The radio officer had finished his call to the naval base at San Clemente and tried to make contact with ‘The City,’ but he got no answer. He kept calling their sign on their frequency, tried to pick them up on the emergency frequency, even called their phone link, but no luck. Everything was dead.

  Soon there were US Coast Guard and US Navy helicopters and planes in the air above their heads, flying over ‘The City.’ They watched as they circled and then headed back to the airfield at San Clemente. They heard the reports from the pilots. Nothing could be done to help the people on that rig until the blaze had gone out. They could not get anyone on board from up there.

  Lovell sighed and just stared. He saw a yacht head to the blaze and promptly commanded the coxswain to head them off. He wanted to help, but right now, the only thing he could do was to make sure nobody else got hurt.

  ***

  The news of the explosion on ‘The City’ and the subsequent fire rolled into the office of CBS in San Diego and the editor in chief immediately sprang to life. He pushed his chair back to liberate his large belly from behind his desk and jumped to his feet. His mind began working out whether he knew someone on that rig, and when he had decided he did not, he began working out whom he could send to report on it and how he should conduct the coverage.

  There was a pretty multi-cultural girl who had just graduated from college in the office. He reckoned she deserved a shot. He would let her take a camera crew out in a helicopter and fly over to the site of the accident. If she messed up, then the helicopter would have to turn back anyway and he could have her replaced.

  He called her in and told her to get a move on. When she had gone, he called up the technical crew and told them to ready a chopper and a van.

  When Elizabeth “Elly” Boukhari arrived at the heliport she went straight for the CBS chopper. She shook hands with the pilot and every man of the crew and squealed in her excitement. She hurried to get into the chopper and get her gear in order, but just as the pilot told them to buckle up for takeoff a black car raced onto the tarmac and came towards them. The tires screamed as it stopped next to them. Out jumped two men in black suits and white shirts.

  “Sorry but you won’t be reporting on that rig fire just yet.”

  “Says who?”

  The pilot demanded, putting his hand on the throttle.

  “Says us.”

  One of the men put his hand into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a small black leather wallet. he flicked it open and showed them the badge and ID it contained.

  “FBI. We won't let you report on that just yet. Not until we have the facts and know it's safe.”

  ***

  Senator Jacobs' PA trotted through the corridors of the Capitol on her high heels. She wore a skirt that barely covered her ass and so tight around the hips that it limited her movement to small steps. She wore towering heels, a tight blouse and a bra that pushed her breasts up and gave her a massive cleavage, which was always on show. She hated dressing in this super sexy, provocative way. After six years in college, she found it degrading to have to present herself as little more than a sex object. But even if she hated the sort of clothes the senator made her wear and the man himself made her want to vomit, she was glad she had a job. And he paid her well, though she suspected the pay was more for her assets than for her skills.

  She waited outside the room she suspected the senator was in. He was supposed to attend four hearings and meetings at once, but she guessed he would be in the one on climate change now. That was his big passion. Several other PA's were standing outside the room. There was one mousy-looking woman and the rest were men. A few of them looked very young. They were probably interns. She felt uncomfortable under the stares of the men and looked down. She began to play with her long brown locks as she waited.

  After a good five minutes Senator Jacobs came out. He had just finished his speech and was running out to get to another meeting. He would not even bother to hear the response to his statements by the scientist they were talking to. He had his reply for the end of the meeting ready and that would suffice for the PR and the media. Nobody wanted to hear what some boring scientist has to say, he figured.

  “Sir,” the secretary said, touching his arm as he passed her.

  He turned and looked at her. He did not bother to look into her eyes, instead he kept his gaze fixed on her bosom.

  “Tell me while we walk.”

  He set off at a fast pace and his secretary tottered after him. It was almost impossible for her to keep up and she again cursed the clothes she had been made to wear.

  “Sir.”

  She felt it was a miracle she could talk with the effort it took to keep up and to stay on her feet.

  “Sir, we just got a call from California. There’s been an explosion at ‘The City.’ It caused an oil spill. A second explosion set the oil on fire.”

  To her relief the senator stopped.

  “What? How?” he bellowed. “Come on, answer me, you stupid bitch!”

  The secretary felt her lip quiver. She held back the tears she could feel welling up. This sort of abuse was hard to take. She would never get used to it and she wondered then how much more she could take before quitting a job she needed so desperately.

  “Well?” the senator demanded again.

  “It... it seems there was a terrorist attack, sir,” she said, as soon as she could control her voice.

  “God damn it!” the senator roared and rushed off to his next meeting. It was one on security.

  Then halfway down the corridor he turned.

  “Get on the phone to Portis! If there's a spill, my head is on the line!”

  ***

  Portis was playing golf with a previous president when his phone rang. He answered and was slightly annoyed to hear the voice of Jacobs' secretary. He did not talk to secretaries. He wanted to hang up, but the first phrase she uttered was, “There's been an attack on ‘The City.’”

  “Really?” he asked, almost casually. “Oh God...”

  His tone was very calm and he smiled as he heard the news.

  “Yes, sir. Senator Jacobs asked me to call you as it seems they struck oil just before it all happened. There is a massive oil spill and it's on fire.”

  The blood drained from Portis' face. He grew pale as a sheet of paper.

  “What?”

  “I heard the Coast Guard report, Mr. Portis. There is a massive fire all around it. And they have lost all contact. Senator Jacobs asks if you can call him. He is quite worried.”

  Portis swore and hung up.

  “What's going on?” the former president asked.

  He leaned on his golf club and looked at Portis. He had hoped to close a deal to link their two big charity foundations, which had been working on similar projects for a while now.

  Portis sighed and closed his eyes.

  “‘The City.’”

  The president frowned. It seemed he knew something he was not saying.

  “What happened?”

  Portis looked up and gazed straight into the president's eyes.

  “Thirty-three. But they struck oil earlier in the day.”

  The president shook his head and reached down for his ball. He put it into his pocket and put his club away. He nodded to his caddy and got into the golf cart.

  “Sort it out.” he said, and was gone.

  Portis swore again and sunk down onto the green. He selected Stryker's number and called. There was no reply. He swore again and laid down his phone. He stood and picked up his golf club. He walked over to his own cart and swung. The headlight shattered. He swung again. And a third time. Then he threw his club over to his caddie and picked up his phone again. He selected another number. There was a reply on this one.

  “Where are you?”

  “On board. Something went wrong. We're about to get in a sub to get out.”

  “You stay where you are. You wanted to do this, you did this, you make sure it's done properly. In the morning, you had better have this mess sorted out or I will personally make sure you go down for this. Understood?” he raged into the phone.

  There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

  “Understood.”

  And then they hung up.

  Portis called another number. This call was not long. He just heard the phone being answered and spoke six words.

  “Portis. Find Stryker. Deal with him.”

  This was a nightmare. But he would make sure the dream would be brought to life again.

  To be continued in:

  The Rig: Storm Warning

  (read on for a sample)

  Prologue

  Elly Boukhari was finally airborne. The FBI had finally released the CBS helicopter and it was on its way to ‘The City’. She could see the blaze of the flames from miles away. In her hand, she held the clipboard she had been given by the agents. One of the men in black suits had gotten on board the helicopter with her and now sat beside her. He had his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his armpits. She kept looking at the small bulge underneath his jacket.

  She kept looking him up and down, trying to make out what he was thinking and feeling. But he wore dark aviator sunglasses that completely shielded his eyes. She noticed he looked at her from time to time and it creeped her out, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  The rig came closer and closer. They flew over a US Coast Guard ship that lay several miles away from ’The City’. The pilot flew closer to it and the radio crackled into life.

  “This is the United States Coast Guard Hurricane. You are now flying into restricted airspace. Identify yourself.”

  “This is N6933NA, working for CBS, San Diego. We plan to fly over the oil rig to shoot some footage and then return to a safe distance.”

  “Negative N6933NA. The airspace for five nautical miles around ‘The City’ is closed. You will limit yourself to filming from outside that parameter.”

  Elly looked at the pilot. She wanted this story to be done well. It could be her big break as a news reporter.

  “Keep going.”

  “USCG Hurricane, we will only be a few minutes inside the parameter before returning.”

  “N6933NA, you will return to the five mile limit or we will open fire on you. Nobody is to come any closer to the rig than that.”

  The pilot looked at Elly again and she motioned to him to keep going. The FBI agent sat quietly.

  “USCG Hurricane, we will only be a second.”

  A rattle sounded below and Elly could hear bullets whipping past. Almost instantly the pilot jerked the stick and turned around.

  “Sorry kid. I'm not getting her shot down!”

  Elly nodded.

  “That's okay!” She turned to the camera man. “Can you get a clean shot of me, with the burning rig in the back ground?”

  The man frowned. “I'll try, but no promises.” He turned to the pilot. “Can you keep her steady?”

  “I'll try.”

  Elly bossed the FBI agent out of the way and took her compact from her bag and checked how she looked in the little mirror, fluffing her hair up a bit. She checked again and swore under her breath.

  “Need a fluffer?” The camera man asked her with a grin. She looked perplexed and then poked her tongue at him.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep. Let me check with the director.”

  Elly quickly put her IEM in and listened to the countdown given to her by the director in the van at the heliport. “Ready? Do a sound check.”

  “Testing one, two, one, two, three.” Elly spoke into the microphone.

  “Got you loud and clear. Going live in five, four, three, two, go!”

  Across San Diego and Southern California CBS stations broke. A news anchor came on the air from the studio.

  “We interrupt your regularly programming to bring you live reports on the emergency at ‘The City’. We'll now go live to our reporter Elly Boukhari.”

  “Thank you Dan. Elly Boukhari here, reporting live from the CBS News Helicopter about five miles from ‘The City’, which earlier today was rocked by a shocking terrorist attack. During a music event in the Central Plaza of this great product of American enterprise, a powerful weapon of mass destruction was set off. The man suspected of the bombing is a US citizen of Egyptian descent, thirty-three year old Akhmed Hussain Abbasi. He set off the powerful blast which is thought to have killed hundreds of people. The blast then caused an oil spil and a massive fire, which is now causing a huge blaze that envelops ‘The City’.”

  “Have you had any confirmation of the casualties of this tragic event, Elly?” the news anchor asked.

  “No Dan, we have not. All contact with ‘The City’ seems to be impossible. We think the terrorist has first disabled the radio systems and the wireless communication of ‘The City’. This was a very well planned attack indeed.”

  “And has a motive been found out? Why was this attack made against the American people?”

  “Well Dan, we have just received an update that Akhmed Hussain Abbasi had published a manifesto on social media. He uploaded a number of radical Islamic videos onto Youtube as well. In it he claims to be fighting a holy jihad against the crusaders. He wants to make sure the US does not double cross the True Believers. He is thought to have suffered from mental health issues and to have been radicalized in the last year.”

  “Thank you Elly. We will come back to you as soon as there is more news.”

  The news anchor looked into the camera and put on the most serious face that he could muster.

  “Next, we will talk to a former security advisor to the president about this shocking development off the coast of San Diego. Stay tuned.”

  When the light on the camera went out and the camera man indicated they had stopped filming, Elly took her IEM out and looked at the FBI agent next to her.

  “Was that all correct?”

  The FBI man just nodded. He did not speak or even lift his sun glasses.

  Chapter One

  Akhmed had no idea how it happened. He found himself kneeling on the floor, his face in the urinal, and his trousers around his knees. Dazed at what he discovered, he looked around and noticed the urinal had been shattered. His head was bleeding from a cut and it throbbed liked crazy. He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Then he saw the woman behind him and suddenly he remembered what had happened.

  Fatíma stirred and her hand closed tightly around the pistol. Slowly she brought her head up and she began to raise the gun toward Akhmed. He made to kick the gun out of her hand, but the trousers around his ankles would not allow him. He toppled over and fell onto Fatíma's head. There was a sickening noise as her head slammed into the floor tiles under the weight of his body. Her hand went limp, she sighed and went silent.

  Akhmed scrambled to his feet again and hurried to pull his pants up. He saw a trickle of blood coming from Fatíma's head. It was strangely bright on the white tiles. He looked around, still wondering what had happened and what was happening. He could barely believe the whole thing.

  Akhmed reached for his cell phone and selected his girlfriend's number. He needed to check whether or not she was safe. It didn’t ring. He looked at it and saw there were no bars. He sighed. For a moment he was tempted to pinch his arm to check whether this was a nightmare he was in, but then the throbbing of his head reminded him it was all too real.

  Fatíma groaned. Akhmed's eyes opened wide and he bent down to take the gun from her hand. He looked at it. He knew nothing about guns, but had seen enough in the movies to notice that Fatíma had taken the safety off. He flicked the little switch back up and tucked the pistol into his belt. His hands were shaking. His lips were trembling. This was a nightmare, he determined. A nightmare made real.

  His legs were barely working, his knees hurt from the impact of the fall, his head was a piece of pure agony and his sense of balance was gone. His ears buzzed from the double blast and emotionally he was in a complete shock. Akhmed managed to stagger out into the small corridor and then onto the Central Plaza where he had spent most of the day setting up the stage for Fatíma; DJ Medina.

  The Plaza was like a scene from Hell. Akhmed had no idea what Hell might look like. His mother had never sent him to Sunday school, and his father had described the Islamic interpretation of Hell, but the Quran forbids Muslims to use images when it comes to matters of faith. But he was convinced that this was what Hell must look like.

  Limp and torn bodies were everywhere. Close to the toilets laid a severed leg. It was a woman's leg, shaved and with the remnants of nylon stockings, wearing a red pump. Akhmed tried to trace its owner. He saw a man a few paces away that was missing an arm. Next to him he saw a red pump identical to the one on the leg. He went towards the shoe and then saw the woman underneath the armless man. She had barely been a woman. She had the face of a teen. He figured she could not have been more than twenty years old, just blossoming into full womanhood. And now she was not even human any more. She was a mangled piece of flesh and blood and guts. It made him feel sick.

  Tears sprung to his eyes as he bent down. He did not know why he did it, but he reached down to close the woman's eyes. He looked at the man without the arm, but for some reason he felt numbed to this man's plight. His chest was not moving. He was dead as well. He must have been; the puddle of blood that was under his stump was too large for him to be alive.

  Akhmed staggered on, his tears now flowing freely as he noticed the mayhem caused by the explosion. He was responsible for this. Not that he had ever wanted to be, but he had trusted Fatíma, Smith and Garcia and they had used him. He’d realised that now. Fatíma had told him she could sabotage the rig with sound waves during her DJ gig. He had checked the science and found out she was on to something. It would have been the perfect protest against ‘The City’ after all his protests against this whole failed project had been silenced.

 

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