by Gordon Ryan
Those around the conference table were silent, the boldness of the message disturbing to the core. Pug turned off the tape player and General Austin sat quietly for several seconds, his fingers steepled in front of his chin, his face impassive. Finally he spoke.
“There we have it. Open, declared war, with no enemy in sight. I’ll confess to you, gentlemen, I cannot recall a time when I’ve felt more helpless, more . . . more unable to respond. Across the river, our Pentagon counterparts are putting together every contingency plan you can imagine, including further invasions of those countries we think are behind this. Most of that will be to show the public that we are responding, doing something . . . anything. But I don’t believe that’s the answer, nor do I believe it will solve the problem. And I’ll tell you one more thing that’s very disturbing to me. When we get to the bottom of this, I think we’ll find that some, if not most, of these current attacks are home-grown.”
“Americans?” Brigadier McIntyre asked.
“I believe so, Brigadier. You’ve had similar British nationals attack your public transportation system. Increasingly, we’ve seen more and more Americans buy into this ‘America done us wrong’ philosophy. The common thread seems to be attendance at a local mosque and occasionally some out-of-country training. Religion is a strong persuader of what’s right and what’s wrong.”
McIntyre nodded. “That certainly has been the case in Britain.”
“In which case, if they are Americans, even racial profiling would be insufficient to identify them,” Pug said.
“That’s right. These cells are small and widely scattered. It’s probably the same in Britain and Australia. Many British Muslims are second and even third generation. They’ve been coming to Britain since the end of the nineteenth century. We should not discount overseas directions, and most likely they’re funded from countries that hate the U.S., but ideology has no geographical boundaries. We would be fooling ourselves if we think we’re looking for a car with two Middle Eastern men, with full facial hair, turbans prominently displayed, driving around with rifles hanging out the window.”
Austin continued. “So, let’s take this one step at a time. General Connor, for the purposes of this meeting, you now command the infiltration force. How would you set them up? How would you communicate?”
Before assuming command of Trojan, Pug had worked for General Austin for a bit over five years at the NSA and CIA, and was familiar with his method of dumping a hypothetical problem on the table and letting those present sort it out. Assigning the role of the enemy commander was one of his favorite mechanisms to accomplish the objectives.
“Mr. Secretary, I’d rather play the good guy this time,” Pug said.
“I bet you would, General, but that’s my role tonight. Get on with it,” Austin said, his normal humor absent in the face of the unfolding crisis.
Pug was silent for about ten seconds. “They would use the 21st century ‘dead-drop,’ Mr. Secretary. An Internet café and e-mail.”
“Agreed. How would you set it up?”
Just as Pug was formulating his thoughts, preparing his initial answer, the door was opened by a Secret Service agent who glanced around the room. He stepped back into the hallway to make room for President Snow, who immediately entered the conference room. Everyone came to their feet.
“Please, gentlemen, be seated,” the president said. “May I join you for a few moments, Mr. Secretary?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Sit right here,” Austin said, drawing up one of the second-row chairs next to his. “We were just beginning to formulate our thoughts.”
“That’s what I came about, actually,” the president said, taking his seat. “I’ve just spoken to British Prime Minister Winters. They’ve had eleven shooting incidents with fourteen people dead. Yesterday evening, I spoke with Australian Prime Minister Hunter from Canberra. Seventeen Australian sailors died on the Defiance and two on the rescue ship. Seven people were shot in the melee at Surfer’s Paradise. Five have since died.” The president looked around the table briefly, his gaze stopping on McIntyre. “I presume that you are Brigadier Colin McIntyre.”
“I am, sir.”
“Good. Glad to see you here. General Austin, if you have no objections, Prime Minister Winters has asked if we could include Brigadier McIntyre in the Trojan strategy meetings. He has asked our military attaché in London to participate with his response team.”
“I would be pleased to have the brigadier’s expertise on our side, Mr. President. Consider it done.”
“Good,” the president said. “Now, just before coming over here, I signed a presidential order designating this situation as ‘Troy,’ authorizing full authority to Trojan to call upon any and all assets necessary to counter this new form of attack. General, while there is still some coordination to arrange with governors and, in some cases, mayors, those assets will include local law enforcement as well as military. Full federal funding for local law enforcement will stand behind that directive. I’ll deal with Congress later. We’re not yet considering declaring martial law, but the idea has been raised by several senators. Congressional leaders are meeting tonight to discuss emergency measures to remove all restrictions from the Patriot Act and to grant far broader discretion to law enforcement and the military. Since we’re dealing with a domestic issue, that expansion of the Patriot Act will open a whole new debate among the liberally minded. You and General Connor will have a copy of my memorandum within the hour. The JCS and the secretary of defense will receive copies this evening as well. I know you’re only just starting your meeting, but are there any initial thoughts or response to today’s attacks?”
“We’re not surprised, Mr. President, only perplexed at the moment as to how to best counter an unidentified, widely dispersed enemy who can freely choose his place and time of attack. General Connor was just about to assume the role of a terrorist and take us through operational planning as if he were the group leader.”
The president tilted his head and smiled grimly. “I hope for our team’s sake, General, that you will remain on our side in this fight.”
Pug smiled briefly. “They have to obtain communication from somewhere, Mr. President,” he said. “Perhaps we can think of a way to get inside that communication network, maybe even identify at least when, if not where, they’ll strike next.”
“That may be, General Connor, but we can’t discount that they may already know what they’re supposed to do, that they don’t need constant direction. For all of their technical know-how, we’re still dealing with a medieval mentality. In those days, the warriors were just told to go and kill, with overall objectives established and plenty of discretion for the field commanders. Well,” the president said, rising, “I won’t keep you from your meeting.” The officers around the room also stood. President Snow paused as he headed for the doorway.
“Thank you, Brigadier, for working with us on this problem. My condolences for the losses your British citizens have suffered today. As usual in times of crises, the British and American people are hand-in-hand against an enemy. Mr. Secretary, please assure that I’m briefed on what actions General Connor’s team determines to implement?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Thank you for meeting with us this evening.”
When the president left, Secretary Austin picked up where he had left off, once more asking about communication between the terrorists. “A 21st century dead-drop, you said, General?”
Pug did not respond, and for several seconds silence filled the room.
“General Connor,” General Austin said, his voice more emphatic. “Your thoughts, please?”
“Sorry, Mr. Secretary, I was, uh . . . I—”
“You were drifting, General. Get focused. Communication. That’s the subject. Stay on topic.”
“Yes, sir. My apology. It was something the president said that got me thinking,” Pug said, pausing for a long moment. “General, they may not need any communication.”
“What? How could they operate such a widespread, coordinated attack without communication?”
“Consider this, sir. They’re all suicide bombers, in a sense. They may have received a very simple instruction before they left wherever they came from. Go kill Americans until you’re captured or killed.”
“No, the opening attacks were too well-planned. All sports arenas, all baseball games.”
“Understood, sir, but they may already have several predetermined places, times, and dates for coordinated attacks for maximum impact, the rest to be selected at random. They may also have a website where they can check in occasionally to receive a change of orders. Mr. Secretary, it doesn’t matter if they shoot two people in Chicago or Atlanta, Modesto, California, or Ashland, Oregon. Public fear of the unknown is their greatest weapon. At first, everyone will think it will happen somewhere else. Sort of like the random freeway shootings in Los Angeles a few years ago. But if shootings occur in small town America, in our backyard, so to speak, as well as the larger cities, all our citizens will be terrified.”
“You don’t paint a very bright picture, General,” Brigadier McIntyre said.
“No, sir, I don’t. But it’s only one thought. And I am the enemy commander.”
“It’s not a pleasant thought, Pug, not pleasant at all,” Secretary Austin added. “But you’re still the terrorist commander for the evening. Let’s brainstorm around the table for a few moments, based on your idea that these individual terrorist cells may act as free agents. Any reasoned idea, or unreasoned for that matter, should be entertained. Captain Prince, your thoughts, please.”
Chapter 18
Forest Road # 245
North of Missoula, Montana
April
Dressed in camouflage BDU’s, a thick, silvery beard covering the lower half of his face, Thorton Campbell, known to his associates as Thor, sat quietly at the head of the rough wooden table. Two men sat on his right and one on his left while a large group of men filed into the room. Fifty-five years old, with piercing blue eyes, closely cropped gray hair and a steely gaze that covered the room in a slow, calculated sweep, all that was lacking to fulfill the image of a highland warrior was a crested shield, a breastplate of stiffened leather, and a green, black, and blue tartan kilt.
Six generations after the original Scottish immigrant, Angus Campbell, had cleared a hundred and sixty acres, Thor had abandoned the original Campbell family farm in Minnesota. Five years earlier, when Thor had retired from the Army after twenty-eight years of service and two major wars, Vietnam and Gulf I, he had settled in northern Montana.
Always aware he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer like his ancestors, the former Army Ranger had graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, entered active duty, and had retired as a lieutenant colonel. Two negative efficiency reports and a formal charge of negligence had stopped his rise to full colonel. In 2004, twice-divorced and uncertain of what to do after the Army, he had purchased a fishing and hunting supply store about ten miles north of Missoula and quickly found common ground with the local militia unit, becoming their small-arms instructor. Elevation to command of the platoon-sized membership came quickly by virtue of his natural leadership skills and the fact that he was the only one among the group who had held a valid military commission. No one else in the unit had more than eight years’ enlisted service, two of those becoming NCO’s. Only two had seen combat, and about half had never served on active duty beyond the initial stint in boot camp. The Blackfoot Brigade, about forty-two strong at its core, with additional members in various levels of activity, ranged in age from seventeen to sixty-eight. Campbell had invited only three of his command staff to attend this gathering, including both of the combat veterans who now served as unit NCO’s.
All in all, during the past two days, about eighty staff officers had arrived from over a dozen militia units, settling into the stark accommodations at Camp Brockton, so named after a popular local youth who had excelled at football in the 60’s, and then won the Silver Star posthumously in Vietnam in 1967 at the age of nineteen. The gathering of unrelated units was unprecedented. They represented the broader western region—north to Washington state, south to Arizona, northwest along Idaho’s panhandle to the Canadian border, and east to Colorado—with most of the states in-between represented. Campbell had driven to each region, contacting the top leadership of these separate militia groups, requesting them to meet and discuss the new terrorist threat facing America. The terrorist attack throughout the nation, coming on the heels of Campbell’s invitation, had been fortuitous, raising the group to a fever pitch and giving Campbell status as someone who was knowledgeable. Someone had to deal with these rag-heads, was the prevailing outcry.
Traditionally, paramilitary groups preferred to act alone, content to battle the government with words and small acts of rebellion, tax avoidance, or inflammatory statements aimed at showing their neighbors that the authorities were not as invulnerable as they seemed. The occasional stand-off with local law enforcement was usually more bluster than substance. Truth be known, some of the militia ranks came from the same law enforcement officers who ringed their training camps holding them, ostensibly, under siege. The call for a general gathering of unit leadership was the result of the growing domestic terrorist threat they had all long-predicted would be forthcoming. The time had come.
Campbell sat at the front of the room, not because he was seen to be, or had been selected as, the leader, although he did command his particular group, known locally as the Blackfoot Boys, but it was his invitation that had been delivered, and his camp that had been selected to host the gathering.
When the last man was seated, without preamble the room grew quiet. Campbell rose, and for several long seconds scanned the room, nodding to several personal acquaintances. Most were dressed as he was, in camouflage BDU’s, field jackets, or blue jeans and down vests. They had one obvious thing in common: to a man, they were Caucasian, of European ethnic origins. Although April had arrived and spring was in the air, a brisk Montana mountain chill still permeated the room. In a deep, sonorous voice, Campbell began to speak, softly at first.
“America is under attack. For nearly fifteen years, we’ve been under attack by foreign terrorists. Now, three weeks ago, there was the opening barrage with the shootings at the baseball parks, courtesy of World Jihad. We all heard the taped message night after night on the news. Then there was the rash of drive-by shootings in mall parking lots a couple of weeks ago, again, claimed by World Jihad. Last week, people in nine cars were shot across the nation’s highways, causing several multiple car pile-ups and over a dozen deaths. And what is our government doing about it? Nothing!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the wooden table. “Sure, they sent APB warnings, eventually found one of the vehicles on the highway and blew the rag-heads to hell, but Washington is impotent to prevent these attacks. This gathering,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his arm to include all in the room, “is long overdue.” A few heads nodded around the room.
“Even the military will not be able to deal with this invasion,” he continued. “It’s not a war for frontal assault, military tactics, or set piece battles. The cops will be hamstrung by politically correct, ethnically restricted, no-profiling laws that have no bearing on this threat and will totally disable their effort to protect honest Americans. There’s not one damn thing wrong with racial profiling. If you’re looking to kill a snake, you avoid the animals with legs and look for something that slithers. That’s profiling, it’s not racist, and it’s appropriate in this instance.
“The Pentagon will claim we need to invade another foreign country. Politicians will claim it’s a law enforcement problem. But even if the cops make some headway, whenever they appear to be successful, the liberal court judges will reverse their actions. If any of the invaders are actually caught, the ACLU will defend them and the courts will turn them loose to kill again. The politicians are genetically spineless and physically timid—if not coward
ly—always sniffing the wind before they make a decision. They’ll fear the loss of power more than they fear the loss of liberty.” More heads nodded and some verbal assents rumbled throughout the room.
“We,” Campbell said, again sweeping his arm from left to right, “America’s true patriots, are not so restricted. We will defend America, beginning right here, right now, in this room. We will seek out and destroy the rag-heads, the invaders, those who think they can come here and kill our women and children. We are America’s first line of defense. We are the leadership cadre. We will patrol the highways, protect our cities, and hunt down these vermin. We will kill these animals wherever we find them. Our numbers are few, but once the word is out, we’ll grow. Many of you served on the Arizona border with the Minutemen. Other like-minded patriots will flock to our banner. Americans will finally listen to our call. And we, the American Brigade Command … we will be ready.”
Shouts of agreement rose, some men took to their feet and began clapping and within two minutes, Thor Campbell, commander of the Blackfoot Brigade, had pulled the disparate cluster of disgruntled men together through common cause. The American Brigade Command, quickly dubbed the ABC, had been formed.
