Beirut File

Race Route, Boston

Race Route, BostonS

hake was fairly certain he spotted Tracey in the amateur pack chugging along behind the serious international marathoners as they passed Fenway Park and headed into the home stretch. It was hard to tell in the crush, but he thought she was among the runners who passed him wearing a sweat-darkened Red Sox cap and grabbing at a cup of something wet from a stand set up along Beacon Street. That put her just a mile or so from the finish line to the east near Copley Square. Shake did his best to maneuver in that direction through the noisy throng jam-packed shoulder-to-shoulder along the race route for what was arguably Boston’s biggest yearly sporting event and most popular party trigger other than St. Patrick’s Day.

Fortunately, he’d been able to reach Filthy Phil Hamer, an old Force Reconnaissance buddy who left the Corps to become a cop and advanced to senior status in the Boston PD. After letting Shake know he’d picked a hell of a time to visit, Hamer provided directions and cleared Shake’s Jeep Wrangler though police lines to a parking spot near Fenway where many of the BPD emergency vehicles were on stand-by. During the drive up from Virginia, Shake had followed race coverage on WBZ, Boston’s blowtorch sports station, and tried to figure where he’d be most likely to catch a glimpse of Tracey along the marathon route. She was a solid runner, but this was her first attempt at a marathon, so Shake figured she was unlikely to be pacing the leaders.

Most people politely gave way for the Boston Police Department windbreaker Filthy Phil provided when they met in the parking lot, so it wasn’t too hard for Shake to maneuver through the throng and head toward Copley Square where he hoped to surprise his daughter with the bouquet of roses he’d picked up at a truck-stop along I-95 on the drive north. He’d just passed the Boston Architectural College and turned left on Newbury Street when he heard the first dull boom to the east in the direction of travel for the passing runners. The noisy crowd, still at least three blocks from the finish line, cheered at the noise, apparently thinking it was all part of the celebration.

Shake knew better. He’d been close to enough Improvised Explosive Devices not to mistake the detonation for a low-order fireworks display. He glanced at his watch: 2:49 p.m. Then he began running, shoving through the crowd. Most of the spectators spotted the windbreaker and gave way with puzzled looks at the big man in civilian clothes and work boots sprinting alongside the passing runners. He was just turning onto Boylston Street when he heard the second explosion and then the screams from the east became audible. Sirens began to blare immediately and Boston cops flooded the street from positions along the sidewalk responding to frantic radio calls to stop the runners. Shake bulled his way through, desperate to find Tracey and hoping she was nowhere near what he knew was bound to be a bloody scene up ahead near Copley Square.

Searching desperately for his daughter as he sprinted past clutches of confused runners and grim-faced cops, Shake wished Tracey had worn the old St. Louis Cardinals ball cap that he’d given her when she started pitching for a high-school softball team. He’d recognize that old rag anywhere, but everyone he saw in the milling, frightened crowd seemed to be either bareheaded or wearing a Red Sox cap. A line of ambulances with sirens wailing was advancing from behind him headed in the direction of the marathon finish line, and cops were bulling runners and spectators to make room. He heard a radio squawking and listened to a police sergeant taking a report as the ambulances maneuvered up Boylston Street.

Apparently, a couple of explosive devices had detonated and there were multiple serious injuries. The senior cop was being ordered to hold everyone in place and stand by for orders. Shake blew through the crowd and nodded at the sergeant who waved him past with a glance at the BPD jacket. Up ahead he saw bloody bodies in the street. Some were squirming in pain while others lay crumpled like rag dolls. It looked like some of the scenes he remembered from jungle trails where enemy units were caught by Claymore mines set up in daisy-chains. Whatever it was that detonated up there had some serious shrapnel effect.

Cops, paramedics, EMTs, and anxious civilians who thought they might help were clustered around the casualties. Shake thought he counted something like 20 or 30 runners or spectators down and bleeding. It was hard to tell with people milling in all directions and shouting for assistance. A sweaty runner staggered near him with blood coursing down his legs. The man had taken a burst of shrapnel that ripped through his shorts and turned most of his ass and left thigh into hamburger. Shake steered him toward a curb where he gently placed the man on his stomach so he could examine the wounds. It was serious but not life-threatening. None of the bleeding looked to be venous or arterial. The big threat was shock as he pulled out a handkerchief and tried to cover the biggest shrapnel holes. Shake hauled a nearby traffic cone into position to keep the wounded runner’s legs elevated.

“I got this.” A man emerged from the crowd wearing an 82nd Airborne t-shirt and waving a roll of paper towels. “Used to be a medic—I’ll take over here.” The former soldier eyed Shake’s BPD jacket and nodded toward the chaos further east. “They probably need you up there.”

“Thanks.” Shake stood and started forward. “Treat for shock. I’ll send help as soon as I can.” Closer to what appeared to be ground zero from scorch marks and crumpled concrete, he spotted Filthy Phil Hamer talking into a radio he held in one hand while pointing to a clutch of Boston cops with the other. Unlike many others in the area, Hamer was neither staring wide-eyed in shock nor driven to panic by the human c*****e. Training pays, Shake thought, remembering that Phil had always been a cool customer under pressure when he was wearing a different uniform. When his old friend finished the radio transmission, Shake caught up with him and asked what he could do to help.

“EMT’s are setting up a triage over there…” Hamer pointed toward a storefront where several wounded people and some that were obviously dead were being assembled for evacuation. “It’s a mass casualty situation, Shake. They could probably use a steady hand who’s seen this kind of deal before.” Hamer’s radio hissed and he grabbed for the handset to respond. “It’s a least two devices.” Hamer pulled a notebook from his pocket and riffled through some pages. “Unknown types but they were rigged for shrapnel. We’ve got EOD sweeping for secondaries.”

That seemed to satisfy the person on the radio and Hamer turned his attention back to Shake. “You find Tracey?”

“Not yet, Phil, but I don’t think she would have been close enough to…” The rest was lost in the wail of sirens as two more ambulances from nearby hospitals surged through the milling crowd with Boston cops clearing the way. Shake took off toward the nearest casualty collection point hoping he wouldn’t find his daughter among the growing number of wounded and dead near the finish line of the Boston Marathon.

“Keep your eyes open and your head on a swivel, Shake!” Hamer shouted at his scurrying friend. “The bastards who did this might have hung around to admire their handiwork. You see anything don’t look right, grab the nearest cop.”

He was helping a bloody EMT get a tourniquet on a woman whose left leg was missing below the knee. Whatever hit her had neatly severed the limb and she’d lost a lot of blood from a spouting artery before they finally got it tied off. She looked pale and the EMT thought she might not live. Shake helped him carry her to a waiting ambulance and heard the medic tell the driver to take off and not wait for a full load.

“Dad? My God, is that you?” Shake instantly recognized his daughter’s voice and spun to see Tracey standing near a wounded man that she was helping toward the ambulances. He ran toward her and gathered her into a smothering hug. Her bright blue eyes were wide and her face was sweat-streaked but Tracey Davis seemed in control of her emotions and past what must have been a staggering initial shock. He shoved her out to arm’s length and looked to insure the blood covering her thighs came from the casualty. She seemed unhurt and rapidly going into her familiar no-nonsense Naval Officer mode.

“I came up to see you finish…” He mumbled something else but Tracey shook it off and looked down at the squashed bouquet of roses that he’d somehow kept with him. She gave him a small smile. “Never mind, Dad, we’ll talk about it later. Let’s see what we can do to help here.” She turned to a couple standing nearby in running gear and pointed. “That’s Lieutenant Dennis Lindsey and his wife Becky—from my reserve unit. We’ll see who needs help.” She signaled for her friends to follow and ran toward a team of uniformed medics working feverishly on casualties.

Reassured his only child was unhurt, Shake turned to see where he might lend a useful hand. He was heading back toward an impromptu triage location when he stopped abruptly. A blue U.S. Postal Service mailbox along the sidewalk had been bent and shredded by one of the blasts. What caught his eye was a sliver of aluminum embedded in the metal side of the mailbox. While cops, emergency workers, and civilian volunteers struggled to bring some order out of the chaos all around him, Shake knelt to take a closer look. The scorched fragment was about four inches long and bore part of an imprinted logo. The letters F-A-G in black script were still visible along with part of another letter that could have been an O, C, or G. He gently pulled the fragment out and examined carefully. Scorch marks indicated it had been very close to a high-explosive detonation. Shake thought back on a conversation he’d had with an Explosive Ordnance Disposal buddy who was serving with the Joint IED Defeat Team just a few years ago. The man had been showing him some sketches of the way terrorists in Stockholm, Sweden and New York’s Times Square had rigged standard commercial pressure cookers as bombs. One of the most popular pressure cooker brands the expert mentioned was FAGOR.

Shake spotted Phil Hamer who was dispatching firemen to various locations and monitoring squads of SWAT cops flooding into the area. Standing next to Hamer was an individual in a bomb-disposal protective suit, studying a grid map and talking into a radio. He plopped the sliver into his hat to keep from contaminating it with any more of his fingerprints and hustled toward Hamer and the EOD man. Many of the most serious casualties had been removed to local hospitals and the area was rapidly morphing from bloody ground zero into a controlled crime scene outlined by stretches of yellow and black tape.

“You guys might want to look around for any more of this stuff.” Shake handed over his old, faded Marine Corps PT cap containing what he was sure was part of a homemade bomb. He watched the EOD man scrutinize the fragment closely. The man barely looked up to nod when Hamer introduced Shake as an old, trusted friend with more than a little experience around explosives. “I’ve got a buddy in your business,” Shake said to the EOD man. “He told me about pressure cooker bombs the bad-asses used at Stockholm and Times Square in 2010. The Times Square device didn’t detonate and they recovered the pressure cooker.” He pointed to the partial logo. “It was made by an outfit called Fagor.”

“Thanks—thanks a lot.” The EOD man nodded and pulled his radio handset from where he had it clipped to his uniform. “Gotta love you Marines. Appreciate the tip.” He walked away whispering excitedly into the radio.

“Guess it looks just like what it is.” Phil Hamer watched the EOD man for a few seconds and then turned to Shake. “Any doubt in your mind this is more Muslim terrorist bullshit?”

“Nope. No better way to jab a big stick in the American eye than to do something like this at a national event like the Boston Marathon. Somebody’s sending a message.”

“We’ll get the bastards. You can bank on that.” Hamer stuck out a hand to shake. “Thanks for your help. I’m gonna be busy as hell for a while, but when it calms down, I owe you a beer.”

Dinner with the Lindsey’s at their converted loft overlooking the Charles River was a subdued affair. Everyone was dealing with a little post-traumatic shock and the conversation naturally focused on the tragic events surrounding what the hyper-amped national media was now calling the Boston Marathon Bombing. City and state cops were sifting spotty evidence and a slew of Feds had arrived to help analyze video and still pictures taken around the time and in the area of the incident. There were no immediate leads, few facts, and plenty of theories. One element or another of the Boston leadership or law enforcement agencies seemed to be holding a press conference every 15 minutes. There were even a few PC apologists showing up and urging viewers not to automatically presume the bombing was the work of Muslim radicals. Shake eyed the TV in a corner of the living room and waited until the Lindseys were busy in the kitchen washing up and making coffee.

“Truth is…” He reached across the table and took his daughter’s hand, “I came up here to see you with an ulterior motive.”

“I figured as much, Dad.” Tracey smiled and nodded. “Last time we talked I didn’t mention running in the marathon. You must have done some checking.”

“Yeah, I called the lab at Woods Hole. A guy told me you were here and pretty much out of contact.”

“I was training. If I answered all the calls I get these days, I’d never be able to focus on running. And I really wanted to do this—just once—you know? It was kind of a bucket-list deal.”

“Well, you damn sure did it.”

She shook her head and Shake saw a grim determination in her face. “Not quite. I figure I was about a mile short. You do something like this, you do it all the way or not at all.”

“So, you’ll finish it next year, Tracey. This is Boston. They’re not about to cancel the marathon just because some asshole set off a couple of bombs.”

She scooted her chair closer to her father. “You’re looking for Chan, aren’t you? She still hasn’t checked in, right?”

“Not a word via email or telephone. She’s probably all right; just off the grid. It’s kind of the nature of what she does with the DIA, you know? But I can’t say I’m not worried.”

“And you thought I might know something?”

“Actually, Mike Stokey thought you might. Do you?”

“She called me twice. Once from Dulles to tell me she was heading overseas. She asked me to keep an eye on you. And then once from Athens to tell me she would be out of contact.”

“She’s in Athens?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t say much about what she was doing but it’s job-related so you’re right about that. Chan just talked around my questions but she did say that she was only on a lay-over in Greece; had to catch another flight.”

“So she went on to someplace else? I talked to Bayer. He’s looking into it but all he knew was that her assignment had something to do with the situation in Syria.”

“That fits. There was nothing specific, but she suddenly started talking out of the blue about your last combat assignment. That was Beirut, right? If she’s working on something to do with Syria, she might be in Beirut.”

“That place is a zoo. It was when I was there in 82-83 and it still is.”

“She didn’t seem worried—at least not about herself. She wanted you to know she was pissed but she’d get over it. If you’re thinking Chan has left you or doesn’t love you anymore, think again.”

“Wish I could hear that from her.”

“You will, probably before long. She’ll find a way to let you know you’re off the hook. That said, old man—and I use the term advisedly—you need to start acting your age. Chan loves you and so do I. Last thing either of us needs is for you to get killed off on some adventure where your balls overpower your brains.”

“Is that anyway for a young lady to talk to her father?” He sat back and lifted his eyebrows in an expression he hoped would pass for righteous indignation.

“It is when you’ve got a father as weird as I have.” Tracey leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.