Hannibal is at the Gates

by David Kershner

  “The Blockade Runner, why?” Dallas wondered.

  “Because when my girlfriends and I went to Myrtle for our Beach Week, we stayed there once or twice.”

  “What! Where did you grow up?” Dallas said shocked.

  “When mom flew back to the States, she was hidden away at my grandparents’ house in Carthage, North Carolina.”

  “Ho-ly crap!” James exclaimed. “You, your dad, and mother grew up forty-five minutes apart? That is amazing.”

  “Not only that, but my friends and I used to go up to the other side of Troy, to Lake Tillery, and go water skiing in the summer as well,” Heather added.

  “I remember the first time I went there actually,” she continued. “I was ten, I think. My grandparents took me up there for a picnic and Papaw let me drive his boat. He seemed distant, though. It was like he wanted to be there for some other reason. He drove us down to the south end of the lake, near the eastern shore. The boathouses were built into the cliff walls, which completely fascinated me. The tiny railroad tracks leading from the docks and the water to these massive doors were amazing to me.

  “When we reached this little bluff, he stopped the boat and dropped the anchor. There was a cabin and these men in uniform up top and a handful of men at the water’s edge below. I think it was a funeral.”

  Dallas and James glanced at each other, but neither offered any commentary on her story. They just nodded to each other knowingly.

  “It was a military funeral, I know that. This guy came out with a bugle and played taps and then the men in uniform fired their rifles. One of the men looked like he was spreading ashes into the lake. Seems like it was only yesterday,” she said wistfully.

  “I remember feeling very sad, but calm at the same time. It was weird though. There was a woman dressed in black at the top of the bluff and she was holding what I thought were her daughters hands. They were cute as could be with these blonde curls and little white dresses. I waved to them and the mother looked like she was pointing out at our boat. Then Papaw stood up too. He just kind of stayed there, then he saluted the men on the shore. I’d never seen him do that before.

  “As we were pulling up the anchor and starting to leave, one of the girls waved back. It was like a dream or something. We went back to the lake a few months later and there was a for sale sign in the yard on the bluff.”

  “And you remember all of that?” Dallas asked.

  “Yeah, like it was yesterday, why?” Heather replied.

  “And you have no idea why you were there? But you happened to come across this funeral?” James asked.

  “Papaw and Nana just said we were going to go on a boat and have a picnic,” Heather answered.

  “That was your family, Heather,” Dallas inserted. “That was us at the lake. Your father, me, James, and Ernesto. We were at the water’s edge spreading your grandfather’s ashes. The girls on the bluff were Amanda, Layla, and Katherine.”

  “You didn’t wind up there by chance. Brent brought you to your grandfather’s funeral,” James added.

  “I’m sorry. What?” Heather said, clearly stunned by the revelation.

  Dallas and James said no more. Heather needed time to process this new information.

  After a few minutes of silence, Dallas could see Heather weeping in the backseat. He elbowed James and motioned toward the back seat. James was always better with the emotional side of things and said, “Did Josh tell you he was from Troy?” James asked.

  “Yeah, before he started with all his crazy talk,” she replied.

  “After reading that report, he doesn’t seem too insane, now does he?” James said gently.

  “Nope. Not anymore. Wanna hear something interesting?” Heather asked slowly.

  James nodded and Heather said, “Last night, when I came into the kitchen, I didn’t say anything because I thought I was imagining things. When I turned the corner and saw you, I could have sworn I’d seen the two of you before. I couldn’t remember where though.”

  “Small world,” James replied.

  Dallas offered to change the subject when he said, “What other questions do you have? I have lots of stories about your dad.”

  He then spent the rest of the trip telling Heather all about Amanda. As they pulled up to the cabin, Layla and Katherine squealed with delight and ran to greet Heather and their adopted uncles.

  When their friend asked how the ride went, Dallas replied, “It was fine. I think that little girl is sufficiently up to speed on the Simmons family history now. She had an interesting bombshell of her own.”

  “Oh. How so?” Josh asked.

  “Remember those boaters at your dad’s funeral?” Dallas asked.

  “Vaguely. Why?”

  “That was Brent, his wife, and Heather. The General brought your daughter to her grandfather’s funeral,” Dallas answered.

  “Seriously?” he replied shocked at the news.

  James added, “Not only that, but one of them waved to her.”

  The man was truly at a loss for words.

  Observing their stunned friend, Dallas said, “He asked James and me to give you a message though. He said to tell you ‘twelve twenty four and the Ides of March’. Any idea what that means?”

  Chapter 9

  Navid Kashani sat in his little cramped Herndon, Virginia apartment just staring at what he had built. His fully assembled RF device was beaconing to him. It doesn’t look like much. Damn thing looks more like an old radio than mechanism for mayhem and chaos.

  The insurgent fighter had been an ardent follower of Suhrab’s from the earliest days of the movement. It was time to announce to the rest of members that he, and the mission, was ready to take the next step.

  Time for the test fire, but on what?

  Per Suhrab’s instructions, the initial target was supposed to be large enough to make a headline and be recognized, but not kill anyone. Under no circumstances were they to draw attention to the group or the device. Therefore, no military targets and no electrical grid substations. At least, not yet.

  While he sat there wondering how and where to test the contraption, the Metro line became a flurry of activity outside his apartment complex as two trains passed one another. One was leaving Dulles and the other headed to it.

  Why not? What better way to cause a stink than by disabling a Metro train full of weary infidels during their Christmas travels.

  He got up and retrieved the D.C. Metro map he had procured at Union Station. As Navid sat and studied it, his eyes kept wandering back to the open briefcase on the table. Unable to fully focus, and with commuter traffic rumbling by outside, he opted to disable the new public transportation line connecting the capital to the Dulles Airport. The power failure would most likely be blamed on shoddy union mandated electrical work so there was no need to worry about the FBI or DHS banging on his door.

  The man put on his winter coat and hat, grabbed his miniature pocket scope, and closed the lid on his briefcase. Before exiting the room, he turned and surveyed the little apartment one last time. He wondered if he would ever see it again, but he was confident that he would. Unlike conventional weapons, the device left no residue for some government agency to analyze. It didn’t explode and cause collateral damage. It would simply look like some sort of electrical problem had shorted out the system and melted relays and wiring in the process.

  Navid exited the tiny studio, locking the door behind him, and made his way toward the back of the complex. He paused for a few moments to check if anyone was about. With no signs of other tenants, he quickly headed in to the woods that served as a buffer between the apartments and the Dulles Toll Road. The Metro line that was to be his target ran parallel to the roadway on a raised rail bed. Since the tracks were elevated, there was no place for the passengers to exit if the train became disabled. Even better.

  As he approached his position, he used the pocket scope to scan for any of the hundreds of thousands of video cameras that blanketed the D.C. Metropolita
n area. There were several at the toll entrance, of course, but they were pointed downward for facial recognition software and to capture license plates. He didn’t see any mounted on every light pole like he had seen downtown.

  Navid smiled as he began to setup and prime the device. The only thing left to do was to wait for the next passing train. All of the members had been trained and drilled extensively in the caves of Iran. Every single member could activate and fire the weapon in less than ten seconds if the need ever arose. He anxiously consulted the Metro timetable one last time before folding it and tucking it into his coat pocket, then nervously checked his watch. Shouldn’t be long. A few minutes later, he heard the rumble approaching with the typical click-clack of the steel wheels on the rail.

  When it came into sight a half mile down the line, Navid prepared to fire. Before doing so, he placed his hand over his genitals as a precaution.

  With a flick of his wrist, the device activated. There was no ‘boom’, just silence. No recoil, combustion, or muzzle flash. It was like turning on a TV, radio, or microwave. The invisible waves bombarded the on-board electrical systems until it slowly came to a stop a quarter mile in front of him. His tunnel vision hadn’t accounted for the cars coming to and from Dulles on the toll road though. Below the stopped train, the roadway filled with dozens of disabled cars as well.

  Land Rovers, BMW’s, beat up Chevy’s, it didn’t matter. Anything relying on electrical circuitry and computer chips was affected. Calmly and quietly, Navid turned off the device, closed the briefcase, and walked back to his apartment. The test was successful.

  Throughout the night, he watched the news and could see, both from the reporting and from his balcony, that the VDOT had transported cherry pickers and boom trucks to remove the passengers from the motionless tram. Over the course of the next few weeks he kept a close eye on the news. One by one, other members came online.

  A streetcar went careening through the streets of San Francisco. It would have plunged into the Bay had it not been for a crafty bus driver. New York City’s famed Madison Square Garden mysteriously became dark during a basketball game. The ski lifts in Telluride, Colorado ground to a halt stranding hundreds of vacationers aloft. An Air Asia flight on approach to Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle, Washington had to abort its landing when the control tower lost power. The Metrodome in Minneapolis blacked out and thousands of cars parked in a lot at Dallas Fort Worth International wouldn’t start.

  That accounted for all but one of the team members. After that, everyone would be online. From there on out, all any of the group would have to do was monitor the New York Times classifieds for signals from Suhrab.

  * * *

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is ‘Charlie-Lima-six-three-nine-heavy and we are declaring an emergency! Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

  “Any response?” the co-pilot asked.

  “Nothing,” the pilot replied as he ripped the headset off. “Ever seen a two hundred and twenty-five ton glider?”

  Both men had their hands wrapped around the controls in a death grip as the Captain continued to give commands.

  “How far are we from Port Columbus,” the pilot grunted as he tried to keep the beast aloft.

  “Twelve miles.”

  “Altitude?”

  “Eight thousand and we’re losing that rapidly, sir. What the hell happened?”

  “No idea,” the man groaned as tried keeping control. “That Cessna passed us on the port side as we were turning to line up the runway and then everything went tits up.”

  “I don’t think we have enough to get there. Can we put down on that four lane road down there?” his friend questioned.

  “In the middle of all those Christmas shoppers! Are you serious!” the pilot shot back. “I’m aiming for that golf course!” the man declared, but with no flight computer he couldn’t use the rudder. Everything was electronic, they didn’t have the ability to fly by wire.

  “Oh crap,” the Captain barked as a strong crosswind began pushing them further north. Without warning, a blast of wind shear violently thrust them toward the ground.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is ‘Charlie-Lima-six-three-nine-heavy! We are going down! Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” the co-pilot screamed into his headset as the plane slammed into the frozen earth below.

  Given the cargo haulers massive bulk, the wings and tail section tore away when the machine pancaked the first house. What remained of the fuel from their cross-country flight began spewing across vast tracts of land. With its landing gear down and locked, the plane skipped left and right as each rear assembly touched down until they too eventually snapped off. The violent impact sheared the reinforced hinges that attached the retractable cabin from the main body of the fuselage. Once freed from the rest of the structure, the projectile proceeded to skip and bounce as if it were a cartoon character smashing anything in its path on its way through the neighborhood.

  After the cockpit separated, the exposed fuselage of the cargo hold worked like a shovel digging its way into the manicured lawns. The momentum brought the tubular section vertical and flipped it over and over until it came to rest on a gas station. Pallets of packages were strewn across a half-mile of chewed up earth through the affluent suburb.

  The destruction and debris left by the wayward aircraft was coated in jet fuel. The most insignificant little spark turned the formerly plush landscape into a wall of fire igniting everything in its wake. Propane cylinders on back yard grills started flying through the air as they erupted into fireballs. The crushed and burning cars were smoldering at first, but once the fires reached the gas tanks, they too were turned into firebombs and thick black smoke. The gas station resting under the main body of the fuselage began spraying and leaking fuel from its half dozen pumps. When the flames came into contact with vapor, the magnitude of the shockwave from the explosion blew out windows for blocks. The destructive force with which the plane hit left a debris field that could only be compared to a war zone or a tornado.

  Amanda’s sister, Kristen, was in the basement finalizing the last of the buyer requested fixes when she heard the pronounced ‘boom’. To her, through the insulation and framing, it sounded like thunder.

  That’s odd, she thought, it’s the middle of December. We can’t be having a thunderstorm. She wiped away a layer of dinge and cobwebs to have a look at the horizon when she saw the massive brown tinted fuselage and fireball headed right at her.

  Instinctively, she shrieked in horror, ran back to the washer and dryer, and dove between them to take cover.

  The earth shook as the remnants of the plane approached. Suddenly, with a horrendous crash, the entire back of the home exploded into oblivion. The breaking of glass, twisting of metal, and the snapping of lumber were deafening. Kristin covered her ears while she continued to scream in protest. The stairwell quickly filled with debris. Her only means of escape blocked.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.

  * * *

  Josh’s former neighbor, Bryan, watched in horror. The concussive explosion had brought him to his storm door. He was unable to move as the cockpit section came barreling toward him through his old friend’s home.

  As soon as the cabin came to a full stop, he sprang from his front door and darted across the street to find Kristin. He knew she was there. He had seen the taxi drop her off.

  As he climbed atop the remains, he scanned west toward the carnage left in the planes destructive wake. In the distance, he saw and then eventually heard the secondary explosions.

  As for the home Josh and Amanda had once shared, the fuselage barreled directly through the center of the house as it was rapidly decelerating. When it tore its way through, all of the debris had been thrown outward against neighbor’s homes making them lean like the tower of Pisa. There were almost no walls to speak of, and the second story and roof were scattered to the winds. All that remained on the main level were thousands of shards of broken glass and the hardwood flooring. Water
pipes sprayed their contents several feet in the air. If Bryan hadn’t seen it disintegrate right in front of him, he’d have thought someone was actually building a home.

  Kristin had been fortunate. The nearly eighty year old home had been sturdily built with an I-beam running through the center of the basement. When she took cover between the pair of clothes machines, she was protected further by one of the three steel posts anchored into the concrete.

  The low profile of the foundation pushed the cockpit of the destroyed craft up onto the main floor of the house. From there, the hardwood acted as a slip-n-slide for the cabin. Other than some dust being knocked free by the collision, nothing else was disturbed in the unfinished basement.

  As Bryan leapt on to the remaining structure, he began searching for her.

  “Kristin!” he called. “Are you in here!?”

  She heard the repeated calls loud and clear. Meekly she answered, “I’m down here. I’m in the basement.”

  The muffled sounds were slight, but intelligible. He quickly went to where the stairwell had been and began heaving and tossing debris in an effort to uncover the opening.

  Bryan tried to calm her, but the frantic pitch of his voice betrayed him. “Hold tight! I’m gonna get you outta there!”

  Kristin, far calmer than he, extricated herself from her hiding place and simply walked the bottom of the stairs to await her resurrection. She patiently waited as he kept digging. When she saw the water from the severed lines pouring down the cinderblock wall, she casually shut off the water main to the house.

  “How’s it coming,” she asked nonchalantly.

  “Just about there,” he grunted as he heaved another section away from the stairwell opening.

  A small ray of sunlight began peeking through and she reached her hand through.

  “I’m right here, Bryan,” she said calmly.

  He knelt down and grabbed ahold.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her out of breath.