by Akart, Bobby
“Dad, my counterparts are focusing on domestic sources, chat boards, text messages, and phone calls. I’ve been told that numerous FISA warrants were issued this afternoon.”
Pursuant to the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, the FBI, under the direction of the Department of Justice, was allowed to conduct surveillance on both international and domestic terror suspects. Over time, the FISA court’s authority was extended to all manner of criminal activity, whether terror related or not.
“Do you know any details?” asked Tom.
“No, other than the fact that this is strictly a domestic investigation and the level of scrutiny indicates the threat is credible.”
Tom glanced over at his wife, who’d slipped on her dress purchased for this special occasion. She was just as beautiful as they day they’d met. His eyes took her in as his attention turned back to his daughter.
“Tommie, are we in the crosshairs?”
She hesitated. “Dad, I honestly don’t know. I will say this—New York City is always somebody’s target.”
Chapter Ten
Mercedes-Benz Stadium
Atlanta, Georgia
The teams entered Mercedes-Benz Stadium in pairs, spaced just a minute apart so they could mix in with other arriving workers. The security guard manning the rear entrance at the loading dock glanced at their security passes and quickly waved them through without question. Once inside, they dispersed in all directions, wearing the dark blue utility coveralls they were assigned, which were bulky enough to cover their street clothes underneath, and carrying a variety of bags ranging from soft-sided lunch totes to small backpacks. Even if they’d been stopped, their devices would’ve passed scrutiny. They possessed some of the best covert weapons developed in many years.
The stadium was considered a modern wonder of architecture, designed to be a multipurpose venue for the NFL’s Atlanta Falcons and the major league soccer team Atlanta United. The extraordinary roof design featured sliding panels. The design firm HOK-USA had studied the way sunlight passed through the oculus in the roof of the Pantheon in Rome. Using their observations as inspiration, they designed eight petal-shaped roof panels that moved together along individual tracks so that the roof closed and opened like the aperture of a camera.
Wrapping the entire perimeter of the oval-shaped roofline was a high-definition, wraparound video monitor system that created a one-of-a-kind theater-like experience. For football games, seventy-one thousand fans could sit in comfort and watch the game. For a two-and-a-half-hour concert like the one that evening, a similar number would be attending, many thousands of whom would be standing at ground level in front of the stage.
The Australian operator broke away from the group first and made his way into the bowels of the stadium that housed the mechanical rooms. Around the lower levels, several rooms contained communications equipment and the hub for the nearly four thousand miles of fiber-optic cable woven throughout the stadium. He’d taken a considerable amount of time to review the schematics available online through the Atlanta City Planning Department’s website. Based upon his analysis, he’d found the central location of the entire fiber-optic system.
The two Americans were tasked with accessing the primary control rooms for the ventilation system of the complex. Once they located the maintenance panels for the massive ductwork, they’d strategically place their devices to perform to their maximum potential.
Lastly, the team leader from the UK was tasked with lighting the fuse. Police departments in major cities received dozens of bomb threats every day. They rarely turned out to be real, and as a result, due to reduced budgets and manpower shortages, first responders had begun to scale back their initial responses.
The City of Atlanta had the largest division of the Counter-Terrorism Task Force, designated CTTF, in the state of Georgia. Led by the Georgia Emergency Management Agency in conjunction with the FBI’s Atlanta Field Office, the CTTF devoted much of its time to surveillance and prevention of attacks.
In a recent interview for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the head of the CTTF responded to a question regarding the number of false alarms this way: “Bombers make bombs, and people who make bomb threats make bomb threats, and they don’t cross paths.”
He cited recent examples around the country, such as the Hampton Roads Navy installation in Virginia Beach, where seven credible bomb threats were made in a forty-eight-hour span. Fortunately, none of the threats materialized.
He also went on to explain how Cesar Altieri Sayoc, the delusional former male stripper who had sent package bombs to more than a dozen democrat politicians and financial supporters, avoided law enforcement’s notice despite having a 2002 arrest for a bomb threat. When he sent bombs through the mail in October 2018, which were later discovered to be incapable of exploding, he didn’t make any specific bomb threats, only the now-typical vile, hateful things spewed on social media by a lot of political partisans.
The head of the CTTF went on to disclose the agency’s philosophy when a bomb threat comes in. He said local authorities should hold off on any kind of evacuation until something beyond the threat was actually identified, like a suspicious package. His philosophy was simple. By eliminating knee-jerk responses to threats, the frequency of false calls would diminish and, hopefully, copycat threat makers would be discouraged because they didn’t get the results they’d hoped for.
When the Brit watched the interview, he’d shaken his head in disbelief. It wasn’t that he disagreed with the CTTF’s approach. He thought it stupid that they would disclose it to the public through the media. Did the head of the CTTF not think terrorists would hear his words and plan accordingly? His team certainly did.
The mission that evening was unusual in that their employers wanted the CTTF and first responders to react. His instructions, although cryptic, once decoded were crystal clear.
Terrorism was different from murder. In any battle, collateral damage in the form of innocent lives lost was to be expected. But the overall objective of a terrorist, in the broadest sense, was to use a person’s fear against them. Acts of terrorism had proven to be extremely successful since 9/11 in achieving recognition for the cause of radical Islamic terrorists. Since then, terrorist acts around the world have effectively allowed bad actors to level the playing field with their adversaries in furtherance of their political, religious, and ideological aims.
His financial benefactors were not interested in murdering the attendees of the Beyoncé concert. He surmised this operation was part of a much larger overall plan that would reveal itself in due time.
The head of the team was in place and checked his watch. Precisely at 9:00 p.m., two local Atlantans who’d made a name for themselves in the hip-hop scene began their thirty-minute set as the crowd began to file in. Following their performance, the stage would be cleared and reconstructed for the feature performance that would last until midnight.
Reports indicated that Beyoncé and Jay-Z would perform their own special rendition of the poem written by a Scotsman, Robert Burns, in 1788. The poem was eventually adopted by countries throughout the English-speaking world to be sung at the stroke of midnight as a new year was rung in.
The lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne” began with a rhetorical question, one the team leader of the operation considered to be apropos.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
He chuckled to himself as he thought of the literal meaning. Is it right that old times be forgotten? Or should we remember the old times and forget the ones in between then and now?
“I guess we’re about to find out,” he muttered with a smile.
Chapter Eleven
Six Flags Great Adventure
Jackson, New Jersey
“Guys, welcome to the world’s scariest theme park!” exclaimed Dr. Angela Rankin to her two kids and man-child of a husband, Tyler. Angela was an intensivist, oftentimes referred to as a critical care physician, at Virginia Commonwealth
Medical Center in Richmond, a renowned critical care hospital. Her primary field of study was emergency medicine.
“Let’s go!” Kaycee, their oldest, exclaimed, banging her hands on the back of the seat as if she were playing the bongos. The eleven-year-old had a zest for life that was unparalleled. Perhaps it was her adventurous parents who taught her the thrill of the outdoors and pushing their bodies to the limits, or maybe it was her own brush with death as a child that gave her a new lease on life coupled with an outlook that she was invincible. “Right, J.C.? We’ve got this!”
“I’m not scared, Peanut,” replied her younger brother of eight. J.C. had been overshadowed during his childhood by the trauma the family had been through when Kaycee almost lost her life five years prior in a freak accident.
The family had been vacationing at the beach in their hometown of Hilton Head, South Carolina, when a tour helicopter flying overhead suddenly lost power. The pilot attempted a crash landing in the shallow waters off the shoreline, but the unpredictable nature of the chopper’s glide path brought it toward the sandy shore, catching the Rankin family in an untenable position.
J.C. was still a toddler at the time, and when the helicopter started to crash, his parents scrambled to carry him out of harm’s way. They managed to miss the spinning rotor blades of the helicopter, but the fuselage bounced across the sand and landed on top of Kaycee, who had been separated from the group during the chaos.
She was being crushed under the weight of the chopper as her parents frantically dug the sand out from under her. For several minutes, her parents thrashed in the sand, trying to dig under the wreckage so Kaycee could be freed. However, they couldn’t move her due to the extensive injuries she’d received. Helpless, they waited for an ambulance.
For several weeks thereafter, Kaycee was in intensive care and went through a significant amount of physical rehabilitation before she was released from medical supervision. To the young girl’s credit, she came through the trauma as if she’d won the lottery of life.
“Of course you’re not, buddy,” said Tyler Rankin. Tyler had grown up on the beaches of Hilton Head, spending his days as a lifeguard and his nights on the town. After meeting Angela while at a house party in Los Angeles during spring break one year, he got serious about life and became a firefighter. He then obtained his certification as an emergency medical technician.
The two married after Angela got her undergraduate degree, and Tyler helped support the young family while she attended medical school. The four of them were inseparable, despite the long hours Angela had to spend at the hospital. When available, they hiked throughout the southeastern United States and visited places of interest to help further their kids’ education.
Angela was given a rare two-week vacation between Christmas Eve and into the first of the new year. The family decided to take a road trip to Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington to see historic sites related to America’s founding.
After Christmas, they drove up to Boston and saw several historic sites around the area. Their next planned stop was a day in Philadelphia for a walking tour and finally two days in DC. But first, they were going to celebrate New Year’s Eve at Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey, about thirty minutes east of Trenton near Fort Dix.
“Dad, I’ve been studying our options ever since we planned the trip,” said Kaycee, who clearly was taking over the tour guide duties from her mother, at least for today. “There’s a reason they call this place the world’s scariest theme park. They’ve got the fastest, tallest, wildest, gut-wrenchingest roller coasters on the entire planet!”
“They do?” Angela asked with a smile.
Kaycee was serious. She sat a little taller in the back seat of Tyler’s 1974 Bronco, a truck he’d driven since he turned sixteen when his father passed away. It was in pristine condition and painted orange and white. Most importantly, it was a constant reminder of the close relationship he’d had with his dad.
Kaycee continued. “Yep. They’ve even got record breakers.”
“What kind of record breakers, Peanut?” asked J.C. His eyes grew wider at the thought of the roller coasters breaking records mid-ride.
“Well, the newest ride is called the Cyborg Cyber Spin. It’s seven stories high and it makes you feel like you’re floating in space.”
J.C.’s tone turned apprehensive. “Do you sit in a chair? How do you hold on?”
“You’re strapped in, J.C.,” replied Kaycee condescendingly. “They don’t let you float in the air. People can’t float or fly. Don’t you know anything.”
“I know things!” J.C. shot back.
Angela quickly intervened. “All right, you two. What else do they have, Peanut?”
“The Dare Devil Dive will be pretty cool too. You go up fifteen stories through the air at sixty miles per hour like you’re skydiving. Um, we have to pay a little extra for that one.”
Tyler laughed as he reached over for Angela’s hand. He whispered to her as he followed the parking lot attendant’s instructions, “Naturally, I have to pay extra to crap my pants.”
Angela burst out laughing and kissed her husband on the cheek. The two had been in love since the day they met, and their affection for one another never waned.
“Peanut, which one breaks the records?” asked J.C.
“That, my little brother, would be Kingda Ka,” said Kaycee authoritatively. “Now, listen to this.”
Kaycee paused for dramatic effect to make sure she had everyone’s attention. She lowered her voice and adopted a golf announcer’s hushed, serious tone. “Once we’re strapped in and ready, Kingda Ka throws into warp speed at one hundred twenty-eight miles per hour. In just three seconds, we’re shot up a four-hundred-fifty-six-foot track until we reach the top, where we’re suspended for a moment, and then, WHOOSH, we sail down the other side, screaming at the top of our lungs. Isn’t that awesome?”
The family was quiet as they soaked in Kaycee’s words until Tyler started laughing. “Angela, I’m gonna need to bring an extra pair of pants inside.”
Chapter Twelve
Atlanta Hartsfield Airport
Atlanta, Georgia
Will Hightower nervously milled about the baggage-claim area in the South Terminal at Atlanta Hartsfield Airport. His kids were technically unaccompanied minors. Although underage, they certainly had the ability to travel without adult supervision. On the one prior occasion he had been allowed to visit with them alone, their mother, his ex-wife Karen, insisted upon Will paying for her round-trip ticket to escort them to and from Philadelphia. It was an unnecessary expense he could ill afford at the time, but it was worth it to visit with his children on his own terms. This New Year’s weekend visitation marked their first trip to Atlanta without his ex-wife’s interference.
He caught a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror affixed to a wall near the restrooms. He looked out of place in a security guard uniform. Will studied himself and frowned. He hadn’t worn the uniform to impress his kids. If anything, he preferred not to publicly wear the drab brown matching shirt and pants with the Mercedes-Benz logo emblazoned across the left chest and on both sleeves. He looked more like a mechanic than he did a security officer.
There were other security personnel around him. Atlanta’s airport was one of the busiest in the world, but the security officers here consisted of local law enforcement, many of whom wore SWAT team gear or at least tactical body armor and protection. They also carried AR-15 rifles, a far cry from the boxy stun gun he had holstered in his utility belt.
Watching the two SWAT officers casually walking along the baggage conveyer belts made him long for his days on the Philadelphia Police Department when he was part of the one-hundred-man special weapons and tactical squad. He’d started with Philly SWAT at Philadelphia’s East Division, initially handling high-risk warrants, hostage situations, barricaded shooters, and hazardous materials response.
Over time, as the political climate in the country shifted, Philadelphi
a became front and center as societal unrest gripped the inner cities. His job duties began to shift from tactical response to crowd control. He was one of fifty officers assigned to cover the entire city of one and a half million people on a moment’s notice, twenty-four seven. Philly SWAT prided itself on its quick reaction time and enormous successes in maintaining the peace. Then one dark day descended upon the City of Brotherly Love that tarnished the reputation of Philly SWAT and cost Will Hightower his job, and his family.
“Daddy!” The voice of his young daughter, Skylar, could be heard over the casual hustle and bustle of arriving passengers greeting their loved ones. Will pulled himself out of the nostalgic doldrums, which overcame him frequently, and turned to the sound of her voice.
“Sky! Look at you. You’re blue, just the way I like it!”
His daughter, wearing a light blue track suit, ran and jumped into his arms.
“I’ve missed you, Daddy.” Tears poured out of her eyes. It had been six months since Will had seen his kids, and the last visit to Philadelphia hadn’t ended well.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, baby girl,” said Will as he lifted her up to squeeze her tight. He looked toward the entrance to the baggage-claim area. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’s back there, Daddy. He didn’t want to run to find you like I did.”
Will frowned. His relationship with eleven-year-old Skylar hadn’t changed in the last two years since he left Philadelphia for Atlanta in a move he felt was for the betterment of everyone. As for fifteen-year-old Ethan, he never got over the life-changing event that precipitated Will’s involuntary retirement from the Philadelphia Police Department and the subsequent breakup of his family. He laid the blame squarely on Will’s shoulders, and since then, their relationship had been icy at best.