“And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; for in them is filled up the wrath of God.”
Revelation 15:1, KJV
The date was September 11, 2001, when Osama bin Laden and his gang of al-Qaeda terrorist thugs changed, not just the United States, but the entire world into a panacea of unprecedented paranoia.
Bringing the two tallest buildings in the United States to the ground in less than an hour on that fateful, sunny September morning, the dark world of Islam became even more sinister. The moderate Muslims remained in the shadows, just like moderate Christians did in the early days of the Ku Klux Klan.
Al-Qaeda was well aware that America and all other western civilizations were vulnerable, easy. The Manhattan skyline was forever changed, a large void now where the two tall skyscrapers once stood, the emptiness an icon to Islam. As Muslims across the globe rejoiced in celebratory gunfire, clerics were already proclaiming that one day a mosque would overlook the sight.
The borders had been vulnerable for years, as full of holes as a slice of Swiss cheese. Thousands of Muslim infiltrators had poured through the porous Mexican border in the early to mid- nineties, many of them lacking the familiar Arab-Semite resemblance, having nationalities from Bosnia, Serbia and Indonesia. They had been well trained to look and act American. Unlike most immigrants invading the United States’ borders, the Islamic invaders were fluent in English and Spanish, as well as the proper dialects. They could speak Southern or New Joisey, whatever the need.
The infiltrators blended in over the years, keeping their noses clean, no police records, becoming business owners and laborers, seeking employment where their daily activities might lead to the coming take over, going to church on Sundays and Wednesdays, operating charities, going to strip clubs and bars. Whatever it took to look American.
Over the years, some Muslim men infiltrated and befriended various Christian militias, believing the old Arab adage: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. The Christian militias hated the United States government, planning an overthrow in time for the returning Messiah who was surely to show up soon. The infiltrators promised to help; and they waited patiently over the years, awaiting the code to begin their havoc and chaos.
The air space remained vulnerable in ways the U.S. Military, FBI, NSA and Homeland Security had not yet defined because they did not know, or at least had not addressed, the great damage that could be perpetrated on the innocent through the use of a stolen business jet. Flying at high speed just above the treetops, loaded with 1000 gallons of jet fuel and a cargo of explosives, terrorism could come almost instantly. Then there were the ultra-light, manned aircraft, easily capable of transporting the weight of a one hundred pound briefcase nuke.
Bin Laden always did his homework, the West wondering how a simple cave dweller could have such an extensive intelligence network, not aware of the prolonged infiltration of martyrs into the four-corners of Europe, Canada and the United States, Russia and China. Pakistan and India would destroy each other, but not before high-yield nuclear devices and delivery systems could be stolen and stored in the Bekaa Valley, deep inside Lebanon, along with the other weapons of mass destruction from the past regime of Saddam Hussein. Pakistan’s intelligence agency, the ISI, was already planning the overthrow of the central government. Pakistan’s new law outlawing the death penalty for blasphemy had not set well with the majority.
The shipping ports had been, and still were, vulnerable. The United States and the Europeans had spent themselves to death hunting for bin Laden; but somehow, by Allah’s will, he still survived. Many in the Islamic world considered Osama to be the Twelfth Imam, the Muslim Messiah, even though he was a Sunni. A belief in the Muslim Messiah was primarily held by the Shia sect of Islam.
Muhammed Khalid lived in the Korengal Valley of Death with his sister, Aludra; and he was a friend and confidant of Osama bin Laden. By mutual consent, Muhammed formed a secretive jihadist offshoot, Jihad’s Warriors, and had selectively recruited and trained for three years.
Muhammed’s closest pagan friend was Kyoto Kushito, a wealthy Japanese businessman and arms procurer extraordinaire, among other things. After meeting through mutual, clandestine connections, they quickly discovered a common love of Arabic philosophy and art, middle-Eastern poetry and the opera.
Most important though, they had a common, intense hatred of the United States, and especially Israel. Actually, Kyoto could care less about Israel; but he really hated the United States. His grandparents died in Hiroshima, crispy-crittered by 15,000 tons of TNT, the world’s first atomic war experience. Of course, nuclear bombs were now much more powerful and surprisingly, available for the right price.
The world’s first atomic weapon, Little Boy, the one that evaporated the city of Hiroshima and Kyoto’s grandparents, was a weapon of evil, Kyoto was convinced, evil perpetrated by the United States of America. Not the United States and England. Not the United States and France. Not the United States and anybody. Just the USA.
Kyoto was not alone in these feelings. There were many, a generation of Japanese that wanted revenge for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Baby Bombers. They were masters of stealth, remaining secret to even the most elite in the Japanese political scene. Most were very wealthy.
Kyoto had a plan of revenge, especially for the sake of his grandfather, Hotoshi Kushito, who gave his life willingly for the Japanese Empire. Kyoto and his grandfather were different he was sure. Hotoshi, a word meaning even tempered, certainly did not apply to grandson Kyoto. His name must mean anger or wrath; because wrath was soon to come for the Americans, damn them. It would be like their Book of Revelation, a lot of plague, hunger and death, coming soon to an American city near you.
Samarra thought it odd that the Bio 4 Lab would be so understaffed. It was late, but usually someone was there to at least assist with the containment suits. All the better for her, and though her guilt was gnawing away at her gut, Samarra was grateful for the diversion. That should keep everyone busy for at least thirty minutes, and by then she would be through with the mission.
I can’t throw up, I can’t throw up. Samarra repeated the thought to herself, finding it impossible to keep little Thomas out of her mind, the small, severed finger now firmly imprinted. Even now she wondered if she would ever see Thomas again, realizing that whoever, whatever was involved in this plot would not necessarily keep their word.
She had no choice and had to remain focused. Her mind could not wander from the task at hand.
Entering the safety chamber, the pressurized door closed behind her. Samarra waited for the all clear signal to make her way into the lab, through the second pressurized door. The whoosh let Samarra know that the negative pressure was intact, preventing any escape routes for loose microbes that might be floating around.
Samarra, who usually rushed from place-to-place, was not rushing this late night, as she glanced again out the safety glass to see if she was still alone; and she was.
With the replacement vials of blood serum, readily available throughout the lab, Samarra worked as quickly as possible, hoping no alarms would trigger security to her devious plot; and it was devious she knew. If the diversion lasted long enough, the security personnel would not be at the flat-screen monitors to see her acts, acts that could possibly lead to the world’s greatest flu outbreak in recorded history.
Samarra exited the sterile cocoon of the Bio 4 lab and then exited the safety chamber, white containment suit no longer limiting her movements. She scanned the hallways, expecting security to storm in at any moment, guns in hand; and she would never see Thomas. Even if Thomas lived, he wouldn’t come to prison to visit Samarra, she was sure.
She might even be judged and sentenced to death. The thought didn’t instill the fear inside Samarra nearly as much as the fear of her little Thomas being tortured to death, dismembered, appendages severed like the finger. She erased the thoughts.
With thirty vials of Spanish flu virus and two ounces of powdered virus, Samarra wondered what the plans for the powdered virus might be, not nearly as contagious as the liquid in the vials. She placed the containers into the insulated toolbox, cooled for preservation by the dry ice, and took the elevator to the top floor mechanical room. The orange glow from the exploding tanker truck was still visible from the outer windows of the lab, no security in sight; but Samarra did not relax in the least.
Samarra wasn’t fond of heights, though she was not acrophobic, and climbed the ladder attached to the top floor wall, the ladder surrounded with a metal-banded cage to prevent falling. She struggled with the toolbox, not because it was heavy, just bulky.
When the toolbox slipped from Samarra’s grip, bouncing on the concrete floor below, she held her breath, hoping the insulated container had prevented breakage of the liquid vials. It didn’t matter now, she had no choice. She descended the wall ladder, carefully opened the toolbox, heart pounding and opened the insulated container. She had no time to worry about the danger.
Samarra breathed a sigh of relief, though relief was not what she was feeling. More like desperation. The vials were unbroken and secure. Samarra didn’t notice the minute spillage of powder from the container, her thoughts elsewhere; and the microscopic deposit settled unseen on the concrete floor, just a slight smudge.
Ascending the wall-ladder for the second time, Samarra’s heart still pounding, rapid heartbeat not helping her endeavor, she opened the hatch to the roof and gently pushed the toolbox through the roof penetration. She hoped the roof hatch alarm had been disengaged, though security was hopefully still assisting in the diversion.
“I’m heading back to the security desk,” Russ told Jason and the other guards. “You guys stay here to assist if needed.” Russ did not hurry but walked briskly down the street, the smell of fire, fuel and burning flesh thick in the air. Sirens were summoning the night in the distance, the rescue vehicles still working their way toward the Emory campus.
As Russ walked back to the CDC Bio 4 building, Samarra exited the penthouse mechanical room after leaving the toolbox by the chilled-water pump of the chiller located on the left side of the room, just as she had been instructed. She locked the penthouse door and scurried back through the roof hatch and down the wall-ladder. Samarra didn’t notice the slight tug on her madras blouse as she descended the ladder, nor the small tear. She entered the elevator and took it to the fourth floor where she entered another elevator to take her to first floor security.
Russ Ivies, still walking across the parking lot toward security, was clearly troubled, questioning for the umpteenth time, what in the world was that tanker truck doing on the main campus thoroughfare? He also wondered what work was so important that night in the lab, so important that Samarra hardly blinked an eye when the truck barreled down the street and exploded in the distance. He knew some of Samarra’s personality traits, just from the years their paths had crossed; and she always seemed the curious sort.
Russ walked, his stride increasing. Samarra exited the front entrance of CDC just as Russ was bounding up the steps.
“What happened Russ?” Samarra asked the question, her autonomic nervous system having now slowed her heartbeat and respiration to almost a normal level, mission accomplished. Twenty minutes had passed she noted, glancing at the clock tower across the street. It sure seemed longer than that.
“Tanker truck lost control on the turn and crashed into the building. Not sure why it was on this street. A fireman said the driver was most likely incinerated in the initial blaze,” which still was troubling Russ. There might be more death before the night was over since the fire was still out of control.
“Leaving already?” questioning Samarra’s brief visit to the lab.
“I am. I was going to work awhile after checking the cultures, but with all the action taking place I thought I would call it a night. Too hard to concentrate. See you tomorrow.”
Samarra rushed this time, across the parking lot, dodging the fire and rescue vehicles still arriving en masse, knowing she would not sleep this night. The hours would pass slowly as she wondered whether the finger-severer would keep the promise that Thomas really would be back in her arms in twenty-four hours. She opened the front door of the Volvo, started the electric motor and began her mentally anguishing journey back to Tuxedo Drive.
Samarra exited the CDC. How in the world did they plan to get the virus from the mechanical room she wondered, and past security? That wasn’t her problem. The dry ice would only last a day or two at most. Once the virus reached normal temperature, it would be especially virulent.
Turning onto N. Decatur Road, she subconsciously wiped the slight dripping from her nose. Samarra hardly ever got a cold.
Russ was concerned at Samarra’s somewhat odd behavior, and he waited for the other security attendants to return. By replaying the digital record of the security cameras in the Bio 4 Lab area, he would see if there was anything strange going on. He had an uneasy feeling, but he was sure it was just the events of the night. Russ backed the master recording thirty minutes, prior to the visit by the Shell tanker, and Ms. Russell.
The data was reviewed under high-speed; but nothing out of the ordinary was noted, as a matter of fact, Samarra herself wasn’t noted. How could that be?
Jason and the other guard returned to the security desk, smelling like fire and fuel. Russ did not confide his concerns, thinking it better to investigate first.
“I’m going to make the rounds guys,” Russ told the two security men now at the front desk to monitor his progress from the panel of flat-screen monitors, stating he believed there might be a problem with the cameras on the fourth floor.
Five minutes later, Russ radioed security. “Jason, do you guys see me?”
“Not yet Russ, where are you?”
“I’m standing smack-dab in front of camera 4B, in the hallway just outside the lab.”
Puzzled, the guards saw nothing on the flat-screen to indicate anyone was at the lab.
“We don’t see nothin’,” Jason responded.
“OK, I’m heading down the hall. See if I appear in the next camera, 4C. I should be there now.” Russ’ anxiety level rose, knowing something was not kosher with the security cameras.
“We still don’t see nothin’. It’s as though the hallway is empty.”
Russ continued down the hall to the elevators and then saw the small red L.E.D. indicator light that had been triggered by the elevator that leads to the rooftop mechanical room. He wondered how that was possible, since no alarms had appeared at security.
Entering the elevator, Russ pressed the UP button, took a one-story ride to the fifth floor and exited. Walking to the wall ladder, he saw a small piece of fabric hanging from the protective cage surrounding the ladder. The fabric, navy blue, yellow and green madras matched the shirt that Samarra had been wearing when Russ first saw her this evening.
Russ climbed the ladder, careful not to tamper with the madras evidence; because he now knew something was amiss. What in the world was Samarra doing on the ladder to the HVAC penthouse? When he reached the roof hatch, the hatch was unlocked. He grabbed his Nextel from his belt holder and radioed security once again.
“Is there any indication on the alarm panel that the integrity of the roof hatch has been compromised?”
“No sir,” Jason replied, “and we still didn’t see you on any of the cameras in that area. What’s going on?”
“Stand by.” Russ’ response was unusually curt.
Ascending the ladder and through the roof hatch, Russ walked across the roof, maintaining his balance as he passed over the pebbles that covered the roof’s membrane surface. The penthouse mechanical room was locked and secure. This is very strange indeed he thought.
Russ descended the wall-ladder after securing the roof hatch, his mind still spinning as to why Samarra would have been on the roof. A quick scan with the high-powered flashlight did not indicate any unusual activity on the roof, but it must have been her. Once again, Russ carefully avoided the small piece of fabric, leaving it intact and hanging on the barrier.
Now securely back on the smooth, concrete floor of the fifth floor room, Russ stooped to retie the shoestring of his black Puma tennis shoes. He noticed, or at least he thought he noticed, a miniscule amount of talcum-looking powder on the floor surface, just below the ladder. He pressed his finger to the surface, some of the almost invisible powder sticking to his finger and carefully smelled the substance. There was no odor. Russ dismissed this concern, realizing the powder, or dust, could be from many sources.
Something, however, was not right; and now he needed to determine what to do. He really liked Samarra, her record and research impeccable, and thought he might give her a call before reporting the incident. The priority at the moment was to determine what was wrong with the fourth floor security cameras.
“I’m headed back,” he radioed security.
“What did you find?” The other guards’ curiosity now peaked by the malfunctioning camera equipment.
“Nothing really. I will see you in a few.” Russ entered the elevator that would take him to the first floor and realized he was perspiring abnormally as he sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve since he had no tissue. He sneezed again on his trek to security.
“You okay man? Heard you sneezing.” Jason looked concerned and should have been.
“I’m fine. Maybe just some allergies, pollen season in Atlanta. You know how that is.” Russ’ face felt flush, and he began to feel slightly feverish. He was glad his shift would soon be over and he could relax a bit. Then he would call Samarra. Maybe he should call the police, his thought brief and quickly dismissed. There can’t be much to this, and he tried to minimize the incident. He sneezed again, apologizing to all three guards, the third having now returned from the fire. The room smelled like fuel and smoke.
“I’ll be right back. I think I might be sick.” Russ hurried to the Men’s Room, just making it to the toilet before his gut let go with almost projectile-like vomiting. What in the world was he coming down with? Russ was hardly ever sick and had only missed one day due to sickness in all his years at the CDC. Whatever it was, it was sudden.
Russ washed up in the lavatory, the water turning on automatically when his hands crossed the path of the imbedded motion sensor, and splashed water in his eyes that were nearly swollen shut. He walked back to Security, hand against the wall to stabilize his balance.
“Man, you look awful. Maybe you better go home.” Jason looked genuinely concerned.
“I think I will, but let me lie down for a few minutes.” Russ walked down the hall to the infirmary, dizziness setting in.
Two hours later, still early morning and dark outside, one of the guards walked to the infirmary to make sure Russ was all right. He wasn’t. There was blood oozing from Russ’ nose, ears and left eye. Unresponsive, the guard radioed his compatriots.
“Call 911. I think Russ is dead.”
The security guard sneezed, and worried.