End Days Super Boxset (10 page)

On the east coast, methods of destruction differed in both concept and delivery. While most of the other sleeper cells used dirty bombs to attack the ports, Ibrahim had a more ambitious plan in place. A thirty-three-year-old Libyan, Ibrahim was enamored with the Islamic State and its cause. And like Ahmed, he had a unique vision of how to unleash terror upon the Americans. Not just a dirty bomb in a pressure cooker, but something memorable.

His team consisted of three other Libyan men, all smuggled across the southern border for a high price and relocated to a community of Middle Eastern immigrants in Boston, Massachusetts. They were given new identities, fake drivers’ licenses, and Social Security cards—all financed by ISIS. After settling in, they waited.

Sometime later, they were told it was time to prepare. Someone claiming to be Abu Omar Allawi sent them the text message himself under an untraceable name. They wouldn't have even known who had sent it, except for the name "Allawi" at the end of the text.

That morning, Ibrahim rose from his bed and raced to the door of his room, flung it open and began shouting as he sped past the two other bedrooms in the duplex and rushed out to give his group the news. They were in the kitchen drinking coffee, and froze in place, hearing the excitement in Ibrahim’s voice. “The time has come, my brothers!” he announced. “We have been summoned for action.” Details and instructions were soon to come, he told them, barely able to get the words out.

"I cannot wait to meet my new bride!" said Nasser, a portly bearded man. He was the youngest of the group and a handful to look after.

They were under strict orders not to engage in any sinful acts while living among the Americans. That included girls, drinking, drugs, pornography, or any other sinful pursuits so freely indulged in by the Americans. A certain amount of Westernized behavior was deemed acceptable, such as the hipster shirts and designer jeans Nasser wore; justified as being necessary so they could blend in. The young men were promised that if they refrained from forbidden temptations, they would receive brides from among ISIS’s female recruits after the mission.

"Patience, Nasser," Ibrahim said. "We have a job to do first."

"What do they want us to do?" Sean, an American boy, asked. He had recently been recruited from an online chatroom. Twenty-two years old, he had left his home in Dallas, Texas, and volunteered to join their cause. He was eager to please his new group of friends and had subsequently converted to Islam, changing his name to Ali Qaddafi.

"I'm waiting on instructions," Ibrahim said.

Jamal and Mahmud entered the room. Both were tall, lanky Libyan men who didn't look a day over twenty. The group settled down, a few returning to their rooms as they waited in anticipation for instructions. Communicating via cell phone was tricky, so their messages often came from disposable phones, written in cryptic language. They knew all about the NSA and its data-collecting practices. Whatever they were going to be instructed to do, it would most likely be told to them in person.

"Who wants eggs?" Jamal said, slapping his hands together. The anticipation in the air was almost too much to handle, and, as a result, everyone had a hearty appetite.

On the day of the attack, the group parked their black, rusty Ford F-250 outside the busy Port of Boston an hour before the designated hit time. The truck's cargo bed had a retractable cover that concealed anything inside. If stopped and questioned, they would say they were photography enthusiasts; hence the cameras they brought with them. Ibrahim knew they had to be careful because of the mass-transit terror threat, a planned false leak that had the authorities on high alert.

"Why the ports?" Sean asked as they got out of the truck. The group gathered at the tailgate, ready to unleash their attack.

"Because it shows that we are synchronized. That this is a joint operation. That we can strike the same targets all over the country," Ibrahim answered.

He brushed the thick bangs away from his forehead and set down a long, black duffel bag on the ground atop a previously selected mound of pebbles and rocks. Past the barbed-wire fence and the "No trespassing" sign was a vast cargo yard with row upon row of stacked containers and steel-beamed automatic cranes for loading and unloading container ships.

Aside from the loading docks, there was a line of fishing piers, occupied with fishermen casting their lines into the water. A commercial wharf was also in view, with a line of ferries and cruise boats coming and going. If the ISIS masterminds who had conceived the port attacks had learned anything, it was that morning was the best time to strike—when the enemy were just starting their day.

Jamal and Mahmud opened the retractable cargo cover revealing five moderately-sized aerial quadcopter GoPro drones. The group moved quickly and positioned the drones on the ground, knowing that at any minute, authorities could be on the scene. Sean and Nasser stood watch, making small talk. Sean had struggled with giving up the music he loved listening to, but today, such a sacrifice seemed trivial. This was a righteous cause. ISIS had rightly taught him to hate his Westernized upbringing.

"I mean, music was a part of my life, but it’s corrupted me as well. That's what this country does to you. It destroys and corrupts," he said.

"Allah will give you the strength to move past those kind of things," Nasser said.

For the time being, they didn't see any vehicles approaching. It would seem, even with the heightened terror alert in place, that the authorities couldn't be everywhere at once. And that was exactly what they were counting on.

Ibrahim pulled the drone remotes from his bag and handed one each to Jamal and Mahmud, keeping one for himself. Once the drones were armed, each person would control his own. In the back of the truck was a large industrial latch case. Ibrahim had his two counterparts lift the case out and opened it.

Inside were blocks of C4 tightly Saran wrapped together. They taped the C4 to each drone quickly and then did a maintenance check. Nothing would be left of the drones once they were done with them. They had packed just enough C4 on each drone, being careful not to overload or weigh them down. Ibrahim took a step back to admire their fleet. Word had gotten back to him that sleeper cell leaders were very impressed with his ingenuity. Nothing could make him happier.

"Get over here!" Ibrahim called to Sean and Nasser. They eagerly ran over and were each handed a control, similar to the other ones he had handed out. They each had small display screens that captured video from the drones’ internal cameras.

"They'll probably ban drones after this. Like, through the whole U.S.," Sean said to the group. "What do you guys think?"

"Do you remove your shoes before getting on planes?" Nasser answered.

"Quiet, both of you," Ibrahim said. "I'm waiting for the signal. It is almost ten."

With his phone extended in one hand, he felt a vibration and looked at the screen. It said what he was hoping for:

Strike the beast by the grace of Allah.

The drones, five in all, were good and ready. Each pack of explosives was rigged with a remote igniter, cell phone fuse, and blasting cap. The wait was over. It was time to use their months of drone flight practice to carry out their mission. Ibrahim signaled them to initiate the flight sequence and search for their previously discussed targets: cruise ships, charter boats, groups of people working on the loading dock. No opportunity was too grand.

The drones hovered off the ground and headed toward the targets. The weight, at first, noticeably dragged the miniature aircraft down, but with careful handling, the men got them flying again.

The fleet of three dispersed as to avoid drawing too much attention. For the drone operators, their victims weren't human. They were targets, simple as that. And the more death and mayhem caused by their explosive-laden quadcopters, the better for their cause. Their eyes were locked to the screen displays of their controllers. They flew the drones with ease, steering them toward their targets.

One drone steered toward a charter boat leaving the port, and as it hummed in the air above them, the boat passengers—ten in all—looked up and took notice. A group of fishing buddies pointed and appeared to make comments about the drone. Everyone seemed hypnotized by its gradual approach. But as it got closer to the boat, the clearer it became that something was wrapped around the drone with duct tape.

"What the..." a white-bearded man in a fisherman’s hat started. A loud explosion followed before he could even finish his sentence. The blast tore through the midsection, destroying half the boat in an instant. Other boats took notice. The workers on the dock stopped what they were doing and turned around. What happened? Boat explosion? Ibrahim's drone was no more.

Jamal's drone flew over a pier at which several fishing boats had docked. All attention was focused on the explosion a hundred yards away, where the charter boat had caught fire and was sinking fast. The second drone bypassed all the small ships and went right for an oil tanker docked in the distance. A panicked group of port authority workers carrying fire extinguishers ran to the fiery, sinking charter boat as another dashed for a hydrant. The drone swooped down to the base of the oil tanker, aimed right at the middle, made a steep dive and blew a hole into the boat hull upon impact.

The crew of twenty on board stood there for a moment, stunned. No one knew what had just happened. Just as they ran to the deck of the boat to investigate, another drone descended upon them—Mahmud's drone. It took a nosedive to the bow deck where the crew had gathered, and blew up with the press of a distant button. The explosion ripped through their bodies like a firing squad. The blast of C4 was enough to incinerate anything in its path.

The sleeper cell watched the destruction from afar. Ibrahim's heart raced. The first three targets had been an astounding successes. There were two more drones left. He suddenly turned to Sean, who appeared to be having trouble with his controls.

"What are you doing? Guide it into the stock yard where everyone is gathering," Ibrahim said, as the drone dipped down and flew up without direction and away from the target.

"I'm trying," Sean said, getting frustrated. "It's not responding."

Nasser struggled as well. His drone had drifted over the water, away from the boats and the frenzied activity of the port.

"What is wrong with you two?" Ibrahim shouted. "Get it together!"

"I'm trying!" Nasser said.

"What are you boys doing out here?" a voice shouted to them from behind.

The group froze. Then Ibrahim spun around. The others turned. A blue-uniformed port authority guard wearing a police hat and lime-green reflective vest stood not ten feet away from them with his palm over the handle of his holstered pistol. His car was parked at a distance up the road as if he had been watching them and decided to confront them on foot. However, he was alone. The handheld radio on his belt blared with cross-chatter. For a brief moment, all they could do was stare at him, speechless.

"You're not allowed to be here. What are you holding?" the officer asked.

Ibrahim dug into the waist of his jeans and pulled out a 9mm Glock pistol and fired. Just as the officer tried to react, two bullets hit him in the chest, causing him to stumble backward in shock.

Sean and Nasser jumped back and dropped their controllers. Mahmud and Jamal stood frozen. The red-faced officer returned fire just as quickly as he was shot and put a bullet right through Ibrahim's skull. Ibrahim collapsed in a slump. Sean and Nasser dived to the other side of the truck. Jamal lunged to the ground, picked up the Glock, fired at the officer and missed. The officer fell on his back, hitting the rocky ground hard. Upon impact, he unloaded his pistol on Mahmud and Jamal—striking both through the face, chest, and neck.

"Officer down!" he shouted, clutching his chest. The officer pulled at his handheld radio, trying to get it unclipped from his belt. Mahmud and Jamal's lifeless bodies lay on the ground next to Ibrahim. Crouched beside the truck, Sean and Nasser watched in horror.

The officer managed to get his radio loose and held it with one shaky, bloodied hand. "Shots fired! Shots fired!"

Nasser looked to Sean. "We have to get out of there."

Sean didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed real. He turned to the port in the distance. Their drones were no longer in sight, though there was plenty of fire and smoke. Sirens wailed from afar, getting louder by the second. Nasser placed his hand on Sean's shoulder and shook him.

"Hey! We have to leave. Let's go!"

Sean nodded. A sick feeling came over him—a realization of who he was involved with and what they had done. They took one look at the bodies of their friends and, with knowing glances at each other, decided there was nothing they could do but run. Nasser ran to the driver's side of the truck and swung the door open as Sean followed.

"Hurry! Get in," Nasser said. The officer was no longer screaming for help. He was either unconscious or dead. Sean jumped and crawled onto the passenger seat. Nasser climbed behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. He cranked the truck to life and peeled out, leaving the drone controls, bodies, gun, and shells behind them in the dust.

The terror cells had struck a lethal blow to the nation's ports. Long Beach, California. Houston, Texas. South Louisiana. Wilmington, North Carolina. Port of New York and New Jersey. Port of Pennsylvania. Port Everglades, Florida. Port of Boston, Massachusetts. They were all hit on the same day with attacks synchronized to detonate at the same moment: Tuesday, July 7, 2016, ten A.M. Eastern Time, seven A.M. Pacific. Eight ports in all. Six bombings. One chemical weapons attack. And one strike with miniature drones.

The dirty bombs had destroyed an untold numbers of boats and cargo and killed an unknown number of people while spreading radioactive material for miles. When the losses were calculated, it was as if a dozen Pearl Harbor attacks had been inflicted on the country all at once. The United States was overwhelmed.

Immediately after the carnage, Americans were struck with the very real fear of being under attack by a foreign enemy. Internet and cellphone services were quickly overloaded throughout the entire country, adding to the already unprecedented sense of fear and disorder consuming the country. News media scrambled to report, while local and state governments deployed emergency response teams to stave off more potential attacks. No one in any position of authority was certain how far the attacks would stretch or when they would end.

The federal government was dealing with a crisis beyond measure and quickly tried to enact emergency protocols among its myriad of agencies. The enemy who had unleashed the series of port attacks was nameless and faceless. No one initially took credit. The U.S. was dealing with a determined, malevolent force that had inexplicably remained anonymous.

The Islamic State had done the impossible. After years of establishing itself in the Middle East, taunting and threatening the U.S., they had struck their greatest enemy—just as promised. And they did it through a vast network of sleeper cells. The attacks on the port, however, was only one step toward their greater goal of destroying the Great Satan and establishing a global caliphate.

***

At FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., the atmosphere turned from nervous to chaotic in a split second. The minute the ISIS flag consumed the screens of their monitors, Special Agent Craig Davis knew they were under attack. He tried to tell his superiors that their informant was lying to them, that something wasn't quite right about someone disclosing information so willingly, but they didn't listen. Their prime concern was preventing a terror attack on the three major transit systems. And while the FBI’s intentions were good, the Islamic State had changed their tactics and had taken the bureau by surprise.

Half the operations room stood motionless as the news flashed across the screen: Thousands estimated dead. Other officials gripped their cell phones, calling their families.

"What the hell is going on out there, gentlemen? I need answers!" FBI Director Kurt McMillian said angrily.

Assistant Director Frank Holloway pulled away from his phone in a panic. "Mass explosion at Houston Port in Texas."

Deputy Assistant Director James Calderon interrupted. "Reports of toxic gas at a Long Beach port in California."

McMillian shook his head in disbelief. "What kind of gas and how?" He was lost and confused, trying desperately to stay on top of everything.

"New Orleans!" Supervisory Agent Vince Walker said. "Wires confirm that New Orleans has been hit with a dirty bomb."

Collective gasps filled the room. Craig tried to let it all sink in but still couldn’t quite believe it. It was beyond even what he had thought possible.

“We’re at war, sir. That’s what’s going on,” he said to the FBI director, receiving only a confused look in response.

“Well, thank you for clarifying that, Agent Davis,” Calderon said, clearly frustrated.

Craig walked out of the room just as the officials began shouting over each other in unison, like trade brokers on the stock exchange floor.

The outside halls were much quieter. Craig took a deep breath and then started walking. The heels of his dress shoes clicked along the white-tiled floor as he walked, determined yet stealthy, toward the holding room three halls down. He could hear frenzied discussion from every office he passed.

FBI officials, clerks, and agents were pacing their offices and cubicles frantically speaking into their cell phones. Their computers, their windows to the outside world, all displayed the same ISIS flag. It wasn’t hard to conclude who was behind the attacks, even given the lack of any terrorist organization taking credit for them. The enemy had managed to hack into their system and cripple it. It was as maddening as it was terrifying.

Top FBI brass seemed to have little control of the situation. Craig believed that the answers lay with Malaka Surkov, their Chechen informant, who had provided warning of the mass transit attack. She couldn’t have been more wrong, and Craig was starting to feel more and more like a pawn in her twisted game of retribution.

He traveled to the end of the hall and kicked open the door to the holding room. Malaka looked up from her seat, squeezing and twisting a rag in her hands as if she was ready to burst. Startled by Craig’s entrance, her young nephew, Husein, jumped up. Malaka, however, remained calm. Craig went right to their table and stared at them with intense, furious eyes.

"All right. Who the hell are you?"

She had claimed to be the grieving mother of two Chechen men associated with a sleeper cell—one injured and one killed—in a thwarted attack. Craig didn’t doubt that she was their mother. He only doubted her affiliations.

Her information about the transit attack, she claimed, came from a note from her sons. It was also information that had been verified by captured sleeper cell members—men Craig had busted in a raid. He was certain she was part of the conspiracy, and he was going to make her talk.

Malaka's eyes shifted from the television screen—which displayed aerial images, not of D.C. or New York, but of ports engulfed in flames—to Craig's fierce glare. Her face remained emotionless and indifferent.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I only give the information that I hear." She pointed at the screen. "You blaming me for this?"

Craig slammed his palms down on the table and leaned into her face. "Cut the shit! We both know you're a part of this thing. You came here to throw us off."

Husein urged restraint with a hand in the air. His striped T-shirt was wrinkled from a night of sleeping on a nearby cot. "Please, Agent Davis. My aunt doesn't know anything."

"Stay out of this, Husein," Craig said, pointing his finger in the boy’s face. "I have a mind to lock both of you up until you tell me everything you know."

Malaka scoffed and waved Craig away. "Shoo, angry man. I have nothing more to say."

She began to rise from her chair, struggling, or at least appearing to struggle. Craig laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down.

"Is this some kind of game to you?" he shouted. He leaned in closer, right in her face, and spoke quietly. “People are dead, and if our government links this back to Chechnya, we’re gonna blow your entire country off the map."

Malaka shook her head. "Is none of my concern."

Craig backed away and paced around her like a cat. "We've been here before, and you know that I'm willing to do anything to get the info I want. So talk."

"Never," Malaka said.

Husein got up and backed away from the conversation. He didn't like where things were going. The last time Malaka had refused to talk, only a few hours ago, Craig had pulled a gun out and put it to Husein's head. "Leave me out of this," he said.

Craig paid him no mind and slammed his fist down on the table again. "Talk!"

Three FBI agents walking by the open door stopped and entered the room, drawn by the commotion.

"What is going on in here?" One of them asked. He had a clean-shaved head and wore a dangling ID badge identifying him as Agent Hicks.

Images flashed on the television of ports aflame. Banners scrolled across the screen declaring the worst terrorist attack in American history.

Craig recognized the agents in the room but didn’t know them personally. He had met the bald one, Agent Hicks, before. He didn’t know the names of the other two. "I'm interrogating a suspect," Craig said. "This woman knew about the port attacks, and I'll be damned if she's leaving this room without talking."

The three agents examined Malaka. Her face was stone cold. "I know nothing," she said.

"Let’s all take a breather here," a curly-haired agent said. He looked down and shook his head as beads of sweat ran down his face. "I gotta call my wife and kids. This is fuckin' serious."

"I'd like to leave now," Malaka said to the three agents. She turned and looked at her nephew. "Husein!"

The boy climbed off his cot in the corner of the room. "Let's go," she said, rising from her chair.

The three agents looked at her and then Craig.

"Um. I'm not sure about that, ma'am," said a heavyset agent with slicked-back hair.

"FBI is on lockdown," Curly-Hair said. "No one can leave the building."

Craig stared at her with anger. Her blank face and utter indifference told him all he needed to know. She pushed past the FBI men and walked toward the door.

"Husein. Now!"

Husein hesitated then took slow steps to follow her.

"Ma'am," the heavyset agent said.

Craig watched her walking away. He thought of all the death and destruction on the television. He thought of his family. He thought of the terrorists on TV, celebrating in some far-away place. This triggered something in him. He balled his fist and felt himself shake inside.

"Get back here!" he shouted, sprinting forward. He grabbed Malaka by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. He spun her around and gripped her neck tightly with both hands.

Husein screamed for help. He ran at Craig, desperately pleading with him. "Stop it! Stop it, you'll kill her!"

Craig squeezed as Malaka's eyes bulged and watered. Her face went red and she gasped for air, clawing at him.

The three FBI agents locked their arms around Craig and tried to pull him away.

"Stop!" Husein yelled again. "Please!"

Malaka gagged, kicked, and thrashed. Craig's thick hands squeezed even tighter as her arms went limp and fell to her sides. Before Craig could finish the job, the heavyset agent punched him in the kidneys.

Craig fell to the ground, clutching his side in pain. Malaka gasped. A tremendous coughing fit followed as she panted for air and turned to her side. Husein rushed to her aid, stepping over Craig.

"Aunt Malaka, are you okay?"

She was too occupied with coughing to respond.

As Craig struggled to get up, the FBI agents surrounded him.

"What the hell is your problem?" Agent Hicks asked.

Craig offered only grunts.

"He's crazy," Husein said. "Please keep him away from us. This is the second time he’s assaulted us."

The agents gently helped Malaka stand as she continued to cough and wheeze.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" the bald agent asked.

"I do not know. My English is bad," she said faintly.

She then spoke Chechen to Husein in a raspy voice as she struggled to catch her breath.

"My aunt says she wants to file charges against Agent Davis for assault," Husein said.

Craig was on all fours. A puddle of drool was on the tile. He could hear Malaka trying to leave. With the last ounce of strength he had left, he rose to his feet and spoke.

"She's a terrorist!"

The room went silent. The FBI agents around Malaka examined her with sudden curiosity. Husein looked worried. Malaka remained defiant, her stony expression not revealing her emotions.

Craig hobbled over to them, catching his breath. "This woman is a part of the very terrorist network that just launched attacks against our ports. She has to be taken into custody immediately."

Agent Hicks looked at Craig’s ID badge. "You've been saying that, Agent Davis, but do you have any proof?"

Husein interjected. "Please, she's old and needs help," he said. "She's distraught over the death of her sons. That is all. It's not her fault that the information was wrong."

"Bullshit," Craig said. "She’s a liar. Just like her worthless sons."

Malaka's eyes widened. She looked at Craig as if she wanted to claw his eyes out. Her English suddenly became more fluent. And her eyes exposed the malice behind her every intention.

"You killed Darion. You!” Her bony finger pointed at his face. “You will pay for what you’ve done!”

The FBI agents looked at her, confused.

"Ma'am?" Agent Hicks said.

She flashed them a wild-eyed glare and turned to Craig. "ISIS will burn this country to the ground and then, and only then, will I have my justice.”

"I knew it," Craig said, closing in on her.

The larger FBI agent held his arm out, blocking Craig. "That's far enough!"

With all eyes on her, she continued. "I am Malaka Varlmout Surkov. Chechen Muslim and devoted fighter for the Islamic State. I am the Black Widow, and you will remember my name."