Rise of the Liberators (Terrafide Book 1)

by Ryan Hyatt

  “It’s terrorism,” Ray said. “Must be.”

  Ray’s mother and father ignored him. Perhaps his parents were in denial, but Ray wasn’t, and the second plane collision into the second tower confirmed his suspicions. Two planes crashing into two buildings side by side had to be deliberate.

  Both towers crumpled, and a plume of smoke blanketed downtown New York City. News cameras showed people, confused and disoriented, running from a cloud of dust and darkness, running for their lives. To Ray, it seemed so strange, so terrifying, and so meaningless. Why would someone do such a thing? It made no sense.

  Within hours the face of America’s enemy appeared on TV sets around the nation. His name was Osama bin Laden. He was head of a terrorist organization called Al-Qaeda which was being harbored in the country of Afghanistan. Within weeks, a full scale invasion of that remote mountain nation was underway.

  It took almost ten years until Osama bin Laden was brought to justice, but America’s involvement in other countries has continued ever since. Usually the wars against these foreign entities were waged in the name of national security, but as time passed this objective became clearer.

  As Ray sat on his couch, he watched the senator’s lips move on the Telenet, and he was reminded of the buildup of rhetoric that followed the 2001 invasion of Afghanistan and led to the 2003 invasion of Iraq, which had the world’s fifth largest oil reserves. The president of the United States at that time pressed hard for such action, and to a largely convinced public. He claimed the Iraqi government was tied to the Twin Towers’ destruction, and that its ruler, a ruthless tyrant by the name of Saddam, harbored weapons of mass destruction to be unleashed on America or its allies at any time. Polls at the time showed a large segment of the population believed the president and supported war in Iraq, and the plan moved forward.

  In exchange for regime change, the president promised both America and the world freedom and prosperity for Iraq’s oppressed people, a hope that by 2022 was still to be realized. Ray recalled how some people of that era, including his own parents, suspected the president’s arguments were a ruse to cover a more clandestine purpose. In other words, the unspoken goal for war in Iraq was to secure oil for the United States, or at least to prevent rival nations from securing it.

  The reality, of course, was that few, save the president and his advisers, really knew why he did what he did, although no weapons of mass destruction capable of harming the United States were found. On the surface, the Iraq war seemed in hindsight to have been a case of brash American foolishness, Ray thought, yet the military was called, the military answered, and Iraq remained a troubled shithole decades later, despite the president’s optimistic forecast.

  The objective of such rhetoric became more obvious to Ray years later as an adult. If the United States was to invade Iran, it wouldn’t be to foster peace, brotherly love and understanding in the Middle East. Senator Torres and his ilk didn’t mince words this time around: an invasion of Iran was going to be about oil, plain and simple. Iran had it, and the United States wanted it. The fact such a move might help stabilize the Middle East was a bonus that played well into the national narrative, but it wasn’t even the official reason for the proposed American military intervention.

  While the senator’s tough talk elicited enthusiasm from his fellow policymakers within the Senate Chamber, Torres seemed to be aware of America’s weak position in leading another adventure into the Middle East. Thus, it was only after alluding to a new secret weapon, Ray noticed, that the senator’s saber-rattling sufficiently roused his fellow policymakers and emboldened them to embrace his agenda.

  “Many have doubted this nation’s ability to open up another war front, with the United States already meeting many challenges in South America, Europe and Africa, as well as in the Middle East, but it is my understanding that our military, having anticipated this need to become a more dynamic global presence, has informed me that it has developed a new weapon that may be used to help our nation cheaply and safely secure resources for our economy and our future,” Senator Torres said. “This new weapon will save taxpayers trillions of dollars as well as spare the lives of countless service men and women who volunteer in our armed forces. The time has come to prove to the enemies of freedom that they have every reason to fear us, once and for all.”

  A standing ovation followed the senator’s final remark, and the news broadcast quickly switched to a panel of experts who began to interpret the senator’s ominous prognostications.

  Ray switched the TV channel to the Internet and searched online for specific information about the ‘new weapon’ the senator alluded to in his speech. Ray didn’t need to search long. A video clip already was going viral, which showed the ‘super soldier’ in action. Ray recognized the giant mysterious humanoid displayed on his Telenet screen. The white designation of initials ‘M.B. 1’ on the beast’s right and left shoulder blades meant the super soldier hovering over a local desert training facility was none other than Ray’s Liberator. Ray watched, amused, as he successfully pulled off a sweep, high caliber fire systematically destroying numerous unseen targets within the Generic Motors proving grounds.

  The footage appeared to be recorded by an amateur off site. Ray’s first hunch was that it might have been taken by the spook he encountered.

  And it’s all about oil, Ray thought. My livelihood I owe to oil. My family’s health and way of life I owe to oil, and if I die this coming year, I will likely owe that to oil, too.

  Ray’s thoughts were interrupted by a phone call.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Well, did you get the memo?” the Colonel said.

  “We’re heading to Iran?” Ray said.

  “Damn right!” Ray’s boss barked back. “How about that?”

  “Great, I guess,” Ray said.

  “You guess?” the Colonel said. “Where you’re going, you’ll have to do better than that! How about my camera work? Not bad, hey, for an aspiring filmmaker?”

  “It was riveting,” Ray said.

  “Now you’re talking!”

  So if the Colonel took the footage and not the teenager Ray spotted outside the proving grounds, Ray was even more curious who the spook was.

  “Colonel, I think we have a situation brewing …”

  “You’re damn right we have a situation brewing!” the Colonel said. “The flies in Washington are abuzz. As more leaked footage of the Liberator in action starts to work its way around the Telenet, the Chinese and Russians are going to piss their pants! I told you I’d take care of our funding problems, and I have! Now it’s your turn, Captain. See you in hell – I mean Iran!”

  CHAPTER 8

  The following morning, Ray noticed as he arrived for work a group of spectators gathered outside the main gate of the Generic Motors proving grounds. With so many unemployed citizens with nothing better to do, it seemed, the improvised rally struck Ray, in a way, like a rally to support lost hopes and dreams. How long had it been since Ray saw members of his community gathered together for a reason other than a funeral? The Arizona native, husband and father could not recall.

  The crowd was similar in demographic to those Ray encountered at air shows he attended as a child. There were senior citizens from the local veterans clubs wearing mismatched shorts, shirts and baseball caps, sitting in lawn chairs and sipping coffee from thermoses. There were fathers towing around their kids, smiling and pointing at Ray in his pickup truck. An enterprising Latino wearing an apron sold churros and ice cold drinks from a portable food stand. Even reporters and cameramen from the local news stations were present. One tearful mother raised a sign to Ray’s windshield that read, “SUPER SOLDIER, BRING HOME MY G.I. JOE!”

  Ray smiled and waved as he approached the security checkpoint, and his tacit acknowledgement of the crowd’s support was reciprocated with whistles and applause. However, not all of those who came were happy to see Ray. There were protestors cordoned off by police away from the spectators who
bore signs. One read, “NO MORE BLOOD FOR OIL.” However, the sign Ray found to be the most endearing and prophetic read, “CRUDE OIL IS A CRUDE JOKE ON A DYING WORLD.”

  Remind me to buy an electric car when I return from Iran and have enough money saved to afford one, Ray thought. Until then, leave me the fuck alone.

  Inside the hangar locker room, Ray found his unit suiting up for drills. They seemed touched by the fanfare and in good spirits, except for Mustafa, more withdrawn than ever.

  Ray briefed them on their assignment and dismissed them for action. He watched from the hangar as his men boarded their Liberators and marched, one after another, onto the proving grounds. A loud cacophony of clapping hands followed from the gate, a half-mile away, and it sounded like gun fire. Ray glanced that direction and noticed that over the past hour the congregation of spectators swelled from several dozen to several hundred. The crowd fanned along the perimeter of the entrance to the proving grounds, working its way along the chain-link fence to small hills that provided better views.

  Ray was concerned about a security breach. He made a phone call.

  The Colonel answered and said, “Even as I speak, multitudes of Americans are gathered outside military installations in Denver and Phoenix and Seattle, as if to witness a miracle, but these men and women are the real miracle, a choir of citizens singing the sweet praises of liberty and patriotism, regaining lost hopes and dreams for themselves, their loved ones, and their nation’s future …”

  Ray waited politely until the Colonel finished his speech.

  “What do you think of the remarks I plan on giving at today’s press conference?” the Colonel said to Ray.

  “Makes me wonder why poetry isn’t your day job at a place called the Department of Peace,” Ray said.

  The Colonel laughed and said, “Damn, you’re good!”

  “Not as good as you,” Ray said. “If I could bullshit as well as you do, you’d probably be working for me, and not the other way around.”

  “Fair enough,” the Colonel said. “I’m glad someone can appreciate my sensitive side. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to speak to you about some of the personnel who’ve been chosen for my unit …”

  “Speak.”

  “I was thinking face to face,” Ray said.

  “I see,” the Colonel said. “You want a private conversation. Well, I guess it’s still the most secure channel of communication. I’ll be in town the end of next week. Can it wait until then?”

  “I guess it will have to, sir.”

  “Okay, see you then.”

  After disconnecting with the Colonel, Ray boarded his Liberator and joined his unit on the field, trying to ignore the onlookers spread along the proving grounds. ACE at first again misidentified the pointing cameras as targets, but managed to self-correct the glitch in its artificial intelligence system. Even so, Ray decided not to conduct live exercises while the public was present as a precautionary measure. His unit ran through its drills, minus bullets and missiles.

  Eventually some thrill-seekers dispersed, perhaps due to the heat as well as the lack of explosions or other special effects they might have anticipated, but their attrition was not sufficient as far as Ray was concerned. There were still more than one hundred spectators scattered around the proving grounds, and Ray figured he felt like the Colonel often claimed he did, annoyed with the pests who were interfering with his job. How long this spectacle would be allowed to last, Ray didn’t know, but he was sure the timetable was limited. This wasn’t an air show, after all. His crew had serious work to do. They were preparing for an invasion.

  Ray’s unit conducted Liberator training exercises until noon and then retreated to the Indigenous plant after lunch for the usual briefings and workouts. Fortunately, no members of the public managed to greet Ray and his crew outside the Rocket & Gamble facility.

  On his way home from work, Ray received a call from Dee. Apparently his wife had been trolling Tom’s List, a popular web site where used goods and services were bought and sold, and she found a man that appeared to be offering her stolen car seat and stroller and other items parents needed. Pretending to be a random buyer, Dee inquired about the items that interested her. After a few emails and a brief phone conversation, the seller, who identified himself as Ed, invited Dee to his home to purchase them. Dee told him she was pregnant and on bed rest, but her husband would probably drop by after work to pick them up.

  “I wasn’t sure I was going to tell you,” Dee said to Ray over the phone, “but when I thought about that creep stealing from other families … well, here’s the address.”

  Ray popped the coordinates into his phone. The house was a little out of the way, but to Ray the errand was worth it. He arrived at a subdivision not unlike the one where he lived or any other for that matter in the Phoenix metro area. Pulling up to a beige two-story stucco home, Ray noticed one significant difference, however, that distinguished this home from the rest, which most passersby might not have realized. The red lettering on the for-sale sign had been tampered with. “GOODWILL REALTY” had been changed to “GOODIES RETAIL,” but bore the same company motto: “INQUIRE WITHIN FOR A GREAT DEAL!”

  Presumably Ed the thief set up shop in a house he used as a business and probably occupied illegally, Ray thought. What a guy. Ray parked his pickup next to the for-sale sign. From his glove box, he withdrew a Beretta. He stepped outside, holstered his gun and walked to the doorstep. Ding dong. A Chihuahua yapped within. It was a harmless sound that triggered an awful image. Ray imagined Ed with a wife and child, downtrodden squatters selling a spread of stolen merchandise on a blanket in a living room, a family’s sad effort to survive.

  The door cracked open, and peering from inside was a Latino male in his early twenties wearing a Phoenix Stars basketball cap, sporting a goatee, with a gold chain dangling over his sports jersey.

  “I’m here for the baby stuff,” Ray said.

  “Your wife didn’t say you were a military man,” Ed said, eyebrows raised.

  “I’m not in the military,” Ray said in Spanish. “This is my costume for a Halloween party I’m going to tonight. How does it look?”

  Ray saluted him.

  “All right, mister,” Ed said in English, and he opened the door wide. “Whatever you say. Come inside and see what I got.”

  Ray followed Ed into the house.

  The first thing Ray noticed was the smoke. Ed wasn’t alone. As they walked through an open hallway toward the living room, Ray smelled a strong odor. It wasn’t tobacco or marijuana. It was something else, something rancid, something worse. Ray glanced up and saw a cloudy trail emanating from an upstairs door that was ajar, from where he heard a man’s muffled cough.

  The second thing Ray noticed was Ed’s tattoos, or, to be more precise, his efforts to conceal them. Ed wore a black turtleneck long-sleeved shirt and leggings under his jersey and shorts, likely to cover the ink on his arms, chest and legs. The tattoos might have revealed Ed’s gang affiliations or crimes he’d committed or the length of time he’d spent in prison. Regardless, the specific meaning of such insignias was likely to be lost on most hapless suburbanites traipsing by for a ‘great deal,’ including Ray, but it might scare them away if they were revealed. At least Ed had enough sense to hide the marks on his body from his potential customers.

  The third thing Ray noticed were the ‘goodies.’ The living room walls were lined with items parents needed for their offspring, arranged by brand, quality and price. They included car seats, strollers, high chairs, play pens, bags, toys and clothes. The mini emporium even offered breast pumps.

  There was a card table and folding chair in the corner. On the table was a keyboard and screen, large enough for Ed to sit and watch his favorite basketball team as he lured customers online to drop by and purchase his stolen wares.

  “Nice set up,” Ray said.

  “Thanks, mister,” Ed said, and he took a seat, and his attention returned back to his game.
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  A round of cheers came from the screen. The Stars just scored. Ed, with his eyes still on the game, waved offhandedly at the merchandise.

  “See anything you like, just take it,” he said.

  “Thanks, will do.”

  Ray did see something he liked: Sara’s car seat and stroller. They had matching red lining, which made them rarities among the items for sale. Most kid’s accessories were either pink or blue.

  Ray withdrew his Beretta and pointed it, not at Ed, but at the door that was ajar upstairs.

  “I came here thinking you might be down on your luck,” Ray said. “If that were the case, I might have felt sorry for you and shown you some mercy. Seeing that you’re just some low life assholes smoking god-knows-what … well, that changes things.”

  Ray heard a gun cock upstairs. Ed didn’t move, but he was attentive to his customer again, eyes no longer on the game. His hands were raised, his gaze fixed on the Beretta pointed upstairs.

  “Tell your friend up there he better not try anything stupid, or I’ll shoot both your heads off, starting with his.”

  “You don’t know who you’re messing with, esse,” Ed said.

  “Oh, I think I do,” Ray said, eyes still upstairs. “I’m a third generation Mexican American. I learned Spanish in school, not at home, and I hate shitheads like you. You give hard-working Latinos a bad name.”

  A crop of hair flashed past the door. Ray fired. There was a thud against the balcony. A tuft of hair floated to the floor. Ray knew the man wasn’t dead, because Ray missed on purpose.

  Ed ducked under the table. Ray remained where he stood, ready to fire again.

  “You pull another trick like that, amigo, and you’re going to lose more than your hair,” Ray said to the man hiding behind the balcony. “Now put your gun up in the air where I can see it.”

  No response.

  “Raul, this guy isn’t fuckin’ around!” Ed said. “I think he’s crazy! Do whatever he say!”

  The muzzle of an Uzi poked out from the banister, and Raul stood, glaring down at Ray, hands raised. He had a bushy set of black hair, with a patch at the top missing. He wore a white button shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and was clearly the professional of the two.