by Brent Towns
The liquid explosive that filled the tanker instead of oil detonated with a massive, devastating blast that blew the bridge right in half, shearing through the steel and concrete of the upper and lower decks like they were made of balsa wood. Severed suspension cables snapped through the air like razored whips, slicing apart anyone unlucky enough to be in their path.
Without support, the bridge collapsed. The explosion sent punishing shock waves rippling outward, tearing apart the road. Hundreds of vehicles plunged two hundred feet into the murky waters of the Hudson River. Many people were killed on impact. Scores of others drowned, trapped underwater in their cars while their luck—and breath—ran out. Huge chunks of debris crashed down on others like meteorites, crushing them into oblivion. Those that survived the initial plunge into the Hudson were often killed moments later as more cars fell on top of them.
The attack had been carefully planned for maximum carnage.
It had succeeded.
It would take days to count the dead.
The White House
President Carter had just finished his breakfast when news of the bombing at the Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine came in, followed less than thirty minutes later by the horrific attack on the George Washington Bridge.
My God, he thought. Not again. He felt ill, his stomach churning with sour acid as he stared at the terrible images on the television screen. The main picture showed the collapsed bridge. A smaller insert in the lower right corner of the screen showed the church, black smoke curling from its shattered windows and rising heavenward as if to touch God’s feet and ask Him why He had allowed this to happen.
He had invited Hank Jones and Kevin McNanes to join him for breakfast, requesting personal updates on various missions the men were overseeing. Now all three of them just stared at the mass destruction on the TV. It seemed almost impossible that they had been hit again, but there it was in living color. The President wondered how much more New York City could take. For that matter, how much more could America take? Terrorism had come to the country’s shores once again, on a scale rarely seen or imagined.
McNanes, the National Security Advisor, summed up what they were all thinking. “I guess that bastard wasn’t bluffing about hitting us with more attacks today.”
“I wonder who’s funding them,” Jones said. “Most terrorist organizations, even the headline grabbers like ISIS and Al-Qaeda, aren’t exactly rolling in money. Yet somehow they’ve managed to acquire a plane, boats, Semtex, a missile launcher, a tractor-trailer, and whatever the hell kind of explosive was in that tanker. Seems to me either somebody won a few million on a scratch-off ticket or this cell found themselves a sugar daddy to bankroll their holy war.”
“You know what I wonder?” President Carter said. “I wonder what we’re going to do to stop more attacks from happening. Answer me that, gentlemen.”
“The martial law option is still on the table,” Jones replied. “Put NYC on lockdown.”
“That’ll play well on the campaign trail,” Carter muttered. “Just about guarantee I don’t get elected for a second term.”
Jones arched an eyebrow. “Never knew you to make a decision based on political maneuvering,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. He kept his tone respectful even though his words held a subtle rebuke.
“I don’t make decisions based solely on the political ramifications,” Carter replied. “But only a fool doesn’t look at all the angles.”
“You could spin it,” Jones suggested. “Point out that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep America safe, consequences be damned. Feed that talking point to some of our key friends in the press and let it get some media play.”
“That’s not how the other side will spin it. They’ll just point out that on my watch, America suffered one of its worst terrorist attacks in history. They’ll say my intelligence agencies were incompetent, or underfunded, or that I ignored critical information. And if I declare martial law in New York and, God forbid, more attacks occur, they’ll accuse me of incompetence and demand I step down, if they don’t try to outright impeach me.”
“Even if any of that were true—and it’s not,” Jones said, “none of it is impeachable.”
Carter snorted. “Like they care about that.”
“They can say whatever they want,” McNanes bristled, “but our intelligence agencies are not incompetent.”
President Carter gave him a frank stare. “We have been hit by five terrorist attacks in twenty-four hours. I’m not pointing any fingers or saying incompetence is to blame here, but we definitely missed something, and let’s not pretend otherwise.”
McNanes nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.” His phone buzzed. He glanced at the number, then looked at Carter and Jones. “Excuse me, I should take this.”
He was on the phone less than a minute before hanging up. “That was our heads-up,” he informed them. “The networks have a new tape from Johnny Jihad. They’re going live with it in three minutes.”
“Wonderful,” Carter growled. “I’m just giddy with anticipation.”
A few minutes later, the reporter announced they had breaking news, and they rolled the tape. Johnny Jihad, still hooded and masked, spoke again in front of the shredded, blood-splattered American flag.
“You were warned that we would strike again,” the terrorist proclaimed. “Al-Qaeda has risen, the spirit of Bin Laden has risen, and your infidel nation has once again suffered fire and fury for its unholy crimes against Allah. You have defied the will of the one true God, refused to obey the sacred scriptures, and great death has been your bloody reward. More death will follow soon, unless your President, Jack Carter, surrenders himself to me for execution.”
“There it is again,” Carter muttered. “At least we know what the son of a bitch wants.”
“People always want what they can’t have,” Jones remarked.
“America will continue to suffer the slaughter until your President is dead. Your nation claims to be a Christian nation, a faith based on the sacrifice of one man. Well, now one man can once again sacrifice himself to save the lives of millions. When President Carter is burning in Hell for the crimes he has committed against the Islamic people, only then will my jihad cease.”
“Crimes? What crimes? What is this guy even talking about?” McNanes snapped. “We haven’t even messed with Al-Qaeda much in recent years. They weren’t seen as a viable threat after we kicked their sorry asses halfway back to the Stone Age.”
“Or so you thought,” Carter commented.
McNane’s face reddened at the reminder that somehow, some way, they had dropped the ball.
“I’m sure it’s just the usual rhetoric,” Jones said. “Complaining about our military activity in the Middle East or whining about our alliance with Israel. We’ve heard it all before. The only new twist is the demand for the President’s death.”
“Maybe it’s personal,” Carter said. “The guy clearly wants me in a body bag.”
Jones grunted, “I know some people right here in Congress that want that.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
On the TV, Johnny was outlining his demands. “At sunset today, President Carter will take a boat here.” He held up a piece of paper with nautical coordinates written on it.
Jones scanned the numbers. “That’s about fifteen miles out from Long Island.”
“If necessary, he may be accompanied by one person to pilot the boat. Once President Carter is in my possession, the pilot will be released unharmed.”
The terrorist leaned in close to the camera, near enough for them all to see the fanatical fires blazing in his eyes. “The President will be swiftly beheaded, his death screams recorded, and the video broadcast for all the world to see. Then, and only then, will the attacks on America cease. If you do not comply, another massacre will take place tomorrow.” Johnny paused, moving in even closer to the camera, before concluding, “Is the life of one man worth the lives of many? That is the choi
ce that America, the New Babylon, must now make.”
The screen cut to black. The news reporter returned and began summoning various experts to analyze the terrorist’s demands.
President Carter grabbed the remote and hit the Mute button to silence the media circus, then sighed wearily. “Well, that’s just frigging fantastic.”
“Could be a bluff,” McNanes said. “It’s very possible, even likely, that he exhausted his resources pulling off the attacks yesterday and today. Threatening another attack tomorrow isn’t the same as being able to actually make it happen.”
“We thought that yesterday,” the President reminded him, “and today we have a bombed church and a collapsed bridge. At this point, I think it’s best we stop underestimating this madman’s capabilities.”
“Agreed,” said Jones. “Moving forward, we have to assume they are capable of carrying out any threats they make.”
“So what’s the plan?” Carter gestured at the muted television. “He’s made his demands, and now the clock is ticking. What’s our best course of action?”
“I have an idea,” Jones said. “But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“We give him what he wants.”
“Are you crazy?” McNanes exploded. “You want to hand the President over to be butchered?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Carter arched an eyebrow. “Ballsy play,” he said to Jones. “Especially when it’s not your balls on the chopping block.”
“Of course I don’t mean we serve you up on a platter with an apple in your mouth, ready for the slaughter,” Jones clarified. “We use a decoy.”
“What do you mean by ‘decoy’?” McNanes asked.
Jones gave him a look. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”
The President said, “You want to send someone in my place.”
“That’s insane.” McNanes shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s not insane, and I’m dead serious,” Jones replied. “This is our best shot at luring these rats out from whatever hole they’re hiding in.” He pointed at Carter. “They want the President, and they’ve told us where they’ll pick him up. We make them think we’re complying and then when they come to make the pickup, we grab them.”
“How do you plan on making the grab?” McNanes asked. “The drop-off coordinates are in the middle of the ocean, remember? They’ll see any backup team from miles away.”
“Simple,” Jones replied. “We use SDVs, or a mini-sub if one’s available, to insert a SEAL team beneath the boat. These Al-Qaeda clowns will never know what hit ’em.”
“I like the way you think,” Carter said.
McNanes wasn’t convinced. “What if our boy Johnny doesn’t show up for the grab? He could just send some subordinates. Then he’ll know we screwed him over and he’ll launch another attack.”
“That’s a possibility,” Jones admitted. “But if we just sit around twiddling our thumbs, the attack happens anyway. I’d rather do something to try to prevent the attack from happening than just sit back, do nothing, and hope for the best.”
President Carter said, “Hank makes a good point. I prefer action to inaction, even when it comes with some risk.”
“Plus,” Jones added, “even if we don’t nail Johnny, we can hopefully take one of his errand boys alive and ask them some hard questions about his whereabouts.”
“Hard questions,” McNanes echoed with a frown. “You mean torture.”
“I believe the politically correct term is ‘enhanced interrogation,’” Jones said. “But yeah, we turn the screws until they give up their boss.”
“Dirty business,” McNanes muttered. “I shouldn’t even be hearing this.”
Jones shrugged. “Then leave the room. No shame in being squeamish. But make no mistake, I will do whatever is necessary to protect American lives.”
President Carter waved away the discussion. “Save the moral debate for later. Right now, we need to execute this plan.”
“Getting the SEAL team into place will be easy enough,” Jones replied. “I’ll call Chief Hunt and make that happen ASAP.”
“Who’s going to be the decoy?” McNanes asked.
“I’ve got someone in mind,” Jones said. “And he’s already in New York.”
Chapter 7
The Sanchez compound
Colombia
Razor stood in the middle of the warehouse and gazed upon the seemingly endless supply of neatly-packaged powder. “White Death” the anti-drug coalitions called it, but to the junkies addicted to the narcotic rush, it was more like White Bliss. Razor never touched the stuff, but he had heard it described as snorting heaven up your nose.
Thanks to reduced media coverage, people believed cocaine usage had declined since the 1980s, but it was actually more popular than ever, just not as mainstream as it had been during the Reagan area—meth and heroin had stolen the spotlight.
Razor found it amusing that the country that kick-started the so-called “War on Drugs” had the world’s worst drug problem. Illicit narcotics flowed into the United States like a plague. A plague that Americans were paying billions of dollars for. A plague that was making the drug cartels wealthier than King Solomon. The cartels could burn thousand dollar bills with the same lack of concern most men feel when they lose a penny.
Razor stepped out of the warehouse and gazed across the clearing at the laboratory. The chemists were there now, cooking up more poison to sell to the Americans. With the DEA’s own Special Operations Division protecting the US portion of the pipeline and all the right people paid to turn a blind eye, Razor had little doubt that the next shipment would reach the shores of America without incident. It was a perfect partnership, one that ensured continued success and accumulation of wealth.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Razor!”
Hearing his name, Razor turned and looked at his boss, Miguel Sanchez, the mastermind behind the DEA-cartel alliance. At just thirty-one years of age, Sanchez was considered one of the most brutal drug lords the Colombian cartels had ever seen. This business with the DEA was a spinoff venture for the cartels, one that required a cold, steady hand. They had assigned the task to Sanchez, and he had proven himself worthy of their faith. Through blackmail, bribery, and butchery, he’d forged the alliance and orchestrated the pipeline. Importing narcotics had never been easier. The cartel barons were pleased by the profits rolling in at an astronomical rate under Sanchez’s talented and savage fingers.
“Yeah, boss?” Razor replied, running a hand over his hairless dome. The heat and humidity of the jungle worked in harmony to soak his bare head with glistening sweat beads. He started to crave some air conditioning, but then shut that shit down. Not that he wouldn’t mind some A/C, but craving it made him feel weak. And Razor was many things, but weak wasn’t one of them.
“Where’s the boy?” Sanchez asked.
Razor pointed at one of the outbuildings.
“Get him,” Sanchez ordered. “We’re moving to the estate.”
“Why?”
Sanchez wore jungle khakis and carried a small riding crop that he kept slapping against the top of his polished knee-high boots. “I just received a disturbing phone call,” he said. “Seems some people are giving our American friends trouble and they think those people are heading here. We will be safer at the estate.”
Razor knew they were actually just as safe here at the compound, but you did not correct Miguel Sanchez unless you wanted your eyeballs blowtorched. “You really think the Americans would send someone to attack us on our own soil?” Razor scoffed at the idea. “That would be muy estúpido.”
“Americans are not necessarily known for their intelligence.”
“Maybe it’s not anybody official,” Razor said. “There are mercs who specialize in rescue missions. Maybe they’re just looking for the kid.”
“Doesn’t matter. Special Forces, mercenaries… I don�
�t care who they are; we’re moving.”
“Have you talked to Jacobs?”
“Who do you think called me?”
“He’s responsible for security on his end. We supplied the muscle for the hit on Reardon’s wife, plus we snatched the kid ourselves. Time for Jacobs to earn his keep and do something to remedy this situation.”
Sanchez nodded. “An assassin named Omega has been dispatched to track down and exterminate the problem.”
“Not sure I’d call them a problem,” Razor said. “More like a pain in the ass.”
“They have all but destroyed our allies in the DEA,” Sanchez replied. “I would call that a problem.”
“And this Omega is the solution?”
“According to Jacobs, Omega is an elite operative, the best of the best. Supposedly, if Omega can’t stop them, nobody can.”
Montville, New Jersey
Despite the fact that it was early in the morning, Paul Jacobs was giving serious thought to calling his favorite escort service, the one that specialized in the rougher stuff, just the way he liked it. A face-slapping, hair-pulling, hard-bang session seemed like just the thing to take his mind off the recent string of bloody strikes that had seriously jeopardized his standing with the Colombians.
The deal had been up and running for nearly six months, nice and tidy and perfectly free of anything remotely resembling a monkey wrench. Then they snatched Reardon’s kid, and it all went south. Now those involved in the operation were getting chopped and dropped by some bullet-happy sons of bitches.
Jacobs knew he had to be the next target. There was no one else left. He was the final domino, at least on this side of the Atlantic. The unlucky bastard with the big red bulls-eye. The cat in the crosshairs.
But screw these mysterious trigger-pullers, because Paul Jacobs didn’t piss his pants at the first hint of danger. He didn’t have a shivering, yellow-striped noodle for a spine. He was the goddamned head honcho of the DEA’s Special Operations Division on the east coast, and he didn’t scare easily. He’d been a warrior once, right down there in the mud and blood of the black bag trenches. A hardcore, bad to the bone hellraiser. It would take more than the boogeymen and all their bullets to make him brown his boxers.
