by Rick Jones
The entire board came alive as geometric lines appeared and disappeared. The brainwork behind its triangulations depicted a fifty-square-mile area northwest of D.C. Still a large area to canvas.
Chance pointed at the results. “This only works if Shazad hasn’t tossed in a red herring.”
Tanner looked at him. “Red herring?”
Chance nodded. “What if Shazad knew that we’d be looking west through triangulation? What if he attempted to throw us off by launching a missile from the east to go west, then circle back to the east? You have to remember that a Reaper drone can circle for as long as fourteen hours.”
“True,” said Tanner. “But Shazad is careful, as well. He wouldn’t want to keep a drone in the air longer than necessary when the skies are full of fighter jets. I believe his inclination as a leader is to strike and strike quickly. Exposing a drone so far from its intended target simply heightens the probability that the jets will knock it out of the sky. It’s too risky, especially given that Shazad has a limited arsenal. Plus there’s another factor to consider.”
Nay turned to him. “And what’s that?”
“We’ve all been leaning toward the idea that the targets are strictly based in Washington,” said Tanner. “But we’re overlooking one other possibility which would make this location...” He pointed at the circle on the board. “...ideal.”
He walked over to the console and tapped in a new set of coordinates. A map of Manhattan appeared.
“Manhattan from Washington, D.C. is only 232 miles. From the outer circle here it’s only 215 miles away, which puts Manhattan squarely in the crosshairs since these missiles have a maximum range of 480 miles. There lies your red herring, Chance. So far they’re striking targets in the District of Columbia, which in turn is causing a knee-jerk reaction from the president to have all jets police the provincial areas around the White House.”
“It’s a distraction,” Liam offered.
“That’s right." Tanner returned to the table. “We’ve been so focused on the moment that we haven’t been looking beyond the box. Think about it.”
Tanner raised his hand and started ticking off his thoughts by first raising his forefinger. “One, we’ve placed most of our resources in D.C., which minimizes security in the northeast, especially Manhattan.
He added his middle finger to the first. "Two: Manhattan is a viable target that holds several points of key interests, one being Wall Street.
His ring finger went up. "Three: the Reaper's flight time from the triangulated position to New York City is about ninety minutes. Given its capabilities of stealth and elusiveness …” He let his words hang as he lowered his hand. He had made his points.
Dante and Chance studied the map. It made sense. If the launch site was south or westerly from their position, it would minimalize Shazad’s number of high profile targets. However, if it was in the northwest as the triangulation suggested, then they were seated perfectly to hit a variety of high-value venues along the eastern seaboard.
“They want us to stay in Washington,” Tanner stated firmly. “They have three drones left. My guess is that they’ll continue to target another site in D.C. to keep the government busy. But in the end, when there are two drones left, that’s when they’ll be used as weapons of mass destruction, if Zawahiri is not released. The final targets of true impact, I believe, have to be in the northeast region. It just makes sense. The devastation to the Capitol will be nothing compared to what Shazad already has in mind. Nothing. He will escalate the violence until he either gets what he wants or is forcibly stopped.”
“We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of square miles,” said Dante. “There are so many targets within the reach of the drones.”
“Which is why we need to find this traitor before he knows that we’re on to him.”
Tanner faced the electronic display and pointed to the triangulated circle northeast of their position. “And that’s where we’re going to start looking, people. Somewhere inside that red ring sits a madman . . . It's our job to find him.”
#
Thirty minutes after the attack on the Naval Observatory, President Carmichael took to the podium at Raven Rock. The stage was a facsimile setting of the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room at the White House, with the dais bearing the presidential seal.
There were no media present at the facility, no one to contest his statements or pepper him with questions. Instead, President Carmichael put on a false face of bravado and frequently raised a fisted hand in the air, the body English simple: we will fight back.
He spoke in even measures, citing his plan to mobilize the military and the National Guard for the safety of the American people. He offered them false hopes and even a few outright lies to calm the masses. He spoke of eventual victory and rising from the ruins of ashes. He went on to say that no matter what, the resolve of the American people may bend, but it will never break.
Though the speech was meant to be motivational, he knew that well-scripted words were not enough to placate burgeoning fears, especially when everyone could simply tune in and see America breaking apart.
But it was Carmichael’s obligation to address the nation and feign strength where there was none, and to artificially inseminate the people of the land with seeds of thoughts that—after their mettle had been tested—America would once again rule. Most of those who listened to President Carmichael's speech did come away feeling better.
Including Aasif Shazad.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Undisclosed Location
Fifty Miles from Islamabad
Al-Zawahiri had been kept in a high-security building located northwest of Islamabad. He had been isolated from others who had no knowledge that the al-Qaeda leader was breathing the same hot and dry and stagnate air as they.
At the end of the hallway, metal doors were opening and closing, soon followed by the sound of footfalls. Standing before Zawahiri’s barred cell was a man smartly dressed in suit and tie. He was flanked by two guards. After they allowed the man into the cell, the guards left, locking the door behind them.
Zawahiri got to his feet and embraced the man, then pushed him away with his hands still grabbing the visitor’s arms. He looked him up and down. “My dear friend, how are you? It is good to see you.” He then released Saj Usmani and took a seat on his cot.
The room was small and the walls were the color of desert sand. The mattress on the cot was wafer thin and soiled. The toilet, if it could be called that, was nothing more than a hole in the cement floor.
Usmani looked at the mattress with distaste, as if afraid that the stains would somehow leech onto his expensive suit. Then he feigned a smile to Zawahiri. Though he was not al-Qaeda, Usmani was clearly a sympathizer who had come to respect the old warrior because Zawahiri was immovable in his beliefs--especially when it came to western influence and values-- beliefs which they both shared. “It’s good to see you as well.”
Al-Zawahiri raised his hands to showcase the room and prison in general. “How were you allowed in here?”
“It’s amazing what a certain amount of rupees can do to convert the minds of honest men to dishonest ones, especially when it comes to the guards. You have many faithful in here, my friend, who believe in you.” He looked at the surroundings. “You deserve better than this,” he said sadly.
“What? This?” Zawahiri waved his hand dismissively. “It’s much better than the Russian prison.” The old man looked upon Usmani with his face becoming dire and businesslike. The time for greetings were over. “Why have you come?”
“To bring excellent news,” Usmani told him. “Al-Shazad has crippled the Great Satan. America has been hobbled.”
But Zawahiri picked something up in Usmani’s tone, one that was not of complete delight, which he expected with such news. “But?”
“But the United States is keeping to its stand,” he answered. “You are to be transferred over to American authorities within twenty-four hours.”
“This is for certain?”
Usmani nodded. “I was in council with the prime minister, who is spearheading the push. He does not want al-Qaeda to set up residence in Pakistan. He wants a stronger relationship with the West and with the world in general.”
“So he has given his soul to Satan.” Zawahiri didn’t expect an answer to his rhetorical statement, and so he continued. “Usmani, I know you are not part of al-Qaeda, though I wish you were. But what I’m about to ask of you will shed blood in your country.”
The features on Usmani’s face began to war with nervous tics. He knew what Zawahiri was going to ask him. Usmani was a low-level politician, not a fighter. But the weight of his convictions to save his nation from western influence overshadowed the weight of his political responsibilities. If Pakistan gave in to the ways of the United States, he believed that his country would have no future. They would simply dance on the manipulative strings of the U.S. and its primary allies. And now Zawahiri was going to ask him to choose his loyalties between friendship and state, rather than divide his allegiances between them.
“I have people inside Islamabad,” Zawahiri told Usmani. “Contact them. Tell them that the Pakistanis must be coerced into releasing me. They’ll know what to do.”
Usmani nodded. “I understand.”
Al-Zawahiri placed an aged hand on Usmani’s forearm. “Time is running short, my friend. Statements have to be made and the balance of power needs to shift.”
Another nod from Usmani.
Zawahiri patted the politician’s forearm. “If Shazad is successful in promoting the objectives from his end, then we need to start promoting them from ours. And it needs to be done quickly. Is that clear?”
“It is.”
Zawahiri leaned toward the councilman and whispered a series of instructions into Usmani’s ear before falling away.
“See that it’s done.” Then, fervently: “Allahu Akbar.” God is Great.
Usmani, however, responded with less feeling since his stand was all about politics and less about religion.
“Allahu Akbar.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Raven Rock
“Patching through, Mr. President.” The voice coming through the loudspeaker sounded deeply ominous.
The picture on the wall monitor flared into crystal clarity.
Shazad.
“Mr. President, your speech was, shall we say, inspirational.” When he spoke, he did so without any hint of arrogance, as though simply stating the facts. “But as you can see,” he went on, “the United States continues to die a slow death. It will continue to do so unless you release al-Zawahiri from custody immediately.”
“We do not negotiate with terrorists."
“Mr. President, continuing to take such a rigid stance only lays further groundwork for future catastrophes. Are you willing to put the welfare of the American people and the world's largest economy in such jeopardy all because you refuse to release one man?”
“It’s not just one man, Shazad. We’re talking about Zawahiri. He is the head of the serpent which needs to be cut off so that body will wither.”
“Time, Mr. President, can amount to an eternity. What we’re talking about now is the present. And the present is burning before your very eyes while your people die. Do you think it’s worth it?’
“In the end, yes. History has proven that it’s worth it. You may have struck and struck hard, Shazad, but we will not back down. In the end we will rise and stand tall.”
“In the end there will be nothing left, Mr. President. Once the public mindset has been suitably jaded, your people will revolt. They'll riot. They'll leave. You can't even keep their banks open, and I have three drones remaining, each with a full complement of Hellfires and MUAVs. Furthermore, I'm like a kid in a candy store as far as targets to choose from, so little do you have in the way of defenses.”
President Carmichael maintained a straight demeanor without betraying a single emotion. “We will find you."
“Oh, I’m sure you will, Mr. President. But not before it's too late.”
Shazad stared through the screen with icy composure, his eyes holding steady. After an impactful pause, he added, “Be reasonable, Mr. President. This used to be my country as well until I renounced it. I know there are some good things about America. What I do is not based on vengeance, but upon principles. Once al-Zawahiri is released, then the attacks will stop.”
Carmichael didn’t believe a word he said. “You know that we have never deviated from policy regarding terrorism,” he said. “We’ve discussed this route before on a prior exchange, correct?”
Shazad gave a curt nod.
“You'll have to give--" Carmichael caught himself and started again, furious that he needed to correct himself for this traitor-turned-terrorist. "I need some time so that I can discuss this matter with my council regarding possible changes in procedure—given the current circumstances.”
“You’ve had plenty of time, Mr. President.”
“Did you not just say that you were willing to suspend all attacks should Zawahiri be released?”
“I did.”
“That was never on the table before. In the previous transmission all you did was tell us to release Zawahiri at that very moment or else you would launch away. You never once mentioned that you were willing to suspend further attacks should Zawahiri be released. If you give me your word on this, Shazad, and time to converse with my team, then this is something worth mulling over. This could prove beneficial for both sides. Do you agree?”
Shazad seemed to consider this, closing his eyes. After a few seconds he opened them and said, “You have one hour."
“I need more time than that!”
“One hour,” he reiterated. He got up and walked off the field of view before the picture shrank to the size of a speck on the screen, and then it was gone.
“I don’t believe a word he’s saying,” Carmichael finally said to his team. “Not one.”
“Of course not,” said Rimaldi.
Chief Advisor Simon Davis put his hands together, interlocked his fingers, and rested his elbows on the tabletop. “Mr. President, if I may. Shazad has three undetectable Reaper drones, six Hellfire missiles, and eight MUAVs fully loaded with plastic explosives. With two drones, he was able to bring down a commercial airliner carrying a senator, two fighter jets, the Capitol Building, and the vice president's residence, killing two Secret Service agent in the process. Despite our best efforts and technology, we do not know where he is or where to look. Right now he has our balls in a vise, Mr. President, and he’s not letting go.”
Carmichael cocked his head questioningly. “Are you proposing that we do as he says? All that would do, Simon, is give hope to all the factions and set the groundwork for future terrorist activity. Once they see that the United States is willing to bend and give, then radicals will attack ceaselessly—always punching, kicking, scratching and clawing like a small child having a tantrum until we say: Okay, that’s enough, you win.” He leaned forward. “That is not going to happen, Simon. Not on my watch.”
“Mr. President...” Simon pointed to an adjacent LCD that showed the Capitol burning. “That dome stood for more than two centuries. And now it’s gone. The refusal to negotiate with terrorists was always a command decision based on the acts taking place on foreign soil. But this time it’s different. This is taking place on American soil with American people dying on lands they presumed to be safe.”
“To everyone at this table,” the president said, “we have been at war for some time now. And we have been at war on the fronts of other countries. Now that conflict has finally reached our shores, we will look upon this as a test of our mettle. It’s been said before and I’ll say it again: The road to freedom is paved with casualties. Let’s not forget that. Let’s not forget who we are.”
“Mr. President, if I may.” This time it was Secretary of State Jenifer Rimaldi.
“Go ahead.”
“In one hour, when Shazad comes back and you tell him that you will not concede, he will set off another drone.”
President Carmichael leaned forward. “That’s one hour, Jenifer—one hour’s time to find this guy. It’s one hour I didn’t have a few minutes ago.”
Rimaldi seemed to understand him and gave an agreeable nod. “I see,” she said. “You’re allowing commlink to trace the path of the incoming calls from Shazad.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Still,” said Simon Davis, “you’re taking a gamble here. Cyber prints can be disguised, Mr. President. It can take time to track down his trail. And time is not exactly a luxury we have at the moment.”
“Sometimes in war, Simon, you have to gamble in order to win the entire pot. Right now we have little to go on since Shazad has played this perfectly.”
Carmichael then gazed upon the display and watched the Capitol burn. It was at this moment that he felt caught within a Gordian tangle of strife and emotions that were all twisted and black. Slowly, President Carmichael was becoming a husk of his former self as these sentiments began to eat him hollow from the inside out.
He then sighed through his nose, never once taking his eyes off the screen.
Rome was once again burning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OUTCAST Facility
Beneath the first level of the meeting and communications rooms lay the armory, a weapons chamber that was encased by two inches of titanium. The door was electronically operated by a keypad code, and strips of motion-activated LED lighting ran along the ceiling, casting whitish glow over a table with disassembled pieces of MP-5 submachine guns scattered over its surface.
Nay, Liam and Dante were dismantling and reassembling the armaments, checking them for possible malfunctions and wear, and making sure that they were primed and without fault when the call came down from Tanner for them to move—should the order come down at all.
