It shakes the foundation of the building, and with it, the very foundations of our souls. It rises up from the floor below, through the walls of the building, up and out of the roof. The room suddenly falls hushed, silent, except for the harsh clicking sound of the strobe. With metronome precision, it freezes in stark, surreal light, the startled, wide-eyed, ghostly expressions of the patrons of the bar. Men who were stinking drunk an instant before are suddenly stone cold sober.
Every ear is poised, waiting, listening, straining, aching for another clue.
Then, as of one mind, finally galvanized to action, we rush to the window and press faces against the glass to see what is going on outside. In the confusion of the street below, emergency vehicles, sirens screaming, hasten to aid at the scene of some unknown disaster. Off in the distance, from the direction of the air base, through the blackness of the night comes the unmistakable sound of small arms fire. I count four shots in rapid succession. We know of course that it is, for it is a sound some of us have heard before.