Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

by Joe Nobody

  “Yes, Teacher, I believe it is. If I understand this Senator Bose and his new law correctly, our agents would be at risk of discovery if it is enacted. We have invested so much, and the beast is now so weak. Their people are fighting amongst themselves, and their economy is on the edge of complete failure. I think the time is now – with your blessing.”

  The Ayatollah was watching an American news broadcast. A picture of the young man and older woman lying in the streets of one of their cities was being shown again. He found it interesting that of all of the images that could have been chosen by the broadcasters, this was the one they had selected as the icon of the story. It was an image of weakness and decay, rather than strength and recovery. He did not know who the two people were, but he would have selected something more positive and reassuring if the decision were up to him.

  “The council approves,” was his simple reply.

  General Melli’s mind visualized the faces of his 23 agents that now lived in America. There were originally supposed to have been thirty, but seven of the operatives had failed to embed themselves. One was captured by the Border Patrol while trying to enter the country. Two others had been killed in a traffic accident while being transported. Three more had embraced the wicked western lifestyle too whole-heartedly and were “eliminated” as security risks. The seventh died of natural causes.

  The general thought the plan was his greatest work. He knew Iran had no chance against the United States in open warfare. Even with their small arsenal of nuclear weapons, Iran would be crushed in a matter of days. The general also understood that an invasion of North America was impossible. As Admiral Yamamoto of Japan had said before WWII, “There is a rifle behind every blade of grass.” The general had done his best to educate the Supreme Council in that toppling of the great Satan must come from internal rot, not external force. It was actually the American media that had given him the initial concept for the plan. With illegals crossing the porous southern Mexican border at will, there were several news reports over concerns that Al-Qaeda could send terrorists into the US. The general had supposed that was a great idea and began forming the plan.

  Initially, he thought that finding 30 Spanish-speaking operatives would be difficult, but this concern was unwarranted. The MISIRA operation in Morocco provided over 50 dossiers for individuals that met the requirements. The second concern was the protection of Iran should the operation be discovered. General Melli had a healthy respect for the United States, and unlike most of his peers, he did not want to anger or unite the great power against his country. As he refined the plan, he arrived at what he thought was a most creative solution. The agents would believe they were working for Al-Qaeda, not Iran. The concept of Al-Qaeda sparked great passions in the hearts of many believers, much more so than any cause associated with Iran. Al-Qaeda was respected and shadowy and could provide all of the logistics necessary without raising any suspicions of state-sponsored terrorism. After all, the plan involved actions and deeds that were clearly overt acts of war.

  What the general was most proud of was the sheer simplicity of the plan. For years, a number of ideas had been suggested regarding destroying America. All of them had been rejected due to complexity, expense or a low probability of any success . . . but he understood two critical concepts about America that seemed to have escaped previous planners.

  The first involved the American media. The sheer breadth of coverage enabled almost instantaneous communication among Americans. If something happened in New York, everyone in Los Angeles knew about it almost instantly. The capacity to spread information was a great asset to the government - if the information were accurate. If the information were inaccurate, it could be a debilitating factor. This effect was compounded because initial reports were almost always inaccurate. If this could be manipulated, it could act as an effect multiplier.

  Additionally, the geography of America and its supporting infrastructure had two primary weak spots. The first was that a large percentage of oil refinement was concentrated in a very small area. This strategic fact would have been kept secret in virtually every other country in the world but the United States. Every year when hurricane season started, this weakness was covered widely and openly in the American media. The second vulnerability was the transportation system, which linked the enormous land mass together. This much-envied system provided more than just economic arteries for the country.

  A highly capable rail system, combined with an almost infinite capacity of land-based transport, provided insurmountable issues to any plan designed to cripple or seriously harm the country. The Americans could move people, supplies, and assets around very quickly and in great quantities.

  At first, the general thought any plan would require attacking all of the oil refineries along the Gulf Coast. That task was impossible due to the sheer number of facilities that would have to be disabled. He almost dismissed the entire operation a second time, when he researched the number of kilometers of surface roads. Again, the sheer scale of the targets made any realistic operation impossible. It was the study of the American reaction to 9/11, created by a junior officer, which made him realize that he did not have to disable all of these capabilities – the Americans could do that for him.

  The young officer’s work had pointed out the obvious to the oblivious – if aircraft are being used as a weapon against them, they ground all aircraft. One officer had commented that if trains had been used as the weapon, then the Americans would have closed all of the tracks. Even though the attacks had stopped, the cautious government had kept thousands of aircraft grounded for several days, causing great economic stress and compounding the results of the attack. The general could now see a weakness in the American armor.

  There was another event that occurred by the grace of Allah.

  During the first gulf war, Saddam sent many of his aircraft to Iran to keep them from being destroyed by the Americans. He also sent a few warehouses worth of his best chemical weapons. Iraq never asked for them back, so the Revolutionary Guard decided to reverse engineer some of the more potent weapons. A particular nerve gas of the VX variety had the greatest promise, and resources were focused on it. The result was an aerosol based nerve gas that was easy to handle, had a good shelf life, and could be concentrated or diluted to reasonable volumes.

  Within four hours of the council’s approval, 23 very carefully worded emails were sent from sources in Europe, Asia and Mexico. In the United States, those same 23 people received their emails, which to the casual viewer, looked like common spam advertisements. Embedded in each message was the order to execute their objectives at a specific date and time.

  Chicago, Illinois – August 10, 2015

  Terrorist Bug Spray

  Raheb was known as Roberto to his co-workers. He attributed his odd Spanish accent to being an exchange student when he was younger. Raheb’s job was simple enough; he sprayed for mosquitoes. A burgeoning industry, mosquito trucks trek along interstates and subdivisions alike, spraying a cloudy mist of insecticide in the air. The technique is often referred to as fogging, and occurs while most folks are settling in for a bit of shuteye. When Raheb’s email arrived, he paused for a few moments. America had been good to him, and he had come to think of the people as fair and generous. His doubt was short lived. He reminded himself that his family would be very well taken care of in Jordan after he accomplished his mission, even if he didn’t survive.

  Survival was not a big concern for Raheb. He had been trained by his Al-Qaeda leader for over a month on how to handle the “soup.” After he crossed the border with Mexican papers in the middle of a hot New Mexico night, it was simple enough to secure the bus ticket to Chicago. Arriving in the Windy City, he mingled with the illegal Hispanic community and worked assorted odd jobs doing everything from landscaping to low skill construction work. It wasn’t long before funds were transferred into his modest bank account, an “inheritance” from a wealthy Mexican uncle who had passed away.

&nbs
p; He purchased the used Nissan pickup truck easily enough for cash. The fogging sprayer, holding tanks and other equipment required for his mission were acquired through the internet and local supply stores. He assembled everything in the garage of his apartment, purchased a magnetic sign for his truck and became “West Side Pest Control” practically overnight. On three different occasions, he filled the truck with the normal insecticide and patrolled suburban neighborhoods in the early morning hours to verify everything worked correctly. He was never hired or paid, he was just testing the equipment, and passing police cars ignored him.

  Raheb took pictures of his equipment and emailed them to his “family” back home in Mexico. While anyone looking at the emails may have questioned why he took so many pictures of the steel storage tanks in the back of the truck, overall the correspondence implied he was a proud new business owner showing off.

  After accomplishing the first stage of his mission, he settled into a quiet, isolated routine of reading the Koran, praying, and making sure his truck and equipment were well maintained. He drove the truck once or twice a week to verify his route and become familiar with the territory. He took walks to the local grocery store, paid his rent right on time, and occasionally went to the bank. His only problem in life was a combination of boredom and the anticipation of when, or even if, the email would arrive.

  The UPS driver delivered a new shipment of insecticide two days after Raheb received his email. The three steel tanks contained the exact same labels, warnings, and fixtures as the ones he had previously tested. Raheb knew that was where the similarities ended and took extra precaution storing the tanks in his garage.

  The morning of D-Day, Raheb awoke early and prepared his truck. As per his training, he checked the local weather report and verified that it would be a typical sunny day with calm winds out of the southwest. The direction and strength of the wind were critical to his mission. Perfect, he thought, Allah smiles upon me. He dressed as instructed, and before leaving the apartment, disconnected the gas line that fueled his hot water heater. He could smell the gas leaking as he locked the door for the final time. He went down the steps to the garage and double-checked his equipment. He started the truck and proceeded on his route to the Dan Ryan Expressway.

  His arrival was timed perfectly as the local traffic report indicated that the seven lanes of inbound cars had clogged the massive roadway. The average speed was less than five miles per hour, and already two fender benders were causing gawkers to bottleneck the flow.

  Raheb worked his way onto the entrance ramp and slowly merged with traffic. Although he was heading north and the wind was from the southwest, it wasn’t strong enough to affect his work. He made his way cautiously to the inner most lane. He could see a long, flat stretch and made sure the shoulder was clear of any emergency vehicles or accidents. He reached in the seat beside him and pulled on the hazmat mask, equipped with a high-quality micro air filter and put it on. He wore a homemade suit that was mostly latex and duct tape. It was important that the “soup” not touch his skin or be inhaled.

  He flipped on his emergency blinkers and pulled onto the shoulder that separated the north and southbound lanes and accelerated to 20 miles per hour. He reached for the pump switch on the dash and turned it on. God is great, he thought.

  In the back of Raheb’s truck, a high compression pump engaged and began pulling the “soup” out of the two five-gallon steel tanks. The pump mixed the substance with the amount of air required, and the nozzles shot a cloud almost 70 feet into the air out both sides of the truck bed.

  The “soup” was VX1 nerve gas, one of the most deadly chemical weapons ever developed. A single drop on exposed skin would kill a person in less than two seconds, and when inhaled, it was even more deadly. VX1 was only slightly heavier than air, and its molecules were so tiny that they would pass right through the average filter. It was odorless, had no taste, and thus offered no warning.

  As Raheb’s truck passed hundreds and hundreds of slow-moving commuters, the cloud of death created by his fogger fell slowly onto the roadway. Death was practically instantaneous. A few of the dying pressed downward on their gas pedals, but bumped harmlessly into the car in front of them. The speed of the northbound traffic was already so slow that traffic helicopters didn’t notice anything at first.

  The southbound traffic was a completely different story. Going against the rush hour masses headed from downtown Chicago, the counter flow was moving at 30-40 mph. At least it was until Raheb’s poison was inhaled by an 18-wheel truck driver who died instantly and rolled his rig, causing a spectacular crash blocking several lanes. The southbound side backed up instantly, and now Raheb’s cloud had double the number of targets. The Chicago EL, or elevated train, ran on tracks laid between the north and south lanes of the expressway. Every half mile there was a platform built in the middle of the super-highway. Hundreds of morning commuters were waiting for trains in these open-air stations. They died where they had stood, toppling over on top of one another.

  Raheb’s tanks held enough gas to spray continuously for 30 minutes. As he slowly moved along the shoulder, he kept his speed at a constant 20 mph. At one point, an annoyed cab driver saw Raheb approaching in his rearview mirror. The cabbie decided that Raheb was just “one of those jerks” who could not wait their turn like everyone else. He swerved his cab over to block the shoulder. Raheb had been ready for this and slowed down to follow the cabbie for a few seconds. As his cloud killed the drivers behind him, it created an opening when their vehicles stopped. He changed lanes, passed the cab, and proceeded on his tour of destruction. After going almost five miles, Raheb exited the Dan Ryan and proceed going south on the Skyway.

  The Skyway was actually an elevated roadway passing above the rooftops of several neighborhoods. He drove through an automated toll lane, but did not have the mandatory electronic transmitter in his truck causing a red light to flash over the lane. A Chicago Transit Authority traffic cop saw the violation and pulled out to give the violator a ticket. The policeman’s hand never made it to the switch to turn on his lights as he inhaled the gas and died instantly. As the Skyway elevated to its 128-foot height, the victims of the gas changed. The surface streets and sidewalks below the fly-over were littered with the bodies of those who had fallen.

  Raheb heard the pump change its tone indicating he was running out of the poisonous gas. He drove for another few minutes and exited the Skyway in Indiana. He moved along the surface streets of suburban Gary until he found a run-down carwash well away from any main street. He pulled the truck into the bay and looked around. That early in the morning, not many people were washing their cars. Seeing he was alone, he dropped coins in the machine to quickly spray down the truck and himself. He took a box cutter knife and removed his latex suit, discarded it in the trashcan, and removed the magnetic signs from the truck.

  He drove another few blocks to a city park that would be incredibly busy later in the day. He found a remote spot and parked the truck. He used a tarp to cover the spray pump and exchanged his license plates for ones that he stole weeks ago. He slowly walked for almost a half an hour and entered a small diner that served breakfast. He ordered coffee and watched the television over the counter to see the results of his work. A few hours later, he hailed a cab, rented a car, and secured lodging at a Detroit inn. His plans included a short layover, entry into Canada and eventually a flight to Germany.

  The time of 8:30 a.m., Chicago time, had been carefully selected by the general’s staff. It was 9:30 in Boston and 5:30 in Los Angeles. The fogger in Boston was actually a city maintenance truck that had its nozzle and pumps hidden amongst road cones and other equipment stored in the back. The yellow warning lights on top of the truck ensured it passed the morning traffic flow unnoticed until it was too late. In Los Angeles, the I-5 was already packed with commuters trying to beat rush hour traffic. It was precisely 6:00 a.m. when a converted ambulance, flashing red lights, began its trip.

  Within 30 minu
tes, the United States of America suffered over 30,000 deaths at the hands of three terrorists. The carnage had only just begun.

  A line of stalled traffic would normally attract the attention of the Chicago Transit Authority immediately. A line in both directions would double the chances of someone seeing the odd pattern on the city’s wide network of traffic-cams. What caught their attention this time was the lack of traffic beyond the point where Raheb had exited to the Skyway. The Dan Ryan was practically empty after that. A call went out to the authority’s own police department and within minutes Officer Patrick Merrill was bypassing the hundreds of cars trying to enter the expressway via ramp #114. He drove his cruiser along the shoulder of the ramp and eventually reached the expressway. He started driving at a high rate of speed along the shoulder to get around the honking, angry masses of people who could not move an inch. He looked in his rearview mirror to see another set of red lights a short distance behind him and recognized the car of an Illinois State Trooper who was quickly catching up with him. He welcomed the backup, while wondering which of the troopers was bringing up the rear.

  Officer Merrill had driven just over a half mile when he finally entered the kill zone caused by the attack. He never noticed that all of the honking had stopped. A few hundred feet ahead, a car was blocking the shoulder, appearing to have run off of the road and struck a guardrail. He stopped just short of the accident and thought it strange that there was little damage to the vehicle - that no one was standing around like he had seen a hundred times before when driving up to an accident. It was almost as if the driver had just parked there. As he rushed to the side of the car, he could see the driver was slumped over the steering wheel. He tapped on the window of the car and said loudly, “Transit Police.” The driver did not move. He rapped a little louder and still received no response. He looked down and noticed the door was locked. The state trooper had parked his cruiser and was walking up behind Officer Merrill, who turned and looked back at the trooper and moved his arms in the “I have no idea” motion and then laid his hand on the roof of the car. There was an invisible film of VX on the surface, and it killed him. He just fell over, dead before he even hit the ground.