Captive-in-Chief (16 page)

As far as Joaquin Guerra was concerned, the hilltop fortress was as safe as the US White House. No expense had been spared in creating his home. The walls were reinforced concrete and blast resistant, the windows would stop anything up to a 0.50 caliber bullet just like at the White House, and a number of escape tunnels led to numerous locations where fast transport awaited his extraction to one of many secure homes he had around Mexico and beyond. The drug trade was a violent but exceptionally profitable business.

Joaquin awoke with his family in his bunker where he had spent the night. After instructing an all out offensive against his rivals he had anticipated some blowback, yet apparently he had caught them all off guard. Where they expected him to run he had fought. The Los Zetas, the Gulf, and Tijuana cartels were all under his control. His forces had performed exceptionally well, more than earning the bonuses he had promised.

Turning on the news to the devastating attack on the US, he couldn’t help smiling. He was no longer top of their hit list. He had no doubt there would be retribution. It may not be as swift and as severe as he’d first anticipated. He may even have the chance to try and prove it was all a set up before they cracked down on his assets in the US. To whoever set him up, he owed a massive thanks. It had given him the impetus to act. Without facing disaster, he doubted he ever would have.

They had planned to destroy him, and instead they had emboldened him, strengthened him beyond even his wildest dreams. His men sat in control of every drug route in and out of Mexico. He controlled the US drug market in its entirety. A day that should have had him in the gutter fighting for his life, he, Joaquin Guerra, had once again risen to the top. With the forces of every cartel under his control, even the Mexican military would think twice before challenging him. He looked around his bunker. It was not time to hide, it was time to show who was the most powerful man in Mexico.

He boarded the elevator and rode it up into his hilltop mansion. The views from his office were spectacular. Large windows opened to lush green mountains to the east and a beautiful seascape to the west. Hordes of his most loyal men surrounded the property, heavily armed and ready to repel any attempt that the Mexican authorities may have tried to arrest him for the Americans. They weren’t coming, certainly not anymore, given his audacious moves overnight. There wasn’t a prosecutor, judge, or jury in the country that would dare challenge him or the forces he had at his disposal. He had, thanks to the chaos in America, become the undisputed king of the drug trade.

El Rey had prevailed.
El Rey.
He liked it. He would pass the word to his men that his new name was El Rey, the King. By nightfall it would be on the lips of every Mexican. El Rey was in charge.

The cell in his pocket rang. Unknown caller, not uncommon. His cells, along with those of all of his men were burners, changed frequently to keep prying ears at bay.

“Hola,”
he answered cheerily.

“Do you recognize my voice?”

He did, and ended the call immediately, extracting the sim card and snapping it in two. His elation at his triumphs instantly vanished. He rushed in a panic towards his family, barking orders to ensure they were extracted and driven to safety immediately.

He grabbed a new burner, never before used, it was already ringing. Unknown caller was displayed on the screen.

He once again extracted the sim and snapped it in two. He ignored the prepared cells and grabbed a sealed box, extracting an old Motorola flip phone, hit the power button, and it was ringing before the phone had even sought out a signal.

Unknown caller.

He answered.

“Whatever you do, do not step outside your house!” advised the caller, ending the call abruptly.

The Hercules C-130 had been in operation for almost seventy years with the US military and proved itself to be one of the most versatile and useful aircraft in its inventory for Medevac, fire-fighting, troop carrying, cargo, refueling, weather reconnaissance, maritime patrol. Thanks to its sturdy and resilient design, it could cope with any task allocated and land and take off from almost any terrain. However, the variant Colonel Jim Hurley flew was one of the more unique and certainly more advanced versions of the aging airframe.

The Stinger II was the latest iteration of the USAF’s gunship, the AC-130, as they were designated, and had been used to devastating effect by the US for over fifty years. Armed with an array of missiles, small bombs, and an MK 44 30mm Bushmaster Chain gun, the aircraft could circle an area and blanket it with cover fire for a sustained period.

Throughout their operational history, the appearance of an AC-130 gunship had proven over and over again how effective the platform was, turning the tide in every intervention.

Looking out at three other AC-130s as they began their slow circling of the target, it was clear the message they were about to deliver was not one that was going to be missed.

“Everything except the main house, you are free to engage,” radioed Colonel Hurley. He relayed the orders as they were relayed to him.

The gunners in each of the four aircraft had an infrared image of the ground below. The black block of the house stood atop the hillside, surrounded by numerous bright dots, some stationery, many moving, as the sound of the AC-130s’ engines echoed around the hillsides. Two vehicles were racing away from the complex.

With the signal that weapons were free, the chatter commenced as the gunners relayed to each other the targets they were taking. Within seconds of the signal, the hillside was alight. Griffin Missiles streaked after the escaping cars, ensuring they had no escape. The 30mm air burst shells of the MK 44 Bushmaster cannons ripped through the flesh and bone of the cartel’s Sicarios with ease, each shell able to down numerous targets. Small bombs ignited around the house, laying waste to all that were unfortunate enough to be on the outside of the house.

Joaquin Guerra had already forgotten any thoughts of calling himself El Rey, another was far more deserving. His cell rang as the weapons silenced, only the ominous drone of the sixteen engines circling above remained.

He looked at his bomb proof garage, lying in ruins across his driveway. His phone rang.
Unknown caller.

“Mr. President,” answered Joaquin.

Clay was succinct and to the point. Only on receipt of an affirmative did he instruct his AC-130s to return to Canon Air Force Base, 750 miles away in New Mexico. It had been an overwhelming, yet restrained display of a tiny fraction of the power at his fingertips. Joaquin Guerra was left in no doubt as to who the real El Rey was.

Clay replaced the handset and looked out across the White House lawn. M1A1 Abrahams tanks were stationed at the end of the garden, along with a contingent of Marines. What had become of his country? Merely a few short days ago, everything had been as good as he could have hoped for. Yes, there were problems, unemployment was still an issue, racial tensions lingered, the middle class was still recovering after the recession a decade earlier. Schools, violent crime, prospects for the young, all could be better. However, they were on the right track, every marker by which he could be judged was positive.

Yet there he sat, his world around him crumbling, his family under threat and his ability to protect them, as the most powerful man in the world, was non-existent. The Capitol lay in ruins, black Americans and Muslims were fighting stereotypes that had long since been defeated.

He had left the Situation Room and despite all protests sat alone in the Oval Office. He couldn’t bear to have anyone around him. The wrong word, the wrong look, and they could be dead in minutes. He was a modern day Medusa. Death followed him wherever he went. He desperately wanted to be with his family but their loving embrace was like a knife through his heart, their very presence a constant reminder of the control he was under, the captivity of his new reality.

He had no illusion as to his situation. He
was
captive. He may not have had bars or chains restraining him, yet he was a prisoner nonetheless, not free to do or say what he wanted. Lives of those around him were at risk, one wrong step or word and people died. Whether he had given in to their demands or not was irrelevant. The attack on the Capitol would have happened in any event. The level of planning and detail that his captors had gone to was staggering, beyond belief. They had thought of everything.

For each situation a solution followed that won Clay more support.
The riots. The
FPS planned in full view by his own people and delivered flawlessly to widespread and overwhelming approval.
The detention centers
. He couldn’t believe how accepting the people and the media were that their government was detaining US citizens without charge.

The drug cartels’ assassination attempts had somehow, and he wasn’t quite sure how, resulted in wiping out the competition and leaving one cartel in charge. A cartel which, following his demonstration of how much US power he was prepared to unleash, would work with the US to control the drug trade. The call to Guerra, orchestrated by his captors, was another demonstration of their long term planning. The CIA, it had transpired, had been advised months before of a plan to work with the cartels to control and contain the drug business and had the assets in place to work with Guerra and the Sinaloa Cartel immediately. All seemingly, as per the creation of the FPS, as a result of
his
direct instruction.

“The Saudi Ambassador is here, Mr. President,” Ramona interrupted with a knock on the Oval Office door as she had been instructed.

Clay stood up as the ambassador entered.

“My condolences,” the ambassador said as he walked into the room. “His royal Highness King—”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Clay cut in, not wanting to waste time on niceties. He rounded his desk and did not offer the ambassador a seat. He remained standing, towering over the man, whom he held in extremely high regard. The ambassador was a gentleman, highly educated, exceedingly well mannered, and one of the most progressive Muslims Clay had ever met. They had talked many times about how the ambassador wished to see a Saudi Arabia where women enjoyed equal rights and the clerics had less influence over daily life. Clay felt uncomfortable, although nowhere near as uncomfortable as the ambassador looked.

“I wanted to do this in person. A number of locations have been identified in the papers of those responsible for the destruction of our Capitol Building. Those locations, within Saudi Arabia, are being targeted by Cruise missiles. Over the next few hours you can expect our retribution to be swift and decisive,” Clay informed him mechanically, his emotions having left him.

“But—”

Clay raised a hand, silencing the ambassador. “No buts. Four Saudi citizens obliterated the US Capitol. Our vice president, eighty-one senators, three hundred eighty-seven congressmen and women, and likely to be two thousand staffers and innocent bystanders were killed earlier today. The 9/11 attacks were predominantly carried out by Saudi citizens. Your preachers of hate will pay for both of those atrocities today. The Wahhabis are going to pay once and for all for the hate they preach against your ally! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” The ambassador turned and left the office without another word.

There were twenty-three mosques targeted for obliteration in Saudi Arabia. His orders to detain every person listed on the no-fly lists meant over 47,000 people were about to fill the detention camps. Along with the previous 14,000, that would mean over 60,000 detainees were to be held indefinitely without charge. He briefly wondered if the detention camps were big enough, then quickly chastised himself. His captors would certainly have made them big enough. Whoever they were, they were so far ahead of what was happening, his biggest concern shouldn’t be the number of detainees but what they had planned next. He didn’t think for a second the repercussions of the Capitol’s destruction were over.

His cell buzzed. Were they actually reading his mind? He looked down at the message. He read it again and the again and still it made no sense. He couldn’t possibly… the repercussions of the action were, well, he couldn’t even think how catastrophic it would be. It was inconceivable.

Clay read the note again:
America needs to look after number one, tomorrow recall all overseas forces. The world can fend for itself.

Where the hell is Joe?
he thought.

Joe struggled the mile and a half along Pennsylvania Avenue. Not because of the crowds who had come to witness the devastation, not because of the hordes fleeing the city in panic. The street was deserted. Emergency vehicles had the street to themselves and raced by, a constant stream of unnecessary sirens and flashing lights announcing their presence seemingly to each other. Joe’s head ached, his legs wobbled, and he generally felt just about as bad as he could remember. Sandy played her part and stuck to him like glue, offering all thirty pounds of her lithe body weight in support.

Whether he actually felt the support from her was questionable but he struggled on. His president needed him. Clay needed him. Unfortunately. nobody had let the Marines know that was the case. In sight of the White House and having travelled over 1,500 miles, he was halted in his very uncoordinated tracks. A wall of military might circled the White House. Tanks and concrete bollards, similar to the ones he had seen in Atlanta, blocked his path. Battle-hardened and assault-ready, Marines manned the barricades.

“I need to get through!” said Joe at the checkpoint where Pennsylvania Avenue met E Street. “My president needs me!”

“Buddy, you need the hospital is what you need!” said the Marine guard.

Joe’s head was spinning, he had made it. He had no idea how, although he had made it, and sober. He swayed unsteadily. The gauze pad covered a good portion of his head and blood caked his clothes and Sandy. They were a pitiful sight.

Sandy’s ability to keep Joe standing finally faltered. Joe crashed to the ground, taking her with him.

Medic!” shouted a number of Marines in unison, seeing them go down.

Joe felt the cold through every fiber of his body, and his body shook uncontrollably. The hunger pangs no longer helped. Uday had seen to that, providing barely enough food to keep the pain of hunger at bay. The battery packs had been replaced by cooling fans. They ensured the cold air constantly circulated the wet bare concrete that surrounded him. He had told them everything he knew, everything, he hadn’t held anything back. From day one, hour one, he had told the truth. Yet still they questioned him, still they tortured him. Toenails, fingernails all gone, just bloody stumps at the end of his hands and feet.

He had been told your mind didn’t remember pain, it was a memory that fortunately would be long forgotten. Whoever said that hadn’t experienced real pain, the type of pain you could never forget, no matter how hard you tried. It had been four weeks since they had been ripped out for the second time. He knew the time was approaching when he’d lose them again.

He tried to think back to the time before his capture, memories of the past came and went, the present was too imposing. His mind couldn’t cope, it needed all its energy to keep him alive, not replaying histories that served no purpose. He felt himself being dragged. His legs had stopped working some time ago, he couldn’t remember when. Hours, days, weeks, months merged into one. There was now and there was before now. That was as much as he could cope with.

The pliers were sitting on the table, it was that time again. He winced at the thought, the little stubs of nail had barely taken root. Uday knew what he was doing, they were perfectly rooted and the pain was going to be as bad as he remembered from the last time. He fought them as they held his hand firmly. He wasn’t going to lie there and take it, let them do what they wanted without trying his best to stop them.

A dog barking didn’t fit, there weren’t any dogs. They were Muslims, they hated dogs.

Woof!

Joe opened his eyes. His hand was being held over a pad of ink. He was making the tall, powerful Marine tasked with taking his fingerprints work hard for them. His buddies were teasing him as Sandy barked her disapproval at their disturbing Joe.

“I just need to get your prints,” said the Marine, spotting Joe’s eyes opening.

Joe pulled his arm back, away from the ink pad. The Marine held strong, pulling harder given Joe was awake. Joe fought back. The Marine was winning but only as he had twenty pounds and thirty years on Joe.

“What do you need them for?” Joe stopped fighting, and the Marine who had been straining with all his might against Joe stumbled across the room and into the bed directly opposite Joe’s, landing in a bundle, much to his colleagues’ amusement. Fortunately, it was empty and only the Marine’s pride took a bashing.

Joe looked around, he wasn’t in a room. The walls were canvas; he was in a field hospital.

“Where am I?”

“Washington. You lost a lot of blood,” replied a medic interrupting the Marine’s continued attempt to obtain Joe’s fingerprints.

“I remember that much, where exactly am I and how long have I been out?”

“The White House grounds, you collapsed at the checkpoint and with every hospital full for a hundred miles we had no other option than to bring you in here. Obviously given the situation security is tight, and we want to know who you are.”

“How long?”

The medic checked the chart and the time. “Eighteen hours.”

“We need his prints,” insisted the Marine, trying to push past the medic who held his ground.

“Eighteen hours and you’re only taking my prints now?” asked Joe.

“We’ve been busy and you were sedated, so it wasn’t a priority, but as you were waking up…”

“Fair enough,” Joe held out his hand to the embarrassed Marine who still wanted his prints. “I can save you the trouble though, Joe Francis Kelly. Born West Virginia on the—”

“Hold on, let me write this down,” interrupted the Marine, taking the rest of Joe’s details.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take our prints also.”

Joe had no illusion the request was optional. He held out his hand again and pressed his fingers onto the pad and paper. He also had no doubt that as soon as his details were run through the system his welcome would be short-lived. Marines had little time for fellow brothers who had dishonored the Corps.

He felt a million times better than he had, no aches or pains, whatever they had given him was amazing.

“Any more of those amazing painkillers you’ve given me?”

“Plain old Tylenol,” replied the medic.

Joe felt like…he couldn’t think how he felt. He hadn’t felt this way in, he couldn’t remember how many years. He felt sober and it felt good.

The medic smiled. “That’s the Librium, it’s amazing. I recognize a fellow alcoholic when I see one. You were sober, although from your condition I guessed only recently. The doc prescribed these. I’ve written you a note of when to take them. Make sure you keep to the regimen and you’ll sail through the detox.”

Joe grinned. “I feel great.”

“You’re lying down and have been sleeping for eighteen hours straight. You’re still going to feel the effect of the blood loss and trauma on top of the withdrawal. You feel better than you have. You’re by no means great,” cautioned the medic.

Joe reached up to his face and his scar area, his fingers expecting a large piece of gauze, though he felt only a small plaster.

“We’ve tidied that up for you. The doc here’s a perfectionist when it comes to sewing people up. You’re lucky the cut was mainly behind your ear, you’ll barely see a scar once it’s healed.”

“We need that bed back,” called the Marine reentering the field tent.

Joe looked around the tent. Ten beds, only two occupied including himself. They didn’t need the beds. They had pulled up his records, the dishonorable discharge had ruled again. He sat up and realized the medic was right, his head spun. He gingerly put his feet to the floor and stood up. He swayed, nowhere near as badly as he had previously. What blood he had began to disperse itself and the dizziness passed.

“You too, buddy!” shouted the Marine to the other occupant in the tent. “We’ve got a school bus crash and the hospitals can’t cope.”

Perhaps they haven’t checked my records
, thought Joe.

The Marine approached him, his arm snapped out into a salute. “Master Sergeant Kelly!”

They had checked his records. “At ease, Corporal, that was a long time ago.”

“Once a Marine…”

“Yes,” replied Joe proudly, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He was expecting the usual, ‘ex-Marine’ jibe. As once a Marine, always a Marine, ex-Marine was a title earned by a dishonorable discharge and therefore not a title any Marine ever wished to earn. And one of the main reasons he never informed anyone of having served.

“Force recon, they are hardcore, Master Sergeant.”

“We were, Corporal, we were,” Joe replied wistfully. His Marine career had been everything to him and something he tried hard to forget, the pain of its loss as raw twenty years later as it had ever been.

“Sandy,” he called and walked out of the tent. The tent had been erected on the Ellipse within the Marines’ cordon just outside the White House grounds proper.

Joe looked north to the White House, four hundred yards away, home to President Clay Caldwell, a friend who needed Joe’s help and the man who had robbed him of his Marine career. Whatever had shown in his records had resulted in nothing but deference to Joe. Something had changed. Years earlier that same record had resulted in more than a few fights and being refused help on numerous occasions.

“We ready?” He looked down at Sandy, who wagged her tail eagerly. He looked at himself. The Marines had outfitted him in a Marine t-shirt and a pair of utility trousers, replacing his blood drenched and ruined garish Hawaiian shirt. It felt good having the Marine badge over his heart.

“Let’s go help a friend!”