by Rick Jones
So far Shazad and his team remained as ghostly as the Reapers that terrorized the skies.
Liam finished up by oiling the rails, wiping away the excess oil with a chamois cloth, racking the weapon, and adjusting the gun sights. Satisfied the action on the weapon was smooth, he set the gun aside.
Then he addressed his colleagues. "Congratulations,” he said openly.
At first Nay and Dante didn’t know what Liam was talking about until the ex-SEAL tilted his chin in the direction of Nay’s hand, more specifically at the ring on her finger. “I didn’t think Chance had it in him to break down and propose.”
Nay set aside the weapon she was working on and raised her hand against the light, then spread her fingers to showcase the ring. The stone's facets glimmered with iridescent blends of rainbow hues, the diamond a magnificent piece of jewelry. Yet she could not feel the overwhelming elation she did the night before when Chance slipped it over her finger. She should have been on top of the world. Instead, her mood had been dampened by the horrific sequence of current events.
Her eyes were downcast as she spoke. “Today should have been one of the happiest days of my life,” she said, never taking her eyes off the gemstone. “But with all that's going on . . .” She allowed her words to trail, but her mind echoed her thoughts very distinctly. The sky should be blue and not full of black smoke. And the sun should be bright, not dimmed by the haze of destruction.
“I’m happy for you both,” Liam stated softly and lightly. “I really am.”
“Thank you.”
Nay walked away from the table to a connecting room that housed explosives that were currently maintained in a dormant state with their pins, fuses and detonators removed. This was her playroom, her wares and toys.
During her time as an ATF-Special Agent, Naomi ‘Nay’ Washington was at the head of her class when it came to explosives, especially improvised explosive devices or IEDs. With brewing troubles in the Middle-East where insurgents had fallen in love with the IED as their primary weapon, and with the potential of terror cells implementing IEDs on American soil, she had become the expert-at-hand in the disengagement of such weaponry. Over the years she had witnessed the evolution of the bombs and the high-tech progress of their detonation systems, but for her, each new improvement represented not only a new danger to be aware of, but a fresh challenge to reverse engineer. She had always mastered the techniques to disarm them, keeping pace with an ever-changing technology that allowed users to make the most efficient use of whatever materials were at hand.
But three years ago she had become witness to organizational improprieties while she was stationed in the Arizona field office. ATF agents were selling automatic weapons to the cartels by supplying them with assault weapons that had been confiscated and scheduled for destruction. Log books had been doctored to appear that the firearms were destroyed as required, when in actuality they were traded for huge sums of cash. According to the paper trail reviewed by high-level executives, these guns no longer existed. Yet they most certainly did. They continued to wreak havoc in Mexican townships where the number of dead in the streets outnumbered the living.
The moment Naomi became the whistleblower by pointing an accusing finger at the misdeeds of the organization, she was marked as a pariah. For two years she had been placed on administrative leave, the two most difficult years of her life. She eventually became the target of threats that were hardly veiled, one of the worst of which being when she came home one night to find that her house had been ransacked--the walls, carpet and ceiling covered with vile graffiti that spelled out profane warnings in reddish ink that was later determined to be the blood of a pig.
She resigned, giving up a job she loved. She disappeared by moving to the east coast. But it was difficult for her to find a new job in law enforcement. As soon as her history with the ATF came to light during her background checks, she was passed over, even though she had done the right thing. They just didn't want any trouble. It was easier to get someone else than it was to figure out who might be in the wrong and possibly be held liable for hiring someone with a known history of issues.
And then she met Chance.
He was brash and conceited, elements she hated in any man. But he was also upbeat and confident, features she loved. In time she gravitated to him, finding his looks just as appealing as his childlike cockiness. His goodness, despite how he tried to play it off, far outweighed the negative aspects of his personality, so she had learned how to live with it. Eventually she fell in love with him because above all else, Chance Zanetti was not a player.
In the ensuing months she was introduced to Tanner Wilson, Chance’s best friend and founder of OUTCAST, a mercenary-like operational group who worked independently from the government, but at times for the government. The way Tanner explained it to her, they did whatever they had to in order to protect the United States and its citizens, regardless of whether the means coincided with the wishes of the Administration.
And like her, Naomi discovered that Stephen Shah, Danielle Sunderland, Liam Reilly, Dante Alvarez, and even Tanner Wilson himself each possessed a very special and noted skill-set, but at the same time were ostracized from their respective agencies. These people were family and OUTCAST was home.
When Tanner saw the skills she had in disarming bombs, he was amazed at her poise about as much as Chance was taken in by her beauty. So when Tanner extended her an offer to join his team and stand by their side, she didn’t hesitate.
Then last night, when life could not have been any more perfect, Chance adorned her finger with an engagement ring.
Everything was good.
Then the world shifted, its calm winds and slack tides morphing into cyclonic twisters and tsunami waves that were monstrously destructive. In less than a day Aasif Shazad had taken away everything that was good in the minds of people and destroyed it with uncontained violence. Americans were suddenly under the mercy of this man who sat upon his throne within a Stygian darkness, while his surroundings burned with the stink of Satanic brimstone. At least this is how she saw him, as a putrefied man with no conscience or morals. But she realized that Shazad probably viewed them the same way--as demons to be exorcised.
On the day she should have been celebrating her engagement to the man she loved and admired, she was instead inside a secure basement room handling explosives.
She picked up one piece in particular. The device was roughly the size and shape of a hockey puck. One side was highly magnetized. The other was polished chrome. On the chrome side was a small button and a tiny LED. The indicator blinked red when activated by a timer that could be set for up to five minutes, or as little as five seconds. The puck could be attached to metallic fixtures, such as the underside of a car, or it could be thrown like a simple grenade. Its function was always at the will and creativity of the person who used it.
Naomi hefted the device, which felt far heavier than what its size would indicate. Then she flipped her hand over and inspected the diamond on her finger. It was magnificent, she thought. But as lustrous as it was, it could not outshine the deepening clouds that cast a dark, saddening shadow over the land.
She brought the ring to her cheek and touched the diamond to skin that was as smooth as porcelain. She closed her eyes and thought how no matter what, even in this new world of terror, she would always have Chance.
#
Inside the weapons chamber, Liam and Dante continued to ready the MP-5s.
Though they worked together in the exclusive, specialized unit, they acted more like associates than friends, neither man truly clicking with the other as a brother-in-arms. They only spoke to each other either as a courtesy or when something needed to be said to complete a task, which was why the chamber remained quiet without Nay’s presence, other than the clicks of weapons being pieced back together.
Liam viewed Dante as a man with a weakness for drink. And a man with a weakness for drink was also a man who could not be depended upon in the he
at of battle. When he came in for the briefing, Liam could smell alcohol wafting off Dante like a punch to the senses, strong and pungent.
Yet Dante appeared clearheaded when breaking down the weapons. His hands were quick and agile, his movements fluid and clean. But when examining the pieced weapons for faults, Liam wondered if Dante was inspecting them with a keen eye, or with the rheumy-red gaze of a drunkard.
“Something the matter?” asked Dante, refusing to look at Liam as he racked the weapon to check its slide capability.
“You know it’s mandatory to be at your sharpest.”
“I'm always at my sharpest."
“You smell like a brewery.”
“What I smell like has no bearing on my presence of mind.” He laid the weapon down and gave Liam a sidelong glance. “Alvarez, I’m a man of two worlds,” he told him. “I have a private life which is mine to live. And I have this life, which I hold with the highest regard. When I work for Tanner, I am at my best.”
Liam wasn’t so sure, wondering if Dante was merely a functioning alcoholic.
The former Secret Service Agent grabbed the weapon off the table and checked its sights.
“At your best?” pressed Liam. “Didn’t you get canned for a prostitution scandal in Columbia?”
Dante looked at Liam with hard impact. “My team got canned. I wasn’t even at the hotel when it all went down.”
“Why? At a bar?”
Dante did not respond, which was answer enough for Liam.
“Look,” said Liam, "my point is simply this: when I go into the field, I want to know that the man watching my back is functioning at one hundred twenty-five percent when everybody else is claiming to be at one hundred ten percent.”
“And that’s me,” Dante responded. “I’m that guy.”
Liam wanted to believe him, but it wasn’t the first time that Alvarez reported for duty slightly impaired. He once showed up to a mission reeking of alcohol. But when it came down to crunch time, Dante was indeed that 125 percent soldier in the battlefield who never missed a beat. In fact, he was nothing short of stellar.
Dante finished with his weapon and set it down on the table with a clack, lifting his gaze to meet Liam's with the sound. “You want to know what’s funny about this? What’s funny is that it’s coming from a guy who sold his team out by profiting from operational secrets about the Bin Laden mission, breaking a code of honor . . . And now he thinks he has the right to judge others.”
Liam said nothing as he went back to breaking down his weapon.
In response Dante did the same, moving on to a new gun.
Neither man said anything more.
#
Tanner, Chance and Stephen Shah remained topside while Danielle manned the console.
They were studying the map on the table, drawing pencil lines to indicate the possible whereabouts of Shazad somewhere inside the triangulated circle.
"Listen up." Tanner pointed to a spot on the map. “This zone of triangulation is a large area. But it makes sense; it’s wooded, which allows for concealment. But more importantly, it’s a perfect position from which to strike anything along the eastern seaboard. The problem is, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack that’s about the size of New Jersey.”
Chance raised his finger as if to make a point. “True. But a Reaper drone still needs a substantial amount of space to become airborne. So within this area, there has to be a runway off the main drags. Someplace obscure.”
Stephen checked the electronic board. “We can zero in, right?”
Tanner pointed at the board. “Danielle has the ability tap into the satellite system, as well as the GPS data to tell them where to look." FBI Director John Casey had granted her those permissions. But even leveraging that technology, it was a lot of ground to cover. Shah was right, though. They could zoom in and look for an anomaly. Perhaps heat signatures of people in places they shouldn’t be.
Tanner addressed Danielle. “Can you log into a bird that’s situated above the point of triangulation?”
She didn’t even hesitate. From a numeric list entrusted to her by Casey, Danielle hit the keyboard like a pianist, with precision and without missing a key, until she was able to tap into the eye of the satellite that overlooked the triangulation area.
The view on the electronic display changed. Instead of a map, they were now looking at a real-time aerial photograph of the landscape—a dense tract of wilderness marred only by a few unpaved roads running through it.
If they were down there, Tanner considered, then the search would be a long and difficult one.
He asked Danielle to magnify the western portion of the area.
She zoomed until the treetops appeared like the heads of broccoli fields.
“Look for roads that veer off the main rural routes,” said Tanner.
Minutes passed while she concentrated, but nothing came up.
Tanner stood straight, ready to attend to other matters. “Keep looking.”
Leaving his three Outcasts to stare at the board, Tanner checked his watch. According to John Casey, Shazad had given the president one hour to concede to his demands.
Only twenty of those minutes remained.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Bunker
Since Aasif Shazad had twenty minutes before he addressed the president in a pseudo-diplomatic game of push and shove, he walked the corridors of the facility alone, noting the cracks and fissures in walls that continued to hold up. As a deterrent to invading forces, he had his team set defenses by placing Semtex charges throughout the warrens, especially along the beams and supporting columns. Should the mission be compromised, he would make sure that the bunker would be razed by a series of powerful blasts.
Walking outside the bunker, he took note of the camouflaged runway. Tree branches, vines and brambles were placed over camo-netting in order to shield the impromptu airstrip from celestial eyes. At tunnel’s end was a bullet-shaped opening that served as the exit point. Once the drone picked up enough speed and cleared the netting, it would then lift off and take to its planned aerial trajectory.
Close to the bunker doors sat a single Reaper drone poised to take off. Its nose faced the exit point. Attached to its undercarriage were two Hellfire missiles. Fastened to its topside--two MUAVs.
Shazad looked at his watch.
The president had fifteen minutes left to choose America’s fate.
“Al-Shazad.”
Shazad turned to the speaker, a young person, if not a boy, on the cusp of becoming a man. Other than Naji and Lut, who were elite warriors from well-respected organizations, the remainder of his team were unskilled soldiers whose training before coming to the United States consisted of spotty al-Qaeda camp drills.
The young man addressed his leader. “We’re ready to go."
Shazad smiled and patted him on the shoulder, knowing that in the end, should America bring down his organization, this young man would die.
“That’s good,” he told him. “In a few minutes, if the president does not concede, then this drone will launch. And I want you, Mufad, to make sure that it does so without a hitch. Can you do that?”
The young Arab smiled with pride and puffed his chest. “I can.”
Shazad nodded. “Very good, Mufad . . . Very good.” Saying nothing more but managing a false smile, Shazad turned and walked away with his hands clasped behind the small of his back.
The president now had thirteen minutes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Raven Rock
“Your time is up, Mr. President." Shazad's demeanor on the streaming video registered zero emotion. “Do you choose to release al-Zawahiri?"
“I know we agreed upon an hour,” President Carmichael returned. “But I'm afraid I need more time.”
“You have good reason to be afraid. More time to strategize? I think not.”
President Carmichael’s team was unable to trace the trail of Internet breadcrumbs left by Shazad’s l
ast couple of transmissions, which meant that the gamble on his part proved to be a failure. “Please. I can make progress in one more hour.”
“Your request is denied.” Shazad shook his head in admonishment. “If you think I’m going to allow you to dictate the course of our interactions, Mr. President, you’re wrong. You had the opportunity to stop all this. Instead you allowed your arrogant pride to perpetuate a legacy policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists--a term so vaguely defined that were you sufficiently determined I'm sure you could see to it to classify me in some other way. That's your loophole, Mr. President. That's your way out. But you couldn't see it.”
"I need more time to play those kinds of word games."
On screen Shazad was visibly angry as he worked his jaw line, realizing that Carmichael had already played him for more time, getting him to talk uninterrupted. “Negotiating is not a game, Mr. President.”
“Negotiation is always a game,” he shot back. “We need time to sort this out, Shazad. We’ll come to a conclusion on this matter.”
“Yes, well—unfortunately, Mr. President, your time is up and this is going to cost you.”
The president lifted an imploring hand toward the screen. “Shazad! Wait!”
The video connection winked off.
#
Mufad was young and eager to please.
While lining up the drone for its run down the tarmac, Mufad checked the weaponry systems. When the diagnostics checked out the way they should on his tablet, deeming the Reaper ready, he spoke into his lip mike. “We’re good to go."
Inside the bunker, Naji eased the joystick forward and the drone began to roll.
Allahu Akbar!
#
From the keen eye of a low-orbiting satellite, a late-generation thermal lens registered an unusual signature shaped like the threading of a screw that spiraled to the northeast, then summarily disappeared from the screen.
But it did not go unnoticed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
OUTCAST Facility