by Jack Strain
The general’s tired eyes went wide as he read the short message and blurted out, “Holy shit, we got him. Sorry, gentlemen, I have to drop the line. One of my senior people will be patched in momentarily.”
A clipped English voice cut in, “Well don’t leave us in suspense Samuel. Got whom?”
“You can read about it in the funny pages, Nigel.”
Picking up the phone, he called his aide and said, “Get me the Secretary of Defense. Tell him it's urgent.”
The White House
As expected, the president named Baxter Davis the interim Chief of Staff. He wasted little time in pushing several of Schultz’s deputies out the door and quickly had his people brought on board. A late afternoon strategy meeting soon turned into a working dinner meeting. The Wolfe White House was getting destroyed in the press, and Davis knew that he had to figure out a way to flip the narrative.
His people at the Davis News Corp had been covering the domestic terror raids in depth and turning every federal agent with a badge into a hero and trashing the student protesters and the usual cast of villains from the Democrats to the ACLU. But other than conservative press circles, the major media outlets were in a feeding frenzy.
Davis had been involved in American politics since 9/11, mostly as a guy throwing grenades attacking the Republican establishment as much as attacking the Dems. However, this was the first time he was actually responsible for anything. Managing a campaign, acting as an advisor were all important roles, but now he was expected to carry his own weight for the president. The realization of this hit him like a lead pipe yesterday morning after the president called at 6 a.m. and blasted him about the media coverage.
It was a small working group that included the White House Communication Director, former FOX News contributor and radio host Lindsey Burns, Press Secretary Sally Mercer, and three of Davis’ key deputies. Chinese takeout littered the conference table, nerves were frayed, and the volume kept increasing around the room.
The new Deputy Chief of Staff Susanna Hastings pushed a half-eaten plate of General Tso’s chicken away in disgust and said, “Bullshit, Sally, you let those White House douchebag reporters today make you look like the gimp from that Tarantino movie. The only thing missing was that rubber ball tied around your mouth. If you can’t defend this President better than that, then it’s time to pack your fucking bags.”
Lindsey Burns secretly agreed with Susanna’s characterization of today’s debacle and had already read Mercer the riot act, but she, not Hastings, was one of her people, so she pushed back. “You’re out of line Susanna, and you know it. What the hell was Sally supposed to say today? I mean, Christ, how much shit can hit the fan in a single day? One of our planes went down in Syria, more rioting in a dozen more campuses, the lights are still out, and our own party held a news conference condemning the terror raids.
Plus, that footage of those ass clown private security contractors beating the shit out of that doctor in front of a room full of waiting patients makes us all look like fucking jack-booted Nazis. What was she supposed to say, ‘no comment?’”
Hastings snarled back, “She made the president look weak. Sally, you didn’t have to be so quick to condemn the agents. You should have talked about the target’s terror ties. His goddamned son was arrested two days ago.”
Rolling her eyes, Burns acidly responded, “It was worse than that United flight where they pulled that doctor off the plane in front of about two hundred passengers. You can’t spin that. What’s happening is unprecedented. Even FOX is turning against the president. Whoever leaked those videos yesterday from that detention center in Texas killed us. All those Muslim men dressed in prison clothes packed into that open-air fence line. Jesus Christ, who the fuck is in charge of this thing?”
Baxter suddenly had had enough and slammed his hand down hard on the wood table and said with a voice filled with contempt, “Enough! I’m in charge, got it? Did anyone in this room think this would be easy? Are you all forgetting that it was our President who had the balls to stare down the entire world and bring the fight to the terrorists? If this man is willing to wage this war, then the people in this room had better be willing to do anything and say anything to support him. Period. Is that understood?”
Baxter was really worked up now, and when the White House Communications Director was about to say something, he cut her off and added, “And if you two can’t deal with the press then tender your resignations right now.”
Baxter’s fierce eyes roamed the room waiting for someone to say something, but the room was uncomfortably quiet, so he softened his tone and said, “Okay back to business, we need to change the narrative by releasing information about the domestic terrorists that we have already rounded up. I want profiles of these bastards put together to be released to the major networks. I want honest, God-fearing Americans to be looking at their neighbors, their kid’s pediatrician, hell anyone that don’t look right and have them thinking ‘thank God Douglas J. Wolfe is my President.’
We need to remind Americans that these people being detained are not the victims. In fact, Susanna, I want to set up an event for the recent real terror victims. I will make sure the president attends.”
His cell phone lit up and started vibrating causing him to lose track of what he was saying. Glancing down, he saw it was from the president and quickly picked up the phone. The others listened as Baxter answered, “Yes, sir…are you sure? Holy shit that’s good news…I’ll be right there.”
Suddenly grinning Davis said, “You people need to handle the news cycle for the next twenty-four hours because after that everything changes.”
Mercer already on the verge of a nervous breakdown was almost afraid to ask but couldn’t help herself. “What happens in twenty-four hours?”
“We found the bastard Rahimi. The president says the Pentagon plans to move on him within hours. This doesn’t leave this room, and I mean if it leaks from here I swear to you that I will be scraping you off the bottom of my shoe when I’m done. Are we clear? Good, because if we play our cards right, we get the bastard, declare victory, and turn this president into the man of the fucking decade.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
October 24th
The Pentagon
It was 1:30 in the morning and the mood in the “Tank” was a mix of exhaustion and optimism. The non-stop combat operations of the past ten days had pushed the Joint Chiefs and their planning staffs to the edge of their endurance, but the feeling spreading throughout the war room was that the chase was on now that Rahimi had surfaced. And there would be no fuckups like losing bin Laden back in 2001. It was time to end this.
In the twelve hours since the RC 135 Rivet Joint aircraft locked onto Rahimi and his senior commanders, intel experts from every major intel agency from NSA, DIA, Langley, and even the Israeli Mossad were brought in to confirm that the transmissions were real. Every piece of intelligence collected over the past two weeks ranging from photo recon missions to SIGNET was checked and checked again looking for a pattern or an estimate of fighters in and around the city but came up with nothing.
The Commandant of the Marine Corps, General William “Chooch” Nelson pointed out earlier in the evening, “Rahimi’s people were off the grid completely for two weeks, but now for some reason, they announce their presence, almost daring us to attack them. I know that I’m just some dumbass jarhead, but this smells like a setup.”
Air Force General David Geller said, “Who knows, Chooch, they just may be daring us to hit them, so we kill more noncombatants and make us look even worse.”
Army Chief of Staff Thomas “Mad Max” Maxwell pointed out, “Dave, the entire world has seen one bombed and burned out city after the other. Christ, how much worse can we look right now to the Muslim world?”
Vice-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Pat Sullivan, looked more like an accountant than a war fighter, but everyone in the room knew that the tough kid from South Philly was a killer. He had spent h
is first ten years as a Warthog A-10 pilot, ratcheting up a dozen confirmed tank kills in the First Gulf War and then graduated to B1 bombers and flew one of the first missions to strike the Taliban after 9/11.
Sullivan shook his head and said “Chooch is right. These guys went black weeks ago and suddenly start communicating in the open. This is not an accident. This cocksucker is looking to draw us into a city fight.”
He paused for a moment to let that sink in to the professionals in the room who had all learned as young cadets taking War Fighting 101 to avoid fighting in built-up areas and then added, “Gentlemen, we just got asked to the dance. What are we going to do about it?”
Marine General Nelson responded, “Gonna be messy.”
The National Guard’s top general, Jonathan Leggett, a veteran combat commander with multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan said, “No other choice, Chooch. We either go all in and fight it out block by block, a la Fallujah, or send the Special Ops boys and try to find him in a city of fifty thousand people and hope he doesn’t escape. Don’t think the president has the patience for either option.”
General Geller threw his hands up in frustration, “Well we can’t exactly start dropping bombs all over the damn place. This president wants this bastard’s head on a fucking platter, not buried under some bombed out hole in the ground.”
Vice-Chairman Sullivan was absentmindedly listening when it suddenly hit him, “They both want a PR win. The president needs to show the world that he got the guy who killed his daughter and started this whole fucking mess, and Rahimi wants to make us look like blood-thirsty Crusaders destroying the city and killing innocent Muslims. Fuck it, can’t do one without the other, so why not do both?”
Army General Maxwell knew it would be his soldiers who would have to bear the brunt of a bruising city fight and clearly skeptical of anything that smelled like a PR stunt for the president, so he lashed out in an irritated manner. “Pat, what the hell are you talking about? Rahimi may have a couple of thousand or more experienced fighters dug in and around that city. This can’t be some PR bullshit. It may take weeks to root them all out and find this guy. It’s going to be ugly as hell.”
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Samuel Duncan was looking at Sullivan who simply shook his head, signaling that Mad Max wasn’t getting it, and then it hit him. Holding up his right hand and looking right at the agitated Army Chief of Staff and said “Max, calm down. Listen, if I get what Pat is saying, we have no other choice then to take the fight to Rahimi, but on our terms. He may have staged this fight for some PR stunt, but it doesn’t matter at this point. He’s there, and we need to end this one way or the other.”
Admiral Ricketts was not the only skeptic in the room and offered up, “Sam, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but if we storm into that city just to appease the president, I don’t see how this ends well. Why not isolate the place and let our Special Ops teams infiltrate into the city and go hunting? The goal is Rahimi. Killing another thousand or so jihadists and God knows how many civilians doesn’t matter at this point.”
General Geller interjected, “That’s great, Sam, leave another thousand or so of these bastards to roam around causing havoc. I don’t think so. Let’s not forget the other directive from the president to secure every possible chemical weapon stash in the country. I got drones configured as NBC sniffers, but only way to be sure takes boots in the streets, kicking in doors.”
Decision time.
General Duncan came to his feet and walked over to a blown up aerial view of Al-Bukamal and grabbed a pointer. “Okay gentlemen, this is what we are going to do. Max, you have twenty-four hours to isolate the city. Use the entire 82nd Airborne if you have to, but I don’t want a fucking goat path open in or out of that fucking town. Got it? Then, I want you to team up a mixed force of Rangers and Stryker Squadrons from the 2nd Cavalry Regiment. I intend to make “Thunder Runs” into the city and see what type of defenses these shitbirds have put together. And I want every Apache Squadron up and in the air riding shotgun every step of the way.
“Finally, I want to establish a task force to coordinate all of our Special Ops shooters from the Seals to Delta. Samp is right. I want them to gather as much intel as possible on the ground, and when the time is right, they will be there ready to make a play.
“I intend to brief the Secretary of Defense within the hour and expect to brief the president with a full war plan first thing in the morning, so let’s burn the midnight oil and get our shit together. It’s time to kill this turd and bring our boys home.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
Lafayette Square Park
Washington D.C.
It was a little past six in the morning, but already more than ten thousand people packed Lafayette Square, the nearly seven-acre public park adjacent to the White House. Some of the faces were young and filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation while others older veterans of many marches and other causes from civil rights to saving the environment. The crowd was a wonderful mix of the amazing tapestry of America.
There were white faces and black and brown, while others displayed a mix of races impossible to easily discern, though it didn’t matter on a day that transcended such matters. All stood shoulder to shoulder to show the world that the bright shining beacon of hope that America had stood for generations had not been extinguished.
More significantly, people of faith were present throughout the crowd. Whether they be Christian, Jew, Hindu, Muslim, or those who worshipped no particular God, here they all gathered to celebrate the shared belief that you can’t fight evil by embracing evil. Songs were sung, signs held high, music played, chants for peace were heard, but it wasn’t long before the mood turned more aggressive. Soon anger- and vitriol-filled chants were aimed at President Wolfe and his supporters for the deaths of so many innocents abroad and even now here at home.
Long a fixture for peaceful protest going back to the Vietnam War, Lafayette Square now became the focal point for the massive rally planned to protest both the war and the Wolfe administration’s roundup of Muslims throughout the country. Major protests were being organized in cities big and small across the nation.
Millions of Americans backed President Wolfe’s new war on terror, but millions more were appalled at the cost of lives and loss of civil liberties. Images of federal agents storming into homes and classrooms flooded social media causing a visceral reaction throughout the nation.
An already tense Secret Service manned the perimeter of the White House grounds supplemented by a contingent of nearly three hundred armed Marines from the Marine Barracks at 8th and I street in D.C. Normally engaged in a host of ceremonial duties, today these marines were armed and equipped for crowd control in case there was a rush to storm the fence line surrounding the White House.
The local D.C. police had been reinforced by a large contingent of Maryland State troopers and National Guard troops which were expected to arrive later in the day. They would be needed because hundreds of buses had been making their way into the city over the past twenty-four hours. Hundreds more were on the way. Packed trains from the busy Northeast Corridor were making their way into Union Station unloading thousands of protesters.
Convoys of cars packed the already congested highways leading to the nation’s capital, and the 495 Beltway was moving at a crawl even at this early hour. It was expected that a crowd of over half a million would be on hand for a major rally along the Reflecting Pool and at the Washington Monument.
But not all the protesters were coming to attack the president, tens of thousands were coming to attend a counter-rally in support of President Wolfe. Reports of patriotic rallies being organized around the nation to support the war and roundup of potential terrorists were being promoted throughout Conservative Media from Talk Radio to hundreds of leading blogs and websites.
A divided Red and Blue America was never more apparent than in the twin series of rallies sweeping the nation.
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br /> Grimacing as he limped down the hallway with a coffee cup in hand and a newspaper under his arm, Senator John Mitchum jumped when his cell phone suddenly went off, and his coffee spilled on the new Persian carpet his wife purchased last month. “Goddamnit, son of a bitch. Can’t even take a dump in this town in peace.”
Hurrying down the hall, he reached the bathroom, put his mug down and fumbled for his phone, and after the fourth ring curtly answered, “What?”
A familiar voice greeted him on the other line, “John, it’s Edith. I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything, but I think we really need to talk. Do you have a moment?”
“A minute…for you…for the good Senator from the fine state of Massachusetts and the woman who just last weekend on the Sunday morning talk shows called me the biggest warmonger in the U.S. Senate. Hell, Edith, I got two for you.”
Senator Edith Templeton grimaced at the good-natured poke from Mitchum. She knew that she deserved it after laying it on pretty thick last weekend. She was taking a risk and considering Templeton had 2020 in her sights, she had to play this very carefully. In her familiar nasally voice, Templeton got right to the point, “John, although you boys didn’t invite me to your little get together last week in Virginia, I’m hearing whispers that folks on your side of the aisle are getting worried about your boy Wolfe, and that was before he started rounding up Muslims like it was Berlin in the 30’s.”
“You sound a little hurt there Edith. Now don’t start going soft on me. Besides, we both know your people would have shit themselves if they knew you were at some secret meeting with a bunch of old, evil white men.”
Chuckling a bit, Templeton countered, “What other type of meeting is there in this town other than ones with old, evil white men.”