by Rick Jones
“He was not right!” shouted Surif al-Quad, the Chairman of the Senate. He was a big man with assorted fat rolls running from his waist to his chest, his physique reminiscent of the Michelin Man. Whenever he spoke, the waddle of his gelatinous double-chin would tremble.
“If the Assembly was called regarding the capture and detainment of Zawahiri, you and the prime minister may have found yourselves on the short end of support. We are still a democratic regime!”
“Al-Zawahiri is not a topic of a political agenda. He is a criminal. And criminals do not call for a required gathering between the principals.”
Surif al-Quad leaned back in his chair, looking at the president through squinting eyes. “We are now at war with al-Qaeda,” he said flatly. “We had always been at peace with al-Qaeda because we provided them a sanctuary. Now your concerns and the concerns of others suddenly weigh in as to how we appear in the eyes of the worldwide community?”
He pointed out the window. The dark horizon glowed orange with flames.
“Was it worth it, Mr. President? Now that Islamabad burns?”
The president was obviously at a loss for words.
Surif al-Quad shook his head. I thought not. “I propose that we broker a peace with the organization and negotiate a release of al-Zawahiri immediately.”
There was a series of calls at the table, those ‘for’ and ‘against’ the proposal, with speakers trying to declare their opinions louder than their opponents, causing chaos.
“Enough!” shouted the president. But arguments continued until the president used the palm of his hand as a gavel, slapping the tabletop several times until conversations eventually quieted to silence. “I said . . . enough.”
But Saj Usmani wasn’t about to stand pat. “Mr. President, the prime minister has been assassinated. The Islamabad Stock Exchange and major transit routes have been crippled. Even without further damage to our city, it will be a long time before we see business as usual again. I would say that we’re in a state of war that has yet to be declared. Broker a peace now before what happens in Islamabad happens to other cities.”
“This isn’t war,” said the president. “This is an act of terrorism.”
“Which never needs to happen again,” Surif al-Quad quickly responded. “Such attacks on Pakistani soil demand the weigh-in of all principals you have sitting here before you tonight. And I, for one, say that al-Zawahiri should be released, if al-Qaeda is willing to cease and desist all current and future activities.”
A chorus of support made the rounds back and forth across the table, which was met by those who opposed. But those who opposed had grown marginally thinner after Surif al-Quad had spoken in earnest. And he wasn't done yet.
“Mr. President,” al-Quad said after the bickering died down, “when the capital of Pakistan is burning, then the issue at hand becomes the vote of leaders who represent the people of this nation. The people of Pakistan do not want to wage war against al-Qaeda, believe me. We must make a decision as to what is better for the Pakistanis. We either release Zawahiri or we don’t. But if we do not, then more cities will burn and more people will die. It’s as simple as that. How we appear before the eyes of the worldwide community will have no consequence on Pakistan. Our alliances fall with the Middle East. Not with Europe. And certainly not with the United States or its allies.”
The president appraised the faces of those at the table. In his opinion they appeared collectively neutral, or at least numbed, their faces hard to read. “al-Zawahiri is to be turned over to the Americans in less than twelve hours,” he finally said. “In fact, the escort team is already here.”
“Then send them back,” stated Aqeel Wali, a Chief Minister from the Second Province. “We no longer have an obligation to the Americans, given Islamabad’s current state.”
“We cannot give our allies a promise, and then renege on it,” returned the president. “Our associates would see this as a weakness on our part, and label us as a country who does not stand by its word.”
“They’ll understand,” said Surif al-Quad. “They will.” He shrugged as if it was impossible to believe otherwise.
The president appeared to mull this over. “Since this decision will be one of democratic routine, then I want additional members within the House and Senate to confer as well. I want everyone to have a voice on this,” he said. “Everyone.”
“And should the vote be in favor of brokering a peace to al-Qaeda?” asked Surif al-Quad.
The president sighed through his nose. “Then we will release al-Zawahiri.”
Surif al-Quad smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Raven Rock
President Carmichael listened intently to what FBI Director John Casey told him regarding Tanner Wilson and his team of Outcasts, an elite group of independent specialists who were aiding in the hunt for Aasif Shazad.
“And these people are captained by who, again?” asked the president.
“His name is Tanner Wilson,” said Casey, omitting the fact that Tanner resigned his FBI post while under investigation for alleged misconduct issues. “Tanner believes that Shazad is working from a vantage point where he can reach major targets in the northeast as well as Washington.”
He leaned forward to emphasize his next words. “It is his opinion--and I concur, based on the data coming from the coordinates that he has triangulated from previous strikes--that the drone is heading in a northeast direction.”
The president looked at his watch. The Reaper had been airborne for more than forty-five minutes, which would put it about one hundred seventy miles away from its launch point.
"If D.C. was the target, it probably would have been struck by now. I want New York authorities, especially those in Manhattan, notified that they are to heighten their Threat Rating from Severe to Extreme. I want every plane and drone circling above that city.”
Attorney General Steven Cayne immediately went to his phone.
To Casey, the president said, “What do you have regarding this bunker?”
The FBI head pointed to one of the monitors that was part of a wall-mounted bank. “If I may, Mr. President.”
“Go ahead.”
The screen in the upper right-hand corner lit up with an overhead view of the bunker. When Casey zoomed in, the camo-netting was clearly defined, even with its bramble-like coverings and broken tree branches.
“As you can see, this is a recent and obvious attempt to mask the location from eyes in the sky,” Casey said. “This used to be a training facility during the Vietnam War, when soldiers were prepped to fight in the jungle. However, when we fast forward to 2014, we now look at it as the perfect location for Shazad to set up his field command station. Underneath that netting is a runaway long enough to launch a Reaper drone. The surroundings are discreet and well off the beaten path, even by rural standards. And then you get this...”
He hit a couple of buttons on the remote that expanded the view. Suddenly a series of red lines materialized, all branching out from a central point of the bunker, with each line extending to a major point along the eastern seaboard from Washington D.C. all the way to Manhattan. “These lines, people, represent trajectories and potential targets that these drones are capable of striking if launched from this particular facility.”
The president raised his eyebrows. Shazad could pick and choose from so many targets. “It’s plausible,” he said. “In fact, it’s highly reasonable to believe that this Tanner guy is right. How does he know this?”
Casey shrugged. “I thinking knowing is a little strong a term at this point, but he inferred the position of the bunker by triangulating the locations of prior strikes and trajectories, and then eyeballing the location from satellite photos, realizing it makes sense. He has no hard verification, but he caught a brief anomaly on infrared thought to be a contrail.”
“No thermals?”
“Nothing other than what I’ve told you, Mr. President. But believe me, Tanner Wilson knows wha
t he’s doing.”
“You have faith in him?”
“Tons. In fact, I was to propose to you the possibility of sending an air sortie to the zone.”
“Which is not going to happen since I don’t have confirmation that Shazad is actually there. I can’t afford to pull a jet from detail when there’s a Reaper en route. But with that being said, John, I definitely see merit in your man’s opinion. The location is definitely a plausible launchpad that needs to be looked into. Verification or not, I want a chopper with highly-trained operatives green-lighted immediately to the area.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what's Wilson doing now?”
John Casey looked at him with a poker face. “When I last spoke to him, Mr. President, he was en route to the bunker via highway with his team. He should be arriving there very shortly.”
Carmichael shook his head vigorously. “Contact your man and tell him to stand down. I don’t want my elites to mistake this...this OUTCAST group as the targets. Clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” But Tanner isn’t going to like this.
But what Tanner thought mattered little to the president, if anything at all, thought Casey. The director excused himself from the table and made the call.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
En Route to the Bunker
“Tanner.” Danielle’s voice pierced through his ear buds.
He flipped his lip mike down. “Go ahead, Danielle.”
“Dispatching Director Casey.”
There was a series of clicks, a hum, and then a connection. “Tanner.”
“What’s up, John?”
“The president sees merit in your assumption that the bunker could be Shazad’s stronghold. He’s sending in a chopper with select operatives to police the area immediately. I know you're almost there, Tanner, but he ordered you to stand down. He doesn’t want his unit to mistake OUTCAST as hostiles.”
Tanner felt his face grow hot. “Are you serious? We need a ground-based tactical team, John. Not a chopper! Shazad will be waiting for that helo with ground-to-airs. Our job will be that much more difficult. He’ll set off the other drones as soon as he realizes he's been compromised. There won't even be time for a fighter jet response.”
“Tanner, I know you're private sector now and probably getting used to doing whatever the hell you want, but this is an order coming directly from the Commander-in-Chief.”
“I don’t care, John. He needs to know that if Shazad is there--and I think he is--then he’s sending his men to a certain death. Shazad is a seasoned officer who takes nothing for granted. Being a lieutenant commander, I’m sure that he’s prepared for every contingency.”
“I concur. But like I keep telling you, Tanner, he’s unwilling to pull a fighter from detail when there’s a Reaper on the loose. He firmly believes that if Shazad is based at the bunker, his commando team will take them out.”
Then he’s a fool, thought Tanner.
He pressed down on the accelerator. “All right, John, you informed me. Duly noted.”
“Yeah. But are you going to listen?”
“What do you think?”
“Not only no, but Hell no?”
“Bingo.”
“Tanner—” Casey cut himself off and redirected his course of discussion. “Good luck.”
“Out.” Tanner snapped the lip mike over his head.
Noting the agitated action behind the harsh flip of the lip-mike’s stem, Chance said, “Trouble in Paradise?”
“Carmichael is sending troops to chopper in,” Tanner returned.
“Does he not think that Shazad will have that area covered?”
“That’s what I tried to tell him. But apparently the president has all the confidence in the world in his team.”
“And what about us?” asked Nay.
“We’ve been told to stand down,” Tanner answered evenly.
“Is that what we're doing?” asked Chance.
Tanner scoffed. “Not only no—”
Nay and Chance joined Tanner in chorus. “—Hell no!”
They continued up the road toward the bunker.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Raven Rock
The news out of Islamabad arrived within minutes after the president issued an order to deploy a special chopper unit to the bunker location. The development was not a positive one. Indigent factions had eliminated their chief ally in the prime minister, then proceeded to weaken their financial and transit industries, all within a matter of minutes. Now with the prime minister gone, the role of decision making belonged solely to the president, who was a mere figurehead and not as strong of a leader as the prime minister. Things appeared to be souring between the two governments regarding whether to hand over al-Zawahiri. Apparently the discussion was still up for debate inside the Pakistani Assembly.
“They can’t do this,” protested the president. “They made a commitment to us.”
“A commitment that now appears to be in jeopardy, in light of recent events,” returned Rimaldi. “The threat of international sanctions no longer seems to hold the weight it once had, now that they have come under attack.”
“If they stick to their guns like we’re sticking to ours,” said the president, “then they would earn the respect of the worldwide community.”
“Perhaps,” said Cayne. “But right now they have more important things to worry about than earning the respect of the international community, Mr. President. They're scared. Their capital city is a war zone and for all they know other cities are about to follow suit. Plus, Zawahiri has many supporters in the region.”
“That is far too much power for one man,” added the president. “Too much!” He turned to his Chief Advisor. “Simon: Thoughts.”
“As soon as the prime minister went down, Mr. President, our stance with the Pakistani Administration became severely undermined. It appears that support may be shifting. Pakistanis want the bloodshed to end. They don’t care about Zawahiri or his kingdom of terrorists as long as they can live within a symbiotic relationship, even a strained one--the rest of the world be damned.”
President Carmichael grew agitated, grimacing silently before speaking. “So now we may lose Zawahiri. He may never be handed over into our custody.”
Simon Davis spoke as if defeated, his measured delivery low and somber. “There is now a very high probability that the exchange will not be happening, Mr. President.”
“And we suffer this in the meantime!” yelled the president, pointing at the far-wall monitor. The Capitol was still burning.
Worse, there was another drone up there waiting to unleash its fury.
Carmichael looked at his wristwatch. More than an hour had passed since Shazad’s launch. Yet nothing further inside D.C. had been hit. It occurred to him that Tanner Wilson must be right. Aasif Shazad had other targets in mind besides the highest political seat in the land. The president closed his eyes and fought for calm. But calm would never come. Not while the MQ-10 was making its final run. He mentally pictured not only the Capitol in flames, but New York as well--two of his country's flagship cities going up in flames at once. The thought was almost too much for him to bear and he was hit by a sudden onset of nausea.
"Mr. President, are you all right?" His colleagues voiced their concern at his lapse.
Then he opened his eyes wide. "Simon! We need to ready our defenses for New York City."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Manhattan, New York
Activity in the city was deadened ever since the continuing crisis in Washington D.C., especially when people had long memories with nine-eleven still fresh in their minds. But New Yorkers themselves were not necessarily the exclusive targets of the drone as it stayed its course within the cover of accumulated clouds. Guided by software, its heading was a straight line between two points at an altitude of 15,000 feet. As soon as the Reaper neared its programmed targets, it began its descent at a 45° angle.
When it broke the clouds at a spe
ed of 135 miles per hour, the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges quickly came into view. The drone then began to position itself between the two bridges. The moment it reached its pre-set location, it shot off its Hellfires, the missiles summarily banking away from each another as one veered to the left, the other to the right.
White contrails followed in their wakes as the projectiles sped to their points of impact.
And then they struck.
#
Jared Whitmore had been driving a fuel truck for most of his life, since he was twenty. Now he was sixty-six and about to retire on his sixty-seventh birthday in two months, two weeks and six days. It was a milestone in his life that he had been waiting for nearly five decades, always dreaming of owning a simple home in Florida where he could have a palm tree or two in his yard and sit around all day outside of a vehicle.
Two months, two weeks and six days. That’s all he had left.
Two months . . . two weeks . . . six days.
So he dreamed.
And he smiled.
Then he saw the Hellfire missile curve toward the bridge with the smooth arc of a smoky contrail spraying the air behind it.
It was quick and moved with purpose, the missile drawing a bead.
His smile evaporated. Two months . . . two weeks . . . six days. That’s all I had left.
The missile struck the tank of his fuel truck.
#
The truck erupted into a fireball, red and yellow and angry, with black smoke roiling skyward. The surrounding pavement cracked and gave, causing huge chunks weakened by the blast to separate and fall to the river below. Cars and pickups close to the fuel truck were lifted and blown away by the force of the destruction, the vehicles either plummeting straight down to the water when the roadway crumbled out beneath them, or careening through the air over the railing like toys thrown by a careless child.