by Bobby Akart
Before he spoke, he glanced up at the emblem carved out of granite that was inset into the stone. The skull and crossbones were fitting for their Halloween gathering. The numbers three-two-two carved beneath, were shrouded in mystery just as those who attended on this cold evening.
He slowly turned and looked around the room. “Messenger, are you ready?”
“I am,” replied a younger, bespectacled man, who apologetically pushed his way through the group.
Their host addressed him authoritatively. “Read it before it’s disseminated to your usual platforms.”
The Messenger already had the screen open on the secured, data-encrypted application designed by him for this specific purpose. As the Messenger, he was responsible for communicating with other like-minded individuals around the world. He pressed the enter button, and the message was sent.
Their demeanor solemn, the guests quietly exited and returned to their homes and families, the weight of their decision hanging over them. Their host allowed himself another drink and poured two fingers of Glenlivet single malt scotch whisky into a glass. He dismissed the staff and walked out on the veranda overlooking the Monocacy River to be alone with his thoughts.
He gazed up at the full moon, that had taken on a somewhat bluish tint, befitting its significance. Historically, the first full moon of autumn, known as the harvest moon, allowed farmers extra time in their fields to bring in their crops. That had occurred earlier in the month of October.
On this Halloween night, this second full moon of the month, much to the consternation of soothsayers and zealots, represented the proverbial blue moon, the second full moon in a calendar month, which rarely occurred. The unusual astronomical event was coupled with the second moon of that October being designated the hunter’s moon, so named as the next full moon following the harvest moon. The confluence of the three designations in the same month caused the cable news media outlets to take notice.
Throughout the month of October, psychics, clairvoyants, and prophecy pundits filled the airwaves. The media countered with scientists and historians, who roundly mocked the prognosticators as crackpots. Even so, many said the rare occurrence of the harvest, hunter’s and blue moons occurring in the same month portended doom and that the apocalypse was upon us all.
They were right.
As if to confirm that the evening’s events were real, he pulled out his phone and read the message appearing on the screen.
On the day of the feast of Saint Sylvester,
Tear down locked,
Green light burning.
Love, MM
And so it begins …
New Year’s Eve
Chapter 1
One World Trade Center
New York City
It was cold in Manhattan as darkness overtook the city on New Year’s Eve. A light snow had just begun to fall on the concrete jungle, which spread out one hundred four stories below them. The rebuilt One World Trade Center boasted the tallest building in the western hemisphere and the sixth tallest on the planet. It was America’s way of giving the middle finger to the terrorists who had attacked the nation on 9/11. On this evening, a terror of a different nature was going to be unleashed on the world’s superpower. One that would lead to an upheaval not seen in more than a century.
The SkyPod elevators carried them one hundred two stories to the One World Observatory in just forty-seven seconds. It was a remarkable ride to the top of the building that transformed the landscape with a herculean endeavor. Also known as Freedom Tower, the new World Trade Center stood proud at the heart of a forest of skyscrapers dotting the center of the world’s financial markets.
The view from the observatory was nothing short of spectacular. As the snow fluttered from the blue-black winter sky, the visitors to the One World Observatory didn’t seem to mind their view being obscured slightly. Many pressed their faces as close to the glass as they could, longing to reach out and touch the frozen snowflakes as they fluttered past.
The excitement of New Year’s Eve added to the jovial mood of the visitors. This was the legendary city in which the ball drops in Times Square, to the delight of millions in attendance and many millions more watching around the world. On New Year’s Eve, New York was more than a place of power for the world’s financial elite, it was a preeminent city against which all others were measured.
Admired by most, envied and despised by others for what it represents, the Big Apple was more than a collection of tall buildings and financial brokerage houses. It was a cosmopolitan gathering of cultures, races, and ideologies—constantly in motion.
New York City was alive as people made their way to elaborate dinners or to find a place in New York’s Times Square, four miles from the World Trade Center, in Midtown. From the observation deck, visitors could feel the surging energy throughout the island. Multitudes of office towers and apartment buildings were lit up as parties were in full swing, or revelers were readying themselves for the big night.
Many of the visitors focused on the beautiful panoramic views. They looked intently through the telescopes located around the perimeter of the observation deck. Their focus was on what was happening outside and not the two men who leaned quietly against a wall on the inside.
A gaunt-faced man in his fifties wore a black woolen trench coat with the collar turned up around his neck. His old, wire-rimmed spectacles contained lenses that made his eyes look larger than life. His flat cap hat resembled those worn by newsboys in the 1940s, those young street-corner newspaper sellers who helped their families make ends meet during World War II. The man was a throwback to the last century in more ways than one.
His associate, a much younger man built like the Incredible Hulk, was more out of place than the older man. Unlike his partner and the majority of the visitors, he wore khaki pants and a short-sleeve, black polo shirt. His chest and arms bulged, threatening to tear the shirt apart at the seams. The skull and bones tattoo on his right bicep seemed to come alive as his muscles flexed. The number 322 underneath fluttered like a flag atop a ship’s mast.
The older man made casual conversation, not attempting to hide his native Irish accent. “I watched them tear it down, only to build it back up again, stronger and more powerful than before.”
“Yeah,” the young man replied. To the casual observer who might be eavesdropping on the conversation, his method of speaking didn’t fit his stereotype. He didn’t grunt his words or puff out his chest. His words were carefully chosen and articulate, befitting his Yale education. “It’s a testament to American ingenuity and perseverance. When the new design was revealed, the architects proudly stated the structure would top off at one thousand seven hundred seventy-six feet—1776. Ironic, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It is,” replied the older man, pausing as a strong gust of snow enveloped the windows, to the delight of the tower’s visitors. He removed a gloved hand from his coat and waved it toward the windows. “I assume you’ve checked the weather for this precipitation. Will it alter your plans?”
“The moisture is heading our way from the south, while the jet stream is pulling down cold air from Canada. There’s already snow predicted from Washington to Philly to Boston for this evening. We’ll get our share, but it doesn’t materially impact our operation. The wind is a factor, but we’ve made the necessary adjustments in our calculations.”
“Good.” The man, who’d made a career out of killing, allowed himself a slight smile. He enjoyed the exhilaration of battle. As a young warrior, the dangers associated with combat never frightened him. He’d never admitted to anyone that war aroused him more than any woman had. The closer he got to taking another’s life, the more enthralled he became.
In just a few hours, he would launch the biggest and most complex attack on the United States of America since 9/11, or even Pearl Harbor. It would not necessarily be the most violent, but it would certainly be the most memorable in American history, ranking alongside the shot heard around the world
at Lexington and Concord, or the firing of cannon upon Fort Sumter in South Carolina.
A young boy interrupted his thoughts as he walked by with his mother. He pulled on her sweater sleeve and looked up to her. “Mom, is a storm coming?”
The older man managed a chuckle as he mumbled to himself, “It sure is, young man. A storm is coming.”
Chapter 2
The Florida Panhandle
The incessant ringing of the phone had awakened him from a deep sleep that New Year’s Eve. He’d had a crazy night of partying and carousing with other members of his team, blowing off steam from an operation they’d just completed in Venezuela. The handlers who employed him had plans for the Caracas regime, which had driven a once-thriving economy into the ditch. After their successes, the people of Venezuela would have a new slate of candidates to choose from while they mourned the old set.
After he cleared the fog from his brain, he digested the orders he’d been given. On the surface it was a simple op. Two-man team, plus one man with advanced training in a specific weapon to be deployed. He recalled the conversation with his handler.
“I’m not going to repeat this for you, so pay attention. You’re tasked with delivering the shooter from point A to point B. Nothing else. Once the mission is accomplished, you extract and leave no trace behind.”
It had sounded simple enough, although a thousand questions swirled in the operator’s head such as when, where, who, and how. He’d learned years ago the why didn’t matter. Somebody smarter than he was made those decisions. Besides, it didn’t matter. He just wanted to get paid.
He’d also learned to check his emotions and morals at the door. When you worked in the dark shadows of the world’s geopolitical underbelly, everybody was a target. Nothing, and no one, was immune from their manipulation of world events.
The four-hour drive from Atlanta to a desolate farm located in Florida’s Panhandle was uneventful. He tuned in to the Liberty Bowl game being played in Memphis between Tennessee and Oklahoma State. He’d become a fan of American football, although it didn’t compare to his beloved soccer matches. It was the emotion of the fans that first grabbed his attention.
The Vols were trying to recover from years of substandard play, while Oklahoma State was just coming off a probation by the NCAA for introducing potential recruits to hostesses, as they were called. When the sex-filled parties leaked to the media, Sports Illustrated in particular, the Cowboys’ football program was almost given the death penalty.
The operator had a real name, but few people knew it. His travel documents and government identification would change periodically, printed to suit the clandestine mission. There were only a handful of operatives like him stationed on American soil. They were ghosts, living a secretive life, and only interacted with one another.
He followed the coordinates given to him on his GPS device. He was located in the middle of the Apalachicola National Forest outside a small town called Carrabelle. Dusk was approaching as he drove down a single-lane gravel and dirt road through stands of pine trees mixed with saw palmettos.
He checked the GPS again to be sure, and then suddenly a clearing appeared in front of him. He was surprised to see an Airbus UH-72 Lakota helicopter sitting alone. The chopper had been painted black, a divergence from its typical olive drab. In the past, the UH-72 was a light-utility helicopter utilized by Army National Guard units. As the U.S. Army moved toward the Black Hawk fleet, the UH-72s were sold to state and local law enforcement for police activities. The complete lack of markings told him this was privately operated, most likely by one shell corporation that was owned by another and so on. That was the modus operandi in his world.
He parked his car and walked toward several vehicles and a box truck, where he was greeted by another member of his team whom he’d worked with in Venezuela.
“Long time no see, mate,” his partner said with a smile. The two didn’t shake hands, a slight to the customary greeting in America.
“We could’ve come from Atlanta together,” the operator lamented.
“Nah, mate. I’d already left for Miami when the call came through. I’ve been here for hours.”
A third man, small and unremarkable, was seated inside the helicopter. Joining him in the cargo compartment was a long black case, the kind that was designed to carry a MANPADS. Man-portable air-defense systems were shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles designed specifically to take down helicopters and punch holes in the sides of ships. The operator had used them in the Balkans years ago and was impressed with their effectiveness.
He turned to the member of his team who had proven to be a consistent and reliable partner on their past missions together. “Any idea of where we’re going?”
“Don’t be a drongo, mate. They haven’t said a word,” he replied in his thick Australian accent. He pointed in the direction of two men dressed in black pants, dark jackets, and navy-blue shirts. If they had not been so mysterious in their appearance, they might have been laughable. “And the men in black over there have been real tight-lipped. You wanna give ’em a try?”
He nodded and replied, “Sure. Who’s the guy in the chopper? Is he wearing a wet suit?”
“No idea. He’s cool as the proverbial cucumber. I tried to make conversation with him. You know, like, what’s in the case? I got nothing out of him. And yeah, he’s in a wet suit.”
“I hate this crap,” the operator mumbled as he pulled his shoulders back, hoping to relieve some of the stress from the drive.
Two pilots emerged from behind the chopper, with their helmets attached as if they were ready to go. He gave the pilots the once-over and then looked past them to a group of four mechanics who emerged from the back of the box truck. They were carrying a Zodiac MilPro rigid inflatable boat. A fifth man carried two duffle bags with black combat vests and headed toward him.
One of the men in black approached. “Gentlemen, we’ll need you to get out of your civvies and into the wet suits. The combat vests will be supplemented with weapons inside the chopper. They’ve been cleaned, checked, and are ready for you.”
“Got it, but we like to check our own weapons before we go into an op.”
“You’ll have an hour while in flight.” The handler turned to walk away.
“Wait, what’s with the Zodiac?”
Without turning, the man responded, “It’s going to be strapped under the chopper.”
The operator paused as the men approached the helicopter with the inflatable. The military-spec boat measured approximately sixteen feet long and six feet wide. From his experience, with the fuel bladders and the outboard motor in place, the weight exceeded four hundred pounds. They slowly positioned the Zodiac behind the helicopter and spoke briefly with the pilot.
“Hey,” the operator shouted to the handler, “I’m not riding outside the chopper. You can forget that!”
The handler ignored him and approached the helicopter to give instructions to his team. As he did, the operator and his partner changed into their gear. Within minutes, they were loaded into the chopper next to the third member of their squad and the mysterious case.
The pilot joined them and gave them more information on their task. While the operators reviewed the packet of materials, the pilot explained the transportation apparatus.
“Your Zodiac will be strapped to the skids of the chopper using these harnesses,” he began, showing them the heavy-duty straps similar to those utilized on a flatbed trailer of an eighteen-wheeler. “When we reach the drop-off point, there is a single latch release that will be located in the center of this compartment. Then you’ll all fast-rope into the boat.” Fast-roping was a technique using a thick rope to rappel from a helicopter onto the ground or, in this case, into a boat.
The operator turned to the smallish man, who hovered over the large case like it was filled with gold. “What about speechless here? I take it he’s coming with us. What’s in the case?”
“It is none of your affair,” he respo
nded with a French accent.
“Whoa, he does talk!” the operator exclaimed. “And he’s a Frenchy. This is a true international op. Now, you wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”
Chapter 3
Undisclosed Military Installation
Human nature hadn’t changed since the time of Cain and Abel. The act of war, however, had. In the minds of the world’s military powers, drone warfare was considered to be proximate war. The notion was related to the concept of proximate justice. Proximate justice theory posited that something was better than nothing. It allowed us to make peace with the realization that some justice meted out was better than none at all. It allowed a victim’s family to accept a life sentence as opposed to the death penalty for their loved one’s murder.
Proximate war allowed those who wanted to inflict true bodily harm and death upon their adversaries to find some satisfaction in a lesser, albeit subdued, victory. Drone warfare accomplished that purpose. Modern military leaders fashioned themselves to be moral warriors. After World War II, after the atomic bombs were dropped onto Nagasaki and Hiroshima in Japan, the world collectively gasped, then paused to view the end result.
To be sure, the attacks hastened the end of the massive global war, but the civilian death toll was enormous. In America, after the dust settled and the country resumed its routines, conversations began among its leaders as to whether the use of atomic weaponry was overkill, pardon the tone-death pun. Talks began with the U.S.S.R. and agreements were reached. The concept of mutually assured destruction was born.
Those accords did not, however, prevent the world’s preeminent military powers, which now included China, to develop modern, advanced weaponry capable of annihilating one another. Further, with new technologies, weapons of mass destruction were created that didn’t necessarily take lives upon detonation like the atomic bombs of 1945, but the human toll was catastrophic nonetheless.
