CHAPTER 3

        San Francisco, California

     

           Golden Gate Bridge

            Wednesday, 17^th October 2001

      

     Gripping the wet-clammy railing of the steel barrier, as I stare hypnotically at the shifting fog, in time - after much contemplation - I slowly raise one hand and wipe the tears from my eyes.  Memories of life with my old man insidiously slips away from me - dissolving with the tumbling fog rolling past my body - as I feel myself shedding old emotional baggage.

     Distant foghorns occasionally echo about the bay in the darkness, while heavy mist continues spilling in from the Pacific.  For want of anything better to do, I glance at my fake Rolex; it’s 2:56 A.M. as the occasional vehicle crawls past us in the soup on the largely deserted bridge.

     Jake, the  Machinist Mate First Class, stands next to me also facing out to sea – studying the fog with both hands shoved deeply into his peacoat – an unlit Camel cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth; white sailor’s cap still tilted at a rakish angle.

     “You and me are pretty much cut from the same canvas, Pete,” Jake at last states matter-of-factly.

     I glance in his direction, but he continues to squint into the fog; as if analyzing a far away object.  His assumed familiarity continues to irritate me; especially since he’s been spot–on so far.

     “What in hell makes you s-say something like that?” I retort; failing to hide my irritation.  “I d-don’t see that we’ve got one goddamned thing in c-common, swabby.”

     “Is that so, landlubber?” Jake replies.  Now he squints at me with those cold-steely-blues and gives me a crooked smile.    

     I really seem to fucking amuse him, dear reader, and this pisses me off even more!  Especially, since I still can’t place where I’ve seen that smile before; I know this “swabby”...but from where?

     “Well, me bucko, let’s start with the city,“ Jake continues; amusement still dancing in his eyes.  “Ain’t we a pair of homesick-lovesick pups...scrambling back here over the years whenever we get the chance, so’s we can latch onto this great-mongrel-bitch’s teat and suck San Francisco dry of all her pleasures. 

     “But let’s face it, shipmate, try as hard as we may Frisco is one beautiful woman you and I will never own.  She’ll always be that amazin’, golden hooker that stands just outside our sweaty mits...and laughs at us.  Even so, God fuckin’ help us, we’ll never stop lovin’ her.”

     I’m speechless - staring back at those squinting, laughing blue orbs – Jake has succinctly summed up every single visit I’ve ever paid this city throughout the years. 

     And despite all the joy, pain, bliss and misery this grand fickle-whore has brought me, dear reader, goddamn me to hell if I still don’t love Frisco.

     Then I see the amusement leave Jake’s eyes as his face scowls darkly.  Finally he says, “Because of our love for this gold-diggin’, gold-plated bitch...we got ourselves another problem, buddy.”

     I shoot Jake a puzzled looked.

     He continues, “What if I told you, Pete, this time next week the San Francisco we know and love will be deep-sixed?”

     “Jake, w-what the fuck are you t-talking about?” I demand.

     “I’m talkin’ about an al-Qa'ida Terrorist cell operatin’ here in Frisco,” Jake replies.  “Next Monday they’re plannin’ ta launch an attack that’ll wipe out the financial district.  In ten years over a hundred thousand people could die from the fallout.  The city’s heart and soul will be ripped right outta her...she’ll never recover.  It’ll make nine-eleven look like a muggin’ in Central Park.”

     “Holy Christ, Jake,” I mutter.  “T-They’ve got to be stopped.”

     “Oh yeah...these goat-fuckers have gotta be stopped, alright,” Jake replies.  Then spits over the railing, and continues, “That’s why right here and now...ya gotta make the most important decision of your life.  Sure...life dealt you a crappy hand and ya don’t have anything to live for....especially after what I just told you.  Honestly, ya got every right to fold...and pitch yourself off this bridge.”

     Jake looks away from me and studies the fog once more – as if he’s looking into the future – using it as a crystal ball.

     Then he adds, in a faraway voice, “On the other hand...there’s another option.  I see a way where you could bust up this terrorist strike...stoppin’ it cold in its tracts.  But...in doin’ so...you’d only have a thirty-percent chance of survivin’.”  Jake looks back at me, and remarks, “Not very good odds, shipmate.  What would you say to that?”

     “W-Why not go to the cops?” I ask.

     “We don’t have time, Pete.  The cops ‘ill get bogged down investigatin’ you...while al-Qa’ida’s attack goes ahead on schedule.”

     I kid you not, dear reader, what Jake is laying on me can be compared to being kicked in the balls.  It takes me a long moment to digest it all...before it slams home.

     After a very pregnant pause, I finally respond in a dry voice, “Why me, Jake?  W-What makes you t-think I could pull this off?”

     Jake swings his full attention on me now and, once again, I observe the crooked smile return - along with amusement dancing in those squinting, cobalt blues.

     “I’m bettin’ on you...cause ya got two qualities for handlin’ this dirty detail,” Jake at last responds.

     I return his gaze with a questioning look and shrug, as if to say: “What in the Devil are you talking about now?”

     My expression makes Jake grin, he elaborates as he holds up one index finger, “First...ya got experience in law enforcement...ya learned how ta handle bad guys packin’ side arms.”  Then he holds up two fingers, and continues, “Second...and most important...you nailed the fifteen-second rule.”

     How, in the name of sweet Jesus, dear reader, does this “swabby” know anything about the “fifteen-second rule”?