Bildemeyer was surprised to see several well-known state senators and representatives present, along with city council members. They were in the front row of the protesters at ground zero of the protest, right in front of the coffeeshop. They were going to be arrested and they knew it, but the chief sensed they weren’t there to win points for the next election. They were angry, and he understood their emotions completely. He’d had the whole affair wrapped up nice and tidy with no loose ends, except there was no way he could have predicted the American Terrorist would show his face on national TV with the raw, unedited video, feigning anger at having been used.
Bildemeyer snorted. Like the terrorist cared about what people thought of him. More likely, he probably only grabbed the video because he figured he’d use it as leverage against the Chicago Police Department someday.
Social media carried the video across the country in a firestorm of public outcry against the violence of the brutal police attack. Millions actually cheered the terrorist for killing the guilty police officers in an ocean of comments, likes, and shares. They cheered because Johnson had not waited for any kind of trial. He’d administered his own vigilante justice right there on the spot. The mayor was asked if the American Terrorist was a folk hero, and the politician stammered and side-stepped through an explanation of what he was going to do to rid the force of any other rogue police officers.
Thousands more citizens were expected to join the protest, some journeying from far outside Chicago. The brand new East Main Street Park was the rally site for what was being tagged as the March for Justice, which had not officially started yet though hundreds of protestors bypassed the park and gathered directly at the coffee shop. Hundreds more protestors had left the park earlier and brazenly walked in the middle of the main boulevards, effectively shutting down a large portion of the downtown area in the middle of the workday, and the city’s police force had not been fully deployed in time to stop them.
It’s Tuesday, Bildemeyer thought with a grimace, and rush-hour traffic will soon become a quagmire of stalled traffic. He said, “If we don’t get control of this, things will get real ugly, real fast.”
Mr. Karuhl said, “Your response was appropriate. I assume this time you are prepared for escalation.”
“Absolutely. If Johnson shows his face at the protest, he will be dealt with.”
“We don’t want him dealt with. We want him killed.”
By years of habit against such verbal bait, the chief refused to respond.
On the wall TV, Bildemeyer’s voice was accompanied by the text of his announcement an hour earlier. The reporter had stated that the chief of police was calling from an undisclosed location, and the chief’s voice sounded distorted as if he was calling from a cell phone with poor coverage, which in fact he was. At first, he had urged calm and tolerance, promising a full-scale investigation into the assault. When Rebecca Logan asked him to explain the discrepancy between the snippet of video provided to the media and the full video provided by Johnson, Bildemeyer simply brushed aside the challenge.
“You have to consider the source of the video, which may in fact be altered. Anything is possible nowadays with a powerful laptop. Carl Johnson is a wanted international terrorist responsible for releasing a virus aimed at killing the president. He killed several hundred innocent people in Mexico when he destroyed five office buildings without reason, and he murdered several thousand more around the world by infecting them with the Contagion. Before that, he ambushed and murdered dozens of police and federal agents in Albuquerque. Why would you trust the word of such a man or any so-called evidence provided by that man?”
On the TV, the chief’s voice paused. “Look, I understand people want answers, and I promise to get answers, but we need time to investigate and do our jobs. Let me be very clear, though. We will tolerate no civil disobedience. Riot police will be out in force to keep order and ensure the safety of our citizens and property. This is not Ferguson or Baltimore or New York, and violence and looting will be dealt with quickly and decisively.”
As Bildemeyer gazed down to the street, he could see that his plea for restraint had fallen on deaf ears. The people were outraged, and the crowd at the park was growing. They needed to wrap their brains around something concrete, and the full video provided by the terrorist gave them that—a video loop the media kept replaying of white police officers beating a helpless black man. Even though the terrorist had provided instant justice, the people needed accountability from the person in charge. From Bildemeyer. From the mayor. He had to admit, Carl Johnson had masterfully manipulated the event by controlling what the media reported.
Even as the chief watched, the huge crowd spilled out of the park and began the half-mile march to join the crowd already at the downtown coffee shop where the police brutality had taken place the day before. From his perch, Bildemeyer could see black-clad riot police officers gathering on the next street around the corner from the coffee shop. Rather than have police try to contain the massive crowd between the park and downtown, Bildemeyer had recommended to the mayor that the protest be terminated at the bottleneck in the middle of the block, directly in front of the coffee shop that was the protesters’ destination. Thirty minutes later, the riot police marched around the corner and confronted the protesters.
From the top floor of the Stennhauser Building, the crowd looked like a mob slowly crawling up the street. On the monitor, though, the crowd was orderly and peaceful. Many held signs ranging from “Let There Be Peace” to “Police the Police.” The TV news cameras picked up chants and a few shouts, but Bildemeyer knew that if violence sparked the protest, the clash would forever be remembered for exactly what he saw on the monitor: a crowd of unarmed brown people beaten down by militarized police, mostly white men with automatic weapons and body armor. And that, Bildemeyer knew, was what Mr. Karuhl and his people wanted. It was the test that should have occurred next week.
Bildemeyer had planned his exit strategy to coincide with the upcoming test event. He was not prepared for the test to happen today. Mr. Karuhl had seized an immediate window of opportunity, and the chief knew he was going to be the fall guy. His entire police force had been corrupted as part of the experiment, at the risk of a significant portion of the city population, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He’d wanted to be ten thousand miles away when the big test began. Now, he was faced with witnessing that test, not on TV but simply by looking out the window. Hundreds would die in a proof-of-concept test to show that a handful of power players could control any given police force and, therefore, an entire population by using artificially induced aggression. And he had no escape.
Mr. Karuhl seemed to sense his concern. “This is all part of the plan, Chief. It is the way it must be.”
“We will have a riot on an unprecedented scale. There will be billions of dollars in damages and lawsuits.”
“The violence will distract the media from their original story and the investigation of Malik Tavares. They’ll have more pressing events to cover. The nation can never know the truth about Tavares or his knowledge of us.”
Bildemeyer stood straighter and faced Mr. Karuhl, hoping to show his loyalty. “And they won’t as soon as we locate Tavares’s research.”
Far down below, the two crowds seemed to merge, and both men faced the TV screen. The camera crew stationed right in front of the coffee shop showed the pushing and shoving as the riot police met the protestors. The helicopter camera showed two three-man squads of SWAT cops armed with automatic weapons flanking the riot cops. Then the front line of police stepped back, and the shield-bearing riot officers stepped in front. A cop in the center of the group swung his baton at a protester.
The front line of the riot police collapsed and the armed men started falling.
Chapter 13
The Koll brothers watched the proof-of-concept experiment from Grainger’s office deep in the bunker. At first, Grainger sat back in his leather chair with his hands
behind his head, fingers interlocked, wondering just how high the body count would reach. His mind started to wander a few months into the future when Atlas would literally control the world’s population by controlling the various police forces and military units. Hollis’s hushed, urgent voice brought him back to reality.
“The hell?”
Grainger refocused on the wall monitor and saw blood splattering, acrylic riot shields splintering, and cops falling.
“He’s there, in Chicago!” Grainger growled. “That bastard Carl Johnson is on-site. How the hell did he know?”
He willed the TV news crews to pan their cameras around so they could find Johnson, but the cameras remained centered on the massacre in the middle of the street where the cops and protestors met.
Hollis said, “He played us.”
“Masterfully.”
“He hijacked our media story and turned it to his own advantage. Why?” Hollis stood and pointed at the monitor. “Why didn’t he just leave town? Why did he stay?”
Grainger stood as well. “He knows.” The senior brother nodded to himself. “Malik Tavares must have talked. He must have given Johnson the data.”
Hollis shook his head. “If he had the data, we would have heard of it in the media. Johnson would know that’s his smartest play to cripple us.” He locked gazes with Grainger. “He either doesn’t have it or he doesn’t realize what it is yet.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” Grainger touched a button on the intercom control of the conference tabletop. “It’s time to add another layer to the cake.”
“And what if that’s not enough to stop Johnson?”
Grainger smiled, confident now that he knew the stakes. “We’re only halfway into a multi-layer plan to handle the American Terrorist.”
A voice answered the intercom, “Yes, sir?”
Grainger said, “Put the asset in play. Right fucking now! Kill Carl Johnson!”
Chapter 14
Carl said, “Agent Palmer, kill their comm.”
It must have been a surreal and totally unexpected sight for everyone except Carl’s people. Still locked arm-in-arm as one, the entire front line of protesters turned their heads away from the surging riot cops and their swinging batons. They were as shocked as anyone when the attacking police fell back and not a single protester was struck.
The well-practiced squads of riot police fell into momentary disarray as blood splattered from the front row of advancing officers, their acrylic riot shields shattered, and wounded officers fell back screaming in pain. After a couple seconds, some of the police officers recovered from their shock. Seeming to sense that shots had been fired, they looked around confused, not having heard gunshots and not being able to tell where the suppressed gunfire was coming from.
Someone in the second row of officers yelled, “Medic!”
Another officer in the rear of the riot squad hollered, “Ambush!”
SWAT cops twenty meters in front of Carl brought up their weapons, scanning the protesters for targets. Carl didn’t know for certain whether or not the SWAT cops would shoot into the crowd, and he wouldn’t risk waiting to find out.
“Merc Three, engage SWAT on the north sidewalk.” With his rifle set to single-shot, Carl stepped through the doorway and engaged the SWAT tactical officers on his sidewalk on the south side of the street…from behind.
He squeezed his trigger three times in rapid succession. His rifle wasn’t suppressed, and with the confrontation stalled, the gunshots echoed into the suddenly silent street.
Three head shots, ten meters.
Carl ducked back into the mail store as a hail of bullets destroyed the glass door and windows of the storefront. The fusillade showered his armor with shards of glass, but no bullets penetrated the brick wall or steel plate that shielded him. He pulled a square high-tech grenade from a side pocket of his armored thigh, pulled the tab, and tossed it through the doorway—not at the police, but close enough to knock a few down without killing anyone.
The blast was deafening, and in the absence of sound that followed, Carl heard the moans of the wounded, more calls for medics, and a wave of gasps from protesters as they tried to distance themselves from the gun battle. The civilians retreated slowly, though, because there was a lot of inertia behind the hundreds of front-line marchers.
Palmer’s voice said, “Both Three and Twelve’s positions took some fire, but both are unharmed.”
“Copy that.” Carl was still bewildered at the resourcefulness of his mercs. He’d probably never know where they found the sheets of metal for their bulletproof barriers, or where they found appropriately colored camouflage netting, or how they got the heavy metal plates secured on the roofs, or where they acquired the bullhorn Carl had placed beside his own barrier. Yet again the mercs had proven themselves quite capable at logistical acquisitions.
Carl’s voice boomed out to the street over the bullhorn. “Hold your fire! Police officers, surrender or you will be killed!”
A bellowing voice countered, “Stand your ground!”
Carl peeked above his steel barricade and aimed the bullhorn through the partially open door. “The next grenade I throw will land right in the middle of your unit. Lay down your arms! No more blood needs to be spilled!”
A mix of tactical commands coming from different directions among the police units was undecipherable.
Merc Three’s voice came over Carl’s earpiece, saying, “They’re trying to retreat.”
“Discourage them,” Carl answered.
Several muffled shots split the air, and another officer howled in pain. A few officers tried to return fire to the roofs, but their shots merely pinged off the metal sheets the mercs hid behind.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” came the response from the street. “Okay, I’m willing to discuss this. Come out and talk.”
“There will be no discussion,” Carl answered. “Make no further attempt to retreat. Disarm or die! Right now!” The unit commander did not respond, so Carl added, “Your team is at a significant tactical disadvantage. We hold the high ground and the choke point, and we’re using armor-piercing ordnance. Surrender and live another day. You cannot win this fight.”
“What do you want?”
Carl held out the fist in which he held a second grenade. His voice echoed into the street through the bullhorn. “Here is the second grenade. Note that the tab has been removed. Lay down your weapons.”
The sound of metal and plastic hitting the asphalt came almost immediately.
“Clear,” said Merc Three.
“Clear,” said Merc Twelve.
Agent Palmer added, “You are clear, Zero.”
Carl rose and stepped from behind his shield, his assault rifle at the ready in his right hand and the grenade ready in his left. He left the mail store and approached the police, stopping in front of the unit commander on the fringe of the riot squad. They looked defeated and shell-shocked. Some simply stood idle in a daze while others helped the wounded. Two or three appeared dead and a handful had critical injuries. A dozen more had minor wounds. The six SWAT commandos were all dead.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked the unit commander as he gestured with his weapon. The man was a big guy, forty-something, very fit with a thick neck and a shock of black hair visible when he removed his Kevlar riot helmet. The man said nothing, and Carl could tell by the look in his eyes that he was not familiar with the weapon.
Carl raised his voice so the rest of the police officers could hear him. “It’s a PDW, a personal defense weapon. It’s the only weapon of its kind designed entirely by computer before a prototype was even manufactured. It fires six-by-thirty-two-millimeter rounds, which you now know are armor piercing. It has a folding stock, which makes it ideal for close-quarters urban combat.” Carl’s stock was unfolded. “It has minimal recoil so I can fire it accurately with one hand if necessary, and all the gunpowder burns in the barrel so it has almost no muzzle flash. That makes it very useful
in night operations, unlike your weapons. All in all, it’s the perfect lightweight assault weapon to use against armored bullies who like to pick on unarmed civilians.”
The commander said, “You’re interfering with lawful police operations. When—”
“Just because it’s lawful doesn’t make it right.” Carl head nodded at the silent crowd of stunned civilians to his right. “These people have a constitutional right to gather and protest peacefully, and they are unarmed. Yet you are attacking them with automatic military weapons. To me, that is not legal. That is oppression, and I’m putting a stop to it.” Carl scanned the officers. “You think you’re above the law because no one can stop you. Until today.”
Through his face shield, he smiled at the commander. Then he put the barrel of his rifle against the chest plate of the man’s thick vest.
In his ear comm, Carl heard Palmer say, “Zero, you have incoming, both airborne and on the ground. ETA fifteen seconds. SWAT is mobilizing two more units from the park. Our drone can’t jam their signals that far away. Their radio chatter indicates they don’t know the tactical situation at your position, but they heard the gunfire. ETA, three minutes. You also have the riot squad’s backup incoming as we speak. You’d better wrap things up, Carl.”
To the commander, he said, “My people are better trained than yours, my tactical position is superior to yours, and my weapons are superior.”
A sleek black track-wheeled APC—Armored Personnel Carrier—that looked like it was derived from a Humvee body frame with dual narrow green-tinted bulletproof front windows skidded around the corner at the end of the block. A police helicopter banked from behind the nearest skyscraper and pivoted a hundred feet above the APC, the sniper in its open doorway already shooting at Merc Twelve.
The commander grunted and said, “You were saying?”
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 75
