The Doodlebug War: a Tale of Fanatics and Romantics (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 3)

by Andrew Updegrove

  Will you have more help soon?

  How? Manhattan’s cut off! The terrorists hit every single one of the major bridges and tunnels that link Manhattan to the rest of the world! We don’t have enough open beds in Manhattan to treat those we need to evacuate from this side, so we’re starting to medevac patients out to surrounding hospitals, especially where they require special care. But there are only a few helipads on the island. Our disaster plans call for the Coast Guard to take charge of setting up additional landing areas in Central Park, but I don’t have any information on how that’s proceeding.

  How about in the other boroughs?

  Everything should be easier at the other ends of the tunnels and bridges, because there are more hospitals in the surrounding area where the injured can be taken. But people haven’t been as good about staying off the streets there. A lot of folks are trying to get out of New York any way they can in case the attacks aren’t over yet. But that’s never easy even when you can go through Manhattan. Every road north and east is bumper to bumper, and there’s no way to go west, except on the Verrazano Bridge.

  Thanks very much for that important information, Mr. Olafsson. Chet, back to you.

  The camera returned to a somber newsman seated at the network studio. Covering the screen behind him was a still picture of a fireman carrying a small, badly injured child in his arms.

  What a terrible, terrible day. For those of you who may just be tuning in, as many as fifteen truck bombs, each believed to be carrying two tons or more of explosives, shattered the automotive tunnels and bridges leading into Manhattan today, beginning at approximately 9:20 AM. An unknown number of smaller bombs disabled or trapped at least twelve subway trains underground. Multiple commuter trains were attacked as well.

  In an extraordinary feat of coordination, all of the bombs were detonated within five minutes of each other, effectively cutting off the more than 1.6 million people who live in Manhattan from the rest of the country and stranding as many as 2.4 million commuters that had already arrived at work. At least ten thousand people are feared to have died in the four tunnels serving Manhattan. A much smaller, but still unknown number, died on Manhattan bridges. Officials estimate that perhaps twelve thousand commuters may still be underground, trapped in subway and commuter train tunnels, an unknown number of whom have been killed or injured.

  Coming up next: The president will address the nation at noon; ferries from throughout the metropolitan area and the surrounding region are pressed into service to bring much-needed medical supplies, first responders, and food into Manhattan and evacuate the injured; and what we know about the man assumed to be behind today’s horrific attacks.

  Frank had seen enough. He stood up to leave, and the cab driver followed him. They weaved through the crowd and entered the dining room.

  “I wonder who did it?” Frank said.

  “I don’t want to think. I think about my family instead,” the cabbie replied.

  Of course, he would. Lots of kids commuted to school in Manhattan by subway. And everybody would immediately assume Foobar had just carried out his threat. The backlash against Muslims would start immediately, even if no one could tell for sure that the Caliphate was responsible. Frank fumbled for his wallet and pulled out fifty dollars.

  “Here—don’t worry about sticking around for me.”

  The cab driver nodded his thanks and plunged into the crowd outside. Frank stood alone in the deserted dining room, trying to figure out what to do next. With a shock, he wondered what the fate of the rest of the Tiger Team members might have been? Tim had taken an earlier flight—where was he? Frank dove into his pocket for his phone just as it rang—it was Marla—he should have thought to call her immediately.

  “Thank God, you answered! Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine—totally fine.”

  “Thank goodness! I’ve been calling you nonstop for the last half hour! All the lines have been jammed with too many calls! Where are you?”

  “Brooklyn. I never got close to the bridge. How about Tim?”

  She was crying now. “I haven’t spoken to him, but I got a text from him saying he was okay before I even knew what was happening. But I didn’t know what had happened to you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know; somewhere in Manhattan.”

  “Why don’t you try and reach him then. And don’t worry about me. Really, I’m fine.”

  “Well, be sure you stay that way, and come home soon. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. I’ll let you know when I can get home. Now go connect with Tim.”

  “Okay.”

  He stood there for quite a while, feeling numb and not knowing what to do or where to go.

  Outside, crowds of people hurried by, each one totally absorbed by what they were seeing on the mobile devices clutched in their hands, trying not to believe that the horrors that seemed to be obliterating the world around them could possibly be real.

  * * *

  10

  Foobar’s Manifest Destiny

  Everything was chaos in the days that followed. Confusion and fear reigned as families near and far sought to learn the fate of loved ones and the city struggled to get back on its feet. Rescue teams fought heroically to save victims who were almost certainly already dead. And federal and local officials wrestled with the challenges of a crisis of a magnitude they had never imagined could actually occur.

  Forty-eight hours after the attack, several of the members of the multiple Tiger Teams were still not accounted for. The most recent one to be tracked down was unconscious and in critical condition at a hospital in Queens; she had been injured by the blast that took down the west tower of the Brooklyn Bridge. Gene Ensign, Hermann Koontz’s Whiz Kid, was missing and feared dead.

  Frank was on his way back to Washington by the evening of the day of the attack, courtesy of a CIA bus sent north to collect any Tiger Team members lucky enough to be outside Manhattan when all hell broke loose. They were picked up from the various points they’d reached before gridlock set in. As he gazed through the tinted window of the bus, Frank couldn’t help imagining he was watching a World War Two news reel of citizens feverishly evacuating a city facing imminent attack.

  Thousands of travelers were far less fortunate. As the bus moved slowly along side streets, he looked across highway barriers into the eyes of motorists stuck in their cars on roads leading to now-destroyed tunnels and impassable bridges, impatiently waiting their turn to back up a mile or more to an exit ramp. Some would certainly still be there after he had arrived home.

  Overhead, he heard a constant stream of private and military helicopters shuttling the critically injured from the subway and train tunnels to any hospital that was able to accept them. The news stream he was monitoring told him that commuter ferries were hard at work at the Herculean task of draining the island of millions of commuters a few hundred at a time. Until they did, those still stranded would have no place to sleep and little enough to eat. On the return trips, the ferries carried whatever food could be rushed to the docks to feed the millions who could receive food no other way until the bridges and tunnels were restored.

  But getting commuters, business travelers, and tourists back across the Hudson or the East River was just the first step; after that, they needed to somehow be returned to wherever they lived. For commuters, that could be as much as a hundred miles away. And for everyone else, it could be anywhere in the world. Passing a high school, Frank saw relief workers setting up hundreds of tents on football and baseball fields as a transit camp to warehouse and feed the evacuees until a way could be found to return them to their homes and families.

  Later, sitting exhausted but alert in the darkened bus as it neared Washington, he realized for the first time how deadly serious his work for the CIA was. Until now, the enemy ha
d seemed abstract and far away. Now, it seemed to be everywhere around him. When the cars were towed from the tunnels and raised from the riverbed, he knew that he would recognize names. Most of those he’d grown up with in his working-class Brooklyn neighborhood still lived there or nearby; many must have been victims or had relatives who had been killed or injured. All would be feeling the emotional and economic aftershocks of the bombings for a long time to come.

  The next morning, Tim was still stuck in Manhattan, so Frank joined Marla to watch the round-the-clock newscasts covering the disaster. Most of the footage was simply a mind-numbing, repetitive montage of horrific scenes, accompanied by the same inadequate information that had already been repeated dozens of times before. But little by little, more details surfaced. They were watching as the most significant news broke.

  We’ve just received word that a major announcement is about to be made on behalf of Mullah Muhammed Foobar. The expectation is that he will claim responsibility for the attack on New York. Please stay with us as we switch to a live feed courtesy of a CCB team filming on-site in al-Raqqa.

  Frank recognized the dusty square instantly. He’d viewed the same one, vastly expanded in size, on the wall of the CIA conference room. As before, an enormous crowd was gathered, facing the high balcony on which Foobar’s spokesperson invariably appeared.

  Hello, Liz. Can you hear me?

  There was a pause while the question and answer cycled halfway around the world and back.

  Yes, Dick. Very well indeed, thank you.

  Can you tell our viewers what we’re looking at?

  Yes, certainly. We’re standing on the roof of the Hotel International overlooking the Place of the Martyrs, the new name Mullah Muhammed Foobar gave to the square after taking the city thirteen months ago and declaring it as his capital.

  What are we expecting to hear today?

  We anticipate that at any moment Sheik Tariq ibn Ziyad will appear on behalf of the Caliphate to claim responsibility for the New York attack.

  Why do you think that will happen?

  As you know, Dick, one of the reasons the Caliphate has been so successful is its mastery of communication. Indeed, one of Foobar’s first acts after seizing al-Raqqa from ISIS was to announce the formation of a Caliphate Ministry of Media Relations. Earlier today, we were given a press release, under embargo until just a few minutes ago, and told to expect a full translation of the Sheik’s address immediately following its completion.

  That’s rather remarkable, isn’t it?

  Yes, but that’s not all. We’re told that he will also announce that more attacks are on the way.

  The news anchor paused, looking shaken.

  More attacks! That’s really bad news. Is there anything more?

  Yes, but they’re holding back on the details. All they’ve said is that we should expect an announcement that’s even more momentous.

  As she was speaking, a tall man in flowing white robes stepped on to the balcony above the square, and the camera zoomed in. The crowd rewarded him with a thunderous roar of approval that grew even louder when he drew a curved scimitar from the red sash around his waist and brandished it in the air.

  Is that the sheik?

  Yes. We’re told that Ziyad is a member of Foobar’s innermost circle.

  Another figure appeared briefly on the balcony and handed something to the sheik. The crowd fell silent as he sheathed his sword and unrolled a scroll, holding it before him at shoulder level. When he began reading, his voice boomed across the square, broadcast by speakers on all sides.

  Can you tell me what he’s saying?

  He’s extolling the virtues of Foobar and condemning the evils of the West. It’s sort of a warm-up act the Caliphate always uses to get the crowd energized.

  What is he talking about, specifically?

  Oh, the usual complaints about Western society: its decadence, its obsession with material wealth, its slavish reliance on technology. She paused. Wait a minute. Here it comes…

  Wild cheers overwhelmed her voice before she could finish. When at last the din died away, she resumed.

  Yes, that was it. He’s just announced that dozens of martyrs who swore allegiance to Foobar carried out the attack on New York after months of careful planning. He said their success proves the righteousness of the cause. She paused again.

  Now what?

  He’s saying that this is merely the modest prelude to attacks that will be even more devastating, followed by a final assault that will annihilate the West forever and herald the coming of the end times.

  The end times? I thought that was only a Christian concept.

  Not at all. Christianity, Islam, Judaism—they all share the same roots and honor many of the same prophets, including Jesus. Muslims don’t believe he’s the one that will return at the end of the world, though.

  You say, ‘not the one.’ Do Muslims believe in a second coming of some sort?

  Oh yes, quite. Almost all Muslims, Sunni and Shiite alike, believe in—

  She stopped abruptly and turned her back to the camera, staring out over the square as the sheik finished speaking and disappeared from the balcony.

  For a single moment, there was utter silence. Then the square erupted into bedlam, as the crowd cheered hysterically; some fired automatic weapons into the air.

  The newscaster turned back and began speaking rapidly.

  Sheik Ziyad has just announced that Mohammed Mullah Foobar has revealed himself to the world as the Mahdi. This will be viewed as truly momentous news across the entire Islamic world. At least, by those that believe him. According to…

  Hold that thought, Liz, while we pause for a brief commercial break.

  * * *

  Marla turned to look at her father as the channel cut to a detergent ad. “What’s a Mahdi?”

  “He’s the figure the newscaster was just about to talk about—the rough corollary to Jesus Christ in Islam, whose return was foretold not long after Mohammed’s death. His arrival is supposed to lead to the defeat of evil in the world, leading up to the Day of Judgment itself.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “And you know this why?”

  He knew this because his briefing materials included a crash course on Islam, but he wasn’t about to say so. “Why shouldn’t I know this? You’re not the only person in the family who’s been to school you know. It just annoys you that I know something you don’t.”

  Which was also true, but she wasn’t about to say so, either. “Okay, so tell me more.”

  “Most Muslims agree that there is someone, referred to as the Mahdi, that will return, but there are a lot of variations on the theme. To Shia Muslims, the Mahdi is the Twelfth Imam, a direct descendant of the prophet Mohammed. They believe he disappeared around eight hundred seventy-three when he was very young and has been hidden ever since—they call this the Occultation—awaiting his appointed time of return. When he does come again, he’s to rule for seven years, returning justice to the world, leading up to the Day of Judgment.

  “If Foobar can get enough people to believe that he’s really the one who has been awaited for so long, that could be real trouble; thousands, maybe even millions, of people might rally to his banner. Pretty shrewd move on his part, I’d say.”

  “I guess so. I wonder what happens next?”

  * * *

  The vast majority of Muslims throughout the world were appalled by Foobar’s savagery and rejected his declaration out of hand. But his announcement was met with joy and celebration by some. Coming immediately after his stunning attack on New York City, it was particularly effective in persuading the desperate and disaffected Islamic youth of many countries to rally to his banner. Spontaneous celebrations broke out in cities and villages throughout North Africa, the Middle East, and across Europe.
In France, thousands of young, unemployed men in downtrodden Arab neighborhoods poured out of their tenements and into the streets to riot throughout the night, burning hundreds of cars. For twenty-four hours, the police dared do no more than watch, for fear of inciting even worse violence.

  Meanwhile, the administration found itself in an impossible position: the public expected the military to throw everything it had into an immediate and punishing response. But Foobar had prepared the Caliphate’s forces well, dispersing his troops into the countryside and mountains over the days preceding the attack, leaving the U.S. with enormous firepower but almost nothing to target.

  Frank spent most of the next three days watching archival video footage of the rise of the Caliphate and poring through the new briefing books the CIA circulated to the Tiger Teams, reading everything he could find about Foobar. Which, regrettably, was not much.

  No one knew where he had grown up or what he had done before he emerged on the scene less than three years before. There was not a single confirmed picture of the man, or even a verifiable, firsthand sighting of him by anyone from the West. The CIA wasn’t convinced he actually existed. One school of thought held that an inner circle of Islamist radicals collectively controlled the Caliphate and had concocted Foobar as a convenient fiction to fulfill historical prophecies in order to lend legitimacy to their cause.

  Some of what Frank learned was even stirring, in a schoolboy adventure sort of way. Take Foobar’s generals, for example. He watched footage from the Caliphate’s site showing Foobar’s commanders leading his armies into battle, each mounted on a pure white Arabian steed and armed with nothing but a sword—a scene straight out of first millennium history. The sight of such fearless warriors rushing pell-mell into battle against enemies firing state of the art modern weapons left Frank grudgingly impressed with their courage and conviction.