“OH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTT” Frank screamed as he watched three suicide Jihadi’s charge towards them loaded with explosives.
Because they were so close he took them by the shoulders and spun all three of them into a side room, sprayed them with a layer of bullets, then closed the door and jumped out of the way to Spitball, Zinger and Superspace. In a technique as old as warfare, they put the dead bodies of other Jihadi’s on top of themselves for cover and hunkered down.
BAAAADOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!! The series of bomb explosions took down several walls by Frank and his men but fortunately did no damage to them except covering them in sheetrock dust. But it set Frank into a rage. He gritted his molars, spit a honker, screamed, “UUUUGHGHGHG!!!” and began to fly forward with complete abandon firing, rolling from side to side, and firing again.
As he did, Zinger, Spitball, and Superspace all followed him, driving rifle butts into anyone nearby, shooting those further away, and kicking whomever they could reach.
The critical mass of their rage spread like electricity to the marines, guards, and other Americans who had followed their penetration point into the White House. It was a White House rumble and the American street fighters were murdering the Jihadi’s street fighters with an energy that was like the capacitance charge of a power plant.
Everywhere inside that structure small teams of three and four American fighting men and women were attacking with Viking ferocity those who had attacked and taken over their homeland. Like the men who stormed Normandy beach, they did not have to be told by officers what to do now. They knew what they had to do…and fast.
Frank and his men fought their way back to the place they had left behind, the President’s bunker. When they found it they found American’s stacked sandbag-like by someone who wanted to make a final stand.
He signaled to his three men to back off and he motioned toward the vault’s door. He drew plastic explosives out of his rucksack, placed them strategically around the door, let everyone take cover, and then let it rip.
Fortunately for the Yanks, as Frank was later to testify before the Senate Intelligence Committee in a closed door session, the door imploded straight back. That was fortunate because standing behind that door were three of Adbullah’s men -- Hormoz Aghevli, MIT graduate, Azita Ansari, Princeton graduate, and Rasheed Chalou, formally Anfernee “MAC10” Darnelle Allen, graduate of the DC Public School System -- standing erect with three thermonuclear devices.
Frank had seen enough explosives to immediately recognize what was in front of him right now. One of these devices could eliminate all life for approximately thirty miles. In concert, they could eliminate life for one hundred fifty miles.
“Go ahead, American bad boys! Come a little closer and we all go to Allah, I as a martyr and you as shit! How brave are you against thermonuclear devices, eh? Said Hormoz. “Now show me what the All-American man can do!”
“Don’t do it, pal. Talk to me. What is it you want!?”
“Only what we came for. The President and a Palestinian state with its capital in Jerusalem. Oh, and no Jews in our world.” answered Azita.
Frank knew that, given the hand they were holding, the Jihadi’s were in control. In the rush of adrenaline that impending death feeds to the brain he thought of a wife that he should have told how much he loved and of boys that would never know him. He looked across at Rasheed and realized that any plan was better than doing nothing.
“Well, now, Whitey, seems we got the big guns now. Time to make up for four hundred fifty years of slavery in one big bang! What honor I do killing all those Jew blood suckers in one blast! What a fine party this is gonna be! Akbah Allah!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Hormoz shouted. Then he turned his attention to Frank. “Surely you’re not foolish enough to think you can fight us now!? You’re only hope is to pass along our demands to your generals and capitulate, yes!?”
Frank looked over at Superspace. “Man’s got a point, Frank. He lets that bad boy off we’re all dusted.”
“Redneck motherfuckin’ whitebread cracker makes sense, Frank!” Rasheed boasted. “Smart man for a blue-eyed devil member of the racist power structure!”
Then Frank noticed Superspace was scratching his face in an odd way. In a way that only men who have hunted together from childhood can know secret hand signals, Frank began to recognize an old hunting signal they used to exchange as children. Superspace meant to take out Rasheed.
All Frank could think of was that Superspace figured they were going to die anyway so why not go out fighting. Frank looked over at Spitball. He was scratching his beard and looking at Azita. Frank knew his mark was Hormoz. Superspace had Rasheed. But how to begin in concert?
“I’m glad you toy soldiers are not foolish enough to try anything. We will keep one of you alive to negotiate our exit from Washington. I assure you of that. What man will be stupid enough to risk detonating not only one, but three thermonuclear devices. Now you can give our fellow freedom fighter Rasheed your weapons.”
“Man, don’t tell that honky my name, man! What if...” as Rasheed bantered on Frank winked to his wing men. All three cut loose one shot, one kill through the jihadi skulls in front of them. With the grace and liquid speed of the superior athletes all four were, they leapt toward the crumbling bodies of the Jihadi’s and maneuvered under the dropping nuclear devices.
Although all four knew that such devices would have to have been armed to go off, there was never room for second guessing when it came to such weapons.
There was a moment of complete silence as they contemplated the fact that they held nuclear weapons in their hands, weapons with enough power to take out a good portion of the eastern United States. Then Zinger broke the tension.
“Is it true they invented alcohol to keep the Irish from ruling the world, Frank? Right now, I can say even though I stopped drinking eight years ago, let’s find a liquor cabinet and toast the angels that just flew our way.”
Frank, Superspace and Spitball all began to laugh, more to release the tension than out of getting the joke.
“Anybody know what we should do with these?” Frank asked.
“Well, yeah, Frank, I do.” answered Superspace. Let’s drop them on the countries that supported all these assholes.” And thus was born the germ of a project that would involve the intelligence services of Israel, the United States, Britain and Germany, National Security Project Number 23480894UC that did exactly that one week later.
When all four devices were dropped on Mecca and Medina, a message was delivered to the financiers of al-Qaeda, ISIS, the July 4th Task Forth, and all the Mohammedian killers, that they would never forget.