by Judith Lucci
Syed gave them a dirty look and asked, "What have you been doing this morning, boys? Nothing, I would guess?" Syed's voice dripped with sarcasm.
Ali responded, "I went to my lab and worked until a few minutes ago."
Habib remained silent.
Mohammed stared at the two men and asked, "Where is Nazir?"
"In his room," Habib answered. "He's been in there praying all morning."
"Get him," Mohammed gestured to Syed. "Bring him out here for instructions."
Syed immediately disappeared and returned with a disheveled Nazir in tow.
Ali was alarmed at the state of his brother. Nazir seemed to have experienced a nervous breakdown. His face was pale and he could hardly speak. His eyes seemed to jump around in their sockets and he was incoherent. Ali couldn't understand his speech. It was garbled. He wondered if Syed had given him drugs. He rose to go to him.
"Sit, Ali. Now," Omar growled at the young man. "Leave your brother alone. He is on his mission now. He cannot be interrupted.”
Ali’s attention shifted to Mohammed returning from the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up exposing his thick, strong arms with powerful muscles. Ali suspected the rest of him was just as powerful but didn't want to find out. He was built like a tree trunk. Strong and thick. Mohammed had a bottle of water in one hand and stood, towering over the men seated on the couch, an obvious dominance gesture. The power play was undeniable and it was working on Ali. He was terrified beyond belief. Habib expressed no outward signs of fear but Ali could swear he could smell fear emanating from his body.
The Jihad leader smiled at Habib and Nazir and said, "There has been a change in plans. You will both enter the French Quarter as suicide bombers. Nazir, you will enter from the French Market and proceed to the Café Du Monde and Habib, you will enter a block up from Harrah's Casino. Syed will strap both of you with vests loaded with explosives. You'll be carrying approximately 60 pounds of explosives and iron shrapnel. The shrapnel will increase the lethal aspects of the bomb. In addition to the vest, you will carry a backpack with more shrapnel and explosives, mainly TNT. The explosives will be wired through a couple of batteries and up the pants leg to a simple trigger device. This device will be located in your pocket. You will have control over the detonator. Do you understand what I am saying?"
Habib nodded slowly while Nazir's blank look persisted.
Mohammed looked at his watch and asked again, this time loudly, “Nazir, do you understand? You will be a suicide bomber."
Nazir nodded slightly and continued to listen to Mohammed. He was unable to speak.
"As I said last night, the purpose of this ruse is to scare people into buildings where we have located the weaponized, aerosol virus and Novichok."
Ali went numb with disbelief. Oh my God, Novichok! Ali was stunned. How could they do this? Novichok was a chemical nerve agent more deadly than VX. VX was another nerve agent that was similar to sarin gas but was in liquid form. Many referred to VX as liquid sarin but it was much, much worse. But, Novichok was a liquid. It wouldn't work. Ali felt a sense of relief for an instant and then remembered. Of course, Novichok would work. It would vaporize in a canister. The canisters were nothing but CO2 tanks. In combination with the weaponized virus, it would be absolutely lethal. There was no possibility that Ali's secret anti-viral agent he had added to the aerosol virus would help anyone who inhaled Novichok.
As Ali continued to think, his skin pricked in fear. The Jihadists were smart. Novichok was a lethal killer. Ali was terrified as he reviewed Novichok in his mind. Some forms of Novichok were thought to be 10 times more lethal than VX, which was similar to sarin. These people were monsters, absolutely monsters. And they were doing this for his God? Ali wasn't so sure. He knew these people would die a horrific death. He paled and his stomach soured as he considered the agony the Red Jihad planned to thrust against the defenseless people of New Orleans in just a matter of a few hours.
Mohammed continued, "It is not our plan for you to detonate your trigger. That will be your choice."
Ali saw Syed smile to himself. He's going to detonate the triggers remotely. I just know he is. What can I do? I wonder if the leaders know he is planning to kill his comrades?
“If you fulfill this suicide mission, you will be hailed and remembered as a Warrior Martyr. Your pictures will grace our internet sites and web pages, and your martyrdom will be memorialized on our blogs. You will be revered in our chat rooms and you will be heroes for eternity among the faithful. Even your bones will become sacred as they too become killing tools to destroy the infidels. Remember what our Quran says,
"And kill them wherever you find them, and drive them out from where they drove you out....and fight not with them at the Sacred Mosque until they fight with you in it, so if they fight you in it, slay them." and, "Such is the recompenses of the disbelievers." (Surah 2:191, the Quran)
Ali glanced at Nazir who seemed peaceful. He had a tranquil look on his face. Ali thought he would vomit. He knew his brother would take his own life and a quick look at Habib suggested that Habib was also calmed by the words. Habib appeared relaxed and serene. What a bunch of bullshit. Ali was sickened by all of it. He wanted to run.
Chapter 46
Jack and Ted stood in Command Center at Harrah’s Hotel and looked down at the enormous crowd in the French Quarter. There was no way they could identify anyone from this height. All around them technicians constantly analyzed data feeds from multiple security cameras and used gesture recognition and behavioral clue analysis to trail and data mine any questionable or suspect behaviors.
Stoner and Bodine approached them and Bodine said, "We've got a hit on some gesture recognition. Come here and take a look."
"What the hell? Why is the President still coming?" Ted questioned.
Stoner shrugged his shoulders, "Don't know, the man is defiant and hardheaded. That's what got him elected and he's not changing now."
Oh my God, oh my God, what's going to happen to us? Jack's enormous body was paralyzed with fear. Holy Mother, have mercy on all of us.
Chapter 47
It was a little past noon on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The sky was azure, the Mississippi River looked clean, and the mood in the Vieux Carre was jubilant. New Orleans, always read for a party, was proudly celebrating the visit of the President of the United States. Signs stating "Fix America" popped up all over the Vieux Carre and American flags hung boldly from French Quarter balconies. Mimes, some on stilts, wore Uncle Sam outfits and strode around the Quarter. Hundreds of Americans sported red, white, and blue beads along with the traditional Mardi Gras beads of gold, purple, and green. Several locals were dressed as the Statue of Liberty and many, many revelers had on masks depicting the President and Vice President and other key political figures. The tempo was upbeat and thousands of partiers had no idea of the imminent danger
It was always an instant party in the Big Easy and The Quarter was celebrating in full regalia. French Market vendors hawked American flags and patriotic trivia of all types and sizes throughout the Quarter. Hundreds of tourists waved flags as they listened to jazzed up versions of The Star Spangled Banner and John Phillip Sousa. Citizens and tourists alike were celebrating patriotism and the alcohol was flowing. The narrow streets were packed with activity and teeming with locals enjoying a day off.
Tourists drinking Hurricanes from Pat O'Briens and Mimosas and Sazuracs, the quintessential New Orleans cocktails purchased from sidewalk cafés were dancing in the Streets, hoping for a glimpse of the President as he moved toward the Convention Center. Red, white, and blue filled the city. The day was picturesque, the weather perfect and the patriotism reminiscent of a Fourth of July parade. The crowd craned their necks and hoped for a glimpse of the most powerful man in the free world.
It had been rumored that the President's motorcade would travel down Decatur Street to the River, but Alex knew that would not happen. The crowds and extraordinary security precautions would prevent that. She figured no one would
see the President on the streets. It just wasn't happening that day in New Orleans.
Jackson Square was even more alive with activity. Alex, Jack, and Ted watched the crowds from a shaded bench practically out of sight of the crowd. All three were dressed as tourists and John was sipping cafe au lait from Café du Monde.
Looking around, Alex couldn't help but admire and appreciate the spirit of the city. The boundless energy of New Orleans was addictive and the mood of the crowd happy and optimistic. If only they knew what was happening. They'd be stampeding out of here. While there was no question that New Orleans had the deep, dark problems and sinister underbelly of most large cities, the city seemed to possess its own life force and the essence of the city was deeply rooted in the customs, culture, and hearts of New Orleanians and their guests. Life was always good there - usually.
Alex felt her heart lighten for a moment but the feeling was only temporary. She glanced upward. No one in the crowd knew about the dozen or so highly trained FBI snipers crouching on the roofs all over the Quarter, prepared to shoot in an instant. The crowd was oblivious to the constant vigilance of the Secret Service and FBI. They were unaware that facial recognition scanners using biometric technology had been implanted in security scanners at multiple locations throughout the French Quarter.
NOPD police vehicles were parked at strategic intersections throughout the downtown area constantly scanning the license plates of passing vehicles. The license plates of Nazir and Habib were programmed into the scanner and an alarm would sound if they were spotted nearby. Locals and tourists didn't know about the Command Posts at One Shell Square and Harrah's Hotel where data analyst technicians sat in front of multiple computers constantly scanning video surveillance equipment and social media sites.
Alex supposed the crowd assumed the National Guard and exaggerated police presence was just routine security for POTUS. Most of the crowd was preoccupied with having a great time and enjoying a beautiful day in New Orleans. Who could blame them? She wished she were part of the crowd who had no idea what could possibly happen in the next few hours or so.
Jack's Bluetooth cracked as she continued to daydream. She knew no one would catch a glimpse of the President. Even the press and media, relentless in their pursuit, were confused. The Secret Service kept changing his route to the Convention Center. Security was much too tight and the Secret Service was moving him slowly and surreptitiously downtown toward the Convention Center, scrambling their signals to prevent any breaches in security.
Alex checked her watch. It was a little after one. She glanced upward, and couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but she knew the snipers were there. She closed her eyes and continued to daydream. She was exhausted. The warm sun on her face encouraged her to keep her eyes closed as she relived the last few days in her mind. The ordeal with her grandparents had depleted the little bit of reserve energy she had. She felt her Grand would be OK but Alex's clinical mind knew she could experience significant complications from her injuries. Kathryn could easily contract pneumonia with her cracked ribs or an infection from her numerous wounds based on the severity of her beatings. She could even have a stroke when she became fully alert and remember the trauma of being beaten. Then, there were all the normal concerns you could expect from any elderly woman admitted to intensive care. Besides, Kathryn still had to have her broken shoulder repaired through surgery and that carried all kinds of risks. A negative thought creeped into Alex's brain as she finally allowed herself to admit the severity of the head injuries her grandmother had sustained could result in permanent brain injury. Robert had just said that to her several hours ago as he reminded her that her grandmother wasn't out of the woods yet.
A sick feeling came over her as she confronted other realities concerning her grandparents. At their age and frail health, recovering from the psychological trauma could take months and in her heart, she knew her grandmother would recover but didn't believe her grandfather would. As he considered the dangers he had placed on his family, he seemed to become more and more sullen and non-communicative as each hour passed. He was depressed and remorseful and Alex was fearful for his mental health. She had mentioned this to Robert who'd promised to talk with him. Adam was currently with her grandmother at Tulane University Hospital where he intended to stay until Kathryn was awake, alert and out of danger. He would not be participating in Operation Fix America, putting the health of his wife and family first. Monique continued to stay with Beth Blankenship over at the Palm Court and she seemed to be holding up well.
Alex knew Monique was grateful for the opportunity to be useful. Besides, as one of the most prominent psychiatrists in the United States, she, more than anyone, could assist Beth with her grief. Alex only hoped her eminent psychiatrist friend didn't become overtired or jeopardize her own recovery. She'd been through so much.
Alex opened her eyes, looked into the beautiful blue sky covering the city and sent up a prayer for Monique's continued recovery. Perhaps Monique could help her grandfather. This thought occurred to Alex like a thundering epiphany. As the medical director of The Pavilion, CCMCs psychiatric hospital, Monique Desmonde was well known for her work with depressed patients. Please, please, please Lord. Let Monique continue to get better every day. I need her more than ever, and so does Jack. Alex loved the beautiful Monique Desmonde, who had been so brutally targeted in a heinous crime just a few short months ago.
Alex continued to muse as she pushed bad thoughts from her mind and enjoyed the first moments of peace she'd experienced in days. She listened to the jazz and her muscles relaxed as her foot kept time with the music. Her eyes grew heavy with sleep. She dozed off for several moments, dreaming that she was once again at Wyndley Farm riding her mare Dundee through the woods and meadowlands. As her heart rate decreased and her breathing slowed, Alex dreamed about happier days. She loved her home in Virginia and missed it terribly. Perhaps, when this year was over she would return. She knew she could find a job in Charlottesville, probably at the University of Virginia or Martha Washington Hospital, part of the Sentara hospital chain. She might even consider a position in Richmond at Virginia Commonwealth University. VCU was a huge health sciences center with a medical and nursing school with a premier reputation as one of the best hospitals in the world. It had a long, prestigious history and had pioneered the first heart transplant in the world. She had many friends working at VCU and several years ago, there was talk of adding another legal advisor. Of course, she mused, there were always opportunities in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, or maybe she could investigate the Medical Centers in Washington, DC and Northern Virginia, all within several hours of Wyndley Farm. She could get an apartment in Richmond or DC and be at Wyndley for long weekends, every weekend. Maybe she would do something in health policy. After all, before she switched to law, she was working on a PhD in nursing in health care policy.
Hmmm. Thinking about this was inspiring. And, there would be no Don Montgomery, her incompetent, egotistical, ineffectual CEO. No Bette Favre, the devious, unconcerned, uncaring nurse executive. Her thoughts turned to Robert and her love for him. He was always there for her and he always had been, except of course, when he'd broken her heart and divorced her. She shuddered when she considered life without him. The fact that she'd admitted to herself that she loved him stunned her. I've spent years trying to convince myself that I don't love him. What is different today? Is it because this could be our last day on earth?
Tears stung Alex's eyes for a moment as she continued to think. I wish I had told Robert how much I love him. I never even thought about that. As Alex berated herself, she thought about all the love Robert had shown her over the past year. He loved her grandparents, at least her grandmother, as much as she did. Alex smiled as she remembered the difficult moments he’d experienced with Adam, her stubborn, dogmatic irascible grandfather, over the years. They were as different as black and white, but she knew Robert respected her grandfather greatly. Robert had handled some diffi
cult moments with refinement and dignity.
Suddenly, Alex woke, startled and jumped up.
Jack looked at her alarmed. "What the hell, what's wrong, Alex," Jack demanded, seeing the wild-eyed look in Alex's beautiful blue eyes.
"Something is going to happen now. I think it's over there and..." Alex pointed as a high-pitched screaming that quickly shattered the peaceful solitude of the day silenced her voice. The screaming quickly escalated to a fervent ear-piercing pitch. Alex saw a dusty blue van drive off onto Decatur.
"Oh my God, Jack, Ted. That's the terrorists! I saw that same van this morning at the Hotel Burgundy and at CCMC.”
Jack grabbed his radio and began talking rapidly into his Bluetooth headset.
Pandemonium broke loose. People were running into Jackson Square from every direction. Parents were dragging their small children and several young mothers had abandoned strollers and were running with their babies. The chaos was frightening and the screams were deafening, the fear palpable.
Alex searched the crowd in vain for the cause of the fear. At that moment, a suicide bomber walked into the opposite end of Jackson Square from the direction of Café du Monde. Alex grabbed Jack and pointed as his Bluetooth wireless set squawked loudly. The bomber was a tall, dark-haired man with longish hair and a heavy beard. Even from the distance, Alex could see that he was speaking. In fact, he appeared to be chanting, and his eyes were flowing with tears. He looked unstable and hysterical. She could lip read the word "Allah". The man had a bomber jacket in his right hand and held either a cell phone, with a cord connecting it to a switch of some kind or electronic gadget, high in the air. He wore a vest with multiple pockets filled with explosives protruding out. In the distance, Alex noted the brightly dressed organ grinder, the one usually parked near Jackson Square with his monkey on a leash watching from the distance, standing next to his Calliope. What the hell was going on? All of this was bizarre and surreal.
