by Roger Hayden
“Yes, but why the ports, Dr. Coogen?” a reporter asked on the radio program Manuel was listening to.
The expert answered, “These terrorists obviously wish to exploit our greatest vulnerabilities. Ports are vital to trade and transportation.”
“And do you agree, like some others have suggested, that there are more attacks to come?”
“I certainly hope not. But they are clearly organized and could have far greater things planned.”
“And do we know just yet who is responsible for these attacks? I mean, has any group claimed direct responsibility?”
“Not yet, which is baffling to say the least,” Dr. Coogen said.
“There have been reports in Washington of sensitive networks compromised by a massive hack, which seems to have been perpetrated by ISIS. Do cyberattacks make this a battle with two fronts now?”
“I believe that to be the case, yes,” Dr. Coogen said.
Manuel looked around again with a renewed sense of hope. It had occurred to him that other options were available. He could go to the police and tell them everything—that the FBI building was indeed in danger. There was no reason he had to go through with any of it. There was still a chance to change everything for the better. Jabar had told Manuel they would be watching him, but Manuel wasn’t entirely convinced they were. He could alert the authorities and ask them to save his family before it was too late. Manuel held out his phone and typed in 9-1-1. Before he could press send, however, a text message popped up on the screen.
Quit stalling Manuel. Your family is counting on you.
Manuel lowered the phone and looked around frantically. He didn’t see anyone else in the parking lot. He opened the squeaky U-HAUL door and stepped outside, phone in hand. The sounds of helicopters filled the air. He had begun to pace around the truck when he received another text.
What are you doing outside of the truck? You don’t have time to fool around.
Manuel read the text a few times in sheer disbelief. He lowered the phone and whipped his head around, looking in all directions. There was a Laundromat next to the parking lot, and several high-rise buildings on the other side. Trees surrounded the lot as well, where anyone could be hiding. However, finding whoever was watching him was futile with what little time he had left. Manuel quickly got back in the truck and slammed the door. All the hope that had grown in him for just a moment disappeared. It was 11:07. He typed a text to the unnamed number in his phone demanding to know what he was transporting. Manuel had grown desperate, stalling by any means necessary. He immediately received a response.
What do you think? A bomb. 2,000 pounds of gas-enhanced urea nitrate.
Another text immediately followed.
Three minutes. If you don’t leave now, you’re not going to make it.
Manuel threw his phone to the other side of the truck in anger. The cover case split open as the phone fell to the floor. He clutched the steering wheel and screamed in frustration. He looked at his watch. It was 11:08. He turned the key to the ignition as tears fell from his eyes. He ran his hands through his tousled, graying hair. A Catholic, he made the sign of the cross on his chest with one finger and put the truck into drive. His foot hovered over the gas pedal. There had to be another way. He could drive the truck into the river. But there wasn’t a river in view.
“Please don’t make me do this!” he cried out. “You sick bastards!”
11:09. He floored the truck, screeching out of the parking lot. The truck jolted out into the street, bouncing up and down. Full speed ahead, he went over the median, hitting it hard, and flew into the next lane. The truck swerved as he grappled for control. He ran through an intersection just as the light turned red and burned down the road, heading directly toward the gathering of police vehicles blocking the way.
He passed moving vehicles and steered around parked ones. The building was in view, a quarter mile ahead. Traffic was coming to a dead stop as police directed lanes away from the closed perimeter surrounding the FBI headquarters. He knew that he had less than a minute left to get the truck as close to the building as possible.
How foolish, he thought, to condemn so many to die just to save my family.
He swerved out of the line of traffic and barreled down the sidewalk, crashing through waste cans, newspaper stands, and planted trees. To the pedestrians in the truck’s path, screaming and jumping out of the way, the behemoth U-HAUL truck was unstoppable. Manuel raced past a line of gridlocked traffic, determined to stay the course. The police around the building had taken notice of Manuel’s rapid advance.
They immediately moved into defensive positions and aimed their rifles at the approaching vehicle. Manuel saw the rifles pointed from behind the barricade of vehicles, blocking the building. One shot crashed through the windshield as others followed. Glass flew everywhere. Manuel ducked down behind the steering wheel and pushed on.
A voice blared through a megaphone. “Stop your vehicle!” More shots came through the windshield. Others hit the hood, the headlights, even the tires, but there was no stopping the U-HAUL racing toward them at fifty-five MPH.
With the time he had left—a matter of seconds—Manuel knew he wasn’t going to make it out of this alive. Maybe the terrorists had counted on that fact all along. At least they couldn’t say he didn’t try. And maybe, in the end, they would spare his family. Manuel thought of them one last time, just as he took a bullet in the shoulder, closed his eyes, and screamed for mercy.
The Interrogation
Craig and Agent Hicks had a brief talk in the hall while the rest of the FBI team waited in the surveillance room. Craig wanted to ensure they were both on the same page and that they wouldn’t stop until they broke Malaka—the Black Widow. They had an intricate plan, with roles they would each have to play. Craig felt he could work with Hicks, but still missed his old partner, Patterson.
“Of course, if she turns out to be crazy, this whole thing is a bust,” Hicks said. He leaned against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his black slacks. An observer might say he looked relaxed. Not Craig.
Craig stood in front of him, talking closely. “That’s just more deception on her part. She’s not crazy. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
“Let’s say she has control of her faculties, just as you suggest,” Hicks said.
Craig nodded.
“What if she’s already told you everything she knows? What if she just provides false information instead?”
“It’s our job to untangle the truth from the lies,” Craig said.
“Apparently that didn’t work out so well earlier, now, did it?”
Craig went quiet. He bit his bottom lip and nodded, as if to say, touché. “You wanna work with me on this or not?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hicks said, in an exhausted tone. “It’s just. With everything going on right now…”
“We need to stay focused,” Craig said. “People are relying on us. Our families…”
His words drifted off at the very mention of family. It suddenly hit him that he hadn’t called Rachael yet. She, like most of the country, was probably terrified. He pulled out his phone. He had missed ten calls from her in the past hour. He hadn’t even noticed. Once Malaka had gotten into his head, it had been hard to focus on anything else. Craig put the phone to his ear and held a finger up. “Gimme one minute, I gotta make a quick call.”
Hicks squinted and shook his head. His eyebrows were so thin, that it barely looked like he had any. Irritated, he said, “I got people to call too, you know.”
Craig turned and observed the glare on top of Hicks’s shiny bald head, caused by the overhead lights. “One moment, please,” he said. “Then we’ll get to work, I promise.”
Hicks walked away as Craig paced the middle of the hall, walking in a tight circle. Talking to Rachael was not going to be easy. He knew that her patience with everything he was doing was nearing an end. But he had to take the time, then and there, to tell her what she needed to do: e
vacuate the house and get to the cabin.
Rachael sat in the darkened living room glued to the television with the blinds drawn and windows shut. Her phone was charging, lying on the armrest of the couch. Her hair was tied in a bun, and she was still in the clothes from the night before. Bags had formed under her eyes as she had gotten very little sleep. There would be no summer school to teach that day.
Worried for Craig, herself, her son, and all her friends and family, she had called nearly every contact on her phone, reaching only half of them. She clutched the TV remote in one hand, watching as the television flashed images of terror attacks from around the country.
An exhausted anchorman was on-screen amid background aerial views of fires raging at the ports, trying to explain the situation as best he could to the viewers.
“In addition to these horrific attacks, there have been reports of massive communication blackouts, as cell phone towers and broadband services have reached maximum capacity, and in most cases, a 200 percent increase in use. This adds to the fear and frustration so many Americans are feeling, trying to get in contact with loved ones. Emergency crews have arrived on site, while hundreds of other ports across the nation ramp up security and have, so far, not faced any assaults. The president issued a statement today, as did various agencies such as FEMA and Homeland Security.”
The anchorman looked down at a note and read from it. “The president remarks that the cowardly and devastating attacks on our soil will not go unanswered. He urges calmness, strength and prayers for those lives lost, and prayers for our nation.”
The anchorman looked up. “The president is also expected to deliver a live television address within the next hour. FEMA urges displaced evacuees to register for temporary housing at shelters in one of the many sites listed in their emergency response brochures being distributed in all affected areas. Homeland Security has issued a statement urging other residents to stay indoors for their own safety while rationing their personal supplies for up to forty-eight hours.”
The news anchor took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. For a moment he said nothing. The he snapped out of his daze. “Let us take you now to our correspondent. Mitch Anderson, on location in New Orleans, the target of one of the first port bombings.”
Just when she was about to give up hope of hearing from Craig, her phone rang with his name across the screen. She grabbed it so quickly that the phone fell off the sofa’s armrest and hit the hardwood floor.
“Damn it…” she said, picking up the phone. She swiped the screen and held it to her ear. “Craig! Where have you been?”
“I’m at the FBI building. Are you and Nick okay?”
Rachael shifted on the couch uncomfortably, then leaned forward while muting the TV volume. “We’re fine. Nick’s in his room. I don’t know how much he knows. We’ve been waiting for you to come home. I’m scared.”
“This was a major attack. They got us. I’m knee-deep in an investigation right now. I need you and Nick to take the boat to the cabin, just like we discussed before. There’s plenty of food and water there, at least for the next week.”
Rachael closed her eyes and shook her head. Her eyes opened as a tear streamed down her cheek. “Don’t ask me to do this, Craig. We can’t go to the cabin without you.”
She glanced back at the TV. California, Boston, New York, and several other cities were pictured in various split screens. The streets were filled with an array of emergency vehicles, military trucks, and crowds of people moving slowly in droves. She wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it looked like an evacuation, just like the news reporter had been explaining. Would her family be forced to leave their home as well?
“It’s the safest thing for the both of you at the moment. Right now, we can only hope that there won’t be any more attacks. Until then, the best place for you is at the cabin.”
There was a pause. She could hear Craig shuffling around.
“Look, honey, I got to go. I promise, I’ll get back with you soon.”
“They said that cell towers are going down left and right. What if that happens here?” Rachael asked, trying to hold back further tears.
“You remember the radios, right?” Craig asked.
“Yes,” Rachael said.
“As long as you keep them charged and ready, we can still communicate.”
“Okay,” Rachael said solemnly. There was no sense in arguing about it any longer. It was up to her to get Nick and take the boat to the cabin—a last resort on a day she hoped would never come. “I’ll take Nick to the cabin. Please get to us as soon as you can.”
“I will,” Craig said. “I promise. Now I have to go. I love you both. Let me know when you’re safe.”
“Love you too,” she said, looking down at the carpet.
They said their goodbyes and Rachael set the phone to the side, plugging it back in. She looked past the foyer to where a large backpack rested. She had packed an hour ago but found herself stalling, hoping Craig would call and tell her everything had been a false alarm, that America wasn’t under attack, and that there were no sleeper cells wanting to kill them.
One glance at the TV and she knew that not to be the case. She got up and went straight to Nick’s room, ready to tell him they were going to have to leave. Maybe she could sugarcoat everything and not tell her son their world had drastically changed in the past hour. However, Nick was thirteen years old. He was inquisitive. The innocence of his generation had been lost in a single morning. Rachael understood this only too well. She knocked on his door, and heard him call out.
“Nick, sweetheart, we need to talk.”
Craig walked into the room to find everyone waiting for him.
Calderon looked up. “All right, have you two geniuses figured out what you’re going to do yet?” He was leaning against the window through which they could see Malaka sitting on the other side. His sleeves were rolled up, and his red tie dangled in the air as he leaned forward to stretch.
Donaldson, Rivers, Hicks, and Walker were all waiting to hear what the plan was. In the corner of the room was a surveillance station with two twenty-inch monitors. Malaka was on one screen in black and white; Husein was on the other, fidgeting at the table, and repeatedly tugging at his handcuffs.
“Agent Hicks is going in there to talk to her,” Craig said. “We’re offering her asylum, just as she asked. But we have to be careful not to play all our cards too soon.”
Hicks stepped in. “Yes. It’s important that we stress the benefits of assisting us. ISIS followers are known for their intense fanaticism and belief in their cause. They are, for all intents and purposes, brainwashed.”
Calderon cut in. “I don’t need a psychological study, I want results. If this woman can provide information about another attack in the works, I’ll personally sign whatever immunity deal she wants. What about the boy?”
Hicks and Craig looked at each other.
“I’m going to talk to him,” Craig said.
Calderon moved away from the window and held his hands up.
“I told you that you’re to have no contact with either of them. You’re still under investigation, you know.”
“With all due respect, sir, thousands of people are dead, maybe more,” Craig said. “The boy responds to me. He knows me.”
“He’s scared of you. Congratulations.”
“Good!” Craig shouted. “Now we need to do this my way, or we might as well just stand here and wait for ISIS to hit us again.”
The room went silent. Normally Calderon would have responded in anger, accusing him of insubordination, but Craig’s words seemed to strike a chord.
“What exactly do you two have in mind?” Calderon said, with a hint of suspicion.
“Her son, Rasheed,” Craig said.
“What about him?” Calderon asked.
“I’ve learned something about Malaka. She’s smart and she’s dedicated, but she also has a temper. And when she gets angry, she tells the tru
th.”
Suddenly a knock came at the door. All heads turned. Craig seemed to be expecting it. He excused himself and went to the door, turning the handle and opening it. The other FBI agents in the room looked over to see who was there. Hicks looked on as if he knew what to expect.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce Rasheed Surkov.” Craig opened the door completely, revealing Rasheed sitting in a wheelchair with two armed guards at his side.
His face was covered with a dozen tiny bandages. His dark, shoulder-length hair hung in his face. He wore a neck brace and hospital gown and had a cast on his left leg, which was extended out straight and was propped on an elevated wheelchair leg rest. His right arm hung in a sling. He looked weary and sedated. They knew who Surkov was, but how did he get there, and by whose authority?
Calderon was as stunned, as was Craig’s immediate supervisor, Walker.
“How did you get him here? On what authority?” Calderon demanded.
“I had him airlifted here,” Craig said, “with Agent Hicks’s assistance, as a matter of national security.”
“And just what do you plan to do with him?” Walker asked.
“We’re going to use him to get the information we need,” Craig said.
Calderon shuffled and stammered. He pointed at Craig, obviously frustrated. “Last chance, Davis. Don’t screw me on this.”
“I won’t, sir,” Craig said.
Suddenly a woman walked in. She had long red hair and blue eyes and was wearing a medium-sleeved blouse and blue jeans.
“Agent Davis?” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m Amelia Robinson.” A temporary security badge hung around her heck.
Calderon took a step back. “Who the hell is this?”
“This is our translator,” Craig answered. He turned to her. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Robinson. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
She nodded and remained in the room as Craig and Hicks left with the guards, pushing a barely coherent Rasheed ahead of them.
