CATHERINE McCORMACK
On what must have been the eightieth circle of the Tower, the helicopter exploded outward in all directions. The rotors, in a field of yellow sparks, spun off the hitch falling and ripping through the asphalt surface of the street seconds before the descending heap of twisted metal fell upon it. The helicopter continued its crash down through the crater after impact, until the burning fuselage came to rest sunken beneath the city center.
A large splash of raw sewage exploded out up onto the street. The putrid yellow, brown, and green wave dissipated before it reached the police’s picket line back towards the worn out bowling pitches of the Green. The piercing screams of the sharpshooters and the pilot coupled with the sight of the great thundering bird burning away in its crater had quieted the crowd and the audiences watching from home. The news programs aired the beginning and end of this particular fiasco inside of a greater unfolding calamity that had cost the city six more lives and upwards of millions of dollars of which they did not have. The local schools would lose their funding for another year.
Over the side of the Tower fell what looked to be a smoldering lead pipe. It danced in the air until it made a soft thud into the grassy patch around the loading dock immediately beneath the Tower. The sanitation and water mains began to pump thick brown liquid out onto the street. With its flood came more of the sewer soup out of the impact crater, putting out the flaming wreckage of the helicopter. The Public Works crew on the scene made a call to the Cranbury Water to close the aqueduct’s flow valves in line to the Green. The city was at its whits end of patience as the things they took for granted slipped farther out of grasp.
“What the fuck was that?” Major Templeman’s red eyes and hard breath worked as one betraying his visceral disbelief.
“The spent shell casings of an RPG. Looks rudimentary.” Jaskilka said matter-of-factly as he lifted himself up from the hood of the Major’s car.
The Major was lost and was compelled to ask, “RPG?”
An ERT sergeant, with severe burns and scars crisscrossing his face in a haphazard tesserae which could have been exhibited at the Whitney or the Armory Show as a modern art masterpiece, interjected before the commander could speak. “Rocket Propelled Grenade. Ain’t you ever seen Black Hawk Down? Could be an M203, one of our make, sir.”
“One of our make? Get out of my sight; this is not the time for a fucking sales pitch!” Major Templeman barked at the sergeant. “Frost Armaments and that evil CEO of theirs, Cody, are the ruin of this police force. We have to take their no-bid non-compete contracts and test their damn plastic weapons. I really hope they hang Archibald Cody, I’d be there cheering from the front row.”
Commander Jaskilka licked his lips and turned away from the carnage to face the rankled crowd. The lights of the news crews, cars and the street lamps blinded his eyes but he looked ahead past everyone to the faintly illuminated white and red St. George’s
The Major’s conspiracy theories and disgust of mercenary corporations gave way to a more productive and logical curiosity. “How did he get a goddamn grenade launcher up there?”
“He knows what he’s doing.” Jaskilka began to read out a list that he had compiled in his head to serve as a swift profile, “He’s got a broad knowledge of chemistry, physics, and probably has a military background. He baited that helicopter in—waited for his shot and made it count when it hit those rotors. He’s patient, methodical, and armed to the teeth. We should have gassed him out when we had the helicopter, searchlights and grenade launchers. If we weren’t so goddamn cheap.”
Jaskilka walked past Major Templeman to Aguinaldo, who was on the phone. He was in an embittered fervor with whoever was on the other end of the line. The voice on the other end was that of the FBI Special Agent- in-Charge, Maggie Bezzeg. SAC Bezzeg was also known as the “Cunt” by the county civil services and almost everyone who came into contact with her. She was argumentative, prone to anger and never hesitated to chew people out in public regardless of rank or position. The ugly nickname was a badge of derision that had lost its derogatory meaning because of the frequency of its use, at least when applied to her. For the worst word in the English language it meant nothing despite the efforts of George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, Kenneth Tynan, and the FCC.
Waiting for the Chief to end his phone conversation, Jaskilka crouched low to the ground and lit a wooden match off a storm drain. The sulfur phosphate smell rose from the head and filled the void between the two police cars. He watched it flame out as the tips of his fingers felt the sensation of its heat briefly. Aguinaldo ended his phone call and met Jaskilka kneeling down to the pavement.
Aguinaldo promptly gave the ERT Commander the status report of their secret weapon. “The Cunt is en route with her husband. Beg’s ours for the night.”
“What good luck he’s got, Chief. He’s going to die tonight.” Jaskilka stood up.
“Past his jail time only God knows,” Aguinaldo said.
“If he saves the city his life may mean something after all.” Jaskilka left his side and walked to the ERT support trucks his mind drifting among the stars above the droning lights of the cordon.
The scene in downtown Cranbury had become increasing more chaotic than the one that Swarbrick and Pizarro had left three hours earlier in the day. This had become akin to the arena parking lot after the end of a minor league hockey game complete with the meaningless scuffles, singing, and the public urinating. That communal drunkenness had infected the masses, bringing them closer to riot than could be consciously acknowledged. The crowds had become restless, agitated further by the uncertainty following the helicopter crash which had at first silenced them.
Most of the onlookers had been drinking since the shooting began in the mid-afternoon and the alcohol consumption peaked leaving a mass congregation of drunks, outnumbering the homeless vagrants who called the Green home. Eleven people were now dead, yet the crowds were unafraid, and were in fact joined by hundreds more that came to see the spectacle after work. They had nothing else going on. The Police were powerless to reassert control of the scene for fear of the Shooter’s response and the coming riot.
The Vulture squad detectives were unaffected and remained focused on their meaningless discussions, as they pushed through the thick clusters of overweight teamsters, corporate and bureaucratic workers in their suits, mustached bikers, and high school football players making out with their morally casual girlfriends in their letter jackets. The crowds were primarily composed of adult men, with exception of those female friends with benefits, police officers, lawyers, reporters, and civil employees.
“No that’s garbage. Atlantico is far better than Rangers,” Pizarro contended smugly.
Bezzeg, based on his wife’s preference and the fact he was wearing their zebra striped shirt, argued, “They’re still not Newcastle United.”
“Fuck the Toon, fuck Newcastle
Swarbrick was less cordial in his blind support for his home-town club, living up to the Scots’ martial spirit. Pizarro and Bezzeg were more of a sanguine nature than their elder friend, but still enjoyed a good fight even in joking. Swarbrick did not find humour in these believed insults to his manhood and abandoned city on the Clyde .
“At least the fans attack the players still and yeah, the Yankees, great example, they haven’t done shit in almost a decade. Well, Glasgo smells worse Waterbury
“Give it some thought, Beg. She maybe only twenty-five but—.”
“I’m not going to marry your daughter. Stop asking or I might actually agree to it and Maggie’ll castrate me.”
“No one else would ever take her as a wife.”
“Wonder why, Swar? All of the women you have married are completely insane, how is she any different? And I know you’ve wanted my wife since we met, believe me she ain’t worth it. Nags all the fucking time even in coitus—its painful and humiliating sex.”
“Maggie could double for Catherine McCormack. She is a looker, Audie. I cannah help but think about it.”
“I know—you’re a pervert like the rest of us. Really Catherine McCormack? The haughty actress with the great breasts and teeth? I always thought she looked more like a blonde Jenny Agutter.”
“Her teeth ruined Braveheart.”
“Well, maybe they had special 13th Century dentists in Scotland
“I saw her perform on stage before; she was terrific but can’t see for shit without glasses. The entire male audience, even the nancies, fell for her completely. I doubt she gave much of a toss, but she had us all madly in love. It is a compliment to your wife; she does have her unique charms. That wit of hers is always sharp and fast, its so un-Mormon.”
“Swarbrick, you fall for every woman you meet. Actresses don’t go for our types. We are not urban hipster artists; we don’t live for the art or feel it like they supposedly do. No one likes us pigs, especially internal affairs, but we keep civilization humming along and protect the peaceful from the cruel and violent. We are the slaves and they are the masters, whom we serve. Don’t get me wrong, I know that we are on page with the universe, but the artists are incapable of giving a shit unless I direct some moody atmospheric Bergmanesque movie about meaningless social problems or write some boring and dense book that makes no sense—which at this point is as unlikely as Catherine McCormack moving to the Vale and becoming your seventh wife.”
“Sir, shut-it. Its time.” Swarbrick prodded his former boss on.
Swarbrick and Pizarro walked their former Lieutenant through the picket lines to the array of the senior brass of the Vale’s civil services. Maggie trailed behind them at a respectful distance and out of earshot with her agents, watching the stars and nearby planets coming out through the dense light pollution. Swarbrick and Bezzeg continued to argue as the three arrived at the operational headquarters to receive further instruction their superiors.
Bezzeg countered, “She’s anti-social, boring, and too smart for her own good.”
“So?” said Swarbrick. He was unable to understand Audie’s rhetoric.
“I prefer a challenge.”
“She’d be a better wife for you. Get you some children and out of this shithole.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Swar. I have thought about it seriously but Maggie needs me. Kelly doesn’t need anyone.”
“She will when she’s too old to find a husband, lonely with her cats and plants.”
“And we’re dead in Elysium.”
Audie thoughts were fittingly his own. Gladiator was a great movie, the kind women hate and men love. Plenty violent without a fucking love story that resolves or has a happy ending riding off into the sunset like Shane. No Catherine McCormack waiting for your return. Audie sullenly glanced to Swarbrick and obliged him. Swarbrick held his shoulder with a hard grip and made their good-bye.
“Guess you’ll see her then.”
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