“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing,” said Latent. “Tell Bill he’s not off the hook for that twenty bucks he owes me from Super Bowl XVI. Thinking he’s dead doesn’t count.”
67
The dock looked like something out of a movie, only the smell was worse—dead fish, stale beer, and sea gull crap. Jarrah stepped onto the Egyptian cargo ship, MV Red Glory. From the top of the gangplank, he turned and saw the white cargo van pulling away.
“Allah be with you,” he said, then disappeared into a cargo hold on the port side.
Uncle Bill was viewing three different computer monitors and talking to NSA headquarters, known to insiders as The Box, at the same time. He pulled Cade’s thumb drive out of the USB port and looked at it; 8GB was stamped onto the side.
“Cade, where did you get this thumb drive?” said Bill.
“Ah, I don’t know. Wal-Mart maybe.”
“Yeah, I don’t think Wal-Mart sells thumb drives that can hold this much data.”
“What do you mean?” said Cade.
“We’ve got a compressed file here. The Box is telling me they just decompressed it, and the file is huge.”
“How huge?” said Cade.
“In its uncompressed state, it’s 1.5 terabytes. You’d have to be a government agency to even have compression software that can do anything close to that.”
“Holy crap. You can compress a 1.5 terabyte file onto an 8 gig thumb drive? So what does that mean?”
“Well, it looks like we’ve got two ciphers to crack instead of one. I’ve got The Box working on the first cipher, decrypting the server calls that were going on during all those e‑mail jobs. That’s what’s in the huge file. From the looks of it, I’d say you were right. Thoughtstorm was definitely calling outside the firewall during e‑mail campaigns. If I’m right, the end result is that they were sending encoded messages to specific e‑mail addresses. In a little while, The Box will tell us what the text of those messages said. That means we should be able to ascertain where and when they are to carry out their last assignments.”
“What’s the other cipher?”
“Separately, I should be able to isolate the IP addresses of where the terror cell members were when they last accessed their e‑mail accounts. We’ll find out their locations, how many . . .”
“Sir,” interrupted the lieutenant. “I’ve got flash traffic from The Box, sir.”
“Hold your horses, will you?” said Bill. “Like I was saying . . .”
“Sir, this can’t wait,” insisted the young officer.
“Ah, shit,” said Bill as he picked up the call. “This is Tarleton. What do ya got, Knuckles? Uh huh, uh huh.” Bill shut his eyes and concentrated, then turned and looked out the plane’s oblong window and stared down at the ground. “Are you sure? You double checked? . . . And the quarterback doesn’t know yet? Okay, good work, son. No, no. I’ll tell him.”
“What was that all about?” said Cade.
“Baker?” said Bill. “Pick up that headset. You’re going to want to hear this.”
Bill dialed a phone number then waited. “Stevie, Uncle Bill. We’ve got a problem.”
“I haven’t slept in three weeks,” said Stephen Latent. “I thought you were dead, and the first thing you tell me is we’ve got a problem?”
“Sorry, Stevie, I know how cranky you get when you don’t get your sleep.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do you have, Bill? What’s your ETA?”
“We’re about forty-five minutes from The Box. My boys just called. They cracked the first cipher. Steve, the countdown started. Their final objectives, the countdown for the terror cell members to begin carrying out their final objectives—the clock is ticking already.”
“Oh shit,” said Latent. “What can you tell me? How many subjects are we dealing with?”
“The Box says they’ve found thirty-seven different sets of instructions to terrorists. Each set appears to be addressing a different e‑mail recipient.”
Latent said, “Thirty-seven bomb chuckers?”
“I’m assuming I’m going to find thirty-seven different e‑mail addresses in the other cipher that I’m working on right now. We’re going to crack this cipher to try to track these assholes right down to their physical location.”
“Bill, this can’t happen fast enough. I’ve got to have those locations. What do the instructions say?”
“It’s being sent to you right now, everything we have. It’s everything from mass shootings, bombings, aircraft, snipers, poisonings. It’s bad, Steve, it’s all bad. Worse than we thought,” said Bill.
“You said the countdown for them to begin carrying out their final objectives started; but how much time do we have left before the countdown ends? When do they start?” said Latent.
“The countdown culminated twenty-three minutes ago, Steve. They’ve already started. I’m sorry.”
68
“This is Mike Slayden, reporting live in Atlanta from Peachtree DeKalb Airport. As commuter planes continue to trickle in after the FAA’s closure of US airspace, fire crews are battling a huge blaze around the airport’s fuel depot. You can see the thick plumes of smoke billowing violently behind me. This blaze was threatening to spiral out of control, but seems to be nearly contained now. Now listen to this. One witness tells WBS News that he passed a stopped motorist here on Buford Highway, just adjacent to the fuel tanks. Allegedly, the stopped motorist threw something towards the fuel depot. This all happened moments before an explosion took place. The vehicle then sped off. Local residents have complained for years that the airport’s fuel depot, which sits just thirty yards off the road, is too close to the road for safety. We’re getting . . . hold on . . . we’re hearing something in the distance. It sounds like . . . it sounds like fireworks. It’s a good distance away from us, perhaps on the far side of the airport, out by the end of the north-south runway. There it goes again. That sounds more like gunfire. Charlie, can you zoom in over in that area? Can you see anything? A man with a gun! Folks, we’re about three hundred yards away from what appears to be a man with a rifle . . . or an automatic weapon of some type. He’s firing in the air! It looks like . . . he’s firing at an incoming aircraft! It looks to be a smaller corporate jet of some type coming in for a landing. He’s firing at the plane. Folks, I don’t know . . . FIRE! The jet’s on fire! It’s twisting sideways now . . .”
69
Little Jimmy was proud of his Huffy. It had been his father’s bike when he was a kid. His dad fixed it up and repainted it, and Jimmy was proud of that. It was fire red with bright cobalt blue stripes down the body. Some of the other neighborhood kids thought it looked stupid, but Jimmy would have none of it. He showed them how inferior their bikes were compared to his, the weakness in the construction, and how much heavier and better built his was. And that would shut them up. That and his ability to jump a ramp farther than anybody else in the neighborhood.
Old Mrs. Neebody’s house had always appealed to him. Not because he cared anything about the well-kept yard or the dormer windows. Instead, he liked the little knee wall that stretched down the left side of the driveway, separating the grass. Queens was fairly flat, but there was a slight downhill slope that ended at that house. Jimmy had eyeballed the knee wall probably a thousand times and knew it was something he had to jump, and he was going to be the first nine-year-old on the block to do it.
The problem was Old Mrs. Neebody wasn’t around anymore. If she had been, this would have been a breeze. The old bat wouldn’t even know there were kids playing in her yard, much less do anything about it. As it was now, no one knew the new owners or what they were like. No one ever saw them. In fact, Jimmy was the only one who had ever seen a door open or a curtain drawn or a car come or go from the house. The garage door was always shut. Yet, somehow lights turned on and off inside the house at night. He knew someone lived there. Maybe there was a ghost in there.
He pedaled up 175th Street to Vinny’s house
and rang the bell.
Vinny was out in a flash. “Yeah, yeah, Ma. I know, geez. Yeah, I got my helmet. I’m nine yea’s old already. Hey, Jimmy! Whatdoya wanna do?”
“Let’s do some jumps, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Vinny, “but not here. My ma’s gettin’ stern about it. Hey! Let’s take the ramp up the street a bit.”
“I gotta better idea,” said Jimmy. “Let’s take it to Old Mrs. Neebody’s yard.”
“That old bag? Man, she’s dead. Who lives in that place anyway?”
“A ghost. What’s a matter? Yous a’scared?”
The two hefted the plywood ramp onto two skateboards and pulled it up the street and stopped at Mrs. Neebody’s.
“Hey, the garage door is open. I ain’ never seen that,” said Vinny. “Man, what if somebody’s in there?”
“A little garage door is open? You scared, Vinny? Bok, bok, bok, bok,” laughed Jimmy.
“I ain’ a’scared a nothin’,” said Vinny.
“Okay then, because we’re puttin’ the ramp right ova there.” Jimmy pointed to a spot just to the left of the long brick knee wall, dead center of the front yard. He looked back at Vinny with daring in his eyes.
Vinny was apprehensive, but refused to show it.
“Okay, but if somebody comes out and yells at us and I lose this ramp, my dads’a gonna be mad.”
They wrestled the curved bike ramp into place, pointing it over the knee wall in the direction of the driveway. Then they tore off up the street so fast it looked as if they were fleeing an avalanche.
“All right, me first,” said Jimmy.
Vinny’s eyes were wide. “Hey, man, you gonna jump that brick wall? You’ll land on the driveway. If’n you crash . . .”
“Oh shut up, Vinny. Yous sound like my motha.” And with that, he pushed off hard and started to peddle; the rocket red Huffy with cobalt blue stripes thrashed back and forth, picking up speed.
Vinny held his breath and craned his neck so he could see Jimmy. The bike sped down the sidewalk and at the last second veered onto the grass, bolting straight for the ramp. It lay waiting for him like a slingshot.
Jimmy hit the ramp and arced high into the air. Vinny knew this would be trouble and broke into an immediate run. Jimmy’s bike cleared the knee wall and slammed hard onto the white pavement. Jimmy flipped over the handlebars and sprawled onto the grass just beyond the driveway like a sack of potatoes.
Vinny yelled, “Jimmy!” The boy rolled on the grass, not uttering a sound. “Jimmy! Yous all right?” But Jimmy had the wind knocked out of him and couldn’t speak. In a few moments, he grasped a deep breath of air and hunched over, holding his knees to his chest.
Jimmy said, “Aw, man, that hurt so bad.”
“Yous all right, Jimmy? Yous all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Geez, you worry like my old lady.”
For the first time Vinny looked up. In the darkened garage there was no car. There was nothing. No shelves or boxes or garbage cans. No ancient freezer or laundry machine. Nothing. It was a little spooky.
“What’s that smell?” said Vinny. “Oh gawd.” He began to wretch.
“Worse than down by the docks,” said Jimmy, starting to cough. “Maybe a rat died or somepin.”
As the light breeze stagnated, so did the odor. It was horrific and hung over them like a quilt too heavy to get out from under.
“Man! Let’s get outta here,” coughed Jimmy as they ran home to tell their mothers.
“WBS Radio, John Carden here at ten minutes before the top of the hour. We’ve got breaking news to report. At least nineteen people are now reported dead and an unknown number wounded in a mass shooting just outside of the town of Russellville, Arkansas. The victims were all attending a sailing regatta, called The Russellville America’s Cup, which takes place each year on Lake Dardanelle. Early reports indicate that a sniper, hidden from sight, began firing, first at sailors on their small boats, then turned the gun onto the crowd of spectators. Apparently the sniper used a silenced weapon, making it difficult to determine his location. The list of dead is feared to rise. For now, stay tuned to . . .”
70
As they cruised past Baltimore, Maryland, the Gulfstream jet leaned into its descent, tilting everything onboard. Jana could see Ft. Meade. It looked like a small city with dozens of buildings, all surrounding one giant building. The Box, as they called it, dwarfed the width of most modern city buildings. The sprawl of parking lots made it look like a major league ballpark on game day.
A roaring noise ripped past the Gulfstream that was only feet off the runway now. It was the F-18 fighter escort that had shadowed them the entire flight. Jana felt the thunderous engines and was exhilarated. As the Gulfstream touched down, four jet-black Chevy Suburbans accelerated down the runway keeping pace. The plane slowed to a stopping point, and two of the vehicles ground to a halt as smoke poured from their wheels. Bill jumped from his seat and was already at the door as it opened.
“Let’s move, people!” All three of them jumped off the plane and sprinted straight towards an open vehicle. Ten or so people boarded the plane, secured various pieces of Bill’s equipment, and ran for the other open vehicles.
Within four minutes, they entered The Box. Other than its dwarfing size, it looked like any modern building: dark glass and a brightly lit, marble-covered lobby. A huge NSA symbol stretched across the center of the marble floor. About a dozen armed security personnel were present. It looked like an American embassy expecting an imminent assault.
“This way,” said Bill, flashing his badge. “They’re clear,” Bill yelled to the guard. “I said they’re clear, goddammit!”
Once inside the large control room, Bill sat down to his equipment as it was reassembled. Jana and Cade stayed out of the way.
“All right. Bring it up on three,” he said, pointing at a huge computer monitor. “Okay, people, listen up. This is a national emergency. I want to draw your attention to these two people,” pointing at Cade and Jana. “These are the two most important people in the room right now. This is Cade Williams and FBI Special Agent Jana Baker. They procured the data you’re about to analyze. And in case you’re wondering, their security clearance is higher than yours,” Bill said, lying through his teeth. “I want team three on the cipher. Cade, I want you with that team. Teams four and six, prep the server. We’re going to run each scenario one at a time. We’ve got to move, people. This is NSA priority level fifteen. Any questions?”
Cade whispered to Jana, “Yeah, I’ve got a question. Where’s the head? Loraine’s sweet tea is killing me.”
“I doubt your security clearance level is high enough for that,” said Jana, “sorry.”
71
The black and white patrol car rolled up to 217 175th Street and stopped, blocking the driveway. The officer in the driver’s seat keyed the mic attached to his left shoulder, “Central, unit 487 awn site. Yeah, the g’rage door is up. We’ll be ten-eighteen, ovah.”
“Roger that, 487. Ten-eighteen. Proceed with caution, over.”
The two officers walked up the driveway, the sun bright against the bleached white cement.
“Hey, Pete, wait down heyah by the garage. I’ll try the front door.”
But before the officer got up the steps, his younger partner called out.
“Paulie, hold on a minute. Come down here.” He squinted hard and pulled out his flashlight, trying to see inside the dark, cavernous garage. “Sweet Jesus, smells like a dead body in there. Holy Mary mother’a God.”
“Central, this is 487. Send me two more units,” said the younger officer into the radio.
“Roger that, 487.”
“Oh my gawd,” said the other officer, “they’s a bahdy in there for shu’ah. I haven’t smelled anything like that since Iraq,” covering his mouth.
“Central, 487, go ahead and send Hawmicide while you’re at it.”
The radio replied, “You found a body, 487?”
“Negative, Ce
ntral. But from the smell out heyah, it won’t take us lawng.”
72
The van driver’s name in Arabic meant follower. He had never dwelled on that fact much, but in these last days of his life, he thought it appropriate. His mother would never understand, but his jihadist father, were he alive today, would be very proud.
He kept his eye on the speedometer and traveled only the back roads to avoid attention. Small town officials were always looking for outsiders to write speeding tickets, and he wanted to take no chances. He also was wary in case anyone had seen the van leave the ghastly smelling house in Queens. If someone had spotted it, staying out of sight now would be critical.
It was strange to be in this country with its rolling hills, sprawling oak trees, and horse farms with their endless white fences. In his experience, the land was nothing but sand, yet in this place, the color green covered everything as if a bucket of paint had been dropped from a low-flying airplane. All of it seemed like another planet.
The driver had only known the crowded, filthy shanties, the hunger, the sandstorms, and the need, no, the requirement, to obey. To obey was a part of his fiber, as if it had been sewn into the cloth of his very soul. The sun rose every morning, and his soul’s embroidery stitched itself deeper and deeper into a woven tapestry of Allah.
This was hilly country in a place called Kentucky. And, after so many hours on the roads, his mind wandered back to his childhood. His father had been taken away when he was sixteen. The driver was a young man at that point, but his three little brothers, so much younger, were not so lucky. As children, they would have to survive the slums, the scorpions, and worst of all, the soldiers wearing sunglasses—all without their father.
The Americans came for his father in the night. They were not wearing sunglasses in the dark of night, but the driver knew they were there, tucked into a pocket somewhere. It was a level of fear he had never known. He was barely able to console his mother. It had taken over a week to find that his father had been taken to a prison many miles away, to a place called Abu Ghraib. He knew nothing of such places. The only thing he did know, however, was that people taken there never tended to come home again. He was afraid. Those sunglasses became a thread intermeshed into the fabric of his soul.
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