by Mike Kraus
“What the hell happened to you?” He knelt down next to her and gently pushed her head up, sighing with relief at the sight of her still drawing in ragged breaths. A rattle of gunfire came from the room across the hall and Frank turned to see Jackson run in a second later.
“Three made it out the windows; get outside and see if you can run them down. Out.”
“Make that five; there were two more in here with her.”
“Copy. All units, correction: make that five targets. Out.”
“One… of them… was him.” Linda’s eyes were still shut as she whispered to Frank. He slid a knife from its sheath on the belt at the small of his back and quickly cut the zip-ties that held her hands, arms and legs. She started to fall forward and he caught her, lowering her gently to the floor. She smiled faintly as her eyes fluttered open and caught sight of his face.
“Jackson!” Frank called out to Jackson who was peeking out one of the windows to see if he could catch sight of the fleeing enemies. “She said he was here.”
“Who, Omar?” Jackson turned and advanced on Frank and Linda, stopping short and giving a shallow gasp at the sight of her.
“Yes.” Linda replied weakly as she tried to nod.
“Holy hellfire…” Jackson dropped to his knees and craned his neck to activate his microphone. “All units, change of plans. Get back and secure the entrances and make absolutely sure this building’s clear. I’ve got Rollins here in bad shape. She’s our first priority.”
“No,” Linda started to speak again, then winced as pain shot through her side, “leave me and get him!” She wheezed the words out amid a smatter of coughs and groans.
“Not a chance, Rollins. Now shut up before you make this worse.” Jackson dropped his rifle on the floor and whipped off his backpack and large medical bag attached to it and spread them out on the floor. “Frank, ease her down and go stand guard by the door.”
“But—”
Jackson looked up at Frank with fire in his eyes, nearly snarling as he barked back a reply. “Now, Frank! I’ve got it from here!”
Frank nodded and gently lowered Linda to the ground, squeezing her hand as he stood up. Jackson took a deep breath as he removed his combat gloves and slipped on a pair of powdered latex ones from his medical bag. “Give me a report, Linda. Where’d you sustain the worst of it?”
“Didn’t get me in the head except once or twice. Mostly in the chest, sides, extremities.” Her words were whispered but determined as she worked to give him as much information in as short of a time span as possible. “Couple of cracked ribs makes it hell to breathe. Maybe some light internal injuries but most of it is exhaustion and pain. Lots of pain.”
While Linda was talking Jackson had been busy gently probing her from top to bottom, checking for anything that was broken or didn’t feel right. “Okay, here’s the deal.” He sat back on his knees and feet and looked at her. “I think you’re right, and you do definitely have a couple of cracked or broken ribs. I want to evac you back to the city where we can start treatment as soon as possible.”
Looking bloodied, bruised and utterly helpless as she did, Jackson didn’t expect a vicelike grip to latch onto his arm and twist, sending pain shooting through his wrist and hand. “Jackson.” Linda’s voice was hoarse and rough, her face twisted into a mask of pain and anger. “If you try to ship me back there I swear to you I will gut you and hang you by your own intestinal tract.”
“Ow, dammit, Rollins!” Jackson tried to shake his hand free but her grip was too strong. “You need attention! I can’t just have you trotting around out here; you can barely stand!”
Linda nodded at the medical bag as she pursed her lips tight. “You confirmed nothing’s broken except a couple of ribs. Everything hurts but that’s manageable. Give me a speedball and I’ll be back on my feet long enough to help finish this.”
“A speed—are you kidding me?!”
“I know they’re standard issue in the kits. For use in emergency situations only. I’d say this counts.”
“Rollins, those things are dangerous as hell!” Jackson tried to argue, but Linda only squeezed harder on his wrist, prompting him to grunt with pain as he tried to pry her off. “Okay, okay! Fine!” He relented and she let go, sighing as though she had just expended nearly all of her energy on him.
“You,” he mumbled as he dug through the bag, “are insane. You know that, right?”
Linda closed her eyes and snorted in amusement. “Part of the job, Jackson. Part of the job.”
After several seconds of searching, Jackson pulled out a black case from the depths of the bag. He cracked open the case to reveal three small, thin syringes sitting in plastic holsters that both kept them safe and from being affected by any movement. He pulled one of the syringes out and held it aloft after removing the plastic sheath on the end, tapping on the side of the syringe while gently depressing the plunger to remove any potential excess air.
“You sure about this?” He looked down at her. “These are fairly low dosage but in your condition who knows what could happen.”
Linda’s eyes shifted over to Frank, who was still standing by the stairs with his rifle at the ready. “I’m not going back to the city. I’m going to finish this, come hell or high water.”
Jackson tapped the syringe one last time and took a deep breath. “He’s going to kill me if your heart ends up exploding because of this.”
Linda smiled again. “Just make sure you don’t do that, ‘k?”
While the technical term for the cocktail in the syringe wasn’t “speedball,” the name had carried over from illicit drug usage and become lodged in popular lexicon among the medics who were still getting used to the new drug. A potent combination of a stimulant and a painkiller, speedballs were popular amongst druggies who liked to mix drugs like cocaine with heroin or morphine to achieve a high that would just as often kill them with an accidental overdose.
Some versions of the speedball had uses in legitimate medicine, such as giving terminal patients both relief from pain and enough lucidity to spend time with their loved ones before death. The use of the drug in combat situations was relatively new, though, and was reserved only for certain cases where soldiers needed to be able to move on their own two feet but required both pain relief and a stimulant in order to make that happen.
As good as the potential results were from the mixture of painkillers and stimulants, the possibility of an overdose was greatly magnified due to how the drugs interacted. Even with the cocktail Jackson was injecting into Rollins being highly refined and measured, there was still the chance that she could die from it. As afraid as he was of Linda if he didn’t comply with her request, he wondered if he shouldn’t be more afraid of Frank’s response if she did end up dying.
As the drugs wound their way through Linda’s bloodstream, they had a remarkable effect on her disposition. She went from lying on the floor, gently wheezing for air to starting to push herself up in a matter of minutes. As she tried, though, Jackson held her down and shook his head. “Not yet. I want to watch you for a few more minutes.”
“Jackson,” she replied, in a voice that was remarkably loud and clear, “stop being such a sissy.”
“Rollins.” Jackson growled as he forced her back down to the ground again. “Your ribs are cracked and you have severe bruising pretty much everywhere. You might be feeling fantastic right now but we need to at least bind your chest with some bandages before you start throwing yourself around all over the place, okay?”
Linda nodded slowly and sighed. “Fine.”
Jackson eased off of her, helping her slowly rise to a sitting position on the floor. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m three miles high and nothing can stop me.”
“You still with us?”
Linda nodded. “I experimented once or twice in my youth, Jackson. If I start losing it I’ll tell you, okay?” With a slight groan she lifted her arms and nodded at the medical bag. “Hurry up and g
et those bandages around my chest. I want to get up and going before any of this stuff starts to wear off.” Jackson pulled her shirt up and began winding tight layers of bandages around her ribcage. She winced at every pull Jackson made to tighten the bandages, but soon the discomfort began to subside thanks to the combination of the wrap and the painkillers.
“Linda!” Alerted by her talking, Frank hurried over and knelt down next to her as Jackson finished up. “Should you be moving?”
Linda smiled and patted Frank on the shoulder, surprised by the lack of pain involved in the movement. “I’ll be fine, for a while. Once these painkillers start wearing off I don’t know what’s going to happen, though, so let’s get moving, okay?”
Frank stood and took her hand, helping her to her feet while simultaneously giving Jackson a concerned look. “Is she—are you sure she can do this?”
Jackson shook his head. “Nope. But the alternative was to have her break my wrist and string me up by my entrails so I figured I’d do what she said.”
“Quit your whining, Jackson. I’ll be fine. This stuff’ll keep me going for long enough for us to find him.”
“We’re going to go after Omar now?”
“You’d better believe it.” Linda nodded. “He doesn’t get to use me as his personal punching bag for hours on end and just get away. Besides, he’s scared.” She smiled at the thought and Frank nodded.
“All right. Where do you think he went?”
“All units, I need reports. Any sign of where those targets fled to?”
“North somewhere, sir, in a militarized vehicle. We got a few shots off on them and we may have punctured their oil pan. There’s a pretty sizable leak in the road heading north. We were going to take one of their vehicles from out back and pursue, but you had us pull back.”
“Understood. Get ready to move out. We’re going to finish up and move out in pursuit.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a pause accompanied by several seconds of static, then the soldier’s voice came through again, though a hint of panic accompanied it. “Sir, we may have a problem.”
“What is it?” Jackson secured his packs and grabbed his rifle as he ran to the window overlooking the front entrance to the building. Although the glass in the window was still present, he could hear the faint rumble of engines as they drew closer. “All units, we have incoming forces from the south! Assume them to be hostiles, take up defensive positions and prepare to engage on my signal!”
“Jackson.” Linda approached him from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. “We can’t stay here; he’s probably diverted forces from the south to try and hold us off until he can retreat. If we don’t leave right now then we’re going to lose him—possibly for good.”
“I can’t just abandon these men! They volunteered to come up here and search for you with Richards and I!”
“Who said anything about abandoning them?” Linda replied. “Just pull everyone back, we’ll go out the back door, take the vehicle they spotted and head out after Omar.”
“Rollins, I’ll chalk this moment of idiocy up to the drugs; just how in the hell do you expect them to let us get away unless there’s someone here to hold them off?”
“Sir, it’s two trucks full; they’re disembarking! Should we open fire?”
“Yes, dammit! Open fire! Open fire!” Jackson yelled back as he looked to see the waves of enemy men running across the nearby street like so many ants. Gunfire burst from the windows below and several of them fell to the ground, though others found cover and began returning fire on the office building.
“Jackson!” Linda pulled on his jacket. “Omar is the only objective here! If we can get him, then we can cut off the head of the snake!”
“I’m not aban—”
“Jackson!” Linda pulled him away from the window and bellowed in his face. “These men volunteered to give us a fighting chance to get Omar. We have that chance right now! You, me and Frank can take him down!”
“Sir, she’s absolutely right.” The voice came through Jackon’s earpiece and he realized that the microphone had been inadvertently triggered when Linda was spinning him around. “There were only five of them; the three of you can push up and be on them before they know what hit them. We’ll hold these guys off. We’ve got more than enough ammo and superior positioning.”
“I—” Jackson hesitated, struggling between his unwavering loyalty to those under his command and the need to capture or kill Omar. “You four stay safe and send up a flare for reinforcements; we’ll be back as soon as we get him.”
“Yes, sir; you got it. Stay safe, all of you.”
Jackson turned to Linda and shook his head at her. “You sure you’re in a condition to move out?”
She rolled her eyes and snorted at him. “Just get me a gun and point me in the right direction.”
Chapter 8
It only takes Farhad Omar two years to rise from relatively low on the totem pole in his work to being one of the most powerful men in the Iranian military. His family’s reputation combined with his education, hard work, breakthrough weapons developments and becoming close friends with the Iranian president have put him in a position where he wields an enormous amount of behind-the-scenes power. He does not use the power to further himself, choosing instead to use it in small places here and there, shaping the course of a program here and influencing a foreign policy there.
By ensuring that he remains distant and does not personally profit or benefit from the seeds he is sowing, Omar ensures that he remains in a position to reap long-term rewards, no matter the outcome. And the outcome is fierce. Through careful manipulation, falsifying of evidence, targeted hacking and advanced intelligence-gathering and disseminating actions, he is able to bring about an invasion of his home country by a potent enemy.
The orchestration of the USA’s invasion of his country is the culmination of years of work. As the Iranian military works to fend off the invaders, Omar is given free reign and unlimited amounts of resources to develop ways to beat them back. Programs that would have been taboo before the invasion are encouraged and lauded, allowing him to test the initial versions of both weapons and strategies that he will use as part of his master plan years down the road.
As American tanks crush the streets to rubble under their treads and soldiers bleed and die in the mountains, fields and alleyways, Omar deploys each of his carefully planned projects. Each one violates half a dozen international rules but desperate times call for desperate measures, even when the desperate times have been generated from within. As the Americans slowly realize that they have been pulled into a war without an endgame they start to form plans to withdraw, all while the top brass quietly panics over the alarming usage of nonconventional weapons. Whispers fly both on the battlefield and back at home, speculating about the true nature of the conflict.
It takes nearly a full year for the last boots to leave the ground in Iran, crossing over the border and heading back to US bases in Iraq and Afghanistan. In that amount of time, Omar completes over seventy separate weapons and strategic tests, fifty-seven of which are unprecedented successes. The Iranian government is only aware of twenty of the tests, though that is enough for them to declare him a state hero. He declines public ovations and continues his quiet life, continuing to exert influence in the background as he studies the results of his tests, refines them and performs small-scale experiments on willing and unwilling participants.
It takes years for Omar’s tendrils to fully unfurl and wind their way into all of the different corners and crevices necessary for him to carry out his desired attack on the United States. Relationships are carefully formed with key players needed to get supplies and people into the country to build bombs, plan out attack strategies and distribute virus containers to where they need to go. His slow, methodical, unwavering planning is rewarded when the country is brought to its knees in a single day.
Thanks to those in government and civilian life who are on his payroll, no one
was able to anticipate an attack of such magnitude. Whispers of bits and pieces of the attack leaked through beforehand, as he suspected they would, but any information that leaked out only served to confound and befuddle law enforcement and national security agencies. The bloat of government that was put in place ostensibly to protect the country proved, in the end, to be a key factor in its downfall.
Chapter 9
“Shey’taan! Damn her!” Omar’s usual calm façade was completely shattered. The driver of the truck kept his eyes on the road as Omar pounded on the dashboard, howling with rage. For years he managed to keep himself focused on his task with singular devotion and purpose, but the attack at the building was the first time in years that he had such a large setback. He survived the attack and got away, but that mattered little to him due to the fact that the thorn in his side once again slipped through his fingers.
“She was there! She was there and I had her and now they’re going to be coming after us!” Omar’s scream was guttural and he slammed his palms on the dashboard again, causing the plastic to crack under the force of the blows.
“Sir, they’ll never find us, you know. Even if they left right after we did, the northern safe house is far enough out that they won’t locate us.”
Omar growled as he rubbed his palms, trying to coax some feeling back in amongst the stinging numbness. “Just get us there now. Take every precaution along the way. We’ll switch vehicles up ahead, at the depot, just to be safe.”
“Absolutely, sir.” The driver gulped nervously, glad that his superior was starting to calm down even while fearing another potential outburst. The three men in the back of the truck kept their weapons at the ready as they scanned the area forward, behind and to the sides of the vehicle, all while trying to ignore the shouts and screams from Omar. It had been only on the rarest of occasions that he had shown any emotions, so seeing him fly off the handle merely served to reinforce the notion that things weren’t going as well as they thought.
