Long Road to Survival: The Prepper Series Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Lee Bradford, William H. Weber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any material resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-1-926456-05-8

  Long Road to Survival:

  The Prepper Series

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Dedication

  To my wife and children.

  And to my mother who taught me from a young

  age to always pray for the best and prepare for the worst.

  Chapter 1

  The Hyundai Starex van cut through the sand-swept highway just north of the Yemeni port city of Aden at high speed. In the back was BBC foreign correspondent Nick Lowel and his crew: their local interpreter Naseem Al-Harazi; cameraman Jeremy Evans from Blackpool; and soundman Ellis Ferguson, an East Londoner with a penchant for loose women and dangerous situations. All four wore black bags pulled down over their heads.

  In the front seats were two men from an Al-Qaeda splinter group named the Islamic Liberation Organization. The organization’s declaration of war against America hadn’t been anything new, but the recent upstart’s close ties with major Saudi power players were. That was the main reason Nick Lowel had spent the better part of a month in Aden, trying to secure an interview with the group’s elusive leader, Abdul Shallah. A former CIA informant, Shallah had spent years studying the inner workings of the American intelligence apparatus he pretended to work for before revealing himself as a double agent.

  Truck bombs rammed into three American embassies throughout the Middle East, all within seconds of each other, had signalled his resignation. But far more than that, it had pointed toward a man with exceptional leadership and logistical abilities. If the CIA and FBI hadn’t been paying attention before, they certainly were now.

  Hence the black hoods and the top-secret location. To combat the threat of American drone strikes, the terrorists had painted a red crescent on the roof of the van, the Middle East’s equivalent of the Red Cross.

  Nick was certain that when his meeting with the terrorist leader made the nightly news, it would top even ABC reporter John Miller’s 1998 interview with Osama bin Laden.

  They drove for another hour in stifling hundred-degree heat. Yemen’s temperature was considered mild for the Middle East, a fact Nick was more thankful for than ever. His best guess was that they were being taken through the Al Maqatirah Mountains. But even in this line of work, knowing too much could put your life in danger.

  Nick squeezed his cameraman Jeremy Evans’ arm as a way of making sure his friend and colleague was okay. A thirst was clawing at Nick’s throat, made desperate with the knowledge he couldn’t lift his hood even if he had anything to drink. Jeremy returned the gesture and passed it on to the others in the rear.

  The van slowed to the sound of goats crossing the road in front of them. The ILO fighter in the front passenger seat turned around and spoke in a thick foreign accent.

  “It will not be much longer,” he said. “Do not try to remove your hoods.”

  He didn’t exactly say, “or else you’ll be shot,” but the implication was pretty clear.

  Nick’s heart was pounding in his ears the way it always did before a major story. For a moment, he tried to place the man’s accent. He wasn’t a Yemeni, that was for sure. He sounded French, maybe Algerian. The international makeup of ILO’s jihadists would form the backbone of Nick’s report. They were galvanizing disenfranchised young men and women from around the globe—Muslims and Christians alike—each searching for meaning in an otherwise bland and safe Western existence. Nick had done a story back in 2009 on how teenagers in middle-class neighborhoods resorted to crime as a cure for boredom. It seemed a parent’s drive to provide their children with a peaceful environment filled with great opportunities sometimes backfired. But police in suburbs around America didn’t need to watch Nick’s report to know that rebellious teenagers in search of excitement often showed poor impulse control.

  The real game-changer was the ILO’s use of the internet as a recruiting tool. Now young men and women in unprecedented numbers were stepping on flights bound for the Middle East in order to join the terrorist organization. The idea sounded romantic, but by the time they grasped the brutal reality of life as a jihadi fighter, it was too late to go back home.

  The van pulled to a sudden stop, forcing Nick and the others to brace themselves against the seats before them. A figure scrambled into the back and ripped their hoods off. Blinding sunlight burned their squinting eyes. As they adjusted, a desert landscape began to take shape. Before them sat a series of low mud-brick buildings, not the sort of opulence one would expect from a terrorist organization pulling in millions a day from donations, extortions and a host of other illegal activities. But Nick knew the simple dwellings were another tactic designed to fool American drones.

  The driver exited and strode to the back door, sliding it open with a swing of his powerful arm. When he spoke, he had the slightest hint of a British accent.

  “We are here,” he told them, motioning to one of the humble buildings. “Abdul Shallah will see you now.”

  Chapter 2

  The room they were led into might as well have been in a remote Afghan village. A patterned Persian rug covered the dusty floor. A mahogany chair with wide armrests sat against the far wall. Behind it stood a black curtain and laid out on the ground before the chair were a half-dozen pillows.

  Nick and his men were instructed to set up their equipment and they did as they were told, checking battery life and mounting the Sony Betacam on its tripod. For a normal interview, a minimum of two cameras were used, sometimes three—one for the interviewer, one for the interviewee and a third for a wide-angle shot of both of them. Given the dimness of the room, Nick wondered if lighting would be a problem, but they’d simply have to make do.

  Moments later, after they’d finished their preparations, Abdul Shallah entered. He wasn’t particularly tall or short. Nor particularly handsome or repugnant. In fact, he was rather average-looking. The kind of man who could walk the street without drawing a second glance. And perhaps that was the secret to his success. In another life he might have been a bus driver, a fish merchant or even a beggar, but somehow fate had placed him here at this time and place and Nick was determined to introduce the We
stern world to the man he believed was their biggest threat.

  Shallah sat in the mahogany chair and began talking. Right from the start it became clear the terrorist leader wasn’t interested in questions. He had a message he wanted to get out.

  “Fellow sons and daughters of Allah, join me in rejoicing in the utter annihilation of America,” Shallah began. For the next several moments the man railed against the world’s only superpower over a litany of perceived abuses. Nick’s spirits began to dim. Had he come all this way to hear the very same garbage the ILO had posted all over YouTube? He wasn’t here to act as a delivery boy for Shallah’s message of hate. The terrorist group had promised a scoop like no other. They’d said they’d seen Nick’s work on the BBC and admired his commitment to covering stories in the region. That was how they’d convinced him to make the trip, dragging his reluctant crew along with him. Now it was beginning to look as though Nick had made a mistake. He could just imagine their drive back to the hotel in Aden. It would be quiet, the air filled with accusing glances from Jeremy and Ellis. Their interpreter Naseem would be far less bothered since, as the Americans liked to say, he didn’t have any skin in the game.

  Then Shallah paused to sip the tea next to him. Steam rose up from the small cup as he brought it to his lips. When he set it back down, there was a change in his expression. It was as though he’d addressed the party line and was now free to move on to the story Nick had been promised.

  “Over the past six years,” Shallah began, “contacts in Pakistan, Iran, North Korea, and Russia have helped us procure ten nuclear warheads.”

  Nick felt the moisture in his mouth evaporate at once. He glanced back at their only camera to make sure Shallah’s words were being recorded.

  “Each of these weapons has been loaded onto cargo ships destined for ports along every shore of the United States. God willing, the carnage which will follow will make 9/11 seem like child’s play. Today the students become the masters.”

  When Shallah stopped speaking, no one in the tiny mud structure uttered a single word. Even their breathing seemed to have stopped. Nick remembered bin Laden’s interview in ’98. He’d boasted about bringing America to its knees, but at the time he’d been vague, saying the world would learn about what they’d done on the news. Shallah’s terrorist threat was far more specific.

  That sinking feeling in the pit of Nick’s belly was still there as Shallah rose from his seat and left the room. Each of the men turned and stared at one another. But it was the look of fear creeping up Naseem’s face which told Nick they had good reason to be worried. Not just because of what was about to happen—assuming that Shallah’s threat was real—but more because if it was, then Nick and the others knew far too much.

  After leaving the Westerners, Abdul Shallah found his second-in-command Hasan Al-Umari. “Is everything in place?”

  “All ships have reported in,” Hasan replied. He had pale skin even for an Afghan and piercing blue eyes to complete the illusion that he’d been born on a different continent. “They are approaching the shore as we speak. God willing our plan has not been compromised.”

  “Good. Tell them to await my command.”

  Hasan nodded, lowering his head. “What should be done about the reporters?”

  “Hold them for now,” Shallah said. “We cannot risk word getting out before the non-believers receive the full measure of the education in store for them.”

  “Understood.”

  “Only then will the infidels see the face of the man who brought America to its knees.”

  Chapter 3

  Forty-six-year-old Paul Edwards was fixing a leaky pipe in the basement of his house when the phone rang. At least, he was doing his best—but a handyman he was not and what had begun as a simple leak was fast becoming a flood.

  He glanced up briefly before returning to tightening the brass compression fitting. Might help if I cut the water first, he chided himself. Paul went to the main valve and twisted the blue handwheel until the dripping stopped.

  Voilà.

  Whoever said he wasn’t good with his hands? His wife would be proud.

  Upstairs the phone was still screaming for his attention. After eight rings the voice mail would kick in. If it was important enough, whoever was calling would leave a message. No message meant they were probably a telemarketer. A call that usually went something like:

  “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Paul Edwards, please?”

  “You got him.”

  “Mr. Edwards, this is a courtesy call on behalf of Tri-America to let you know how you can lower your monthly interest rates.”

  “Thanks, but I already got that one covered. Don’t borrow from the banks. Now it’s my turn to ask you a question. You ever heard of the national telemarketer no-call list?”

  That was when the line usually went dead.

  Upstairs the phone stopped ringing for barely a moment before it started up again.

  The only person who called back like that was Paul’s wife Susan, and the only time she did that was when there was an emergency. Heart beating a little quicker, Paul set the wrench down on top of the ladder, stepped down and began heading upstairs.

  Susan was down in Atlanta at Georgia State University, helping their daughter Autumn, a freshman, put the finishing touches on her new apartment. The week before Paul had been down there himself, helping Autumn set up a giant stack of Ikea furniture, and he still had the callouses to prove it. Now it was Susan’s turn to head down and work her own brand of magic. It also gave the girls an excuse to indulge in their favorite pastime: shoe shopping.

  But that wasn’t a problem since Paul had learned to appreciate whatever alone time he could get. Besides, it would give him a chance to finally balance the books for his music store in Greenwood, Nebraska and maybe even write a new song or two while he was at it.

  In the late eighties, Paul had been what his daughter would have called a celebrity. Although back then rock star would have done just fine. Nowadays, another term had grown up to describe the meteoric rise and fall of Paul Edward’s career: One-hit wonder.

  Paul reached the cordless phone in the kitchen in the middle of the fifth ring.

  “Everything all right, honey?”

  Susan was out of breath. “Have you been watching the news?”

  Paul’s heart was moving from a rapid thump into a full-blown gallop. “What’s going on?”

  “Just do it.”

  Crossing the room with the phone to his ear, Paul did as she said and switched on the TV. The station was set to ESPN, since that was what he’d been watching last night as he ate dinner alone. The Mets had been playing the Brewers. He flicked it over to a news channel.

  A woman holding a microphone stood beside a shipping container with what looked like Russian writing on the bow.

  “Authorities have begun to evacuate Seattle’s main port after sensors detected high levels of radioactivity coming from one of the containers on board an incoming freighter. Originating from the Russian port of Vladivostok, the ship appears to be owned and operated by Dobroflot Shipping.”

  Paul flipped the channel. But it didn’t matter where he went since all of them were covering the same story.

  The shipping lanes were America’s Achilles heel. The Department of Homeland Security was taking measures to screen incoming cargo vessels for radioactive materials smuggled in by terrorists intent on constructing a dirty bomb in American streets. But the prohibitive costs meant only a small percentage of cargo containers could be scanned.

  As usual, CNN was having a field day.

  “Calls to the Russian shipping company weren’t immediately returned. Still more puzzling to authorities is the identity of the captain and crew of the suspect vessel. All of them appear to be from the Middle Eastern country of Yemen.”

  The phone wasn’t next to Paul’s ear anymore, but he could still hear the muffled sound of Susan speaking.

  “It’s all right,” he tried to tell her. “The Fe
ds have the ship, all they gotta do now is pinpoint the container it’s in….”

  Those words had no sooner come out of his mouth when the screen lit up with a blinding flash of light. The reporter only had time to start turning her head before she disappeared and the image cut back to a surprised anchorman.

  “Looks like we’ve lost the connection. We’ll try and get that back up and….” The anchor’s finger went to his ear. The producer was saying something and Paul could see the tension building in the anchorman’s facial features. “We’re getting reports of an explosion in Seattle.”

  They cut to a shot from the outskirts of Seattle and Paul gasped at what he saw. The distinctive shape of a mushroom cloud rising up over the city.

  Fumbling for the remote, Paul turned the volume up. He put the phone back to his ear. “You seeing this?” he asked Susan.

  Then from the television: “Additional word coming in now of another explosion in Los Angeles. Reports from BBC correspondent Nick Lowel indicate a group led by the enigmatic Abdul Shallah and calling itself the Islamic Liberation Organization has taken responsibility for the unthinkable attack.”

  The news then played a brief clip of the terrorist as he gloated about destroying America.

  “Susan?” Paul asked, not even trying to mask the fear growing in his voice. “Honey, you still there?”

  “Paul?”

  “Stay where you are, I’m coming to get… hello? Susan? Hello?”

  But the phone line was dead.

  Paul rushed for his Blackberry that was charging next to the couch and saw then that he had close to ten missed calls, all from Susan. Frantically, he dialed her back. But nothing happened.