by Roger Hayden
The men cheered, pumped up and ready for action. With the group riled up, Craig ran down the hill toward the water plant. The squads followed, splintering off in different, pre-planned directions toward their main objective, waiting for them on the horizon.
Craig ran alongside Hank’s group from St. Louis. About ten men in all. Agents Keagan and Thomas had gone with other teams. If they could identify and neutralize the lookout posts before the ISIS alerted their headquarters, Craig believed they had a good chance of breaching the water plant.
Off in the distance, on a clearing that acted as a road, he saw a large eighteen-wheeler chugging by and spewing black smoke into the air. The truck was headed straight for the factory, and Craig knew exactly what that meant. He told the group to move faster.
They had to intercept the truck before it was too late. Hank cradled a six-shot grenade launcher borrowed from the FBI like most of the equipment Craig had brought. One of his riders, tasked with getting them through the chain-link fence, carried large clippers over his shoulder. If the fence was electrified, they had a plan for that too.
They soon encountered a post about forty feet high not far in front of them. Craig pointed it out and everyone hit the ground. Craig looked up with his binoculars. There were two men, staring out. They apparently hadn’t noticed his group yet, but they were alert and attentive. Craig lay on the ground next to Hank, planning their next move.
“I need your man with the silencer to get in position and take them out.”
Hank turned and signaled the man with the silencer over to them. “Johnny, get over here.”
Johnny belly-crawled to them, digging into the dirt with his elbows and grunting all along the way. Once he was in position, Craig pointed to the tower ahead and told Johnny to take the shot.
The two men posted continued to look outward. One of them suddenly picked up a pair of binoculars.
“Shoot ’em!” Hank said.
Johnny hesitated, taking his time aiming, it seemed.
“What are you waiting for?” Hank said in a harsh whisper.
“Damn, Hank. I’m trying to get my shot. If I miss we’re screwed.”
“It’s okay,” Craig whispered. “Just make sure you get them both.”
Johnny took a deep breath and fired. His rifle popped faintly as a shell casing flew out. Craig watched with his binoculars as one of the men took a bullet through the throat and fell over the railing surrounding the tower. At first, his confused partner didn’t seem to know what had happened. He looked over the railing as the other guard fell and hit the ground, head first. He then panicked and grabbed his rifle and radio.
Johnny fired again. Another soft pop. The second man’s head blasted out the back as he slumped down over the railing. His rifle did somersaults toward the ground. Craig watched through his binos. He told everyone to stand fast. They waited. No additional movement came from the tower.
“Let’s move forward,” Craig said. “Coast looks clear.”
Hank signaled to his men. They jumped up, moving quickly in spaced intervals, ducking behind trees along the way. The water plant was in sight. They advanced steadily, low to the ground as Craig led the way. Light beamed out from between gaps in the trees as the sun grew fainter, lending a purplish tint in the vast sky. During their careful ascension up another hill and closer to the fence, Craig radioed the other teams to check on their progress.
“Bravo, what’s your status?”
Thomas had the radio for Team Bravo. They were supposed to go through the south side of the plant, while Craig’s own team was taking the west side, closest to them.
Keagan was Team Charlie, the north side, while Louis from San Diego, a retired Navy Seal, was leading Team Delta to the north, front entrance. They were using military terms suggested by the Patriot Riders. Everything was in place and ready to go, or so Craig hoped.
“Team Bravo, good to go,” Thomas said. “Just took out two tower guards.”
The news was encouraging.
“Charlie, what’s your status?” Craig asked, halting his group fifty feet away from the surrounding fence. There was no immediate answer.
“Charlie, you hear me?” Craig repeated.
“Charlie here,” Keagan’s said. “We got a problem.” Hank gave Craig a concerned look and signaled his team to go low to the ground with the drop of his hand.
“What is it?” Craig asked.
“We took a shot at the first guard and took him out. The second guard got spooked and took cover. We can’t see him.”
Anything was possible. The guard could have escaped or he was hiding low for cover and calling the base to alert them.
“Find him!” Craig said. Take him out before he blows our entire operation.”
The eighteen-wheeler was in view again. It pulled to the front gate of the water plant one hundred yards to their left.
“Son of a bitch,” Craig said under his breath.
“They got a problem over there?” Hank asked.
“I’m not sure,” Craig said. “Charlie, what’s your status?”
The air was sticky and hot. Gnats began flying around them as the sounds of crickets grew louder. Sweat poured from Craig’s forehead under his helmet and from under his thick flak vest. He took a swig of his canteen while waiting for an update from Charlie team.
“Can’t see him,” Keagan said.
“Find him, damn it!” Craig said, his voice rising.
Just as soon as the front gate opened, letting in the semi-truck, a siren sounded throughout the water plant. Panic struck Craig like a bucket of cold water. They had been exposed.
“Put on your masks!” Craig shouted to his team and in the radio. He donned his protective mask and as Hank and others followed.
“Move out!” Craig shouted with his voice muffled. The time to move had never been more critical. There was no telling what artillery ISIS possessed, or what hell they were willing to unleash.
Blow Out
Craig’s team hustled to the fence. The man with the cutters, Hopkins, ran forward and started tearing into the links.
“Hurry the hell up!” Hank shouted as the siren continued to blare. Militants swarmed the outside of the water plant, armed and looking determined to defend it. They hadn’t yet noticed Craig’s team, but gunshots rang out from somewhere. Everything was happening too fast, and Craig was losing control of the situation.
Hopkins continued to cut the fence as Hank shouted him on. “Hurry up with those skinny arms. You’re gonna get us killed out here!”
From the confines of his protective mask, Craig’s field of vision was severely limited, and every breath echoed in his head. Despite the discomfort, he pushed on and looked through his binos to see who was advancing towards them. At least twenty militants were in plain view, spooked and ready to attack. But they had yet to see Craig’s team.
The truck stormed inside. Black-clad militants moved to the side of the truck, leading it toward the plant’s loading docks. If Craig had any goal left it was to prevent the truck from picking up its shipment. Desperation clung to him like the sweat consuming his body. More gunshots rang out, and any notion of a covert mission had dwindled away.
With a few more snaps of his cutters, Hopkins sliced through the fence. He pushed away a section large enough for them to get through. Craig crawled through the opening, as Hank and his team followed.
A swarming mass of militants surrounded the aluminum-sided plant, after having clearly spotted the Patriots. They began firing, sweeping the area with their high-powered automatics.
One of Craig’s team took a bullet to the head and collapsed. His name was Dwayne, and he had briefly talked to Craig about his painting business in Jefferson City. The rest of the group flew to the ground as Craig shouted to Hank to launch a grenade.
Peering out from of his respirator mask, Hank took aim at the building. Firefights were raging throughout the perimeter on all sides. Craig had no knowledge of either their success or failure. His
team began shooting relentlessly. Craig reverted to his instincts and joined the shooting while staying flat and low to the ground.
“Fire that thing already!” he yelled at Hank.
Hank’s hesitation was not without purpose: he was trying to correctly align the aperture of the grenade launcher to the center-side of the building. Once locked in, he fired a shot. A thump sounded from the barrel as the M203 grenade round ejected, followed by an explosion that rocked the side of the building. Militants flew upon the grenade’s impact.
A red, angry fireball left a gaping hole. Hank’s men fired in succession as other militants fled the area. Craig’s team advanced, low to the ground, as return fire hailed down on them.
Craig saw the truck, which hastily parked at the dock. Plant workers dressed in scrubs fled out the front exit and began running toward a parking lot in the distance.
“The truck,” Craig said to Hank. “Take it out!”
The driver erratically backed-in to the dock, steering while hunched down in his seat.
For a moment, the return gunfire ceased. Craig jumped up and bolted ahead, taking cover behind a circuit breaker unit. Hank raised the grenade launcher and aimed at the semi-truck, pausing.
“What’s the hold-up?” Craig asked.
“Our people are over there,” Hank said.
Craig looked and saw the north team running past the truck and firing at the men on the loading dock. A forklift driver wearing a gas mask hauled a tall pallet of bottled water into the truck trailer while dodging the gunfire. The militants seemed determined to load it up despite the attack. A bullet flew past Craig, just missing his helmet. Hank peeked out, and ducked as more rounds ricocheted off the circuit breaker. Sparks ignited. The breaker sizzled and smoked. Regrouped militants were advancing from the left and right of them, pinning them down.
“I got a better idea,” Hank said, squatting down. He jumped up and launched a grenade at five militants rushing toward them, not more than fifty feet away. A blast erupted and tore through them, severing their limbs and reducing them to charred, lifeless bodies.
Hank turned then aimed at the truck, fired, but undershot as the round exploded in the ground at the side of the truck. Its engine growled as the plant alarm wailed among the rampant disorder abound.
Craig called for the status of the other teams in his own muffled and barely audible voice but received no answers. Johnny took aim at the advancing group of militants to their right and fired. As they fell, the bearded black-clad men knelt and sprayed bullets all over Craig’s position.
Hank swung around to the other side of the circuit breaker to fire back. He suddenly jerked back, dropped the grenade launcher and gripped his throat with both hands. Blood rushed out from his hands and flowed down his shirt. He had been hit.
“Hank!” Johnny shouted.
Hank choked, gagged, and fell on his back against the grass. Determined as never before, his team rushed from cover, running and firing every step of the way, mowing the militants down like weeds. Johnny took a bullet to the chest and fell over like dead weight. Craig remained behind cover and instinctively grabbed the grenade launcher next to Hank’s lifeless body.
The weapon was covered in blood. He tossed his rifle to the ground, knelt, and fired the launcher at the semi-truck in the distance. The driver’s cab exploded in a ball of flames. He heard panicked shouts from the fleeing militants.
“Need a status from all teams!” he said into the radio.
Craig looked up to see that his own team had already advanced to the building and run inside through the gaping hole smoking on its side.
The semi-truck cab was ablaze. He had prevented that much at least. Craig had to move. He grabbed his rifle, holding the grenade launcher with two rounds left. All alone, he took a deep breath and sprinted from cover, running to the front of the building. Bullets whizzed by his face as the militants regrouped.
He could see Thomas’s team rushing the front and taking heavy hits as many of the Patriot Riders dropped. With minimal aim, Craig fired his grenade launcher straight at the loading dock. The blast consumed the side of the truck and every other militant in sight. He fired his last round at the building and blew another hold clean through it.
As more militants fled the explosion, Craig dropped the grenade launcher and picked up his M4 rifle, firing at them in short bursts. He pushed his way to the front, where Thomas’s team had just taken out the remainder of another group.
It was now or never for Craig. Gunfire was ringing out from inside the plant. The Patriot Riders had wasted no time. The flaming semi-truck cab suddenly exploded again, throwing Craig to the ground just as Thomas was running over to him.
“You all right?” Thomas said, breathing heavily through his mask. He stuck his hand out. Craig took it and wobbled up on his feet.
“I’ve been through worse.”
More shots rang out from inside the warehouse. Thomas’s team ran past them and went through the open doors on the loading dock.
“Let’s finish this thing up,” Thomas shouted.
Craig nodded, adjusted his helmet, and followed Thomas up the stairs and into the plant. They stopped and waited, gauging the firefight taking place inside.
“Guns blazing, right?” Thomas asked with a nervous smile.
“That’s right,” Craig said.
Craig peeked inside. Among the machines and wrapped pallets of bottled water, he could see their Patriot teams advancing across the floor and shooting any militants in sight. The coast looked clear. He signaled to Thomas and they ran in just as the helicopters landed in the parking lot outside.
ISIS was on the run. The Patriot Riders were moving fast and gunning them down wherever the appeared. A high-pitched fire alarm rang incessantly. Militant screams filled the air. Craig could see Keagan hunched behind a bottle processing machine. They quickly moved to him and took position.
“What’s the status?” Craig asked.
Keagan looked at him, eyes wide and shaking. “I think we got most of them. There’s so damn many… Lost a couple guys already.”
“Has anyone seen Omar?”
“Who?” Keagan asked.
“Allawi. Their leader,” Craig said.
“No. Not yet,” Keagan said.
The shots continued. Craig could hear shouting in Arabic, then silence. The remaining Patriot Riders called out to each other.
“We clear?” one of them asked.
Craig stood up cautiously. Ahead, amid all the machinery, he could see teams sweeping the area. Limp bodies lay on the floor in pools of blood, militant and Patriot Riders alike.
“Allawi! Show yourself, you coward,” Craig shouted. He moved carefully from concealment as Thomas and Keagan followed.
“Who you talkin’ to?” Karl, leader of the Texas Patriot Riders chapter, asked from the other side of the plant.
“Omar Allawi! I know you’re hiding somewhere,” Craig continued.
There was no answer in response. The gunfire ended and the plant was eerily quiet aside from the fire alarm. Much of the other teams were already past all the machinery and bottling stations that looked to have been in full operation. Power to the factory, it seemed, had been shut off. As his team moved through the factory floor, he observed machines with hundreds of motionless bottles on belts. It looked similar to any normal bottling plant, but as they ascended further through the factory, its true nature was revealed.
“Holy shit,” Steve, one of the Patriot Riders exclaimed, after entering the next room. Once Craig caught up and looked inside, he could see what all the commotion was about. The room was largely empty. Rays of light projected inside from the windows in the rafters above. There were ISIS flags pinned to the wall with filming gear: tripods, cameras, and spotlights. It was disturbingly reminiscent of what Craig had seen in the other factory where he had been held.
Vast, encompassing blood stains were dried to the cement ground. A table in the corner displayed a litany of sharp torturous devices:
hack saws, swords, power drills, and knives. Craig was near certain that they were standing in the very room where Omar had delivered his message to America, proudly displaying the heads of the two young ISIS “traitors” in their midst. There were chains bolted to the wall and hanging to the ceiling. How such a room existed in the back of a factory was beyond Craig. The willingness of his country to turn a blind eye toward the barbaric practices of the enemy had brought such techniques right to their shores.
The patriot riders searched the room, but didn’t find anyone. A search of nearby restrooms didn’t yield any results.
“We’re clear!” shouted Steve.
Omar had to be somewhere. Craig was sure of it. Beyond the torture room was another door, no doubt leading to another room of startling revelation. But they would have to be careful with every sweep. The enemy could be waiting anywhere, ready to strike.
There were twenty Patriot Riders remaining. Their casualties hadn’t seemed to affect their determination just yet. They took positions on both sides of the large, metal door at the end of the room. Craig ran to them as Thomas and Keagan followed.
“According to the blueprints, this is the storage room,” Craig said.
He wanted nothing more than to rip the mask off his face and breathe normally, but there was no sense in taking any chances while they were still in the factory. The stash of VX gas was sure to be on display somewhere. Steve, a tall, skinny man, with a ponytail and wearing a surgical mask across his scared face, went to the door first and slowly cracked it open.
“You guys ready?” he said, waiting for the word from Craig.
Hunched down, Craig gave him a thumbs up.
Steve pulled the creaking door back and then swung it open. The Patriot Riders stormed into the room, staying low. The lights affixed to their rifles shone left and right through the dusty and darkened room. The came into an open bay of large crates covered by thick, green tarp. Craig took position one of them with Thomas and Keagan at his side. The Patriot Riders slowed during their advance while cautiously searching for the enemy behind every point.