by Michael Bray
"Actually, that's why we need to get out of here," Draven went on.
"What's wrong with here? Is my home not good enough?"
"Actually no, for this situation it isn’t," Draven replied.
"What’s wrong with it?"
"First off it's too exposed. Second, it’s a mobile home so anyone looking for transport if things get crazy might be tempted to take it. Also, there is only one entrance which means there is no escape route if someone decides to attack. It's also no good for defending. The walls to this place wouldn’t withstand much if someone came at it with an axe or crowbar. Even worse, if someone decided to open fire on this place, the bullets would go straight through. With nowhere to hide or protect ourselves, we would be sitting ducks."
"You could say that about most of the places around here," Herman mumbled.
"Almost."
They both looked at Kate who was reading a message on her phone.
"Get your stuff together. We're leaving." She said to Draven.
"Where are we going?"
"Pentagon. The vice president is on his way there. We have been ordered to go and meet him to bring him up to speed."
"I thought we were going directly to the president with this?" Draven said.
"All I know is what I’ve been told, and that’s to meet Vice President Carter at the Pentagon."
"Maybe old man Fitzgerald is feeling the strain of all those skeletons climbing out of the closet, eh?" Herman said, grinning at Kate. "Still, Carter ain't much better. That arrogant son of a bitch needs someone to bring him down a notch or two."
"You can tell him yourself," Kate said as she slotted her phone in her jacket. "You're coming too."
"Me?" Herman said, scrambling to his feet. "No, no I don’t think so. I’m busy right now and I have lots of work to do, research, analysis, all that kind of stuff. Good luck to you both, though."
"It's not an option. You have information that we might need."
"I see what you're saying. I’m still staying here." Herman said, folding his arms.
"No, you're coming."
"As far as I’m aware, you have no reason or right to force me to come along. I read up on this stuff. There's nothing you can do to change my mind." Herman said, shrugging his shoulders and unleashing his best grin.
"Fine," Kate said, then in a fluid motion pulled her pistol from inside her jacket and trained it on Herman.
"Hey hey, easy with the gun, man!" Herman squealed, throwing his arms up and banging his knuckles on the roof.
"What the hell is this?" Draven said.
"He's disobeying a direct order given to me from a military general who has requested his presence. Either he comes along, or I shoot him."
"Isn’t that a bit extreme?" Herman said, his voice an octave or three higher than normal. "Come on man help me out here."
"He's a civilian," Kate said, flicking a quick glance in Draven’s direction. "He can’t help you. You either come of your own free will, or I’ll be forced to arrest you and take you in by force."
"Alright, alright, no need to get so twitchy, I’ll come with. Just stop pointing that thing at me."
Kate hesitated, enjoying watching Herman squirm, then relaxed and slipped the weapon back into her jacket. "Get a bag and gather the notes, we leave in five."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON DC
JOSHUA WALKED DOWN PENNSYLVANIA Avenue, and even despite his near immortality and absolute confidence in his plan, nerves were still gnawing at his stomach. Without his own mortality to fear for, he instead worried for his legacy. Society wouldn't easily understand at first why he was going to such extreme lengths. In time, they would, but first he would have to endure being labelled as a murderer, a terrorist of the highest order. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, comforted by the weight of its contents. Guns. Grenades. Ammo. Plenty of ammo.
Dressed in a crème suit with a white shirt open at the neck, he didn't particularly stand out from the crowd. Despite the chaos taking place the world over, the arrogance of the American public meant that they always assumed it could never happen to them and that things would be alright as long as it was on the other side of the television screen and someone else had to deal with it. Never did they expect it to happen on their doorstep; never did they think it would come at them on a sunny Thursday afternoon.
As he walked, more of his brothers came. From side streets and cafes, from shops and cars, emerging out from their public hiding places, each man carrying a bag on his shoulder containing enough weaponry to do what needed to be done. Wordlessly they fell in behind him as they walked. He knew the rest of his men were doing the same, the ones on 15th and 17th Street as well as those currently making their way towards Constitution Avenue, all converging on the same place. Joshua knew that in order to be taken seriously, they had to make a statement of intent. One so bold, so brazen, it bordered on the theatrical. One which would let the world know they were a serious force to be reckoned with.
As more men fell in behind Joshua, their presence became more obvious. People looked at them, some curious, others smiling nervously and perhaps sensing something was about to happen. Still they didn't deviate, nor did they slow as the White house came into view, the crowds pressing against the iron railings which surrounded the grounds which provided little in the way of security if someone was determined to breach them. Just another example of the blinkered arrogance of those charged with running the country. To Joshua, those railings made a statement, a statement that said nobody dare cross this barrier because they know the consequences would be dire. It was self-serving arrogance, and because of it, punishment was about to be delivered in the most brutal way possible. Despite having no verbal communication, Joshua and his men all reached the perimeter fences on each side of the property at the same time. As they approached the railings, one of Joshua’s men jogged in front, ducked and linked his hands. Joshua threw his bag over the fence, then without breaking stride stepped into the hands of one of his brothers and was boosted over the fence. Gracefully, he grabbed the upper spikes of the railings and vaulted over as the rest of his kin followed suit as they were boosted over onto the grass beyond the fence. People outside pointed and murmured as man after man breached the grounds. Joshua, upon landing crouched and unzipped his bag pulling out the assault rifle. He shrugged the bag back onto his shoulder and led his brothers over the lawn towards the White House as they too drew their weapons.
Behind them, the people started to scream.
II
Immediately after making his address to the nation, President Fitzgerald had returned to the Oval Office and asked everyone to leave. Finally alone and away from the constant chatter of noise and stress of dealing with the ever-evolving situation, Ron Fitzgerald could finally be himself. He sat in his chair and loosened his tie, then resting his elbows on the desk, rubbed his temples.
I’m too old for this.
It wasn’t the first time such thoughts had entered his head. He would never admit it, but he was already starting to feel as if the job was getting to be too much for him even before this new situation had reared its head and forced him into action. It was only for the love of his wife he carried on, determined to make her proud, even in death. As the situation escalated, the more work was put on him and the more he could feel his stress levels increasing. He listened inwardly to his body, trying to release some of the tension. He thought back to when he was a child, a simpler time when life was free of decisions which affected the lives of every man and woman in the country. He smiled as the memories came back to him, of sitting outside on the back porch of the family home with his father. The images were clear and crisp, so vivid he could still smell the dry sweetness of freshly cut grass and hear the drone of honey bees. His father had been trying to teach him the guitar on a tired old nylon stringed acoustic which had seen better days. Despite trying his best, he was unable to grasp the coordination to unlock the abili
ty to play with any sort of consistency. He had noticed as he made awkward hand shapes and tried to position his fingers on the frets that the guitar was sounding even more unusual than normal.
"Here, give it to me boy, it's slipped outta’ tune." His father had grunted.
The ten-year-old future president did as he was told, and handed his father the guitar, watching as the older man's fingers danced and glided down the fretboard with ease.
"E string's out," He muttered, then began to wind the string using the tuning pegs on the headstock with his left hand as he picked the troublesome string with his right.
Ron never liked that sound as the pitch of the string increased as it was tightened.
"It won’t hurt you, son," his father said, seeing his son’s discomfort. "These strings will take a lot of winding before they break."
Almost fifty years later, as he sat amid the growing chaos, Ron Fitzgerald found a rare smile at the memory of his father. He felt a lot like that guitar, wondering how much more tension he could withstand before he snapped. He was dragged from his thoughts as the door to his office was opened by a flustered Secret Service agent. Behind him, people were rushing through the red-carpeted corridors.
"What's going on?" Fitzgerald asked.
"Mr. President, we have to move you, right now."
"What’s going on?"
"Mr. President, please. I'm Special Agent Pycroft. We need to move. We're under attack."
Fitzgerald was about to demand more information when he heard it for himself, the dull rattle of machine gun fire.
"They're here in the White House?”
"Not yet sir, but they're getting closer. Let's get you out of here."
Pycroft led the president through the adjoining room to a discreet panel in the wall. He punched a code into the keypad, expecting the wall to slide aside and reveal the entrance which led to the bunker deep below the structure. The console gave an angry buzz, causing Pycroft to flick a nervous glance over his shoulder. He punched in his code again, this time slowly to make sure he didn't make an error. Once again, the panel buzzed at him.
"I'm locked out sir," Pycroft said, listening to the sound of gunfire as it drew closer.
"Let me try my personal code," Fitzgerald said, pushing past Pycroft.
He had only keyed in two digits of his five digit code, when a tremendous explosion rocked the room, showering the president and Pycroft with debris.
Reacting on the instinct honed by his training, Pycroft shoved the president to the ground and shielded him, taking the brunt of the glass shards and debris on the back.
Fire licked around the edges of the room, as somewhere close by, another explosion rattled the building. Pycroft stood, helping the president to his feet. Both of them were covered in pulverised dust, and a large fire licked at the edges of the room, which was shrouded in thick smoke. Pausing to wipe the blood from his eyes due to the laceration on his forehead, Pycroft retrieved his weapon from the ground.
"Try your code again sir," he said to the President, his voice remarkably calm and collected.
With a shaking hand, the president followed Pycroft’s instructions, only to be greeted by the familiar tone indicating they were denied access.
"I don't understand," Fitzgerald said.
"They must have locked out the system somehow. Follow me," he said, leading the President through an adjoining door into a room which was so far undamaged. Pycroft slipped on a wireless earpiece and spoke into it as he led the way, gun held in front of him, checking every blind spot.
"This is Agent Pycroft. I have the eagle. Plan A is no go. Proceed with plan B. Repeat, Proceed with plan B."
Fitzgerald jumped as gunfire peppered the wall in the room adjacent to them. He couldn't quite believe what was happening. Shouting. Screaming. The smell of smoke.
"Down, down!" Pycroft said, unceremoniously shoving the president into the gap between the wall and an ornate sideboard filled with expensive plates and silverware. Seconds later, the door at the end of the room opened and one of Joshua’s men entered. Pycroft crouched and opened fire, hitting the man in the chest twice before he could take more than a single step into the room.
The man grunted and was thrown against the wall by the impact, and yet didn't go down. Instead, he swung his weapon towards Pycroft and opened fire. Bullets zipped through the air, slamming into the walls and reigning chunks of concrete down on the floor. With his free arm, Pycroft reached up and pulled the dresser over, providing the agent and President with a makeshift barricade. More bullets were fired, wood, glass and concrete showering the agent and president as they pressed against the wall out of range. Showing no panic, the blond haired agent calmly reloaded his weapon.
"Don't you move," he screamed at the president, and then swung into view, peering over the edge of the dresser and getting off three shots. One went wide, shattering the eighteenth-century mirror which hung on the wall. The second and third bullets found their target, one in their attackers forearm, the other in his stomach. Pycroft was sure that would be enough, and yet the injuries only seemed to anger their attacker as he returned fire. Pycroft ducked out of sight, breathing heavily and keeping a close eye on the President.
"He won't go down," The agent shouted. "He took three bullets already and he won't fall!"
"Shoot him in the head," the President shouted, struggling to be heard against the explosions and gunfire which seemed to come from all directions.
"I have a better idea," Pycroft replied, reaching into his jacket. He pulled the pin from the grenade and tossed it over towards the corner of the room, then immediately dived on top of the president. The explosion was deafening, blowing the windows out onto the pristine lawn below. Their makeshift shield was obliterated, as was the door and a section of the wall where their attacker had stood. For a few seconds, even breathing was impossible. Pycroft coughed and stood, pushing splintered wood from his back and legs, and pulling an equally bloody and dusty President Fitzgerald to his feet. The fleshy remains of their attacker were smeared all over the walls and in chunks littering the room.
"Come on sir," Pycroft said, still calm. "We need to get you to a chopper."
III
Over six thousand miles away, underneath the city of Baghdad, Branning, Hamada and the rest of the survivors huddled around the television screen, watching the grainy images of the attack and finding themselves quite unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Grainy helicopter footage of the building with smoke pouring from its windows and pockmarks on its outer walls looked more like something from a movie than real life. Akhtar stood with his brother – who was perhaps the only one amongst them who didn't understand the history-making images on the screen.
"This is insane," Branning said, fists clenched as he watched. "Where the hell is the army? They should be all over this."
"What army?" Hamada said, glaring at Branning. "Your country spreads itself too thin. All your forces are deployed across the world leaving you vulnerable."
"No, we have plenty of troops."
"Reserves perhaps. But the real soldiers, they are here, or helping out the British or French."
"It was a trap wasn't it? Whoever is doing this attacked overseas first to make sure we were unprotected." Branning grunted.
"Of course, they did," Hamada said. "They know how arrogant you Americans are. How much better than everyone else you think you are. It was only a matter of time before somebody decided to try such a bold move."
"Well if you people would stop attacking civilians-"
"Come on," Hamada cut in, shaking his head. "You know why we attack you. You know why my people put Jihad on you."
"You got something to say to me?" Branning said, squaring up to Hamada.
"There you go again," Hamada said, shaking his head. "Always thinking you have the right to be violent and aggressive. Think about where you are. Think about which country you are in."
"We're here to protect the civilians from people like you
."
"No, that's only what you have been led to believe. You are here at the orders of some man who hides behind a wall of lies. A man who decides it is acceptable to invade my country and impose his will on my people then has the audacity to call me a terrorist."
"Don't twist this around and give me this shit." Branning spat.
"You were never wanted here. You Americans and British come and try to change us, and then act with aggression when we defend our beliefs."
"You're the one who spills the blood of innocent people. The suicide bombings and random car bomb attacks are on you, not us. The blood of those people is on your hands."
"No, it isn't. Nor is it on yours." Hamada said, remaining calm. "The blood is on his hands."
Hamada pointed to the TV screen which was still showing live footage of the White House. "He's the one who sends men to fight his battles. He's the one who cares nothing of the consequences of his actions because it will never directly affect him."
"What do you mean by that?" Branning snapped.
"After the attacks on your World Trade Centre when the country was in crisis, did your President help those in need? Or did he hide away in his underground bunker until the threat of more attacks had passed? You people blame us for this war, yet it wouldn't have started if your country hadn't involved itself in business that didn't concern it."
Branning was furious, at first at the audacity of Hamada for calling him out in front of everyone, and secondly because a lot of what he had said made sense. As determined as he was not to pay any attention to what he deemed to be propaganda and attempts to undermine him, there was a certain ring of truth to Hamada's words. Branning had often spoken to his squad mates, fellow soldiers thrust into the baking desert heat, and the question would arise as to why they were fighting the wars of other people.
Branning sighed and looked away from Hamada's penetrating gaze, choosing to stare at his own boots instead. "This isn’t the time to get into this. We need to make plans. We won't be able to stay here for long."