FIRST CAUSE, Book One of the Terranaut Trilogy

FIRST CAUSE, Book One of the Terranaut Trilogy: Chapter One

Security is mostly a superstition.

- Helen Keller

May 5th 2008

Sitting in the back of the WVNY-TV news van, Anthony Francis Del Torro stared out the window blankly; he’d gone to a late dinner party the night before, and had only gotten five hours of sleep. As the van made its way through the dense traffic of midtown Manhattan, Anthony sipped his cup of coffee and gazed drowsily at the scores of people walking outside. The sun shone brightly, the temperature was eighty-four degrees, and the streets were packed with pedestrians; representatives of all of New York’s proverbial walks of life seemed to be enjoying the unseasonably warm weather.

Anthony, along with “roving reporter” Glenda Swanson, was on his way to cover a celebration for the Mexican holiday known as Cinco de Mayo. Organized by the students and faculty of New York University, the celebration was held in Washington Square Park–the closest thing the urban university had to a campus center. As of eleven in the morning, Washington Square Park was already packed with people as the sunshine and warmth brought student and civilian alike out into the spring air; in conjunction with the celebration, there was a modest street fair occupying a two-block stretch of University Place just outside of the park. Anthony was looking forward to a relatively short broadcast followed by an afternoon of downtime; he planned to walk around the Village a bit, check out the festivals, hit a few used record shops and catch a late afternoon movie with his girlfriend. Glenda, too, had plans for the afternoon: to take a yoga class and then head to the roof of her apartment building to sunbathe.

At three minutes past noon, an explosion occurred near the center of the park and sent bodies, property and concrete flying for dozens of feet in every direction.

At five minutes past noon, the WVNY-TV news truck was passing through Times Square. Anthony chugged the last few ounces of his lukewarm coffee. Glenda sat quietly across from him, eyes closed, engaged in a silent relaxation ritual she usually performed before going on camera. Neither was aware of the explosion that had just interrupted the festival they were on their way to cover. Having finished her meditation routine, Glenda opened her eyes and happened to glance out the window at a green pickup truck that was parked outside a subway station three lanes of traffic away from the van. Less than a minute after the truck passed out of her field of vision, it exploded. Had Glenda still been looking out the window, she might have suffered severe injury to her face and eyes as the van’s plate glass windows were blown inward; fortunately, she had already leaned back into her chair and closed her eyes again. When the truck exploded, the force of the blast rocked the van and Anthony and Glenda were knocked from their seats.

The van’s driver, forty-nine year old Dennis Ridgeway, managed to bring the van to a screeching halt before suffering a massive heart attack and slumping onto the steering wheel.

Glenda leaned toward the rear window, trying to see through the smoke that poured from the site of the explosion fifty yards away. The smoke was already so thick that she could hardly see ten feet beyond the back of the van.

Anthony, sprinkled with shards and pebbles of glass, scrambled to reach for his shoulder camera. Checking the camera for damage, he hoisted it into position and began preparing to tape. “Can you see anything? What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know…it was right by that subway station I think.” Glenda paused for a moment, then her eyes widened and her head snapped toward the front of the van. “Hey, where’s Dennis? Dennis, are you all right?” She called toward the front of the van. “Dennis?” There was no answer. She rose to her feet and began to climb over piles of tapes and equipment that had been shaken to the van’s floor; when she got to the front, she found Dennis’ limp body leaning across the steering wheel. Glenda had a bad feeling as soon as she looked at him–he’d had two heart attacks in the past six years–but she swallowed hard and checked his pulse nonetheless. She’d hoped to be surprised, but as expected there was no pulse in Dennis’ neck or wrist. She called to the back of the van. “Anthony?” She stopped, not knowing what to say. She looked down at Dennis’ body for a second; after a deep sigh, she squeezed his shoulder—she wasn’t sure why, perhaps to comfort his departing soul–and began to make her way toward the rear. Anthony called to her, “How is he Glen?”