by J. L. ROBB
The aurora borealis, Northern Lights, is caused by solar activity and its reaction to the magnetic field surrounding Earth, primarily around the Arctic; and Jeff had never seen the phenomenon until the recent solar storm. It was the first time he ever remembered the Northern Lights being visible in the South. Even in Jacksonville, Florida, folks could see remnants of the aurora in the extremely dark night sky.
Jeff parked the GTR and headed to Starbucks where his morning routine would start with a latté and an Atlanta Journal and Constitution. A few minutes later, Jeff was standing in the middle of Ashford Dunwoody Road among the destroyed yoshino cherry trees, after helping a young, ponytailed girl and an apparent professor escape the Starbucks.
“Are you guys alright?” Jeff asked the question; but then, who could be all right after what just happened. Talk about making a hasty exit. Another explosion a few blocks north once again disturbed what had been the serene morning air; and the three saw smoke rising in the distance.
It seemed a miracle to Jeff, if miracles actually happened, that the three were nearly unblemished after the front windows of Starbucks blew in, covering them with dust and debris but sparing them the glass shards that had done in Latté Lady.
The professor and Blonde Ponytail shook their heads in the affirmative, they were fine except for the shock; and Jeff bounded back into the now destroyed Starbucks to see if he could help Jenifer, a.k.a. Latté Lady, as she lay still, unmoving on the floor, not unconscious but dazed by the explosion and the injuries she received to her face and torso.
Jeff carefully examined Jenifer but did not move her. She tried to lift her head, but could not do so. He knew from her injuries that she would most likely lose her sight. Small glass shards were imbedded into both eyes; and Jenifer asked Jeff, not recognizing his face since she couldn’t see it, “Is it dark?”
Sirens were approaching from all directions. Jeff wasn’t sure how the emergency vehicles would traverse Ashford Dunwoody Road, with the cherry trees blocking all lanes of the street.
Once emergency services did arrive, Jeff left Jenifer’s care to the professionals and went back outside. The professor and Blonde Ponytail were being examined by the paramedics but were mostly undamaged by the blast, at least physically. The mental damage would be long-lasting.
This week might be as bad as the previous, Jeff thought and again he questioned what in the world was going on. He had to get to a TV, fast. Park Place Café would not open until four o’clock, still six hours in the future, if they opened at all. Hopefully Jeff’s favorite watering hole was not damaged.
After giving the Dunwoody Police a statement, Jeff crossed the parking lot of the Publix, hoping his new car wasn’t damaged. Other than a small dent on the hood and a broken headlight, the car seemed fine; and Jeff felt a little guilty that he was worried about his GTR when many lives had probably been lost this morning. He drove from Publix to the Perimeter Mall Radio Shack, knowing that Radio Shack was probably the closest TV news source.
The Breaking News alert appeared on all channels, and Jeff wished that FOX and CNN would change the jingles a little. There were so many Breaking News alerts these days, it was almost like the-sky-is-falling hysteria. Why couldn’t they have a jingle for normal Breaking News and another one for real Breaking News? Regardless, Jeff knew that today all breaking news was real, and not hysteria.
Condi Zimmerman was the anchor today, visiting New York’s FOX studios; and Jeff figured it was only a matter of time before she left channel five and joined the other beautiful women at FOX News full time. She certainly qualified in all categories.
“This is both a big news day and a bad news day. There seems to be tragedy, more than usual, from all corners of the world.
“There have been world-wide power outages caused by the solar storm that passed through last week. A security guard at CDC, Russ Ivies, is still hospitalized with an unknown illness; and there have been reports of a possible smallpox outbreak affecting dozens of people from Europe, China, Africa, Asia and the United States.”
Jeff guessed CDC must be keeping Samarra’s sickness hush-hush, and that couldn’t be a good sign.
Condi continued.
“Dolphins are attacking surfers in South Africa. There have been numerous wrecks and fatalities in several cities, because all the traffic signals were programmed to stay on green, a possible cyber-attack.
“Bombs have detonated all over the United States, France and England. Manhattan had an earthquake, and now there’s news of an asteroid or some other large Near-Earth Object heading our way.
“Let’s go to our FOX correspondent in downtown New York who is monitoring the closing of the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels, Erica Robbins. Erica, tell us what you know so far.”
“Thanks Condi. Yes, there have been multiple explosions all over the country, seemingly in almost every state and throughout Europe and Asia. No one is taking responsibility at this time, but the coordination of attacks has all the markings of al-Qaeda or some other Muslim extremist group, though there has been reported chatter from an unknown Christian militia.
“The tunnels were just closed, and when the remaining traffic gets through, the tunnels will remain closed until their safety can be assured.”
The muffled explosion wasn’t loud, like some that Erica had reported on in her history as a news correspondent; but from the vibration of the ground beneath her feet, Erica knew it was a significant blast.
***
Vinny never returned to Global Warming HVAC after securing the Spanish Flu virus inside the four air-handling units at Terminal E. His mission, at least that mission, was complete, finis.
Before meeting with the Martyrs Brigade, a very secret jihadist organization comprised of several hundred Pakistanis, Afghanis, Saudis and Syrians who entered the United States via the porous Mexican border, Vinny contacted one of his compatriots at Global Warming to make sure no one was looking for him.
“Jackson, Vinny here. Has anyone found the chicken?” Vinny wanted to keep the conversation as brief as possible, just in case that devil, Uncle Sam, might be monitoring cell phone calls; and Vinny used the code word, knowing that Jackson would know exactly what Vinny meant.
“Hey. All is clear. Bubba called CDC when Charley never returned. The security desk checked the sign-in register and told Bubba that Charley had signed in, serviced the chiller, and signed out about an hour later.”
Vinny was glad to hear that no one knew about Charley; and he doubted if they would ever find his body, at least for a while. It was well hidden in the grave that Vinny dug in the woods before the killing, covered with lime to camouflage the smell. The grave was then covered with leaves and debris and looked as natural as nature itself.
The Brigade would carry out the next phase; bombings in every state, except Alaska. A jihadist would stand out like a sour thumb in Alaska and Vinny confused the word “sour” for sore. Most Middle Easterners, especially those from Saudi Arabia, like those blessed and brave martyrs of the 9/11 retribution, hated cold temperatures.
Meeting with the Brigade Commandant, Vinny affirmed that the martyrs were established and in place. During Vinny’s last visit to Pakistan, the training was mostly dedicated to making this Great Day happen in a coordinated, timely fashion.
“Aboud,” Muhammed addressed Vinny by his real name, “You know how important this mission is. Once this glorious day happens, it will be very difficult to carry out future attacks inside the United States. Europe will still be easy, but the Americans will probably seal the borders and shut the ports. The coordination needs to be precise.”
“It will be Muhammed.”
Muhammed still found it hard to believe that the Americans left their borders so accessible. Over and over again, their politicians had been advised to control the borders, but they didn’t seem to hear. Why the American leaders were so blind to the obvious was hard to figure out, but he knew why. Insha’Allah, the will of God. Keep turning that other cheek. I’m coming a
fter you. Vinny’s thoughts stirred from his flashback to Pakistan as the Commandant interrupted.
“Vinny, you ok?” Vinny didn’t look so good.
“What about the tunnels? Are they covered?” Vinny asked.
“They are. The hijacked UPS trucks, complete with proper papers and American-looking drivers, will enter the Lincoln and the Holland tunnels about five minutes before the bombing schedule. They will be well inside the tunnels before the first bombs go off.”
That was the plan. The trucks, some cargo vans and eighteen-wheelers, would enter several tunnels in New York, Virginia and Europe, a few minutes before the bombings started. The cargo vans, loaded to the hilt with fertilizer-diesel bombs, ala the Oklahoma bomber, Timothy McVey, would be the instruments of choice for any tunnel that wasn’t underwater.
Eighteen-wheelers were not scrutinized by the Port Authority as closely as they should have been and would be used in the Lincoln and Holland tunnels. They could carry much larger and capable explosives, hopefully large enough to rupture the tunnel roofs, allowing the Hudson River to flood the tunnels, Manhattan and the subway system. These explosives had been carefully designed to mimic the EFPs that Iran was providing to the Taliban and Iraqi resistance, and the EFP had been very successful in killing U.S. soldiers.
The EFP, explosively-formed penetrator, was the big brother to the IEDs initially used in Afghanistan and Iraq. Instead of a generalized explosion that expanded in all directions, the EFP was designed to focus all its destructive power in one specific direction, upward.
Vinny had high-hopes that they would have great success, flooding the tunnels with the Hudson River. He thought of all the drownings, less infidels to worry about. Vinny didn’t worry about the children, because he knew that they would just grow up to be infidels too, so to him, and others of his ilk, it was a preemptive strike.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The shiny, green mini-bus was the latest acquisition of the Teaneck Church of God. The money for the bus had been donated anonymously after an article in a recent N.Y. Times, detailing the accident that destroyed the previous bus, caused by a drunk, teenage driver and three friends. The young driver was texting his girlfriend to let her know he was on his way to her house. That’s when the car drifted into the oncoming lanes of Teaneck Road, meeting the previous Teaneck Church of God transport van in a tragic head-on collision, killing instantly all four teenagers in the car and the driver of the church van. The $ 100,000 anonymous donation was a surprise to the church’s directors, as no one with that kind of money was a member.
Today the mini-bus was crowded with sixteen children and two chaperones as it entered the Lincoln Tunnel from the New Jersey side. The kids were a little rowdy, as kids sometimes are, excited to be going to the Children’s Museum of Manhattan for the new dinosaur science exhibit.
Traffic seemed lighter than normal for mid-morning. The chaperones had the children singing Christian songs, as the mini-bus began to slow, not quite halfway through the eastbound tube. The two eighteen wheelers in front of the mini-bus looked like they were traveling side-by-side. The trucks continued to slow, finally coming to a complete halt.
The driver of the mini-bus, head extended out the driver’s side window as the bus slowed to a stop, could not tell if the trucks were stopped because of a traffic problem or something else; but delays weren’t unusual. It appeared the two truck drivers were talking about something.
The Church of God mini-bus driver heard one of the guys yell something, sounded like Allahu Akbar; but that was the last thing the driver heard, ever.
***
The Martyrs Brigade was comprised mostly of Arabs from Saudi Arabia but also had several Bosnian members. The Bosnian Muslims were not nearly as inclined to commit suicide in their endeavors of terror as were their Arab brothers who believed there actually were seventy-two virgins awaiting them somewhere in paradise, though this was never mentioned in their Holy Quran. Today, this Great Day, the Bosnians would do what needed to be done. They were needed for their Caucasian look and should evoke no scrutiny. The Americans didn’t believe in profiling, thankfully.
New York City’s Lincoln Tunnel had been chosen by Jihad’s Warriors because the Holland Tunnel would not allow large trucks, including Hertz or U-Haul moving vans. The Warriors knew the large trucks would be needed if the intent was to flood as much of Manhattan as possible, and that was the intent.
The Lincoln Tunnel was constructed from 1934 to 1937 at a cost of only seventy-five million dollars, originally a single-tube tunnel with two-way traffic. However, by 1957, two other tubes were constructed, providing two lanes of eastbound traffic and two lanes of westbound. The center tube could support one-way or two-way traffic.
At nearly one hundred feet below the base of the Hudson River, Vinny was not totally confident that the explosives in the four large trucks would be enough to penetrate the riverbed, but maybe. In any case there would be great death and destruction. Vinny loved carnage.
The plan was to have two of the eighteen-wheelers enter the eastbound tube and two would enter the westbound. Hopefully the trucks would be side-by-side in each tube, or close, at the precise time. Maybe the combined explosives of all four of the trucks, each loaded with 10,000 pounds of fertilizer and diesel, would do the job. If the tunnel flooded, the subway system would flood too. Praise Allah.
At precisely 10:15 that bright, sunny morning, a morning very similar to the morning of September 11 so many years before, the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels exploded in fury, the force actually measuring 4.0 on the Richter scale. The Teaneck Church of God would need another van.
***
Erica Robbins felt the ground shake as she was reporting for FOX, not far from the Holland Tunnel’s Manhattan entrance. She knew this was not an earthquake.
Erica spent three months with U.S. Army troops in Afghanistan, just before the Pentagon decided to pull all U.S. troops from the Korengal Valley of Death, along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. Once you felt an IED from a distance, the feeling stayed in permanent memory.
Everyone in the general area seemed to stop at the sound, remaining almost motionless.
“What was that Erica?” The cameraman turned from Erica to the sound of the deep thud that shook the earth beneath him, the loose gravel on the road dancing in place.
Before she could answer, dust and debris began to emerge from the entrance and exit of the Holland Tunnel’s Manhattan side, followed by a bright-white ball of flame that seemed to go forever. Then the almost complete silence was followed by the screams of those who were, as of yet, undead but seriously burned and injured. Shrapnel exploded from the tunnel, the remnants of what had been automobiles, vans, and a shiny, green mini-bus disbursed from both the Manhattan and the New Jersey sides. Car alarms in the area began to blare.
“What the hell is going on Erica?”
The cameraman was young, thirty-something; and he was clearly dismayed at this sudden turn of events. His six foot-two, lanky frame of 175 pounds was trembling as he remembered the morning of the World Trade Center attacks, another day of dust, debris and death.
The second series of explosions to the north followed the Holland Tunnel bombing by just a few seconds; and Erica knew whose fingerprints would be all over this attack, again on the streets of New York. It reeked of al-Qaeda.
“Come on Stretch,” Erica referred to her cameraman by his nickname. “We need to get to higher ground.”
“What for?”
“Never mind, just follow me.”
Erica led the way across Canal Street and into the new Sheraton Hotel. She knew that Grits, the four-star topside restaurant specializing in Southern cuisine, would be serving brunch. They would be safe in case the Hudson River came pouring in, and they would have a good view to the north.
Exiting the elevator, Stretch following closely behind Erica, they entered Grits where all the morning patrons had been eating the famous country sausage biscuits and gravy but were now standing at the
floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing toward the smoke and dust. Some looked west toward the Holland Tunnel, now hidden by the black, gooey smoke pouring from the two outer tunnels, looking like the legendary dragon, belching smoke and fire from its nostrils. Others looked to the north, and most knew that the Lincoln Tunnel was belching smoke and fire too.
Erica turned to face Stretch, and he had the camera on in seconds.
“Condi, are you still there?” Erica was out of breath but was always on duty, night or day. She waited while she was patched through to the news station Live Desk.
“Yes Erica, we’re here. What’s all the commotion? We are getting scattered reports that Holland Tunnel has had a fire and explosion. No reports of deaths yet. Do you have any news?”
“Condi, sorry, I’m out of breath. Yes, yes, there have been explosions at the Holland Tunnel and now to the north of us. I am assuming that the smoke you are seeing on camera is from the Lincoln Tunnel. If not, there’s smoke coming from somewhere close to the Lincoln.”
Helicopters were now flying overhead, rescue vehicles coming from all directions.
“Erica, do you see any water coming from the Holland Tunnel?” Condi tried to squeeze as much from the first reports as possible. She was glad they had dispatched Erica to report on the tunnel closures; because she was the only reporter there, from any network. FOX had done it again.
“Condi,” Erica finally catching her breath, “We see no water so far, just thick, black smoke pouring out. “I don’t know how anyone could survive the inferno; but it looks like there are people running out, covered in soot. Wait, oh my goodness.”