by J. L. ROBB
Waiting for lunch, the conversation turned silent since the little old lady had fallen from her listening post and hobbled slowly out the front door, Melissa assisting and insisting that she pay the bill, just because she liked little gray-haired ladies. Looking up from her silence and into Melissa’s eyes, they both started laughing, uncontrollably.
“At least she will have a new Viagra memory to dwell on the rest of her days,” Kara said between the tears now flowing, guilt nowhere to be found. And it had been funny.
“I bet she’ll wear Velcro pants from now on, in case she starts to slide out of a booth while listening in on intimate stories.” They laughed even louder as the sweet teas and tuna pitas arrived, the waiter being especially careful this time.
Leaving Jason’s, Kara nudged Melissa and asked again, “Well, how is the sex?”
“Kara! You always want to know that! You need to stop watching Desperate Housewives! You’re a missionary for crying out loud.”
“Well???” Kara defended, and she did like to watch Desperate Housewives and Sex and the City. She loved those shows. “I’m not sinless.”
“You know Kara, it’s great, always has been; but there’s too much.”
“Too much sex? And you’re complaining? Now I truly am envious.” Kara was not kidding. As attractive as she was, Kara hardly ever dated. She was too busy missionarying. But Melissa knew her friend well; and she knew that Kara had the same sexual desires as normal women.
“No, I mean Rob is kind of aggressive, aggressively amorous. He is too experimental if you get my drift, like a twenty year old. It’s like he never sowed his oats.”
For the first time, Kara saw some disappointment in Melissa’s smile and wondered what exactly Melissa was talking about. At fifty-something, surely Melissa wasn’t saying she was over romance. She asked.
“I shouldn’t say anything Kara, you and Rob are such great friends, we all are. There’s just something. Can’t put my finger on it.” Melissa was cognitive of Kara’s concern and said, “No biggie. Everything else is fantastic.”
Melissa reminisced. She and Jeffrey Ross had married the year they graduated from college. They had been friends, and then more than friends, since meeting at a freshman dance almost four years earlier. She liked, she loved, his manliness, not too macho but enough to provide that protected feeling, just slightly controlling but not too much.
The chemistry was instant for both, their interests as though they shared the same DNA, like identical twins, only they were far from twins. Their love affair had been hot and passionate.
Jeff’s business interests provided right from the start, a lifestyle, while not a lifestyle of luxury, that was more than any young couple right out of college could imagine. Jeff owned an internet telescope and binocular business at the time and part interest in two SCUBA ventures, one in Jamaica and one on Grand Cayman Island.
Three daughters later, twins and then when the twins were young adults, baby Audry was adopted, Melissa and Jeff Ross were quite the family. Melissa thought it interesting that she and Jeff had twins, since she felt so connected with him, in their interests, politics, charitable work, and often wondered if it was possible their DNA was family oriented. Maybe they were like, third cousins or something. She had earlier ruled out the possibility that they were twins. But then there was the God thing. And the church thing. That would never change.
They did not intend to have another child when the twins were eighteen, but the opportunity arose when Audry had been orphaned at six months, parents killed in a drive-by shooting in South Atlanta. Jeff saw the article in the morning paper, and shared the story with her.
“I could see those wheels a turnin’,” Jeff would tell his friends about her, once the adoption process had started. Jeff told her he was glad the wheels were turning, as Audry brought a new dimension of happiness to their lives, or so he said. Adoption was just, well.. different. It was very special. He had no clue that she was already having serious doubts.
They had been married almost long enough to get the silver-anniversary trophy when things fell apart. The twins, now grown and living on their own in a shared Tudor-style townhome in the historic Virginia Highlands area of Atlanta, Melissa would not have to worry about them. The twins were smart, motivated and driven, just like their father.
His desire didn’t fall apart, hers did. They became more distant, though Jeff finally saw what was happening and tried to prepare himself, tried to change things; but there was no preparing, no changing things, and it was too late. He didn’t want to lose her, and he told her he knew he was to blame. And he was, mostly. It was too far gone for her to salvage. Plus, instead of listening, he became defensive, as usual, if she ever criticized anything.
Melissa’s Blackberry rang, and she returned to reality. The ring tone was unfamiliar to Kara. She knew most of Melissa’s ring tones.
Fishing the small device from her ever-burgeoning purse, a purse much like a black hole where everything seemed to just disappear, Melissa answered.
Across the room the flat panel Sony interrupted normal programming:
“There has been another volcanic eruption, the third in three days, this one on the Caribbean island of Montserrat, already devastated by previous eruptions. The Soufriére Hills Volcano erupted again today at 8:14 A.M.; and all air traffic from Cuba, south and east through the Leeward Islands has been diverted after Caribbean Airways Flight 665 disappeared from air traffic control, presumably after flying through the ash cloud.
“If you remember, not long ago, after Eyjafjallajokull erupted in Iceland, three planes crashed after flights were resumed, due to flying through the ash clouds. Three hundred seventeen people died in those crashes. Stay tuned for further reports, as soon as they come across the wire.
“On a lighter note, Duluth police are looking for a transvestite purse snatcher. She, or he, stole two purses in the Gwinnett Mall parking lot. A Mall Security officer chased the purse snatcher across the parking lot but lost the perp somewhere around Steak ‘n Shake.”
Excusing herself from the table so she could hear, Melissa vaguely recognized the number of the flight but couldn’t remember why.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Jeremias?” The voice sounded official but unfamiliar.
“Yes it is.”
“Mrs. Jeremias, this is Rich Badey at CNN. I am an investigative reporter and wanted to know your reaction to your husband’s missing plane.”
“What?” Did she hear that right?
“Maybe you didn’t know? I hate to bring you the news, but his plane has been missing since this morning. I understand that he was in Haiti for a meeting and was flying home when the plane passed through an ash cloud from Soufriére Volcano.”
Silence. Was this a cruel prank?
“Mrs. Jeremias, there has been no wreckage found, or bodies. The plane is missing however and has possibly flown to another island. If you hear from your husband, please call me.” Rich gave the number to Melissa, though she didn’t write it down, her mind swirling, confused, dazed and lost.
Melissa deposited the Blackberry back into her purse, walked out the front door of Jason’s Deli, leaving Kara alone at the table.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; for in them is filled up the wrath of God.” Revelation 15:1, King James Version
The date was September 11, 2001, when Osama bin Laden and his gang of al-Qaeda terrorist thugs changed, not just the United States, but the entire world into a panacea of unprecedented paranoia.
Bringing the two tallest buildings in the United States to the ground in less than an hour on that fateful, sunny September morning, the dark world of Islam became even more sinister. The moderate Muslims remained in the shadows, just like moderate Christians did in the early days of the Ku Klux Klan.
Al-Qaeda was well aware that America and all other western civilizations were vulnerable, easy. The Manha
ttan skyline was forever changed, a large void now where the two tall skyscrapers once stood, the emptiness an icon to Islam. As Muslims across the globe rejoiced in celebratory gunfire, clerics were already proclaiming that one day a mosque would overlook the sight.
The borders had been vulnerable for years, as full of holes as a slice of Swiss cheese. Thousands of Muslim infiltrators had poured through the porous Mexican border in the early to mid-nineties, many of them lacking the familiar Arab-Semite resemblance, having nationalities from Bosnia, Serbia and Indonesia. They had been well trained to look and act American. Unlike most immigrants invading the United States’ borders, the Islamic invaders were fluent in English and Spanish, as well as the proper dialects. They could speak Southern or New Joisey, whatever the need.
The infiltrators blended in over the years, keeping their noses clean, no police records, becoming business owners and laborers, seeking employment where their daily activities might lead to the coming take over, going to church on Sundays and Wednesdays, operating charities, going to strip clubs and bars. Whatever it took to look American.
Over the years, some Muslim men infiltrated and befriended various Christian militias, believing the old Arab adage: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. The Christian militias hated the United States government, planning an overthrow in time for the returning Messiah who was surely to show up soon. The infiltrators promised to help; and they waited patiently over the years, awaiting the code to begin their havoc and chaos.
The air space remained vulnerable in ways the U.S. Military, FBI, NSA and Homeland Security had not yet defined because they did not know, or at least had not addressed, the great damage that could be perpetrated on the innocent through the use of a stolen business jet. Flying at high speed just above the treetops, loaded with 1000 gallons of jet fuel and a cargo of explosives, terrorism could come almost instantly. Then there were the ultralight, manned aircraft, easily capable of transporting the weight of a one hundred pound briefcase nuke.
Bin Laden always did his homework, the West wondering how a simple cave dweller could have such an extensive intelligence network, not aware of the prolonged infiltration of martyrs into the four-corners of Europe, Canada and the United States, Russia and China. Pakistan and India would destroy each other, but not before high-yield nuclear devices and delivery systems could be stolen and stored in the Bekaa Valley, deep inside Lebanon, along with the other weapons of mass destruction from the past regime of Saddam Hussein. Pakistan’s intelligence agency, the ISI, was already planning the overthrow of the central government. Pakistan’s new law outlawing the death penalty for blasphemy had not set well with the majority.
The shipping ports had been, and still were, vulnerable. The United States and the Europeans had spent themselves to death hunting for bin Laden; but somehow, by Allah’s will, he still survived. Many in the Islamic world considered Osama to be the Twelfth Imam, the Muslim Messiah, even though he was a Sunni. A belief in the Muslim Messiah was primarily held by the Shia sect of Islam.
Muhammed Khalid lived in the Korengal Valley of Death with his sister, Aludra; and he was a friend and confidant of Osama bin Laden. By mutual consent, Muhammed formed a secretive jihadist offshoot, Jihad’s Warriors, and had selectively recruited and trained for three years.
Muhammed’s closest pagan friend was Kyoto Kushito, a wealthy Japanese businessman and arms procurer extraordinaire, among other things. After meeting through mutual, clandestine connections, they quickly discovered a common love of Arabic philosophy and art, middle-Eastern poetry and the opera.
Most important though, they had a common, intense hatred of the United States, and especially Israel. Actually, Kyoto could care less about Israel; but he really hated the United States. His grandparents died in Hiroshima, crispy-crittered by 15,000 tons of TNT, the world’s first atomic war experience. Of course, nuclear bombs were now much more powerful and surprisingly, available for the right price.
The world’s first atomic weapon, Little Boy, the one that evaporated the city of Hiroshima and Kyoto’s grandparents, was a weapon of evil, Kyoto was convinced, evil perpetrated by the United States of America. Not the United States and England. Not the United States and France. Not the United States and anybody. Just the USA.
Kyoto was not alone in these feelings. There were many, a generation of Japanese that wanted revenge for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Baby Bombers. They were masters of stealth, remaining secret to even the most elite in the Japanese political scene. Most were very wealthy.
Kyoto had a plan of revenge, especially for the sake of his grandfather, Hotoshi Kushito, who gave his life willingly for the Japanese Empire. Kyoto and his grandfather were different he was sure. Hotoshi, a word meaning even tempered, certainly did not apply to grandson Kyoto. His name must mean anger or wrath; because wrath was soon to come for the Americans, damn them. It would be like their Book of Revelation, a lot of plague, hunger and death, coming soon to an American city near you.
***
Samarra thought it odd that the Bio 4 Lab would be so understaffed. It was late, but usually someone was there to at least assist with the containment suits. All the better for her, and though her guilt was gnawing away at her gut, Samarra was grateful for the diversion. That should keep everyone busy for at least thirty minutes, and by then she would be through with the mission.
I can’t throw up, I can’t throw up. Samarra repeated the thought to herself, finding it impossible to keep little Thomas out of her mind, the small, severed finger now firmly imprinted. Even now she wondered if she would ever see Thomas again, realizing that whoever, whatever was involved in this plot would not necessarily keep their word.
She had no choice and had to remain focused. Her mind could not wander from the task at hand.
Entering the safety chamber, the pressurized door closed behind her. Samarra waited for the all clear signal to make her way into the lab, through the second pressurized door. The whoosh let Samarra know that the negative pressure was intact, preventing any escape routes for loose microbes that might be floating around.
Samarra, who usually rushed from place-to-place, was not rushing this late night, as she glanced again out the safety glass to see if she was still alone; and she was.
With the replacement vials of blood serum, readily available throughout the lab, Samarra worked as quickly as possible, hoping no alarms would trigger security to her devious plot; and it was devious she knew. If the diversion lasted long enough, the security personnel would not be at the flat-screen monitors to see her acts, acts that could possibly lead to the world’s greatest flu outbreak in recorded history.
Samarra exited the sterile cocoon of the Bio 4 lab and then exited the safety chamber, white containment suit no longer limiting her movements. She scanned the hallways, expecting security to storm in at any moment, guns in hand; and she would never see Thomas. Even if Thomas lived, he wouldn’t come to prison to visit Samarra, she was sure.
She might even be judged and sentenced to death. The thought didn’t instill the fear inside Samarra nearly as much as the fear of her little Thomas being tortured to death, dismembered, appendages severed like the finger. She erased the thoughts.
With thirty vials of Spanish flu virus and two ounces of powdered virus, Samarra wondered what the plans for the powdered virus might be, not nearly as contagious as the liquid in the vials. She placed the containers into the insulated toolbox, cooled for preservation by the dry ice, and took the elevator to the top floor mechanical room. The orange glow from the exploding tanker truck was still visible from the outer windows of the lab, no security in sight; but Samarra did not relax in the least.
Samarra wasn’t fond of heights, though she was not acrophobic, and climbed the ladder attached to the top floor wall, the ladder surrounded with a metal-banded cage to prevent falling. She struggled with the toolbox, not because it was heavy, just bulky.
When the toolbox slipped from Samarra’s grip, bouncing on the concrete floor below
, she held her breath, hoping the insulated container had prevented breakage of the liquid vials. It didn’t matter now, she had no choice. She descended the wall ladder, carefully opened the toolbox, heart pounding and opened the insulated container. She had no time to worry about the danger.
Samarra breathed a sigh of relief, though relief was not what she was feeling. More like desperation. The vials were unbroken and secure. Samarra didn’t notice the minute spillage of powder from the container, her thoughts elsewhere; and the microscopic deposit settled unseen on the concrete floor, just a slight smudge.
Ascending the wall-ladder for the second time, Samarra’s heart still pounding, rapid heartbeat not helping her endeavor, she opened the hatch to the roof and gently pushed the toolbox through the roof penetration. She hoped the roof hatch alarm had been disengaged, though security was hopefully still assisting in the diversion.
“I’m heading back to the security desk,” Russ told Jason and the other guards. “You guys stay here to assist if needed.” Russ did not hurry but walked briskly down the street, the smell of fire, fuel and burning flesh thick in the air. Sirens were summoning the night in the distance, the rescue vehicles still working their way toward the Emory campus.
As Russ walked back to the CDC Bio 4 building, Samarra exited the penthouse mechanical room after leaving the toolbox by the chilled-water pump of the chiller located on the left side of the room, just as she had been instructed. She locked the penthouse door and scurried back through the roof hatch and down the wall-ladder. Samarra didn’t notice the slight tug on her madras blouse as she descended the ladder, nor the small tear. She entered the elevator and took it to the fourth floor where she entered another elevator to take her to first floor security.
Russ Ivies, still walking across the parking lot toward security, was clearly troubled, questioning for the umpteenth time, what in the world was that tanker truck doing on the main campus thoroughfare? He also wondered what work was so important that night in the lab, so important that Samarra hardly blinked an eye when the truck barreled down the street and exploded in the distance. He knew some of Samarra’s personality traits, just from the years their paths had crossed; and she always seemed the curious sort.