Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  “Sleep, my friend, I need to go do a few things,” Joram said putting on a hooded jacket.

  “No, no, let’s keep going,” David insisted as he rubbed his weary eyes.

  “Get a few hours of sleep. I’ll return.”

  “You sure?” David asked, the idea of getting a few hours of sleep was sounding good now.

  “Positive,” Joram replied as he headed towards the door. He opened it, turned around and said, “Don’t make any calls, okay?”

  David raised his hands and shrugged. “I’m just going straight to bed.”

  Joram nodded. “Good, because when I get back, I’ll finish my story.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Me too,” Joram said and left.

  David stood and stretched. He sauntered to the bedroom and fell into bed. For a brief moment, he looked at his phone on the nightstand. Should I make a call to the embassy? he thought.

  Joram had divulged a lot of good information that would bolster and add entertainment value to his documentary. His declaration of membership in The Bloody Hand was a big moment for the night, so was the fact he verified having worked on a secret bioweapons program. Otherwise, the rest was filler. He talked about the others on his team and explained how they initially fled Syria and their travels around the world.

  As David played back Joram’s story, something began to appear. He hadn’t given away any real actionable intelligence. He’d never told him exactly what they had been working on or where they had gone, specifically. He’d used generalities like Mexico, East Africa and so forth. There wasn’t any doubt in David’s mind that Joram had been until recently an active terror member.

  He began to ponder whether he did have a responsibility to turn Joram over to the authorities. But if he did, he didn’t have the final pieces of his story. It was too soon. He needed a bit more information; then he could think about doing it.

  Thoughts of his journalistic integrity gripped him then. By turning Joram over to Grim and the others at the CIA, he was violating Joram’s trust. Could it be that Joram was seeking redemption for anything he’d done by sharing his story and exposing The Bloody Hand? By turning him over, could he be sending Joram to a fate he didn’t deserve. He’d heard a lot about the CIA black sites and rendition. Many in the civilized world considered those things a clear violation of human rights. If he turned Joram in, then he’d be party to such things.

  His eyes grew heavy. He needed to sleep, but his thoughts were now torturing him. What should I do? he thought. He ran through various scenarios until he found the one that was a win-win. He would contact Grim about Joram, but not until he had gotten everything he needed, that seemed fair. He only needed a few major items explored and once he got them, he’d make the call.

  Grand Forks Air Force Base, North Dakota

  First squad hustled from the transport towards their chopper.

  Brennan reached the chopper and counted as each of his men got on board. After the last boarded, he went on. He took a seat near the aft and put on a headset.

  “This is Sergeant Brennan, platoon leader, first squad,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant Brennan. I’m Captain Tillis, your taxi driver to Minnesota.”

  “We’re all loaded up back here,” Brennan said.

  “Copy that. We’ll be airborne in ten mikes. I’ll stay in touch ,” Tillis said.

  “Roger that,” Brennan said.

  Vickers rushed over and sat next to Brennan. “I’m pumped.”

  “Good.”

  “So I’ve been thinking. I hate the name. We need to come up with something tougher, more badass.”

  Brennan looked at him and asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “The name, Unit 5, I hate it. It’s fucking boring.”

  “I think it’s cool. Look at SEAL Team Six, just a number.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, so I’m thinking Team Killer or Task Force Valiant.”

  “Seriously? Those sound stupid.”

  “Maybe not those, but you get the point?” Vickers asked.

  Klyde hollered over from across the chopper, “Is Vickers boring you with dumbass names for the team?”

  “How did you guess?” Brennan shouted back.

  “The only stupid name was yours, Klyde,” Vickers blurted out.

  “Well, your mother liked screaming my name when I was fucking her,” Klyde shot back.

  “Fuck you, man,” Vickers groaned, showing something unusual for him, annoyance.

  “Hey, Vick, how about focusing on the task at hand,” Brennan recommended.

  “I haven’t lost focus, just passing time. We’ve got an hour-plus flight, what else am I supposed to do?”

  “Sleep, maybe,” Brennan said, pointing across to Dietz, who was already sound asleep.

  “Liftoff in two mikes,” Tillis said.

  Brennan hollered, “Two mikes!”

  “You think we’ll encounter more of those things?” Vickers asked.

  “Who knows, I think you need to be prepared for it.”

  Vickers smiled and replied, “You know me, Sergeant Brennan. I’m always prepared.”

  San Diego, California

  Brett watched with fascination as the two media pundits debated the president’s recent executive order and the subsequent restraining order against it by a federal judge.

  “The president has the clear executive authority as the commander-in-chief of this country to allow in or block anyone who he thinks threatens our national security. There isn’t a debate here, this has been established law for many years,” the woman said.

  “The only one threatening our national security is the president. His executive order is nothing more than an insult to all Muslims. He has proven once again to be a demagogue. He’s disgraceful and thankfully that federal judge has stopped it. Once more, justice has been served,” the man countered.

  “If there is an attack here and it’s carried out by someone from one of these targeted nations, that judge will have blood on his hands,” the woman snapped.

  “There you go again, always blaming the refugees or immigrants. Studies show that most attacks are committed by US nationals not immigrants,” the man replied.

  “I know we have trouble with our own people, so why on earth would you import more trouble,” the woman countered.

  Brett heard Madison’s footfalls. Not wanting her to see him engrossed in the show, he turned it off, picked up his phone and pretended to be thumbing through. He was still concerned about the potential of terrorism but having Madison and the boys back made him happy and the last thing he wanted to do was turn the apple cart over.

  Madison entered. “When do you go back to work?”

  “Oh, next week, I decided to knock out a few honey do’s that I’ve been neglecting.”

  “So you don’t mind if I take your car to work on the first. I need the space to carry some items the foundation is donating,” Madison said.

  He enjoyed having her and the boys home, so he just agreed without thinking it through. “Sure, that’s fine.”

  “Good, thank you.”

  “You know, I’m gonna go for a run. When is dinner?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “Good, I’m going to go change and hit the pavement,” he said.

  She took him by the arm, pulled him close and presented him with a big kiss.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “Do I need a reason to kiss my husband?”

  “No.”

  “I’m just happy and consider it a deposit for later,” she said with a wink.

  “Oh yeah.” He grinned like a schoolboy.

  “Now go get your run on.”

  He gave mock salute and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  As he left the kitchen she hollered, “And thanks for getting those honey do’s done, whatever they are.”

  Brett sprinted upstairs, his mood expressing itself in his springy step. He turned towards his bedroom but s
topped when he heard the boys chatting. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Daddy, are we going to die?” Will said plainly.

  “What?” Brett asked, stunned.

  “Eddie says we are.”

  “I did not, brat. I said we might die,” Eddie replied angrily.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what is going on?” Brett asked, taking a knee. He looked into Will’s tender eyes and said, “Listen, you’re not going to die. No one is.”

  “But, Dad,” Eddie barked.

  “Not right now,” Brett said, giving him a stern look.

  “But, Dad, I heard you, and other kids at school are saying it could happen,” Eddie continued, ignoring Brett’s wishes.

  “I don’t want to die, Daddy. My birthday is coming up and I want to go to Disneyland,” Will cried.

  Brett brought him close and whispered, “You’re not going to die.”

  Eddie opened his mouth, but stopped short of saying a word when Brett raised an angry finger and pointed it at him. “This is so stupid. I’m only telling him what I’ve heard and some of that from you.” Eddie stormed off.

  Brett put his attention back on Will. He wiped his warm tears and softly said, “Son, you’re safe.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me, to you or Mommy?”

  “No, we’re all going to be fine.”

  “Then why is Eddie lying to me?”

  Brett sighed, frustrated that he had to again have this type of conversation. “Eddie isn’t lying, he’s just...let’s just say he’s not communicating effectively. He’s right that there are bad people and they do hurt people, but we’re safe here. We live in a nice area; good people live here.”

  “But can’t the bad people come here?”

  “They…” Brett paused. His mind quickly processed the answers that would least upset Will. “The police keep them out.”

  “Then who painted that thing on the school?”

  “Just some silly kid, nothing more,” Brett lied.

  “Nothing bad is going to happen?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go to your room and play. I’m going to talk to your brother now,” Brett said giving Will a kiss on the forehead.

  Will raced off.

  Brett went to Eddie’s room. The door was closed. He knocked and opened the door. “Hey, buddy, can we talk?”

  “No.”

  Brett entered the room, closing the door behind him. He sat on the bed and watched as Eddie fiddled with Legos. “I want to talk to you about what you told Will.”

  “I’m not lying, Dad,” Eddie growled.

  “I know you didn’t mean any harm.”

  Eddie didn’t look up or respond.

  Brett leaned over and lifted Eddie’s head so they could look eye to eye. “You need to be careful what you say to your little brother.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “To be precise, and I’ll do that with you, we really don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. Some bad people have done some horrible things, but that doesn’t mean we’re all going to die.”

  “But I heard you say—”

  “I’m not sure what you heard me say exactly, but I don’t believe I’ve said we’re going to die. Am I concerned a little bit? Of course, just like I’m concerned about bad people, strangers who like to take little kids. It’s the same.”

  “Why did you and Mommy get into that fight in front of the school?”

  “Because I got really nervous, but I don’t know for sure anything will happen.”

  Eddie sat up and stared into Brett’s eyes, looking for honesty. “Are we safe?”

  Maintaining a poker face, Brett answered, “Yes.”

  Brett bolted down the hall towards the back door.

  “What took you so long?” Madison asked.

  “The boys, they were bickering. I had a talk with them,” Brett replied. He didn’t want to tell her what it was about.

  She dipped a spoon into the sauce and sipped, “Mmm, that’s good.”

  “Smells good.”

  “Hurry back. Dinner will be ready in thirty.”

  “I’ll do a quick three miler.”

  “Before I forget, I was meaning to tell you. The principal sent an e-mail out about that spray-painted hand. The police came back and reported that it’s nothing more than a teenager’s prank. See I told you, nothing to worry about.”

  Brett nodded and said, “Thanks for letting me know.” In his thoughts, he was highly skeptical but he wouldn’t tell that to Madison. He promptly left without saying another word.

  London, United Kingdom

  “Sir, there’s a call on the private line,” Harris said, interrupting Jorge.

  Jorge hit the mute button on the phone and asked, “Who is it?”

  “It’s them, sir,” Harris said.

  “Tell them I’ll be right there,” Jorge said. He unmuted his other call and said, “Sorry, gentlemen, I have to step off the call. I’ll follow up again shortly,” Jorge said to the others on the phone before disconnecting.

  Harris leaned over the desk and handed him a small mobile phone. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

  “Yes, make sure you open a bottle of the Chateau Lafite Rothschild for dinner tonight,” Jorge said.

  “The 2009?”

  “That will be perfect, thank you,” Jorge said.

  Harris nodded and promptly left Jorge’s office.

  “Hello,” Jorge said.

  “You called us,” the voice said.

  “It’s almost May 1 and no word, nothing from you. If May 1 is the day, I need to know now.”

  “We will let you know, but not by phone.”

  “You promised I’d meet Israfil.”

  “And you will, please, Mr. Sorossi, show patience.”

  Jorge’s nostrils flared. “I’ve held up my end of the bargain, I’ve given you a ton of cash, I’ve leveraged my assets in the United States judicial system, gotten politicians to look the other way and obstruct, and right now I have tens of thousands of protestors on the streets, many paid. I’ve done everything you’ve asked but I get nothing from you!”

  “Mr. Sorossi, you will hear from us soon.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Now I don’t have time for this. Goodbye.”

  The phone went dead.

  In anger, Jorge threw the phone across the room.

  Harris entered the room, cleared his throat and asked, “Everything fine, sir?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “If you can conjure up this man Israfil or tell me the exact day my project will start, then yes; otherwise, I’m afraid you can’t, old friend.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help, sir.”

  Jorge sighed.

  “Sir, dinner will be served in the green room in thirty minutes,” Harris said, turned and walked out.

  “One second,” Jorge hollered.

  “Yes, sir?” Harris asked, turning back around.

  “You’ve been good to me, Harris. I want you to join me.”

  “Where, sir?”

  “Soon the world will become a better place, a more peaceful place, I’d like you there with me…for that world.”

  “If you wish, sir.”

  “That will be all, thank you.”

  Northern Minnesota

  “Okay, first platoon, showtime!” Brennan hollered just before racing down the ramp of the Osprey and onto the gravel lot adjacent to their target building.

  Around him the thumping of rotors from multiple Ospreys filled the early evening air.

  Soon yelling and screaming sounded all around them.

  He crouched, his rifle in his shoulder. “Straight ahead, go!”

  First platoon sprinted towards a set of side doors. When they reached them, they stacked up.

  Brennan stepped forward, his rifle pointed at the door. “Let’s get it open!”

  With his SAW slung on his back,
Dietz stepped up with a breaching sledge. He swung hard and struck the door near the handle. The door burst inward.

  As he always did, Brennan took the lead. He walked into the brightly lit space. Ahead was a long hallway with doorways lining the entire expanse. He stepped to the first door, touched the handle but flinched when a massive explosion from outside shook the entire compound.

  “What the hell was that?” Vickers asked.

  Klyde, who had the tail end of the stick, called out, “Our bird, it’s down, struck by an RPG.”

  “These motherfuckers have RPGs?” Vickers hollered.

  “Shit just got real! Clearing first room,” Brennan said kicking in the door.

  Sporadic gunfire around the compound rang out.

  Brennan entered the first room, followed by two others. “Clear,” Brennan called out.

  First platoon went from room to room, the cries of ‘clear’ ringing out.

  Brennan ran ahead to the door at the end of the hall. He peeked through a small window to find a stairwell was on the other side. “Stairs, right here!”

  His platoon lined up behind him.

  Vickers grabbed the handle and threw the door open.

  Brennan raced in, his rifle pointed down the concrete steps.

  A volley of gunfire cracked from below.

  Chunks of cinder block exploded around Brennan. He crouched and maneuvered to a spot where he could get a better vantage point.

  Several more volleys rang out. The sound was amplified by the narrow stairwell.

  Brennan saw a single man, armed with an AK-style weapon, step out and fire shots toward him. “One guy, two floors down!”

  Vickers came into the stairwell. Unafraid, he leaned over the railing and waited, his rifle in his shoulder.

  The man stepped out.

  Vickers squeezed the trigger of his M4, striking the man squarely in the chest.

  The man recoiled and fell backwards.

  “He’s down!” Vickers called out.

  “Moving down,” Brennan said, racing down the stairs to the first level down. “I’ve got a single door.

  Gunfire came from the hall. Bullets ripped through the door, striking Lance Corporal Higgins, who was behind Brennan, in the legs.