Hannibal is at the Gates

by David Kershner

  She finished with the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Nice touch, Alysin,” Lily said as the four made their way to Vic’s truck. “You just had to recite a passage with Josh’s given name in it.”

  “I thought it was fitting… considering our destination. I wanted their spirit to know where we went,” Alysin replied with a smile.

  Chapter 13

  Suhrab picked up the latest edition of the New York Times and began perusing the classified section. The Ayatollah’s network of handlers had worked with Suhrab and Foreign Minister Nafisi to devise a means of communication that wasn’t electronic, but still secure. The communication needed to be coded to the point where only Suhrab would know what it meant. Suhrab couldn’t reply back, but they could feed him intel and planning information as new details became available.

  As he read, he quickly found what he was looking for.

  Are you displaced?

  Does your luck need to change?

  Then try these lucky numbers:

  27, 12, 20, 22, 5

  Suhrab saw the string of digits and immediately retrieved the New York Times for the 27th of December from the stack of papers he kept. He unfolded the paper and turned to the fifth page. He then began feverishly searching the remainder of the classifieds for similarly worded ads. He found two.

  Change your stars with these numbers:

  11, 3, 7, 15, 45

  16, 1, 9, 30, 32

  Guaranteed Inner Peace

  Your Weekly Numbers Are:

  21, 4, 14, 23, 47

  35, 12, 17, 18, 26

  The order in which they appeared in the paper didn’t matter, that couldn’t be controlled. The one line advertisement was the master key and only told him where to start. Once he knew the specific date for the periodical, the rest was fairly straight forward. The lowest numeral from each ad determined the message. Once that was established, each row held the location for the decode. The ‘11’ was actually a two digits. They indicated column 1, paragraph 1, and the same were true for the others. The other values comprised the text of the communication.

  Suhrab began talking out loud as he began piecing the puzzle together.

  “Column one... paragraph one... third, seventh, fifteenth, and forty-fifth word. That translates to... ‘British’, ‘know’, ‘operation’, and ‘detail’.

  What! How? Suhrab’s mind was racing. What else do they know?

  “Same column, paragraph six... first, ninth, thirtieth, and thirty-second. ‘Watch’, ‘reserves’, ‘witness’, and ‘test’.

  By Allah!

  When Suhrab finished translating everything, the message read:

  British know operation detail

  Watch reserves witness test

  Good speed wants cooperation

  Target list amended soon

  * * *

  Navid approached the gift shop at the Dulles Metro terminal and began scanning though the stacks of available newspapers. Every day he made the same trip, bought the New York Times, and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. For three weeks, he was met with disappointment. Will today be any different?

  He paid his money and headed back to his apartment. As he sat and ate his flat bread and jam, he perused the classified ads in the Times looking for some sort of message.

  Earlier in the year, the U.S. had been divided into sectors for the distribution of food and ration books. Suhrab read all about it. Consequently, when the topic of communication came up during the planning phases, Suhrab dispersed his team members according to Secretary McInerney’s conveniently advertised sectors.

  Navid had been assigned to a city in the Mid-Atlantic sector. Suhrab would use the placement of adds to direct one, two, or all members. When Suhrab needed to make a broadcast announcement to all sectors, the ad would be placed and contain the phrase ‘Brothers in Allah’. If the ad was directed at a particular sector, the sector’s name would be used.

  Navid methodically read through the pages of classifieds in the hopes that the green light had been given. On page seventeen, he found what he was looking for.

  ATTN:

  Brothers in Allah

  National Meeting

  April 5th, 2023

  Locations: TBD

  Finally! Navid was so excited to see the headline that it didn’t immediately register that the location was undetermined. Once it became clear that it was only half a message, as only the date had been set, his mind began to race. This can’t be right! It should have said ‘All Sectors’. Was a believer discovered? Was someone caught?

  Navid had espoused a simultaneous nationwide attack throughout their training. His entire family had been wiped out in one fell swoop by a drone strike years earlier. He wanted his pound of flesh, sooner rather than later. His impatience and boldness was a constant conversation within the leadership hierarchy. He had been cautioned several times not to deviate from the plan. He reminded himself of those conversations with Suhrab and resisted the impulse to go and test fire the weapon again. Be patient. Suhrab knows what he’s doing.

  Navid walked over and retrieved the small 2023 calendar he had placed on the refrigerator. As he retook his seat in the lone upholstered chair adorning his apartment, he began counting down to his retribution.

  Today is January 12th. That’s eighty-two days. Then it hit him. What am I going to do for three months? What are the targets?

  The temptation was too great. Let’s have a little fun and see what this thing can do.

  He sat and re-read all of the articles he had torn from the papers covering the incidents, all safe and highly visible. Then he struck upon a thought. No one had tried this against a military target.

  Navid had been collecting all of the various branch periodicals in addition to his daily quota of the New York Times just in case. He quickly went over to the stack and started looking for a suitable objective. In the third magazine from the top was a copy of the Navy Times with a front cover depicting a destroyer leaving port. The heading read: U.S.S. Gravely Sea Trials Commencing.

  Navid flipped to the article and read that the ship had recently been retrofitted in dry dock to accommodate the latest generation of nuclear propulsion. The conversion from four GE gas turbines to the lone reactor was heralded by the Westinghouse designers as a successful coup for naval engineering. The nuclear powered vessel had spent a week at sea testing its new propulsion system, fire control systems, and sensor arrays. The ship was due back in Norfolk around sunset.

  Perfect! Let’s see how hardened their Navy really is.

  With a network of Muslim contacts at their disposal, it took less than a thirty minute cab ride to get to the car rental agency. For three hundred dollars, the man now had a fuel efficient and unassuming vehicle for the day. Four hours later he was sitting huddled at the top of the Old Point Comfort Lighthouse overlooking Hampton Roads. He was directly across the mouth of the James River from the Sewells Point Navy docks.

  Navid went back down to the second floor, removed one of the panes of glass from the stairwell window unit, and then glanced at his watch. It was almost 2:00 pm. Three hours to sunset.

  As he started to head back up to the top and make himself comfortable, and possibly take a nap, the shipping lane came alive with the repeated celebratory blaring of a horn. The man went back to the landing and discreetly peered out with his pocket scope. Navid quickly identified the offending racket. The Gravely was early and had just cleared the Fort Story peninsula. It had a broom strapped to its mast.

  Wonderful! A clean sweep at sea trials. Let’s see you fix this.

  The device powered on quietly and efficiently began charging, same as before. He didn’t want to take any chances with the armor plating so he waited until the ship was passing between himself and Rip Raps Island in the middle of the bay.

  Navid pointed the wand out the window at the massive steel hulk and flicked the switch. He left the device on for twice as long as he had with the commuter train. The Gravely was bombarded with repeated wav
es of electromagnetic energy until its propellers stopped churning the brackish sea.

  With a devilish grin, Navid replaced the glass, packed up the suitcase, and nonchalantly walked to his car. As he sat in his apartment flipping through one news show after another, there was no mention of the U.S.S. Gravely going dead in the water within sight of its mooring.

  * * *

  “Sir! Sir! Sir!” the young assistant exclaimed as he burst through the meeting room door. “Sir, you need to read these!” he said as he thrust the handful of decoded messages into Sir William’s calmly outstretched grasp.

  “Thank you, Nigel. That will be all,” Sir William replied coolly and unemotionally.

  Recognizing his bosses displeasure regarding his outwardly emotional display, the young aide composed himself and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Once the doors were closed, the Field Marshal and Prime Minister Goodspeed had a laugh at the man’s expense. The head of MI-6 quickly scanned through each decoded report.

  “Bloody hell!” the normally unemotional man exclaimed as he thrust the paper stack across the table.

  The PM perused the text and proclaimed, “Those damn jihadists took out an American destroyer!”

  “Keep reading,” Sir William ordered tersely.

  “Ah, those crafty Americans,” he replied with pride as he read on. Once he finished his review, he handed the mass of papers off to the Field Marshal.

  The Army practitioner groaned, guffawed, or mumbled something under his breath as he made his way through the pile.

  “You guys actually got a guy inside the vaults at Fort Knox?” the Field Marshal said more as a compliment than with surprise.

  “We certainly did. Unfortunately, those scheming buggers moved the contents,” Sir William replied. “They’ve called our bluff, Prime Minister. You probably should call the King and have our boys stand down.”

  “Who said we were bluffing,” the PM retorted.

  “What is the King looking to accomplish? There’s nothing there. Begging your pardon sir, but it’s a big damn colony. Those resources could be anywhere by now. Why are we even contemplating this?” the Field Marshal asked.

  “The country is bankrupt, Winston,” the Prime Minister replied to the Field Marshal informally. “The monarchy is broke. Can you imagine the chaos and panic that would descend on the streets of London if this ever became public knowledge? The EU monetary system would crumble. There’d be anarchy, plain and simple,” the PM answered.

  “If there’s no money, how do we pay for it?” Sir William asked.

  “The same way the Germans did. We’ll simply have to take it,” the Prime Minister replied cooly.

  “And our time table?” the head of MI-6 asked. “Some of the other reports show the Americans are forming up a good bit of resistance along their sea lanes. Air artillery and missile units are being repositioned and deployed to a number of bases, active and decommissioned, on both coasts. By the looks of things, it appears we are headed straight into another Atlantic Wall. The more time that passes the more difficult it will be breach their defenses.”

  “I have an idea on how to thwart those. As for our landing craft, we will continue to plan to use the St. Lawrence waterway as a flanking maneuver so we can quickly subdue the northeast and their financial center in New York. Actually, the states comprising that region of the country have done us a huge service. They disarmed their people for us. There should be little to no resistance in the Northeast sector, let alone New York.”

  “And how do you plan on getting our aircraft through the wall of lead and missiles they are sure to put up?” the Field Marshal asked. “We really ought to bring in the Air Chief Marshal for that discussion.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the Prime Minister replied as he pushed the ‘Call’ button on the intercom.

  “Yes, sir,” quickly came over the device.

  “Alister, this is Prime Minister Goodspeed.”

  “How may I be of service?”

  “Be a good lad and contact Foreign Minister Nafisi in the Iranian Consulate. Please ask him to come to Downing Street at his earliest convenience.”

  Turning his attention back to Sir William and the Field Marshal, the Prime Minister concluded their conversation by adding, “Across the Atlantic lays a colony that was once ours. Its government is rife with corruption and manipulation, its economy is a house of cards teetering precariously on the brink of ruin, and its foreign policy is ineffectual and laughable. Our King has given us the key to the front door and provided an opportunity to retake it... and that, gentlemen, is what we intend to do.”

  * * *

  Emily’s USDA issued cell phone chirped in her backpack. She quickly used a bottle of water to wash off as much of the caked on mud as possible and then went digging for the device.

  “This is Emily,” she said as she answered.

  “Hey, Em. It’s Elias. How are things in sunny Southern California?” his asked jovially.

  “It’s nice. The weather’s beautiful and the views are breathtaking. I’m just about done here so I’ll be sending my samples in a couple of days,” she replied.

  “Perfect. It sounds like the travelling is doing you some good. You seem happier. Where are you off to next?”

  “It seems kind of silly to fly over Texas and go to the east coast only to turn around and come back. I’ll stop there and do what I need and then wrap things up in the Florida. Okay?”

  “Good. Keep me posted,” he said as he was about to disconnect the call and hang up.

  “Elias?” Emily said quickly.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” he replied putting the receiver back against his ear. “What’s up?”

  “Have you had any luck finding Mr. Simmons? I gathered a wealth of information and I think his operation might be one of the final pieces I’m looking for,” she stated quickly.

  “Sorry, hun. That guy doesn’t want to be found. Best I’ve come up with is a phone number. No one ever answers the damn thing though. How’d that be?” he asked.

  “It’s a start. Text it to me?” she inquired.

  “Oh, Lord. More technology hoo-ha,” he said as he sighed. “I’ll get Mara to do it, okay?”

  “Thanks, Elias. I appreciate it,” Emily replied.

  The tireless researcher hunkered down in the shade of an olive tree and waited for the message to arrive while she nibbled on a snack. A few minutes later, it chimed.

  She pressed on the hyperlink number and the phone automatically dialed Josh. After three rings, it was answered.

  “Simmons residence, bride-to-be Samantha speaking,” echoed in her ear.

  “Sam! Is that you?” Emily said excitedly into the cell.

  “One in the same. Who may I ask is calling?”

  “It’s me! Emily,” she replied enthusiastically.

  “Emily Chastain! Where have you been? I tried reaching you at Bathemore and they said you were on sabbatical! Wait. How did you get this number?” her friend inquired.

  Emily quickly explained the circumstances of her employment, as well as how she came into possession of Josh’s home phone. The two had become friends while they worked together with Elias during the hearings. They were both gratefully relieved when Congress enacted several new laws governing the U.S. food system. Then Emily’s mood turned more sorrowful.

  “Still miss your husband?” Sam asked.

  “Honestly, yes, but it’s waning. The Army has him listed as missing, but it’s been almost a year. I don’t think he’s coming home. I’m out here doing all of this just hoping I can fill the void and eventually move on,” she concluded regrettably.

  “Don’t give up yet, Emily. Until they tell you they found him, don’t ever lose hope. Josh survived hell on earth and Gregg will too,” her friend remarked.

  “I think it’s a little different. Josh’s daughters were abducted. He got to get his closure. Where’s mine?” Emily asked.

  “Actually, what I was referring to was his
time in Bosnia.”

  The two spent the next half hour conversing and talking about what a person is capable of surviving. Sam made her queasy when she described Josh’s adorned torso. The call ended with Samantha asking if she wanted to be a bridesmaid and an invitation to the farm once she concluded her research in Texas and Florida.

  Emily’s mood was now sufficiently improved.

  Chapter 14

  “Josh?” Samantha called out as she exited the basement stairwell dripping with perspiration.

  “Kitchen,” Josh answered.

  He caught a glimpse of her as she entered in a sweat soaked jog bra and shorts and decried, “What are you guys doing down there? How did you get so sweaty?”

  “Never mind that,” she answered. “You owe me a date.”

  “Not like that I don’t,” Josh said chuckling.

  In rebuttal, she stepped in and wrapped her arms around him pressing their bodies together. She then proceeded to use him to towel herself off. Josh groaned and pushed her away.

  Samantha placed a demure smile on her face and struck a pose. “Better?” she asked.

  “Nice. Thanks for that,” Josh bemoaned.

  “Now, about my date,” she began.

  “Oh, I think you’ve lost your shot at that,” he replied playfully.

  “The girls and I were talking and we’ve determined that you and I have never had a proper date. We spent month’s together hold up here before the hearings and we have the letter writing, but we never left the farm for anything more than supplies.”

  “I’m not dancing,” Josh said flatly. “If that word was about to come out of your mouth you can forget it,” he concluded with a degree of finality.

  “Not even for a slow dance,” she replied seductively as she provocatively sauntered her way back toward him.