Night of Thunder

It helped that though the Grumley mob had fired over 750 rounds of ammunition-this was the number of cartridge casings picked up by the FBI Evidence Recovery Team on site at the Bristol Speedway the day after the incident-no civilians were killed, though eleven were wounded, one critically. It helped that Bristol police officers caught the main perpetrators-actually had them signed, sealed, and delivered when the hijacked Johnson County Sheriff’s Department’s helicopter crashed conveniently into the speedway itself-without difficulty. It helped that law enforcement casualties were quite low too: a Bristol traffic officer was seriously wounded by 9mm fire as he approached the site of the takedown, a state police helicopter pilot was badly burned when his aircraft was shot down by Caleb Grumley early in the firefight, and his copilot broke an ankle pulling him out of the downed machine in the seconds before the fire erupted. The real tragedy was the three employees of Cash Transit Service of Tennessee killed outright. It seemed to bother no one that three perpetrators-Caleb, another Grumley gunman on the hilltop, and a corrupt Johnson County law enforcement officer-were killed by FBI agents. Two other Grumley gunmen were killed earlier in the evening by another FBI team.

If anyone could be said to have won the engagement and emerged in extremely positive light, it was the Bureau, with its intrepid penetration of the conspiracy, its rapid response and deployment, and its heroic SWAT actions during the incident itself. Task force director Nicholas Memphis, wounded in the first shooting relating to the events of that evening, was singled out for special praise and would almost certainly win another decoration. The undercover agent he supervised was never identified to law enforcement personnel-the Bureau is notoriously reluctant to share operational details, even with other agencies-though many believed the tall, anonymous older gentleman who accompanied the Bureau contingent to the meeting might have been that fellow himself.

Some oddities and disappointments became clear. Though in fact FBI initiative closed the attempt down, it was clear from even the most preliminary study that the real failure factor in the criminal enterprise was the odd route the driver of the hijacked Cash in Transit truck took to the helicopter pickup point. Had he not diverted to cause maximum damage to NASCAR Village, the felons would have made their escape easily. Running low and without lights by helicopter, they would have been impossible to locate. They could have split the $8 million cash take, and dispersed almost instantly. That’s how close the bad guys came to getting away with it. That led, in turn, to the one disappointment: the failure to apprehend that particular fellow, the mysterious driver who had somehow slithered away in all the craziness.

As for the Grumleys themselves, they were as they had always been: tough, silent men who did their crime and were willing to do their time, even if, as in the case of Alton Grumley, he would certainly perish in prison before that time was over. They named no names, snitched out no others. Besides Alton, three shooters were taken alive and would not name the other Grumleys who had helped in the vehicle takedown and then melted away, remaining unapprehended. The pilot, former major Thomas Fielding, United States Army, would have sold anybody out, but he knew nothing. He was a wounded combat veteran who had been shot down three times in two wars. His last tour of duty had been very rough, leading to a history of drinking and other personal problems. He quickly turned state’s evidence, though he had little to offer except to point out to any and all that he should never have listened to his little sister.

Finally, it was over, though adjudication remained, the inevitable process by which things get processed in the justice system. It would involve many of the cops, further investigation, much sworn testimony and court time, generally inconveniencing everybody and using up millions of dollars. But all that was in the future, and the heroic Nick Memphis, sure now to become an assistant director, left with his party, including the quiet older agent who said nothing but watched all.

The two of them walked to Nick’s car and they were a sight. Bob still limped and would always limp from the deep cut across his hip and down to his steel replacement joint. Nick was on crutches and hobbled along as best he could.

“If we had a drummer, we’d look like Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Bob joked at one point. They got across the parking lot of the Bristol Police Department, where the meeting had taken place. It was another sultry day in the South, with a low, gray sky and a threat of rain in the air. Nick turned to Bob.