I was noodling a bit on the laptop today and this sorta fell out.  Let me know what you think (and yes, I know it's starting slow.)


August 1, 2007
0635 EDT
Plainfield, Indiana

Salim Ali Al-Ujaili rose from his fajr salat and rolled up his sajada.  He placed it on a stainless steel shelf in the small painted concrete block room and checked his watch.  Al-Ujaili turned to the door to see Jaber Mohammed Khan watching him.  Khan said, “Come, my friend.  It is time to check the messages.  Perhaps today will be the day, Allah willing.”  Al-Ujaili said, “Have the deliveries arrived yet?”  Khan replied, “Most certainly.  Majid arrived almost four hours ago.  He said that he was detained in the state of Kentucky by the police, but they did not make him unpack the truck.  The identification your cousin provided us has proven most helpful.”  Al-Ujaili made no reply, already climbing the stairs to the second basement floor of the mosque.  Yes, perhaps today will be the day, he thought to himself.


August 1, 2007
0730 EDT
Indianapolis, Indiana

Jon Comstock slammed the door of his VW Jetta, tapped the alarm button on his keychain, satisfied himself that the alarm was armed, and dropped the keychain into his briefcase.  Comstock dropped his Camel Light to the asphalt and crushed it with the heel of his mirror-polished shoe. He stretched, picked up his travel mug from the roof of the car, slung his heavy black nylon briefcase and began the long walk across the parking lot to the security checkpoint.  
As Comstock crossed the parking lot, out of habit he surveyed the lot and the railhead next to it for anything amiss.  Seeing nothing, he grabbed his proximity access card on its retractable lanyard, waved it in front of the reader, and heard the magnetic lock release.  Comstock smiled at the CCTV dome above the turnstile entrance, pushed the rotating steel gate through the turnstile and entered the complex. Under the illuminated sign reading - DO NOT ENTER IF RED LIGHTS ARE FLASHING – Comstock walked into an underground tunnel lined with electrical conduits and pipes bearing labels reading ACETONITRILE and SULFURIC ACID 50% and, oddly, CITY WATER.  Comstock emerged from the tunnel, crossed the sidewalk, and waved his access card at another reader.  An electric strike buzzed, and Comstock entered the building.
Comstock passed through an airtight turnstile in the entrance, and stepped into the well-appointed but empty lobby.  He grinned to himself as a tall, lithe blonde in a short grey flannel suit/skirt crossed the lobby and waved to him, exclaiming cheerily, “Hi, Jon!”  Comstock replied, “Good morning, Melissa!” and stepped onto the elevator.  
Comstock walked into his office, unlocked his desk, and docked his HP laptop to the docking station, and checked his calendar.  Two meetings today, but both of them short.  He might actually be able to get some work done today.


August 1, 2007
0921 EDT
Plainfield, Indiana

Al-Ujaili finished decrypting the steganographic message that was contained in the digital photo of a stern older Arab, eyes peering out from a kheffiyah, a shepherd’s hook in his hand, standing on a hillside overlooking a small village.  
The message read, “Please ship the product as previously agreed.”  Al-Ujaili smiled.  Allah be praised.  
He opened another window and began to type, to issue the orders.

August 1, 2007
1005 EDT
Lorton, Virginia

Mike McGuffey finished torquing the new suppressor mount on the Mk18 he had clamped in a vise block on his workbench and picked up the new Gemtech G5 suppressor.  He fitted the suppressor over the mount, and pushed and twisted to lock it on.  McGuffey then pulled the plastic filler block out of the receiver, picked up an oiled section of drill rod, and eased it into the chamber of the carbine and out the muzzle.  He met no resistance in so doing, so he withdrew the drill rod and loosened the vise.  

McGuffey removed the receiver from the vise block and mounted the upper receiver to a finished lower.  Pushing the pins in, McGuffey picked up a loaded, glossy black HK magazine from a nearby rack, inserted it into the mag well and tugged on it to make certain it had locked, and pointed the weapon into the Snail bullet trap next to his bench.  McGuffey reached up and lowered his electronic earmuffs, then racked the charging handle.  Dropping the magazine, McGuffey used a finger to verify that the top round of the magazine was now on the left, then reinserted and tugged on it once again.  He had just rotated the selector lever to SEMI when the phone rang.  

He flicked his gaze to the LCD display and read the number displayed, which was immediately followed by an exasperated intake of breath.  McGuffey squeezed the trigger and was rewarded by a muffled bang.  He safed the weapon and tipped it up to check the end cap.  No marks.  McGuffey lowered the muzzle into the bullet trap and rotated the selector to AUTO, and squeezed the trigger.  The weapon spat four rounds, then five, then five more.  

McGuffey’s phone rang again, and in irritation he expended the remaining thirteen rounds in a single burst, then safed the weapon.  He shoved his right earmuff up and answered, “McGuffey.”  A voice said, “Mike?  You know who this is, right?”  McGuffey answered quickly, “Yep.”  The voice said, “I know you have some family in Indianapolis, and I owe you a big one.  So listen, because I’m only going to say this once, and after that, I don’t know you. We have strong indications that an attack is going to take place very shortly.  Some of these indications point toward Indianapolis as one of the targets.”  
McGuffey felt a band of steel tighten around his gut.  He said “Type of attack?”  The voice replied, “Special weapon, non-ballistic.”  McGuffey said, “Timeline?”  “Within 24 hours, if we fail to intercept the team on the ground.  And there are other locations under threat, so NEST is spread very thinly.  The Army National Guard CSTs are being quietly activated, but we can’t count on all the devices being interdicted before they are detonated.  And before you ask, the local area is not believed to be in danger.  We have very high detection capabilities in the Federal Arc.”

McGuffey started to ask another question, but the voice cut him off: “I’ve spent too much time talking to you already.  Remember, Mike, I owed you, but we’re even now.  I don’t have to tell you what would happen to both of us if this conversation-“  “Yeah, I got it.  And…thank you, brother.”   The voice answered, “You’re welcome.  Now I’ll see you at the reunion…say, in 2019?  I’d just as soon not hear from you until then.”
McGuffey snickered nervously. The caller disconnected, and McGuffey hung up the receiver.  He thought for a moment, then walked into the next office and picked up the phone.

August 1, 2007
1051 EDT
Indianapolis, Indiana

Comstock’s cell phone vibrated in its pouch on his left hip.  He dug it out and regarded the display, which was showing “Unknown call”.  He answered it, “Comstock.”

“Jon, it’s Mike.  I’m in the office, so this has to be quick.”

“What’s going on?”

“Jon, this is a Sea Plane, immediate.  You need to get Katie and everyone else and go out to the farm, and be prepared to stay and repel boarders.”

Comstock’s stomach turned into a ball of acid.  “Goddamn it.  How reliable is this?”  

“A2.”

“Shit.  Thanks, Mike.  I’ll try to contact you on the net when we get out there.”

McGuffey said, “Don’t fuck around.  Get out right now.  My Mom and Dad are already clear.”

“Ok, my friend.  Luck.”

McGuffey replied, “Luck.  Out.”

Comstock hit the red End button on his phone, and immediately dialed Katie.  

“Katie Comstock.”

“Kate, it’s me.  Sea Plane, not a drill.”

“Shit.  What do you know?”

“Not a lot.  Get going, I’ll meet you at the house.  Word is NOT out, so don’t call or say a word to anyone.  Tell ‘em your back is acting up or something, but get out now.  Stop at the grocery and load up the car on canned goods, but don’t spend more than 30 minutes doing it, then get home.  I’ll get cash.  If word gets out or you see anything at all like a flash, forget about the store and just get home.  The cell towers will probably go out, so don’t waste time trying to call me.”

Katie asked, “Are we going to be ok?”

“If we get moving now, probably.  Move it, sweetie!”

“OK!  I love you, and I’ll see you in a bit.  Be careful, honey!”

Comstock replied, “You too.  And hurry!”

Comstock closed his laptop, locked it in his desk, threw his briefcase over his shoulder, and started for the stairs.  

“Hey, Jon, where are you going?  Aren’t you in the 11:00 with Bob?” said a voice behind him.  Comstock turned to see Melissa behind him, a quizzical look on her face.  

“Mel, I have to leave, my wife just got in a little fender bender.  She’s pretty shook up.  Can you let Bob know that I’ll reschedule as soon as I get back?”

“Sure, I guess so,” said Melissa dubiously.  “You know he’s been trying to work out that index issue with you all week.”

Comstock said, “Yeah, I know.  I’ll get with him later today.  I have to go, Mel, I’ll see you later, ok?”

Melissa said, “Is everything okay?”

Comstock replied, “Sure, but I need to go get to Katie.  Bye, Mel.”

Melissa watched Comstock quizzically as he hurried to the airlock.  


August 1, 2007
1103 EDT
Indianapolis, Indiana

Comstock hurriedly punched buttons on his BlackBerry as he quickly walked to the tunnel.  The prearranged text message that would go out to the small group of friends would alert them to the existence of an emergency and let them know that Comstock was bugging out.  What they chose to do after that was entirely up to them.  Comstock hit SEND, and three seconds later was rewarded with the MESSAGE SENT icon.

As Comstock neared the inside end of the tunnel, he picked up the pace a little bit.  God only knew what intelligence had led Mike McGuffey to make that phone call, but Comstock knew that McGuffey was neither predisposed to crying wolf nor likely to be misinformed.  

The BlackBerry vibrated, and a text message from Shawn Miller indicated that he had received the message and was leaving for the farm in 30 minutes.  In quick succession, two more messages arrived saying the same thing from Mike Fitzgerald and Roger York.  Good – at least there would be a few others around who knew what they were doing.  Mike had been an infantryman almost as long as Comstock, though he didn’t have some of the additional training that Comstock had picked up on his own dime.  Roger was a good shooter (albeit one with no military experience) in addition to being married to a really adorable nurse named Connie.  Connie could shoot, if she were forced to, but her real talent lay in being able to stitch up a laceration and work on skinned knees and broken bones with equal facility.

As Comstock reached the tunnel, sirens started going off inside the facility.  He stopped dead in his tracks, recognizing the warbling tone he was hearing.

Airborne Toxin Release.

Fuck.  He stopped breathing, and turned toward the wall next to the tunnel entrance, seeking the bright yellow wall box that contained SCBA and an impermeable suit.  Comstock dropped the briefcase and grasped the handle of the box and gave it a sharp twist.  The door swung open to reveal a Draeger ProAir kit, with a quick-deploying yellow suit behind it.  Comstock quickly pressed the face mask to his face and exhaled sharply to clear it.  He took a breath, activating the unit, and tasted clean air.  Comstock quickly pulled the mask straps over his head, securing it, then donned the protective overgarment.  He finished by pulling the tank with backpack up on his back and did a check of the entire length of the zipper seal.  He was reasonably sure he was not physically contaminated, but caution and experience told him to finish the job right.  
Comstock looked around and saw nothing out of sorts.  He picked up his briefcase, retrieved his keys, and threw the briefcase in the trash receptacle.  He quickly moved through and out of the tunnel without incident, but discovered two things on the other side: 1) he had covered up his prox card when he donned the suit, and 2) that didn’t matter anyway because the turnstiles were locked down to prevent a contaminated worker from walking out before he could be decontaminated.  
Goddamn it.  Comstock looked around to see if there was any other way out.  He remembered that going back inside the tunnel would take him to the other side of the railhead.  Comstock ran back through the tunnel, taking care not to snag his suit on any of the projecting pipe mounts, and thought about what to do next.

go on.....

So far so good , your committed now !!! Or the wrath of Arf will bring the fleas of a thousand camels to your arm pits !!

Interesting technical details...

That's a nice start.  I like it so far.  I hope we will be seeing more of this soon.  Thanks for sharing.

great so far!  i want to know what happens next!

Don't pull a zombies/interstate!

Excellent! I like these stories, please continue...

want more

continue quiclkly,  Jericho, 24 DT's increasing intensity, dont know how much longer I can hold out....

Good start .................

OST

Great start!!!   Can't wait for MORE  

Quoted: Great start!!!   Can't wait for MORE

+1

Good work. Don't tease us.

Great start.  Can't wait to see where you take it!

Great start, don't stop now!

OK, ya vultures  I have to work too, ya know!  More to follow...

Great noodleing

Very good so far!  

Quoted: OK, ya vultures  I have to work to do, ya know!  More to follow...

Yes - you have work to do.  Now get to it!!  

Great start.

And then what happened?


I like it.

taggin' it old school!

August 1, 2007
1144 EDT
Plainfield, Indiana

Katie Comstock backed her black 2004 Suburban 454 into her driveway and hopped out.  She disarmed the house’s alarm system, opened the garage, and opened the Suburban’s rear gate.  The frantic barking from inside the house told her that the dogs had heard her open the door, and she yelled, “Hold on a minute, already!”  
Katie walked through the garage, entered the house and was greeted by the enthusiastic leaps of Smith and Wesson, the Comstocks’ pair of West Highland white terriers, and she stopped and leaned over to rub on their heads and ears.  “Good boys, you’re such good boys,” Katie said.  She walked to the back door and let them out into the back yard, then turned her attention to unloading the groceries from the Suburban.  She hastened to get the goods into plastic tubs in the garage, set aside for just such a purpose, then she wondered where Jon was.  He should have been home by now, and considering the urgency he drilled into her head regarding the words Sea Plane, she started to worry.  Katie remembered Jon leaving instructions on exactly what to do if this came to pass, and she went back into the house and into his home office to find them.  
The nondescript grey three-ring binder on Jon’s bookshelf held what she was looking for.  She flipped immediately to the Sea Plane tab, and began to read.

August 1, 2007
1122 EDT
ProMed
Indianapolis, Indiana

Comstock spent ten minutes fruitlessly searching for a way to get over or through the razor-topped cyclone fencing, but without tools of any kind, he didn’t see any way to do it.  He checked his watch through the clear panel in the wrist of the suit, and realized that he was nearly twenty minutes into the escape pack’s 30 minute air supply.  Comstock spotted an electrical contractor’s van on the property about 150 yards from his position, and started trotting toward it.  
An electric cart with two men clad similarly to Comstock came around the corner of the building and nearly collided with Comstock as he jogged down the sidewalk.  One of the men said, “Stop!  Show us your ID!”  

Comstock recognized the man as one of the company’s internal security officers, and said, “I’d love to, but I’ve zipped it up inside my suit.  What the hell is going on, anyway?”

The security man recognized Comstock as he drew closer, and said, “Some kind of explosion in 683 caused a toxin release.  Where were you when the siren went off?”

Comstock replied, “By the tunnel entrance.  I didn’t see or hear anything other than the siren.”

The guard said, “We’re supposed to get people to decon locations in 332 and 338 so they can shelter-in-place after they get checked over.  I don’t know exactly which chemical got loose, but I heard someone say something about HCN.  The only people with the gas detectors are in 683, and I guess some of them got a whiff of it already.”

Comstock pointed out, “If that’s what it is, I don’t think it’s here yet, and we’re probably clean over here anyway.”

“Why do you say that?” the security man asked.

“Because the wind is coming from the southwest.  And if it were down here, that bird would be dead.”  Comstock pointed to a grackle sitting on the razor wire next to them.  

“What’s your point, Mr. Comstock?”  the guard wanted to know

“The point is, I need to get out of here.  My wife was just in a serious accident and she needs me to go to the hospital and meet her.”  

“Well, sir, you know we’re not supposed to break containment,” the guard said.  

Comstock replied, “Yes, but we’re obviously not contaminated, and the prevailing winds are in our favor.  How about unlocking that turnstile and letting me the hell out of here?”

“I could really get in trouble for that, sir,” the guard replied.  

Comstock could hear the indecision in the guard’s voice.  He said, “Bob (finally remembering the guard’s name), what if it was your wife out there?”  

Bob grinned, and said, “I’d probably drive this cart through the damn fence if I had to.”

Comstock said, “Bob, seriously, I need to get the fuck out of here.  Let me out or I’m climbing out, but either way I’m leaving.”

The guard thought it over.  “I’m calling Control and asking them.”  

Comstock replied, “Bob, you know what they’re gonna say.  Why don’t I just go decon at 332 with everyone else, and maybe they’ll let me out of the exit over there.”

The guard replied, “That’d be best, Mr. Comstock.  Thanks for understanding.”

Comstock said, “No worries, Bob.  I’d better go.  I’m running out of air here.”

“No problem, Mr. Comstock.  Good luck, and I’m sorry.”  The guards drove away, leaving Comstock on the sidewalk alone.  

Comstock shrugged.  The chance encounter with the guard had just about depleted his remaining air supply, but now that he knew the location and the agent, he was a little less worried about doffing the suit.  After a short internal debate, he turned and jogged through the tunnel again.  When he reached the exit turnstile, he moved to the 8 foot cyclone fence topped by a coil of razor wire.  

Comstock climbed the fence and regarded the coil of razor wire.  He reached over to the roof of the turnstile hut with his right hand, grasped the top bar of the fence with his left, and jumped up high enough to get a hand on the top of the hut.  He had a half-second of traction, then he lost his grip and fell windmilling to the sidewalk, the air tank hitting with a hollow THONK.  

“Fuck!” Comstock yelled.  “Fuck this shit.”  He jerked on the Fastex buckles on the air pack, loosening the straps, and set the pack on the ground.  Then he pulled the zipper open on the suit, shedding it down to his knees.  Comstock stepped out of the booties and kicked the suit away.  HCN was an inhalation hazard only, and Comstock thought the wind was in his favor.  

     He took a deep breath and doffed the mask.  Taking a running jump at the fence, Comstock took two steps up, then tried the twist to the right onto the hut roof again.  This time, his fingers held, and he swung a foot under the gutter, finding purchase on the bars of the turnstile, and propelled himself onto the roof of the hut.  
The designer had thoughtfully added a second coil of razor wire at the edge of the roof to defeat intruders attempting to place a ladder in front of the hut and jump over onto the roof.  Unfortunately for Comstock, this also increased the difficulty of getting over the wire and into the parking lot unscathed.  Comstock decided to take the paratrooper’s way out, and stepped back three long steps to the opposite edge of the roof.  He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and launched at the thigh-high wire obstacle.  

Comstock sprang into the air, his momentum carrying him over the wire, and crashed to the pavement outside in something resembling a parachute landing fall.  Comstock’s head hit the asphalt, and a white curtain snapped shut over his vision for a few seconds.  A minute or two later, dazed, Comstock sat up and took stock of his injuries.  Nothing seemed to be broken, but he was sure this was going to hurt like hell later.  

He raised himself to his wobbly feet and began running for his car.  He sniffed the air, didn’t smell the distinctive almond-like odor of hydrogen cyanide, and kept up the quick pace all the way to the door of his Jetta.  He collapsed into the seat, slammed the door, turned the ventilation system to Recirc, and started the car.  No other cars were moving in the parking lot, and Comstock’s path was clear all the way to the main road outside the plant.  He accelerated sharply on the on-ramp to I-70 West and slid over to the fast lane for the run to his house.  

August 1, 2007
1205 EDT
Nation of Islam Temple
Indianapolis, Indiana

Muhammad Awadh let the last family through the door, then locked the door of the temple and closed the white curtain over the glass door.  He led the six people to the door in the floor, and knocked on it with a heavy booted foot.  The heavy steel door swung open on hydraulics, revealing a shaven-headed black man standing at the top of the stairs wearing traditional Somali garb, but carrying an AKM rifle and a chest pouch containing AK magazines.  He stepped aside to allow Awadh and the family to descend the concrete stairwell, then he stepped down the stairs, pressing a lighted switch as he did so.  The door swung closed, and the sound of heavy bolts locking into steel resounded through the empty room.  The electricity went out in the temple, and the susurrant sound of the HVAC system slowly trailed off.  

Nice job. But for love of god please let this be a story with an ending.

Quoted: Nice job. But for love of god please let this be a story with an ending.

Cliffhangers suck, but are necessary to non-fulltime writers.

However, I would like to also express my interest in many frequent updates to the story.

Good start!! Keep it coming!!!

More please.....
Must have MORE






ETA - i pownd all your page 2
all your page 2 belong to ME

More we need more

Bump

super potential if this one keeps going. its awesome so far.

More

Patience, fellas

.

Good read so far.

Tagged for more.

Great stuff please keep it comming I dont think I can take antother story with no ending!! Really you have a knack for this!!
HKUSP_40

Nothing new ?

great story

 Nicely put together!  Now, more please!

I'm getting bombarded with details on.....everything.

I think its a bit over dont with the details.  Scale it back a little and focus on the story.

Gonna be anymore to this story?

Quoted: Gonna be anymore to this story?

Another unfinished story?

Anymore?

Hope its not a dead story, it was looking good so far.

Damnit, I didn't notice this one before.  Now I have read it, sloshing around between my ears I now have at least 5 unfinished stories.

Dammit!

MORE!!!!

what happened I need more

im bumping the f*** out of this, write more dammit!!!

Not dead, guys, just balancing priorities..

Pulling into his driveway, Comstock noted that Katie already had the boxes and bins stacked by the rear of the truck, ready for loading.  He nodded approvingly as he put the Jetta into Park and got out.  Comstock grabbed his briefcase, popped the trunk and grabbed his pre-packed rucksack and went inside.  Katie kissed him, a worried look on her face, and the dogs leapt about yapping excitedly.  

Katie said, “We’re less than 30 minutes from leaving.  I sent the email out, and I got receipts from everyone. The water and gas are shut off, and I set the locks and the alarm system in the barn.  Do you know exactly what the hell is going on?”

Comstock said, “Not really.  The CST team is searching for a device, and based on the tools they say they’re using it sounds like something radiological.  At least that’s what I heard on their comm system.   We probably need to rig the house for fallout before we leave.”  

Katie said, “Oh, I already started in the bedroom just in case that was the problem.  We only have six more windows plus the HVAC ducts to seal up.  Let’s finish that real quick and then get rolling.”

The Comstocks worked quickly, taping heavy plastic sheeting over all the windows and doors from the inside.  Comstock would seal the front door with a silicone caulk from a caulking gun after securing the locks when they left.  

Comstock entered the safe room and checked the state of the backup battery for the alarm system.  It was green, meaning the alarm would continue to function for up to four months with no mains power supply, and the long range radio setup that Comstock had devised would warn him that he might not have a home to return to should the fire or intrusion sensor be tripped.  The system, based on VHF ham equipment, would easily reach to the bugout location.

“I think we’re ready to go,” Comstock announced.  They took one last look around, armed the alarm, picked up Smith and Wesson (who were very excited at the prospect of a car trip) and closed the door.  Comstock quickly ran a bead of silicone around the seam, then closed and bolted the security door on the outside.  Smith and Wesson jumped into the truck and into their travel carrier, and stared at Katie with their liquid black eyes, waiting for her to close the carrier door.  Katie did so, and started the truck, following Comstock out of the driveway and heading west.

August 1, 2007
1340 EDT
von Steuben Residence
Spencer, Indiana

“Hello?”  Richard von Steuben picked up the cordless phone to hear Jon Comstock on the other end.  “What’s going on, Jon?” Richard said.

“I got a tip from our friend in Virginia.  Shit may be getting ready to hit the fan.  Katie and I are on our way out now.”

“Fucking wonderful.  Not about you coming out, that is,” Richard chuckled.  “Call me on the FRS when you’re here.”  

“Will do.”

“Out here.”

great addition!

Thanks for the update.