"That was a hell of a workout. With my forearms burning, it's the hardest workout I've had in years. But it's for a good cause. We'll be back to help patients again in a few hours."
More athletes from the ranks of professional and amateur athletics jumped in to help. Church groups, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, and many other service organizations galvanized to provide care to their fellow Americans.
Wealthy people found their attempts to bid high prices for plasma exchange and intravenous immune globulin were futile. Supplies were so scarce. You could not bid on something that just did not exist.
A wealthy man in Miami was grief-stricken when his daughter was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre syndrome. He sold his house at a fire sale price of $4,000,000. Then he proceeded to take out a full-page ad in the Miami Herald offering the $4,000,000 for plasma exchange and intravenous immune globulin. There were no takers.
Newly diagnosed Guillain-Barre syndrome victims would jump on airplanes to other countries, hoping to find ventilators there. For a week or two, some had success in Canada, France, Germany, Great Britain, Japan, Israel, Australia, Holland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland. But sick Americans quickly utilized all excess ventilators in much of the industrialized world.
Ads began to appear in American newspapers from hospitals in India. While they did not promise access to ventilators, they promised to supply willing laborers to hand ventilate patients. Tens of thousands of Americans found themselves observing Halloween from hospital beds in Mumbai, New Delhi, and Bangalore. Other countries followed suit. In a dismal economy, one bright sector was international travel. Hundreds of thousands of Americans flew to nations they knew nothing about. But, these were not the ugly Americans. They were the grateful, humble Americans.
A month into the horrible epidemic, people started to notice something amazing. There were countless news stories about how well Americans were pulling together. America was figuring it out and getting it done, and the goodwill was palpable. The United States also had ample support from the international community. Even some countries that viewed America as an enemy reached out offering brotherhood during this time of crisis. The millions of Guillain-Barre syndrome deaths people had predicted from the lack of ventilators did not occur. As a matter of fact, deaths from Guillain-Barre syndrome were much lower than anticipated.
The amoeba, Balamuthia mandrillaris, lived up to much of its lethal reputation. But, the drug miltefosine proved to be very effective at killing Balamuthia mandrillaris when it was diagnosed early. And, the medical community was very assertive about early diagnosis. More than sixty percent of people who received the drug within a reasonable time fought off the amoeba. While approximately forty percent of its victims died, it was a vast improvement against a germ with a history of killing more than ninety-five percent of its victims. Nevertheless, there were still hundreds of thousands of Americans who died as a result of the amoebic infection. Virtually every American knew someone who met an untimely end from Balamuthia.
The United States was coming through this silent, bullet and bombless war, bruised but not broken.
CHAPTER 30
Chicago, Illinois
"What are you doing with me?" Nikolas asked. He was very nervous as he lay strapped to a cold hard table while sliding into an MRI tube. But, this was not just any MRI machine. It was the University of Chicago's functional MRI machine—one of only a handful in the world. Nikolas had no idea where he was or why he was there. Rivera and Ahmadi had brought him here in handcuffs and ankle irons. They had also blindfolded him during transport to keep him disoriented.
"Don't you worry," came the calm voice of Dr. Anthony Bocelli through a pair of headphones over Nikolas's ears. From a booth next to the fMRI machine, Dr. Bocelli spoke into a microphone that relayed his communication to Nikolas's earphones. "This will be painless."
Dr. Bocelli was one of the nation's top neuroscientists, who had flown to Chicago from the National Institutes of Mental Health in Bethesda, Maryland. Stoker and Rivera had worked with Bocelli months before to use fMRI to solve a high-profile crime in South Dakota. With one call from the president, Bocelli found himself on a private jet streaking toward Chicago.
"What is this machine?" Nikolas asked anxiously. "You must at least tell me what this machine is."
"I've got a deal for you," Bocelli said. "While I usually don't negotiate with terrorists, I'll at least offer you this. After you've told me the answers to my many questions, I'll tell you the answer to your question. I'll tell you all about this machine."
The fMRI's sounds made Nikolas very nervous. "You intend to torture me!" he yelled when he heard grinding and clicking. "This is against the Geneva Convention!"
"Nothing of the sort," Dr. Bocelli said. "I promise you. I've never tortured anyone. We are about to perform an exam, not cause you pain."
A few moments later, a high-pitched beeping sound joined the clicks and grinds circulating all around Nikolas from the machine that now encapsulated him. As the noise increased, so did his anxiety. He had no idea an fMRI machine was scanning his brain. Dr. Bocelli started to ask Nikolas questions. Much like the polygraph technician, Bocelli had to capture some baseline measures of truth and lies. He asked several questions while watching which areas of Nikolas's brain lit up when he told the truth, and when he spoke lies. Like most human beings, parts of Nikolas's prefrontal cortex, inferior parietal lobule, anterior insula, and the medial superior frontal cortex activated when he lied.
Bocelli asked the fourteenth question. "Have you ever cheated on your wife?"
Nikolas ignored the question out of anxiety. "Is this another polygraph test?"
Bocelli didn't answer Nikolas's question. He simply repeated, "Have you ever cheated on your wife?"
"No," Nikolas said.
Bocelli could see Nikolas was telling a lie as he watched the four key regions of his brain light up. He asked him another question. "Do you believe the true religion in Allah's sight is Islam?"
"Yes," came the response. But, this registered as a mild lie.
"Did you attend school in Greece?" he asked.
"Yes." It was a truthful answer.
"Did you attend school in England?"
"Yes." Again, the truth.
"Were you born in Iran?"
"Yes." A truth.
"Were you complicit in the death of your son?"
Nikolas's answer lacked any emotion. "Yes." The fMRI confirmed he was telling the truth. His psychopathy precluded him from feeling pain or regret about his own son's death.
"Do you know of any other imminent attacks on the United States or its allies?"
"No." The fMRI revealed his answer was almost certainly a lie.
"Does your bonyad have any other attacks planned?"
"I don't know." The response registered as a lie. Nikolas knew more than he was letting on.
"Has your director, Alireza Pour-Mohammadi, shared any other attack plans with you."
"No." Again, it was a lie.
"Are there any other terrorist groups involved in your plot?"
Nikolas paused, just a little, before answering the question. "No."
Stoker pointed at a section on the brain scan. "Look at how his insula lights up when he considers terrorist groups. He feels a level of reproach or disgust toward these other bad actors. Nikolas presumes to be much more sophisticated than these other rag-tag bastards, in his mind. Nikolas considers himself the alpha terrorist. He's a conduit that leads directly to the top in Iran."
Bocelli turned to Stoker and pointed to the screen. "Do you see this brain activity? That means he's not quite sure. It means I was not specific enough about the term 'terrorist group.'"
"So, we doubt he's deep in cahoots with the PLO, Hezbollah, or The People's Mujahedin," Stoker responded. "Because these groups are terrorist groups by a narrow definition. But, let's expand the definition. Ask him about nations that may be collaborating with Iran and his bonyad."
Bocelli pressed on th
e microphone again and directed another question to Nikolas. "Is your bonyad, and the nation of Iran, working with other nations to execute more attacks?"
"No," Nikolas responded. The data on the fMRI left almost no doubt Nikolas was lying.
"Are you working with Vietnam to perpetrate terror?"
"No." He told the truth about Vietnam.
"Are you working with Cuba?" Again, the answer was no. Bocelli continued to ask about many other countries. Stoker clenched his jaw. This protracted slow-rolling attack fueled his indignation. And, Nikolas still dared to attempt his manipulative charade. But, the fact he was obviously holding back information to buy time pissed off Stoker to no end. It wasn't the selfish, immature type of fury. It was the "million lives at stake" kind of outrage. Stoker could control his anger in any circumstance. But today, he would make the very deliberate decision to unleash his wrath for the greater good. And, he seethed as Bocelli continued to list many other nations. "Are you working with Russia to attack the United States?"
"No," Nikolas said. This time the fMRI machine registered an ambiguous response. Rivera saw it on the screen. "There's Nikolas’s 'I don't know response' again," he said to Bocelli.
"Yes," responded the neuroscientist. "I'll circle back around again in a moment and ask him some related questions."
Coached by Rivera, Bocelli continued to ask Nikolas a barrage of questions. He asked about the weapons that would deliver the attacks, the timelines for the next attacks, the location of the attacks, the people who would carry out the attacks. Nikolas was an intelligent man. Based on the questions the doctors asked, he recognized that somehow, this medical machine that surrounded him, distinguished his lies from his truths. It was like a horrible game of twenty questions, repeated over and over again. Despite the answers he gave, Dr. Bocelli's interrogation would get more specific—closer to the truth. How do they know? Nikolas wondered. Then Dr. Bocelli asked a question about the Gulf of Mexico.
• • •
Bocelli spoke to Nikolas. This time it was not a question. "The machine you are in is a high-tech medical instrument called functional MRI. Among its many useful abilities, it can distinguish between lies and the truth with remarkable clarity."
Then Stoker's voice came through the microphone. "Let me tell you what we've learned here." Stoker took two minutes to summarize all their findings. He shared the specifics about the attacks from Asia, details about the cruise ship in the Gulf of Mexico. He even explained how Nikolas was not sure what was going on with Russia. But, Nikolas had a strong hunch Russia was involved. Then Stoker asked the final question. "Have we deduced your plan correctly?"
"No," Nikolas said. Again, the fMRI showed a distinct pattern of brain activity that proved Nikolas was lying.
"You know what else we found out?" Stoker asked. Then he answered his own question. "You're not a true follower. You don't really believe in Islam. Ironically, your personal disbelief is encouraging to me. I've had a chance to embrace your beautiful culture and language over the last six months. I've seen the majesty of Islam; and I cannot believe anyone—especially an educated man like you—who truly believes the Koran would become a terrorist. A warrior to defend Islam and homeland, perhaps. I can understand the fervor to see the Caliphate a reality. But a terrorist, halfway around the world? Never."
Nikolas’s tone changed dramatically, and fierce anger flashed in his eyes. "This was never about Islam, jihad, or creating the Caliphate!” he lashed out. “This is only about power and hatred. I don't care that the West is decadent. I have relished in decadence. I love decadence. I loved my school years in Greece and England.
“But oh, how I hate the greed, corruption, and haughtiness of you Americans. I hate the brute force of your armies and how you insist on converting everyone to liberty. What an irony. Forced freedom. Well, let me tell you. Your compulsory liberty just equates to starvation."
• • •
In Iran, the Ministry of Intelligence was observing the situation in America. Their spies planted in the United States provided constant updates to military leaders, the Grand Ayatollah, and the Iranian Supreme Leader. They had lost contact with their operative, Nikolas. Chicago newspaper websites reported Hotel Esatto was now an active crime scene.
"He may have been arrested by the Americans," bonyad director Alireza Pour-Mohammadi reported in a rare face-to-face meeting with the Iranian President and head of the Ministry of Intelligence. "However, In my last conversation with Nikolas, he was defiant with me. Consequently, I do not know if he's been captured and arrested or if he has—of his own free will and choice—gone underground to elude us."
"Let us hope it's the latter," the president or Iran said. "If he wants to elude us, he has the intelligence and resources to stay in the wind for years. If he's elected the treacherous path—an unfaithful dog fleeing from its master—he could also feed the Americans large swaths of our next phase."
"It's not that simple with Nikolas. He's not choosing any side but his own. We selected Nikolas, all those years ago, because of his ruthlessness—his psychopathic tendencies. He only cares about dominating the people around him. He will only act in his self-interest, which probably means staying far away from the American authorities. I don't imagine them offering any sort of plea bargain with a man who has infected so many and may kill millions."
"On the other hand," the president of Iran responded, "if the Americans captured him, it might take a while to crack him. He's cagey, so pinning him down and getting much actionable intelligence out of him would be hard for quite some time, as long as it serves his interests."
Pour-Mohammadi took a risk and issued a contrarian opinion to his president. "I'm concerned. Even with the mild American interrogation techniques, I don't think it would take long for Nikolas to start talking. He's been living a very pampered life in his hotel. And, pain is one of the only feelings he understands. He’s like a crazy divorcing Hollywood housewife, who will say or do anything to keep the house, stocks, bonds, and cash."
Then the president stroked his beard. "How close are we to the next phase?"
"The next hours of the western twenty-four-hour news cycle will be all about our careful planning and meticulous execution," Pour-Mohammadi said. “There just won’t be many televisions left to watch it on.”
• • •
"I am Colonel Jansen," he said introducing himself. "But, my call sign is Bojangles."
"I'm Commander Walker. I've been assigned—by the president—as your liaison. Welcome to the Pensacola Naval Air Station war room. We have orders to expedite your mission and give you anything you need."
Bojangles quickly looked around the expansive space. It was like many he had seen before, a massive war room with huge screens dominating the front of the area. Toward the back, technicians and analysts wearing naval uniforms worked on computers. The middle of the space contained a conference room table. "Thanks for your help. I'm here on special assignment from the president, and I’m hunting for a needle in a haystack. We have reason to believe an attack is imminent, and I want to look at the East Coast and the Gulf of Mexico. I'm looking for vessels displaying erratic behavior—anything that could be abnormal. It's going to be a larger boat—300 feet or more, bow to stern."
"What else can you tell me?" Commander Walker asked.
"I think there might be some unfriendlies trying to approach our shores with an intent to harm us. But, I don't know how they plan to attack."
"I see, Colonel. Thank you for the heads up. Let's find that rogue boat," Walker replied as he sat down at the conference table and gestured for Bojangles to join him. With a keyboard and mouse, he called up a map of the United States on the main screen. "Let's start with the Eastern seaboard." Zooming the map in on the East Coast, he asked, "What kind of vessel are you looking for?"
"One that would've recently sold for $49,000,000. A vessel substantial enough to bring in a payload of hell."
The map on the screen populated with thousands of icons,
each representing an active boat. "Let's filter out U.S. military ships as well as yachts and pleasure boats less than 200 feet," Walker said. "I suspect none of those ships will pose a threat to the United States today."
"Perhaps it's an old cruise ship?"
"Look Colonel Bojangles. With all due respect, do you think Royal Caribbean is going to participate in a conspiracy to catalyze a world war?"
"No. I don't. I don't know exactly what we're looking for. But, I do expect this attack to come from a creative and twisted mind, somebody who would figure out a way to shock us with their strike. Spending $49,000,000 on a boat is extreme behavior. But, coming from terrorists, I wouldn't doubt it. The attack itself will also be on the magnitude of extreme.
"To state it another way, flying airplanes into buildings seemed preposterous on September tenth, two thousand and one. The next day, on September 11th, where did we stand on that supposedly preposterous idea?"
Convinced, Commander Walker started typing. "Okay. Let's also look at cruise ships." With a few more keystrokes the screen was filled with oil tankers, commercial fishing vessels, and boats full of shipping containers. "I'm running the analysis now."
"I agree."
The screen refreshed. "That's a lot fewer vessels," Bojangles said, "but we need to figure out some way to write a program to identify boats with unusual behavior."
"We can develop and test algorithms.”
“How so?” Bojangles asked.
“On the fly,” Walker said. Using programming, just as fast as we can write the queries and algorithms."
Bojangles smiled. "I love Pensacola already, Commander. What language is optimal for your system?"
"We like the clarity of C," Walker said. "We'll also use some SQL to query."
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