“Hey, something is seriously wrong with this thing,” he yelled. “I think we should all get the hell out of here!”
Chaos ensued as Mandy and Mort bolted from their seats and rushed for the door just ahead of the two technicians.
The attorneys glanced at each other, assessing the situation, seeking verification that a serious threat existed. Their sole function was to verify the safe transport and viewing of that memory stick. There would be severe consequences if they simply ran out of the room and left it unattended. In the end, self-preservation prevailed. They both charged for the entrance, right behind the guards who had reached the same conclusion.
Shouts mixed with screams. The eight occupants clustered and jockeyed for position to get through the entrance. All pushed against each other and the door. Mort frantically pulled at the handle. Mandy pushed back against one of the techs just enough for Mort to force the door open, and she dove through. Mort wedged his foot into the door, then worked himself through the gap. It slammed shut behind him as he fell into the hallway. Mandy kneeled to help him up as those still in the room realized they were working against each other. They all backed away from the door, just as the chain reaction within the memory stick reached its zenith. The most technologically advanced explosive ever created detonated with an unearthly fury.
The blast shook the entire building. A focused beam of destructive energy, a thin blade of death, shot out from the device at the speed of sound. Everything it touched was decimated.
The remaining six people standing at the doorway were hit by the full ferocity of the weapon. With a precision near that of a laser, they were cut in two. The narrow band of flesh and bone hit by the blast was instantly reduced to fragments and vapor. Their disconnected torsos dropped upon their still standing legs and remained upright for a moment before crumpling lifelessly to the floor.
The destructive wave continued out nearly unimpeded. A narrow swath was ripped through the door. There was enough energy remaining to hurl the two security guards posted outside the room like rag dolls through the air. Their rumpled bodies slammed into the elevators at the end of the hall and dropped into motionless heaps.
Exposed wires sparked in the smoky air. Pieces of debris and misted blood floated down to the crimson-soaked floor. The building fire alarm sounded, and sprinklers began spraying down upon the gruesome scene. No one in the control room survived.
Mandy Geraldo regained consciousness in the surreal aftermath. Blood droplets and pieces of flesh dotted her face. From the main studio, she could make out the approach of footsteps and muffled voices. She tried to speak but found words would not come. Mandy worked herself up against the wall to where she could peer through the sliced open section of the control room door. Her mouth gaped as she stared at the pile of body parts just inside. Her mind could not, would not register the images against any memory it held. She had seen so many photos and live videos of the after-effects of explosions, but never anything like this. This was impossible.
The carnage was gruesome yet bewildering. Only a narrow stripe around the room had been affected, but within it, the devastation was complete. Everything above or below that mysterious area was nearly pristine or minimally damaged. Within the narrow blast zone, however, nothing remained.
Mandy looked to Mort and saw the empty expression of a man in shock. He slowly turned his head with a blank stare, and she was horrified to see a splintered section of human bone jutting out of his skull just above the ear. She screamed, but no sound came. She moved away and struggled to stand but fell back to her knees. A jagged piece of steel had shot like a spear through the door and lodged deeply into her right thigh. She winced at the searing hot pain, almost welcoming the sensation as an acknowledgment that she was still part of this world. She glanced behind as a fireman came running her way. Help had arrived, too late for most. Maybe too late for Mort, who had likely suffered severe brain injuries. Surviving such a cataclysmic event, even unscathed, could leave a person broken inside, never able or willing to come to terms with the horrific scenes they had witnessed. Time would tell, she thought. But the emptiness she saw in Mort’s eyes told her that he would not be capable of confronting these demons anytime soon.
Burt Ledger had heard the shouts and screams from the control room. His years as a war correspondent kicked in, and instinctively he ducked behind the news console. His timing spared him from the wave of glass that blew into the studio like glimmering buckshot. Both cameramen also reacted to the warnings and dropped to the floor. Their injuries were minor compared to what they would have suffered had they been standing in direct line with the blast.
Smoke rolled out the empty window of the control room as Ledger picked himself up. He used his arm to brush away the glass fragments and debris from his chair and desk. He sat down, took a breath, then looked toward the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the control room of our studio has just been rocked by a massive explosion. We have no information about the source or the number of survivors. My God, there were some wonderful people operating the controls tonight, and I don’t, I can’t, oh, oh lord help us.”
A large flood lamp crashed to the floor. Ledger wiped the wetness from his eye and continued on, oblivious to anything but the camera and the story he felt compelled to tell. It would have been a monumental broadcasting moment remembered by the world, only no one would ever hear. The few remaining functional monitors all displayed a test pattern. Global Access Media had been blown off the air. Broadcasting the message of Sirhan Abbas had come with terrible and unimagined consequences.
The new war had begun.
6
Fort McNair, Washington, DC
The intercom on Lieutenant Dennis LaMonk’s desk energized with the brash voice of his superior. “I need you in here.”
General Horace Lattimer was a man of few words and expected immediate and proper responses from anyone. He also demanded unquestioned loyalty from the small circle of personnel under his command. LaMonk struggled with that part of his assignment. Loyalty was not an ingrained attribute. He grabbed a notepad and headed into the general’s office.
“Lieutenant, the shit is hitting the fan from multiple directions,” the general announced before LaMonk had settled into a chair. “I need you to compile a presentation for me to share with the army chief of staff. He will present it to the president this evening. Here is what we’re dealing with.”
He placed three photos on the desk like a card dealer laying out a hand.
LaMonk fought to conceal his shock. The first image showed some type of control room with what appeared to be a focused stripe of pure destruction. If this was the aftermath of a bomb blast, it was unlike any he had ever seen. The second photo showed a tangled pile of body parts lying on blood-soaked carpeting. He willed himself to examine the image closer and noticed they all appeared to have been cleanly sliced through the midsection. He tried to envision the type of device that could cause such carnage. His first thought was a high-intensity laser beam, but such technology was still years away. Wasn’t it?
“What you see here is the terrorist bombing at the Global Access Network studio in Los Angeles. The weapon utilized is far beyond our own current technology. The details we have so far are in a PDF file that I will give you.”
LaMonk was speechless with informational overload. He had heard of the bombing in only the broadest terms. The government controlled all details released to the public about the weapon and the nature of the attack. Only a handful of people had witnessed these images. Already, he wanted to unsee it all.
The general set down another photograph, this one of a man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. A contemptuous scowl was frozen on his face. “This is Abu Dahl,” he said, pointing.
The name registered with LaMonk, but he couldn’t place it.
“This is the face of the enemy, Lieutenant. He is being released from Guantanamo Bay in the next few days and then flown to parts unknown. The military, in conjuncti
on with the CIA, has undertaken a mission to track him. The expectation is he will lead us to Sirhan Abbas, commander of OASIS.”
Lattimer added one last image, a tiny, chrome-plated device lying in the palm of an outstretched hand. “This little gadget,” he explained, “will enable us to follow Abu Dahl to the enemy’s headquarters. A surgical strike will then be deployed to cut off the head of this serpent. Lieutenant, I know you have extensive experience in creating these presentations. This one will be the most important of your life. The president will be using this information to determine the proper courses of action.” He pulled a thumb drive from his computer and slid it across the desk. “This has everything you need. The project must be complete and ready for my review by seventeen hundred hours. You are new to us here, but we have rules for handling sensitive information. I’m only going to say this once.” The general leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Do not, I repeat, do not copy any of this information. All new files must be backed up to this device alone and not your own hard drive. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir, understood, sir.”
“Very well. You have your orders. Get to it.”
LaMonk rose and took the device. He was still rattled by the gruesome images he had seen but was now more concerned about the tight timeline given to work within. As he walked the short distance back to his desk, he began envisioning his presentation and the proper order of displaying key details. The last thing he needed was for the general to reject his finished product and demand significant changes with minutes to prepare instead of hours. It had to be done right the first time. He inserted the thumb drive into his computer and opened the first PDF file, reading about the weapon used in the LA bombing. His jaw muscles went slack as he stared transfixed in disbelieving silence. It seemed that modern warfare had leaped ahead decades overnight.
7
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
He awoke with a start, jerking his head up from the metal table, rattling the handcuffs that confined him. He felt a wetness on his arm from drooling in his sleep.
His thoughts still wandered through images from a vivid dream of his home. The simple joys of peaceful existence among the people of his village. Memories of the girl he had loved as a young man. She had married another. He imagined wandering the long, steep foothills through the mountains. Inhaling the scent of wild blooms along the winding trail. Their fragrant beauty was so fresh in his mind that he could smell them right here, right now, even in this sterile concrete cubicle. He would soon re-live it all again. Feel the morning sun on his face, the warmth of a night fire, and a simple meal among friends. He was going home.
His eyes fluttered open again, having dozed off once more, still in the embrace of his most carefree and happy memories. His head ached, and his mind floated in a fog. He waited for the disorientation to fade, taking in the details of the all too familiar interrogation room. Slowly, he began to reconstruct the disjointed segments of time. They must have kept him here all night, futilely attempting one last time to break him, to extract so much as a crumb of useful information.
Even without remembering everything of the previous day, he knew they had failed. No one could break him, and certainly not an enemy that had grown so weak and passive.
This once powerful nation stumbled over itself. Its spineless leaders meekly cowered as they offered up an olive branch to the very men sworn to murder its sons and daughters. He savored the irony, knowing he could never strike at a better time against an opponent so content with defeat. He envisioned the day when he and his brothers would stand on the capitol building steps in Washington, DC, as they raised the flag of OASIS for the world to see. The image energized him. He sat up straight in the metal chair, his eyes narrowing as a satisfied grin spread across his face.
“You have failed again,” he announced to the empty room. “You do not deserve the power that you hold over the world. Your moment of judgment is coming. Your empire will crumble before your eyes. Then, you will bow at our feet and beg for your lives.”
He crossed his hands on the steel table and waited. They would come for him shortly. He would be returned to his cell, fed, and then he would wait some more. Freedom was but a few hours away now. His grin curled further upward. Soon, very soon, the infidels would come to fear the sound of his name.
8
Fort McNair, Washington, DC
Lieutenant LaMonk sat at his desk, skimming through spam emails and news stories on the web. He paid little attention, lazily killing time until the designated hour that he could go into action. His entire military career was at risk by enacting this plan. But then, it was a life he was more than ready to leave behind. His re-enlistment date was fast approaching, and he had failed to reach the anticipated rank of captain. Without it, his hopes of promotion had been crushed. Now, however, he believed the gods had smiled down and granted a golden opportunity. All he had to do was be wise enough to capitalize on it correctly. He was.
His most recent relocation and third field assignment had so far proven to be nothing more than an extended stay in hell. No better than the previous two. He had been sent as a replacement for General Lattimer’s last assistant, who was promoted and reassigned. LaMonk’s selection had little to do with earned respect, trust, or even confidence. Instead, he was chosen from a nearly empty talent pool because he was the only qualified candidate available.
He was desperate for an exit strategy. Weeks earlier, a chance encounter with a congressional aide led to a conversation with a senator looking to make a name for herself. While visiting the base, she had offered her business card and a sly wink in exchange for any information he had to share. It was her way, she explained, of having multiple sources of Intel to help her contribute more effectively to the committees that she sat on. That card, he decided, would be the key to unlock his new life. He’d already had a belly full of General Lattimer and field assignment number three. Now all he needed was the magic bullet. Something so valuable that it would prove his worth to the senator and launch him into a new career. There were likely dozens of positions she could assist him into. He imagined a new life with a complete wardrobe change that did not include a uniform. Thankfully, he did not have to wait long.
Until now, LaMonk’s lower security clearance prohibited him from viewing any sensitive or otherwise valuable information. Then, because of his new position, his security level was upgraded from confidential to top secret. A day later, he had seen the file on this covert military mission. Here was the key to unlocking his future! Well, it was time to share. He expected a fitting reward for the treasure trove he was about to offer.
LaMonk chose this morning to send his notes on the general’s meeting at the White House to the senator. This military base would come to life at 5:00 am, so he decided to send the message at 3:30. He selected a few critical pages and photographed them with his phone, adding a cover letter of re-introduction as a teaser. Just enough to grab their attention and motivate them to arrange a meeting.
He opened the middle drawer of his desk, reached under, and pulled down the business card taped to the bottom. Sending his message via fax, he reasoned, still provided the least chance of tracing. All Electronic traffic was closely monitored by the base. The analog phone landline, he’d discovered, was not. He connected his phone to his laptop and chose the images to print. The next hour was the most dangerous. It was the only time he ran the risk of being discovered with the classified documents. The printer came to life and shot out the three selected images. He shuffled them into the fax machine’s feed tray and added the introduction page he had typed earlier. Holding the business card in his left hand, he keyed in the number listed. LaMonk hit the send button and waited anxiously for the machine to connect. It didn’t.
Shit!
He listened as the number rang, heard the non-melodic tones of the machine attempting a handshake connection, and then a recorded message announcing he had reached a non-working number. He fumbled the card in his trembling ha
nds. What the hell was wrong? Had the number been changed?
His mind was racing for answers when he heard activity outside the office door. No! Nobody was due to come in until 7:00 this morning. He had verified it on the duty roster. That’s when he heard a vacuum switching on. It was the cleaning staff. No one could see him sitting here at this time of night, especially in possession of confidential documents. He had no alibi to explain his actions.
A bead of sweat worked its way down his forehead and dripped onto the business card. The salty liquid soaked into a corner, turning it a shade of gray behind the printed phone number. That’s when he noticed it. He glanced from the fax machine’s display, then back to the number on the card. He had misdialed a single digit!
He took a deep breath. Then as controlled as possible, he re-entered the number, pausing when he finished to verify no mistakes. Once again, he pressed the send key. This time he heard a rewarding ring tone, followed by the familiar bip-buzzing of the fax machine as it made a successful connection. A moment later, the sheets began to feed into the device. As the last document cleared the machine, LaMonk grabbed the papers and fed them into a shredder. The receptacle was empty, and he gathered the short, thin strips in a small paper bag, which he then crumpled up and stuffed down his pants. He quickly disconnected his phone and laptop. Next, he slipped out the fax machine’s memory backup battery before powering it down, erasing all record of his transmission.
ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES Page 5