American Terrorist Trilogy

by Jeffrey Poston

  The secure bunker appeared on no map. Its construction had been managed totally in secret, by a close personal friend of Breen, and on private land owned by a dummy corporation not remotely connected to anyone in the government.

  Unfortunately, not everyone on his staff understood that plans were fluid scenarios that evolved as goals were approached. Dr. Murphy was a prime example. Breen’s takeover, though planned down to the smallest detail over many months, was happening very fast—too fast for some on his staff. Some didn’t understand that mission objectives often had to be modified as external influences made their presence felt.

  External influences like Carl Johnson.

  “Dr. Murphy, there is no exit contingency for what we’re doing.” He waved a hand before him in a gesture indicating inclusion of everyone in the conference room they’d just entered. “The risks are high, but we must see this through. We certainly cannot back down now out of fear simply because things are more difficult than we thought they would be.” Breen paused, then spoke to all of his staff. “Tomorrow morning I’ll be sworn in as president. Then there will be nothing anyone can do.”

  Walter Breen stopped at the head of the conference table and studied his co-conspirators as Dr. Murphy took his seat. White House Chief of Staff Martine Scallow sat to his immediate left. Seated around the large table in the conference room of the windowless, underground bunker were other powerful government officials, including the chairman of the joint chiefs of the military services, the directors of CIA and NSA, the deputy director of CDC, and the civilian director of USAMRIID, the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. The commander of the Army National Guard was also present.

  His team all shared one common trait. They were all men. President Mallory had appointed a diverse mix of ethnicities and gender to her cabinet, and over the months Walter Breen had discovered which leaders shared his view of Mallory’s shortcomings. It was a men-only club. Women could not be trusted to move against the first woman president as their loyalty would always be suspect.

  The majority of Breen’s cabal were Anglo. General John Vickers, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, was African American. In fact, Walter Breen had begun his career of government service under Vickers’s command over forty years ago as an army officer. There was no one Breen trusted more to run his military affairs of the new government.

  The CIA director, Whitney Drummond, was also brown-skinned, though he publicly disapproved of the label African American because, as he put it, he wasn’t African, he was American. He was very light skinned because he was a mix of many ethnic backgrounds, but he identified with none of those ethnic origins either. He was an American man, plain and simple. Only American.

  The third and last minority on Breen’s team was Dr. Ernesto Salazar, USAMRIID’s civilian director.

  “General Vickers,” Walter Breen called across the table. “The military transition plan is in place?”

  “It is, sir. The chiefs of staff of each branch of the military services will be replaced with senior officers I have selected and who are loyal to you. The civilian leadership of the executive branch will be replaced with your appointees, the judicial branch will be dissolved during this on-going crisis, and the legislative branch is effectively dead.

  “As we agreed, I’ve also selected senior military officers to replace the civilian directors of the FBI, NSA, DHS, and other intelligence, security, and law enforcement agencies. Director Drummond here,” the general head-nodded toward the CIA director seated beside him, “will be reinstated to his former military rank and promoted to head of the Department of Homeland Security, effectively putting direct control of all of the intelligence agencies and their nationwide and worldwide assets under military management and, therefore, under your direct control.” Vickers took a deep breath and looked around the table. “But that’s not why we summoned you, sir.”

  An aide aimed a remote at the big wall-mounted TV screen and increased the volume. CNN was reporting breaking news from a new terrorist attack in Chihuahua, Mexico. The screen showed a long-distance aerial view of the destroyed buildings from a hovering helicopter.

  There were literally hundreds of emergency vehicles in and around the area, their flashing red and white strobe lights reflecting off dusty windows and broken cars, diffusing through airborne debris and dust, creating an eerie scene in the hazy darkness. Carl Johnson’s photo was superimposed in the bottom left of the screen.

  “What the hell has he done now?”

  “He took out the Triad’s lab, Mr. Vice President.”

  Breen narrowed his eyes. “Why would he do this?” No one spoke. “I’m growing tired of unsolved mysteries, gentlemen. What strategic advantage does he gain?” Breen banged a palm on the conference table. “And how the fuck did he find out about the lab in the first place?”

  CIA Director Whitney Drummond spoke hesitantly, “The army detachment commander at Vicente Orizaga’s house reported Orizaga and a man fitting Alfonso Reyes’s description left in Reyes’s helicopter. In fact, the troops didn’t intervene because they thought Johnson was Reyes. Somehow, Johnson convinced Orizaga to escort him into the facility. My guess is he found out about the antidote. We have reports about outbreaks in north-central Mexico. Perhaps he or members of his team are infected.”

  “Since Mr. Orizaga is our conduit to the Triad leaders, he funneled classified documentation to them for us. He also provided us with ongoing viral program status,” General Vickers said. “If Johnson’s team confiscated his computer, that would also explain how he or his agent found out about, and rescued, our kill list targets. Agent Palmer is fully trained on intel retrieval techniques.”

  Breen palmed the table again. “Costas Drake’s orders were to destroy the office.”

  “Which his men did, sir.”

  “After Johnson escaped with the intel!” Breen took a deep breath to steady himself. “Okay, so Johnson got out of the lab, presumably with the antidote.” Breen stood and paced around the room. Then he stopped in mid-stride. “Why destroy the building? What are we missing?”

  Drummond said, “He’s angry. Perhaps he thinks he can hurt you by destroying the lab.”

  Breen shook his head. “I wouldn’t make that assumption. As far as he knows, we could have another lab, or a dozen or a hundred more. There must be another reason.”

  General Vickers added, “My thought is that he used the explosion as a distraction to cover his escape. Local authorities would be rushing to the explosion instead of following him away from the site.”

  Walter Breen said, “Maybe.” He began pacing again. “What if he finds a way to make the stolen virus intel, or the fact that an antidote exists, public?”

  Drummond shook his head and his double-jowl wiggled back and forth with the effort. “It won’t matter. My people have leaked his name, so he’s being blamed for the worst international terror attack since Nine-Eleven.”

  Breen stopped pacing. “Okay, so he has the antidote. What’s his next step? What if he does somehow tell the world he has the antidote?”

  “I may have the answer to that,” General Vickers said. He looked up from his laptop. “Our AWACS border patrol is tracking a low-flying plane that crossed the border a few minutes ago over western Texas. It fits the radar signature of a small business-class jet, like a Gulfstream or Citation. It’s not emitting any transponder signals, so it could be the TER covert ops plane that took Johnson and Agent Palmer down there. There was some chatter about a business jet evading authorities at a municipal airport called Nuevo Casas Grandes, a couple hours after the explosion at the lab building. That airport is certainly within helicopter range of Chihuahua, Reyes’s estate, and Orizaga’s homestead near Hermosillo. The army reports the plane made a reckless take-off after ignoring orders to stand down. After take-off, it remained under the radar so they weren’t able to track it.”

  Dr. Murphy timidly spoke. “What if he’s trying to save the president?”

 
; Breen looked around the room for a moment, then settled his gaze on Dr. Murphy. “Then we better save her first. Is her specially prepared antidote ready?”

  Murphy nodded. Breen took a tiny comm unit from his pant pocket and inserted it into his ear. After a few seconds, he said, “Mr. Spoke, this is Rainman. Drop whatever you’re doing. I have a special task for you and it must be completed right fucking now.”

  Chapter 48

  1622 hours MST Saturday

  Texas-New Mexico Border

  A few minutes after Colonel Reichert put the plane into a climb, a light blinked on the high-tech control panel. The colonel put on his headset and pointed to a similar headset hanging from the control panel by Carl’s right knee. Carl put the cushioned cups over his ears and immediately heard threats of dire consequences if the unidentified aircraft didn’t turn to a new heading immediately.

  The colonel identified himself by his air force name and rank. “I am currently attached to the Terror Event Response agency on a classified mission to retrieve the antidote for the virus that has afflicted the president and the government. I have the antidote on board at this time.”

  That announcement must have gone straight in one ear of the speaker and out the other, because her harsh voice said, “I repeat, you must alter course immediately or you will be fired upon.”

  Carl and the colonel had already discussed how to present their opening arguments to authorities. As a delay tactic, they would pretend not to know Vice President Breen had the antidote stockpiled for distribution. They would carefully parse information to authorities, knowing that the unencrypted comm channel was being monitored not only by the military, but also likely by Breen’s people.

  Reichert said, “You’ll want to clarify that up the chain of command first. We have the only antidote in existence for the virus. If you shoot down this plane, you will be killing President Mallory. I repeat, if you destroy this plane you’ll destroy the only antidote in existence and the president and the rest of the government will die. Copy?”

  There was a long silence, then the voice said, “Standby.”

  The colonel added, “Also, I have Carl Johnson in custody aboard this aircraft. I’m sure your superiors will want him alive.”

  “Standby,” the pilot said again.

  The radio silence lasted nearly fifteen minutes, and shortly before it ended, Carl noticed movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced to his right and saw a dark shadow floating a few hundred feet away. The shadow was just darker than the night sky. There were no lights flashing on the aircraft. The jet out there was ready for war.

  “We have company over here.”

  “This side, too,” Reichert said. “Good news is that now that we’ve laid down the gauntlet on an open comm channel, Breen can’t give the order to shoot us down.”

  “If he does, and the world finds out he destroyed what is believed to be the only cure to the virus, that will undermine his plan and his credibility. He has to be very careful.”

  “Agreed.” The colonel paused. “So what’s our next move?”

  A new voice came on the channel and identified himself as Albuquerque International Sunport Approach Control. He gave the colonel permission to land. The Gulfstream was approaching Albuquerque from the east, so the air traffic controller gave the colonel a vectored approach around the north end of the Sandia Mountains so he could land on the proper runway.

  The colonel said, “Please advise my escorts of my intention to comply.”

  The no-nonsense female fighter pilot answered. “I acknowledge your intent to comply,” she said. “Do not deviate from your landing instructions or you will be fired upon.”

  “Copy that.”

  As the plane cleared the north end of the chain of ten-thousand-foot ragged peaks known as the Sandia Mountains, Carl saw one of the most beautiful sights of his life. He loved flying into Albuquerque from the east because the twinkling lights of the city sprang into view all at once. The city stretched out to the west for miles, and the lights twinkled like stars as the ground heat shimmered the air.

  Once clear of the mountains, Colonel Reichert banked south and flew over the city along the western slope of the mountains. Carl heard a lot of pilot talk about approach vectors, speed, wind direction, and altitudes, but Carl tuned all that noise out. He figured they’d be landing on the east-west runway. He’d seen planes make that approach many times from the balcony of his home in the foothills. Sometimes the planes flew right over his house.

  Carl contemplated the reception they’d receive. As soon as they landed, they’d be swarmed by police, both civilian and military, since the airport shared flight operations with Kirtland Air Force Base. No doubt, the FBI would show up too. Either way, Carl and the colonel soon would be in custody. Then the real chess match would begin. Or, maybe the Unit would get there first; in which case, he and Reichert would be killed.

  Carl removed his headphones and reminisced on his new life as a terrorist and the lives he had touched over the last month. A part of him wanted to place all the blame for his son’s death on the federal agents who mistook Carl for Alfonso Reyes. Over the following weeks, though, Carl had reviewed in his mind all the known facts and assumptions and the resulting decisions made throughout the various government operations against him. He acknowledged there was no way anyone up the chain could have made any other judgment. If he were one of the feds’ decision makers, he would have done the same things they had done, made the same assumptions and decisions they had made. His son had died because of that mistake, and Carl knew he was as much to blame as any of the feds.

  He could have accepted his devastating loss and simply gone home like anyone else would have. He could have cried and lived with the pain, tried to get on with his life. He didn’t have to strike out in revenge against the government. He’d thought the feds would capture or kill him early in his quest for vengeance. That would have been his easiest escape from the pain. But, he stayed ahead of them. Instead of quieting his pain, each agent who died at his hands, each life he dispatched, merely stoked the fire of hatred in his soul. Soon he was so deep in the abyss and his moral compass was so royally screwed up, he didn’t know how to do anything other than kill. His path of revenge led him to Aaron McGrath, the director of the TER and who also happened to be the president’s fiancé. It was President Mallory who had authorized the operation against Carl, thinking that decision would save her kidnapped daughter.

  A part of Carl understood her pain—a parent’s pain. At the time, he and everyone else had agreed, again mistakenly, that Melissa Mallory was going to die whether or not the required ransom was paid. Though President Mallory was the most powerful woman on the planet, Carl knew when her daughter died, she’d be reduced to the same level of helplessness that he was experiencing. He knew first-hand how devastating her loss would be and couldn’t bring himself to let her go through that kind of pain. So he went to rescue the girl. At least, he thought he was rescuing the girl. Now it was crystal clear that Vice President Breen’s plan all along, in collusion with a shadowy Mexican political cartel called the Triad, was to use the girl to set the stage for their plans of global economic and military domination.

  Their shared goal to consolidate the economies of the western hemisphere rested squarely on the death of the president and the decapitation of the US government. So, Breen had orchestrated the kidnapping, infection, and release of the First Daughter and used her to attempt to assassinate her mother. When the American government fell, the Mexican government would follow quickly.

  He figured the United States wouldn’t become a complete police state overnight, though many had argued the country had been on that path, and the rights of individuals had been eroding in the name of national security since Nine-Eleven. Only corporations and banks too big to fail would find a way to exist in the new America. The population would eventually learn how to live with a new reality: they would no longer be able to vote for their president and their concept of free
dom would have changed radically. Everyone would learn to accept that one man made the country’s decisions on behalf of the millions, rather than a couple hundred senators and representatives.

  Who was to say Breen’s way wouldn’t be any better or more efficient than the current constitutional way? Many people would argue that America would be stronger with one war-hawk at the helm instead of hundreds of professional debaters. For a very long time, Americans had been disappointed over how they took months to make a decision about anything and only after being heavily influenced by big-money corporate lobbyists.

  Carl voiced his thoughts aloud. “You know, for most people this change from the current government to the new one will hardly impact anyone’s life. It’s going to be pretty much business as usual for millions of Americans. Probably won’t affect the majority whose lives revolve around working every day to earn their living, trying to survive in a terribly unbalanced economy.” He stared out at city lights representing thousands of those Americans for a long moment, and Reichert said nothing. “But my son is dead because of this new government.”

  He turned away from the city lights out the right window and found the colonel watching him.

  “I get it, Johnson. You have to do this for your son. So what’s your play?”

  Carl shook his head. “This is no longer about my son. It can’t be.” He gazed out the front windshield. “This is about who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s about President Mallory. She’s the good guy, and Breen can’t win. Not this way.”

  “Johnson,” Reichert said quietly. “We can’t win this war. We don’t have assets, weapons, or personnel for this type of fight. We took this mission to discover the identities of the shadowy figures of the Triad who kidnapped Melissa Mallory. We failed. We know Breen is behind everything, but we have no proof and we don’t know who his associates are.” Reichert paused. “We failed, Johnson. We can’t stop Breen.”