by James Hunt
Paul read documents that laid out the plan in very simple fashion. One graph gave steps in establishing a new civilization based off their principles of destabilization to a powerful one-world government.
Before the Bomb:
Phase One: Assist in arming rogue elements with tools needed to send initial "shock wave."
Phase Two: Identify strategic areas that indicate a certain missile range from an adversary country across Atlantic.
Phase Three: Heavily monitor rogue element and ensure bombs are detonated. After mission is complete, capture, detain, and dispose of terrorist group, allowing one single cell unit to remain with mega-bomb. *Mega-bomb is only deployed as last defense measure.
After the Bomb:
Phase One: Eliminate means to purchase necessities through currency
Phase Two: Eliminate the very availability of necessities i.e. food, water, fuel
Phase Three: Disable power systems, electronic grids, mobility, and self-sufficiency
Phase Four: Relocate and re-populate areas under martial law
Phase Five: Bring back minimum amount of power functionality to establish normalcy.
Phase Six: Infiltrate all media signals, military, law enforcement personnel. Begin gradual push from: all states, all nations to one state, one nation.
Phase Seven: Prospects of mega-bomb threat keeps population fearful, dependent, under control.
Phase Eight: Once all pieces in place, intercept mega-bomb from rouge group, sparing humanity. Declare victory in the age of a new order.
The steps had been broken down as if they were a Power Point slide show. From what Paul could gather Bryant had been an agent. He had been groomed for politics at a very young age for the express purpose of assisting with the conspiracy plot explained in detail on his laptop. The documents read like madness. It gave the specific locations of the attacks, staring with the Wall Street Bombing. The plan was to take no less than a year to establish a new order of government. A new society. Something that didn't mirror the old ways in any type of fashion.
"What kind of nightmare are they dreaming of here?" Paul asked confoundedly.
"How can they think something like this would work? How could anyone break down mass murder into little Power Point steps?" Samantha asked.
"They're insane," Paul said after a thought. "They're insane, but they've got the power to try it anyway."
It looked as though the plan was nearing completion despite any interception of a megabomb. By Paul's estimates, they were at phase seven of the plan. Or at least getting close.
"I don't know what else we can do," Paul said.
"You don't understand," Samantha said. "Bryant got chat messages stating that they had lost eyes on the bomb. That they had no idea where it was. Their 'rouge group' must have went even more rouge and betrayed them. Bryant's contacts are afraid that they're going to activate the megabomb and destroy all that's left of the country."
Paul took Samantha's shaking hand in his and looked at her with calming eyes. "It's not the end yet," he said. "There are still people out there, good people who aren't part of some evil plan. They can find the bomb. They just need the information, like you said."
They held each other for some time, then for what felt like a lifetime of waiting, they kissed passionately under the rooftop of their Malibu for what felt like an eternity. Paul broke away his lips from Samantha's to reveal his next plan that seemed to just appear out of nowhere. It wasn't a good plan, or even a well thought out plan, but Paul was confident, nonetheless.
"I need to take the laptop to the city and get the information out there. There's only one person I know who can help with that."
"What, you mean that radio guy you met?" she asked.
"Yes. He's the only one who can help us. He's the only one I can trust."
Chapter Ten
Brotherhood of Men
On Day One of the attacks, Ammon, formerly known as "Roy," and the surviving prisoners waited for their contact to pick them up near the East Docks. Sacha initially declined the offer to join their shadowy organization, celebrated as the "Brotherhood of Men." He knew what he had seen. The men of the "Brotherhood" ignited a riot on the prison bus resulting in the death of the guard and driver. As a result, the bus flew off the Brooklyn Bridge into the East River. Now there were only four of them left, including Sacha. There was Ammon, of course, still wearing his drenched mechanics uniform. He had tied back his long, stringy hair and was in the process of nursing a small cut to his face from the accident with a rag.
In addition to Ammon, there were two other men who seemed to follow his lead as trusted lieutenants. One of the men, Hasan, was tall and skinny with a large, bulging Adam's apple. He wore a tank-top and torn jeans. He was dark and tan like that of his other compatriots, but had short, neatly trimmed hair and thick black eyebrows. He couldn't have been more than twenty-six. Sacha noticed that the young man never smiled. He was also the most quiet of the group. He had examined Sacha with stern and suspicious eyes. Then there was Omar, a plump man of a friendly and talkative disposition. He looked young--even in his late-thirties. He brandished a round bull cut that hung slightly in his eyes, and wore a soaked USA American Flag T-shirt. He introduced himself enthusiastically to Sacha, welcoming him aboard.
As Sacha said farewell to the men and wished them well, they promptly blocked his path and surrounded him.
"I'm sorry, Sacha. It's not going to be that easy. You've seen our faces, you know who we are," Ammon said.
"I can forget," Sacha responded. "I'll forget we ever met. Now if you'll excuse me--"
"Our friends will be arriving soon. Please, come with us. We want to ensure your protection as much as our own."
Sacha turned from Ammon and noticed Hasan and Omar standing directly behind him with their arms crossed.
"Are you taking me prisoner?" Sacha asked, turning back to Ammon. "Is that what this is?"
Ammon hunched over his knees in a hearty laugh.
"Who do you think we are, my friend, the police?"
Sacha wasn't amused.
"I'm not sure who you are, but I do not wish to join your Brotherhood."
"You, like us, were wrongfully imprisoned. You understand what it's like. You can be a very valuable asset to our organization," Ammon explained.
Suddenly a dark brown mid-1990s Chevy van came around the corner and crept down the alleyway near them. Its headlights disappeared, replaced by parking lights.
"There's our ride," Omar said, pointing.
"Let's discuss this in the van," Ammon said to Sacha.
"How did they know to pick you up here?" Sacha asked.
"They're reliable," Ammon answered.
Sacha thought deeply to himself. He gasped then raised a finger in the air.
"You planned this! You planned for the van to meet us here. You wanted the bus to go over the railing into the river and you didn't care how many people you killed in the process. You wouldn't have cared if it had killed me."
"That's nonsense, Sacha. Who could plan such a thing?" Ammon asked.
"Who are you? I mean you and all of your friends here. Where are you from?"
"We've told you are names. We're from the Middle East, as you've probably assumed," Ammon answered.
"Yes, but where in the Middle East?"
The brown van got closer, and then flashed its lights at the men, signaling them. Ammon was growing impatient with Sacha, but attempted to remain calm.
"I'm from Egypt, or so I was. Omar and Hasan are Pakistani. But we are no longer a part of those countries, or any nation for that matter. We exist to serve the Brotherhood."
"Well, I'm from Poland, and I just want to go back home," Sacha said.
He suddenly felt hands grip his arms and turned to see Hasan and Omar holding him. "We don't have much time," Ammon said. "We can finish this conversation in the van."
Sacha slightly jerked, but felt their grip too tight. He stopped and stared into Ammon's remorseless
eyes. "Are you terrorists?" he asked.
Ammon's tepid smile dropped into a deep frown. He seemed deeply insulted by Sacha's question. Realizing himself a captive, Sacha began to regret the directness of his question. "That's enough questions for now. Come now, let's go," Ammon replied. Hasan and Omar pushed Sacha ahead as they walked towards the brown van, leaving the East River docks behind.
Inside, the van was cluttered with tools. There were no seats or windows in the back, so Sacha, Hasan, and Omar sat on the floor while Ammon sat in the front with the driver. The driver, a stern bearded man, smoked cigarettes with the window only slightly cracked. Sacha sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, trying to maintain his balance through every bumpy turn. There was low-key Arabic chatter between Ammon and the driver. Sacha hadn't been introduced to him yet, so he just kept quiet. Hasan and Omar also said nothing as they leaned back against the inner walls of the van with their heads back and their eyes closed. Sacha had no idea where they were going. What had he gotten himself into?
After finishing his discussion with the driver, Ammon turned to address the men in the back in English. "We'll be there in twenty. Razar tells me that we have to find back roads to the site. The city is falling apart as we speak," Ammon said proudly.
Hasan lifted his head slightly and laughed to himself. It was the first time Sacha had seen him smile yet. They continued to drive through back alleys and alternate routes along the way to their secret destination. Sacha's mind raced with options. If the men were terrorists, he felt that the likelihood of survival was slim.
"They'll probably put me on the Internet and cut my head off," Sacha thought. He had to take the first chance that he could to escape. It would be a challenge, but Sacha believed it possible. He felt that his life depended on it.
The brown van arrived at an outside darkened warehouse deep within the boroughs of the city. They stopped at a chain-link fence with barbed wire on top that surrounded the building. A man rushed to the fence, opened the sliding gate, and let them enter. The van crunched along the pebbles of gravel, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. As it neared the front of the warehouse, the man shut the sliding gate, looped around a chain and locked it. The van pulled to the side of the building and parked.
"We are here," Ammon said to the men in the back.
Sacha knelt and attempted to look out the front window to get some idea of where they had arrived. He was too nervous to ask any more questions. He estimated that there were probably more of Ammon's men in the warehouse. His best chance at escape was back at the docks. Now it seemed all but possible. The van side door slid open, revealing a man dressed completely in black fatigues. His face was stone-like and emotionless. He ordered the men out of the van in a native Arabic language. Ammon approached the darkly-dressed man and placed a hand on his shoulders.
"Give them a break, friend. They've been through quite a lot," Ammon said.
The man ignored Ammon's request and began to speak in English.
"The Americans are here, and I don't have time for your foolishness," the man responded.
"They're here now?" Ammon asked, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, they've been waiting an hour for you," the man barked.
Hasan and Omar climbed out of the van as Sacha followed. There were no windows into the warehouse, no spotlights overhead. Everything was quiet, except for the chatter of Ammon and his agitated comrade.
"We had a little bit of trouble with the authorities, as you know. Maybe you should have been there so I could sit here playing with myself," Annon barked.
"Getting arrested is your fault, not mine. You should have planned better. You should have been as far away from Wall Street as possible before the bomb went off. You did that to yourself. And where are the others?"
"They're dead," Ammon said. "Enough of your nonsense, I want to speak to Rashad."
The man stopped bickering with Ammon and simply walked away for them to follow.
Sacha stepped out of the van and examined his surroundings. Though he had been careful not to ask too much since he was forced along for the ride, Sacha wanted some assurance. "Where are we? What are you going to do with me?" he asked.
Ammon smiled and placed his arm around Sacha. "Relax, Sacha, you have no reason to be afraid. You're going to meet our leader, Rashad."
Sacha believed that he had plenty of reasons to be afraid. He didn't understand what Ammon wanted with him in the first place. He was European, whereas they were Middle Eastern. What supposed affinities were they supposed to have for each other? What if they asked him his religion? As a heavily religious country, he was raised a Christian and belonged to the Roman Catholic Church. He didn't want to make any assumption, but he was sure they weren't Catholics.
"We've stalled enough, let's go inside," Ammon said, removing his arm from around Sacha. Hasan and Omar nodded and followed the man in black to the warehouse door. Ammon waited for Sacha to catch up, but he just stood there uncertain. "It will be alright, I promise, come inside," Ammon reiterated with growing frustration.
"Ammon," Sacha said.
Ammon stopped and looked at Sacha waiting. "What?" he asked.
"What is it that you want from me?" Sacha asked in a quiet tone.
Ammon sighed and approached him. "I'm giving you a chance, Sacha. We've lost many of our brothers, and we'll no doubt lose some more. I assure you that today the world will forever change. Nothing will ever be the same. There will be no home for you to go to. No people you can call your own."
"So you want to recruit me? As what, exactly?" Sacha asked.
"As one of the Brotherhood," Ammon said turning away. He beckoned Sacha to the warehouse until he gave in and followed.
They entered the vast warehouse to find several black SUVs parked in a straight line. The footsteps of the new arrivals echoed throughout the inside, gaining the attention of several American-looking men, eight in total, in sleek business suits who stood in front of the SUVs. In the center of the warehouse was a semi-trailer truck with an enclosed forty foot trailer. A pudgy man with a long straggly beard stood across from the men in business suits. He wore a white embroidered cap over his head and dressed in a white robe-like garb. The man in black approached him first.
"They've all returned, Rashad," he said.
"Wonderful, thank you, Karim," the man, addressed as Rashad, said. If he was their leader, Sacha was pretty sure he was in the presence of Islamic extremists, but what could explain the presence of so many sharply dressed American men in the same room?
Sacha trailed behind as Hasan, Omar, and Ammon approached their leader with open arms.
"Ah! Assalamu alaikum, my brothers," Rashad said as he hugged them individually.
"Wa alaikum assalamm," each one said back.
Rashad paid special attention to Ammon, embracing him in the longest hug. "I heard of your success. Praise be to Allah," Rashad said with a slap on Ammon's back.
"And to Allah we praise," Ammon responded.
"Can we get on with it, please?" the apparent leader of the American group asked.
Rashad turned to the men and held his hand up. "Patience please, sir. We'll discuss business momentarily."
The American man sighed and rolled his eyes, concealed under his sunglasses. Rashad turned back to Amman.
"So few return?" he asked with deep concern.
"We lost many fine men. We're all that remains. Where is everyone else that was here?" Ammon asked.
"They've been sent to prepare for our next step," Rashad answered.
Though it made little sense what Rashad was talking about, Ammon pressed him no further. Sacha stood against the entrance of the warehouse trying to remain out of sight. No one was paying attention to him. It would have been the perfect time to escape.
"And who is he?" Rashad asked of Sacha in a voice that echoed through the warehouse.
Startled, Sacha stopped leaning and stood nervously before his captors. Fortunately, Ammon spoke for him.
"We m
et him on the prison bus. His name is Sacha, he can help us."
"Well if you trust him, so do I. Welcome, Sacha!" Rashad said.
Sacha waved his hand. "Hello," he said.
"Assalamu alaikum," Rashad said.
Sacha tried but fumbled the words back to him, gaining suspicious looks from the group.
Rashad's men gathered around as they walked towards the Americans. Sacha wisely stayed back by the door. He felt along the doorknob, but it had locked automatically once they entered the building.
"Are you gentlemen ready to go over the plan now?" the lanky American man asked. His blond hair was slicked back and parted to the side. The other men said and did nothing, but observe. They looked like secret service men of some sort, perhaps even CIA, but Sacha couldn't tell for sure. He was trying to understand the strange situation before him.
"What is going on?" he thought to himself.
Once the lead American man had Rashad's and his men's attention, he spoke. "You men don't know me, you've never seen me. We were never here. Whom I work for is not important. All you need to know is that we will be watching you and tracking you at every point. If you wish, you can call me Agent Bolt. Now we don't have much time, several of your operatives have been staged throughout the East Coast with instructions and coordinates. Your instructions are to transport this truck to a disclosed location. We need the truck to stay mobile at all times until you reach the destination. There's plenty of fuel reserve to get you there, as well as fuel stored in the back."
Agent Bolt paused and signaled one of his men to step forward. As he moved, the other man handed Agent Bolt a metal case securely locked. Agent Bolt took the case and placed it on the concrete ground before him. Sacha examined the semi-truck twenty feet from where he stood. The truck looked the length of a locomotive, large and intimidating. How did they think they would possibly get something of that size out of the city?
