Excolopolis_Poles of Enforcement

by Jack L. Marsch

  “I am not at liberty to say, Ma'am. Mr Steersman will tell you what he feels you need to know.”

  Without any further word, the commander led the journalist and the cameraman towards the office entry, where a guard opened the door for them and allowed them in.

  Steersman was waiting for them.

  “Good evening, Sean. What's it going to be this evening?”

  “Good evening, Natalie, thank you for coming.” Steersman moved towards them. “Let me just outline the situation for you. This evening a terrorist was caught by our security staff. He was in the process of assembling and arming a robo-missile on the outskirts of the city.”

  “Oh my God! What was the target?” Natalie asked, shocked.

  “We don't know for sure. Maybe the new construction work at the industrial site, but then that doesn't really make sense. Maybe the city center. These types of missile can be programmed very precisely. Our security analysts are still working on it to find out what the target was.”

  “Does that mean the terrorist is here?” Natalie stopped suddenly.

  “Not yet, but he will be. When everyone is in place he will be brought in to be interviewed. Go in and get ready! You have five minutes!”

  Natalie and Frank went in and began to prepare. Natalie tugged Franks sleeve. “Listen, if we don't make our names with this story, then we won't be able to with anything. This is gonna be huge!” she whispered excitedly.

  “It's gonna cause a shitstorm, that's for sure,” Frank whispered back, getting exited himself.

  “Let's make sure that everyone sees it!”

  The interrogation

  Steersman switched off the electronic jamming signal that protected his office so that Natalie could use her phone to let her producer at S.P.A.N. know that the show was about to start.

  They got the green light.

  The reporter and her cameraman placed themselves in their usual places. Security personnel spread themselves around the portico, invisible in the darkness. Only a couple of them were visible in the room.

  A moment later three men appeared at the entrance, two huge men in black combat fatigues escorting the slight figure of the Latin American prisoner.

  As they walked closer it became apparent that the terrorist had been given a new image. He was washed and dressed in a light blue shirt and grey trousers. They hadn't bothered to shave him, though. They weren't running a barbers shop after all.

  The commander made him sit down in the prescribed place, pushing him into the chair. The prisoner sat down somewhat stiffly, his knee apparently injured.

  Maybe the guards worked on him a little to soften him up a bit, Natalie wondered, watching the entrance with a horrified fascination. She stared rigidly at the prisoner, leaning back further when the commander stepped away. She didn't trust him not to cause any trouble, despite the fact that he was chained to one of the soldiers. She was able to calm herself with the reflection that they were surrounded by trained commandos.

  The commander nodded towards Steersman to let him know they were all set.

  “Let's get started,” he said to the reporter.

  Natalie turned to the front camera, that was set on a heavy tripod. In the background Frank was operating it by remote control. The reporter indicated to the studio, via headset, that she was ready to begin. At that moment, the show being broadcast was cut, and the picture shifted to Natalie.

  “Good evening to everyone. We are broadcasting from Excolopolis where, as I speak, the winter festival is underway with millions of people enjoying the festivities. However, while the city has been celebrating, another more sinister event was taking place, one that attracted the attention of security personnel who were able to prevent a certain catastrophe.” Natalie paused, allowing the tension to build. “Today, at around 9:30pm, a man was caught in open territory on the outskirts of the city, with an armed robot-missile capable of being fired with pinpoint accuracy.” Natalie took a breath, then continued. “We are at the top floor of the Steersman tower, under strict guard. We are in a room with the festival host, Mr Sean Steersman and the man security forces apprehended earlier. We know nothing of his motivations, his intentions or his confederates. In front of us sits a man from whose hands an armed robot-missile was torn, less than two hours ago.” Natalie turned from the camera to face Steersman. Frank switched cameras and Steersman came into view.

  “Mr Steersman, this news is shocking to say the least. Someone with a rocket was able to get this close to the city and come within a hair of causing a deadly attack, killing millions of revelers. What do you intend to do with the terrorist sitting here, next to you, and what do we know about him so far?”

  Steersman began softly, “Well, Ms Garner, my aim is to hand him over to the appropriate authorities who, incidentally, have already been informed. What we need to do now is to ask him the questions we need answered.”

  “You believe that he will answer honestly and willingly, just because you ask him to do so?” asked Natalie in a skeptical tone.

  “Give it a try, Ms Garner,” Steersman said calmly and turned towards the man. The camera zoomed in on the man, who was obviously bothered attention. In his eyes humiliation and anger battled to the surface and his body remained tense and defiant. He stared arrogantly back at the camera.

  Steersman switched on the device in his pocket.

  For what seemed like an eternity, the stark closeup of the terrorist's gaunt face filled the screen. People staring at the TV screens could see the aggression and defiance build in his eyes, the lines of his face frozen as he sat like a cornered wild animal. An overwhelming tension radiated from the screen.

  “Tell us your name,” said Natalie, her voice cracking.

  The man fumed, battling against the impulse to speak. Steersman started up, worried for a moment that the man might be able to resist the mind alterations that were being induced by his device, with some sort of mind control technique.

  “My name is Asmara Alem,” the terrorist said unsteadily. He spoke with a forced tremor in his voice. The room went deathly still. The commander raised one eyebrow, for him an expression of wild surprise, and Natalie Garner stifled a gasp. She paused, unable to ask her next question. She certainly hadn't expected such a direct answer. Steersman felt no surprise, only relief that his device was working, and he took the initiative. He had to be fast because he had no idea how long the effect of the device would last.

  “Who hired you?” he asked quickly.

  Everyone watching held their breath.

  “I … am an agent of … Zakariyya Al Hakam, leader of the Shammas clan,” he gasped.

  “What was your mission?”

  “I had only one job: to terminate Sean Steersman,” he confessed, now shaking with sweat beads forming on his forehead. The darkness seemed to vibrate as they listened. The security commander wanted to stop the broadcast, but the prospect of more information was too much to resist. He stood forward and, before the reporter or Steersman could frame the next question, he spoke. “Where did you get the missile?”

  Natalie felt irritation and a feeling of impotence as the commander usurped her role, but from habit she automatically signaled to Frank to get the commander in the shot, something Frank knew was not strictly permitted, but he didn't need to be told twice.

  The prisoner struggled, but the words were wrestled from him as if by physical force. “It came via Italy. Valencia Sargasso's smuggling network took care of delivery and Mendoza Otero completed the transaction in Trieste. It came from there.” He started to shake, his eyes losing focus.

  “How were you intending to carry out the mission?” asked Natalie. “Were you just going to fire the missile into the crowd?”

  The terrorist didn't answer. He sat struggling, breathing in ragged gasps. No one in the room could understand his sudden silence, except of course Steersman, who had switched off the device.

  “Do you hear me?” Natalie asked, a note of hysteria entering her voice, but as she re
alized that the prisoner was not going to speak, she seemed to regain her focus and turned to face the camera.

  “We have heard some extraordinary allegations, names known to us all have been connected to what may have been a truly horrific attack, killing or injuring hundreds if not …”

  An earth shattering crash interrupted her. Everyone flinched, and the camera image flickered.

  “Jesus, what was that?” exclaimed Natalie, with a small squeal of fright.

  Security personnel came out of the darkness, their presence in the office becoming apparent as they move from their hiding places in the vast outer reaches of the office. The camera panned across the room. A rumble echoed and died away leaving an oppressive silence.

  The commander, moving to stand next to Steersman, whispered into his two-way, “unit four, five, seven and thirteen, report.” There was no answer. White noise was the only reply in his earpiece, sparsely interrupted by snatches or sentences, urgent voices cutting in and out in fragments.

  “We've been hit … attacked … the office … siege … red warn … ready ….”

  The commander heard all he needed to know and with quick hand movements started to give orders to his men, each of whom flicked off the safety switches on their weapons and then scattered, receding into the gloom like ghosts. The commander ordered two soldiers to guard the three civilians, and pushed the prisoner to the ground himself, staying next to him.

  A moment later another explosion ripped through the night, shaking the floor. The vibrations seemed closer and appeared to come from the hall. Gun shots followed; the staccato clacking of automatic weapon fire and the deeper buzz of machine guns. The walls shook and dust fell from the high ceilings.

  Again silence. They heard the drumming of boots getting steadily closer, then a pause, and then more gunfire.

  The commander and two guards had turned to face the entrance, bringing their guns up to aim, when the ceiling exploded and collapsed, reduced to rubble as soldiers in black abseiled into the room, the red lines of their laser sights roaming the floor, searching through the thick dust. The steady whir of helicopter rotors could be heard above the noise of gunfire and destruction.

  Natalie covered here head, lying on the ground, unable to move. She could do nothing except lie there, frozen, the words ‘Who are they? Who are they?’ revolving in her mind. Her reporter instinct began to kick in. They look like commandos, but what are they doing here? Is it some kind of mafia attack? Terrorists? They are too well organized, too disciplined.

  She barely had time to process any of it before she was picked up by one of the guards, and, along with Steersman and the prisoner, was dragged into the back office towards the emergency exit. Meanwhile the firefight continued between the security forces and the enemy soldiers. The element of surprise gave the mercenaries a clear advantage, but years of training, intimate knowledge of the building, and months of contingency planning gave the security force the edge they needed to keep the mercenaries at bay.

  Frank was frantically trying to film as he was dragged from the room and the world watched on as pictures were broadcast to billions of screens across the globe. Steersman and Natalie were both shouting at him as he resisted the guards' attempts to pull him to safety, their voices inaudible above the clatter of gunfire and percussion grenades. Natalie felt lost in the intense confusion, yet she tried to remember what it was she had to do, tried to relay what she saw into the microphone, but she was mute against the sounds of warfare.

  The entrance from above opened a second front which made things seem rather hopeless for the security forces. The commander left the prisoner on the floor, and quickly moved back with the others, knowing that remaining in proximity to the terrorist would only endanger his own life. As soon as he'd stepped away, two bullets plowed into the prisoner's back and another into his head. They were followed by more shots to the body, but they were wasted. He already felt nothing.

  The commander tried to re-establish a connection with his men and finally managed to gain contact. His second in command informed him that a mercenary force had attacked the building, arriving in gunships. There had been fifty. He also informed him that the EBI and three units from the European Security Forces were on their way to the city. Security staff remaining outside the tower could do little to assist other than wait for reinforcements and secure the exits. The commander knew he didn't have too much to work with: a semi hysterical reporter, a mad cameraman, a pen-pusher and eighteen soldiers, two of whom were dead and four more injured.

  He knew that mercenary attacks were all about surprise, fast destruction and a quick getaway. They were obviously aiming to corner him and inflict a decisive blow. It seemed unlikely that escaping via the emergency exit would improve the situation, so the commander decided that his best course would be to fortify and maintain their current position for as long as it took for ESF units to arrive. These thoughts all occurred in the blink of an eye and were followed by concise orders that were the result of years of training and combat experience. Over the racket of automatic rifles, the men all acknowledged his orders and acted as one.

  Steersman moved over to him and asked for gun. A hand gun materialized and was quickly handed to him. He had never used any form of weapon before and measured its weight in his hand uncertainly. The gun appeared to be much heavier that he had imagined. He'd never felt any desire to learn the tricks and techniques of weapons handling and combat, but as he saw mercenaries approaching their position through the thick haze of dust and grenade smoke, he held up the pistol and fired, eyes closed. Opening his eyes, he saw a mercenary appear from the gloom and come for him. The mercenary held the gun up and as he was about to pull the trigger, lights burst inside his skull as something struck him in the side of the head. The soldier felt something smash into his arm, then another blow to his body and he crumpled to the floor.

  The reporter tried block the noise of the gunfire by covering her ears, and even so, felt the deafening report of Steersman's gun rock her skull, echoing in her head. Frank was surprisingly cold, seemingly in his element, doing all he could to maintain his satellite connection and keep broadcasting. He had wrapped the body of the camera in his coat to protect it from being damaged by debris, and continued to film the battle, panning across the scene of soldier and commandos locked in a battle of attrition. The fight seemed to leveling out when the commander decided to evacuate, but his decision came too late. The emergency exit doors were damaged and couldn't be opened. They were trapped!

  The deafening noise and frenetic activity made each second seem an eternity. Soldiers trapped between two sources of gunfire were unable to react quickly enough and began to drop, falling to the ground with their fingers still on the trigger, as they tried to take out as many of the black cloaked mercenaries as they could.

  Natalie felt numb, the stasis of shock overcoming her, even as Frank's attention veered from filming to survival. Steersman felt that things were turning nasty as they crouched together behind the cover of a concrete support.

  A bullet caught Frank in the shoulder and jerked him backwards to land on Natalie, jolting her out of her almost cataleptic state. Steersman knelt and tried to return fire, aiming and shooting wildly back at the enemy soldiers, but without the precision of a trained soldier he had no answer and succumbed to a flying bullet. He could hear explosions and shouting, but the voices seemed to get further and further away. Bullets hit the satellite equipment and pieces flew off, the dish shattering into flying metal shrapnel.

  The broadcast went dead. Televisions all over the world went black.

  *

  Karen sat in front of the vibrant image of a home theater system, the speakers and subs resonating and vibrating the furniture, as if the events were taking place in the living room. Then suddenly a monotone hum, gray noise, the live broadcast lost. The studio flickered on again and the commentators were hardly able to speak, let alone comment on what they had just seen.

  They began to analyze eve
nts and promised the viewers at home new images as soon as their reporters, now en route, arrived in Excolopolis. Karen couldn't even swallow. She just sat, wide eyed, stunned. Then she stood up, picked up her coat and car keys, and marched out of her house, slamming the front door behind her.

  As she drove down the hill along the winding streets she gazed across the city at the lights, flashing concert venues and fireworks of celebration, the participants paying little attention to the distant explosions and the sound of the machinery of war.

  She had no idea what to think. This was the first time she had truly felt fear.

  She arrived at the police cordon near the tower, but was unable to get close. Along with EBI agents, ESF soldiers had arrived to secure the area. Karen left her car behind and walked up the block. There was gray smoke coming out of Steersman's tower building, rising up into the illuminated sky. Army helicopters were cruising overhead like angry swarms of wasps. At the entrance to the tower there was a fleet of emergency vehicles, amongst them ambulances lined up in a row, barely able to keep up with the flow of wounded.

  Two ambulances arrived and Karen stepped aside. There was only one regional ambulance center so it wasn't too difficult to figure out where they were taking the victims.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  The source

  Twenty-four hours after the attack the chaos had grown to mammoth proportions in the city's Business district and in the world media. Everyone, from the highest political levels, to civil rights activists, to janitors, every one of them was speculating, wondering whether to condemn what they had witnessed or glorify the event for having uncovering the unseen puppet masters of a global criminal organization.

  Because of the lives that had been so tragically lost, Karen could appreciate both points of view. It was true that a soldier expects to face the heat of battle and risk losing everything, but still ….