TERRORIST ATTACK

 TERRORIST ATTACK

 

‘Mr. King, you are required to immediately take up this case. Assemble a team, if you need one. My God! The city is falling apart. For God’s sake… get moving!’ screamed the FBI Director Susan Mathews, from behind the oval long mahogany table, in the conference room, at the FBI headquarters, where she had called an emergency meeting that morning. 

 

‘Yes, Ma’am, I’m right on it…But for the moment I’d prefer to work alone…if and when I’ll require help, I’ll ask for it,’ said Raymond King, the chief investigator of the FBI, as he swung around to face the Director at the head of the table. Raymond King, though in his forties, looked haggard; his sideburns had turned grey. There were bags under his eyes, and his figure was puffy and bloated, and he must have put on at least five kilos in the last three months. The aftereffects of the medicine he was taking to keep in check his injuries sustained during an earlier operation for the agency.

 

‘Jenny here will bring you up to date on what exactly is transpiring. At the moment, we cannot be certain, but we suspect it to be a terrorist strike’ said Susan, signalling Jenny to step forward and brief King.

 

‘Well, Sir, it’s like this, since yesterday the residents of some very unfashionable parts of the town, if I may say so, are exhibiting strange symptoms and there has been mass hospitalisation. The hospitals are filled to the brim with people who have gone berserk. They are disoriented and confused. Panic is spreading fast, and the situation is highly unstable’ said Jenny as she handed him some dossiers on the case. Raymond eyed the report casually. Just then, the clock chimed 8 o'clock, and Raymond, murmuring some excuse, hurried out of the conference room. He wanted to be in his room to get to the bottom of this immediately.

 

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‘It’s clear that these people are reeling from the effects of some kind of hallucinogenic substance that they have ingested, ’ said Dr Palmer, with a scowl. He was overwhelmed by the mass exodus of patients to his hospital, which was ill-equipped to handle such a frantic rush. He was feeling stretched and overburdened.

 

‘Do you have any idea how they could have ingested this stuff?’ asked King, sounding puzzled.

 

‘Well, my long years in the medical profession tell me that the only way they could have ingested this stuff is by drinking it. In other words, what I’m telling you is this, if I were you, I’d start by investigating the town’s water supply,' said Dr. Palmer, rather gravely.

 

‘Thanks for your assessment, ’ said King, as he was guided out of the hospital.

 

He jumped into his waiting vehicle, and it sped away, amidst the chaos reigning in the town.

 

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King could not hide his amazement when he discovered that the good doctor was probably right. He immediately collected the water sample for detailed analysis and study and sent it to the FBI lab. While he was waiting for the results to come in, he received an anonymous tip from an undercover informer of the agency, which sent the hair on his forearms to stand up.

 

‘I suggest you look up the Iron Serpent Network (ISN),’ said the informer, as he hurriedly cut off the phone.

 

King raced down to his office and called for a team of researchers to report to him immediately. He briefed them hurriedly, ‘I want you all to pull out everything you got on this organisation asap,’ said King, addressing the team of four young operatives. While they were at it, he decided to kill time by sipping some green tea. He was told that sipping green tea helps calm the nerves, and it also helps manage weight. He had been taking green tea for as far back as he could remember without any slight reduction in his weight. 

 

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Within a couple of hours, the results began to trickle in.

 

‘The Iron Serpent Network is a decentralised syndicate of militants and mercenaries. They operate from Singapore, and the front is headed by one Wei Shenlong, who happens to be this group’s mastermind. He is the Divine Dragon, the leader who hides his brutality under the garb of wisdom and tradition. Rashid Al Karim – the strategist, Mikhail Orlov- the former soldier turned extremist, Selena Drovich- the bio poisoning expert, also known as the witch, and Yuri Hale, an ex-intelligence officer who betrayed his country to join the terrorist ranks. The strategist of this group is Adil Nazir, who operates from the Chinese mainland.’ King’s eyes narrowed as he read out this detailed report that his young operatives had prepared for him. Now the leading players of this shadowy organisation had come before the agency’s radar. Now all that he had to do was tie up the loose ends and produce the proof that this group was behind the attack.

 

The telephone on his desk began to ring, ‘King here, who is it?’ he enquired gruffly.

 

‘Sir, we have identified the poisonous substance found in the water supply. It’s a synthetic compound called ‘Neuroxin-9’. It dissolves easily in water, is odourless, colourless and causes paranoia, loss of motor control, and induces hallucinations,' said the excited, jittery lab assistant.

 

‘Thank you, ’ said King, trying to sound grateful.

 

The informer messaged him again to inform him that Adil Nazari was spotted in a posh part of the town a little while ago.

 

The phone on his desk began ringing again, ‘Hello!’,

 

‘Sir, we now have mass casualties in the posher southern parts of the town, the bureaucratic enclave, and the upmarket areas. The patients are displaying the same symptoms we witnessed earlier’ said a junior operative from the second floor.

 

King rushed out of the building. He could not locate his driver, so he waved down a passing taxi as he headed for the hospital, this time at the other end of the town.

 

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On his way back from the extremely distressing scenes in the city hospitals, King headed back to the office. He was pulling in an all-nighter if need be.  This dirty business needed to stop.

 

He was deeply engrossed in trying to piece together the modus operandi of this dangerous syndicate when his mobile rang. It was displaying an unknown number.

 

‘Raymond King? I hope that now your government and the agency have got an inkling of what we are capable of,’ said a chilling, sinister voice at the other end.

 

‘Who is this? Whom are you working for? Why are you doing this?’, King managed to blurt out.

 

‘Let’s just say, we are servicing a very interested client, who is making it worthwhile for us. We are simply delivering a message,’ continued the sinister voice.

 

‘What do you want?’ asked a cautious King.

 

‘You will hear from us…Meanwhile, I suggest the agency drop the investigations, if you don’t want further casualties,’ said the voice, as it signed off, this time with a sinister laugh.

 

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Raymond King had gathered all his information; his investigations pointed in only one direction: Iron Serpent Network. He had managed to gather intel on where Wei Shenlong was holing up, and he sent a detailed report to Director Susan Mathews.

 

Susan Mathews went through his report and called him over to her room for a briefing.

 

‘King, it’s only a matter of time now before we nab these mercenaries. We have sealed the town’s main water supply. Our agents are working around the clock overtime…and soon I feel we may have a breakthrough…’ said the Director when suddenly her words started slurring, her mouth began to foam, and she began to hallucinate.

 

‘I’ll be damned, ’ shouted King, as he rushed to help her, panic gripping him.

 

All around him in the FBI headquarters, his colleagues were all freaking out, with the strange symptoms. The damned syndicate had contaminated the FBI’s water supply. But wait…why was he still standing unaffected? Thank God! He realised that he had drunk only bottled water in the past 48 hours. Just then, someone handed him a bottle of Perrier mineral water. He took a gulp…

 

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When he regained consciousness a good three days later, he was highly disappointed to find out that he was in the ICU. His stomach felt strange, complex, and frozen.

 

‘Take it easy! ' suggested Dr. Palmer, rather gravely, ‘You’ve had a serious surgery. It had to be operated urgently. Try not to touch the stitches.’

 

That’s the last thing Raymond King heard before he again lost consciousness.

 

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