Calling Time

Calling Time

6.30am He rises. Usual workday time. Fluorescent green digits on the bedside clock heralding in another day.

7.00am He has his breakfast and gets ready for work. Must keep an eye on the time. “You need to slow down” his wife says sleepily as she pours her first cup for the day. “You’re always running by the clock – its not good for you.” He acknowledges her advice with a swift kiss on the cheek and a wink as he says, “Live by the clock, die by the clock – at least I’ll never be late!”  He turns for the door, checking his watch as he goes, on time so far - good. He smiles to himself.

7.45am Traffic is a little heavier than usual today – arrives at 7.55 for an 8am start. Ugh. This is no good – he likes to arrive nine minutes early to settle in, check emails, get a cup of coffee.

8.00am Briefing from Commander. No incidents to report. Another day dragging on completing training paperwork until “the call” comes, if it does at all. He glances at his watch. 

8.30am He makes his way to Jim’s desk to mull over the results of last night’s game. The Raiders won in a tight match, 12 to 10. The first goal scored at 7.43pm and the last, within the twenty seconds of the game at 9.08pm. A real nail biter.

“Meg is asking if you and Jo would like to come to dinner at our place tonight” he poses to Jim.

“About 7.30.” “Sure” replies Jim. “I have to pick the kids up from soccer practice at six, but that will give us plenty of time. We can only stay till nine though, coz that’s the limit of the babysitter’s time. Apparently, she has to be on the other side of town by ten to do another job.”

“No probs, see you then.”

And then it comes. “The Call.” No more training paperwork to do today, now he must engage his years of training, as well as his wits and focus.

“Suspicious parcel reported at Lyngvist Station” the tinny voice on the radio announces, cutting the air in the control room like a greasy knife. “Request bomb disposal unit to attend and inspect stat. ETA from control room to station is twenty minutes”. 

Hurriedly he packs his kit, jumps in his allocated vehicle and races to the scene along with an escort of four other police and civil response units. This is his “job.” That for which he has been trained. His purpose. His calling. His “talent.” This will be his eleventh call out in four years to assess and possibly dismantle a potentially deadly device. A “bomb” as some would call it. A mechanism designed by those with malicious intent who condone and practice violence as a way of projecting their message.

9.05am He reaches his destination, checks the time – yes, arrived in eighteen minutes, a good run. He dons his protective suit and unpacks his kit containing all he may need to disarm this device should it prove necessary. If it is a bomb, it has the potential to blow up the entire railway station and take along at least five hundred commuters arriving in the city to start their working day. No broadcast yet to the public. No need for mass panic. It is his job to assess the situation and report back his finding. The Special Emergency Response Group (SERG) will then follow their protocols regarding evacuation of the area, or otherwise. He must wait for that direction, that command to commence.

9.10am He casts an eye over the suspect package. Wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. Size of a shoe box, Men’s size 9, he estimates (not that it really matters). He looks up as the commuters flow from the gates like an unstemmed burst from a broken water main. They regard him with curiosity and caution until they are told to make their way slowly to the nearest exits as orderly and calmly as possible. They do, for a time. The lightning-fast network of telecommunications is now in overdrive – people texting and phoning others of the situation occurring at Lyngvist. This is what Ops had hoped to avoid – large scale panic, and yet, here it is. He hears the barking of the megaphone to his left some fifty meters away.

“Everyone move slowly to the exits. Do not panic. There is no immediate danger. Repeat, there is no immediate danger. Proceed slowly and carefully through the exits until you are clear of the station.” He hears through his earpiece the gabble on the radio. Hurried messages, directives, and chatter. Then suddenly, sharply above all others he hears his Commander, “We have the OK for you to proceed to stage one, visualisation of device” he says. “They’ve issued a public advice notice, and all rail and bus traffic will be halted from now on until you give the clear.” 

“Ok, roger, proceeding to stage one.” He moves further towards the package. Tentatively he selects his implements from the kitbag. Best to keep a few out in case there is a need for sudden change of strategy. He lays them out before him. His tools of trade. For those unaware of his vocation, or are blind to his protective gear, some may mistake him for a tradesman – a carpenter, builder, electrician, or plumber. Perhaps he is all of these, a tradesman repairing the damage of a society long ago abandoned, occupied now by those who would cause harm – those who would continue the destruction he is destined and determined to resist and overcome.

To his trained eye, the parcel appears suspicious. He eyes it critically through the shatterproof face shield. He tentatively manipulates the outside covering, slowly peeling back the layers, gently, like a lover uncovering his paramour for the first time. 

Three minutes in. He recognises the style of the device. A crude homemade pipe bomb attached to a flashlight battery and a digital timing device. He takes a sharp intake of breath as he sees the counter activate - bursting into life – red digits, angry, hateful. He has only 20 seconds to defuse and disarm this device. Twenty seconds – how many events in his everyday life has he spent twenty seconds? Pouring a cup of coffee? Bailing the kids out of the car on the morning school run? Sitting on the edge of his seat anticipating the winning goal in last night’s game? All of these and a million more throughout his life. This twenty seconds though will be his most significant.

The digits on the counter glow red as if with fury at his intrusion. They wink at him as they count down their evil intent.

Fifteen, fourteen; His training clicks in and he moves as precisely as an automaton. No time now for the human frailty that is emotion. Steady, steady. He aims his pliers at the wires securing the pipe to the battery.

“Proceeding to stage two – deactivation. Counter has been tripped and showing detonation in twenty seconds.” His voice sounds strained even to him. It is unusual for such a small window of opportunity to disarm a device and it momentarily unsettles him.

Eleven, ten: He repeats to himself “red first then green,” a mantra he has practiced over and over in both simulations and reality. Today is reality.

Nine: Snip! The red wire is cut and neutralised. No time for relaxing yet. Any sudden movement or vibration could render the defusing process null and void.

Seven, six, five: He shifts his body slightly so that he can better access the green wire. He grasps the pliers firmly and focuses on the wire, his heart rate escalating. He squeezes the handles together but as he does his wristwatch beeps out a “heart rate too high” warning – beep beep beep. His watch! He’d forgotten to remove it when putting on the suit! A moment’s lapse in concentration and…

Time means nothing now. No end and no beginning, no start no finish; a vacuum of nothingness. How did this play out for him? Did he hear the sound? The explosion? Or was he catapulted into the void without his senses registering what had happened? Did he realise in that nanosecond that all his clock watching, and time driven focus did not serve him?

For him now, time does not exist; it has run out. No more illuminated digits, no more schedules, or racing to beat the clock, no more alarms. There is only silence and darkness in that vacuum, forever.

-         END -