“Yes, although I wanted congress’ approval for that,” he said wistfully.
“Directive 51, Mr. President,” said the AG forcefully. Directive 51 effectively gave the president extraordinary emergency powers that would in effect allow him to control every aspect of the US both economically and militarily without recourse.
“Do we know anything about the Islamic fundamentalist group?” asked Clay, ignoring his AG. That was a step he wasn’t prepared to take.
“Initial reports are suggesting the four terrorists are members of prominent Saudi families. Documents and files extracted from their student home at Georgetown are suggesting an affiliation to ISIL, or fragments of what are left of them,” the deputy FBI director reported.
Clay drummed his fingers on the desk. ISIL was a group that had tried to create a caliphate in the Middle East. He had crushed them on election into office, with the help of the Russians and Chinese. His predecessor had skirted around the edges, playing it safe. Clay had taken off the gloves and shown the world the true might of the modern US military. The Russians and Chinese had played little part in the end game but witnessed how devastating and efficient the US military was. It had been an overwhelming success, both by destroying ISIL and putting the Russians and Chinese back in their boxes.
“Do you have locations for these remnants?”
“Yes, sir, although some are in Saudi Arabia, radicalized mosques preaching hatred.”
“Were these guys on any watch lists?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Clay’s phone buzzed. Detain all on no fly list, deal with cartels, and destroy ISIL targets in Saudi.
They were listening in on his meeting!
Clay had no intention of taking any action for the next few hours. Somebody not under any outside influence would make the decisions that needed to be made.
The watch commander entered, his face conveying more bad news was about to be divulged. He slipped a note in front of the president, not wanting to interrupt the person speaking: Secretary of state’s aircraft crashed during takeoff in Brussels, no survivors expected.
The room began to spin, Clay was losing it. Ken dead, another good friend taken, and his last get out. The secretary of the treasury was next in the line of succession. While he may have been a genius economist, he was definitely not a man to lead a country, never mind a country in turmoil.
Clay stood and issued his instructions to gasps from the majority in the room.
Chapter 36
The more Joe tried to stop her moving the more Sandy squirmed beneath him, desperately licking at his head. Her rear end was soaked in blood. He couldn’t find the source. He desperately wanted to stem the flow, she couldn’t afford to lose that much blood.
A paramedic appeared by his side, Joe pushed him away when the paramedic tried to separate him from Sandy.
“You need to fix her!” he shouted, pointing to Sandy. The painkillers were wearing off, his headache was coming back with a vengeance and affecting his balance once again.
Though the paramedic was speaking, Joe heard nothing. His ears were ringing from the explosion, and there was every chance both eardrums were burst, or at least temporarily damaged.
Finally the paramedic realized Joe couldn’t hear him, he indicated to his own head and drew a line down it.
Joe had no idea what he meant. He looked down at Sandy, who looked up at him forlornly, still desperately trying to lick at him.
The paramedic called help over, pushing Joe back. He tried to fight back but all the fight was out of him. He had barely any energy. Sandy sat up. He looked at her, she seemed more worried about him than she was of herself.
The paramedic, much to his frustration, ignored Sandy and pushed a gauze pad towards him. He removed it after one touch, Joe could see it was soaked. Fresh pads, one after another, were placed and replaced. It was his blood that had soaked Sandy, she had been trying to save him, while he had been worrying about her.
The paramedic taped the wound as best as he could. The cut ran from his neck to above his ear. Fortunately for Joe’s future looks it ran behind his ear and not across his face. A clean piece of gauze was taped across the makeshift repair and an instruction to get to an ER ASAP given to Joe by the paramedic. The paramedic rushed off without so much as a goodbye, Joe didn’t even have the chance to thank him for saving his life. Of that he had no doubt, the amount of blood on Sandy and around them was more than most could afford to lose.
Joe looked around, the hazy dustiness and lack of awareness due to his loss of blood and more than a few major knocks to his head and body could not hide the devastation. Where the Capitol dome had proudly stood, only sky remained. The entire building, the powerful and imposing figure of the US legislature, lay in ruins. A pile of crushed, smoldering rubble.
Joe stood up, his legs barely able to support his weight. The blood loss taking its toll. He sat on the edge of the sidewalk. The sound of sirens invaded his head as his ears once again recognized sounds. He looked around; people and debris littered the street. People in varying states of distress surrounded him. Sheets were being laid over the less fortunate. Some sheets covered body parts rather than full bodies. It was without question the most gruesome scene he had ever witnessed. The body of a young child was covered less than ten yards from him, the inconsolable mother by their side. He needed to help, he needed to do something. His legs shook beneath him but they worked. The area was flooded with medics of all descriptions, doctors, nurses, paramedics, there was little he could do there. More importantly, his president needed him. Joe was sure that time was now more than ever. Sandy tugged at him to sit back down. Joe pushed on, he had to get to the White House and Clay.
Chapter 37
La Primavera, Culiacán
Mexico
As far as Joaquin Guerra was concerned, the hilltop fortress was as safe as the US White House. No expense had been spared in creating his home. The walls were reinforced concrete and blast resistant, the windows would stop anything up to a 0.50 caliber bullet just like at the White House, and a number of escape tunnels led to numerous locations where fast transport awaited his extraction to one of many secure homes he had around Mexico and beyond. The drug trade was a violent but exceptionally profitable business.
Joaquin awoke with his family in his bunker where he had spent the night. After instructing an all out offensive against his rivals he had anticipated some blowback, yet apparently he had caught them all off guard. Where they expected him to run he had fought. The Los Zetas, the Gulf, and Tijuana cartels were all under his control. His forces had performed exceptionally well, more than earning the bonuses he had promised.
Turning on the news to the devastating attack on the US, he couldn’t help smiling. He was no longer top of their hit list. He had no doubt there would be retribution. It may not be as swift and as severe as he’d first anticipated. He may even have the chance to try and prove it was all a set up before they cracked down on his assets in the US. To whoever set him up, he owed a massive thanks. It had given him the impetus to act. Without facing disaster, he doubted he ever would have.
They had planned to destroy him, and instead they had emboldened him, strengthened him beyond even his wildest dreams. His men sat in control of every drug route in and out of Mexico. He controlled the US drug market in its entirety. A day that should have had him in the gutter fighting for his life, he, Joaquin Guerra, had once again risen to the top. With the forces of every cartel under his control, even the Mexican military would think twice before challenging him. He looked around his bunker. It was not time to hide, it was time to show who was the most powerful man in Mexico.
He boarded the elevator and rode it up into his hilltop mansion. The views from his office were spectacular. Large windows opened to lush green mountains to the east and a beautiful seascape to the west. Hordes of his most loyal men surrounded the property, heavily armed and ready to repel any attempt that the Mexican authorities may have tried to
arrest him for the Americans. They weren’t coming, certainly not anymore, given his audacious moves overnight. There wasn’t a prosecutor, judge, or jury in the country that would dare challenge him or the forces he had at his disposal. He had, thanks to the chaos in America, become the undisputed king of the drug trade.
El Rey had prevailed. El Rey. He liked it. He would pass the word to his men that his new name was El Rey, the King. By nightfall it would be on the lips of every Mexican. El Rey was in charge.
The cell in his pocket rang. Unknown caller, not uncommon. His cells, along with those of all of his men were burners, changed frequently to keep prying ears at bay.
“Hola,” he answered cheerily.
“Do you recognize my voice?”
He did, and ended the call immediately, extracting the sim card and snapping it in two. His elation at his triumphs instantly vanished. He rushed in a panic towards his family, barking orders to ensure they were extracted and driven to safety immediately.
He grabbed a new burner, never before used, it was already ringing. Unknown caller was displayed on the screen.
He once again extracted the sim and snapped it in two. He ignored the prepared cells and grabbed a sealed box, extracting an old Motorola flip phone, hit the power button, and it was ringing before the phone had even sought out a signal.
Unknown caller.
He answered.
“Whatever you do, do not step outside your house!” advised the caller, ending the call abruptly.
***
The Hercules C-130 had been in operation for almost seventy years with the US military and proved itself to be one of the most versatile and useful aircraft in its inventory for Medevac, fire-fighting, troop carrying, cargo, refueling, weather reconnaissance, maritime patrol. Thanks to its sturdy and resilient design, it could cope with any task allocated and land and take off from almost any terrain. However, the variant Colonel Jim Hurley flew was one of the more unique and certainly more advanced versions of the aging airframe.
The Stinger II was the latest iteration of the USAF’s gunship, the AC-130, as they were designated, and had been used to devastating effect by the US for over fifty years. Armed with an array of missiles, small bombs, and an MK 44 30mm Bushmaster Chain gun, the aircraft could circle an area and blanket it with cover fire for a sustained period.
Throughout their operational history, the appearance of an AC-130 gunship had proven over and over again how effective the platform was, turning the tide in every intervention.
Looking out at three other AC-130s as they began their slow circling of the target, it was clear the message they were about to deliver was not one that was going to be missed.
“Everything except the main house, you are free to engage,” radioed Colonel Hurley. He relayed the orders as they were relayed to him.
The gunners in each of the four aircraft had an infrared image of the ground below. The black block of the house stood atop the hillside, surrounded by numerous bright dots, some stationery, many moving, as the sound of the AC-130s’ engines echoed around the hillsides. Two vehicles were racing away from the complex.
With the signal that weapons were free, the chatter commenced as the gunners relayed to each other the targets they were taking. Within seconds of the signal, the hillside was alight. Griffin Missiles streaked after the escaping cars, ensuring they had no escape. The 30mm air burst shells of the MK 44 Bushmaster cannons ripped through the flesh and bone of the cartel’s Sicarios with ease, each shell able to down numerous targets. Small bombs ignited around the house, laying waste to all that were unfortunate enough to be on the outside of the house.
***
Joaquin Guerra had already forgotten any thoughts of calling himself El Rey, another was far more deserving. His cell rang as the weapons silenced, only the ominous drone of the sixteen engines circling above remained.
He looked at his bomb proof garage, lying in ruins across his driveway. His phone rang. Unknown caller.
“Mr. President,” answered Joaquin.
Clay was succinct and to the point. Only on receipt of an affirmative did he instruct his AC-130s to return to Canon Air Force Base, 750 miles away in New Mexico. It had been an overwhelming, yet restrained display of a tiny fraction of the power at his fingertips. Joaquin Guerra was left in no doubt as to who the real El Rey was.
Chapter 38
Clay replaced the handset and looked out across the White House lawn. M1A1 Abrahams tanks were stationed at the end of the garden, along with a contingent of Marines. What had become of his country? Merely a few short days ago, everything had been as good as he could have hoped for. Yes, there were problems, unemployment was still an issue, racial tensions lingered, the middle class was still recovering after the recession a decade earlier. Schools, violent crime, prospects for the young, all could be better. However, they were on the right track, every marker by which he could be judged was positive.
Yet there he sat, his world around him crumbling, his family under threat and his ability to protect them, as the most powerful man in the world, was non-existent. The Capitol lay in ruins, black Americans and Muslims were fighting stereotypes that had long since been defeated.
He had left the Situation Room and despite all protests sat alone in the Oval Office. He couldn’t bear to have anyone around him. The wrong word, the wrong look, and they could be dead in minutes. He was a modern day Medusa. Death followed him wherever he went. He desperately wanted to be with his family but their loving embrace was like a knife through his heart, their very presence a constant reminder of the control he was under, the captivity of his new reality.
He had no illusion as to his situation. He was captive. He may not have had bars or chains restraining him, yet he was a prisoner nonetheless, not free to do or say what he wanted. Lives of those around him were at risk, one wrong step or word and people died. Whether he had given in to their demands or not was irrelevant. The attack on the Capitol would have happened in any event. The level of planning and detail that his captors had gone to was staggering, beyond belief. They had thought of everything.
For each situation a solution followed that won Clay more support. The riots. The FPS planned in full view by his own people and delivered flawlessly to widespread and overwhelming approval. The detention centers. He couldn’t believe how accepting the people and the media were that their government was detaining US citizens without charge.
The drug cartels’ assassination attempts had somehow, and he wasn’t quite sure how, resulted in wiping out the competition and leaving one cartel in charge. A cartel which, following his demonstration of how much US power he was prepared to unleash, would work with the US to control the drug trade. The call to Guerra, orchestrated by his captors, was another demonstration of their long term planning. The CIA, it had transpired, had been advised months before of a plan to work with the cartels to control and contain the drug business and had the assets in place to work with Guerra and the Sinaloa Cartel immediately. All seemingly, as per the creation of the FPS, as a result of his direct instruction.
“The Saudi Ambassador is here, Mr. President,” Ramona interrupted with a knock on the Oval Office door as she had been instructed.
Clay stood up as the ambassador entered.
“My condolences,” the ambassador said as he walked into the room. “His royal Highness King—”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Clay cut in, not wanting to waste time on niceties. He rounded his desk and did not offer the ambassador a seat. He remained standing, towering over the man, whom he held in extremely high regard. The ambassador was a gentleman, highly educated, exceedingly well mannered, and one of the most progressive Muslims Clay had ever met. They had talked many times about how the ambassador wished to see a Saudi Arabia where women enjoyed equal rights and the clerics had less influence over daily life. Clay felt uncomfortable, although nowhere near as uncomfortable as the ambassador looked.
“I wanted to do this in person. A number of location
s have been identified in the papers of those responsible for the destruction of our Capitol Building. Those locations, within Saudi Arabia, are being targeted by Cruise missiles. Over the next few hours you can expect our retribution to be swift and decisive,” Clay informed him mechanically, his emotions having left him.
“But—”
Clay raised a hand, silencing the ambassador. “No buts. Four Saudi citizens obliterated the US Capitol. Our vice president, eighty-one senators, three hundred eighty-seven congressmen and women, and likely to be two thousand staffers and innocent bystanders were killed earlier today. The 9/11 attacks were predominantly carried out by Saudi citizens. Your preachers of hate will pay for both of those atrocities today. The Wahhabis are going to pay once and for all for the hate they preach against your ally! Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” The ambassador turned and left the office without another word.
There were twenty-three mosques targeted for obliteration in Saudi Arabia. His orders to detain every person listed on the no-fly lists meant over 47,000 people were about to fill the detention camps. Along with the previous 14,000, that would mean over 60,000 detainees were to be held indefinitely without charge. He briefly wondered if the detention camps were big enough, then quickly chastised himself. His captors would certainly have made them big enough. Whoever they were, they were so far ahead of what was happening, his biggest concern shouldn’t be the number of detainees but what they had planned next. He didn’t think for a second the repercussions of the Capitol’s destruction were over.
His cell buzzed. Were they actually reading his mind? He looked down at the message. He read it again and the again and still it made no sense. He couldn’t possibly… the repercussions of the action were, well, he couldn’t even think how catastrophic it would be. It was inconceivable.
Captive-in-Chief Page 14
