Padme's Library: 📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: 58 Minutes by Walter Wager

Friday, November 26, 2021

📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: 58 Minutes by Walter Wager

Summary:
Basis for the blockbuster film Die Hard 2 starring Bruce Willis.

Traffic is heavy at Kennedy International; all along the East Coast airports have been shut down because of a blizzard. Now, nineteen planes are circling, waiting to put down before Kennedy, too, is forced to close.

Then a man identifying himself as Number One calls the tower...on an unlisted number. The storm is suddenly beyond the point as the tower goes dark.

There are fifty-eight minutes left before the first plane runs out of fuel, and no place available for diversion. Against the inexorable and deadly ticking of the clock a police captain must find out who and how...and stop him before the carnage begins.

DECEMBER 21.

5:09 P.M. on the western edge of the churning Atlantic.

It was cold on the island. Light snow was fluttering from a blue-black winter sky, but the men and women peering down from the 86th floor of the famous skyscraper didn't really mind.

The view from up here was still spectacular. It was also familiar. Many of the tourists on the Empire State Building's open observation deck nodded in approving recognition as they stared at the great city. The promise had been kept. The skyline looked just the way it did in the movies. Even through the shimmering curtain of frozen white crystals, this was clearly the legendary metropolis they'd come from a dozen U.S. states and nine foreign lands to see.

This was New York—the power place.

This was the celebrity city against which others were measured. Admired, envied and despised, it was more than a collection of dynamic innovators and achievers known around the world. This cocky and controversial city itself was the celebrity—a vital and cosmopolitan creature that couldn't or wouldn't stand still.

It was moving right now. Some 1,050 feet above the streets, the tourists heard the insistent hum of rush-hour crowds and traffic—the municipal background music of bustling Manhattan. The visitors could almost feel the surging energy below. Suddenly the fabled skyline began to change before their eyes as swirling snow blurred the dramatic panorama. Soon scores of office towers and tall apartment houses were visible only as exotic clusters of lights, suggesting giant Christmas trees in the growing darkness.

Many of the men and women on the observation deck raised cameras to try to record this extraordinary illusion. Other tourists eyed it intently through coin-operated telescopes mounted on the parapet. There was something almost magical about this glittering sight, and they would talk about it when they returned to their distant homes.

Nine miles due east of the Empire State Building, someone else was watching the snow fall. He too was a visitor to this city. A thin-faced man in his late thirties, he'd been a visitor everywhere for more than a decade. He traveled so much he rarely recalled that he'd once had a home. When he did remember, it often made him angry.

Now he was seated on a tweed-upholstered armchair in Room 206 of the Queens Skyway Motel, staring at the television set as the local news continued. Frowning in concentration, he listened carefully to every word spoken by the perfectly barbered meteorologist on screen.

". . . low pressure north of us. Let's take a look at the latest satellite photos."

The pictures of the cascading snowflakes vanished. A large multishaded map of the United States and southern Canada abruptly took their place. It was marked with three large curved arrows. From north, south and west, they swept toward the east coast region between Washington and Boston.

"As you can see, the snow that's falling here now is only the beginning of our problems. There's another load of snow heading our way from the south, and the jet stream is bringing us a juggernaut of icy Arctic air. Add to that some really nasty electrical storms in Pennsylvania that could get to us early tomorrow evening. Of more immediate significance, the National Weather Service is predicting very heavy precipitation for our entire area during the next twelve to fifteen hours," the dapper meteorologist singsonged briskly.

Then he reappeared on the screen.

"It looks as if they're right," he continued seamlessly. "Our own computer analysis shows that much of the tri-state region can expect at least a foot of the white stuff by noon tomorrow, and—don't blame me, folks—Mother Nature could sock it to us with as much as sixteen inches."

The man in Room 206 sat rigid and unblinking.

He was completely focused on this weather report.

It was, literally, a matter of life or death for thousands of people.

That didn't bother him. Death was a part of his business— the part he liked best. He enjoyed killing with a variety of weapons, including the P-15 semiautomatic in the holster under his left armpit. Tonight he'd use a new method.

"The five P.M. temperature in Central Park was twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit. It's going to drop to twelve or thirteen by midnight."

Now the weatherman was sharing a split screen with pictures of cars moving through the snow down a wide highway.

"Driving conditions are deteriorating steadily. Traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike is being limited to thirty-five miles an hour. New York State Police have issued Traveler's Advisories for the entire Governor Dewey Throughway. Bottom line? We're facing the first major snowfall of the winter and it could be one of the nastier storms in recent years."

The man who enjoyed killing smiled.

This was perfect.

As the weather report ended, he got up and walked to the closet. Ignoring the banal banter ricocheting between the meteorologist with the fine haircut and the pretty anchorwoman, he reached into the closet and took out a silvery aluminum suitcase. He had bought it after some thought. Thieves at airports sometimes razored open soft-sided luggage to loot the contents. He could not run that risk.

He put the metal container on the bed, opened the top button of his shirt and slid a hand in to grasp the suitcase key on the chain around his neck. The eighteen-carat gold loop had been a gift from an Italian millionaire's passionate daughter who hated imperialism and her father. She was dead. It was her own fault. If she had followed instructions on how to handle the bomb, she would not have been blown into seven pieces outside the American embassy in Rome.

She had moaned a lot during sex, he recalled as he unlocked the suitcase. It took only a moment to trip the hidden catch that released the false bottom. Then he took out the upper section filled with shirts and set it down beside the valise.

Each thing in the secret lower compartment was held in place by a padded clamp welded to the metal shell. He had chosen every item carefully on the basis of years of covert combat in many countries. These were the tools of his lethal trade.

A stubby Czech submachine gun—the 10.6-inch Skor-pion—plus a shoulder holster and a dozen twenty-round clips of ammunition.

A bulletproof vest, a gas mask and four small incendiary bombs.

A disassembled 460 Weatherby Magnum rifle with eight-power telescopic sight and heavy-load, high-speed bullets that could drop an elephant or take off a quarter of a man's head.

A pair of walkie-talkie radios, three time fuses, a remote-control radio-detonator and a night-vision scope with light intensification power of 35,000.

Two snub-nosed Heckler and Koch VP70Z pistols and a pouch filled with eighteen-round magazines for the 9-millimeter weapons.

Screw-on silencers for the submachine and handguns, three L2A1 antipersonnel grenades with a "kill circle" of ten yards and a plastic bag containing a neatly trimmed black wig.

He scanned his tools and nodded.

It was time for the next phase of the operation.

He put on the bulletproof vest. Then he took from the closet and donned a khaki-green Loden coat. Made of sturdy and tightly woven cloth, the waterproof garment was highly efficient in retaining body heat. Efficiency was important to the man in Room 206. It was one of his obsessions.

He returned to the open suitcase, unclamped and loaded a 9-millimeter pistol and slipped the weapon into the right pocket of the coat. A few seconds later, he put one of the L2A1 grenades in the left pocket. It wasn't that he expected any particular trouble. He routinely carried a grenade as a prudent precaution when he ventured outdoors.

There was another factor: the imminence of battle. The dangers of combat did not trouble him. They were exhilarating. Though he'd never told anyone, they aroused him more than any woman ever had. But they also made him tautly cautious. The closer this man got to armed confrontation, the more wary he became. In less than three hours, he would launch the biggest and most complex attack of his violent career. He certainly wasn't going to take any chances now.

After reattaching the false bottom, he locked the suitcase and deposited it in the closet. Then he paused before the large mirror to adjust the curly brown wig that he'd worn since leaving Madrid twenty-three days earlier. Next he put on the horn-rimmed eyeglasses, studied his appearance and finally nodded. With the elementary camouflage of the false hair and equally fake spectacles, he didn't look much like the photo on the Interpol "alert" reports.

The damned TV set was still on. Reflected in the mirror, the sincere anchorman, who had even better teeth than the ruthlessly perky blond "newscaster" beaming beside him, was burbling abut the new doll that was "definitely this year's hottest gift for the kiddie crowd—and very big bucks for the stores."

Grunting in contempt, the man who enjoyed killing flicked off the set. As he left the room, he pulled up the hood of the coat to cover three quarters of his head. He couldn't rely absolutely on the wig and glasses. The less of his face that people saw, the smaller the risk of being recognized. He only had to fool the Americans for another four hours.

The plan was good and the timetable was definite.

By 9:45 P.M., 10:15 at the latest, he'd be out of the country.

When he reached the motel's crowded lobby, he heard the infuriating music pouring from invisible loudspeakers. He despised Christmas songs as much as he loathed the holy day itself. From the age of eighteen, he had detested every religion and the priests, rabbis, nuns, monks and mullahs who were all enemies of the masses. He'd often told the Russians how wrong they were to let even a token shred of religion survive anywhere in the Soviet Union. They'd smiled patronizingly and ignored him.

He walked out the front door and his stomach knotted in tension. It was completely automatic. In his trade, he never knew what or who was waiting for him. Ambush was a constant occupational hazard. A hail of bullets could tear his hand off at any moment. The body armor wouldn't help him if they aimed high. Local police might not, but that was exactly what the FBI's coolly practical shooters would do.

He wouldn't blame them. It was the professional thing to do. In their place, he'd do the same. He already had—in five countries.

He looked around, saw nothing threatening and relaxed— a little. But he was never totally relaxed. It wasn't only his mind that was always aware of the danger. By now, his body knew in some fierce visceral way—an animal's survival instinct. He hadn't really slept well for years, and his stomach hadn't been right for more than a decade.

The price of fame, he thought sarcastically. Then he walked through the falling snow to his car. The Americans were obsessed with fame, he brooded as he reached the vehicle. They all wanted to be on television and see their names in newspapers and Time magazine—to be celebrities. Tomorrow he'd be the main celebrity in this media-sick society. They'd all be talking about him.

And they would fear him.

He'd like that.

He hated the Americans most of all. They were the most powerful of the imperialists, and their intelligence networks were leading the global search for him right now.

He got into the car, inserted the ignition key but did not turn it. Instead, he connected and adjusted the seat belt. He never drove a car without wearing a seat belt. He was only going nine blocks, but statistical studies had established that most auto accidents happened within half a mile of where the trip began. He believed in statistics.

He checked both the side and rearview mirrors—twice— before he started the motor. Everything seemed to be going well. He was on schedule, the equipment was in place and the rest of the assault group was ready. He had the coins, the radio cube and the slip of flash paper. There were only a few things left to do—simple acts that wouldn't take more than twenty minutes.

Then he would give the order to attack.

Some terrorist-fighting New York cops just can't catch a break.

Release Date: July 4, 1990
Release Time: 123 minutes

Director: Renny Harlin

Cast:
Bruce Willis as Lieutenant John McClane
Bonnie Bedelia as Holly Gennero-McClane
Art Evans as Leslie Barnes
Dennis Franz as Captain Carmine Lorenzo
Reginald VelJohnson as Sergeant Al Powell
William Atherton as Richard "Dick" Thornburg
Fred Thompson as Ed Trudeau
Tom Bower as Marvin
Sheila McCarthy as Samantha "Sam" Coleman
Colm Meaney as Pilot of Windsor Airlines plane
Robert Costanzo as Sergeant Vito Lorenzo

The terrorists
William Sadler as Colonel Stuart
Franco Nero as General Ramon Esperanza
John Amos as Major Grant
Don Harvey as Garber
Vondie Curtis-Hall as Miller
John Costelloe as Sergeant Oswald Cochrane
Tony Ganios as Baker
Peter Nelson as Thompson
John Leguizamo as Burke
Tom Verica as Kahn
Robert Patrick as O'Reilly
Mick Cunningham as Sheldon
Mark Boone Junior as Shockley
Ken Baldwin as Mulkey

Trailer

Clips

Nothing Lasts Forever by Roderick Thorp

Author Bio:

Wager was best known as an author of mystery and spy fiction; his works included 58 Minutes (1987), whose story was used as the basis of the action film Die Hard 2 in 1990. Two of his other novels became major motion pictures in 1977: Viper Three (1972), which was released as Twilight's Last Gleaming, and Telefon (1975). Wager wrote a number of original novels in the 1960s under the pseudonym "John Tiger" that were based on the TV series I Spy and Mission: Impossible.

Born Walter Herman Wager in the Bronx, NY, he was the son of Russian immigrants, and he attended Columbia College at Columbia University. He graduated in 1944 and later earned a law degree from Harvard; the practice of law interested him less than aviation, however, and Wager subsequently entered a fellowship program at Northwestern University through which he earned a degree in aviation law. He attended the Sorbonne for a year under a Fulbright scholarship at the end of the 1940s, and then turned his attention to earning a living. Wager spent the early '50s working as an aviation law consultant to the government of Israel, and from there moved to an editorial job at the United Nations, where he oversaw the editing of that organization's myriad publications. His interest in writing got him into radio at the tail-end of that medium's era of prominence, authoring scripts, and in his spare time he wrote stories.

He was also a writer and producer for CBS Radio, CBS television, and NBC television and was editor-in-chief of Playbill from 1963 to 1966. In addition, Wager worked in public relations for ASCAP and the University of Bridgeport.