After raping and brutally beating Bilal, Yusuf received a hurried phone call. By his stiff body language, Bilal knew it was Farook on the other end. Yusuf went to a special locked room, where no one else was allowed. Bilal didn’t know exactly what was in there, though once he saw there were many maps on the wall. During yesterday’s phone call, Yusuf said, “I knew I recognized him” and then later, “Does this change any plans for Phase One on July 4th?” and then he closed the door. Bilal said that he was sure something big was happening on that day, but he didn’t know who Yusuf recognized.
Agent Broadmoor reported only the date to his team. He held back the other info and what he planned to do, until he could verify it with his own eyes. He knew his superiors would not approve and if they suspected that Yusuf was speaking about Broadmoor—acting as Malik—he would have been yanked out of the field. But there was too much at stake now: nabbing Farook, uncovering a large terrorist plot, and ensuring Bilal’s safety. He was going to try and get him out of this immediately. In fact, he told Bilal to leave straightaway! He gave the boy some money and told him to get as far away from Yusuf as possible.
But the boy didn’t.
Early this morning, he got a text from Bilal, who must have gone back—Stan feared it was to offer further help to him. His text said, “Yusuf and men leavin to kill u.” Stan grabbed his bug-out bag, got into his Toyota, and sped to Yusuf’s place. He found a naked Bilal dead, throat slit, his phone beside him.
No time for tears. That would be later.
Stan had not been inside the map room before; very few had been. There were two doors, other than the entrance. One was the closet. The other was locked. He picked this lock and entered, flipping on the single bulb. He stood in awe at the main map on the wall. It was of the United States, with Phase One written on top and red circles drawn around Chicago, New York, and DC, two thick circles in the middle of the country, and three other small circles: the city of Jacksonville and two other more rural areas.
Good God, are those targets?
They had strong suspicions that at least one, maybe more high-yield suitcase nukes had made their way into the US, via a “stolen” supply in Russia. The CIA suspected that Russia was complicit in these thefts.
Off the coasts of Oregon and North Carolina were two roughly drawn cigar-shaped objects labeled with Arabic letters, “الروسية”. If he read this correctly, it said “Russian.” Each cigar had a dashed line running in a concave arc up from each cigar and then down, terminating in a thick red circle. One circle was drawn over the western edge of Kentucky, and the other over Salt Lake City, Utah.
They were submarines!
There were thumbtacks dotting points all around the coasts and the borders of the US. He examined the two in Texas and recognized one of them was right on the edge of Houston and the other, just to the right of this. A thought occurred to him and his eyes flashed to the pin above Panama City, Florida. He stood back and looked again, pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.
At that moment, his whole body trembled.
These were all terrorist cells. All were at border areas so as to easily welcome in new recruits: soldiers for an upcoming war. There were over one hundred thumbtacks all along the coasts, and based upon the amount of weapons Hameed said they needed, each cell was going to welcome hundreds of soldiers. That meant maybe tens of thousands of jihadists with guns and a desire to kill Americans. First they would launch nukes at our cities and over the country to take out the grid, and then America was going to be invaded. And Stan knew there was nothing they could do to stop it. Their plans were too far along and it was going to happen … tomorrow!
I have to get out, with my kids, now.
Stan dashed out of the room, closing the door with a click. He paused over the lifeless form of the young boy that had helped him, but he did nothing with the body. After jumping into his car, he attempted to text the photo to another agent, but in his haste, he didn’t hit “send.”
He made two calls, the second to Sara on a separate untraceable phone he carried in his bug-out bag. He was too busy to realize until he was on the highway that Yusuf and his men had returned before he had left and were following him.
Farook had won. He would take down the US, as he’d promised in a video years earlier. And there was nothing Stan could do, or would do, to stop him. But, he wasn’t going to waste any more time trying, either. He would be with his kids and they would be together, for however long they had. Together.
A car honked at Stan for his not paying attention and letting his vehicle wander into the other’s lane. Reflexively, he waved at the other driver in apology and corrected his path. He glanced once more at his mirror pointed back at him. He barely remembered what he looked like before he went undercover, before he became this Malik. But, that would change soon enough.
He glanced at the turnoff sign, and then again at the car behind him, and pulled on the wheel, quickly veering off the highway onto the frontage road, which led into a small service station on a T-intersection.
Their binoculars were on him, his motions being reported to Yusuf.
Malik guided his car into the full-service island of pumps. A young worker in a blue striped work shirt dashed out of the building almost instantly and traded words with him. The worker nodded his head mechanically and then proceeded to fill up the car and wash the windows, while Malik ducked inside, ostensibly to use the restroom, a backpack slung over his shoulder, his long black jubba fluttering behind him.
Yusuf’s red Mazda slowed to a stop behind a row of self-serve pumps at a different island on the other side of the station, but in plain view of the island where Malik’s car sat. Yusuf Habib exited his car, his black beard flapping in the warm Texas air, as he watched the station attendant service the Toyota they had been tailing. The other men got out of the car, their weapons shouldered beneath their jubbas, hidden but ready. They looked at Yusuf for the word on whether to kill the traitor now or wait for a better opportunity, with fewer people.
Farook’s orders were to follow him and kill him where there were the least number of witnesses. Their long awaited plan to take down the infidels would start in only one more day. And his men were needed for the invasion, a few days after this. They needed to remain as innocuous as possible until then, and killing people at a gas station would only damage their cause. They would wait for a better opportunity.
He shook his head “no” to his men, who were unsatisfied with his answer but complied. Yusuf felt their frustration; they all wanted this war to start now. Yusuf put the nozzle back into the pump, pretending to be finished when he hadn’t actually used it. He got back into his car and waited. The others followed, and all the doors closed.
Two men in a black Suburban pulled into a competing gas station across the street, keeping their distance from both targeted cars. They, too, were trying to figure out their next step. Their man inside, Agent Broadmoor, was supposed to have been turning a new asset and then he had gone off comms. They found him racing out of his apartment, then going to Yusuf’s apartment, and now driving his car toward Kansas. Then Yusuf and his men were following him. Yusuf’s men looked angry, but the agents didn’t know why. Something must have happened since Broadmoor went off comms.
“Has Broadmoor made even a squeak on his radio?” said the driver to the other.
“No. In fact, I’m seeing no movement from Broadmoor. Something must have happened. Wait, here he is.”
They watched Broadmoor dash to his Toyota and slip into it. Immediately, he drove out of the station, onto the frontage road and back onto the highway.
No one noticed he was no longer wearing his backpack.
Yusuf’s Mazda pulled out as well, continuing to tail the Toyota, five car lengths behind him. The Suburban followed far behind, staying out of visual distance, relying on the GPS tracking device in Agent Broadmoor’s phone, which was moving at a steady seventy-two miles per hour.
About ten minutes later, a clea
n-shaven Stanley Broadmoor stepped out of the gas station bathroom and walked through the employee entrance to the garage. There, his cherished Plymouth Duster waited for him. He hoped that his friend, wearing a disguise that made him look like Stan’s Malik persona, would be safe. If all went according to plan, his friend would lose both Yusuf and his fellow agents at a seemingly random, but planned, block in traffic in Kansas City, where they would assume he ran and would search for him there.
It was a bold plan Stan had crafted several months earlier in case everything turned to shit, and it certainly had. The world he knew was about to end soon, along with their cherished America. Even if he wanted to, there was nothing he or any of the authorities could do to stop the multiple cells operating throughout the US. The destruction of the US was inevitable. So, it was time.
His kids would be arriving at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in a few hours. He would finally be with his children, for good.
He pulled out of the garage bay, and drove into the lingering sunlight of an expiring day. He didn’t realize it was the last sunset he and his country would see.
Chapter 22
July 5th
Frank
His old friend adrenaline was back.
After picking the lock, Frank reached behind and Wallace handed him one of the bandana saps as he silently turned the handle and pulled on the door. Only his head breached the space between frame and door.
Just one guard with his back to them: at least this part was going to be easy.
The guard must have heard or sensed something because his head and shoulders perked up, and he started to turn. In his younger days, Frank would have sprung from the room, stealthy and deadly. Now, he knew his knee prevented the stealthiness, but he’d still be deadly. As the guard turned around to face him, Frank brought the arc and the full heft of the weight around to its thudding terminus into the side of the man’s head. Frank wouldn’t try to slow this man’s fall, this time.
Turns out, he didn’t have to. Danbury was right there to catch the man as he fell, making that part of their operation silent. Then almost as swiftly, he and one of the other officers dragged the guard inside the room. Danbury returned sporting the guard’s AK.
“Hope you don’t mind?” Danbury motioned with the weapon and Frank swore he wore a little grin.
Frank smiled too and briskly walked to the end of the hallway, ready to pounce on anyone who came out of one of the doors he passed. The shuffle of footsteps behind him told him that Danbury and crew were on his heels. This might just work.
Just then, without warning, the outside door cracked open.
Frank thrust his arm back, ready to swing, and in sync, Danbury pulled back the charging handle on the AK, his finger on the trigger.
“Whoa, it’s just me—” said a man popping in with his hands up in surrender.
“Porter Grimes,” announced Frank. “Thank God you’re safe.”
“Major Cartwright, sir. You’re the stranger they were talking about?” Porter glanced at Danbury. “Sir.” Then to the rest of the group he said, “We have to hurry, they’re coming here right now to execute everyone.”
Several of the group mumbled their worried concerns, but all looked up at this mission’s commander, Frank, for his order to leave the building.
“No!” Frank declared as he shot glances to each of the doors along the hallway and then back to the hallway’s entrance. “We’re going to let them come here and try to execute us.”
The group’s stunned silence was broken enthusiastically by Wallace, who nodded at him. “Damn smart, sir.”
~~~
Colonel Kadeem and his men walked with precision to the building’s hallway entrance. In a minute, they would be able put their worries aside and focus on the mission. It should never have been their job to babysit the enemy. This was the only puzzling part of their orders: not to kill the enemy until after they entered the next phase of their mission, which was still a few days away. They weren’t looking for intelligence; they knew all they needed to know. Other than a radio operator, they didn’t need any of the Army’s men, and certainly not their drone pilots; they had their own.
The uniforms made sense, although he’d rather be wearing his own colonel’s uniform from the IRG. Certainly it would be nice to be recognized under his real name and not this dead American’s. But they needed to look like US Army in case anyone like this Cartwright wandered in, or if the US Army showed up unannounced. And they did not need the previous occupiers of this base and these uniforms to still be breathing. At least, that risk would be mitigated.
They entered the hallway, with Kadeem leading his five guard-executioners. After the door clicked behind them, with a slight echo, Kadeem listened to his senses. They’d kept him alive through two revolutions, and they were telling him something was wrong. The guard he had posted in front of the prisoners’ door was not there.
“Pay attention,” he told the executioners, who raised their weapons in reply.
Kadeem slowly proceeded forward, his hand on his holstered weapon, his men behind him in lockstep.
Each door they walked past increased Kadeem’s tension. When they passed the fourth door, a woman in civilian clothes bumbled out of the last door before the auditorium, giggling. She stopped when she saw the men, wobbling some, like she was inebriated. Her mouth popped open, her intense eyes burned with shock, and her hands were thrown up into the air so quickly, she looked like she might fall over.
“Freeze,” yelled Kadeem. The guards aimed their rifles.
The woman appeared to faint, as she fell hard to the floor, just as five men snuck up behind the guards and swung their saps, all connecting at once.
Kadeem knew they’d been had the moment the woman fell, but he couldn’t react in time. He’d barely raised his pistol from its holster when the barrel of a rifle punched into his back, almost knocking the wind out of his lungs. “I wouldn’t, Colonel,” said Cartwright’s familiar voice.
Kadeem holstered his sidearm.
“You can get up now, First Lieutenant; good acting, by the way.” Frank pushed the rifle barrel harder against the colonel’s back, relishing the turnabout. “And why don’t you grab the colonel’s weapon and watch the door in case someone else attempts to come through.”
Wallace rose from the floor with a smile, walked over to Kadeem and pulled out his pistol. “I’ll take that, thank you.” She slipped by them and listened for others at the door.
“What are you going to do with me?” Kadeem cringed inside at how cowardly he sounded.
“I’m sure you’d like to join Allah in Paradise, but first we need to know a few things.”
~~~
It always amazed him how a mission’s objective changed with the elements.
At first, Frank was going to Ft. Rucker to be chief salesman for their cause, to plead with the Army to take their intel, so that they would take the fight directly to Farook in Florida. Then he’d be chief salesman for Grimes to convince his son, Porter, to come back with him. He had no interest in engaging Farook; that part of the war would be for the younger men and women. Certainly he’d have his hands full protecting their homes in Stowell.
But then the mission changed, when he learned the base had been taken. He would have to rescue Porter and the rest of the troops.
And now his mission had changed again. He’d secured the safety of all the men and women of this base, including Porter. His new mission was to take it back, as it obviously played a key role in this enemy’s war on America. He had the skills to help in this necessary cause. But their mission was greater than this. They needed to also find out why this base was so important: why this base in Alabama? Colonel Kadeem—the man hadn’t told them much except his name, yet—would be the one to help them figure this out. But to have the time to do this, they first had to take back the base and kill their enemy.
“We have to get to my truck.” Frank pointed to a base map in one of the rooms off the hallway, w
here all but two of the reservists—who were on watch—had gathered. “So as to not arouse suspicion, we’ll have the colonel march me back to the museum, with his five guards following. You five,” he pointed to the five men who had reclaimed their own uniforms from the guards. “We’ll get the guns and the case of ammo and bring them back here. Finally, we’ll arm up and then take the base. Any questions?”
Frank looked first to Danbury, to see if he found any holes in his plan, then to Porter, and then to the rest of the group.
A few moments later they were marching back to the museum. Colonel Kadeem had an empty AK pointed at Frank, who whispered threats to Kadeem if he said anything. The five men pretending to be guards followed quietly, eyes watching all movement around them.
So far so good.
After fumbling with his keys, Frank opened his truck bed. Two of the men pulled the crate from the tailgate and Kadeem chortled to himself, mouthing some Farsi swearword under his breath.
Two of Kadeem’s men approached them from the museum as Frank’s men were lifting the two crates. One of them asked Kadeem a question, which Frank didn’t hear; he looked at Kadeem’s face. He knew it before Kadeem’s mouth formed the words. Frank grabbed an AK slung over one of the guards and spun around as Kadeem started bellowing his warning. Frank cut both men down and then turned the rifle on Kadeem. He needed him for information, but survival was more important. Kadeem shot him a glance of acceptance for his fate and Frank fired once, ending Kadeem’s identity-stealing days.
“Run back to the auditorium,” Frank ordered as he scanned for more guards.
Just before they ran behind the corner of the building, he could see dozens of men streaming their way. They were about to become sitting ducks.
~~~
Highway: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival Page 14
