“Quiet!” shouted Hakim as an additional hail of plaster rained down onto the proceedings, and the entire auditorium complied at once. An unnatural, tomblike silence engulfed the room.
Hakim faced the main camera with a grim expression, aware that he was now being watched by hundreds of millions of people in over one hundred and fifty countries around the world. Other than the World Cup of soccer, no single event on the planet was seen live by more people, making this the perfect terror target. Hakim practically drooled from the prospect of milking this for all it was worth.
“Now I’m aware that some watching this, live or on television, might think I’m bluffing about this theater being wired,” he said. He removed a remote electronic device from his pocket and began entering digits. “Sebastian Cole,” he demanded of the show’s director, “show the feed from the orchestra pit.”
When Hakim saw a 3-D view of the members of the orchestra on the screen behind him, he entered the last digit.
Dozens of tiny explosions rocked the pit, all directed inward. Although the structure itself was not breached, the explosives had been placed so carefully, and had been so well modulated in power, it was as if each musician had individual mini-bombs attached to their belts, which had blown them to shreds in an instant. Blood spray and body parts flew through the small enclosed space and slammed into the walls and ceiling, as though the members of the orchestra were cats that had been placed in a working microwave oven. Several in the large crowd vomited.
Hakim was pleased to note that despite the horror they felt at what they had just witnessed, they remained silent and in their seats, his previous demonstrations having finally sunk in.
“I trust you don’t think I’m bluffing now,” said Hakim icily, and his associates, who were still fanned out behind him, continued to point their machine guns at the crowd. “Fortunately, Islamic Jihad does not require any musical accompaniment.”
The terrorist leader leaned in menacingly. “One last thing. And I’m speaking to you, President Cochran. Even if your special ops people could somehow mount an attack that we couldn’t see coming—which is impossible—and even if they took all of us out simultaneously before we blew this theater, this would gain you nothing. We have three of our people in the audience. Dressed like the rest. Indistinguishable from the rest. And each has the means to detonate the explosives in this theater as well.”
Hakim gazed at the audience, and every member wore a horrified expression that hadn’t changed since he had shown the footage of the carnage backstage. “For those of you in the auditorium,” he continued, “all I care about is that you remain silent and in your seats. If you have to urinate, you will have to soil yourself, because you aren’t getting a bathroom pass.”
He threw out his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “But feel free to use your phones. Not to make calls, because if you don’t maintain absolute silence, you will be killed. But to text. E-mail. Tweet. Instagram. Blog. Send selfies to your Facebook pages. Whatever you want. Contact your Department of Homeland Security. I don’t care. You—and they—are powerless.”
As Hakim had expected, many hundreds in the crowd immediately pulled cell phones from their pockets, already silenced for the occasion. Whether this was to reach out to friends, fans, and loved ones, as he had indicated, or just to get a distraction from the horror of their predicament, he didn’t know, and didn’t care.
“One of my men has just sent a message to your President Cochran, detailing a list of our demands. Starting with freeing all Islamic prisoners you have long tortured and wrongfully detained. But after this, the demands are not so simple. But I have every confidence President Cochran will ultimately give us what we want. If he does, the vast majority of you will get out of this alive.”
He smiled cruelly. “But several of you almost certainly will not. But this is as it should be. For you were chosen for a reason. Because all of you in this room are symbols of the decay of the West. You are pampered and spoiled and empty. You exemplify a lifestyle that is an abomination to Allah. You are perfect examples of everything that is wrong with your culture. It’s decadence. Its superficiality. It’s excesses. It’s godlessness. And its hypocrisy.”
His eyes narrowed and his lip curled up in disgust. “How much money have you spent tonight on hair and stylists? How many millions, total, on decadent gowns? How many tens of millions on jewelry? You waste vast wealth preening. While millions starve, you congratulate yourselves on the smut you belch out to numb your people to their empty lives. You use your voices, not to encourage virtue. Not to encourage a life that would be pleasing to Allah. But to do the opposite.
“While the world burns, you become ever more obsessed with the plight of your homosexuals. Despite the fact that those who engage in sodomy already thrive in your culture, when they would be stoned to death in mine. Your women are whores who not only don’t cover their faces, but who parade around nearly naked. And instead of being where they belong, at home raising children and caring for their husbands, they are attending schools—schools that do nothing but perpetuate the sickness of your culture.”
Hakim paused for effect.
“And you degrade yourselves with endless pornography,” he continued. “Something that has become as common in the West as air.”
Hakim forced himself to pause once again. He had rehearsed this speech many times, and he suspected he was delivering it a little too quickly. He needed to give the worldwide television audience time to digest his words.
“Your Kim Kardashian rose to fame after her appearance on a sex tape. Yet you have turned her, and her ilk, into royalty. Your reality television is depraved, morally corrupt, and despicable, and yet its popularity grows like a cancer. You worship the false gods of hedonism and technology, obsessed with your televisions and video games and cell phones and selfies. Your culture is a blight on this planet, one that makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like cities of the virtuous.”
Hakim clenched his fist and held it out before him, so the cameras couldn’t miss it. “So you are being held up as an example. A warning. To show the world what Islamic Jihad is fighting for—and fighting against. You have raped our countries. Savaged our way of life. And called us murderers.”
He sighed, almost as though he was sorry for what the behavior of the West was forcing him to do. “So, until your president meets every one of our demands, starting one hour from now, we will execute one of your Hollywood stars every fifteen minutes. Around the clock.”
There was a chorus of gasps from the crowd and panicked chatter that rose to a low roar. Hakim shouted into the microphone once more, threatening to kill a dozen people immediately if order was not restored, and this had the desired effect.
“We’re prepared to stay here as long as it takes,” continued Hakim once the theater was quiet again. “Days. Weeks. We have enough food for ourselves, so we won’t weaken. But your president has one hour. After this, for every fifteen minutes that passes without him doing the right thing, one of you will die. Almost a hundred of you for each day your president hesitates. And we will continue this until our demands are met.” He held out his hands helplessly. “Or until everyone in this auditorium is dead. Whichever comes first.”
Abdul Hakim stared into the camera with a predatory gleam. “Your move, Mr. President.”
8
President Timothy Cochran checked a digital clock on the wall and forced himself to stay calm. The terrorist they had identified as Abdul Hakim had just issued his ultimatum five minutes earlier, giving them a little over an hour before the first celebrity was to be executed inside the Cosmopolitan Theater. Given the number of people this group had already murdered in ice-cold blood, there could be little doubt that this man would make good on his threats.
The president mopped sweat from his face with a paper towel and waited for the air-conditioning to chill the room further as he had ordered. Less than an hour ago he had been on the White House tennis court, his backhand in rare form, one of the
only presidents in recent memory who wasn’t a golfer.
He had managed to take a three-minute shower and change into casual slacks and a button-down shirt while the Situation Room was being readied, and while members of his National Security Council were either racing to the White House or finding secure locations from which to join the meeting via video. But even after the shower, his body refused to stop sweating.
Robert Snyder, Secretary of Homeland Security, had insisted he call this emergency meeting, based on intel gathered by General Justin Girdler, predicting the imminent attack on the Oscars. He had also been adamant that any move they made to prevent the attack would blow up in their faces. President Cochran was both impressed and sickened that the attack had commenced just as Girdler’s intel had predicted.
His top advisors had already confirmed what he knew in his gut: any military operation they tried would fail. Islamic Jihad held all the cards. It was too difficult to breach the theater, and too easy for them to trigger the explosives.
Three additional members of his National Security Council arrived around the table, two via video and one live, and Cochran decided he needed to start the proceedings. He gazed down the endless polished table that was the central fixture in the White House Situation Room, a five-thousand square foot conference room and intelligence management center in the basement of the West Wing.
Although initially created in 1961 by John F. Kennedy, the Situation Room had undergone repeated renovations to keep up with technology, and its communications capabilities were sophisticated enough to allow the president to exercise his full command-and-control authority with US forces around the world from within its confines.
The Vice President, Secretary of State, Secretary of the Treasury, and the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs had not arrived, in person or virtually. Even so, Cochran had waited too long already, and the people who were truly key were all in attendance: his Chief of Staff, the Director of National Intelligence, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of Defense, and the Secretary of Homeland Security, along with dozens of underlings, intelligence analysts and others, many of whom the president didn’t recognize.
And, of course, General Justin Girdler, the man who had uncovered the key piece of intel and had pulled the alarm, who was joining them by video broadcast. Girdler’s and Snyder’s briefings to the president had been recorded and sent to all other members of the Council so they could be brought up to speed while making their way to the meeting.
Cube-shaped monitors had telescoped up from recessed compartments in the table, in front of empty seats, to serve as virtual stand-ins for any key participant unable to be there physically. While three-dimensional viewing had become exceptionally lifelike, this was not true if you were viewing the monitor from a severe angle or from behind, so the cubes displayed a participant on each of its four walls, ensuring they could be seen from any angle.
“I assume you’ve all read the terrorists’ list of demands,” said the president without preamble, a statement rather than a question. “What would it take to comply with them?”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” said the cube across from him and to his right, displaying the hardened face of Admiral John Janikowski, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “You aren’t seriously considering caving in to their demands? We have a strict policy of never negotiating with terrorists.”
“I know that!” snapped Cochran irritably. “I simply want to get a holistic sense of what we’re dealing with. I want to discuss any and all options, even those we assume we won’t, or can’t, pursue. Thinking outside the box is our only hope. If we even have a hope,” he added miserably. “Now anyone want to jump in and answer my question? You know, before Islamic Jihad starts executing more innocent civilians.”
“They’ve listed fourteen demands,” said Snyder. “But most are window dressing. The three at the heart of it are as follows. One, transfer fifty billion dollars to the accounts of Islamic Jihad. This isn’t easy or painless,” he added as an aside, “but it’s the most doable of their core demands. Two,” he continued, “release all Islamic prisoners we’re holding around the world. To say this would be thorny is a monumental understatement. Especially for those who are being incarcerated in partnership with other countries, whose governments aren’t going to be keen on cooperating when it comes to letting these men go. And three, pull every last member of our military and covert ops out of every last Muslim country and terrorist theater.”
Snyder shook his head. “The last two aren’t even possible in the time frame we’re looking at.”
“Why not?” said the president.
“Because freeing all prisoners, or rounding up all of our forces and withdrawing, are quite involved processes. They can only be rushed so much. No matter how many people and resources we throw at them. You know the old adage: nine women can’t make a baby in a month. Well, neither can nine hundred. No matter what is at stake.”
The president rubbed his chin in thought. “Given the level of sophistication of the attack, they must know we can’t cave to their demands, even if we wanted to. So either they have no intention of letting their captives live, no matter what,” he concluded, “or they’re taking an extreme initial position, in expectation of a negotiation.”
Cochran turned toward the image of Girdler, who appeared to hover in front of the cube-face directly across from the president. “What is your analysis, General? We need to understand their end-game. You brought us the key intel and you headed PsyOps for many years. So how do you assess this attack and our options?”
“So far the attack is flawless,” responded Girdler. “And our options go from incomprehensibly dismal to even worse. I’ll run through the analysis momentarily,” he added. “But first, I’d like to recommend that we set up a blockade, an eight-square-block or so perimeter around the theater. We can’t risk someone, or some group, trying to be heroic and spooking these men into setting off their powder keg. And if they do blow the theater, we can’t be sure of the blast zone, so it’s wise to clear the area anyway.”
“I agree with the general,” said Synder, and looking around the room it was clear that most thought this was so painfully obvious that, despite the commotion and the fact that Hakim’s ultimatum had been issued only ten minutes earlier, this should have already been ordered.
“Lou,” said the president to his National Security Advisor, who was the best wordsmith in the room, “write a message to Hakim for me to review. As soon as possible. First, let him know we’ll be setting up a perimeter. We don’t want our efforts to ensure no one spooks them to, ah . . . spook them.”
Cochran paused in thought. “Then, tell them we’re considering their demands. But that we need more time. If they promise a twenty-four-hour stay before any further killing, I’ll go on television and tell the world we’re in discussion with them and considering their demands. I’ll react publicly to their threat. Humiliate myself. Make them look strong and us weak. But only if they give us twenty-four hours.” He turned to Admiral Janikowski. “Meanwhile, John, set the wheels in motion so our people can begin clearing a perimeter around the theater the moment Hakim has received the message.”
The admiral nodded at one of his staff members who rushed off screen to begin issuing frantic orders.
The president returned his stare to Girdler while he waited for his National Security Advisor to finish composing his requested message. “Please continue with your analysis, General.”
“You know the file on this group. Ruthless and barbaric. Attracting only the most sadistic fundamentalists. Will happily behead men and women at their slightest whim. So their end-game is very clear: they intend to martyr themselves and take down the Cosmopolitan and over four thousand people. No matter what else happens. I’m absolutely positive. It’s as simple, and as complicated, as that.”
“Absolutely positive, General?” challenged Cochran. “How can you have that level of certainty?”
Girdler sighed. “You’ve heard Secretary Snyder’s report,” he replied. “They’ve spent weeks or months concealing a revolutionary new plastic explosive within the Cosmopolitan. Even if they were able to remove it all before leaving, which is unlikely, the scent of it would linger long enough for an electronic bloodhound to get a fix on it. Believe me, they plan to wreak as much hell as they can with this explosive until we learn to detect it. So they have to blow the theater. No matter what happens.”
There were grim nods all around the table as Girdler’s logic hit home.
“From a PsyOps perspective,” continued the general, “this is an extraordinarily well-planned and effective terror effort. Better than even my best people might have hatched. The physical, psychological, and political impact will be incalculable. They’ve boxed us in brilliantly. They’ve captured a group of people known and loved around the world. Stars of movies shown in every country. These actors, and the characters they portray, are often a more integral and important part of people’s lives than are their own relatives. They’ve already killed Wolverine. Who’s next. Star-Lord? James T. Kirk? Katniss Everdeen? Aunt May’s head on a stick, for Christ’s sake?”
The already grim expressions worn by everyone in attendance became even grimmer.
“So they kill beloved stars one by one while they force the entire world to look on,” continued Girdler. “It’s the reality show from hell. And every time they kill they remind the world that we—you, Mr. President—could have prevented it by simply conceding to their reasonable demands. And every murder shows us to be impotent. So we’re either heartless bastards who won’t negotiate, or we’re helpless and weak. Either way, we lose considerable prestige around the globe.”
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