Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

As he watched the water cascading off the metal and swirling down the drain, Hicks knew the hardest part still awaited him. Gathering up all his willpower, he slowly raised his head until he met his own eyes in the mirror.

The empty gaze registered deep down in his gut. Long ago he had resigned himself to the belief that the ends justified the means when hundreds, if not thousands, of lives were at stake. Yet acting on that belief had cost him countless sleepless nights and countless nightmares when he did sleep. He had lost two marriages, and now he felt he was gradually losing his soul. Don’t let the monster eat you alive, he told his reflection. You did what had to be done. Never forget that! You did what had to be done. The longer he looked in his eyes, however, the less convinced he became of his words.

The ring of his cell phone saved him from more soul searching and snapped him back to tough-guy mode. “Hicks,” he answered.

“Hicks, this is Scott Ross down in Midwest Division. You talked to my colleague Tara Walsh a couple of times earlier today. We heard you had some success with Mr. Yemen-guy, and I was hoping to get a heads-up on any information he may have given.”

“Yeah, Ross, Tara said you’d be calling. The boys who were listening in on the interrogation should be getting you a transcript soon, but let me give you the highlights. Kurshumi was on his way toward Minneapolis, where he was supposed to locate a green Toyota Highlander with Michigan plates in the parking lot of a Byerly’s in St. Louis Park. In the wheel well of this car would be an envelope with instructions and keys. All indications are that he was going to pick up items to make an explosive belt as part of a coordinated suicide attack.”

“Of course! ‘Allah controls the weather!’ I thought they didn’t want bad weather, because it would keep people in their homes. Instead, they do want it cold and nasty so that they can put as much clothing on their bodies as possible to disguise themselves and their vests to help… Wait a second, did you say ‘suicide attack’-as in a Palestinian-blows-up-the-bus kind of suicide attack?”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what we’re looking at. We’ve sent people out to gather the stuff that Kurshumi was meant to collect. I’m guessing their scavenger hunt will turn up between thirty and forty pounds of explosives, a vest or belt, and a projectile of some sort.”

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening here,” Scott said.

Hicks knew what he meant. Ever since 9/11, the evidence had pointed to the inevitability of just this sort of attack. However, there was a huge emotional leap separating theory from reality.

“So,” Scott continued, “how many are there, and where and when are they planning to hit?”

“I wish I had better news here, but this guy doesn’t seem to know any details. He’s just an expendable pawn on a need-to-know. All he could tell me was that the attack is scheduled for tomorrow. This evening, he was supposed to call a number that he carried with him, but when he got pulled over, he swallowed that number without looking at it. That’s all we’ve got right now.”

“C’mon, man, you know we need more than that! We’ve got some psychos out there who want to blow a whole load of bolts or bearings or screws or something through a bunch of American bodies tomorrow, and all you can tell me is that someone’s going to do it somewhere sometime? Are you sure you got everything out of Kurshumi? Can anyone else up there take a shot at him?”

Hicks gave his anger time to vent through his grip on his cell phone before he answered. “I’m going to chalk that question up to your youthfulness, Mr. Ross, and to your enthusiasm, which I highly suggest you get under control. Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing Kurshumi knows that he did not tell us. Do you understand?”

“I understand… It’s just that this is a really nasty game, and I feel like we’re playing in the dark.”

“Welcome to counterterrorism, Mr. Ross. Now, I’ve got work to do.” Hicks flipped the phone closed and cocked his arm back, then stopped himself just before pitching a strike against the aqua blue tile wall. Little punk sits behind a computer screen all day and then tells me how to do my job? The only blood he’s ever had on his hands was probably from his own nose.

With effort, he got himself back under control. Glancing in the mirror one more time, he quickly turned his eyes away. You’ve got work to do, son, he thought as he burst out the door to head back to his team. Enjoy your self-loathing on your own time.

Friday, December 19

North Central United States

Abdel eased the blasting cap into the final cylinder of C-4. Although he had practiced this countless times while training in Pakistan, he still felt nervous sliding the triggering device into the plastic explosive. There was finality to the action, as if engaging a lock for which he had no key. Click! Your fate is sealed. Your destiny awaits.

Aamir’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, startling him. “Can you feel it, Abdel? We truly are the most blessed among men. Think about what this means. Most people live and die in insignificance. But we have been given a chance to achieve immortality. The names of the great martyr brothers Aamir and Abdel al-Hasani will be venerated for generations in story and song. Think of the honor that will be bestowed upon our family. Think of the financial security Father and Mother will experience the rest of their lives. Think of the smile of Allah and the joy of the Prophet as they witness our victory, achieved in their names.”

Abdel stared at his brother. He still hadn’t forgiven Aamir for striking him earlier. He had spoken only what words were necessary since the incident. As he listened to his brother’s voice drone on and on, he wondered whom his brother was really trying to convince. Does he truly believe the words he’s saying? I know that I once did. I wonder if I still do.

When Aamir finally finished his soliloquy, Abdel shook himself loose from his brother’s grip and walked to his jacket, which was hanging over a chair. Ripping open the Velcro, he reached into the front pocket and pulled out a small, very sharp folding knife. As he walked back to his brother, the snap of the opening blade broke the silence of the room. He reached up and grabbed the top of Aamir’s T-shirt, then brought the knife up and with three quick cuts sliced off the front of the shirt’s thin collar.

When Abdel opened the double layer of material, a small roll of paper fell out into his hand. The paper had been loosely sewn into the shirt in a way that combined security with easy access. The garment had then been given to Aamir with the instructions to wear it under his clothes at all times and to not remove the paper until 6 p.m. the night before the attack. The only deviation allowed was if he was in danger of being caught, at which time he was to rip off the collar and swallow the enclosed information.

Abdel gently unrolled the paper, revealing ten neatly printed digits. He dropped the small strip into Aamir’s hand. “It’s time to make the call.”

Aamir pulled a disposable cell phone out of his pocket. They had paid cash for the phone at a Wal-Mart last night and had not even had to show ID to acquire their minutes.

Aamir dialed the number, then simply said, “The hand is poised to strike.” The older brother scribbled quickly in Arabic as he listened to the voice on the other end. When the line went dead, he placed the cell phone in the waste can next to the television and pounded it to pieces with the lug wrench from their car, wasting twenty-eight of their original thirty T-Mobile To Go minutes.

Aamir popped the strip of paper into his mouth and spoke to his brother as he chewed. “The plan is beautiful. We will strike America a blow it will not soon forget. Tomorrow, we will leave-”