Crushed is a gripping, fast-paced story from the first sentence. It’s about the dedication of one man to right a wrong. A daytime New York financial advisor and a night-time martial arts instructor, Afiz Abdelfazar travels around the world to take on an overseas mission of impossible scale. He has to try to save the United States of America from an extreme sect. Afiz runs the gauntlet of terrorist attacks, tribal militia and a court sentencing him to death; one man tasked to stop a new world order.
Crushed
David V Chadderton
Published by:
David V Chadderton at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 by David V Chadderton
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Author’s Advice
Crushed is a work of fiction entirely out of the imagination of the author, following on from initial world events, using some commonly known places and names, and is never a comment on any person or organization.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any imputation, resemblance or similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author claims the moral rights to this work in its entirety in its present form.
If you are on a commuter journey, squeezed into an aluminum tube at subsonic speed, packed into a bus, on a commuter train above or below ground, laid under a sunshade on a beach, beneath shady leaves while leant back onto a tree, or relaxing at home, all of which the author has experienced, just enjoy the story and make the author very happy.
Chapter 4 Presidential Briefing
Chapter 16 Welcome in Sanbekistan
Chapter 21 Discussion with Haqi Mujad
Afiz Abdelfazar awoke to the fear of being inside a black plastic body bag or a coffin. Dense blackness surrounded his aching body. Crazy notions of burial flashed through his mind. He always hated losing control of his immediate surroundings. His heart beat quickened. Sweating armpits soaked what were smart business clothes. Terrorizing thoughts of why he was in such blackness evolved too slowly for him. He remembered a background noise all around him in the office. People ran for the lift, grabbed at telephones, dropped files and papers, conversations ceased. Then something moved him from his own desk into blackness. He wanted to know if there were others around him; yearned to hear anyone. Silence reigned until distant groans of concrete and tortured metal took over. He could barely breathe as his normally healthy lungs wheezed with the effort. It reminded him of the foul air of a building site, earthy and nauseously smelling of wet concrete. Nostrils clogged as he sucked in the foreign dust. Afiz desperately needed to clear his throat and tried to spit out the sandy content of his parched mouth. Attempting to move his chest to breathe more deeply brought on excruciating pain. A crushing weight worked against an attempt to expand his chest, avoided only by shallow breathing. He felt a smooth cold surface touching the tip of his nose. Was it moving down onto him? It seemed to be stable and that encouraged him.
Hands lay gracelessly on concrete rubble and sharp plastic edges. His fingers were moveable, toes too. Thank God, thought Afiz, with a body still working, he could move his extremities. Shouting as loudly as he could, the sound bounced back at him from imprisoning hard surfaces. Had mischievous colleagues locked him up in a shaft? Was he upright or horizontal? Attempting to think what happened between standing in the office, dressed in a clean white shirt, red tie, pressed black trousers, polished black leather shoes, slick hair, styled fastidiously in the barbershop on basement level three of the building, and incarceration, ideas froze. Afiz Abdelfazar, daytime financial analyst and night-time martial art trainer, found himself in frightening blackness, laying on a rough concrete surface with his back resting uncomfortably on what felt like rocks. Without realizing it, he drifted back into unconsciousness.
Those alongside the windows were the first struck by shards of flying glass. Shredded window frames speared through the interior. Structural columns made of thickly concreted heavy steel, deflected debris from him. Office partitions softened the impact of countless flying missiles, originally workstations, windows, and people, shielded him during the impacts. Searching his thoughts and memories for answers, working out where he was now, Afiz reasoned that his head could be furthest away from the perimeter blast area if the initial shock wave forced him backwards. His feet were in a shallower space than his head. He started sliding across the rough concrete floor, arguing with himself to move towards the lift shaft, backwards, as a possible escape route. Thinking that route may be blocked, scared him further. He tried lifting two knees, finding that only a little movement was possible. This allowed a slight purchase for his feet on the floor, with only the heels of his shoes making any grip. Pushing against the heel hold while both knees scraped against an intimately close rough concrete surface, he could slide his entire body backwards a tiny distance. Excruciating pain shot through both knees. Repeating the knee and heel movements recreated the sharp pain and more motion. Leg muscles weakened with each straining push. Afiz worked at the heel-driving technique, raising his knees to the limit of the height restriction and sliding his head inches at a time. He lost count of how many more pushes he managed. Leg pains soon brought physical activity to a rest. It exhausted Afiz and he paused to recuperate. Each breath sucked dry cement dust into his lungs, causing him to cough, spewing out slurry of grit and saliva. After resting for what seemed ages, Afiz resumed the heel sliding technique.
‘Not found the end of this tube yet, so, rest again and then keep moving while able,’ he reasoned aloud.
The challenging problem now was to fathom how many footsteps there were from his workstation to the lift. He reckoned 25, maybe thirty feet. After around two hundred heel pushes, he depressed himself thinking of that distance. His legs were, and should still be, fit from daily stretching, aerobics and martial art kick boxing practice, but this was a new, untested, alien application for his muscles. He questioned whether to expect a lift shaft still to be there if he reached it. Air continued entering from somewhere, but he knew escape depended upon moving towards a potential rescue location; he pushed again. Afiz’s head bumped into a smooth metal surface. Alarmingly, the floor beneath him had become noticeably warmer on his back, not scalding, but hot. At first, he welcomed the warmth, relieved that he might not freeze to death, thinking he might have encountered hot water pipes from the air conditioning system, a warmed floor might come from leaks, but this warmth remained dry heat. An increased amount of headroom allowed Afiz to raise his head a little higher and feel around the surface of the metal object. Thin metal and hollow told him it had to be an air conditioning duct. It either blocked his pathway or providing a means of assistance. More head space allowed him to turn over onto his stomach and increase the speed of crawling forward. He reached a barrier of fallen rubble, splintered wood, and shards of glass. It was the shattered doorway into a lift lobby. Suffocating gases from burnt plastic and wood, wafted from somewhere below on a rising current of warm smoke. Another hazard, as if there were not already enough, Afiz realized that time was running out for him, fast.
Wiring and fluorescent light fittings encumbered his passageway as he crawled forward towards what he hoped was a vertical shaft. He pushed them aside and glimpsed brightness, in the distance. Anything seemed to be good news as it meant a connection with fresh air. The shaft formed a chimney that increased the circulation of hot air from below. Far below Afiz, gas pipes in the basement of the twenty-eight storey commercial building, had fractured and spilled energy into an environment enlivened by electricity and heat. Down there, vigorous gas fires destroyed everything in their path. Afiz lay on a time bomb.
A bright beam shone downwards, searching from side to side around him. Summoning all the physical strength left in his chest, Afiz feebly shouted.
‘Help, I am here.’
His voice sounded unrecognizable. Such effort precipitated him into a fit of wheezing and coughing. The searching light dropped to his level, accompanied by a whizzing sound from the ropes of an abseiling fire fighter, to focus directly at Afiz, blinding him. He covered his eyes with a forearm. A gravelly welcome voice spoke reassuringly into the escape cavern.
‘Hang on buddy; I will soon have you out of there. Is there anyone with you?’
Afiz’s relief at being able to talk to someone emboldened him.
‘Not that I know of, not heard or seen anybody; it’s getting hot around here.’
The rescuer's voice boomed from inky blackness, comfortingly, but brought new terror.
‘Gas fire in the basement boiler plant room. I need to get you out of here, crawl toward me.’
Afiz scrabbled forward as the rescuer pulled on the harness, and he entered the shaft, hanging in space, swinging and bumping into concrete and rebounding into the heavily suited fire fighter.
‘Pull him up,’ the rescuer ordered into a radio microphone. ‘Keep pushing off the walls, the shaft has bumps in it.’
‘I owe you for this,’ said Afiz.
‘Sure, buy me a beer next time you are in Broadway,’ said the voice of the rescuer as it faded into the background.
Afiz rose through blackness in a draft from the basement as it rushed past him with increasing temperature. He felt for what passed as walls and pushed them away. The lifting decelerated to a halt. Stabbing shafts of torchlight illuminated the devastation around him. Hands pulled him across to the side of the shaft. It may have been safety, but the floor was at a steep angle. A new voice from the gloom greeted his arrival at the landing stage.
‘Can you stand?’
Experimenting with standing became a fresh experience for Afiz, not knowing whether it was possible again. He collapsed into a heap on the rubble floor. His last recollection was to hear a rescuer call for a stretcher.
* * *
Afiz awoke to the background hum of human activity. Medical staff attended to other casualties in a temporary field hospital. A saline solution dripped into his right arm. His throat felt coarse like the granite chippings on the road where he crashed off his bike as a twelve-year old stunt rider. An army of volunteers smiled at patients and one noticed him.
‘I will get you something to eat; drink as much as you can, it will help recovery. Anything special to eat?’ asked the nearest uniformed attendant.
Afiz was grateful for living; eating anything seemed fine.
‘Whatever you have thanks.’
Afiz’s heart thumped even harder at a more horrendous thought, mouthing the words almost silently
‘Oh God, is Julia alive?’
* * *
Night fell on New York City. Nobody noticed the Azio Vertical Transport Corporation white truck that peeled away from streams of traffic evacuating Manhattan Island. It doubled back through deserted alleyways and drove into the underground service area of the Dorsey Building. A citywide camera network failure was unsurprising. The minor blast that cut their fiber optic cable remained untraceable among the overall mayhem. The Azio mechanic, who had placed the small charge, grinned with satisfaction at the thought of such an easy entry. Their escape would remain equally undetected in the public confusion and blackout. This sleeper cell of activists became activated a month earlier by the expected coded letter of invitation to meet together. It was time for the four to drop their day jobs and deliver the terror they had trained for in the desert two years ago. Captain Mustafa Jamaal sealed their destiny with highly believable threats to their families in Sanbekistan. They would do what he asked.
Shamael parked the truck alongside the basement lift motor control box. He opened it with the correct key and deftly connected a notebook computer into the communications port of the lift controller. All six lifts responded to Shamael and did exactly what they were instructed. Two were to perform normally allowing residual workers to leave the building but none would allow new entry to the Dorsey Building. His three partners loaded their chosen lift car with wrapped items. Toolboxes and heavy cartons were all destined for the roof-level lift motor room. Their plan was to introduce panic to the devastation below. Their cause was a new world order.
* * *
‘You are cleared to leave Mr. Abdelfazar, take it easy for a few days, make an appointment to see your doctor and get a full health check,’ said the administrator checking people off the list.
Afiz dressed back into his dusty, crumpled business suit and walked shakily onto Vesey Street. Evacuees moved hesitantly, uncertain of their homeward journey. Some searched faces; others carried on stretchers or wheeled ambulance trolleys heading into the temporary medical centre. Afiz saw the flash of light come towards him from across the city square; its’ source had to be the top of the Dorsey building. The dull grey concrete edifice to 1960’s design looked to be undamaged. Somehow, the flash penetrated all-encompassing clouds of dust, then a second and a third flash. Afiz accelerated into a sprint, putting the greatest distance between himself and the hotel in Vesey Street as possible. He stumbled over debris and smashed glass. His lungs choked on putrid air as he rounded the next street corner. Behind him, three thunderous explosions rocked Vesey Street. The missiles struck home on the temporary hospital. His life had changed. This was a personal war to Afiz now. It had become something to deal with. This was for real.
Afiz turned into Venus Ally heading against the flow of escapees. Much of the city power supply remained blown out of functionality, traffic lights and illumination for the murky air remained obstinately blank. Lift systems that relied on public utility power, sat frozen, having trapped many in a mid-journey. Afiz told himself, through labored breathing, that war zones did not come to New York; they were overseas, somewhere else, but not here. He grabbed the attention of a State Trooper alongside his military truck.
‘I saw the rockets fired from the top of that building,’ said Afiz.
The trooper nodded in acceptance and radioed instructions to others. Afiz kept running. He clambered over the car park ramp walls into the rear of the Dorsey building, hoping the troopers would get there quickly. The almost empty basement car park lights remained fully on. He reasoned that there must be a diesel emergency generator and that a fire fighter’s lift had to be working. Breathlessly, Afiz approached the basement lift lobby. He dodged past the lift mechanic’s truck and found one lift car operational with lights on and doors open. It patiently awaited the New York Fire Department. He guessed they had no reason to come here. Bypassing a small number of evacuees who headed for their cars and the street, he entered the empty lift car. Afiz pressed the up level button and prayed that he did not need a fire fighter’s key.
A computer-generated voice challenged him, ‘Enter Fire Department access code.’
‘Shit, the bloody lift speaks, try this,’ said Afiz as he pressed the number sequence 911 and then the close door button.
‘Access code accepted,’ said the computer voice.
‘Not such a smart freaking computer.’ He allowed himself a snigger at being able to outwit the machine.
The voice came again, ‘Enter the arrival floor level.’
Afiz pressed the top button again causing the car to accelerate strongly, cruising at high speed to the roof level. He looked around the bare lift car for what might be available to use. He expected at least three armed assassins on the roof because of the three rockets in such quick succession, plus someone on guard. An elbow strike to the glass emergency red panel, provided access to the fire fighter’s axe in the car. He pulled the large carbon dioxide pressurized water portable fire extinguisher from its mounting straps, and pocketed the other, smaller, halon gas extinguisher.
‘Three weapons are preferable to none. There might be a hose reel nearby. A good strong jet of high velocity water will provide a deterrent.’ He talked himself into a positive attitude.
Confident of his unarmed combat skills, it always helped to have some additional help against armed attackers. The lift car swayed and screeched to a halt. Squeaky steel doors slid open. Afiz scanned the dull grey air conditioning room from the relative security of the lift car doorway. No guard was in sight but with only exit emergency lighting in use, he could not be sure who else was around. He moved silently close to the bare concrete wall to the door of the plant room, cracking it open and saw several galvanized air conditioning ducts that extended into the gloom. The assassins neglected their escape route and had not left anyone on guard. They made the beginners mistake of giving no thought to a possible counter-attack. He told himself these people were arrogant, incompetent or knew they had no way back, settling upon incompetent. Sliding around several large diameter water pipes, valves and pumps, he concealed himself alongside a room-high hot and noisy water-chilling compressor. He found the exit door onto the roof and peered first through its louvers, seeing no one. The door opened between water-cooling towers, facing away from the location of the missile launchers. Rushing air from the cooling tower propeller fans and splashing water gave covering noise against early discovery. He moved onto the smooth tar covered roof, peered around the corner of a cooling tower toward the north parapet, and saw two shooters studying their handiwork on Vesey Street through binoculars.
Automatic rifles rested on tripods facing downwards over the city. Missile launchers lay on the roof. He could see only two people; no hand guns were in sight but thought there may be others on the roof of the plant room. Afiz flicked the switch of the window-cleaning crane and watched as the giant gantry commenced trundling around the perimeter of the roof, soon reaching the shooters position. Both jumped back out of its inexorable path but the gantry swept the nearest rifle over the edge of the parapet; it disappeared silently towards the street while the second shooter lifted her rifle and swung it inward.
Afiz’s portable fire extinguisher water jet met her full in the face. Blinded, she dropped the rifle onto the crane railway only to hear it crunched beneath the heavy railway rolling wheels. The shooter stumbled backwards, holding both hands in front of her face. The combination of blindness and stumbling across raised railway tracks, proved fatal. She toppled over the edge and down towards the street, twenty-eight floors below, screaming uncontrollably. Remaining pressure in the extinguisher spurted foamy water weakly as Afiz stood calmly holding the red metal canister, waiting. The second lift mechanic rushed straight at Afiz flashing the blade of a military knife. He met the underside of Afiz’s shoe directly onto his jaw and nose, cracking both. Bloodied and in pain, the enraged terrorist rushed forward. Afiz side stepped the onslaught. He swung the heavy canister onto the back of the shooters head, opening a bloody spurting gash. The victim propelled into the water reservoir in the open-sided base of the cooling tower, diving face down into the foaming water. The inert body created a tide of blood red turbulent water spreading through the cooling system. Afiz briefly admired his work before climbing the vertical ladder to the plant room roof. He peered over the edge of the flat roof. A third shooter, a sniper, laid comfortably on sacking, firing downward at personally selected targets. This murderer was unable to hear Afiz due to the fan noise from the cooling towers just below. An incessant drone of emergency helicopters and strong wind howling past, added to the cacophony on the roof. The sniper had no view of the roof fight below. Afiz thought that, hidden between cooling tower chemical drums of biocide acid, the terrorist was in for an unpleasant surprise. The sniper’s rifle could not be swung around or quickly withdrawn from its tripod mounting. Afiz saw his chance.
‘Time up, you are under arrest. Move away from the gun and show your hands,’ Afiz shouted an order that could have come from police.
The shocked sniper scrambled backwards from the gun emplacement, rolled sideways, jumped to her feet and pulled a small pistol from grubby workman’s overall pocket. Afiz grabbed the outstretched arm, swung it around towards the attacker’s forehead, drawing blood with a glancing blow of the pistol. Afiz’s grip loosened, allowing her to wriggle away. Then she brought the pistol up towards a firing position. Afiz struck with an upward kick to the gun hand, sending it clattering across the roof and over the edge. She slid a long serrated-edge hunting knife from a leg pocket and lunged straight at Afiz. He sidestepped, deflected her outstretched right arm, grabbed the wrist and pulled her forearm against the elbow joint in a painful submission hold. The terrorist screamed in response. Incensed by her failure, she aimed untrained kicks and punches at her target. Afiz let her go, spun on the ball of his foot with a spinning heel kick that knocked her off balance. She stumbled over the edge of the roof. The fall was not far. The landing was directly onto the powerfully rotating sharp-edged propeller fan blades of the cooling tower. Bones broke, a hand severed, and an advancing blade sliced open her neck artery, further dosing the cooling tower water circulation with blood. Annoyed at himself for not having anyone captured, he looked around for any other threats.
A fourth terrorist climbed the ladder and pulled himself onto the roof behind Afiz. He inaccurately fired an automatic pistol. Afiz dived behind the chemical drum hideaway. Bullets spattered into the drums. Concentrated sodium hypochlorite acid gushed out of the new holes. Liquid acid absorbed energy from the projectiles, and they failed to pass through to his side of the drums. Afiz leapt to his feet while the gunman tried to load a fresh magazine. He lifted a perforated drum overhead and hurled it straight at the attacker. Bleaching acid poured over the slim youth, burning his skin right through clothes, blinding and burning his eyes. As he turned to flee the drum, a second leaking drum missile hit square on his back. A sidekick to the head from Afiz, and he stumbled over the edge of the roof down onto the second cooling tower fan. He never reached the fan blades, as he cracked open his head on the fan electric motor and lost an arm to the unguarded fan belt drive. The prone corpse draped over the huge fan blades as it lazily rotated around the fan hub. Afiz looked but did not have much time for bitter disappointment at not having a remaining witness as he prepared for more attackers. None came.
* * *
‘Armed FBI agents; get on the floor face down, now,’ a loud official voice command came from the ladder access.
There was no argument from Afiz. He had seen enough killing for one day, even a lifetime. He dropped to the tar covered roof and spread arms and legs in a powerless and submissive position. Several black-clad heavily armed assault troops fanned out across two roof levels. Two stood either side of Afiz, automatic rifles trained on his head. A third agent frisked his pockets, removing a wallet.
‘Clear; hands behind your back,’ ordered the frisker.
Handcuffs zipped into place and they hoisted Afiz to his feet.
‘Quite a mess you made up here. Flying corpse followed by a rifle making a big splash in the fishpond. What have you been up to?’ the first voice asked.
Afiz was relieved to answer.
‘Protecting myself, they fired at me from up here.’
‘Where were you at that time?’ A lieutenant spun Afiz around to face him.
‘I was being discharged from the temporary medical centre in the Jamieson Hotel on Vesey Street. The missiles could have killed me. I take that as personal.’
‘What then?’ The lieutenant asked.
‘I reported it to the trooper down there but reckoned you guys were too busy to deal with it straight away. I ran around to the rear car park entrance and came up the fireman’s lift to see if I could do anything useful,’ said Afiz.
‘The building’s power system was down sir’, said a new FBI officer as he appeared through the roof access doorway.
Lieutenant Hatcher continued the questioning. ‘How did you get here?’
‘The generator must have been running. The building has emergency services, fire fighter’s lift, chillers, and air conditioning for the computer floor, or some other essential temperature control zone. These cooling towers were still working when I arrived,’ said Afiz.
‘The sixth floor is a high security data control centre sir,’ the new soldier confirmed Afiz’s story.
‘So how come people go flying off this roof?’ Hatcher said.
Two guns remained trained at Afiz’s head, then Hatcher pointed his downwards, seemingly satisfied that Afiz was not a danger to him, leaving only one assault rifle remained targeted.
‘That was not the plan, they caused it, I was defending myself,’ said Afiz.
Hatcher surveyed Afiz as if searching for clues to his behavior.
‘Some expert are you?’
‘I train daily and teach a martial art,' said Afiz.
‘Afiz Abdelfazar your name?’ An agent sifted through the wallet he had pulled from Afiz’s jacket pocket.
‘Yes.’
‘Where from?’
‘I am American-born, living here in New York of Saudi parents, same address as on the driving license in your hand.’
Lieutenant Hatcher motioned to two of his squad.
‘Take him down town, send all the bodies to the forensic morgue when the crime scene investigation team has done here, come with us Afiz,’ said Hatcher.
He gripped an arm and led Afiz to the stairway. Afiz clearly saw the building nameplate in the ground floor entrance foyer of the Dorsey Building. It proudly announced,
“This building is a cornerstone of the Nexit Corporation property and industrial corporate strategy. The President and all shareholders are proud to call it ours for your benefit, signed, co-founders Chuck Westermein William Andrew Noranto, Adam Fransisco.”
Afiz recognized the name Noranto and was not pleased to be reminded of a trading deal that went badly wrong. The black FBI troop carrier travelled for around ten minutes, passed over a bridge then around quiet roads before entering a plain-looking warehouse. An unimpressively converted industrial building in Sawmills Avenue alongside the Hudson River opened its truck loading bay doors. It made a forbidding welcome. Parked alongside similar FBI vans, many armed black-clad FBI assault troops filed into and out of the reception area, along with conspirators arrested. The reception desk officer logged Afiz’s name and arrival time into the computer system before two agents escorted him to an interview room down a long corridor. Twenty or more identical doors stretched endlessly into the bowels of the cavernous building. None of it seemed to promise a good time to Afiz as he wondered where this arrest would lead. He harbored a bad feeling about this; a holiday from work, it definitely could not be.
Julia Strange studiously typed financial data into a spreadsheet workbook. Dozens of other people worked at similar workstation in the same fifteen storey building. Company reports were due at the end of the week. This date became perilously close as there remained many pages of number crunching. The New York NetNews channel 16 minimized icon on Julia’s screen flashed a news banner. Julia clicked the icon so it filled her screen with amateur video pictures. Incredible news that two passenger planes had just flown directly into the twin towers of the World Trade Centre on Manhattan Island.
‘Afiz, Afiz works near there,’ screamed Julia.
Work halted throughout the entire floor of Qete International as it did in countless similar situations throughout the world. Her repeated phone calls, text messages and emails to Afiz went unanswered.
It took her all the evening and most of the night to evacuate from Manhattan Island. Endless queues of city workers trudged, jogged, and ran to catch any available transport away from the devastation. The most successful carriers proved to be the hundreds of small boat owners whisking desperate people from the Island at no charge. They did it in return for a voluntary contribution towards willingly helping the reconstruction and rehabilitation effort to follow. Julia squeezed onto a thirty-foot fiberglass beauty of a fast cruiser at Battery Park old steamship wharf. Captain for the day, Chuck Westermein, halted the exodus at the maximum carrying capacity and roared up the twin diesel engines to two thousand revolutions per minute while the bow of the shapely craft pointed skywards as it swung away from Blue Pier. The boat forced upstream along the Hudson River leaving two trails of foaming wake. Smaller craft bounced over its waves. Spray flicked onto faces unfamiliar with water travel, finding lips unfamiliar with salty moisture but anything was better than the dry dust it replaced. Leaving the devastation allowed Julia to relax a little. She sighed with relief at living through the events. That was a day she never wanted repeated. She had no idea where Afiz could be. That thought would soon give her nightmares.
The full horror of losing those landmark twin towers to a billowing dust storm revealed itself. Evacuees aboard stared sullenly in total disbelief, some in conversation, some vomiting overboard, many appeared frozen in time. A sad-faced city office worker alongside Julia likely reflected aloud the passionate feelings of others. He had not directed his words to anyone in particular. Vance Reckenbaur knew about war. He had killed. When he did, it was legitimatized by the state. Today was not in that category.
‘A whole country will be nuked for this,’ he said, daring to believe it.
Another rebuked him.
‘We could not do that.’
‘Just watch us,’ chided Vance.
A new voice added to the comments.
‘What about all the innocent ones?’
Vance spat the words back at him with, ‘You are staring at them right now.’
Julia’s thoughts rebounded to where Afiz should be. She shuddered, not just from cold air rushing across them.
‘You have a point, and it could have been us in there,’ said Julia in closing the line of persuasive argument.
Another passenger gripped the stainless steel wire safety rope around the perimeter of the hull with whitened knuckles. He shakily asked,
‘Who did we declare war on to cause this?’
Vance jumped in with, ‘No one, absolutely nobody. This is just wrong. Countries fight wars between military forces and protect civilians on both sides. I served in the US Army overseas and never saw anything like this.’
White-knuckles head shook side-to-side, ‘This was just madness.’
Julia stepped off with many others a long way up the Hudson River at Riverdale pier. This was now close enough to home to get a taxi or walk home. She needed to walk. The cool evening atmosphere helped clear her mind of a cacophony of fears and ideas. More telephone calls to Afiz’s home, mobile and office numbers during the afternoon, evening and night continued to meet a blank wall of monotone non-connecting service. Her emails and attempts at network messaging remained unopened and unanswered. All remained securely parked at the internet service provider’s server computer fifty miles away from New York City centre. No response returned from the Fletcher Finance Building. It normally never closed. Those instant messages, on-line chats, emails, mobile calls, text and picture messages they enjoyed together almost every day, inexplicably did not function. Silence remained as though Fletcher Finance Building and all who worked there took off from planet Earth, zoomed out into space, gone, never to return. Julia passed the stage of frantic activity many hours ago. Sleeplessness wore down her energy levels to near-zombie status. Alcohol numbed the fear but achieved nothing in terms of taking it away. Her fretful night spent thinking only of Afiz, finally converted into morning sunrise from across the North Atlantic Ocean. Julia felt more tired than when she had lain down. She had no energy for the coming day.
‘May I call my girl to let her know I am OK?’ Afiz appealed to Lieutenant Hatcher.
‘Sure Afiz, the phone is right there.’
The two escorting agents stood inside the interview room door.
‘Julia, this is Afiz, are you all right?’
‘Oh thank God, yes, are you hurt?’
‘Not seriously, I was trapped in the office building partial collapse and got myself rescued after a bit of shuffling.’ Afiz downplayed his ordeal.
‘Where are you?’ said Julia.
‘Oh, I am a guest of the FBI, somewhere near the Hudson River,’ said Afiz.
‘You are what?’ said Julia.
‘I am here to help with their enquiries into a group of shooters. They fired at the temporary hospital,’ said Afiz. He hoped to calm her worry but had little expectation of it working.
‘How did you get involved with that?’
‘I was in the hospital at the time. I took it personally,’ said Afiz.
Lieutenant Hatcher had heard enough. He did not want Afiz to give away any significant information at that stage.
‘Time up, cut the call, we have business to conduct,’ he commanded.
Afiz complied. ‘Julia, have to ring off now, tell Harry I am with the FBI, bye.’
More instructions came from a different direction. A new voice entered the interview room.
‘Afiz Abdelfazar, I am Ben Futore. We do not want outside people knowing what you have just been involved in right now. Do you comprehend why?’
This new brusque voice boomed from a tall heavyweight wearing a dark business suit, carrying a folder of papers. Ben was a seriously administrative control figure rather than military. Lieutenant Hatcher and the guards deferred to Ben’s authority.
‘You mean those terrorists may have friends who will be unhappy with the way I spoiled their operation,’ Afiz offered.
‘Exactly; anonymity is essential for your safety. Now, get comfortable and tell me about yourself.’ Ben Futore waved Afiz towards chairs and a desk.
‘I would rather go home, have a shave, shower and talk it through with Julia. Then you guys can get on with the work of saving people out there,’ said Afiz.
Debriefing by the Federal Bureau of Investigation in an anonymous warehouse did not figure in his idea of a good time. Cheating death a few times seemed enough excitement for the present. The head of a specialized task unit remained undeterred. Afiz was not under arrest but realized that could easily be arranged on the present evidence. Ben pressed his case with vigor and said,
‘All the comforts of home are right here. Emergency services personnel do not need the FBI blundering about in their work. I can tell you, Mr. Abdelfazar, that you can be put under arrest as we have sufficient evidence. Your admitted statements confirm charges that can I can place before a Grand Jury this afternoon. You are helping us in connection with Federal offences involving the deaths of four people of Middle Eastern origin. When we ascertain exactly who they were, there might be the matter of international repercussions from the deaths. Homicide carries the penalty of execution under Federal law. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but I acted in self-defense,’ Afiz said.
‘That may be your plea at the arraignment trial hearing when you account for the four homicides. There are also four unregistered firearms, two illegal hunting knives, three missile launchers and damage to the property of the Dorsey building to account for.’
Ben Futore spoke seriously as if he were the prosecuting attorney in front of a judge. He knew this was his moment to exert the maximum psychological pressure upon his target person and racked up more intimidation by continuing.
‘I have not even started counting the deaths and injuries caused by someone shooting rockets and guns at street level. Those three missiles launched from up there, caused significant collateral consequences and I have to consider that you were the only person alive on the roof of the Dorsey Building when we arrived. Do you see my problem? That is what we found. I have to explain the whole of the killing scenario to my superiors’.
‘I defended myself from those shooters,’ said Afiz.
He intentionally produced an outward expression of being appalled, sliding back into the office chair and raised his arms out wide as if appealing for reason. He knew that justice rested with him but that was not what really mattered. What was puzzling was why the FBI could not agree with his self-defense activity. He carried no gun and was no way the instigator of the shooting, at worst; the four deaths were misadventures, brought on by their own actions. Ben Futore seemed to want none of Afiz’s claims.
‘Again, part of your defense strategy. We are checking them all out. The downside of any judgment in a criminal court against you Afiz is ten years to life for each homicide, plus the damage and weapons offences. In a Federal court, an automatic death penalty applies to the homicides. Do you wish to have a few days in our accommodation to think through how the rest of your life will be occupied?’
‘No thanks, I need a lawyer,’ said Afiz.
Ben dismissed the request.
‘I need you to think more about that. Once lawyers speak for you, we cannot deal. If you cooperate with us, if your story checks out, if I can persuade my superiors, it may be possible to keep you out of court. How do you respond?’
‘There are a great many, if, conditions there, I’ve nothing to hide, I want to strike back at those who have taken me through hell in the last few hours, days in fact.’ Afiz imagined his situation may not be as bad as had been developing.
‘We can use that attitude. A lawyer acting for you is not in either of our best interests just now,’ said Ben Futore.
His face creased into a smile as he stretched back into his comfortable leather-covered chair, clasped big hands behind the number three comb close clipped head and sighed contentedly.
‘Now we can begin. Afiz, I would like us to be on friendly terms. My unit can deal with all the details in the normal course of our business.’
Afiz remained a guest in the FBI warehouse office complex for three days. The accommodation he found adequate with food plentiful to a good hotel standard, not the best, but satisfactory. Leaving the building was out of the question but he had excellent recreation, lounge, and gymnasium facilities. Telephone calls to Julia had a three-minute limit under constant supervision and with no information released to her. Ben Futore conducted further debriefing sessions in his comfortable office suite. Various other questioners appeared including a psychological profile specialist. Thorough medical assessments followed including cardiovascular stress testing to exhaustion on pedaling, and weightlifting machines. FBI staff supplied clothes for every purpose. The gymnasium was his to use anytime. Nothing was too much trouble, but Afiz was never alone, not even in the shower and bathroom.
On the morning of September 19, the routine meeting in Ben’s office took a new turn.
‘Good morning Afiz. I am authorized to offer an assignment to you. Sometime in the near future, that is. When you are fully recovered from the ordeal and fully fit of course.’ Ben made the announcement with beaming pride and appeared almost jovial.
‘You cannot be serious, an assignment, I thought this was all to help with your enquiries into the terrorist attack on the Vesey Street hotel,’ said Afiz. He cringed at such a development in their discussions.
Ben continued in an almost smiling facial expression.
‘Oh, for sure it is. Our investigations into your story all check out. We believe you acted in self-defense. The Federal Attorney has decided not to indict you for the four deaths as they were not homicides. You’re in the clear, congratulations. The same goes for your girl, Julia Strange, cleared by us.’
‘Thanks, I had no idea Julia could be of any interest to you. I hope you didn’t frighten her. She has enough with worrying about me. What the hell do you mean by an assignment?’ demanded Afiz.
Ben shifted to a more comfortable position in the deeply cushioned leather covered armchair. Leather squeaked against shiny trousers creating a sound he hated, and continued in an authoritative tone.
‘When you are rested, recovered from your ordeal, we should have another discussion.’
‘About what?’
Afiz became increasingly uneasy, he felt fine now and could not think of a reason for delaying such discussion. Ben was not at liberty to divulge any more information at that stage. He prevaricated, putting on his most pleading of expressions, knowing it was false, but often worked.
‘Ah. I have many issues to deal with Afiz, some of which, you created for me. In a few days, I expect to be able to take you to the next stage in our thoughts. Can we leave it at that, please?’
Afiz remained unconvinced but thought it expedient to find an exit from the present discussion. Life would take on a different colour from outside this hothouse of secrecy and intrigue.
‘Call me, we’ll talk about it later, am I free to go?’
‘Of course; it has been our pleasure to become acquainted with you; there should be more citizens with your attitude to right wrongs. If there were, the world would be a far better place.’
Ben beamed and offered a handshake of friendship. Afiz imagined a gaping hole in this development in Ben’s attitude, wondered where the bad news was coming from, he could not see it yet, but smelled it.
‘Right, I am off home then.’
Afiz rose and moved toward the door. Two dark-suited FBI agents blocked the doorway, confirming his suspicions that freedom may not yet be entirely available. Ben continued with more news.
‘Forensic examination, and extensive investigation into the four terrorists you killed, sorry, defended against, revealed a great deal to us on their operation.’
‘Sure, fine Ben. What is it to me?’ Afiz did not look back at Ben.
‘Before you leave, the Director would really like to have a brief meeting, a thank you. He’s very impressed with your bravery and cooperation. It will only take a few minutes of your time; we’ll provide a car and driver to take you wherever you need to go. Is that alright with you?’ Ben’s tone wore a distinctly persuasive tone.
‘I don’t wish to appear ungrateful for such generous hospitality right here in New York,’ responded Afiz, mimicking Ben’s tone.
‘Right this way,’ said Ben.
He led up two floors and through another unmarked office doorway. Two following agents exchanged duty with those hovering beside the new door. Inside, Afiz saw an almost home-like office environment that contained several suited people. Afiz particularly noticed the fit-looking white haired man relaxed behind the main office desk. This man spoke first.
‘Welcome Afiz, please be seated, I’m Ben Futore’s controller. Whatever his department is involved in, I approve or pull the plug on it. My position here is termed Director. My name is not normally used. The main reason for this meeting is to get your absolute agreement on one aspect of this whole matter.’ The Director paused to gauge reaction.
‘And what might that be?’ Afiz asked.
‘One very simple thing; one that I am absolutely confident you will see the sense of and will have no problem accepting,’ said the Director.
This did not yet appear to be threatening to Afiz.
‘I am listening.’
Afiz wondered why he was here if what the Director wanted was so simple and obvious.
‘We live in very strange times Afiz. Not since the McCarthy anti-communist era, and the attack on Pearl Harbor, has this great country of ours been subjected to such attack as we experienced last week. Do you agree?’
The Director studied Afiz’s face.
‘Perfectly,’ said Afiz.
‘Then you will appreciate the personal risk of reprisal you and your loved ones face should your brave actions become public knowledge. Do you see that?’
The Director held open arms towards Afiz as if to appeal to his emotions.
‘Sure, there must be more of that group around,’ agreed Afiz.
The Director continued.
‘Precisely, none of us want to see more bloodshed, well, not by those who honor the stars and stripes with all it stands for. I cannot impress upon you enough the imperative that your brave actions remain in complete secrecy, your mother must never know, wife, children, nobody, do you understand?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘I need your agreement with me. Neither you nor I will ever reveal this matter to anyone outside this group. No newspaper stories, no exposure, book or magazine writing, no chat show revelations, absolutely nothing.’
The Director spoke clearly and directly, nothing he said or required seemed a big deal, yet. Afiz identified a giant chasm of lost opportunity widen in front of him.
‘Meaning that I cannot make any money out of putting four armed terrorists out of action?’ said Afiz.
‘Not a cent.’
The Director clearly placed his control on the table.
‘What is in it for me?’
Afiz dealt with financial confidentiality every working day and this may have turned out to be a similar circumstance.
‘Afiz, keeping confidentiality should save your life, is that not enough?’ said the Director.
‘I have to eat,’ said Afiz.
‘That is a different matter; it can be attended to,’ said the Director.
‘I will have to go back to the bank and continue working as a financial analyst then?’
Afiz wondered where this contact was going.
‘That is a safer profession than being a known terrorist killer.’
The Director smiled as he said it.
‘Or being arm in arm with the FBI,’ added Afiz, hoping to tease out more information.
The Director visibly shifted his position on hearing those words.
‘Ah, well, there we have a divergence,’ he said.
‘What’s that mean?’
Afiz understood this conversation was headed nowhere.
‘We are not exactly the FBI,’ the Director revealed.
Afiz easily put on a surprised expression.
‘But you are all wearing FBI identity badges, uniforms and stated that when I was rounded up.’
Afiz had doubted their authenticity. He dismissed such fanciful ideas, at least, for while he was in their hospitality. He reckoned there was no need to create doubts and distrust, yet.
‘Afiz, this is where unquestioned secrecy is not an option. Information is available on a strictly need to know basis,’ said the Director.
He toned down his voice by an octave.
‘This must be the Central Intelligence Agency, CIA, then?’ Afiz threw out a guess.
Such cloak and dagger operations would more likely come from Central Intelligence Agency style of work, secretive and disguised.
‘I am the Director of a Special Assignment Unit, SAU,’ the Director said firmly.
‘If not the FBI or the CIA, what is that?’ asked Afiz.
‘We report only to the President of the United State of America. Of course, we work closely with all the law enforcement agencies, departments of national and international government,’ said the Director.
‘Why the FBI identification?’ asked Afiz.
‘It is convenient and avoids explanation. That is all you need to know Afiz. Do I have your personal and professional agreement?’ said the Director.
‘Yes you do Director,’ said Afiz.
The Director rose to shake Afiz by the hand.
‘Ben is your ongoing point of contact, take his advice, ask him anything, anything at all, stay calm, we will be in touch real soon.’
The two door guards moved aside and ushered Afiz into the corridor. Afiz noticed that as he left, the remaining room occupants remained silent and unmoving.
‘Time for a coffee in the lounge,’ said Ben as he led the way. ‘Before you leave here, the medico will give you a quick check and provide some advice.’
Returning to his suite half an hour later, Ben’s red colored desk phone rang; it brought an immediate compliance command. Ben Futore marched to the end of the brightly lit corridor of his floor level and entered unannounced into the modest office of Clarke Smith, Head of Operations.
‘Sit down Ben we have a lot to work out,’ said Clarke.
He peered up at Ben from behind a desk piled with reports. He gave that look of intense seriousness reserved for the most difficult situations.
Clarke said, ‘We have to stop world war three kicking off in mid-Atlantic.’
Ben tried to cool the radiated anxiety from Clarke with a description of recent security activity. Satellite and aerial surveillance along with communication monitoring were all at the highest possible level, nothing unintentional leaked from the locked-down national system. A very determined terrorist was physically unable to cut off two-way automated data transfer between medium to large shipping and monitoring satellites. Such platitudes did little good to the chief.
‘This is our top secret analysis of what Haqi Mujad and his Qarn Shamshir agents could be planning,’ Clarke Smith said.
His voice sounded enthusiastic but with an inwardly resigned sigh as he heaved a massive document across the desk towards Ben. It contained three hundred and fifty pages of data from every mole, source, field agent, friendly country, deeply embedded agent, US government agency, international security branches, and military intelligence.
‘Every string that can be pulled by anyone,’ he continued, ‘every overt possibility is listed.’
Ben scanned the heavy document and spotted samples of information on forest fires, water pollution and plane attacks. It included explosive attacks on nuclear and conventional power plant. It covered oil refineries, ships in port, nerve gas spraying from light commercial and recreational aircraft. Also, bombs and rockets fired from small helicopters, gyro copters, gliding planes, hang gliders, airships, remote controlled model planes, and air drones featured. Terrorists might even use bug infestation planted into shipments of grain. Locally, it might come from coordinated taxi bombing in all cities, pirate attacks on boats and ships. On the oceans, there existed the possibility of seizure of a quarter of a million ton oil or container ship and ramming it into oil platforms or ports.
‘You name it, we have it covered,’ said Clarke.
Exasperation crept over his face. He had searched for the unknowns and drawn a blank. The best analytical brains in the United States had worked at fever pitch. The President remained dissatisfied. Ben agreed with the scope of thought processes and commented on recently modified ship protection protocol, especially in response to pirate boarding. Now every ship had a fully trained team of professionals, ex-military, armed with the latest weaponry, anti-ship and anti-aircraft weapons, shoulder launched missiles and sonar gear direct from the navy. Clarke’s frustration boiled over.
‘I know that, all in the report.’
‘What is the conclusion?’ Ben asked.
‘We really don’t know where the next attack will eventuate.’
Clarke spelled out the answer with unnecessary precision.
‘But we are confident there will be another attack,’ Ben added.
‘Confidence is the wrong word to describe how we feel about all this. Oh yes, we all agree on one thing, it will be on any US interest anywhere, plus all and any non-Qarn Shamshir country, person, organization, religion, religious site, business or government; that is not the sort of confidence we want,’ said Clarke.
‘That encompasses the whole world outside of a tiny grain of sand called Sanbekistan,’ Ben said.
He knew the problem intimately as it was what his agency worked on tirelessly.
‘Exactly, and not all of Sanbekistan is wholly Qarn Shamshir controlled. Haqi is just as likely to beat up on his own people,’ Clarke said.
The he nodded in agreement, emphatically thumping the tabled volume with his fist.
Nobody was immune from the risk of an attack. Haqi Mujad had already shown total disregard for every corpuscle of human decency that humankind accepted as reasonable modes of behavior. Military generally confined themselves to only trying to kill enemy soldiers, trying very hard to avoid collateral damage to civilians. Leaders knew this was not always successful, but the new regime led by Haqi, threw such moderate behavior away. They deliberately used civilians to kill other civilians and never minded if some Qarn Shamshir adherents get in the way.
‘Any Qarn Shamshir follower who worked in the twin towers had already made themselves an infidel through compromising their teaching with western living; believers can’t have it both ways,’ announced Ben.
Both understood the problem. Their dilemma was clearly understood. Haqi hatches a plot for another atrocity. He knows the targets will close all the likely ways of implementation. The next Qarn Shamshir plot has to be something the whole of the western world has not even thought of yet. Clarke Smith’s office seemingly shrank around Ben. The smell of leather furniture and polished pine furniture became noticeable as his brain struggled through various scenarios of action for his team. Nothing seemed adequate. The delivery mechanism for the next attack had to be unconventional. Clarke insisted it would have very little bulk or weight.
Ben pondered such a means of delivery. Ben Futore spoke his thoughts.
‘It’ll be not manufactured or delivered by obvious means. We have to get someone close to Haqi Mujad and find out just what is in his mind.’
‘You have agents in Sanbekistan, get them do it,’ said Clarke.
‘A few got close to Haqi, he had them all executed very quickly, we lost many good operatives on this, too many,’ said Ben.
Names of many of those he knew personally flashed through his troubled memories. He did not want to make the same terrible mistake and have more good people to sacrifice themselves. But something must happen; there was no other real option.
‘I need someone whom Haqi knows and respects,’ said Clarke.
Ben knew of a good person.
‘There is someone suitable. He worked with Haqi in Saudi when they were students and then as construction engineers. He’s a martial arts trainer, fitness expert, works here in New York, name of Afiz Abdelfazar,’ said Ben begrudgingly.
Clarke Smith slammed the security report closed, and rose to his feet.
‘Go get him onto our team Ben.’
Chapter 4: Presidential Briefing
An unremarkable black sedan arrived at the outer security gates of Pennsylvania Avenue. Its registration plates gave no clue as to the state of origin nor were the plates customized. Blacked out car windows avoided any scrutiny of the interior. The heavy-looking sedan glided smoothly towards the north side of the White House, slowly and deliberately entering the security controlled Executive Avenue. The driver deftly swung the power steering sharp left from the profusely tree-lined avenue and halted in front of three impeccably smart military guards. Gray and black uniforms merged, chameleon-like, into the similarly colored concrete walls, roadway barriers, and massive gates; they did not move a muscle. Mirrored anti-flash glasses shone back at the car occupants. Each guard carried a short-range automatic personal defense weapon as used by several of America’s elite military units.
‘Captain Olufsen, sir, how can I help you?’
The guard officer spoke through a wireless microwave transmission to the telephone system within the heavily armored sedan overriding any other user.
‘Pass code Z Victor Charlie nine three six, driver Nathan Williams with Clarke Smith to meet the President at 0900 hours,’ answered the driver.
Remote scanning identified the car and occupants as well as verified the absence of narcotics, weapons, and explosives as the vehicle approached the gates. Nothing replaced the added security of code words changed randomly and relayed over the White House digitally encrypted wireless network. The use of such corny and old language amused Clarke even though little else of his work did. Humor occupied time for serious thinking and working as he always told his peers.
‘Captain Olufsen, this is Clarke Smith for a nine o’clock appointment.’
‘Thank you both, your voice prints and security code are all clear, please proceed.’
The three guards moved aside as the massive grey and black gates swung open taking exactly one second to allow free passage towards the West Wing of the White House.
Repeated security checks barely delayed progress from the underground car park. Clarke walked along tunneled corridors to the President’s Covert Operations Briefing Room, deep inside the West Wing basement arriving three minutes early to give him time to pour a freshly squeezed South Carolina orange juice.
‘How are you today Clarke?’
The President and two security aides wafted into the briefing room.
‘Good, thank you Mister President,’ said Clarke pulling himself into an erect stance.
‘Cut the title Clarke, no time for formalities right now,’ said Gregory as he swept a massive right hand towards chairs.
‘First names only here. Now tell me the good news.’
Clarke made the positive mental adjustment needed to being in close proximity with the most powerful human in the world and then addressing him on first name terms. The populace of the United States of America became so intoxicated with overwhelming desire to have Gregory Swartzenhauser as President, hardly anyone debated against changing the Constitution that did not allow an original foreign national. Gregory was the complete embodiment of the self-made American. His rise from penniless skinny immigrant kid to the most admired torso of the twenty first century validated the philosophy of the whole nation.