Rational Collapse

By Ken Benton

Homeland Security Agent Harlan Welk is a man used to responding to our nation's most covert domestic threats. But even he must admit no one saw this one coming. When a new type of terrorist attack targets a growing psychological weakness among the American population, our enemies are revealed as becoming ever-more resourceful.
 
Harlan is visiting his conspiracy-plagued cousin Avery in Houston during a heightened period of civil unrest. Just as the frazzled nerves of law enforcement and protesters come to a head, twelve African-American teenagers simultaneously commit "suicide by cop" in the twelve U.S. cities most vulnerable to racial tension. None of the victims are found to be in possession of a real weapon. As a result, mass rioting erupts across our once-great country, which intensifies until our society can no longer function.
 
From information acquired in an unexpected romance, Harlan believes he can gather the evidence to fully expose the plot as having come from foreign-based terrorists—and by so doing, possibly reunite America under the cause of a common enemy. But he must get to Memphis so he can interrogate the lone surviving terrorist. Traveling is now difficult. He finds himself bugging out of the city with his cousin's family, facing a treacherous and uncertain path. Avery's outright distrust of all things government only adds to their plight. Harlan discovers he must not only survive the hazards of criminal opportunism on the road, but the contagion of civil strife within his own family. And time is not on his side…
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Benton
• Release date: Nov 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215946602

Book preview

September 2010

Northern Ivory Coast, West Africa

Kayin pondered his new name. It was longer, and more difficult to pronounce. Definitely not one he would have chosen, and he couldn’t imagine getting used to it enough to respond when called. But he didn’t want to disappoint the imams.

Abubakar, what are you thinking? Emeka demanded, towering above him.

He was Kayin’s favorite, and one of the two grand imams, although not the stronger of the two. The fact that all the imams were Arabs didn’t diminish the boys’ respect for them.

Kayin bowed and tried not to smile. He failed. At least he’d acknowledged his new name.

Do you believe in your destiny? Emeka asked, forgiving the non-verbal reply to his first question. Kayin knew he’d better give a prompt answer this time.

I believe Allah appointed my imams, and that my imams know what’s best for me.

Emeka nodded appreciatively.

Especially you, Kayin added.

Emeka frowned, but it was obviously forced. He pushed on Kayin’s forehead, something he often did when Kayin’s posture leaned too far forward. The push was noticeably gentler than usual.

Emeka continued with the inspection, making his way past the other eleven ghazi recruits, all of them Kayin’s age, all of them native African like Kayin, all of them sitting on one knee with the other leg tucked. Kayin always took the position on the far right of the line, hoping it would make his off-balance sitting less noticeable.

Emeka didn’t address any of the others as he passed. No surprise there. When Kayin first arrived in camp several months ago, he assumed the reason Emeka gave him so much special attention was because he stood out from the rest as weak and stupid. He soon learned that wasn’t the case at all. It turned out the others weren’t much different than him, and most of them had also recently arrived. Emeka simply took a special liking to Kayin, for whatever reason—though he would never be allowed to admit it.

Sometimes Kayin suspected it was because of his rock. Emeka was the only person he trusted enough to show it to. But no, wouldn’t he have taken it from him by now if that were the case?

Kayin attempted to sit straight and not turn his head in watching Emeka join Aarzam, the other grand imam, standing before the group. Today was a much heralded holy occasion—the day when the ghazis not only received their new names, but would discover what their purpose in Allah’s army was to be. Anticipation was high among the recruits.

High for everyone except Kayin, that is. Truth be told, he didn’t look forward to any kind of change. Not now. Not after finally achieving a sense of belonging for the first time in his short life. Yes, he could remember some happy times, those few days when his father allowed him to come along fishing back in Sikasso. Kayin would help him carry the catch to market afterwards, and even received a sweet treat there sometimes for his efforts.

It’s also where he stole the special pink and green rock one day when no one was looking. He never showed it to his father for fear of punishment.

Aarzam resembled Kayin’s father physically. Both were muscular, and men of few words. But Aarzam was meaner, and always had a rifle on his back, even during meals.

Emeka was more like Kayin’s father in other ways, with a kindness that showed in nonverbal mannerisms. He wore his rifle during the lessons, and on other formal occasions, certainly today, but not always.

Kayin wondered if his father was really dead. He’d heard three different explanations of how he died, two of which came from his mother. All Kayin knew for sure was that once the fish were gone from the river, his father went south across the border to work a new job cutting down trees. He was supposed to come home in two months. More than a year passed, and he never returned.

Then Kayin’s mother got sick. Kayin knew something was wrong when she started spending much of the day—and night—in the outhouse. She said it was from drinking bad water, and told Kayin to make sure he only ever drank good water. Two months later she died. Maybe whatever killed the fish also killed his mother. Maybe Emeka was right, and that cutting down too many trees is what killed all the fish.

His aunt and uncle then took Kayin and his younger sister in. They lived in an actual house with a well pump just outside their front door, which was quite a luxury. It was nice there, but Kayin missed his parents. Plus his mother never said anything good about his uncle, and often alluded to his money having come from bad men.

Whether that was true or not Kayin would probably never know. His uncle, seeing that he was unhappy, arranged for him to be taken to the secret Salafist camp south of the border, where he would be cared for and supposedly taught to read. Kayin liked that idea. And, in the back of his mind, he thought it was possible he might find his father if he went.

Then he arrived. Then he learned about the true ways of Allah. Just as importantly, he also learned about Satan. And he found it particularly interesting that there was more than one of them.

Do you all know your new names? Emeka boomed, jarring Kayin from his thoughts.

The recruits mumbled agreements.

Is anyone unhappy with theirs? Emeka asked.

Silence. They all knew better.

Good, Emeka said. Allah is pleased with you. But not as pleased as he will be on the day you fulfill your purpose. Ghazis, today you will learn of your exceptional privilege. You have all been chosen to receive the greatest possible honor; to serve Allah in the ultimate way and attain a direct pass to the highest level of heaven.

The response was a strained silence. Kayin could feel the tension in the air. He discovered he was actually sitting correctly now, without the usual effort.

That’s right, Aarzam said, pushing his turban up and stepping forward. His voice was sharper than Emeka’s. "Every one of you has been rescued from a sad existence in a poverty and tragedy-stricken home. This is no accident. At eight years of age, none of you is a stranger to suffering.

What you don’t know is that Allah has selected each of you to train for an important project. It is wonderful news that you may have no more than ten years of suffering remaining in this sullen and dangerous world, before you will be called to fulfill your purpose and ascend to the highest paradise—where pleasures await which you are not yet old enough to understand or appreciate. But by the time your mission is called, you will.

Aarzam paused as he and Emeka looked into the faces of each boy before them. They then turned to each other and nodded, seeming greatly satisfied, before Aarzam resumed speaking.

Your purpose in Allah’s army is to carry out an attack on Allah’s largest enemy, the great Satan in the west. Some years after your training is complete, you will each be placed there as operatives, living an extravagant existence until the day you are called. On that holy day you will attain great honor—even as great as those warriors who went before you, our brothers who took down Satan’s two offensive towers.

Eight Years Later, Houston, Texas

Chapter One

Harlan Welk had a rare careless moment. The flight attendant must have caught a glimpse of his gun holster when the flap of his coat opened as he leaned to put his laptop away. She made a beeline to the front, where she hurriedly scrolled her finger across a tablet computer screen.

Her obvious sense of relief when she came to Harlan’s name on the confidential roster was evident in her body language. After that, she went out of her way to smile wider at him when she passed by. So did the other attendants. It must be comforting when airline personnel learn a Homeland Security agent is among their passengers, especially in the month of September—and even more so with the increased incidents of civil violence dominating the news lately.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our final descent into George Bush Intercontinental Airport…

Harlan put his tray table up as the flight attendant continued with the usual landing babble.

Going to Houston on business? the pretty redhead sitting next to him suddenly asked.

That was odd. She’d been quiet the entire flight. Maybe she realized Harlan wasn’t going to start a conversation with her, and decided to take a last minute stab at sparking a possible romance.

 No, Harlan replied. Vacation.

The redhead smiled politely and crossed her stockinged legs. Harlan detected a slight rise of her eyebrows.

Being hit on by women was not an uncommon occurrence for Harlan, despite the conspicuous wedding band on his left hand. Sometimes he thought that even encouraged them. He often considered removing it. But whenever he did, his natural nervous energy would seek a more destructive outlet than spinning the ring with his thumb—like grinding his teeth or picking at his skin imperfections.

Harlan noticed his thumb spinning the ring again as the 737 hit the runway. He didn’t know whether to blame the bumpy landing or the flirtatious woman.

The ring was a relic from his first marriage. That’s the only one he kept. The other two he found easy to dispose of, but not this one. Harlan realized a man in his position, having three ex-wives with no alimony or child support to pay, was something of a scarcity. But it wasn’t because of luck. He never wanted children, and simply wasn’t interested in women who didn’t hold careers. Supporting a housewife was not on his bucket list.

The redhead next to him wore stylish business attire and had an air of self-assurance about her. She was probably a decent prospect. But Harlan wasn’t in the mood to pursue it. He’d have his hands full with Avery’s family the next few days, and didn’t feel like explaining his complicated life to someone new.

When the seatbelt light went off Harlan was the first to stand in the aisle. He instinctively glanced behind him at seat 19C, and then ahead at 12D, to set his eyes on the only two passengers he pegged as possible troublemakers. His training made them stand out within minutes of boarding. The knowledge that this kind of appearance profiling was routinely used by special law enforcement agents, would, no doubt, provoke outrage from a sizable segment of the public if known.

But the public was hard to please. They also didn’t want their planes hijacked.

The two men from the row in front of Harlan squeezed into the aisle before him. Remarkably, they continued their political debate, which had taken place at too high of volume for much of the three-hour flight. What knuckleheads. Apparently, one of them insisted the current president was too soft on immigration issues, while the other maintained it was too late to do anything about it so we may as well open up our borders and save all the money spent on the laughable pretend border patrols.

Both men had their points, but should be more cognizant of their surroundings than to subject everyone in the vicinity to their non-expert opinions on controversial topics. Some people never seem to develop an indoor voice.

By the time the passengers started exiting, Harlan had successfully separated himself from the redhead with a layer of bodies, and would hopefully never see her again. The bag she kept under the seat had several items of clothing and a toiletry case in it, signifying she was on an overnight trip and didn’t check any luggage.

Harlan wasn’t as lucky with the immigration-debating knuckleheads. They somehow ended up standing right behind him at the baggage carousel, still on the same topic, making Harlan wish he had stuffed his bag in the overhead. But he didn’t like being part of the problem. Too many people did that with luggage pushing the limits these days, and since taxpayers covered all Harlan’s travel expenses, he tried to set a good example.

We’d be waiting a lot longer, knucklehead #2 said, if immigration laws were enforced and all illegals were deported. There’d be no one to get our bags off the plane.

Harlan shook his head at the continued public display of ignorance. Undocumented workers couldn’t get jobs anywhere near an airport. Not since 9-11, anyway. The knucklehead should have picked a valid example to make his point.

Like restaurants. Harlan remembered a particular night in Los Angeles years ago. In protest to pending California ballot measures regarding illegal immigration, undocumented workers in the food service industry organized a call in sick day—just to show everyone what it would be like if they weren’t there. The restaurants were crippled that night and many had to close. Harlan happened to be in the bar of an upscale pizza joint where he listened to the owner complain how he and his wife were doing much of the cooking themselves while the regular chefs delivered pizzas. The protest worked, and the ballot measures were soundly defeated. If all illegal immigrants were suddenly deported, the economies of California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas would quite possibly collapse.

So what could be done about the immigration dilemma? Harlan wasn’t sure. Three decades ago, Ronald Reagan attempted to grant partial amnesty to illegals with the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986. Something along those lines was probably the best solution. Reagan’s act ultimately failed because it wasn’t strict enough in its preventative measures and not lenient enough in its amnesty. It was never enforced to any effective degree and the borders never subsequently secured.

Harlan’s own concerns over illegal immigration had nothing to do with pizza. He cared about one thing: stopping terrorist organizations from infiltrating society and planting teams of operatives. That was his area of expertise. And he took it damn seriously.

His blue canvas sports tote finally tumbled down the chute. Harlan stutter-stepped his way through the blockade of other passengers, reached over a stroller, plucked it off the top of a large black bag with a purple ribbon surrounded by three other large black bags with purple ribbons, and headed for the rent-a-car doors.

Halfway there he remembered his cell phone was still on airplane-mode, so he stopped to reactivate it. The phone happily chirped before urgently beeping. Harlan had a text message. It turned out to be from headquarters in Washington.

NTAS alert. Status: imminent. New threat of impending terrorist attack considered credible based on chatter intercepted by intelligence sources. All federal agents requested to immediately report to a local field office for specifics.

Crap. Harlan pocketed his phone and turned from the rent-a-car doors to the taxi exit.

Maybe this wasn’t so unfortunate. There was a decent chance he could secure an agency vehicle at the Houston office, one that wouldn’t cost him anything to borrow. Which also meant he could stop mentally cursing his cousin for not extending the basic courtesy of picking him up.

Of course, Harlan knew why Avery didn’t roll out the welcome mat. Heck, if it were up to Avery, the two of them might not ever speak again. Not unless Avery stumbled upon a cure for irrational paranoia. What a shame. If Harlan didn’t work for the federal government, the two of them would very likely still be close, just as they were their entire childhood.

As infuriating as it was, Harlan had to be the one to swallow his pride in an attempt to hang on to what was left of their relationship. This he did because Avery’s family was the only family he had left, after the death of his father several years ago and with his mother now in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer’s. Harlan wasn’t willing to let Avery get away from him, too—especially after three failed marriages.

Growing up together in a small seaport city in Connecticut, he and Avery were more than cousins all through high school. They were best friends in every sense of the term. Weekends their two fathers were inseparable, which meant the wives and two sons were always together, too. Harlan and Avery experienced much of their adolescent rites of passage together.

No one could ever deny that what happened to Avery’s dad was terrible. Heck, it was widely acknowledged as one of the worst screw-ups a government entity ever perpetrated upon a group of citizens, and with the blessing of the United States Supreme Court. The responsible parties escaping without having to pay any reparations only rubbed salt in the wounds. Avery never showed any sympathy over the fact Harlan’s family also suffered from the event, or that Harlan’s own father treated him with almost as much contempt as Avery did upon his subsequent career move. Life can have a cruel sense of irony at times.

No taxi line in front of the airport, good. Harlan was shortly on his way to the Houston DHS field office. His driver openly pouted when he discovered he’d waited in the airport cab line to pick up a fare going five city blocks. It couldn’t be helped. Immediately report didn’t allow for an unnecessary long walk.

The driver’s demeanor greatly improved when Harlan tipped him ten bucks upon arrival.

Do you need me to wait for you? he asked.

No, thanks, Harlan replied. I may be a while, and hope to grab a company car.

Okay. In case you didn’t know, it’s wise to avoid the Third Ward and University areas today. Quite a mess there.

Oh? Why is that?

From what I understand, the police chased the rioters after the game yesterday to the university campus, and it’s still going, spilling into the southern downtown streets. Hope I don’t pick up anyone wanting to go there.

Thanks, Harlan said. Thanks a lot.

The driver pulled away and Harlan started for the building entrance.

Football riots. Of all the stupid things. As usual, the media was part of the problem rather than part of the solution. Harlan caught the controversial play on ESPN last night before going to sleep. Yes, it was another blatantly bad call that cost the home team the game. But not as bad as the one last week in New England at the Patriot’s season opener. That was the one which apparently set the new precedent. If the Patriots quarterback wasn’t such a spoiled brat, throwing an exaggerated temper tantrum along with the head coach, he wouldn’t have gotten the fans so riled up. The smart ones got out early, before the tragedies occurred. Three deaths and dozens of hospitalizations later the emergency responders finally managed to clear the stadium, only to send the troublemakers into the streets of Boston—where they picked up reinforcements. When the smoke finally cleared on Monday morning, two more people were dead, another ten seriously injured, a dozen stores had been looted, and twice that many cars burned.

One week later, and now Houston was attempting its own repeat performance? Harlan hoped the carnage wouldn’t be as bad. Is this what football was coming to? The referees were now on the hook to prevent millions of dollars in property damage in making the right calls? Not to mention their jobs. The NFL fired the official who made the bad call in New England. Last night’s offender would surely suffer the same fate. If these overzealous fans weren’t careful, they’d end up killing the sport.

Realistically, Harlan knew that could never happen. Too much money involved. And most sports fans were good people. The first thing law enforcement officers learn on the subject of civil unrest is that the incidents which provoke riots are not the same causes which sustain them. The spark acts purely as a magnet, inspiring those who are always seeking an opportunity for an uprising. No doubt many of the troublemakers in downtown Houston today are barely aware a home game was even played yesterday.

The front door of the Houston field office yielded to the force of Harlan’s left hand as he threw his bag over his shoulder and pushed his way in.

Another redhead sat at the reception desk. When she discovered Harlan was a visiting field agent from Chicago, she called someone up front who checked his ID before hurrying him down a white corridor to a conference room where an important meeting was underway.

Only a few heads turned as Harlan quietly slipped through the door and stood at the far side of a large glass table. Someone in charge, probably the office director, spoke from the opposite side. Between Harlan and the director, twenty other sworn DHS employees sat or stood behind chairs.

…and a successful attack on these two west coast ports would have a detrimental effect on the entire U.S. economy, the director finished saying.

That’s when Harlan noticed the PowerPoint projection on the wall. It currently showed a map of the United States with three locations highlighted by big red dots. One was over Los Angeles, representing the two major shipping ports the director just referred to. Another was clearly Washington, D.C. But it was the third red dot that grabbed Harlan’s attention: Chicago, his home town.

Now, in regards to Washington, the director said pointing at the map, a significant amount of extra security has already been arranged, well in advance of the IMF-World Bank meeting. Therefore, headquarters doesn’t need to pull extra agents to the east coast. As far as we’re concerned, you’ll all likely be sent to Chicago or Los Angeles.

Grumbles around the table. The director took the opportunity to raise his voice and address the new guy.

Care to introduce yourself, there in the back?

Harlan Welk, Harlan replied. Field agent, Chicago. Just flew into town for a short vacation.

Chuckles in places.

Welcome to Houston. I’m Director Larkin. I guess we know where you’ll be assigned. Everyone say hi to Agent Welk.

This must have been a local hazing ritual, because everyone said, Hi, Agent Welk, slowly in unison like a group of kindergartners, including a few high-pitched exaggerations. Harlan smiled and nodded his way around the room. His eyes lingered a few extra seconds at an attractive brunette taking notes in the middle of the table.

Director Larkin must have noticed it because the next thing he said was, We’re about done here. Agent Johnson can fill you in on what you missed, and the reason for the message from HQ.

The brunette woman, apparently Agent Johnson, looked up from her notes and forced a smile at Harlan.

Any questions? Director Larkin asked the room.

What’s happening in Chicago? Harlan blurted in an assertive tone. Several heads turned to him with expressions of newfound respect.

Chapter Two

Madison could tell her brother’s heart wasn’t in it today. His bicycle waited impatiently in the large untended yard, begging for the chance to race him down to Barry’s house. She couldn’t blame him. When Madison was his age, all she wanted to do was hang out next door with Amy and draw pictures of animals. That was six long years ago. These days she and Amy were all about copping a ride to the mall and hunting for boys.

But Madison and her ten-year old sibling both knew how important target practice was to Dad. Fortunately, they had only short windows of opportunities for it. Monday afternoons when Amy’s mom did her grocery shopping was one of them. She’d been gone almost an hour now, so was due back.

Kyle, stop wasting ammunition! Dad shouted at her brother. If you’re not even going to try, you can stick with your baby gun and hope the only trouble you ever have is with a gang of chipmunks.

Madison giggled. Kyle shot her a glare before responding to their father.

I don’t like this bolt lever, Dad. It’s weird.

It’s not weird, just different. Shouldn’t be that hard to get used to. Your sister never has any trouble with it. You can still shoot the .22 lever-action if you want, but you’re old enough to start getting comfortable with a higher caliber. Give me the rifle.

Kyle surrendered the .270 bolt-action.

Go ahead and go to Barry’s, but don’t be late for dinner. Your mom’s making pizza.

Thanks, Dad! In ten seconds nothing was left of him but a trail of dust.

Dad turned to Madison. Okay honey, we should have time for one more magazine each.

Before Mrs. Gilbert gets home, Madison said grinning mischievously, or before Uncle Harlan shows up?

Before Mrs. Gilbert returns. He gave her a look just shy of reprimand as he finished reloading the .270. I’m not sure when Uncle Harlan will arrive. His flight could have been delayed.

It wasn’t. I checked. On time.

Here. Dad held out the rifle.

But Madison pointed beyond him, to the gun leaning against the sawhorse.

If Kyle is old enough to step up in caliber, maybe I am, too.

Dad’s eyes bounced between her and his beloved Remington semi-automatic .30-06 several times as he