The President reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He saw a tweet from the Deplorable Pet Lover @petluvers4Trump. He read it and smiled. He followed a few people through dummy accounts which forwarded tweets to another dummy account he regularly accessed. The President had a passing thought about replying, but decided not to. He was busy and needed to think. As he shut his phone off and put it back into his pocket and thought to himself, one of these days I’ll retweet this guy.
He looked up at the night sky to the north and noticed a royal blueish hue dancing around in the distance. He froze, and focused on it. He was too far south for the Aurora Borealis. A moment later the colors vanished.
The President stood there, feeling that there was something more he needed to do.
Little did he know that the deep state had planned to escalate the civil anxiety.
* * *
Loud cracking shots echoed through an auditorium in the heartland of the country, and things appeared to happen in slow motion. The ball bounced freely as the high school basketball game came to a sudden stop. Fright fueled the players’ endorphins.
The shooter fired indiscriminately as he sprayed his hate. In the instant it took people to process what was happening, shots also echoed from the opposite side of the gymnasium floor. It was an orchestrated attack by two coordinated assailants.
Players and fans scattered. Many leapt off the stands and scurried out the doors.
Several in the thickest parts of the crowd succumbed when lead ripped through them. Panicked, the crowd flooded towards the edges of the bleachers. There was a mad rush to get to the nearest exits with no thoughts of who they were trampling. Women carried or shielded the young.
In seconds the extended magazine was empty.
He’s reloading another magazine! A teacher stood frozen in this fleeting moment of turmoil while people flooded over the bleachers all around him.
Jim Burnor had been a teacher at the school, but had never seen this man before. When Burnor realized what was happening, he pulled out his small Sig Sauer P229, the same handgun plain clothed secret service use when they’re guarding the president. While in a moment of uncertainty, he felt another man stop right next to him.
Marquis Williams, whose flight instinct had overtaken him, had jumped off the edge of the bleachers and was headed towards the door when he noticed Burnor standing with his gun in his hand. The big ex-teacher was obviously frightened and contemplating engaging the men.
Their eyes met. People literally bounced off the large former teacher as Williams pulled out his hand gun. As the sea of bodies squished through the gymnasium doors behind them, Burnor looked at Williams’s Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm. Burnor nodded. He pushed forward. Williams followed.
“Former teacher,” Burnor offered.
Marquis nodded. His throat chocked up. No words came to his already dry mouth. He swallowed hard. He turned his attention back towards the active shooter. It had only been seconds since the inception of the attack, but the damage was piling up. Every second counted.
What Williams didn’t know was that coming in late and sitting at the edge of the bleachers had saved his life. Now a spirit of responsibility had overtaken him. This middle aged, soft-spoken black man understood that there was no other country on earth to defend. Nowhere else to be free.
They both ensured that they had one in the chamber. Simultaneously safeties went off.
There was a distinct sound of an empty magazine. They didn’t have time for words. With widened eyes meeting, they nodded and ran out onto the wood floor. Williams turned right to engage the closer assailant. His target had already ejected his empty magazine. It hit the floor. A replacement was in his hand. The sight and distinct sound of the magazine being slapped into place sent a shiver of fear through Williams’s entire body. With the wall in the background of his target, this father of two began firing.
Meanwhile, the former teacher knew he must take the man at the other side of the auditorium. He barreled forward across the gymnasium floor, closing the distance, his pistol held out in front.
Burnor saw the rage in the face of the black-haired assailant shooting into the crowd. He kept the pistol pointed forward. He wasn’t as agile as he used to be, and the gun bounced uncontrollably. He had gotten his concealed carry permit and had gone to the range and the woods around his cabin several times a year, but that wasn’t enough for him to become anything more than an average shot.
Without steadying his weapon, Burnor squeezed the trigger prematurely. The assailant heard the shots whiz by. He turned the barrel in Burnor’s direction. Jim, as if in slow motion, saw the barrel of the terrorist’s gun was about to point right at him. Instinct took over and the former fullback dove forward and bounced hard off the parquet gymnasium floor. He came to a sudden stop. He gasped out air. His move was graceless, but gained him a fleeting second. Shots tracked over his head. His eyes had closed from fear. He forced them open, squinting. The sights were lined up as if by divine intervention or sheer luck. Saying a prayer to himself, he suddenly felt a calmness. His thick hands engulfed his pistol. He steadied. Shot twice. The stunned assailant jolted back.
Never having seen a man shot before, Burnor wasn’t going to wait to see what happened. His strength kept the sights almost in line. He realigned slightly. Squeezed… squeezed.
Automatic shots projected well over Burnor’s head and through the ceiling as the assailant fell back. His shots punctuated the distant wall in a constant flow until the last were fired as the terrorist folded violently into the bleachers. He went limp.
In the meantime, Williams had taken the other assailant by surprise. He had advanced and crouched to sturdy his shooting position. As the terrorist finished a sweeping motion from left to right, he had seen Williams. As the dark-haired man’s eyes widened, Williams had shot true, hitting him in the abdomen. Williams followed through with a few more shots, squeezing the trigger. Williams had no idea how many shots he took, let alone how many had hit the man.
Finally, there was no more gunfire. Only chaos. The smell of burnt powder filled the gymnasium.
Each man instinctively looked around to check for other terrorists. There were none. Simultaneously, across the gym from each other, the teacher and Williams’s eyes met again. They slowly stood. The terrorist Burnor had engaged was draped over the first row of bleachers. He was perfectly still. But Williams’s target was still moving. Burnor jogged towards Williams. They advanced on the terrorist who was gulping for air and bleeding out on the floor.
Williams kicked the foreigner’s gun further away. The terrorist was breathing heavily. The teacher recognized that the man was of mid-eastern descent. Then it registered that in the scurry of screams and shots, it was the words “Allah Akbar” that the man had shouted. The teacher knew the true meaning: “Allah is greater than your God or government.”
Williams had never thought he’d be in this position. But he had prepared himself just in case. He took another step closer to the man who now had a kind of sick look of happiness on his face. The terrorist mouthed something Williams couldn’t understand, then smiled.
Standing a step behind Williams, Burnor offered, “He says death to the infidels.”
Then Burnor watched as Williams reached into a concealed carry holster and pulled out a clip. Williams bent down and showed the man the bullets in his magazine. Then he whispered something over the terrorist.
The terrorist’s face immediately transformed as an indescribable look of horror filled his eyes. He tried to lift his head. He tried to scream but only gasped and sprayed out blood. He gasped again. The strain on his neck muscles relaxed a bit. His face went motionless with his eyes open. Williams stood up.
Williams stepped away, and turned towards the teacher.
“What did you say to him?” Burnor asked.
Williams stepped closer to Burnor and held up his magazine. “I s
howed him my clip and told him what was in it.”
Burnor raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“You see that?” Williams pointed to the filling inside the hollow points.
“What’s that?”
“It’s filled with an all-natural filling, based in pig fat.” Williams, still holding the magazine, explained further. “If you’re in a situation where you’re in a terrorist attack and you shoot a Muslim terrorist with it, their Koran says if they die with the pigs they go to hell, so instead of getting 72 virgins, they get the opposite. I like to think that’s 27 Bubbas, or something like that.”
Williams became solemn. He added, “I bought these as a gimmick.” His eyes gazed down to the bullets, as the reality of the situation had just hit him. “I never thought I’d use them.”
Burnor said, “The school wanted someone to volunteer to carry a gun. I never thought… Where can I get this?”
“27bubbas.com,” Williams said softly.
The teacher nodded. He was fully aware that, in history, these tactics had been a deterrent to radical Muslims throughout time.
Burnor added, “If enough of us get that filling, they’ll stop these attacks, because they won’t want to go to hell.”
Williams shrugged, not knowing what to say. He was a humanitarian caught in a situation he had never imagined. He could only muster, “Whatever works.”
Burnor’s eyes rose. “Can I have one of those bullets?”
A crease deepened between Williams’s eyes. “Sure.” He ejected the top one from the magazine he still held in his hand.
Taking the bullet in his hand Burnor nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
People were scurrying around now and coming out on the floor. Williams watched as the teacher rumbled back to the original assailant. He watched as Burnor took the tip of the hollow point and made the sign of a cross on the dead man’s forehead. Burnor stood straight for a second, then turned and jogged back to Williams.
“He’ll lie with 27 bubbas too.”
Williams nodded and extended his hand. “What’s your name?”
“Jim Burnor.”
“Well it’s nice to meet you, Jim, I’m Marquis Williams.”
People began tending to the wounded. Both men were dazed as they were surrounded by grateful survivors. Neither wanted appreciation. They just wanted to get out of there. They could hear police sirens in the background.
Thank God for the men in blue. Today everyone would be glad to see them.
* * *
Gabby froze, mesmerized by the report. A text had just alerted her to turn on the TV. She heard, “School shooting,” and then watched as two young men carried a bleeding woman to the paramedics. The local reporter was horrified at the devastation, and continued her report. “The heartland of America is rocked today by what appears to be another mass shooting.”
As Gabby watched, she remembered hearing an Imam say that it was acceptable to attack schools because of their political correctness and teaching of the disgraceful American ways.
Minutes later, she pushed the ‘off’ button. OMG, what next?
Little did she know, less than an hour away, an Imam watched. Now he would sit back and enjoy a moment of solace knowing what was about to take place in a major city.
Chapter 7
Suddenly, every light in the city went out. Mohammed Adair opened the door, stepped outside, and marveled at the total darkness. He took in a deep breath, as if to signify the sight brought him new life. The prototype EMP equipment had radiated its direct energy pulse from the top of the building. It had done the job it was designed to do. Adair felt tremendous satisfaction. The EMP pulse emitted by this equipment was extremely small compared to an EMP explosion. This type of EMP could be targeted directionally. That was the beauty of it. Adair wasn’t even sure if it would take out most of the city, but it did. These EMP devices were getting smaller and the technology was becoming directional and could now be concentrated on a small area as well as a large area. Being that this operation coincided with the school shooting just hours ago, the physical and emotional impacts on the softening country would be tested.
Mohammed Adair was extremely excited to have been given this assignment, to be in charge of this EMP device. It was an honor to be chosen, and to be trusted to select the highly trained six-man team which was now part of the UN peacekeeping unit embedded within the US.
He had earned his stripes. He had worked his way up through the ranks in London and Germany as a youth. For the past ten years, he had worked in the US on a myriad of assignments with progressive responsibility. It was always for the same organization and for the same cause.
Adair gave a short command to his men in their native tongue. The team packed up the equipment and headed to the waiting truck. No one had noticed the old relic driving into position earlier in the day. The old vehicle had been chosen because it had none of the electronics of modern vehicles. It was impervious to an EMP.
Before getting into the vehicle, Adair looked around and listened. Not only was it pitch black, there wasn’t a moving car or truck in sight. He cocked his head. He didn’t even hear the train. He looked up to see a plane flying northwest in the distant sky. It was obviously out of range for the power of this EMP device. Adair had a passing thought that he hoped the impact of the device carried far enough to reach the municipal water supply, but that was a few miles away. That may be too much to ask. Still, this was the most successful blow to a city in years. He would be handsomely rewarded.
He got into the passenger side of the old truck, and the driver started it up. These older trucks were made before there was enough electronics to have an impact. Now they would be the only vehicle on the road.
* * *
The blackout was the cue.
Moments later, doors opened at several locations across the city. Armed disruptors flooded into the streets. They were dressed in local attire, some in high school jackets. Others were in sweatshirts and hats from local colleges. They appeared to be part of the community, though most had come into the country across the southern border. Most had been trained in Somalia, and others on small islands. They immediately broke into storefronts. Their mission was to loot and make it appear that their activities were spontaneous gatherings of people in emotional disarray. These were the talking points already drafted to give to the media.
A few minutes later one of them noticed a pretty young black girl. She had beautiful smooth skin and an exceptional structure to her face. In neatly fitted clothes, she appeared to be focused on her college studies, which would take her out of this neighborhood forever. She watched as she had when other crimes took place in her neighborhood. That was her naïve mistake. This was not a normal crime. These weren’t young men from the area.
They grabbed her. Her friend screamed at the assailants, so they grabbed her as well, and dragged the girls inside. Under the shadows of dim emergency lighting, they began violently having their way with the girls. In their culture, this was one of the benefits of being a male in power.
In short order, locals joined the trained soldiers. Looting and pillaging escalated across the city. Soon there was a spontaneous escalation and the naive locals outnumbered the trained foreigners; everything was going as planned.
When high-pitched sirens shrieked in the distance, the trained men left that location. The locals took the fall if they were caught. These men were ordered to spread out to increase the radius of the impact. When locals joined in, they were to leave and go another block or two to spread the chaos.
The trained disruptors had instructions: when they received the signal from their overlook, or at the appointed time, whichever came first, they were to drop everything, shed their outer layer of clothes, put on the new hats they each carried in their pockets, disperse and walk peacefully back to their assigned safe houses.
A short t
ime later, the globalist-controlled media received their talking points. The fake story line was that social injustice was the cause of the riots. The stage was set.
The plan had worked perfectly.
* * *
Back at the White House, George had just finished conferring with Adam about the shooting at the Eisenhower Building when the news of the blackout broke.
Adam knew NERC (North American Energy Regulatory Commission) strictly enforced all of their procedures, and failures do occur. But, with everything else going on, his instincts told him there may be some dirty work afoot.
George questioned the Secretary of Energy. “How many people are out of power?”
Secretary Perry was non-committal. “We’re still assessing its impact; it could be up to a half a million, possibly more.”
The president immediately wanted to know, “Is this an act of terrorism?”
“We have no evidence of that sir. Any conjecture would be purely speculative at this juncture.” The secretary paused. “However, if you’re asking my opinion, Mr. President, I’d say that it exhibits all of the traits of something sinister.”
The secretary turned to the attorney general, who had just briefed him before this meeting with the president.
The attorney general began to explain. “About an hour after the blackout in New York, Chicago erupted in similar violence. But they didn’t have a blackout. There was practically no media coverage of the problems in New York and even if there had been, our sources tell us the disruptions started in more than one location. To me it looks like an orchestrated event.”
The president turned to the granite presence standing in the corner of the room. “Colonel Krieger, can you and Sergeant Major Briggs look into this and start thinking about countermeasures just in case?”
Krieger understood this was a directive and not a question. “Yes sir, affirmative on both counts.”
Chapter 8
Krieger’s pounding fist sent thumping sounds reverberating through the president’s bedroom. “Mr. President, we have a situation.”
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