Devon Ford - The Fall

“Holland tunnel,” Butler said, snapping his fingers, and pointing at a young man with a clipboard. The man hurriedly searched for the mission objective on his list and ticked it off. Butler was happy, because he was winning. Another screen showed an aerial view from a helicopter filming the devastation in Washington where the power plant had previously been. Now it was a smoking crater, betraying a blast radius far bigger than their estimates imagined, and he watched as the footage switched to blackened and destroyed police cars thrown hundreds of yards away. The footer on the screen showed the evocative title:

He said a silent prayer of thanks to Taylor, seeing the success and dedication his team had showed, and wished him well in his next mission.

Turning his eyes back to the footage from New York, some of it obviously taken from cell phone videos uploaded to the internet, he saw different pillars of smoke rising from the subway stations and streets. Leland had done well, but there was yet to be any mention of the stock exchange being permanently shut down. No doubt the eyes of the city were on the series of small explosions and fires instead of their investment portfolios. The attack on New York City had gone well, very well, and even now the city-wide panic began to breed and grow at an unfathomable rate. The idea was not to destroy the city but to cause widespread fear and chaos, which it seemed was happening as he watched. Already the news reported looting happening in parts of the city which were unaffected by the bombs.

“Are we ready for phase three?” Suzanne asked him.

“Not yet,” Butler replied. His eyes never stopping scanning the screens for a second, as he assimilated so many different sources of information but still remained present in the room. “We’re waiting for the response before we show that card. We wait.”

Suzanne nodded, not that he saw her gesture, and lapsed back into silence as she too watched the screens.

“That’s Willis Avenue Bridge,” she said, recognizing the scene from another news channel, and the bearer of another clipboard searched their list to record it.

The title from the news channel showing events in Washington changed then, the text reading “No response from the White House,” and showed military vehicles at the iconic building. Muzzle flashes sparkled brightly on the screen, catching Butler’s eye.

“Turn up the sound on screen four,” he called to the room, rightly expecting that someone would obey his order and not make him wait. Within a second the graphic showed up on the bottom of the screen and the numbers blurred as the volume went high.

“…what appears to be gunfire on the White House lawn. The National Guard are on site and seem to be engaged in a firefight with unknown gunmen inside the grounds…”

The reporter giving the commentary clearly had not the first clue about a firefight. If anyone had looked at the big picture there, it would be obvious to them that the National Guard were moving forwards in a well-drilled tactical formation, firing and maneuvering as other squads provided covering fire, and were assaulting the building. The people the news anchor had called ‘unknown gunmen’ were the Secret Service responding to the threat of attack.

Butler, having been involved in and commanding more firefights than he cared to remember, appreciated the discipline of the troops. The Secret Service, as well trained and incredibly well equipped as they were, did not have the odds on their side as a brigade of battle-ready troops stormed their gates appearing to be friendly. The 9mm rounds coming from their service-issued weapons, the only firearms available to them at immediate notice, embedded in the ballistic vests of the troops they were lucky or skilled enough to hit. In contrast, firing full-auto 5.56 ammunition and working in effective fire teams, the troops overwhelmed them in minutes as Butler and his team watched. Stacking up to breach the doors and filing inside to perform a brutal room clearance, Butler saw a glimpse of the man leading them and knew his message had been received five by five.

Taylor was making it happen.

“Sir!” someone said in a shrill voice which bordered on panic, annoying the colonel with the tone of lapsed discipline.

“What?” he growled in response, to see the same young man with his clipboard pointing at another screen. Snatching up two remotes as he dropped the clipboard, the man simultaneously muted the Washington news screen and raised the volume of another. This one showed an airstrip, with two F-35s blasting away into the sky. Butler didn’t need any screen text to know that the Naval Airbase in Virginia had responded to the perceived terrorist threat in New York City.

This was expected, and catered for. As much as the American people didn’t like to admit it, the military response post 9-11 was swift and under brutally strict orders. Anything in the air which did not respond to their hails to break away from the air space would be assumed to be under terrorist control. It was an uncomfortable truth, but the reality was that these Naval aviators were there to shoot down anything potentially unfriendly in the skies.

“Prepare to start phase three,” he said calmly, despite the obvious fear of a military response some of his team were radiating. He turned to face them.

“Those jets aren’t coming here, they’re heading for New York. We’ve anticipated this and planned for it, so you carry on with your job, son, and leave those aircraft to me.” He turned back to the screens as Suzanne rejoined him, holding out a burner phone. It had been tested once, using a different phone on the same network, so he knew the signal would go out. Turning it on he took a piece of paper from Suzanne, input the different cell numbers into the message recipient field, and handed the phone and paper back to Suzanne to be double-checked. She read each one carefully and handed it back.

“Good to go, sir,” she said.

“Outstanding,” Butler said loudly, exuding the confidence of a leader who knows some of his troops are experiencing the fear of conflict for the first time.

“I expect those fighter planes to be approaching the city within ten minutes”—he checked his watch— “so phase three will begin at 13:07 local time.”

With that, he smiled and turned his attention back to the screens, keeping a careful eye on the Washington news channel.

Seven thousand miles away as the crow flies, if a crow could traverse half the earth, at one in the morning was a similar command center. This one, as with any modern tactical command hub, did bristle with wires and phone lines. Banks of screens showed live news from all around the world, and a digital bank of clocks gave local time for every major city in the world.

This part of the operation was critical, as so many factors could be controlled with the exception of foreign interference beyond their influence.

The woman in the dark suit watched with her cold expression giving nothing away; she could be angry or she could be experiencing the happiest moment of her life, only nobody but her would know. She watched as the flaming jet trails of the two F-35s soared away from the ground and the camera shot panned out to see the aircraft disappearing over a fluttering stars and stripes flag.

Internally she sneered as her face remained as stone. Their theatrical sense of national pride would soon suffer irreparably, she reminded herself.

Cal was making slower progress now, as the streets became packed with people fleeing the financial district. Some had been sensible and had headed south for the ferries which would revert to evacuation at the first sign of any attack, but even if he had thought of it, that wasn’t an option for Cal. His passport was in his hotel room safe, but the biggest priority was to find the only person on this island he cared about.