The guards recognized Brunner, snapped to attention, and saluted as the Hummer raced past and continued on until it reached the edge of a small depression. Brunner steered the vehicle down to a stream and turned sharply to take a road to the right, along its bank. Soon they reached a dense grove of trees that spanned the road like a canopy.
The first sign of the camp was a high, electrified fence. The gate was controlled by a motor and remained closed as Brunner braked to a stop. Two guards came out of a small kiosk; one walked to the driver’s side, the other to the passenger’s side. They didn’t wave Brunner through until they were satisfied.
“I would have their heads if they weren’t thorough,” Brunner said over his shoulder.
The camp was really a collection of five buildings. “That’s headquarters,” Brunner said, pointing to one. “That large one is the mess hall; it doubles as a large meeting room.” He pointed to one farther away. “That houses operations and facilities. We have the capacity to go for a week without power with that bad-boy generator. The other buildings are all barracks.”
They came to a large open area filled with men and women, all wearing camouflage uniforms, and all in various stages of training. One group was running in a crouch and shooting at cut-out targets in the windows of faux building storefronts that represented an urban street scene.
“That’s some good shooting,” Angela Vaughn said.
Another group was engaged in some form of martial art. One man stood off to the side, she noticed, holding his arm and grimacing in pain.
An unsmiling woman suddenly stepped in front of the Hummer and held up a red flag to stop them. Brunner directed their eyes to the left. A man ran past an open doorway and threw an object into the room beyond. As the man rolled for cover, a strong blast shattered the silence. Flames and smoke spiraled above him.
“Good job…” Brunner muttered.
“How many people like this do you have currently?” Claussen asked.
“Sergeant?” Brunner snapped.
“Sir. Five thousand and forty-eight, sir!” the young woman next to him replied. “Sir. The others have departed as ordered, sir!”
“We already have another four thousand two hundred trained and waiting back east,” Brunner said. He had stopped the Hummer and looked back at Claussen when he said that.
“How many are trained to do that with a grenade? That’s what I was asking.”
“They all are,” Brunner said, grinning at the young sergeant sitting next to him.
Claussen smiled for the first time. Angela saw his broad, beaming smirk and relaxed.
Once settled in the guest quarters, they walked with Brunner to the headquarters building. The blond sergeant walked at Brunner’s side like a trained dog. When they entered the building, several people in uniforms jumped to their feet and stood in rigid attention poses.
Brunner led his guests to another room—a conference room. Five men and two women stood at attention, waiting for Claussen to sit at the head of the table.
“Sir,” Brunner looked at Claussen. “I have asked the team leaders to brief you.”
By the time the meeting finished, Angela had heard them each tell Claussen what they were ready to do. Over nine thousand men and women were prepared to infiltrate the city the day before the global summit. Some were already in the city, staying in various locations. Others were on their way.
Brunner and his team outlined their task. “Team Spearhead will start with a bang.” He laughed. Angela didn’t think it was funny. She knew Team Spearhead was going to set off the first bomb in the Distillery District, just as the summit was getting underway. The plan was to cause enough destruction to draw the police and security forces away from the crowds they were assigned to—the ones assembled to watch the dignitaries arrive.
“Collateral damage is unavoidable,” Brunner said, but his words carried a tone that implied he didn’t care who got in the way.
He told them that the bombing would be the signal to the others to put the operation into high gear. Key points around the city had been identified as specific targets for exceptional violence and destruction. The Free Eagle operatives would essentially be causing as much confusion and destruction as possible. Brunner also assured his guests that his army of hired thugs was looking forward to smashing skulls and teeth. He grinned as he said it.
Angela didn’t sleep well that night and was feeling cranky the next morning. She was grateful her boss was still not in a talkative mood as they were driven back to the airport. She did notice, however, that he was smiling a lot on the plane back.
• • •
Three days after that visit to Camp Free Eagle, the media reported that tens of thousands were expected to gather in advance of the summit. Spectators would crowd the civic square to get a good view of the dignitaries as they arrived. TV cameras focused on those who were carrying signs, either in protest of the politics of a particular delegate or to cheer their favorite celebrity. The crowd seemed to be in a festive mood, but the police security forces were on high alert. Undercover agents melted into the crowd, ready to sound the alarm if someone looked to be doing something threatening. In spite of all this, though, nobody was prepared for what was about to happen.
The throng’s activities took a darker turn when several of the Free Eagle teams began pushing and shoving. Their job was to stir up resentment while taking care to not incite violence—yet.
The crowd surged to the front of the plaza when the first in a convoy of limousines began to arrive. Television cameras and other media services formed phalanxes, swarming around each dignitary.
• • •
Alarm, fear, and terror came uninvited to the summit when 4,327 men and women unleashed murder and mayhem on an unsuspecting city.
“What are those guys doing?” a curious subway passenger asked, turning to a stranger next to her. They stared at some men who were stripping away their outer layers of clothing, revealing military-style uniforms featuring Free Eagle Militia insignia.
At the Saint Patrick station, the men jumped up, drawing an assortment of weapons from their belts: police batons, lead pipes, and a formidable array of knives. One reached in his pocket for a set of brass knuckles. He glared at the other passengers.
Shrieking brakes blended with screams next. The rough-looking men left the unarmed passengers bleeding and clutching at broken bones. They laughed at an old woman who whimpered in fear as they exited.
Other cars spewed out thugs, too, one of whom smirked as he clasped a bloodstained baton. Holding up their hands in self-styled salutes, they assembled at street level and began to surge toward the square. Thousands of spectators had gathered to watch a limo parade of political celebrities and heads of state from all over the globe—they were real, no longer just images on television.
The uniformed hooligans began spearing their way into the crowd, raising their arms and smashing weapons on unsuspecting heads. Bone-crushing sounds combined with screams. Questioning heads began to turn away from the red carpet.
“Time to bash even more heads!” said one man. Looking at his watch, he gave a signal: “Now!”
With the first explosion, the crowd panicked, trying to scatter, trampling those underfoot.
A small child with pleading eyes stretched her arms up for help, only to be kicked aside. When the crowd dispersed, she was lying still on the concrete—with blank eyes that would never see a future.
• • •
The first big blast came from a high-explosive bomb strategically placed in the Distillery District. Its position was calculated to cause maximum damage as well as spread panic and confusion.
The walls of a historic brick building—a former factory—seemed to belch outward as the shock waves heaved away from the point of detonation. Then the walls collapsed inward as the trailing vacuum sucked them back in, the overpressure creatin
g an earsplitting sonic boom.
The heat from the explosion released a thermal wave, and newly exposed, combustible material incinerated in microseconds. Fragments of bricks, plumbing pipes, window frames, and furniture spread into the street as small shards were expelled at supersonic speed.
For those closest to the blast, death came mercifully fast. The shock wave ravaged internal organs, shrapnel from debris shredded body tissue, and the fireball immolated whatever was left.
Over the next seven minutes, five regions in greater Toronto were targeted, with similar results. The shock waves could be felt throughout the entire metropolitan area. Entire blocks were leveled and left in flames, transportation was disrupted, and three bridges were destroyed.
The psychological shock waves, however, had yet to begin to spread.
• • •
A predetermined emergency signal from police headquarters placed the city’s nine regional offices and eight area field offices on a war-measures footing. All uniformed officers—on duty and off—received a text message that ordered them to report to their stations immediately. Detectives and command officers, along with support personnel, were mobilized for the duration. Each had a preassigned task.
Over seven thousand uniformed men and women were soon activated. Rumors flew, and few bothered trying to hide their apprehension.
The first clash with Free Eagle Militia ended with injuries on both sides.
A police commander screamed, “They’re storming a hospital!” as he ordered officers onto buses.
Police radio traffic described dozens of confrontations with rioters. Medical clinics were also being raided, with people being beaten and left for dead.
Firemen watched helplessly as buildings they couldn’t reach in time burned and collapsed. Many were seen kneeling with heads in hands, weeping at the destruction.
Emergency medical technicians rushed ambulances through thick smoke, dodging debris, yelling, “I can’t hear you. Say again?” as radio communications faded out and in.
• • •
“Implement exit strategy,” was the Free Eagle Militia’s final broadcast.
With that simple phrase, militia men and women began their withdrawal. Like ghosts fading into shadows, they disappeared, leaving a stunned populace, the sounds of hissing embers, sighing buildings on their way to collapse, and the haunting sound of screams—human screams that no longer seemed human.
• • •
At day’s end, fire and explosives had ruined the trendy Distillery District, the Kensington Market area, Spadina corridor, the near-west factory region, and the area surrounding Allan Gardens.
The personal statistics were staggering, with 337 deaths reported and over seven hundred people treated for severe wounds. Overburdened authorities were still tabulating the number of missing persons.
“The attacks were well coordinated, and particular groups were targeted,” noted an anonymous government source. “Hospitals and clinics were stormed. We have witnesses who claim they saw a homeless woman beaten and dragged into a van. Witness accounts also described armed men and women in camouflage-style uniforms.”
“I saw the uniform patches, clear as anything,” one witness said. “They said Free Eagle Militia. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I watched them torch a Jewish church—what do you call it? A synagogue. It was like something out of an old newsreel.”
The clash between police and uniformed mobs lasted over seventy-four hours total. Order was only restored when special agents from a new program called Operation CleanSweep took control of security. The Free Eagle Militia began a withdrawal soon after and left behind a city of dazed citizens, shrouded in smoke.
Curiously, not one militia member was ever arrested.
• • •
After the first blast in the civic square, police security forces spread out to line the street. They opened a passage through the crowds and started waving frantically. Under their direction, the convoy of limousines began speeding away, smoked-glass windows rolling up as they left the area in haste. Dignitaries caught on foot between their cars and the square were pushed back to the limousines, bodyguards forcing them inside with rough shoves, the TV cameras capturing the scene.
Someone in the crowd began crying out as the Free Eagle agents took their cue from the blast and started pushing people next to them, using batons and sticks to start bashing heads. Soon more people were screaming. Then the crowd began stampeding to get away. They trampled falling bodies, unmindful of who was getting hurt—the only thought most had was to get away, get to safety.
Blood pools and splatters were suddenly everywhere, accompanied by the sounds of bones breaking and horrible screams of pain and terror. Then a second blast sounded to the east, quickly followed by a black cloud of smoke.
Radios crackled as police, security guards, and undercover agents were given instructions in a voice that was close to panic. “Units one and three, stay where you are. The rest, proceed to the Distillery District.” That was only the beginning. Rioting, vandalism, beatings, and even worse extended over the next two days.
• • •
“This is Leonard Paulsen reporting for Action 21 News. I apologize for the poor quality of the video. We are operating from a temporary studio, and are using portable generators for power.
“The city has been the scene of unprecedented rioting over the past forty-eight hours. At latest count, there are hundreds dead and twenty-five hundred injuries reported. There is no way to estimate the damage in dollar terms yet, but the destruction of property has been enormous.
“Metropolitan Police Services Chief Claude Randall is urging calm and asking all residents to remain in their homes unless they are needed on urgent business.
“We are also requested to pass along an announcement from the new security organization,” the newscaster said, as he looked down at a paper he was holding, “CleanSweep.”
He turned to look back up at the camera. “When the all-clear is sounded, each citizen is to report to the nearest CleanSweep substation to be documented and issued with a new photo ID. There are no exceptions to this order.”
A map of the city appeared as the background, showing the locations of CleanSweep stations.
“Reports from the field indicate the city is returning to normal. Four areas of the city have received significant damage, with the Distillery District the hardest hit. All hospital and emergency rooms are operational except at Central Hospital; its patients have been moved to other facilities. The hospital is apparently so badly damaged it is not expected to reopen soon.
“This story just in,” the newsreader said next.
“Police have tentatively identified the person who apparently jumped to his death from the City View condominium building last night. According to a detective on the scene, it was Matthew Tremain, the well-liked investigative blogger. No further information is available, but a source did say that Tremain was undergoing treatment for depression.
“The suicide count is now up to fifteen, according to reports. Ever since the rioting began and the new regulations have been implemented, it has been difficult to access official records.
“In other news, there is still no word on the whereabouts of Action 21’s own reporter Susan Payne or her cameraman. Before her disappearance, Payne was working on a background story regarding Operation CleanSweep.”
After a brief moment, the screen went dark.
CHAPTER 21
After the Riots
The Ten-Eight was a saloon, not even worthy of the terms bar, pub, or tavern. Most would call it a dive, a dump, a place decent people should avoid. “Keep walking,” mothers would say as they passed it, noses turned up in disgust as they held their children’s hands tightly.
The place was deliberately uninviting. Smoked-glass windows discouraged scrutiny, a solitary neon sign winked a halfhear
ted invitation. Anyone happening by did so quickly. The front door was hard to open, another challenge meant to discourage all but the most tenacious visitors.
The neon sign flashed the numbers that made up the saloon’s name. It was an unofficial headquarters, a place preferred by a select group of off-duty police officers and detectives. A ten-eight signal in cop code meant “officer on duty,” making the name of the bar an irony—one that only patrons of this cop bar appreciated. That night, however, the bar was deserted except for the barkeep and two men sitting at the counter.
“The worst seventy-two hours of my life,” Carling grumbled. “The city’s ruined. I don’t know if it will ever recover. Look around—there’s nobody left.”
“Where were you when the balloon went up?” asked his friend.
Carling turned and stared. “What the fuck are you talking about? What balloon?”
Detective Sergeant Wallace Carling was nursing a beer and sitting next to Scott, a detective from his team and one of his few close friends.
“I heard it in a movie,” Scott said. “You know, when they knew the enemy was coming they would say the balloon was going up—something big was about to happen. So where were you”—he gestured in an upward spiral—“when this balloon went up?”
Carling thought about it for a moment. “I was alone, at my desk,” he finally said. “It was quiet. The other detectives in my unit were either off duty or out in the field when all hell broke loose. Phones started ringing on everybody’s desk, with no one except me there to answer them. Shortly after the phones began ringing, though, the emergency alarm Klaxon started in. That made an awful racket…a horrible sound.” There was hesitation in his voice as he related the memory.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 16
