End Days Super Boxset (30 page)

“It’s not your fault. I get it.” Her tone wasn’t entirely convincing.

She went back to Nick and Husein as the agents prepared to board them in the next helicopter. The blades spun furiously, spinning dust and dirt in the air. They were signaled to load up. Craig led the way as they moved low to the ground and covering their faces.

They climbed in, covering their ears, and were handed disposable foam earplugs by one of the co-pilots. Inside was cramped and uncomfortable.

After piling in, the helicopter rose and took off. As they gripped their seats, Craig leaned closer to the window. They quickly passed the smoking cabin, and the trees soon became a distant blur. He caught a glimpse of some the bodies from Ghazi’s crew, lying on the ground, left to rot—more evidence that death seemed to follow him wherever he went.

***

It wasn’t long before DC came into view. The recognizable landmarks, hordes of traffic, the flashing emergency lights. The general clamor of the district below was beyond what was expected on an average day. Deadlocked traffic. Flashing emergency lights everywhere. And masses of people on the streets.

Panic was in the air, evident with one glance from the safety of the helicopter. Craig watched the organized chaos unfold as Nick tried to squeeze his way over to Craig’s side to get a better view. Husein sat next to Rachael, still gripping the empty rifle. Thomas and the other agents sat across from them.

“What’s going on down there?” Craig shouted to Thomas.

Thomas, wearing a headset, leaned toward the window and looked below. The helicopter shook its passengers only slightly as it made a steady descent over DC, heading toward a large, concrete structure with high security fences and a squad of guards.

“People don’t feel safe,” Thomas answered. “With the threat of more terrorist strikes, they’re fleeing the district like refugees from a warzone.”

“Where are they going?” Craig asked. “I mean, where do they think they’ll find safety? Is the government advising this?”

“What you’re looking is one mass exodus out of many from the cities.”

A helmet-wearing FBI agent sitting next to Thomas joined in. “Most of them are trying to get to less populated areas to hide out,” he said. “You should see the Southeast. From Florida to Louisiana. Mass pandemonium.” He then extended his hand.

“Agent Keagan, nice to finally meet you.”

Craig leaned forward and shook the gloved agent’s hand.

“A pleasure,” Craig said. “What’s this about Florida?”

“Oh,” Keagan said loudly. “Hurricane. Cat 5 in the Caribbean right now. Headed straight for ’em.”

Craig shook his head in disbelief. “Where are you hailing from?” he asked.

“Got called up from Dallas. Every bureau department is on notice.”

Disinterested in the banter, Nick turned to Rachael. “Where are we going, Mom?”

“Some place safe,” she answered.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Nick said, looking past her and out the window on Husein’s side.

The helicopter hovered above a large platform at the top of the two-story building, ready to land.

“How is the government controlling all of this mass movement?” Craig asked both Thomas and Keagan.

“They’ve offered refuge at a variety of secure FEMA sites,” Keagan answered.

“FEMA camps?” Craig said. “Even with all those conspiracy theories about those places?”

“People aren’t worried about conspiracies right now,” Thomas replied. “Most of them just want to get to safety.”

Craig gazed out the window. They were close to the landing platform. Armed guards surrounded the rooftop as men in orange vests directed the helicopters with colored flashlight tubes.

They hovered briefly, three feet off the ground, then with a shake and a boom, they landed, as a security detail surrounded both helicopters to aid in the offloading. The door on Husein’s side was pulled open. There stood a man with short, dirty-silver hair and sunglasses.

The outside noise of the blades winding down was thunderous, even with their ear protection. They were signaled to exit the helicopter in haste. Craig stepped out, helping both Nick and Rachael, as Husein exited on the other side.

The chopper next to them was a frenzy of movement. Men pushing gurneys rushed past Craig, nearly knocking him down. The deceased field agent, as Craig would later find out, was new graduate from the academy, Agent Dyson, twenty-two years old and married with two children. He had lost his life too soon, as was the case of the thousands killed in the sleeper-cell attacks thus far.

Last out of the chopper came Ghazi. He lay on his back, staring into the sky as they carried him off. Craig kept his eye on the paralyzed militant while leading Rachael and Nick toward a door being held open by one of the guards. Husein soon caught up as the group moved quickly from the rooftop platform to the building entrance that led them downstairs. Before the outside door shut, Craig caught a glimpse of the two helicopters rising from the platform and flying off, just as quickly as they had landed.

The stairwell was dark and narrow. Craig kept his family close with his pistol holstered at his side. Their footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell. Those on gurneys, Ghazi included, had been taken via the emergency elevator. Craig didn’t like the idea of Ghazi being out of his sight. Homeland had a knack for taking his suspects and leaving him empty-handed.

They hurried down several flights of stairs before reaching the bottom. A dark hall awaited ahead with a thick metal door at the end. From the cool dankness in the air, Craig surmised that they were underground: likely in the bunker Thomas had told him about.

“This way,” Thomas said, walking past them down the dimly-lit hall toward what looked like a vault door.

“Are we underground?” Craig asked.

“Sure are,” Thomas answered. “You shouldn’t have to worry about your family’s safety down here.”

Craig wanted to believe him, as did Rachael. They reached the vault door. Thomas typed a code onto a nearby security panel, unlocking it. A beep was followed by a loud mechanical click. Thomas instructed the family to stand back as he pulled open the door.

Light rushed into the hallway. Past the door, Craig could see a green-carpeted lobby where his superiors, Deputy Assistant Director Calderon and Supervisory Special Agent Walker, were waiting for him. Both were dressed in slacks and button-down shirts and had a pistol and badge affixed to their sides. Their arms were crossed, and they looked relieved to see Craig.

Walker registered surprise at Craig’s beat-up appearance, but quickly fixed his eyes on the laptop cradled in Nick’s hands. “Agent Davis, we’re very relieved to see you.”

“Yes,” Deputy Director Calderon said. “For a while there, we thought you were a goner. I guess we should have known better.”

Craig approached them, keeping his arms around Rachael and Nick. “I’ve had a number of close calls, I can tell you that. But I’m glad backup came when it did.”

Husein joined the group and was met with suspicious glances from both Calderon and Walker.

“What is
he
doing here?” Calderon asked.

Craig separated from his family and defensively went to Husein’s side. “This young man has been through more hell than anyone his age should have to endure. He saved my life and I want him given the same protection being offered to my family.”

“But isn’t he the Black Widow’s boy?” Calderon asked.

Husein looked down, not saying anything. He didn’t expect preferential treatment, but at the very least, he hoped that they would let him stay.

“She was his aunt,” Craig answered. “But he had nothing to do with her activities. He’s proved himself above and beyond what any person would be expected to do.”

Calderon and Walker exchanged glances. “Talk about a change of heart,” Calderon said. He frowned as if trying to make a decision and then looked at Craig. “Whatever you say, Agent Davis. We’ll have to trust your judgement for now. Your wife, son, and this Chechen boy can take residence in the lounge. There’s a couch, a television, and I believe we have some snacks on hand. Sound good?”

Craig took Rachael’s hand and nodded. “That’s fine.”

Walker nodded at Rachael. “Mrs. Davis. We’re glad you and Nick are okay. Anything you need, just ask me.”

“Thank you,” Rachael said, looking around just as Agent Thomas entered the lobby.

Walker turned. “Agent Thomas, please take our guests to the lounge.

Thomas nodded and beckoned the family to follow. Craig hugged Rachael as they kissed lightly. “I won’t be long.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Take all the time you need to stop this thing. I’ll be praying for you.”

Craig patted Nick on the head and told him to take care of his mother. “We’re all going to have to work together to get through this.” He then looked to Husein. “All of us.”

Husein looked as if he had a thousand questions on his mind. Instead he nodded and quietly followed Rachael and Nick as they went with Agent Thomas. With the lobby cleared out, Calderon, Walker, and Craig stood in a circle.

“You look like shit, Davis,” Calderon said blithely.

Craig looked himself down. “Can’t say it’s really been my day, sir.”

“Let’s move,” Walker said. “The clock is ticking.”

“Ghazi,” Craig said, abruptly looking around the empty lobby. “Where did they take him?”

“Relax. He’s currently being treated in a secure medical wing,” Calderon said.

“We can interrogate him momentarily,” Walker added.

Calderon continued, “And I’d also like to know what happened to you over the past twenty-four hours. More dead agents? Your escape from ISIS? I want a report done up on everything—immediately.”

Craig interrupted. “Honestly, sir. It’s all a bit of a blur right now, and I need to stay focused on the matter at hand.” He held up the laptop, its shiny silver case gleaming under the overhead lights.

Calderon nodded. “Our superiors want answers, and if this bureau is going to provide more manpower to fighting these terrorist, when need the upmost transparency on your part.”

“Our superiors want answers, and if this bureau is going to provide more manpower to fighting these terrorist, when need the upmost transparency on your part,” Calderon said. He let out a long sigh, almost sounding defeated, and then spoke in a more confiding tone. “We’re with you, Davis, and we want to stop them as much as you. I—I just don’t want you to get burned out over this. I’ve seen it happen to a lot of agents.”

“I’m fine. Trust me. And if the FBI wants results, they’ve got to be willing to listen to me.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Walker said, signaling to a nearby door. “Field analyst teams are waiting.”

Without another word, they exited the lobby and entered a highly secure operations room, where agents were waiting with hope that whatever Craig had brought with him would be the key to preventing a new wave of ISIS attacks.

In addition to population and riot control in major cities, officials throughout the country were swamped with trying to keep utility companies and infrastructure safely guarded and on high alert after the port bombings. For the time being, it was controlled chaos. Municipalities within twenty miles of the port explosions were all hot zones: Long Beach, California. Houston, Texas. Wilmington, North Carolina. Port of New York and New Jersey. The Port of Pennsylvania. Port of Everglades, Florida. And the Port of Boston, Massachusetts.

And nearby residents were terrified once reports that radioactivity had been released into the air were made known.

The federal government, and state governments for that matter, were completely on defense: setting up massive HAZMAT perimeters, security check points, and deploying military reserves to guard anything and everything that could be considered a potential target. Resources were rapidly wearing thin.

Based on gathered intelligence, the government had officially named Islamic State the perpetrator of the port attacks, even given the stunning lack of response from ISIS at any level. No one knew where or when the next attack was to happen, but the government was on high alert nonetheless.

The strategy of the ISIS sleeper cells had been effective in driving fear and chaos throughout the country, in addition to the thousands estimated dead. By Saturday afternoon, July 9, 2016, the fight against ISIS was only just beginning. The military was in place to retaliate against ISIS strongholds in Syria, Libya, and Iraq. But there was hesitation among the nation’s leaders to engage.

Another threat, in addition to the terrorist attacks, was facing the southeast. A hurricane was headed toward the Florida coast from the Atlantic. It had been gaining strength for days and was expected to pass by Puerto Rico. Forecasts then had it traveling to the Gulf Coast with the possibility of reaching a Category 5.

The hurricane threat, coupled with the terrorist strikes, had the southeast states in a frenzy. Stores and supplies plundered. Fuel shortages. General chaos on the streets. Any semblance of order from Florida to Louisiana was quickly deteriorating.

Jonesboro, Arkansas

Like many sensitive facilities throughout the country, the Jonesboro Natural Gas Plant had been placed on a heightened alert status. The plant had generated power for the city’s growing population for the past century. And while most of the students at nearby Arkansas State University were hidden in their dorm rooms and apartments, glued to their computers and televisions following the terrorist attacks and talk of war, something dangerous was brewing nearby.

Sayed Beghal was an Algerian-born French citizen who had recently traveled abroad as a means of assisting the ISIS sleeper cell operation in the United States. He had been termed “lucky rabbit’s foot” by many of his fellow militants because of his penchant for getting into trouble but escaping punishment through most of his young, adult life. As a charismatic, good-looking young man, he had always been able to blend in with his surroundings despite his radical associations. He had once killed a man at a Paris deli in broad daylight for what he perceived as an insult, and gotten away with it scot-free. For some reason, no witnesses would testify.

In his brief lifetime of petty crime, he had never been caught by the authorities. But as a twenty-five-year-old street hustler in Paris, he felt that his life lacked purpose and direction. He later found both of those after linking up with an ISIS-affiliated sleeper cell. And it wasn’t long before they recruited him to join their crusade against the United States. He relocated and waited for the time to be called.

It was late afternoon, Saturday, July 9—dinnertime for most families in the area. Sayed sat in the passenger seat of one of four white vans parked in a line at a vacant truck stop five miles from the Jonesboro gas plant, concealed among low-hanging branches of ancient oak trees.

The vans were deceptively marked with Homeland Security seals on both sides. In each van were a number of armed militants and two hundred pounds of explosives and chargers. They were planning to take the power plant by force, just one team among many positioned near plants targeted for attack.

Sayed’s driver, a Nigerian named Achebe, turned to him after flicking the butt of his cigarillo out the window. He wore a tan safari hat and dark sunglasses, T-shirt and cargo pants. Sayed was dressed in faded military fatigues with a black ski-mask pulled back and over his head, exposing his chiseled jawline and light facial hair.

“We need to do this before nightfall,” Achebe said.

In his hand, Sayed held a two-way radio. The back of the van was filled with metal carrying cases housing the charges for their demolition plan. A blueprint of the power plant rested on the dashboard in front of Sayed. His AR-15 rifle leaned against the passenger-side door near his leg. The radio played the latest news reports softly as Sayed kept his eyes and ears on their surroundings, trying to ensure that no one approached them at the last minute.

“We have our timeline,” Sayed answered. “The plant security is changing shifts”—Sayed looked at his watch—“in five minutes. That is when we move.”

He grabbed the blueprint from the dashboard and unfolded it, to get another look. In the middle of the large diagram, four generating units were circled in red pen. Once the units were taken out, power to Jonesboro and neighboring towns would be dismantled. At least that was the plan. As Sayed studied the blueprint, the radio announcer continued to provide the latest updates on America’s deep national crisis:

“Residents in the area are encouraged to travel on officially sanctioned roads, as many routes have been blocked off due to high security alerts. Hurricane Francis is gaining steam in the Caribbean and expected to move across Florida into the Gulf of Mexico.

“In addition to the hurricane warning, governors across the Southeast region have already declared a state of emergency due to the terrorist strikes and are expected to receive more federal aid within the next twenty-four hours. FEMA has since established a major presence outside evacuated areas in hopes of dealing with the growing unease and evacuation, ahead of the approaching hurricane.”

Achebe lit another cigarillo and turned down the radio. “If ISIS doesn’t strike soon, this hurricane will be getting all the credit. Is that what we want?”

Sayed kept his eyes on the blueprint, carefully studying it. “Don’t worry, brother. Everything will come together soon enough.”

Achebe scoffed. He was older than Sayed, by at least ten years, and had seen and done things back home that Sayed could only dream of. But there he was, a driver for the little prince, who had gained the favor of the ISIS leader—enough to place him in charge of the entire operation.

“Ah, what do you know?” he said, flicking his ash on the van’s vinyl flooring. “You don’t know the Americans like I do. No amount of slaughter around the world would cause them to look away from their phones and computers. They forget about it the next day. Now that we’re here on their soil, however, they will fight back. This entire operation is moving too slow.”

“Enough!” Sayed cautioned, raising a finger. He looked at his watch. “It’s time…” He folded the blueprint and placed it back on the dashboard.

Achebe turned the ignition and started the engine. Sayed grabbed his radio and called the other militants, telling them to be ready. The line of vans sped off from the vacant lot toward their main destination, leaving a cloud of dust down the empty dirt road they traveled. The Jonesboro plant was less than five minutes away. Guard shifts were soon to change, and everything was going according to plan.

The industrialized plant was far from the college town for which it had been named. There was a heavy police presence patrolling the area outside the tall, barbed-wire fences, and an abundance of security guards at the gate. The level of daily manpower providing security had been deemed adequate by local officials. Even with the port attacks only a state away, an attack on a city the size of Jonesboro seemed unlikely to most residents, even though everyone was still on edge.

Private security guards and plant employees were just showing up for the next shifts. The two main points of entry were heavily manned, from the parking lot booth and gate beam to the entrance into the plant grounds—in addition, there were concrete barricades, yellow concrete pylons, and automated tire-spike traps all along the way.

With the abundance of personnel in and around the area, plus physical barriers and safeguards in place, it seemed unlikely that any terrorist elements could strike the facility, except with a bomb from the sky. The officials had, however, overestimated their defenses. The white vans, in view of the parking lot guards, were barreling down the long narrow road toward the plant, less than a mile away.

From the lead vehicle, Sayed looked through his binoculars. They had gained the attention of the guards at the front gate and the surrounding police vehicles. He lowered the binos and spoke into his radio. “Breach vehicle to the front. Now.”

The fourth van in line pulled up and to the side of the other vans, accelerating in a kind of fury. Affixed to the front grille was a metal battering ram composed of several vertically positioned beams. It soon took the lead as the convoy raced ahead, arousing the suspicion of the authorities. The Homeland Security decals were a strange enough sight, and the repeated calls to stop from a police megaphone went unanswered. Sayed watched as the police cruisers sped to the front gate, providing a barricade.

“Keep your current speed,” Sayed instructed over the radio.

Achebe gripped the steering wheel, trying to maintain a steady line as his van reached seventy miles an hour. Shots suddenly rang out. The police were shooting at them, though most of the shots just ricocheted off the lead van, striking its bulletproof windshield. A loud and thunderous crash followed as the van split between the police cruisers, tossing the battered vehicles to the side.

The first van pushed on, nearing the front gate as the guards assembled in haste to fire their weapons at the incoming vehicles, unstoppable and determined. Some of the braver guards stood directly in the van’s path, firing one loud blast after another. They jumped out of the way just as the van crashed through the large, reflective arm of the gate at top speed.

Calls for backup were frantically made over the radio just as the last van stormed through, its occupants tossing out several round objects that clinked on the ground and rolled toward the guard shack: grenades—over ten of them. The explosions that followed set the parking lot entrance aflame, throwing bodies into the air, severing limbs, and killing anyone within range.

A horde of security guards and police ran to the second security point, leading to the plant entrance where the four main generators were located. “Keep moving!” Sayed shouted into his radio, as a hail of gunfire descended on the first van.

They had to slow the convoy and swerve around all the concrete barricades—too large and thick for even a line of vans to charge through. The shots kept coming from all sides. A bullet struck the window next to Achebe’s head, causing him to duck. The impact did little more than create a spider web on the bulletproof surface of the glass.

“Watch the road!” Sayed shouted to him.

It was now kill or be killed. Achebe stroked the thick padding of the flak vest underneath his shirt, providing him some comfort. He had fought in militias in his youth and knew how one foolish mistake could get a man killed in combat.

Each van had a small sunroof that promptly opened now to reveal masked, armed militants with bi-pod machine guns aimed at the building’s roof. The masked men quickly fired back at the guards, riddling them with bullets.

One gunman took a bullet to the head and fell back through the hole as they pressed forward to the entrance gate of the plant. One of the guards quickly activated the tire spikes. The first van veered away from the spikes toward the guard booth and crashed into the aluminum structure, crushing three men inside. Achebe slammed on his brakes in front of the tire spikes as their convoy came to a halt.

Sayed clutched his radio after nearly slamming headfirst into the dashboard and shouted into his radio, “Gunners to their hatches! First vehicle move out.”

His team quickly responded. Two gunners popped up from the sunroofs in the vans behind him and swept the surrounding area in a hail of bullets, hitting anything in their paths. Their machine guns rattled as shells rolled down the windshield and the bodies of guards and police collapsed onto the ground. Taking cover, many officers returned fire but couldn’t do much damage to any of the vans. Another militant took a shot to the head and fell back down into the van. Sayed and Achebe remained in their van as shots rang out all around them.

Suddenly, masked gunmen stormed out from all sides of the first van, which had crashed into the guard shack, smoke rising from it battered hood. Some men took concealed positions and laid down suppressing fire on the remaining police to keep them at bay while a small team of militants pulled a large metal ramp from the van and laid it over the tire spikes.

An alarm sounded from the power plant, growing louder by the minute. The militants moved quickly and with confidence. The entire operation had been planned to take no longer than five minutes.

Once the ramp was placed, Achebe floored the van full speed ahead, as the others followed, still firing at a group of police officers who had found cover behind their bullet-riddled vehicles.