The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Absolutely, Mr. Norris.” Azar sat up in bed. “That was always my intention. As far as I’m concerned, you are the boss. From now on, what you say goes.”

  “Prissy little feller, ain’t you? Hey, I’ve forgotten . . . what the hell are you, some kind of Arab, I think?”

  “My grandparents came to this country from Syria a hundred years ago.”

  “That so? I don’t blame them. Syria is a dung heap. And when you go back there you can tell them that.”

  Azar took no offense. It was the liquor talking with just an edge of repressed anger.

  Norris said, “So we want to start a little blaze, right? One where no one gets hurt? Just enough to prove my point that satellites and ground cameras don’t work to prevent forest fires. I want to impress on the idiots that all they do is make it more dangerous for the smoke jumper crews on the ground . . . to say nothing of the surrounding residents.”

  “Exactly,” Azar said. “Of course, you must have realized by now, I could easily start such a fire myself. But I’m a humanitarian, and I came to you because I want it to be safe . . . without loss of life. I want the fire to be effective in getting our point across.”

  “Our point across,” Norris said. “That our puzzles the hell out of me. What do you care, Azar? You’re a damned camel jockey from dung-heap Syria.”

  “No, Mr. Norris, I’m an American, just like you, and I care, but for a different reason.”

  “That reason being that you want to sell firefighting equipment.”

  “That’s part of it, but I want the watchtowers restored. You could call it a mild obsession with me.”

  “Hell, apart from me, you must be the only person in the United States who wants the watchtowers restored,” Norris said. “These days watchtower is a bad word . . . like shit.”

  “Yes, I do care, but as a loyal American I need more. Mr. Norris. I want to work to prevent the terrible scorching that is destined to come.”

  “Scorching? What scorching? You mean more forest fires?” Norris said, drunk, trying to comprehend what the man was telling him.

  “I mean forest fires started by Muslim terrorists,” Azar said. “I believe hundreds of them, Fire Warriors they’re called, are already here and will soon spread across the country. If they are not stopped, this nation will be set ablaze, and only ashes will be left of our great forests and all the many towns in the path of the devouring flames.”

  “Hey, how do you know all this?” Norris said. He sounded suspicious. “How do you know about them hundreds of fire warriors?”

  Azar forced a smile into his voice. “My dear Mr. Norris, Muslims in the community speak to other Muslims. Nothing of this monumental nature can be kept a secret for too long.” Then, a careful step onto quicksand. “I understand that a firefighter friend of yours is in charge of an anti-terrorist unit.”

  Norris didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, his name is Cory Cantwell. A good man, but he believes in the new ways of the National Wildfire Service.”

  “I fully support his anti-terrorism efforts, and I’d like to tell him so,” Azar said. “Can you arrange an introduction?”

  “The last I heard he’s here in Portland. I’ll see what I can do,” Norris said. He was very drunk. “If we set enough fires, maybe it won’t change anyone’s mind about restoring the watchtowers, but what the hell . . . it’s worth a try.”

  “I think if we make an effective presentation, it will have more impact than you expect, Mr. Norris,” Azar said.

  “So, why not?” Norris said. “Where do you want to meet, little Arab man?”

  “Why don’t we get together tomorrow, say two o’clock? The address of my warehouse is on the card I gave you.”

  “I looked your company up, Azar. I think maybe I’ve used some of your pissant equipment. It was all junk, if I remember right.”

  “Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” Azar said.

  “Junk . . . it was all junk. Every damn thing was junk, I tell you.”

  “As I told you, Mr. Norris, the previous owners of the Hestia Corporation were not up to standard. I assure you, at present the company is in fine shape. Now how much money do you want?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and Nasim sensed he’d made a mistake.

  “Say that again,” Norris said.

  “I meant living expenses, Mr. Norris. You’ll need something to live on.”

  “I don’t want your money for myself,” Norris said, finally. “I need to be sure we have enough cash to buy equipment and . . . and do the job right, understand? You’re not . . . you’re not bribing me to start wildfires?”

  “Of course, not. I meant money for supplies,” Azar said. One thing he’d learned selling high-end rugs: when you change your mind, always pretend it was what you meant all along. “Oh, and Mr. Norris, we need accurate maps.”

  “I’ve got plenty of those. I got good Forest Service maps. The best there are.”

  “Then why don’t you pick out more than one location for our test,” Azar said. “Perhaps one in Washington, one in Oregon, and one in California. We can choose the final locations when we meet.”

  “See you then,” Norris said, his words slurred, barely understandable. “I need to sleep . . .”

  Clunk! Silence. Mike Norris had dropped the phone.

  * * *

  Nasim Azar ended the call smiling. In the morning he’d order a couple of his men to get the warehouse presentable. He’d bought the Hestia company along with its inventory of firefighting equipment, but it was so run-down he’d also purchased some state-of-the-art hoses and other gear. It had to look good for Mike Norris.

  * * *

  Restless, excited by his progress with Norris, Nasim Azar gave up on sleep. He rose from bed, stepped to his bedroom window, and stared out to where the dark sweep of the Willamette River reflected the lights of the tall business blocks on its banks like amber, yellow, and white brushstrokes of paint. Across the street from Azar’s apartment, three middle-aged couples, late-night revelers by their laughter and loud talk, hurried home through the rain, scurrying along the Grand Avenue sidewalk like windblown leaves.

  Azar’s eyes trailed the four walkers until he lost them in darkness. He yielded to his thoughts and pondered the events of the day. The call from Norris had been welcome, though he didn’t really need the man. Norris would teach the brethren the best and fastest way to set a dangerous wildfire, and that was all. When he was no longer useful, he could be eliminated. But the news of the deaths of three holy warriors at the hands of Cory Cantwell had deeply troubled him. By Azar’s count, the man Cantwell had now murdered five Muslim martyrs, and if the information he’d received from the field was correct, killers from the unit Cantwell commanded had shot another two. That was seven fire warriors dead out of his total strength of fifty, not the hundreds he’d boasted to Norris. Azar’s face tightened, its harsh lines visible in his reflection in the window. Cantwell had to die. He would kill the man himself, perhaps after he lured him to the warehouse. Soon, he must make a plan.

  He turned and stepped to his desk and retrieved a copy of the manifesto he’d sent out to his operatives across the country . . .

  Brothers

  As you now know, our new terror weapon is fire, the very thought of which makes the Crusaders tremble in their shoes. No longer must we depend on guns and mass shootings, bombs or speeding vehicles to mow down pedestrians on their filthy sidewalks, but instead we can take up incendiary weapons to cleanse the world of the unbelievers.

  Already, such fire attacks, that we have named the Scorching, have destroyed towns, neighborhoods and private, public and government property while claiming hundreds of lives. The jihadi have taught the Crusaders a lesson on just how destructive an operation of such simplicity can be. With some basic and readily available materials, and I speak of inflammables, we can TERRORIZE THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES.

  Pyroterrorism, as it applies to the righteous terror mujahid, is to initiate forest
fires using flammables to destroy the great woodlands and, in the process, kill thousands of infidels and send them from the inferno of this world to the eternal flames of the next.

  All that I require of you, the mujahid, is to acquire the combustibles you wish to use, select your target and determine the best time for execution. Because many flammables are such a part of everyday living, pyroterrorist attacks on forests are very difficult to prevent. A gasoline can bought from any hardware store may be filled at any gas station without raising the slightest suspicion.

  Go forth then, soldiers of the Islamic State, and do as God wills. Set this crusader nation ablaze from coast to coast and always remember that Allah does not allow the reward of good doers to be lost. Allahu Akbar!

  Azar tossed the memo back in a drawer and nodded to himself. He believed that he’d emphasized to the operatives that pyroterrorism must not be belittled. Even if the forest attacks did not result in hundreds of casualties, harming and enraging the unbelievers would be sufficient reward.

  Agitated, his brain now spinning with schemes and plots, Azar stepped back to the window. The view was the same, the river, the rain, and the blustery wind. The street was now empty, uninteresting, and ill-defined, like a splotched watercolor painted by an amateur.

  Sleep would elude him tonight. Unless . . .

  Hating himself for his weakness and his addiction to female flesh, Azar dialed a number on his cell. When a man picked up at the other end, he said, “It’s me.” A pause as the other man acknowledged Azar, and then, “I need a white woman for a couple of hours. The usual, a blond with big tits who doesn’t mind being slapped around a little.” Another pause, then Azar said, “Yes, I know it’s late, Darnell. All right, all right, I’m not too fussy, and I’ll take what you have. Yes, Corky is fine. She isn’t too black. No offense intended, Darnell. Okay, half an hour.”

  Azar slept naked, but now he slipped on a silk Moroccan sleeping robe and waited.

  Corky Jackson, perky and punctual, was always on time.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mike Norris woke up around eight o’clock in the morning. He’d slept, or fell into a coma, for only a few hours. His head pounded and his belly heaved, and when he tried to drink a cup of coffee, it tasted like black acid.

  What the hell did I do last night? Did I call that little Azar creep, or did I imagine it?

  He pulled out his cell phone and checked. Yes, he’d called the man at one-thirty . . . when he’d been his drunkest. And yet, now that he considered it, he wasn’t really that sorry. Examples needed to be made, small fires, causing little damage, but in places where lookouts would have seen them. The point was, the National Wildfire Service needed people out there on the front line twenty-four-seven, trained and experienced and doing it as an avocation, not a bunch of mercenaries, hired seasonally, minimally trained, who were doing it for the money.

  I should talk to Cory Cantwell one last time, he thought. The guy really might have a point—maybe he can make more progress from the inside. I should give him one last chance. Besides, Azar wanted to meet him. That could be a help. The damned Arab had a glib tongue.

  Norris groaned his way out of bed and stood under the showerhead for as long as the hot water lasted, and when it turned cold, he forced himself to stand there until he yelled in numbed shock. He stumbled out of the shower and grabbed a towel. He finally felt awake.

  The last time he’d heard, Cory was working in the 5050 building on Hawthorne Boulevard in downtown Portland. Norris had passed the place a few times, and it was close enough to his dingy apartment block that he could leave his truck and ride his ten-speed.

  An hour later, he got on the bike and headed toward the high-rises on the horizon.

  * * *

  “Mr. Cantwell no longer works here,” the receptionist at the front desk said.

  “What do you mean?” Norris said, annoyed. “I just saw him at an NWS ceremony.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that Superintendent Cantwell no longer works for the Service, but that he has been transferred to another unit. Mr. Williams is in charge of the Willamette department now. Would you like to speak with him?”

  Norris considered it. He’d never met Harvey Williams, but the man had a decent reputation. He was a company man through and through, but apparently, he’d been a smoke jumper who’d spent some time on the front lines.

  “If you don’t mind talking to him,” he said finally.

  Surprisingly, Williams made time for him right away.

  “Mike Norris!” the man exclaimed, extending his hand. “I’m so glad to meet you in the flesh. You’re a damned legend in the Wildfire Service.”

  “Thank you,” Norris said. He ignored the hand and pulled a chair toward him and sat.

  Williams had been slighted, and his voice took on an edge. “And you’re also an enormous pain in the ass.”

  The change in tone was so abrupt that it took Norris a minute to react. He thought it was a joke until he looked up into Williams’s irritated scowl. The man’s skin was a deep mahogany color, and under his shirt he had the shoulders of an NFL linebacker. In fact, he’d played three seasons at left guard for the Detroit Lions until a knee injury sidelined him for good. He wore a Wildfire Service olive green uniform and had a gold wedding band on his left hand.

  “I decided to meet you as a professional courtesy, Mike, because I think someone needs to tell you some home truths,” Williams said. “Man, you have to back off. You’re causing problems for the Service, problems that we don’t need. The old days are done and gone. Our funding has been cut to the bone, and observers in watchtowers have given way to on-site cameras and eye-in-the-sky satellites, and that’s how it’s going to stay from now on.” Norris opened his mouth to speak, but Williams held up a silencing hand as big as a baseball glove. “You wanted to see Cory Cantwell, right? Well, Cantwell is off fighting a war, not against forest fires, but the people who deliberately start them. It’s a war on terrorism, Mike, and we’re all in it. Cory is my boss, and that’s why”—he opened his desk drawer and took out a Glock 19—“I carry this thing to work every day. I never know when I’m going to be called upon to use it. Right now, your own little personal war is something we don’t need. If you can’t be a loyal soldier, then quit. Oh, wait. You did. You have nothing to do with us anymore.”

  “I resigned,” Norris said. “Best thing I ever done.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Williams said. “You couldn’t get your own way and you walked out in a snit.”

  “But I still care,” Norris said. “I care because I lost almost my entire crew. I care because the satellite had us dropped into the wrong location. I care because a man in a watchtower could have saved us.”

  Williams shook his head. “No, that’s not how it was. Mike, you could’ve saved your crew, and you know it. I believe you’re trying to blame the Service for your own failings. What really happened at Indian Wells, Mike?”

  “Damn you, Williams, are you accusing me of cowardice?” Norris said.

  “I read your report.”

  “You didn’t read nothing in there about cowardice.”

  “It was self-serving,” Williams said. “To say the least.”

  “It was the truth.”

  “Some of it was the truth.”

  “All of it was true.”

  “Why did you run for the safety of the plateau while your crew was getting itself killed in the ravine?”

  “I saved the lives I could. I saved two women.”

  “Yes, you did. But they were on the slope, not in the ravine.”

  “Who says I ran for the plateau?”

  “Cory Cantwell told me. He said you were close to the plateau when he saw you.”

  “Then he’s a damned liar,” Norris said.

  “I doubt if Cory ever told a lie in his life,” Williams said. “He’s too much of a Boy Scout for that.” The man leaned forward on his desk, his big shoulders pushed forward, as though taking a stance, rea
dy for a tackle. “Here’s some advice, Mike,” he said. “Even if it’s only to yourself, admit the blame for Indian Wells. It wasn’t satellites or cameras that failed that day, it was you. You panicked and ran, didn’t you? Hell, man, it can happen to anybody, me, Cantwell, whoever you want to name. Now here’s more advice . . . from now on learn to live with it . . . and keep your big trap shut.”

  Norris slammed to his feet. “The hell with you, Williams,” he said. “You know nothing. You’re only sitting in that chair because you’re a black man.”

  “Mike, everyone thinks you deserve respect and so did I, once,” Williams said. “But not any longer. I think you’re only one step away from being a traitor to your country. You’ve become a disgrace, an embarrassment. If I used this Glock to shoot you now, I’d be doing you a favor.”

  Norris threw an oath at Williams and stormed out of his office. He strode past the secretary, his back stiff, and got as far as the stairwell before reacting. He slammed his fist into the concrete wall and realized he was seething with impotent rage and frustration.

  * * *

  Mike Norris reached his apartment with no clear memory of riding his bike there. His mind tormented by dark, spiking thoughts, he rushed to his bedroom, pulled out an old briefcase from the closet, and started to fill it with maps. He’d only intended to take one, since he’d already marked out what he thought was the most likely spot for a demonstration fire, but now he took them all.

  These were the maps that the public didn’t have access to, detailed topography for firefighters, wind patterns, water sources, and most important of all, the location of any of the new cameras that could be taken out by drones.

  CHAPTER 11

  Under a copper-colored sky, Mike Norris drove to Nasim’s business located in the city’s Pearl District just north of downtown. Most of the old warehouses there had been converted into luxury loft apartments, but Azar’s still functioned as a storage and office unit, though he’d converted rooms into a couple of apartments. The corrugated iron front doors had been replaced by wood and led into garage space. To the right, behind glass doors, was an unmanned security desk, then an open stairwell, and beyond that a plain pine door with a sign above it that read in block letters: