway inflation, crumbling infrastructure, soaring crime... another way of saying it’s going to be a very challenging election year.

"Say, whatever happened to that machine they proposed to the Senate Arms Committee a couple of years ago?"

"It’s not yet technologically feasible."

"Not yet feasible! We’ve got the Mars Rover and robots that perform surgery. What’s the big deal with this?"

"Shapeshifting. They’ve got almost all the other technical details ironed out, but this one. And that’s pretty much the heart of the whole project. Our little mechanical miracle must be able to hide in plain sight, kill, and then hide in plain sight again. That’s a tall order even for twenty-first century geniuses."

"Well, we’ve got to get that project back up and running—what was it called, Orion? I don’t care how much it costs. We’ll find a way to fund it. And half of that will have to go to security. If this thing falls into the wrong hands, God help us all."

RECENT HISTORY

Some called them insurrectionists. Some called them patriots. Some called them traitors and rioters. Some called them tourists and good ole boys and girls. The label applied to those who stormed (or toured) the Capitol Building in Washington DC on January 6, 2021 depended entirely upon whom one asked. The controversy lingered for several years with the two major political parties unable (or refusing) to cooperate with one another to determine a consensus regarding the motives for this history-making event. As a song declared:

Two thousand stood tall or two thousand sinned,

While the filthy rich got richer, our enemies all grinned.

Some called the Presidential election of 2020 rigged. Some called it fair and impartial. Some said it was stolen from the incumbent, a sinister triumph of the deep state. Some insisted it was honest and responsibly overseen by bipartisan volunteers. The President-Elect received more votes by far than any previous candidate for the same office. The incumbent, who lost the election, received the second most votes of any Presidential candidate in history. Many declared this impossible. Someone had to cheat. As the song lamented:

It proved to all who followed we were surely not united,

But the filthy rich got richer and our enemies were delighted.

The new President promised bi-partisan appeals.

To make progress, he assured us, he’d be willing to make deals.

The former office-holder on his party kept a grip

And demanded blind allegiance as a sign of membership.

The leaders struggled mightily to keep their goals in sight

While the filthy rich got richer to aid our enemies’ fight.

Some called the opposing party socialists. Some called them snowflakes. Some called them Defenders of the Constitution. Some called the opposing party obstructionists. Some called them anarchists. Some called them Defenders of the Constitution. Friendly disagreements morphed into annoyance, which mutated as chagrin and erupted into loathing, like any of the volcanoes active around the world. Krakatoa, Mt. Pelee and Mt. Saint Helens all stand as historical reminders that sometimes volcanoes can explode.

Like some international relations rose an undeclared cold war,

While the filthy rich got richer and our enemies cheered for more.

All the while a pandemic raged. Once thought suppressed, it re-emerged with heightened fury, slightly more virulent and deadly. The nation went into lockdown yet again and social distancing resumed. Some people blamed a foreign country. Some people blamed irresponsible behavior, the refusal to obey CDC guidelines (an infringement on our rights as Americans), as providing a virtual petri-dish for a vaccine-resistant strain.

Ten million more infected and untold numbers killed,

But the filthy rich got richer and our enemies were thrilled.

It wasn’t only politics that split apart our nation.

Racial animosity relit a conflagration.

Bearers of all skin tones saw the other as a threat,

Demanding compensation to make good on ling’ring debt.

‘Twas best to hate and fight than admit that something’s owed,

So the filthy rich got richer and our enemies all crowed.

An ancient sage once declared, while relentlessly derided,

A house is almost sure to fall, if it’s a house divided.

If our country keeps it feet, it’s still too soon to tell.

Perhaps what will unite us is a monstrous glimpse of hell.

THE CITY

An early April shower left just enough sheen on the concrete streets and sidewalks to reflect the spectacularly colorful marquees and billboards of New York City’s iconic Times Square. Always a breathtaking sight, tonight it was even more so. Although a ninth mutation of the COVID pandemic resulted in a reissue of CDC warnings, hundreds chose not to heed them and strolled Broadway - sans masks and social distancing. By order of the Mayor, bars and restaurants closed at midnight, and all public performance sites went dark once again. With store fronts gated and vehicular traffic virtually non-existent, the extraordinary number of pedestrians surprised city officials.

Lily Mabry and Tamara Hall drank in the wonder of Times Square with a delight unprecedented in their relatively young lives. Both haled from the same small town in Mississippi, and no late-stage pandemic was going to delay any further a trip they had planned since graduating from high school three years before. True, family, politicians and travel agents had all sternly urged them to postpone their visit for one more year, but they decided to risk it. And now, as they strolled arm in arm, reveling in their friendship and good fortune, they felt quite smug—good-naturedly, of course—celebrating the bright, colored lights, which city officials illuminated to lift the spirits of essential personnel.

Tamara vowed she would move here someday, this being the center of the universe as far as she was concerned. Not without me, Lily cajoled. Of course, not without you, Tamara whispered, snuggling against Lily’s shoulder. Is there any place else to live? Tamara continued to share her dream of auditioning for the theater, any theater, really. She knew Broadway was a long shot and probably out of her range, but she knew she could act, carry a tune and dance, and there were hundreds of smaller theaters in town that just might be happy to take on the likes of her. "What are you gonna do when we move here?" Tamara asked.

But Lily did not answer. Tamara felt her friend go slack and stop suddenly. Looking beside her, she saw on Lily’s face a strange expression of confusion, pain and fear. Then her knees buckled and she fell forward, her face smacking the pavement with a sickening thud. Tamara started to scream for help, but a stabbing pain in her eye silenced her, and she too fell beside her best friend with whom she lived and now died.

From that moment on, except to their families far away, they would be known as Bodies 1 and 2.

Strutting in near formation from the south, the newly realized Ebony Guardians, eleven fifteen and sixteen-year-old Black boys, merely intended to attract notice. Their purpose was not to engender fear, vandalize property or cause trouble in any way. They merely basked in the camaraderie and sense of power that only comes from traveling in numbers. Led, ironically, by the smallest member of the group, a supremely confident and forward-thinking youth named Dejean Elliott, the Ebony Guardians’ only reason for being was to combat other gangs who acted with ill-intent, and in so doing assist police in keeping their beloved city safe. After a few tense encounters with the uniforms, the Guardians made their purpose plain, kept their noses clean, and earned—if not respect—at least an occasional nod or wave from patrolling officers.

Elliott’s followers that night were Simon Tripp, Fiorello Simpson, Jackson Trembly, Marcus Patch Darnell, Darnell Morris—yes, the gang would joke what if Marcus and Darnell were gay, got married, took Marcus’ last name, etc., etc.—and Jambalaya Mustaff, all sixteen, Arthur Jones, Sammy Obwenega, Philip Sawchelle and Terrence Feeney, all fifteen. Millions would wonder why boys this age were out wandering the streets well after midnight. Where were their parents? How could they sneak out so easily? Had they no experience with the city’s hidden dangers?

In just under thirty seconds, all eleven members of the Ebony Guardians lay dead on a sidewalk in their hometown. They would become known as Bodies Three through Thirteen.

Michelle and Henry Ambersen, recent transplants to the Big Apple, still sported deep tans from their trip to the Bahamas. They especially loved taking strolls arm-in-arm on rainy nights at any time, if not already fast asleep. They loved the dazzling majesty of their new home, and they rejoiced that they would soon be joined by a new member of the family. For a split second, Henry thought Michelle had stumbled and strained to keep her from falling, but then he too felt his energy pouring out of him and he followed his wife to the concrete underfoot. Bodies Fourteen and Fifteen.

Ten members of the Ling family drove up from Chinatown where they had enjoyed a reunion dinner only two hours before. Kai Ling, a graduate of Princeton University, his wife Zoa, both expatriates of China, their three children, ages seven, four and one, two distant cousins named Fe and Juan, Kai’s mother Tana and two aunts Nei-ya and Pran - the latter three visiting from their homeland, allowed because Nei-ya’s husband was a diplomat—had all climbed from their rented passenger van to take pictures of legendary Times Square. They would be counted as Bodies Sixteen through Twenty-five.

Marcos Villanueva and his former fiancé Miranda Escobar were sitting on a bench facing the street. She had recently broken their engagement due to Marcos’ drinking problem. He swore he had enrolled in counseling and was attending meetings, or so their friends reported the next day. Marcos had called Miranda begging her to meet him in Times Square. Contrary to the advice of her friends, she agreed, because she still loved him. He intended to propose a second time. Both seemed oblivious to the bench’s wet surface. The second they felt their seats getting damp, they rose laughing—but only for two seconds. Both grabbed their chests, buckled over and fell to the ground, inches away from the curb. Bodies Twenty-six and Twenty-seven.

(WNBC-TV Early Morning): "This morning New York City awoke to its most horrific scene since the 9/11 attacks in 2001. Twenty-seven New Yorkers have been found dead on the streets and sidewalks of Times Square, the apparent victims of one or more firearms. All of the dead were killed by a single projectile either through the heart or brain. There were no reports of gunfire, although the pedestrian traffic continues to be very light even as we near the end of the nation’s worst pandemic in over a century.

Officials are at a loss to explain how one assailant could claim so many victims, yet that seems to be the case, given the proximity of several potential witnesses who claim to have seen nothing or no one who could commit this mass murder. Mayor Wilson Frazer and NYPD Chief Jacob Cisco together emphatically warn those living in New York to remain indoors and those commuting into the city to stay home today, until the perpetrator or perpetrators have been apprehended. We will remain on this story exclusively throughout the morning.

(BBC-1, London, Mid-Day News): While mass murder is nothing new to the United States, the crime being reported at this hour seems particularly troubling, perhaps one could say terrifying, as twenty-seven residents of New York City were found shot to death in Times Square, one of America’s most popular tourist attractions. Police have ruled out the use of a conventional weapon, like an assault rifle, since all of the bodies displayed a single miniscule puncture wound, either to the chest, abdomen or eyeball. In other words, all of the victims were killed by a single well-aimed shot that pierced a vital organ like the heart or brain.

(Fox, Canada Toronto Today) "It has happened again to our southern neighbors—mass murder on an alarming scale, that is. This time the site is New York City’s Times Square where twenty-seven human beings were shot down in the space of five minutes. All of those killed were defying quarantine directives issued in light of the resurgent pandemic, but at least a hundred others, well within eyesight of the terrible crime, claim to have seen no weapons-bearing assailant in their proximity.

"‘Suddenly, people started grabbing their chests or eyeballs and fell down,’ said one eyewitness. ‘I looked around trying to see where the gunfire was coming from so I could hide someplace, but I saw and heard nothing.’

This terrible crime could not have occurred at a more ironic time as several of the United States are entertaining legislation to do away entirely with weapons registration, perhaps in light of recent extremist activity highlighted by increasing assaults on America’s Capitol. It always bears noting that we Canadians possess far more weaponry per capita than our American neighbors, yet suffer a minute fraction of violent crime in comparison. Once again, it raises the deeply troubling specter of a dangerously disturbed culture to our south, and how it might someday infect our own.

As Chief Javier Cisco fielded one report after another concerning the very worst day of his life on this job, he resisted the compulsion to cry. After his highly controversial appointment a year ago to the most prestigious frontline law enforcement post in the country, he faced relentless criticism from some media sources for being too inexperienced—and too soft—for the job, some of this stemming from similar dissatisfaction with his boss Mayor Wilson Frazer. Cisco understood the politics, as did Frazer. Times were a-changin’, and changing fast. Now, New York had not one but two minorities in the highest positions of leadership, and a significant chunk of the citizenry did not like that fact one least bit.

It made no difference that the crime he was now charged with solving was one that could not have been prevented by local law enforcement, any more than the high-jacked plane crashes into the Twin Towers over twenty-five years before. But people rarely reacted to stories like these with insight or wisdom—only emotion. If there had been more patrol officers on foot, if the city had been safer in this world of increasing threats, what happened last night could have been avoided. If, if, if—the same rationale that tormented every police force in the aftermath of a terrible crime. Yeah, we know you don’t have ESP, but you should have seen this coming.

In twenty minutes, he would have to face the press along with Mayor Frazer, and together they would have to assure the public that everything was under control, that they already identified several suspects, that the clear and present danger would be short-lived. And of course, none of it would be true. The gulf between the severity of the incident and the amount of evidence gathered was the worst he ever encountered, either as a professional, a reader of crime novels, or viewer of movies and TV shows.

Whatever they were facing was unprecedented, and Cisco knew Will felt the same way. Not that it mattered in the slightest under the present circumstances, but he was pretty sure he would not finish the year holding this job.

Chief Cisco instructed his admin to contact Manhattan’s Times Square precinct. He had to tell the people something, even if it came off weak and ill-informed. Predictably, he had already assigned the entire staff this single case, thus making petty crimes, break-ins and hold-ups a piece of cake for any insightful perp.

Sir, I wish I had something promising to share, Detective Elsa Benson replied when queried, but it’s almost like what we don’t know is a clue in itself. Detective Benson was a three-year veteran of NYPD’s Homicide Division. Thirty-three years old, unmarried, though by choice only, since she was quite attractive as Cisco would later learn, Benson’s rise, while not exactly meteoric, did reflect a determination to be a very good cop and an unusually keen eye for detail. "As you know, Times Square is one of the most, if not the most heavily surveilled acreage in the world. We have over three hundred video cameras trained on the region, largely because of the million or so revelers who gather there on New Year’s Eve, and our preliminary review of relevant footage shows us nothing, not even anything suspicious. All we see are people suddenly falling to the ground, the victims obviously, but no evidence of a shooter or shooters. We still have several more hours to study, but it’s highly doubtful they’ll produce anything promising. Maybe Ramon Gutierrez will have something to add."

Without prompting, Benson transferred Chief Cisco’s call.

Gutierrez.

Tell me something promising, Detective, Cisco pled.

Chief! I figured you’d call asap. I only wish I had some good news. Ramon Gutierrez, a ten-year veteran of Homicide, transferred two years prior to the Terrorism Task Force, struggled with conflicting emotions: his furious desire to protect the people of his city and the lives of his wife and two children. While pouring over the sketchy evidence, desperately hoping to discover some clue to the horror that may still continue undeterred, he agonized over calling his wife Margarita and ordering them to flea immediately to their cabin in the Poconos.

Built like a fireplug, with dark thinning hair and a light beard that was just now going out of style, his peers recognized him more for what often seemed like preternatural insight when analyzing data from social media platforms, anonymous tips over the phone, and broadcast news reports. Of the thousands of sources that promised violent threats, his ability to isolate the legitimate ones bordered on the uncanny. The maddeningly frustrating fact was this attack came without warning. No one laid claim to it; no one threatened it. And that defied all logic according to his experience. He related this fact breathlessly to his superior.

You have absolutely nothing?! Chief Cisco replied incredulously.

Only the video surveillance, which I suspect Elsa—er—Detective Benson shared with you already. I admit we haven’t analyzed everything, but one thing is certain, whoever did this is either invisible or not human. We’ve checked every rooftop and window overlooking the kill site and so far we’ve found nothing suspicious. We’ve impounded every vehicle within a mile of the death zone. Still nothing. No sign of guns, traces of gunpower or the like. Although the causes of death were almost certainly not the result of conventional assault weapons, we have yet to theorize a logical alternative.

And no eyewitnesses, Chief Cisco sighed.

Well, Gutierrez paused, raising the Chief’s hopes. We did find a transient underneath a bench about a block from the kill zone. I guess our nightly sweep missed him. He’s quite diminutive, clearly alcoholic and barely comprehensible.

Chief Cisco felt his hands go cold as he suddenly realized that every passing second spent in conversation increased the possibility of a repeat attack. His next question surprised even him. Did you get a name.

He has several and no official ID, hardly a reliable source. All he said was that a manhole cover grew a trunk with limbs and began spitting at everybody. We couldn’t get any more detail from him than that. This type rarely wanders from his territory, so we let him be.

The Square has been evacuated?

It has. Only official personnel are there now.

How safe are they?