The Iran War

by Jack Strain

  The crowd started getting to their feet as signs were being picked up and double checked as the presidential procession was now imminent.

  Deep into his double shift, Patrolman Rafael “Rafe” Morales, a twenty-five-year-old part-time police officer with the Medford police department, was tired, but happy to be getting the extra hours. He was walking along the Ramada parking lot when he heard a truck engine revving its engine. The NYSDOT (New York State Department of Transportation) depot adjacent to the Ramada was typically shut down on Saturdays, but more than a few attendees had snuck their vehicles into the complex to make for an easier walk to the overpass.

  Naturally curious, Morales crossed into the parking lot and could see a big dump truck parked towards the rear of the lot idling its engine. He took a quick look around and saw that it was weighed down with a mixed load of construction debris, cement blocks, tree stumps, and a big mound of dirt. He made his way around towards the driver’s side door and saw a young man in his early twenties or so, with mirror shades and a red do-rag on his head, drinking a cup of coffee and holding his cell phone.

  Morales yelled up, “Medford police department, you know that the road is still blocked off, so you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Yes officer, I know. I missed the expressway shutdown by fifteen minutes and have been waiting here ever since until the president passes. Just wanted to get my truck warmed up and ready to go when it opens up.”

  The Bronx native barely two years out of the academy was about to ask for some identification when his radio flared, and the irritated voice of Officer Beverly Waters rang out, “Hey Rafe where in the hell are you. Over.”

  Reaching for his hand-held radio attached to his vest, Officer Morales pushed the talk button and said, “Rafe here. I’m over by the NYSDOT lot. What’s up?”

  Officer Beverly Waters was in command of this detail and not a big fan of Rafe, her voice practically exploded into the radio receiver, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT’S UP? YOU’RE OUT OF YOUR ASSIGNED SECTOR. I NEED YOUR ASS UP HERE PRONTO. THE PRESIDENT’S TEN MINUTES OUT AND THE CROWD IS SURGING.”

  Rafe was about to say something, but Waters’ voice added, “NOW GET YOUR ASS MOVING. WATERS OUT.”

  Damn that woman hates me. One dumbass joke, and she is still riding my ass. Fine.

  “On the way. Rafe out.”

  He quickly looked up into the cab of the truck and said, “Look I have to go, don’t move until we open up the roads after the crowd leaves. You go it?”

  “Yes officer, got it.”

  Rafe turned to leave, hesitated for a brief second, took one last look at the driver, shook his head and ran towards Ocean Avenue to help direct the crowd to the overpass.

  Inside the truck, Ramy Mahfouz, a second-generation Egyptian part-time college student, was trembling inside. Sweating profusely, his white cotton tee shirt had practically melted to his skin and threatened to leak through to a worn fleece top while his favorite pair of blue jeans that he had worn since high school, his lucky jeans, were soaked through with warm beads of perspiration.

  When the police officer approached the truck, Mahfouz thought his great defining moment on this earth had passed. He would have failed his family and most importantly Allah himself. Instead, he watched as the young officer ran back towards the crowd of infidels and began to breathe again, thanking Allah for his protection.

  Thirty seconds later, he reached under the driver’s seat and felt around until he grasped his prayer beads, wrapped them around his right hand, and began mouthing the prayers to prepare for what was to come. Two minutes later a text came through.

  It is time, my brother. Allah Akbar.

  Ramy tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry and pasty. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, and texted back. Allah Akbar… see you in paradise. He put his phone down, shifted the gear to drive and slowly started moving the truck.

  On the other side of the Ocean Avenue overpass, Ahsan Khan, a Pakistani graduate student studying Mathematics at NYU, sat in his rented 17-foot U-Haul Rental truck in the Applebee’s parking lot with his eyes locked on his iPhone tracking the presidential motorcade. The truck has been idling for the past fifteen minutes ready to move at a moment’s notice. When the motorcade passed the small two-lane Waverly Avenue overpass, about a mile or so away, he knew that there were less than ninety seconds to act.

  He cried out ‘Allah Akbar’ as he put the gear into drive and punched the accelerator, surging out of the parking lot, and turned left onto Ocean Avenue as the surprisingly powerful engine propelled him towards paradise. The six-lane major road was closed both ways, so he had the road to himself. There were just a few people walking along the side of the road as he passed the UPS distribution center on his left, followed by a Speedway gas station, and then he saw a sea of people moving towards the overpass.

  Breathing so hard that he was practically panting, his sweaty hands gripped the wheel even tighter as he forced himself to ignore every instinct drilled into him since he first got behind a wheel, and instead lined up on a small cluster of people carrying colored banners racing to the overpass. Punching the accelerator, the truck surged, and a family of five was struck in the back by the fast-moving truck as the low-deck front bumper slammed into the father who was holding his son’s hand. The truck was jarred by the blow as the man went flying into the air landing ten feet away and crashing into the crowd. The boy was swept under the truck while the mother who was holding onto a toddler was hit on her left side sending the child flying into the windshield before bouncing off to the left. Somehow the oldest child escaped harm as she happened to move at the last instant to the right of the road and escaped the fate of her family.

  The crowd let out a hysterical cacophony of screams as Khan’s truck careened to the left hitting a dozen more when a mass of terrified crowd goers suddenly surged forward away from the U-Haul. Signs were thrown to the ground, people filled with unbridled panic, but Khan somehow maintained a surreal sense of focus. His windshield was cracked, and even though he could not see clearly, he just kept hitting the accelerator sending the truck right and then left, striking people every which way.

  Several brave people tried to jump onto the side doors beating the glass and pulling at the door handle, but he swerved hard to the right and slammed into the side of the bridge overpass forcing three men to go flying over the side and landing with dull thuds on the expressway below.

  Officer Rafe Morales had his back to the bridge when he heard the first screams and turned suddenly and saw a mass of people racing down the bridge towards him. He instinctively pulled out his 9 mm Glock 19 and raced towards the danger pushing through the crowd of terrorized people completely unaware that behind him, a big, powerful, fully-loaded Mack truck was picking up speed. He ran about fifteen feet when the crowd parted left and right and felt a vibration from his rear.

  Pivoting to his right, he brought his gun up and saw the dump truck that he checked out not minutes ago bearing down on him. He let out a roar at the top of his lungs and began firing his Glock until the truck struck him dead center, practically cutting him in half. His shots shattered the windshield sending razor-like shards of glass into the face of Ramy Mahfouz causing him to pull the truck hard to the right. The truck slammed into the concrete embankment and the shrieking sound of ripping metal mixed with the screams from the crowd.

  Desperately trying to wipe the blood from his eyes and keep control of the truck, Ramy was able to see out of his left eye and aimed for a group that was caught between the two vehicles of death. On the verge of shock, Nikki Oristanzio was screaming hysterically for her son, Tommy, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Her whole body was trembling after she watched her friend Dolores who was holding her left hand while she kept an iron-like grip on her daughter’s hand with her right get mowed down by the murderous U-Haul.

  She could still feel her friend’s grip until it was swept away by the force of the collision.

  Now frantically sc
reaming for her son, she instinctively jumped when she heard gunfire ring out to her left and seconds later the U-Haul crashed into the side of the overpass bridge. Turning in a full 360 trying to find her son, people were running all around and then she noticed another surge of people this time coming towards her. Then, miraculously, she saw a red baseball cap twenty yards away, screamed his name and then he turned with a panic-stricken look on his face.

  Grasping her daughter’s shoulders with both arms, Nikki yelled out over the crowd, “Honey, listen to me! Listen! Run as fast as you can to the Applebee’s. Mommy will be right behind you, but I have to get Tommy.”

  A sobbing Brianna, shook her head, numb with fear until Nikki suddenly slapped her out of her stupor and screamed, “RUN BRI, RUN!! NOW!!!” Jolted, Brianna took off towards the other side of the bridge.

  Nikki saw her son at the same time she saw the big dump truck picking up speed and watched as three more people were cut down. Without thinking, Nikki ran faster than she had ever in her life ignoring everything else except her son who was now motionless, holding his hands over his ears and screaming for his mother. For some unknown reason, the driver of the truck started angling to his left and was now yards away from her son who was at the side of the overpass.

  Nikki was yelling for her son to run but he was paralyzed with fear. She raced over the debris-strewn roadway until she could make out the driver through the now shattered window. Two seconds before the truck slammed into the very spot where her son was standing, Nikki flew through the air and with her outreached hands pushed her son as hard as she could sending him flying backwards as the truck hit the concrete wall at an angle but at the same time struck Nikki Oristanzio in the left hip sending the brave mother of two flying into the air up and over the overpass until her lifeless body slammed into the ground just as the president’s procession of vehicles arrived and started swerving out of the way.

  Every Secret Service vehicle in the motorcade heard the words that Agent Darnell Sanders practically roared on their radios. “CODE RED! REPEAT: WE HAVE A CODE RED! EXECUTE EVAC ALPHA KILO LIMA. REPEAT: EXECUTE EVAC ALPHA KILO LIMA IMMEDIATELY.”

  Inside the presidential limo, a mix of breathless and shocked voices could be heard exclaiming, “What the fuck is happening? What is happening? Oh my God! Are those people? Oh, dear Jesus!”

  President Wolfe and his family could feel the sudden acceleration as they were pulled back in their seats. The president’s protective detail was trained to ignore anything other than protecting their charge and immediately raced to get the president to safety. Secret Service drivers performed an intricate driving maneuver as the twelve-car motorcade formed into a rough diamond pattern with the president in the middle, protected on all four sides, and sped up the expressway at sixty miles per hour.

  Agent Sanders was barking out orders to different commands and then turned around and forcibly said, “Mr. President, there has been a terror event. We do not know much, but we are getting you the hell out of here and to a secure location. Understood?”

  Visibly shaken, Wolfe didn’t know what to say, and all he could get out was “Tell me, in God’s name, what just happened? Were those people thrown off that overpass?”

  “Sir, all I know is that I received the call about the attack about ten seconds before we crossed under that overpass. No reports of an explosion. All I do know is that we are getting the hell off this expressway. Things may get a bit bumpy, sir, so please remain strapped in until I say so. Marine One is in the air and on the way.”

  What about Lily?

  With a voice full of anguish and filled with emotion, President Wolfe asked in a halting manner, “Sanders, how are we going to bury my daughter?”

  Oh shit, how in the hell do I break this to the man.

  “Sir, I am afraid that we have to get you and the first family to a secure location. That can’t wait, but I swear to you, sir, that my agents will take your daughter to the cemetery and keep her safe. I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I need to coordinate things. Please sit back and let us handle things.”

  Wolfe was just trying to absorb the agent’s words when he heard his son Declan loudly proclaim, “Oh my God, Dad you need to see this! Look.”

  The President leaned over and watched a video feed on Declan’s phone from a local news station whose helicopter happened to catch the attack. The video footage portrayed about two minutes of pure horror as first one truck and then another indiscriminately plowed into the packed overpass and rolled over innocent victims like a farmer cutting down a wide swath of a wheat field. There was no sound, and the shot was a wide angle, so it was impossible to capture the horror each individual on that overpass must have felt, but everyone in the president’s limo saw with their own eyes that woman fly off the bridge and land with a soundless thud.

  As three vehicles in the motorcade peeled off and took a hard right off the expressway onto Horseblock Road. President Wolfe’s jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes hardly blinked as if transfixed as he watched the video run again and again. After five separate viewings, Wolfe flipped it over to his son and the shock that had gripped him moments ago had dissipated, replaced by an abiding sense of pure outrage that terror had reached out yet again touching his country, his family, his daughter in another grotesque display of an unabashed absence of humanity.

  The man who hours ago resembled a dazed, near-broken man who heard the words of his Chief of Staff recommending an end to the conflict, to seek a peaceful conclusion to embrace the goodness of his daughter, changed yet again. A shocked Dutch Schultz had said little since the attack, waiting to see what his friend would say; how he would react. The blazing eyes staring back at him now left nothing to the imagination.

  “’Dial it back,’ you said. I’ve ‘gone too far.’ I ‘lost my fucking marbles,’ you said. Really. I’m the one who’s gone too far? Look at that video again and tell me that I’m the one who has to dial things back.” Schultz said nothing.

  The silence only angered Wolfe even more.

  Marija saw her husband’s face turn a deep scarlet color and his neck so tense she worried that he was on the verge of a stroke. She reached over and started to rub his shoulder, but he instinctively pulled back, gave her a vicious look and then exploded, “Two hours ago you wouldn’t shut up, made me feel like shit, and now you got nothing to say. Well, guess what, Dutch? I don’t want to hear one word from you that I need to calm down. These people are goddamned savages, and now they’ve come to our shores. They’ve killed Americans. Again. Now you get on the horn and call an emergency National Security meeting. Tell Wright that I want a plan of action to deal with these people.”

  Schultz knew he was on shaky ground, and simply nodded back and reached for his phone to make the call. Meanwhile, President Wolfe knocked on the glass divider. It immediately came down, and Agent Sanders said, “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Sanders, you need to get us the hell back to D.C. immediately. What are we looking at?”

  Without missing a beat, the serious head of detail who felt as if he just dodged a bullet said, “Mr. President, Marine One is inbound in three minutes. We are meeting up at some local landfill up the road and then flying back to JFK. We should be wheels up in thirty minutes.”

  Wolfe was about to add something when Schultz blurted out, “Sweet mother of God, how many more?” There was a pause. “Send us what you got, we’ll convene in two hours or so.”

  Looking over at the president, Schultz’s ash-colored expression said it all. “Douglas, there have been two more attacks, one pretty bad. There was a multiple stabbing on a commuter train in Philly and a shooting at an elementary school in Virginia. Shooters are still active and holding hostages. They have kids, Douglas. They’re holding kids.”

  Chapter Thirty Three

  National Counter-Terrorism Center, McLean, VA

  The main floor in the NCTC is dominated by three massive viewing screens that hang about twenty feet or so in the air, easily viewed by a se
ries of open floor desk areas occupied by a mixed team of civilian and military personnel from multiple agencies ranging from the CIA, FBI, DoD, and several other supporting agencies from Homeland Security. Established in 2004 as a direct response to the 9/11 Commission that cited significant lapses in intelligence sharing among the various U.S. intelligence agencies. The NCTC was directed to coordinate domestic and international terrorist threat analysis and support the prevention of future terror attacks both home and abroad.

  The NCTC had been operating on a heightened alert status for nearly two weeks as known terror organizations chatter was at an all-time high and surveillance of suspected terror oriented sites on-line known to engage and seek out non-affiliated actors or “lone wolves” both in the U.S. and Europe was at a level one senior analyst declared “unprecedented.”

  In the seventy-two hours since Rahimi’s call to the Muslim world to attack infidels the world over, there had been a growing tidal wave of activity. The deadly attack on the U.S. air base in Qatar was the first, followed by five more separate attacks in Europe. A suicide bombing at a popular tourist attraction at a cathedral in Tours, France, two different attacks in London, a major stabbing incident in Hamburg, Germany, but most ominous of all was the first roadside bombing attack staged in Europe when a column of Italian Carabinieri, Italy’s national military police, was struck by twin explosions as they were responding to rioting at a refugee center in southern Italy.