Silent Strike
A TROY STOKER, M.D. PSYCHIATRY THRILLER
DR. FRANCIS BANDETTINI
MATT NILSEN
Naoband, LLC
Baltic, South Dakota
To Naomi
To Julie
Sometimes life is suffering. But how we endure the suffering can fulfill a grand life.
- Dr. Francis Bandettini
CHAPTER 1
Black Rock City, Nevada
For once, hijab wrapped around her face, she blended in with these Americans. Almost all the infidels around her shrouded their faces, thanks to the wind and sand. The lead engineer from CoolSolar kept a low profile while setting up for the big event, without averting her eyes and attention from her task in this holy cause. With one day remaining before the Burning Man Festival, carpenters, technicians, and stagehands worked at a feverish pace to make everything just right—or as perfect as it had to be for this hedonist event. Today the Iranian engineer would fit in just fine. With the unforgiving dry wind kicking up the desert sand, her hijab just seemed like a ubiquitous piece of apparel to prevent sand from entering her eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. Many other workers were wearing dust protecting goggles and face coverings—with no modest intent.
Tomorrow they arrive, Roya thought, scorning modesty and celebrating debauchery. Now and then exclaiming some platitude of empty reverence to the trendy mother-earth goddess, Gaia, in the middle of the Nevada desert. “A false goddess that demands nothing of her worshipers.”
CoolSolar was providing a simple solution to help attendees cool off in the summer heat. Roya, a quiet, submissive mechanical engineer, was erecting a large mist machine powered by solar panels. The powers that be at Burning Man had assigned CoolSolar a prime location, along the road that traveled through the middle of the festival. In an area called the Six O'clock Sector, burners could linger to cool down. Tomorrow this high-volume corridor would team with people living the rapturous fantasy of radical self-expression.
The CoolSolar engineer set up the system with efficient precision. Her boss had walked her through more than a dozen drills when he taught her to assemble it in a Chicago warehouse. Like clockwork, she connected the structure, tubes, solar panels, water pump, and mist sprayers. And now, this humble woman from Iran was ready for the real attack. While the assault would be potent, this strike was also a dress rehearsal for greater silent ambushes to come. Broadway musicals had dress rehearsals. Sports teams had preseason games. And, Roya’s cell had the Burning Man attack. The dress rehearsals and games meant something, but not as much as the events to follow.
The most critical action was adding an amoeba-infested solution to the water tanks without infecting herself. For Roya, the engineer with laser focus, discipline, and radicalized passion, this would be a gratifying moment. She had been loyal to the Shiite cause since her childhood. Her mist system would send the water-droplet-bound amoebas into the air. Most of the pathogens would fall to the ground and perish. But, those amoebas that implanted into humans would wreak havoc on their central nervous systems.
"An ideal target." That's how, Nikolas, the attack's mastermind described the event to Roya during their last rehearsal in Chicago. "This Burning Man Festival is perfect, with these American heathens at their height of debauchery in the middle of the Nevada desert. Local law enforcement will never detect the attack. They’ll already be stretched too thin by the sudden influx of non-conformity. In silence, the wrath of Allah will afflict these devils for weeks before their symptoms ever appear," the man from the Middle East preached.
But why was the man's name Greek? Roya wondered. Even more peculiar, this person named Nikolas lived in America as a successful businessman. When Roya arrived in America, she started out working in his Chicago hotel—an ignoble role for an engineer. Nikolas, under a directive from Iran's Ministry of Intelligence and Security, invited her to also work on his other projects, like CoolSolar. As a hotel worker, American law enforcement would never suspect her as a potent jihadist. Because she was female, the Middle Eastern men in the cell would never suspect her skill and intelligence as an engineer. No leaks. Because only Nikolas would know what she was up to.
"Our silent Burning Man attack will afflict thousands," Roya had replied. She almost never interjected her thoughts when talking to Nikolas. But, the attack on Burning Man was the culminating incursion. Expressing her fervor was appropriate. "When our scourge, at last, appears among these godless whores—weeks after their pagan desert ritual—the upheaval will horrify every American heart. Hospitals across America will reach a slow, inescapable boil of sickness and death."
The man smiled and exclaimed, "Says the Koran, 'And whoever disbelieves, I will grant him enjoyment for a short while, then I will drive him to the chastisement of the fire; and it is an evil destination.' The prophet foretold this day! This Burning Man is the fire; and we shall provide the chastisement. What is the weapon that will chastise the heathens?"
Roya paused for a moment to make sure this was not a rhetorical question—that the man with the Greek name, in fact, expected her to answer the question. When he did not answer his own question, Roya proceeded. "Weeks after the fire of Burning Man, the chastisement, cited in the Holy Koran, is a one-celled organism. These organisms will bury themselves into the matter of the infidels' brains. It is the amoeba, Balamuthia mandrillaris."
"Yes! It is all so clear. This festival, it is indeed an evil destination. Can you envision another place on earth more depraved? And, this attack is just the beginning. Soon the masses will weep."
Two years ago, Nikolas started a business that appeared harmless on the surface, CoolSolar. But, he had apocalyptic intent. During the summer, the new firm would set up solar-powered mist machines at events such as outdoor concerts. CoolSolar provided these services for free under the guise of promoting the firm's new solar-powered technology. Until now, the mist only contained harmless water.
Tomorrow, when the outside temperature reached eighty-three degrees, Roya would exercise great caution as she poured gallons of an amoeba-rich solution into the mist system's water tank. She would then walk far away and be careful not to return for a few hours. “Avoid any risk of infection,” Nikolas had warned her. “We need you for the duration of the war.”
Roya was willing to die. As an Iranian spy, no one frightened her. Her fear was reserved for Allah. She had many battles to fight, as the person in charge of ramping up CoolSolar’s amoeba attack operations. And, she wanted to see the day—to experience the moment—when Sharia would rule America. She envisioned a future when she could wear her hijab in good company—when all women would cease revealing too much of their faces, hair, necks, and arms. Nevertheless, I must focus on the here and now; and my job in this battle is critical, she thought.
So, she had driven a large pickup truck, pulling a sizable cargo trailer, from Chicago to the Black Rock Desert of Nevada. She transported the solution containing gallons of the Balamuthia amoeba-infected water, stored at a perfect temperature. And now, as she finished testing the mist system, she could, at long last, rest. It was time for her to pitch her tent a good distance from the Six O'clock Sector and wait for night to fall. Rest was critical. Over the next few weeks, she would need all her strength. Burning Man was just the first silent volley in the war that would bring down the Great Satan. Roya still had so much work with dozens of other attacks.
CHAPTER 2
Near Chihuahua, Mexico
With one quick step Stoker won the bet. As much as he loved his adrenalin rush, he loved the feeling that Rivera was watching from below cursing the devil while watching Stoker fall through the sky. He had learned some things during his training much quicker than Rivera would ever admi
t to him. Stoker bet Rivera he could solo HALO parachute within two jumps.
Damn that Stoker, Rivera thought as he watched from the desert floor. He’s won this ridiculous bet. Rivera would never admit it to Stoker, but his friend was indeed an exceptional man. But, Rivera knew that Stoker had a tremendous ability to surpass physical and mental limits as he had seen while training this thirty-three-year-old man.
HALO jumping from 13,500 feet, Troy Stoker activated his chute at a mere 2,500 feet. It was on the low side, especially for his first jump solo; but he wanted to give Rivera a little rush. The adrenalin surge from the fall collided with 102-degree fury as the Mexican desert swiftly rose to meet him. Troy Stoker, a soldier and psychiatrist, was completing special operator training. With this continued parachute descent toward the desert floor, he ticked off the last of his specialized training exercises.
He knew why life was taking him in a new direction. Stoker had learned a lot in his service of humanity as a physician. But, he could see how his country would also utilize his unique skills. Rivera once told him he had the cojones for this new position. Stoker took that as a compliment. And, here he was, just a few miles outside of the Mexican border town of Chihuahua.
As he descended under canopy, he checked his chute. Finding it square, stable, and steerable, he turned his attention to surveying the terrain below. Stoker sensed a little surprise when he saw a group of men who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. They seemed to be running in formation some distance ahead of him, jogging in a synchronized military cadence. Had the runners looked back, the blinding sun may or may not have obscured their view of Stoker suspended from his chute. He angled away and increased his vertical airspeed by grabbing his front risers and pulling the lines to his chest. Missing his anticipated landing zone was a deliberate decision. He needed a rapid descent to get him to the desert floor where the enemy could not detect him.
After landing, Stoker packed and stashed the parachute and started tracking the men. Stoker used his radio to call Rivera. "Alpha Bravo Two, this is Medic Alpha One. We might have an interesting situation here. Will explain later after a sitrep in thirty. Over. Over."
Sitrep was short for a situation report, which Stoker would provide once he knew more about the out-of-place runners. He assessed the situation as he ran behind them. Making mental notes on these tangos, he followed and surveilled for two miles. When he got back on the radio with Rivera he had insights to share.
"This is Medic Alpha One reporting approximately ten to fifteen possible tangos running in formation, in what appears to be training exercises approximately three clicks north of my position. Over."
There was a small crackling silence, and Rivera got on, seemingly upset. "What the hell are you doing, Stoker? Over."
"Colonel Rivera, I see ten to fifteen tangos, about two clicks north of my position." Stoker said, "Over. Over."
"What the hell are you talking about? Tangos? What’s going on? Over."
Stoker frowned, and with some exasperation, thought about how he would reply. "Rivera, I'm on a training mission. And, if I'm going to train, I'm going to start tracking these boys. You know, those Shiites we’ve been watching." Then he let his irritation crackle through the radio. "You can track me, and I'll track them! How about that? Over."
"If this is some type of joke?" Rivera asked. "You almost killed yourself waiting to pull your pins at that low altitude! The CYPRES unit almost activated your reserve chute for you. Over."
"I'll explain later." With his sixty-pound pack, Stoker ran for an additional hour. He kept pace with the group while maintaining a one to two-mile distance. Every twenty minutes, they stopped to participate in different combat exercises. The group commenced their run again and again after each objective was met.
By default, this chance encounter with these Iranians, Lebanese, and Yemenis preempted Stoker's training. Circumstances catapulted him into this real mission. These enemies had been training here in the Mexican desert. And, they were days away from slipping into the United States and joining a cell of like-minded Shiites.
After a few more miles, their leader stopped the men and drilled them in battlefield hand signals and communication. Stoker crept closer. But, the sparse desert vegetation, mostly parched creosote bushes and an occasional tumbleweed, offered him limited camouflage. Finding an observation point around an outcropping of rocks, he decided two hundred yards was about the right distance to avoid detection.
Dr. Stoker took a keen interest in the body language of the leader as well as the men he commanded. This gave Stoker some important clues as to how these men operated as a group. He noticed four stars on the leader’s shoulder epaulets. “A sarvan,” Stoker said under his breath, whispering the Farsi word for captain. At a clinic in Chihuahua, he had treated some of these men. Stoker looked on as the sarvan, whom he had also seen as a patient in a brief visit, issued orders to these hardscrabble men in a language Stoker easily recognized. Instead of the staccato sounds of Mexican Spanish, he heard an idiom, Farsi, which flowed between smoother sounds. To Stoker, the language spoken in Iran sounded like some of the Eastern Block languages, with a few additional guttural tones and soft hisses.
This group, mostly composed of Iranians, was a band of new arrivals to the Mexican frontier, and Stoker was one member of a team paying attention to the radicals. The CIA needed help. The agency was over concentrating its assets and operatives in North Korea and Syria. Russia was also requiring more intelligence assets. Perhaps a mistake in Stoker's estimation. However, the nation of Iran, with its eighty-one million inhabitants, had significant resources now. But, the country's leaders, the ayatollahs, were motivated by a divine mandate to conquer and convert the world. The grand prize was the United States of America, The Great Satan. For more than thirty years, the ayatollahs carefully built sleeper cells in many parts of the United States. So, with his new team, Espada Rápida, Stoker would continue to watch this group of Shiites as they staged and trained. Here they were, just 200 miles south of the U.S.-Mexico border—foolish audacity! Stoker and the Espada Rápida team would report their ongoing intelligence gathering to the three alphabet agencies. The FBI's Joint Terrorism Taskforce had shown an acute interest in this battalion of mostly Iranians. The moment these aspiring terrorists crossed the border, the FBI was ready to track them and further infiltrate their network. As a physician, Stoker had treated many of these Muslim extremists in a clinic he and Rivera set up in Mexico as an intel gathering mission. He worked side by side with Dr. Errol Rivera. They both posed as physicians sympathetic to radical Islamic terrorists. As they had cared for their injuries, viruses, colds, and sexually transmitted diseases, they learned valuable bits of intelligence.
For the present situation, Stoker knew he had to stay hidden. Dehydration was his greatest enemy. He ran out of water an hour ago. With his high intensity running, he was starting to feel more than thirst. His abdominal and leg muscles were cramping from the heat and from lactic acid buildup. He felt nausea and a headache coming on, and then a wave of fatigue.
As Stoker was watching the tangos at their next stop, the rookie combatants engaged each other in simulated hand-to-hand combat. This group was different from other trainees he had seen in previous weeks. Their lackluster engagement was appalling by Stoker's military standards. These men would never survive unarmed combat. They showed no psychological evidence of focused aggression, grit, or anger. Their caliber of boldness felt like a bad handshake. Perhaps it was the heat. They practiced disarming gun-toting enemies. Their awkwardness with this drill was embarrassing, perhaps even to the men, Stoker thought. He wondered why this group was allowed to perform at such a low standard.
On an order from the sarvan, the combatants drank water. They gulped from large canteens. Stoker winced in envy. His parched throat burned. But, he had taken control of his mind, blocking his thirst. He was still walking and functioning. He had a radio, and he wasn't concerned. His body would let him know when he was in danger, and he
would take heed soon enough.
The sarvan removed six daggers from his backpack. He gathered the men around in a half-circle and gave a brief demonstration. Looking toward a man to his right, he gestured for the man to attack him. His opponent accepted the challenge, and they sparred. The trainee was putting forth such halfhearted effort that the sarvan took his knife and stabbed the man perfectly between his second and third cervical vertebrae, which effectively gave this person a hangman's break and a rapid disconnection between his brain and his body. The others were horrified, and Stoker even was surprised. This man disconnected this young soldier's brain from the rest of his body and was leaving him in the sand to suffer. The sarvan walked over to the man, stood over him with two feet, looked at his head whose eyes were slowly closing and before he died he said something about wanting rest. He moved in closer. "Now you will have rest." He spat at him. "May Allah take your soul to hell! Your fellow soldiers now understand how serious our jihad is and how hard we must work—the great suffering we must endure to earn paradise."
Stoker hastily chose a large rock to conceal himself. He crawled his way back behind this perfect observation area. Stoker witnessed almost thirty minutes of sparring with the training daggers. Now, their motivation renewed by a jolt of fear, the men trained with increased intensity.
Stoker heard a noise behind him. Instinctively he flinched and pushed himself away from the disturbance. A rattlesnake came out from the cover of the rock and coiled. Stoker flinched away from the snake. Through the lens of a nine-power rifle scope, a Persian eye caught the sudden movement. After a hurried shout, two of his comrades picked up automatic rifles and started running toward Stoker and aiming in an undisciplined fashion. It was most likely a combination of fear and bloodlust that was directed toward Stoker. He was exhausted. He felt thirsty. But, his senses were awakened. In an evolutionary sense, his ancient human DNA evolved over millennia and was always helpful in a fight or flight situation. Stoker revived instantly. A surge of adrenaline and glucose flowed into his bloodstream.
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