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Chapter One

Sunday, July 9, 2004

Mustafa’s large and calloused hands tightly gripped the vibrating steering wheel of the 24-foot truck as it crossed the Mississippi border into Tennessee. It was 12.30 A.M., the overcast sky threatened thunderstorms and his bloodshot eyes battled sleep. Mustafa had been on Highway 20 since leaving Texas shortly after midnight. Only the nagging fear of being stopped by state troopers, and the back of the truck searched, prodded him awake.

Mustafa had reason to dread a search. Hidden inside two dozen large wooden crates marked FURNITURE: HANDLE WITH CARE in the back of the truck were 1,000,000 rounds of military grade ammunition, a dozen M16 rifles, remote controlled bombs, night-vision goggles, gas masks, fake social security cards, fake drivers licenses, fake Department of Homeland Security identity cards giving access to major U.S. airports, and about twenty carefully sealed canisters packed with ingredients for producing enough biological, chemical and radiological weapons to wipe out half the population of the United States, estimated at 301,139,950. The cache of WMD included anthrax, military grade cyanide, Sarin, radioactive isotopes for making dirty bombs, and Botulin toxin, a drop of which can kill as many as fifty thousand people.

Mustafa had picked up the deadly arsenal at a remote furniture warehouse about thirty miles northeast of Crawford, Texas. The 20,000 square feet warehouse was a front for an organization calling itself Al Qaeda in America, whose mission was to ignite Operation Saladin, the deadliest and most sophisticated terrorist plot ever launched against America since 9/11.

Mustafa’s disposable cell phone rang. Before flipping it open, he glanced at the leather Swiss Army watch tightly-wrapped around his hairy wrist. The time was 7.05 a.m. He became excited. Since leaving Texas he’d been eagerly awaiting a call from Abdul, leader of the Al Qaeda in America cell designated to receive the deadly cargo he was transporting.

The caller wasn’t Abdul. It was Mustafa’s wife, and she sounded thrilled. “You’re a dad,” she said.

It took several seconds for the news to register because Mustafa’s mind was fixated on how to get the WMD cache to its destination without attracting the attention of vigilant state troopers in post-9/11 America. When it finally dawned on him that he was a dad, Mustafa immediately pulled to the side of the four-lane highway. Sunday morning traffic was light.

“Are you serious?” said Mustafa. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy?”

Mustafa, who’d prayed for a boy, bubbled with joy. “When did you have him?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

“Where are you?”

“Still at the hospital. But I’m being discharged this afternoon.”

“So soon?”

“The delivery wasn’t that difficult.”

“Listen, I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Recalling that he still had the WMD to drop off at Abdul’s compound outside Asheville , Mustafa quickly added, “On second thought, I may be a little late. I’ve a delivery stop to make on the way home.”

Barely had an elated Mustafa finished speaking to his wife when his cell phone rang again. This time is it was Abdul.

“Do you have the goods?” said Abdul.

“Everything Ghazi promised us," said Mustafa.

“Excellent. When should I expect you?”

Mustafa glanced at his watch. “Around ten tonight.”

“Good. I’ll call the others to help unload. We’ll also have a meeting to discuss the operation.”

“I can’t stay long.”

“Why not?”

“My wife just had a baby.”

“A boy?”

“Of course,” Mustafa said, laughing.

“Congratulations. Guess who else just had a boy?”