Traitors Within

by James Rosone

  Once the first bomb went off, the two attackers in the van would wait a couple of minutes to allow more people to spill out of the various buildings around them. After they had managed to place their van using their cable repair cover, they would then change into their tactical gear and proceed to walk down Wacker Drive, shooting anyone and everyone they came across, causing as much chaos as possible.

  Jamal reviewed the plans for the third bomb one more time. He was quite pleased by how well the entire plan seemed to have been orchestrated by the leadership within his organization. He also took great pride in knowing that his devices would play a huge role in the choreography of the day’s events.

  Even if no one knows that I participated, except under the name “The Chemist,” I will still have my revenge for the killing of my family, he thought.

  Chapter 13

  The Gathering

  Deir ez -Zo, Syria

  ISIS-Controlled Territory

  Fahd al Saud had spent the past two years fighting with ISIS in Syria and Iraq and had proven himself to be a man who could be trusted and handle himself well under pressure. When he returned from the front lines for some R & R, one of the leaders in his group had told him some of the higher-ups wanted to speak with him. At first, he wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong so he was confident it must be something good.

  Walking into one of the buildings that was acting as a headquarters of sorts, Fahd was led to a room in the back where several men were seated, waiting for him. Signaling for him to take a seat, one of the men eyed him carefully, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of Fahd. He asked, “Have you ever traveled to America?”

  Fahd replied, “I have. I studied in America for a year as an exchange student when I was in high school. My father thought it would be good experience for me.” He spoke without hesitation, lest they think he was some sort of American spy.

  The three men nodded as they talked in hushed tones to each other. The man who had asked him the first question softened his expression a bit. “Excellent.” It seemed as if he had already known the answer.

  If this was a test of my truthfulness, then I just passed, Fahd thought.

  “We have a special mission for you,” said one of the other men as he pulled some papers out of a folder.

  The man placed a set travel documents for Fahd that appeared to be newly issued. A fresh Saudi Arabia passport with the appropriate accompanying papers to show that Fahd was traveling to visit the University of Chicago as a prospective student. An invitation letter from the engineering department and a professor were neatly printed on the university’s letterhead.

  “Because of your faithfulness to the cause and your devotion to Islam, you have been chosen to be a part of a great mission—one that will rely on your past experiences of living and traveling in America. It’s a mission that no one but you is capable of fulfilling,” the man said. He obviously sought to puff Fahd up in front of his fellow ISIS fighters.

  His leader added, “This is a great honor, Fahd. I’m proud to have such a man as you to take part of my humbled command. Not all of us have the skills to perform such an important task as this. Allah has blessed us with someone such as yourself.”

  Fahd felt his cheeks reddening from the praises being heaped upon him. A chance to travel to America, a journey into the belly of the beast—this was a high calling. He also had the sickening feeling that this was going to be a martyrdom mission, something he had hoped he would be able to avoid. He had no problem dying for the cause of Islam; he just wanted his death to have significance.

  The stranger who appeared to be the one in charge resumed his instructions. “You will be traveling to the city of Chicago on a tourist visa to visit the university. Once you arrive and make it through customs, a man will meet you at the baggage claim. He’ll be holding a sign up with your name on it. You will be provided a coded message to use when you approach him. He’ll recite a message back to you. If the message matches what you’ll have been given before you leave for America, then you are to travel with him.

  “Our friend will take you to a safe house, where you’ll be able to spend the night and rest. The following day, you will be shown a suitcase bomb and given instructions on how to use it. You will then take a trip to Union Station, the main train station and the central Metra hub.”

  Pausing for a second, he looked Fahd in the eyes. “This is important, Fahd. When you are out in public in America, you will need to be discreet. You should not attract attention, but it is essential that you know the route and exactly what to do beforehand.”

  Fahd nodded in acknowledgement.

  His leader put his hands on Fahd’s shoulders. “You have shown yourself to be a worthy fighter, and a loyal soldier in the jihad. You are going to be the first martyr in a great attack against the infidel, America. It is a great honor.”

  Fahd smiled softly. He was very excited to be chosen, but he didn’t take the responsibility lightly.

  “We are going to arrange for you to travel back to Saudi first,” instructed his leader, handing him a piece of paper.

  “When you arrive in Jeddah, go to this mosque to speak with the imam there. Recite to him Quran 4:95: ‘Not equal are those believers who sit at home and receive no hurt, and those who strive and fight in the cause of Allah with their goods and their persons. Allah hath granted a grade higher to those who strive and fight with their goods and persons than to those who sit at home. Unto all in faith hath Allah promised good: But those who strive and fight hath He distinguished above those who sit at home by a special reward.’ Then the imam will give you some money and your plane ticket to fly to Chicago.”

  It took Fahd nearly three weeks to travel the various smuggling routes from ISIS-controlled Syria back into Saudi Arabia. Once back in the kingdom, he made his way to Jeddah and to the mosque. Fahd spent two days staying with the imam there before he was given his plane ticket and final travel arrangements were made. The day he traveled to the airport, the imam gave him the final code word to use with the man who would meet him in Chicago.

  When Fahd arrived at the airport, he made it through customs and the boarding process with ease. Once on the plane, however, he made sure to have a couple of stiff drinks. While his ISIS friends would frown upon his indulgences, he felt he needed something to help calm his nerves.

  The flight from Jeddah to Chicago was uneventful but long. The five-hour layover in Dubai was probably the hardest part for him. It was too short of a layover to get a hotel room, but just long enough that he couldn’t really sleep in the waiting area without the constant fear that he’d somehow miss his flight.

  Wandering through the expansive terminals, Fahd saw people from all countries and walks of life moving about the airport. Some traveled with a companion, while many others appeared to be solo travelers like himself. Not wanting to leave the passport-controlled part of the airport, Fahd settled on eating some food at a restaurant called Hatam. The skypark plaza allowed him to observe people while he enjoyed the traditional Iranian cuisine and killed a few hours waiting for his next flight.

  Once it came time for him to board his final leg to Chicago, Fahd settled into the economy plus seat as he prepared for his final flight. Looking around the plane, he realized this was perhaps the nicest plane he had ever flown on. Etihad Airways really knew how to cater to all its passengers, not just those who flew first class.

  When his flight landed in Chicago, Fahd grabbed his small carry-on bag, a small Samsonite that held three sets of clothes. His trip only called for him to be at the university three nights, so it would have looked suspicious if he was traveling with more clothes than what was needed for this short four-day trip. As he walked off the plane and onto the jetty that would lead them to the terminal, he shivered slightly. It was February in Chicago and unlike Saudi Arabia, Chicago was brutally cold in February. He walked briskly to get inside the terminal where it was heated.

  Once off the jetty, F
ahd removed a medium-sized jacket from his carry-on luggage and proceeded to put it on. He hoped the long-sleeved shirt and this coat would be enough to handle the winter weather, but he was having his doubts as he looked around and saw all manner of people wearing much thicker, heavier winter coats. Slowly, he made his way through the terminal, following the signs to baggage claim and the passport control section.

  He saw two lines of people were forming. Signs above the lines read “US Persons and Green Card Holders” and “All Others.” Most of the travelers approaching the segmented lines headed toward the “All Others” lane. Fahd got in line and followed suit. Slowly, he made his way to the Customs and Border Patrol officer.

  “Passport please,” asked the CBP officer, all businesslike.

  Fahd handed the man his passport. The CBP officer took the document and flipped it open. He took a look at the photo and then compared it to the man standing in front of him. He then held the document open as he placed it under a special light briefly, and then it went facedown on a scanner. His information immediately started to populate the digital file being created of his entry into America.

  “What’s the purpose of your visit?”

  “I’m visiting the University of Chicago as a prospective student,” Fahd said confidently, just as he had rehearsed many times before.

  “That’s a good school. What are you looking to study?” the officer asked as he motioned for Fahd to begin placing his fingers on the Guardian R biometric scanner.

  “I’m looking at their engineering department. I’m trying to narrow it down between Chicago and potentially Texas A&M,” Fahd replied. He followed the electronic prompts as his finger and thumbprints were captured by the device and added to his newly created electronic dossier.

  The CPB officer noticed Fahd had previously traveled to the US four years ago. He quizzed him briefly on his previous travels, but with no red flags showing up, he stamped his passport and handed it back to him.

  “Welcome back to America,” he concluded. Then he waved the next person forward, probably having already forgotten about Fahd.

  When Fahd exited the controlled area, he spotted an African-American man standing in a line with dozens of other people all holding various name placards. Fahd spotted his name and walked up to the man. He leaned in and quietly said his prearranged phrase. The man smiled and said the proper words in return that confirmed his identity. He then motioned for Fahd to follow him back to his car. The two of them made small talk on their way out of the airport, acting as if they had known each other before this moment.

  The first thing Fahd noticed when they left the terminal to head to the short-term parking garage was the bitter chill.

  Damn, it really is cold outside, he thought.

  When they reached the car, Fahd got inside and the two of them drove to a home in the suburbs, where Fahd would spend the night. Instead of meeting up with his next set of contacts the following day as he’d thought he would, he ended up staying with his handler for two days before he was brought to a new location.

  When he arrived at the new house, he met several other individuals. He assumed they must be other attackers or part of the team, but until he knew exactly, he’d keep mostly to himself. What he did notice immediately was they were all speaking English fluently, and although Fahd did speak English, he wasn’t very comfortable with his language skills.

  Two of the men, John Osborn and Zameer Mandi, appeared to have known each other for a little while. Apparently, they were going to be working in a team, because Fahd could hear them discussing their equipment and double-checking their preparations. As time passed, it came closer to the time for evening prayers. They all instinctually began the ritual of washing their hands, feet, and their faces, and soon they were all kneeling, dipping up and down and chanting their prayers in unison. The act brought them together in their common belief and purpose.

  John was apparently feeling nostalgic at this point. He turned to Zameer and asked, “So, partner, I know that we all have our own reasons for being here, but how did you come to be in this place with us tonight?”

  Zameer sighed. “Well, I grew up in Pakistan. My family lived in the disputed tribal lands near Afghanistan. I wanted to pursue life in the city, away from the rural emptiness. After I completed my schooling, I packed up what little I owned and made my way to Islamabad. Soon, I was enrolled in both English and computer classes. Within a year, I had applied for a job and had begun work at the American embassy.”

  He held his hand up, wanting to stop any comments on that point. “At the time, I thought that my position would help me to perfect my English. I was even deluded enough to dream of immigrating to America. Then one day, my life took a drastic turn.”

  They had all poured some tea. He took a sip from his cup and continued, “The rest of my family went to my cousin’s wedding in our home village. I was not able to join them because my classes would not give me leave to go home, but this saved me from a horrible fate. An American drone launched a hellfire missile at my family, killing nearly everyone I loved on what was supposed to be a day of celebration.

  “The rage I felt at this injustice burned inside of me. I began to spend time in chat rooms online where other people who had lost someone to a drone attack went to share their stories. Some of those men became my friends in real life as well. After about a year, I came to the realization that I needed to attack the Americans. At first, I wanted to carry out some sort of attack against the American embassy where I worked. However, my new friends encouraged me to apply for a student visa and infiltrate the USA.

  “One of my friends had connections and told me that I would be contacted once I arrived in the States, so that I could get assistance in obtaining my revenge for the killing of my family members. Eighteen months later, I was accepted to the University of Illinois and, with the help of my new benefactors, I received my student visa. I was set up with a bank account that had funds deposited into it every month; that allowed me to work on my degree and keep up good grades so that I would not have to worry about losing my visa. From then until now, I’ve just been studying and waiting. Allah has finally brought us to the appointed time.”

  One of the other men, Mohammed Nabi, responded, “Praise Allah,” to which Zameer, Fahd and John all echoed, “Praise Allah.”

  Mohammed smiled. “Your story is not all that unlike my own, brother, although, I am from Afghanistan. The Americans took my father to a detainment camp before they killed him. I was able to come here to be a part of this great mission because of the refugee program.” The other men nodded, and Mohammed was briefly lost in a daydream of memories.

  *******

  Like most young Afghans, Mohammed Nabi had welcomed the Americans coming to his country when he was little. The West brought music, education, and many other things that he enjoyed. However, as he got older, Mohammed grew to hate the Americans. One day, when he was sixteen, his father was taken prisoner by them. They claimed his father had been working with the Taliban. The last Mohammed knew, his father had been detained in an American prison camp. His family had never heard from him again. A year had gone by, and Mohammed still didn’t know if his father was going to be released or not. Then one day Mohammed’s uncle came to him.

  He put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder as he told him, “The Afghanistan government has charged your father with terrorism against our nation. He has already been tried, and he was sentenced to death. He will be gone in a month.”

  The news was hard for Mohammed and the rest of his family to deal with; his mother would not eat for days after he told her the news. The day after the execution, Mohammed’s uncle took him aside again and asked, “Nephew, you do know that your father was a senior leader in the Taliban, right?”

  Indignant, Mohammed shot back, “No, he wasn’t! He was a truck driver, just moving cargo from Pakistan to Afghanistan for the Americans.”

  His uncle calmly explained, “What your father had been moving was explo
sives. His work was of great help to the Taliban cause.”

  Mohammed was shocked. He didn’t know what to say, so he just let the news soak in for a moment.

  After a minute, his uncle continued, “You know your father was an honorable man, right?”

  Mohammed nodded.

  “Would you like to take your father’s place in the Taliban?” his uncle asked, cautiously.

  Mohammed didn’t immediately say no. If his father and uncle had both been a part of this organization, that changed his whole view on the Taliban. However, practically, there were some issues.

  “Uncle,” Mohammed began, “I don’t have a truck like my father, and I don’t know how to drive one either.”

  “That’s not a problem, nephew. We can arrange for you to obtain your license and teach you how to drive an eighteen-wheeler. We can also give you a truck to drive, one that has special compartments in it. This will allow you to smuggle opium to Pakistan, and explosives and weapons to Afghanistan.”

  Mohammed hesitated, but only for a moment. He nodded in agreement, and in that instant, his life changed.

  For two years, he did as he was told. Then his uncle approached him and said, “I have a man who wants to meet you on your next trip to Pakistan.”

  “Of course, Uncle,” he agreed.

  When Mohammed arrived in Pakistan, he was driven to the capital for a special meeting. There he met with what appeared to be a very wealthy Arab. The man used a translator, but he could tell by the way his Arabic sounded that he was probably from one of the Gulf States.

  The Arab asked Mohammed, “Would you like to avenge your father’s death?”

  Mohammed replied, “I believe I am avenging his death by bringing weapons and explosives over the border. These weapons and explosives are used to kill Americans.” He spoke with great conviction and pride.

  The Arab man asked, “If I were to give you the opportunity to kill many thousands of Americans with a single blow, would you do it?”