The Babylonian Conspiracy: A Four-Book Series

By Jack Gresham

A Four-Book Series in a single publication.Each book is exactly the same as the single unit version.They should be read in order from Book One through Book Four. Jihad, Terrorism, Indigenous Peoples,Spiritual Life, and Time Travel focusing on End Times from a biblical perspective with life situations of demanding dedication and valor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Gresham
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781935699224

Jack Gresham

I grew up in the small community of South Miami, Florida (population 300; twenty-two miles from downtown Miami). I enjoyed the sparsely settled South Dade area with sunny beaches and camping out along Snapper Creek.In my early teens, I began my walk in the Christian faith with a commitment that has held fast throughout my life.I attended public schools in the local area and upon graduating from Ponce de Leon High School in 1949 matriculated at Georgia Tech in the School of Aeronautical Engineering.The Korean War brought to me a new calling. After two years of college, I qualified for cadet training in the USAF. After earning my wings, I spent three years in the Air Defense Command flying F86Ds out of McGuire AFB in New Jersey. My wife, Moena and two small children left the Air Force with me to return to the University of Miami and complete medical school.Internship for one year, four years in residency, and a six months fellowship in surgery of the hand completed my post-graduate medical education, followed by almost forty years in private practice as an orthopedic surgeon. Five memorable years in the middle of my medical career were spent in Saudi Arabia while our children labored through college years 1980-85.It was during those years, traveling around the globe once each year and making many side trips to other countries of interest that Moena and I experienced a wide variety of cultures and religions.After returning to the States and before retiring, I went on many medical mission trips to The Ukraine, Brazil, and Africa. It was at Kijabe Station, about seventy kilometers north of Nairobi, Kenya, sitting on the edge of the Rift Valley that I experienced the greatest cultural distances between indigenous tribes and modern medicine.It is my belief that people of all cultures need understanding and acceptance more than they need change.

Book preview

BOOK ONE

BANK OF TERROR

Copyright © 2010 by Jack Gresham

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

The same can be said of dates. For purposes of orientation, current times and dates are used. They are not meant to infer events portrayed can or might occur on the dates specified.

Dedication

This four-book series is dedicated first to Moena, my spiritual inspiration and devoted wife since November 19, 1953. She was the constant reminder that I must not walk away from values and precepts which have never failed us. Our faith and love for each other are the guiding lights that have kept me on course in the challenging effort to make fiction a possible pathway to the truth.

Acknowledgments

Rik Feeney early became involved as my Book Coach. His theme that fiction must always depict a picture that is linked to possible real life experiences, even though they may exist only in the imagination, made me become a critic unto myself. Fiction (other than possibly sci-fi) was not a license for me to walk into an ethereal realm of fairy dust (one of his favorite expressions) and never-never land to make something happen I would wish for but could never be. Rik then led me through the maze of publishing and marketing—which finally brought Bank of Terror with Rik’s cover design into the world of reading by my many friends as well as people I would otherwise never have had the opportunity to know.

Tom Wallace added some initial editing touches. His suggestions made a better reading and easier flowing story that was exactly where I needed help. More than that, he insisted that I flesh out my characters for the reader to not only be told, but actually feel what the characters portrayed.

Joyce Bowden was then gave me the benefit of her red-ink pen and I had a rude awakening. Grammar and sentence structure along with organized flow of events underwent many changes. She was unwavering in her quest to make things right. I am still learning how to manage split infinitives. I owe her a great debt of gratitude for starting me in the right direction for writing a book.

I also owe a great debt of gratitude to my many friends who bought and read 18 Billion, my first published work and the precursor to this book. It is my sincere hope that they will find redemption for their dedication in this and the remaining three books of the series.

The Babylonian Conspiracy

Babylon is one of the oldest cities of this civilization’s beginning. Much information is available from the endeavors of archeologists and cultural anthropologists, as well as biblical history that records Nimrod as its builder and first king.

Many dramatic achievements allowed the Babylonian people to gain a prominent place in human history and permit civilization to progress in learning and knowledge of the arts and sciences. Two aspects of the early Babylonian people are with us today in a pervasive way, one being materialistic and one being spiritual.

The Babylonian people were extremely egotistical. They believed first and foremost in promoting the accumulation of wealth. They were a business people involved in humanity’s first exploits in trade and finance—and the one word that was most important to them was profit. Profit is good, but when it becomes the primary and sole objective in a life endeavor, the individual as well as society in general suffers—a philosophical concept that has proven to be true in all generations of man.

The Babylonian people were worshipers of the human condition without any influence from the worship of God. Actually, they were anti-God. Their religion was one of extracting sensual pleasures from what might be termed a religion. The Babylonian temple was primarily one of a priestess prostitution cult. Their organized religion, with many concepts transitioning into the religions of history, is still with us—carried forward into many current religious practices. Babylonia promoted a conspiracy for the elevation of human enterprise and pleasure. It was the greed for wealth that became a prevalent motivation for human enterprise. It is a conspiracy alive in the world today.

A Four-Book Series Preview

This four-book series can be best enjoyed by reading them in sequence.

Book One, Bank of Terror is based to a large degree on three themes: Terrorism, Islamic Jihad, and United States Intelligence Agencies. They carry forward with other themes in the remaining three books, where the theory of Conspiracy is developed as a spiritual phenomenon of ancient origin in the midst of the present global enterprises of Banking and Politics. An American terrorist cell sends Mohammed of Babylon the funds robbed from the New York Federal Reserve Bank under threat of a nuclear bomb planted in Washington DC. He faces two doors at the end of this book offering two future possibilities for a pathway to the ambition of his life.

It is not until Book Two, A Tree in the Desert, that Mohammed makes his decision. He walks through the door of his choosing without leaving his present timeline, but feeling himself a changed man. His alliance with a Christian and a Jew through several mystical life events and dreams broadens his spiritual horizon and he finds new meaning beyond the bounds of his Muslim faith he was determined not to deny.

In Book Three, The Syrian Saber, Mohammed returns to the end of Book One, as can only be done in fiction, and chooses to walk through the second door into another timeline. Although the year is the same, it is a different world. He is a changed man with the new name of Sargon, but with unchanged aspirations in search for a new way of fulfillment. In his desire to give rise to a new world order, he enters into a contract with Lucifer, a fallen angel, to call upon spiritual forces of darkness in the hope that he can accomplish good. The indigenous First Peoples of Cape York and the Torres Islands, Far North Queensland, Australia are beyond his reach.

In Book Four, Cape Tribulation, Sargon attains global dominion, except for Israel and the Covenant Lands of the indigenous on Cape York Peninsula. After ten years of world upheaval, he journeys as a changed man to his final destiny on the Cape. Here he will live out the final seven years of historical time when two ten-year timelines merge into the one of the eternal future. Harold and Sarah Warren from New York, who were called to serve he needs of the indigenous of the Torres Islands and Cape York with three other Americans, will be there those Last Seven years with the progeny of the First Peoples in a Covenant Land apart from the apocalyptic events engulfing the rest of the world.

Time Travel

Time travel is a cornerstone of science-fantasy, mostly traveling back in time to a historically recorded event. Traveling to the future has also been explored. Moving back in history cannot compare to venturing into the uncertainty of the future. Yet there is a possibility of time travel in a different dimension—stepping from one timeline into another, having the same or another date. The consideration of a parallel universe is not something new.

We generally accept living in a four-dimensional realm more often referred to as a time/space/continuum whose boundaries may not be defined (except by infinity), or may have measurable limits beyond which is the unknown, with the intriguing possibility of adjacent or far-removed other time/space/continuums.

For the purpose of this series of books, we are asked to consider as truth that we live in a finite time/space/continuum. We are travelers in time. As such we must accept as de facto two other premises. First, if our realm is of finite boundaries (including time; having a beginning and an end) it must also be finite in purpose. There must be a reason for our being here. Second, if we exist within boundaries, there is the definite possibility that other continuums are out there beyond our boundaries, and also there is the possibility that other continuums might be inserted into the one in which we now travel, ones into which we might enter and leave from a point that knows no passage of time on our journey to . . .

2013-2016 Normal Time Terrorism in America

Book One - Bank of Terror

2017-2026 The Same Timeline through The First Door

Book Two - A Tree in the Desert

2017-2026 A Different Timeline through the Second Door

Book Three - The Syrian Saber

2027-2034 The Last Seven Years A New World View

Book Four - Cape Tribulation

Table of Contents

Chapter One Terror in America

Chapter Two The Initial Response

Chapter Three Air Force One

Chapter Four The Implementation

Chapter Five The Reluctant Skycap

Chapter Six Wheels Continue to Roll

Chapter Seven The Containment

Chapter Eight The Loss

Chapter Nine The Bank of Babylon

Chapter Ten A New Challenge

Chapter Eleven The Lion’s Den

Chapter Twelve Mohammed and the CIA

Chapter Thirteen The Mahdi in the Oval Office

Chapter Fourteen Repayment

Chapter Fifteen Money on the Move

Chapter Sixteen The Second Bomb

Chapter Seventeen Pandemonium

Chapter Eighteen Frenzy

Chapter Nineteen After Frenzy

Chapter Twenty Tracking the Bomb

Chapter Twenty-One The Struggle Continues

Chapter Twenty-Two Havoc

Chapter Twenty-Three The Final Steps

Chapter Twenty-Four Beyond Tomorrow

Appendix Terrorism, Banks, Jihad, Intelligence

Chapter One

Terror in America

The Beginning

Friday, August 8, 2013, 9:00 a.m.

The letters were big, bold, and red: JOE’S DOGS. The food truck pulled into a loading zone at the side of the Dirksen Senate Office Building, with the Capitol Dome standing in the background. Joe opened the driver’s door and turned in his seat to slide onto the pavement, ignoring the footstep below the door while warily scanning both ends of the street.

He opened a door in the rear of the truck, released a drop-down step, and climbed inside. A few moments later, he stuck his head out the back door for another look at the traffic. Satisfied there was nothing unusual, he emerged and using a manual crank opened the side panel to reveal a small counter with a serving area and a selection of packaged nuts and crackers.

Business was good from the time Joe opened the curbside counter until well into the noon hour. Inside the truck, Joe sensed a feeling of pride and accomplishment with this first visit to inner city streets in a truck identical with one that had been a regular sight around the Capitol for many years.

More than that, Joe was in awe of the thought of an atomic bomb occupying the space where a refrigeration unit normally stood. He shuddered at the possibilities held by that one metal container.

Joe was well-known around the Capitol area, since he had been selling his hot dogs for as long as anyone could remember. The oldies actually remembered his father, who had obtained a permit to sell hot dogs and other edibles from his truck and did so until the eighties, when he handed the reins over to his only son.

Joe had no criminal record, not even a traffic violation. He had a social security number and a driver’s license, but little else to identify him in any way. Today that would change.

An ill-defined dream of bringing meaning into his life and the lives of five close friends might blossom, after many years of waiting, with jihad emerging from the shadows of their minds to become a reality.

Nine Months Earlier

In the years before and following the Soviet/Afghan War that began in December, 1979, many Afghan families immigrated to the United States as political refugees. Six of those families settled into a small Muslim enclave in the low-rent district near Georgetown in Washington, DC. They converted a small shop into a mosque. Their imam emigrated from Iraq in the days when the United States was supporting Saddam Hussein. His activities never aroused any suspicion, even after September 11, 2001. Nobody suspected that he was occasionally visited by a recognized militant—the imam of a mosque in Newark, New Jersey.

During the course of the Newark imam’s visits, he collected the names of six men who might be interested in becoming active jihadists.

December, 2012

The Newark imam called Joe, the recognized leader of the six, and arranged a first meeting with an agent in a diner close to Joe’s apartment. He will introduce himself as ‘Essam’ and will know you by your first name only. You should converse in English to avoid scrutiny by other customers.

* * * * *

Joe was clean-shaven and in the casual attire of a blue-collar worker. He sat in a booth drinking coffee, where he was approached by an older man of dark complexion and jet-black hair who was clean-cut and dressed in a dark blue business suit. He eased into the seat across the table from Joe.

I am Essam and you must be Joe. After an affirmative nod by Joe, Essam wasted no time. Leaning forward and lowering his voice, he said, I understand you’re interested in jihad.

Joe looked down into his cup of coffee, turning it in circles with his fingertips as he thought, How much can I trust this guy? What is he bringing to the table?

My five friends and I have discussed the possibility on occasion. He picked up his cup and sipped the steaming coffee.

Essam was quick to answer, Our freedom fighters here in the United States consist of several groups such as yours. We’re interested in your ease of access and movement in the Capitol area. Would you be interested in learning how to use that advantage in jihad?

Joe sat his coffee cup on the table and looked about cautiously. He was not in any hurry to return the gaze of his visitor. Confident they had not attracted the attention of nearby customers, he replied, I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say.

Then I’ll get right to the point. I can get you a nuclear bomb; you might find it useful in your quest.

Joe’s eyes widened in disbelief. He had never considered such a possibility. Several questions flew through his mind.

What do you propose that we do with such a weapon?

Their voices lowered as the distance between their faces lessened. They talked for almost an hour. They reached an agreement on a method to use the bomb as a threat to gain an objective rather than to indiscriminately detonate it for the most damage possible. Washington, DC would be the target area—at least, for the bomb.

Joe continued, Regardless of what we do with the bomb, it’s certain we’ll need to leave the country, or go to jail. What will happen to the bomb when we leave, and where can we go for refuge? Who will control what happens?

The thought of leaving his home for some unknown destination was more than he bargained for.

"If you do as we’ve agreed, I’ll manage the bomb question after you and your men with your families are out of reach of US authorities. I’ll see to your location in a safe home in a country not at war.

I’ll give you a laptop and a cell phone with an instruction page for both so you’ll always have access for consultation with me. I’ll be available at all times to help with your plans.

Joe looked at Essam. I must trust you in this matter, as you must trust me. Joe could not resolve all his doubts about Essam, but he believed his team of six Afghans would succeed.

In the cause of jihad, their gain would be directed to the Mahdi, the man who would come as Islam’s prophesied redeemer to establish a worldwide Islamic state.

Joe thought, Some believe the Mahdi will come as a man of peace. Others believe he will wage a war of jihad against all infidels; those who do not convert to Islam will be slain.

And believers who die in the struggle will be guaranteed a place in Paradise. I know of Mohammed of Babylon and believe him to be the Mahdi. He claims to be a man of peace, but surely he knows that a war must be waged.

No matter Joe’s thoughts, unresolved questions lingered, but the plan to assist the Mahdi remained a resolute conviction.

Essam’s thoughts were how to maintain control of the bomb. I don’t know the capabilities of these Afghans, who have had no terrorist training. But the plan is simple enough, and if I keep a close eye on them, they should be able to carry it off.

* * * * *

Essam did not reveal the source of the bomb to Joe. Now that the bomb was ready to be utilized, it was time to call on the technician who built it. He scheduled a meeting with Khalid Abdijni, a resident of Newark. Khalid was the first terrorist imported by a recently activated organization dedicated to worldwide terrorism. The organization was not yet known by the CIA or the NSA, but that would soon change.

Khalid, we need to talk.

When and where?

Essam knew he must be careful with his choice of words. He also knew Khalid would understand. "We can meet Wednesday after you get off work, in your employee parking lot. I have some new friends with the same interests as yours. They’re ready to accept and activate your science plan we’ve placed in the New York storage garage.

Are you ready to install it in a truck and set up the technical requirements to maintain surveillance until completion of the project?

I can do that. What else do you need and how will I be involved? Khalid looked on the bomb as his baby. He needed assurance that its potential would be fully utilized, even if it meant detonation that would take his life.

Nothing that can’t wait until Wednesday. I’ll be in contact with you and them during this operation—you should not have contact with them.

Khalid replied, That will be no problem. You can depend on me.

* * * * *

Joe and his friends gathered around the dining room table, sipping from cups of hot tea and nibbling on candied dates, and talking in muted tones. They were a diverse group: a schoolteacher, a fireman, two skycaps at Dulles International Airport, and a technician for a medical laboratory.

Each had been taught since childhood about the concept of a world with all people joined in the Islamic faith, although what jihad actually meant for each individual was never discussed in detail.

Joe tapped on the table surface with his knuckles. He told them of his meeting with the agent Essam, and the availability of a nuclear bomb. "Over the past two years, the component parts to construct a nuclear bomb have been smuggled into the United States. The bomb has been assembled and delivered to a New York City storage site for installation in a delivery vehicle, which will be a replica of my hot dog truck.

"We discussed the possibility of using the threat of a nuclear explosion to acquire an objective and then have the bomb for another mission. Essam stressed that when the bomb explodes, it is gone.

I mentioned to him my personal preference to provide support for the Mahdi. He accepted that idea and will make the arrangements overseas. He will leave it up to us to manage the stateside operation, but he will be available to help us.

One skycap nodded to the other and said, How can we be sure that our chosen one is actually the Mahdi?

The other skycap, whose name was Thabit Mansor, nodded support and added, There is no better way to make believers of infidels than to destroy lives and property that have great meaning for them. He sat back in his chair, looking from one to the other, without a challenge from anyone.

Several seconds passed before Joe responded. "I’m not sure those who will trust us with a nuclear bomb for jihad have consulted the Mahdi.

From my conversation with Essam, I sensed there was a more far-reaching plan than a one-time detonation. He mentioned we might want to use the bomb to rob America of its wealth.

As conversation erupted around the table, the schoolteacher caught the attention of the others.

"I believe whatever we plan, our objective should be to provide the Mahdi with as much support as possible for him to enlist a following for his peaceful jihad.

Peace appeals to me much more than the destruction of war. I sincerely hope that is the same feeling as the Mahdi’s. How do we contact him? When will we hear his opinions and thoughts?

Playing the role of a terrorist for a peaceful purpose was difficult to grasp, but there were no objections. Thabit’s silence seemed to give agreement.

Everyone sat back, relieved this first major decision had been made, but only if the Mahdi was a man of peace.

Thabit muttered to his skycap friend, We must agree for now, but we also must continue to look for a way to detonate the bomb. We also need to find someone who can build a nuclear bomb. His friend said nothing.

Joe said, Supporting the Mahdi should make us all proud, but what would we offer him?

The schoolteacher spoke again. "If it’s something we want to give the Mahdi for peaceful jihad, I can’t think of anything more useful than financial support. I believe we should center our efforts on securing as many dollars as possible to give to the Mahdi.

That also seems to be in line with bringing financial ruin to America. Discussion continued for another hour. Unanswered questions floated through the air.

What if the Mahdi is not a man of peace?

Who will have the ability to detonate the bomb?

Will we and our families be able to escape the explosion?

We must leave the country. Where will we go?

How will we provide for our families after leaving the States?

Joe yawned. It’s getting late. We can’t do anything that would raise even one eyebrow. We’ll meet here on Saturday morning, three weeks from today. I believe we can decide what should be done with only a few meetings.

* * * * *

Thabit, the reluctant skycap, could not resolve his gnawing urge to cause great damage to America. His skycap friend was not agreeable; he did not join Thabit’s proposal, but he did not interfere.

Thabit called and questioned the Newark imam about the possibility of a business venture previously discussed. He was given a phone number. When he called the next day, a meeting was arranged. His friends in Georgetown were not included.

* * * * *

Thabit entered a shoe repair shop in a strip mall on the outskirts of Newark. He was on time. The shop had no customers. As soon as he entered, the only salesman hung a CLOSED sign over the glass pane in the door.

I’m Ghandour. You are Thabit?

Yes. They walked around the counter to a small curtained office.

I’ve been told you are involved in a mission for the cause of jihad. Also, you may have ambitions beyond those who work with you. Tell me what’s on your mind and we’ll see if there’s something of mutual interest.

At first, Thabit saw no reason to hold back. My friends and I have been offered a nuclear device that can be used in the cause of jihad. They prefer using the bomb as a threat to rob American banks and provide the Mahdi with money in a cause of peaceful jihad. He stopped short, wondering how much Ghandour already knew and how much more he should tell him.

Ghandour narrowed his eyes. If what you say is true, why are you coming to me? And how do you plan to manage your friends, who are of a different persuasion?

They must not be involved in our plan. I believe we should not only take the money of the infidels but should also cause them nuclear destruction. I am the only one of my team who has such feelings.

How do you propose to do this?

I want to find others who feel as I do. America should suffer destruction and death. We must find a way to get control of the bomb and ensure it is detonated.

Ghandour dropped his head. He needed to make a decision.

You are not alone. I and many others have the same feelings. We’ve not engaged in anything that would arouse suspicion in the hope we’ll be ready when the time comes for an act of heroism with great consequences. Tell me how that might be realized.

Thabit and Ghandour talked for some time; plans were made. Thabit would find access to a nuclear bomb, if not the one in Washington, then one from another location. Ghandour would furnish manpower and firepower to ensure success. Before he left, Thabit made another inquiry. Do you know of a Khalid Abdijni?

Thabit saw the look of surprise on Ghandour’s face. He was not ready to give information known to only a few.

He did not really know Thabit and wanted to make sure he did not venture into forbidden ground.

What do you know about Khalid?

Thabit hesitated, but felt he could answer truthfully.

The imam in Newark has taken me into his confidence. I’ve been told that Khalid has built two bombs. I need to speak with him about technicalities in the event I come into contact with them.

Ghandour said, Khalid is my friend—like a brother. He worked alone, so was not a part of my team, but we were always there for each other. I will give you a phone number you must not share with anyone. If you do not honor this trust, you will forfeit your life. Ghandour Reshak knew he was walking a perilous path.

Thabit made occasional trips to Newark, but not often enough to arouse suspicion. The Newark imam did not mention the Thabit-Ghandour liaison to Essam, nor did he mention Thabit’s interest in Khalid Abdijni. He knew Essam wanted to use the bomb to rob American banks—not cause devastation, which was the desire of jihadist terrorists.

The Newark imam thought, Muslims such as Ghandour and Thabit are ones I prefer to assist. I’m compelled to cooperate with Essam for now, but I will not walk away from my belief in a war of terror, the core of what jihad means to me.

* * * * *

Thabit arrived home in the wee hours of the morning from his latest trip to Newark. He thought he could slip in quietly without disturbing his wife. That would not happen.

Where have you been? I’ve tried to call you several times but got no answer from your cell phone.

I had to make a trip to Newark after work and turned my cell phone off. Now let me alone so I can get some sleep.

I won’t let you alone until you answer my questions!

Thabit knew it was a losing battle.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and reached into the back bottom shelf to pull out a bottle of beer. He knew he was not supposed to drink alcoholic beverages, but had come to enjoy an occasional beer; if he ever needed one, it was now.

He did not mind telling her about his trip to Newark, but it was her questions that would drive him to distraction. He needed the beer to handle the situation. The story was told; the questions were answered; he was finally able to go to bed.

* * * * *

The next day, Thabit began to wonder, Are the others aware of what I’m doing? If Khalid cooperates with me, will Ghandour join me? When will I be able to make my move to separate myself from Joe and the others? Does Essam know about Ghandour? Am I walking into a trap?

Thabit’s stress level was rising daily. He was able to arrange a meeting with Khalid on an early Saturday afternoon at his apartment in Newark. I know you’re responsible for construction of the nuclear bombs. How do you feel about the plan for their use to rob America?

Khalid replied, I believe it’s a daring concept. I’m willing to see it through, but also am willing to detonate the bombs if and when it becomes necessary, although it would cost my life.

We think alike. Each of us is willing to become a martyr, perhaps even desiring that as the best outcome. If I’m to have any advantage in approaching the bombs, I’ll need the wiring diagrams of the detonation sequence as well as a remote activation device. We must also be able to take control of them from others who might have ideas different from our own, including Essam. Can you give me those items?

Khalid nodded agreement.

* * * * *

It was an early Sunday morning, twelve days before the event that would bring terror to the hearts of all Americans. Essam sat with Joe on a bus-stop bench a short distance from Joe’s apartment. Traffic was light and there were no pedestrians on the sidewalks.

I brought a laptop that holds the program to detonate the bomb and allow you to communicate with the bomb scene. There’s also a cell phone with a plug-in charger. The instruction pamphlets for both are not to be shared with anyone. I’ll leave first and the briefcase will remain for you to take. Any questions?

I believe everything is in order. I don’t see how we can fail.

What Essam did not tell Joe was he had a similar computer with an override program of anything Joe might choose to do.

Essam and Joe were not aware of Thabit’s plans with Khalid and Ghandour.

Back to the Bomb

Friday, August 8, 2013, 12:50 p.m., Washington, DC

A dark blue Honda Accord with a driver and a passenger parked across the street from Joe’s truck. The driver exited the car and walked to an office building a block away. The building was vacant, scheduled for renovation. He went to the top floor.

He unlocked the door to a previously empty office but which now contained electronic surveillance equipment behind a window that focused on the parked hot dog truck. He went inside and locked the door.

* * * * *

Joe checked the settings on the bomb and exited the rear door of the truck. He rolled down the side panel, stowed the crank inside, made sure all windows and doors were securely closed and locked, and walked over to the Honda. He got in and drove away with his wife Mary, leaving a neatly printed message under the windshield on the driver’s side: Before You Try To Move This Truck,

To Avoid A Nuclear Catastrophe, Please Call

This Number.

Beneath the message was Joe’s cell number. No one called him.

* * * * *

Three uniformed messengers cycled separately through the streets of Manhattan, each headed for one of the three major network television offices. They arrived simultaneously at 12:50.

A few minutes later, each bike messenger dropped a single, small, padded brown envelope in front of the information desk clerk and left the building. Each clerk read the words on the envelope: Urgent for the News Desk. Any delay will cause problems. In each news office, the envelope was opened and the disk inserted into the nearest computer. Employees crowded around the flickering screen. When the picture stabilized there were gasps of disbelief.

The disk contained a single page of information with a side view of Joe’s hot dog truck at the bottom and a text message above:

The vehicle pictured below is parked adjacent to the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Inside is a thermonuclear bomb that will detonate if any attempt is made to move or enter the vehicle. The same is true of the office with a camcorder focused on this truck.

At three o’clock you will cease broadcasting all scheduled programs. Call this number at two o’clock for further directions.

Below the message was a phone number with a DC area code. In all the network offices, frenzied activity erupted. The first decision to be made was with whom they would share the information.

A copy was printed, and then the computers were shut down and locked. Each chief editor made the same decision: send a fax to Homeland Security.

Homeland Security responded immediately via fax. "It is imperative that you take no further action. The office staff with knowledge of this incident must remain in a secure location with no access to outside communication. They must not leave the building. Collect all cell phones.

Let no one else into your area. Homeland Security Agents are on the way and will arrive shortly to manage the situation. Please comply fully with their requests. No reply to this fax is necessary. Do not make any copies of this fax. Give the original to the agent in charge on his arrival. It was signed, Tim Holland, Chief of Homeland Security, by order of the President of the United States."

Within the next several minutes, the editing offices of the television network broadcasting companies were in lockdown. A similar chain of events was happening in each of them.

All office workers were brought together into the employee lounge. Homeland Security agents recorded everyone’s identity, collected all personally owned electronic devices, and placed a large array of telephones, computers, and fax machines in a separate office adjacent to the central work core. All other offices were closed and the doors locked. The bomb threat was to be sealed from public knowledge—for now. Those sitting in the Situation Room knew full well that such information made public would result in widespread panic as never seen in the United States. The truck must be isolated before the first 911 call. The bomb must be neutralized.

The senior editor at NBC News called his top assistant editors to his side. "This is like holding a stick of dynamite with a short fuse already lit. We’ll have to hang loose but stay alert to keep this thing from coming apart.

All it could take is a person losing control for the rest to follow. We can’t allow that to happen. If you see a problem developing, let me know right away.

The chief government agent installed a small portable public address system, which he turned on and called for the attention of all. "Ladies and gentlemen, I regret any inconvenience this situation has caused you.

"Please bear with us until we get a handle on the problem. We don’t perceive any immediate threat to your safety.

If you have an urgent need, please line up outside the office where we’re storing your telephones and computers. The agent there will take your requests individually and will monitor what you wish to communicate. Make no mention of the present situation or you’ll be disconnected.

The staff huddled in small groups, talking quietly among themselves. Several submitted requests. The communications agent ran a background check on each staff member who submitted a request.

Even as this was transpiring, background checks were in progress on all employees present. All incoming calls to office phones were routed to a single desk in a private cubicle away from the crowded center section.

The chief agent kept glancing at the clock as he supervised the setup of the extensive electronic equipment brought to the work area. At least ten more agents formed a circle behind computer consoles around the command center.

In a few minutes, e-mail replaced fax and a constant flow of messages began to arrive. The chief agent continually consulted with the network senior editor regarding the regular television broadcasts.

They had a little more than an hour. The regular broadcast schedule would be interrupted by…what? It depended on directives coming out of Washington, where the President was now meeting with the National Security Council.

Similar scenes were occurring in the other network offices. This was a news item of the highest order and the chief agents all had the same thought. There must be at least a single employee who will try to make the news scoop of the century. We have no higher responsibility than to see that it does not happen.

* * * * *

Joe’s truck was surrounded by agents from Homeland Security. It was the first step in securing the five- block radius around the bomb scene.

Friday, 1:30 p.m.

The dark blue Honda Accord heading west out of Washington pulled off Interstate 66 into the first rest stop, and drove into the empty parking area.

At the back of the lot, Joe got out of the car and opened the trunk. Using a screwdriver, he removed the license plate from the rear panel and inserted the car’s original plate.

They were soon headed west again.

* * * * *

Joe and Mary Hamadan had been grimly silent on the drive out of the city. Back on the expressway, they began talking, although neither was smiling.

I’ll miss you, Mary. I’m sorry I can’t drive you to Dulles. I need to keep my appointment in New York and can’t trust the traffic leaving the city later. We’ll be together soon.

Be careful. The plan should work without problems, but I’ll worry until you’re safe out of the country.

She reached over to his free hand and squeezed it. Mary had been a dutiful wife but was low on self-esteem, not being able to have children. This new adventure in international conspiracy numbed her. She wondered how she would manage her assignment.

Aside from the question of ability to perform, she thought, What will I do if I am caught by the authorities? No one has mentioned that to me. I feel trapped in a web.

* * * * *

The Honda pulled off the expressway into the second rest stop and parked in the last row of the rear lot. Joe stepped out and closed the door, leaving Mary alone in the front seat with the keys in the ignition. He disappeared into the shrubbery at the perimeter of the lot.

A few moments later, a silver Ford Taurus pulled into the rest stop. The driver stopped in the front parking spaces, got out, and walked into the men’s room. He soon emerged and walked toward the rear parking lot. He headed to the Honda in the last row, opened the driver’s side door and entered the vehicle.

After a short conversation, he started the engine and drove the car out of the rest stop, exiting at the next interchange, to return to the Interstate and head back toward the city. Once in the city, the traffic to Dulles Airport was slower, but without incident. The driver entered the Departing Flights lane and stopped in front of the Swiss Air entry. He helped his passenger retrieve a suitcase from the trunk, got back into the car, and drove away.

Mary Hamadan, now traveling as Mary Hansen, picked up her paid ticket at the Swiss Air counter and boarded the direct flight to Zurich with a single piece of luggage. She wasn’t aware the entire scene of her arrival had been recorded on a surveillance camera.

* * * * *

Earlier, the regular screening of passengers departing Dulles International on overseas flights was usually a boring task. This morning was no different. Everybody seemed usual and customary, except for a group of school children traveling with a single young female chaperone.

The screener thought, It’s in the middle of the school term, and there are no parents around to say goodbye. Very strange. He made a note and passed it to his supervisor’s desk.

* * * * *

After the Honda departed the parking lot on Interstate 66, Joe emerged from the shrubs and began walking around the perimeter. He followed a sidewalk that circled the restroom entry, to the front parking lot where the silver Taurus was parked.

He got into the car and continued west on Interstate 66 to the 405 Beltway and then to Interstate 95 north.

* * * * *

Back in Washington, the other wives arrived at the train station. Each carried a single piece of luggage. Each boarded trains to different cities on the east coast, where they had reserved seats for overseas flights that would eventually unite them with their children in Switzerland.

Their husbands did not report for work as usual, but drove their cars to New York City, where they parked at curbside spaces. They met at a parking lot in upper Manhattan and walked away together.

Chapter Two

The Initial Response

Friday, 1:45 p.m.

President Raphael Hernandez was notified immediately after the fax from the network offices in New York arrived at the White House. He called for a meeting of the National Security Council.

* * * * *

Raphael Hernandez came from a third generation Mexican family who had legally immigrated to Southwest Arizona in the 1930’s. Raphael’s father married into an influential Arizona family and began vegetable farming. He prospered and was active in community affairs. He was determined Rafael would get a good education, something never afforded the father.

Raphael received an appointment to West Point. His four years there were sometimes tumultuous. He had his share of disciplinary problems, usually as a result of not observing rules.

He made good grades but became known as one who questioned authority, especially for orders that did not appeal to his own sense of what was right and what should be done. He was willing to fight for his convictions and for others who might be oppressed. He graduated with academic honors but with a question mark about military protocol.

After graduation he was deployed to the Middle East and was in a frontline company that was the first to enter Iraq from Kuwait in Desert Storm, February, 1991.

A squad from his platoon was imbedded in a small village about halfway between Basra and Karbala and had taken casualties. They were under threat by Iraqis armed with missiles and automatic weapons. The Iraqis were constantly on the move and difficult to pinpoint for an air strike. Helicopter relief was too dangerous.

The company CO planned to send three Humvees with supplies and ammunition. Second Lieutenant Rafael Hernandez was chosen to lead the mission.

Hernandez addressed his men, "This is scheduled for a short run. We’re only fifty K from the target, but it’s remote and we may get bogged down. We really don’t know what to expect.

Our call sign is ‘Pinetree’ and theirs is ‘Hounddog.’ We’ll keep radio silence until we have our target in sight. I’ll sit in the front passenger seat of the lead Humvee and make the initial call.

The highway west had little traffic. Radio silence was maintained until reaching the turnoff on an unpaved road that led south into the desert. When the lights of the village came into view, Hernandez opened a channel. Hounddog, this is Pinetree, do you read me?

Five by five, Pinetree. What is your position?

Just made the left turn. What do you have for me?

"Come on into the village. When you get here, turn right on the first unpaved street, circle behind the first house, and pull into the alley between us and the next house.

Our Humvee was damaged and abandoned at the entrance from the next street. Pull forward to where it is parked. We have rooftop guards and things are pretty quiet during Prayer Time. We don’t expect it to stay that way long, so hurry on in.

The Humvees pulled into the alley as rooftop guards kept watch. Hernandez was the first one to enter through the opened side doors. Men transferred supplies inside in a few minutes.

The medic attended the wounded, who were placed in the first Humvee. It left with a driver and turret gunner through the alley entry into the street to return to base in Baghdad.

Hernandez surveyed the house walls and roof. He returned to the front room where all furniture had been placed in front of the entry door. The men were looking to him for direction.

"None of us have serious injury, but it won’t stay that way unless we escape soon. At the call for Evening Prayer, we’ll load up and get out.

"For now, I want three with night vision goggles and sniper scope rifles to relieve the roof guards. Don’t let anyone get into the alley. We’ll keep our rifles aimed into the windows across the street from the front of this house. I don’t want someone tossing a grenade through our window. Those not on guard duty will begin loading equipment into the Humvees.

I don’t know when Prayer Time will end. Know for certain that when it does, this house will come under heavy fire. Load as much of the equipment as you can into the Humvees, but leave room for the wounded. Be into the Humvees and back in the house as fast as you can.

A call came from the roof. We have activity in the front and the back. A couple of terrorists were picked off by the roof guards as they tried to sneak into the alley between the houses.

The guards up front were busy with multiple targets in all quadrants. The rapid exchange of small arms fire slowed and stopped. No more targets were in sight.

Within a few moments, rocket propelled grenades began falling in front of the house. They fell short except for one that landed below the front window. Instead of a window, a large gaping hole now exposed the interior of the house.

Hernandez felt like he had been hit across his forehead with a baseball bat. Blood trickled down his left cheek, and he could not see out of his left eye. He reached up to feel a gaping wound above his left eyebrow. He took a bandage from the first aid-kit and covered the wound before wrapping his forehead and left eye with a gauze wrap. He stood and took a few steps, holding a hand against the wall. Both arms and hands worked okay. In a few moments, he was able to recover his balance and move about the room without assistance. He surveyed the damage.

Those stationed next to the window lay dead. Three others, including the medic were unconscious but breathing. They had no visible open wounds. The rest were conscious but wounded with blood-stained abdominal and chest injuries. They would require assistance, but would not need a stretcher.

A roof guard climbed down with his dead buddy over his shoulders. The other guard followed. They laid their dead buddy next to those at the open hole in the wall.

Hernandez checked the alley to find the front Humvee with flat front tires and a smoking engine compartment. The last Humvee suffered no damage.

"I want someone in the both turret gun positions to keep things pinned down across the street and keep the rooftops overlooking our alley clear. One roof guard will stay on post until we’re ready to leave. The rest of us will load the dead and injured for immediate departure.

"I’ll drive. Leave the front passenger seat vacant for the front Humvee turret gunner. The roof guard will take the rear-door gun station.

Let’s back out through the first alley intersection, make a make a left turn, and head out the way we came. Let’s move!

Hernandez began taking the dead and injured out the side door. Several bullets streaked across his path, some kicked up dust at his feet, but he made several trips from the house with the unconscious and severely wounded; the others were able to walk out.

The front turret gunner from the damaged Humvee switched to his position next to Hernandez while the turret gunner of the departing Humvee gave covering fire. The second roof guard jumped into the back to give protective fire in the escape. That left Hernandez an open seat at the steering wheel. He jumped in and started the engine. As he backed out, the turret gunner cleared the alley entrance of approaching Iraqi soldiers. The rear-door gunners, now armed with automatic weapons, covered the back alley entrance as the turret gunner turned his attention to the street entrance. The front-seat sniper concentrated on the building across the street. Hernandez was having trouble seeing with only one eye, but a full moon bathed the landscape and there was a single road to follow. Iraqi vehicles gave chase, but their firepower did not match the turret gun and the automatic rifles of the rear-door gunners. When they arrived at the main highway, Hernandez did not see any reason to stop. A half-hour later, they pulled into base camp.

The CO was there to meet them. Hernandez was relieved of duty after his visit to the base hospital and sent on the next flight home. He received the Purple Heart for his injuries, as well as a Silver Star for his bravery in taking the wounded and dead to safety in the midst of enemy fire.

His head wound healed without permanent injury to his left eye, leaving a small scar on his forehead. His military career labeled him as a person to make impulsive and sometimes rash decisions.

He resigned his commission to run for Congress, where he served two terms in the House of Representatives. He won the presidential election with the swing votes for the Electoral College victory coming from California.

After almost a year in office, he was still on trial by many Americans ready for a change, but not completely sure Hernandez was the right person. He did not have anyone on the Hill considered to be an enemy. But, there was no member of Congress who could be counted on as a staunch supporter.

* * * * *

Before the NSC meeting, CIA Director Roger Handley went by the office of Stan Winthrop, the Chief Agent for National Security Alerts.

"Stan, I’ll leave it to you to determine who we should work with over at the NSA. I’ll have Ron Brandt coordinate with Secretary Garrettt to make the necessary moves. Also, I want you and Mike Finnerty from the Middle East Desk available for a conference call from the President before the meeting.

I’m on my way to his office now and will let him know you’re available. Stan thought, Mike is a good agent. The President will not regret calling him to his side.

* * * * *

Twenty-one years earlier, Samuel Goodson sat in his favorite chair on the front porch. A banister separated him from the hedge below and the adjacent lawn. He was waiting for something.

From a vacant sidewalk, a black and white soccer ball bounced over the hedge and rolled to the center of his lawn. A middle school down the street had just let out and children were hurrying home. A slight twelve-year old schoolboy walked to the sidewalk hedge, looked at the errant soccer ball, and then at Samuel, who smiled. The lad walked through a swinging gate entrance to the porch and onto the lawn to retrieve his ball. He picked it up and balanced it from one hand to the other.

What’s your name, young man?

I’m Michael Finnerty.

What grade are you in?

I’m just finishing the sixth grade, sir. Michael was becoming more at ease.

What does your father do for work?

He works at the plant.

The plant was the sole place of employment, aside from the smattering of small shops and eateries. There was also a single gas station, located a couple of miles off the Interstate. The only reason to drive here was to get here. It was a destination only town, unless you wanted to take a long drive in the country.

How are your grades?

OK, I guess. I haven’t failed any subjects and have a few A’s.

That’s good. But remember that all it takes to make good grades is time and energy. It does not cost you anything else, and the benefits are enormous. Never forget that. And do you know who I am?

Yes sir, you are Mr. Samuel Goodson. Everybody in town knows who you are.

And what else do you know about me?

Well…there are some who say that strange things happen sometimes when you meet with people; I don’t know exactly what that means. People don’t talk a lot about you, but they seem to know more or think they know more than they say. He drifted off into a time of wondering with a faraway look of deep thought.

Mr. Goodson said, Michael, come sit by me on the porch.

Michael sat across from Mr. Goodson, keeping his soccer ball clutched tightly in his hands. He was on a mission not to be denied.

Why are you here today, Michael?

Michael thought it might not be a secret from Mr. Goodson, but he was not sure what to say.

Do you know why, sir?

I know it’s for a need, but not for yourself.

Michael caught his breath, What they say must be true!

The events that subsequently transpired in this first encounter between Michael Finnerty and Samuel Goodson is another story—for later. For now, it can be said that it was the beginning of a way of life for Michael Finnerty that would involve no major incidents until the day he would receive a call from the President of the United States.

Michael was on the Dean’s List in high school and graduated from college with honors. He majored in Cultural Anthropology and minored in History. Upon graduation from college, the CIA recruited him into government service. He served several tours in the Middle East until he was assigned Chief of the Middle East Desk at Langley.

* * * * *

The five-thousand-square-foot Situation Room, located in the basement of the West Wing of the White House, was a flurry of activity. President Hernandez with his Chief of Staff Larry Freeman were surrounded by members of the National Security Council and other advisors. He looked at the myriad of buttons and computer screens facing him. The room, equipped with the most advanced communications systems available, allowed him secure access to embassies, military bases, and intelligence agencies worldwide, as well as to leaders of foreign nations. He had the world at his fingertips and was in awe of the capabilities. A large plasma screen loomed over the officials sitting around the conference room table.

The list of those attending was impressive: Jeff Bouchard, the President’s National Security Advisor; Tim Holland, the Director of Homeland Security; Ron Brandt, the Director of National Intelligence; John Garrettt, Secretary of Defense; Harriet Winters, Secretary of State; Fred Harper, Secretary of the Treasury.

Also present was Roger Handley, Director of the CIA. President Hernandez signaled for quiet. He looked around the room in a few moments before punching a button on the table in front of his seat. The plasma screen immediately filled with the picture of Joe’s hot dog truck and its ominous message.

You’ve seen this picture and probably have had little time to gather much factual information regarding the situation. The President’s face was grim. "Apparently we have someone waiting for our call at two o’clock. I believe we’ll have a few minutes after our call for discussion, since the demand is for scheduled TV broadcasting to stop at three.

"Roger at the CIA and I had a conference call with Michael Finnerty a few moments ago. Mike is Chief of the Middle East Desk. He’s served several field tours all over the Middle East and is fluent in Arabic and Farsi.

"This is what he told us, and these are his exact words, ‘There’s a lot of difference between a terrorist who talks about what he will do and one who commits an act of violence without warning. The first case is opportunistic—the terrorist wants something from you.

‘I know our policy is to not bargain with terrorists, but there is nothing wrong with hearing demands. We have the possibility of changing a situation from lose-lose to win-win.

‘For this to happen, you must on the first contact refuse to give all that is demanded. You can never back down from this primary position, no matter what. This is only one facet of dealing with the Eastern mind, but once established, there is some hope of resolution better than lose-lose. I also believe the terrorists have no immediate plan to detonate the bomb.’ I will give you a few moments to think about Mike’s report."

The President continued, "Now, I want to discuss what I think should be our initial approach to this crisis. I have a few items listed. As I speak, Air Force One is prepared for departure.

We leave the White House immediately after the phone call. Larry has my list of who must be aboard. Does anyone have a problem with this?

Ron Brandt answered. I believe Air Force One will be full. You may want to include others later. Maybe we can have a seven-thirty-seven available for them?

That’s a good idea. John, make it so.

The President continued. "My first response will be to deny the terrorists access to our TV networks. If anyone is to tell the American people they’re under nuclear threat, it will be me.

"Jeff, notify the TV stations there will be no interruption in their network broadcasting schedule until they hear otherwise.

"I want the broadcast signal from the terrorist remote site jammed so no one can receive it. Tim, I will leave that up to you.

If their demands don’t pose any threat to our national security, I may agree without their knowing I’m bluffing. We need time to figure out how to deal with the bomb. The President paused for anyone who wished to comment or ask a question. He thought, They are chewing this up and haven’t been able to swallow it. How will they handle the actual event?

Now, who is this ‘Joe,’ and what do we know about him?

The screen changed, showing a photo of a jovial-looking man smiling for the Division of Motor Vehicles. Ron Brandt stood to take the lead. Outwardly, he was calm, but he had to concentrate to bring the text into focus.

"The picture you see is from his driver’s license. His name is Joseph Hamadan.

"He is the only son of Afghan Muslim parents who immigrated here in 1975 when Joe was twelve years old. Soon after their arrival, his father began a sidewalk catering service out of a truck similar to this one.

"There’s no background information on the family. Their immigration papers reveal nothing out of the