Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  Chapter 14

  Inspector Tula was obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry, my friends, but the results of the blood panel tests don’t seem to be in anyone’s files. The hospital claims to have sent them to the lab, but the laboratory claims they never arrived.”

  “No offense,” Zach frowned, “but you have to admit that sounds very suspicious. There is no way we can call this investigation complete without that information. Especially given the other inconsistencies we’ve discovered.”

  Tula nodded in agreement… but didn’t offer any solution.

  “Can’t we just send over new blood samples and rerun the tests?” Sam asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Tula responded, staring down toward his feet. “The bodies have already been embalmed. I fear my government is convinced that your soldiers attacked our outpost. They want to wash their hands of the entire episode. Public opinion has turned drastically hostile against your country.”

  Zach was getting more than a little frustrated by the dead ends, and it showed on his face.

  Brightening, Tula offered, “Perhaps the original blood samples will surface. According to the officers I spoke with at the military hospital, the specimens were sent by courier to the lab. We’re trying to reach that firm now, but so far no one from the company has returned our calls.”

  The two rangers exchanged glances, both arriving at the same conclusion at the same moment. “Inspector, I’ve noticed dozens of surveillance cameras in Istanbul. It reminds me of London in a way. Would it be possible to access the video recordings of the date, time, and location of the pickup?”

  Rubbing his chin, the local cop finally conceded, “I don’t see any reason why not.”

  A short time later, another officer brought a laptop computer into the conference room and began making connections with the department’s network.

  “Wish we had some popcorn,” Sam whispered to her partner. “It always makes the movie better.”

  “Popcorn?” Tula asked, having overheard. “What is popcorn?”

  The two rangers didn’t get a chance to explain, rescued from the effort by the technician’s declaration that the monitor was ready.

  “According to the log at the base’s front gate, the messenger was given the shipment at 1310 hours,” Tula announced after checking his notes. The IPD officer then began typing via the computer’s keyboard, which contained characters that neither Zach nor Sam could read.

  The screen changed to display an image of an intersection, the camera’s angle indicating it was mounted high on a streetlight or utility pole. There was a time and date stamp in the lower right-hand corner.

  Zach watched as their host fast-forwarded the video, cars and pedestrians zipping by in streaks of motion and light. Finally the video slowed, the on-screen timer indicating it was just a few minutes before the logged time of the exchange.

  Like clockwork, a van with Arabic writing on the side appeared in the frame. A young man exited, rushing up to the gate as if he was behind schedule. Zach could see the kid showing the guard his identification.

  The driver then signed on a clipboard and was handed a small container, not much larger than a shoebox. The three cops watched him return to the van and then drive away.

  Tula began to close the laptop’s lid, but Zach stopped him, the ranger’s intense gaze still focused on the screen. As the courier left the picture, a black car from across the street executed a quick U-turn and then accelerated as if to follow the package. “Freeze it right… there!” Zach barked.

  The inspector did as he was told, his finger punching the pause command.

  “Back it up a few frames, please.”

  When the image cleared, Zach inhaled sharply. “That’s him,” he hissed, glaring at Sam. “That’s the same son of a bitch I’ve been chasing for months.”

  Sam didn’t comment, instead she looked at Tula and said, “If you were to follow that driver across your video grid, I think you’ll find that same black car is always in the picture.”

  “At some point, the man driving that vehicle will take the package out of the van, or he may kill the driver. I bet that now the van is parked in some garage or warehouse. We know this guy. He’s been on our radar for a long time.”

  The inspector wasn’t convinced. “We can clearly see the black car’s tag. Let me run the number. Perhaps we can visit your friend and get his side of the story.”

  Five minutes later, Tula was now giving Zach’s claims serious consideration. The car shown in the video was stolen.

  It took them over an hour to trace the courier’s route. At the third pickup, the officers watched the driver enter a building. Five minutes passed, then ten. Finally, a different man emerged, wearing the driver’s clothing and hat. Zach pointed at the screen. “That’s him again.”

  The imposter entered the panel van as if he belonged behind the wheel and then sped off. Tula paused the video, reaching for a nearby phone and then barking a short string of orders.

  After returning the headset, he turned and explained, “My apologies. I just sent a patrolman to inspect that building. I hope he doesn’t find a dead man inside.”

  Without another word, the inspector returned to manipulating the laptop, having to switch the cameras multiple times as the van zigzagged through the bustling Istanbul traffic.

  Tula seemed to know the area by heart. When the video showed the van waiting at a traffic light, the inspector said, “No… don’t turn right. Please don’t….”

  But the driver on the recording wasn’t listening. The van turned right and went out of view.

  A look of helplessness appeared on the inspector’s face as he glanced at his two visitors. “There are no cameras in that section of Istanbul. They haven’t been installed yet.”

  “Shit,” Zach barked, turning away from the screen with anger. Sam put her hand on his shoulder, mouthing the words, “Calm down… stay cool.”

  She then turned to Tula and asked, “What area of the city is that?”

  “He was driving toward the Golden Horn.”

  “Are there many hotels in that area? If the man we seek follows his typical pattern, he won’t stay with that stolen van for long. He’ll dump it someplace close to where he’s staying.”

  “But there are hundreds of hotels in that area,” Tula protested. “It is a very busy tourist area.”

  “We’ve got to start somewhere,” Zach stated with conviction.

  The phone rang, Tula answering it immediately. He listened intently for several minutes, only occasionally muttering a single syllable word in response. Finally, he turned to the rangers and suggested, “Perhaps my department can help us find this man. We found the driver, dead, inside of that building.”

  “Let me guess,” Sam said. “The courier’s throat was cut.”

  Tula’s eyes grew wide. “Yes. How did you… never mind. I believe you now.”

  Within hours, ISIS made it known they had both pilots.

  The first video posted on the radical group’s website claimed the two planes had been shot down by Allah’s valiant warriors.

  Both of the flyers looked like hell… with red, swollen faces and torn uniforms. They were shown surrounded by AK-toting young men dancing and shouting, pointing their weapons into the air with jubilant celebration. Some were waving the movement’s black flag.

  The image switched to the smoldering wreckage that the announcer claimed was a Texas F15 Eagle. Again, the black flag waved in apparent victory, along with a dozen men walking around the still-smoldering wreckage, poking and prodding, no doubt seeking anything of value.

  The cable news station returned to the anchor, “We have received confirmation from multiple sources in Austin that the man depicted in the video is indeed the downed Texas pilot. No additional information is currently available regarding his identity or status.”

  The next image was of U.S. soldiers boarding a long line of waiting trucks. After 10 seconds, it changed again, scanning a fr
eight train with dozens of battle tanks resting on flatcars. “In our other breaking story, President Clifton will address the nation this evening. Our sources claim that the Commander in Chief has made a determination to send over 50,000 combat troops to the Texas-Oklahoma border in response to Turkey’s demand that NATO honor its treaty obligations and come to that nation’s aid.”

  Again the picture changed, the video now showing dozens of civilians, many sporting Western hats, climbing into the backs of pickup trucks. All were carrying long guns, many showing the camera crew their AR15 battle rifles. “In response to the U.S. announcement, dozens of local stations throughout Texas are reporting a massive civilian response to what is being termed, ‘U.S. aggression.’”

  A man appeared behind a small, unremarkable podium. The news anchor introduced the mayor of Fort Worth. “If the U.S. Army crosses the border, they’ll find one million Texas rifleman waiting on the other side. We’re asking all able-bodied men to marshal at the stockyards where members of the Texas Guard will help organize this mobilization. An invasion of Texas will not be tolerated.”

  “Turn it off,” President Simmons commanded his aide. “I’ve seen enough.”

  After the assistant had done so, the president added, “And somebody get on the phone and tell those yahoos up there that they aren’t helping matters by getting everyone worked into a frenzy. The U.S. Army is not going to invade Texas.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” the aide asked. “Some people believe it won’t hurt to let them blow off a little steam.”

  Simmons exploded from his chair, the stress pouring out of the man. “And just who came up with that idiotic reasoning? We’re going to have tens of thousands of untrained, unregulated, probably half-drunk people up there, right across the border from tens of thousands of young, scared-shitless U.S. soldiers. Haven’t we learned anything from Syria? Isn’t that the exact same scenario that’s now got us on the brink of war with Turkey and NATO? Isn’t that a major accident just waiting to happen? Haven’t we got enough trouble already without one of our well-meaning citizens taking a pot shot at some kid from Georgia?”

  The chief executive then turned to his desk, lifting a report and waving it at the stunned aide. “And then there’s this… just delivered from the Secretary of Treasury. This mess in Syria is bleeding us dry. Between the canceled oil contracts, shipments from Texas being turned back at a dozen ports throughout the world, and the cost of maintaining our military presence, we’re going broke. Banks don’t trust our currency. Trading partners, even the ones who agree with our position on ISIS, don’t want to be seen in the same room with anyone wearing a cowboy hat. And now! Now, no one seems to grasp that all those people up there brandishing a rifle in one hand and a bottle of hooch in the other… they’re not working, earning, and paying taxes while they’re out in some fucking cornfield waiting for an invasion that’s never going to happen. Did a shitload of stupid suddenly fall from the sky like our airplane?”

  Inspector Tula’s department was efficient and well-staffed. Within an hour of the discovery of the dead courier’s body, photographs of the suspect were being distributed to all of the IPD officers working the city.

  Uniformed street cops began entering every hotel, showing the photograph to clerks and bellmen. It was an impressive dragnet.

  Zach and Sam, not wanting to just sit around and wait, convinced Tula that they would be better utilized pounding the pavement. Both rangers knew the odds were miniscule, but wanted to burn off a little of the pent up energy and frustration that had been building for days.

  As they drove through Istanbul, the appearance of the first demonstration came as a surprise. The trio of officers had been so consumed with their investigation, none had heard about the incident at the border or the downed pilots.

  Zach and Sam remained in the car while Tula approached one of the uniformed police keeping an eye on the protestors. As the two rangers watched, someone in the crowd produced a hand painted Texas flag that had apparently been doused with a flammable liquid. A moment later, the Lone Star replica was burning in the street, much to the throng’s jubilant approval.

  The inspector returned, quickly filling the two Texans in on the latest events. Both remained stoic, absorbing the few details shared by their host and wondering if they were going to be stuck behind enemy lines if war did break out.

  Tula started to drive away, but then paused, turning to look at both rangers. “Now our task is not only urgent, but also personal. The patrolman I spoke with back there is someone I know and trust. He believes our two nations are going to go to war. My son is in the Turkish Army. I don’t want to see him go into battle. We must find this man and resolve this matter before the hawks on both sides are given their heads and thousands die.”

  Zach and Sam both nodded their understanding.

  Three blocks later, Tula’s cell phone buzzed. It was his commander, requesting additional resources be deployed to assist other precincts. “There are protests breaking out all over the city,” the now-frightened inspector reported. “We’ve not had serious riots in Istanbul for some years. I pray the city won’t burn.”

  Again, the phone buzzed, Tula glancing at what he was sure was a harbinger of additional bad news. He was wrong.

  The inspector listened for a few seconds and then glanced up at the rangers with a broad grin. He scribbled an address and then disconnected. “One of my men just talked to a hotel clerk who recognized the man we seek. He is not in his room. I ordered my officers to watch the lobby until we can arrive. I believe we should call in a heavy response team.”

  Zach thought about Ghost and all of the violence linked to the suspect. “I think that’s a good idea. This guy probably won’t surrender without a fight. Then again, I sure would like to talk with him. He could answer a lot of questions, and maybe even give us information that could stop a war.”

  The expression on Tula’s face made it clear that he grasped the severity of the situation.

  Twice, Tula had to detour, protests blocking the way. At the first impasse, someone had made a dummy stuffed with rags, complete with a 10-gallon hat and boots. The icon had then been hung by the neck from an apartment balcony. Dozens of people had gathered below, cheering and screaming at the top of their lungs.

  The second diversion was a parade of sorts. Rows of shouting men, nearly two blocks long, were following a Muslim cleric spouting vile comments via a megaphone. Several of the angry-looking participants were holding the green flags of Islam high above the throng.

  Finally, they arrived, Tula parking down the street at the first empty space. A uniformed policeman met them there.

  “There’s been no sign of your Ghost just yet,” the inspector told the Texans after listening to his man’s report. I’m going to call for one of our… what do you call them… SWAT teams.”

  But the inspector’s request was denied. “All of our men are now deployed to keep the protests in check. I’m sorry, but we’re on our own.”

  Zach wasn’t disappointed. “That’s probably better anyway. This guy is smart and savvy. If he got a sniff of your boys in the area, he’d bug out, and we’d never see him again. We can handle it. The hotel’s not that big.”

  Tula didn’t seem so sure but had little choice. “I’ll keep my two uniformed officers here. Surely five of us can handle this Ghost.”

  Sam wasn’t sure if the inspector was trying to convince himself or his guests.

  They decided to stake out the lobby from different angles, the trio of officers taking up positions that would allow a clear view of any approach. Zach reminded Sam that Ghost knew what they looked like. “He probably got a good look at us in Arkansas during the ambush. Stay out of sight, or he may use that knife he likes so much.”

  The lady ranger understood, patting her purse with the .45 inside. “Bring it.”

  Ghost switched off his special tablet computer, his ears ringing from the anger that pulsated through his head.

  Glancing aroun
d one of the hundreds of internet cafes that were so popular with the residents of Istanbul, he pondered the next move. The rage made it difficult to concentrate.

  As per procedure, he’d checked his messages. The anticipated correspondence from Adu was there, the only entry on the screen.

  For the first time in nearly three decades of contract work, his client couldn’t pay. It was an outrage… an insult… an act that would result in Abu’s violent death at their next meeting.

  “Funding is an issue at the moment,” the message had read. “Given our long history and previous lucrative endeavors, I ask that you forgive this debt between two men of faith.”

  “I will arrange a meeting between you and Allah,” Ghost hissed. “He can forgive you.”

  He stormed out of the café, campaigns of revenge and a slow death dictating his thoughts. A foul taste came into Ghost’s mouth, the bitterness of betrayal, the bile of deceit.

  The emotion clogged his thinking. Rather than approaching his hotel cautiously as was his pattern, Ghost barreled down the sidewalk, practically daring anyone to get in his way.

  Zach spotted him first, the Texan leaning against a doorway across the street, pretending to study a map of Istanbul’s massive public transit system.

  It took all of the ranger’s resolve not to pull his weapon and gun down the terrorist right there. Only the threat of a pending war and a million unanswered questions stopped Zach from ending it in a blaze of hollow point lead. He waited, counting to ten, and then turned to follow the suspect.

  Ghost was nearing the hotel’s lobby when a ruckus grew in the street. Around the corner, a rowdy gang of college students roared, the leaders holding up a banner that read, “Death to Texas.” Another clique sported a sign written in the same broad scrawl, “Death to the Infidels.”

  A few policemen approached the mob, listening as their angry chants echoed down the narrow street. Several motorists now found their routes impassable, and soon a choir of horns and shouted insults joined the chorus of anti-Texas protestors.