Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  However, his anxiety concerning the attacks in general multiplied by seemingly endless news flash notifications. He thumbed through the list and clicked on the most recent one. As he read his heart sank.

  “Daddy, you awake?” his son Will asked from the bedroom doorway.

  Brett looked over and saw his youngest son and smiled. “Hi, buddy.”

  “Eddie and I want to know if you’re making pancakes this morning?” he asked then wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Sweetheart, you don’t wipe your nose on your clothes. Go get a tissue,” Madison scolded.

  “You’re awake?” Brett asked, surprised to see her awake. She normally slept in late on weekends.

  “How can I sleep with you two talking?” she snarled.

  “Talking? He just asked a simple question, and it was just above a whisper,” Brett countered.

  “Sounded loud to me. Can you two please go away?” Madison said as she fluffed up the pillow.

  “Sure,” he said swiftly getting out of bed. He wasn’t leaving because she asked, but because he couldn’t stand being around her when she was like this. He walked over to Will and said, “Come on, son.”

  The two left the room with Brett closing the door behind him.

  Brett enjoyed his weekend mornings. It was quality time he could spend with his sons.

  “What kinda pancakes are you guys wanting this morning?” Brett asked, a broad smile stretched across his face.

  “Chocolate chip!” the boys cheered in unison.

  “How about doggie-shaped chocolate-chip pancakes, who wants those?” Brett asked cheerfully.

  Both boys raised their arms and squealed, “Me!”

  “Perfect, let me get to it,” Brett said and immediately went to making the pancakes.

  When Will took the last bite, he leaned back in the stool and smiled. “Yummy, that was good.” Melted chocolate was smeared across his pouty lips and chin.

  “You’re awful quiet, Eddie?” Brett said.

  “They were good,” he replied.

  “What’s wrong?” Brett asked.

  “Nothing,” Eddie answered.

  Nothing always meant something, Brett thought.

  “Can I go play?” Will asked, lifting his arm to wipe his face on his sleeve.

  “Stop right there,” Brett said and pointed at his arm.

  Will’s eyes widened. Slowly he lowered his arm and asked, “Napkin?”

  Brett tore a paper towel and handed it to him. “That was a close call. Your mother is getting tired of you staining all your clothes. Please use a napkin.”

  Will wiped his face and said, “Okay.” He jumped off the stool and raced down the hall, the pitter-patter of his small feet on the wood floor the only sound in the quiet house.

  Eddie jumped off the stool and turned to head off.

  “Hold it right there,” Brett said.

  “What, Dad?” Eddie scoffed.

  “Don’t give me a tone. You seem out of sorts and I want to know why.”

  “I said it was nothing.”

  “Not true. Now the quicker you tell me, the quicker you can go to the playroom.”

  Eddie stood quiet, his head down.

  Brett walked over and squatted down. “What’s wrong, buddy?”

  “Are terrorists going to kill us?”

  The question shocked Brett. “Why are you asking that?”

  “Tony said terrorists killed a bunch of people in another country and they will try to kill us too.”

  “Whoa, whoa, why would Tony say that?”

  “Did a bunch of people die yesterday?” Eddie asked.

  Brett cocked his head and searched for the appropriate answer to give his ten-year-old.

  “They did. I heard the news,” Eddie said.

  “Yes, some very bad people killed and hurt many others yesterday.”

  “Are they going to kill us next?”

  “No, we’re safe.”

  “You promise?” Eddie asked.

  Brett recoiled. Can I promise honestly? His thoughts had been plagued by such questions. However, he didn’t want to frighten Eddie, so he did what parents often did, told a white lie, “I promise.”

  Brett cleaned up and turned on the television. He flipped past the children’s shows and put on the news. Like a drug addict, he couldn’t wait to get his next fix. Like the night before it was an endless loop of harrowing stories concerning the attacks and updates on new threats.

  “…information is trickling in concerning this new terror group The Bloody Hand. We’re getting reports their leader is a man named Israfil. He and his followers consider him the twelfth imam. I know many viewers may not know what that means, but in Islamic prophecy, the twelfth imam is the final prophet who will appear just before the end of days …” the newscaster said.

  His phone vibrated on the counter behind him. By the sound, he could tell it was a text. Thinking it might be David, he pulled himself away from the television and picked it up. A chuckle came when he read it.

  ‘Turn off the TV and come upstairs and turn me on!!!’

  He replied, ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Someone who is sorry for being a butthead last night and this morning.’

  ‘Oh, the grumpy person who’s masquerading as my wife,’ he texted back.

  ‘Now come upstairs and let me show you how sorry I am.’

  Brett didn’t hesitate; he turned off the television and raced upstairs.

  Copenhagen, Denmark

  “Thank you for sharing your story. I’m happy you’re okay,” the primetime reporter said.

  “Thank you for having me on,” David replied.

  The glaring lights from the camera went dark, leaving David in the shadows two blocks away from the very spot he’d almost lost his life the night before. He unclasped his hands, which he had tightly locked together to prevent them from shaking. He looked down and willfully tried to make his hand stop trembling, but it didn’t work. Frustrated, he stood up, jammed his hands into his pants pockets and looked around.

  The CNN crew quickly packed up and exited as fast as they had set up. To either side of David were others being interviewed by other networks. The flurry of activity had grown substantially since the night before, with news crews and reporters flooding the still, quiet streets.

  With his high-profile interviews out of the way, David had a deep sense of weariness. In the past, he would have had his next steps planned but tonight he didn’t. He had his cameras with him but the desire to document the aftermath of the attacks had vanished. He kept telling himself to do something but he just couldn’t conjure up the motivation. The old saying ‘ fake it till you make it’ popped in his head and he tried but failed miserably.

  Feeling very uneasy, he thought about ways to combat or at least subdue those debilitating feelings. Two things came to mind but they were vices he had long since quit. Determined to calm his mind and his nerves he hiked to the closest store. Inside he stepped to the counter and said, “Cigarettes.”

  The cashier looked at him and then to the vast display of two dozen varieties.

  “Marlboro reds,” David grumbled.

  The cashier got him the pack and rang it up on the cash register.

  David didn’t pay attention to the cost; he gave the man twenty euros and exited the store, grabbing a pack of matches on the way out. His hands shook as he opened the pack. It had been three years since he smoked and he knew if he had one, he could fall easily back into the pack-a-day habit he used to have. With a trembling hand, he put the cigarette to his lips. The sweet taste of the filter brought back memories, good ones; he pulled a match and lit it on the first strike. He lifted it towards the tip of the cigarette and paused. His mind was screaming at him not to do it. His pause was longer than he thought, allowing the match to burn his finger. “Ouch, damn!” he barked, dropping the match. He tore the cigarette from his lips and threw it on the ground. “No,” he said, marching away, determined not to fall victim to his own w
eakness.

  A police siren blared in the distance followed by three more.

  He stopped; a queasy feeling came upon him. He opened the pack, pulled out another cigarette and without further delay lit it. The first inhale was perfect. The smoke filled his lungs, with the nicotine almost immediately giving him a slight buzz. “Ahh,” he sighed. The smoke wafted over him and again fond memories of his days smoking and drinking came to him. With one part taken care of, he needed another. Time to find a bar.

  USS Anchorage, Off the Coast of Somalia

  Brennan sat back and readied himself for the surprise briefing.

  After just returning to the ships from a two-month operation in Afghanistan in support of the 11th MEU (Marine Expeditionary Unit) deployed there, he was ready to sail home, but welcome to the Marine Corps, where one day you’re heading home and another you’re sailing towards Somalia for no apparent reason. Brennan chuckled to himself when he thought about his conversation with Dietz the night before.

  Corporal Vickers and Corporal Klyde, two NCOs (noncommissioned officers) in his platoon and the best friends a man could ask for, took seats just behind him.

  “What’s the word, Sergeant?” Vickers asks in a thick Texas accent, his trademark which grew even more pronounced after a few beers.

  “You know about as much as I do. I shut my eyes last night and we were heading home; now we’re sailing towards Africa. I hear it’s Somalia, the armpit of the world.”

  “Hold on, there’s more than two armpits, because last time I checked, we just got back from armpit one and Vickers is from armpit two,” Klyde joked, nudging Vickers.

  “I’ll have you know Wilco, Texas, is a fucking paradise of flat dry brown fields, tumbleweeds and one-hundred-and-ten-degree days during the long summer months. Oh, and our shopping, the Flying J, has some of the best there is,” Vickers said mocking his own hometown.

  “Are we handing out MREs or something?” Klyde asked.

  “Guys, I don’t know shit,” Brennan said, his tone snapping with irritation.

  “Okay…looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the rack,” Klyde whispered to Vickers.

  Klyde and Vickers were close friends but an unlikely duo. What brought them together was the Marine Corps, and what made them inseparable brothers was the bond of combat. They couldn’t have grown up more different. Vickers was from a small Texas town, a typical corn-fed white kid, while Klyde was a black kid who grew up in what could only be described as the ghetto with a single mom. Yes, it was all stereotypical but their friendship wasn’t. Theirs was a bond forged in brotherhood under fire. Brennan complimented their unique friendship but he sometimes felt like an outsider. He had been in the Marine Corps three years longer and had seen good friends come and go.

  The hatch to the briefing room opened.

  First Sergeant Riley barreled into the room, briskly walking to the front. Behind him, Captain Arnold, Alpha Company’s commanding officer, walked in.

  “Officer on deck!” someone hollered.

  Everyone jumped to their feet and stood at attention.

  “At ease,” Arnold said, his south Boston accent barely present but still audible. “At twenty-three thirteen zulu yesterday, a dynamic, multipronged terrorist assault was carried out in Copenhagen, Denmark. The targets were civilians and the locations targeted were cafés, theaters, a music venue, a train terminal and a prominent art gala. In all, eleven locations were struck. Right now, we don’t know the number of assailants but the estimate is over thirty, many of whom were able to flee. The weapon of choice in these attacks were small arms, nothing more. The attacks weren’t sophisticated in nature but the coordination was impressive, specifically for a new group. The Bloody Hand, a splinter group of ISIS, conducted this attack. This was not inspired but funded with detailed instructions from their haven in Syria. We don’t know much about TBH, but it seems each time the terrorists evolve, they become more ruthless.

  “Let me pivot to what’s really on everyone’s minds. You’re all hearing the rumors and it’s true, we’re a little over fifty miles east of southern Somalia. Why? We received critical intel from one of the dead terrorists in Copenhagen that leads to a facility on the island of Juula,” Arnold said and turned around.

  First Sergeant Riley hit a couple of buttons. A bright screen turned on behind Arnold.

  Arnold pointed at a small dot off Somalia on a map and continued, “Gentlemen, we’ve been tasked with providing support to JSOC. A team of SEALS accompanied by a squad of Raiders will go ashore here and here via zodiacs. They’ll move on this structure here,” Arnold said pointing at a large white-roofed building. “If you’ll notice, a klick and a half south is a small airfield. What makes this special? It didn’t exist eighteen months ago. We discovered that when referring to older satellite images. We believe this airfield is providing support to this facility. We have eyes on it now in real time and see equipment that shouldn’t be on a shitty little island like this. First platoon, your job will be to seize this airfield and hold it. We can’t have anything going out.”

  Vickers leaned in close to Brennan and whispered, “Now we’ll get to show those Rangers how you really take down an airfield.”

  “Ssh,” Brennan scolded.

  “Corporal Vickers, you have something to say?” Arnold snapped.

  “No, sir,” Vickers replied sheepishly.

  “Let me go on, then. It’s imperative that nothing leaves this airfield. The objective of this mission overall is to gather intelligence on the terrorist operation at this facility. The ROE is simple, you’re weapons free. You see a hostile, take them out. We are considering this area to be very hostile. We must assume there are no friendlies here. This island has few inhabitants, approximately five hundred locals call this home, and we must assume they work for TBH now or are somehow associated with it. Once the SEALS and Raiders secure what intel they can, they’ll head back to the beach and extract. First platoon, you’ll be inserted by fast rope at the south end of the airfield. Extraction will be done in the same area unless circumstances on the ground dictate differently. Once we’re clear of the target after extraction, we’re going to level it with a few Tomahawks.”

  Arnold turned to Riley and said, “You got anything, First Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sergeant Brennan, your squad will be first on the ground,” Arnold said.

  “Yes, sir,” Brennan replied.

  “First platoon squad leaders, I need you to make sure your squads are ready to go in two hours, the birds are taking off at zero one thirty. Get them to the armory ASAP. I need you to also get HE grenades. You’re being tasked with destroying two small aircraft there and anything you find in that hangar. Have your men lined up on the flight deck at zero one. I’ll have all your comm frequencies there as well. Something else, Lieutenant Frank will have contact with the SEAL team leader so you can be apprised of their status and if they need any support.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said, chirping up.

  “Any questions?” Arnold asked.

  Brennan asked, “What exactly do we know about the intel that led us here?”

  “The terrorist had a diary on him. In it he mentions spending time here on a weapons research project. Can you believe it, the dumb shit had a diary that’s leading us right to one of their secret bases?”

  “What if it’s a trap?” Vickers asked loudly.

  “We’ve considered that, but the chance to gather highly sensitive intel on a weapons research facility is worth the risk,” Arnold replied.

  “Sounds good to me. I especially love the part about being weapons free.” Vickers laughed.

  “Did the diary mention what types of weapons they were researching here?” a voice asked from the group.

  “No, but because we’re not sure what to expect, we are going at MOPP level one,” Arnold said.

  Groans from the group.

  “At ease,” Riley barked.

  The room grew silent.
r />   “I know wearing protective gear is a pain in the ass, but it’s for your own protection,” Arnold said.

  Always one with the quick-witted remark, Vickers cracked, “So the frogmen should shave their nasty beards. It’s tough getting a proper seal on your mask with one.”

  “Corporal Vickers, keep your mouth shut,” Riley snapped.

  “Sorry, First Sergeant,” Vickers replied.

  “Gentlemen, I know you’re counting the days until we get home to our loved ones. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But when we’re needed, we go, plain and simple. If there’s no other questions, let’s get going,” Arnold said.

  The room was silent.

  “Attention on deck,” First Sergeant Riley sounded.

  The Marines all stood.

  Arnold exited with the same brisk and deliberate stride he’d entered with.

  Riley followed him out.

  When the hatch closed, cheers rose from the Marines at the prospect of getting some action.

  San Diego, California

  Brett sat speechless staring at the television. He and the guests that had gathered for their party huddled around him, many silent, others mumbling above a whisper.

  Seeing his brother discuss his harrowing ordeal only added to the uneasy feelings he had. Knowing that his brother was almost killed struck home, making it deeply personal. If someone as close to him could almost become a victim, why couldn’t his sons or Madison? he asked himself.

  Madison knew Brett well enough to know he would be affected by seeing his brother. She walked over and sat next to him. “You good?”

  “Yeah, I’m good, crazy, huh?”

  “Sure is.”

  Chris Simmons, a new acquaintance of Brett’s, shouted, “Okay, let’s get this party ramped back up. God, that was a buzz kill!”

  Brett scowled at Chris, who was oblivious to the death stare Brett was giving him.

  “I’m going to turn some music on, okay?” Madison said to Brett as she reached past him and grabbed the remote.

  “Sure, let’s have a good time,” Brett replied. He shifted his gaze from Chris and put it on Madison.