Into The Shadows

by Michael Brady

  She was unaware of any active terror groups near Kenema looking to strike the United States. Sure, it had its share of gangs and criminal organizations, but Islamic State and AL Qaeda were not active there.

  “Why is that crazy, Joe?”

  “Leslie, who is going to infect themselves with Ebola and attempt to enter the United States? And even if they do, there is no chance for an outbreak here.”

  “Just because it hasn’t been tried doesn’t mean it’s crazy. Look at 9/11. The hypothesis is intriguing.”

  “Leslie, let’s forget about a possible outbreak here for now and stick to the likely exit points. Langley wants locations to potentially target for collection if necessary. You can get back to the outbreak tomorrow.”

  “Okay. We’ll have some data for CIA in a couple of hours.”

  As Leslie began the short walk back to her office, the crazy notion of an Ebola-infected terrorist attempting to enter the United States was a reasonable course of action for Islamic State. If successful, the deep psychological impact to America would result in a collapsing stock market, the potential for hundreds, or maybe thousands of infections, and widespread general panic. If the plot failed, Islamic State would lose nothing.

  As she sat in the plush leather chair, her mind became fixated on a scenario that would be unimaginable. What if the terrorist rode the subway rail system in a major metropolitan city? What if that person spent an entire day coughing or sneezing in crowded metro cars? The deadly virus could then transmit from commuter to commuter. Infected individuals, mistaking their symptoms for the common cold or flu, would then infect countless others during their daily commutes. The number of infections could theoretically be in the thousands.

  Leslie looked at the map of Sierra Leone. Daunting she thought to herself. There were hundreds of methods and locations to escape from Sierra Leone. The individual could fly, walk, drive, or travel by boat.

  Leslie began to red team, a technique taught to intelligence analysts. The method is simple in theory. The analyst will look at problems or courses of action through the eyes of his or her adversary. Unfortunately, analysts rarely practice the technique, often because they do not understand their enemy or learn to think like them. Sun Tzu would be disappointed.

  In order for Leslie to think critically, she had to clear her mind. First, she would direct Jordan to create a PowerPoint slide with a map of Sierra Leone. Jordan would then highlight the airports and airfields within the country, and finally, all marinas along the east coast. Secondly, she directed Jordan to contact the National Center for Medical Intelligence (NCMI) and request a conference call for 10:30 AM. Leslie knew one of the analysts there. She met her in Washington, D.C. during a symposium over the summer, and the two remained lovers ever since.

  National Reconnaissance Office, Chantilly, Virginia – November 6, 9:35 AM

  Reginald Carter assumed his official duties as the Director, Mission Operations Directorate (MOD) at the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), the first African American to accomplish the honor. It was long overdue. He previously served as the interim Director for five months, after his boss retired unexpectedly after a routine colon cancer screening.

  The National Reconnaissance Office, formed in 1961, is one of the seventeen intelligence agencies in the United States. Its directive is to design, build and operate the nation’s spy satellites. Without the brilliant engineers and scientists at NRO, strategic intelligence collection would come to a standstill.

  NRO built satellites for several government agencies, including National Security Agency (NSA), National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA) and the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA). These satellites provided signals intelligence (SIGINT), geospatial imagery intelligence (GEO-INT) and Measurement and Signature Intelligence (MASINT).

  His administrative assistant was on the line.

  “Sir, I have a Doug Weatherbee on the line for you. He says it is urgent. He would like to go secure.”

  “Patch him through to the STU, Naomi.”

  Reginald referred to the Secure Telephone Unit on his desk. The STU is a secure telephone line found in most offices within intelligence agencies. When a key on the phone is turned, conversations become encrypted and secure. It allows users to communicate without fear of monitoring.

  “Reginald, it’s Doug. I need some imagery. I don’t have the time for a high priority request.”

  “What does CIA need now?” asked Reginald.

  He grew tired of CIA’s short-term wishes years ago.

  “I’d like some images of the Kenema Mosque. I’ll send the exact grid coordinates with the request to your collection management office.”

  “What NIIRS resolution are you looking for?”

  “How about seven or better.”

  NIIRS stood for the National Imagery Interpretability Rating Scale. Satellite images were rated on quality. The higher the imagery rating on a scale of one to nine, the clearer the image becomes. Modern satellites have the ability to “zoom in” and capture NIIRS nine ratings. A rating of nine allows an image that shows the number of screws on the side of a missile.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem. I will talk to one of my collection managers. Will 1:00 PM work, Doug?”

  “Yes sir, it will.”

  Fort Detrick, Maryland - November 6, 10:30 AM

  Ten-thirty am was quickly approaching, Kerry thought to herself. Leslie would be calling any moment.

  The telephone rang precisely at ten-thirty am. Leslie was always punctual, regardless of the occasion.

  “Hi, Kerry. Do you have some time to spin me up on early Ebola symptoms and dormant periods?”

  “Sure. How much time do you have?”

  “About ten minutes. I’ve got a hot request and work to do.”

  Kerry, a strong-willed former nurse, joined the National Center for Medical Intelligence (NCMI) in 2011. She spent time in western Africa after high school while serving in the Peace Corps. That was the primary reason for her assignment to the West African analysis team.

  The NCMI is a component of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Its mission is to perform predictive analysis of health issues that could affect US military and civilian populations. It works closely with the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia.

  “Okay, Leslie. I’ll try to spin you up on what we know.”

  Kerry first started with the symptoms, which included fever, headache, muscle pain, weakness, fatigue, and vomiting.

  “Symptoms are known to appear as early as two days based on our research. But they average eight to ten days.”

  “Those are the signs of the common cold or flu,” said Leslie.

  “True, but also of malaria and typhoid seen in regions stricken by the disease,” said Kerry.

  “Then how can medical professionals accurately diagnose the disease to determine if it is, in fact, Ebola?”

  “That’s the challenging part. There are several diagnostic tests available including virus isolation, polymerase chain reaction (PCR) and antigen capture enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay. Sometimes it takes three days after symptoms start for the disease to be diagnosed from a blood sample.”

  “Okay Kerry, so even patients suspected of contracting the disease are isolated until tests confirm or deny the presence of Ebola, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Leslie pressed her further.

  “What if a person with Ebola rode the blue line from the Springfield metro station to the Pentagon? Could there still be infections by simply coughing or sneezing?”

  Leslie referred to one of the metro lines found in Washington, D.C. that moved tens of thousands of passengers daily.

  “Yes, of course. Imagine the number of people who ride the metro each day who have a cold, cough, headache, or other issues impacting their immune system.”

  Kerry, alr
eady wondering why Leslie called rather than speaking at their townhouse, asked why?

  “I will talk to you about it later,” said Leslie.

  “What time do you think you’ll be home?”

  “It’s probably going to be late, babe. Can you make me a plate?”

  “Of course, I’ll wait up.”

  Leslie wished Kerry a great day and hung up. She immediately began to think about the problem further. She would ignore Joe’s instructions and formulate scenarios.

  Leslie would not do what so many of her predecessors did before 9/11. No hypothesis, no matter how unlikely, would go unexamined.

  New York, New York – November 6, 11:30 AM

  Climbing out of his black Chevrolet Suburban, Peter Marsico and three other men made their intimidating presence known. Heavily armed with snub-nosed shotguns and MP5 machine guns, the Hercules team wore combat helmets and body armor. This morning’s last stop would be at the New York Stock Exchange, along the Broad Street entrance.

  Many tourists stopped talking and gazed at the team while others simply froze, clearly startled by their presence. A few local vendors, though familiar with the team’s presence over the years, still looked awestruck. The crowd looked on with immense pride, clearly satisfied with Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly’s decision to create the team and others like it after 9/11.

  A few yards from the team stood Jason, a member of the intelligence division at the New York City police department. His job this morning, was to observe the crowd adjacent to the Hercules team.

  Jason looked for suspicious individuals who might try videotaping the team or write notes about their equipment and weapons. He also looked for alarmed individuals who may have been scouting the area. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary except a few individuals taking pictures.

  As soon as the team exited their SUV, the radio call came in.

  “Team Delta, proceed to New York City Finance Department building, 66 John Street. Shots fired. Possible hostage situation on the third floor.”

  The team quickly entered the Chevrolet Suburban and sped off. Within minutes, they arrived at the building finding two other New York City patrol cars parked at the building’s front entrance.

  “What do we know?” asked Peter.

  “Not much. Dispatch called and said there was an individual on the third floor. A couple of shots were overheard. Inside one of the offices is a man holding a female hostage. SWAT is on the way.”

  “How far?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes. But in this traffic, might be longer.”

  “I’m moving my team in. Inform dispatch. Secure the people coming out.”

  Working his way through the two dozen citizens scrambling through the door, Peter and his team moved in. Security guards were calmly instructing the building’s employees to exit quickly with their hands up.

  “You know which office the hostage is in?” asked Peter to the first security guard he met.

  “Third floor, office 306.”

  “What do we know about her captor?”

  “He’s carrying some sort of pistol. I’m not sure what kind.”

  Peter’s team quickly climbed the stairs and arrived on the third floor. Office 306 would be to the right.

  As Peter and his team slowly moved down the hallway, they could hear shouting. There were a few frightened employees still in their locked offices. However, the panic-stricken third floor was mostly quiet as some employees chose to remain in place and sheltered.

  Peter carefully approached office 306. Inside he could hear a woman clearly in distress.

  “Shut up, this is the last fricking time. Shut up!” yelled the deranged man.

  “Hey, buddy. This is Peter Marsico of the New York City police department. What’s the problem?”

  The gunman, rattled by his presence, turned toward the door.

  “Don’t come in here man. I’ve got a gun.”

  Peter could tell the man was frantic.

  “Stay away, or I’m going to shoot her,” yelled the gunman.

  “Why would you do that, man?” he asked while peering into the office.

  Peter observed the gunman standing behind the woman with his weapon pointed at the door.

  “I’m going to kill her man. I mean it. Don’t come in here.”

  Peter concluded the man was under the influence of alcohol or some kind of illegal narcotic. He was not convinced the gunman was serious. Rationally talking to the man and calming him down was not going to happen in this situation, thought Peter to himself. Aware a hostage negotiation team would be arriving soon, Peter turned to his group.

  “I’m going in. I don’t think we can wait for the negotiators,” whispered Peter to his team.

  Peter entered the room with his pistol in hand, pointing toward the floor along his right hip.

  “I told you not to come in here man,” yelled the gunman as he erratically pointed the weapon at Peter.

  “I just want to talk. No one is going to hurt you.”

  The gunman fired at Peter hitting his body armor above the left chest. Peter instantly drew his weapon and aimed at the gunman. The single shot hit the man’s head and pushed his body into the window. Three seconds later, he lay dead on the floor.

  Frantically screaming, the woman rushed to Peter.

  “Ma’am, go outside. Some officers will help you.”

  Peter walked up to the gunman and saw his unresponsive body on the floor. He figured he killed the man but checked his pulse to be sure.

  A few minutes later, New York City police units swarmed the finance department building. Ambulances and other public safety representatives found their way as well. As Peter and his team descended to the first floor, they knew what would await them that afternoon.

  This was Peter’s first deadly shooting on the New York City police force since he graduated from the police academy six years ago. With the reputation of a brash former Navy Seal, he knew there would be scrutiny.

  Peter understood there would be an investigation. His superiors would question his decision to enter the room. Hostage negotiators were on their way, which would only add to the complexity of the investigation. Trusting the process, and having a spotless record, Peter felt his actions were justifiable and correct given the tactical situation.

  He and the rest of his Hercules team were now on their way back to the Counterterrorism Bureau headquarters. His Commander, a salty old Brooklyn cop and member of the unit since its inception in 2002, waited patiently.

  Errol Flynn Marina, Port Antonio, Jamaica – November 4, 10:45 AM

  Dayo Bundu arrived at the Errol Flynn Marina. Its tropical beauty and breathtaking views of the nearby lush hills and the enchanting Blue Mountains mesmerized the young man. He observed the clear blue waters of the lagoon and even caught a glimpse of the cruise ship filled with excited tourists. Having just arrived the evening before at the Sangster International Airport in Montego, he was eager to perform his task.

  Dayo would scout the Marina and observe for any law enforcement personnel. Port Antonio had the reputation as a safe community with low crime rates. He assumed he would encounter a minimal twenty-four-hour security force and the occasional harbor patrol.

  Located near the south end of the West Harbor and adjacent to the launching ramp, Dayo spotted a possible helicopter landing area. He thought three or four helicopters could land there if needed. A few minutes later, a helicopter descended into the area that confirmed his calculation.

  Dayo was feeling hungry, and he made his way to the crew bar. While casually strolling, he noticed a swimming pool and shower facilities. He even spotted a small building used to clean laundry. The marina had everything his visitors might require, if needed.

  He took some notes while sipping local rum punch. The Sheikh ordered him to stay away from alcohol and other such vices
, but how would anyone know, he thought to himself. Dayo was unclear how long his trip in the city would be, so he took every opportunity to enjoy himself.

  After finishing Ackee and salt fish, a Jamaican national dish, Dayo made his way to the shipyard and fueling jetty. After speaking with one of the marina’s employees there, he learned the marina’s security team conducted twenty-four-hour patrols of the shipyard. The added security was reasonable and no threat to his visitors.

  Dayo returned to the Trident Hotel in Port Antonio. Situated on the flawless, pristine waters of the Caribbean, the upscale hotel offered all the amenities Dayo needed while he waited. He had known Sheikh Cissi for fifteen years, and the Sheikh’s trust in Dayo was evident by the plush location he found himself. He checked his watch and realized it was time to call him soon.

  Using the phone located in one of the conference rooms, he placed the international call to Kenema. Aware of the electronic eavesdropping techniques used by the National Security Agency and other western countries, Dayo’s call was short and informal. He and the Sheikh had rehearsed it well.

  “Sahr. Hello. I arrived yesterday evening. The passports are in order, and things here look great. I visited the Mosque this morning. They are anxious to begin the student exchanges.”

  “Oh, that’s excellent Dayo. How was the flight from Cuba?”

  “It was safe, and the people here are so inviting.”

  “Very good, Dayo. Call me in a few days with an update.”

  The two proceeded to make pleasantries for another minute or so and quickly hung up.

  Sheikh Cissi, listening attentively for the words safe and inviting, believed his quickly devised scheme was on track for stage one. Stage two belonged to his trusted captain and crew.

  Raqqa would be pleased he thought. They had to be, considering the amount of the deposit to his Mosque’s Bank in Freetown. The transfer, a sum equivalent to three hundred thousand US dollars, routed through several international financial institutions, paid for the operation. Sheikh Cissi had no intention of disappointing Raqqa, despite being located thousands of miles away. The Islamic State had a deep reach.