The Krakow Klub (55 page)

First,
he assigned
a
squad of ten men plus the squad leader to the inside of the West
Virginia Wing. He ordered the
squad
leader to
place one soldier at
each end
of the four long
hallways; also a soldier at the front entrance and one at the rear
entrance. The Squad leader, Sgt. Alvarez, was to have his radio on
at all times and
to wait for orders from Collins.
Their primary purpose was to be traffic directors, ushering the
members into their rooms and making sure that they remained
there.

Omega was an appropriate code word for the
operation. As the last letter of the Greek alphabet, it is often
associated with “the end.”

Collins considered Sgt. Alvarez and his squad
expendable. They would be
killed, along with
all the “guests” when the explosives surrounding the West Virginia
Wing
detonated
.

He selected Alvarez because
h
e didn’t like him. Of course, Collins probably did not like
anyone. He was the perfect assassin; he killed without regard to
race creed or national origin. But
Alvarez’s obvious
hatred of all gringos made him stand out, so Collins had assigned
him as a squad leader and filled the squad only with
Latinos.

****

Sgt. Alvarez had a history that had made him
perfect for Operation Omega. He
was a young man
filled
with hatred, gringos in
particular.
He
had no qualms about killing in cold
blood.

He had grown up on an isolated ranch in the
brutal heat of the southern Arizona desert. It wasn’t much of a
ranch with only a few ramshackle buildings and scrawny livestock.
Many believed that the whole operation
was
a
cover for smuggling drugs across the border from
Mexico,
but nothing had ever
been
proved
.

The absentee owner only rarely visited the
ranch and left the operations to his foreman, a callous man who had
no respect or compassion for those who worked for him, especially
the many Mexican illegals.

For his entire young life, Alvarez had
witnessed his parent’s abuse and disrespect by the foreman. With
every passing day, he had become filled with more seething hatred
toward that man and all others like him. In fact, he came to
believe all Norte
Americanos
were cut
from the same
fabric,
and
he bitterly resented their fine cars, fancy restaurants, and
beautiful homes.

If he had lived in Los Angeles, he would have
already been a gang member with multiple crimes and maybe even a
murder or two to his credit. He admired the gangs and even gave
himself some homemade tattoos to give him the look of a member.

Then one day, he snapped. He was only about
thirteen at the time but tall and strong for his age. He had
finished his work early and was looking forward to a few minute’s
rest before his parents got home. He opened the sagging screen door
to find a drunken ranch hand standing inside.

The man, called Tank because of his size and
strength, was probably not more than thirty but looked much older
due to his life in the desert. He was an alcoholic and drug user
whose face
attested to the
many barroom fights
that
left
many scars.

The man stood in the center of the tiny
kitchen and glared at Alvarez. “Hey, you little
punk
, where’s that cute
Chiquita
that you call a sister? I hear she needs a real
man,
and that would be me.”

He laughed and stumbled toward the old
refrigerator, probably hoping to find
beer
inside. He looked in at the sparse contents,
spat,
and turned back toward Alvarez with a malicious
look. Alvarez jumped to the kitchen counter and grabbed a sharp
knife just as Tank lunged. He crouched, stepped aside, and stabbed
upward just below the man’s ribcage. He pushed that knife with all
his
might,
and he knew that he had probably
pierced Tank’s heart.

Tank’s eyes widened in
surprise,
and he tried to
speak,
but
no words came. He attempted to
gasp
, but only
blood
bubbled
from his lips as he collapsed
onto the bare wooden floor.

Alvarez knelt down and looked at the body.
Surprisingly, there was little blood since the knife
was still embedded
up to the hilt in Tank’s body.

Alvarez felt nothing. No remorse, no
compassion for the dead man, no shame. He suddenly realized what he
had done and knew that he had to do something to prevent the blame
from resting at his father’s feet. At this hour of the day, there
would be no one out and about. He would, surely, have time to move
the body and think up a way to hide the murder.

Fortunately,
he was
strong, and it took all of that strength as he dragged the limp
body across the dusty yard to the bunkhouse where he managed to
hoist Tank onto his bunk. He knew that he had to get rid of the
knife. He grabbed the hilt and pulled. Nothing happened. This time
he yanked
hard,
and the blade came out
smoothly.

He pulled the dirty blanket up over Tank’s
face and glanced around at the empty bottles of cheap tequila that
littered the dusty floor. Then he saw what he needed. Just under
the edge of the bed, he found a full bottle of the stuff. He
removed the cap, doused the body and then found a book of matches
on a nearby table. Next, he piled some greasy clothes around the
body and lit a match and tossed it on top the mess.

The fire began to burn
furiously,
and Alvarez ran for the door.
Soon the entire, old building was engulfed in flames.

Alvarez returned to his
family’s little house, washed the knife, and packed his extra set
of ragged clothes in an old pillow case. He left a note for his
parents saying that he was going to find better work in
California.
Then he hurried and left his
ramshackle
home and Arizona forever.

The burned-out bunkhouse with the charred
body inside created a
little
excitement. The
sheriff, from the nearest town, made a cursory visit and determined
that the ranch hand had probably been drunk, drugged, or both and
started the fatal fire himself. No one cared about the man called
Tank who had no family, no friends, and no known past. He was just
another drifter who had wandered in to find work and now he was
dead and forgotten.

Alvarez eventually wound up in a shelter in
Los Angeles that was run by a Catholic charity. One of the priests
suggested that he might do well in the military
and
a few years later, with the help of forged
identification papers, he was an army recruit at the age of
sixteen.

Alvarez was well suited to the
military and did well with the disciplined lifestyle. He never
forgot that ranch hand that he had killed years ago. He considered
it only partial revenge for all the injustices that he and his
family had experienced at the hands of gringos.

****

Alvarez’s squad began shouting
that a terrorist attack was imminent. All guests who were not
already in the West Virginia Wing were to be rounded up and told to
go to their rooms immediately. They were ordered not come out
unless they heard the code word
Omega
.
If they heard Omega, they
were to come out of their room immediately! It meant they were
being moved
into the bunker.

Collins did not anticipate that any would
ever come out of their room because he fully expected his
explosives
to destroy the West Virginia Wing and all
those inside
.

A few minutes later, Collins was watching the
TV news on his cell
phone
when he saw an
announcement that the president of the United States was about to
broadcast an urgent message to the nation. Naturally, he was
curious and waited patiently for Montrose to make her announcement.
To say he was shocked to see Henry Wilkinson’s face appear on the
screen would be an understatement.

Collins's
eyes narrowed
to
slits,
and he immediately knew that
something was very wrong. But he quickly decided that no matter
what had gone wrong, he would not be denied his fun. He had waited
so long for it. He had not killed another human being since the
bloody example that he had set for his troops. His bestial appetite
must be satisfied. He immediately picked up the special radio and
pressed the button to detonate the explosives.

Nothing happened. Collins, screamed, “Shit!”
He then pressed the button again.

When nothing happened, he hurled the radio as
far as he could.

Five unfortunate members of Congress had
decided to take an early morning walk rather than take breakfast.
They missed the mandatory order to go to their rooms and stay
there. They were just returning from their walk when the Collin’s
radio came crashing to the ground near them.

One of the startled congressmen walked over
to investigate, and in doing so, caught Collin’s eye. He was
enraged that his orders hadn’t
been obeyed
and
signaled the guards to open fire on the group.

After brief volleys from several weapons set
on automatic fire, all five of the unfortunate congressmen were
lying in bloody heaps on the perfectly manicured lawn.

What followed was a display of
firepower
never before seen on planet Earth. In less than
a minute, two hundred
eighty-seven
soldiers
were virtually vaporized by red lightning bolts from the sky. The
entire area
now reeked
with the sickening
stench of burning flesh.

As fate would have it, Lt. Colonel Steven
Collins was not among the first to die, and those last few seconds
of his life proved to be catastrophic for many.

Collins had time to use his
radio
and scream an order to Sgt. Alvarez, “Implement
Omega, NOW!”

Alvarez, stationed inside with his men, heard
the gunfire outside and gave the final orders of his life.

He gave the order to initiate Operation
Omega.

The sentries at each end of the hallways
began shouting “Omega!”

In a few seconds, congressmen began
to open their doors and head toward exits
cautiously
. But not a single one of them reached the
exit.

Alvarez gave his final order, “Shoot at will”
and his men unleashed a hail of bullets that would mow down the
shocked senators and representatives before they knew what was
happening. Fortunately, many others heard the gunfire and locked
themselves in their rooms.

Maxxine had reacted immediately
by placing a protective gravity shield around the building after
Collin’s men killed the congressmen outside the building. It had
seemed to be the proper response at the time, but there would be
dire consequences for the members of Congress inside.

By the time she finished with the
Scorpion
Battalion outside and could remove the shield,
many were dead or dying, scattered about in the hotel rooms and
hallways. She responded with lethal force and the last of the
soldiers, including Alvarez,
were almost instantly
killed.

Now, there was no sound other than a few soft
moans from those who were lying wounded in the halls.

The total death toll of those members of
Congress killed in the slaughter would finally reach
one hundred
thirty-seven
when the
last one of the wounded to die passed away later that day.

All members of the Scorpion Battalion were
dead.

It was a bloodbath that would shock the
nation and the rest of the world as well.

****

John remembered that fatal decision that he
made when he had authorized lethal force to be used if necessary.
That decision had resulted in the deaths of two hundred
ninety-eight members of the Scorpion Battalion, including its
infamous leader, Lt. Colonel Steven Collins.

He could live with
that,
but the death of one hundred thirty-seven
high-level
members of the government tore at his soul. He
was devastated that he had not been able to save them from such a
senseless slaughter. And, to add to his unbearable pain, he had
promised those people that they were safe and would be returning to
Washington, DC, the following day. The fact that so many would do
so in a body bag produced an agonizing pain that John could not
shake and left him extremely depressed.

He recalled Maxxine’s report of the events.
She had been consulting with John at the very moment that Collins
had ordered his troops to murder the five congressmen who had left
the building.

The extra remote craft were just short of
being positioned when the final slaughter
began.
They had not been ready to respond to the gunfire
during those last confusing moments. Unfortunately, the squad of
soldiers inside the building was protected by the gravity shield so
that she couldn’t protect the hostages from them. By the time that
she could act, the shooting within the West Virginia Wing had
started. Her final act at the bloody scene was to destroy the final
remains of the Scorpion Battalion, Sgt. Alvarez, and his squad.

The Scorpion
Battalion
would
never be forgotten. Their traitorous acts would
forever live on in the
annals
of the
world's
most brutal massacres. The slaughter
of so many
high-level
government officials was
without precedent.