The Third Cell

by Anthony D'Egidio

  Graphical images of radioactive fallout were presented, showing wind speed and direction and how much of the United States could be effected. Some of the more dire predictions showed not just Central and South Florida, but most of the Southeast being contaminated, including Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina and to a lesser extent, North Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana and Arkansas.

  The government tried to rebut the television presentation and the president went on air to ask for calm and to heed the authorities trying to keep the mass evacuation moving and under control. Experts from the Nuclear Regulatory Agency put up their charts and predications showing a much smaller area of contamination. For a populace who had been lied to over the past several years by both parties, the Congress and the administration, on issues ranging from the Iraq war, immigration, healthcare reform, manufacturing jobs outsourced for cheap labor and a host of other issues, the American people were not in the mood to believe the government reports and were evacuating en masse. Planners at the state and federal level, including FEMA, had no emergency plan that included millions of Americans fleeing a portion of the country.

  Gangs, seizing the opportunity of reduced law enforcement, targeted homes along the Intracoastal area and overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, stealing anything they could carry. Sophisticated alarms systems were sounding at central stations, but there was no one present to report the breakins. They stole trucks from rental companies and from the parking lots of auto dealers. Streetwise, they hot-wired the stolen vehicle, brought it to the targeted home and, with eight to ten gang members, cleaned the house out of anything valuable in less than a half-hour. They would drive the trucks to empty warehouses that they had been using for drug dealing, hiding the stolen goods inside.

  People who were stranded due to the lack of transportation had become hostile and were rioting in many cities. Bands of looters were roaming the streets and breaking into stores. Understaffed law enforcement agencies were powerless to stop them.

  The Phoenix Rising

  The command post outside of Beekman Estates was trying to get in touch with the three terrorist leaders who they believed were still in the community. The satellite phone was ringing on The Phoenix Rising. Nasih said, “Let them sweat a little. When I’m good and ready I’ll talk.”

  Abdul-Aziz retorted, “More importantly we need to have real authority contact us, like a representative for the President of the United States or the Prime Minister of Israel.”

  Nasih frowned, “That’s unlikely to happen.”

  Using the satellite phone to communicate with Arshad and Faiz at the nuclear reactor sites, Abdul-Aziz ordered, “The Americans underestimated our power with last night’s assault. If they try the same on your sites you have permission to destroy everything.” He said no more, hanging up. He couldn’t take the risk that the yacht’s location could be jeopardized.

  Jerusalem

  2:15 P.M.: Prime Minister Itamar Harkavy reluctantly called the president. “Mr. President, for several years we’ve been trying to reach an agreement with the Arab countries on a Palestinian State, but the stumbling blocks have been the demands to withdrawal from land occupied in the 1967 Middle East war and the inclusion of East Jerusalem. Of course, the position of Hamas that Israel must be destroyed and their refusal to recognize our existence prevented any peaceful settlement.”

  Prime Minister Harkavy continued his prepared speech, “We’ve made progress in many areas and the release of political prisoners from our jails is workable; it’s something we’ve been doing over the past few years. Of course those convicted of murder will not be released. Compensation for the Palestinian refugees for the loss of land and homes is out of the question. It would bankrupt my country. We could agree to some form of compensation if the United States was willing to bankroll seventy to eighty percent of the total cost. The major stumbling block to this entire demand letter is the return of the Palestinian refugees to Israel. We can’t absorb an additional million people at this time, many who are unskilled and would require major assistance from us.”

  The president had been listening carefully to the prime minister. He had met with him several times when his companies were doing business with Israel. “Cut placating to me, Itamar, and stop calling me Mr. President. I’ve known you too long for the formality. You know there aren’t a million Palestinians that have claim to land and homes in Israel. Most of those refugees left the Palestine territory decades ago for other countries. We have close to two hundred thousand Palestinians in the United States who immigrated over the past sixty years. I take the figure to be more like three to four hundred thousand who would want to return.

  The prime minister rebutted, “I don’t think the Knesset would agree.” Stan Conklin had enough and his voice angered as he spoke, “You and the Knesset need to get off your prejudiced ass and come up with a plan of something in the range of forty to sixty thousand refugees a year.”

  “That would be too much of an economic hardship on Israel,” the prime minister retorted.

  “If you think you’ll have economic hardship by taking in these refugees, think about the loss of funding and military backing by the United States. Call me back when you have a refugee plan and I expect that in less than twenty-four hours.” With that, the President hung up the phone.

  Itamar had no room to maneuver. I know that the Knesset isn’t in the mood to discuss the refugee plight, but Israel can’t afford to lose the four and half billion dollars a year in various aid packages. Since 1948, we have received almost one hundred billion dollars from the United States and, even more important, military commitments to support Israel if the country was attacked. I have a very delicate job trying to maneuver the Knesset into agreeing with a Palestinian repatriation. It would be paramount to moving Mt. Everest and I already know many of the political parties’ views. God I wish we had a two-party system like the United States. At least I would have a starting point.

  The Knesset was made up of twelve political parties, all with various points of view, and no one party with a majority of votes.

  The Kadima party had the most seats and was open to a Palestinian State devoid of terrorism. But to have several hundred thousand Palestinians return to Israel would be a hard pill for the party to swallow.

  For years the Labor party had dominated Israeli politics and many of the great leaders of the country came from the party, including David Ben-Gurion, Golda Meir and more recently Shimon Peres. But the Labor party took a sound beating in the last election and only held the second largest amount of votes, about sixteen percent.

  The Shas party wanted compensation from the Arab States that stole assets from Jews after they purged the Jews from their countries from 1948 through the Six Day War. The Shas compared it to the claims made by the Palestinians in their exodus, but in the case of the Jews purged, they were encouraged by discrimination and propaganda to leave. The Jews were not forced to march by gunpoint to another country. The Shas party was the third largest with ten percent of the vote.

  Prime Minister Itamar pondered his dilemma. If I could get the three largest parties to agree I would have fifty percent of the vote. I can always count on the smaller Arab-dominated parties to vote in favor of repatriation and that would give me a majority. It’s going to be many long hours of arm twisting and backroom politics to get my fellow countrymen to agree on a proposal. I have less than eight hours left, but I have a plan. The only one I know that will work.

  The Phoenix Rising

  4:15 P.M.: Nasih turned the yacht east, headed for its final destination.

  Abdul-Aziz came to the bridge. “The phone is ringing and the caller ID is a Washington, D.C. area code.”

  “It may be the phone call we’re waiting for.” Nasih cut the engines and the yacht drifted as he went below.

  They closed all the hatches, external and internal, and turned on a CD player to keep the sounds of the ocean from being heard. They sat back and waited. It was almost seven minutes later
when the phone rang again with the same 202 area code number showing.

  Nasih answered. “Praise be to Allāh, the most merciful!”

  There was a brief moment of silence on the other end and then a voice spoke quietly but firmly. “I wish to speak to the individual who calls himself Nasih Mahmoud Rahman.”

  “I am that person.”

  “This is Secretary of State George Martens and I’m speaking on the authority of the President of the United States. We’re demanding the release of the hostages so we may continue to negotiate in good faith.”

  “Secretary Martens, do you think me a fool to have planned and executed this mission for over twenty-five years just to throw it away by giving you the hostages?”

  “You’ve all of Central and South Florida as a hostage by controlling the nuclear reactor sites. Why do you need to keep innocent people?”

  Nasih slammed his fist onto the table. “They are as guilty as the IDF soldiers who plundered, and killed Palestinian children, by giving their support to the Zionist of Israel. I’m not in the mood for further negotiations. I’ll not release one more person until I see concessions by the United States and Israel to my demands.”

  George Martens had heard Nasih’s fist hit the table. He’s pretty angry. I need to defuse the situation. He calmly replied, “I can only tell you this, we’ve made progress on some of your demands and we’re working on the repatriation. You know it’s impossible to bring back all the people who were expelled immediately. Many have scattered to other Arab countries, Europe and the United States and have no desire to return.”

  Nasih again answered curtly, “Don’t give me answers that have no meaning. I’ve said all who wish to return, may. I don’t care what country they’re in or whether they desire to return. I want the guarantee that they’ll have that right.”

  George Martens, sensing he had movement, asked, “Would you be willing to accept a yearly number for repatriation?”

  “The Zionist didn’t have a yearly number when they expelled us. They sent seven hundred thousand under armed guard into Transjordan to live in poverty. Do you think I’m ready to accept a yearly quota? As far as I’m concerned this conversation is over until you have something substantial for me to consider.” Nasih hung up the phone.

  While the entire United States effort was still focused on Boca Raton, the three cell members were over one hundred twenty miles away, on the Atlantic Ocean, heading east at thirty knots.

  Washington D.C.

  Secretary Martens walked back to the conference room. Everyone had heard the conversation over the speaker system. He addressed the dejected group. “He doesn’t seem too interested in a yearly quota.”

  The President acknowledged. “We’re going to need something from Israel to start the negotiations. Both parties are at an all or nothing mentality.”

  George Martens was skilled in negotiating political settlements. He had served in the government in many capacities since the Regan administration, including as attaché at the U.S. Embassy in China. Polished and refined, he was never known to lose his temper or show emotions that were detrimental to the United States.

  While the secretary of state had been on the phone with Nasih, various United States clandestine agencies were taping the phone call. Forensic tape analysts were reviewing the transmissions trying to glimmer out anything that could pinpoint where the leaders of the terrorists were located within the Beekman Estates community.

  Jerusalem

  11:15 P.M.: Bedlam was the norm of the day at the Knesset, as the members were shouting emphatics and throwing objects across the assembly hall. The discussion of repatriation was becoming a pitch battle. The three Arab-dominated parties were taking a wait-and-see attitude before expressing themselves. It was more like a sporting event than a legislative assembly meeting and the Arabs were enjoying the spectacle of the Jews fighting amongst themselves.

  Prime Minister Harkavy had let them argue their points for the past few hours and the strategy was paying off. The Knesset members were becoming exhausted over the heated discussions and had grown quiet.

  Now the prime minister made his pitch. “We’re a ferociously independent country and we don’t like other nations meddling in our affairs. But in this case whatever we do will be judged by the world. May I remind you that a national disaster on the United States brought on by these terrorists will have economic consequences around the world including our own country and for most in this assembly, in your own pocketbooks. Who among you could personally afford a stock market or bond crash? The United States is the world’s leading consumer with a gross national income of almost ten trillion dollars. That’s larger than the next seven nations combined! If their economy falters it could send the entire world into a depression and Israel could be facing massive unemployment. How many of you are ready to face personal bankruptcy and lose everything you’ve worked for? Do you really propose sacrificing the financial stability of Israel for a political stance? Emotions cannot stand in the way of logic. I’ll bring the assembly to a vote in thirty minutes on a proposal of repatriation of the Palestinians at a rate of fifty thousand per year.” The prime minister abruptly left the podium listening, as the murmur in the assembly became a loud roar.

  In his office he contemplated his speech and strategy. I’ve pushed my fellow countrymen into a corner and they’ll do whatever is right for their own financial gain!

  The Phoenix Rising

  9:17 P.M.: The yacht had been at coordinates 27°44’18” N, 76°34’04” W for a half-hour. Nasih was viewing the horizon to the southeast when he made out a light in the distance. “I see a ship off the port side and I’m going to make way to it.”

  Abdul-Aziz and Rashad were below deck trying to stay out of the cold northern breeze. The front had made its way south and was producing waves in the four-to-six-foot range with winds up to twenty miles per hour. The television vehicle driver, still handcuffed to the stanchion, was turning green from seasickness.

  As both vessels closed in on each other, Nasih flashed his ten-million-candlepower halogen light, four on pause, two on pause and three on pause. He soon saw a response from the approaching vessel of two on pause, two on pause and four on pause. It was the right sequence and he opened up the engines as much as he could in the heavy seas and headed for the ship. It took another twenty minutes before The Phoenix Rising was alongside the Algerian oil tanker Majestic.

  The Majestic had delivered a load of fuel oil to Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale and had left port in the early hours of Christmas morning as planned. The tanker had gone east to the Northwest Providence Channel sailing between Great Abaco and Harbor Islands before turning north heading for coordinates 27°44’18” N, 76°34’04” W, a distance of three hundred sixty-two miles.

  Nasih brought The Phoenix Rising alongside the tanker. He shouted out, “Make sure we have all the bumpers out to keep from smashing into the hull. The boarding will be dangerous in seas this rough.”

  The men scrambled to have the bumpers in place. Abdul-Aziz shouted to Rashad, “Grab the rope and tie on the duffel bag. Make sure it’s secure. It contains the satellite phone.”

  Rashad fought to hang onto the rope and not go overboard in the high seas. He fastened the duffel bag with the rope and signaled for the Majestic crew to hoist it up.

  With the duffel bag aboard, the crewmen on the Majestic lowered a harness. Abdul-Aziz hung on to the harness and helped Rashad put it on. “I’ll fasten you in and I’ll hold the rope for as long as I can. Keep facing the ship’s hull as you go up.”

  Rashad nervously acknowledge and waved his arm to be lifted. The Majestic crew hoisted him aboard.

  It was Abdul-Aziz’s turn, and Nasih helped him into the harness and waved to have the crew pull him up. Once Abdul-Aziz was on board the Majestic, Nasih went below and raised the deck lid leading to the engine room. Taking his automatic weapon, he emptied a full cartridge of bullets into the hull. Water was filling the bottom of the boat. Going to
pside he looked back one last time, catching a glimpse of the terrified driver with his mouth taped and still handcuffed to the stanchion. “Sorry pal, business is business.”

  Nasih climbed out on the deck, placed himself into the harness and signaled he was ready to be hoisted. It was a difficult maneuver, using his feet to keep from striking against the hull. Reaching the deck of the Majestic he stood and watched The Phoenix Rising list to port as it continually struck against the hull of the Majestic. On board, the WAVW driver desperately tried to break his bonds as the water crept higher, finally submerging him. His desperate screams, muffled by the duct tape, were futile, as the water entered his lungs. The Phoenix Rising finally settled in two thousand feet of water, its many duties accomplished.

  The Majestic

  10:25 P.M.: The three men were brought in to meet the captain and Dr. Ziyad Dayeh, a plastic surgeon from Libya who had been on the ship for the past forty days. The Muslims For Justice paid him a large sum of money to equip a cabin on the ship with the capabilities of performing surgery.

  After the men had a hot meal, the doctor brought the three cell members to the surgery cabin and explained in detail how he was going to alter their appearances. They were shown to their cabins and within minutes they were sound asleep. The tension of the past few days was behind them.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE SIEGE, DAY THREE - DECEMBER 27

  At the two nuclear reactor sites, the operators Arshad Osman Hassāni and Faiz Bilal Taqi were monitoring each reactor being run by the regular Florida Electric Utilities plant operators under the watchful eyes of two terrorists, who constantly kept their weapons focused on them. The FEU operators were not about to do anything foolish with the site wired with explosives.