“I can’t let you take the body unless Mr. Tuchman agrees and it sure doesn’t seem that he agrees, ” said Johnson, as his right hand slowly undid the holster strap to his service revolver.
Johnson’s movement did not go unnoticed. Just as deliberately, Smith reached inside his pants pocket and pressed the button on the paging device. Twoomey’s pager beeped once and he immediately went into the funeral parlor following the loud voices. Two Marines with their weapons followed him.
In less than ten seconds, Twoomey opened the door, dropped to a kneeling position and aimed his automatic right at the sheriff, who had his revolver drawn and was holding both Smith and Adams at bay. Immediately behind Twoomey the two Marines fanned out to take positions on each side of Twoomey. The Marines’ Striker 12 shotguns were fully choked for a tight shot pattern and the red beam of the lasers were aimed at Johnson’s chest.
Twoomey said, “Drop that weapon, Sheriff. There is no way you can get all of us.”
Sweat poured down Johnson’s face. His shirt was drenched from perspiration. Nothing he had ever encountered had prepared him for this occasion. The weapons themselves were unlike anything he had ever seen. His trigger finger started to tighten. His face flushed. His eyes squinted both from fear and the salty, biting sweat that continued to bead down from his forehead.
“I don’ know who you are, but I’m pretty sure you aren’t who you say you are. You just can’t just come here and demand things. I ain’t gonna let you, no way.”
“Sheriff, you are making a big mistake. I’m not sure who these fellows are either but I can tell you that George Smith is legit,” said Adams.
“Buddy, I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI. If you will allow me, I can get my identification card for you.”
“Don’t you dare reach for that. I weren’t born yesterday.”
As Johnson’s attention was momentarily diverted, Twoomey was able to fire one shot, intentionally grazing Johnson’s right arm, which caused him to drop his revolver. Tension filled the room as the two Marines started to squeeze the triggers of their Striker 12 Shotguns.
Instinctively, Twoomey said, “Hold your fire!”
The troopers responded immediately.
Johnson clutched his right arm with his left hand, a rivulet of blood streamed down his right arm. Tuchman, who until this moment had been huddling in the corner of the room, rushed forward with some sterile gauze to staunch the flow of blood. The two of them now looked at the intruders with nervous gazes.
“I’m sorry I had to fire, but you left me with no choice,” said Twoomey. “Our instructions are that we will return to our base with the remains and that no one, I repeat, no one will prevent us from doing so.” Twoomey held the small, pocket-sized communicator to his mouth. “Bring the casket down into the cold room. Use the service elevator.”
Tuchman, for all his years in the undertaking business, had never seen a casket quite like the one being pushed into the cold room. Shaped in a half-cylinder, the casket was made of stainless steel. The casket was hermetically sealable and there appeared to be a way to control its internal temperature. Two small cylinders were attached to the outside of the casket. Stenciled on the two small cylinders was the word, “Nitrogen.” The cylinders were connected to the casket by copper tubing and gas valves.
The two men who pushed the casket in were dressed in blue and each wore a rubber apron and elbow-length rubber gloves. Rolling the casket up to Winslow’s corpse, one of the men encoded an alphanumeric sequence onto a keypad on the side of the casket. The casket lid slowly opened, revealing a bare, metallic interior. Inside the casket lay a gray rubber body bag.
The two men took out the body bag and placed it on the gurney next to Winslow. They unzipped the bag and gently lifted the charred remains of Winslow into the bag. When the body was moved, the overpowering stench of wet ashes, burnt tissue, and death once again filled the room. The odor subsided when the two Marines zipped the body bag shut. The two Marines gently lifted the body bag into the stainless steel casket and secured the lid. The atmosphere inside the casket was evacuated and replaced with nitrogen gas. The temperature of the casket was set at zero degrees centigrade.
As the two Marines quietly pushed the casket out of the cold room, Smith said, “Mr. Tuchman. Sheriff Johnson. As far as you’re concerned this incident never occurred. National security demands this extreme action. I would rather not discuss what will happen if you continue to interfere with our mission. Am I making myself sufficiently clear?”
Neither Tuchman nor Johnson reacted to Smith’s warning. They stood in silence as Smith and Adams searched the cold room for any more items connected with Winslow and placed the items in plastic evidence bags.
Satisfied that nothing more remained in the cold room, Twoomey picked up Johnson’s revolver, took all the shells out of the cylinder and handed it back to Johnson. Twoomey also relieved Johnson of his speed loaders.
Twoomey, Smith, and Adams left the cold room. The two Marine guards left immediately behind them. Outside, the stainless steel casket was loaded into the second Suburban. The blue-clad men from the back, the front, and inside the building jumped into the three Suburbans and the gray caravan drove off at high speed. In the cold room, Johnson and Tuchman sat looking at each other in shock.
Tomorrow morning, Johnson would discover that InfoNet would list no information on a body being found in a burning farmhouse south of Mankato, Minnesota. His efforts at discovering the identity of the intruders would be equally fruitless.
Like the stranger said, it just didn’t happen.
1993: Ambush
The incessant ringing jarred Mike out of a deep sleep. After an enjoyable evening with his old friends, Gladys and Bob McHugh, Mike had turned in about 12:30 a.m. Seeing his old friends had helped Mike forget about his other war, the one he had waged daily in posh offices high above the common crowd. The warmth of this friendship with the McHughs was important to Mike, particularly with the drama now unfolding. As a field grade officer, Mike rated a single room at the bachelor officers’ quarters. Turning in, he had asked for a wakeup call at 0700 hours so that he could report to McHugh’s office at 0800 hours, as requested by the Admiral
Half asleep, Mike searched in the dark for the telephone. I must be late, he thought. Don’t they send orderlies around anymore like they used to?
McHugh was a stickler for punctuality. Mike had sat through the discomfort of his fellow officers when they received an uncharacteristic dressing down for being even a few minutes late to a meeting with McHugh. God, what a way to start this tour. Mike shuddered at the thought.
Finally, Mike found the telephone and put the handset to his ear. He heard McHugh’s deep voice. “Mike, sorry to wake you, but we’ve gotten some bad news. Can you get dressed right away and get over to my office? A car has been sent for you and will be outside.”
Mike jumped out of bed, stripped off his pajamas and shaved. He then headed for the shower in his private bath and gave himself five minutes to scrub his body and hair. Afterward, he put on the uniform of an officer of the United States Navy. Because of the requirement that he carry his Walther revolver, the uniform coat was cut fuller than normal.
Wearing his overseas hat with the silver oak leaf of a Commander in the United States Navy, Mike blinked as he stepped into the bright daylight.