Silent Strike

by Francis Bandettini

  As Rivera turned the truck perpendicular to the road and stopped, he responded. "Roger that."

  Stoker got out of the truck and removed the magnetic grenade from his pants pocket, examined it closely, and rehearsed the steps in his mind. This was a new weapon for him. And, getting a detail wrong could cost him limb or life. After satisfying his inquisitiveness, he put the grenade back in his pocket. Then he jumped into the cabin, picked up the radio, and issued instructions to the helicopter. "About three seconds after we engage these guys, you will swoop in behind us. We need bright lights shining in their eyes."

  "You've got it, Stoker," the pilot responded. "Do not engage. Just help them see the light of day!"

  "Exactly."

  "Getting into position now. At their current pace, the tangos are about thirty seconds away. But the motorcycle is hanging back about a quarter mile."

  "Let's plan on a rendezvous and pick up about 200 yards down this road behind us."

  "Copy that. Tangos fifteen seconds away."

  "Enjoy the show!" Stoker said as he dropped the radio microphone and turned to Rivera. They could hear the hum of the trucks closing in on them.

  Stoker yelled at Rivera and pointed to the side of the road. "Take your backpack and the box of lab specimens, and go crouch down over there! I'll have a new weapon in your hand in a few seconds. Rivera dove to one side of the road and Stoker dove to the other. Their only shroud was darkness. The trucks barely slowed to come around the corner. Stoker and Rivera saw headlights.

  Stoker jumped up into the headlights and caught the attention of the two gunners standing in the bed of the first truck. They never had a chance to aim their guns or pull the trigger. At the same moment, the driver perceived how he was about to t-bone the white Dodge Ram 3500 pickup truck blocking the road before him. The driver slammed on his brakes and careened toward the roadblock. The second truck didn't have time to respond. Just as the first truck collided with the Dodge Ram, the second truck rear-ended the front vehicle and sent it smashing into the truck that was blocking the dirt road. The men positioned as gunners in the back of the trucks flew forward through the air, and so did their weapons. Stoker sprang for one of the guns, as it slid over the dusty gravel road. He picked it up, instantly transforming from the hunted to the hunter.

  "Now Rivera!" Stoker yelled as he tossed the newly acquired weapon to Rivera. Errol Rivera sprang from the shadows. He caught the gun, positioned it against his shoulder and laid down thirty rounds of suppressive fire. Stoker dove for another automatic rifle and retrieved it, as he barrel rolled back to the side of the road. He too laid down suppressive fire. Then the furious sounds of helicopter rotors and a marvelous flood of light illuminated the crash before them. Three gunners had been ejected forward from their trucks and were wriggling on the ground, trying to make sense of the impact, the light, the sounds, and the pain. One of the gunners was unconscious. Stoker kicked all the rifles away from the men who had been so intent on murder just moments before. Rivera grabbed the drivers and yanked them out of the trucks. They went willingly and walked fifteen yards beyond the front of the accident. Rivera ordered them to kneel on the ground and put their hands behind their heads.

  Rivera used hand signals to communicate with the helicopter. In response, it ascended to an overhead position but continued illuminating them. Then Stoker and Rivera dragged the four gunners and laid them in front of the drivers. The three conscious gunners were in shock from their cuts, bruises, fractures, and concussions. They squirmed on the ground moaning and bleeding. Stoker checked for a pulse on the unconscious man. "This guy's dead," he told Rivera in English.

  Rivera recognized that the drivers were Iranian, and he blitzed them with harsh interrogations in Farsi. Compelled by blows from the butt of his rifle, the drivers did not hesitate to confirm they were indeed Iranian. The gunmen were Mexicans. One of the Iranian drivers was wearing hospital scrubs, and Rivera singled him out assuming he might know more about what was going on at the hospital. The next question came in Spanish so everyone could understand. "Where did the CJ bacteria come from?"

  The middle eastern man in scrubs answered in passable Spanish. "From a lab you idiot. It's not hard to multiply bacteria."

  "Isn't that sweet," Rivera said. "Well, Congratulations! You've just won a trip to Saudi Arabia, where our Wahabi allies will pump every last bit of information out of you." The Iranian man tried to look smug. But, he could not shroud the fear from his eyes. "As much as I want to spill your entrails onto the Mexican desert, I know you have some crucial intelligence. The kind that will take some time to extract. But, let's find out how much you'll tell us right now."

  Rivera bound the Iranian's wrists behind his back with zip ties. Then he secured his ankles. After rolling him onto his stomach, Rivera grabbed the back of his head by his hair and repeatedly shoved his face into the dusty sand. As the Iranian held his breath, his nose smacked against the dirt. The cartilage in his nose crunched. Then a cascade of tears, blood, and snot gushed. Waves of pain reverberated through the Iranian's head. Still, he continued to hold his breath while Rivera taunted him with questions. "Where did this bacterium come from?" The Iranian refused to answer, but his lungs started to burn as he starved for oxygen. Rivera went silent as he gripped the back of his head and shoved it into the dirt with every ounce of force he could muster. The Iranian trembled with horrified anticipation. This guy's just a maniac, he thought. His gasping reflex screamed to override his will to hold his breath.

  A primal reflex overwhelmed him and the Iranian inhaled. But, his lungs rejected the cloud of dust and sand that rushed in. He panicked, writhing on the ground as his body's multiple breathing and coughing reflexes battled each other in a maddening conflict between craving oxygen and rejecting dust and sand.

  Rivera was yelling. "Let me repeat the question. Where did the bacteria Campylobacter jejuni come from? What's its source country?"

  "Iran!" the man spat out between horrendous coughing fits. His craving for oxygen turned his muddy, blood-covered lips blue.

  "Who's in charge?"

  "I don't know!" He could barely get the hoarse words out between gasps.

  "How could you not know? Who's your boss? Tell me, or you're eating more dust."

  "They do not tell us. There is a system. A courier drops off an overnight package with instructions and money. We never meet with anyone. Occasionally we get a phone call or a text. But, we have no idea who it is. We've run this whole operation in this manner."

  Rivera lifted the man's head from the dirt, giving him some hope and allowing his breathing to recover a little. "Let's pretend I believe you, which I don't. Anyway, who sent you down here? Who got you into Mexico?"

  "A laboratory sciences professor. He told me I had been assigned a three-month internship at a hospital in Mexico, working in the lab. That was six months ago. He handed me a letter, on official government letterhead, that gave me three mandates. First, I was to learn Spanish. Second, I was to conduct the test of this CJ bacteria strain. Third, I was to ensure the hospital administrators had any funds and resources they needed to make this test happen."

  "Who signed the letter?"

  "No one person signed it. It was by order of the Ministry of Science Research and Technology."

  It was Stoker's turn to contribute to the interrogations, and he turned to the men from Mexico lying on the ground injured. "Okay, now it's your turn, amigos. How did you get involved in this whole debacle at the hospital?"

  One of the men spoke up and explained through a pained voice. "At first these men from the Middle East introduced their activities as a clinical trial, you know, legitimate research. They paid us well—both formally and informally. By the time we figured out what was really going on—that they were testing a Campylobacter jejuni weapon—they knew the names of our wives, children, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents, neighbors, and friends. As long as we stayed silent and kept the science experiment moving forward, our famil
ies and friends were fine, and the money kept flowing."

  "Then why do you dare talk now?" Rivera asked.

  The man looked up, and tears began flowing down his face. His hands shook. Stoker answered the question. "We took advantage during your moment of trauma and shock. For a moment, your lips were temporarily loose. With all the excitement, your mind was too overwhelmed to weigh the consequences. You're weighing the consequences now, and you're realizing the magnitude of what you just divulged."

  "Who is 'they?'" Rivera asked. But it was too late. The man started to shake. Rivera knew he would say no more.

  But Stoker was undeterred. He took the grenade out of his pocket, pulled the pin and tossed it toward the truck at the back of the pileup. "Sounds like we need more shock!"

  The grenade landed in the bed of the badly damaged pickup truck and attached to the metal. Stoker and Rivera dove for cover.

  The report of the grenade was furious, tearing into the truck's gas tank and creating a hot, smoky secondary explosion. Stoker lined up the five surviving men across the road from oldest to youngest. He knelt and went nose to nose with the oldest man. He had plenty of gray in his hair and stale beer on his breath. In his broken Spanish Stoker boldly asked, "Who is your contact with the people who are paying you?"

  The man was silent. Rivera repeated the question in Spanish.

  "Nunca jamas." The man said it with conviction. He had just told Stoker and Rivera he would never tell them what they wanted to know.

  Stoker took the rifle, pointed it between the man's eyes and pulled the trigger. His body toppled to the ground and convulsed briefly. Stoker moved onto the next oldest man. "Who is your contact? Who's paying you, and what in the hell is going on in that hospital?"

  All at once, the four remaining men started talking. Rivera interceded and directed the conversation. Over the next few minutes, they shared all the information they knew. Their faces were twisted with horror and their hands convulsed in anxiety. One of the men provided snippets of details between the ebbs and flows of hyperventilation. Another man cried. Stoker and Rivera learned how two Middle Eastern men, a laboratory technician, and a "money man," had been calling the shots and paying. Stoker showed them the picture of the lab technician on his phone. Two men affirmed he was the lab technician they had worked with. The man Rivera had confronted at the soltol bar in downtown Chihuahua fit the description of the money man.

  With the fire from the explosion dying down, Rivera stood up and announced to the men that their ordeal was mostly over. "My amigo and I are family men. We can imagine the fear you are living right now. We promise to work in a way that no harm will come to your family. Right now, we do not plan to involve the authorities." Rivera stroked his chin thoughtful for effect.

  "This is a perilous situation," he continued. "Mexico has been attacked by a bioweapon, and the United States is about to be attacked. We want to treat you humanely and provide some protection for your families. The best thing we can do for you and your families is to take you into custody and blow up these trucks. If you are missing, the Iranians who are holding your families hostage may assume you perished here, at least for a few days. If they think their secrets went to the grave with you, they will be less inclined to harm the people you love."

  Rivera and Stoker gathered all the cell phones from the men and tossed them onto the smashed trucks. Rivera marched the men a little further down the dirt road. Then he gave the helicopter a signal. Stoker took out another grenade and some paracord from Rivera's backpack. He attached a 100-foot length of the paracord to the explosive's pin and magnetically fastened the grenade to the middle truck. He backed the line 100 feet away from the truck, pulled the pin, and sprinted down the road toward Rivera and the men they had just captured. Seconds later, the grenade exploded, and the ground rocked underneath their feet.

  Two minutes later, with the glow of the trucks still burning in the background the helicopter landed. Stoker handed the box of lab specimens to Jessica as he climbed aboard. "Put this someplace where it will stay cool." Then he gave the Iranians' phones to her. "Get these to Z to see what data and intel he can pull off of them when he gets back from Burning Man."

  Stoker and Rivera chose seats next to each other and strapped in as the helicopter ascended. Stoker removed the lab technician's phone from his pocket. "Look at this." He pointed to the phone. "It's been wiped."

  "No surprise there. It would've provided us with way too much intel." Then Rivera held up the phone he had just taken from the Iranian driver wearing scrubs. "I need a faraday bag for this cell phone. I know the code to unlock it. But we should unlock it underground where it cannot pick up a signal to wipe it. We'll have Z work his magic on it, once he's back from his Burning Man festivities."

  "Where to Colonel?" the pilot called out.

  "Fort Sam Houston. But before we go, what happened to the motorcyclist who was with these guys?"

  "He hightailed it out of here," the pilot reported. "We've been watching him. He's already traveling south on the main highway out of town."

  "My guess is he's not going to report back to headquarters for fear of the punishment that awaits after failing to eliminate us. His odds of survival are better on the run than they would be if he showed up after having failed," Stoker said.

  "Mexico's got a lot of places for a motorcycle rider to disappear," Stoker said. "For a few weeks, anyway."

  "Speaking of disappearing," Rivera said. "I think it's time for us to disappear from Mexico for a while. We need to let things cool down here for at least a week or two. We've committed more than a dozen felonies. We'll assign a team to clean up this mess."

  Stoker smiled and yelled to the pilot. "Take us to Fort Sam Houston."

  CHAPTER 12

  Chicago, Illinois

  Roya Elfar Shahin pushed her housekeeping cart down the main floor hallway of Chicago's celebrated Hotel Esatto. Just as she had done dozens of times before, she knocked on the men's restroom just outside the gift shop. "Housekeeping," she called as she opened the door a crack. Because it was two o'clock in the morning, nobody answered back. She wasn't surprised the bathroom was empty.

  This hotel catered to business types, mostly aspiring moguls, who were likely to be asleep. It was not a party hotel. Hotel Esatto had a reputation amongst global executives as a place that took their guests' business as serious as the guests did. It catered to the type-A go-getters of the twenty-first century. The hotel's understated bar oddly closed at ten o'clock p.m. to downplay nightlife, partying, and other lures that suppressed focus and productivity in hard-driving executives.

  In contrast, Hotel Esatto was a beehive of activity every morning. At 5:30 a.m. the gym was jam-packed with the impassioned aspiring financiers and moguls. The kitchen staff hustled to ensure the hotel's trademark complimentary fresh-squeezed tangerine juice flowed liberally, along with hearty Colombian coffee. Guests raved about healthy power breakfasts delivered to their tables within three minutes. Hotel Esatto understood the pace and intensity of business and commerce. Executive travelers were fiercely loyal to this unique property when they visited Chicago. And, there was a reason why Nikolas Antoniou wanted to attract some of America's most driven people. By attacking this group, he would deal a devastating blow to the American economy and psyche.

  Roya entered the bathroom and paused. "Housekeeping," she announced once again, just to be sure she was entering an empty restroom. She walked all the way in and peaked under the stalls. "No feet," she whispered under her breath in her native tongue. She had just arrived from Reno last night, from this perverted Burning Man Festival. There she saw debauchery that certainly rivaled, if not exceeded, the lechery witnessed by Father Ibrahim in the city of Sodom. She prayed her silent assault in the desert of Nevada would yield the fruits of Allah's vengeance upon the decadent Westerners who were ripe for destruction.

  With three squirts from a bottle of disinfectant, she quickly cleaned the toilets, sinks, and countertops. Then she wiped down th
e mirror and emptied the trash. For Roya, her housekeeping job was a cover. She was a soldier in a much higher cause. Her mundane bathroom cleaning task was actually a part of a greater mission, a preparation for a future day. She often prayed to Allah for this day.

  From her housekeeping cart, she effortlessly removed a small stepladder and set it up against the wall. She ascended two steps to reach the plastic box affixed near the ceiling, a metered aerosol dispenser. The device emitted a puff of aromatic scent into the air every few minutes to keep the bathroom smelling fresh. She lifted the lid and unscrewed the small canister that was almost empty.

  Metered aerosol mister systems had been the focus of her efforts during the last few months. She had perfected a method for delivering airborne bacteria from the canisters into the air. She had a knack for electronics, a fact Roya's test scores in Iran had corroborated as a young teenager. But, she came from a poor family that could not afford the schools to develop her abilities. However, thanks to a generous family friend—unknown to her, he was a bonyad director—Roya was offered a scholarship that allowed her to go to school at a university and study engineering. There she dominated computer programming, physics, circuitry, soldering, and the advanced science of volts, watts, and ohms. She also loved mechanical engineering. The wealthy friend and bonyad director further encouraged Roya to accept the mentorship of a mullah who exposed her to the true path of Islam. As a girl, her family and the local mosque had taught her the Koran. But in her youth, she quickly learned and embraced so many more teachings of Islam. The religion opened her heart and mind. Roya yearned to live Sharia law. The Twelfth Imam would soon arrive—he may already be amongst us. The Caliphate would arise to confront Israel, Europe, the United States, and the apostate Sunnis. Now was the time for Allah's power to go forth amongst the heathen nations. And Roya, with her training as an engineer, would strike an immense blow for Allah. And, these seemingly inconsequential aerosol misters would help her perpetrate a silent jihad for the glory of the Caliphate.