by Joe Nobody
The Colonel stopped and spit to emphasize his disdain for females in combat, and then continued.
“This phone conversation, however, was different. It seems that the Marine Corps wanted to thank me for hiring someone with a full set of balls who gives a rat’s ass about more than himself. Now personally, I think this is BULLSHIT. Personally, I think there was a reason why you pulled that man out of that burning wreck. I don’t know if you and he were gay lovers, if he owed you money from a poker game, or if you were trying to fuck his sister back home. Personally, I don’t care. What I do care about is having one, as in a single, 24-hour period where I don’t have some punk Bird Colonel pulling on my nuts with a pair of pliers. Today was the first day that has occurred in as long as I have been the bouncer in this whorehouse. Do you follow me so far, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, does this mean I want in your pants, boy? That is a complete negative. I have all kinds of people wanting to blow hot air up my ass every-single-fucking-day. Most of them are a hell of a lot smarter and damn sure prettier than you are. What I DO want is for you and Spider to get THIS security operation 100% UN-FUCKED pronto. Do I make myself understood, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“GOOD! When you get back to CONUS, call my office, and talk to me about a full-time job. I know that Spider here sucks a goat’s ass every morning for breakfast, but he’s all we can afford on this job. Don’t hold him against us.”
The Colonel spun around and headed back for his truck as Spider struggled to keep up with him. On the way, he looked at Spider and said, “That boy don’t say much – does he?”
Three weeks later, the first-time father who returned showing off pictures of his brand-spanking new baby boy relieved Bishop. Bishop was pleased to hear that Mom, new baby and Dad had all made it through the ordeal. After arriving back in Houston, he had done nothing but eat and sleep for three days. Spider had lied; the food had sucked.
After catching up on the mail, bills and calling a few old lady friends, Bishop decided he really didn’t have that many options, so he put a call into HBR early the next morning. He was informed that the Global Security director wasn’t available, and a message would be left for him. Ten minutes later, his phone rang, and it was The Colonel. Even long distance, the voice boomed, “Son, I want you to execute a shit, shower, shave and breakfast – in that order. You will then don class A civilian dress. Immediately proceed to 1417 Willard Street, downtown Houston. Go to the third floor, Suite 317. Enter the suite, and ask for Mrs. Porter. Son, Mrs. Porter is a dear, personal friend of mine. I want your back straight, your gut in and you will address her as Mrs. Porter or Ma’am. Is all of this clear so far, son?
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be perfectly frank here, young man. Should you piss off, disgust, or offend Mrs. Porter in any way, I will personally tie your body into knots, dip it in salt, and eat it like a pretzel while enjoying a beer. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mrs. Porter will have all of the required paperwork and your job offer in writing. If you don’t like the offer, then you can shove-the-fuck-off. If you like the offer, then execute Mrs. Porter’s instructions exactly as she requires in an efficient, high-speed, low-drag manner, and then be on your way.”
The phone went dead.
Bishop was hired by HBR to be a “Project Engineering and Security Specialist,” which he found a very fancy title. He believed the job should be called “Night Watchman for Middle-of-Nowhere Oil Projects.” When HBR was looking to drill, pump, explore, survey or produce energy in some remote land, the company would send along security experts to talk to the local law enforcement, study the surroundings, and then evaluate potential risks or problems. When HBR rolled in millions of dollars’ worth of equipment and personnel, they wanted their folks working, not worrying about local rebels, or having to bribe the local warlord.
While all of this sounded simple on paper, Bishop found reality was far more complex. First of all, HBR wasn’t going to avoid any project that could make the company money over mere security risks. Even if a drilling site were right in the middle of a Chinese Army base, HBR was going to bore it, and The Colonel’s department had to keep it secure.
Fair enough thought Bishop, given enough money and enough weapons, almost any location can be made secure. The problem was that in many of the places HBR worked, a foreigner walking around with big, military grade weapons was frowned upon at best, and normally outright illegal. In addition, there were often no local law enforcement or friendly military around. Bishop had joked once that they could be doing a project in the middle of a tropical forest and not see anyone for weeks, but as soon as one of his guys displayed a rifle, an entire brigade would appear out of the jungle to arrest them.
The Colonel’s department also included executive security. This was considered the best job in the entire operation. When HBR executives traveled to various remote projects, the executive security group served as their personal bodyguards. Ever since an HBR vice president had been kidnapped and held for four million in ransom, the company had decided it was cost- effective to have bodyguards. Referred to as “the tier one operators,” or T1s, these were the hardcore, ex-Special Forces guys. Bishop had to deal with the T1 operators on a regular basis, and really didn’t mind. At first, he had been concerned that they would act as if they were “Gods of war,” but that rarely ever happened. When a VIP was visiting one of his locations, he would normally brief the T1 guys, answer a few questions, and everything went fine.
As Bishop pulled into the HBR security offices, he realized that he was indeed a lucky man. One of the benefits of the job was a healthy “continuous education” budget. This meant that the company had its own shooting range complete with training facilities, and employees could attend classes on everything from the latest security systems to seminars sponsored by weapons’ manufacturers. Just a few days before, he had been at the south facility chasing around a toy robot through the pine woods. Toys, thought Bishop, we are all a bunch of boys with very cool toys.
He carried in his weapons, checked them in at the front desk, and enjoyed four hours of drills, timed courses and just destroying paper targets. There’s nothing like blowing the hell out of something to cheer a guy up.
The Cleveland Dominoes
In Phoenix, a bar owner was running radio advertisements all afternoon protesting the senator’s legislation and offering free beer to anyone who could prove he or she were in the country illegally. It was a sting operation, and hundreds of people were arrested and detained by the county sheriff.
The leaders of HISPOLA, the leading lobbyist fighting for immigration reform, started to organize protests and work stoppages. They had a very good turnout in El Paso, San Diageo, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. In Denver and St. Louis, the few hundred marchers were met by several thousand Senator Bose supporters, who quickly shouted down the protestors.
Bishop watched all of this with great interest while mending. He had gone to the doctor that morning and had been told to take it easy on the ribs and shoulder for a few more weeks. Terri and he had finally received possession of Rita’s body. After a brief, but sincere ceremony, her last wish was granted. She was cremated and her ashes scattered over the Gulf of Mexico. Bishop was proud of how well Terri handled Rita’s death. While she grieved openly, she also kept busy, and they seemed to grow even closer than before.
A sealed package arrived in the Houston FBI office five days after the explosion. It was addressed “Urgent – Agent in Charge Meyers,” and contained the forensics information that had been analyzed to date. Agent Meyers really wanted to know more about the truck and how the explosion had occurred. A local hospital supply company had reported a delivery truck and driver missing and had even supplied an inventory listing along with the bill of lading for the truck. He was sure that the truck shown in the news video belonged to the supply company, and it was technically possible that the materials on board co
uld have caused a blast of that size. The problem was that the missing driver was listed as a US citizen, of Iraqi descent, not a Mexican. Meyers could understand the misidentification, but needed to be 100% sure before he filed his report with Washington. The entire affair had become such a political hot potato, and he did not want to make any mistakes. He opened the package and began reading the report. A half hour later, he asked his assistant to call Washington and get him the director.
The Houston Fire Department (HFD) had a problem. The inferno ignited by the hospital explosion and subsequent gas leak was still burning. The department barely kept up with the volume of calls before the disaster and was completely unprepared for the size and scope of the current firestorm. Equipment and men were beginning to fail after combatting flames, smoke, ash and heat for five consecutive days. The primary hotspot in the medical center was contained, albeit barely. The fire had consumed 14 square blocks, but had not breached the perimeter established by the department. While HFD had performed at heroic levels to maintain control of the medical center area, other areas of the city were suffering due to the diversion of the local units. There were now three multi-unit fires burning, and their containment was optimistic at best. The mayor called the chief to inform him that he and the city council were receiving complaints that the “poorer neighborhoods” were being neglected.
“Have you received any word of units coming from other cities?” asked the chief.
“No. The civil unrest is widespread, and after the arrest of those union men in Cleveland, no one wants to send us any assets. Most departments are already shorthanded. We are on our own.”
“We have a weather issue as well. There is a front moving through tonight, and the winds could be a problem. If we don’t get a lot of rain with that front, I don’t know if we can hold the Fifth Ward.”
“Would it help if we called for civilian volunteers?”
“No, this is not a forest fire in the mountains. Our problem is lack of equipment. I’ve had seven engines fail in the last 24 hours. We have three more of our biggest pumps acting up. A lot of our stuff is well past its mean failure hours and should have been replaced three years ago. Most of my men have been on the fire line for over 48 hours straight and are going to need a break soon.”
“I know you are doing your best, Chief. I will keep working the phones, and the governor is pledging to help. Let me know if there is anything else I can do.”
“Dust off any plans you have to evacuate the Fifth Ward, and pray for rain without wind. There is a storm brewin’, in more ways than one.”
The Fifth Ward was one of the poorest areas in Houston. Primarily a minority community, it consisted mostly of run-down residential neighborhoods and abandoned warehouses. The HFD had been fighting a four-square block fire started by an unattended barbeque grill being knocked over by a dog. When the storm front passed through in the early hours of the morning, it brought winds of 30 mph and little rain. The fire jumped two main avenues that had been the line established by HFD. In their day, the two large mills would have been the economic hub of the area. Now vacant and deteriorating, they were evidence of urban sprawl and manufacturings’ abandonment of the inner city. Within 20 minutes, both buildings outside of the perimeter were totally engulfed in flames. Unfortunately, the entire area consisted of commercial structures that had been constructed before fire suppression systems were even thought of. This, coupled with an abundance of older homes built very close together, provided perfect tinder for the blaze. The emergency alert went out, and the police hurriedly evacuated sleepy citizens. It was all the fire fighters could do to keep a corridor open for the people trying to get out of the way.
Before dawn, the Morris Street Transfer Station of Houston Power and Light was consumed. The damage done to the city’s electrical grid by the medical center explosion had been bad enough. When Morris Street went down, the entire grid failed. All over the area, transformers popped and sparked leaving the nation’s fourth largest city completely dark. The waking city rushed to offset the inefficient interruption in its morning routine.
The first service to be majorly impacted by the power outage was the city’s traffic system. The outage showed no mercy on the effectiveness of the unending string of traffic signals crisscrossing Houston. As a result, all across the city every intersection was a traffic jam - resulting in thousands of angry citizens caught in total gridlock. Emergency medical services, police, and the few unallocated HFD units were slow or completely unable to respond. With literally no movement in traffic, frustrated commuters rolled down their windows and cut their engines. Some sat in their cars, cell phones in hand, letting someone know they were delayed. Others just sat, overwhelmed by the persistent sound of thousands of car horns blaring from all directions. As the day heated up, no doubt tempers would as well.
Even the areas not threatened directly by fire were severely impacted by the power outage. Grocery stores, banks, office buildings and small businesses across the city could not function. The food and medicine stored in over 1,000,000 refrigerators would spoil and rot. Gas pumps didn’t work, and stores could not process credit cards. ATM machines refused to give any cash.
Most citizens initially dealt with the situation the same as they would a power outage from a thunderstorm. However, the local news stations soon reported that Houston Power and Light expected it to be at least 10 days before service was restored to the entire city – that is, if the fires did not destroy further equipment.
Without electric power, the city’s water pumps stopped working. With over 160 trucks simultaneously pumping water out of fire hydrants, the pressure dropped within five minutes. The city’s backup generators tried to do their job, but were designed to handle residential water requirements after a hurricane, not the entire HFD watering fires all over the city. The resulting line pressure was insufficient for the big firefighting equipment, and the volume of water being used to fight fires slowed to a trickle.
Within a few hours, both fires were so large they created their own weather. Not since Dresden, Germany in WWII had the world witnessed a metropolitan firestorm of such magnitude. Without the millions of gallons of water being delivered by HFD, the fires became super-heated and began to consume the oxygen out of the air. Giant funnel clouds of flame, ash and cinder reached skyward for thousands of feet. One firefighter reported, “The Devil has unleashed hell’s own tornados.”
On the surface, each blaze caused hurricane force winds of over 100 miles per hour as the greedy flames devoured more and more oxygen. The air around the surface of the fire was pulled in and then shot skyward like a giant geyser of super-heated gas. More than one unfortunate firefighter was sucked into the inferno as he tried to hold his position.
If the mayor had not had the foresight to order city busses staged in critical areas, the death toll would have been much worse. All over the city, busses carried despondent citizens with nothing but the clothes on their back away from the fires.
The chief made the call at 5:58 AM. “Everybody pulls back,” was all he said.
Houston was dark and burning.
Tehran, Iran - August 6, 2015
The Plan
The building looked just like the hundreds of structures that lined the streets of Tehran. But upon close observation, every window contained modern steel frames, not the weathered wood typical in the area, and this building had no available parking in front. A closer examination would also reveal several oddly shaped structures along the roofline, which were observation and defensive posts manned by soldiers of the Revolutionary Guard Special Operation Services.
The Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran, or MISIRA, was well known by western intelligence services. The organization was responsible for espionage, counter-espionage and the Iranian Secret Police. MISIRA was considered to be well funded and capable, but limited in reach. The internal structure of the Iranian government was such that no one branch entirely trusted any of
the others, which limited the range and scope of its operations. MISIRA had another basic restriction that kept it from being more effective. Iranian law required it to be controlled by a Doctor of Islam - an Ayatollah.
General Melli found himself staring at the large bank of high definition monitors mounted on the wall of the “INROOM-USA.” It had been difficult to look elsewhere in recent days. This single facility provided more useful information at less cost than the entire agency’s other resources combined. Start-up cost was minimal, and there was very little investment associated with its operation. The IROOMUS, as everyone referred to it, was a big Western media-viewing lounge. Satellite signals from every cable and network news organization were pirated and sent to this room. On the next floor, a select group of translators created closed caption scrolling text at the bottom of each screen. There was a time delay controlled by the computers so that the translation text matched the video. The advertisements were censored as they often contained offensive images and even the most holy could be harmed by viewing their corruptive content. Any organization that covered events in the United States on a regular basis, such as Al Jazeera, was also monitored. There were other rooms that covered Japan, Europe, Russia and other major regions of the globe.
Israel had its own special room, because as far as the politicians were concerned, it did not exist. The general sighed out loud at that thought. He was a soldier, and a damn good one by any standard, but he failed to grasp the subtleties of the Islamic state. His sigh caused the older man sitting next to him to focus his attention on the general. “My son, something troubles you?” asked the Ayatollah.
“The great infidel beast is ripping itself to shreds, Teacher - just as you predicted.”
“An easy prophecy,” he said with a wave of his robed arm. He slowly stroked his beard and said, “Is it time to awaken the revolution on their shores?”
