Jack Foster, head of the National Security Agency, paced from screen to screen in the large high-tech surveillance room, known as the wire room. No personal items or communication devices went in, and certainly nothing, not even a paper clip, came out. Jack retraced his well-known route from screen to screen. The same chamber where he had spent the last few weeks, without taking a break or going home. He sipped from the cup of coffee he held, peering into the screens with dark, swollen eyes.
“Please, speak to me! Do we have anything else other than the social media threads?” Jack asked exasperated, hovering over every equally exhausted analyst. He had a smart army running on bad coffee for way too long. Each analyst typed and clicked, sorting through and processing every bit of information gathered throughout social media feeds, scarce findings in dark corners of the web and bits of intel provided by the collaborating agencies. Time was escaping their grasp.
“Nothing but a woman, sir.” Reported the head analyst with a sore shoulder, Jack’s grip had been stronger than intended. But the boss needed answers. For a group of rebels with outspoken presence in the dark corners of the web, they were hard to catch. The rebels were like vapor figures, vanishing before the skilled analysts could tell who and where they were.
“She is very slippery. We don’t have anything on her whereabouts. All this activity looks made up, the work of cyber trolls,” reported the head analyst, facing her monitor.
“It could very well be so, but we aren’t taking chances with civilians lives. We’ll proceed as if it will be a real attack,” Jack answered, rubbing the back of his neck. He was sweating. His eyes were lost in the images from every traffic light and streets.
“The stadium is secured, sir. Everyone is in position, awaiting your next command, sir.” The voice of an agent from the anti-terror force sounded through the headset and earpieces they all wore. An analyst highlighted on the screen the position of each inside and outside the Georgia Dome. Some agents in civilian clothes were walking by, others were standing outside the entrance or waiting in line to enter, blending in while running a profile check on the crowd. There were also regular police cars patrolling the area as expected for normal circumstances.
“The digital camouflage this woman or people with her looks like those used by special forces. Whoever is behind this has military training.” An analyst reported.
“In position. Ready!” Some agents checked in.
“Stay frosty people! We are dealing with professionals!” Jack warned his team, looking at the large oval stadium in one of the largest screens. It shone like the solar star for several miles around. Its huge light poles flashed gaily, revealing every corner and consuming the city’s electric power voraciously.
The air in the streets twirled around the many lucky fans who would see the game of the year live. Tailgate parties had already started throughout the parking lots like a simultaneous grilled-food-and-beer fair. People in their favorite team’s colors chanted and posed for selfies to spread cheer through their media of choice while excited masses headed to the stadium, jamming the roads and streets.
In just two hours, the Georgia Dome would hold the most important game of the year. Although baseball was America’s favorite sport, the Super Bowl was a championship of great national value. It sequestered the entire nation to living rooms and sports bars, bringing people together with devoted hearts and fervent souls. Each fan overflowed with genuine joy for a night of togetherness that neither Thanksgiving nor Christmas could stir in the hearts.
“Sir, the President is on the line.” An agents handed the phone with the untraceable line.
“Do we have them?” asked the President.
“Not yet, Mr. President,” Jack replied, pressing the phone harder than necessary. “Although we have followed the digital trace, including emails, online history, searches, and contacts on all social networks. All we have to this moment is a woman named Shereen Khouri. However, whoever is behind this seems to have military training and special access.”
“A woman? There are many ex-military gone straight…We must be alert.”
“Correct, Sir. As per her messages, it’s confirmed, the attack will be today during the Super Bowl. All the operatives are in position.” Jack answered, turning his back on the rest of the staff working in their hectic cubicles. “We doubt it’s an attack carried out by just one woman willing to set herself on fire. By the looks of it, it could be an international ex-military group. We ask for permission to act fast and deal with this threat as is needed, sir.” He listened carefully.
“You got it. We are all behind you! But proceed quickly and quietly.”
“Thank you, sir, we’ll avoid causing panic in the population.”
Jack trapped the device between his furious fingers as if that simple action could stop the blow coming their way. He faced the agents and analysts in the wire room who were restlessly tracking last-minute threads on social media and others checking footage from the surveillance cameras scattered around the Dome. Hoping to catch one careless detail left for the world to see.
“Do you see her? Where is she? We must catch her before she gets to the Dome.” Jack roared, running his strong fingers through his rapidly graying hair before accepting from an agent a special dossier on the woman.
After the largest terrorist attack the United States had ever endured, terrorist threats weren’t ignored, no matter how trite they were. But seven years had passed, and the country seemed to have fallen into a pleasant slumber, ignoring the depth of the dangerous waters in which they swam day by day.
The security and intelligence forces were awake. They watched with protective eyes and listened with unrestrained ears, making the invisible lines of the wide web, visible. No treaty established in secret temples of death or clandestine gathering halls would pass undetected.
It was through one of these concealed searches, watchful analysts had picked up a consistently growing subversive thread. It had ran for a couple of months. It streamed encrypted messages through secure lines and not-so-secure social media boards, announcing an eminent attack. It was to occur on one of the most festive days for Americans of all ages. Immediately, every intelligence agency had extended a collaborative hand to sister offices, pledging to capture these terrorists and bring them to justice. But identifying the terrorists involved proved to be harder than expected. With all the intelligence and technology at hand, the agencies had succeeded in spotting only a young woman: Shereen Khouri, a Canadian born radical.
Jack picked up the file on the analyst’s desk and studied the information collected again; his heart beating faster marking the minutes ticking away. Shereen according to public information accessible to the National Safety Agencies, belonged to a well-established family, with immigrant parents, who, by their education and great efforts moved to Canada. They had settled into a middle upper-class neighborhood and lifestyle. She had a normal suburban childhood, riding her bike in the green belt of Forest Hill South, attending a prestigious private school which led her to her alma mater, the University of Toronto.
“How are we doing?” Jack asked again, tossing the file on a desk nearby.
“There is no movement yet, sir,” an agent answered, without taking his eyes off his screen. “She is like a ghost.”
“Ghost or not, I want the girl and all her sidekicks! Do you hear me? No drama, no blood!” He instructed to every agent connected and waiting for orders. He was beginning to believe it was all a fabrication. Yet he didn’t share his thoughts. It was best they were prepared for more than a girl with a combustible vest. “We find her and we put her down!”