Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (58 page)

"Quiet, both of you," Ibrahim said. "I'm waiting for the signal. It is almost ten."

With his phone extended in one hand, he felt a vibration and looked at the screen. It said what he was hoping for:

Strike the beast by the grace of Allah.

The drones, five in all, were good and ready. Each pack of explosives was rigged with a remote igniter, cell phone fuse, and blasting cap. The wait was over. It was time to use their months of drone flight practice to carry out their mission. Ibrahim signaled them to initiate the flight sequence and search for their previously discussed targets: cruise ships, charter boats, groups of people working on the loading dock. No opportunity was too grand.

The drones hovered off the ground and headed toward the targets. The weight, at first, noticeably dragged the miniature aircraft down, but with careful handling, the men got them flying again.

The fleet of three dispersed as to avoid drawing too much attention. For the drone operators, their victims weren't human. They were targets, simple as that. And the more death and mayhem caused by their explosive-laden quadcopters, the better for their cause. Their eyes were locked to the screen displays of their controllers. They flew the drones with ease, steering them toward their targets.

One drone steered toward a charter boat leaving the port, and as it hummed in the air above them, the boat passengers—ten in all—looked up and took notice. A group of fishing buddies pointed and appeared to make comments about the drone. Everyone seemed hypnotized by its gradual approach. But as it got closer to the boat, the clearer it became that something was wrapped around the drone with duct tape.

"What the..." a white-bearded man in a fisherman’s hat started. A loud explosion followed before he could even finish his sentence. The blast tore through the midsection, destroying half the boat in an instant. Other boats took notice. The workers on the dock stopped what they were doing and turned around. What happened? Boat explosion? Ibrahim's drone was no more.

Jamal's drone flew over a pier at which several fishing boats had docked. All attention was focused on the explosion a hundred yards away, where the charter boat had caught fire and was sinking fast. The second drone bypassed all the small ships and went right for an oil tanker docked in the distance. A panicked group of port authority workers carrying fire extinguishers ran to the fiery, sinking charter boat as another dashed for a hydrant. The drone swooped down to the base of the oil tanker, aimed right at the middle, made a steep dive and blew a hole into the boat hull upon impact.

The crew of twenty on board stood there for a moment, stunned. No one knew what had just happened. Just as they ran to the deck of the boat to investigate, another drone descended upon them—Mahmud's drone. It took a nosedive to the bow deck where the crew had gathered, and blew up with the press of a distant button. The explosion ripped through their bodies like a firing squad. The blast of C4 was enough to incinerate anything in its path.

The sleeper cell watched the destruction from afar. Ibrahim's heart raced. The first three targets had been an astounding successes. There were two more drones left. He suddenly turned to Sean, who appeared to be having trouble with his controls.

"What are you doing? Guide it into the stock yard where everyone is gathering," Ibrahim said, as the drone dipped down and flew up without direction and away from the target.

"I'm trying," Sean said, getting frustrated. "It's not responding."

Nasser struggled as well. His drone had drifted over the water, away from the boats and the frenzied activity of the port.

"What is wrong with you two?" Ibrahim shouted. "Get it together!"

"I'm trying!" Nasser said.

"What are you boys doing out here?" a voice shouted to them from behind.

The group froze. Then Ibrahim spun around. The others turned. A blue-uniformed port authority guard wearing a police hat and lime-green reflective vest stood not ten feet away from them with his palm over the handle of his holstered pistol. His car was parked at a distance up the road as if he had been watching them and decided to confront them on foot. However, he was alone. The handheld radio on his belt blared with cross-chatter. For a brief moment, all they could do was stare at him, speechless.

"You're not allowed to be here. What are you holding?" the officer asked.

Ibrahim dug into the waist of his jeans and pulled out a 9mm Glock pistol and fired. Just as the officer tried to react, two bullets hit him in the chest, causing him to stumble backward in shock.

Sean and Nasser jumped back and dropped their controllers. Mahmud and Jamal stood frozen. The red-faced officer returned fire just as quickly as he was shot and put a bullet right through Ibrahim's skull. Ibrahim collapsed in a slump. Sean and Nasser dived to the other side of the truck. Jamal lunged to the ground, picked up the Glock, fired at the officer and missed. The officer fell on his back, hitting the rocky ground hard. Upon impact, he unloaded his pistol on Mahmud and Jamal—striking both through the face, chest, and neck.

"Officer down!" he shouted, clutching his chest. The officer pulled at his handheld radio, trying to get it unclipped from his belt. Mahmud and Jamal's lifeless bodies lay on the ground next to Ibrahim. Crouched beside the truck, Sean and Nasser watched in horror.

The officer managed to get his radio loose and held it with one shaky, bloodied hand. "Shots fired! Shots fired!"

Nasser looked to Sean. "We have to get out of there."

Sean didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed real. He turned to the port in the distance. Their drones were no longer in sight, though there was plenty of fire and smoke. Sirens wailed from afar, getting louder by the second. Nasser placed his hand on Sean's shoulder and shook him.

"Hey! We have to leave. Let's go!"

Sean nodded. A sick feeling came over him—a realization of who he was involved with and what they had done. They took one look at the bodies of their friends and, with knowing glances at each other, decided there was nothing they could do but run. Nasser ran to the driver's side of the truck and swung the door open as Sean followed.

"Hurry! Get in," Nasser said. The officer was no longer screaming for help. He was either unconscious or dead. Sean jumped and crawled onto the passenger seat. Nasser climbed behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. He cranked the truck to life and peeled out, leaving the drone controls, bodies, gun, and shells behind them in the dust.

Black Widow

The terror cells had struck a lethal blow to the nation's ports. Long Beach, California. Houston, Texas. South Louisiana. Wilmington, North Carolina. Port of New York and New Jersey. Port of Pennsylvania. Port Everglades, Florida. Port of Boston, Massachusetts. They were all hit on the same day with attacks synchronized to detonate at the same moment: Tuesday, July 7, 2016, ten A.M. Eastern Time, seven A.M. Pacific. Eight ports in all. Six bombings. One chemical weapons attack. And one strike with miniature drones.

The dirty bombs had destroyed an untold numbers of boats and cargo and killed an unknown number of people while spreading radioactive material for miles. When the losses were calculated, it was as if a dozen Pearl Harbor attacks had been inflicted on the country all at once. The United States was overwhelmed.

Immediately after the carnage, Americans were struck with the very real fear of being under attack by a foreign enemy. Internet and cell-phone services were quickly overloaded throughout the entire country, adding to the already unprecedented sense of fear and disorder consuming the country. News media scrambled to report, while local and state governments deployed emergency response teams to stave off more potential attacks. No one in any position of authority was certain how far the attacks would stretch or when they would end.

The federal government was dealing with a crisis beyond measure and quickly tried to enact emergency protocols among its myriad of agencies. The enemy who had unleashed the series of port attacks was nameless and faceless. No one initially took credit. The U.S. was dealing with a determined, malevolent force that had inexplicably remained anonymous.

The Islamic State had done the impossible. After years of establishing itself in the Middle East, taunting and threatening the U.S., they had struck their greatest enemy—just as promised. And they did it through a vast network of sleeper cells. The attacks on the port, however, was only one step toward their greater goal of destroying the Great Satan and establishing a global caliphate.

***

At FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., the atmosphere turned from nervous to chaotic in a split second. The minute the ISIS flag consumed the screens of their monitors, Special Agent Craig Davis knew they were under attack. He tried to tell his superiors that their informant was lying to them, that something wasn't quite right about someone disclosing information so willingly, but they didn't listen. Their prime concern was preventing a terror attack on the three major transit systems. And while the FBI’s intentions were good, the Islamic State had changed their tactics and had taken the bureau by surprise.

Half the operations room stood motionless as the news flashed across the screen: Thousands estimated dead. Other officials gripped their cell phones, calling their families.

"What the hell is going on out there, gentlemen? I need answers!" FBI Director Kurt McMillian said angrily.

Assistant Director Frank Holloway pulled away from his phone in a panic. "Mass explosion at Houston Port in Texas."

Deputy Assistant Director James Calderon interrupted. "Reports of toxic gas at a Long Beach port in California."

McMillian shook his head in disbelief. "What kind of gas and how?" He was lost and confused, trying desperately to stay on top of everything.

"New Orleans!" Supervisory Agent Vince Walker said. "Wires confirm that New Orleans has been hit with a dirty bomb."

Collective gasps filled the room. Craig tried to let it all sink in but still couldn’t quite believe it. It was beyond even what he had thought possible.

“We’re at war, sir. That’s what’s going on,” he said to the FBI director, receiving only a confused look in response.

“Well, thank you for clarifying that, Agent Davis,” Calderon said, clearly frustrated.

Craig walked out of the room just as the officials began shouting over each other in unison, like trade brokers on the stock exchange floor.   

The outside halls were much quieter. Craig took a deep breath and then started walking. The heels of his dress shoes clicked along the white-tiled floor as he walked, determined yet stealthy, toward the holding room three halls down. He could hear frenzied discussion from every office he passed.

FBI officials, clerks, and agents were pacing their offices and cubicles frantically speaking into their cell phones. Their computers, their windows to the outside world, all displayed the same ISIS flag. It wasn’t hard to conclude who was behind the attacks, even given the lack of any terrorist organization taking credit for them. The enemy had managed to hack into their system and cripple it. It was as maddening as it was terrifying.

Top FBI brass seemed to have little control of the situation. Craig believed that the answers lay with Malaka Surkov, their Chechen informant, who had provided warning of the mass transit attack. She couldn’t have been more wrong, and Craig was starting to feel more and more like a pawn in her twisted game of retribution.

He traveled to the end of the hall and kicked open the door to the holding room. Malaka looked up from her seat, squeezing and twisting a rag in her hands as if she was ready to burst. Startled by Craig’s entrance, her young nephew, Husein, jumped up. Malaka, however, remained calm. Craig went right to their table and stared at them with intense, furious eyes.

"All right. Who the hell are you?"

She had claimed to be the grieving mother of two Chechen men associated with a sleeper cell—one injured and one killed—in a thwarted attack. Craig didn’t doubt that she was their mother. He only doubted her affiliations.

Her information about the transit attack, she claimed, came from a note from her sons. It was also information that had been verified by captured sleeper cell members—men Craig had busted in a raid. He was certain she was part of the conspiracy, and he was going to make her talk.

Malaka's eyes shifted from the television screen—which displayed aerial images, not of D.C. or New York, but of ports engulfed in flames—to Craig's fierce glare. Her face remained emotionless and indifferent.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I only give the information that I hear." She pointed at the screen. "You blaming me for this?"

Craig slammed his palms down on the table and leaned into her face. "Cut the shit! We both know you're a part of this thing. You came here to throw us off."

Husein urged restraint with a hand in the air. His striped T-shirt was wrinkled from a night of sleeping on a nearby cot. "Please, Agent Davis. My aunt doesn't know anything."

"Stay out of this, Husein," Craig said, pointing his finger in the boy’s face. "I have a mind to lock both of you up until you tell me everything you know."

Malaka scoffed and waved Craig away. "Shoo, angry man. I have nothing more to say."

She began to rise from her chair, struggling, or at least appearing to struggle. Craig laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down.

"Is this some kind of game to you?" he shouted. He leaned in closer, right in her face, and spoke quietly. “People are dead, and if our government links this back to Chechnya, we’re gonna blow your entire country off the map."

Malaka shook her head. "Is none of my concern."

Craig backed away and paced around her like a cat. "We've been here before, and you know that I'm willing to do anything to get the info I want. So talk."

"Never," Malaka said.

Husein got up and backed away from the conversation. He didn't like where things were going. The last time Malaka had refused to talk, only a few hours ago, Craig had pulled a gun out and put it to Husein's head. "Leave me out of this," he said.