David said, “Chase, chill out, man. It must be an accident.”
But as he watched his brother prepare his weapon, he began to suspect that it wasn’t. Chase had been in war zones all over the world. He wouldn’t have retrieved his weapon unless he knew something was amiss.
Chase shook his head. “You don’t hear that?”
“What?”
“Gunfire.”
“Hurry up,” the first man said to the second over the sound of liquid splattering on the ground as he poured gasoline onto the highway. Horns blared at them. They had stopped the minivan in the middle of the Beltway, only a few dozen yards before the overpass.
“I’m going as fast as I can. It won’t come out any faster.” The two men had started pouring gasoline on either end of the minivan. They walked the streams of pungent liquid in a straight line to either side of the highway. Together, the line of gasoline and the minivan would form the blockade.
The third man stood with his rifle behind the minivan, out of sight of the jammed traffic. A few cars near them realized something menacing was occurring and screeched around the blockade. Engines revved up as they panicked and zoomed past.
“Now. Light it, light it!” The gasoline vapors ignited before the flame of the long gas grill lighter made contact with the liquid. The spreading fire engulfed the highway in one long strip, cutting off traffic and filling the air with black smoke.
“Good luck, brothers,” the first man said as he raised his rifle. Both the retractable doors to the minivan were open. The three men hobbled through the opening and out to the other side, where the traffic stood motionless. They fanned out and began marching through the bumper-to-bumper traffic jam. In unison, they raised their rifles and began firing into the cars.
There were twelve of them in all. Divided into three groups of four. Three separate attacks conducted simultaneously on different parts of the Beltway. That was what the instructions specified.
Their leader, Javad, had been in the Iranian Ministry of State Security. The others were mere foot soldiers, chosen for their loyalty and competence. But that was a long time ago.
They held only loose affiliations to each other. A few prayed at the same mosque, but most didn’t attend anymore. Two of the men were roommates. None were married. None participated in any online activity that might get them flagged.
In truth, most members of the Iranian sleeper cell enjoyed living in America. The weather was nice. There was good food, and plenty of activities to keep them occupied. They enjoyed themselves. They were just good old Americans, who had been living in the United States for almost a decade.
Waiting for orders.
Most in the group had thought they would never be called upon. If he was honest about it, Javad had thought that too. Their sleeper cell was a nice weapon for Iran to have in its arsenal. But like other weapons of mass destruction, it could only be used once, and it would trigger swift retribution. So it was illogical, when one thought about it, that they would ever be used. Because that would mean… well, that Iran had reached a decision to irreparably harm itself, and sacrifice the lives of Javad and his men.
Javad and his men weren’t terrorists. They were soldiers. Patriots. Few of them had any desire to be martyrs. They were too smart for that. But ideology, religion, and nationality were very closely related in Iran. And he had been briefed on the many ways his group might be used. Suicide missions and suicide attacks were very different in his mind. In a suicide mission, one still held hope that they might overcome all odds and make it out alive.
He reminded himself that suicide attacks had been used several times throughout history, often in military campaigns. Most notably, the Japanese had launched Kamikaze bombers at the end of World War II, sinking around fifty ships. It could be an effective weapon, Javad told himself. Iran must have a great need for it.
Over the past few weeks Javad had grown increasingly worried as he watched the news. Iran and the United States had already fired shots at each other in combat. While outright war still had not broken out, the media made it seem like it could happen at any time.
A part of him wished he could be in Iran, serving his countrymen. But another part of him was thankful that he was here, safe from the guided munitions of the deadliest military in the world. Despite what the Iranian propaganda machines would tell them, Javad knew the truth. No country on earth could make war like the United States of America.
The growing probability of war between the two nations brought his life’s most important question to the forefront of his thoughts. Would they be called up into action? He’d made the rounds. He had spoken to his team leaders. And they had spoken to their team members. All twelve men had been told to be on the alert, but not to do anything that might raise suspicions. They didn’t want the Department of Homeland Security or the FBI knocking on their door.
A few weeks ago, Javad had been almost certain that his network would not be activated. In the face of an almost certain military defeat, even the Ayatollah would know not to provoke America by using Javad’s team. Javad was like one of the American soldiers that manned a nuclear missile silo. A highly trained overseer of a terrible, never-to-be-used weapon. This was the way he had thought of himself.
The activation order had come three days ago.
It was in the form of an email from a clothing company, and it went straight to his spam folder. His handlers — or, more accurately, the people they hired — could make any message appear as if it had originated from a different and innocent source. Javad was trained to check both his inbox and spam folder each day, looking for the right passphrase. The body of the email, to the untrained eye, would also look like a normal advertisement. But it contained coded instructions.
He immediately headed to the predetermined location and found the vehicle. It was an unmarked minivan. An older model. Blue. American-made. The keys in the glove compartment, inside a manila envelope. Also inside the envelope were detailed plans. A timeline with targets and locations. Where to get equipment. And a lighter, to burn the instructions.
The van was unlocked, parked in an alleyway and sandwiched between two windowless brick buildings. A trashy apartment complex rose up across the street in front of him. He wondered if there was a team of FBI agents watching him behind one of its dark windows. He looked up as he read, knowing instantly that he was being watched. There was no way whoever had left written plans like this would allow them to fall into the wrong hands. If it wasn’t the FBI in that building straight ahead, it was whoever had left these instructions. He could feel their crosshairs on his forehead.
When he finished memorizing the plans, he got out of the vehicle and lit the papers on fire, just as the instructions has prescribed. The alleyway kept any wind from blowing out the flame, and he didn’t let go until the last morsel of paper was consumed. Then he got back inside the van and drove away.
That had been only three days ago, but it seemed like it had been a lifetime. The others were excited when they found out that they were to be activated. Their time had finally come. They would carry the sword. Strike at the heart of America. Death to America. They would show the West that Iran was not to be trifled with.
Javad hoped he could fulfill his duty without being caught. He gave himself about a one in four chance that he would execute his mission and get away alive. He had little confidence that his men would survive, but that was not something he would ever tell them.