Sayed Beghal was an Algerian-born French citizen who had recently traveled abroad as a means of assisting the ISIS sleeper cell operation in the United States. He had been termed “lucky rabbit’s foot” by many of his fellow militants because of his penchant for getting into trouble but escaping punishment through most of his young, adult life. As a charismatic, good-looking young man, he had always been able to blend in with his surroundings despite his radical associations. He had once killed a man at a Paris deli in broad daylight for what he perceived as an insult, and gotten away with it scot-free. For some reason, no witnesses would testify.
In his brief lifetime of petty crime, he had never been caught by the authorities. But as a twenty-five-year-old street hustler in Paris, he felt that his life lacked purpose and direction. He later found both of those after linking up with an ISIS-affiliated sleeper cell. And it wasn’t long before they recruited him to join their crusade against the United States. He relocated and waited for the time to be called.
It was late afternoon, Saturday, July 9—dinnertime for most families in the area. Sayed sat in the passenger seat of one of four white vans parked in a line at a vacant truck stop five miles from the Jonesboro gas plant, concealed among low-hanging branches of ancient oak trees.
The vans were deceptively marked with Homeland Security seals on both sides. In each van were a number of armed militants and two hundred pounds of explosives and chargers. They were planning to take the power plant by force, just one team among many positioned near plants targeted for attack.
Sayed’s driver, a Nigerian named Achebe, turned to him after flicking the butt of his cigarillo out the window. He wore a tan safari hat and dark sunglasses, T-shirt and cargo pants. Sayed was dressed in faded military fatigues with a black ski-mask pulled back and over his head, exposing his chiseled jawline and light facial hair.
“We need to do this before nightfall,” Achebe said.
In his hand, Sayed held a two-way radio. The back of the van was filled with metal carrying cases housing the charges for their demolition plan. A blueprint of the power plant rested on the dashboard in front of Sayed. His AR-15 rifle leaned against the passenger-side door near his leg. The radio played the latest news reports softly as Sayed kept his eyes and ears on their surroundings, trying to ensure that no one approached them at the last minute.
“We have our timeline,” Sayed answered. “The plant security is changing shifts”—Sayed looked at his watch—“in five minutes. That is when we move.”
He grabbed the blueprint from the dashboard and unfolded it, to get another look. In the middle of the large diagram, four generating units were circled in red pen. Once the units were taken out, power to Jonesboro and neighboring towns would be dismantled. At least that was the plan. As Sayed studied the blueprint, the radio announcer continued to provide the latest updates on America’s deep national crisis:
“Residents in the area are encouraged to travel on officially sanctioned roads, as many routes have been blocked off due to high security alerts. Hurricane Francis is gaining steam in the Caribbean and expected to move across Florida into the Gulf of Mexico.
“In addition to the hurricane warning, governors across the Southeast region have already declared a state of emergency due to the terrorist strikes and are expected to receive more federal aid within the next twenty-four hours. FEMA has since established a major presence outside evacuated areas in hopes of dealing with the growing unease and evacuation, ahead of the approaching hurricane.”
Achebe lit another cigarillo and turned down the radio. “If ISIS doesn’t strike soon, this hurricane will be getting all the credit. Is that what we want?”
Sayed kept his eyes on the blueprint, carefully studying it. “Don’t worry, brother. Everything will come together soon enough.”
Achebe scoffed. He was older than Sayed, by at least ten years, and had seen and done things back home that Sayed could only dream of. But there he was, a driver for the little prince, who had gained the favor of the ISIS leader—enough to place him in charge of the entire operation.
“Ah, what do you know?” he said, flicking his ash on the van’s vinyl flooring. “You don’t know the Americans like I do. No amount of slaughter around the world would cause them to look away from their phones and computers. They forget about it the next day. Now that we’re here on their soil, however, they will fight back. This entire operation is moving too slow.”
“Enough!” Sayed cautioned, raising a finger. He looked at his watch. “It’s time…” He folded the blueprint and placed it back on the dashboard.
Achebe turned the ignition and started the engine. Sayed grabbed his radio and called the other militants, telling them to be ready. The line of vans sped off from the vacant lot toward their main destination, leaving a cloud of dust down the empty dirt road they traveled. The Jonesboro plant was less than five minutes away. Guard shifts were soon to change, and everything was going according to plan.
The industrialized plant was far from the college town for which it had been named. There was a heavy police presence patrolling the area outside the tall, barbed-wire fences, and an abundance of security guards at the gate. The level of daily manpower providing security had been deemed adequate by local officials. Even with the port attacks only a state away, an attack on a city the size of Jonesboro seemed unlikely to most residents, even though everyone was still on edge.
Private security guards and plant employees were just showing up for the next shifts. The two main points of entry were heavily manned, from the parking lot booth and gate beam to the entrance into the plant grounds—in addition, there were concrete barricades, yellow concrete pylons, and automated tire-spike traps all along the way.
With the abundance of personnel in and around the area, plus physical barriers and safeguards in place, it seemed unlikely that any terrorist elements could strike the facility, except with a bomb from the sky. The officials had, however, overestimated their defenses. The white vans, in view of the parking lot guards, were barreling down the long narrow road toward the plant, less than a mile away.
From the lead vehicle, Sayed looked through his binoculars. They had gained the attention of the guards at the front gate and the surrounding police vehicles. He lowered the binos and spoke into his radio. “Breach vehicle to the front. Now.”
The fourth van in line pulled up and to the side of the other vans, accelerating in a kind of fury. Affixed to the front grille was a metal battering ram composed of several vertically positioned beams. It soon took the lead as the convoy raced ahead, arousing the suspicion of the authorities. The Homeland Security decals were a strange enough sight, and the repeated calls to stop from a police megaphone went unanswered. Sayed watched as the police cruisers sped to the front gate, providing a barricade.
“Keep your current speed,” Sayed instructed over the radio.
Achebe gripped the steering wheel, trying to maintain a steady line as his van reached seventy miles an hour. Shots suddenly rang out. The police were shooting at them, though most of the shots just ricocheted off the lead van, striking its bullet-proof windshield. A loud and thunderous crash followed as the van split between the police cruisers, tossing the battered vehicles to the side.
The first van pushed on, nearing the front gate as the guards assembled in haste to fire their weapons at the incoming vehicles, unstoppable and determined. Some of the braver guards stood directly in the van’s path, firing one loud blast after another. They jumped out of the way just as the van crashed through the large, reflective arm of the gate at top speed.
Calls for backup were frantically made over the radio just as the last van stormed through, its occupants tossing out several round objects that clinked on the ground and rolled toward the guard shack: grenades—over ten of them. The explosions that followed set the parking lot entrance aflame, throwing bodies into the air, severing limbs, and killing anyone within range.
A horde of security guards and police ran to th
e second security point, leading to the plant entrance where the four main generators were located. “Keep moving!” Sayed shouted into his radio, as a hail of gunfire descended on the first van.
They had to slow the convoy and swerve around all the concrete barricades—too large and thick for even a line of vans to charge through. The shots kept coming from all sides. A bullet struck the window next to Achebe’s head, causing him to duck. The impact did little more than create a spider web on the bullet-proof surface of the glass.
“Watch the road!” Sayed shouted to him.
It was now kill or be killed. Achebe stroked the thick padding of the flak vest underneath his shirt, providing him some comfort. He had fought in militias in his youth and knew how one foolish mistake could get a man killed in combat.
Each van had a small sunroof that promptly opened now to reveal masked, armed militants with bi-pod machine guns aimed at the building’s roof. The masked men quickly fired back at the guards, riddling them with bullets.
One gunman took a bullet to the head and fell back through the hole as they pressed forward to the entrance gate of the plant. One of the guards quickly activated the tire spikes. The first van veered away from the spikes toward the guard booth and crashed into the aluminum structure, crushing three men inside. Achebe slammed on his brakes in front of the tire spikes as their convoy came to a halt.
Sayed clutched his radio after nearly slamming head-first into the dashboard and shouted into his radio, “Gunners to their hatches! First vehicle move out.”
His team quickly responded. Two gunners popped up from the sunroofs in the vans behind him and swept the surrounding area in a hail of bullets, hitting anything in their paths. Their machine guns rattled as shells rolled down the windshield and the bodies of guards and police collapsed onto the ground. Taking cover, many officers returned fire but couldn’t do much damage to any of the vans. Another militant took a shot to the head and fell back down into the van. Sayed and Achebe remained in their van as shots rang out all around them.
Suddenly, masked gunmen stormed out from all sides of the first van, which had crashed into the guard shack, smoke rising from its battered hood. Some men took concealed positions and laid down suppressing fire on the remaining police to keep them at bay while a small team of militants pulled a large metal ramp from the van and laid it over the tire spikes.
An alarm sounded from the power plant, growing louder by the minute. The militants moved quickly and with confidence. The entire operation had been planned to take no longer than five minutes.
Once the ramp was placed, Achebe floored the van full speed ahead, as the others followed, still firing at a group of police officers who had found cover behind their bullet-riddled vehicles.
“Keep firing!” Sayed ordered as they drove through the gate and closer to the four main generators, which were then in sight, enclosed behind yet another fence.
Achebe quickly jerked the wheel and sped toward the fence’s gate, bracing himself as they crashed through, splitting the gate open. Gunfire rang out as the emergency sirens continued to wail.
All teams quickly assembled outside their vans and began pulling out their explosives, casings and charges in a quick and orderly fashion. Each casing contained over twenty-five pounds of TNT. They had thirty in all and positioned them around the generators—each one about half the size of a silo.
Wiring was run from the casings to time-charges set out in a precise, pre-planned pattern. Everything seemed to be in place, and there wasn’t much time left. From afar, the gunfire stopped and Sayed hoped it meant that all opposition had been eliminated.
“Back in the vans, now!” he ordered. The militants scrambled to finish placing the last charges and set their timers accordingly. “We have one minute. Move!” He ran back to the van to find Achebe leaning against the door smoking. He scowled in anger and disbelief.
“What are you doing? Does this look like the time to be taking a break?”
Achebe smiled. “Calm down, little one. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
Sayed waved him off. “Just get in the van and drive. They’ll be sending others at any moment.”
After everyone rushed back into the vans, their engines roared and they backed up, nearly hitting a small, unmarked building that housed circuit breakers and maintenance equipment. Sayed jumped in his seat as Achebe drove off, back the way they had come in. Two militants were waiting outside the plant entrance, hunkered down behind a concrete barrier.
The first van slowed, and they jumped in. Bodies of both militants and police lay on the ground in pools of blood. There was no sign of police or security anywhere. Perhaps they had all been killed.
As the vans raced away from the power plant, back down the long, narrow, broken-pavement road, Sayed felt satisfied with their mission. He looked in his side-view mirror just as a large explosion went off far in the distance: a ball of fury that lit up the sky red. The van rattled and shook as the ground tremored. Sayed let out a large breath of relief. Cheering erupted over his handheld radio from the other men. It was only the first of many power plant attacks occurring at the same time.
The War Room
An hour before the first plant explosion, Craig was led into the operations room with Ma’mun’s laptop. Under the low ceiling of the brightly-lit room was a large oval table surrounded by officials heatedly discussing the latest updates.
Others wearing headsets manned several work stations where they were directing agencies like air traffic controllers. Along the wall near the table were flat-screen televisions displaying graphs, figures, and charts, one displaying various news reports, and another showing a three-dimensional map of the United States—indicating areas undergoing evacuation, potential high-risk targets, and other color-coded data. The mesh of different colors made it hard to focus on anything except the red areas, those with the highest recorded casualties.
The group gathered in the secret operations room comprised high-ranking officials from the FBI to Homeland Security. Pentagon officials and the joint chiefs were nowhere to be seen, nor was the president or any of his staff. That was until Secretary of State Jamie Kessler, the young, newly-appointed secretary, waltzed into the room across the spotless white-tiled floor, followed by a sizable entourage.
“Son of…” Calderon began quietly. “What the hell is the State Department doing here?”
“Did high school just get out? I didn’t hear the bell,” Walker said back to him, jokingly. They both shared a laugh. Craig stood to the side as Secretary Kessler attempted to speak over the clamor.
“Everyone, if I could have your attention please!”
The room gradually quieted as conversations died down, phone calls were put on hold, and tired-looking officials with rolled-up sleeves and blank faces stopped what they were doing. At thirty-three, Kessler had moved up the ranks fast—some would argue too fast. Most of the officials in the room were twice his age. Craig wasn’t sure what to think about him. It would depend on if, and how, Kessler got in his way.
“Yes, hello everyone,” the secretary continued. “I don’t mean to interrupt your very important work, but we have some urgent news from the White House, and we all need to be on the same page.”
Only the faint sound of the television news played in the background.
“Outside the State Department, I’ve heard some things about possible military strikes in place in ISIS hotspots all throughout the Iraq and Syria,” Kessler began. “What I need is to ensure that our diplomatic relations with Middle Eastern countries stay strong, despite the talk of military action.”
The talk of war had everyone’s immediate attention. They had all been thinking it for the past forty-eight hours, but it was the first time a public official had confirmed that an offensive was in the works.
“To keep this delicate balance, the president requested I spend time in the bunker identifying the members, the nationalities and roles of these suspected sleeper cells. It’s my unde
rstanding that we have some suspects in custody.”
A young woman at Kessler’s side, wearing large glasses and an air of importance, suddenly whispered into his ear. Kessler leaned down to hear her and nodded. “I see…” he said quietly. He then looked up at the crowd. “Correction, we have one in custody. We need him talking, I don’t know how much more I can stress that. The CIA is expected on-site soon to interrogate him.”
Craig suddenly stepped forward to speak, when Walker grabbed his arm and shook his head in disapproval. “Not this again,” Craig whispered. “He’s my suspect. The man tried to kill my family and I refuse to hand him over to—”
Walker shushed him as Kessler continued.
“So what’s the latest?” He held out his hands, annoyed at the lack of response. “Well? Whatta we got, people? Don’t tell me I flew all this way just so we can stand here and stare at each other.”
The FBI Director, Kurt McMillian, stood up from the oval table. “Mr. Secretary, as you know, we’ve been chasing sleeper-cell teams at large. One of our agents was captured by an ISIS faction, and miraculously escaped.”
“Where is this agent?” Kessler demanded.
Walker and Calderon looked at Craig, and all other eyes turned in his direction. Rumors involving a rogue agent who had infiltrated the highest levels of the sleeper cells had flown only hours ago. They looked at the bruised-faced, disheveled, thirty-six-year-old man before them in near awe.
Craig took a step forward. “Right here, Mr. Secretary. Special Agent Davis.”
Kessler studied him, sizing him up. “Ah, yes. Agent Davis. Homeland Security had some choice words about you.”
“That’s the least of my concern right now, sir.”
Walker and Kessler looked at each other nervously, then back to Craig as Kessler continued to probe him.
Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Page 78
