Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  Zach handed Buck the book of matches, and then helped the big man sit upright against the wall. “Get going,” Hinton grunted. “I can hear them gathering on the porch.”

  Sam was beginning to cough as the two rangers made for the stairs. The basement smelled like stagnant water and moldy timber, a jungle of cobwebs hanging from the exposed rafters.

  Using her cell phone for illumination, the two rangers made for the front of the residence, weaving among the rudimentary shelving units that no doubt were once filled with canned goods and yard tools. Zach found a little nook between two supporting concrete walls and motioned for Sam to get inside.

  The ranger then pulled an old, semi-rotten canvas tarp from a nearby shelf, covering them as best he could.

  Hinton, now charged with the adrenaline of his certain demise, waited with wide eyes. The air grew foul as the thick cloud of gas expanded rapidly.

  The crash of the front door being kicked open startled the wounded ranger. He realized the loss of blood was affecting his vision. Barely able to identify the shadows of several men as they poured through the opening, he sensed the breachers alternating right and left, sweeping the living room.

  He could hear their footsteps as the rooms at the front of the residence were cleared, whispered voices and rapid footfalls that reminded the big cop of a SWAT team clearing a drug dealer’s den.

  “What do we have here,” a voice close to the dying man sneered.

  “It looks like we got one of them,” answered someone else from the other side of the doorframe.

  Hinton smiled… and then pulled the match across the striker board. “I’ll see you in hell,” he said as the flame began to expand.

  The explosion was catastrophic, an expanding ball of red and white flame pushing the air into a deadly blast wave.

  The windows of the old home surrendered first, spraying streams of glass outward with tremendous force. Faster than the human eye could register, the walls gave out next, the increasing circle of pressure tearing through pine studs and old plaster.

  Ghost was blown across the front yard, the sage, old Arab already at a full sprint away from the doomed structure. He’d smelled the gas just a few moments before Hinton had struck the match.

  Smoldering beams and floorboards rained down on Zach and Sam in the basement, a wall of blast furnace-like air rolling over the two huddled rangers as they held their breath.

  And then Zach was moving, pushing floorboards, chunks of plaster and other debris off their bodies.

  The shell of the home was now ablaze, thick, boiling clouds of smoke rising into the blue Arkansas sky. Zach pulled up a still-stunned Sam, ducked under her midsection and made for the stairs.

  Twice along the short route, he had to kick his way through smoking piles of rubble. He finally found the stairway, relieved that the steps seemed to be passable.

  There wasn’t much left of the dwelling, Zach emerging into daylight, struggling to keep his balance as he stepped over the mounds of scorched timbers and heaps of the home’s remains. Sam was recovering from the shock, her body jerking hard as it struggled to purge itself of the toxic fumes, almost knocking the Texan over in the process.

  Through tear-filled eyes, the two finally made it to the cool, green grass of the backyard. Both collapsed, drawing in lungful after lungful of fresh air.

  Zach would have been content to sit and recover, but the unmistakable sound of a car engine rousted the Texan back to reality. Throwing Sam a bewildered look intended to convey, “What now?” the ranger made it to his feet and began staggering toward the front yard. He rounded what was left of a wall in time to see Ghost’s escape, the Arab’s profile clearly visible through the passenger window.

  “Hinton was right,” he whispered, watching as the car sped away. “Houdini’s got nothing on that guy.”

  After regaining control of her limbs, Sam fished for her cell phone, frustrated when she discovered it was no longer on her person.

  “It must have fallen out when I carried you upstairs,” Zach replied, glancing back at the now fiery building. “I guess we have to just watch it burn and hope somebody heard the explosion.”

  Spotting a water pump next to the barn, Zach motioned for his partner to join him. Lifting up on the handle, both of them were relieved when a healthy stream of fresh, clear water cascaded at their feet.

  With cupped hands, both rangers drank, washed the soot from their exposed skin, and then indulged some more.

  While drying her face with a tattered sleeve, Sam spotted a body lying nearby.

  Hoping it wasn’t Hinton, she approached, the curiosity of a homicide detective overriding the fear of having to examine a friend’s gruesome corpse.

  Rolling the dead man over with her boot, she was relieved to see it wasn’t her colleague.

  Given the trauma the cadaver had just experienced, it was in surprisingly good condition. Zach joined her, the cop inside him always searching for more information.

  The two examined the body but found no identification, cell phone, or other telling evidence. Zach picked up the guy’s AK in the weeds nearby, checking the action and finding the weapon still loaded. “Let’s go see if there are any survivors,” he croaked.

  They spotted two more dead, both blown out of the collapsing structure by the blast wave. One was severely burned, the other clearly having died from a broken neck.

  As Sam fished through pockets, Zach noticed markings on the hand of one of the bodies. Covered in blood and a layer of smoky grime, it appeared to be handwriting.

  “My grandma, in her later years, had trouble remembering things,” the ranger stated, taking a knee to get a closer look. “She used to scribble notes in her palm.”

  Sam grunted, moving to study Zach’s discovery. “I used to do the same thing in college when I got stressed,” she said. “It was like a little reminder that I couldn’t ignore.”

  The two rangers exchanged looks, both knowing they might have just discovered something important.

  After fetching a rag and wetting it with water, Sam gingerly dabbed the dirt and blood from the man’s hand. Soon, she could identify a series of numbers.

  “There are two rows,” she said, “three digits and then four. Weird.”

  “Phone number?” Zach asked before thinking.

  “No, not enough digits.”

  She read them again, “443, and then 1709.”

  “Shit,” Zach spat, exhausted, disgusted, and still reeling from what had happened to Hinton. “It could be anything. There’s just no way to tell.”

  “I need a computer,” Sam concluded, rising from her knees. “I would venture that the last four digits are a date, but a month of 17 doesn’t make any sense.”

  Zach brightened, “He’s most likely from the Middle East. They record their dates backward. They print the day first, followed by the month.”

  “So you're saying that could be 09 or… September 17th? Holy shit, Zach…. That’s tomorrow.”

  The ranger glanced around at the destruction and carnage, “Sorry partner, can’t help you out there.” With a growl of resolve, Zach turned and continued, “Let’s go find you a computer.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait here for local cops? Hinton’s still here.”

  “Buck is dead, and I got a feeling a lot more people are going to die if we don’t figure out what is going on here. On top of it all, I haven’t slept in 30 hours. I’m filthy, exhausted, and pissed to high heaven that we lost a fellow ranger. I want a shower, four hours of sleep, a steak, and a pocket full of fresh magazines… and probably not in that particular order.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Zach spread his arms. “So if you want to spend the rest of your day repeating the same story over and over again to a hostile sheriff and his deputies, be my guest. I’m going to go steal one of these cars and head for home.”

  “Let’s just take my car. You’ve already committed enough crimes for one day.”

  They drove to Texarkana,
crossing the border without incident. The agent on the Texas side started to question the two motorists, noting the black streaks, filthy hair, and the residual odor from some foul-smelling barbecue lingering in the car.

  A quick flash of two badges stopped the inquiry cold.

  They headed for Zach’s pickup, located a cheap hotel with free WIFI, and checked in. Neither had the stamina to joke or debate over sharing a room.

  Zach let Sam have the first pass at a shower, the senior ranger tracking down a burger joint and ordering two combo meals. It wasn’t steak, but would have to do.

  By the time he returned, Sam was sitting on the bed, a towel wrapped around her head and a laptop already performing searches.

  Zach wolfed down his burger and fries and then announced that he was going to hit the shower before the food in his stomach put him out for good.

  The ranger had just finished shaving when the door burst open, one wide-eyed lady ranger charging in. “Zach, I got it!”

  “Excuse me?” exclaimed her startled and stark naked colleague.

  “It’s a flight. It leaves from Hobby tomorrow… Houston to Chicago, non-stop. That has to be it.”

  “Okay… let me get dressed first, would ya?”

  Sam looked down, the red of embarrassment filling her cheeks, Backing away slowly, she mumbled, “Sorry,” and then closed the door.

  Zach was dressed in a jiffy, the fresh clothes and clean shave tuning up his attitude. Sam couldn’t wait to show him her results.

  “It’s the only viable return I got when searching both series of numbers. That’s got to be it; they were training those people how to hijack a plane.”

  Zach stared at the departure information and then the face of his watch. “We’re seven hours away from Hobby. Let’s catch some shuteye and then head toward H-town.”

  “What? Oh my gawd, Zach! We need to be calling Major Putnam right fucking now. We need 100 rangers at that airport. We can’t let those guys take that plane.”

  “Call the major and say what? Think about that, Sam. What are we going to tell him? That we got Hinton killed in Arkansas? That we were performing an investigation when we were supposed to be suspended? Tell me exactly how that conversation would go?”

  “He would understand,” came her retort. “He’s a ranger and a damned good one.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is. But go on with this imaginary report you’re going to make. We found some ink marks in the palm of a dead, seriously burned guy who was shooting at us after we broke into his house. And be sure not to leave out that he got torched when Hinton committed suicide. Go on; tell me what you’re going to say.”

  Sam’s frustration resulted in a growl rather than her usually well-worded response. After considering Zach’s point for a second, she snapped, “You may be right about that, but on the other hand, we already have made a mess of things by not calling in backup. Twice in the last week as I recall. So I don’t know what the answer is, but if you plan on rushing into Hobby airport and having a shootout with the bad guys, you can count me out. We have to do better.”

  Exhaling deeply, Zach’s voice became a quieter monotone, seething with frustration. “I’ve known Buck Hinton since I finished college. After graduation, I signed up with the Texas Department of Public Safety and became a state trooper, and Buck was my training officer out in Alpine. When I was recruited to join the rangers, I essentially leap frogged over quite a few deserving men, including Trooper Hinton. But even so, when I was hired, Buck was the first guy to shake my hand, wish me luck, and buy me a beer. It was on my recommendation that he be recruited to join our ranks. And now some rotten ass, piece-of-shit terrorist has killed my friend. I want payback, and I want it bad.”

  Zach’s speech softened his partner’s mood. Nodding, she said, “I understand. I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted.”

  “We’ll call Putnam. We’ll make a full disclosure before we get on that plane. We’ll do this right. But I’m going to be at least one of the rangers in that airport and on that flight.”

  Chapter 10

  Mudar al-Jubury was embarrassed by the moisture that covered his palms. Fortunately, the security screener at Houston’s Hobby Airport didn’t want to shake hands.

  Motioning for Mudar to sit in one of the hardback, plastic chairs, the middle-aged airport employee then returned to his own seat behind the desk.

  “This will only take a few minutes, sir. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Republic of Texas occasionally conducts pre-boarding interviews with select passengers. We’ll finish up here well before your aircraft begins boarding.”

  Mudar was indeed cognizant of the fledgling country’s new security protocols. He had studied them extensively over the last few months.

  The Republic of Texas didn’t have a TSA (Transportation Security Agency) screening passengers at its airports.

  The always-controversial security organization had been deemed a bloated, ineffective, intrusive example of U.S. bureaucracy run amuck. Starting with a blank slate, the new Republic settled on a security system resembling the Israeli model, adding a few enhancements.

  Instead of removing shoes and surrendering water bottles, a passenger boarding a plane in Texas was submitted to an interview, run against a computer database of known threats, and studied carefully before being allowed on the aircraft.

  While few citizens missed the snaking security lines at the Republic’s airports, there were tradeoffs. Instead of pat-downs and fingernail clipper confiscation, profiling became part of the process, and not everyone was happy about it.

  Travelers could be submitted to a rather lengthy interview, a process that resulted in some people proclaiming their personal liberties were being violated. Others welcomed the change, stating that air travel was safer and a far more pleasant experience.

  Mudar and his superiors in the ISIS caliphate were counting on gaps and inefficiencies in the new system, placing their faith in Allah, and the fact that the security screening would be conducted by less-than-experienced, freshly trained personnel.

  “I see your destination is Chicago, sir. What is the purpose of your visit to the Windy City?” the agent fired his first question.

  “I’m going to visit a cousin there,” Mudar replied, his voice expressionless.

  “In which area of Chicago does your relative reside?”

  This is simple, Mudar thought. Anyone with a computer and the internet could answer these questions. What amateurs.

  The young Arab man had the address memorized, as well as having studied internet images of the neighborhood. But a quick answer would have been too pat. Instead, he fished a small slip of paper from his pocket and slid it across the metal desk’s surface. “I’ve not been there before,” he responded in perfect English, “but this is the address I am to provide the cab driver.”

  Mudar knew any verification of the street and number would reveal that one Qadir al-Obaidi resided in apartment B and had been a resident at the same address for over 18 months.

  “What is your cousin’s occupation?”

  “He is a student at the University of Chicago.”

  “His major?”

  “Political science.”

  “And your occupation, Mr. Jubury?”

  Mimicking any other passenger being subjected to such questioning, Mudar let a hint of frustration enter his response. “I’m working on my graduate degree at Prairie View A&M University.”

  “And what is the mascot at Prairie View?”

  Tricky, thought Mudar. Fortunately, this part of the story is true or he would have me. “We are the Panthers,” he answered, sitting straighter with a mock display of pride.

  The interview continued for another five minutes, Mudar’s well-rehearsed responses seeming to satisfy the security screener.

  Throughout it all, Mudar followed what Ghost’s instructors had lectured over and over again. “You are a college student traveling to see family. You have that right. You are innocent. They know nothing because there is
nothing to know. They can only see what you show them. The security measures are intrusive because of your innocence, but not enough for you to be indignant.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jubury. Please enjoy your flight,” the uniformed official finally announced, reaching under the desk.

  Mudar heard an electronic buzz behind him and knew instantly it was the door’s heavy lock.

  Rising with the frustrated purpose of a man who had been inconvenienced, he strolled out of the security room and into the main terminal area, relief secretly flooding through his body with the rush of accomplishment.

  Now alone in the office, the airport screener reached for the phone and punched a number. His call was answered on the second ring.

  “Jubury,” he stated calmly into the receiver. “Yellow. Repeat, yellow.”

  The threat of arrest having passed, Mudar continued to the proper gate, finding a seat among the other passengers milling about while waiting for the flight to board. His mind cleared sufficiently to realize that his race and religion had been the reason why he’d been subjected to the interview.

  He used the realization to reaffirm his mission and turn his nervous energy to anger. The Texans, like their American masters, were so high and mighty, throwing around terms like liberty, individual rights, and personal freedoms. Yet he had just been subjected to an interrogation because of his skin color and method of worship.

  Couldn’t they see how hypocritical it all was?

  The mere concept of Sharia Law turned his classmates into near-raving lunatics, their prejudices and preconceived notions resulting in responses filled with terms such as “barbaric,” and “primitive.”

  On the few occasions when the conversation had been allowed to deepen, Mudar found that his supposedly educated friends knew nothing of the ancient Muslim law, their harsh judgements based solely on the propaganda and misinformation produced by Christians, Jews, and Western governments.

  At first, he’d tried to correct their ignorance, gently debating and suggesting his “friends” research the topic, read related literature, or attend teachings at the nearest mosque.