Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (87 page)

“Homeland’s on its way,” an agent announced from his workstation.

Craig sighed, gearing up for another confrontation with his favorite agency.

“Who from Homeland?” McMillian asked.

“Not the secretary,” the agent answered. “Some representatives and their deputy assistant director.”

Craig knew exactly who they were talking about. The blond-haired epitome of smugness, Deputy Jenkins. Their paths had crossed many times over the past couple of days—and years, for that matter.

Both were around the same age and had similar ambitions, and Jenkins had found the best ways to interfere with Craig’s investigations however he could. But Craig was willing to put the bad blood between them aside if it meant stopping the terrorists. His good intentions, however, dissipated within moments of Jenkins’s arriving with his entourage.

“Where are you holding Ghazi Al-Shehhi?” he asked as the doors flew open, addressing everyone and no one.

McMillian, offended by their abrupt entrance, lashed out. “This is a highly secure operations room. You can’t just come barging in here, no matter who you represent.” 

Disregarding the FBI director, Jenkins walked to the meeting table with six other men in suits, all dangling I.D. badges. Jenkins hadn’t yet seen Craig, as there were so many other people in the room. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “I want to see Mr. Al-Shehhi.”

“Why?” Craig asked loudly. Anyone not wearing a headset and deep in their own conversation looked up.

Jenkins turned and smiled, brushing away a curl of blond hair that hung over his forehead. “Agent Davis…” He scanned Craig’s face and dirty attire. “You’re looking…not so well.”

Craig said nothing.

“How can we help you, Deputy Jenkins?” Walker asked, and stood next to Craig.

Calderon cut in from nearby. “We’re very busy here and under a tremendous amount of pressure. Is there something
you
can help us with or are you here just to make trouble?”

“I am here on official business, rest assured,” Jenkins continued. “Now I revert back to my earlier question. Can someone tell me where you’re holding Mr. Al-Shehhi?”

“Mr. Al-Shehhi is currently being held in our intensive care unit,” McMillian answered.

Craig finally spoke up. “And he’s not going anywhere until he’s answered
our
questions.” 

Jenkins took a few slow steps, then stopped in front of Craig. “He is not yours to interrogate. He belongs to us.”

“The hell he does,” Craig said, adamantly.

Walker was more respectful in his tone. “Exactly what are you talking about, Deputy Jenkins?”

“I mean that Mr. Al-Shehhi has been working with us. Providing us information. He’s what you might call a double agent.”

They could not have been more startled if ISIS had set off a bomb in the center of the room. The FBI men look astonished. McMillian seemed to gasp.

“That’s impossible,” Craig said.

“Why?” Jenkins asked, oblivious.

“Because he tried to kill me and my entire family. Are you suggesting that somehow Homeland
knew
about that?”

“Of course not,” Jenkins said. “We know nothing about that. Mr. Al-Shehhi is no boy scout. We understand that. But he possesses valuable information.”

“About what?” McMillian asked with skepticism.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss all of that right now. I need to speak with him, and that’s that.”

Craig sprinted across the room and lunged at Jenkins as other FBI and Homeland agents rushed to hold him back.

“You son of a bitch!” Craig yelled as five others pushed against him. Startled, Jenkins stood safely and calmly between two of the largest men in his entourage. Craig tried to push forward but couldn’t break away.

“That’s enough, Agent Davis!” Calderon shouted.

Walker turned to Jenkins and took the job of censuring him. “Why are you trying to rile him up? Do you have any idea what he’s been through?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jenkins said. “He always seems to lose his temper whenever I’m around, no matter the circumstance.”

The men released Craig as he slowly regained his composure. Jenkins was about to make another demand for Ghazi when suddenly, Secretary Kessler burst into the room with his own State Department entourage, expressing similar interest and frustration about Ghazi.

“I’ve been all over looking for this detainee, and we can’t find him anywhere. Now enough bullshit! Where is he?” He stopped when he noticed the Homeland group. “What are they doing here?”

“Looking for the same thing as you,” Jenkins answered.

“CIA chopper just landed on the roof!” an agent announced while pressing his headset against his ear.

“Enough!” McMillian shouted. The room went nearly silent. “This country is under attack, and unless you’re here to help, I’m going to ask you to go back to your respective agencies at once.”

Both Jenkins and Kessler looked stunned by the FBI director’s outburst.  “I would choose your words more carefully,” Jenkins said.

Craig still looked angry. Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, man. We need to be fighting
them
, not each other.”

“No one is talking to the detainee right now, period. Got that?” McMillian said defiantly.

Jenkins and Kessler looked ready for a showdown, displaying no hints of backing down.

McMillian continued, “And I want you to explain exactly how a terrorist who tried to kill one of
my
agents and his family is some kind of informant for the government. And I want to know why we weren’t told of this.”

Calderon stepped forward with his own questions, pointing at the television. “Could this have been prevented? Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jenkins said. “All we knew was that he was closely working within a sleeper cell as our informant. Haven’t heard from him in four weeks. He must not have known.”

A voice then loudly called out from one of the workstations. “Presidential address coming live in thirty seconds!”

Everyone in the room gathered around the meeting table and stared at the television on the wall. The news anchor on screen said that they were soon going to go live to the president, who was going to address the nation from an undisclosed location. In the room, several side arguments briefly followed among officials over whether the president should be addressing the public out in the open or in a secret place.

“He needs to be out there for everyone to see. Bring the nation’s morale up. They see him cowering in a bunker all hope is lost,” one man said. 

“What do you want him to do? He’s only following protocol,” another contested.

“Quiet!” Calderon said as he turned up the volume with a remote.

Breaking News
flashed across the screen, followed by an image of the presidential seal. The screen dissolved to the president standing at a podium in front of an American flag with two marines in dress uniforms standing on both sides. It was clear that he was inside a place with artificial lighting, possibly underground, as they were.

President Dempsey was a tall, lanky man with dark-gray hair slicked back and parted to the side. He had a stare that pierced the television. His smoky, sable eyes were nearly hypnotic, and his brows arched in such a way that his expressions always looked pained when discussing serious topics. Nearing the end of his first term, Dempsey had been looking confident of riding the wave to reelection, but now his presidency and the fate of the nation were in jeopardy.

His hands gripped the podium, then loosened as he looked up at the camera. The operations room went nearly silent as everyone waited for what he would say.

“My fellow Americans…”
he began.
“Throughout history, this nation has faced dark times, but resolute and willing, never failed to emerge resilient and better. We have faced a darkness over the last forty-eight hours similar to challenges in the past. But mark my words, we will come through this a stronger nation. Until then, there is much work to be done.

“Our nation mourns the five thousand Americans reported dead as a result of simultaneous attacks on our major ports and several power plants in the Gulf States. Our aggressor has been identified as the radical terrorist organization who call themselves the Islamic State. There comes a time, God willing, where the government must act and when citizens must be prepared to preserve their society for generations to come.”

“He’s about to declare war,” Thomas muttered to Keagan.

“Our enemy,” said the President, “will not quit. But I say to the murderers of the Islamic State, our country has faced stronger foes than you. We’ve faced better, and we will do everything in our power to bring you to justice. Justice for this nation, and justice for the thousands lost at your demonic hands. We will survive and defeat you.

“Now to the all Americans, I say this. We are in dangerous times, but our government is dedicated to bringing stability and assistance to areas still reeling from these attacks. We’re also coordinating with Gulf States to prepare for emergency relief for the hurricane. Every agency is on high alert. We are working diligently to bring the horrors of ISIS to an end, above all else.”

Suddenly, the television transmission began to go in and out. For a moment, they lost the president. His image appeared back on the screen after a noticeable gap.

“The secret service has advised that I and many members of my cabinet, the Joint Chiefs, and Congress, run the government from an undisclosed location. And I want to make something clear: We are not in hiding. These are merely cautionary measures, and I advise most Americans to find support within their local communities or in the hundreds of FEMA sites until we restore order in areas that been disrupted. Primarily, we are determined to eliminate aggressors of the Islamic State, who still pose a major threat to our country. This is not a time for fear, but for strength. We have only—”

The transmission went out again, frustrating everyone in the room.

“Come on!” Kessler shouted. After flickering several times, the image re-appeared, but it had changed. No longer was it the president of the United States, but a man dressed in desert military fatigues and wearing a black mask over his face, standing in front of a large draped ISIS flag.

At first, Craig thought something was wrong with the TV—interference from another channel. But the glaring hate-filled eyes showing between the slits in the mask told him all he needed to know.             

“Who the hell is that?” Kessler blurted out. Everyone gasped. Some seemed to whimper in fear.

“Quiet!” McMillian said.

All eyes were locked on the screen. No one made a sound or movement. The image on the screen was so surreal, Craig wasn’t sure if this was really happening. And for a moment, he thought he was looking at Ma’mun. The masked man soon began to speak in English as Arabic subtitles ran at the bottom of the screen.

“This is a message to the United States of America. I come to you today to deliver our caliphate. What you have seen so far has only been the beginning. For we have much greater things in store for you if you do not meet our demands. As your cities burn and your people die, you may ask how your country got here. What have you done to deserve the retribution of the Islamic State? I have a simple answer to most of that, and the answers lie in yourselves.”

The masked man spoke with great conviction and intensity.

“First you declare a war on Muslims, invade our countries, and kill our people! Then… you lose interest and pull out of the lands you ravaged to go back to business. You change the television channel. You don’t even think of the Middle East anymore. You set up puppet governments in hope that it will be enough, and you declare your illegal wars a success.

“You soon meddle into Syria, then wage an assault on us from the air—too cowardly to fight us on the battlefield. We kidnap your American aid workers and journalists. We release videos beheading them. In response, you ignore them. We take over city after city in Iraq, but yet, you still ignore us. We spread into Egypt, Libya, Greece, Italy, France, Germany, and England. You ignore us. Now the time has come when you will ignore us no longer. Now we have your attention.”

The man stopped, raised his fist, and then pulled his mask off. The officials in the operations room watched in eerie quiet. 

The matted black hair, released from the mask, fell in dense spirals that coiled around his ears and neck. His thin, sunken face displayed a thick beard, while his eyes retained their wild glare. 

“This is the face of your enemy. Most of my own men haven’t seen it. Why do I show myself to you now? So you can know that I am real. So you know that the thousands of sleeper cells living within your country are real. My name is Abu Omar Allawi, and I’m here to deliver your awakening.”

Craig whispered to Walker, “So much for our inside informant”

Omar dug into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

“If you desire to live for much longer, this is what you must do…”
He began reading from the list; impossible demands that could only be made by an organization with nothing to lose: Mass conversions of all Americans to Islam. The destruction of all churches, museums, and other western monuments. He then read a list of names, those to be brought to his sharia court for sentencing. The names included several government officials, entertainers, politicians, and suspected spies against ISIS. Craig’s name was on the list near the end. It sent shivers down his spine.

Walker turned to him, unsure if he had just heard the name right. Craig nodded, confirming it. At the closing, Omar leaned down out of the frame and reemerged in front of the camera holding two severed heads by the hair, one in each of his gloved hands.

“Oh God!” Kessler shouted.

The room gasped in horror. 

At first, Omar looked at the heads indifferently, but then dangled them in front of the camera proudly.

“In my left hand I hold the head of a young man named Nasser. He was once a part of our organization. Not anymore. In my right hand I hold the head of a young American convert named Sean. They were both as dedicated to our cause as are hundreds of thousands throughout the world. Somewhere they lost their way. They trusted in you and your system by going to the authorities, hoping to find redemption.”