by Peter Telep
Ironically, Al-Jabiri was a self-declared al-Qaeda sympathizer who spoke openly of his jihadist beliefs, referring to his fellow non-Muslim workers as “infidels.” His extremist views were well known within the plants, yet no one contacted the Nuclear Regulatory Commission or the FBI because they wrote him off as a disgruntled nerd and never took his jihadi claims seriously. Al-Jabiri correctly discerned that the NRC holds the Federal Government responsible for the defense of nuclear power plants, not the plants themselves or the rent-a-cops they hire. Once a member of al-Shabaab, the jihadi group based in Somali, he was captured in Yemen in 2010. While in custody he murdered two police guards and was held in Yemen’s Sana’a prison until April, 2014 when he disappeared, or, rather, was rescued by an Al-Saif cell.
Nazari’s many conversations with Al-Jabiri allowed him to analyze and expose two key vulnerabilities of American nuclear power plants: their on-site spent fuel storage and their coolant water resources. Instead of hitting them head-on (which was far more difficult and required much greater resources), they had found chinks in the infidels’ armor through which they had quietly slipped their blade.
Closing his eyes, Nazari pricked up his ears and listened to yet another news report coming in from Memphis, Tennessee.
* * *
There were supposed to be only six targets.
However, as Nicholas Dresden sat before his television, his hands still covered in his wife’s blood, the bombings grew in number and size.
His partner Edward Senecal and men like Charles Plesner who had arranged their communications with the terrorists had double-crossed them. Dresden understood they had made a deal with the devil, and he had suspected that the devil would deceive them. He should have withdrawn his support. If it came down to it, he could have had Senecal murdered. But he had been too afraid to act, to take a risk, to bet on himself. He had bowed to Senecal’s threats and had lived in denial—until now.
Fox News reported that FedEx’s World Hub at the Memphis International Airport had just been attacked. This particular target had been Senecal’s brainchild:
An American jihadist flying a Cessna 182T with a full fuel tank had lifted off from Isle-A-Port, a grassy field with virtually no security and located just seven nautical miles northwest of the hub. The plane had a useful load capacity of 1,140 pounds. The pilot weighed approximately 150 pounds. The other 900 pounds were dedicated to explosives provided by UXD.
Flight time to the facility had been three to five minutes. The pilot never flew above 500 feet or 110 mph. There was no time for any countermeasure.
Footage showed pervasive fires spreading throughout the complex. As those images flashed across the screen, the anchor rattled off statistics. She said it took over twenty minutes to drive from one end of the world hub to the other and that the facility had approximately 180 aircraft gates and roughly 15 million square feet of sort space. She reported that over 3,500 day sort associates and 3,000 support personnel had been working inside at the time the plane crashed into the roof of one building. Inside were over forty miles of conveyor belts and state-of-the-art automated package-sorting systems that processed over 500,000 packages per hour.
The entire hub was being evacuated, some conveyors partially destroyed and shut down, the fires still raging out of control as first responders arrived at the scene. Of course, this was the busiest time of year for the company, and an attack like this struck an enormous blow to their business. More importantly, the attack would remind the American public of 9/11, which was why Senecal had insisted upon at least one act perpetrated by aircraft.
While the idea of collateral damage had always been at the fore of Dresden’s mind, he could barely comprehend what was happening now:
A white box truck had just driven straight through the doors of the Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah. The truck had exploded, leveling the entire facility and shattering windows over a quarter mile away. Anchors speculated that the jihadis had chosen the library because it was an easy to strike religious target. Mormons took their family history very seriously. They believed that by tracking down and identifying earlier family members, prior to Joseph Smith and the founding of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, they could baptize their dead relatives and assure them a place in heaven and a huge family reunion.
More footage taken by pedestrian smartphones came in: a Santa Claus exploding in Chicago; the bridge collapse in New London as captured by the smartphone of a delivery driver snarled in traffic; and a shooting at a daycare facility in Charleston.
A daycare, for God’s sake.
Dresden glanced over at his wife, lying there, a mannequin who could no longer nag him to get up and wash his hands. Back on the TV, bloody children were being evacuated from the airport in Orlando. A report came in of an explosion at a high school in Indianapolis. At a Wal-Mart in Atlanta, a veteran Marine had shot and killed a suicide bomber seconds before he detonated at the returns desk.
Lowering his head, Dresden reached for his great grandfather’s pistol. At least his suicide would communicate his regret. He had never lived in the gray twilight, and so it was fitting that his life and death would become infamous. In contrast, Senecal would thrust out his chest in defiance and cackle at the authorities.
Beb Ahmose had been right. This war would never end, but at least now, Dresden could withdraw from the battlefield.
If there was a God, an eternity, he was ready to make his case or accept his punishment. Yes, old age had weakened his resolve, but he had dared mighty things... and now... one last feat.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“It started with Marines, but then every branch got involved. We heard about those Army officers who stopped that train bombing in Maryland and that kid from the Air Force Academy who cut off the bomber near the Denver Federal Center. We also saw those two sailors in Honolulu who saved that hotel. Once again, we were all just Americans.”
—Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny and the others huddled around Corey’s computer, watching streaming video of a field reporter from KTRK standing somewhere outside the Port of Houston. Behind her, heavy black smoke and tongues of fire rose as though from a battlefield. Her voice cracked as she described the scene. Crew members aboard the container ship Mawsitsit had set up “some kind of missile systems” on deck and were firing at the tank farm across the port. Police and fire assets were already on the scene, as well as marine patrol units from the Harris County Sheriff’s Office. Local and government agencies were being coordinated through the Houston Area Maritime Operations Center (HAMOC). Coast Guard and Customs and Border Protection personnel were also involved. Automatic weapons fire was being traded between the ship and units at the Bayport Container Piers and sheriff’s deputies in the water near berth T5. The situation remained fluid.
“That tank farm wasn’t on the list,” said Josh.
Willie shrugged. “Target of opportunity?”
Corey lifted an index finger. “Narco subs have a limited range. You know what I’m thinking? Maybe that sub was brought in aboard the container ship. They dropped it off somewhere out in the Gulf. Maybe our boy was going to escape in the sub, and they would rendezvous with another ship while heading down to South America.”
Johnny crossed the office and leaned over Nazari. “We’re right about that, aren’t we? Doesn’t matter, though. When this is over, we’ll be nothing but stronger.”
Nazari smiled through his swollen face.
Cursing, Johnny went back outside to answer a call from Billy Brandt, who was still in Riyadh. “Hey, Johnny. Long time. Pat’s told me everything you need, and I got you covered on my end. They want me to text you transit instructions.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I can’t believe we’re in the middle of this.”
“I know, it’s crazy. Say a prayer.”
“I will. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Roger that.”
Ba
ck inside, Johnny cursed and gritted his teeth over more news reports. Multiple explosions were reported at the East Los Angeles Interchange, where four of the city’s freeways converged into one of the most heavily trafficked junctions in the world. Johnny had hoped highway patrol and other law enforcement personnel would be alerted in time, and now his heart broke as he listened to a KTLA reporter at the scene. Eyewitness accounts suggested that at least two truck bombs were involved, along with evidence that more explosives were already in place beneath spans crossing the Los Angeles River. Multi-car crashes were mounting, along with the death toll as drivers half asleep and unaware of the dangers ahead drove into oblivion. Nearly half a million commuters would be affected by the attack.
Ironically, the interchange was named after Private First Class Eugene A. Obregon, a U.S. Marine who had received the Medal of Honor for his sacrifice during the Korean War. Disrupting the busy interchange had been the jihadis’ main goal, yes, but their deranged leader knew this artery held special significance for America's military veterans.
A text message flashed on Johnny’s phone. “Gentlemen? Let’s roll.” He regarded Nazari. “When the Feds are done with you, they’ll send you back to Allah—one piece at a time.”
“I don’t think so, Johnny. The network is huge. You think capturing me brings it down? I’d keep watching my back. Forget about easy day, no drama. That’s all over for you now.”
Johnny grabbed Nazari by the throat and dragged him to his feet.
* * *
By 0510 the LA Fitness on Hollywood Boulevard was packed with early morning gym rats who had begun strutting on cardio machines or lifting weights under the grunts and guidance of personal trainers.
But then, as the word spread, people broke off from their workouts to simply watch, in awe, in fear, their gazes held trance-like by giant TVs flashing carnage from multiple cities across the nation.
Sergeant LaToya McBride had fled to the locker room, where she had retrieved her Glock 19 compact pistol from a workout duffel. She carried the weapon at all times, especially after those gang bangers had come into her recruiting center last month and had threatened to kill her if their buddy could not enlist in the Marine Corps.
The target list had the club’s address but did not specify a name, so with her holstered weapon tucked into the waistband of her shorts, she jogged toward the main entrance and outside, where she rushed down the staircase and onto the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Terrazzo and brass stars stretched away toward a CVS Pharmacy on the right and a DSW Shoes outlet on the left. A ghostly calm had settled over the boulevard. Palm trees lining the curbs swayed between streetlights. She swore she heard a whisper within the palm fronds, the sound of her father’s voice... Across the street lay a parking garage for the Roosevelt Hotel, a sandwich shop, a little Pizza place, and the Hollywood Liquor Store.
Any one of those establishments could be a target. And what if the GPS coordinates were wrong? Perhaps terrorists were planning to blow up the hotel...
A taxi pulled up and out rushed a short, heavyset man wearing a sweatshirt and baggy workout pants. He had a face full of stubble and eyed her suspiciously as he paid the driver.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“You haven’t heard? We’re under attack. Bombings all over the country. It’s happening right now.”
“Really?” He nervously thumbed his smartphone. “Holy shit. On TV inside?”
“Yeah.”
He hit the stairs with remarkable speed, as though he were not as heavy as his chest suggested. She rushed up behind him as he slammed past the glass doors.
Inside, the entire club had fallen silent, the TVs switched off.
And there, down below, in the center of the first floor, stood a man at least six feet five, with a curly beard trimmed to the proper fist-length. He had spread his arms, tossed back his head, and was in the middle of a diatribe, his voice echoing up to the second floor balcony of treadmills. His chest, covered in explosives, rose and fell as he spoke of Allah’s vengeance and the punishment all infidels must now endure, especially the gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgender “abominations” who frequented the club.
“We’re all dead!” someone hollered from behind her. “He’ll press the button! We’re all dead!”
“Shut up!” the bomber cried. “And no one move! No one!”
McBride was a good shot but not a great one. However, she was a Marine, meaning she was incapable of making excuses. She had no time for them anyway. She felt badly for her parents, her father in particular, who was battling pancreatic cancer and who told her every Sunday that she was his pride and joy, his Marine.
The bomber stood approximately thirty meters away. He was still consulting the heavens, as if waiting for some confirmation to set off his C4.
Drawing her weapon, McBride bounded down the staircase, hit the first floor, then ran toward the jihadi.
Her first two rounds missed, ricocheting off equipment and garnering his full attention with a piercing echo. A third shot struck his vest. She thought he might detonate. He lifted his detonator.
She fired again, his shoulder wrenching under the impact. She closed her eyes and launched herself into the air.
What LaToya McBride did not know was that her father had passed away just four hours ago. No one had found him yet. And now he was telling her about that himself.
* * *
Irving Jones sat in his wheelchair, sipping on his venti coffee (black), and feeling restless. The barometer was dropping, and his stumps tingled in confirmation. He despised his chair, which made him feel like half a man, but he had rushed out, saving the time of grappling with his prostheses and worrying that every second counted.
After receiving the alert via his smartphone, he had hauled himself down to the Space Needle, which was only a mile away from his apartment building. By the time he arrived, a half dozen veterans like himself were already there, and police had cordoned off the area. The talking heads on TV believed that some west coast attacks might have been called off by the jihadis because the target list had been posted on social media. Still, attacks in Utah, Arizona, and Hollywood, California had occurred, and the so called “experts” on TV were using words like “asymmetric” and “unprecedented.” As always, they had keen eyes for the obvious.
Despite the President’s instructions for everyone to remain at home, the Starbuck’s at the Pike Place Market in Seattle was packed with those clinging to their daily routine and a few like Jones who remained in the crowd to eavesdrop on conversations and pretend that a semblance of normalcy still existed. Still, the manager, a plump thirty-year-old with a quirky handlebar mustache and dime-sized gauges in his ears, had announced that he would be locking the door now and closing down for the day. Those still inside could exit one at a time. Jones decided he would remain there until he got kicked out, otherwise he would just return to an empty apartment and watch coverage of the attacks. Being around people was preferable to sitting alone, sucking down Bud Lights, and growing more pissed by the minute. The same bastards that had taken his legs had attacked his country. It was as simple and agonizing as that.
A swarthy, college-aged barista, one of the newer kids who had served Jones coffee several times before, left his station and loped toward the restrooms near the back. The manager nervously twirled his handlebar moustache between his thumb and forefinger, then shouted for the barista to hurry up because the place was still swamped. If the kid actually cared, his expression and pace might have revealed that. He ambled on without a care in his young, vacuous mind.
Jones took another long pull on his coffee, savoring the warm, slightly nutty flavor. He was just opening his mouth to exhale when the screaming came from behind.
The barista had returned from the bathroom wearing a suicide vest and holding a detonator in his right fist. He waved a 9mm Glock 17 and ordered everyone to freeze. The front door was locked, and as several people dove for it, the kid hollered once more, threatening to k
ill them all. He uttered something in rapid-fire Arabic, then eyed the crowd of about twenty-five and shouted, “Infidels, listen to me! Sharia is the law of the land—and soon you will all obey!”
Whether this kid was supposed to blow up the Starbucks—or perhaps the Space Needle—Jones was not sure. He was certain that he could get his right hand on the Beretta in his pocket without the barista noticing.
As the kid paraded to the center of the shop, detailing his hatred of America, Irving Jones, veteran Marine who had earned his EOD Badge or “crab” and who had served two tours in Afghanistan, realized that his career was not over, that he had one last bomb to render safe.
Once again, movement came near the front door.
The barista whirled in that direction.
Jones drew his weapon, but an old woman near the counter saw his gun and screamed.
In that instant, Jones and the barista fired in unison, the barista striking Jones twice in the chest, he catching the punk with a grazing shot to the head and a better placed round to the neck.
With cymbals clashing in ears, Jones grimaced while the crowd clawed at each other like animals to get past the door. As the shop fell silent, Jones fought to catch his breath. Blood puddled onto his chest and dripped down into his underwear. Just then, someone knifed out of the restroom, a man in his forties wearing jogging gear. He glanced at Jones and did a flying leap over the barista, who was lying face down. The jogger broke an Olympic record during his exit.
“I’ll get you some help,” came a muffled voice. Jones strained to look up. The manager stood over him, punching numbers into his smartphone.
Form the corner of his eye, Jones saw the barista’s arm flinch. He craned his neck and lifted his pistol, but his vision grew dim, his arm incapable of holding the weapon on target.