by Roger Hayden
That afternoon, Omar was in a secret meeting room below the factory production floor discussing the coming launch of phase three. Fifty thousand bottles were palletized and ready to go, and they were close to finishing their first mass shipment of VX-tainted water. Their overall goal was to distribute ten million bottles nationally. The shipments would be making it to the several different emergency centers, and once the initial fatalities began, ISIS counted on the source being discovered. Their goal wasn’t mass casualties, but to spread more panic and fear. And they would increase production from there.
Omar Allawi was very close. Surrounded by a team of high-ranking men, including his most trusted guards, Usaamah and Hamid, he began their meeting. As pleased as he was with the success of phase two, taking over the president’s address, and the nearing of phase three, something else was eating away at him—an unresolved issue involving an American FBI agent.
“I have heard nothing from Ghazi and the others. Nothing from the team watching the FBI agent’s house. Nothing about Ma’mun’s laptop.”
Omar’s voice was calm, as always, but the men around the table noticed his tone rising in anger just before he slammed his fist on the table, startling everyone.
“This is unacceptable!” He paused for a moment, looking around the room. “How is it that we can bring the government of this country to its knees, but we can’t find one man and his family and slaughter them like the pigs they are? Someone tell me, please.”
No one wanted to answer. Fareed, the eldest in the group, and one of the few who did not fear Omar, decided to interject.
“My Commander, if you will. We’ve seen much success so far, but we still have a way to go in establishing our caliphate. Can you see how the endless pursuit of this man could, in fact, distract us from our ultimate goal?”
Omar stared at Fareed, thinking. He crossed his arms and nodded. “Old Fareed, the voice of reason in troubling times. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He then signaled to Hamid, the bigger of his two guards. Hamid walked behind Fareed, grabbed his arm and pulled it back.
“Hey!” Fareed said, struggling.
In quick, violent jerks, Hamid twisted his arm and snapped it. Fareed screamed out in pain as his arm broke in several places in a series of pops. Hamid slammed Fareed’s twisted arm onto the table, pulled a long knife from his side, and slashed his palm open. Fareed screamed as blood poured out of the cut onto the table. Hamid pushed Fareed and walked back to where he had been standing in the corner.
The room remained quiet amidst Fareed’s wailing cries. The old man hunched over, clutching his crippled arm. Omar observed him without pity and simply tossed a rag to him. Fareed took the rag and tied it around his fresh, deep wound. He said no more to Omar or anyone else. As he rose from his chair Omar demanded that he stay.
“We’re not done yet.”
Fareed slid back in his chair whimpering like a wounded animal.
Omar looked around the table again upon the stoic faces of his men.
“I welcome constructive criticism, but what I will not condone is ignorance. Finding the FBI agent is every bit as important as anything else. He has Ma’mun’s laptop, which means he has our plans. The military could be on its way here as we speak. Why am I the only one to see this? I want production increased and streamlined. I want our chemicals used to the last drop. And I want mass shipment of our product to commence immediately. Once this happens, we will abandon this factory and reduce it to ash in an explosion that this city will never forget.”
Omar leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “Are we all on the same page now?”
The room erupted in agreement as clapping followed.
“Allahu Akbar!” one man shouted, standing up.
The group shouted out in unison.
Omar slowly rose from his chair as the room quieted. “We are soldiers in Allah’s army. Every one of us. Now is the time to embrace your destiny. And our time is fleeting. Move out!”
The eighteen-hour drive had been long and tiring, but Craig and his team managed to make it to Nebraska in under a day. By Monday afternoon he was driving through Lincoln in a white FBI van with both Thomas and Keagan, whom he had convinced to join the cause.
They had left the DC bunker on a supposed fact-finding mission, and Craig was able to get Ma’mun’s laptop without too much difficulty. The operations rooms had turned into a center of disarray. The president’s cabinet had expressed interest in the findings of the water plant, but was tied up dealing with other leads and threats. Military force against ISIS had not been authorized yet. Emergency services along the Gulf Coast were preparing for a hurricane to hit the gulf within the next day or two. And the wall-to-wall coverage of the terrorist attacks had nearly brought the country to a halt.
Before leaving DC, Patterson had explained to Thomas and Keagan the importance of accompanying Craig. They all knew the possibility of the mission failing, of them dying, or, at best, losing their badges, but they were certain the survival of the country was at stake.
The plan made sense: stop the terrorists before they unleashed another devastating blow. And since air travel had been shut down, they had even less time to mobilize. They were supposed to meet the mercenary team on the outskirts of Lincoln, near the Hudson Valley Water plant, but not too close to bring attention to themselves. It was a risky gamble—all of it—but Craig felt it to be their only choice.
Rachael and Nick knew none of what he was doing. He had arranged a temporary room for them to stay within the government bunker. His superiors, Walker and Calderon, were told of a local investigation to round up more sleeper cell suspects for interrogation. They were suspicious of Craig’s intentions, but too preoccupied to object.
When everything was in place, Craig left with the only two agents he trusted, just enough time before Homeland or the CIA could discover the beating they’d given of Ghazi and the plan to infiltrate the water plant. Patterson went back to the hospital with Kathleen but stayed in contact with Craig through a pair of secure satellite phones they “borrowed” from the FBI.
Under the nearly cloudless blue sky, Thomas drove the van up a hill in a shady, wooded area where they were supposed to meet the rest of their team. They had all heard of the “Patriot Riders” before, but weren’t sure of the militia group’s strength. In the past, the FBI had monitored hundreds of similar groups who the feds monitored due to their “subversive and anti-government views.”
The Patriot Riders were among the most notorious on the government’s list. What did they want? Their mission statement described them as a “reactionary military force, organized and trained to respond to immediate threats to the United States of America in a capable, timely manner.” Craig had heard of them and only hoped they were ready for a dangerous and difficult assault on the water plant.
“Is this the place?” Thomas asked, circling the top of the hill overlooking much of the area.
Holding a map of the area, Craig looked down and ran a finger across their route. “Looks about right?”
Keagan called out from the back. He was holding his phone up. “Coordinates match my GPS.”
Craig turned his head. “I wouldn’t put your absolute trust in that. Cell phone towers have been going haywire the past few days.”
Thomas laughed and then looked at Keagan in the rearview mirror. “What Agent Davis doesn’t want to tell you is that he keeps his cell phone off so he wife doesn’t call and bitch him out.”
“Wrong, Agent Thomas,” Craig said. “First of all, it’s my wife’s phone. Second, I’m only turning it on for emergencies.”
Thomas found a spot under a tree and rolled the van to a stop. “But you know as well as I do that the FBI is going to start calling us soon. Once they speak to Ghazi.”
Keagan quietly shut off his cell phone. He didn’t want to deal with an agency meltdown. It was best to ignore them and keep pushing forward.
“I expect them to find out,” Craig said. �
��But when they do, we’ll have this plant under control and all their chemicals seized. The bureau can thank us later.”
“I knew you were crazy, Davis. I just didn’t think I’d be the one going along with it,” Thomas said.
After he put the van into park and turned off the engine, they waited. The tree branches around them moved gently in a slight breeze. Everything was quiet and undisturbed, and it was hard to believe that only a few miles away there was a water plant where people were in the preparation of delivering nerve agents to an unsuspecting population. Craig looked at his watch then at the map again.
He ran the terrorist timeline through his head. They had launched the port attacks on the seventh of July—a Thursday. The power plant attacks followed, two days later, the evening of July ninth—a Saturday. ISIS was using a slow-burn, trickle-down method in spreading its terror. It was Monday the eleventh, two days after phase two, and there wasn’t much time left of the day. It was now or never.
The back of the van was stockpiled with rifles, grenade launchers, ammunition, vests, helmets, and anything else they could get their hands on. Once the militia arrived, Craig was ready to storm the water plant by any means necessary. He could feel Omar’s presence, and was certain that the battle ahead would be difficult… and dangerous.
“Where are these guys?” Keagan asked, with a hint of uncertainty to his voice.
Thomas glanced in the rearview mirror again. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”
“I don’t know,” Keagan said, shaking his head. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Thomas looked frustrated. “Just keep it together, Agent Keagan. We need you on this.” He stroked his mustache with one hand while looking out the driver-side mirror for any signs of their expected arrivals.
Growing impatient, Craig pulled out his satellite phone to dial Patterson. After talking to most of the Patriot Riders, they had agreed to arrive at the disclosed meeting place by 4:00 p.m.
“I guess they’re not that big on punctuality,” Thomas said, tossing a pistachio into his mouth.
The phone rang and rang, before Patterson finally picked it up on the other end. “Yeah.”
“We made it,” Craig said. “Where are these guys? It’s past four now.”
“Relax, they’ll be there soon. Patriot Riders don’t mess around.”
“So you say. But in a few minutes, I have to take action. Omar could be making the shipments as we speak. Speaking of which, did you alert FEMA?”
“Yes, I did,” Patterson said. “The FBI issued an alert about possible bottled water contamination to all the other agencies. Every shipment coming in is being tested for toxic substances.”
“Good. But if they’re not here within the next five minutes…” Craig paused as he heard engines coming up the hill.
“Craig? You there? What is it?” Patterson asked.
He glanced in his mirror and then turned around. Keagan shrugged. Thomas opened his door slowly. The sound was getting louder—multiple engines coming up the hill.
Craig continued. “I was saying, if they’re not here, I’m going to have to call this one in. Tell headquarters everything.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Patterson said. “Just promise me that you’ll watch your back out there, and stay low to the ground.”
Craig hopped out and could see a line of motorcycles, cars and trucks approaching, kicking up a thick trail of dust on the dirt road.
“I gotta go, Patterson. We’ll be fine. You get better. I’ll let you know as soon as we stop this thing.” He hung up the phone as Keagan and Thomas exited the van and met up at the rear.
“Looks like we have company,” Thomas said. He opened the back of the van where their gear and weapons were stacked.
Craig looked out along the bumpy dirt road at the approaching convoy. There were ten motorcyclists—all Harleys, five cars of various models, and three trucks—all American made.
The leading motorcycles drove up the hill and circled around with their engines booming. For insurance, Thomas pulled out a rifle and took cover on the other side of the van as Keagan followed. Craig remained where he stood and held his hand in front of his face to block the dust. The group was heavily armed, and strapped with belts of ammo over their shoulders. They varied in age from thirties to late-forties, many with bushy, gray beards, bandanas and sunglasses.
They looked reasonably fit and ready to go. Craig noticed the array of black POW/MIA shirts, “Don’t tread on me” jackets, and small American flags affixed to their bikes and cars. They were the very men the federal government was often suspicious of. They were classified as “subversives, radicals, and extremists” in many reports he had read in the past. But none of that mattered at the moment. All Craig cared about was if they were brave and if they could shoot.
One of the men hopped off his bike after parking it and walked right over to Craig with his hand extended. He was tall and stocky and had a goatee. He wore a leather vest with a number of pins attached, blue jeans, and boots. His bandana had a bald eagle on it.
“Hi. Name’s Hank Edmonson,” he said extending his hand to Craig. “And I’m here to kick some ass.” He laughed wholeheartedly at his own joke.
Craig waved the dust out of his face, coughed, and greeted him. He remembered speaking with him on the phone. Hank was the president of his chapter of “Patriots” from St. Louis, Missouri, reminding Craig as they shook hands.
“Retired sergeant first class, twenty-five years infantry. Lot of these guys are vets just like me,” he continued.
“Wonderful,” Craig said. “Can’t thank you enough for coming.”
More vehicles drove up the hill: a Jeep and recreational camper. And for Craig, it was a grand relief to see their numbers growing.
Hank rocked back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Tattoos covered both of his bulky arms. “When I heard these terrorists scumbags were trying something like this so close to my home state, I told my guys we had to take action.”
Thomas and Keagan came around the other side of the van to join the huddle. The dirt lot soon became filled with cars and bikes, most of them with out-of-state license plates, but some from within the area.
When everyone had parked and gotten out of their vehicles to stretch, Craig counted thirty-five men. Perhaps just enough to take on Omar’s water plant. Their battle attire varied. Some wore old green military combat uniforms and bandanas tied around their foreheads like head bands, others wore tan combat uniforms, while some simply wore civilian attire under protective vests and helmets.
Everyone was armed with at least one weapon. Some had two. There was a variety of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and machine guns. Some even had silencers on their rifles. Everyone looked prepared and ready, and Craig hadn’t even gotten to the full details of the operation yet.
Leaders of other chapters introduced themselves to Craig. There was Louis from the San Diego group. Karl from the Texas bunch—which had the most numbers. Alberto, from the Arizona chapter. James from Georgia, Tank from Utah, Terrance from Tennessee, and Bruce from the state of Nebraska. Some of them knew one another.
They boasted of their desire to see some action. Most of them were military veterans, and they knew, even without Craig having to explain, the severity of the cause and the job they had to do. ISIS was nearing the beginning of its third phase, and Craig didn’t have any idea what was to come after that. Whatever it was, he was sure ISIS wouldn’t stop killing Americans.
After introductions and a brief on the mission at hand, the thirty-four Patriot Riders locked-in their magazines, and hastily guzzled water from their canteens. Excitement and anticipation were in the air, along with an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. Craig didn’t have to say much to rile them up. He only needed to lay out their battle plan.
Craig donned his flak vest while tying a protective mask carrier around his waist. He had warned the Patriot Riders of the dangerous chemicals ISIS possessed, and most had brou
ght some kind of protection—even if only a surgical mask. He put on a black SWAT helmet that was a tad too big, but better than nothing. Craig strapped his pistol to his side and did a function check on his M4 carbine rifle. Thomas and Keagan met up with him, armed to the teeth and dressed up for combat.
“We finally ready to do this?” Thomas asked.
Craig looked at his watch. It was 4:35.
“Ready when you are,” Craig said, locking the bolt of his rifle to the rear.
Keagan stared ahead quiet.
Thomas slapped on the shoulder. “You good?”
Keagan looked at him. “As good as I’ll ever be.”
Sensing his apprehension, Thomas stepped closer. “We’re doing the right thing. If we weren’t, I never would have agreed to this.”
“I know,” Keagan said. “I just hope to see my fiancée’s face at the end of this thing.”
“You will. Just remember your training, and keep your head clear.”
At twenty-five, Agent Keagan was probably the youngest person there. But he was no less prepared to put everything on the line in order to stop ISIS.
Craig called the entire group over to form a circle under a nearby tree. As they gathered, ready to fight, he explained the layout of the water plant and the placement of the lookout posts he believed surrounded the gated perimeter.
“That’s why, from here on out, we move on foot. We use the trees and anything else for concealment while creating a diameter offensive around the entire plant. We move-in on all sides and meet inside. Many of them will probably flee, but just as many will stay and fight.”
As Craig spoke, Thomas handed radios to the leader of each squad.
“I’m grateful to have you here today. I called, you came, and I’ll always remember that. America will remember it too. There’s little we can ask of others right now. Little we can ask of our agencies and leaders who are bogged down and overwhelmed by the ISIS attacks against us. I’ve been after these sleeper cells for a long time. I’m not a military man, I’m a federal agent. But I’m just as dedicated to destroying the enemies of our country as you.”
