On the team leader's command, the group deployed their Hoverbikes in an asynchronous launch sequence. Stoker hovered into the darkness of the night sky. As he zipped across the water, his spirits soared. For the next few minutes, he skimmed over the slightly choppy waters of the Persian Gulf toward the Saudi Arabian desert. Thanks to his night-vision goggles with FLIR thermal imaging technology, Stoker could visualize the beach. He made landfall and scanned the desert before him. He saw the infrared beacons attached to his other teammates, and he steered his Hoverbike toward them. Through his radio earpiece, Stoker heard the Navy SEAL team leader take command. "Count off men." After Stoker and the other operators had responded, they rode on.
After a few more minutes, the team leader gave the signal for everyone to stop and hover. "We're a little more than a mile away from our destination," came his voice through everyone's earpieces. "Let's leave our Hoverbikes here and fast march it to the perimeter. We'll use a beacon and remote control to summon our Hoverbikes just in time for exfil. Let's move out."
After the men were underway, the team leader radioed Rivera in Chicago. "We hear you've got an eye in the sky."
"Copy that," Rivera said. "We have another Hoverbike hovering a few thousand feet above your destination and using cameras to beam up real-time footage."
"What can you tell us about what's going on inside that building?"
Rivera radioed back. "All's quiet on the Middle Eastern front. Nobody's coming in and nobody's going out."
Then the team leader spoke into his radio. The signal relayed to Chicago. "What about you Colonel Rivera? What can you tell us about your satellite reconnaissance?"
As much as he wanted to participate in this operation, Rivera had elected to stay in Chicago to keep his finger on the pulse of the bioterrorism war unfolding there. "Satellite images have detected no comings or goings for the last few hours. There was a changing of the guard at three o'clock Zulu Time—which was a perfect time for the Espada Rápida's NanoBUGS swarm to slip through the open door. We've had the cameras from the NanoBUGS relaying information to us for the last few hours."
NanoBUGS were new to the CIA, but not to Stoker and Rivera. These insect-sized robotic drones were programmed to find an entry point into a building, locate a spot to hide, and then use their cameras and microphones to transmit audio-video feeds to their operators. While a single NanoBUGS unit could operate alone, their power magnified when they swarmed. By combining their collective images and data points, this minute army could infiltrate an enemy undetected and make 3D renderings of their targets for analysis. The acronym BUGS stood for Better than Uncle Sam's Government Surveillance. And thanks to this technology, Espada Rápida was a step ahead of the CIA and NSA.
"Right now, I can see the four family members together in a bedroom, in the southwest corner of the home via the NanoBUGS transmission," Rivera reported. "They're sleeping. We've got two more tangos. One's guarding the front door. He's pretty active—getting up every few minutes to look around. The second one is sitting a little deeper into the house, near the southeast corner. He's asleep."
"Copy that. Two tangos northwest corner, one in a recumbent position. What about any surveillance devices such as microphones and infrared cameras that might detect us as we approach?"
"That's a negative," replied Rivera. "We're not picking up any sensors or cameras."
"This whole situation feels a little too easy and welcoming," Stoker said. "Why don't the people guarding this family have any early warning systems in place?"
"I know what you mean. All we're missing is someone to roll out a red carpet," the team leader said. "Something's hinky, but we've got a rescue to perform." Then the team leader radioed out. "Were getting within 400 yards. We should maintain strict radio silence now. Copy?"
Each special operator replied with their code names.
The team made it to the periphery of the property. The two CIA agents used a FLIR thermal imaging system to confirm what Rivera saw with the NanoBUGSs. There were two tangos in the main living space and four family members in the bedroom.
On the hand signals of their leader, two Navy SEALs snuck to the front door and placed Semtex explosives around the door frame. After a thumbs up, they retreated a few yards and knelt with their backs to their handiwork. The CIA men drew silenced MP-10s and started to advance on the front door. The Semtex explosion rang out. The men with submachine guns sprinted for the door. One entered low and the other high. They visualized the first tango—or what was left of him. Then they advanced on the man who had been sleeping. The startled man reached for his gun, but before he could even think about aiming it, one of the operators double-tapped him in the forehead. Stoker entered the room just as one of the SEALs broke radio silence. "Tangos neutralized. The main room is clear."
There was only a quiet moment before Stoker broke the silence as he yelled toward the bedroom door. "Hello, Antoniou family. I'm here with the United States Special Forces, and we are here to take you home. Please move away from the door. We're coming in."
With a kick, the door flew open. The CIA men entered the bedroom. After seeing the anxious faces of the Antoniou family and conducting a quick search of the room, they declared the bedroom clear. "Let's go," they ordered.
The family jumped to their feet. The oldest son stepped aside and allowed his mom and siblings to exit ahead of him. Stoker observed the concern on his face. During their captive experience, this young man had apparently chosen to be a responsible adult instead of a needy child.
The hum of rotor blades became audible. As the family and special operators exited the building, they looked toward the horizon to see six unmanned Hoverbikes approaching. The transporters stopped to hover fifty yards away from the group, and the special operators accompanied the family toward the machines. Stoker had just started to pick up his pace when he felt something splatter against his back. The shot’s report arrived a moment later. He turned around to see the limp body of the seventeen-year-old son lying on the ground.
Stoker's Army medic training kicked in. He fell to his knees and started to search the boy for wounds. Mrs. Antoniou screamed, and she instinctively fell over her son in a protective gesture. Just as Stoker found the bullet’s entrance wound in the boy's back, another shot rang out missing Mrs. Antoniou's head by more than three feet. Three men grabbed Mrs. Antoniou and her other children and forced them toward the Hoverbikes. A Navy SEAL located the gunman—a sniper out in a well-camouflaged bunker. He'd been hiding there all along, waiting. Just as he'd been instructed, he had pushed sand away from his small bunker window and pointed the barrel out toward his target and fired.
"I'll cover you!" A Navy SEAL yelled. Then he shot short bursts of rifle fire at the bunker. Pinning down the sniper gave the rescuers and the Antoniou family the precious moments of cover they needed to get to their exfiltration Hoverbikes.
Stoker remained behind for a few moments to examine the boy. On the teenager’s back, he found what appeared to be an entrance wound. When he turned him over, Stoker could immediately see how a large-caliber hollow-point bullet had inflicted maximum damage on the boy's thoracic cavity, leaving only carnage and an empty space where his heart and lungs used to be. There was no life to save. Only a body to reclaim and bring home for a proper burial.
Stoker cradled the youthful, lifeless corpse in his arms and stood. Then he double-timed it toward the Hoverbikes, where the special operators were already departing with Mrs. Antoniou and the two surviving children. He heard Rivera's voice in his radio earpiece, "I've got you covered guys," as he took remote control of one of the Hoverbikes. From Chicago, Rivera steered the drone toward the sniper's bunker, hovered the vehicle above the small window, and dropped a grenade. "Fire in the hole," Rivera said. The SEAL who had been laying down suppressive fire, turned and sprinted for the Hoverbikes.
Stoker laid the boy's body on his Hoverbike. He was securing him with Velcro straps when the grenade exploded. Stoker willed himself to disregard t
he blast and subsequent shower of sand that fell. Stoker and the remaining SEAL climbed aboard their Hoverbikes and took off toward the Persian Gulf.
"Is everybody okay?" barked the team leader over the radio. "Is anybody else hit?" One by one every special operator signaled they were fine. Mrs. Antoniou and her two children realized the big brother's fate. The family sobbed as they flew over sand, then over water, finally hovering to a landing in one of the M80 Stiletto boats. There, the special operators quickly examined the family for any other injuries. They found none.
Stoker flew his Hoverbike back to the Stiletto. There, he floated the machine into the rear docking area, secured it, and removed the body from the Velcro straps. "Can somebody bring me a plastic rain poncho?" One of the SEALs comprehended that Stoker needed a body bag, but he was sensitive of the fact the other Antoniou family members would hear him. A moment later, the SEAL handed him a body bag. Stoker gently placed the young man's body in the bag and zipped it up. Then he carried the boy's body into a storage cabin where it would be secure. When he stepped into the main cabin, everyone was strapping into jump seats. Mrs. Antoniou insisted she sit by Stoker. Once everyone had been properly harnessed into the boat, it accelerated and made a rapid retreat from the boundary waters of Saudi Arabia. One of the special operators put headsets on Mrs. Antoniou and then Stoker.
"I want to hold my boy," insisted the tearful Mrs. Antoniou over the radio channel.
"I'm sorry," Stoker said. "You can't hold him right now. His injuries are devastating. I promise you can see him later."
"I want to hold my boy," she said again.
Stoker apologized again. She shook as she wept. After a few minutes, Mrs. Antonio's strength failed. "Will you please let me see my precious angel?" she asked Stoker.
"There will be a time and place for that. Don't worry," Stoker said.
"Why did this happen?" she asked.
Stoker's thoughts haunted him. I can take a good guess. The sniper had a chance to score hits on six military men, the enemy. He executed the perfect kill shot—on this innocent young man. Stoker knew every other aspect of the rescue had been too easy.
• • •
He was a low-level spy for the Iranian government. His assignment, for the last year, had been to check on the Antoniou family. But, just one time per day. He was only to report back to Tehran if there was a change in the family's situation. As he approached the home in a white pickup truck, he saw a helicopter lifting off. He pulled over and removed infrared binoculars from the glovebox. Scanning the scene, he could see the front door had been blown off.
Sensing no movement, he threw the truck back into gear and drove toward the front door. Removing a pistol, he advanced on the doorway and breached. He moved through the living space and saw the two dead men and the absence of the Antoniou family. It's time to call the director, he thought. He exited the building as he holstered his sidearm. Standing next to the truck was the sniper. "What happened here?" he demanded of the sniper.
"They're gone. All gone."
"And the oldest son? Did you take care of him?"
"Affirmative. Tell the director."
The low-level spy frowned and pulled out his satellite phone. He dialed the most powerful man he'd ever met in the country of Iran. He had strict instruction to speak to the director in cryptic terms. "Director Pour-Mohammadi. As per your orders, they have been carried out.
"And the eldest?" the director asked.
"It is done."
The director ended the phone call, turned to his computer, and sent a brief, encrypted email. "Praise be to Allah. He has spoken. Our true destiny begins."
CHAPTER 26
Washington, DC
After the president's speech to the nation, news outlets all over America scrambled to understand the magnitude of the bioterrorism attack. Because the CDC continued to label all their data as preliminary, reporters in newsrooms across America were stumped. They did not quite know what data to report or how to quantify the magnitude of the silent attacks rolling out in slow motion right before their very eyes. One of the nightly news anchors reported, "Tonight, hospitals across America are filling up with the sudden influx of patients with Guillain-Barre syndrome as well as infections from an amoeba called Balamuthia mandrillaris. On the heels of President Riddell's news conference, we're learning more about these germs and how they attacked so many Americans." The anchor provided no figures or statistics to give his viewers an accurate idea of the enormity. The ominous camera shots that accompanied his dire baritone narrative showed overflowing waiting rooms in hospitals in New York, Washington D.C., Philadelphia, Miami, and Atlanta. And, that's how the panic began. That audience sent a firestorm of texts, tweets, emails, and instant messages to family and friends.
Another popular commentator ascribed a mild label to the crisis calling it a "significant public health outbreak, likely linked to terrorism."
During the next twenty-four hours, news outlets started to calculate. They considered the millions of people served at the Little Italy sandwich shops. They estimated how many people were cooled by CoolSolar, catered for by the Iranian cooks and chefs working in hotel and banquet hall kitchens, and entertained at the water parks. The press’s calculations included people who vaped at Nikolas's hookah lounges and ate at the food trucks. They tallied up the attendance figures for Burning Man, KABOO Del Mar, Electric Zoo Festival, Baltimore Orioles baseball, NASCAR, and other events.
The CDC was still tight-lipped with their estimates of the number of people infected. And the White House press secretary also refused to provide any numbers, because it was too early to specify any responsible figures. Behind the scenes, the President's staff was working hard to quash any incendiary rumors.
But, there were dozens of epidemiologists and leading physicians who were willing to go on camera and share their projections. A Johns Hopkins University public health professor emerged as the media darling. She was beautiful, had a Ph.D., and projected a lively personality. She was making the rounds on television and radio programs, and Americans were listening. "I estimate five to ten million people will contract Guillain-Barre syndrome," she would report as she looked directly into the camera. "upwards of a million will be infected by the Balamuthia amoeba. And, keep in mind, my estimates are conservative." The professor was also quick to interject, "Nobody knows for sure how many ventilators there are in service in America's hospitals. But, I've seen rough estimates of about 160,000 in some of the medical literature. We need forty times that many to keep all of these people alive."
Her fifteen minutes of fame led to millions of Americans panicking. By the next evening, emergency rooms were further overrun with people manifesting the initial symptoms of Guillain-Barre syndrome and Balamuthia infections. Some people came requesting to be tested because they had eaten at a Little Italy sandwich shop, run through the mist machine at Burning Man, or had contact with one of Nikolas's many other infectious ventures. Doctors, nurses, and other hospital personnel worked feverishly to rule out the illnesses in most of their spontaneous patients, sending them home with the assurance they were fine. But, the minority of people diagnosed with Guillain-Barre syndrome or the Campylobacter amoeba tallied to tens of thousands of Americans diagnosed that night during the rush. By morning, the hospitals were beyond capacity, besieged with patients who were exhibiting significant symptoms of one of the diseases.
Neurosurgeons and operating rooms were overwhelmed with patients with suspected Balamuthia, awaiting the confirmation of brain biopsies. There were also thousands of people diagnosed with early-stage Guillain-Barre syndrome but were sent home with instructions to return when they started having difficulties getting out of bed and walking.
"Will you have a ventilator for me if I need one?" the patients often asked the ER physicians.
All too often the honest reply was, "We don't know. Start recruiting your family and friends so they can bag you."
Hospitals started converting cafeterias, clas
srooms, and other spaces into overflow patient care areas. They canceled numerous elective surgeries like joint replacements, hysterectomies, and spine surgeries. But, the real limitation was the number of ventilators. Hospitals were already using every single one of their units, and they were just at the beginning of two waves of disease that would require continuous ventilation.
The CDC sent another team to Chicago. This one was much larger. They finally acknowledged Chicago as the epicenter of the infections. By that time, they were playing catch-up. Troy Stoker, Errol Rivera, the president, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security were way ahead.
Supplies of the anti-amoeba drug miltefosine dwindled. The American manufacturer of the drug worked with other pharmaceutical companies and compounding pharmacists to make more of the drug immediately available. Other countries offered to send shipments of miltefosine. Overnight, the orphan drug became one of America's most demanded pharmaceuticals.
• • •
Nobody was surprised when Wall Street plunged, and the stock market took a big hit. But stocks in ventilator manufacturers skyrocketed. Plasma exchange companies and the manufacturers of anti-amoeba drugs such as miltefosine also performed very well among investments that day. Hospital stocks also rose slightly, but some investors wondered if the hospitals would ever recuperate the costs of their care from insurance companies.
Many businesses instituted hiring freezes. A new temp industry emerged called respiratory assist baggers. These were people who would take shifts providing manual resuscitation to people who were denied ventilators. The going rate was about fifty dollars per hour. The primary qualification was forearm endurance.
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