Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  Marv Tilden and two other investigators were also belted to their seats as the chopper thundered north to the Coyote range where two locals had found Dan Fulton.

  Fulton’s condition was critical and he was not expected to live. He’d been airlifted to a trauma center in Albany where he was now undergoing surgery. If he survived, they’d need to talk to him. But first they had to get to the scene, which, by helicopter, was twenty minutes away.

  The metropolis unfurled below, giving way to New Jersey, then the forests, hills and mountains of New York. Varner missed much of it because he was working on his phone, reviewing the recent progress they’d made on the case.

  When the FBI had been alerted to Fulton’s discovery, Varner and Tilden had been in the process of interviewing Jerricko Blaine’s uncle Walid Sattar and his son, Omar Sattar. Alarmed by the news reports, the Sattars had come forward with information. They’d revealed that Jerricko had stayed with them in the weeks prior to the bank robbery/abduction in Queens.

  “We had not seen him or his mother for years since his brother’s death, so we let him stay. It was out of respect,” Walid had said. “He’s family. But Jerricko upset everyone, always talking jihad, ranting about the evils of America and his duty to fight against it. He tried to recruit my son to his way of thinking.”

  Omar had given Varner and Tilden as much information about the “big operation” as he could, and about Jerricko’s talk of action.

  “He said they could use me as a chemist in an event that would make us famous forever. He didn’t tell me what it was. He was very cryptic,” Omar had said. “But I do know that he went to the public library to use the computers there, probably to talk to his friends.”

  This all fit with the information they’d received from FBI agents in LA, Varner thought as he’d continued making notes.

  “You see,” Walid had said, “we’re proud American citizens. We have nothing to do with Jerricko’s craziness.”

  Varner knew that the Sattars had handed them a key piece of information, but it was not the only break. More information had come in around the same time.

  As the chopper pushed north, Varner reviewed video footage collected from residential security cameras in the Fultons’ Roseoak Park neighborhood. It showed four male figures entering the Fulton home. There was footage of Lori and Billy being forced into a van, and later of Dan driving off with an SUV following him. It confirmed what they’d suspected from the start: Jerricko Blaine did not act alone.

  They’d also learned that the bomb vest the suspects had put on Dan Fulton was nothing but a prop. Combined with the fingerprint evidence and other mistakes they had made, the suspects were untrained, inexperienced amateurs, possibly homegrown, self-radicalized extremists, and questions raced through Varner’s mind.

  What was the “big operation” they were planning? Was it this—the robbery and abduction—or something bigger? Did they take the cash to get rich? Or was there another use for it? Were they acting on their own or being guided?

  The FBI had moved to expedite warrants to search the Sattar home in Yonkers and the public library branch Jerricko Blaine had used. And again, Varner submitted Jerricko Blaine’s name into the Guardian database, the networks for Homeland, Justice, the State Department and several others.

  He double-checked to ensure he’d also made submissions for Blaine’s mother, Nazihah Bilaal Samadyh, and brother, Malcolm Jordan Samadyh.

  Pieces were coming together.

  Now we’ve got to connect the dots.

  * * *

  The helicopter skimmed treetops as it descended, agitating branches and whipping up dirt as it put down.

  Bending under the whomping rotor wash, Varner’s team hurried to meet investigators from the state and county. The State Police Crime Scene Emergency Response techs were working with the FBI’s Evidence Response Team. “Agent Varner. I’m Fred Dylan, New York State Police.” Dylan handed the newcomers shoe covers and latex gloves. “This way. Follow the red ribbon closely to protect the scene, please.”

  Along the route to the cabin, Dylan updated them on Dan Fulton’s condition. Then they arrived at the SUV, which was consistent with the vehicle in the footage. Crime scene technicians were photographing it, swabbing and analyzing the interior, bagging shell casings and marking their locations.

  Varner was confident evidence would surface that would bring them even closer to the suspects. He was optimistic that the fake bomb vest would yield leads. Crime scene experts were also at work down the hillside where Dan Fulton had been found and at the second vehicle, the van, which was parked near the cabin.

  “It’s a rental,” Dylan said. “A man named Robert Smith paid cash to have it for a month. We suspect that’s an alias.”

  The cabin’s interior was being processed, but what Varner and Tilden saw inside pushed their concerns to a higher level. In the corner were mattresses, chains and a tripod.

  “We believe the family was held here,” Dylan said.

  “Looks like someone left in a hurry,” Tilden said.

  Varner noticed the large knife resting against the wall near the tripod and lowered himself to study it without touching it.

  “Is that ceremonial, like the one they used in Northern Iraq to behead that aid worker?” Tilden asked.

  As Varner nodded slowly, they heard the yip of a dog with one of the K-9 units and two-way radios crackled.

  “...we might have a trail...”

  What was now clear was that the suspects, and possibly Lori and Billy Fulton, were out there somewhere in the Coyote Mountains.

  Now it’s a manhunt-hostage-rescue, tied to plans for an attack.

  Varner studied the vast mountain forests.

  And we’re running out of time.

  61

  Coyote Mountains, New York

  “That’s as far as you go. All press over there.”

  The state trooper standing on the road at the intersection directed Stan and Kate to the parking field. It was beside an abandoned church, which investigators had designated as the media center.

  The lot was filling with news vans and TV satellite trucks, more than at yesterday’s scene when they’d found the car. Today’s discovery of Dan Fulton had pushed the story to a national lead and Kate knew that meant she had little time to tie up the loose ends on her exclusive and get it out. Lori’s connection to Jerricko Blaine and his brother, Malcolm Samadyh, was a huge scoop. But the most chilling aspect that she’d uncovered was the possibility that Jerricko, driven by his brother’s death and his mother’s call for jihad, was tied to an extremist group plotting an attack.

  Kate had written most of the story on the drive along the Thruway but she hadn’t sent it to the desk yet, nor had she alerted them. She had to be doubly sure of her facts. She needed more confirmation and she needed it fast.

  “I don’t like this setup.” Strobic nodded to the mountains as they left his truck and walked to the media center. During the latter part of the drive, while Kate wrote, he’d used an earpiece to listen to one of his emergency radio scanners, which allowed him to monitor parts of the investigation and search as they were unfolding. “We’re three miles from the scene up there.”

  “That’s not going to work for me,” Kate said. “I’ve got to get close to the action. We’ve got to figure something out, Stan.”

  Kate’s phone rang. It was Reeka.

  “The Daily News says Dan Fulton’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “The Post has him on life support. Which is it? Can you confirm?”

  “We’re working on it, we just arrived.”

  “We’ve got to keep leading on this, Kate. We need another exclusive angle or our subscribers will turn to AP and Bloomberg.”

  “I’m aware of that, Reeka, and I’m working on it.�
��

  “What’re you working on? I want to put it on the sked to interest subscribers.”

  If I tell her what I have, she’ll go crazy and oversell it. I can’t let the story go yet without solid confirmation, I just can’t.

  Phone pressed to her ear, Kate searched in vain for Nick Varner and Marv Tilden.

  “Did you hear me, Kate? What’re you working on?”

  “Just some background.”

  “What sort of background? Do you have a lead on something?”

  Kate had to stall.

  “Sorry, Reeka, you’re breaking up. Service is weak up here.”

  “I can hear you fine.”

  “What? What? Sorry, Reeka. Hello?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Hello? I can’t hear you. Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  As soon as Kate hung up she put in a call to Varner but it went to his voice mail. She left an urgent message before entering the center.

  Inside the reception area of the old church, amid the sound of radio cross talk, a few rangers, deputies and state troopers were hunched over wooden tables studying maps. Others were at a table with a coffee urn and boxes of donuts. Newspeople were coming and going. Technicians were on the phone to their stations, while some helped themselves to the refreshments.

  Varner and Tilden were not there.

  To one side, several reporters had encircled a man wearing a nylon FBI jacket. He was explaining information while passing out sheets of paper. Kate held up her hand for one. It was a press release confirming that Dan Fulton was alive but in critical condition in an Albany hospital. It added that a search was under way for Lori and Billy Fulton and the suspects wanted in connection to the robbery, kidnapping and assault arising out of Queens.

  “It’s just like I told CBS,” the FBI agent said, “the airspace over the crime scene and search areas is restricted.”

  “But we need to get our people up and over it,” a woman wearing a FOX ball cap said.

  “No TV or still news cameras can fly over the area because it’s dangerous to aerial search operations.”

  This angered the networks who were arguing with the agent about establishing elevation levels for the press, or at least pool access. In addition to protecting the crime scene, law enforcement and search officials were contending with other challenges.

  The Coyotes bled into the Blackhead Mountains, which were part of the Catskills. In all, they had a potential area of nearly one million acres to search. They were bringing in more planes, helicopters, dogs and people on horseback. In much of the rugged region, cell phone service was spotty, satellite phones were unreliable and even radios had their limitations.

  “We’ve essentially got a needle-in-a-haystack search for armed, dangerous suspects, a missing mother and her son,” the agent said. “We’re alerting the residents who live here. The press can travel the perimeter roads, but be advised we’re setting up checkpoints as fast as we can and wherever we can.”

  Strobic was shaking his head.

  “This sucks,” Kate said. “We can’t just sit here. We need to get closer. Want me to talk to somebody?”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll meet you back here, Kate.”

  Like Strobic, Kate was experienced in shaping order out of chaotic situations. She found a chair in a quiet corner and worked on her story while her deadline and her dilemma with the story hammered in the back of her mind.

  She read over her piece; it had everything. It was dynamite and ready to go but she couldn’t send it, not yet. Yes, she was certain of her facts but at the same time her information was so significant it scared her as a parade of journalistic screwups blazed by her.

  In the Boston Marathon bombing, a New York newspaper identified the wrong suspects. In the bombing of the Atlanta Olympics, news organizations identified an innocent man as the bomber. In the Oklahoma City bombing, a Chicago news organization identified a Middle Eastern man as the suspect and was completely wrong; and there were many other massive mistakes. In each one, they ruined lives, damaged criminal investigations, led to firings and lawsuits.

  Kate needed to be absolutely one hundred percent certain of her work.

  So much was at stake.

  She stared out the nearest window to the mountains. A helicopter thudded in the distance and her thoughts went with it to the Fultons.

  Is this where they die?

  Her phone rang.

  It was Varner.

  Relieved, Kate answered while rushing out of the center, so no one would overhear her.

  “What is it, Kate? You’ve got about one minute.”

  She told Varner everything she had. Everything.

  “I need to confirm this—all the connections, the revenge motive, the links to jihadist groups and the threat?”

  A long static-filled silence passed between them.

  “Who’s your source?”

  “Come on, I’m not giving that up, just like I wouldn’t give up your name.”

  Another long silence.

  “Nick, I’m going to hit Send on my story, and in about fifteen minutes it’ll go live across the country and online. I’ve held back long enough, longer than any right-thinking reporter ever would. Is any part of my story wrong?”

  Varner let another long silence pass.

  “Nick? Come on!”

  “Everything you have is correct. Now I’m going to be up-front with you, no BS because we don’t have the time. You’re one of the best reporters I’ve known. I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve nailed everything and you’ve been exceptional at holding back and doing the right thing. That’s why I’m putting all my cards on the table to ask you to continue doing the right thing.”

  “What’re talking about?”

  “Kate, if you make public what you have about a possible attack you’ll tip off the suspects about our progress and we could lose them and the Fultons. We’re close, Kate, and if you let them know how close, then you’ll be putting everything at risk.”

  “That’s what you tell me every time.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Do you know the target for the larger attack?”

  “I’m not revealing that. Kate, listen to me—”

  “No, you listen to me. Homeland puts out vague threat warnings all the time ‘based on chatter’ and they scare us all half to death. Why is it so different when we report about it? I’m not naming any locations. I’m just sharing the information we have.”

  “The difference is these suspects don’t realize how close we are to catching them, and you’re about to tell them.”

  “Give me a break, Varner. Look around! The sky is full of helicopters, the forest is full of cops and dogs searching—it’s not exactly a quiet operation. They’ve shot Dan Fulton, and they know that we found the note and the cars. Be realistic here. I think they get that you’re close.”

  “Kate, they know we’re pursuing them for the Dan Fulton attack, the abductions and robbery. They don’t know that we know what they’re planning next and that others are helping, unless you tell them. Do you want to be responsible for aiding them?”

  “No.”

  “All I’m asking is to consider holding back on that part of the story. I’ll give you confirmation on everything else. I owe you that. You’ll have way more than anyone in the press. It’s yours, you dug it up, you earned it. Okay?”

  Kate was silent.

  “Kate, all I’m asking is that you think this through and don’t tip them off.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Kate hung up and reread her story with her finger hovering over the send button, biting her lip and considering Varner’s plea. She already had a scoop with all of Lori’s ties to Jerricko and his family. The fear of a planned attack was
a huge aspect. But the location of the attack and exactly how or when it would occur were still unknown.

  Kate went back into her story and removed aspects about Jerricko’s plans “for a big operation,” replacing it with “law enforcement sources would not rule out a terrorist link to the case”—something they’d already stated publicly.

  Everything else in the story was solid.

  Kate sent her story to Reeka, then, as promised, alerted Ben Keller at the LA Times just as Strobic approached.

  “Come on, we’ve got to go,” he said, trotting to where his pickup truck was parked.

  “Where we headed, Stan?”

  “I spent most of my teen summers up here. I know the back roads and I’m pretty sure I can get us closer to the action.”

  “Good. We can’t let these guys corral us. But what if there’s a development here? I don’t want to miss it.”

  “I can take care of that.”

  He opened the rear of his Silverado, the cap and tailgate.

  “Good Lord, Stan. It looks like a homeless person’s shopping cart exploded in here!”

  Strobic ignored her as he rummaged through blankets, pillows, boxes of chips, crackers, canned beans, jackets, boots, tools, digging toward one of his silver metal lockers. He pulled out scanners and antennas and started adjusting them.

  “We’ll be plugged in. If something happens, I’ll hear it. One of my old buddies is part of a volunteer search group—that’s who I went to talk to just now. He told me the best sectors to start with. Buckle up, Kate. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

  62

  McLean, Virginia

  The staccato clicking of Shane Hudson’s keyboard was unrelenting as new data on the suspects in the Queens case streamed into the National Counterterrorism Center.

  He glanced at the framed photo of his wife holding their two-year-old daughter in her arms at the beach. Emerging on the monitors before him was one of the most serious threats to the nation.

  Warrants executed by the FBI and local police at the Yonkers Public Library, the Yonkers home of Walid and Omar Sattar and several other key points were yielding crucial information with each passing minute.