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  Not a trace of the vaporized sarin toxin could be seen, only the sudden collapse of several people on the dock. Within ten seconds, bodies rolled on the dock, convulsing, gagging, and spewing frothy foam from their mouths. A forklift driver drove by, utterly baffled. His lungs seized. His eyes clenched and watered as a crippling paralysis consumed him. His forklift darted left and right, directly off the pier and into the water. Twenty others nearby saw their coworkers fall to the ground, and before they could make any sense of it, they too fell to their knees, clutching their throats and gagging.

  The Coast Guardsmen aboard their ship rolled in agony as their eyes, throats, and lungs burned with an acidic fury. No amount of hacking could alleviate the intense pain consuming their respiratory systems. Convulsions followed.

  Vomit burned their throats as it erupted from them like internal geysers. Blood and tears streamed down their faces as they twitched, jerked, and defecated. Paralysis set in, and in less than a minute, their bodies went stiff. Their eyes, mere slits encrusted with gunk, stared above as their gaping, pale faces remained frozen and horrified.

  Ahmed watched with keen interest as the figures below dropped one by one. He heard screams from the port; people were catching on. They fled as fast as they could, away from the area of the dead and dying. Some didn't make it far before they, too, tumbled over and began writhing in pain. Ahmed could see the numbers. He was trying to count. More than fifty lay motionless on the port dock.

  The gas had spread just as planned. Zahid had explained earlier how the particles of the gas had to be small enough so that they would could be absorbed through the lungs but heavy enough that they couldn’t be breathed back out. That was the trick, Zahid said. Ahmed thanked Allah for the successful deployment of the sarin gas. He had just carried out the first chemical attack on American soil in history.

  The port was in chaos. A crane operator, after breathing in a healthy dose, dropped a forty-foot, ten-thousand-pound container, crushing a group of workers who had stood too close by. More screams followed. Mass panic arose, and no one could see or understand why. Private boats fled in panic, but the bodies kept dropping. A silent killer was in the air, mercilessly turning respiratory systems inside-out. A port siren rang throughout the grounds, and a call for evacuation blared from the outside speakers. In their confusion, boaters crashed into each other. The stern of one lobster boat pierced directly through a yacht. A cargo ship rammed into a fishing wharf. With all the tumult, the waves turned violent, and what had once been a normal, busy morning at the port soon descended into chaos.

  Drones

  On the east coast, methods of destruction differed in both concept and delivery. While most of the other sleeper cells used dirty bombs to attack the ports, Ibrahim had a more ambitious plan in place. A thirty-three-year-old Libyan, Ibrahim was enamored with the Islamic State and its cause. And like Ahmed, he had a unique vision of how to unleash terror upon the Americans. Not just a dirty bomb in a pressure cooker, but something memorable.

  His team consisted of three other Libyan men, all smuggled across the southern border for a high price and relocated to a community of Middle Eastern immigrants in Boston, Massachusetts. They were given new identities, fake drivers’ licenses, and Social Security cards—all financed by ISIS. After settling in, they waited.

  Sometime later, they were told it was time to prepare. Someone claiming to be Abu Omar Allawi sent them the text message himself under an untraceable name. They wouldn't have even known who had sent it, except for the name "Allawi" at the end of the text.

  That morning, Ibrahim rose from his bed and raced to the door of his room, flung it open and began shouting as he sped past the two other bedrooms in the duplex and rushed out to give his group the news. They were in the kitchen drinking coffee, and froze in place, hearing the excitement in Ibrahim’s voice. “The time has come, my brothers!” he announced. “We have been summoned for action.” Details and instructions were soon to come, he told them, barely able to get the words out.

  "I cannot wait to meet my new bride!" said Nasser, a portly bearded man. He was the youngest of the group and a handful to look after.

  They were under strict orders not to engage in any sinful acts while living among the Americans. That included girls, drinking, drugs, pornography, or any other sinful pursuits so freely indulged in by the Americans. A certain amount of Westernized behavior was deemed acceptable, such as the hipster shirts and designer jeans Nasser wore; justified as being necessary so they could blend in. The young men were promised that if they refrained from forbidden temptations, they would receive brides from among ISIS’s female recruits after the mission.

  "Patience, Nasser," Ibrahim said. "We have a job to do first."

  "What do they want us to do?" Sean, an American boy, asked. He had recently been recruited from an online chatroom. Twenty-two years old, he had left his home in Dallas, Texas, and volunteered to join their cause. He was eager to please his new group of friends and had subsequently converted to Islam, changing his name to Ali Qaddafi.

  "I'm waiting on instructions," Ibrahim said.

  Jamal and Mahmud entered the room. Both were tall, lanky Libyan men who didn't look a day over twenty. The group settled down, a few returning to their rooms as they waited in anticipation for instructions. Communicating via cell phone was tricky, so their messages often came from disposable phones, written in cryptic language. They knew all about the NSA and its data-collecting practices. Whatever they were going to be instructed to do, it would most likely be told to them in person.

  "Who wants eggs?" Jamal said, slapping his hands together. The anticipation in the air was almost too much to handle, and, as a result, everyone had a hearty appetite.

  On the day of the attack, the group parked their black, rusty Ford F-250 outside the busy Port of Boston an hour before the designated hit time. The truck's cargo bed had a retractable cover that concealed anything inside. If stopped and questioned, they would say they were photography enthusiasts; hence the cameras they brought with them. Ibrahim knew they had to be careful because of the mass-transit terror threat, a planned false leak that had the authorities on high alert.

  "Why the ports?" Sean asked as they got out of the truck. The group gathered at the tailgate, ready to unleash their attack.

  "Because it shows that we are synchronized. That this is a joint operation. That we can strike the same targets all over the country," Ibrahim answered.

  He brushed the thick bangs away from his forehead and set down a long, black duffel bag on the ground atop a previously selected mound of pebbles and rocks. Past the barbed-wire fence and the "No trespassing" sign was a vast cargo yard with row upon row of stacked containers and steel-beamed automatic cranes for loading and unloading container ships.

  Aside from the loading docks, there was a line of fishing piers, occupied with fishermen casting their lines into the water. A commercial wharf was also in view, with a line of ferries and cruise boats coming and going. If the ISIS masterminds who had conceived the port attacks had learned anything, it was that morning was the best time to strike—when the enemy were just starting their day.

  Jamal and Mahmud opened the retractable cargo cover revealing five moderately-sized aerial quadcopter GoPro drones. The group moved quickly and positioned the drones on the ground, knowing that at any minute, authorities could be on the scene. Sean and Nasser stood watch, making small talk. Sean had struggled with giving up the music he loved listening to, but today, such a sacrifice seemed trivial. This was a righteous cause. ISIS had rightly taught him to hate his Westernized upbringing.

  "I mean, music was a part of my life, but it’s corrupted me as well. That's what this country does to you. It destroys and corrupts," he said.

  "Allah will give you the strength to move past those kind of things," Nasser said.

  For the time being, they didn't see any vehicles approaching. It would seem, even with the heightened terror alert in place, that the authorities couldn't
be everywhere at once. And that was exactly what they were counting on.

  Ibrahim pulled the drone remotes from his bag and handed one each to Jamal and Mahmud, keeping one for himself. Once the drones were armed, each person would control his own. In the back of the truck was a large industrial latch case. Ibrahim had his two counterparts lift the case out and opened it.

  Inside were blocks of C4 tightly Saran wrapped together. They taped the C4 to each drone quickly and then did a maintenance check. Nothing would be left of the drones once they were done with them. They had packed just enough C4 on each drone, being careful not to overload or weigh them down. Ibrahim took a step back to admire their fleet. Word had gotten back to him that sleeper cell leaders were very impressed with his ingenuity. Nothing could make him happier.

  "Get over here!" Ibrahim called to Sean and Nasser. They eagerly ran over and were each handed a control, similar to the other ones he had handed out. They each had small display screens that captured video from the drones’ internal cameras.

  "They'll probably ban drones after this. Like, through the whole U.S.," Sean said to the group. "What do you guys think?"

  "Do you remove your shoes before getting on planes?" Nasser answered.

  "Quiet, both of you," Ibrahim said. "I'm waiting for the signal. It is almost ten."

  With his phone extended in one hand, he felt a vibration and looked at the screen. It said what he was hoping for:

  Strike the beast by the grace of Allah.

  The drones, five in all, were good and ready. Each pack of explosives was rigged with a remote igniter, cell phone fuse, and blasting cap. The wait was over. It was time to use their months of drone flight practice to carry out their mission. Ibrahim signaled them to initiate the flight sequence and search for their previously discussed targets: cruise ships, charter boats, groups of people working on the loading dock. No opportunity was too grand.

  The drones hovered off the ground and headed toward the targets. The weight, at first, noticeably dragged the miniature aircraft down, but with careful handling, the men got them flying again.

  The fleet of three dispersed as to avoid drawing too much attention. For the drone operators, their victims weren't human. They were targets, simple as that. And the more death and mayhem caused by their explosive-laden quadcopters, the better for their cause. Their eyes were locked to the screen displays of their controllers. They flew the drones with ease, steering them toward their targets.

  One drone steered toward a charter boat leaving the port, and as it hummed in the air above them, the boat passengers—ten in all—looked up and took notice. A group of fishing buddies pointed and appeared to make comments about the drone. Everyone seemed hypnotized by its gradual approach. But as it got closer to the boat, the clearer it became that something was wrapped around the drone with duct tape.

  "What the..." a white-bearded man in a fisherman’s hat started. A loud explosion followed before he could even finish his sentence. The blast tore through the midsection, destroying half the boat in an instant. Other boats took notice. The workers on the dock stopped what they were doing and turned around. What happened? Boat explosion? Ibrahim's drone was no more.

  Jamal's drone flew over a pier at which several fishing boats had docked. All attention was focused on the explosion a hundred yards away, where the charter boat had caught fire and was sinking fast. The second drone bypassed all the small ships and went right for an oil tanker docked in the distance. A panicked group of port authority workers carrying fire extinguishers ran to the fiery, sinking charter boat as another dashed for a hydrant. The drone swooped down to the base of the oil tanker, aimed right at the middle, made a steep dive and blew a hole into the boat hull upon impact.

  The crew of twenty on board stood there for a moment, stunned. No one knew what had just happened. Just as they ran to the deck of the boat to investigate, another drone descended upon them—Mahmud's drone. It took a nosedive to the bow deck where the crew had gathered, and blew up with the press of a distant button. The explosion ripped through their bodies like a firing squad. The blast of C4 was enough to incinerate anything in its path.

  The sleeper cell watched the destruction from afar. Ibrahim's heart raced. The first three targets had been an astounding successes. There were two more drones left. He suddenly turned to Sean, who appeared to be having trouble with his controls.

  "What are you doing? Guide it into the stock yard where everyone is gathering," Ibrahim said, as the drone dipped down and flew up without direction and away from the target.

  "I'm trying," Sean said, getting frustrated. "It's not responding."

  Nasser struggled as well. His drone had drifted over the water, away from the boats and the frenzied activity of the port.

  "What is wrong with you two?" Ibrahim shouted. "Get it together!"

  "I'm trying!" Nasser said.

  "What are you boys doing out here?" a voice shouted to them from behind.

  The group froze. Then Ibrahim spun around. The others turned. A blue-uniformed port authority guard wearing a police hat and lime-green reflective vest stood not ten feet away from them with his palm over the handle of his holstered pistol. His car was parked at a distance up the road as if he had been watching them and decided to confront them on foot. However, he was alone. The handheld radio on his belt blared with cross-chatter. For a brief moment, all they could do was stare at him, speechless.

  "You're not allowed to be here. What are you holding?" the officer asked.

  Ibrahim dug into the waist of his jeans and pulled out a 9mm Glock pistol and fired. Just as the officer tried to react, two bullets hit him in the chest, causing him to stumble backward in shock.

  Sean and Nasser jumped back and dropped their controllers. Mahmud and Jamal stood frozen. The red-faced officer returned fire just as quickly as he was shot and put a bullet right through Ibrahim's skull. Ibrahim collapsed in a slump. Sean and Nasser dived to the other side of the truck. Jamal lunged to the ground, picked up the Glock, fired at the officer and missed. The officer fell on his back, hitting the rocky ground hard. Upon impact, he unloaded his pistol on Mahmud and Jamal—striking both through the face, chest, and neck.

  "Officer down!" he shouted, clutching his chest. The officer pulled at his handheld radio, trying to get it unclipped from his belt. Mahmud and Jamal's lifeless bodies lay on the ground next to Ibrahim. Crouched beside the truck, Sean and Nasser watched in horror.

  The officer managed to get his radio loose and held it with one shaky, bloodied hand. "Shots fired! Shots fired!"

  Nasser looked to Sean. "We have to get out of there."

  Sean didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed real. He turned to the port in the distance. Their drones were no longer in sight, though there was plenty of fire and smoke. Sirens wailed from afar, getting louder by the second. Nasser placed his hand on Sean's shoulder and shook him.

  "Hey! We have to leave. Let's go!"

  Sean nodded. A sick feeling came over him—a realization of who he was involved with and what they had done. They took one look at the bodies of their friends and, with knowing glances at each other, decided there was nothing they could do but run. Nasser ran to the driver's side of the truck and swung the door open as Sean followed.

  "Hurry! Get in," Nasser said. The officer was no longer screaming for help. He was either unconscious or dead. Sean jumped and crawled onto the passenger seat. Nasser climbed behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. He cranked the truck to life and peeled out, leaving the drone controls, bodies, gun, and shells behind them in the dust.

  Black Widow

  The terror cells had struck a lethal blow to the nation's ports. Long Beach, California. Houston, Texas. South Louisiana. Wilmington, North Carolina. Port of New York and New Jersey. Port of Pennsylvania. Port Everglades, Florida. Port of Boston, Massachusetts. They were all hit on the same day with attacks synchronized to detonate at the same moment: Tuesday, July 7, 2016, ten A.M. Eastern Time, seven A.M. Pacif
ic. Eight ports in all. Six bombings. One chemical weapons attack. And one strike with miniature drones.

  The dirty bombs had destroyed an untold numbers of boats and cargo and killed an unknown number of people while spreading radioactive material for miles. When the losses were calculated, it was as if a dozen Pearl Harbor attacks had been inflicted on the country all at once. The United States was overwhelmed.

  Immediately after the carnage, Americans were struck with the very real fear of being under attack by a foreign enemy. Internet and cellphone services were quickly overloaded throughout the entire country, adding to the already unprecedented sense of fear and disorder consuming the country. News media scrambled to report, while local and state governments deployed emergency response teams to stave off more potential attacks. No one in any position of authority was certain how far the attacks would stretch or when they would end.

  The federal government was dealing with a crisis beyond measure and quickly tried to enact emergency protocols among its myriad of agencies. The enemy who had unleashed the series of port attacks was nameless and faceless. No one initially took credit. The U.S. was dealing with a determined, malevolent force that had inexplicably remained anonymous.

  The Islamic State had done the impossible. After years of establishing itself in the Middle East, taunting and threatening the U.S., they had struck their greatest enemy—just as promised. And they did it through a vast network of sleeper cells. The attacks on the port, however, was only one step toward their greater goal of destroying the Great Satan and establishing a global caliphate.

  ***

  At FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., the atmosphere turned from nervous to chaotic in a split second. The minute the ISIS flag consumed the screens of their monitors, Special Agent Craig Davis knew they were under attack. He tried to tell his superiors that their informant was lying to them, that something wasn't quite right about someone disclosing information so willingly, but they didn't listen. Their prime concern was preventing a terror attack on the three major transit systems. And while the FBI’s intentions were good, the Islamic State had changed their tactics and had taken the bureau by surprise.