Teresa paused for a moment to let her husband process the bad news then she continued. “You were knocked unconscious in the crash and had a large piece of Plexiglass sticking out of your left arm. Tobias got you out of the Chinook before its fuel tanks blew up. He used his first aid kit to patch you up as best he could. He tried to contact us with your comm units but they were down. So, he created a marker with some stones to show he was heading down hill, picked you up, and began walking towards Lake Mead.”
Marcus shook his head. Discovering that it didn’t feel good to do that, he stopped. “Wow! Leave it to Cowen to save my bacon! So what happened next?”
“Well, it took a while to find you guys. A battle was being waged up and down the Colorado and all of our units were occupied with the fight. Tobias kept moving towards the lake. He’d stop every so often to check on you, rest, eat, and then set up another marker before moving on. He reached the edge of the lake just before sunset, found some driftwood, and started a fire,” Teresa recounted. “A house boat saw the fire and swung by to check it out and found you guys. Their communications equipment was down too, so Tobias had them take you to the dam. We won the battle by the way! Not only did we stop them from blowing up the dam but we, with the help of your Vegas buddies, routed the jihadis! Captured a lot of ‘em, but a bunch got away.”
Marcus grunted, partially to acknowledge what Teresa had just told him and also because his pain medications were wearing off. “Honey,” he began, “how soon can I get out of here?”
“Really, Marcus? You’ve just regained consciousness! You’re obviously in serious pain and are in no condition to leave just yet. But you think you’re ready to leave the hospital? Well think again, mister!” said Teresa. “I’m going to get your nurse so you can have some more pain meds. While you rest and recuperate some more, I’ll go to our house and get some sleep, now that you’re out of danger!”
“But…” Marcus started to respond.
“Colonel Roman, if you try to get out of this bed or this hospital, Doctor Schriver has been told to declare you AWOL and to have you brought back under sedation…and keep you that way! Do you read me, mister?” said Teresa quite forcefully.
Marcus looked up at the serious expression on his wife’s face and realized he’d lost this argument…before it ever began. “You know something, Lieutenant Colonel Roman? You are a real ball buster!” He hoped that by teasing her with the call sign that she’d been given by members of their unit years before that she would relax a little.
“Well…don’t make me have to bust your balls, mister! You stay here until you’re better…much better!” Teresa responded. He could hear the fatigue and stress in her voice.
“I’m sorry, Teresa,” said Marcus taking her hand. “I’m sorry…”
Teresa broke down crying and lay across his chest. Normally, Marcus wouldn’t have minded it, but he WAS, after all, in a considerable amount of pain. Still, he just kept telling her he was sorry over and over as he stroked her hair. Minutes later, Teresa’s sobs slowed and she lifted herself off of Marcus’ chest.
“I’m sorry, honey! I didn’t mean to hurt you…I’ll go get the nurse…” Teresa said, realizing that the pressure she’d put on Marcus’ chest must have hurt.
Marcus pulled her close and told her, “It’s okay, darling! I love you!” With that he leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips. It didn’t last as long as either wished it would. “Okay, now…go get the nurse,” said Marcus through gritted teeth. Teresa smiled and left the room.
**********
January 12th, 1923 hours (ET)
IGC Embassy
The District (formerly Washington, D.C.)
Abdul Aziz Al Zahrani looked up from the paperwork on his desk. Mustafa Mohammed Al-Fakeeh stood on the opposite side of the Al Zahrani’s massive desk. The burns on the right side of Al-Fakeeh’s face and his right arm were covered by thick bandages.
“Mustafa, you and your men failed us in Nevada,” said Al Zahrani. “The Caliph was most displeased.”
“I am sorry, amir,” responded Al-Fakeeh, his eyes staring down at the floor in front of him. “I offer my life to you, amir! Tell me to kneel and I shall!”
“Now, now Mustafa; let us not hasten to make another mistake. This venture was not a total failure. We did draw many of their forces away from key entry points into the United States and, as a result, were able to slip some of our agents into their territory. We also discovered some vital weaknesses that we shall exploit in the near future. And we killed many infidels, reducing the number we shall face when we launch our major offensive,” Al Zahrani explained patiently to his lieutenant. “I would say you have already paid sufficient penance for your part in this failure, Mustafa.”
Mustafa Al-Fakeeh bowed deeply. “Thank you, my sheik!”
Abdul Aziz Al Zahrani beckoned Al-Fakeeh closer and rose to lead his lieutenant to a map mounted on the wall behind his desk. “Soon, we shall launch our attacks deep into the infidels’ territory. Our aircraft, tanks, trucks, missiles, and warriors are all in place. We shall force them to bow down before us or perish. We shall destroy their cities and their military once and for all. This land will become the new bread basket of our Caliphate; its people will be our slaves, raising crops for their masters! The day of the Islamic Global Caliphate’s final triumph draws near, Mustafa.”
“I live only to serve you, my sheik! My life is yours to command,” said Al-Fakeeh. “Send me where you will to kill our enemy.”
“In time, Mustafa, in time. For now, heal your wounds that you will be strong enough for the mission I have in mind for you!” Al Zahrani waved his hand in dismissal. “Away with you, Mustafa. Do not return until I send for you.” Al-Fakeeh bowed again and again as he backed toward the door.
Al Zahrani returned to the business he had been working on prior to Al-Fakeeh’s arrival. Orders had to be sent to various IGC field commanders on the East and West Coasts, as well as those in Mexico. More orders were sent to ships sailing from Africa and the Philippines. Every available warrior and piece of equipment needed to be in place in time for the next wave of attacks upon the United States.
A telephone rang, interrupting his work. It was not his direct line to the Caliph but rather his private line to President Sherrill Carrington. He paused, considering the possibility of not answering it, then chose to answer after all.
“Good evening, mon cheri,” he said quite pleasantly into his receiver. Carrington asked if he planned to join her in the Residence that night. Al Zahrani sighed, more out of relief than regret. “I must apologize, Sherrill. I am awaiting a call from his Excellency, the Caliph. Yes, yes! I shall extend your invitation for him to visit you and your country. Perhaps, he will do so once we are victorious over our enemies! Yes! That would indeed be most wonderful! I shall certainly discuss it with him. Yes, darling…tomorrow night! Until then, cheri, sleep well.”
Al Zahrani returned the phone receiver to its cradle and stared at the device for a moment. “I cannot wait to be done with you, once and for all time, you…ugly cow!” the Arab said. He thought of his plan to kill the bitch one night in the not too distant future. The thought of what he had planned for her brought a smile to his face. He cherished the thought for several moments before returning the endless process of writing orders, completing reports to the Caliph, and filling out requisitions to various PSSA agencies for more men and equipment. Let some of them die in the process of killing their former countrymen; allowing more of the Caliph’s warriors to survive to fight for Allah another day, he thought.
His other phone rang this time and he picked it up after the first ring. “Greetings, my Caliph, may Allah smile upon you! I am honored to hear your voice once more!” Al Zahrani said to Suleyman.
“Ah, my loyal Abdul, it does my heart good to hear your voice and speak with you!” said Suleyman to his chief lieutenant and terrorist mastermind. “I have reviewed your recent reports. Other than the…ugliness at their Hoover Dam, your other r
eports show that you are on schedule for the next phase of our plan. Before we discuss this, I pray you were lenient with Mustapha Al-Fakeeh. In looking at your reports on the dam mission, I found little to fault him and more, perhaps, to fault the American who helped you plan that attack.”
“Yes, my Caliph. Mustafa knows we are displeased but that we have great hopes for his redemption. I would rather have spent my time flaying that bastard, Caldwell, for convincing us to risk that plan; but reports I have received tell me that he died that very night somewhere in Nevada or Arizona,” Al Zahrani reported to his caliph. “If he did not die, then he surely knows that we will kill him should we ever find him!”
“Think no more of it, Abdul Aziz; the matter is behind us. Let us discuss our future plans,” said Suleyman. The two IGC plotters talked for more than an hour and a half before ending their conversation. Al Zahrani returned to his paperwork, content that he did not go to the People’s Palace!
**********
2008 hours (MST)
CBII Headquarters
Denver, CO
Kenneth Halsted, formerly of the old U.S. Army Special Forces and the Central Intelligence Agency, now a special agent in charge with the CBII, finished reading the report and closed it. The report had been brought to him as soon as the information had been transcribed from the wire taps and other covert surveillance mechanisms.
Halsted picked up a phone and dialed his supervisor. The two spoke for less than two minutes before Halsted hung up his receiver. He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out an electric razor and a clip-on tie. He rose and opened a closet to remove a clean shirt, suit, and expensive dress shoes.
Fifteen minutes later, he was cleaned up, freshly dressed, and on his way to the New White House. The President herself wanted to be briefed on any information shared between Al Zahrani and Suleyman. And tonight, Halsted was to be the bearer of the bad tidings!
**********
2029 hours (MST)
Presidential Secure Bunker
Denver, CO
This was not the first time Kenneth Halsted had had to brief the President of the United States. Because of his previous visits to the New White House and the Presidential Secure Bunker, he was soon seated in a well-appointed briefing room with President Katherine McPheron and her National Security Advisor, Davis Alexander Stockton.
Halsted pressed the thumb of his right hand on one side of the watch band around his left wrist. The face of the watch opened and Halsted withdrew a tiny data cube from inside the watch. He inserted the cube into the 3D project built into the table and accessed the data it contained.
First, he played the digital recordings of the lengthy conversation between Suleyman and Al Zahrani. The projected display printed out a translation of what was being said by both men. President McPheron read the translation intently, not understanding the language and dialect being used by the two Arabs. She had studied Korean and Chinese as a student at the old Air Force Academy.
Stockton had a background in linguistics, particularly Arabic languages and dialects, which were critical to his work in national security. With the Islamic Global Caliphate spreading rapidly across the world, McPheron wanted someone who understood the languages, customs, and thought patterns of the enemy to oversee the nation’s intelligence agencies.
From time to time, McPheron paused the recording to ask Stockton or Halsted a question. Once she’d received an answer, they resumed listening. Eventually, they reached the end of the recording. Halsted punched up a map of the Western Hemisphere and waited for the president to speak.
A former U.S. Air Force general, McPheron was highly intelligent and able to grasp the implications of what she’d just heard. “This has been verified through other intelligence assets, Ken?”
Halsted responded quickly, “Yes, Madam President! It corroborates previously gathered intel and fresh data we received within the last hour.”
“Could this be a ruse?” asked President McPheron. “Could they have found out that we’ve managed to break their scrambled communications and know what they’re talking about?”
“While it’s a possibility, Madame President; we feel it is a small one,” answered Stockton. “Our intel agencies have triple checked our sources and we even have some assets under very, very deep cover. Nothing suggests that our spying has been detected or that they could be feeding us false information.”
“Ma’am, it was these same sources that led us to the plot to nuke Hoover Dam,” added Halsted.
“So…” President McPheron began, “we can expect them to step up the frequency and severity of their attacks within the next two weeks?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Stockton and Halsted simultaneously.
“And we can anticipate their use of ‘special’ weapons?” she asked.
Halsted remained quiet to allow Stockton to answer the president’s question. “Yes, Madam President! It appears that the Caliph is prepared to use Iranian and/or Pakistani-made nuclear weapons in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. They are also prepared to launch chemical and biological attacks upon U.S. territories by missiles, aircraft, artillery, and ground personnel. We’re confirming nerve agents and biologicals like smallpox and Ebola. They plan to have dozens of suicide units with infected personnel whose sole goal in their miserable lives is to spread whatever disease they are carrying to as many Americans as they can before they die!”
President McPheron sat quietly, deep in thought, for several minutes. Stockton and Halsted waited patiently for her to respond. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “Thank you, gentlemen, for your reports! I will be calling a meeting of the Secretary of Defense, Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Vice President, and the Speaker of the House for first thing in the morning. I expect both of you to be there as well.”
McPheron rose stiffly from her chair. The back injury she had sustained while held captive by the North Koreans made sitting for any length of time painful. Stockton and Halsted leaped to their feet but knew better than to try to assist the president. McPheron looked at both men for a moment, nodded goodnight, and walked out of the room.
“Well, Ken,” Stockton said, “looks like we’re going to war…again!”
Chapter 14
January 17th, 0603 hours (MST)
ASGuard HQ, Verde Valley
General Titus Augustus Roman reached his office suite slightly behind schedule. He might have been early except for the large number of officers and enlisted personnel who saw him approach the Headquarters Building and asked to speak with him. He’d already heard nine separate requests to be transferred to front line units along Arizona’s borders.
He was only mildly surprised, and equally irritated, to find his only son, Colonel Marcus Aurelius Roman leaning against one of the reception room’s walls. Seeing the general approach, Marcus came off the wall and snapped to attention. Rather slowly and quite shakily, the general thought.
“Marcus, what in the bloody hell are you doing here?” Titus asked, although he already knew the answer to that particular question. “You are supposed to be in the base hospital recuperating!”
Marcus stayed in the position of attention, partially because he feared if he relaxed that he might fall on his face. “Sir, I request to be returned to duty! Any duty, at this time, sir! The rumor mill reports that the U.S. is preparing to go on the offensive and take the fight to the enemy. I don’t intend to be left behind…sir!”
The general’s eyes squinted as he tried to avoid smiling. Damn, I’m proud of this boy of mine! the general thought to himself. Almost got himself killed and is ready to get back into the fray! “Well, according to the last medical report I got from Doc Schriver, he wanted to keep you under observation for a couple of more days then return you to light duty for a while.”
Marcus took a deep breath and replied, “General, I am ready for light duty now, sir!”
“Well,” General Roman said, “let’s go into
my office and discuss this then.” He opened his office door and waved Marcus inside. Marcus marched into the room and took a position in front of the general’s desk, still at attention. General Roman closed the door and said, “For God’s sake, son, sit your ass down in that chair before you fall down!”
Marcus all but collapsed into the chair that he’d been standing next to. His face was pale and clammy looking. Titus walked around behind his desk, set his briefcase on the credenza along one wall, and sat down in his office chair. He looked at his son and thought back to a time when Marcus had returned home from Afghanistan after being seriously injured. That event led to him joining his father in the Arizona State Guard a few weeks later.
“Alright, I’ll sign off on it…light duty that is! And in my office for the time being. Besides, I was going to see if I could get you cut loose early,” Titus said with a slight smile. “I want to take advantage of that keen strategic and tactical mind you are so famous for!”
Marcus let out a sigh of relief. This meeting could have gone much worse. He could have passed out in front of the general and then been hauled back to the hospital on a gurney. Or the general could have just called the hospital to come pick him up! Or refused his request. Or…
The phone on the general’s desk chose that moment to ring. Marcus shot it a dirty glance as his father picked up the receiver. “General Roman,” Titus answered. “Yes? Yes? Well, it so happens he’s sitting right here in front of me! No, I ordered him to report to me this morning. Doctor, I’m sorry I didn’t go through you but I’m in need of his military expertise at the moment. No! No, he won’t be going into combat anytime soon. I need him here at Headquarters to work on the Battle Staff! I request that you send a medic to birddog him for the time being. If he starts to run down, I’ll send him back to you. Fine…fine!”
The Arizona State Guard Trilogy Page 53
