Silent Strike

by Francis Bandettini

  "A neurologist," Jessica interjected.

  They all laughed. Rivera picked up the dead snake's head. His jovial demeanor changed to a serious frown. "Whoa, Troy. Look what we have here. You tangled with a nasty rattlesnake here, amigo. And, I just want to let you know, I've been concerned, but now I'm very concerned."

  "What is it?" Jessica asked.

  Rivera started to speak as if he were a ringside boxing announcer. "In this corner at six feet two inches, one hundred and eighty-five pounds of pure muscle, . . . Troy Stoker, M.D."

  "Okay, just get on with it," Stoker said. "What kind of rattlesnake is it?"

  CHAPTER 3

  South of Istanbul, Turkey

  As he stood at the helm of his sixty-four-foot sailboat, the wind whipped at Nikolas Antoniou's cheeks and blew surf from lightly salted waters of Turkey's inland Sea of Marmara. Circumstances of his life excluded him from seeing his wife and children for months at a time. He was missing all those special moments and events in their lives, being always absent from the day-to-day life and challenges of his sons and daughters. But, missing big events was no matter to him. The ayatollahs had spoken, all those years ago. And, he was so close to fulfilling his mandate.

  Today he concluded the short, strange visit with his family. It was always odd visiting people on house arrest. The separation started with a flight from Jubail, Saudi Arabia to Istanbul, Turkey. Then a short taxi ride took him to Viaport Marina, where his yacht, The Winds of Athens, was anchored. Now the air currents had swept him a short three nautical miles away from Istanbul into the Sea of Marmara.

  His life was full of opportunity with his education, a vibrant family, and wealth. The ayatollahs and an Iranian trust organization called a bonyad had given him venture capital and control. Control was everything. He was the master puppeteer. His wealth and holdings were his stage. Employees were his serfs. He further leveraged his power by shrouding his evil with a cloak of Islamic religiosity. Today, he was returning to his business empire based in the land of the Great Satan, the idolatrous wasteland called America.

  With the lights of Istanbul diminishing behind him, Nikolas set the boat's autopilot. He had never been "touched by poverty" as the Koran suggested. Quite the contrary. He had known decades of vast wealth. The Iranian bonyad supported his business ventures and provided him with more fortune than he could’ve ever imagined. At the outset, the bonyad that employed him was set up as an Iranian-government-sponsored charitable trust. But the organization soon lost its benevolent bearing and deviated into a loosely controlled, slushy investment fund. Since his childhood, the bonyad had groomed him as a business mogul while the government taught him spycraft. The director, the bonyad's foremost authority, arrayed Nikolas with opportunity and training in his youth. After he finished MBA school, the bonyad gave him responsibility and capital. By the time he turned thirty, the bonyad was supplying him with almost endless financial resources. Any new venture or business acquisition Nikolas recommended from his office in Chicago received instant funding.

  Yet, there was an implied debt. His family was the collateral. And the director had explained, in stark terms, how the debt must be satisfied. In theory, once Nikolas’s grand plan afflicted the Great Satan, his family would go free. But for now, his family would continue to live and exist under house arrest on the eastern coast of Saudi Arabia.

  Over time, family had become even less important to Nikolas. In his barbarous, cold, and calculating mind, his wife and children had always been important, but as props, PR propaganda, or pawns. However, because of the attacks Nikolas was soon to unleash on America, he did not know what would then become his family’s future. Would accomplishing his mission reunite him with his family or put more distance between them? He might even have to make his wife and children a casualty of his dread scourge.

  As a psychopath, having his family under house arrest in Saudi Arabia offered little motivation. He craved power, control, and praise of the ayatollahs in Iran. A sentiment of sadistic anticipation accompanied his every waking moment, soon expecting the coming day when Americans would suffer long, protracted fear, pain, and sorrow.

  Every four months he made this pilgrimage for a visit to the eastern shore of Saudi Arabia. His sailboat always arrived and departed from a different port in Turkey. Most people would revel in the sailing experience and its accompanying beauty and serenity. For Nikolas, sailing was a necessary evil that helped him slip undetected between the Middle East and the western world. Sailing took time away from harnessing biology and economics to build lethal weapons that would bring the opulent West to its knees.

  With a slight adjustment to The Winds of Athens's mainsail, he exploited the wind and optimized the laws of physics to propel his yacht west. Scanning the horizon, he saw no other vessels jockeying to intercept his intended course. He trimmed the sails, and soon his sailboat was traveling at five knots—a crawl in terms of modern speeds. He would soon fire up the boat's diesel motor and double his velocity.

  As he was evaluating fickle changes in the wind, the alarm on his wristwatch chimed. It was time to pray. Had he been at work, with his many other Muslim brothers, he would've paid the alarm heed and prepared for prayers. The appearance of devotion was an important pretense Nikolas maintained before his trusted employees. But, on the open sea, he had no need to keep up the charade.

  For this trip, Nikolas’s plan took him through Istanbul. But, he always varied his routes as a safeguard. He had reasons to hide his world travels from American officials as well as watchful eyes from the Sunni Muslim world. He sailed into or out of different ports in Turkey. Often, Nikolas anchored in the touristy yacht clubs to give the impression he was a leisure traveler from Greece. Without fail, he would complete the necessary paperwork with Turkey's Ministry of Customs and Trade before he put to sea, always declaring his travel rationale as pleasure.

  Nikolas Antoniou wore a Greek name. But, his name was a fabrication. His bloodlines consisted of thousands of years of Persian heritage. The government of Iran conspired to change his identity when he was thirteen years old. Academic tests identified him as an outlier. He showed a special aptitude for strategic thinking, and he was a leader. He exploited manipulation, cruelty, and violence to maintain the seldom-challenged alpha status amongst his peers. Test results revealed some innate promise as a scientist. In due course, a Greek double agent facilitated the metamorphosis of a young Iranian psychopath into Nikolas Antoniou, Iranian sleeper agent. His handlers also created the appearance of family history with two substantial real estate transactions, conducted in the names of his fictitious parents. In Greece, he enrolled in a prominent international school, paid for by funds his bonyad laundered through various Mediterranean interests.

  Nikolas dominated the Greek language, excelled at school, and thrived in social circles. When he was accepted at Cambridge University, the government of Iran was thrilled to arrange secret financing of any and all expenses. Nikolas knew all too well who was paying for his education. He looked forward to the day when everything he was learning would make him a powerful hero in his secret motherland.

  It was a mandate, not a choice. He was ordered to major in biology and economics. The ayatollahs and the director had a plan for him. Earning an MBA from the University of Chicago was a critical milestone in the plan. His mission was clear: He would be Iran's secret captain of industry in America. Nikolas needed little mentoring to access Iran's secret capital to build large enterprises. Large enough to develop and hide, within the United States, the weapons to bring down the West.

  Like a puppeteer, Nikolas had his marionettes—his employees. As a psychopath, he craved the sensation of control. The euphoria of seeing thousands of people doing his bidding, around the clock. He created a grand commercial stage, through several business ventures. But soon, a few of his chosen marionettes would leap off his commercial stage. These actors would slink onto a hidden stage of guerrilla warfare. They would afflict millions of Americans.

&n
bsp; Nikolas set the boat's autopilot and gave one last scan of the horizon before him. Then he stepped below deck. Nikolas reached for the microwave oven in the galley. He never used this device to prepare food. He pressed some buttons as if he were programming the microwave. But, Nikolas was, in reality, entering an access code that activated a compact screen. As he had done many times before, Nikolas looked at the small display and held his eyes steady. The screen scanned his left retina. The device detected the eye indeed belonged to the correct person. He heard a click, and the microwave's control panel slid downward, exposing a small, waterproof safe secreted inside the microwave. Nikolas extracted a small device, a Raspberry Pi computer. Alone this device was almost useless. But, when he connected it to a mouse, keyboard, and large display, this computer became the window to his business and terror enterprises. As the CEO over a few companies, this small computer linked him into the information he needed to run the companies and hide his terroristic plans within the businesses. He had been out of touch with his accountants, lawyers, and scientists for a few days while traveling in Saudi Arabia. It was critical to avoid communicating about his Chicago dealings while he was in Saudi Arabia. American intelligence did not have to play by the same rules in Saudi Arabia, so Nikolas elected not to play at all while he was there.

  Now, he was on his way back to America. This time he would, at long last, carry out a plan that would dwarf all other terrorist attacks on the West. In America, his Greek identity was a perfect cover. When Nikolas Antoniou introduced himself as a businessman from Greece, Americans perceived him as European. To further convince people of his status as a European, he would speak with a masquerade of enthusiasm for his sailboat adventures throughout Europe. He would refer to his home in Athens. The people he did business with never imagined Nikolas Antoniou was orchestrating large-scale jihad on the United States.

  With his computer, he delved back into the world of documents, reports, emails, and plans. His subordinates had done a reasonable job of moving the attacks forward. But there was one effort that earned his praise. "At last!" he exclaimed aloud when he read about the mist machines at the Burning Man Festival. "The ayatollahs will soon see the seeds of jihad blooming. Let's see how well our soldier-engineer executes in the real world." He examined nine pictures the engineer, Roya, had included in the email. There, in the middle of the Nevada desert, sat the CoolSolar misting machine. Roya's setup was perfect.

  Despite his excitement over deploying the Balamuthia amoeba in the desert of Nevada, Nikolas had many other matters to attend to as the sailboat's autopilot navigated him toward the Dardanelles. This thirty-eight-mile strait of water would lead him out of Turkish waters and into the Aegean Sea, his gateway back to Greece.

  Nikolas Antoniou quickly glanced at some other reports and documents. But, he was not interested in sales reports, financial ratios, and measures of commerce. At this critical juncture in his mandate as an Iranian operative, he was obsessed with the reports from his laboratories. These biological workshops, secreted deep in the basements of his legitimate hotel, were incubating the amoeba as well as multiplying a bacterium. Each pathogen had a separate mission. But, Nikolas would arrange their incubation timelines to confuse the United States populous, the government, and the healthcare system. He would infuse panic into all Americans—a long, protracted dread and anxiety. Very different from the ragtag terrorism of hasty bullets and bombs.

  Amoebas were the simplest of pathogens, but very deadly. There was not much a scientist could do—or needed to do—to alter these elementary organisms and their lethality. But bacteria, on the other hand, these microscopic creatures were complex and easily modifiable. Scientists around the world were starting to tap into the genetic programming that could weaponize simple bacteria into virulent killers. And, Nikolas and his team of genetic biologists had modified one of the most common. People who ingested their bioengineered Campylobacter jejuni bacteria stood a fifty percent chance of suffering a long and dreadful disease. While rarely lethal, the illness subjected its victims to months of misery.

  On his computer screen, Nikolas scoured a document that reported the results of a small trial of the bacteria on a group of unsuspecting, voiceless human subjects in Chihuahua, Mexico. "Wow," he said softly. "A fifty-two percent infection rate. Sick people filled up the ICU and much of the medical floor." The trial was exceeding expectations. The report concluded with an over-zealous recommendation. The scientists universally agreed this bacterium was ready—as a weapon. More importantly, the scientists expressed their willingness to enter the front lines of a silent strike the Americans would never see coming.

  As Nikolas was working, a new email arrived. "Damnit!" he yelled as he smashed his fists on the table. He quickly read an email from this Roya woman he had come to trust. She reported their new team of his biologists would not be sneaking into the United States from Mexico. They had just been massacred in the Mexican desert. Nobody knew who carried out the violence.

  With so little time before the next attack on American soil, Nikolas did not have time to re-start the process of smuggling another team of scientists through Mexico and into the United States. There was no time to find out who perpetrated this attack. He shot back an email instructing Roya to train more of the foot soldiers in some of the simple biological tasks. She would have to assume almost all the intellectual responsibilities and delegate the rote and mundane tasks to the men of lower rank. If any man had a problem reporting to a woman, Nikolas informed her that he would promptly adjust his insolence. Using a woman for this strike was a stroke of genius. Even the Americans could not imagine a powerful female in an informal Muslim hierarchy.

  Nikolas shut down the computer. He returned the small but powerful device to the safe disguised as a microwave oven. Then he retrieved a simple piece of paper from a slim drawer in the boat's rich wooden paneling. On the paper, he scribbled a few lines. Then he flipped open a small compartment, which revealed a fax machine.

  While this telephone-based technology was rarely in use in the business environment anymore, fax machines still had their place amongst mariners. They served well for sharing weather and other sailing related information transmitted over long-range radio bands or satellite phone signals. Nikolas fed the document into the machine, entered a memorized phone number, and pushed the send button. His message was encrypted by the fax machine and transmitted back to Chicago.

  After a brief scan, the machine spat the original document back out to him. It was done. He had just issued the order for the second stage of attacks to begin. This wave would take the bacteria, so well-proven in the Chihuahua trial, and disburse it to large groups of unsuspecting Americans. It was a brilliantly timed sequel to the amoeba attacks that had started with Burning Man.

  Nikolas took the document and stepped up the companion ladder that would lead him topside. Once on the boat's deck, he carefully rolled the paper into a scroll. A verse from the Koran came to his mind—one he assumed his attack would fulfill. "And remember the Day when We shall roll up the heavens like a scroll rolled up for books, as We began the first creation, We shall repeat it, it is a promise binding upon Us. Truly, We shall do it." Then he allowed the small scroll to fall into the vastness of the salty sea. He watched it languish for a moment on top of the water and then vanish into the vessel's wake.

  Within moments the small scroll was forgotten. The winds were kicking up, and Nikolas saw a cloud formation before him that forewarned a fresh breeze, or perhaps even a thrilling gale. He was ready. He needed the challenge of the storm—the only time he enjoyed sailing. Nikolas needed to harness tempestuous velocity and anger and tame it into propelling his fine vessel toward Greece with haste.

  He disabled the autopilot, trimmed the sails, and assumed the helm of his boat. Feeling the wind against his skin, Nikolas instinctively knew every adjustment to make to the ship's wheel and sails. He allowed the boat to lean slightly to the right as wind, sails, and hull came into perfect balance. Within thirty m
inutes, the clouds enveloped him. A light rain turned into a downpour, and a severe gale became his opponent. The waves crashed over the bow of his magnificent vessel. The thrill of battling a powerful storm made Nikolas Antoniou feel truly alive. For the next three hours, the mariner tamed the storm and made it his servant, allowing him to travel at a remarkable pace across the Sea of Marmara.

  As the storm abated so did his adrenaline. He felt weary as his drenched clothing hung from his body. Weariness overtook him, and he felt the desire to sleep. He set the boat's autopilot and went below deck to change into clean, dry clothing. A few minutes later he emerged back topside to make some final course calculations. As he turned and surveyed the sea to his starboard, the serenity vanished.

  "Attention, The Winds of Athens," came a stern voice through a megaphone, startling Nikolas to his core. But, his spy training had taught him to restrain his natural reactions when something surprised him. He harnessed the wave of panic and capitalized on his surging adrenaline. "This is the Turkish Navy. Prepared to be boarded."

  He considered the possibility that the Turkish Navy might find his computer, access it, and unravel his war plans. But months ago, he had enacted a scheme to misdirect them.

  "Halt right there! Don't move." Nikolas stopped in his tracks and gently raised his hands so they could see he was not armed. He was surprised to see the approaching vessel was also a sailboat, a speedy catamaran. He estimated the length at fifty feet. The Turkish Navy had used wind power to sneak up on him undetected. A surprise indeed.

  As the Turkish catamaran came alongside The Wind of Athens, three sailors jumped aboard and pointed at Nikolas. "Why do you look so fearful?" one of the sailors asked him in Turkish.

  "We Europeans sometimes watch movies Muslims find offensive, even you more secular Turks." Nikolas's response was one he had practiced many times in his mind. The movies were countermeasures he wanted the sailors to find instead of his computer. Furthermore, the DVDs were palpable items that easily satisfied the confiscation reflex, which some law enforcement personnel seemed to possess in abundance.