DISTANT THUNDER by Jimmy Root, Jr.

Title:  Distant Thunder
Author: Jimmy Root, Jr.
Publisher: American Book Publishers
Genre: Prophetic Fiction Thriller
Language: English
Purchase at American Book Publishers

Leavenworth, Kansas
National Military Cemetery
October 15

There was so much pain and loss; it was nearly beyond his ability to bear. More than an hour had passed since the grave had been filled, yet there sat his mother, silently adjusting a wreath and several arrangements of flowers against his brother’s headstone. He had to turn away, but even then, the sights of the cemetery were overwhelming.

White crosses marched into the distance at every angle, stony-white and cold. Sunlight, occasionally forcing its way through the cloudy autumn sky, starkly proclaimed that death was commander on this parade ground. Of all the pages of honor that might be written about the fallen, none would mask the reality that so many had been so futilely wasted, and for what? Liberty? Failed ambitions giving way to political expediency? The latter was the claim of the ever-present cynics.

“America has no business being over there and this is what we get,” was the fatalistic pragmatism that most had taken hold of, and that view had prevailed. Last fall’s presidential election proved it. A “cut our losses” Vietnam rerun was the result, practically discounting the sacrificial death for home and country made by thousands.

A sigh was all Ty Dempsey could manage as he waited a short distance away from his kneeling mother, Martha. Though only thirty-two, he’d accumulated six years of experience as a pastor. He thought he’d gone through every emotional extreme life had to offer. Taking care of others, feeling their grief, their joy, their anger, and even their disillusionment was his calling. But nothing had prepared him for this depth of pain.

Nathan J. Dempsey had been killed in Iraq just last week at age twenty-three, one of the final casualties of a haphazard withdrawal from the Middle East. By his mother’s side another fresh bouquet leaned against a cross, the marker of an old soldier gone on to be with his maker just two years before. Jimmy Dempsey had died at age sixty-four from a cancer, whose deadly seed had been sown in his body while he fought to survive the jungles of Vietnam.

Ty still mourned the death of his father, a man who’d been so adversely affected that even his family had been kept at an emotional arm’s distance. Though the he’d given a gallant effort, he could never break the vice-like grip of battle and death that had brutally held him for all these years. In the end, the old war itself mercifully brought closure to his suffering, both physically and mentally. But not to his mother, the grief that had been lurking all too near the surface since her husband’s death now cruelly hovered like the windy, cold clouds overhead.

Ty allowed himself the small comfort of leaning his solid, six foot, two frame against a large oak tree that would take on the responsibility of shading his brother’s grave, its crisp brown leaves soon to become a soft blanket over the dead. A sob was caught under the knot in his throat as he watched his mother stretch a hand toward her husband’s headstone. He could hardly contain his pain; his mind morbidly envisioned this brave woman being lowered into the hole that would someday be prepared between these two men that she loved so deeply, so completely.

“My God, how much pain should one person have to take?” he whispered. “Where’s the comfort in all of this hurt, this death?”

He looked toward the cemetery entrance at several crosses honoring other young men cut down before their lives had really begun, many for whom he’d performed a funeral service. He could still see his mother sharing silent strength and solace with women in deep hurt, placing an arm around one, organizing a dinner for another. How many times during those eulogies had he feared for the safety of his brother, or worried about the horrible pain they would experience should Nathan die?

A shade of guilt passed over him as he considered that fear again, a seeming lack of faith. Had what he’d feared most now come upon him? No, that cruelty was not part of his God. It was the irrationality of his own grief that he would have to sort through and bear.

Ty felt a wisp of wind cool his cheek where a tear had ended its quick flow. The last son faithfully stepped to his mother, gently placed his hand under the crook of her arm, and gave her the tug that signaled that the most difficult moment had arrived.

“It’s time to go Mom,” he said in a soft voice. “Folks will be waiting for us at the house.”

“I know, but part of me just wants to rest here, the part that is so tired of doing this,” she sighed. “I thought I’d prepared myself, but here I am, still asking God why it had to be Nathan. Is that wrong Ty? Is it wrong to wish this would have been somebody else’s boy?” Another tear pooled in her eye, and the corners of her small mouth quivered downward in pain.

“No Mom, you’re hurting and it is okay to ask that question. I’m asking some questions too.”

With one last adjustment to the wreath, she slowly stood. Once on her feet she paused as if another thought needed to be expressed, but she just couldn’t put the proper words to it. Then, with a quick, sad smile, and a pat of Ty’s hand, she turned and began the short walk from beneath the arms of the old oak to the waiting car. A house full of friends and well-wishers needed tending back in Plattsville.

Kansas City, Missouri
Later That Evening

Hamid Jamal could find little comfort. It wasn’t because of the later-than-normal traffic on the avenue below. The apprehension heaving in his gut rose from the prospects of botching the mission a few short days from now. He had no doubt that what he was embarking upon was holy in the eyes of Allah. He was also certain that the judgmental scrutiny of his superiors would be locked on him. That meant his eternity was hanging in the balance.

The pressure was eating at him and making his stomach churn. It was more than the poorly made humus he had enjoyed earlier in the evening. No, this abdominal tension rested solely on a prospect that brought him deep trepidation. Hamid was afraid that he might not be up to the gruesome task. Would he be able to fulfill what he believed was his earthly purpose, his very reason for being?

He rolled to his side and stared across the small room he’d holed up in these last few weeks. A bed, a convenience store, a near daily visit to the City Market’s Arabic restaurant, and a microwave were all Hamid needed to get by. Although the food was below his Iranian standards, it was a place that gave him the ability to blend into his surroundings in this American heartland city.

He had been quite pleasantly surprised at the quantities of middle-eastern men living in the downtown vicinity, not to mention their outspoken disdain for their host country’s politics and people. Freedom of speech was as foreign to him as he was to these odd capitalist infidels, but it proved itself something to be taken advantage of. Several times he’d allowed himself to inwardly ridicule the obvious softness of these pampered people. How could this be the nation that had silenced Saddam and subdued Khadafy? Not one of them would last a week living under the extreme demands of Islam in his native country of Iran. Their softness and wickedness would be exposed.

Still bothered and fidgety, Hamid rose from the bed and looked out his window toward the glowing building situated several blocks to the northeast. The huge, bowl-shaped, glass arena was just beginning to release the thousands of people who had gathered within its bowels for a concert. He wasn’t sure of the particular singer, nor the style of music being performed, but thousands of people filled the area and that was all that mattered. The traffic below was a confirmation that his chosen location would be the perfect place from which to send multitudes of infidels on a journey to the face of Allah. There, they would receive his severe judgment for their unbelief.

The contact that had set the final stages of the operation into motion was made ten days earlier. At a blind drop, Hamid had found a note written in Farsi with a single word written across its face, RETRIBUTION. The meaning was clear. One of the fabled Russian suitcase nuclear devices, supposedly missing for years, had arrived. As far as he knew, several were to have been loaded on various container ships in China, with destinations to ports in San Diego, Los Angeles, and Seattle. All were filled with crates of toys, the bombs nestled safely away and undetected. Ironically, one container ship carried the updated version of the famous G.I. Joe action figure for little boys.

Port security in this nation was absolutely baffling. Even after having suffered the attacks of 9-11, the American government remained an awkward behemoth in the area of homeland security. It had basically accomplished nothing beyond inspiring the irritation of its pampered travelers. That lax would be remedied by horror.

The transfer to local warehouses had evidently taken place without incident after the ships arrived at port. Shipment to key American cities, in which specific targets had been located, was to be handled by two nationally networked street-gangs who benefited by receiving a hefty sum of Iranian-based oil revenue. He easily imagined the money being multiplied by the illicit drug trade that infected the nation. That made him smile.

The presence of the note at the drop gave confirmation to a date previously established by his masters. It also verified that all targets were set, operatives were in place, and a spectacular display of Allah’s judgment was at hand. The Great Satan would be stricken and, as far as he knew, the little Satan, the illegal state of Israel, would also be a target for Allah’s retribution. The thought quickened his heartbeat and made him smile.

Running his long, slim fingers through his black hair, Hamid reached under the tattered lampshade resting on the table and switched it on. An arena pamphlet mapping all entrances, concourses, and seating sections had been laid out for several days of study.

His plan was simple. Knowing there was absolutely no possibility of entering the arena with a bomb strapped around his waist, he would make his way to the building from the south by walking among the enthusiastic, clueless crowds. He would follow the flow around the eastern concourse until he stood just outside what would be a crowded southeast entrance overlooking the busy interstate just below. He would choose the largest mass of concertgoers available and get into line to enter the building. From that point, the destruction would be complete and awesome.

The effect of these attacks in multiple cities would cripple the country. These people were living in a world of dreams that was about to be shattered. Here in this city, the masses had deceived themselves into believing that, simply by their location in the middle of the country, they were safe. He would prove them wrong in just a few short days…by the will of Allah.