“I’m sorry, Amanda. Did you tell them they were in danger here?”
“Yes, without giving too much away. They said they’d be fine and they were too old to be travelling. There was nothing I could say to persuade them.”
Nirsch put his arm around Amanda’s shoulder and smiled down at her.
“You gonna be okay?”
“Yes. I have to think about me and Larry now, and our future.” She looked like she was about to cry. “Now you have more important things to worry about than me, so go, get!”
“Okay, call me when you get to Redmond. Will you tell Michelle I … tell her that I wish … tell her that…”
“Whatever it is you want to say, tell her yourself!” Amanda snapped. “And Boss?”
“Yes?”
“Stop the nasty little terrorists, will you?”
With that, Amanda turned and hurried down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight. Nirsch could still hear her stiletto heels clicking on the marble floor as he exited the building.
4
AURORA, COLORADO
9:30 A.M. MST, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 25
PRESIDENT RICHARD HARTLEY SAT AT A LARGE MAHOGANY desk, fifteen stories underground. Air Force One had touched down the afternoon before, delivering the commander in chief and his family to the Emergency Presidential Command Residence beneath Buckley Air Force Base.
The president looked into a television monitor and the face of Admiral Mike Jenkins, secretary of defense. Jenkins was competent and dedicated, though he didn’t always seem to appreciate political realities. The pundits called him a patriot. Hartley detested the word. It was thrown around too often by the other political party. They wore it like a badge of honor. Hartley thought it was the main reason others in the global community hated Americans. Patriotism was a sign of arrogance. It was a flaw, Hartley thought, shared by too many in his administration.
“Mike, what’s our status?”
“Mr. President, we have an Army platoon out of Fort Irwin and a Marine platoon out of Camp Pendleton, both ready for rapid deployment. We have two fighter groups on standby from Miramar and Travis, and from Station Golden Gate to Sector San Diego, the Coast Guard is on full alert.”
“Thank you, Mike. I have another conference with the joint chiefs in fifteen minutes. I’ll need to reconvene with you at thirteen hundred hours. General Miller from central command will be joining us.”
“Yes, Mr. President. We will reconvene at thirteen hundred hours.”
The president switched off his monitor. He laid his head in his hands, roughly massaged his scalp, and took in a deep breath. He wondered how this could have gotten so out of hand. He’d tried so hard during his first term as president to heal wounds and close the divide between America and the Muslim world. He had visited every head of state from every Middle Eastern country, and done his best to honor and respect their beliefs. He had even hosted special receptions at the White House in honor of some Muslim holy days. He’d been criticized for this, of course, by his political enemies, but he didn’t care. He was put in this position to change the face of America. The American people had become self-absorbed and out of touch with the world outside of the U.S. They needed a strong and compassionate government to help care for and protect them.
The president clenched his fist. His dream would be realized. He would bring a fundamental transformation to the United States of America, no matter the cost.
Hartley put on his sport coat, straightened his tie, and headed to the door. He still had time to walk to the pool and watch his boys swim for a bit. When he reached for the doorknob, however, the phone on his desk rang.
So much for that idea.
He returned to the desk, removed his jacket, and re-loosened his tie.
“Yes, Karl, what is it?”
Karl Perkins had been Hartley’s chief of staff since the former chief left a year into the president’s first term. “Director Brinkley is holding for you, sir,” Perkins said. “Do you want to take it?”
Homeland Security Director Carla Brinkley was the nation’s second security chief since the department was created in 2003, after America was attacked by Islamic terrorists on its own soil for the first time. Hartley knew she was incompetent and underqualified, but she was a true believer in their political philosophy, always ready to follow orders.
“Put her through, Karl.” Hartley heard the line click. “Hello, Carla.”
“Good morning, Mr. President. I just got off the phone with Herman King from the Post. We have a problem. He’s asking a lot of questions and I don’t have the answers.”
“How much does he already know?”
Carla hesitated before she answered. “He doesn’t know everything, but he’s got several pieces to the puzzle. It’s just a matter of time before they all fit into place for him.”
“Hold on a minute, Carla.” He put Brinkley on hold and called his press secretary, Neil Stanton. “Neil, I need you to get on the phone and call Herman King from the Post. You need to stall him. He’s about to run with a story we don’t need being told right now.”
“What do you want me to tell—”
“I don’t care what you tell him, just get it done before every radical redneck with a gun panics and causes a riot!”
“Yes, sir,” Stanton replied quickly. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
The president slammed the receiver down, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let fly with a string of curse words. He had no illusions about Stanton being able to hold Herman King back from running his story. King was a pit-bull in the journalism world. One of the few remaining reporters who didn’t care about political parties. He would sell his own mother down the river if it meant breaking a story.
The phone on the desk rang again. Hartley grabbed it.
“What is it?”
“Director Brinkley is still holding, sir.”
“Put her back through … Sorry to keep you holding, Carla. I need to know: How close are you to being ready to shut down the airlines?”
“We’re ready now, Mr. President. I’m just waiting for your orders.”
Hartley closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “What do you think, Carla? Should we shut down today? The joint chiefs think we should’ve done it already. I just don’t want to inconvenience travelers too much and panic the people. This whole thing could turn out to be nothing.”
Hartley was getting a headache. It was so much easier to govern when someone else told him what to do. Now that the country was being threatened and in crisis mode, decisions would fall directly on his shoulders. He’d had people around him since college who’d carefully orchestrated his life and political career. Now those people were nowhere to be found. He would have to make the hard decisions. Well, he’d always wanted this job. It was time to start earning it.
“I’m not sure we need to rush into it, Mr. President,” Brinkley said. “We’ve deployed all the drones within our homeland fleet. We’ve doubled body scans and random searches. We’ve increased personnel by 30 percent. I think we have it covered. It’s not like someone can get on a plane with a three-hundred-pound nuclear warhead sewn into their underwear. I’m not really that concerned.”
Hartley wasn’t that concerned either. He was sure this crisis, like so many others, was being blown out of proportion by his political enemies. When this was over, he’d make sure everyone saw them for who they were: warmongers and intolerant haters of anyone who didn’t agree with them. They’d forced America into this situation with their policies and he would make them pay. When the world learned of their failures he was guaranteed a place of power in world affairs long after his term as president. He laughed as the other phone on the desk rang.
“Okay, Carla, sit tight,” he said. ”I’ll get back with you in an hour. I’ve got to get to a meeting.”
“Yes sir, I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“And Carla? There’s one more thing I need you to do, and I need it done quietly. I wa
nt a hard copy of the FBI’s firearm background check database. I also need a list of all hunting licenses issued within the last ten years. State wildlife agencies will have this information. Print them both, and have them delivered here.”
The president hung up and answered the other phone.
“The joint chiefs are on and ready for your videoconference, sir.”
Hartley sighed. “Thanks Karl, I’m ready. Link us up.”
5
DAYTON, OHIO
11 A.M. CST
SAMIR MUSHARIFF, AAMIRAH MADARI, AND THREE HUNDRED other Blessed Martyrs had just finished morning prayers and were standing in a private room inside Ansari Mosque in Dayton, Ohio.
“Samir, today is a glorious day!” Aamirah said. “Today we are vessels of Allah’s glory. The Zionists and infidels will perish. Today we prepare the way for the Twelfth Imam to rein. The Great Satan that is America will wither under our holy fire!”
Samir hung his head and pushed away the fear that threatened to overtake him.
“Yes, we are the glorious vessels.”
“What is wrong with you, Samir? Do you not know you are part of Allah’s victory? You should be happy and eager to be in paradise.”
Samir looked out across his fellow jihadists and wondered how he had gotten to this place in his life. He sometimes questioned his faith and the seemingly senseless violence and hatred that went along with it. He remembered the cleric’s teachings from his childhood about love and honor, mixed with hate for anyone who didn’t embrace the teachings of Mohammed. As he grew in his faith, all they taught was the hate.
“Samir?”
“I am honored to be chosen. We will have great victory.”
“Then what is it?”
“Do you ever have fear, Aamirah? Not fear of being chosen or fear of spending eternity in paradise, but fear of what it … how we … do you think it will hurt as the holy fire courses through our veins?”
Aamirah pushed his chest out and stood on the balls of his feet.
“I believe Allah will protect us from the pain. Any pain we feel will be greatly rewarded in paradise! Now let us go and join our brothers to receive the fire.”
Aamirah was always the brave, confident one. He had always been there for Samir. Whenever someone tried to pick on Samir or take advantage of his gentle nature, Aamirah intervened. Several of the village children had gotten their noses flattened or their lips split open by the fists of Aamirah. Samir always looked up to Aamirah and followed him everywhere. He was the closest thing to a brother Samir had ever known.
The only time in Samir’s twenty-three years that he’d hesitated in following was when Aamirah made the decision to join the Mujahidin and train to be a soldier for Allah. Samir had been afraid to leave the safety and security of Central Lebanon. All his best childhood memories were there: swimming in the Hasbani River, exploring the mysterious desert, studying the animals of the region, and dreaming of one day being a veterinarian. That dream died, and the childhood innocence floated away, the day Samir joined his best friend at the training camp on the West Bank, within a stone’s throw of the filthy Zionists. He had learned how to hate and how to kill without remorse. Almost everything that had been pure and innocent in him had been burned away by the hateful teachings of the clerics.
Inside the Dayton mosque, everyone had begun to get in line behind a large wooden podium. A cleric was handing each man a full, hypodermic syringe out of a large wooden crate. The crate was labeled on the sides in painted black letters: UN Food Relief. Each man injected himself in the forearm, kissed the cleric, and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”
Samir’s turn came. He received his syringe and hesitated. Tears filled his eyes. It took all his strength to fight the fear and uncertainty. The cleric gently touched his arm and smiled at him.
Samir injected himself and barely managed to choke out the words “Allahu Akbar.” He dropped the syringe and without waiting for the kiss of the cleric, hurried toward the door.
“Samir, wait!”
Aamirah caught up with him, placed both hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the eyes.
“This is it, brother. Today we receive glory. Today we free our brothers and sisters from the chains of the oppressors.”
Samir wasn’t listening. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. All he wanted to do was be away from the mosque. He needed to be outside, to be free.
“Pray for me brother,” Samir said. “I don’t know if I will have the strength to complete my task. Please ask Allah to be with me. Pray that I do not lose courage.”
“I will, Samir. You are truly a brave warrior, and Allah is with you, I have no doubts. I will see you in paradise soon. Now go, fulfill your destiny.”
Aamirah leaned in to kiss his friend, and Samir pulled back. Aamirah prayed to Allah for victory and for strength to fill his friend as Samir hurried out the door and into the crisp Ohio air.
6
THE SUN HAD ALREADY BEGUN ITS DESCENT INTO THE WESTERN high desert by the time Nirsch’s plane landed at the base at Oregon’s Klamath Falls. He boarded his second chopper of the day and headed to Lakeview. It was too late to make it to the camp before dark, so he checked into the Lake Springs Motel and went to the Stockyard restaurant for some serious red meat. Best burgers and steaks in town. Nirsch had spent a lot of time in Lakeview over the years, buying and selling calves and hay. He’d made quite a few friends with the locals. This was part of the reason Morgan sent him here. Small-town people had a hard time opening up to a stranger.
Nirsch walked into the restaurant. It wasn’t crowded. The waitress taking an order was a redhead, thirty-five years old, five feet eight inches, probably 280 pounds, with rosy cheeks from too much makeup, bright red lipstick, and wispy curls falling across her forehead. She’d probably spent her whole life in this town.
“Hey, Becky,” Nirsch said. “How are you doing?”
“Nirsch!”
Becky thundered across the restaurant, shaking the hardwood floor and rattling dishes as she went. She threw her arms around him and pressed her plump lips into his cheek, leaving behind a waxy red lip print.
“What are you doing in town?”
“I have some business to take care of,” Nirsch said. “Where’s Joe?”
“He’s off tonight. I guess he thought maybe I could handle things. Where are Michelle and Bill? They didn’t come this trip?”
“No, I’m here to, um, look over some rangeland and timber ground. I don’t need Bill or Michelle for that.” Nirsch chuckled innocently. No one in town knew about his “other job.” He really didn’t want to get into it or have to lie about it. It was the truth, sort of.
“Becky,” Nirsch said. “I’m starving. How’s about a plump, juicy rib-eye, with a house salad, ranch dressing, and sweet tea with lemon?”
“How do you want your steak?”
“Bloody and still moving.”
Becky laughed. “You want fries or mashed?”
“Mashed please.”
Nirsch sat in a corner booth and began mentally listing what he’d look for at the camp. He knew he might not find much—a three-foot blanket of snow had already covered the hills outside of town—but he had to try and dig up as many clues as he could. After the incident with the hunters, the camp had been abandoned quickly. Hopefully they got out quickly enough to be sloppy and leave things behind.
Becky came to the table with his salad. His phone rang.
“Is this Mr. Nirschell?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sheriff Luke Palmer. I wanted to make contact and set up a time to take you out to the Clark ranch in the morning.”
“That would be great. I just got to town, so I haven’t had a chance to secure a vehicle yet, but I’ll work on that first thing in the morning. How does 9 A.M. sound?”
“I was hoping to get an earlier start. I’d like to drive in before the sun comes out and warms things up, the earlier the better. It gets pretty sloppy up there, so we need to
drive in while the muddy roads are still frozen.”
“I suppose I could ride up with you, but I prefer my own vehicle.”
“Your office has already set up a truck for you at the Forest Service, that is if you don’t mind driving around in a pea-green pickup,” Palmer said with a chuckle.
“No, that’s fine,” Nirsch said, and laughed. “As long as the local loggers don’t start taking shots at me it should be perfect.” The logging community and the U.S. Forest Service hadn’t got along for years, ever since the forest service had joined the environmental lobby in the late seventies and stopped managing the forests for sustainable harvest.
“Great,” Palmer said. “Where’re you staying? I’ll be by to pick you up around 6.”
“I’m staying at the Lake Springs, next to Carter’s Tires. Would you mind first stopping in at Sagebrush Espresso and picking me up a twenty-ounce, triple white chocolate mocha?”
Sheriff Palmer didn’t answer right away. Nirsch could’ve sworn he heard laughter.
“So you’re one of those yuppie coffee drinkers, huh?”
Nirsch felt embarrassed. He thought of the drugstore cowboy on the Old El Paso salsa commercials. He could hear the announcer: “His salsa comes from New York City!” The fact that most rural sheriffs like their coffee black, burnt, and brewed in an old tin pot made the humiliation extra painful.
“I got addicted to ’em when I roamed into D.C. a few years ago,” he explained, throwing in a little redneck accent for good measure.
“I noticed your last name is Nirschell,” the sheriff said. “Are you related to the Nirschells out of Seneca? They buy calves from my grandfather every fall.”
“I’m the very one you speak of, if your grandpa is Clyde Palmer.”
“Well, I’ll be! I wondered how you knew your way around town so well. I didn’t know you worked for the government. I thought you lived in Seneca.”
“My ranch is in Seneca, and I work out of D.C. I’ve known your grandpa for fifteen years. He’s a good man.”
Collective Retribution Page 3
