Dirty Bomb: In the name of God

By Colin Knight

Why is a dirty bomb so terrifying?

Because nobody has ever detonated one.

Yet.

Five terrorist attacks across the United States, the inexplicable disappearance of an ISIS murder squad in Colorado, a missing American Hero and the decades old theft of a canister of contaminated waste from a Russian oil refinery have the world's intelligence community on edge.

Meanwhile, the Reconquista, a secret cabal of obscenely rich and deluded Christian extremists, have judged that in a world where truth is uncertain, justice unequal and social media drives humanity, the time is right to create a new world order: Their world order.

As the Reconquista pursue their grotesque plan, Craig Wilson, an unorthodox intelligence agent, races to unravel the connections before the world is plunged into chaos.

But when things get personal and Wilson's analysis doesn't fit with the rest of the intelligence community, will he make the right call?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin Knight
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778223402

Colin Knight

Colin Knight was born in Manchester, England in 1962 and immigrated to Canada in 1987. He holds a BA Honors Degree in Political Science, and a MA Degree in International Relations. In 1999, he joined the Canadian government and for fifteen years held a variety of positions with the Department of Foreign Affairs, the Canadian International Development Agency, Public Safety Canada, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and most recently, the Canadian Prime Minister's Privy Council Office. Colin retired from government in 2014 and lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife and three children.

Book preview

Books by Colin Knight

Some People Deserve to Die

Public Service

Bad Analysis

Escape from Prague

Murderous Acts

About the Author

Colin Knight strives to write exciting, entertaining and provocative fiction to entertain and challenge readers. He lives in Ottawa, Canada and is fortunate to have a great family, good friends and good health. And he wishes the same for you.

Contents

BOOKS BY COLIN KNIGHT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

PART TWO

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

PART THREE

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

SIXTY-FOUR

SIXTY-FIVE

SIXTY-SIX

SIXTY-SEVEN

PART ONE

ONE

On a hot July morning, ten men positioned across the United States of America checked their watches. In five teams of two, they waited in five garages in five nondescript American suburban homes. In each garage, a well-used, American-made, family sedan waited to take the men to their destinies. It was 3 p.m. in Washington and Miami, 2 p.m. in Houston, and noon in San Francisco. In a remote farmhouse in Southern Turkey, it was 11 p.m.

In San Francisco, the two men bowed and prostrated themselves on the ground to face Mecca. Verses of the Koran slipped from each man’s lips as they recited the Dhuhr noon prayer in accordance with the Salat, one of the five pillars of the Islamic faith and an obligatory religious duty for every Muslim.

In Washington, New York, and Miami, the men performed the Asr afternoon prayer. In Houston, the two men, with the Dhuhr prayer already performed, sipped coffee and contemplated their martyrdom.

With prayers completed, five of the ten men, clean-shaven, dressed in blue jeans, black T-shirts, and white running shoes, thumbed car keys. The other five, bearded and dressed in traditional long white Arabic robes and sandals, checked their ammunition. Under their robes, attached by Velcro strips to a belt, were four one-hundred-round magazines. Another Velcro strip, attached to their chests, held a cell phone with a hotspot feature to enable live streaming.

An AR-15 rifle lay on the trunk of each of the five cars. A fifth magazine nestled in front of the trigger and the bump stock. Beside each rifle lay a folded, ten-foot square ISIS flag and two hundred single-page leaflets. Printed with HP printers on quality paper, the leaflets had a bold, vivid picture of a crescent and star. Below the Islamic symbol, capitalized words listed the alleged crimes committed by America against Islam and the Muslim world.

After the list of crimes, more capital words stated the justness of the attack and that more attacks would follow. A final statement demanded that all Muslims join ISIS to establish Islam as the one true faith and Allah as the one and only God.

In Washington, at 3:35 p.m., the first of the five teams got into their cars. With seat belts buckled, the driver started the engine and pressed the garage door opener. As the door lifted, the man in the white robe reached for his phone attached to his left breast and pushed the ‘record’ button on the camera. With the camera and hot spot activated, the men drove out to meet their destiny and deliver the ISIS message to America and the world.

In New York, Miami, Houston, and San Francisco, the remaining four teams checked their watches, waiting, in five-minute intervals, for their turns.

TWO

In Southern Turkey, not far from Sirnak, near the border with Syria and Iraq, the night was silent. A cool breeze pushed sand around a cluster of abandoned stone and mud buildings. Shadows, cast by light from a weak moon, concealed vigilant, battle-hardened men. Each man held a Russian AK 47 and wore American night vision goggles and Chinese-made camouflage clothing. Hidden in and among the ancient buildings, the ISIS fighters would endure to the last man to cover the escape of their leaders.

On the flat roof of the smallest building, twenty-first-century technology clashed with the centuries-old structure. A forty-thousand-dollar Cobham Inmarsat GX 5075 Mobile Satellite purred quietly, its ‘standby’ light covered with black tape. Through rough holes cut in the roof, black wires snaked from the satellite to a bank of car batteries stacked in the smaller of the two dirt-floored rooms. In the largest room, five new laptop computers hummed on a plastic pop-up table.

Beside the table, a fan struggled to combat the oppressive heat and dampness of the former shepherd’s home. Harsh, off-white light blazed from each screen, illuminating the craggy, life-worn eyes and foreheads of three men sitting on the edge of white plastic patio chairs in front of the table. With the windows covered over and sealed to prevent light from getting out or curious eyes peering in, sweat beaded on the men’s faces and pooled at the joints of their limbs.

Faheem, the leader of the three men, blinked to ease the strain on his eyes from the computer’s intense light. Tension knotted his shoulders. He drew on a cigarette and ignored the disapproving stares of his two subordinates, Jabir and Khalid. He understood the Koran’s behavioral guidance not to throw yourself into danger by your own hands… but he needed the calming effect of tobacco. Moreover, he had long ago succumbed to nicotine’s addiction.

How much longer, Faheem? said Jabir, his elder and second in command, as he wafted cigarette smoke.

Six minutes before the first live stream from Washington.

Why can’t we see them now? asked Jabir, squirming on the hard plastic chair. To make sure they are ready.

Tolerant of his elder but frustrated with Jabir’s inability to understand modern communications technology and the risks involved, Faheem repeated what he had said many times.

Every second we are connected to the Internet allows the infidels an opportunity to find us. The moment the garage doors open, the live video streams will begin. Not before.

Unconvinced but resigned, Jabir stroked his white and gray-tinged beard. God willing, the plan that had taken three years to prepare would be over in little more than an hour. In an hour, mused the aged cleric and former ISIS sniper, America would suffer as it had on 9/11. Not in the thousands, as they had done in New York’s gleaming edifices of so-called Western dominance and achievement, but in tens and hundreds all across America’s heartlands.

Sat beside Jabir, Khalid, third in command, ten years younger and ten times more fanatical than Faheem, glared at his watch as he spoke.

Two minutes, Faheem. Have the screen capture application and parameters been set?

Yes, replied Faheem, his own eyes locked on the computer screen to the extreme left with the word Washington scrawled on a limp yellow sticky note stuck to the top of the screen. From left to right, the remaining four screens had their own notes: New York, Miami, Houston, and San Francisco.

Faheem, following a power struggle with his predecessor who was killed by an American drone attack four years earlier, had developed the plan about to savage America. He had needed years to convince other leaders, tacticians, and donors that the time of big explosions and mass casualties at symbolic and tactical targets had ended. Security had become too tight, intelligence gathering too focused, and the chance of success diminished.

He had argued that future success needed multiple, coordinated attacks on soft targets. Attacks on vulnerable places, where families gathered, danger was unexpected, and fear absent. Places where true terror could be unleashed. That the attacks must be violent, merciless, and signal to America that ‘nowhere was safe.’ Furthermore, the attacks must use low-tech, ‘in country’ weapons and live video streaming to maximize propaganda opportunities.

Faheem had promised the ISIS council that the attacks on American soil would strike a blow more deadly and disruptive than 9/11 and energize Muslims all over the world to imitate their success. Unfortunately, in the face of his insistence on the methods, his rival Khalid had suggested that Faheem’s only son, Faaiz, should take part in the attack. Faaiz was in San Francisco, and he would lead the last attack.

As the live stream from Washington flickered on the computer screen, Faheem mumbled a prayer for the success of the attacks and that Allah might allow his son to survive.

THREE

As Faheem exhaled more cigarette smoke, the garage door of the suburban house in Washington, DC’s Northeast Brookland district rolled upward in real-time on the computer screen.

Beside him, Jabir and Khalid leaned forward on their chairs. The picture quality was better than expected, and although the images were shaky, it was clear that the car was traveling along a quiet, tree-lined street. The audio, less clear, transmitted car and street sounds along with the nervous murmurs of prayer from the driver and the shooter. From the camera on the shooter’s chest, the ISIS leaders watched through the windshield as the car slowed to a 4-way stop sign.

When the car lurched, as the driver depressed the brake peddle and before he transferred his foot to the accelerator, an explosion of white light filled the screen. A crunch of metal on metal blasted from the computer speakers, and screams and shouts in Arabic sounded over breaking glass, the whine of the car’s engine, and the squeal of tires. Then, swirling blue-gray smoke replaced the light, and the camera jerked repeatedly. The distorted images confused the watchers until new voices, loud and American, shouted, Hands on the dashboard!

The camera, now facing downward, showed the shooter claw at the hem of his white robe, pull and bunch up the fabric over his knees, and grasp the hidden AR-15. One hand reached the stock and the other the trigger.

Gun! called a male voice without panic.

Spurts of flame erupted from the AR-15 barrel. In seconds, one hundred .223 rounds raced from magazine to rifle chamber upward and out through the roof of the car. Mixed with the deafening sound of gunfire, an intonation to Allah’s greatness sounded. With the rounds discharged, a millisecond of silence preceded several disciplined popping sounds as the silencer-suppressed, hollow-point bullets from the Alpha team sharpshooters ripped into the chest, head, and necks of the two terrorists. A gloved hand filled the screen, closed over the camera lens, and ended the video stream.

Khalid, up off his chair, spewed venom-filled hatred at America, thumped the table on which the computer rested, and shouted at Faheem.

How did this happen?

We must tell the others, added Jabir.

I warned you, said Khalid with wide-eyed desperation, that the live video would be a disaster if we failed. What will our followers think now?

Faheem, projecting an outward calmness he did not feel, spoke to Jabir first.

We cannot warn the others, Jabir. It will be Allah’s will.

Turning to face down Khalid, Faheem said with authority, As for our followers, they will see martyrs. They will witness Sons of Islam slaughtered by the Americans without mercy. Their failure will not be wasted.

Before Khalid and Jabir could press their concerns, the second computer screen blinked, and the garage door in New York lifted up with a loud squeal that made the speakers buzz.

Out through the garage door, down the short driveway, and on to the well-maintained street, the car progressed without incident. After two blocks, the car approached a stop sign. As it did, Faheem and others held their breath. It didn’t help.

New York law enforcement employed similar tactics as Washington, but the timing of the intercept was off, and the driver had time to accelerate through the intersection. While the shooter fumbled to unlock his seat belt to better access his rifle, a five-ton Police Tactical Vehicle smashed into the front of the sedan, sending the shooter through the windshield and head first into the metal siding of the police vehicle.

FOUR

Alex Webb, Deputy Director of the Joint Counterterrorism Analysis Team, located within the National Counterterrorism Center and under the control of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, raised his heels off the floor, rolled his ankles, and sighed.

The surgery to repair the damage done by the terrorist knife had been successful, but tightness remained. The attack hadn’t hurt at first. In fact, Webb’s first sensation had been the popping sound when the knife cut through his skin and severed both of his Achilles tendons. Then, the pain had come instantly into the back of his ankles and lower legs. He hadn’t known about the kicks and blows from feet and sticks until he regained consciousness in the hospital.

That had been over a decade ago when, as a young and naive CIA analyst in Pakistan, he had wandered into the wrong part of Quetta city and become the victim of a group of young men.

Webb’s attackers had been radicalized Muslim men recruited by ISIS to harass and attack Westerners. He was supposed to die and would have had it not been for a police patrol that happened by and rescued him. The patrol soldiers had killed two of his attackers, but the rest had gotten away.

The Arabic phrases ‘Praise be to Allah’ and ‘God is great’ that the men had shouted as they beat him echoed in his mind every time he lifted his heels to alleviate the pain in his legs. Moreover, each lift maintained the hatred that Webb had of all Muslims. Back on the flat of his feet, Webb focused his attention on the massive main screen in the National Strategic Operations Control Center.

The wide-angle aerial view wobbled. It was provided by a mini drone operated by a field technician in the mobile command center parked three hundred meters from the bland Washington suburban house in the center of the frame. On nine smaller screens, different images provided by fixed cameras and body cameras indicated the relative proximity and readiness of the intercept teams. A tenth screen provided another wide-angled image of a similar suburban house. Only that one was in New York, not Washington.

Fifty or more people, with many more coming and going, had occupied the spacious and custom-designed operations center since 9 a.m. After six and a half hours, the air, despite computer-controlled ventilation and air quality systems, was stale and warm. Voices, low, determined, and professional, hummed in unison with the electronic equipment.

On the main screen, the angle tightened, and the faded brown garage door of the target house filled the screen. The door slid upward. A dark-colored four-door sedan exited the garage and turned left at the end of the driveway. Beside the main screen, the other nine screens captured the coordinated movements and actions of the SWAT team members, vehicles, and weapons. To reduce confusion and the risk of undesirable comments by agents, no sound accompanied the images: the sound would need to be edited and approved before it was added.

The car, moving along a deserted, tree-lined street, halted at a 4-way stop sign. A flash of white light blinked on several screens. Two large black SWAT vehicles surged from the right and the left and pinned the car between them. A third blocked the front, and a fourth approached from the rear.

Blue-gray smoke followed the flash. All the camera images except the drone bounced and bumped, blurring the pictures.

On a smaller screen, the car came into view as a ground-level body camera approached the front passenger side of the car between the SWAT vehicles. The camera image switched to the main screen.

After a short pause, spurts of flame erupted inside the car, and holes appeared in the roof. The flame stopped. The camera moved a little closer, and two bodies in the front of the car spasmed and twisted. A black-clad arm reached into the car, and a gloved hand grasped and pulled something from the chest of the passenger.

A muted cheer broke the tense calm of the operations room. People exhaled and exchanged tight smiles. Then, the image from the tenth camera moved to the main screen. Another plain sedan, this time in a quiet New York suburb, had just turned out of a driveway.

Webb, up off his heels again, watched as the New York SWAT teams deployed the same tactics as Washington. A communal gasp sounded when one of the terrorists flew through the car windshield, and his head crashed into the SWAT truck. When the second terrorist was pulled from the car, loud cheers erupted, and people hand-slapped each other in recognition of success.

The Director of the Strategic Operations Control Center and several of his senior personnel nodded in acknowledgment and appreciation at Webb. It had been Webb and his analysts at the Joint Counterterrorism Analysis Team, who had provided the intelligence for the Washington and New York counterterrorism raids. A rare and reserved smile nudged Webb’s features as he returned the attention. Inside, Webb grimaced.

He and his team had indeed provided the intelligence to stop the two terrorist attacks. However, his team had not collected the actual information. It had come from another Terrorism Assessment Center. Three days earlier, Craig Wilson, the Director of Canada’s Integrated Terrorism Assessment Centre, had called Webb’s boss, who had passed Wilson on to him.

Webb had no issue with Wilson or with Canada’s intelligence capabilities. In fact, Webb agreed that Canada’s Communications Security Establishment had the best global communications listening and interception capabilities. They had been the first to identify the threat, and Wilson and his team had pulled the threads together and provided the US with solid, if limited, information for the American intelligence service to follow up.

The original actionable intelligence supplied by Canada had provided two targets: Washington and New York, but analytical consensus agreed that the intercepted language and nuances of speech suggested more than two targets. Especially when the intercepts included a phase that translated into ‘one for each pillar,’ which all agreed referred to the five pillars of Islam. For the three days since the initial alert from Canada, American security agencies had used national-level bulletins, alerts, profiles, and intense property searches for similar suburban homes without success.

However, Webb’s hidden grimace was because he, unlike the intelligence community who believed more attacks might happen, knew that more attacks would follow. While he understood the tactics and believed in the larger objectives of his secret employers, Webb regretted the murder of innocent Americans.

Swallowing back bile, Webb, along with the rest of the people in the operations center, waited and prayed. The wait was short. The prayers helped… a little.

FIVE

One hundred miles from America’s northern border, in Canada’s capital city, Ottawa, another anti-terrorist expert watched the live feed of America’s response to the attacks in Washington and New York.

Linked in via a secure network to the US National Counterterrorism Center, Craig Wilson, Director of Canada’s ITAC—Integrated Terrorism Assessment Centre, watched with relief, admiration, and apprehension as American forces neutralized the terrorists.

He was relieved that the information he and his team had provided the US had been actionable, and he admired the professionalism of the US forces. His apprehension, like the rest of the intelligence community, was because he suspected more attacks would follow.

With the Washington and New York attacks stopped, Wilson pulled his eyes from the screen and gazed out the window of his large second-floor office. After several months, he still could not get used to his ‘new’ office. Six times larger than his old windowless office and with a solid wooden desk three times larger than his old metal desk, he felt uncomfortable and exposed.

Moreover, two walls were glass, and the other walls had doors. One door led to a private meeting room and the other to the outer office and his assistant and support staff. All very nice, except he had nowhere to hang his whiteboards or flip charts.

Without wall space, the whiteboards and flip charts stood on three-legged easels with their backs to the windows, which cast shadows across the office. He wasn’t ungrateful. He understood that as director, he needed space for more people and an image to convey, but all he wanted was a ‘good place’ to think and analyze.

On the plus side, his large office had plenty of room for four leather chairs and a table by the window, a small fridge, and a dedicated table that held his prized one-thousand-dollar Nespresso coffee machine.

Movement on the screen caught his eye, and Wilson turned his attention back to the live stream.

SIX

In the dank, dirt-floored room in Southern Turkey, a second failure silenced the three leaders as a final few moments of audio, filled with screams, shouts, and gunshots, seeped into the mud walls. Khalid, anger and accusation flushing his cheeks, glared at Faheem in an unmistakable challenge to Faheem’s authority. Sensing the growing conflict, Jabir, uncertain which man would win and hence which side to take, pointed to the third screen as he spoke.

Look, the attack in Miami. There is no problem. All is not lost.

On the third computer screen,