by Richard Bard
“You remember.”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to learn that the American may have been quick enough on his feet to evade capture, but not so quick that he could outrun the tracker I placed in his backpack.”
Farhad couldn’t believe his ears. “Hadi! You old devil. Next time lead with such good news. Where is he?”
“The signal vanished shortly after he departed Bogota, and didn’t return until shortly after I took off on the first leg of my flight back to Los Angeles. They landed on the river in one of the most remote regions of the Brazilian rainforest. Wi-Fi on the flight was not secure so I couldn’t call you then, but that didn’t stop me from posting the tracking link on several darknet sites.”
“Which sites?”
“The ones frequented by the underworld bounty hunters who are competing for his head. By now I’m sure scores of them are closing in on the American’s location. If he’s not dead already.”
Farhad grinned. Bronson was no longer an issue. If he hadn’t already been separated from his head, he was a dead man walking. One group or another would catch him, and the man who’d murdered Farhad’s father would finally meet justice. The boy would be unlikely to survive the maelstrom, and that was just as well. The power the child wielded could ruin everything. As usual, Hadi knew best, and Farhad wondered how they could have ever succeeded without his mentor’s guidance. “When does your flight arrive?”
“Just landed. I’m walking to the Uber stand now. I will be with you before this afternoon’s attacks, and tomorrow we shall redefine the meaning of the rocket’s red glare.”
“A Fourth of July celebration that will be remembered forever. Good. I’m glad you are here. No more distractions.”
“Allah willing.” Hadi hung up.
Farhad put the phone down and looked at the others. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop on his end of the call. “Bronson and the boy are in Brazil, fleeing for their lives from the bounty hunters Hadi has put on their tail.”
Jamal asked, “Hadi did not kill them himself?”
“He thought it best to allow someone else to do so.”
Ghazi smiled. “A soldier with a suicide vest can strike only once, while a warrior with a brain may strike over and over.” Others in the group nodded. They all knew Hadi’s lessons by rote.
“Exactly. They will both be dead soon enough.” Farhad pointed at Tarik and Ebrahem. “All thanks to the clever tracker you two developed, which Hadi managed to secrete in the infidel’s backpack.”
The duo beamed. A couple of others offered fist bumps.
“Hadi will be here for today’s preliminary attacks.”
Jamal said, “When we awaken Americans to their new reality.”
“And what of Bronson’s family and friends at their safe house?” Ghazi asked.
“We will take care of them after sundown. As for the big man, Tony, he’ll show up sooner or later, and when he does we’ll take care of him, too.” Farhad turned to Ghazi. “Where do we stand on the fourth drone?” He was referring to one of the four recon drones in the trees surrounding the safe house.
“Out of commission,” Ghazi said. “I’ve tried everything to reboot it but there’s simply no signal.” He was seated at one of several consoles, and made an entry on his keyboard to bring up a recorded video of a squirrel sniffing the camera lens, its whiskers twitching as it explored the interloper. Ghazi had already shown the video several times, but everybody turned to watch it again anyway. When the squirrel climbed atop the drone, his rather large genitalia filled the screen, and even Farhad couldn’t hold back a chuckle. Then the video image went topsy-turvy, the drone crashed to ground, and the signal was lost.
Jamal said, “I still say the little bastard was trying to hump your drone!”
Farhad allowed the laughter to subside naturally. Hadi had taught them early on that a little humor served a purpose before battle. Finally he said, “Its absence creates a minor blind spot, but we’ll live with it. Other than that, is the box in position?”
Amir, their mechanical engineer, had built a variety of lightweight camouflaged containers designed to hold precharged attack drones. The containers could be deposited at any point along a mapped track, and further disguised by either being buried partway in the ground, or having local debris scattered on and around it. When activated remotely, the hydraulic top would swing open, allowing the drones to follow their preprogrammed tracks and deliver their ordinance. Farhad was referring to the particular “drone magazine”—as Amir liked to call it—that wasn’t much larger than a wedding-dress box, since it housed only the eight drones needed to destroy the lodge. Amir had built multiple sizes, the largest of which housed forty-eight drones on multiple tiers. A number of them would be used during tomorrow’s assault.
Ghazi said, “I dropped it off this morning, just over the ridge east of the lodge. It’s well hidden, charged up, and ready to go.”
“And programming is confirmed,” Jamal said. “All I need to do is push the button.”
“And for today’s launches?” Farhad gestured toward Amir manning the Dallas console, and Saabir and Pirooz at the New York and Chicago consoles. “All systems go?”
“Final checks complete,” Amir said. “All green.”
“Same here,” Saabir said.
Pirooz nodded. There was a gleam in his eyes. “Ready.”
“Very well. Let’s get the camera set up. We’ll broadcast as soon as Hadi arrives.”
Chapter 20
Los Padres National Forest
July 3, 2:00 PM
FARHAD STOOD IN FRONT of an eight-foot-wide projection screen that would soon be displaying videos of the devastating loss of innocent lives in the wake of American drone attacks in the Middle East. Ghazi’s brother, Aasif, was in charge of the imagery, and he’d gathered some of the most shocking scenes posted online for his montage. There were thousands of videos to pick from, and that in itself made Farhad’s blood boil.
Jamal stood behind the camera. “Are you ready?”
Amir, Saabir, and Pirooz craned their necks to watch from their consoles. Hadi stood to one side with his arms crossed. Everyone else had formed a semicircle behind the camera.
Farhad appraised them. “To say this is a momentous occasion would be an understatement, my friends. It’s so much more than that. We left so much behind—our families, our culture, and our boyhood dreams. All so we could train to be prepared for this day, this moment, right now.” He paused. “Am I ready, you ask? I’ve never been—no, we’ve never been—more ready than we are today. Today America changes forever. Turn on the camera.”
Hadi nodded approvingly.
Aasif tapped the tablet in his hand. “We’re streaming.”
Jamal made a final adjustment to the camera angle. “We’re live in three, two…” On the third beat he pointed at Farhad.
Farhad simply stared at the camera, knowing those watching would be moving closer to their screens when they saw a man wearing a dishdasha robe and a shemagh scarf covering all but his eyes. Racial profiling at its best, he thought. The video was being streamed live on social media, with terrorist-related metatags that would drive it in short order to all the major TV networks, not to mention US government agencies. The scenes of violence streaming behind Farhad would accelerate the shares and hit counters to a frenzy. After thirty long seconds, he spoke, his voice altered by Aasif’s software.
“People of America. Your nation suffered deeply in the wake of the nine-eleven attacks. You grieved the loss of life, worked shoulder to shoulder to rebuild, and took strength from the vows of your leaders to bring the perpetrators to justice. But time moved on, and eventually your lives returned to normal.
“But imagine yourself living in Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, or any of the other places where attacks occur on a regular basis. Imagine what it is like to live under the constant threat of terror, wondering if the coffee shop you frequent is the nex
t target, or if you will be driven from your home by masked fanatics, or whether your children will survive the day at school. What if your life of hopes and dreams was reduced to one of constant fear? What would you do then? Would you be willing to take up arms? Would you stand with your neighbors and demand your government do whatever is necessary to stop the madness? Would you sacrifice your own life to make it happen? I would, and so would the many who stand beside me. For it is only through the lifeblood of warriors and martyrs that change can be wrought.”
By now he knew his audience would be stirring with the realization something bad was about to happen.
“You think yourselves invulnerable to the growing threat of terror that exists in much of the world? That is about to change.” He paused for effect, imagining viewers edging closer, their mouths going dry. His voice took on a hard edge.
“It is time for the American public to become part of the reality that exists elsewhere in the world. Only then will you find the will to stand up and be counted. Only then will you take notice of what your oil-hungry leaders have fomented with the relentless imposition of their power and authority in the Middle East and elsewhere. Only then will you force them to keep their noses out of the affairs of others. And mark my words, you will have to force them, because their pockets are lined with the proceeds of their imperialistic practices, from the greedy corporate conglomerates to the power brokers of your own government. Only you can stop them. Not one of you, but all of you. And you had better act soon. Because until then, it is you, the American people, who will pay the price for their interference.”
He gestured toward Aasif, and he turned to watch as the streaming images were replaced with an elevated view of an upscale strip mall one might find across America. The drone sourcing the video was situated atop a lamppost in the parking lot. It panned to reveal a movie theater at one end, a Costco at the other, and a number of retail outlets in between. The parking lot was mostly full on this holiday weekend Saturday, as folks prepared for their Fourth of July gatherings the following day. The mall was located on the outskirts of Dallas, Texas, although that wasn’t evident yet to viewers. The camera zoomed on the front of the movie theater, as a large crowd exited from the latest summer blockbuster. Many others waited in lines outside the door. Farhad signaled Amir with a nod. Amir keyed in an entry.
On the screen, a series of explosions erupted on the theater’s rooftop. Masonry rocketed, smoke billowed, and the front end of the structure collapsed. The camera shook from the blast, and a wave of smoke washed over the lens—but not so fast that viewers didn’t first see bodies strewn along the sidewalk.
It has begun.
The image behind him transitioned to a sequence of similar scenes from throughout the Middle East. Unfortunately, there would be no further images from their drone. They couldn’t risk it, because until after the primary attack in Los Angeles the next day, it was important their use of drones remained a secret. They’d originally hacked into the exterior cameras positioned at the top of the lot’s lampposts, but as luck would have it, the shopping center had upgraded its security software a day ago, and they’d not discovered the disconnect until it was too late to do anything about it. It was a major setback. The team had been distracted, and Farhad had no one to blame but himself. The attack could not be delayed, however, so launching one of the Dallas team’s camera drones had been the only option. By now Amir was making certain it was escaping the scene at top speed to reconnect with Pelican-5 and land at their safe house twenty miles away.
Farhad spoke into the camera, keeping his voice even, as if unaffected by the lives he’d just taken. “Let me ask you—if one doesn’t approve of the way a neighbor is saying his prayers or raising his children, does that give him the right to invade their home and dictate change? No. Likewise, America has no right to mandate what other governments do. Nevertheless, it does so repeatedly, with impunity. But not any longer.
“We don’t want your money or your influence. We simply want you to leave our countries and mind your own business. No more drones, no more advisors, no more spies, or the attacks on American soil will continue. You can forestall those attacks. Simply convince your government to land its drones, bring your soldiers home, and focus on your homeland. If not, we will see to it that America is no longer the land of the free, but the home of the terrified.”
He motioned to Pirooz, and he watched as the screen displayed a grid of four street-level views—a market, a coffee shop, an ordinary-looking home, and an elementary school. They were in a rural area outside Chicago. A family walked into the market, teens loitered outside the coffee shop, and an elderly man mowed the front lawn of his home. The school appeared empty. They’d planned for that on this first salvo. Nevertheless, the message would be clear. Your children are not safe. Farhad nodded, and all four structures exploded with such force that nobody inside could have survived. Smoke filled the air, and shrapnel rained everywhere. The teens in front of the coffee shop and the man on his lawn had been blasted outward from the explosions. Their bodies lay contorted and still.
Farhad turned back to the camera. “Think America. Think hard. This is but the first lesson. Many more will come. You cannot hide from us—not in your homes, or your schools, or your churches or temples. We’re waiting for you there, and at your malls and restaurants and parks and theaters. There’s no escape, just as there is no escape for our families from your drones and bombs.
“You wish to find us? Good luck. We are young, intelligent, and tech savvy. We live among you. We are your friends, your coworkers, your cousins. You will never find us. We monitor your posts, your tweets, your phone calls, and more. But don’t bother rushing to update your virus software to shield yourself from our eyes, because just like your own government we are already there, with access to your personal and private information. What do you think happened to the billions of files hacked over the past several years and made available on the black market? You hope your name isn’t on one of those lists, but trust me, it is.
“Regretfully, your leaders are not swayed by words and threats from outside influences. But they will listen to you, the voters of this nation, once you rise above your complacency and unite to take a stand. So it is to you we speak, and it is on your doorstep that we deliver the evidence of our resolve. And lest you believe we’re unable to reach you in your most defended locations…”
The display shifted to a live view of the top of New York City’s Paramount Building in Times Square. From the angle, it was apparent the camera was on a nearby rooftop. The building was known for its immense four-faced clock at the top, with a majestic glass dome at its peak. The screen split in two. The aerial view zoomed in to capture the front face of the clock and the dome, and a street-level view showed the throngs of people milling about in the square below. It was late afternoon in Manhattan, and the scenes were crisp and clear. A flock of pigeons flew past the clock face, while the tourists enjoyed the sights. Farhad nodded. The clock and dome exploded, sending glass and concrete in all directions. Down below everyone looked up at once. Many took flight immediately, but a few stood frozen with mouths agape and eyes wide. They were the first to die. As the shower of concrete and glass expanded, many more were brought down. Farhad forced himself not to wince, but shook his head as if acknowledging the tragedy of it.
“That horrible feeling you have right now?” he said to the camera. “Burning a hole in your gut? That is the reality our families have lived with forever because of your government. Now it’s your turn.” He pointed at the screen. “This is only the beginning. Meet our demands, or meet your doom. It’s up to you. And if you wish to pass blame, look to your own Western history. This cycle of terror began centuries ago by the aggression of your European ancestors. Your popes and kings rallied under religious banners to invade our lands during your so-called Holy Crusades.” He allowed his eyes to reflect the anger he felt in his heart. “We fought to defend our homes and our faith, and yet you never stopped com
ing, even today. You are the aggressors in this story. Not us. So don’t think for one minute you can bring us to the bargaining table.” He leaned into the camera lens. “Because we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
He stepped out of view so the camera could focus on the streaming scene behind him. Then he spoke the revered Dari phrase that had been ingrained in him since childhood.
“He will grant you victory over them.”
Chapter 21
Foothills of Mt. Wilson
“A MASTERPIECE,” Marshall said, leaning back in his chair and stretching.
Ahmed had been looking over Marshall’s shoulder as he keyed in lines of code to tweak the programming on his prototype RAT. He shook his head in wonder. Even though he could appreciate the value of the final product, none of what was on the screen made any sense to him. “Looks like chicken scratches to me.”
“Ha. Sounds like something Tony would say. The big guy’s rubbing off on you.”
Ahmed liked the sound of that. “So the RAT’s ready?”
“For testing? Sure. But it’s still a long way from being ready to deliver to the client. That’ll have to wait until I can get back into the field to test it out on a few remote servers. There are always bugs to work out. I’ve done all I can for now.”
“Which means you’re about to get as bored as me.”
Marshall blew out a breath, nodding in resignation. Lacey looked over, and Ahmed caught her suggestive wink that had been intended for Marshall’s eyes only. “Are you bored, honey?” she said in a sultry voice.
Ahmed looked away to hide the flush on his cheeks.
Sarafina was lounging sideways on an easy chair across from where Mom and Lacey sat on the couch. “Eeyew! Get a room or something.” She pointed the remote at the TV and flicked it on.
Lacey rolled her eyes and Marshall chuckled. Mom remained lost in her thoughts, still basking in the news that Dad and Alex were on their way home. Ahmed grabbed the broken drone from the far end of the table and brought it over to Marshall. “Let’s check this out.”
