Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller Page 2

  A master at the art of manipulation, Mohammad, with tears in his eyes, had impressed upon Bilal not only the importance of the plan but more so how the young cook’s role was vital to its success. Before long, Bilal had been the one shedding tears, apologizing for having caused any worries and insisting how his issue was not doubt but rather, anxiety. Oozing with empathy, Mohammad had poured on his encouragement, commending Bilal for his honesty and praising him for the courage he displayed by opening up to them.

  Anxiety, Mohammad had explained, was a common condition which afflicted many people, including himself, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. There were medications available to ease the symptoms, he had said as he handed a small plastic bag of pills to Bilal. The young man had expressed his aversion to drug use but Mohammad had continued his coaxing and finally succeeded in convincing Bilal that taking these pills in this particular circumstance would be a small sacrifice to make for the greater good.

  In the few days which had followed, Yasir had kept close tabs on Bilal, calling him regularly and spending time with him when possible. Even that morning, he had watched from a distance to confirm Bilal’s presence at the restaurant and had subsequently followed him to ensure he was heading to the airbase. He had been disappointed with his colleague’s refusal to take any pills since their meeting with Mohammad but was pleased to see him sticking to their agenda.

  His mobile vibrated and he was relieved to see the caller was Bilal, still respecting the schedule and making the planned call, albeit a few minutes early.

  “Hello, my friend,” he answered. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Bilal replied, sounding remarkably at ease, “But things are already starting to hop over here so I thought I’d call while I still could.”

  “I’m happy you did,” said Yasir. “So, you are really doing okay?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well this morning,” Bilal admitted, “But I took something for it and I feel much better now. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s excellent news,” said Yasir, “And you are ready for the big event?”

  “Everything is ready,” Bilal confirmed. “Not only at Bernie’s Burgers but at all the other food concessions as well.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear this,” said Yasir. “Have many people arrived to date?”

  “Yes, there are more people every minute,” Bilal replied. “I have not seen it myself but was told the lineups to get in are huge. Literally thousands of people. Security checks are thorough so the process is slow but I heard they are expecting even more than the thirty thousand first estimated.”

  “Allah is with us,” said Yasir. “Go and feed your hungry customers. I will call you when it is time.”

  * * * *

  CFB Trenton, Ontario, 2:44 p.m.

  “Globemaster seven zero one, you are cleared for takeoff,” said the controller. “Try to give these folks the show they came to see.”

  “Globemaster seven zero one is cleared for takeoff,” Captain Kyle Pollock confirmed. “If we have to, we’ll even buzz you guys in the tower to impress them.”

  The mammoth Boeing CC-177 rumbled forward, quickly accelerating from the east end of the runway and lifting into the air, its crew intent on entertaining the forty thousand spectators below with their heart-stopping maneuvers over the next seventeen minutes.

  * * * *

  Roundel Glen Golf Course, Astra, Ontario, 2:45 p.m.

  “Right on schedule,” Yasir murmured in approval from his well-concealed viewing area as the huge transport plane thundered by, picking up speed as it went. Seconds later, the behemoth was airborne, seamlessly defying gravity as it soared upward on a mission to entertain the masses. It quickly banked to the right, heading northwest and away from the base as it continued its ascent. From practice runs earlier in the week, Yasir expected the plane would go almost full-circle and head back in a southeast direction to swoop down over the tens of thousands of eager air show attendees. Little did any of them know the highlight of the day’s event was now mere minutes away.

  * * * *

  CFB Trenton, Ontario, 2:45 p.m.

  Bilal glanced at his watch and looked up from the grill in time to see the CC-177 Globemaster III banking away from the base as it rose into the cloudless sky.

  “I need a break, Bernie,” he called to his boss who was manning the next grill.

  “And you damned well deserve it, Billy-Boy,” the older man agreed, looking up at the lessening customer line-ups. “Me and Jake can handle the flow now. Go take a walk around for a bit.”

  Wasting no time, Bilal pulled off his apron and hurried out of the kiosk, comfortable that his coworkers would attribute his quickened pace to a needed bathroom break. The truth of the matter was he expected Yasir to call any minute now and, once he did, chaos would ensue. Little more than a minute had passed as he rounded the northwest corner of the gigantic hangar structure, his mobile in hand, when he came face to face with Corporal Denise Bailey.

  “Hi, Bill,” she exclaimed, giving him a quick but warm hug.

  “W-what are you doing here?” Bilal asked, struggling to hide his dismay at her presence.

  “I was on my way to get a marvelous burger grilled to perfection by you,” Denise replied with a feigned pout, “But it seems you won’t be there to cook it for me.”

  “I’m on a break,” Bilal explained. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

  “I was here at eleven-thirty but there were way too many people,” Denise replied.

  “I would have made sure you were served quickly,” said Bilal.

  Denise shook her head. “There’s no way I could cut in ahead of a bunch of people. Anyhow, this works out even better. Since you’re on break, you can hang out with me while I eat.”

  Before Bilal could respond, his mobile began to vibrate. Glancing at it, he then looked up at Denise and said, “I must take this call. Please wait.”

  “I only have half an hour. I’ll go order while I wait,” Denise replied before heading toward the Bernie’s Burger kiosk.

  “Yes,” Bilal snapped into the mobile.

  “It is almost time,” said Yasir. “You are ready?”

  “We must wait,” Bilal replied as he watched Denise join the short line-up of customers.

  “We have no time to wait,” Yasir hissed. “The plane is coming.”

  Bilal turned to look at the northeastern sky and noted the Globemaster, still a distance away but rapidly approaching as it descended toward the airbase.

  “It will make other passes,” he argued. “I just need a few minutes.”

  “You do not have a few minutes,” Yasir replied. “Where are you?”

  “I am still near the food concessions and must go back for something,” said Bilal. “Please give me five minutes.”

  “Five minutes and not a second more,” Yasir snapped before cutting the connection.

  Bilal stared dumbly at his mobile for a couple of seconds then began to run back to his employer’s kiosk. At the precise moment he reached Denise, the row of food concession stands exploded into a deadly inferno, taking his life as well as that of Denise and countless others.

  * * * *

  Roundel Glen Golf Course, Astra, Ontario, 2:49 p.m.

  Yasir slipped the mobile into his pocket. He was disappointed Bilal had not delivered in the end but was pleased he and Mohammad had decided to code his own phone to detonate the propane tanks at the airbase. At least, considering the explosions he had heard and the smoke now billowing in the distance, Bilal had come through with the installation of the devices. He now hoped he himself would be equally successful with the second part of their plan.

  Pulling aside a tarp, on which he had painstakingly glued twigs, leaves and branches, he picked up the FIM-92 Stinger and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He wished his experience with firing a missile launcher consisted of more than watching YouTube videos but that was not the case. However, the man who had supplied them with the Stinger h
ad been confident Yasir would hit his target, as long as he followed the sequence of instructions.

  The Globemaster roared by above him, barely a couple of hundred feet overhead as it headed directly toward the scene of the blast. Yasir had feared the pilots might opt for higher altitude upon noting the explosion but all indicated they were going in for a close view from above. He inserted the battery then raised the missile launcher to track the plane. Gazing through the view finder, he zeroed in on the center of the right wing, where he had been told a fuel tank was located, before raising his aim to the sky above and pressing the activator switch. Aiming the launcher back to the wing, he heard the tracking signal and uncaged the seeker head before elevating the launcher again and pulling back on the trigger.

  * * * *

  Jerry Sizeman stood near the thirteenth green, his fingers gripping the fence which separated the golf course from the airbase as he stared in concern at the growing clouds of dark smoke rising in the distance. Something serious had clearly happened on the base, he had heard and felt the explosions, though he was much too far to see the extent of the damage. A twenty-five year veteran from CFB Trenton himself, with many friends still in service, he worried about their well-being following this incident.

  The sound of distant sirens was suddenly drowned out by the thunder of jet engines and he looked up to see the huge Globemaster pass over him, no more than a couple of hundred feet in the air. He watched the plane fly over the runway toward the site of the explosions and suddenly gasped in shock and disbelief as he witnessed a missile tear upward to hit the right wing between the two engines.

  The explosion was immediate and massive as hundreds of gallons of jet fuel detonated, shattering the wing and both engines into countless bits and pieces. The force of the blast and wing loss sent the huge plane into a clumsy, diagonal somersault, its fuselage ripping apart as it plummeted helplessly downward, seemingly in slow motion. Seconds later, it crashed a half mile away with a deafening, earth-shaking thud, crumpling as if made of paper before several powerful explosions turned it into a raging inferno.

  Dazed with horror, Jerry stared at the dissipating trail of smoke the missile had left behind, turned to his left and willed his shaky legs to move. Whoever had just committed this horrific act had done so from close by, very close, and Jerry intended to do whatever was necessary to prevent the monster from getting away. As he went, he unzipped a compartment of the large hip-pack he always wore and pulled out his Colt Defender. Though not licensed to carry, his years in the service coupled with having lived in rural areas all his life had long become reason enough for him to be armed when out and about.

  He followed the fence along the perimeter of the course, rounding the thirteenth green as he approached the area from which the missile appeared to have been launched. He moved cautiously and quietly, a task made easy thanks to years of military training and hunting. Whoever he was pursuing was clearly dangerous and Jerry had no intention of giving the killer any advanced warning.

  * * * *

  Through compact but powerful binoculars, Yasir scanned the area around the blazing transport jet, cursing under his breath. Though he had been successful in bringing the huge plane down, it had fallen much more quickly than he had anticipated, crashing in a deserted area of the base, far from the tens of thousands of spectators assembled to see the airshow. He could only hope the propane tank explosions had caused sufficient damage and harm to make the day’s efforts worthwhile.

  Regardless, he had done what had been expected of him, including covering for Bilal’s shortcomings and, judging by the thick black smoke and distant sounds of frantic activity, the operation was a success. Following a brief call to Mohammad, his next course of action would be to get away from the area because he had little doubt it would soon be crawling with soldiers and police.

  Retrieving his phone, he speed-dialed a number and was not surprised when his call was answered immediately. “It is done. I had to sacrifice our friend but our plan is complete. I will call you when I am safe.”

  Cutting the connection, he slipped the phone into his pocket then picked up the missile launcher from where he had leaned it against a tree and bent over to return it to the trench he had previously dug to store it. After covering it with his camo-tarp, he scattered some loose branches, leaves and pine cones over top to further enhance the disguise. Satisfied, he picked up his backpack, turned to leave and froze in place.

  “What are you up to, Yasir?” asked Jerry from ten feet away, his pistol aimed at the younger man’s chest.

  “I, uh, I came to see what was going on here,” Yasir stammered as he began to take a step forward.

  “Don’t move, you little bastard,” Jerry warned. “Drop your bag and lie down, spread out.”

  “Jerry, let me explain –” Yasir pleaded.

  “Down with your face in the dirt, now,” Jerry ordered.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Yasir insisted, though remaining still. “I came here to see what was happening, just like you.”

  “I saw you hiding that missile launcher, you lying bag of shit,” Jerry snarled. “This is your last chance. Lose the bag and get down.”

  Yasir’s shoulders slumped in resignation for a second before he tried to fling his backpack at his adversary. Jerry responded with four slugs to the chest, all of which a later autopsy would show had pulverized Yasir Bhatti’s heart.

  * * * *

  Shangri-La Hotel, Toronto, Ontario, 6:02 p.m.

  Mohammad perched on the edge of the couch in the lavish suite’s living area, his eyes glued to the giant flat screen television ever since live coverage of the airshow catastrophe had begun airing shortly following the explosions. Much of the content was repetitious, as is often the case with such events, but new tidbits of information were being reported as they made their way to the media via both official and unofficial sources.

  Details about casualties and damage remained vague for the moment though it was already abundantly clear that the attack had resulted in the level of death and destruction he had hoped for. From one news report minutes earlier, he had learned that a suspect found on the golf course adjacent to the airbase, presumably Yasir, had succumbed to gunshot wounds though it remained unknown if they had been self-inflicted or not. According to what Yasir had told him earlier, Bilal had perished from the concession stand explosions so there remained no loose ends to worry about.

  The tablet next to him on the couch began to emit a soft, particular ringtone, signaling an incoming call on the special voice and video app. Though it had been explained to him, he understood nothing about VPNs, Tor networks, gaining escalated credentials or re-torring out. All he knew was he had been assured all communication via this network was invisible and, if that was good enough for those he was chatting with, it was good enough for him.

  He tapped on the appropriate icon, a supposed solitaire game, then placed his right thumb on the digital reader which appeared and confirmed his identity. The caller was indeed who he expected and he tapped the flashing video icon. A few seconds passed before the live image of the caller materialized on the screen.

  Somewhat taken aback, Mohammad stared at the screen for a moment before uttering, “Forgive my reaction but I barely recognize you.”

  Sporting a Marlins cap and clad in a polo shirt, Abdel Omar Al-Tashid laughed and replied, “Changes in appearance are sometimes required for the sake of one’s safety.”

  “The result is remarkable,” said Mohammad, impressed. “If I may ask, was surgery involved?”

  “A little but nothing extensive,” replied the State of Islam’s leader. “A haircut and shave, a dye-job and contact lenses are mostly what was needed to achieve my new look.”

  “Quite impressive,” stated Mohammad, now noticing the other man’s lighter eye colour.

  “I am rather pleased with the result,” said Al-Tashid, “And now, moving on to the purpose of this call, I am also pleased and impressed with the results of your efforts
today. I have been watching the news reports and it is clear your plan was successfully executed. Well done.”

  “Thank you,” said Mohammad. “I am flattered by your words and appreciate your call. Given the time difference, I was not certain when I might hear from you nor did I know how soon you might become aware of today’s events.”

  Al-Tashid laughed again as he tapped his cap. “We’re actually in the same time zone and I have excellent internet access here in Miami. The main reason for my change of appearance was to facilitate some worldly travels.”

  “You are in the U.S.?” Mohammad exclaimed, astonished.

  “We all need some vacation once in a while,” Al-Tashid replied with a smile, “And what better way to learn more about the greatest country in the world than to visit it myself?”

  “I, uh, yes, of course,” Mohammad stammered. “I am simply surprised that a man in your, uh, position would take such a risk.”

  “The risk is minimal at best,” Al-Tashid scoffed. “The American population may believe its government’s lies about its ability to protect the nation but the truth is, their so-called Homeland Security consists of a quarter million idiots wallowing in a sea of bureaucracy while looking for a needle in a haystack.” He laughed then added, “I am certainly safer here than in Mosul.”

  “I can’t disagree,” Mohammad admitted, still amazed the world’s most notorious terrorist was in the United States. “When did you arrive? How long are you staying?”