FO4R

FO4R




A NOVEL BY J.A.S.Z.I.







PROLOGUE




My name is Jeffrey Thomas Crooms. The pseudonym I write under is J.A.S.Z.I.
I was compelled to write this novel because I wanted to make America aware of what could happen if we are not more pragmatic in the way we treat our global counterparts. I wanted to open America’s eyes to the potential dangers that may lurk ahead. I wanted to affect change. Even though I have never won any writing contests, prizes, or awards of any kind, I know how we, as Americans, are negatively perceived beyond our borders. Unlike most Americans, I have traveled across oceans and have listened closely to what people on the other side of them are saying about us. I was deeply disturbed…very deeply disturbed.

The scenario I submit in “FO4R” should not be perceived as anti-American because it is not. Despite its aggressive texture, it is pro-American and pro-humanity. As you travel through its pages, please do so with an open mind, and always remember that the soliloquy that is truth has always and will always have two very distinct versions: the factual version and the subversion. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. Thank you and God Bless America…



CHAPTER ONE

Air flight 323 bound from Israel to New York City cruised into New York airspace just as it had a thousand times before. Maintaining a steady cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, it remained that way until landing instructions poured in from Tower Control. Following those instructions like an obedient child, it descended through puffy clouds of white and gray and kept on descending until it touched-down at Kennedy Airport.

The plane’s colossal tires skidded and bounced down the recently rained upon landing strip to their designated spot on the tarmac and then stopped. As the engines shut down, three separate crews converged on it like swarms of biblical locusts. The first crew attached a jetway to it, the second commenced the frenzied yet highly organized task of luggage removal, and the third refueled and de-iced it.

While all of this was taking place, both passengers and crew should have disembarked…but they didn’t. No one did. So sensing that something was amiss, three airline employees ran through the jetway to the door of the plane. They tried opening it but it wouldn’t budge, and despite attempts to raise anyone by voice, no one answered. So they ran back into the terminal and alerted the Port Authority Police Department who, in turn, dispatched one of their officers to the scene.

Just like the others before him, he ran through the jetway and stopped at the door. He paused for a moment then tried to open it. When he realized he couldn’t, he placed his ear against it and listened for sounds. But there were none. He moved away from it and struck it mightily with his fist. “Everyone alright in there?” Open the door!” he yelled.

At first, nothing happened. Then, the door slowly creaked open, independent of human assistance. His heart raced and his throat flew into his mouth. He swallowed hard, unbuckled his holster, and unsheathed his gun, a M37 hypervelocity magnetic pulse hand-cannon.

“Who did that?”

No one answered.

The officer was about to board the plane when the authoritative voice of his commanding officer crackled through his walkie-talkie.

“Johnson. What the hell’s going on down there? Over.”

With a tight grip on his cannon, he grabbed his walkie-talkie and placed it to his lips. His eyes never left the door. “Don’t know yet, sir. It’s as quiet as a cemetery in there. Over.”

“You need back-up? Over.”

“No, sir. Over.”

“Keep me posted and stay alert. Over.”

“Roger that, sir. Over and out.”

He put the walkie-talkie back in his pocket, nervously ran his fingers through his hair, and proceeded cautiously onto the plane. He had barely cleared the threshold when an unspeakably repugnant stench slammed him in the face like a shotgun blast. “What the fuck?!”

Coughing and hacking like he had just swallowed a bottle of poison, he pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, placed it over his mouth and nose, and continued warily onward. “Anybody here?”

Again, no one answered.

As he walked through the eerily silent cabin with his handkerchief over his mouth and nose and his hand-cannon drawn, he checked first-class, business-class and the cockpit. All three areas were curiously empty. He paused for a moment then headed for coach.

Even though the academy had thoroughly trained him to handle crisis-situations, no training on earth could have prepared him for the evil that lurked on the other side of the curtain that separated business and first-class from coach. As soon as he pulled it open, he was stunned by what he saw. In identical stages of decomposition, and with faces replete with sores, mold, and grossly enlarged pores, all the passengers and flight attendants were dead in their seats. Their bloody eyes were large and completely white, their teeth were rotted, their skin was gray, and their fingernails were black. In all of his days on the force, he had never seen anything like it.

Frightened that whatever had happened to the passengers and crew would soon overtake him as well, he tried to flee but stumbled and fell over the carcass of the Air Marshall. With his face smashed against the Air Marshall’s rotting face, he vomited all over it, jumped up like a rocket, and bolted off the plane.

As he ran through the jetway his right shoe flew off, but he refused to stop and retrieve it. Without breaking stride, he ran straight over to one of the terminal windows overlooking the plane. As he looked at it, he pulled out his walkie-talkie and radioed his commanding officer. “Central Station. This is Johnson. Over.”

There was a brief pause then a response crackled through.

“What’s going on down there? Over.”

“I think we’ve got a terrorist situation down here, sir. They’re all dead! Over.”

“Explain. Over.”

“They’re all dead, sir. No survivors. Over.

“You back in the terminal? Over.

“Yes, sir. Over.”

“How many civilians are in the area? Over.”

Johnson looked around and did a quick head-count. “Five, sir. What should I do?

“Move everyone into the Admiral’s Lounge. I don’t want anyone near that plane, understand? I’ll be down in a minute. Over and out.”

He put the walkie-talkie back in its holster and looked at the plane through the window again. As it consumed his attention, an adorable little girl walked over to him eating vanilla ice-cream on a cone. She’d noticed his shoeless foot and was puzzled.

“You Ok, mister? ‘Cause you don’t look so good.” Residue from the ice-cream framed her tiny mouth.

He didn’t respond because he was too immersed in thought.

Refusing to be ignored she yanked his sleeve.

Barely feeling her tug, he looked down and acknowledged her. “Well hello there little one.” He smiled at her warmly. “And what can I do for you?”

“Are you Ok, mister? “’Cause you don’t look so good,” she repeated licking her ice-cream. Just as he was about to respond, her face went blank, her eyes turned white and she dropped her ice-cream. Then, in the haunting echoing voice of a thousand distinctly different voices from a thousand distinctly different ancient men speaking all together at once but at different speeds, she recited bible verses from 1st Corinthians 15:51-15:52 in ancient Aramaic. “BEHOLD, I TELL YOU A MYSTERY. WE SHALL NOT ALL SLEEP, BUT WE SHALL ALL BE CHANGED. IN A MOMENT, IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE, AT THE LAST TRUMPET. FOR THE TRUMPET WILL SOUND, AND THE DEAD WILL BE RAISED INCORRUPTABLE, AND WE SHALL ALL BE CHANGED.” Her chin dropped down to her chest and rested there for a second and then she was back to normal…as if nothing happened.

No longer smiling, the officer stared at her. Did he hear and see what he thought he heard and saw, or did he imagine it? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was just his tired mind playing tricks on him. “What did you just say to me?”

“I asked if you were Ok. ‘Cause if you’re not, I’ll get you some help. I’m connected like that.” She winked at him.

“First the plane, and now this. What the hell’s going on around here,” he thought to himself.

Just then, her mother ran up to her and grabbed her forcefully by the arm. “Jesus Susan! You scared me half to death! How many times has mommy told you never to leave her side when we’re out of the house?” She was infuriated, but at the same time relieved.

“With a sad look on her face, the little girl looked into her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry mommy. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll never do it again. I promise.”

Unable to resist her daughter’s charm, she picked the little girl up like a shopping bag full of eggs and pulled her close. She kissed her then looked over at the officer and smiled a smile uncomfortable smile. “I’m so sorry, officer. You know how kids are these days.”

He smiled back at her to put her at ease. “No harm done.”

“Say goodbye to the nice officer, sweetheart,” she said rubbing her nose against her daughter’s.

“Goodbye nice officer. Hope you feel better soon.” She waved.

“Have a nice evening, officer,” said the mother. She walked away with her daughter in her arms.

He smiled cautiously and returned the little girl’s wave. “Good night.” They continued waving until they were out of each other’s sight.

Sensing that his commanding officer would arrive any minute, he hastily directed everyone into the Admiral’s Lounge. He had just escorted the last person into the lounge when his boss, Captain McNamara startled him by tapping him on the shoulder from behind. He was flanked on either side by C.I.A. agents.

“Johnson! These fellas here are with the C.T.U. (the C.I.A.’s Counter Terrorism Unit). He pointed to each agent as he introduced them. “This is Special Agent Gellar, Special Agent Kryzinski and Captain McCleary.”

Each agent shook Officer Johnson’s hand as his name was called.
“Gentlemen, this is Officer Alonso Johnson,” continued Captain McNamara. He patted Officer Johnson proudly on the back. “Johnson’s one of our best men.”

“Captain McNamara tells me everyone onboard is dead…that true?” asked Captain McCleary. He made it conspicuously obvious that he didn’t want to waste another second on formalities and irrelevant chit-chat.

“Yes, sir. And they looked like they’d been that way for weeks. I never saw anything like it,” replied Officer Johnson. Just thinking about it made his stomach turn, but he tried not to show it.

“Then let’s get in there and see what we’ve got. That Ok with you Captain?” asked Captain McCleary.

“Affirmative,” replied Captain McNamara appreciatively. He turned to Officer Johnson and placed his hand on his shoulder. “No one gets in or out of here. Got me?”

“Understood, sir.”

“This way gentlemen,” said Captain McNamara. He led the way through the jet-way.

With stern and resolute looks on their faces, they walked swiftly to the door of the plane and stopped. It was still open from when Officer Johnson whizzed through it. They all looked at each other waiting to see who’d enter first. When no one budged, Captain McCleary cleared his throat and walked through the door.

As soon as they were all onboard, they experienced the same repugnant stench that Officer Johnson did. They coughed and gagged as they soldiered forward into business and first class. When they arrived, they were shocked to see that both areas were completely empty. But what shocked them even more was that the door of the cockpit was slightly ajar. Captain McCleary was the first to notice. He silently waved both of his arms to get everyone’s attention. He placed his index finger across his lips, pointed to the cockpit door and drew his M37.

Following his lead, they drew their guns and trained them on the door. “Cover me. I’m going in,” he mouthed.

They all acknowledged him by nodding their heads, and as soon as they did, he barreled into the cockpit like Dirty Harry. The others were right behind him. But when they got there, it too was mysteriously empty.

“What the fuck?!” exclaimed Captain McNamara.
The others were just as shocked.

“How the hell does a plane fly all the way here from the Middle East without a goddamn pilot?” He looked befuddled…confused.

Agent Kryzinski, a 33 year old highly decorated forensic technology specialist, immediately unlocked the answer to the perplexing riddle. He walked into the cockpit, reached under the Captain’s seat, pulled out a small metallic rectangular device, and brought it back to the others. “Here’s how.”

They all hovered around it for a closer look.

“What the hell is it?” asked Captain McNamara.

“A remote control transmitter. It’s how they got this thing from there to here,” replied Kryzinski.

“Well I’ll be damned! Then where are the pilots?” asked Captain McNamara.

Without saying a word, Captain McCleary ran past them into coach. When he got there, he couldn’t believe what he saw. He put his fingers under his tongue and whistled for the others.

With their weapons drawn, they ran into coach.

Captain McCleary turned to forensic epidemiologist Agent Gellar for answers. “What do you make of this? Ever see anything like it?”

With a blank look on his face, Agent Gellar shook his head in the negative as he looked at the victims. “Never.”

“Then let’s get cracking. Chop. Chop,” ordered Captain McCleary. He clapped his hands twice for emphasis and both agents scattered.

Agent Kryzinski combed the plane for more suspicious devices while Agent Gellar collected blood and tissue samples. The two captains stayed behind and supervised.

“So what do you make of it? Terrorism?” asked Captain McNamara.

Captain McCleary looked worried. Like he knew something even more sinister was on the horizon. “Let’s hope not, Captain. God help us, let’s hope not.”

In the two hours it took to complete their assignments, Agent Gellar garnered two hundred and fifty tubes of blood and tissue samples.

“You boys get everything you need?” asked Captain McCleary.

“Yes, sir,” they replied in tandem.

“Good. Then let’s get the hell off this coffin,” said Captain McCleary. He led the way out.

“Last man out close the door,” said Captain McNamara. He was right behind Captain McCleary.

Agent Kryzinski made sure the door was closed.

About half way through the jet-way, Captain McNamara saw a black rubber-sole shoe lying against the wall. He recognized it immediately as Officer Johnson’s and slipped it under his coat when no one was looking.

As soon as they reached the terminal, Officer Johnson spotted them and hurried to wrap things up with a cute little customer service representative he’d been trying to seduce. “What do you say we continue this intriguing conversation a little later…like over dinner.” He winked at her flirtatiously.

She smiled back at him and free-styled a numeric elixir into his ear. As she walked away, she made a telephone receiver with her hand and mouthed, “Call me later.”

“Any problems?” asked Captain McNamara.

“No, sir. Everything’s under control,” replied Officer Johnson. He slid his shoeless foot behind the customer service booth.

“What happened in there, sir?”

“Too early to tell. Except it was flown here by remote control,” replied Captain McNamara.

Officer Johnson couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Remote control?”

“I think we’re done here, Captain. Thanks for the cooperation,” interjected Captain McCleary. He shook Captain McNamara’s hand. “We’ll keep you posted.”

“No problem, Captain. It was a real pleasure watching “the big boys” work,” replied Captain McNamara. He shook the hands of both agents and then the three men departed.

Captain McNamara waited until they were out of ear-shot before chiding Officer Johnson. He pulled the shoe out from under his jacket and dangled it in front of Officer Johnson’s face. “I assume this belongs to you.” He craned his neck trying to see Officer Johnson’s foot behind the desk.

Understanding the jig was up Officer Johnson dragged his foot to the fore. “I can explain, sir.”

Captain McNamara motioned Officer Johnson to stop explaining by holding up his hand. “Save it Johnson. I don’t even want to know. Just take it. And try not to lose it next time.”

“Yes, sir.” He took the shoe and slipped it back onto his foot.

“Hold the line. I’m going back to the station.”

“Yes, sir.”

And then Captain McNamara walked away.