People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1)

by Craig Martelle

  Bob looked at the big board with the spreadsheet prominently displayed. Without further thought of Rick or Travis, he dug into it. This is what Bob did best, analyze other people’s work. He thought of it as helping them to be better. He knew what it took to build spreadsheets of this magnitude from scratch, and that wasn’t his talent. It would have taken him weeks to accomplish what Rick and Travis had done overnight.

  Bob thought about it. There were makers, and there were takers. Rick was a rare breed. He built things; he made things better. Bob was more the norm, although he’d never admit that in public. He worked with other people’s genius.

  “So what do you see? Where are the holes?” Rick asked when he returned, looking somewhat refreshed. “Do you know if they have any coffee around here?”

  “Sorry, Rick,” Bob said turning to face him.

  “Sorry for what, Bobbie Mac?”

  “The Deputy Director of Intel won’t be here today.”

  “Thank God! I thought you were going to tell me they don’t have coffee,” Rick smiled and slapped Bob’s shoulder. “Who’s next in line that you have to convince to issue these collection orders? That’s what you’re going to do for us. Convince them first thing and git ‘er done. I doubt I’ll have any patience for the usual hemming and hawing. Save me the indignity of calling people out.”

  The door opened, and Travis walked in with a Starbucks Traveler, 96 ounces of steaming life. He also carried a stack of cups, a carton of creamer, and sugar packets. Without a word to Bob, Rick walked briskly to Travis, relieving him of the Traveler, then looking for a place to set up their emergency coffee bar.

  Bob waited until Rick had his java cradled lovingly in his hands, sipping loudly before he continued.

  “It’s the DHS guy. He’s next.”

  Rick hung his head. “The DHS?” He said dejectedly. Bobbie was happy no one from Homeland Security was in the room.

  “Yeah, I know Rick. That’s how we all feel. I’ll make it my mission to convince him. Maybe the Colonel here can work his folks to help make the case, although they don’t have any skin in the game. I don’t think anything in-theater is going to help us out unless they can get us a name for this guy.” He pointed to Rick’s caricature. “By the way, that’s inspirational. Your work?” He asked Travis.

  Travis pointed to Rick. “I should have known.” Bobbie Mac held out his hand, and Rick took it. “Good work. I’ll ask the DDI to send a note to EPEC about everything you’ve done so far. Impressive. Now sit back and relax. You need to be ready for when the data starts rolling in. And you know what it’s going to look like.”

  “Yup,” Rick answered, still sipping his coffee. He wondered how he was going to fill out his time card. He was limited to working sixteen hours a day. Seventeen yesterday and six already today. He shook his head, refocusing on the intelligence. “It’ll look like garbage. If you want it bad, you get it bad. The more they hurry it, the worse it will be. And what the hell does DDI have that’s more important than this?”

  “DDI is responsible for the whole world. Everything he has is Priority One. Everything. You got his time yesterday, and you have his support. He’ll check in every now and then, but this is our show now.” Rick was sure that it had always been their show. Getting the DDI on board meant moving it from a high school gymnasium to Broadway. The DDI’s role was significant in getting the visibility they needed.

  “We’re saving the world, rather, our little piece of it,” Travis chimed in. “Maybe you should go home, Rick, get some sleep.”

  “What? Let an Army guy outlast me? That’ll be the day!” Rick brightened up.

  “Army guy. Hmm. That must be Marine-speak for Soldier. What do you call those serving in the Air Force, Ooh Ooh?” Travis said in his best caveman grunt while pointing up.

  “Are you throwing down the gauntlet? Game on? Okay, game on! Marines, what every Soldier aspires to, whom every Zoomie tries to hang out with, so they aren’t beaten up while on liberty. Is that who you’re talking about?” Rick was instantly in the zone. The Intelligence Community was institutionalized paranoia forced upon disparate entities loyal to their own organizations while relying on each other to watch their backs, because of their innate paranoia.

  The IC was the tightest group of those at war with each other that history had ever seen.

  “Okay, oorah and all that, more coffee, less testosterone, and better diplomacy when the rest of Thorny Rose gets here,” Bob interjected, never having patience for the games the military played between themselves. He was a career civilian and always felt like he was on the outside looking in when working in a joint environment. He was more comfortable in the halls of the Company.

  “Horny Rose. Really Bob? You let them name our SAP Horny Rose?” Rick contorted his face and with his hands, he made the universal what-the-hell sign.

  “Thorny Rose, Rick. Don’t let your version slip out. I can’t say it. Otherwise it’ll stick on my tongue, and I’ll be the one with a size 10 in my mouth. And no, I had nothing to do with that. I sent your report and then I was told what the new Special Access Program was called. I think someone has a list somewhere, and they pull it up or there’s a random word generator that they use. It’s better than that last one, you know, the one we can’t talk about?”

  Rick raised his eyebrows. Even though the SAP itself remained close hold, the names trickled through various reports. He’d seen too many odd names cross his desk. He’d grown numb to the madness.

  “Tinkerbell?” Bob said in a near whisper. Rick and Travis both shook their heads. “The greatest SAP travesty ever? It’s probably better you don’t know about it. Means your name is nowhere associated with it. I’d tell you, but you know…”

  “Yeah, you’d have to kill us,” Travis said knowingly.

  “No. You’d have to fill out paperwork, read-in, read-out, unintentional disclosure. That stuff.”

  “And like that wouldn’t kill us? I swear Bobbie Mac, you must be the most boring human being on the planet.” Rick went back to their emergency coffee bar and refreshed his cup as other people started to filter through the door. Rick was pleased to see that most people arrived early. It wasn’t yet 6 am. He didn’t expect a full house until 7.

  Bob McClendon, Rick Banik, and Travis Strong stood at the board, discussing the questions and taskers for the next hour while others listened in, taking notes. Some offered tidbits, tweaked wording, and helped bundle similar questions. Rick liked this style of a working group best. He was in his element. Unless you looked closely at his eyes, a little red and a lot glossy, you wouldn’t know that he’d gotten less than one hour of sleep the night before, in a chair, right in this room.

  As soon as the team convinced the Senior Executive from DHS, Bob didn’t even remember his name, then Rick and Travis could go home, rest up for what would inevitably be a tumultuous time. Plus, it was the weekend. It would take a great deal of effort to get anything from minimally staffed offices.

  Special Access Programs always started out furiously with a small group. Other people were read-in, the energy built, then faded away. SAPs served a purpose and then were mothballed, the name never to be reused. Bob thought back to Spackle Ceiling and its sub-compartments, the Red series. At least Thorny Rose had some teeth. If it ever leaked what Spackle Ceiling entailed, the public would laugh at the Defense Department until they cried.

  “And we shall speak of it no more,” Bob said under his breath as he prepared to sell Rick’s collection plan to the group. There was work to do, and they had no idea of the timeline to get it done. That usually meant they needed it by yesterday. Bob put on his war face. He hadn’t been this passionate about anything in years. That damn Rick.

  D Minus 19 – The Zealots

  The first young man they met was angry. He hated. Everything.

  This man would stand out no matter where he went.

  “You need to calm yourself. You cannot help us when you are this angry. You can be the man we need, but not l
ike this!” Mohammed tried to draw the man away from his rage. Clay grew increasingly uncomfortable. The man started raising his voice as they talked in a Walmart parking lot. Clay had purchased a jug of acetone to supplement their growing supply while parking at the far end of the lot, where they knew the store had no video surveillance.

  Mohammed suggested to Clay that he might have to use his strength to bring some of the volunteers in line. But Clay was never to speak. He didn’t want any of these men to know he was a foreigner.

  “That’s enough! You will be quiet and listen,” Mohammed demanded in a stern voice, but it wasn’t stern enough.

  “These people are scum! Their way of life is offensive. Harlots!” He would have continued, but Mohammed grabbed him by the throat.

  “Slam him on the ground, then punch him in the face until he submits,” Mohammed ordered.

  Clay reached under the thin man’s arms, and picked him up, twisting as he followed the man’s body downward, slamming him back-first onto the asphalt. His head bounced when it hit, making a sickening sound. Clay made a fist and readied a punch that would have pulverized the other man’s face. He whimpered and tried to cover his head with his hands.

  “Hold!” Mohammed said, not loud, but enough where Clay stopped, his fist hovering like a jackhammer, ready to be turned loosed.

  Mohammed took a knee and leaned close to the man on the ground. “You coward! You are full of piss and vinegar, all talk and no action. The real work is done in silence. Do you understand?”

  “But they are our enemy!” The man blurted out.

  “Of course, they are our enemy, fool. But the best way we can strike them is if they don’t see us as the enemy. You must walk among them, smile, disarm them. Then we strike. If you wear that scowl and look at them with contempt, they will never let you get close. You will destroy all we have worked for! Can your monkey brain understand that?” Mohammed leaned even closer, spittle flew into the man’s face. He cowered from the verbal assault.

  Finally understanding, he nodded, keeping his mouth closed tightly. Some of their potential recruits lived in fear of Allah and took that out on the rest of the world. Mohammed gave the young man something more tangible to fear - an Arab executive and his over-sized security.

  “Now stand and shut up!” Mohammed nodded to Clay, who removed his knee from the other’s chest. The young man scrambled to his feet, trying to flex the pain out of his back, stretching and rubbing his neck. Fear painted itself across his countenance - his mouth hung slack, the whites of his eyes shown around pinpoint pupils.

  Mohammed waved Clay away so he could put an arm around the slight man, bring him into the fold, manipulate him. “The only way to keep a secret is to tell no one. And here is the secret you are going to keep…” Mohammed built the man up by describing how he would personally strike at the unclean, deliver a blow unrivaled since 9/11, maybe even more destructive. But only through his silence could he accomplish it and only he would be involved.

  Mohammed described Clay as the chemist, the bomb maker. Mohammed was the money man. And this was the last time they would ever meet with him in person. Mohammed pulled a throwaway phone from his pocket and handed it to his new recruit. “You will keep this with you, fully charged at all times. You will never use it. When this phone rings, you will be told what to do. For Allah and for the Caliphate!” He put his hand over the man’s chest, felt the heart beating a staccato against his ribs.

  The man nodded, a smile splitting his face.

  “You will be remembered forever as a brave man, and then we will bring you home to us, where you will live in paradise.”

  “Thank you,” the man whispered, but Mohammed shushed him. He had not given the man permission to speak. He demanded absolute obedience. He waved the man away and got into the driver’s seat while Clay climbed into the other side. Without looking back, Mohammed drove off.

  “And that, my friend, is how you redirect one’s anger. He will strike when the time is right. He fears us more than anything else and that is good. When we turn him loose, nothing will stop him.” He took a long drink from his can of coke. They never seemed to get the Coca-Cola cold enough where he lived. Here, the can sweated refreshingly.

  It also mixed nicely with whisky or rum, but he didn’t share that where alcohol was strictly forbidden, except when it wasn’t.

  Clay looked invigorated. He took deep, full breaths as he stared straight ahead.

  “What do you think about, my friend?” Mohammed asked simply.

  “I was ready to punch him. I wanted to. So disrespectful! He struck me as little more than an animal,” Clay said with a sneer.

  “He’s most fortunate you didn’t strike him. Ha! Thank you for your strength and how you handled yourself. Despite our mutual distaste, we need that young man and five or six more just like him. Our challenge and Allah’s will is to deliver the zealots unto Him, in a way that pleases Him.”

  Clay nodded slowly, thinking of the right quote from scripture, but nothing came to mind. He settled for Allahu akbar, God is great.

  Clay’s Carhartt jacket fit loosely, despite his large frame. Well worn, it carried the logo of Meller Construction Company, a large Northern Virginia firm. They built a wide variety of buildings across the area. No one would question Clay’s purchases on behalf of such a large company. Even though he used cash, people would think it was from a slush fund. Mohammed only cared that no one got curious. Mohammed also bought a Washington Nationals ball cap, but Clay didn’t know anything about baseball. They threw it away and bought a Redskins cap instead.

  Just like the Redskins, the Whiteskins would be driven out, not here, but Syria and Iraq where they didn’t belong. The harder they were hit at home, the less incentive they’d have to stay overseas. Mohammed cautioned Abu Bakr al Baghdadi that the Americans thrived on punishment and reward. Da’esh had to be ready to stop attacks outside of the Caliphate once the unbelievers retreated.

  Abu Bakr became enraged. He dismissed Mohammed’s premise in entirety. They would attack the Americans whenever they could, however they could, until the country was in chaos. Even then, they would extoll the virtues of their followers, inciting them to more and more until the Americans surrendered, adopted Sharia Law, and submitted.

  Mohammed knew the war would last more than his lifetime, which would surely be cut short should he argue further with Abu Bakr. He agreed the attacks would continue, with Mohammed al Sham doing everything in his power to make them more and more spectacular. Maybe Da’esh would name one of their soccer teams the Whiteskins, but of course, in the Middle East, it wasn’t called soccer, but football. A football team called the Whiteskins, named after the ones who were subjugated by the strength of another. Winners write the history.

  Mohammed thought he’d sponsor the team. It would be nice to watch his team from box seats, sipping a cold coke, his wives at his side.

  Clay looked at Mohammed as he drove. The man was lost in thought. Clay wondered but realized that the less he knew, the better off he’d be. The next stop would be the same as the last one. They expected to meet another fanatic, Clay would bring him in line without saying a word, then they’d move on.

  There were six more throwaway phones in the back seat. Mohammed didn’t want to have any remaining by the end of the day. The numbers were programmed into Mohammed’s phone only. Besides the now burned sales receipts, it was the only record of their existence.

  Clay turned up the radio. He was starting to get into the screaming metal and hard voices of the Boneyard.

  Starting a New Day

  Some of the agencies became contentious when they realized the volume of data they were being asked to collect and refine before sharing with Thorny Rose. The JTTF Fusion Center was buzzing with activity as more and more people were read-in. Once the number hit seventy-five, the Deputy from the DHS capped it. They were quickly losing control. He asked the SSO to pull everyone together, and then he read them the riot act.

  Nothin
g of Thorny Rose could leak to the public. That would be a disaster! And everyone was reminded that they were not to send their families on a short-notice vacation out of the area. Nothing signals an impending attack more quickly than the insiders saving themselves. By chaining the families to the area where an attack was presumed, the Deputy had their undivided attention.

  He didn’t say it, but he implied it, and they hated him for it. If you don’t find this man and help us dismantle his terrorist cell, your families could die.

  And DHS wondered why no one liked them. They were the last ones with a big budget bump, so they had the JTTF Fusion Center that now served as the Thorny Rose war room. Rick had no idea what happened to the people normally standing watch here, but he didn’t care either, just like they didn’t care what he did day to day.

  Rick went home after the attitude adjustment. He was committed whether his family was threatened or not. It was sad that others had to be coerced using such draconian methods. He needed to see his family and to get some sleep. Plus, he’d billed twenty-nine hours over two days. Someone would have to sign a waiver for that many hours. If he did it three days straight, then he’d be forced to sit out for two days. No matter what. The government had its rules, and EPEC had its contract with the government.

  Rick gave Travis a ride home. He lived in an apartment in Fairfax. “What the hell Travis? You’re living like a young bachelor. I’d expect a man of your distinguished stature to be a little better off.”

  “Two ex-wives and four kids don’t leave me with a whole lot extra. I cut down so I’d still be able to save a few nickels, go see them on occasion. Two of the kids are in Georgia, and two are in California.”

  “I’m sorry, man. That sucks. If you need a good home-cooked meal, my wife does things right. Maybe I can sneak you out of the Confusion Center on Sunday for dinner. What do you think?”