Patriot Son

by T A Walters

  Walid was crossing the tarmac when he noticed the vehicle only shifted once with the impression that it was just a 2-speed service vehicle, not suitable for long distant travel on the road. However it didn’t matter now, he was clipping along at nearly ten miles an hour, and it beat having to walk. If he had enough fuel, he could make it to the ISIS base camp before the sun went down. That would be several hours, and Walid occupied his thought with prayer, asking forgiveness for cremating his countryman in a blazing plane. Nonetheless, all would be forgiven as dire necessities taken for the cause of world domination.

  Even so, with all that had gone on today, plans would be drawn up to take down the threat to the Muslim cause, namely the Chinese. It was clear to Walid that they had played their hand and now it was his turn. The nation of Islam had initiated and opened the gates to the United States for them, not for the greedy Chinese, who no doubt see this as a move toward capitalism for themselves. The entire Middle East has initiated a first the first strike, and let the historical record show they will be the last, taking down Russia as well. Flushing out the infidel from this land was inevitable to Walid’s way of thinking, and he now, at last, he looked forward to running things his way. Abdul Medina would have never considered his plans because he was a fool with idealistic views. Getting him to face the facts was like leading a camel into a campfire.

  Today was a new day and soon to be the last day for the Chinese. “We will burn them while they eat their fortune cookies.”

  Walid thought of himself as no fool. He had American B-52 bombers, nuclear bombs and suicide bombing crews that were eagerly standing by waiting for his command.

  ~~~~

  A week passed, and Walid had his Command & Control center support moved to the ISIS base camp near Amarillo Texas and then on to Barksdale AFB near Shreveport Louisiana. All those under his command knew precisely what the next initiative was and put the plans into practice drills. Borrowing western military procedures, Walid ordered the setup of classroom studies over the logistics involved in making a bombing run on Los Alamitos Airbase. Presumably, this would be the ‘ground zero’ of a nuke drop on the Chinese stronghold. He could have an expert fire a nuclear-armed missile; however, he was smart enough to know the Chinese would easily detect it and shoot it down. In keeping nuclear fallout to a minimum, Walid decided his ‘pin-point’ strategy of taking out the Chinese with a surgical nuke attack using a smaller warhead aimed at taking out a smaller slice of the Southern California state. With no other workable delivery system online, a suicide mission would have to carry out the attack -- with this, and all other ideas considered, it was Walid’s best bet for achieving his revenge on Min Li. However, Walid considered Min Li’s attitude to reflect the People’s Republic of China, and nothing would change that opinion. To open fire on Airforce One with a dignitary and staff on board is no different than taking action on the ex-president of the United States. Pure and simply put, it was an act of war.

  Flying in an expert on nuclear weapons was no easy task as he had to be brought in under challenging means. The former US held prison in Baghdad was taken down, and the prisoners liberated. One such prisoner, Salman al Farsi was of particular interest to Walid for his expertise in nuclear weaponry. After he arrived, he was shown his living quarters and made comfortable. The next morning Walid met with Salman and his aide.

  Salman was at a table playing with colored clay. His aide stood by and was tying a bib around Salmon’s neck. Taking a chair at the table opposite Salman, Walid silently watched him slowly roll out a snake-like-form from the blue clay. “What are you doing Salmon?”

  Salmon didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up from his work. The aide spoke, “He’s making a snake.”

  “I can see. Why is Salmon doing that?”

  Stoic, the aide replied, “He made a snake out of Play-Doh. It’s what he does.”

  Walid rubbed his temples, “Salmon, we have serious business to discuss.”

  Salmon remain quietly busy with his Play-Doh, ignoring Walid as if he weren’t there.

  Apparently, news on the prison traveled slowly, so the aide tried to explain Salmon’s behavior. “There were many attacks on the prison where Salmon was detained. On one occasion, a few years ago, Salmon was severely injured in an attack. He suffered a most traumatic head injury that left him like he is now.”

  Walid stood up from the table, seeming to contemplate over having his plans disintegrate before his eyes. He looked at the aide and scowled, “So you keep him like this?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He is a vegetable.”

  “He is my uncle.”

  Walid paused at the doorway and turned slightly, “I am sorry for your loss,” he said before walking away muttering, “I am sorry for our situation in the matter as well.”

  Chapter 18

  ~Hunter Airforce Base~

  A week had passed, and now Viktor had begun to realize he was a prisoner no different than the other two prisoners he shared a cell with. He hadn’t bathed nor shaven the entire time he’d been in jail. No telling how long it had been for his other cellmates and Viktor was afraid to ask. The commandant of the brig was a man without sympathy for mankind it seemed. The only difference between him and the other two was, he wasn’t cuffed and taken away for an hour at a time and returned bruised and bleeding. As a result, the two prisoners locked up with Viktor refused to talk to one another.

  However, they became particularly close to Viktor when his visitor came to talk to him. Viktor’s father approached the cell bars, wary of the two prisoners who stood on either side of Viktor. General Pestro ordered the two prisoners to get clear of his son so they could talk in private. When to two prisoners ignored the general’s wish, he motioned for the guard to open the cell. Pointing to Viktor, he told the guard that he wished to take him a short distance away to talk in private. Viktor’s father knew that the two prisoners locked up with his son were agents of the KGB; however, he wasn’t surprised to see them break from their undercover prominence to follow in behind him and Viktor, without being handcuffed.

  Viktor’s father held out an envelope to his son, “I have a letter from your mother. She is worried about the outcome of your trial.” Gregor said looking down at the envelope and then to his son’s face. “Pending the outcome of your trial, you may be executed by sunset the same day.”

  “I understand.”

  Gregor tucked the envelope in Viktor’s shirt pocket, and then hugged him one last time before leaving.

  The guard closed the cell door behind Viktor, and with his hands now free he took a seat on his bunk and slowly withdrew the envelope from his shirt pocket. Viktor hesitated to open the envelope, telling the two phony prisoners to get off his bunk. “This a personal letter from my mother, so if you both don’t mind ---”

  “Let’s see what the letter from dear mother says,” said the phony prisoner sitting on the bed next to Viktor’s left.

  Viktor blinked his eyes hard. The letter he withdrew and a letter opener knife taped to the backside of the paper. A simple message on the note told Viktor that the guard had not locked the cell and that there were car keys on the desk next to the exit door. The keys belonged to an old Chevrolet, was the next to the last sentence on the paper, the last, being, “Time to blow this pop stand – with love, your Dadeo.”

  The larger of the two phony prisoners reluctantly received a letter opener sunk in his right eye. The second fake prisoner turned to take Viktor down with a choke hold on his throat. They both landed on the floor with Viktor rolling on top of his attacker. Viktor felt his attacker’s eyes move away from the pressure of his thumbs until at last in a split second he felt the warm moist vacancies of the man’s eye sockets. It was good to know that both men were now preoccupied with trying to fend off the shock that would ultimately kill them. To make sure, Viktor snapped both eyeballs loose from the tendons and optic nerves that had tethered them in place. The other phony prisoner had ceased shaking on the bed
and was now apparently dead. Viktor grabbed the letter and crumpled it, flushing it down the toilet, before making good his escape through an unlocked jail cell.

  When it came down to making his walk to freedom, many things crossed his mind. For one thing, he’d never see his family again, for the KGB had extremely long tentacles. His father no doubt will be suspect, and already he worried whether his father had covered his tracks.

  Parked just outside the exit door sat an old 1957 Chevy Belair coupe. Where his father came up with this old classic car was a mystery until he read a caption on the key fob. It read, ‘Osgood Mining and Paving Co.’ In the backseat, Viktor spied a suitcase of clothes and a large canvas bag. Viktor felt around the steering column for the key switch when suddenly he found the place to insert the key was in the lower portion of the dash close to the steering column.

  It was amazing the power of a well-connected father. Viktor drove past the base guards with just a smile and a wave. By the time the KGB discovered his escape, he could be a few hundred miles from here.

  Viktor drove along Interstate 16, and then switched to Interstate 75 when he made it to Macon Georgia. He traveled 50 or so miles north deciding it was best to head more in a westerly direction; steering his way west along Route 80. He drove until a few minutes before sunset, stopping alongside the road to get out and stretch his legs. In the process of thought, staying here and sleeping in the car wasn’t a bad idea, and with the few minutes of daylight left, the idea crossed his mind to take a look what inventory he had waiting for him in the back seat and the trunk.

  Opening the suitcase, Viktor smiled. It was three sets of assorted civilian clothes, underwear, and socks. Tucked into one side were a pair of new Sketchers tennis shoes and a zippered leather case with nail clippers, two disposable razors and a small bar of shaving soap. In the large canvas tote was loads of field rations; enough to carry him a month, along with fire starting supplies a collapsible cup and water purifier tablets.

  Viktor moved to the trunk and what he found after opening the trunk lid put a huge grin on his face. Several 9 mm pistols, four assault rifles and two large ammo cans filled with rounds for both the pistols and rifles. Countless ammo magazines, each preloaded and ready to go, eight hand grenades and six boxes of rifle grenades. A half dozen bricks of C-4 with a few dozen primers, six snap-bricks of TNT, and three claymores and a small reel of primer cord. A little black plastic box contained a Bausch and Lomb Sniper Scope accessory for his favorite sniping rifle. His father thought of everything, even the two red 5-gallon plastic gas containers which were filled and ready to go, including a punch-bit and valve for extracting gasoline from the fuel tanks of cars stranded along the highway. He picked up the plastic hose and pump useful for filling his vehicle along the way. The pump had a long cable with an odd looking connector on one end which he quickly figured out to be a cigarette lighter plug. Viktor drew a long cleansing breath, life was good.

  ~~~~

  Early the following on the third morning, Viktor sat behind the wheel of the Chevy picking through an envelope of shredded pork and applesauce while pondering whether to eat the fruitcake desert from the MRE meal kit. Something about all this might have been in reverse – the choice of meal planning that is. Thinking about his position in life, he never gave much thought to what would become of his life outside his lifelong career in the military. What would he become now? Was he a refugee? Or just fugitive running from a deadly game of hide and seek. He had no way to make contact with anyone, nor anyone to make contact with him; perhaps it was a good thing. Then again, perhaps not ever forgetting a thought that came into the focus a memory of his real mother who was an American, and the place she lived. It was a place called Shreveport. He recalled her telling him the stories of growing up on a farm and meeting the man that was his real father, now dead. Perhaps this Shreveport was the place to go if he could find which direction to find this place.

  Being aware of the dangers, and having the Chinese and ISIS forces scouring the countryside and killing anything resembling an American was not a good thing. The best survival plan he could conceive was to do his best in blending in with the American underground if there was such a thing. He recalled his father complaining about the dangers of having an American resistance group at large somewhere in the western side of the country of where he was right now. Russian spotter planes had reported this to be true. There would be Americans who may take him in, trusting of course that he too is American. The KGB may have little chance in finding him once he blends into American society. Yes Shreveport, he thought.

  Viktor tossed his MRE out the window with the thought that having a strategy required having a plan. He needed a map of the county, and where better to look – the glove compartment. It was the one place he had neglected to look. Viktor dug out two old road maps that looked as if they may have come with the car when it was new, 66 years prior.

  The following day, after finding Shreveport Louisiana on the map, Viktor traveled the interstates west until finally when nighttime came, and having assured himself that the next morning would bring him to Shreveport, less than an hour away from his camp. The sun had made daybreak and Viktor felt renewed and cheerful; so much that, it was as if a fog lifted from his eyes, but not his ears, unfortunately.

  In a land where the loudest noises come from birds and the wind rustling through the boughs of trees, a distinct rumble of motor vehicles coming up from the highway behind Viktor made him believe that perhaps it would be a good idea to pull the car off to the shoulder of the road. He reached down and twisted the key while staring in his rearview mirror. The engine bolted to life at the same time Viktor slammed the gear selector to the drive position on the Torque Flight transmission, tires spun wildly and onto the shoulder of the road, kicking up gravel and clods of grass.

  It appeared to Viktor the vehicle approaching out of the cloud of dust was not just a vehicle but an entire convoy of all types of vehicles. The lead vehicle looked like a monster truck with oversized tires and a massive tread profile. The roaring sound of tires on pavement could be heard a mile away and now that the vehicles slowed down as the roaring sound significantly decreased, until coming to a stop. Viktor felt leaving his car running was the best decision he’d made in a week beginning with having killed Boris the oddly dressed man. The man sliding down out of the monster truck had with him what looked like a ‘Desert Eagle’ pistol. Viktor recognized this as being one of the most powerful handguns he’d ever seen, and as the man approached, admiration to his pistol was the focus of Viktor’s attention, not his own pistol which he had folded into his map.

  Standing at the open window, he said nothing; just stood there smiling and staring at him as if he were crazy, so Viktor pointed to his map and asked the stranger directions to Shreveport. The stranger just smirked at him while tapping on the sill of his car door with the barrel of his gun. “That’s Desert Eagle XIX, shoots 50 caliber bullets, ‘eh?”

  “You know your guns,” said the stranger, acting impressed.

  “Yes, it has no barrel ribs, so it must be a XIX AE. Mind if I have it?”

  The stranger laughed, “No I ain’t handing it over for you to look at.”

  A moment passed as they stared at one another. “Then you’ll tell me which way to Shreveport?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Viktor’s eyebrows rose with a sigh of resignation, “So that you can go back to your toy truck over there and live another day.”

  “Look, dude,” said the stranger. “I am about to lose my patience. But since you are new around here, I going to cut you some slack. On this section of road, you must pay a toll. So what have you got to trade?”

  Viktor smiled. “Your life or that nice little pistol of yours – how’s that sound?”

  The stranger grew impatient with Viktor and began ranting about all the men he had supporting him and were walking his way.

  It was true. When Viktor glanced over his left should he saw 20 or 30 men all to
tting some form of firearm. “Okay, you win,” said Viktor. “I know when I'm beaten.” Viktor needed to get to his trunk without being under a hail of gunfire. “I have a spare tire in my trunk if that is worth the trade for the toll, it’s yours.”

  “Nope,” the stranger replied taking aim on Viktor’s front tire and blasting a hole in it with the Desert Eagle. “Wouldn’t want to take something you’re going to need.”

  Viktor’s hand squeezed the map, feeling the 45 pistol he had tucked in it. He looked at the arrogant face of the stranger, “Ok,” said Viktor slowly. “How about two 5 gallon jugs of petrol?”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows, “If you mean gasoline, I believe you have a deal,” he replied tilting his head to the side toward the trunk. “Open it up, and maybe I’ll decide to let you pass or just pop the brains out of your head and into the trunk.”

  His men gathered around in the stale residuals of old whiskey, drugs, and smart remarks about Viktor’s so-called “dorky” attire as he got out of the Chevy and while leaning forward to fetch his keys, he dropped his map and gun on the passenger’s side, seat.