❗Hold up… this is Chapter 3.
Unless you’re the kind of thrill-seeker who reads the last page of a mystery first (you monster), you might want to backtrack.
👉 [Click here to start at Chapter 1] — where the real madness begins.
Otherwise, carry on… but don’t say I didn’t warn you when things stop making sense and someone you’ve never met suddenly dies.
Written by Thomas Mai
© Copyright held by Thomas Mai
Chapter 3 – Barbarians At The Plane
Farid Al-Masri jerked awake in his bed, jolted by the sound of a strange metallic roar grinding through the air. His heart thumped as he listened, trying to identify the source of the noise. The noise came closer and closer and Farid feared a possible attack, Farid quickly jumped out of bed where he had been sleeping with two young girls. He grabbed his rifle and rushed outside.
Farid’s powerful physique was evident even in the early hours of dawn when he stood completely naked. His impressive muscles were a result of intense training and years of combat experience. His broad chest and sturdy frame bore the scars of countless cuts, stabs, and wounds. His olive skin was weathered by the harsh Somali sun. With his gaze, Farid exuded confidence and strength, a formidable warrior ready to oppose anyone foolish enough to challenge him.
Farid was infamous in Somalia for his savage tactics and shrewd leadership style. He would do anything to increase his hold on power, wealth, and influence in the region. His criminal activities included hijacking cargo ships and their crew, exploiting and extorting nearby villages, abducting innocent families, forcing children into military service, and cultivating and trafficking illegal drugs.
Farid had been born into a life of poverty on the streets of Cairo in Egypt, never knowing his biological parents. To survive, he banded together with other orphaned children to form a gang where strength was the only currency that mattered. Their means of survival involved theft, extortion, and selling drugs.
When Farid became a teenager, he associated himself with individuals linked to the Islamic State Group, not because of any religious beliefs, but because he enjoyed the power and fear that the group instilled in others. Farid was involved in the Arish Attacks during Friday prayers, resulting in the deaths of 311 people and injuring 122 others.
While many of his comrades were caught and arrested, Farid managed to escape to Somalia.
Somalia was Farid’s favorite country; a place without a government, police, or any form of control. In this lawless land, he could do as he pleased, take any woman he desired, and act as judge and executioner to anyone who crossed his path. And with all the wealth he had accumulated, Farid had never felt more powerful.
Farid looked to the sky for the increasingly loud roaring sound, and his gaze landed on a plane in the sky. The aircraft was in trouble as flames and heavy smoke were coming out of the airplane. It was clear that the plane was heading towards a crash in Somalia, in Farid’s controlled territory.
Farid watched as the plane approached, and his heart skipped a beat when he recognized it as Air Force One. He could hardly believe his luck. His mind raced with possibilities, the opportunities for profit of the equipment and any surviving passengers, and harvesting organs from the deceased if they acted quickly enough. Speed was of the essence.
And what if the President himself is aboard? This would make him richer and more powerful than he ever thought possible. He could raise a massive army and rule Somalia and North East Africa with an iron fist. This is going to be one of the most exciting and profitable days of my life.
Farid observed as the mighty symbol of American dominance crashed just a few miles away. He could see, hear, and sense the impact not far off. The crash of the plane reverberated through the ground, sending tremors and deafening sounds in every direction.
Gathering a group of 80 men, Farid led them toward the crash site using 20 pickup trucks. It was not hard to miss. They just drove towards the thick black smoke. After a few miles of rough terrain, they finally reached it: the downed Air Force One. The sight took Farid’s breath away. It was not often that one got to witness the enormity of a plane crash, especially one with “United States of America” emblazoned on its side.
The sky was filled with thick, black smoke, obscuring the horizon and making it difficult to see anything beyond its suffocating grasp. Fiery orange and red flames danced and licked at the wreckage of Air Force One, a stark contrast to the dark smoke that bellowed from it.
The Warlord could hear the screams of survivors and the crackle of flames as he approached the wreckage. The air was heavy with the scent of jet fuel and burned flesh. He knew that he needed to act quickly—time was running out. With steely determination in his eyes, he strode towards the chaos, ready to take whatever he could get.
Farid ordered his men to surround the plane and look for any survivors. They would line them up and sort through them later. But as they approached, Secret Service started to fire at them, and a fierce gunfight broke out.
The Warlord was caught off guard by the sudden attack, but he quickly regained his composure and ordered his men to take cover. They returned fire, their weapons spitting bullets at the Secret Service agents.
For a while, it seemed like the Secret Service had the upper hand. Several of the Warlord’s men fell under the hail of bullets, their bodies crumpling to the ground. But the Warlord was not so easily defeated. He rallied his remaining men, urging them to fight harder.
“Keep firing!” he shouted in Somali, his voice hoarse with rage. “We can’t let them take us down!”
His men responded with renewed ferocity, pouring more and more fire towards the Secret Service agents. Bullets whizzed past the Warlord’s head as he crouched behind a pile of debris, his AK-47 clutched tightly in his hands.
The battle raged on for what felt like an eternity. The Warlord’s men took heavy losses, but they kept fighting, driven by their leader’s fierce determination. Slowly but surely, they started to gain ground, pushing the Secret Service back towards the shore.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the shooting died down. The Warlord’s men emerged victorious, their enemies either dead or had run out of bullets. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of gunpowder, fire, and blood, and the Warlord’s heart was pounding in his chest.
“Good work,” he said, clapping his surviving men on the back. “We took down the President’s guards. Now let’s find him—round everyone up in a line.”
With a commanding tone, the Warlord directed his men to enter the chaotic interior of the airplane. Inside, smoke and flames filled the space, along with the gruesome sight of injured and deceased individuals strewn about. The intensity of the fire had engulfed half of the plane, creating a dangerous and horrific scene. The stench of burned flesh permeated the air, enough to turn anyone’s stomach.
The remaining survivors were being forcefully dragged, shoved, or pushed, with many moaning in agony while others screamed in terror. One young woman repeatedly insisted, “I am an American, you can’t do this to me!”
The survivors were gathered in a row outside the blazing aircraft, with some individuals standing tall, others perched on makeshift seats, and a few sprawled out on the ground in agony.
The Warlord strode forward, his eyes scanning the frightened faces before him. “Where is President?” Farid asked the group of survivors in broken English, his voice laced with excitement.
Farid approached the first in line, the man was Major Austin Turner, who was previously holding the nuclear football. Farid asked him in broken English, “Where is President?” The man responded with his rank and soldier number, and Farid shot him at point-blank range. Everyone in the line started screaming.
Farid relished in their screams, knowing it meant they were terrified and more likely to give up information quickly. He usually took his time with torturing people, but he was pressed for time as the plane was ablaze. Every minute lost could cost him a fortune, and he needed to know immediately if the president was on board.
The next person in line was the young woman who kept saying, “I am an American, you can’t do this to me.” Farid asked her, “Where is President?” The young woman was in shock and kept repeating, “I am an American.”
The bullet entered her skull and she dropped dead with a shock on her face. Farid was sad he had to kill her. He would have enjoyed breaking her in tonight. But order and fear had to be maintained, otherwise, things could get out of control.
The next person that Farid asked was the young navigator Dylan Harrison. With tears in his eyes, the navigator pointed in the direction where President James Harrington ran into the tree line towards the mountains.
Farid could barely contain his exhilaration. This was it, the pinnacle moment of his entire existence. The President was aboard the plane, and now the most powerful man in the world was on the run in Farid’s territory. Chasing people was always a thrill for Farid; there was nothing quite like the rush of pursuing prey.
The President didn’t stand a chance against Farid. Farid knew the land like the back of his hand, and it was only a matter of time before he caught up to his catch. With the President captured, Farid could ask for billions in ransom. Every state in the Middle East, from Yemen to Iran to Iraq all the way to North Korea, would give Farid anything he wanted—money, weapons, and training for his men. Farid would finally have the power and control of Somalia. Nothing could stop him now.
Farid commanded his men to split into two groups: 10 would stay behind to protect the plane, its passengers, and any valuable items within. They were ordered to shoot anyone who came near without permission. The remaining men were to join Farid as they went on a hunt.
The Warlord turned to his men. “We need to find the President before anyone else does,” he declared, pointing. “Spread out and search everything between here and the mountains.”
The men nodded, eager to please their leader. They scattered in all directions, disappearing into the rocky terrain. The Warlord watched them go, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“James Harrington,” he murmured to himself. “You’re about to become my most valuable hostage.”
The Warlord barked orders at his men, shouting for them to move faster as they piled into the pickup trucks. He was impatient, eager to find the President before anyone else did. The sun beat down on the group as they sped towards the mountains, kicking up dust and debris in their wake.
The Warlord sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck, scanning the landscape with a pair of binoculars. His eyes darted from side to side, searching for any sign of the President. He could feel his heart racing with excitement, knowing that this could be the key to his ultimate power.
Suddenly, one of his men shouted out, pointing towards a rocky outcropping up in the hills in the distance. “There! I see movement!”
The Warlord leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the spot. Sure enough, he could make out a man ascending up a rocky slope of terrain. He grinned to himself, feeling a surge of adrenaline. This is it. This is where it all begins.
“Drive closer,” he commanded, his voice cold and steady. “We need to get a better look.”
The trucks roared forward, bouncing over rough terrain as they got closer to the edge of the mountain. The Warlord could now see more clearly. One man was scaling the mountain.
Farid looked on with admiration as the President utilized the landscape to his advantage. The steep incline made it impossible for their vehicles to pursue him. “Abandon the vehicles and let’s catch him on foot,” he ordered, and all fifty men eagerly followed in pursuit of the President.
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This chapter has gone through the following updates
9 May 2024 Edit: Version 2.0 – Major update to grammar, tense, and spelling mistakes contributed by Monica Liebenow.
14 May 2024 Edit: Version 2.1 – Minor update to grammar, indent and spaces contributed by Monica & Erin Liebenow.
Thank you, Monica & Erin!
21 June 2024 Version 3.0 Everything should be in past tense. And dialogue should be in italics. Please let me know if you spot any mistakes in the comments below.
16 August 2024 Version 3.1 Significant changes in flow structure and erasing lots of “fluff”