Happy New Year

256.

The clock ticks and calendar pages flip. Time, our consciousness insists, is about to move into another new year, another beginning, one more chance, perhaps, to get it right. I have a gut feeling that we are about to experience a graphic demonstration of the quantum of life.

In our cramped work station in the FBI mobile command center I make the call.

"Hi, Happy New Year. On a scale on one to ten, one being 'no way' and ten being 'let's party' how are you feeling - more specifically - about getting back in the game?" I ask of Her Majesty.

"Eleven. I have been ready for days, get me the fuck outta here and let's rock," she says with conviction aplenty. "I've been watching the media coverage of Orlando, and here is my initial take on their current spin: It has Cyrus' signature all over it. Did I fail to mention to you that he was super fanboy of Timothy McVeigh AND Ted Kaczynski?"

"No, you never did. You do know who Kaczynski is currently sharing a crib with in the Rockies Resort?"

"Big, yeah. I know. Ironic and there is a connection, something going on. I can try to reach my former plant, the security guard and see if he is still willing to finish what we started before all the poop hit the props. Get us some info at the least," she suggests.

"You haven't lost your way with words," I return, "that would answer a few questions but I am seriously concerned about the midnight deadline. We can't allow another detonation, not on this watch. We have a cell number taken from one of the Sarccino kidnapper's phone that we believe to belong to Cyrus. I need you to validate."

I sense her hesitancy and allow additional time for her deep consideration of the emergency response measures. It is a wild scheme, an extreme long-shot and it carries considerable risk. If I am wrong more innocent people will suffer and die. Time passes slowly as she shapes her opinion of the idea, finally, she breaks the silence. In a voice as soft and pensive as I have ever head from her, she asks, "Whats the play?"

"You escaped, have been in quarantine, heard of the next bomb-threat and deadline from the media and want to warn him that we are closing in fast, tell him we have Sarccino, Jeremy Covington and Bartowski, who are all singing like canaries, PLUS we know about MBI, Mr Big and the Unabomber, and that SuperMax is slammed shut. Scare him. Buy us some time. Come up with some plausible reason why you would be helping him after all the pain he's inflicted on you. Maybe you want the last laugh and to send him a boatload of New Year's fireworks as a final farewell. Challenge his vulnerability, his ego, his manhood. Tell him he isn't smart enough, without you? to pull this off. If you can keep him on his device for thirty seconds with a good story we can get a GPS fix on him."

"Might work. I do have some dirt on him."

"Outstanding, I am sending Harlan over to pick you up right now and take you to our HQ where we have the telecommunications setup to make the tracing happen. He'll be there in fifteen minutes. Work up your story, it has to be believable."

"OK," she says.

"We have one shot at this. I need you to put your game face on and step up," I say seeing my watch read 2316, forty-four minutes from the mid-night deadline.

"Roger on the face, and Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year to you too, let's make this happen."