Theatre of War (Matt Drake 28) Tenth Anniversary Novel Page 8

  Shaun gripped the wheel with shaking hands.

  The traffic inched forward along jammed carriageways to left and right. Some people stared up at the truck for no obvious reason, making Shaun feel nervous. The sweat was evident on his forehead, so he used his hoodie to wipe it away.

  Ahead, the lights of the bridge stood out brightly, a beacon.

  The men who’d recruited him, who’d brainwashed him and fed him propaganda, had promised a day that would change America forever. A day when the materialistic unwashed would face a chaotic judgement.

  The websites he’d visited, the forums he’d taken part in, the videos he’d been sent, all served to reinforce the fact that this country—and the wider world in general—needed a jarring reset.

  Shaun checked the traffic again. The interstate was jammed on both sides, some slow-moving traffic holding it up. It wasn’t an accident. The bridge loomed until its lights burned his eyes, until its stanchions and guardrails filled his vision, the heavy structure carrying vehicles over the important railway below.

  As Shaun approached the center of the bridge, he glanced down for the first time, down at the plastic black box with the small red button nestling between his legs.

  Shaun believed he could choose his moment to die, that he could take a minute to allow everything he’d ever enjoyed to drift slowly through his mind, to gather some courage.

  But that was never going to happen. The Devil’s plan was too devious and sinister for freedom of thought. The truck was remote detonated the instant it crossed a predetermined, perfect line.

  The blast was white hot, an expanding sheet of deadly light. The sound wave followed moments later; a terrible and glorious roar of freedom.

  Those that watched, hoped and plotted knew that soon the emergency services would turn up and, if they were lucky, the news services too. Then the explosives attached to the bridge supports would also detonate, bringing the whole structure down onto the major railway line below.

  *

  Meadow Evans, a semi-famous country rock singer, piloted her little red sports coupe along Santa Monica freeway in Los Angeles, checking her messages and styling her hair with her fingers as she drove. The gigs were piling up, the money not so much. If she worked for any less, she’d be working for free. Shit, she’d be paying them to play their grungy little crapholes. What she needed was a break... a big one.

  She was tired. The last nine months had been a constant rush of activity. Events took up most of her time and yet, she knew, the real future lay in her writing. Penning original songs that she and others could sing was the way forward, but she only found time to do it when she should really be sleeping. Or trying to sleep. Or dating.

  For the hundredth time today, she wondered if leaving the crappy little town in Indiana and moving to LA had been the right move. She guessed the answer was relative and depended on her success—or lack of it—this coming year.

  Meadow was determined to throw her heart and soul into this project. Her parents and friends had been supportive though understandably wary. Her boyfriend not so much. She’d left him behind holding a bunch of roses and an engagement ring—a last minute offering to make her stay.

  But Meadow was forward thinking and had great plans. She’d seen where the celebrated, winding road might take her, and chose to chase her dreams. How could you ever live with your future self if you never chased your dreams?

  Meadow checked her messages again, resigned and unsurprised to see yet another low-paying job pop up. The hope was that someone would spot you and take you under their wing. The chances of that happening were slim.

  But it did happen.

  Meadow was determined to graft as hard as she could for as long as she could. Yes, there might be a time in the future when she decided this was merely a pipe dream but, until then, she’d try with every fiber of her being to make it happen.

  The traffic was light, the cars, buses and trucks working with each other to help the flow tonight rather than fighting for space. Meadow let the speed and the lights of LA soothe her for a while. She was headed for the parking area at the Pier to meet with a guy that could set her up with a string of venues, a mini-tour, he’d said over the phone. Meadow had agreed, albeit warily, to meet him in the most public spot she could think of.

  And just like all the other cars travelling in that moment, she never saw the shooters. Never imagined there would be eight gunmen lying on the roofs of buildings or balanced inside open windows, with instructions to disrupt one of Los Angeles’ major arteries.

  Or that elsewhere in the city, there were a hundred more such gunmen poised around a dozen other significant locations.

  The first shot rang out, killing a driver three cars in front of her.

  A second shot smashed into a car behind her, which slewed first left and then right, crashing into two cars before somersaulting into a barrier.

  The collisions multiplied as vehicles travelling behind crashed into those that had come to a sudden stop. Metal bruised metal and littered the highway. People were trapped, others killed, while still more dragged themselves out of their cars and filled the road.

  Meadow felt her car veer off to the side and gasped. To her left, she thought she saw a windshield shatter and then a white truck slewed sideways and slammed into her, crushing her little car under its enormous wheels.

  All across LA, and San Francisco, Chicago and Miami among others, the gunmen caused havoc.

  There were more surprises planned for when the police and ambulance services arrived at the scene.

  Some of the queuing cars carried bombs. Others carried men with guns. And motorbikes were planned along other arteries.

  America’s long night had begun. Tonight, the land of the free was a theatre of war.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Matt Drake watched the news channels with a growing sense of anguish. The first attack—against the social media and news outlets—hadn’t cost lives. This new offensive had taken a gigantic step in a new direction, coming with the added terror that 30 percent of Americans didn’t believe what they saw was happening.

  All due to the first attacks and barrage of disinformation it had spread from home to home.

  Debilitating, was the only word he could think of to describe the situation. He didn’t want to move, to act. The depth and range of the attacks, every few minutes a new city—Seattle, New Orleans, Salt Lake City—weighed heavy upon Drake’s mind. How could they hope to stop this? Zuki had been right to call them insignificant.

  “You see how they’re doing it though,” Dahl said. “A small number of men and women can cause big problems if sent against a vulnerable, essential position. No government can police every main road, every junction, every bridge. Someone—probably the Devil—spent years using the government’s CCTV system against them, searching for the perfect place to position an offensive cell. They replicate that a thousand, two thousand times, and they’d put any country on its knees.”

  Drake turned away as images of buildings burning in Atlanta, Indianapolis and Austin were shown, buildings that happened to be near transport hubs, food storage depots and hospitals.

  “I... I don’t know what to do.”

  Dahl turned toward him. “We keep on fighting. We never give up. You bloody know that. If there’s trouble, we tackle it head on. Am I right?”

  Drake nodded, trying to force the horror from his mind. The old mantra “you can’t save everyone” had never seemed more appropriate.

  “I hope Mai and the others landed before this happened,” Kinimaka said.

  “They did,” Hayden said, waving her phone. “Got a text. They’re in DC right now. And, luckily, DC is one of the cities that isn’t being targeted.”

  “Not luck. Not with this plan,” Drake said. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, mind games and murder. Destruction and deviousness. I almost wish the Devil were still alive so we could interrogate him, find out how to stop all this, and then kill him again.”

&n
bsp; “We stop it with the Scourge, with the main players of each attack. With President Lacey,” Hayden said, looking around the damaged computer room.

  Cam and Shaw were protecting the ingress and egress points while they planned. Both gave her a thumbs up she didn’t feel motivated to return.

  Drake leaned both hands against a desk, hanging his head. “And where’s the third attack happening?”

  “Wall Street,” Kinimaka said. “Manhattan is like DC and a few others. It hasn’t been touched yet. They don’t know whether we’re under physical or technological attack. They don’t know what to believe. But you can bet your last dollar the people are gonna keep on working.”

  The government will shut them down, Drake was about to say but then remembered who was running the government. And not just that. The Scourge had players—bought or brainwashed—all through the system.

  “Nevada to New York is a long way,” Kenzie said.

  “Let’s hope Bryant can help.” Hayden flicked through her phone. “Because it’s just a four-hour flight.”

  Kinimaka was already calling Assistant Director Sutherland, apprising him of events and what was coming next. Their call was swift and vague because even the FBI couldn’t be sure who might’ve tracked him down these days.

  “We’re moving out to Pahrump,” Hayden said, ending her call. “It’s sprawling, busy and flat. Also, it’s only slightly scathed. Bryant can get a private plane there from Las Vegas in under an hour.”

  Drake latched on to a faint surge of hope. “If we can be in New York by morning, we stand a chance of stopping the next attack.”

  “Sutherland’s already mobilizing the few agents he trusts,” Kinimaka said with a heavy sigh. “But even some of those are unknowns.”

  “He’ll do what he can,” Hayden said. “Now, let’s move back to the car.”

  Grouping and checking their weapons, they headed through the room’s main exit and out into the night. The desert wind whipped grit at their faces, the skies looked alive with scattered stars. A thin crescent moon poked over the horizon.

  Hayden led the way across the street. The team proceeded warily, aware that even now someone might have laid a trap. There wasn’t a single step in this operation that might not include treading on a strategic land mine.

  They crossed the desert and found their vehicle, a big Cadillac with plenty of seats and comfort for the seven of them. Kinimaka took the wheel as Cam and Shaw handed out bottles of water and pre-packed sandwiches, and Kinimaka punched their destination into the satnav.

  “Twenty-seven minutes to Pahrump,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. “That works.”

  As they drove, Dahl pointed out a long-missed and rather obvious fact. “It just occurred to me,” he said. “But we usually leave poor old Mano to do most of the driving. Now, why would we leave the driving to the most accident-prone person amongst us?”

  Drake blinked, realized the Swede was right and immediately offered to change places with the Hawaiian. Kinimaka just gave them both dead eyes.

  “Don’t worry, Mano,” Hayden said. “I’ve always felt safe with your driving.” But Drake saw how she dedicated extra attention to the road.

  The big SUV cut through the night, winding its way across darkened flatland toward the distant city. The patches of desert picked out as the headlamps swept across the ever-moving horizons would have been beautiful if the sharp edge of terror hadn’t been hanging over them.

  As they approached Pahrump, Kinimaka slowed. “Ah, damn,” he whispered.

  It wasn’t as bad as anything they’d witnessed on the television, but being witness to an ongoing national attack in the flesh was infinitely more horrifying.

  Fires burned in various buildings ahead. Drake saw two crashed cars, both empty at the side of the road.

  As they crossed the city line, he saw several people roaming along the hard verge, clearly unharmed but shellshocked and searching for something. The fires, though few, shone brightly against the sky because the land was flat and the night dark. Shadowy plumes of smoke spiraled toward the clouds like angry twisters.

  “A post office depot,” Hayden said as they drove past. “A surgery. A supermarket. One person could do all this in a matter of minutes.”

  They saw people standing around their cars in parking lots while others still ate in restaurants like Denny’s and Jack-in-the-box and Carl’s Jr. They saw a long line of people queuing for an ATM, something Hayden believed pointed to a population on the edge. More lines were in evidence outside a huge Walmart. Police cars were evident too, trying to control the crowds.

  Kinimaka drove them down a side street, away from the main thoroughfare. Down here, it seemed that a power cut had hit. Every establishment was lying in darkness but again, people were abroad on the sidewalks and streets. Cars passed to their left, heading for South Highway 160. Drake saw signs for RV resorts, for hotels and casinos. One thing was certain—there was a lot of unrest on the street tonight.

  Ahead, a fire raged through a building. Squinting, Drake thought he could still see the tall sign in the parking lot that read: Doctors.

  Attacks like this were designed to turn the population against each other, leading some individuals to start looting doctor practices, pharmacies and even hospitals for much-needed drugs, and others to leave town in pursuit of easier-to-procure medicine. The terrorists wanted anarchy, unrest and fear. They wanted citizens on the move.

  Drake feared for all of them.

  “Airfield is eight minutes away,” Kinimaka said. “Unfortunately, it’s through that lot.”

  Drake saw where the road turned ahead, a long sweeping bend that cut through several suburbs. A dense crowd of people were standing around, blocking the road and the sidewalk. They were talking and cursing, drinking and smoking unknown substances. But, worse than that, they all carried makeshift weapons.

  “Another consequence of anarchy,” Hayden said. “It brings out the crazies.”

  “Right across the country,” Dahl said, “similar gatherings will be happening. Big and small. Some will be wanting to earn from it, some to go wild, others to take revenge for past troubles. Still more will be wanting to attack an establishment they feel has let them down or restrained them.”

  “Yep,” Drake said. “The hills will certainly have eyes tonight.”

  Kinimaka, unable to choose any other route, approached the crowd slowly. It didn’t disperse. Kinimaka killed the main lights and kept going. The crowd, if anything, bunched together.

  Drake saw a mix of expressions, from hate to ill will, from acceptance to deliberation. This crowd, over fifty strong, clearly felt safety in numbers.

  Kinimaka was forced to stop the car before it.

  “Be ready,” Dahl warned.

  Drake had already noticed there were other cars behind them. This was a semi-important route. One of the occupants of those cars now leaned on his horn, the sound blaring out in a particularly stupid move.

  The crowd reacted, bunching together even more. Some people brandished their weapons.

  The person in the car didn’t let up.

  Drake was ready, though he’d only defend himself under direct attack. Kinimaka edged the car another inch forward. It was only then that a woman in front stood aside and, as if by magic, a pathway opened. The road was clear.

  Kinimaka drove at a crawl.

  Drake didn’t relax for a second, seeing the pent-up frustration in the passing faces, the terror, the anger, the simmering hatred. They had been placed outside their comfort zone by something unknown. How would they react?

  Minutes passed. The crowd thinned. Kinimaka sped up gradually, leaving the scene behind and traversing several different streets without incident. They passed into a well-lit area and then weaved back toward the main road for a minute before taking a sharp left.

  Kinimaka gasped and stamped hard on the brake pedal.

  “Get ready,” Hayden said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was a scene
from the first circle of Hell.

  Three cars had been set on fire some time ago, their blackened hulks smoldering wrecks. A bus had crashed into a house, and was lying on its side, surrounded by brick rubble and shattered glass.

  Drake thought at first that maybe the crowd they’d just passed had committed some kind of heinous act, but then saw shadows flitting beyond the dying flames about three hundred yards away.

  “We’re gonna have to check this out,” Hayden said. “I mean, where are all the bus passengers?”

  “Agreed.” Dahl was already cracking his door, but Kinimaka decided to drive closer. Dahl held onto the handle and the headrest but said nothing. The car inched past the ruined bus.

  “Stop,” Drake said. “I’ll check inside.”

  “Call the cops and an ambulance,” Hayden said, also getting out.

  Drake made it quick, running to the bus’s open door and jumping up the step. Aboard, it smelled of diesel, sweat and dirt. With Hayden at his back, he hurried to the back row, checking behind every seat.

  The bus was empty.

  Hayden tapped his shoulder to signal she was turning and heading back. Drake spun and followed, lowering his head to look through the row of broken windows. Nothing was visible beyond the fires except those cryptic, menacing shadows darting to and fro.

  Drake exited the bus, ran back to the car, then walked ahead as it followed.

  Hayden joined him, and then Kenzie.

  Dahl’s whisper came through the comms. “I feel like a president.”

  Drake ignored the idiot.

  The car pulled across the road to avoid the smoldering, pasted-together wreckage that had once been two vehicles.

  Drake tried not to inhale deeply as they passed, levelling his gun, alert at every angle.

  Hayden pulled ahead, conscious of the passing minutes and their need to meet the private plane on time.

  They came around the last vestiges of the wreckage.