by James Rosone
“Make sure to take those two cameras out,” Pat said. He tossed Joel a can of black spray paint.
“I thought you said the jammer already took them offline,” Joel remarked, obviously confused.
“It did, but I want them to think it was the spray paint that kept them from seeing what happened, not the jammer,” Pat explained.
While Joel headed off to take out the cameras, Pat grabbed a specially designed prybar and placed it next to the lock on the door. When he applied pressure, he saw the doorframe bend just enough for him to pull the door open without having to break the lock or the frame. With the door slightly ajar, Pat placed the prybar on the ground next to the door and then grabbed his can of gasoline and headed in. Joel would stay outside and keep watch.
Once inside the office, Pat doused the desks and all the cabinets with gas. He mainly focused on soaking the wood, chairs, and computers—he knew that once the fire started, the rest of the place would go up.
When he was done, Pat grabbed two propane tanks and placed them in the congresswoman’s office. He opened them up slightly, so they’d start to leak, and closed the door. Next, he tossed a match on one of the desks that had a pool of gasoline on it and watched with delight as a red-and-orange fireball erupted.
He couldn’t stay long. Pat dashed out to the alleyway and grabbed the prybar. Once again, he applied pressure to the doorframe and closed the door. It was as if they’d never been there.
Of course, by now, the flames had grown large enough that the internal sprinkler system had started to go off, along with the fire alarm.
“Come on, Pat, we need to go,” Joel said urgently as he climbed into the truck.
Once Pat was in the vehicle, Joel floored it. They got probably about two or three blocks away when they heard a thunderous explosion.
Joel looked in the rearview mirror and then turned his head around to see the carnage. “Holy crap! That entire place just blew up. What did you put in there?”
Pat smiled. “Oh, just a couple of propane tanks for good measure.”
Joel shook his head. “I think we should go stay at my brother’s farm for the night—get ourselves out of town for a day or two until that town hall meeting.”
“I agree. Let’s do it.”
*******
As Pat pulled into the parking lot of the Herbert Hoover High School, he could tell this town hall was going to be packed. After Congresswoman Lane’s office had been destroyed, her staff had announced that her original town hall had been postponed, so there had been time for everyone to digest what had happened. The turnout clearly demonstrated how passionate people were about the events that had transpired.
Using his handicapped parking permit for the first time in over a month, Pat managed to find a space relatively easily despite the crowds. As he filed into the line to get in, it was easy to tell that the people around him were all pretty angry—some were mad that Lane’s office had been bombed, while others were irate that Lane refused to acknowledge the mounting evidence of voter fraud. Pat felt that he could readily tell the difference between the two, regardless of whether they wore anything that gave away their political affiliation. He had personally opted to wear a Senator Tate ball cap, to make himself appear less of a threat.
Besides anger, the other palpable emotion of the evening was fear—the whole crowd was hopped up on adrenaline, one way or the other. To help compensate for the heightened tensions, the police presence had dramatically increased at this event. In the past, there might have been one or two officers at a town hall, but Pat observed no less than a dozen. And then there were the two men in very conspicuous navy jackets with standard yellow FBI lettering on them.
As the line moved closer to the door of the high school, Pat spotted a set of metal detectors inside. His heart skipped a beat. He quickly took a deep breath to calm himself.
They won’t find it, he told himself.
The line continued to progress forward one-by-one marching toward the officers at the security check solemnly as a prisoner might approach his execution. Pat found himself walking through the metal arch. It beeped loudly.
One of the officers pointed for him to stand off to the side.
“You have any weapons or knives, sir?” asked the man with a polite smile.
Pat shook his head, then pulled his left pant leg up a bit to reveal the prosthetic leg that resided where his real one used to be.
“Thank you for your service,” the police officer responded. Then he waved Pat through without doing any further checks on him.
Works every time, Pat thought, holding back a smile.
He glanced over to the auditorium—it was already starting to fill up. Pat turned and headed toward the bathroom instead. He made his way over to the handicap stall, locked the door and sat down. He pulled his pants up a bit and took his prosthesis off. Then he removed the gel padding where his limb stump sat. Underneath, he had hidden his P238 Spartan subcompact pistol, which he now removed. It was a little gun, but the .380-caliber bullets it fired would still get the job done.
Holding the gun in his hand, Pat ran his fingers across the Greek phrase Molon Labe engraved on the side of the slide action.
Come and take them, he thought with a smile. He’d been ready to die for his country in Afghanistan—hell, half of his leg was still over there—and in that moment, he realized he was ready to die for his country again.
He placed the subcompact into his weather-worn jacket, reattached his prosthetic leg and pulled his pants down. Just then, a couple of men walked into the restroom, talking excitedly with each other. Pat flushed the toilet and stood up. He pushed the stall door open and walked up to the sink, going through the motions of washing his hands. As he did, he looked at his face in the mirror.
I can do this…I must do this…
Pat finished drying his hands, then made his way into the gymnasium. Despite the fact that it was filling up already, he was able to take advantage of the reserved seating for the disabled near the front. The woman next to him bantered with him briefly before she became distracted by her smartphone.
Before long, Congresswoman Lane walked in, flanked by a couple of her aides. Chaos erupted. Some of the audience cheered her arrival, others booed, and still others loudly hurled questions at her.
Seemingly unflapped, Lane made her way over to a table with several chairs and sat behind it. There was a microphone set up on the center of the table, as well as two other wireless microphones, presumably for a Q and A at the end of whatever it was she was about to say or do.
Since she didn’t take anyone’s bait, the crowd eventually calmed down and everyone took their seats. When they did, the congresswoman grabbed one of the wireless mikes and stood, walking in front of the table to be closer to the crowd.
“Good morning, everyone,” she began. “First, I want to thank you all for coming here to listen to me speak. I also want to thank the FBI and the Des Moines Police Department for providing some additional security for this event. What happened the other day to my congressional office is frankly tragic. Fortunately, no one was there when it blew up and no one was hurt—but let’s not forget this was a premeditated attack on a duly elected representative to Congress. We cannot resort to violence when we disagree with each other. That’s what we have elections for. Sadly, our current President won’t recognize the results of the last election.”
Half the crowd immediately booed.
“The election was a fraud!” shouted one man.
A woman yelled, “Sachs was right—it was rigged!”
Somehow, above the raucous crowd, Pat could still hear another man scream, “When are you going to recognize the FBI and DOJ findings of election tampering?”
For her part, Congresswoman Lane blew off those cries like a practiced politician. Eventually, as she spoke, the crowd settled back down. She slowly drifted toward Pat’s side of the room.
He’d heard enough. His right hand was already in his pocket, firmly in c
ontrol of the pistol. He pulled the gun out slowly and calmly and then raised his right hand up in a fluid, practiced motion and fired three shots. Two shots hit her chest and one connected with her head before she even knew what had happened. The three pistol shots reverberated loudly in the gymnasium.
Pat retracted his arm, ready to point the barrel at his own head—he’d already decided he’d rather off himself than be captured. However, his right hand only made it about halfway back before he was tackled from behind and thrown forward into two other people.
The heap of bodies all landed on the floor with a thud, followed by the pained moans of the man on the bottom of the pile. Then a cacophony of shouts and screams grew in a steady crescendo, echoing off the walls of the gymnasium.
Pat desperately tried to regain control of his arm so he could finish the job, but a second set of hands grabbed at his right hand, wresting control of the gun away from him. Then his left hand was yanked behind his back. He felt the sensation of cold metal grasping his left wrist as the man on top of him quickly attached a pair of handcuffs. His right wrist was restrained seconds later.
Everything had happened so swiftly. He’d succeeded in killing the congresswoman, but he’d been unable to end his own life in the process.
Why didn’t one of the police officers or FBI agents shoot me? he wondered.
As he lay there on the floor with a knee in his back, Pat overheard police directing people to exit the auditorium a certain way. Someone else called for an ambulance for the congresswoman, but Pat already knew she was dead.
A reporter who’d hung back shouted out, “Why’d you do it?”
Pat bellowed, “To honor my oath to defend this country!”
“Shut up! Don’t say another word!” one of the police officers yelled at him.
“It won’t be the last. This is only the beginning!” Pat managed to shout. Then one of the officers kicked him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him.
“Come on. Let’s get this lunatic out of here,” directed one of the FBI agents.
Gasping, Pat yelled, “Today is just the beginning!” Another officer punched him in the gut and then he was dragged out of the auditorium, kicking and doing his best to make his message heard.
Despite the chaos of rabid reporters shouting questions at him and the officers who were manhandling him, Pat noticed a man who had approached their little gaggle from the parking lot. When the man came within ten feet of their crowd, he pulled a handgun out of his jacket and fired half a dozen bullets into Pat and the police officers holding him before he himself was shot and killed by one of the FBI agents.
*******
From the Associated Press:
A shocking scene unfolded at Congresswoman Jessica Lane’s town hall in West Des Moines, Iowa, as one of the attendees managed to smuggle a gun into the event and fire three shots at her, killing her instantly. After the assassination, the police and FBI were about to transport the attacker, now identified as Patrick Shay, into federal custody, when a man in the parking lot opened fire on Mr. Shay, who died instantly. Two of the police officers nearby were also injured but are now listed as being in stable condition. The police and FBI returned fire and killed the second attacker, now identified as Paul Whittaker. This left three dead and two injured in less than ten minutes.
From Reuters Online:
The assassination of Congresswoman Jessica Lane seems to have inspired multiple copycat attackers. There have been more than three hundred killings in the span of a week that have been identified as clearly being politically motivated. Police across the nation are urging calm during this period of heightened tensions, and multiple political leaders have issued statements reminding the public that vigilante attackers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Chapter 2
Humpty Dumpty
December 10, 2020
Washington, D.C.
White House, Cabinet Room
FBI Director Nolan Polanski and Patty Hogan from DHS exchanged a nervous glance before returning their eye contact to the President.
“I don’t think you fully understand how bad the situation is getting, Mr. President,” Polanski said cautiously. “We’ve seen an enormous uptick in political and hate crimes being committed against both sides of the political aisle. It’s completely overwhelming local law enforcement and my own agency. We need help, and we need it now, Mr. President.”
Turning to face his Attorney General, the President asked, “How about it, Malcolm? What do you recommend we do?”
The AG shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You’ve already declared martial law and activated the National Guards in all fifty states, sir. It’s going to take time to get them all shifted around the country to their new assignments.”
SecDef McElroy nodded. “Mr. President, we’re also running into the problem of AWOLs inside the Guard units, as well as in the reserves and active military,” he asserted. “Close to twenty percent of the units across the board aren’t showing up. We don’t know yet if they’re just opting not to participate with the deployments or if they’re truly crossing ranks to join the UN and militia forces forming up in Canada.”
Sachs shook his head in frustration. “This whole situation is spiraling out of control faster than we can react to it. We have to do something to return order to our streets and stop the violence. I need answers, solutions—not more questions and problems, gentlemen,” he insisted, his voice slowly rising to a near yell. He took a deep breath and let it out with a huff, then eyed his AG again. “Now, what more can we do to help local law enforcement?” he asked, his voice back to its normal volume and cadence.
“We should move forward with Patty’s idea of increasing the Federal Protective Service force,” Malcolm insisted. “They have, what, roughly 1,200 uniformed officers and another 14,000 contractors?” he asked, nodding to Patty.
“That’s correct,” she confirmed. “At this moment, their duties are to protect all buildings owned and operated by the General Services Administration. They’re essentially mini police departments on some of our larger facilities. My proposal is that we turn the 14,000 contractors into federal workers, and then we move to rapidly expand that number to 100,000 people over the next six months. We can use this force to help augment our local law enforcement officers and FBI agents throughout the country.”
The President let out a soft whistle. “That’s a lot of new cops to essentially create overnight. How do you propose we do that?” he asked skeptically. “Especially when we have a ton of civil unrest happening now as it is.”
“We use the draft,” Patty proposed. “We work with the Selective Service, and we place a requirement for them to fill it. Of course, we’ll also promote it externally and try to get folks to volunteer, but we use Selective Service to fill in the gaps.”
Leaning forward, General Austin Peterson added, “If we’re going to use the Selective Service, then we should also go ahead with temporarily increasing the size of the military. We’re clearly facing a national emergency. We have a foreign army starting to amass on our borders, and we have a high percentage of desertions. I’d like to recommend that all soldiers currently in basic training be turned into infantry soldiers and that we go ahead now and begin the process of drafting at least half a million young men into the military.”
“What about the other military specialties?” asked the SecDef, his left eyebrow raised to an uncomfortable-looking height.
Turning to look at McElroy, General Peterson replied, “We can let some of the critical ones continue on to receive their advanced MOS training, but by and large, we’re going to need a lot of infantry soldiers. My gut tells me if there’s a conflict with this UN force to our north, it’s going to be brief and bloody, not a long, drawn-out fight.”
Sachs nodded. “I agree, General. I think the days of a prolonged battle are probably over, at least when it comes to a conventional force-on-force scenario. Go ahead with your plans and let’s get the Sele
ctive Service involved. It’s December tenth—I’d like the first round of the draft completed by Friday, December 18th, with a report date of no later than January third. We need to get this force created and going.”
*******
Havana, Cuba
The weather was absolutely gorgeous as the wind blew some warm, moist air in across the hotel room through the open window. Vice Admiral Hu Zhanshu looked one more time at the disposition of his ship deployments for the Pacific, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic. This plan was years in the making. It was either going to succeed beyond his wildest beliefs, or it was going to utterly flop and doom his country. For his part, Admiral Hu was either going to be hailed a hero of China or lined up against a wall and shot for his failure.
“This is an audacious plan, Admiral,” stated Major General Semyon Lobov. “Are you confident it will work?”
Admiral Hu stood even straighter than normal, trying to stretch his frame to maximum stature. “It’ll work so long as your missile batteries are able to keep the American Air Force at bay,” he replied, both taunting and appeasing his Russian counterpart.
For this plan to work, the Chinese and Russians had to work together hand in glove. It wasn’t possible to take down the world’s dominant superpower without a lot of coordination and twisting the arms of many smaller, less powerful nations to get them to go along.
“The Americans have spent the past eighteen years fighting Islamic extremists,” General Lobov said dismissively. “Last time I checked, the Taliban doesn’t have an air force. We’ve tested our systems against their aircraft in Syria. They’ll work when the time comes.”
“You’ve tested your radars and electronic jamming—not your missiles,” Hu asserted. “It’s going to be imperative that your force be able to drive the American Air Force nuts in the southern half of their country. If you can keep their Air Force and commercial aircraft grounded for even a month, you’ll have bought our forces in Mexico enough time to tear the American Southwest apart.”