MANHATTAN, NY - The lone figure stood in one of today’s many empty, downtown, New York offices quietly watching the lobby entrance of World News Network headquarters through a set of field glasses. From the twenty-fifth floor of an adjacent high-rise, he was hidden from view by the one-way, mirrored, glass-skin of the building; he would go unobserved from offices in the neighboring buildings.
Derrick was dressed in business attire to blend in with his surroundings, a charcoal-gray suit, a paisley patterned tie and wingtip oxford shoes.
The long shadows cast by the buildings, by the setting sun, were beginning to give way to the approaching darkness. His cellphone, lying next to him on the desk, began to dance across the dusty surface with an incoming call, he picked it up and took a brief look at the incoming number and answered in Arabic.
"ما هو وضعك؟"
("What is your status?")
An electronically altered voice responded.
"كل شيء أخضر للذهاب في واشنطن."
(“Everything is green to go in Washington.”)
There was a brief period of silence followed by two audible beeps indicating the caller had disconnected the connection.
One of the rewards in this line of work was seeing justice meted out to bad guys, especially those bad guys who thought themselves untouchable. Today, the once untouchable media would find out what that kind of justice looked like. Today, the power of the radicals running the Democrat Party might fall.
Derrick placed the phone back near the original dust-free spot and looked at his watch, 6:25 P.M.
This would be part one of a two-pronged attack. The damning audio clips, the President, his administration colluding with the news industry, they would also hit the internet today. Today, American politics would change forever; the media had in point of fact screwed with the wrong guys.
Derrick picked up the vibrating phone, and seeing the call was from a familiar phone number, accepted it.
An altered man’s voice spoke. “The courier is now in sight, northwest side of the pedestrian crossing. Intersection of Eighth and Forty-first...dark hair...black dress...red scarf.”
Derrick looked at his wristwatch, 6:30 P.M. He looked through his binoculars in the direction of the intersection, keeping the phone to his ear. The director looked along Eighth Avenue to the intersection of Forty-first Street; there was now a group of people on the northwest corner waiting to cross. Derrick spotted her, the Middle Eastern woman wearing a full-length, dark-colored dress with a red scarf. The woman was a terrorist, recruited by Al-Qaeda for a suicide mission.
“Do you see her?”
“Yes, waiting to cross to the east side of Eighth Avenue, black purse.”
“That’s her.”
The crosswalk signal changed and the female terrorist began making her way across the street...she was across the street and walking toward the entrance of the World News Network building. Derrick saw her look at her watch.
“6:32 P.M.,” came the altered voice over the connection.
Derrick noticed the Arab woman was beginning to show some signs of nervousness, stepping aside to pause for a moment...she looked both up and down the sidewalk.
“She’s looking to see if she’s being followed...or to time things just right,” assured the disguised voice.
“It is 6:33 P.M.”
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The 911 Dispatch Center's switchboards lit up like a Christmas tree. Alice Beale picked up the call routed to her station. “911, what is your emergency?”
A distressed male voice came over the line. “Send help! We’re under attack...everyone is…” She could hear the sound of a man choking.
“Excuse me, sir? Did you say…”
There were now audible background noises, the building’s fire alarm, people yelling, the sound of hacking coughs.
This brought back bad memories. The 911 operator had been on duty September 11, 2001.
"This is James.” An uncontrolled cough interrupted the man in mid-sentence. “This is James Pinsky, I’m at…” Manic coughing was followed by the sound of the receiver hitting a hard surface. All Alice now heard was the sound of a fire alarm going off in the background.
Operators throughout the call center looked over their partitions to see if anyone else had received a similar call. Alice looked at her terminal for the location of the call: World News Network, downtown Manhattan.
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LOS ANGELES, CA - President Martinez was in the middle of practicing his speech in an empty auditorium when he was all of a sudden surrounded by a defensive perimeter of security agents with pistols drawn. His first reaction was one of personal fear. He could be seen by those around him to be trembling uncontrollably.
The Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank raced over to the President. “Mr. President, please come with me.”
The President, still shaking, exited the auditorium under close guard to a waiting motorcade at the civic center rear entrance.
“Mr. President, we have been attacked.”
“WHAT?”
“We don’t know to what extent, only that several cities have been attacked. There may have been chemical, or nerve agents involved and some sort of electromagnetic pulse device.”
“Are we safe?” murmured the President, looking especially pale.
“Yes, sir, I am convinced that you are safe.”
Nelson couldn’t help but think to himself how cowardly the President’s display was.
“How do you know that Nelson?”
“Well, for one, if you were at risk, an attack would have already happened. Clearly the attacks were timed to occur at the same moment. No word has come through of any further assaults.”
The President looked troubled.
“This limousine has been designed to withstand chemical attacks: it’s airtight. The air you and I are breathing is recirculating inside the cabin. The charcoal filtering system would allow us to drive across the country without ever opening the door. That, of course, won’t be necessary. We’re on our way to Air Force One right now.”
The President appeared to calm down a bit. Some color started to return to his face.
“Your wife and son have departed Washington and are safe and on their way to NORAD as are members of your cabinet and the party leadership. They will rendezvous with you at our next destination.”
One of the two security agents in the front seat touched the contact for the communications earpiece. After a few moments of listening to the incoming call, he turned his head and at the same time lowered the bulletproof glass that separated the car’s driver from the passenger compartment.
“Mr. President, the Vice President is on the line for you.”
Martinez instinctively thought, The back stabber, she’s calling to see if I’m alive. Against his wishes, the Blue-State Senator was put on the ticket to keep her from exposing Martinez.
“That woman would just love to hear I had been knocked off. Tell her I’ll call her if I need her.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Martinez turned his head toward the Chief of Staff as the agent raised the sound proof glass back into position. He began to settle down a bit and thought of the political ramifications of the event.
Back on September 11, 2001, most Democrat politicians' thoughts were not of the tragedy itself, nor the loss of life. No, most had something else cross their minds. Who was the attack going to help, politically? As it turned out, it was the moderate do-gooder in the White House who came out ahead. Today, however, it had happened on their watch. It was now their turn!
“What do you think this attack means to my presidency?”
Inwardly, Nelson smiled, “Mr. President, I imagine it means another four years.”
Forgetting his earlier fear, Martinez nodded his acceptance as he switched his gaze out the window at the passing Latino ghetto. The thought of one more four-year term was elating. His policies would be given the t
ime they needed to be fully implemented. His dream of changing America would be fully realized.
Throughout America’s history, when the nation came under attack, the nation rallied behind the sitting President, no matter how bad their term. Martinez's party had seen the same thing happen to the former President. FDR and his administration had been saved only by WWII. Some in his party had even been caught bemoaning that they had wished the 9-11 attack happened on their watch.
From the vantage point of Martinez and the Chief of Staff, the timing couldn’t have been any better. Today’s attack was sure to increase the President’s popularity and give him the edge he so desperately needed to win the presidential election, in just two months. All the malaise he and his policies created would be forgotten, forgiven. Yes, he would win reelection and be able to implement the final part of his plan.
The discussion kept on between the President and his Chief of Staff as they made their way to the Los Angeles International Airport and Air Force One.
“Who do you think is responsible for this?”
“Mr. President, I can only speculate, but I am convinced it could be either foreign, or homegrown terrorists.”
“You mean the Tea Party, don’t you?”
Nelson looked to make sure the soundproof barrier was back in place.
Nelson’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “Why not? We’ve been looking for a way of dealing with that group. I imagine someone in that movement could be implicated, which will have the same effect as if all of them were complicit.”
“What if they’re discovered to be foreign terrorists?”
“It won’t hurt us a thing to try, Mr. President.”
----------
The Muslim terrorist’s cellphone began to vibrate in his pants pocket. Taking it out quickly, he looked at the number of the originating call before accepting it. A frantic voice came over the connection in Arabic, “وقد تعرضت لما يثير الشبهة، وضعك (“Your position has been compromised!”) أكرر، الموقف الخاص بك قد تعرضت لما يثير الشبهة،(“Repeat, position has been compromised!”)
Reaching into a sliding drawer of an old office desk he grabbed a nine-millimeter pistol and chambered a round. He looked at the video feed from one of the roof-mounted surveillance cameras, which should have given him a clear view of the building main entrance. The display now showed nothing except static, an FBI sniper's bullet had taken it out. The terrorist looked at a second display and saw it all of a sudden go blank as well.
The terrorist turned out the overhead light and took a quick look from the third story window. Black-clad men were closing in on the main entrance.
Anwar al-Awalki had taken extra special precautions to prevent his mission from being discovered. Everything was passed by word of mouth. No use of the internet. How had the FBI uncovered the hiding spot? It had to be someone on the inside.
Al-Awalki looked about the room. There was nothing he could do about the Egyptian (spotter), he was as good as captured, but that did not matter. The teacher was purposely left in the dark and knew little to nothing about the operation.
The terrorist was running out of time. He motioned to his two fellow freedom fighters to pick up the two fire extinguishers as Anwar opened a drawer to a desk and grabbed a palm-sized remote control trigger.
One of the terrorists pushed aside a filing cabinet to reveal the hole they excavated through the wall for just such an emergency. The three men quickly crawled through and made their way to a stairwell in the center of the building. Anwar heard an explosion as the front door was ripped from the building foundation. The FBI, or SWAT Team were getting close. Moments later the three men were in the basement and running to a large, heavy, wood shipping crate in the corner of the large, empty room.
“ساعدني هذا دفع للخروج من الطري
("Help push this out of the way!”)
The large crate covered one more hole they excavated through the concrete foundation, a meter of dirt and rock and one more layer of concrete, emptying into the New York City sewer system. One of the two men carrying the fire extinguishers carefully dropped through the hole after setting them aside.
Following, the man above dropped the two red cylinders down to the man below; he briefly looked back at al-Awalki, who motioned for him to get out with a quick nod of his head. The man jumped through the hole and landed heavily.
Al-Awalki heard the sound of boots, dozens of them running in their direction. He threw the switch for the hidden explosives to “On” with his thumb. A lighted button turned on, first red then green, to show that it was coupled with the arming trigger.
Anwar shouted, “وأنا الآن تفجير المتفجرة” (“I am now detonating the explosives!”). He pressed the green button as he jumped through the hole.
There was a deafening explosion. The terrorist leader felt the shock wave of the blast as he fell through the air. He also landed hard. Everything about him shook. Anwar jumped from under the hole to avoid falling debris at the last moment. The terrorist discovered he had lost his hearing. Anwar gazed up, saw his two compatriots pause to see if he needed help. He motioned for them to keep going. The terrorist leader followed the other two men down the sewage way with a slightly slower gait.
The charges he installed throughout the building would take care of most of the pursuers. It would also be hours, if not days, before they discovered that he and his fellow terrorists safely escaped. The only evidence Anwar was forced to leave behind was that Egyptian, but he would not present problems. He was kept so far in the dark, he had not even known of the escape route.
Al-Awalki smiled, "يتمتع غوانتانامو." (Enjoy Guantanamo!)
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Dr. Victor Magnason was sitting in a chair in an undisclosed, island location looking out on the Pacific, contemplating what he knew was happening back in the States. Suddenly, he began coughing uncontrollably. Soon he wasn't able to catch his breath! Stress was a trigger for these episodic attacks. As his coughing became more savage, his physician, Dr. Earl Whaley came running into the room followed by George, his butler.
"Hold him steady!"
The doctor pulled a syringe from his black leather bag as George tried to prevent Victor from moving about, grabbing him in a bear hug from behind.
Victor could no longer bring enough air into his lungs to fully cough, and he was starting to turn blue.
"Just one-second, Dr. Magnason! This will take care of you. Hold on!"
A minute later, the injection began to work. Two minutes later, his coughing had eased. Five minutes later, Victor's breathing had returned to a normal rhythm. The doctor knew things were getting worse, Victor's condition was rapidly deteriorating.
THE HOURS FOLLOWING
LIARS the News Industry Page 31
