New America 02 - Resistance (5 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Kaliz Mubbarak stopped his pickup truck in the parking lot of an apartment complex in Sausalito, California.  He didn’t honk the horn or get out of the
vehicle.  He and his partner sat in silence, waiting for the other two members of their team.  Kaliz discreetly scanned the crowded parking lot for any sign of movement and found none in the hushed, shadowy hour before sunrise.  A minute later, his teammates exited their apartment and climbed into the back of the oversized cab. No words were spoken for a full ten minutes.  They had learned to leave the talking to Kaliz.  They didn’t even know each other’s real names, only the aliases they had adopted to maintain their cover.  All four were American citizens. Their families had immigrated to the former United States when they were small children, and they had grown up behind enemy lines. All had attended American schools, played sports, had girlfriends, and voted in local, state, and national elections.  Kaliz had even spent two years as an infantryman in the United States Army.  They’d spent their entire lives hiding their true nationality and passed themselves off as Spaniards. In their youth, they spent many long hours learning to speak Spanish and had mastered the accent, even their English tainted by a touch of the foreign tongue.

Behind
closed doors, however, they diligently practiced their Islamic faith.  They prayed to Mecca five times a day, observed Ramadan fervently every year and, most importantly, their parents trained them to join the ranks of The Silent Warriors.  All four men were experts with pistols, shotguns, and rifles.  One of their favorite childhood pastimes involved competing to see who could reassemble weapons the fastest after their parents took them apart and scrambled the many pieces. Kaliz won every time.

When The
Star of Allah brightened the night sky over the Eastern Seaboard, Kaliz and his team were fortunate enough to watch the entire event unfold live on television.  They celebrated for the better part of a week as they watched the country crumble into ruins. Kaliz’s teammates could barely contain their excitement, eager to execute their plan immediately.   They’d spent years preparing for The Day of Judgment and couldn’t understand why Kaliz wanted to wait.  Kaliz told them that patience was now the only plan.  The Star of Allah didn’t cripple the West Coast, and they didn’t have the luxury of darkness and confusion like their brothers on the other side of the country.  They simply needed to alter their agenda.  The crippled nation would not be repaired anytime in the near future; if anything, it would only get worse before it got better.  Kaliz spent eighteen months crafting his plan to perfection.  Every member of his team not only knew his own role, but had memorized the responsibilities of his fellow teammates as well to ensure that every facet of the plan would be carried out should one of them fall.

The
day had finally come. The destruction they would unleash would not only further cripple the infrastructure of the country, but it would also deface a national icon, a symbol recognized in every corner of the land.  Kaliz’s men were not aware of the entire operation; they had no idea they were only one half of the plan.  Another cell leader would execute the same scheme from the opposite end of the bridge.

Kaliz’s two-year stint in the i
nfantry had been part of this covert operation.  He used his military connections to smuggle the equipment he needed for his plan.  He managed to steal a dozen grenades, assorted weapons and ammunition, and the grand prize – a case of C-4 plastic explosives.  His counterpart on the other team had managed to do the same. Kaliz had manipulated and bribed many people to acquire the items and had even killed two men to do so.  He was meticulous in his planning and was never a suspect in any of the thefts or murders.

The truck travel
ed south down the 101 and waited patiently in line at the checkpoint to the Golden Gate Bridge.  With much of the interstate highway system in ruins on the other side of the country, Regional Governor Jimenez closely guarded critical bridges and freeway intersections in his territory.  The Golden Gate Bridge had a platoon of soldiers at both ends.  Every vehicle was stopped; the driver and occupants required to show identification in order to pass.  For the initial six months after The Day of Judgment, every vehicle was thoroughly searched.  The process took hours; angry citizens had to add at least two hours to any trip that required transit across the bridge.  Kaliz simply bided his time, waiting for complacency to kick in.  Slowly but surely, the thorough searches became less and less diligent.  Without a single incident on The Golden Gate Bridge in eighteen months, the soldiers began to relax.  They saw the same familiar faces day after day and recognized the same cars traversing the bridge.  Kaliz’s only purpose for driving back and forth across the bridge every day was to bolster his position as a regular to the soldiers guarding the bridge.  At first, his truck was searched five days a week, both coming and going.  As the months passed, five days became four, then three until it become once a week, if ever.  Kaliz became so familiar with the guards that when he pulled up to the checkpoint, he would roll down his window with his driver’s license in hand and the soldiers would simply wave him through without even stopping him.

T
oday was a day like any other. He pulled up to the checkpoint and produced his driver’s license.  The young soldier waved him through and Kaliz drove on.  When he was two car lengths past the checkpoint, he stopped the truck and got out.  His partner in the front seat exited with him.

“Marco!  What are you doing?  Keep it moving man!  C’mon!”  The young soldier was visibly frustra
ted by the delay.

“So sorry, Private Morris, the engine died
on me,” said Kaliz in his polished Spanish accent.

“Try to
get it in the other lane quickly. I gotta keep the line moving.”

“Yes, of course
. So sorry about this.”

Kaliz glanced
into the back seat and waved his men out of the truck.  His team members stood at the back of the truck, pushing as Kaliz steered the vehicle.  Once the truck was blocking all the lanes, Kaliz put the vehicle in park and unzipped his jacket so he could quickly access his tactical vest. The others retrieved their bags from the truck bed and did the same.

“Marco!  What the hell, man?  Rush hour’s coming and I don’t need this shit!”

Kaliz and his team took their time getting ready.  Nothing about their movements aroused suspicion, only frustrated confusion from the soldiers at the check point.  Once his team members stopped and made eye contact with him to signal their readiness, Kaliz nodded his head and the attack began.

Each man dropped the spoon on his grenade and lobbed it toward
the checkpoint.  While the grenades were in flight, the four men produced automatic rifles and began to fire.  Each team member had a designated target.  The first shot the tires out of the four vehicles immediately behind their truck.  The second opened fire on the vehicles in the oncoming lanes of traffic and stopped them dead in their tracks, then lobbed a grenade toward the disabled vehicles.  The third and fourth men took careful aim at every soldier in their line of sight and shot them dead as the grenades exploded, crippling cars and killing dozens of terrified motorists.

With the first stag
e of his plan executed to perfection, Kaliz proceeded to phase two. Two of his men took up position in front of the truck and tossed smoke grenades towards the checkpoint, blinding the confused and wounded soldiers and preventing a counterattack.  As clouds of white smoke shrouded the scene, the two men lobbed grenade after grenade at the checkpoint.  Cars exploded and mangled body parts flew in all directions.  Any soldier managing to escape the heavy veil of acrid smoke in an attempt to advance was immediately gunned down in a hail of bullets. 

Kaliz
and his partner sprinted to the center of the bridge.  Every few hundred yards, Kaliz reached into his vest and tossed a brick of C-4 to the pavement.  He knew the team on the other end of the bridge had carried out their portion of the plan successfully; not a single car came toward them in the oncoming lanes.  A few minutes later, Kaliz heard the rat-a-tat of automatic gunfire coming from his brothers on the other team.  Once Kaliz was reunited with his counterparts, the final stage of his plan could be carried out.

“Did you set your charges
, my brother?”

“I did.”

“Good! Praise be to Allah for watching over us.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

Kaliz reached into his vest, took out the remaining two charges and tossed them at his feet.  The four men gazed at each other, smiles illuminating their faces.  They did not fear death because they knew in their hearts that Allah would reward them in the afterlife.  Kaliz flipped the cover on the detonator and pressed the button.

The Golden
Gate Bridge was rocked by twenty-four massive explosions, sending large sections of concrete and steel raining down into the murky water below.  The West Coast had just suffered its first major attack from The Silent Warriors.

***

Lance McGee stood in line at the front gate of Fort McClellan, Alabama, waiting to be processed into the refugee camp.  He was shivering, not because he was cold, but because he was terrified.  Had the weather been a bit warmer, the people standing around Lance would have known immediately that something was wrong with him because he could not stop trembling.  If not for the incessant rain, the tired, hungry citizens standing in line might have noticed the pungent urine stain covering the front of his jeans.  Lance’s bloodshot gaze remained fixed at his dirty feet for fear that someone might look into his eyes and know something was horribly wrong.

For the next hour, Lance crept
forward in line, getting closer to the front gate of the decommissioned army installation.  Fort McClellan was once the largest military base in the country and one of the most famous.  It housed the Women’s Army Corp that trained the very first women to be soldiers during World War II.  Fort McClellan also housed the training camps for the Military Police Corps and the Chemical Corps.  In 1999, it was decommissioned by the United States Army and became home to the Center For Domestic Preparedness run by the Department of Homeland Security.  Residents from all over The Pulse Zone desperately scrambled to get to Fort McClellan.  They all wanted one thing—security.  In the eighteen months since the collapse, the Unified American Empire fought to restore law and order to keep the population safe.  Refugee camps erected across The Pulse Zone simply couldn’t handle the strain of food riots, gang violence, and the countless waves of people terrified of the slave trade. 

Fort McClellan became a beacon of hope.  The installation sat roughly fifty miles to the south of the southern boundary of The Pulse Zone.  The electromagn
etic pulse that plunged the Eastern Seaboard into darkness had no effect on Fort McClellan.  The power grid had been knocked out but was easily repaired.  President Simon Sterling knew the significance of the installation, and given its close proximity to Atlanta, it was the obvious choice to be the headquarters of the Unified American Empire’s military forces on the East Coast.  Because of its importance, Fort McClellan enjoyed a limitless supply of resources, thanks in large part to the ongoing pillaging of the unaffected oasis that was California.

As Lance got closer to the checkpoint,
it took every bit of concentration he had to keep from passing out.  The lives of his wife and children were at stake; he had to do this for them.  He had no doubt about the consequences of failure.  If he botched this, they would be raped and murdered.  He had no other options.

As the
smartphone in his pocket began to vibrate, Lance let out an involuntary shriek and his shaking escalated, alarming those waiting nearby.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“Do you need help?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Uh… n-n-nothing.  I’m sorry.  J-j-just have a splitting headache.”  Lance tried his best to smile at the people around him, but it didn’t lessen their alarm.

“Should we get a doctor?  Honey, walk up to the front of the line and tell...”

“No! I said I was fine!  Don’t do that!” Lance knew he needed to get a grip. He was drawing unwanted attention to himself when he could least afford to do so. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.  Please forgive me. It’s just so cold and my feet hurt.” 

Lance turned his back on
the meddlesome couple, hoping they wouldn’t cause a scene.  As his phone continued to vibrate, Lance reached up to tap the Bluetooth device in his ear.  Unable to utter a single word, Lance coughed, hoping that would be enough.

“Good, good, good. 
Mr. McGee, I’m so glad you’re still with us.  I don’t really expect you to answer me, given that someone talking on a phone these days would definitely attract attention. We wouldn’t want to do that, now would we?”

Just the sound of the man’s voice sent Lance over the edge, gasping for air. His eerie, composed politeness
brought forth images that were anything but tranquil, images of torture—not just his own, but the torture of his children as well.

“Now, now, Mr. McGee. W
e can’t have you carrying on like this when we’re so close to being finished.  Do calm down, sir.  Please.”