by Bobby Akart
Inside the freighter, within the lower hold at midship, was a sophisticated laboratory that rivaled that of any health research facility in the world. The sterile room, like the ship, was the best money could buy. From one end to the other, stretching one hundred feet, multiple stations were created containing the tools of the trade—microscopes, refrigerators and freezers, biological safety cabinets, and two bioreactors.
This laboratory was not only capable of processing and analyzing specimens, but it was also able to conduct the chemical processes to replicate the growth of cells or tissues. Any biochemical engineer would be proud to work in an advanced facility like this one, except most scientists’ morals and ethics would prevent them from participating in the tasks required by the ISIS leadership team. But then, there were those who could be bought, and others who had trained for years in the finest research facilities around the world, waiting for this moment when their talents could help the cause.
At this moment, the lab was empty. The scientists had departed momentarily. Their handlers, the trusted soldiers of ISIS, weren’t required to monitor their activities.
The same was true for the ship’s bridge. The technologically advanced command center, the place where modern advances allowed remote control of all pieces of equipment necessary for sailing an oceangoing vessel, was empty. The ship’s electronics required to safely navigate the Tasallul, including its engine controls, its Navtex receiver, the radar, and chart systems were all operating properly and as programmed by the ship’s crew.
One vital piece of equipment, however, was disabled—the global positioning tracking device. The Tasallul, an Arabic word meaning stealth, had sailed into the Gulf undetected by disappearing from monitoring devices.
This was a tried and tested method of unloading their operatives into Europe in the past. Hundreds of ghost ships would sail suspiciously close to known terrorist hotspots as they entered European waters, smuggling people and weapons onto the European continent. Typically, the ghost ships would remain dark for twenty-four to forty-eight hours and then mysteriously reappear on radar many miles away from their last reported location.
As the sun rose in the east, the Tasallul was a ghost ship, except it was not unmanned. As it ambled along at an idle speed of two knots, the freighter’s spacious, open deck was occupied by the crew who had assembled for Salat al-fajr, early dawn prayer.
Nearly one thousand prayer rugs measuring roughly three by five feet were neatly arranged in rows and faced Mecca—or Makkah, in Arabic—the holy city in Saudi Arabia. Traditionally woven with images of Islamic symbols and architecture, each rug was personal to the Muslim who knelt upon it.
The prayer ritual was over fourteen hundred years old and was repeated five times throughout the day by hundreds of millions of people across the globe. Carrying it out was not only highly spiritual, but prayer connected each Muslim to all others around the world, as well as to those who have uttered the same words and made the same movements at different times in Islamic history.
Muslims made sure they were in the right frame of mind before they pray. The set prayers were not just phrases to be spoken. Prayer required the uniting of the mind, soul, and body for worship, and therefore strict adherence to the movements and the prayer was expected.
From the sky, a passing gull could observe the ship, gently pressing forward in the blue-green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. On her deck, there was the spectacle of a thousand men dressed in their prayer-ritual white thobe, engaging in the centuries-old movements—standing, bowing, kneeling prostrate and finally, turning their face to the right, and then to the left, as they repeated the words peace be upon you, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.
On this day, those praying for peace for themselves and for their fellow Muslims would embark on the Final Jihad.
PART THREE
WEEK THREE
Chapter 41
Day Fifteen
Arriaga, Mexico
Hassan disconnected the call with Mahmood Khabir. He kicked at the rocks that lined the tracks at the train station in the dusty, rural city of Arriaga in southern Mexico. Khabir had told him that the Juarez cartel had taken a major hit by the Federales, the Mexican Federal Police, as a result of a drug bust coordinated with the American DEA. After much discussion, the decision was made. They were not going to use the strategically important drug tunnels under the protection of the Juarez cartel. Their backup strategy for crossing the border was to be implemented, one that had inherent risks and, more importantly, possible delays.
“Do we still travel to the border?” asked Abbud.
“We will wait for our brothers,” insisted Hassan. “The ship is in position, and they will have three dozen men here by tomorrow evening.”
The delay would only be two days and Hassan hoped the cartel would change their position on helping his operatives enter the country. It wasn’t just the Federales he had to be concerned with. The Mexican narco-cartels constantly fought for the lucrative drug corridors along the border. From the Tijuana cartel south of San Diego all the way to the Gulf cartel near Brownsville, Texas, each region was controlled by organized crime alliances under the Mexican cartel banner.
Hassan was prepared to deal with the Gulf and Tijuana cartels, with whom he had no relationships. All of the Mexican cartels were paid and fueled by illegal immigration. No one crossed the border without paying the cartels. The quest for the American Dream had turned into a nightmare for migrants, but that was not Hassan’s concern. If his operatives could not cross into California and Texas, then they were instructed to make their way to Chihuahua, where Khabir would help them enter New Mexico and Arizona.
Hassan and Abbud stood with their hands on their hips, taking in the surroundings. Hundreds of Mexican and Central American migrants shuffled around with their belongings, primarily consisting of a backpack and a bedroll.
They were waiting on La Bestia, or the Beast. Several hundred thousand migrants a year rode within the heated freight cars or upon the roof of what had been dubbed El Tren de la Muerte—the Train of Death. The quantity of illegal passengers had doubled with the number of unaccompanied children from Central America traveling to America.
The trip, which took four to five days, transported the migrants to the northernmost desert region of Mexico. If the migrants survived the trip, after they reached the border, and crossed it, they must then avoid detection of the Customs and Border Patrol before they could reach populated areas.
Because the passengers might change trains as many as a dozen times along the way, the chance of sustaining a major injury was high. But nevertheless, migrants took the risk and began their journey from Arriaga daily.
Once the Beast reached the centrally located capital, Mexico City, the rails led them in several directions depending upon the migrant’s ultimate destination. The primary destinations included Tijuana outside of San Diego, Nogales across the border from Tucson, Juarez in the Mexican state of Chihuahua located near Las Cruces, New Mexico, and Nuevo Laredo, across the narrow Rio Grande River from the U.S. city of the same name.
Along the way, the migrants became ill or even died. It was not uncommon for a passenger to fall asleep on top of a train and become thrown to the ground below, where they were killed by decapitation, blood loss, or shock. There was no one to help them if they fell.
Hassan and his companions would travel to Chihuahua, but they would not ride the trains. His jihadi brothers would systematically infect passengers with the plague at the various train stops as they approached the United States border. The notes he obtained from the research scientist in Gabon, Dr. Alexis, indicated that the incubation period was typically two to four days, but more likely six to seven with his modifications. The notes cautioned that these periods could vary depending on the subject’s age, health, and size.
Hassan would instruct his operatives to wait until the final opportunity to begin the inoculation process. He didn’t want all of the infected migrants to die on top o
f a train or in the middle of the desert. Hassan expected better results than that.
Chapter 42
Day Fifteen
ESPN Special Assignment
Atlanta Olympiad
ESPN News Anchor Neil McHenry sat upright in his chair as the network came back from a commercial break. He had sports reporter Kwami Sharp on the large-screen monitor behind him, waiting to continue his report from Atlanta, the new site of the Summer Olympic Games.
“Kwami, preparing the Atlanta venue has required a tremendous effort from everyone involved and the USOC should be commended for bringing these games to America,” started McHenry. “But, in today’s day and age, security is always a factor. What has been done to protect participants and attendees from a potential terrorist attack?”
Sharp held the earpiece closer to his ear as McHenry posed the question. He nodded his head, periodically looking around as the background noise seemed to distract him.
“As the United States prepares for millions of people to descend upon Atlanta for the Summer Olympic Games, the specter of terrorism is ever-present. The Department of Homeland Security has been running mock terror drills here for weeks and the main venues are already experiencing an increased amount of scrutiny.
“Armed guards, jeep-style vehicles filled with law enforcement toting automatic weapons dart to and fro at all hours. DHS officials promise to deploy thousands of plainclothes agents, including intelligence officials, into the crowd to work undercover, hoping to thwart an attack.”
McHenry riffled through the papers laid out on the desk in front of him and prepared for his next question. “Kwami, with the uptick in terrorist activity in Europe of late, do officials believe that Atlanta may be a target?”
“Of course, Neil. One official echoed the sentiment that it’s quite unfortunate. We have this sporting event that transcends political and cultural differences, and rather than focusing on the events and competition, the potential for a terrorist attack has to be in the back of everyone’s minds.”
McHenry nodded and turned his attention to the camera. “After the most recent attacks in London and Sweden, you can’t help but think about it. Thank you, Kwami. But our viewers should consider this. There has not been a mass attack at the Olympics since the bombing at the 1996 Games in Atlanta. That occurred before the word terrorism was used in our everyday conversation. The attacker was not of foreign descent, but rather a right-wing extremist from Merritt Island, Florida. Harbingers of death come in all shapes, sizes, and nationalities, folks.”
Chapter 43
Day Fifteen
CDC Briefing
Atlanta
The Division of Emergency Operations is responsible for the overall coordination of the CDC’s activities during public health emergencies. The DEO works closely with its sister divisions, which focus on state and local readiness, national stockpiles of medications, and the department that oversees the use and transfer of biological agents like anthrax, smallpox, and plague.
The large operations center looks very much like a modern college classroom. Four rows of light oak, modular desks stretch from one side of the forty-foot-wide room to the other. As many as forty staff members occupy these seats at any given time, studying data, communicating with the field officers and adding information to the eight-foot-tall monitors, which are constantly updating, especially in the midst of an outbreak.
Mac entered the room and immediately sought out the duty officer. Sandra Wilkinson, an eighteen-year veteran of the Office of Public Health Preparedness and Response, was frantically typing on her keyboard. Mac approached her slowly, not wanting to disrupt her train of thought.
Finally, she finished, hitting the enter key with authority. She leaned back in her chair and let out a loud sigh. “Sometimes, Mac, you just gotta tell ’em, you know?”
Mac, who had no idea what Wilkinson was talking about, just nodded and smiled. She took another sip of coffee and glanced towards Wilkinson’s triple-panel monitors.
“Guatemala?” asked Mac.
“Yeah. Their military ain’t much to speak of, I reckon. Like Mexico, they apparently lose sight of who they work for.”
Mac looked over her cup of coffee and she took another sip. Wilkinson had a flair for drama, and this apparently was going to be one of those moments. “I suppose it depends on who’s paying them the most at the moment.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” said Wilkinson. “They tell me the soldiers have to pull off our second village to do a private security job.”
“What? They can’t do that. The site must be contained.”
“It gets better. The private security job is for the Mexican Los Zetas drug cartel. The members of the Kaibiles forces, special ops people who were assigned to the detail because of their jungle warfare specialties, also work for the cartel.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it?” asked Mac.
“From what I was just told, it’s part of the working relationship between the Guatemalan government, Los Zetas, and the Kaibiles. The Kaibiles provide security for shipments of cocaine from South American ports; the Los Zetas cartel promises to get the illegal drugs out of the country and bound for America as soon as possible. Everybody’s happy, in theory.”
“Except for the mothers of the dying and drug-dependent children in our country,” said Mac with disgust. She tried to forget the distraction, but it angered her nonetheless.
“Listen, Sandra,” started Mac. “I don’t want to wander through the rows and distract your people. Can you provide me the updated medical reports on the patients in Guatemala? I’d like to see how they’re responding to the medication protocols.”
“Sure.” Wilkinson began to type away on the keyboard and located the data specialist who was receiving the reports from CDC-Guatemala City. “Row two, position seven. That’s Henri le Pen, one of our new people from France. He’s trilingual—French, Spanish, and proper English, as he says it. Smart kid. You’ll see.”
“Thank you, Sandra.” Mac finished her coffee and returned to the rear of the room and set it on a table near the trash receptacles. An attendant was assigned to the operations center to act as a restaurant server and cleanup person, of sorts. The analysts kept their nose to the grind, rarely getting up for breaks. The room was active twenty-four seven because diseases never sleep.
Mac slipped past the several stations and sat in an empty chair next to le Pen. Using her best French pronunciation, which started with ahh instead of heh, she introduced herself. “Henri, I hope you don’t mind the interruption. My name is Dr. Hagan and I am overseeing the two outbreaks in Guatemala.”
“Yes, good morning, Dr. Hagan. You are mentioned frequently in my communications. It is my pleasure to meet you in person.”
Mac laughed as the small-statured Frenchman spoke so proudly in a British accent. “Sandra was correct, you do speak proper English.”
“It is the King’s English, as I learned in boarding school, Dr. Hagan.”
“It’s excellent,” said Mac. With his ability to speak multiple languages, he could be a real asset to her team at some point. “Have you considered fieldwork?”
“I have, but I wish to learn the inside operations first. It will allow me a better respect for what my associates do before I enter the field and start to bombard them with my investigative data.”
Mac was very impressed with the young man. He was a real find. “Well, Henri, I’ll remember that we’ve had this conversation. There will come a time that I can use someone with your talents and attitude.”
He smiled and nodded before asking how he could help her. “I have the latest reports from the morning rounds if you’d like to see them. Sadly, they lost two more patients overnight. That’s four in the last two days.”
Mac frowned at this revelation. At this point, patients should be improving, not dying. “I assume the cause of death is reported as pneumonia.”
“Yes, Doctor. Furthermore, as I will show you in these samplings, many mo
re patients are showing signs of respiratory failure.”
Mac leaned forward with her elbows on her knees while resting her chin on her clasped fingers. Screen after screen revealed the patients’ most up-to-date charts, none of which showed improvement. All vitals were either stable or trending downward.
“The antibiotics aren’t working,” mumbled Mac. All of the patients were now on oxygen and intravenous fluids. Some were being treated with streptomycin, while others were being given ciprofloxacin.
“Dr. Hagan, half of the patients have been moved to critical status and are being prepared for transport to the hospital at El Naranjo. CDC-Guatemala City is in the process of readying the facility for handling infectious disease patients. It will be two more days before the task is complete.”
They’ll be dead by then. She needed to talk to Baggett.
*****
Mac walked across the complex to the executive offices and found Baggett on the phone. His secretary asked her to wait for a moment because she’d just received instructions to locate Mac as well. After a couple of lighthearted comments regarding perfect timing, Baggett hung up the phone and shouted for Mac to come into his office.
“Dr. Hagan, please, come in and take a load off.” Baggett was one of the few colleagues at the CDC who Mac never offered her nickname as a means of addressing her. She preferred Dr. Hagan when dealing with Baggett.
“Good morning. You wanted to see me.” Mac decided to let her superior speak first before she hit him with the bad news.
“Dr. Hagan, you’ve been doing admirable work on this Guatemala outbreak and your containment efforts have been proven effective.” He paused as he shuffled some papers on his desk.
Mac filled in the silence. “Thank you, but the matters of containment have been handled by the local office and Lawrence Brown, the CEFO on station.”