7 Days

By G.H. Bogan

Author GH Bogan has blurred the line between good and evil, just like in real life, proving that things are rarely what they seem.
A terrorist group has been in the United States unnoticed and planning the ultimate attack for over 20 years. As they near the zero hour, an ex-marine named Ray Wilson accidently stumbles onto their heinous plan. When Special Agent Joshua Pike of the FBI begins the investigation, he and Ray Wilson become partners, crossing and re-crossing the country in the attempt to thwart the plan of destruction and save more than 500,000 lives. They have only one week to accomplish their mission. Things become even more complicated when it is found that a certain Middle East government supposedly allied to the United States, is also committing acts of murder and mayhem for political gain and attempt to make it look like the terrorist group is the culprit. Meanwhile, an attempted assassination of the President could make their mission even more difficult to complete. A fast paced rollercoaster ride of excitement, 7 Days is the first book of the Agent Joshua Pike series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.H. Bogan
• Release date: Jan 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452448725

G.H. Bogan

G.H. Bogan has been a resident of Tennessee for the past twenty-five years where he writes and enjoys life with his beautiful wife, Cathy. When not writing he can be found illustrating the Adventures With Skipper series of children's picture books.

Book preview

Prologue

March 6th

The destruction was complete.

What, only moments before, had been an upscale church in San Francisco was now a vast field of burning rubble, shielded from the midday sun by a rising cloud of smoke and dust.

March 7th

The televangelist Gaylord Robinson strained to maintain the pious expression he had practiced for so many years. It was, he knew, a look that normally resulted in a bigger payoff of donations both from the more than five hundred people sitting in front of him as well as the television audience who would very nearly overload the switchboard with calls for prayer and their credit card numbers. He sat center stage in front of an enormous cross, seated on a throne wrapped in gold leaf and a deep purple seat cushion. To his left and right, sitting on smaller and much less ostentatious chairs were a ‘Who’s Who’ of television preachers, faith healers, and revivalists; each waiting for the cue indicating it was their turn to perform live on camera. The newly inaugurated church was, in point of fact, really just a large television studio. The original building, having been severely damaged by the last hurricane that swept through Galveston, was rebuilt as large and opulent as possible. Seating for five hundred souls (and their check books) faced the curved marble stage that was designed to reflect the state-of-the-art overhead lighting system and give the impression that the gates to heaven itself had opened. The gigantic television screens on both sides of the stage were the best plasma screen units available and received their images from the myriad of remotely controlled cameras mounted on strategically placed cranes and booms, operated with precision by the production crew in the control booth high above the rear of the audience seating area.

The fact that Reverend Gaylord Robinson knew more about accounting systems than the Beatitudes was never apparent to his followers as the charismatic personality he had painstakingly developed over the years kept the focus on the messenger rather than the message.

Giddy with the anticipation of growing fame and fortune, he rose from the golden throne in a dramatic fashion, appearing to be lifted by the lights reflecting off of the stage. Stepping slowly forward until finally arriving at the tape mark on the stage that indicated he was in just the right place for the cameras to view him from many angles. He smiled at each camera in turn knowing that the unseen television audience who would soon start filling his coffers with checks and credit card donations. And all because he would tell them that it was God’s will to do so.

As he started to speak the first syllable of his invocation there was an unbelievable white light that washed over the entire stage. It was a light that could have been from heaven itself had the reverend been destined to head in that direction. Later it would be determined by officials that the shockwave had a radius of destruction extending nearly a half mile out from where the late Reverend Gaylord Robinson had been standing.

Chapter 1

March 7th

The thirty-eight inch flat screen sat atop the coffee table that evidently served double duty as both a television stand and repository for empty beer cans. Reflected in its black glass was the chaos that was his studio apartment. Strewn with unwashed clothing, piles of magazines and tools, it created an obstacle course that only nimble and practiced steps could navigate.

Opposite the television, on a threadbare sofa that may have been green much earlier in its life was the sleeping figure of a man. Curled into a comfortable fetal position and making that snoring sound that only comes from a hard night of overindulgence in distilled spirits, the ringing in his ears seemed to grow louder and more insistent that he should wake up. As he moved closer to becoming fully awake he also became acutely aware that the ringing in his ears had been replaced by the ringing of his telephone. Knowledge that a few of the springs in the ancient sofa frequently found their way up through the surface of the cushions seeking an offering of human flesh, he took great care to place his weight only in the more solid spaces as he sat up.

Grabbing the telephone from the arm of the sofa, he rubbed his eyes while muttering into the receiver. Hello, was the closest thing to words that fell from his lips. There was no immediate response.

"Who is this?" he demanded, on the verge of falling back into blissful sleep.

Sarge, is that you? This is Dorothy, Dorothy Tibbit with Piedmont Property Management. How are you this morning?

Not in the mood for some bullshit sales pitch, that’s how I am! was the immediate response.

Calm down marine, he thought to himself. It’s not her fault that you have a world class hangover.

Sorry, but you caught me at a bad time. I haven’t even had my coffee yet, he apologized.

Apology accepted, she said, entirely too quickly to make him believe she meant it.

I have a job for you, Dorothy continued, and I need you to get on it as soon as possible. If you’ll meet me at the Big Rock Café in about fifteen minutes, I’ll tell you what I need fixed and pay you in advance for gas and materials. I’ll even buy you that cup of coffee. How does that sound?

Let me check my schedule for today, Sarge said as he scanned the floor for both his pants and his keys. Hmmm…it seems I don’t have any work scheduled for this morning after all so I suppose I could meet you at the café.

Dorothy tolerated the sarcasm and ended the conversation by saying, "Fine. I‘ll see you there." With that she hung up, leaving Sarge with only the monotonous hum of the dial tone as company.

The morning sun was on the rise above the New Mexico hills that stood as towering guardians over the town. In fact the town was named Big Rock as a tribute to the surrounding hills rather than to some aspect of the town itself. Sitting nearly thirty miles outside of Albuquerque on the way to Gallup, it appeared from the highway to be more mirage than an actual town. As Sarge left his small apartment and started the late model Ford pickup truck he reflected that, like him, the truck had been through a lot over the years and survived. The scars on the truck were cosmetic however, while the scars the man carried ran much deeper.

Pulling onto the access road that ran parallel to the Interstate highway, he reflected on the previous nights attempt to fight his demons. Ray Wilson was referred to as an ex-marine by most everyone except a small circle of combat ancients at the V.F.W. club who knew there was no such thing as an ex-marine. ‘Once a Marine, always a Marine’ was the expression. Standing just a few inches shy of six feet, and maintaining a fit physique at one hundred and sixty pounds, with light brown hair and clean shaven face, he had a friendly appearance that nearly hid the ‘don’t fuck with me’ message given by his blue eyes.

Ray was damaged, a wounded warrior with no visible scars. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is what the doctors had called it. But he knew in his heart that the stress had little to do with the fighting part of the war. If it had been just about killing the enemy he could have fared much better, but the darker aspects were what had driven him to wander the country for a few years in search of some penance to serve that would absolve everything.

"Ok, knock it off. You’ve got other things to think about this morning," he told himself. Driving on, he made the conscious effort to redirect his thoughts to the scenery and the road. Turning right off of the access road and onto the main street of Big Rock, it was evident that the ritualistic gatherings that are the pulse of small towns had begun for the day. Parked cars and pickup trucks gave evidence that the morning group of ranchers and maintenance men had arrived at the hardware store for the daily exchange of news and opinions, while the small market hosted the contingent of housewives who gathered to complain about the produce, lie about how cute each other’s dress looked, and recite the latest rumors in hushed voices so as not to be overheard by someone that they had not told the story to personally yet.

The Big Rock Café sat at the intersection of Main Street and Valley Avenue, the location of the second of only three traffic lights in the town of exactly four thousand people. Originally the traffic lights were a marketing ploy rather than a necessity for monitoring the flow of cars and it was thought that if the tourists were delayed at red lights they would be afforded the opportunity to see the stores and other businesses that were available to them and possibly increase the town revenues. But, as has so often happened in other areas, the state had built the new stretch of highway to the south of Big Rock, laying a wide and smooth ribbon of asphalt that would carry tourists to the city of Albuquerque and bypass the small town altogether.

When the light turned green, Sarge pulled through the intersection and into the first empty parking slot he came to. As he passed through the front door of the café he was washed with the smells and sounds of small town life. Each patron was seated and poured a cup of coffee whether they ordered it or not, and handed a laminated red and black menu with the headline indicating that it contained only breakfast items. The smell of fresh pancakes, coffee, biscuits, frying hash brown potatoes, and more gave Sarge the sense that he could gain weight just by breathing. Spotting the woman he was to meet, Sarge moved through the din of clattering plates and flatware toward the table in the corner. Seated there was Dorothy Tibbit, a pleasant enough looking woman who obviously budgeted more for makeup and clothing than anything else in life. Shoulder length auburn hair, brown eyes, and always dressed in clothes that showed off her figure, she spent her days as the local manager of the Piedmont Property Management Company. Her nights were apparently spent another way entirely. Just entering her mid thirties, Dorothy was still single. The talk among some of the men in town was that she was just too much to be handled by any normal man and, as a consequence, she would always be single. Whispered stories regarding her supposed sexual demands on any unsuspecting man that would fall into her trap proclaimed her expertise in the roll of dominatrix with a taste for sadism. That she was also in charge of additional properties in Albuquerque and not just the few apartment buildings here in Big Rock gave rise to the story that she might also be operating some sort of private sex club in the bigger city. Sarge often said that it was the wind from those wagging tongues spewing gossip that moved the clouds across the sky in Big Rock.

He seated himself across the table from Dorothy as the waitress magically appeared out of thin air and set a steaming cup of black coffee in front of him, accompanied by the red menu. "Just coffee, thanks" Sarge told her and handed the menu back.

You look like crap, Sarge, Dorothy stated casually. Have a rough night, did you?

He slowly stretched, appearing on the verge of yawning and responded, You want to tell me what this work is that you need done so quickly, or are you going to just sit there and feed me shit for breakfast?

I see your sense of humor is unchanged and I don’t doubt that is the major reason that you still live alone. I know a girl in the Albuquerque office you might like, and seeing as the job I have for you is only a mile or so away from there, I would be happy to call her and have her meet you for lunch.

Sarge choked and nearly spit his coffee on the table. It was so like Dorothy to want everything to be in order, in some cosmic alignment as she saw it. At one time she had invited Sarge to dinner at her place, which he politely declined. The white lie that he told her insinuated that he was not well enough to date anybody at the moment. She took that statement as a challenge and had been trying to set him up with various women over the past two years; women that only Dorothy would see as appropriate. Maybe there really was something to the rumors about her after all, he had thought to himself.

For the millionth time Dorothy, I am not interested in anybody you know, or don’t know for that matter. Just tell me what you need, pay for my coffee, and then go away! he said, barely maintaining the appearance of seriousness.

Dorothy shrugged as if to say "well I tried to help you and it’s your loss", and then slid a manila file folder across the table to him. It contained an address that was also circled on the accompanying computer generated map. A paperclip held the map, a signed blank business check, and a work order spelling out the required repairs.

Reading over the paperwork, Sarge stopped and looked up at Dorothy.

Since when does your property management company own this? I mean, the Sandia Cathedral is not exactly the commercial type of property you guys normally run, is it?

Oh, we don’t manage this place. This is more of a favor than anything. It seems that the pastor of Sandia Cathedral is an old friend of Mr. Piedmont, the owner of the company I work for, and told him that he couldn’t contact the original builder, so could we possibly help by sending one of our subcontractors to take care of it. Seems kind of silly to me, but when I get a telephone call from the man I work for telling me, not asking me, to take care of this, I call you and problem solved. Besides, the Sandia Cathedral is paying for everything anyway.

If the hardware store has all of the pieces I’ll need, the drive there and back will take longer than the work. I can’t believe that some licensed builder actually put an emergency exit door in backwards. According to this work order, the building inspector and fire marshal won’t sign off on the occupancy permits until it’s fixed and inspected again. Do I need to call the city office when I’m done? And why the hurry to get it done today instead of waiting to find the original builder that screwed up to begin with?

No, you don’t have to call the inspectors office. I already have and they will be there to sign off on the work about four o’clock this afternoon. And, not that it’s any of your business, but a huge revival is scheduled for four days from now to dedicate the cathedral. It’s supposed to be a pretty big deal for the Albuquerque Christian groups, and supposedly it will be televised throughout most of the Southwest.

With that said Dorothy sat back. She sat sipping her coffee with an air that indicated that, as far as she was concerned, he was hired and would do the work on time and correctly, and that was that. She could now go back to being the important business person she thought herself to be, and he could finish the job and go back to being the handsome but quiet drunk she thought him to be. Dorothy had always been conflicted knowing that when speaking with the other women of the town she would make a point to say that each night before going to sleep she would pray for Sarge to become a sober and proper member of the Big Rock community. Yet, in reality, when she would sleep and when she would dream of him, his being sober and an upstanding citizen had very little to do with what she wanted him for.

Walking past the small group of locals gathered at the front counter, Sarge headed to the area where he knew he would find the bolts, hinges and other hardware required to make the heavy door open out instead of in, a requirement for an emergency exit. He suspected that the builder had probably gotten pissed off with the pastor over some draw, payment,