Broken Shield

by Ryan Garner

  Frantically, reaching for his radio microphone Tyler attempted to call for help, but the bullet had pierced his lung. Every time he attempted to speak more blood would pour into his throat and all he could do was cough and gag. Desperate, he repeatedly began to press the emergency button on his radio as he felt himself rapidly losing consciousness. However, the horrifying truth for Tyler was that he knew Communications would take minutes before they even chose to dispatch help to him, if any was available at all. Dispatchers would first call him incessantly on the radio to make sure that the automated distress call had not been initiated by negligence on his part. Tyler was almost hysterical by the time he heard the communicator on the radio call out his unit number. He keyed the microphone a few times, coughing and moaning into the radio, but was unable to actually say anything as he felt his strength slipping from him.

  This isn't supposed to happen to me!!! He thought to himself. This isn't how I'm supposed to die!!! Tyler's world faded into blackness as he continued to press the orange emergency button on his vehicle's radio.

  ….

  Olamilekan Maalouf, a slender, very dark skinned, black male in his late thirties moved the suppressed Dragunov Sniper Rifle and its bi-pod away from the small encompassing wall of the rooftop where he had been positioned. While he had not been able to see the actual hit due to the vehicle's fractured windshield the fact that the officer did not exit his Police Explorer was a good sign that he never would. Using gloved hands he carefully placed the rifle on the flat gravel rooftop and turned and walked away. He headed towards the small maintenance door from which he had originally come.

  Shortly before he had executed his mission Maalouf had been sure to wipe down the weapon to ensure that all fingerprints and any DNA evidence were removed from the Dragunov since he knew he would be leaving it behind. Even though the rifle had an attached suppressor it was still difficult to completely silence a round of this caliber. Moreover the subsequent whip cracking sound that the bullet made as it broke the sound barrier was unavoidable due to the use of supersonic ammunition.

  Suppressing the rifle would hinder the police department’s gunshot trackers, but it would not make their ability to eventually pinpoint his exact location impossible. The small sonic boom that the 7.62x54R round made was also loud enough to be heard by any civilians that might be in the immediate area. This further supported the reason why Maalouf would not be taking the weapon with him. Without the firearm he would simply stroll down the road as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Still, Maalouf thought it was a waste of a beautiful weapon. The Russian made semi-automatic, magazine fed, rifle would have been a prized possession in his homeland of Nigeria. No matter though. He had been paid enough for this job that if he so chose he could now afford to buy many Dragunov's. However, he first had to make sure he wasn't caught. Maalouf hurried down the stairs of the abandoned office building and towards the exit.

  CHAPTER 20

  The entire city was tearing itself apart and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. John thought to himself as he stood in his living room staring at the TV. The news broadcasts were quickly switching between overhead aerial shots of the school bombings, riots, and the crime scenes of the apparent assassinations of Deputy Chief Schenberg and Major Tyler. The last two incidents had the least emotional impact on John. He found it hard to fight the feeling that both men had gotten exactly what they deserved. They had each made countless officers lives miserable and destroyed careers for no other reason than to make life easier on themselves or to further their own job opportunities.

  Karma is a bitch… John mused.

  It was apparent that Wilmington PD, the New Hanover County Sheriff’s Department, and remaining State Troopers were near the tipping point of being completely overwhelmed and losing total control of the City. Curfews had already been established, but this did little for the terrified civilians still trapped amongst the chaos and confusion of angry mobs and terrorist attacks.

  Worse yet, John suspected that it would still be several more hours before the National Guard or National Governing Police would be able to fully deploy their resources; and that was a conservative estimate. Until then the city and its local police forces were on their own.

  Worst of all, he could not shake off the unsettling notion that all of this was only the beginning of a much more nefarious plot. Many of the large scale terrorist attacks around the world had begun as a set of seemingly unrelated occurrences only to flow into one gigantic and catastrophic event resulting in a total destabilization of the city, state, and surrounding areas. Islamic Jihadist extremists sometimes referred to these types of incidents as, The Perfect Day.

  Given the overwhelmingly chaotic situation the police were facing John had briefly entertained the idea of going back to his department to volunteer his services. He quickly realized that given his circumstances the command staff at WPD would be more willing to let the city burn than to allow a “disgraced” officer back in their ranks. Short of a total ground invasion by attacking forces and destruction of the government itself he was never going to be allowed to wear his Wilmington PD badge again.

  “What are you going to do?” Samantha asked from the couch behind him. With nowhere else to take her and knowing that leaving a defenseless, injured, young woman out on the streets in the middle of a catastrophe such as this would mean almost certain death; or worse, John had chosen to bring Samantha back to his home at least until the riots had stopped. He wasn't really sure what he would do after that. He hadn't had much time to think quite that far ahead yet, but he could not escape the loneliness and heartbreak in her eyes. The least he could do for now was to make sure she was safe.

  “About what?” John asked.

  “The riots, terrorist attacks, your friend...” Samantha paused momentarily before continuing, “...me.” While he had not told her much, he had given Samantha a brief overview of the Karina situation. How could he not? It was just about all he could think about. His recent discovery of Darren Siegal's link to Samantha’s previous client was deeply troubling; though he wondered if he would regret saying anything about this later on.

  “I don't know.” he responded. “Certainly can't go anywhere right now, it's too dangerous. I've got enough food and water in my apartment to last a few days. I hope the National Guard and NGP will have made some progress towards restoring order by then.”

  “What if the rioters come here?” Samantha asked in a nervous voice. John shrugged his shoulders.

  “Barricade the door and hope for the best.” he said calmly before adding. “I've got several thousand rounds of ammo stockpiled along with several firearms. That should at least make them think twice before trying to get in here. Of course depending on the size of the crowd that may not make much of a difference.” Samantha was surprised to hear John speak with so little emotion about such a terrifying possibility. It was almost as if he were analyzing a scenario in a tactical training class.

  “Several thousand rounds of ammo?” she asked a bit taken aback.

  “Yes...several thousand.” John responded in a deliberately offhanded manner. Like many officers he had for years taken it upon himself to accumulate a weapons and ammunition cache as things in society progressively worsened. Even before all of the firearms restrictions had been put into place ammunition costs had soared to astronomical amounts; as much as $5.00 to $10.00 a round for some popular rifle calibers such as the 5.56mm and 7.62x51mm. Federal and State safety taxes, federal arms taxes, liability taxes they had all been a way to help liberals price firearms completely out of existence for the average person. This caused many to regret not stockpiling ammo while they could have still afforded to do so.

  Before civilians had been ordered to turn in their guns many were already so strapped for cash that even when they could afford to legally buy a firearm they would only purchase a box or two of ammunition. Training with a person's own weapon had inevitably gone completely out the window
for most people. And with a lack of training the common misconception among novice shooters grew that owning a twenty or fifty round box of ammunition meant that a person would be able to defend themselves against approximately that number of people. Many thought this was more than enough for the likelihood of one or two burglars who happened to make their way into a home at night. They would soon learn the horrifying reality that this miniscule amount of ammunition was not nearly enough to handle the coming pandemonium.

  “What about me?” Samantha asked her tone a bit more apprehensive. This question broke John's concentration and he momentarily turned his attention away from the TV.

  “What about you?” he asked. “I'm certainly not going to throw you out on the street in the middle of all this.” Samantha breathed a quick sigh of relief. It had been a long time since she had felt as if she were in a safe place, even if it was just for the night...and even if the world was seemingly falling apart around her.

  “Thank you...” she said quietly. Her apparent relief about the situation noticeably obvious; John managed to produce a half smile.

  “Don't worry about it.” he said as he turned his attention back to the news. Samantha watched him quietly as he remained standing several feet away from her. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had done anything kind for her without some sort of twisted ulterior motive, let alone freely volunteer to protect her life and wellbeing.

  John could feel her watching him, not that it really bothered him. He still did not know what he was going to do, but he was going to at least do one thing. He had encountered so many lost souls trapped inside their tragic circumstances in his lifetime that he wasn't about to callously toss this one aside like so many others had done. Departing from popular belief, John knew that “the system” (or government or whatever a person chose to call it) had not failed Samantha...no, that was not it at all. The truth was that society itself had failed her. John knew that he might be beyond the point of saving, but he could still try to do something for the scared girl sitting on the couch behind him. He focused his attention back on the news.

  ….

  “Sixty Seconds...” Scott Bryant said as he made a few more slight modifications to the high definition camera affixed to a tripod sitting on the sidewalk across the street from the New Hanover Regional Medical Center. The massive complex with its ornate landscaping was Wilmington's primary level 1 trauma center. Most of the severely injured victims of the school bombings and accompanying riots were being routed to this location.

  Clayton Joseph, a handsome male in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a tailored gray suit with a bright blue tie, checked himself over one last time making sure that nothing about his outfit was out of place. This was not his first field assignment as a reporter, but given the recent turn of events in Wilmington this was certainly going to be his biggest story yet.

  “Thirty seconds.” Bryant stated as he positioned himself behind the camera.

  Clayton was excited. Being associated with reporting on such widely known events might catapult his career into the national media spotlight. Perhaps MSNBC, CNN, or CBS news would take notice of his dapper performance and offer him a job. He glanced over his shoulder at the enormous hospital buildings behind him just as an ambulance with all of its emergency equipment activated went screaming by and turned quickly into one of the entryways of the medical establishment.

  “Fifteen seconds...”

  There was no way of telling how many wounded adults and children were being shuttled to this location, but Clayton estimated the number would eventually climb to the hundreds; if not thousands. This did not include the people that were already here for a myriad of other medical reasons. He adjusted the small earpiece in his left ear where he could hear the other local news reporters back at the station conducting their lead in report to introduce him.

  “Ten Seconds...”

  He straightened his jacket and brought the slim microphone up to chest level preparing to speak just as Bryant began to give him a nonverbal five second countdown with his left hand. When he finally reached zero a small red LED light came on in the front of the camera.

  “Good evening everyone, I'm here at New Hanover Regional Medical Center where the victims of the recent school bombings are...”

  Suddenly, Clayton's voice was cut off by the ear splitting boom of a massive explosion. At the deafening sound both he and Bryant instinctively ducked and covered their heads. Even though they were quite a distance from the detonation the resulting shock wave was strong enough to jolt both of them away from the direction of its origin. Bryant was so startled that he inadvertently knocked the camera he was behind to the ground. It struck the hard concrete surface with a crash, splitting the front lens, but neither of them heard the impact. Their ears were ringing.

  “What the fuck was that?!” Clayton yelled in an utterly shocked voice forgetting that he was still on live TV. Even though the camera was now damaged and on its side it was still running. He turned around just in time to see a large cloud of smoke, rubble, and fire rise into the air. Its source was the main building of the Hospital.

  “My God...” Clayton said as he looked on in horrified astonishment. A moment later he observed another ghastly sight. About a third of the primary building which had already been severely weakened by the explosion sheered completely off and came crashing down on itself causing a secondary dust cloud to rise skyward. The collapse also created a low rumble that could be felt in a person's chest.

  “All...all those people...” Bryant managed to stutter as the rolling sound of the explosion subsided and the area around them began to be filled with the thudding sounds of debris falling to the earth as parts of the hospital came raining down all around them. Both men were so shocked by what they had just seen they disregarded the secondary danger of the falling rubble. Bryant reached down and lifted the camera back up manually focusing it so that the viewing audience could better see what was happening. Clayton was completely speechless and was still turned away from the camera staring at the carnage that was unfolding around him. The sounds of approaching sirens could be heard growing closer to their location; the noise was punctuated by cries for help coming from the devastated hospital.

  “Clayton...” Bryant stated trying to draw his partner's attention back to the camera. Clayton shook his head from side to side trying to clear his mind before he turned back to face the camera.

  “Ladies and gentlemen it appears...” He paused not quite sure what to say. He choked back his own emotions as his listening ability started to come back to him. He could now hear the screams of even more injured victims.

  “It appears ladies and gentlemen that there has been an attack on New Hanover Regional Medical Center...” Clayton's voice was hoarse as he struggled to keep his tears back. “I'm...I'm not quite sure what happened, there was just an explosion and then a good third...a good third of the hospital collapsed on itself.” The sirens in the area were growing louder along with the noise of an approaching helicopter. Clayton assumed it most likely belonged to Wilmington PD. Still in a state of shock from the disaster he had just witnessed and not thinking clearly enough to censor his own words, he spoke again.

  “We're...we're under attack aren't we?” He stated in a terrified voice. There was a moment of silence before Bryant finally realized that Clayton was talking to him.

  “I don't know.” he responded in an equally frightened voice.

  Secondary explosions suddenly erupted from amongst the wreckage of the shattered building. Oxygen tanks, pure alcohol, pressurized gases, there were any number of items inside a hospital that were highly flammable and explosive. Clayton could hear more cries for help as time continued to drag on; the air was filled with the sound of suffering people.

  “We...we have to try to help them.” he said in a quiet voice. Bryant was still in such a state of shock it took him another moment for the words to register. He nodded his head and flicked a lever on the tripod disengaging the
camera body. If he was going to risk his life going into a bomb zone he at least wanted to record it. It might win both of them a Pulitzer. The two men jogged across the street towards the shattered remains of the hospital.

  ….

  Lieutenant Caspar and Sergeant Blackshear sat quietly on a rear facing bench seat in the front passenger section of a dark blue Chevrolet Express Van with tinted windows. Positioned on benches that ran down both sides of the van were six heavily armed members of Wilmington PD's Selective Enforcement Unit. Each one wore a heavy black entry vest with multiple utility pouches attached, a dark blue Kevlar helmet with a fixed position digital camera, and a black mask. In addition to their sidearm, all of the officers also carried a short barreled Smith and Wesson M&P15X rifle. Both Caspar and Blackshear were dressed in their department issue suits and carried only their Smith and Wesson M&P .45. Dressing in tactical wear and lugging around a rifle was “beneath” them.

  Following directly behind their van was another of a similar make, model, and color. This van carried an additional six man SEU team, plus two Sierra Sniper Units. The vehicles cruised at just above the speed limit through the upper class townhome community. Given its location and occupancy two blacked out vans driving in this area at such an early evening hour would not go unnoticed for long and time was of the essence.

  Facial reconnection programs had tracked Karina Cherry to a local grocery store where she had been observed buying a prepaid cellular phone. It had taken very little time and effort for Lieutenant Caspar to have the purchasing records of the store pulled and the phone number traced to the location where they were currently headed. Karina Cherry had initially been of little importance to the police department. They merely wanted to track her location for later arrest due to her involvement with Occupy Congress based on information having been gathered during a raid on her residence by the National Governing Police. However, with assistance from the NGP, Internal Affairs had also managed to activate her phone and use it as a portable listening device.