The Antiterrorist: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller (Mysterious Events Book 2)

by Al Macy

  The Antiterrorist

  By Al Macy

  AlMacyAuthor.com

  Copyright © 2015 Al Macy

  All Rights Reserved.

  Version: RC12 2015/08/06 16:34

  Also by Al Macy:

  Becoming a Great Sight-Reader—or Not! Learn from my Quest for Piano Sight-Reading Nirvana

  Drive, Ride, Repeat: The Mostly-True Account of a Cross-Country Car and Bicycle Adventure

  Contact Us: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller

  The Lady Unvanishes (coming soon)

  CHAPTER ONE

  November 17, 2011, Oregon

  It was the word I least wanted to hear: “Freeze.” Actually, two words, “Freeze, dumb-ass.” I’m not sure what the second word was for. It was pretty clear who she was talking to—I was the only dumb-ass lurking around the terrorists’ Oregon compound at 3 a.m.

  Without turning around, I asked, “Who, me?”

  My smart reply apparently wasn’t appreciated. It got me a few hours of unconsciousness followed by a throbbing headache. I’ve heard it so many times: “That Jake Corby can’t keep his mouth shut.” You’d think at age thirty-six I’d have learned to keep it under control.

  Morning found me face down on the floor of a basement with a zip tie around my wrists. Another held my ankles against a pipe on the wall. The place looked like something from an episode of Extreme Hoarders, but the terrorists had pushed all the junk out of my reach. I lay in a semicircle of dusty cement floor as if I’d made some kind of whole-body snow angel in the trash.

  I got to my knees, rolled my shoulders, and looked around. Sunlight filtering through a grimy window highlighted dust in the air. A faucet dripped to my left, and rats or mice rustled around in their little garbage paradise. It smelled like a dumpster that had been out in the sun all day.

  I’d learned how to defeat zip ties in FBI boot camp. Didn’t the terrorists know how easy it was? Don’t they watch YouTube? With my teeth, I pulled the tie as tight as I could stand it, got the lock part between my wrists, and raised my hands above my head. That’s when boots rumbled down the stairs. I flopped back down onto my stomach. A man and a woman in camo outfits marched over to me through the piles.

  “You guys come to tidy up?” No, I didn’t say that. I just thought it. I guess I am capable of learning after all.

  The woman kicked me in the ribs. “Shut up.”

  I swear, I hadn’t said a word. Did she read my mind? She was a tall, loose-jointed girl of twenty-three or -four and looked as if she’d flunked out of her doctor’s weight-gain program. Her mouth and chin seemed designed for sneering. I recognized the voice from the night before.

  The man was around thirty and unpleasantly plump with pasty skin. He’d shaved his head, but the effect was more Tweedledum than Bruce Willis. He cut my ankles loose with a sword-sized commando knife. The bigger the knife, the smaller the—

  “Get up, dumb-ass, it’s time for an information session.” She pulled me up by my hair. Maybe that’s why commandos get buzz cuts. Her forearms looked like twigs, but she was strong. “Aw, your cuff looks pretty tight. Does it hurt?”

  I looked straight ahead, keeping my expression neutral. She yanked up on the strap, but I’d already gotten it as tight as it would go. Of course, I had thought I’d have it off within seconds. And yes, it did hurt.

  They marched me up the stairs and down a hall to a makeshift interrogation room. Most of the furniture had been shoved into a corner. A wooden chair sat in the middle of the green linoleum. On the bright side, there were no loose teeth on the floor or blood splatters on the wall.

  Twiggy re-zip-tied my arms behind me and my legs to the chair. What was it with these guys and zip ties? She stood to one side of me and a little back.

  Something whistled through the air and clanged into the side of my head at eye level. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe an axe handle or a small bat. The pain told me she’d gotten a good swing in. It only registered for an instant, and my mind made a jump-cut to the future. I don’t know whether I passed out from the pain or the blow itself. Perhaps I’d received my second concussion in twenty-four hours. Not good.

  Passing out isn’t like taking a nap. It’s an instant skip of some portion of your life. I opened my eyes. The world didn’t seem right.

  In front of me, a tall man leaned against a table with his arms crossed. He was as relaxed as someone at a cocktail party and looked me in the eye. His clothes were right out of an L.L. Bean catalog.

  “Who do you work for?” His voice was resonant and relaxed. Like a voice-over professional asking about the weather.

  “I’m a consultant.”

  He glanced to my right, and Twiggy’s roundhouse kick landed on my ribs. She was a sadist, and Mr. L.L. Bean took advantage of it.

  I wasn’t giving a smart answer. I really was a consultant. I’d worked in the FBI and then quit to start a Mexico-based consulting company specializing in kidnap-proofing. The U.S. government had me on retainer as a quick-access problem solver.

  Just two days ago I’d been taking a break, surfing in Baja, when a Harrier two-seater landed in a field by the beach. The jet whisked me up to southern Oregon to gather intelligence on the Jefferson militia group. I didn’t mind doing my part to save the world. I was glad to get a break from giving executives advice they wouldn’t follow. Plus, I hate terrorists.

  “A consultant for the government.” I took a ragged breath and kept my head down. “Listen, I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you everything. I’m a wimp. I don’t do well under torture, so it will be a win-win if I just spill the beans at the start. Did you tell me your name while I was woozy?”

  He stared at me, looking like a freeze frame on TV. Tweedledum and Twiggy were just overgrown kids with self-esteem issues, but this guy was good. He didn’t wear a mask; he didn’t think I’d get out alive.

  I continued. “Cell phone chatter suggested that you guys are planning something. I was sent here to snoop around, see what kind of operation you’re running. I’m a low-level flunky, and they don’t tell me much. I’d only gotten started when your security picked me up. End of story.”

  The real story was that over the last month, satellites had been disappearing one by one, and the FBI thought this militia group was somehow involved. My snooping yielded a day-and-a-half’s worth of intelligence. He didn’t need to know that.

  “Before we’re done here,” he said, “you’re going to tell me exactly what your government knows about our operation.”

  Luckily, I couldn’t think up a smart reply to that. The information/torture session lasted for another hour before Twiggy led me back to the dungeon. Mr. Bean knew I was lying. We weren’t done.

  Near the bottom of the stairs, Twiggy tangled my feet and pushed me. I bent my knees and turned sideways so as not to do a sailor dive into the cement. With cuffed hands, I had no way to break my fall.

  “Oops,” she said. Man, I was getting tired of her.

  They put on new zip ties, left me four Twinkies and a can of Pepsi, and headed back upstairs.

  Where was the cavalry? I’d missed two check-ins now. Another “information session” like that would kill me.

  I used my teeth to tighten the new zip tie and positioned the lock between my wrists. Getting up on my knees, I raised my wrists above my head then slammed them down into my waist, squeezing my shoulder blades together. It didn’t work. Once more. Jeez, that hurt. I’d done this in Quantico, but with leather straps protecting my wrists. Okay, third time’s the charm.

  Well, it turned out that th
e fifth time was the charm. The tie broke right at the lock. The ankle strap was easier; one body roll, and the plastic snapped.

  I pushed a table under the window and climbed up. The window was small and below ground level, opening to a window well. I’m tall with a big head. A smaller person might have been able to squeeze through. Not me.

  I downed my Twinkies. I’d forgotten how good those things taste. I searched for weapons in the piles of trash. My prizes: a rusty crowbar and a half-eaten Pop Tart. Sorry, mice, I found it first. I paused as heavy footsteps from above loosened dust from the unfinished ceiling.

  Opening some of my fresh wounds, I smeared blood on the sill. Scary how much there was. I smashed the glass with the crowbar. I took off one shoe, tossed it out into the window well, and directed an ow-I-cut-myself yell toward the ceiling. For good measure, I banged one of the ceiling joists with the crowbar then dropped off the table and burrowed under a pile of trash on the other side of the basement.

  I peered out from my cozy hideaway. Twiggy and her sidekick rushed down the stairs, Keystone-Cop fashion. Tweedledum pulled out his trusty commando sword.

  Twiggy crashed around through the piles of garbage, working her way toward me. “Okay, he got loose, but he didn’t come up the stairs. He’s got to be here somewhere.”

  No, look at the window, dummies.

  “Hey, the window,” Tweedledum said. Finally.

  “Oh, crap, he’s gone.” They rushed back up the stairs and, I hoped, out the door.

  I exploded from my rat’s nest, ran to the window, and retrieved my shoe. Adrenaline dulled the pain from my new injuries, and I sprinted up the stairs. They hadn’t even closed the basement door.

  The upstairs wasn’t as messy as the basement, but it would never get into Better Homes and Gardens.

  This wasn’t the terrorist/militia compound. They must have moved me when I was unconscious. I sidled up to a window but saw no one outside. The place was isolated. No other houses nearby. A short run to the dense forest and I’d be home free. I just had to figure out where the dynamic duo was. That’s when I heard that word again. Well, two words, actually.

  “Freeze, dumb-ass.”

  * * *

  Why hadn’t I seen her come toward me?

  I had nothing to lose. If I didn’t get away, I would die. So, I didn’t freeze; I spun around.

  I whirled like an ice skater. An ice skater with a crowbar. Tonya Harding, maybe. I whipped it out—the crowbar, that is—and smashed her gun arm. Her anorexic Twiggy forearm snapped like a, well, like a twig.

  She must have watched too many TV shows where the bad guy holds the gun right up against the hero. If she’d been standing across the room I’d be dead.

  I snatched the gun before it fell, knocked her to the floor, and smashed the crowbar down on her kneecap. “Oops.” I said.

  Sure, that sounds mean, but this woman-child had tortured me and would have killed me. I had to make her stay put, and tying her up wasn’t an option. What I wanted to do was put a zip tie around her damn neck.

  She screamed and stared up at me, all traces of womanhood gone. She was a white-faced twelve-year-old.

  I was considering the bad-karma consequences of smashing her other kneecap when the roar of a military helicopter shook the windows. Now the cavalry arrives. I put Twiggy’s gun in my pocket and went to the window. Two black helicopters in tight formation blasted over the treetops. One hovered with a machine gunner at the door. The other landed on the lawn.

  They swarmed out from the aircraft like bees from a hive, and I dragged my new girlfriend out onto the front deck. The lead commando recognized me and came over. He wore a Navy SEAL patch on his uniform.

  Over the thunder from the copters, he yelled, “Mr. Corby, how many bad guys here?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve seen three, but there could be more. One is a short, dumpy—there he is.”

  One of the SEALs led Tweedledum, in handcuffs, out of the house.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner, sir.” The leader frowned at my injuries. “Do you need a stretcher?”

  “No, I’m good. Let’s get out of here.”

  Someone else took charge of Twiggy, and I limped to helicopter one. Soon I was up, up, and away, watching the farmhouse recede. Mr. Bean was nowhere to be seen.

  Funny how adrenaline works. During my escape, all my aches and pains huddled together, whispering. “Gee, should we bother him now?” “No, no. He’s busy not dying. Let’s hold off.” “This is important. It really hurts. He needs to know that.” “No, he’s busy. Shut up.” But as soon as I was out of danger, they all clamored for my attention, and I responded by passing out. Again.

  I woke up in a hospital bed and groaned. This was one noisy hospital, with a constant whooshing noise in the background. Was it in my head? And the bed seemed unstable somehow. A doctor appeared out of nowhere.

  I asked, “Where am I?”

  The doctor held a clipboard. The tag on his uniform read “Swanson.” He was in his late fifties with plenty of laugh lines and a square jaw. He had a strong Maine accent. “You’re on an Air Force hospital plane, sir, headed for Washington D.C. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was run over by—”

  “By a truck?” he asked, paging through my chart.

  “I was going to say rhinoceros, but truck works, too. I want to call my wife.”

  “We’ve told her you’re okay.”

  “Thank you for that, but I’d still like to speak with her.”

  They got Mary on the phone, and I downplayed my injuries. She hadn’t known my mission was dangerous. It was good to hear her voice.

  “Jake, I’m guessing it’s worse than you say,” she said. “You know my policy. I don’t interfere with your decisions, but remember, you don’t need to do this any longer.”

  When I hung up, Doc told me that FBI Director Hallstrom was on the line.

  Dane Hallstrom and I went way back. I’d always expected him to go into politics, not security and intelligence.

  I rested my head back against the pillow. “You took your time rescuing me, Dane. Did I slip through the cracks?”

  “Of course not. I’m sorry, Jake. By the time we realized they’d captured you, it was too late. They’d moved you out of the compound to the farmhouse. We tailed some of the militia members and wasted time following a few false leads. Sorry about that.”

  I closed my eyes. “Let me tell you what I’ve got before I pass out again. I was able to eavesdrop on conversations and break in and read some notes. They are indeed involved in the satellite destruction along with a network of other militia-slash-terrorist groups. I didn’t learn how they do it, but their weapon requires at least a week to recharge. That’s the word they use, ‘recharge.’ So they shoot at the satellite and then they can’t shoot again for a week. It’s a big weapon, and I’m not sure whether it’s mobile.”

  “How could these guys have the technical sophistication for something like that?”

  “They don’t.” I shook my head, which sent a shock of pain through my right eye. “There’s a technical guy who’s been radicalized and aligns himself with these militia groups. His name is McClaran or McClearan. They discuss him like he’s some kind of über genius.”

  “Got it. Good info, thanks. Sounds like he’s the key. We’ll find him.” Hallstrom’s voice relaxed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Lousy, but I’ll survive. The doc’s going to fill me in.” I glanced at him and he frowned. Uh-oh.

  Hallstrom said, “You’ll be getting to Washington in a few hours, you can rest up and come in whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’ll soon be ready enough to sit at a meeting or two. I want to get these guys.”

  A nurse took the phone, and I turned to the doc. “What’s the deal? No sugarcoating.”

  He nodded. “You’ve been banged up like crazy—you know that—but most of your injuries will heal.”

  “Most?”

  �
��What happened to the right side of your face?”

  “That’s the worst, huh?” I touched the bandage. “A minor-league sadist hit me with a major-league bat. I’m a little hazy, but I think I remember the bat whistling as it came toward me.”

  “Well, a blood vessel supplying your optic nerve was damaged. Essentially you had a stroke in your optic nerve.”

  Ah, Cripes. “Blind in that eye?”

  “Yes, probably. Shall we check?” Swanson raised his eyebrows.

  It took a while to remove the bandaging around my eye. I’ve gotten plenty of injuries in my life, but I usually recover fully. This was different. Would it be life-changing? You take the cards you’re dealt in life, I guess. Yeah, that made me feel much better. I pressed my hands against the bed so the doc wouldn’t see them shaking.

  When Swanson removed the last strip of gauze, I opened my eyes and there was nothing to the right of my nose. When the doc waved his hand over to my side, I could tell something was moving, but that was all.

  “Will it come back?” Sweat tickled the back of my neck.

  Swanson pulled on his ear. “Unlikely.”

  “Is it too late to change my mind about the sugarcoating?”

  He grinned and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Am I going to see the world as two dimensional?” I looked around. “Sorry, dumb question. Why does the world still look normal? You’re sure the vision won’t return?”

  He shook his head. “You’re lucky, in a way. Some people with only one eye do perceive things in 2D, but there are a lot of cues to distance other than stereopsis, and apparently your brain uses those. You’ll bump into people at the mall, but you’ll be able to drive. Are you good with a rifle?”

  I waggled my hand.

  “Well, you’ll have to put the stock against your left shoulder to use the sight. Or you can get a special offset sight. Other than that, you’ll get by. And you’re lucky for another reason.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If the stroke had been a centimeter to your left, you’d be totally blind, a little further back and—”