by Bobby Akart
Within the barrier’s perimeter, but outside of a newly erected chain-link fence with concertina wire, there were several dozen tents on both sides of the entrance to Star Ranch. People were milling about and having casual conversations with one another. When the Humvees stopped short of the gate and the soldiers disembarked with their weapons pointed in their direction, the conversations ended and everyone scurried back into their tents.
Mac and Hunter were ordered out of the trucks and told to stand to the side. Their backpacks were set on the ground next to them, but their weapons were taken into a temporary guard station, along with the case carrying the vancomycin.
A man emerged from behind the steel gates and walked through the guard station. He had a spirited conversation with the sergeant and at one point took the case from him.
“He’s got bars,” said Hunter. “I’m guessing he’s the lieutenant that gave the orders to have us escorted out of here. Now he’s pissed.”
“No question about it,” said Mac. “Here he comes.”
The lieutenant glared at them as he studied their government-issued IDs. He shook his head as he stuffed them in his pocket. “If you two are full of crap, I’ll shoot you myself. Got it?”
Mac and Hunter returned his stare without responding.
“Got it?” he shouted, startling Mac, who jumped back slightly.
Hunter, on the other hand, took a step forward. “Lieutenant, you run this up the chain of command and get me the officer in charge of this facility. Or you give us back our things and let us go. We’ll find someone who will appreciate what we’ve done for this country and we’ll let them know how we were treated—”
“Lieutenant, what’s going on here?” came a voice from behind the guard station. A uniformed officer approached the group. “Who are these people?”
Chapter 28
Day Eighty-Six
Fort Drum, New York
Jamal Al-Nashiri and his men moved swiftly and decisively, with the quiet knowledge of knowing one’s fate and being prepared to face it with honor. Al-Nashiri led the assault on Fort Drum during the night raid, but he was not in front of the two dozen men who were strategically placed around the massive military reservation in upstate New York and barely thirty miles from the Canadian border.
Al-Nashiri was one of seven high-value detainees released by President Garcia after he took office. Fulfilling a campaign promise of shuttering the United States military prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, once and for all, the President personally visited the facility, which created an uproar in the media.
The contentious and rocky start to his presidency resulted in the release of sixteen detainees under cover of darkness via a flight to Bermuda. In a secret deal made with the Bermudian government, four prisoners were released into their custody and the rest were dispatched to Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Oman.
Jamal Al-Nashiri and three fellow detainees remained in the custody of Bermuda authorities until a rare, late-October hurricane bore down on the island. Hurricane Nicole, a category five storm, approached with maximum sustained winds of over one hundred twenty miles per hour. The storm surge threatened the entire island, prompting pre-storm evacuations to the U.S. and Canada.
Because of the international notoriety of Al-Nashiri and his associates, they were transported to Canada for safekeeping until the storm threat passed. They were never returned.
Using Canadian attorneys assigned to them, Al-Nashiri and the three other detainees filed a civil action against the country for violating their rights under Canadian law, wrongful detention and damages resulting from their incarceration at Guantanamo Bay.
The case became a battle cry against the U.S. government’s handling of terrorists, interrogation techniques, including waterboarding, and the ongoing military presence in the Middle East. The attorneys moved the cases through the Federal Court of Canada, ultimately reaching their Supreme Court.
In a stern rebuke of U.S. government policies, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled in favor of the terrorists, stating the officials at Guantanamo offended the most basic Canadian standards about the treatment of prisoners of war.
The court, disregarding Al-Nashiri’s crime, which was using a grenade to blow off the face of an American soldier on the streets of Fallujah, ordered the four terrorists to be released and a compensation of two million dollars, Canadian, in damages.
Today, Al-Nashiri advanced toward the perimeter of Fort Drum as his operatives surreptitiously moved into position with the weapons purchased and assembled using the damage settlement paid by the Canadians. His Jeep Wrangler’s thirty-two-inch off-road tires bit into the uneven terrain, kicking up gravel, but advancing him closer to the rise across the Black River from the base.
Al-Nashiri tightened his grip on the steering wheel as it jostled back and forth every time it hit a rock or fallen tree limb. Periodically, he’d glance back at his cargo, three Russian-made RPG-29 Vampirs captured by ISIS fighters during the Syrian Civil War.
The Vampir was a shoulder-launched, unguided, tube-style rocket launching system with a range of fifteen hundred feet. Its projectiles were thermobaric antipersonnel rounds, which created an explosion in the form of a sustained blast wave. When the rocket detonated, it used oxygen surrounding the target to create intense pressure at the point of contact. It was deployed primarily against tanks, but the thermobaric round was ideal for closely grouped targets.
The southern perimeter gate of Fort Drum came into view as the lights in this military oasis shined bright compared to the surrounding towns. Fort Drum had been fortified with twelve-foot-high chain-link fencing and razor wire. It looked more like a medium-security prison than it did a military base in America.
He silently cursed the lights giving those guarding the compound an unfair advantage of seeing farther than his fellow jihadists.
But it would not matter.
Al-Nashiri’s answer to their technology was not to fight it but, rather, to overwhelm it and deceive it and those who depended on it. His fighters carried similar weapons to his as well as AK-74 assault rifles built in Venezuela. The AKs were built with an added bonus—a GP-25 grenade launcher attached to their short barrels. The lightweight launcher was capable of firing a forty-millimeter grenade and then could be quickly reloaded.
Their targets included diversionary and primary locations. His operatives had studied Fort Drum for days to learn its footprint and vulnerabilities. He checked his watch. It was 4:00 a.m.—almost time.
Using binoculars, he surveyed the fence line that stretched along the southern perimeter. The well-worn grassy road created by the patrolling Humvees was quiet. Tonight, there were no patrols.
The plan was simple. Al-Nashiri would use his three Vampirs to fire at the southern entry gate. He would then move easterly along a path they’d discovered during their reconnaissance toward where the Wheeler-Sack Army Airfield was located. His targets would then become their Apache helicopters, the sworn enemy of the Taliban, with whom his father had served proudly.
Al-Nashiri and his operatives would also target Fort Drum’s critical infrastructure by destroying its large generators and solar array. The fuel depot near the airfield would also be hit with the rocket-propelled grenades.
His instructions to his men were straightforward—hit your targets hard and fast in multiple sections along Fort Drum’s southern perimeter. When you’re able to break through the security fencing, then enter with reckless abandon under the strength of Allah and kill everyone you see.
If the defenses held, their efforts would still be a success, as many of the infidels would die and Fort Drum would be crippled. At this point, nothing on earth could stop their attack, and his fighters were waiting for the fuse to be lit.
Al-Nashiri’s fellow jihadists had planned, rehearsed, prayed, and rehearsed again. They’d accepted the inevitable outcome of their actions. Some yelled, some cried, some sweated, some were calm, and some chanted in Arabic. But, at the given time, they would charge a
t the infidels in their quest to achieve the final jihad.
The time had come. Al-Nashiri fired his first RPG-29 Vampir. The rocket zoomed overhead and was followed by several others to his left and right.
Armed with white phosphorous incendiary heads, the projectiles arced toward their targets, undetected until it was too late to react. U.S. military installations never anticipated an attack such as this, especially in a post-apocalyptic world. Had this been a major base in the Middle East, like Bagram, base defenses like the Phalanx Close-In Weapons Systems would have reacted instantaneously. Their deadly accurate 20mm Gatling guns would have decimated the RPGs before they crossed the Black River.
But only a single shout could be heard from Fort Drum, a lonely voice at the southern gate that yelled incoming before he was killed by Al-Nashiri’s first shot.
Gunfire erupted in many places along the perimeter as his fighters engaged patrols who scrambled into position. More rockets were fired at the gated entries at First Street and Great Bend Road. His men could be heard shouting instructions to one another in Arabic, and Allahu Akbar was included as they joyously attacked the infidels.
The return fire from the Americans was sporadic, indicating their momentary confusion. This was expected, but Al-Nashiri knew the advantage would be short-lived. Within minutes, the barracks on the northwest side of Fort Drum would empty and thousands of soldiers would be joining the fight.
His goal was not to annihilate the enemy but, rather, to humiliate and demoralize them. He picked up the pace, now running through the path created in the woods, the two remaining Vampirs bouncing on his shoulder.
He took up a position at the Great Bend roadblock, steadied his aim, and fired. The rocket sailed through the air and struck its target, as evidenced by the screams of the men who once stood guard there.
Headlights illuminated below him, and his fighters drove through the gate in a black Ford F-250 pickup truck. They opened fire on anyone who came into their field of view and then the men turned into the heart of the installation, launching their grenades into the cluster of helicopters at the airfield.
Al-Nashiri had one more important task, so he ran back towards his original position near the Jeep. He frowned as bullets zoomed over his head, but wildly off the mark. The Americans were finding their footing, he thought to himself as he broke out into a run.
With his fighters now fully engaged within the perimeter, it was time to give his men an advantage. He set his sights on the electricity substation that served Fort Drum exclusively. Two large transformers sat in the middle of the fenced-off area, together with several sets of power lines, which ran toward large solar arrays to the north side of the electric generating plant.
His two final shots would be the death blow to Fort Drum. By destroying their electricity, he’d destroy their will. He checked his Vampir and the PG-29V tandem-charge warhead, which was one of the few warheads that could penetrate the Americans’ battle tanks. He’d used it before and knew its capabilities.
Al-Nashiri took his aim, whispered, “Allahu Akbar,” and launched the first PG-29V. Within seconds, it found its mark. The explosion caught him by surprise.
The combination of the rocket’s impact with the breaching of the transformers lit up the sky with maddening force. Bursts of fire, cement, fencing, and power lines sailed into the air. The blast swallowed the light of Fort Drum like a distant star getting sucked into a black hole.
Al-Nashiri stood in stunned disbelief as a strange silence overtook the base. A temporary ceasefire, of sorts, was put into effect for a few seconds as the masses of humanity who resided at Fort Drum contemplated what had just happened.
The lessons of Fort Drum would be taught to those alive in the future to learn them. When fighting someone who did not care if they lived or died, the fanatics eventually succeeded.
Al-Nashiri picked up the final PG-29V with its special payload and loaded it into the launcher. He studied Fort Drum as his ISIS fighters waged jihad. He prepared for one final blast to seal the fate of as many infidels as possible.
He pulled the trigger and the rocket-propelled grenade that had been modified to carry radioactive materials as part of its payload sailed high into the air toward the barracks. The explosives detonated on impact in the middle of the four buildings and temporary housing tents.
As it detonated, the radioactive material vaporized, propelling it into the air in all directions.
Al-Nashiri heard the screams and realized they were not that different from the ones he recalled as a child following a drone attack that bombed his village.
“Only the beginning,” he mumbled as he watched the carnage below.
Chapter 29
Day Eighty-Six
Star Ranch
Colorado Springs
Neither Mac nor Hunter was able to sleep. After Captain Hoover had instructed them to wait in this holding tent, nobody had returned. On two occasions, Hunter and Mac asked to use the latrine, which they were granted access to, but they were escorted and advised not to speak to anyone. It was now approaching ten o’clock and Hunter was growing restless. He began to pace back and forth, drawing a rebuke from Mac.
“Hunter, technically speaking, as a lieutenant commander in the Public Service, I outrank you,” started Mac. Earlier in the day he’d referred to her as being active-duty military, so she decided to pull rank and use it to her advantage.
“Huh? Maybe, I guess. So?” he stammered a reply as he kept walking from one side of the twelve-by-twelve structure to the other.
“When I started at the CDC, I followed some of my mom’s advice while other suggestions were ignored, which ultimately got me into hot water.” Mac was trying to get Hunter’s attention, to no avail.
“Are you talking about the congressional hearing?”
“No, I’m talking about being an employee of the government,” she replied. “Patience is an absolute quality every government employee must have. It’s kinda like the beard you’ve been growing.”
Hunter stopped pacing and sat down on one of the folding chairs provided them by the soldiers. “Why are we talking about my beard?”
“If you have the patience to grow a beard, then you should have the patience to deal with the government,” she replied. “You’ve been lucky in the past because the DTRA was all about shortcuts and rapid response. You don’t know bureaucratic red tape like I do.”
“I’m patient,” he mumbled.
“No, sir, you are not. Waiting is one thing, but having the ability to maintain a good attitude and a clear head requires patience.”
“Mac, we have the cure for the plague and these guys are jacking around trying to make a decision,” Hunter insisted.
She reached out and touched his face and scruffed his beard with her fingertips. “Your beard is fully grown, and the government will get to us in due time. Wearing out the floor won’t make it happen sooner.”
He managed a grin and nodded his head. “You’re right,” Hunter said as he reached for her hand.
Mac gave it a squeeze. “See, being patient has given you this important moment of clarity.”
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“Yes, you do. After calming down, you acknowledged that I’m right. I am, and I always will be. First rule of any relationship is the woman is always right. Sometimes we may be confused, misinformed, stubborn, and maybe a little emotional on occasion, but no matter what, we’re never wrong.”
Hunter started laughing. “I guess Barb told you that too.”
“Nope, Daddy did. He said it was the key to a long-lasting marriage.”
“Oh, kinda like the happy wife, happy life thing, right?” said Hunter with a chuckle.
“Wow, patience is paying off for you. Look how much we’ve accomplished in just a few minutes,” said Mac before Hunter pulled her close to him and planted a smooch on her lips.
She began to giggle as he tickled her ribs, when the ill-tempered lieutenant interrupted them. He cleared
his throat to announce his presence.
“Ahem. I want you both to listen carefully,” he grumbled. “The captain wants to speak with you inside the perimeter. Leave your things and I will have an aide bring them to you. Don’t say a word, understand?”
Hunter and Mac exchanged a quick look and both nodded their response. The lieutenant opened the flap of the tent for them and they were greeted by two unarmed men wearing khakis and polo shirts.
“Follow us, please,” they said in unison.
Mac and Hunter were led to the rear of the guardhouse and through an iron gate that was part of the original neighborhood entrance. In front of them was a large two-story brick home with a circle drive in front. A variety of military vehicles were parked on the pavement and around the side of the home.
The first thing that struck Mac was the fact the neighborhood had electricity. She casually turned to look over her shoulder into the valley where the downtown area of Colorado Springs was located and it was dark except for a couple of fires burning around the area. On the far eastern side of the city, a faint glow could be seen reflecting off the cloud cover. She speculated that was Peterson Air Force Base.
They were led up several stone and concrete steps and past two armed guards who flanked the double door entry. They were quickly taken inside, where they were greeted by the officer who had calmed the situation down earlier.
“Dr. Hagan, Sergeant Hunter, my name is Captain Kevin Hoover. I’d like to start over and welcome you to Star Ranch.”
Hunter nodded and Mac smiled as a sense of relief came over her. She didn’t want to admit it to Hunter, but the whole spiel about being patient was a load of crap. She was nervous—not because of the time it was taking, but because of how they might be treated. Her work was contained in that case and she’d lost control of it along with her notes.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Hunter. “I don’t blame your men for doing their job. The world wasn’t a very safe place before the pandemic; it sure isn’t now.”