Darren T. Fuller sat at his desk in his office, looking thoughtfully at the red cell phone he was holding in his right hand. He was thinking about the conversation he had just had on it earlier that morning. Being the Director of the ATD, the Anti-Terrorist Division of the FBI, was not an easy job. He was where he was today because he had long since proven that he was a man capable of getting the job done. He was a born leader among men and the people he was over respected him, even loved him. He never expected from them what he didn’t expect from himself. They were responsible for carrying out his orders and doing their job, but he was responsible for much more than that.
Fuller had been in the Marines for most of his life, and he had quickly moved up in rank. His performance as a military officer had been beyond outstanding. He had been in Afghanistan, Syria, Guam, and Iran. He went above and beyond the call of duty during Desert Storm. He had personally led a successful rescue operation to free American hostages in Syria. With his accomplishments, no one was surprised how quickly his career had led him to his latest position.
It was because of the efforts of himself and his division of agents which led to the arrest of a terrorist named Abdullah Muhaffit a month prior. The terrorist had been caught with a nuclear smart bomb inside a suitcase in New York City. Fuller’s top agents, Lenox and Barrington, made the arrest themselves, and the only reason Lenox hadn’t killed the man was because they needed answers. Lenox had interrogated the man personally after waiting unsuccessfully for the interrogators assigned for the job to make the man talk. The interrogators had been unsuccessful and were in turn uncooperative to agents Lenox and Barrington. Lenox took it upon himself to kidnap the terrorist, and had taken him to the Manhattan bridge where he “interrogated” the terrorist without mercy. Within an hour, the man had admitted there were six more smart bombs with six secret locations which he did not know of. The man was close to death by the time Lenox returned him. Fuller used just about every favor owed to him to keep Lenox instated in his division.
The ATD used every resource they could to find the six remaining bombs. Their sources helped them locate another one in Washington DC, and even though the agents there were able to get to the bomb, the terrorist keeping it had been killed.
Fuller hadn’t been convinced there were six additional bombs until that second one had been found. He was a man who was very concerned about the state of affairs of the entire world. The Islamic radicals were on the rise and becoming bolder every day since 9 - 11. Fuller genuinely feared for his country and for Israel, because he knew that they were the primary targets for terrorist attack. He was also convinced Israel was the main focus of what some had labeled as the Religious War. Those people only had it half right. It was a war on theology, and the Muslim State were far more dangerous today than they ever were.
The grey-haired man once again glanced at the red cell phone in his hand. It was a constant reminder of why he hated his job so much. Even though the red cell phone gave him access to an old time friend, it also meant every time he talked on it, something was about to happen that could not be avoided. As he mulled over what he had discussed, there was a knock on the door.
It was a knock that told him who was at the door. No one else ever knocked inthat way. No one ever had the gall to knock the way this person knocked. It was as if the door was not a door, but a drum. Bam bam bam, bam bam bam bam, bam bam bam, bam bam bam bam. There was almost a rhythm to it. The one thing for certain was that Fuller found it most annoying, but because of the brilliant mind behind the man who owned the obnoxious knock, he was willing to forgive him some of his strange behaviors.
“It’s open,” Fuller called out.
But the knocking continued.
Fuller sighed. “William, the door is open!”
And the rhythmic, annoying knocking commenced without skipping a beat. That’s when he realized his mistake. He was telling the knocker the door was open, but it wasn’t open. It was closed, hence, the knocking. If he had told anyone else that the door was open, they would have simply opened the door and stepped into his office. But he should have known that wouldn’t happen where William “Crazy Man” Fronk was concerned. Fronk took him literally at his word the way he took every one. To him, the door was not at all open, so therefore, he was going to continue knocking.
Fuller let out a weary sigh and raised his voice. “Open the door, and come in!”
The door swung open, slamming into the wall, and Fronk entered the room. His long auburn hair, Workhouse jeans with multiple pockets, bright red shirt with a photo of Bob Denver and the words “Save Gilligan” beneath it, and dirty white ankle-high tennis shoes did not give him the appearance of one who worked as an FBI agent. Fuller always received strange looks from people when they entered the ATD Center and saw Fronk for the first time. One visitor had actually pointed at Fronk and asked Director Fuller, “How do you explain that?” To which Fuller had forlornly responded with, “I can’t.”
The truth of the matter was he could explain it. Fronk was a computer wizard far above the top of his class. He was employed within the agency, but had seen very little field work. This was simply because what he did best was sit behind a computer and fight terrorism over the internet. Fuller found the young man annoying at times, but he also saw him as the son he never had.
“If I could just have a moment of your time, Skipper,” Fronk began as he closed the door.
Fuller sighed. “I really wish you would stop calling me that.”
Fronk began to pace the room as he often did when one of his many rants was about to begin. “Oh, but ‘Skipper’ is the only thing I can call you, because it fits! You aren’t a professor, but you do have that elderly tutorial look about you, I must admit.” He tossed his hands up dramatically and exclaimed, “No, sir, Skipper...you cannot be called by-”
Fuller leaned back in his seat. “William,” he interrupted, “can you just tell me about the plan you’ve been working on?”
Fronk stopped, turned to regard him for a moment, and then finally nodded. “Oh, absopositivalutely, my fearless leader. The plan, as you have called it, is in motion as we speak. Actually, it has been in motion since it has been discovered that Iran was implementing an EMP program against us. Since I have been called upon to look into it, our chances to counter this attack has risen by…Oh…” He paused and looked about the room as if he could pull a statistic from the air.
Fuller recognized the body language. He knew Fronk all too well. “In spite of your brilliant mind, it hasn’t risen by much, has it?”
“Well, we did gain a slight 10% marginal increase.“
“Great,“ Fuller grumbled, “we went from 28% to 38%. Would you mind telling me where the other 62% are going to come from?“
Fronk paused. “Remember what I told you before? Months ago when you brought this to me? I told you we need a remote place, away from the city.”
“New York doesn’t have a terrorist with a nuke.”
“We’re talking about an EMP attack, Skipper. An Electro-Magnetic-Pulse. It in itself is a different kind of nuke. It could cripple us within a billionth of a second. And that’s fast! They hit us with that, the US will have no power, no transportation, no communication…No zip! Nada! Nothing.”
Fuller paused. “We have a remote place, William. It was set up upon your recommendations.”
Fronk leaned over his Director’s desk and with his eyes wide open, looked into his face. “You did? When? Why wasn’t I told?”
“I did. I put the wheels in motion right after our first discussion. And to answer your third question...you work for me, remember?”
The Crazy Man slowly righted himself. Then, he nodded thoughtfully. “Riiiight,” he said slowly. “Your signature is on my paycheck, after all.” He slapped himself in the forehead. “What was I thinking?”
“I really have no idea.”
Fronk regarded him. “So everything was done as I had recommended?”
“The remote area has no connection to any power lines. It's all generated power. Conducers take in the power of the sun and store it at night.”
Fronk smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Hey, I saw that on Extreme Makeover; Home Edition. I’m sure if Gilligan had been given just a few seasons more, the Professor would have been able to-”
“William.”
Fronk blinked. “Yeah?”
“We’ve got a couple of places prepared for this attack - if there is an attack. But it really isn’t going to be enough, is it?”
Fronk paused. “Most of America will be blind. Planes will fall from the sky if they are affected, and most of them - if not all - will be affected. Communication will be stopped. Cell phones will not work.”
Fuller looked once more at the red cell phone he had placed on his desk when Fronk had entered the room earlier.
Fronk glanced at it, too. He knew about the red cell phone and why it was so important. “I can fix the phones from our remote location, Skipper. It'll have to come next. If you have these remote areas and we can contact each other by computer after this thing hits, we'll have more of a chance than the crew of the USS Minnow did.”
The Director let out a sigh, and shook his head. “For the life of me, I have no idea what your fascination is with this television program, but I have to be frank…You’re worst than a Trekkie.” He paused. “And a lot scarier, too.”
“To be serious, Skipper, if this thing hits…I think I’d rather be on a deserted island than here. Of course…I’d like my computer there, too. And Little Debbie Swiss Rolls.” He sighed. "They're sooooo delightfully yummy."
“Is there anything else? Something you came in here to really see me about?”
Fronk turned around and looked out the window. He had his back to Fuller now, and that was not a good sign. If he couldn’t be the Crazy Man he was known to be and if he was even the slightest bit scared, he wouldn’t make eye contact with any one. He didn’t make any now with Fuller. He even cleared his throat, another bad sign. “I think it’s time, Director.”
Fuller recognized the third sign. Fronk had not called him Skipper. “Time for what?”
“I need to be at the remote area you had set up.”
“Do you want to tell me why?”
Fronk didn’t turn around. “I have a bad feeling…That’s all. Something isn’t right. It just…it doesn’t feel right. I would feel safer doing what I do best.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”
Fuller nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. I’ll see to it that you’re at the Adirondacks in a few hours.”
Fronk turned to face him. “The Adirondacks? It should be pretty up there. Too bad I wasn’t a leaf collector.” He headed for the door. He opened it and suddenly stopped to turn back. “Oh, say, did you want to speak to Mary Ann?”
Fuller couldn't resist rolling his eyes. “Her name is Nichole, William, and you know she doesn’t like to be called Mary Ann.”
“Yeah, I know.” He put his hand to his mouth and whispered, “But I only call her Mary Ann when she isn’t listening.”
“Send her in.”
“Tell The White Man Who Lives In The White House that The Crazy Man Who Works In A Grey Building says ‘Hello!’ next time you speak words with him,” Fronk replied in a deep, narratative voice. With that, he turned and made his exit.
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