Destiny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  The attacks on the police and highway patrol buildings were planned to take place between 6:30 and 7 o’clock in the morning. That way they could catch the men arriving for the morning shift in the building at the same time as the men leaving the night shift so as to maximize the number of policemen and highway patrol officers killed.

  Achmed Sharif and his men surrounded the highway patrol building, which was set off by itself on the eastern side of town. They’d parked their trucks and cars two blocks away in an empty field so as not to draw attention to their presence.

  Once the terrorists were in position, Sharif sent two FFA men carrying satchels loaded with fragmentation grenades to the front and rear entrances, while another made his way to the power box on the outside of the building.

  At Sharif’s signal, the lone man cut the power to the building, while at the same time the other two men stepped through the doorways.

  As soon as all the lights in the building went dark, the men squatted just inside the doors and began to pull grenades from their satchels.

  When the explosions began to ring throughout the building, the terrorists materialized out of the darkness and rushed into the doors, front and back, their AK-47’s chattering a song of death and destruction as they spread out through the corridors.

  Several of the invaders were wearing night-vision goggles to make it easier for them to pick out their targets.

  The screams and yells of the highway patrolmen were punctuated with the explosions of the fragmentation grenades and the harsh guttural roar of the Kalashnikovs as they killed hundreds of patrol officers.

  In less than thirty minutes, the highway patrol building was a mass of roaring flames, sending the acrid scent of burning flesh rising on the morning air.

  Sharif lost only four men in the assault, while every patrol officer on the premises was either killed in the initial assault or burned to death as the building collapsed in a heap of smoldering ruin.

  The police station downtown presented a more difficult problem for Mohamed Omar. It was part of a block of buildings and wasn’t set off by itself, so the attack needed to be different from the one on the highway patrol headquarters.

  Omar sent men into each of the neighboring buildings and out onto the roofs. From there, they crossed to the roof of police headquarters. It was an easy matter to cut the lock on the roof door and gain access to the stairs leading inside.

  Once the roof men were ready, they signaled Omar, and he sent men into the front and back doors simultaneously.

  Desk Sergeant Malcolm Watts looked up from his magazine to see a man of Arab extraction walk in the front door carrying what looked like a machine gun in his arms.

  “What the . . . ?” Watts exclaimed, reaching for the pistol on his hip that he hadn’t drawn in his entire fifteen years on the force.

  The Arab grinned, leveled his AK-47, and fired from the hip, blowing Malcolm Watts backward off his chair, dead before his gun had left his holster.

  As the cops milling around whirled at the sound, several more men began to swarm in through the doors, opening fire as they rushed into the building.

  Policemen were mowed down where they stood, most not even managing to get a shot off before they were hit.

  When he heard the shooting, Lieutenant John Smith, a twenty-year veteran of the force, ran to the arms locker and punched in the code to open the door.

  Once inside, he grabbed an M-16 off a rack, jammed a clip into it, and pocketed two more. Thumbing the lever to full automatic, he eased to the doorway.

  He was astounded to see dead cops lying everywhere, with black-clad figures running up and down the halls, shooting as they went.

  “Son of a bitch!” Smith yelled, taking aim.

  He pulled the trigger, and was satisfied to see three of the attackers dance a jig of death as the M-16 cut them down like grass under a lawnmower.

  Hot lead splintered the wall next to Smith, and he ducked back into the arms locker room, slamming the door behind him.

  He quickly took down a Kevlar vest and threw it on, picked up a couple of more magazines and a few stun grenades, and went back to the door.

  Easing it open, he pulled the pin on one of the stunners, flipped it out in the corridor, and pulled his head back.

  A tremendous flash followed by an ear-shattering blast rocked the corridor and filled it with smoke.

  Smith took a deep breath, crossed himself quickly as he said a silent prayer, and stepped out of the room, his M-16 held at waist level.

  Three men in black were rolling on the ground, holding their hands to their ears and shouting in pain.

  Smith bared his teeth and raked them with a quick burst from the M-16, ending their howling.

  He ran up the corridor, jumping over bodies of his friends as well as the enemy, and looked for more targets.

  Two men stepped around the corner, their eyes going wide when they saw him.

  Smith let go with a burst, and knocked them onto their backs and kept running.

  He got four more men before his magazine was empty. He stopped and flipped it out, and was ramming another one home when a volley of shots from ahead hit him square in the chest and blew him onto his back, the M-16 flying from his hands.

  He lay there stunned and watched as another black-clad figure stepped out of the smoke to stand over him grinning. This was no Arab, but an American.

  Smith jerked his .38 service revolver from his holster and shot the man three times in the face, blowing the look of surprise into bloody pulp.

  Smith grinned and struggled to his feet, his pistol held out in front of him.

  Behind him, Mohamed Omar took aim with his AK-47, and shot him in the back of the head, ending forever Smith’s heroic actions.

  Billy Wesson and ten FFA men and women pulled up in the parking lot to the airport.

  He pointed to three of the men. “You three come with me. We’ll take the control tower. You others, go in the front door and take out any guards or airport policemen you see, and anyone else who gives you any problems.”

  At this hour of the morning, the red-eye flights had already left and the incoming arrivals weren’t due for another couple of hours, so the control room was relatively calm, monitoring only a few private planes in the area.

  There was no guard on the door to the control tower, only a button combination lock to keep unwanted visitors out.

  Wesson aimed his AK-47 at the lock and blew it out of the door, kicked the door open, and stepped aside as his men ran quickly up the stairs.

  An elderly guard appeared at the top of the stairs, a pistol in his hand. He managed to get one shot off, wounding the first man up the stairs.

  The second man in line emptied his entire clip of bullets into the guard, flipping him in a backward somersault out of sight and blowing out three of the windows of the control tower in the process.

  “Be careful, goddamnit!” Wesson shouted. “Don’t fuck up any of the equipment.”

  As they swarmed up the stairs, they found the rest of the air-traffic controllers sitting at their consoles, their eyes wide with fright and their hands in the air. The dead guard was leaking blood all over the floor.

  Wesson stepped over his body and pointed to one of his men. “Get that body out of here,” he ordered.

  Once the guard was removed, Wesson walked over to stand in front of the controllers. “All right now, people,” he said. “Just take it easy and no one else will get hurt.”

  “Uh ... what do you want?” the oldest man in the room asked.

  “We’re gonna need for you to land a few planes for us later in the day,” Wesson said. “Until then, I want all air traffic diverted to another field.”

  “But what will we tell them?” a younger man asked.

  Wesson shrugged. “I don’t care. Tell ’em you had a private plane crash and it fucked up your landing field or something.”

  The controllers looked at each other, knowing that wouldn’t suffice, but none wanted to a
rgue with the man holding the automatic weapon.

  Once all the people in the tower were under control, Wesson walked to a far corner and took out the coded cell phone Sharif had given him.

  He thought for a moment, trying to remember his personal code to make it work. Finally, he punched in six numbers, but the damned thing still wouldn’t turn on.

  “Fuck it,” he said, and stepped over to one of the phones on the air-traffic-control console.

  He picked it up and dialed a number. When the voice on the other end answered, he said, “This is Billy. We’ve got control of Boise Airport and you can get the transports ready.”

  They talked for another five minutes; then Wesson hung up the phone.

  He turned back to the controllers. “We’re gonna have some planes coming in later today,” he said. “I’ll give you their call letters so you can make sure they get here safely.”

  “What kind of planes?” the head controller asked.

  “What difference does it make?” Wesson asked. “All you got to do is make sure they land okay.”

  “We need to know so we can assign them to the correct landing field,” the man said. “Jumbo jets and large planes land on different fields from smaller prop planes.”

  Wesson nodded. “Okay. I’ll let you know when the time comes.”

  Twenty-four

  Ben Raines and General Maxwell Goddard were in a meeting, planning just where the Scout teams were going to be dropped and coordinating it with where the U.S. Rangers would be sent in, when Josh Currey, Goddard’s Chief of Intel, burst into the room.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, a wide smile on his face, “we’ve finally caught a break.”

  “What is it, Josh?” Goddard asked, looking up from the maps he and Ben were examining.

  “Someone aligned with the terrorists made a phone call on a regular landline this morning and we managed to intercept it,” he answered, holding up a transcript of the call.

  “Let me see that,” Goddard requested, holding out his hand for the paper.

  As he scanned it, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I don’t understand this,” he said, handing the paper to Ben.

  Ben read it, his lips pursed in thought. “It looks like a group of the invaders have taken over the Boise airport and are going to use it to land some planes.”

  “But,” Goddard said, “why would they need planes? From what our Intel has found, they’re living off the land, taking whatever arms and supplies they need from the areas they’ve attacked.”

  Ben shrugged, staring at the paper. “I can think of a couple of possibilities, but you’re not gonna like them,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  “One, they could be bringing in reinforcements from Vancouver Island. More troops or even heavy equipment and matériel such as tanks, half-tracks, or even attack airplanes and helicopters.”

  “Jesus,” Goddard said, turning to Currey with a worried look on his face. “What other possibilities can you think of, Ben?” he asked. “As if that one isn’t bad enough.”

  “It could be that this FFA faction has some people they want to transport down to help out with the invasion. They could’ve gathered from all over, and this would be the quickest way to get them in touch with El Farrar’s men so they could work together.”

  Goddard slowly nodded. “That’s right. Now, that wouldn’t be quite as bad as thinking Farrar may be getting heavy equipment or air support.”

  Ben thought for a moment, then looked up, a sly grin on his face. “I’ve got an idea, Max.”

  “Spill it,” Goddard said, looking hopeful.

  “How about I send in one of my crack teams to Boise? See if maybe we can’t throw a monkey wrench into those transport plans before the planes have a chance to land.”

  Goddard’s forehead wrinkled and he bent over to look at a map of the U.S. “That’s a pretty long run for a C-130 to make in the time we have left, Ben.”

  “We could use one of the Ospreys in your Air Force, Max. They’ve got both the speed and the range to make it before the other flights are scheduled to land.”

  Goddard looked up at Currey. “Josh, what’s Intel say about the strength of the force that took Boise?”

  “Close to two hundred men at least, and they were heavily armed to boot.”

  Goddard looked back at Ben. “Ben, the Osprey can only take about thirty personnel if it’s got a full load of fuel. Your people would be heavily outnumbered and outgunned.”

  “You don’t know my people, Max. Five-to-one odds only makes it an even fight, and I’ll still lay odds my men can take them out.”

  “Josh,” Goddard said, “get on the horn and have an Osprey fueled up and ready to go in an hour. We don’t have any time to waste.”

  He looked at Ben. “This is going to be a day drop, Ben. Your people will be awfully exposed.”

  “They won’t be dropping, Max. The Osprey can land almost anywhere, like a chopper, so they can just let my people out a few miles away from the airport and then we’ll see what happens next.”

  Ben went to the bachelor officers’ quarters and met with his team.

  After he’d explained what was going on at the Boise airport, he got down to specifics. “Since you’ll be heavily outnumbered, we’re gonna drop you several miles away and let you make your way to the hot zone on your own. Also, since you’ll be working in among the enemy, instead of your normal BDU cammies, you’ll be issued black outfits, similar to the ones both the enemy and the Scouts wear.”

  “How about our armament?” Harley asked. “Will we be able to use the same weapons we’re used to carrying?”

  “Yes, but since resupply will be a problem, you might at some point need to switch from your Uzis to the AK-47’s used by the enemy so you can make use of confiscated ammunition and other weapons.”

  “What is our primary objective?” Coop asked.

  “First to kill as many of the terrorists as you can. Secondly, to retake the airport before their planes can land and either warn the planes off or sabotage their landings in some way,” Ben answered.

  “Can we expect any help from local resources?” Jersey asked. “Such as cops or local citizens?”

  Ben shook his head. “I doubt it. The U.S. citizens aren’t like ours in the SUSA. They’re pretty much used to the government doing everything for them. If the terrorists have operated as per their usual plans in the past, they will have taken out most if not all of the local law-enforcement personnel in their initial attack.”

  “So, it’s us against about two hundred bad guys, huh?” Hammer Hammerlick observed.

  “That’s about it,” Ben said. “All in all, I’m gonna put my money on you.”

  “That’d be a wise bet,” Harley said with a savage grin.

  The Boeing/Bell V-22 Osprey is a medium-lift, multi-mission, vertical/short-takeoff-and-landing (VSTOL), tilt-rotor aircraft. It can take off and land like a helicopter, but once it is airborne, its blades can be rotated to convert the airplane to a turboprop configuration capable of high-speed, high-altitude flight. It flies at 185 knots helicopter mode and 275 knots airplane mode, has a range of 2100 miles, and can carry a payload of twenty thousand tons of men and matériel.

  As Ben’s team was loaded into the cargo compartment, he stood there shaking the hands of each member of the team as they entered.

  He pulled Harley Reno, the team’s field commander, aside. “Harley, this is an important mission, but the most important part is to bring everyone back in one piece,” Ben said. “Do what you can to disrupt the invaders, but if you have to abort due to overwhelming odds against you and the team, don’t worry about it. We’ll have plenty of chances to get them later if we have to.”

  “Ben, we’ve never failed you in a mission yet, and I don’t intend for this to be the first time,” Harley said. “But I will make sure no one takes any unnecessary chances.”

  Ben slapped Harley on the shoulder. “Good. Keep in touch with your coded cell phones. I’ll have
Mike Post monitoring them constantly, day and night.”

  “Roger that,” Harley said, and ducked his head as he stepped up into the cargo compartment of the Osprey.

  As the big turbine engines of the Osprey roared and the craft began to lift off, the team sat on the metal benches arrayed around the interior of the cargo compartment making last-minute checks of equipment and armament.

  “Damn,” Coop groused as he shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, “I feel like I’m carrying a ton of shit in my pack.”

  He had been assigned the unenviable task of carrying the M-79 grenade launcher, known as Thumper or Big Thumper for the sound it made when it fired the grenades. The launcher and the fifty grenades Coop was carrying made quite a load in a pack on his back.

  Jersey looked up from sharpening her K-Bar, a task she always did while on mission flights. “Aw, is it too heavy for you, Coop?” she asked sarcastically. “You want me to carry Thumper so you won’t be overloaded?”

  “Naw,” he grumbled back at her, “I figure that tiny little Uzi is about all a delicate flower of womanhood like you can handle, darlin’. Wouldn’t want you to do too much and get muscle-bound. It might ruin your feminine figure.”

  “I’ll match muscles with you any time, little man,” she fired back, staring at him where he sat next to her. “You look like that guy in the ads where some bully kicks sand in his face on the beach.”

  Coop glanced down at his arms, a slight grin on his face. He dearly loved the repartee between himself and Jersey. “Well, I’ve been kinda sick since I got wounded trying to save your butt on our last mission. That big Swedish physical therapist was working on developing my muscles when you made her stop.”

  Jersey let her glance fall to his lap. “Yeah, but the muscle she was working on is one you won’t need on any of our missions, that’s for sure.”

  Coop gave her a leer and waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t be too sure, Jersey. Who knows? Someday, your hormones might kick in and you’ll decide I’m just what the doctor ordered.”