Terror On Our Soil

CHAPTER ONE



The cherry trees on Pennsylvania Avenue didn’t blossom that year. The end of winter was near, but would be extended another few months by events that even the chosen politicians could never have seen coming.

On Capital Hill, senators went about their daily routines without much thought, deliberating on matters of educational reform and the immigration crisis. The threat of terrorism still lingered in the back of their minds, but the staunchly believed that years of hard work had made the country safer by a hundred-fold. They strove to put the past firmly behind them and push the United States forward.

America’s days of fear and irrational suspicion were over. Change was already coming. Change for the better. The very first woman president had been sworn in just one month ago, the Middle East was settling down at long last, and Sergei Orfsky was dropping off his daughter at school.



“Bye, Dad,” Sofia said when they pulled up against the curb of Thomas Burroughs Elementary School. Orfsky smiled as she pulled her backpack out from under the electrically-warmed leather seat. She strained and grunted, trying to toss her long, silky brown hair out of her face.

“Woah,” Orfsky said, reaching over to grab a strap of the bulging pink bag. “What do you have in here? Rocks?” He held the backpack for her to slip her arms through.

“Mostly,” she answered innocently. “And some other things I find lying around. Cans, paperclips, craft supplies, stuff like that.”

“Nine years old and already a chronic packrat,” Orfsky chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

A little girl called in a knitted parka yelled Sofia’s name across the parking lot. “I’ve gotta go, Dad,” she said, opening the door. A fogbank of frozen steam billowed against the warm air escaping from the car.

“I have to get to work anyway,” Orfsky conceded while glimpsing briefly at his silver Rolex. “Daddy can’t be late to save the world.”

Sofia stepped out of the car and turned her big blue eyes back to him. Eyes that could get her out of any bad situation with a single puppy dog look. “Don’t be late, Superman,” she said, pulling her denim jacket around her. Orfsky smiled. She was his life.

“Bye, baby,” he said. She closed the door and he revved the engine on his new company car. She screamed playfully and jumped back. Her friend called again. She waved to him and started across the busy parking lot, crowded with kids and their parents’ cars.

Orfsky revved the engine again and pulled the beautiful black Jaguar out into the thinning traffic. A few minutes later, he merged onto I-395. The Jaguar purred with carefully released power. “God,” he thought, the radio blasting “The Volunteers” by Jefferson Airplane. “I love my job.”

Sofia and her friend were walking around the edge of the school soccer field. Thomas Burroughs Elementary, an old two-story brick building, loomed a few hundred yards away. The field was deserted, except for the two girls. All the other kids and teachers were clamoring to get into the school a little early to escape the biting frost that seemed to be drilling tiny pinpricks into their throats.

Sofia was never fazed by the cold, thanks to the Russian blood on her father’s side. Her friend was willing to tolerate it for the sake of getting to talk to Sofia. They exchanged answers from the math homework, compared purses, and talked about the things that Sofia had found lying around the day before.

“Why would you keep the back of a flashlight package?” her friend asked, examining the bent cardboard.

“It’s got a morse code key on the back,” Sofia defensively. “Just in case.”

“Are you planning to get lost in the woods?” her friend teased. They stopped by the chain-link fence that faced the road.

“You never know,” Sofia replied. She snatched the cardboard back. She laughed softly and shook her head. The bell rang. It was time to head inside, but something caught Sofia’s eye.

“It’s time to go in,” her friend urged. Sofia knelt to look at the ornate spoon handle protruding from the frozen mud. “Come on, Sofe,” her friend begged. “I’m freezing.”

“Go ahead,” she answered distantly. She started to dig carefully around the spoon. It was so out of place.

“Okay, but don’t be late to class again. Mrs. Sullivan will kill you.”

“I just wanna see what it is,” Sofia said. She pulled on the spoon handle. “I’ll be right behind you.” Her friend straightened her pink, woolly parka.

“You do what you want, but I’m not making-up anymore excuses for you.” Sofia nodded to make it look like she was listening. Her friend walked up to the school.

The spoon broke free at the same time that a white van pulled into the parking lot. It was silent. Everyone was inside. The second bell rang. Late again.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She pulled her gloves off, tossed them aside and began wiping dirt off the spoon with her thumb. The spoon was slender and delicate, probably made of silver, with spiraling maple leaves engraved along the handle.

She reached behind her, unzipped the largest pocket of her backpack, and dropped the spoon inside.

As she reached back to close the zipper, a large hand grabbed her wrist. She tried to turn and see who it was, but another hand squeezed her shoulder tightly. She started to scream, but a third hand anticipated her and clamped down over her mouth. A black blindfold slipped over her eyes and nose. She thrashed, but her captors were considerably stronger than she was. The hand on her shoulder let go and someone else picked her up. She screamed silently and bit the hand covering her mouth, but it didn’t even flinch.

A door slid open and she was handed off to someone inside.

“Keep her quiet,” a man’s voice ordered. The hand over her mouth let go, only to be immediately replaced by a strip of duct tape. Her backpack was violently wrenched off, twisting her arm. Tears welled up in her blinded blue eyes. More duct tape was wrapped snugly around her legs.

The door was closed and the van pulled out of the deserted parking lot. Inside, Sofia’s friend had saved her a seat in their warm classroom and was checking the wall clock. Sofia was running very late.

The van soon merged onto northbound I-395 and followed the signs to Reagan National Airport.



Sergei Orfsky pulled into the parking space that was assigned to him this week. He grabbed his locked black suitcase and headed across the slick pavement. More than once the tall, 275 pound Russian man stumbled on the thin layer of ice that had formed overnight.

At the front door of his office building, he handed his ID card to a waiting Army officer for a security check. The card was valid, and as the stoic soldier handed the card back to Orfsky, he said: “Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”

“Thank you, major,” he replied, stepping into the gauntlet of metal detectors and bomb-sniffing German shepherds. On the way, he looked up at the obscured sign on the building. UNITED STATES PENTAGON BUILDING.

It was nearly fifteen minutes before he panted his way up to the door reading: SECRETARY OF DEFENSE. He opened the door to find his receptionist waiting expectantly in the anteroom.

“Good morning, Anne,” he said, trying to brush past her. She stepped in front of him, blocking his escape.

“Mr. Orfsky, I have the morning’s news for you, as always,” she said. This was her latest attempt to drive him crazy, and it was working.

“I was planning on reading the papers in my office today,” he said as he tried to step around her. She opened the small notepad that she’d been holding and began to read.

“Secretary Quince’s new port security measures were rejected by the House this morning. President Thompson wants him to come up with a more realistic plan by next month or she’ll ask him for his resignation.” She stopped to breathe before continuing.

“The Disarmament Talks in Nairobi are still at a stand-still, the delegates from Syria claim that they need their weapons stores for self-defense and Israel won’t disarm until Syria does. The Chinese UN representative wants to impose sanctions on them until they comply.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Orfsky commented. “Now, if you’ll excuse me –“

“And Vice President Abrams called and wanted to know if you have time to speak with him this week.”

“Call him and tell him that I’m free on Sunday,” Orfsky told her. She quickly flipped to the next page in her notebook and jotted-down a few detailed notes.

While Anne was distracted, he quickly ducked into his office. He sighed in relief. “That could’ve been a lot worse,” he thought.

The office was a welcome sight this morning. A pot of coffee was percolating on the table next to a long, leather sofa on the left wall. The window directly above was fogged-up due to the huge temperature difference between the office and the outside world. He crossed to the window and rubbed a clearing in the condensation with his sleeve. Across the Potomac he could see the red brake lights of the late traffic below the Washington Monument, whose frost-encrusted aluminum summit glittered in the single ray of sunlight that pierced the winter clouds.

He turned back to his desk facing the door and crossed to it. A pile of reports sat on the desk calendar that blanketed the mahogany. He sat down in his wide chair and pulled the first manila envelope to him.

He flipped it open and examined the title page, which had only one typed line. “Monticello,” he read aloud to himself. The codename for the new American Missile Defense System. Where Reagan’s Strategic Missile Defense project had failed, they were about to succeed.

Orfsky flipped to the second page, where the final sites were enclosed. The first was labeled “Groom Lake, Nevada,” which he knew meant the Alaska Peninsula just west of Kodiak Island. The second was “Oxbow, Maine,” which was actually a nuclear test site 80 miles west of San Angelo, Texas. It was decided.

He flipped to the third page. The system components were listed there. The inventory listed sixty ground-to-air intercontinental missiles, twelve existing GPS satellites, eighteen CIA positioning satellites, three dedicated guidance computers, and 515 full-time military personnel. The total construction costs were $104 billion. The key was that project used only existing technology. This way, they didn’t have to risk exposure to the public by having to hire hundreds of civilian scientists for research and development.

When the whole system became operational in ten months, the estimated yearly costs would be a little under $1.2 billion. Only then would the world be aware of Monticello’s existence.

Orfsky closed the top secret manila envelope and pushed it toward the shredder that waited expectantly on the left side of his desk.

The phone rang. He picked up the small, cordless phone from where it was resting to the right of his elbow.

“Orfsky here,” he answered. On the other end was an emotionless masculine voice that he had never heard before.

“I have your daughter,” the man said. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll kill her.” Orfsky felt his stomach drop. A lump formed in his throat. There was no way that this could be happening. His voice shook.

“Who are you?” he asked the man.

“I am a representative of Sayfu-l-fajri,” the man replied calmly, as though he did this every day. Sayfu-l-fajri was one of the most dangerous terrorist groups in the world. They had never been deemed a threat to America or her allies, and so they were never interfered with.

“What do you want with my daughter?”

“What do you think I want?” the man asked in response. Orfsky couldn’t think straight. A million conflicting emotions were boiling and welling up inside him. He didn’t answer. The man didn’t wait long. “You are among the most powerful men in the Western world. Surely you can understand my motive.”

This man was like a cat toying with his prey, not torturing it physically, but mentally. But the man now held incredible leverage against Orfsky. His motive was quite clear.

“I want proof,” he finally replied. “I want proof that you have my daughter.” The man had obviously anticipated this, and wasted no time preparing an answer.

“She’s a very pretty girl,” the man began. “The blue jean jacket that she’s wearing complements her eyes: sad, deep blue eyes. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail today. Even in captivity, some animals are able to retain their charm.”

“What have you done to her, you bastard?” Orfsky asked. He almost gagged on his own voice.

“Nothing yet. But I will if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

“What do you want?” Orfsky said, his flushed face rapidly paled. He looked down at the phone charger resting on his desk. Below the playback buttons for the answering machine, was a red button labeled ‘Record’. He pushed the button in and it began to flash.

“Name your terms,” Orfsky said. He had no doubt that the man could hear his weakness.

“First, I want the exact locations and technological specs of the American Missile Defense Project.” The man paused, probably to collect his thoughts. “You should record this conversation, if you aren’t doing so already.” Orfsky sighed. His momentary advantage was gone. This man held all the cards.

“You will send the information as a text message to this cell phone number, which you should be tracing by now.”

Orfsky hit *1097 on the phone. The people in E-Ring could trace the call in a few minutes.

“If you are tracing this call, you will not tell anyone why. As a matter-of-fact, you will deny that this conversation ever took place. If you tell anyone, I will chop-off your daughter’s goddamn head and send the body back to you. Is that understood?”

“I understand,” Orfsky said listlessly. This man had the one thing that he cared for most in the world.

“Second, I want you to meet me in Los Angeles in three days to discuss the positions of your troops. The time and place will be mailed to your house.”

“Will you release my daughter then?” Orfsky asked hopefully.

“If you follow my directions to the letter…” the man trailed off while he considered Orfsky’s request. “I will consider it.”

“Is that all?” Orfsky asked. He didn’t think he’d be able to speak to this monster much longer.

“Just know that Sayfu-l-fajri has considerable resources. We will have men tailing you everywhere you go. If you alert the FBI, CIA, or anyone else, I will personally kill your daughter.”

The line went dead. Orfsky let the phone slip out of his sweaty hand and clatter to the floor.



CHAPTER TWO



Asad Karim closed the cell phone and slipped it into the pocket of his leather aviator jacket. He stroked his short, black beard and walked over to his young protégé at the mouth of the alley. Husam Ahmed was guarding Asad from curious passerby, glaring at everyone who walked down the bustling sidewalk in downtown Toronto, Canada. Husam was a pale Chechen refugee and bore little resemblance to most Muslims in terms of skin pigmentation.

“How did it go?” he asked his superior. The conversation had to be perfectly performed, or the rest of the plan would never work.

“This Orfsky seems like a very reasonable man,” Asad said calmly. They began walking up the street. “I have no doubt that he will be groveling at my feet.”

“You can’t count on him to be logical, he’s an American,” Husam pointed-out. “They never do what you would expect.”

“This I know from experience,” Asad assured the younger man. “I have come to understand the American psyche. Mere threats will keep him from doing something foolish for the time being. But when the shock wears off, he will go to someone he trusts. Then perhaps to the authorities.” They stopped at a green sedan parked on the side of the street in front of a bank. Asad crossed to the driver’s side and unlocked the doors. Settling inside, he continued.

“We can be sure that he will not come alone to Los Angeles.”

“Then we must find a way to get him alone,” Husam suggested.

“I see no point in wasting time and resources in getting him alone. No. We will make sure any conversation is brief and whoever makes contact has a means of escape readily available.” He started the car. “Now, let us see if our package has arrived safely.”

They drove to a small private airport in the suburbs of Toronto were a Leer jet had just landed and been cleared by Canadian customs. Asad drove up onto the tarmac to greet his cargo. He stepped into the plush interior of the jet where Sofia Orfsky, exhausted from her unsuccessful struggle, was blindfolded, gagged, and tied up on one of the couches in the back. He sat next to her.

“Good morning, Sofia,” he said cordially. All traces of a dangerous man were eliminated from his voice. “Nod if you can hear me.”

She nodded. She sniffed, trying to control her running nose.

“Don’t be frightened of me,” he said with all the kindness of an old uncle. “I have three children back home you know. My eldest son is fifteen. My other son is four. My daughter is about your age.” He let silence sink in.

“Do you know why you are here, Sofia?”

She shook her head.

“You are here because the world is a dark place. This world is filled with hateful, heartless men who destroy the homes of my brothers in pursuit of oil. Thousand of my people are killed everyday by these cold men. I fight them. It is my calling, my life’s work.” He looked at the little Russian girl, who couldn’t see where she was. His smile was insincere. “That’s were you come in. You are going to bring me a step closer to ridding the world of these men.” She sniffed again. “You want to know when you will go home, don’t you.”

She nodded fervently.

“You may be with us a long time. In fact, I don’t think that you’ll ever go home. Your father won’t save you, Sofia. He is a weak man. You’ll have to get used to me. I’m the only voice you will hear for the rest of you life.”

Sofia was sobbing uncontrollably. She wished she could scream, but was forced to bite down on the gag instead. Tears streamed down her face.

Asad stood to leave. “We’ll talk later,” he said without looking back at the little girl who shook and cried silently behind him.

The seasoned terrorist descended the stairs from his private jet to the runway. Husam was waiting for him with news of their operations on the other side of the world.

“What is it, Husam?” Asad asked. He could see the words on the young man’s tongue. “You have something to tell me.”

“The team in Chechnya has gained possession of the bomb, sir,” Husam informed his leader.

“There were no problems?” Asad asked. He found it hard to believe that such a delicate operation could be executed flawlessly, regardless of how precise his plan was.

“There were casualties,” Husam admitted. He bowed his head in respect for those who’d been gunned-down by worthless Russian barbarians. Asad nodded in understanding.

“It was a necessary loss, my friend,” he told the young man. “But don’t lose faith. They died in the service of the one true God. They are martyrs for our cause and their deaths will not be in vain.” Asad looked up at the winter storm clouds that were blowing in off Lake Ontario. His dark brown eyes burned with a passion that Husam rarely saw. “We will avenge them by scouring the earth. We will drive out the Americans. Our victory is at hand!”

Husam was again reminded of the reason why he had joined Sayfu-l-fajri. He had been alone, orphaned, and trying to escape from his war-torn homeland. Asad Karim had taken him in, taught him from the Koran, and trusted him. Asad was an example for the whole Islamic world to follow. Here was a man who had sacrificed his life for the redemption of mankind. Here was a man who was fulfilling his true potential, as a devoted servant of Allah.

“Come my friend,” Asad waved his loyal bodyguard back to the green sedan. “We need to get in touch with our brothers and see the fruits of our labor.”

Husam nodded in reply and crossed the tarmac to Asad. A bone-chilling wind kicked up, tossing wadded up newspapers and empty Big Gulps across the municipal airport’s black pavement. Husam welcomed the cold; it reminded him of his old home. When the wind caught the scent of Lake Ontario in its humid grip, he could almost smell the acrid Sunzha River in Groznyy. A twinge of homesickness struck him, but he shook it off as he opened the car door. Their mission required the complete mental faculties of every man involved. He couldn’t afford these lapses of weakness. Asad needed him to be strong for the cause.

Asad started the engine as a heavenly firing squad unleashed a crack of thunder overhead. As he pulled out onto the small road leading back to downtown Toronto, he wondered how Orfsky was taking the reality of his daughter’s kidnapping.



CHAPTER THREE



The world was a darker place to Sergei Orfsky that day. Here he was, a man who oversaw the defense of the nation on a daily business, and yet his own daughter wasn’t even safe in school just twenty minutes’ drive from the Pentagon.

Reports rolled in all day on the continued strength of the Mexican border and the enforcement of UN sanctions on dangerous egomaniacal warlords in third world countries. As far as the administration was concerned, all was well in the world.

He spoke to no one, even ignoring the ramblings of Anne from her desk in the anteroom to his office. He was too preoccupied with the conversation that had violently derailed his life to care about anything else.

The call trace came in. It was a small, unassuming piece of paper the size of a Post-It note. The boys in E-Ring hadn’t had enough time in pinpoint an exact latitude and longitude, but they had traced the call to a suburb of Toronto, Canada. It was a short flight by jet, and Sofie’s kidnappers could’ve flown her there in the time between when he dropped her off and when he’d received the call.