A swarming crowd warms up to an unruly scene real quickly. It seems easy with their gut instinct to smell who the good guys are in a fluid confrontation. The wary onlookers cringing for cover under the arcs in the bowels of the overhead transit ushered Jason Burke through the labyrinth with cluing waves of their hands. “He went that way!” They chorused with abandon aided by exaggerated body English.
The public utility jeeps plying the outside lanes of the viaduct echoed with cheers from the passengers. The golden haired preacher with marine cut and lanky stature which highlighted his wholesome boyish appeal drew the instant empathy of the spectators. His unobtrusive get-up of ruffled short sleeved white shirt with matching black preppie tie and pants cloaked him with stereotyped hero vestments. The jeepney drivers peppered their horns like trumpets of Jericho to herald Jason Burke as he waltzed towards the fray.
Jason Burke crouched low but kept his line of vision up as he galloped with rapid tiny steps that danced the jig of the Special Forces obstacle course. His alert eyes panned back and forth 180 degrees sizing up the nooks and crevices for any sign of snipers. By reflex he repeatedly pressed on the reassuring feel of his HK 9 mm tucked at the back. The grueling pace dissuaded him from reaching for the smart mobile to flip on to Richard with his eye in the sky. Wouldn’t work deep in this dark tunnel anyway, he thought.
To get a download of the entire complete version of the Angel of the Lord novel by Jose Roxas Leveriza from start to finish please send a token contribution no matter how small the amount to the Internet Ministry of the God Particle of the Abba Krishna.
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(Twenty-third episode continued)
The dashboard speaker phone crackled with another running update.
“Gunman bounding up the wrong set of stairs. Exiting throng in an uproar. Private sentry moved to accost him but lost footing and was shoved down the steps.Gunshots, two, three!”
“Stop the trains right this minute! Get on the national security channel pronto and give the Palace code!” President Harry Sey fumbled the safety catch of his .45 caliber Gold Cup in a nervous twitch as he fiercely barked the order to the matted transceiver. The barreling convoy swept the curve that flowed into the Quirino Highway with fly-by precision. The screaming big bikes of the blue helmets blinked with lighthouse beams in the distance as their flight path caromed near vanishing point.
The President as was his daily habit when he felt overwhelmed by a crisis flicked on the built-in MP3 and played the Maha Mantras to the Abba Krishna. In unison both he and his driver bodyguard began the chant. “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama,” they fervently intoned.
The LRT (light rail transit) control center was sound proofed and looked unperturbed by the tumult in the street below. The cozy official looking blue padding over wooden vinyl tops and surfaces with matching braided upholstery blended smoothly with the soothing whirr of the ultra efficient air-conditioning console. Isolation and insulation from the turmoil of the landscape outside offered an ideal workplace that was keyed for a more highly responsive and unobstructed vantage position in the running of a railway system.
The panoramic wide angle screen spanned the entire far wall from floor to ceiling like an outsized home theater. The kaleidoscope throbbed with periodic pin lights that merrily ebbed their way towards square pegs brightly marked with numbers corresponding to way stations. The dispatcher rooted to the front seat at the center of the digital marsh conducted the intersecting array with virtuoso synchronization. Buttons in lieu of a baton vented the beat and the rhythm that made the electronic maze fall in with a systematic order akin to a symphony of the railway tracks.
Suddenly the bright graphic glow darkened ominously to a shade of purple. Digital neon embers marched across the top of the monitor baring the words: National Security Override. Code 210 Office of the President.
Alarm beeping sounded off in sensurround cacophony making the once peaceful threshold jump with an alacrity. The Director in disheveled pose came barging past the security door to plop unceremoniously beside the open mouthed dispatcher who initially turned to the Director with alarm but was drawn back by the big bold letters that emblazoned over everything.
“National Emergency Top Priority. National Security Headquarters Camp Crame. Official Channel 719. Shut Down The Entire System Immediately By Order of the Office of the President.”
The Director keyed away on the keyboard with dazzling dexterity. The whole system hunkered down to a dead stop. Trains between and inside stations jammed to a complete stop in the middle of the tracks. “Damn another brownout!” The commuters began to wail.
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