Sleeper Cell Super Boxset, page 74
“Let’s be smart here. Omar Allawi is not worth the trouble. Your superiors, Calderon and Walker would like to see you back at the bunker. Where it’s safe.”
Craig couldn’t figure it out. His mind was too disoriented to think clearly. But whatever had happened, it wasn’t right.
“Let’s go,” Thomas said, leaning in. “We’re not going to win this here.”
The agents loaded the Patriot Riders into an FBI cargo truck in the parking lot. In response, they struggled and called out to Craig for help.
“You need to let them go,” Craig said to Jenkins. “They did nothing wrong. I contacted them for help. Many of them died fighting these terrorists.”
Jenkins showed no emotion from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “We’ll work that out later. Now come with us. You can even fly in the helicopter.”
“No thanks,” Craig said. “I have a van. We’ll drive there.”
Two men in suits placed their hands on their pistols.
“Are you serious?” Craig asked, looking around. Thomas dropped his rifle and put his hands in the air.
“Please,” Jenkins said. “Let’s do this the right way.”
Thinking of his family, Craig complied. There was little fight left in him for the time being. He followed the Homeland group out of the plant as a convoy of government vehicles pulled past the gate and surrounded the plant.
“They’ll clean this mess up,” Jenkins said. “You know, you could be a hero in all this. Come out real good.”
Craig and Thomas walked past all the commotion and toward the parking lot where the helicopters were. The FBI truck with the Patriot Riders drove away as more vehicles with dark-tinted windows arrived. “The ‘clean-up crew,’” thought Craig.
He remained quiet, considering the grand conspiracy he was now a part of. Would he ever know the truth?
As they flew over the smoking plant, Jenkins informed them that they were going to the airport, where they would take flights back to Washington. Craig said nothing as he looked out the window watching the plains pass by. Sitting next to him, Thomas said little. Craig couldn’t help wondering what it had all been for. For a moment, just before they had attacked the water plant, it had felt like they were making a real difference and saving American lives in the process. Craig took solace in Rachael and Nick. He even thought of Husein.
“Cheer up, Agent Davis,” Jenkins said, pushing his thick headset onto his forehead. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“We’ll see,” Craig said, looking out the window.
If there was a conspiracy, Craig didn’t know what to make of it. He thought of taking his family and getting away, if they would even allow it. But what of his country? Was it still worth saving? He glanced at Jenkins who had begun talking into the mic on his headset.
Yes, Craig thought. It was.
A small fire began to burn inside of him. He wasn’t giving up. He would get to the bottom of everything. He would never quit until his dying day.
Epilogue:
One Year Later
The coming war with ISIS never materialized. A series of military air strikes decimated key ISIS targets across the Middle East and a foreign coalition was formed through the United Nations to strike back. In the end, they managed to push ISIS back to its initial strongholds in Iraq and Syria, and then it was business as usual around the world.
Phase three—the ambitious sleeper cell plan to distribute water tainted with VX nerve agents never happened, and the public had never fully learned how close they were to an excruciating death through drinking water inadvertently supplied by the federal government.
The national recovery effort happened gradually. The infrastructure damage to the power plants and sea ports was in the hundreds of billions of dollars. Oil reserves had been tapped, emergency personnel stretched thin, and the all-volunteer military force burdened with far more than it should have been tasked with. But somehow, the United States did not collapse. The country rebuilt, moved forward, and survived.
A year later and there had been no more terror attacks. After that time, Americans began feeling a sense of normalcy again. ISIS, as far as most were concerned, had been defeated.
Special Agent Craig Davis was honored in a quiet ceremony along with his partner, Agent Josh Patterson, Agent Brian Thomas, and Agent Riley Keagan (posthumously). They were given the distinguished FBI Medal of Valor. Keagan’s family was presented with the FBI Memorial Star.
The agents were honored for their efforts in combatting terrorism. An investigation cleared them of any wrongdoing. However, there was a catch: they were to retire—with their pensions intact—and were restricted from speaking publicly about the event. That was the deal.
Above all, Craig was considered at as a potential issue within the FBI. But he had surprised his superiors, Walker and Calderon, and accepted the deal. He would walk away quietly and all anyone would ever know is that the federal government defeated the ISIS sleeper cells with its tenacity, intelligence gathering, and resolute action.
Craig soon entered the quiet life in the Maryland suburbs, outside the city of Rockville. The same house where he faced-off against Omar’s hit squad. The house—largely in shambles—went through extensive repairs all paid for by the bureau. And what of Abu Omar Allawi? His name soon faded and became as undistinguishable as any dead terrorist leader. The “invisible sheik” soon disappeared. For the country, life went on.
Friday July 7, 2017
After the fear of almost losing her parents, Rachael insisted that the family visit her parent’s home in Boston, Massachusetts one weekend a month. So far, they had kept good on that routine. They would be traveling to Boston, Massachusetts the next morning.
Before their trip, they had a relaxing evening barbecue in the backyard. Rachael was on the phone with another school teacher talking about the cumbersome new grading and assessment policies that awaited them the coming school year.
Nick and Husein kicked around the soccer ball as Craig sat in lawn chair cradling a beer with his feet up. Everything, for the time being, seemed to be in its right place.
Calm on the outside, Craig’s mind raced with wayward disorder. Sometimes things would come out of nowhere and consume him—questions, memories, all the things he could never talk about. The FBI had placed him in a mandatory psychiatric program to keep him stable and adjusted to retirement life. Talking through his experiences helped, but there questions that would always repeat themselves. Should I have done more? Should I do more? Did I make a difference? Was it worth it?
His psychiatrist had suggested writing down his thoughts, and Craig had taken him at his word. He had been writing about a lot. He took a swig of beer and looked up. There was calmness in the sky and Craig could feel it.
***
After Craig and the family traveled to Boston the next morning, a twenty-foot moving truck roared down their road on Tilford Lane and backed into a three bedroom house recently sold, from across the street.
Two Buick station wagons followed and parked on the side of the street. The moving truck beeped as it slowly backed in to the driveway as a group of young men got out of Buicks, carrying bags and luggage. They looked like normal-aged college kids, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirts, and football Jerseys.
The moving truck stopped, parked about ten feet from the garage. Two men walked behind the truck, opened the back door, and pulled out a long ramp affixed to the tailgate. Once opened, everyone began moving in and out of the truck, unpacking it.
Eleven men in all, they spoke to each other in Arabic, laughing and joking around. Some of the neighbors took notice, but didn’t feel anything beyond annoyance. The residents enjoyed their peace and quiet. The new arrivals were young, rowdy males. What was becoming of neighborhood?
As the men continued to unpack, Jamil, a lanky man with curly hair approached his friend, Sameer, the oldest in the group. His head was shaved clean, and he had a trim beard lined along his jaw and chin. They had traveled far from their hometown of Sahar, Yemen, entered the US on student Visas, and enrolled at George Washington University in DC.
“What do you think, Sameer?” Jamil asked. They had been speaking English more and more to each other as a means to fit in. “Is this good? The area, I mean.”
Sameer crossed his arms and looked around, watching the others unpack. It was going to be a long night. “Neighborhood is quiet enough. I like it. It’s perfect.”
Jamil patted him on the back. “Good to hear.”
“Yes, tonight we drink,” Sameer said.
The two men laughed and went inside to join the others in unpacking and settling in. They had little knowledge of the house across the street or the story of the retired FBI agent who lived in it. They only knew that great things lay ahead for them and their friends in their new country, the United States of America.
Bonus: Broken Lines- An EMP Thriller
Broken Lines
The Steel Mill
The floorboards creaked when Mike stumbled from the bed to the bathroom. He tripped over one of Anne’s heels and cursed under his breath, kicking the shoe out of his path. He turned around to make sure he hadn’t woken her up. She was still drooling on her pillow.
Mike crammed himself into the tiny bathroom. His legs smashed up against the side of the tub when he closed the door. He splashed water on his face letting the cold shock him awake. Droplets of water speckled his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. He cracked his knuckles, wincing with each pop.
He showered, shaved, threw his boots on, kissed Anne on her forehead, and did the same with his daughter, Kalen, and son, Freddy, then was out the door.
Dirt and bits of rust and metal flew up from the cloth seats of his truck’s cab when Mike sat down. He pulled the handle of the glove box open. He shoved a small bag out of the way and pulled out a badge. He pinned “Yard’s Steel Mill” to his chest. Scraps of metal and steel rods rolled and clanked in the truck bed as he reversed out of the driveway.
The blue digital lights of the dashboard clock glowed 6:11a.m. The view of the Pittsburgh skyline from the interstate was still outlined in grey without the morning sun. Mike’s fingers twisted the radio tuner, searching for a station. Static and scramble came through until he finally landed on an AM radio station.
“Good morning, Pittsburgh. It’s a beautiful Wednesday morning here at 560 WFRB. Traffic right now is clear on highway 62. The first day of summer should be a hot one as temperatures are expected to get into the mid eighties this afternoon, so taking the kiddies to the pool to cool off might be in order now that school is officially over.”
Mike pulled into the parking space of an empty lot outside a small, fading brown one-story building. He walked through the empty parking lot up to the automatic sliding glass doors. A smiling receptionist gave him a wave when he entered.
“Hey, Mike.”
“Hey, Nicole,” he said. “Is my dad ready to go?
“Should be. He was finishing getting ready when I walked past him this morning. I’ll give him a buzz.”
“Thanks.”
A few elderly folks with walkers emerged from the hallway into the waiting room where Mike sat. Their liver spotted hands gripped the steel-grey handles of their walkers. The green tennis balls at the bottom slid across the carpet propelled by their slowly shuffling feet.
Ulysses walked down the hallway weaving in and out of the shrunken, hunched over, elderly obstacles and walked right past Mike without looking at him. The automatic sliding glass doors chimed open when Ulysses passed through them and headed for Mike’s truck.
Mike’s eyes went from the exit back to Nicole, whose lower lip was protruding, still watching Ulysses walking to the truck.
“Pirates lose last night?” Mike asked.
“Yeah,” Nicole replied.
The sun was rising in the east, coming up over the skyscrapers in the foreground. Beams of orange light hit Mike’s and Ulysses’ faces through the windshield of the truck. Blinkers and taillights flashed in front of them in the thickening traffic. Mike flipped on his left blinker to merge. A horn blared and sent Mike swerving back into his own lane and sending Ulysses’ shoulder slamming against the door.
“Jesus Christ,” Ulysses said adjusting his seat belt.
“You all right, Dad?”
“I could have driven myself.”
“The doctor said you wouldn’t be able to drive after the tests.”
“Tests. Pills. Needles. Activity time. You know I helped construct half the buildings in this city?”
“Dad, I told you to just come and stay with us. We have the spare bedroom.”
Ulysses waved him off. He twisted a thick gold band around his wrinkled fingers.
“I won’t be anybody’s burden.”
The clock dashboard flashed 6:55a.m. When Mike pulled into the hospital’s drop off lane.
“The doctor said the tests should only take a few hours. I’ll come and grab you on my lunch hour and take you back to the retireme-” Mike started, but Ulysses spun his head around. Mike knew he hated that word.
“Back to your place, okay?” Mike finished.
“Yeah, okay,” Ulysses said.
“Hey, and don’t give the staff any trouble if they have to bring you out in a wheelchair this time.”
“If I can walk out on my own steam I’m going to do it. I don’t need a goddamn wheelchair.”
Ulysses flung the passenger door open, climbed out, and slammed the heavy metal truck door behind him.
***
The steel mill was already filled with the sounds of cranes, trucks, and the shouts of supervisors giving orders. Mike joined the line of men waiting to clock in. A solid row of hardhats and baseball caps were ahead of him.
Paul White, an elderly man almost his father’s age, squinted down at a computer screen. His large hands fumbled with the icons on the touch screen.
Don, a twenty-something man in a greasy jumpsuit, shifted from side to side. His eyes drilled into the back of the old man’s head.
“You just hit clock-in, grandpa,” Don shouted.
Paul stayed focused on the screen. His finger hovered over dozens of tiny icons. He jumped a bit when Mike grabbed his shoulder.
“It’s usually easy to find my name, but I’ve never seen this screen before,” Paul said.
“It’s all right, Paul,” Mike said.
Mike pressed a few different icons and pulled up Paul’s name. He hit ‘clock-in’ and a large green check mark appeared.
“Thanks, Mike,” Paul said.
Paul hobbled off into the yard and Mike walked back to his spot in line.
“I’m surprised you were able to figure it out, Mike. I figured once they got rid of that old punch card reader half the plant would retire,” Don said.
“Let me know if you need help getting your welder running, Don. I wouldn’t want you to burn your hand again.”
Mike grinned walking back into place listening to the rest of the line chuckling behind him.
***
White, yellow, and orange sparks flew into the air from Mike’s torch. Two pieces of metal he was working on fused together. He turned the torch off and flipped his welder’s mask up. He tore off his gloves and wiped the dripping sweat from his eyes, smearing dirt and soot onto his cheeks.
The lunch whistle blew. The continuous motion of loading steel girders, pouring lava-hot metals, and welding ceased.
The cafeteria’s tables were crowded with men, shoulder to shoulder. They dug into the lunch pails packed with sandwiches and leftovers. Their heads, hair flattened from their hard-hats, bobbed up and down over their food as they ate. Mouths full and laughing.
Mike bit into his BLT, the crunching of bacon and crisp lettuce filling his ears, when suddenly the lights shut off and the cafeteria went dark. The humming of lights and machinery went silent. The men groaned collectively.
Mike pulled out a small flashlight on his keychain and pressed the power button. Nothing. He could hear the clicking of the button, but no light came on, no matter how many times he hit it.
Once Mike’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he joined the rest of the workers exiting the cafeteria. He looked up into the corners of the walls where the emergency lights were installed. Why didn’t the emergency power go on?
The yard was eerily quiet. Steel beams being moved from the yard to trucks teetered in mid air from cranes. The hum of the furnaces was silent. Workers opened truck hoods checking the engines that stopped. A gathering crowd formed around Glenn, the foreman. He had his hands up trying to calm the men around him.
“Hey, everybody, listen up. Power’s down for the entire block. By the looks of it, we’re probably going to be closed for the rest of the day, so everybody goes home,” Glenn said.
“Is this gonna be paid leave?” Don asked.
“Are you working?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
The workers started heading for their cars. Mike walked among them watching everyone shake and tap their mobile devices. Don cursed, shoving the phone into his pocket.
