by Rick Jones
Though their trailing smiles held a measure of purpose and pride, they were also coupled with nervous tension. In their minds they were about to become moral sacrifices.
“Tomorrow,” Allawi went on, the man speaking with more of a preacher’s tact, “you will be greeted by your brothers who went before you. And together, along with Allah, you will dine at a great feast and bathe in the rewards given to you in Paradise. So, when the time comes for you to devote your final action in the name of Allah, it will also be the moment that sees you into Paradise.”
After the sermonizing, Allawi had them try on their vests, which had built-in pockets to hold bricks of Semtex and an ignition device. After the fitting, Mohammad Allawi sent them away to prepare for their journey to Paradise. When Allawi and Najm were alone, Allawi took a seat beside his aid, who was navigating his way carefully through numerous sites.
“Although they put up brave fronts,” Allawi commented, “they may have considerations about following through.”
“They’ll pull through, Mohammad, because they believe in you, especially after seeing how our brothers are being portrayed on the news—the constant mentioning.”
Allawi nodded at this. He realized long ago that he had the gift to prophesize and make people believe in him as a channel to a higher existence. Though he was not able to walk on water or turn water into wine, he did have the power to influence people on two levels. First, to take one’s life at will is true power, since the action is a show of complete dominion over another. But he believed that true power came by having someone kill for you. That way, he had complete dominion not only over one life but over two: The one he orders to commit the action, and the one whom the action is committed against. That, he believed, was the true power he held, one that was complete and absolute.
Allawi checked his watch and calculated the time for zero moment, which was twelve hours away from commencement, by his estimate. Then to Najm, he said: “I’m assuming you found no traces that the government has complied, or planning to comply, with my demands.”
“No. In fact, all the facilities are in lockdown and security measures remain high.”
“As expected, and the activity on the other front?”
Najm continued to type, making sure that he was erasing his cyber-footprints after every visit to classified sites. “Excellent news,” he answered. “The conversations with the chat rooms have skyrocketed in the Middle East, the Philippines, the United States, and within different parts inside Asian countries. People are asking where to sign on the dotted line for recruitment.”
Allawi smiled. “Resurrection of the cause,” he said, “when many felt defeated after the Syrian regime fell. Simply stated, to put out the flames in one area only fans two more elsewhere. The Islamic State will never be extinguished or defeated.”
Standing, Allawi pat Najm’s shoulder. “Clean all traces of your path and get some sleep,” he told him. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day that President Burrough’s will forever regret.”
“In a moment,” he returned. “Just a few more things to do.”
After Allawi went to bed he could not sleep, even as fatigued as he was. His mind continued to work as the images of the fallen memorials played in his head repeatedly, as if on a mental loop. The collapses, the smoke, the mayhem, all indelibility imprinted. But after a while his thoughts eventually segued to Shari Cohen.
He recalled being in possession of an M600 SR Squad-Level Precision Guided 5.56 Service Rifle, a weapon that is capable of revolutionizing ground warfare. It’s an AR-formatted rifle that auto-locks the target when the trigger is pulled and strikes center mass nearly 100% of all trigger pulls from distances of more than 1,000 feet away.
The moment he had secured Shari Cohen within the crosshairs on the day she was putting up a ‘FOR SALE’ sign on the front lawn of her house, he knew that she was about to breathe her last breath. Taking shallow breaths with her in his sights, he pulled the trigger, knowing that the round had locked onto its target, no matter which way she moved. The bullet had traversed the distance between them with the weapon living up to its billing, striking her just below the true center of mass, lifting her off her feet and carrying her to the ground. Thinking it was a killing blow, it wasn’t. She had survived. But not for long, he thought. You engineered the killing of my brother. Now I’ll finish what I started two years ago, and no one will stop me. Not this time . . . Not even your priest. Turning over onto his side hoping to find sleep, he would stay awake until the streamers of morning sunlight began to show themselves along the horizon beyond his bedroom window.
Chapter Twenty
As promised by the Vatican, Kimball Hayden’s trip had been mapped out with the aid of Vatican Intelligence and the Holy See. A plane from Alitalia Airlines had been chartered to take him to the UK property of the Cayman Islands, where he picked up a chopper service that took him to a cargo ship that was a day out of the Miami Port, a long twenty-four hours, which was a lifetime for people like Mohammad Allawi to operate. And looking at his watch every five minutes didn’t help the ship move along any faster, either. In fact, it seemed to retard its pace, even when he tried everything in his power to remain calm, but often discovered himself pacing inside his cabin or on the decks to promote the passing of the hours. Shari Cohen’s safety was monopolizing his thoughts and his actions, even to the point where he professed to himself that he was losing all sense of self-control. Looking out at the ocean and watching the sun set, he wondered how she would accept his role as champion to watch over her welfare. Good? Bad? Indifferent? And then the surface of the water reflected the light of the sun, orange, the color of fire. Yet it was beautiful in its display, with the crests and waves rolling softly and glimmering with such a color; the sea an exhibition of tinsel and glass. Though he tried not to, he looked at his watch once again. Since last time, only three minutes had passed. But as the hours pressed on and the partial face of the moon reflected its light upon the ocean’s surface—which gave it the odd color of whey—he knew he would not be able to sleep. Just thinking about Shari made his hand tremble uncontrollably as he held it up before him. After balling it into a fist and trying to restrain himself, he opened his hand only to find that the shaking had not yielded to his efforts of maintaining control. Of all the people Kimball faced on the battlefield or in a theater of contention, no one made him as nervous as Shari Cohen.
Returning to his quarters knowing that the ship would not cruise faster than its required knots to reach port, he simply had to bide his time.
And he would do so with Shari Cohen on his mind.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
Following Morning
It was an early-morning call for the president and his staff regarding the coming of the day’s events, especially when Allawi’s call for the release of ISIS militants went disregarded. Press releases over the day about the ‘bank holiday’ did little to quash the fears of the people, which prompted a discussion of whether one should be utilized. This, however, would only bolster a stronger reaction from the people, one of angry retort.
Along with President Burroughs inside the Oval Office were the directors from the FBI, the NSA, the CIA and Homeland Security.
“All right,” the president began, “the DOW opens in a half hour. Any forecast of what’s to be expected.”
The president’s top aide, Michelle Jessup, had compiled data from all agencies and networks to create a thick portfolio virtually overnight. Opening the file and leafing through pages, she came to the page regarding the president’s inquiry. “The DOW closed down yesterday at 13,597 before it stabilized,” she said. “When news broke of the possibility of the banks shutting down, it started to lose and ended at 12,657.”
“That’s more than half of the entire stock,” the president commented. “Even after I stated that the ‘bank holiday’ was an unfounded tool of the press?”
“Y
es, Mr. President.”
Then Burrough’s turned to the major principals in the room, his directors. “Any news on the terrorist fronts? Chat rooms. Channels. Intercepts. Anything.”
“Volume is running high, Mr. President.” This came from CIA Director Craner.
“There appears to be a new revitalization of fandom for ISIS, the Taliban and other terrorist organizations. We’re following and tracking every chat room conversation, channels and social media. But the amount of correspondence exceeds our resources, the volume is that high.”
“Anything that points to Allawi’s group?”
“Nothing,” said NSA Advisor Angullo. “We’re monitoring all local channels. And so far, nothing. Allawi is smart. So, I can only assume that he knows that we’re looking for him through every possible means. If he’s communicating, then he’s very careful as to how he’s doing it. He’s probably sanitizing his computer footprints, and most likely using couriers and burners to communicate in-house.”
“So, we have no idea what he’s planning to do at ten-hundred hours?”
“No, Mr. President.”
Burroughs ran his hand through his hair. “In ninety minutes, if we don’t get a handle on this, a nightmare is going to unfold.” And then to everyone in general:
“What about his reference to Herod?”
“There’s been a mention of ‘a place of educational learning’ in the email,” stated the FBI director. “Since we’re assuming that Allawi is talking about a school, we’ve expressed that all schools be closed until matters settle. No buses will be running. And schools nationwide have been notified assuring them that local law enforcement will be highly visible. If Mohammad Allawi is planning an attack against children, we can at least keep his effort contained to a small scale.”
“Even ‘a small scale’ is too much, Larry.”
“I agree, Mr. President. We all have kids and we all understand the nature of protecting our children . . . But we’re also running blind here. Even with our technological advances, the dragnet has provided nothing regarding Mohammad Allawi’s cell. Whatever is going to happen in ninety minutes, Mr. President, is going to happen, unless the heavy presence of military personnel we have throughout D.C. makes him think twice about his actions.”
“All military is duly located?”
“Yes, sir. Train stations, shipping ports, political institutes, street presence. In fact, we’re one step away from declaring martial law, if necessary. Your call, however.”
Calling martial law was the last thing President Burroughs wanted. But if the constituency continued its freefall panic because of the government’s inability to prove that they had a handle on Allawi’s group, who knows how long it would take the country to rebound. Calling martial law may be his only option and perhaps that final push that breaks the national psyche, which was already fragile.
“What about the second guy? Miner? Anything on him?”
“The man’s an absolute ghost,” Johnston said. “We have absolutely no trace evidence on this guy that would allow us to create a biographical record of him. We were, however, with the aid of profilers, able to develop a personality outline based on his actions from his stint in the military to his elevation as a Blacksite operative.”
“And?”
“High IQ. Computer savvy enough to show elite abilities.”
“Was he capable of breaking through the computer shields to plant a false biographical record into the databases?”
“We think so. And the reason why we believe this is because we now know that Miner was getting into records that were considered off limits. Though he was given TS clearance to go into classified areas, we believe that he used those fields as gateways to hack into other related fields in order to download and manipulate data.”
“And nobody discovered this?”
“No, sir. Miner, or whoever this guy is, made sure that he covered his tracks by erasing as much of his cyber-footprints as possible. Only after an in-depth investigation by our leading techs were we able to pick up particulate traces, which aren’t markedly strong at all.”
“But the evidence, as minute as it may be, may also suggest on some level that he has the ability to breach and manipulate programming?”
“To some degree.”
“Which leads me to the second question,” the president stated. “Is it remotely possible that he could also be responsible for the downing of Air Force Two?” Homeland Security Advisor Rupert Moncrief spoke up and said, “We’re beginning to discover that signals were pinging off geostationary satellites close to the aircraft and interacted with the plane’s mainframe unit. They were overriding Air Force Two’s command center and killed the programming system through a viral implant. Whatever the pilot did to get the plane stable, the virus countermanded those actions by performing the opposite. They never had a chance. But again, this is only conjecture based on minimal findings. The facts may take weeks, maybe longer, before we can truly understand the cause of the plane’s malfunction.” “And the origination-point of these receiving signals?”
Moncrief shrugged. “Again, Mr. President, unknown. The trails have been buried. And by the time we do pinpoint their exact location, they’ll most likely be gone.”
The president seemed to drift for a moment, thinking. Then: “Allawi claimed responsibility in the name of the Islamic State before news spread of the aircraft’s downing, which tells me that he was directly responsible. I know he holds a high degree of intelligence, but does he have the computer skills to bring down Air Force Two?”
“He does have computer skills,” said Johnston. “But he’s never shown such a high level, not even close, at least according to his biographical record.”
“Then that leads me to this shadow man,” stated President Burroughs. “This guy Miner. What scares me most is that he’s revealing a cyber ability that’s truly terrifying. If he can tap into onboard computers, then he’s capable of taking down any aircraft by design. Right now, even though Mohammad Allawi is the operational mouthpiece of the cell, Miner is the true threat.”
“This has been regarded as a high-end possibility,” said Moncrief.
“Everybody has a past. A mother. A father. Siblings. We know everything there is to know about Mohammad Allawi. I want every available source to dig up what they can about Miner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has his face been downloaded into VisageWare?” the president asked.
VisageWare was a state-of-the-art facial recognition software program that operated globally through security and CCTV cameras. The program could detect several facial landmarks within a millisecond and either confirm or deny one’s identity before moving on to the next face. So far, neither Miner nor Allawi had been detected.
“Stay on this, people. All of you. This country remains in crisis mode until Allawi and his cell are terminated. If his people want to meet Allah so badly, then I, for one, will be more than happy to make it happen.”
After the council was dismissed, President Burroughs was left alone to stare out the window that overlooked the Rose Garden. In less than forty minutes, he thought after looking at his watch, Allawi would realize that his demands were not going to be met. Hopefully, with the high presence of National Guard units moving throughout the streets, it would be enough of a deterrent to Allawi that the United States was fighting back by flexing its own muscle.
But will it be enough? He thought.
In less than forty minutes, President Burroughs would get his answer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
When FBI Director Larry Johnston returned twenty minutes after the White House meeting closed, Shari Cohen was waiting for him.
“You need me on this case, Larry,” she told the director in a no-uncertain-terms voice.
“Shari, please, not right now.”
She pointed to the empty chair before his desk. “May I?”
“You might as well. You’re going to take it whether I want you to or not.”
She took the seat. “Thank you.”
The director immediately patted the air with his hand. “Before you get all riled up,” he told her, “I received my orders about your lack of involvement in this situation from the attorney general, who’s my boss. And he took his orders from the president, who happens to be his boss. Understand? We know your capabilities in such matters. But you were the target of the individual whose whereabouts remains unknown. He is also responsible for what he did to your family. Your emotions, Shari, would complicate and maybe even compromise the operation. We will find him.”
“I need to be on this at some level.”
“You need to be off the grid,” he told her firmly. “Mohammad Allawi is a very dangerous individual. He’s an intelligent man who surrounds himself with intelligent people.”
“They can’t be too intelligent if they run around blowing themselves up.”
Director Johnston eased back into his seat and let his shoulders fall. “Look, Shari, what do you want from me? My hands are tied.” And then: “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you attach yourself to the investigation unit and track the chat rooms?”
“That’s an analytical position belonging to the NSA,” she told him.
“One call is all it takes to Moncrief,” he told her. “It’s the best I can do.”
Using great effort to maintain calm, Shari suddenly realized that her inability to get involved was proving difficult to control. If I can’t contain myself now, how would I act if I was deep inside the investigation? And then: “Understood.”
“Make abundantly sure that you do, Shari, because we will not discuss this matter again. I want to make myself very, very clear on that.”