The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “An oversight, Madam President,” Sensor said.

  “An oversight? How can you overlook an attack on a national forest with helicopter gunships and a battalion of troops?”

  “Helicopters armed with machine guns, not gunships per se, and a reinforced company of troops, not a battalion.”

  “Jacob, don’t bandy words with me,” the President said. “When you masterminded this affair, you overstepped your authority.”

  “The operation will be led by myself and my Regulators,” Sensor said. “That’s why I considered it was in my bailiwick.”

  “The Pentagon is furious, and there’s a possibility that Brigadier General Stuart will be court-martialed. My God, man, Guts and Glory. Did you really think you could keep it a secret?”

  Sensor sounded bitter. “Someone blabbed. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” the President said. “It could’ve been anybody from a guy who services the helicopters to the general himself. A major attack on terrorists on American soil is a hard thing to keep a secret.”

  “If you call off the operation now, can you live with the consequences?” Sensor said.

  “No, I could not. You’re sure of your intelligence in this matter?”

  “One hundred percent. The terrorist attack is scheduled for the eighth.”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  Sensor nodded. “Exactly. We don’t have much time.”

  For greater secrecy, he and the President sat in his poky little office in the Capitol, so close that Sensor, who was something of an expert on how alpha women smelled, identified her perfume as Bond No 9.

  “I’ll smooth things over with the army brass, most of them are Republicans anyway,” the President said. “As their commander in chief, I will take full responsibility for Operation Guts and Glory.”

  There was a triumphant gleam in the President’s eyes that Sensor did not like. “And reap all the credit, if it is a success,” the President said

  “And if it fails, and hundreds of civilians die?” Sensor asked.

  The President was silent, but her wide mouth stretched in a smile as she stared fixedly at Sensor. He thought she looked like a dragoness.

  “No, not me,” he said.

  “I think you’d better start planning your exit strategy, Jacob.”

  “Oh, please, this is foolish talk. Guts and Glory is aimed at destroying the terrorist enemy. It’s not a political football to kick around. In any case, it won’t fail. Our attack force is too strong.”

  “Then pray that it doesn’t fail, or you will fail with it, Jacob,” the President said. “The day after the attack, I’ll address the nation on TV and tell the people of the United States what happened and how I saved the day. I think it will be a great boost for my reelection chances, don’t you?”

  Ambitions popping like bubbles in his head, Sensor said, “Yes, I’m sure it will.”

  “I’m so glad you agree,” the President said.

  Sensor tried to salvage something, anything, from this disaster. “I want my Regulators to lead the attack,” he said.

  “Then talk to General Stuart about it,” the President said. “That is, if I can save his job.”

  “I’ll be with them,” Sensor said. “The Regulators, I mean.”

  “Then good for you, Jacob. You’re very brave. In the cannon’s mouth. That’s the kind of dedication that draws my warmest gratitude. I’m sure you’ll do very well.” The President rose to her feet. “No, don’t get up. I have to go and get into some cussin’ and discussin’ with the army brass.”

  The President left, and the sultry scent of Bond No. 9 lingered in the room.

  * * *

  Jacob Sensor sat back in his leather office chair and lit a cigar, thinking.

  The President’s decision to take credit for Guts and Glory was a setback, but one he could overcome. He’d think of something, something big. The trouble was that big ideas were hard to come by. But he’d set his sights on the presidency, and by God he was going to get there by fair means or foul. He smiled. He could always organize a coup. Maybe use the Ukrainian again, if the man hadn’t gone to ground somewhere.

  Well, it was a drastic plan, maybe a little too ambitious but one worth thinking about.

  CHAPTER 55

  Adnan Malouf, born in Syria, raised in the United States, radicalized in Iran, was in command of the first twenty Jacks of All Trades to penetrate the Willamette National Forest using moonlight and a map to find their way in almost total darkness. Two black Ford panel vans had come as close as they could to the Three Pools area, and they’d walked the rest of the distance.

  All the mujahideen wore dark T-shirts, jeans, and desert boots, and each carried an AK-47 and a bandolier of extra magazines. All believed that martyrdom was a necessary and essential part of any terrorist act, and they were ready to embrace death like a long-lost brother. Shahadat, martyrdom, would also bear witness to their faith in Allah and Islam and assure their place in paradise.

  Malouf told them, “The death of each martyr brings new, vigorous life to the jihad. Martyrdom, my brothers, is the most powerful weapon in our armory.”

  And as the President said later in a TV interview, “There’s no reasoning with people like that. All you can do is kill them.”

  Malouf had sent fourteen of his men into the trees, the other six to the parking lot behind the Three Pools. He said, “The infidel mob will flee from our gunfire and seek refuge in their cars. But you six men will be ready for them and cut them to pieces.”

  One of the mujahideen, a teenager, years younger than the rest, said, “Will there be fire?”

  “Yes, the forests will be set ablaze as a distraction,” Malouf said. “We will pray that the flames devour many infidels as they run hither and thither in panic.”

  No sacrifice was too great for his warriors of Islam. Malouf warned them they’d have to remain hidden among the trees for the rest of that night and all of the next day. Each carried a canteen of water, and that’s all they would have. On no account were they to stand up or even crawl. “You must remain still, unmoving as statues,” Malouf said. “If you need to relieve yourself, do it where you lie.” He held his rifle aloft and said, “Allahu Akbar!”

  The others joined in the Allahu Akbar shout, overjoyed that they had such a strong leader and that more mujahideen were on the way and ecstatic that they would soon enter the gates of paradise.

  * * *

  Throughout the night, the remaining Jacks arrived, led by Ibrahim Rahman. Nasim Azar had elected to enter the forest on the morning of the eighth with his men, bringing with them gasoline and drip torches

  “After tonight it is unlikely that we’ll meet again except in paradise,” Azar said before Rahman departed the safe house. “May Allah protect you.”

  “I have just recited the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah, may he be exalted, so the path to paradise lies open before me,” Rahman said. “You should do the same, brother Nasim.”

  “I will,” Azar said. “It will bring me strength.”

  Rahman wore a T-shirt and jeans and a ball cap. His AK-47 lay on the table along with a bandolier of ammunition. He had a triangular scar on his right cheekbone that made him look sinister. In fact, he’d acquired it after a clash of heads during a high school soccer game. He was thirty-five years old and came from a wealthy family. The gold and diamond Rolex on his left wrist was real.

  “I must go now,” Rahman said. “Perhaps you will hear that I died well. Do not fail to light the fires that will burn the unbelievers.”

  “Depend on it,” Azar said. “I will not let you down.”

  Rahman picked up his rifle and bandolier and stepped to the door. “Farewell, my friend,” he said. “We’ll meet soon in paradise.”

  After the man left, Azar sat in the chair just vacated by Rahman and buried his face in his hands. His resolve was wavering. Many times in the past, without a second thought, he’d sent young men, suicide bombers, to their death
s with his blessing. But the eagerness for martyrdom from Ibrahim Rahman and his mujahideen . . . and from his own men . . . scared him.

  Nasim Azar realized that he didn’t wish to die a martyr for Allah. He wanted to live to a ripe old age when all his enemies were dead.

  He stood and looked around him at the rental apartment. It was a seedy place with worn furniture, ragged carpets, and a constant smell of boiled onions. His own comfortable apartment was now ashes, but he had money in the bank, and his sponsors in the Middle East would send him more. He could buy another apartment. One thing was certain, the way his fellow Islamists lived . . . and died . . . did not interest him.

  He would still take an active part in the jihad. Death to America! But he no longer wanted to die for it. Perhaps when he was much older, he’d think about martyrdom again. He recalled Corky Jackson . . . but not now when he was in the prime of life with too many enemies still alive. The devil Cory Cantwell for one.

  CHAPTER 56

  The late-summer sun filtering through the trees was hot, and the mujahideen were suffering. It was still only two in the afternoon but their bodies cramped from their enforced stillness, and fat blue flies and mosquitoes tormented them constantly. Pain brought symptoms of stress, headaches, or light-headedness, and mutters of complaint began to be heard among the younger men. They had to endure the remainder of the day and another night of this torture.

  Ibrahim Rahman slowly and carefully rolled onto his back, and he stared at the blue sky beyond the tree canopy. The birds had shunned this part of the forest, but the buzzing, biting insects had made it their own.

  “My brothers,” Rahman said, in a hoarse whisper loud enough to be heard by the others. “Soon you will embrace the martyrdom you seek. The infidels will send police by the hundreds against you, and you will rejoice when you receive the final bullet.” He paused, then said. “Your mothers and fathers will be enraptured when they hear of your sacrifice. Oh, how they will dance in the streets and glorify you.”

  Whispers of “Allahu Akbar” sounded among the pines.

  “Not tonight, but the next night, you will be in paradise, and seventy-two virgin maidens will cater to your every need,” Rahman said. He tried a little joke. “And I mean your every need.”

  This brought a round of subdued laughter.

  “Now rest, my brothers,” Rahman said. “Spend your time in prayer, and ask Allah to bless all your endeavors come the morrow.”

  A silence fell on the forest again, and the mujahideen suffered still.

  * * *

  “The coffee is to your liking?” Nasim Azar said.

  The eight young men around the table nodded in unison.

  Azar looked at the earnest faces, eight American-born youths who’d taken different paths to radicalization but ended at the same destination . . . jihad and the rise of the Caliphate. “Tonight you will purchase gas cans and fill them with fuel,” Azar said. “As you know our other equipment burned in the warehouse fire and, alas, we must be content with what we can buy.”

  “Our sympathies to you, master,” one of the young men said. Like the others he looked of Middle Eastern descent, but there were millions of Muslims in the United States, and his appearance did not draw much attention from unbelievers.

  “My loss is of no account,” Azar said. “My mind is no longer on material things but on the jihad and my own coming martyrdom tomorrow.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” the youths said, grinning, slapping one another on the back. This was a cause for celebration. The master thought the same way as they did.

  Parroting Ibrahim Rahman, Azar said, “Remember, all of you, that martyrdom is not an end, it’s a beginning. That’s how we must think of it.”

  “The master is wise,” one of the young men said, and Azar smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  “Now, who has the map of the Willamette forest?” he said.

  Azar spread the map on the table. “You have all studied this?” he said.

  All the young men said that they had.

  “Good.” He pointed with his manicured finger. “There is the Three Pools recreation area that will be attacked by the brave soldiers of the Jacks of All Trades. But here, to the west, is heavy forest. As you can see, the tree line borders an open patch of ground. It is along that line”—Azar stabbed his finger into the trees—“that you will start the fire.”

  “Are we a part of the great Scorching that will soon set ablaze every forest in this country?” a young man with serious black eyes said. “I have heard of such a thing.”

  “Yes, it is real, and we are a part of it,” Azar said. “And the faithful will praise your martyrdom for a thousand years.”

  “Allahu Akbar!” the man yelled.

  “When does our attack on the forest begin tomorrow?” the serious man said.

  “Tonight you will enter the forest under the cover of darkness and be ready to start the fires at ten in the morning when there will be plenty of people in the Willamette’s Three Pools area,” Azar said. “Use a good quantity of gasoline and make sure the trees are blazing. You have guns to engage the infidel police when they come?”

  The eight terrorists drew handguns from various parts of their bodies, small, concealable .380s and 9mm pistols mostly. Only one of the young men carried a .38 revolver.

  “This is well,” Azar said smiling. “Truly, you are warriors of Islam.”

  “Master, you talk to us and give us orders as though you won’t be in the forest with us,” one of the men said, frowning.

  “I’ll be there, but a little later,” Azar said. “I have some things that need my attention early tomorrow.” He smiled. “Never fear, when it’s time to do battle with the infidel, I’ll be standing shoulder to shoulder with you.”

  That seemed to be enough for the young mujahideen, and no further mention was made concerning Azar’s early-morning absence. He was relieved. Since he had no intention to be anywhere near the Willamette tomorrow, further explanation could have been awkward, and an accusation of traitor would be followed closely by a bullet.

  “I see no need to talk longer,” Azar said. He smiled. “I’m older than you young warriors, and I grow weary.”

  The men rose as one and file out the door and one stopped and said, “Until tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Azar said. “Until tomorrow. A great day for all of us.”

  Three criteria define the hypocrite: Whenever he speaks, he lies. Whenever he promises, he breaks his promise. Whenever he is trusted, he breaks that trust.

  Nasim Azar was guilty of all three, and he knew it. But he would do or say whatever it took to stay alive. Unlike the young mujahideen, his life was too important to be thrown away like yesterday’s garbage.

  CHAPTER 57

  At 7 A.M. sharp, the six people packed into the Toyota rental were waved into the Air National Guard base at Portland International Airport, but only after Sarah Milano invoked the name Jacob Sensor and the airman at the gate made a call to someone higher up in the 142nd Fighter Wing command chain.

  Sarah was directed to a narrow road that led to an open, grassy area half a mile to the west of the F-15 fighter complex. The arching sky was blue, cloudless, and there was no wind. The cool morning promised to become a warm and bright day, and as she drove Sarah fancied that the tourists would already be heading into the Willamette. She had butterflies doing somersaults in her stomach again.

  “There’s Sensor talking to a soldier,” Cory Cantwell said. “Sarah, park beside the other cars.”

  Sarah pulled into a space beside Sensor’s rented limo, silver in color and about a block long, and she and the others got out of the Toyota and waited until the five men buckled on their pistols. The Wildfire Service had provided the Glocks, but no ammunition or gun leather. Sarah had remedied that by buying ammo, belts, and Kydex holsters for Pete Kennedy and the three Brits. The SAS men, used to air bases, showed little interest as they walked with Cantwell and the others toward three Bell Venom helicopte
rs, each armed with a pair of M60D 7.62 mm machine guns, and two Chinook personnel carriers.

  Cantwell and the others wore the olive green of the National Wildfire Service, but Sarah was in T-shirt and jeans and a pair of flats from the seemingly bottomless depths of her small suitcase. She carried her briefcase with the Colt Python inside.

  Sensor frowned when he saw Cory Cantwell, but he smiled as he introduced Brigadier General Stuart. He said to Sarah, “Come to see us off, Miss Milano?”

  “No. I’m going with you,” Sarah said.

  “I think not,” Sensor said. “I don’t want to risk you getting hurt.”

  “I’m a Regulator in everything but name,” Sarah said. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You’ve already gone through a terrible ordeal, Sarah,” Sensor said, using her first name for the first time ever. “I don’t want to put you through another. This could be a nasty fight.”

  Sarah met Sensor’s eyes and held her stare as though it was a weapon. “I’ve already been in a couple of nasty fights,” she said. “I plan on going with Superintendent Cantwell and the others. I’ll stow away on a Chinook if I have to.”

  Sensor was the first to look away. “Suit yourself.” He looked a question at General Stuart, who said, “Captain Buck Miller is in command of the Chinooks. You’d best talk to him about joining his soldiers.”

  “I’ll be in one of the Chinooks,” Sensor said. “It would be good if we all flew in the same helicopter.” He turned to Stuart. “Excuse me, General,” he said. “I’ll talk to Captain Miller.”

  The soldier nodded and then said, “We move out at 0930 hours.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Sensor said. He stepped away from Stuart and spoke to Cantwell. “I’ve already lost a battle to Miss Milano and don’t want to start another. I suppose there’s no point in me ordering you to stay out of this one.”