METROCAFE

by Peter Parkin

  Omar turned left on Sheppard and headed east towards Yonge Street. He talked as he drove, using the time to help organize the thoughts of his men.

  "You each know that Yousef has secured ten pound Semtex bombs to the underside of five of the subway cars. The train has six cars in total. We will occupy cars one through four, and number six. Those are the cars that will have the bombs. You each know which car you are to be in." Omar looked at his watch. "We are going to be perfectly on time for our train. It comes through Sheppard/Yonge station heading south at 9:15."

  He looked over his right shoulder to double-check that they were paying attention. Their unblinking eyes were locked on Omar's face.

  "Exactly one minute after the subway doors close, you will each switch off the safety on your detonator and press the button. We will be in the tunnel at that time. You will make sure that you are standing in the subway car at its midpoint. When you press the button, two things will happen. First, your belts will explode instantly causing immense casualties in the cars. You will each be transported to Allah's arms as martyrs and heroes."

  Omar stopped talking as he turned left on Yonge Street and watched for Spring Garden Avenue. At that street he made a right turn. Omar thought about Yousef, who was an explosives genius. It was too bad that he was now out of the country on his way back to Libya. He would have enjoyed seeing or even just hearing his handiwork. Until tonight Yousef had been employed by the TTC as one of their chief mechanics, which gave him easy access to the subway cars and the scheduling of trains coming back on line as well as those taken out of service for mechanical problems—problems that Yousef himself created as needed.

  "The second thing that will happen with the press of your buttons is the activation of a fifteen minute delay detonation for the bombs under the subway cars. Your individual detonator is programmed to the bomb under your specific car. Fifteen minutes after you press the buttons all five bombs under the train cars will blow. The damage to the subway stations, the tunnels and the trains will be complete. As well, any emergency personnel responding to the first blasts will be incinerated." Omar paused a couple of seconds for effect, then calmly continued in his professorial tone.

  "As soon as your belt bombs explode, the train will come to a stop and should be in the middle of the tunnel between Sheppard and York Mills stations at that time. The tunnels on this stretch of the subway are only six inches thick, constructed of pre-cast liners. They will be no match for our second bombs, and the streets and roads above will cave in."

  Omar turned right onto Doris Avenue, then another right into the three-level underground parking garage of Sheppard Centre. He parked on the lowest level, about fifty yards from the door to the mall and subway access corridor. The lighting was poor in this area of the garage, which he was glad for.

  He turned his head around and faced his crew. "When we get out of the car, I want four of us to stand at the back of the car to act as a shield, while Amjad arms the bomb in the trunk. It contains twenty pounds of Semtex and will catch people rushing from the mall and the station after the explosion. They will be seeking the safety of their cars and, God willing, they will not find that." Omar looked at Amjad. "I want the delay set at thirty minutes." Amjad nodded his understanding.

  They got out of the car quickly, opened the hatch and Amjad crawled inside. Removing the plastic cover from the bomb, he went to work on the timer. Omar glanced at his watch. They still had plenty of time—the procedure should only take a couple of minutes.

  The four of them were standing beside each other, shielding the work being done inside the car, when Omar suddenly heard the metallic echoing sound of a door opening down in the direction of the stairway to the subway. Then the clip-clop of heavy footsteps.

  A few seconds later, a chubby security guard came around the corner making his rounds. Omar could hear the heavy breathing of the fat man as he got closer to their car. He stopped and stared at them. Omar had to admit to himself that it must have looked strange—four men standing at attention at the back of the car with the heels of another man sticking out of the trunk.

  "What are you boys doing—waiting for a parade?" The man chuckled at his little joke.

  "We are just waiting for our friend to change his shirt, then we are going drinking," Omar replied politely.

  "I thought you types didn't drink. Can I look inside the trunk?"

  Omar took a quick peek at his watch—9:05. He didn't have time for this.

  "Sure, take a look if you want." He stepped aside and the guard shuffled over. Once he brushed past him, Omar quickly flicked his wrist and a long thin knife snapped into the palm of his hand from under his shirt cuff. In one smooth motion, he buried the knife cleanly into the base of the guard's skull, severing his spinal cord. The man gasped and collapsed to the ground.

  Omar addressed the other three men. "Quickly—drag him up to the front wall and shove him under the car!" He called in to Amjad. "Are you done?" Amjad crawled backwards out of the car. "Yes, all set for thirty minutes from now."

  "Okay, let us go. We have not much time." He slammed the hatch door and locked the car. The others finished their dragging ritual, each gasping from the weight of the fat guard. Together they ran the length of the garage and took the stairs three at a time to the subway level. They slowed down as they reached the turnstiles, and inserted their tokens. Once on the southbound platform, they separated to points where they guesstimated their particular cars would stop. Omar went to the far end of the platform, as his assigned car was the front one. He took a quick glance at his Semtex belt and checked it to make sure it was on tight and that the receiver was not obscured.

  His watch showed 9:13. The train would be at the station any time now. He glanced around the platform. It was moderately full. He knew that each car could hold 250 people including standing room. So, 1500 maximum per train. It wouldn't be that full tonight though. He guessed that there were perhaps 400 people on the platform. When the train arrived it would of course have passengers already on it, from the Finch station at the beginning of the southbound line. So, maybe a total death count of 600—not counting people standing on the platforms at Sheppard and York Mills stations, plus emergency responders, people in the parking garage and on the roads and sidewalks above. Omar thought that Allah would be happy with this.

  He felt the whoosh of air through the tunnel before he actually saw the train. Then the sound became very loud as the subway rushed into the station.

  The doors opened and some people got out. Omar looked down the platform and saw each of his men boarding their cars. He followed suit, satisfied that the plan was going to be successful. Nothing would stop them now.

  He heard the warning chimes and two seconds later the doors closed. Omar marked the time on his watch. Exactly one minute to go. He was standing in the middle of the car, and he noticed he was close to the emergency door. There was a panel above the door encased in glass. Omar knew that the door could be opened by smashing the glass and pulling the lever. He hoped that no one would be left alive to be able to attempt that.

  He glanced at his watch—ten seconds to go. Omar pulled the remote from his belt buckle, and flicked off the safety. When the countdown reached two seconds he leaned his head back and looked upwards, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Allah Akhbar!" Then, without hesitation, he pushed the button.

  Chapter 33

  The sound of several large explosions, microseconds apart, reverberated throughout the train. Then, almost simultaneously a violent rocking of the cars as they were derailed. The front car, Omar's car, scraped to a stop leaning on a forty-five degree angle against the side of the rounded tunnel wall. Random screams in the subway car degraded to shrieks of terror when the lights went out—then abruptly changed to muted sighs of relief when the dim emergency lights came on.

  Omar opened his eyes hoping to see paradise. Instead he saw a nightmare. He was lying on his back against the far wall of the car that was tilted on its side in the tunnel
. In fact, all of the passengers had been thrown against the same wall, and they were all looking up at the doors that were now on an angle above their heads.

  Omar opened his coat to check what was obvious—his Semtex belt was still intact. He was still holding onto the remote detonator; he instinctively pressed it again. Nothing. It was faulty. Either that or the receiver connected to the plastic explosive was faulty. Not knowing which one had failed, he had to assume that the massive bomb attached to the underneath of the car was going to go off in about thirteen minutes.

  It took a moment for it to sink in—he knew now that he wasn't going to die at the instant he commanded it. He would now have to wait to be blown to smithereens along with all these other pathetic souls. This was not the desired methodology of a suicide bomber. Omar raised his head and gazed down to the end of the car, through the glass and into the next car. It was utterly destroyed from what he could tell. It looked as if it had lifted upwards and landed on its side—the upward momentum of that car causing his relatively intact car to lurch over onto its side against the tunnel wall. At least one of his comrades had been successful, and perhaps all four of them. He had no way of knowing. And in about twelve minutes now, all five ten-pound bombs would explode. Omar was a brave man but he was terrified at the thought of waiting for that. He wished that right now he were with his comrades in Allah's presence, receiving his reward of beautiful virgins.

  Then he began to rationalize. This was meant to happen. Allah had other plans for him. He was not supposed to die yet.

  With that thought, Omar suddenly got his edge back. He was alert now with the realization that Allah had more work for him. It was Allah's wish that he survive. Omar's eyes flicked from side to side and upwards, planning his move. He looked down at his watch—ten minutes left. He had to get out fast if he was going to fulfill Allah's wish that he live.

  He noticed that several pairs of eyes were glaring at him in the dim light. Then he remembered that he had drawn attention to himself by screaming at the moment he had pushed the button. This could be trouble. Two pairs of eyes were crawling toward him now. They belonged to two men wearing a rage that Omar recognized from many wars in the desert.

  "Grab him—he did this!" Hands were pawing at him now, scraping at his face, fists pummeling him. Omar managed to reach his hand down to his belt and pull out the Uzi machine pistol. He switched it to single shot not wishing to waste ammunition, and fired at both men in a quick swivel motion. They slumped to the floor as the screams in the car resumed, even louder than when the lights went out. The people closest to him scampered away on their hands and knees while the door to the driver's cubicle suddenly swung open. Out came the driver raising a baseball bat above his head. Omar calmly leveled the gun in the man's direction and put a single bullet in his forehead.

  He could feel the eyes of everyone upon him as he struggled to his feet and swung himself upwards towards the emergency door, using the poles as leverage. Omar shoved the gun back in his belt, held onto the doorframe with one hand and swung his free fist into the glass emergency panel. Then he pulled the lever and held his breath. There was a creaking sound and the double doors slowly parted and stopped. They allowed him only two feet of space. Omar sucked in his gut and squeezed upward through the narrow opening, then jumped to the ground. He took another look at his watch— eight minutes to go until five massive explosions rocked this tunnel.

  Omar was in good shape and a very fast runner; a skill that was even more important to him now than when he had raced in the Olympics for his home country Egypt twelve years ago. He looked north up the tracks. Yes, the other bombs had done their jobs. The tracks were blocked the entire length of the train by the derailed cars. Omar could only imagine what would happen in eight minutes when five bombs that were five times as powerful went off.

  He had no choice—the tracks were impassible heading north to Sheppard station, so he would have to run south to York Mills. A no-brainer decision anyway. There was another bomb scheduled to go off in about sixteen minutes back in the parking garage at Sheppard Centre.

  Omar stripped off his Semtex belt and threw it onto the tracks. Then he ran full tilt down the tunnel towards York Mills, being careful to avoid the electrified third rail. It was covered with wood, but the side of the rail was open and if he slipped and his foot just touched it he would be barbecued. Allah would not be pleased at such a pitiful waste. He had given him a second chance and Omar intended to take it.

  The tunnel was dark, but there was some lighting along the way. As he rounded a corner in his sprint, he could see the station platform of York Mills looming ahead. He stopped and pulled out his machine pistol. The magazine was still almost full and he had a spare one in his pocket. Omar switched the pistol back to automatic, put the safety into the 'on' position and shoved the gun under his belt. He knew that if he were hindered in any way in his escape, he would need the shock value of a dozen bullets per second. 'Automatic mode' was brutal, but effective.

  He took another look at his watch. Six minutes to go. He resumed his run, settling into a steady powerful pace along the dirt and asphalt between the tracks. The light of the station was getting closer. He could now see the safety gate at the junction between the platform and the tunnel wall. Visible now were curious people who had no doubt heard the explosions down in the tunnel. Their heads were leaning out over the platform edge, trying to peek down into the cavernous darkness to see what the commotion was. Or perhaps, Omar thought, the silly people were just impatient wondering what was holding up their precious train.

  He stretched his legs out in a sprinter's stride digging at the ground beneath him. He imagined in his mind other sprinters racing beside him, their elbows practically touching, breaths coming in short puffs, chests thrust forward to snag the finish line. He urged himself on and could hear the Olympic crowd cheering—not for him of course but for the American beside him who was inching ahead. Omar grunted and panted and somehow found the power to reach the finish line first.

  This time however the finish line consisted of a metal gate that he had to throw himself over to reach the platform. He dove headfirst in his familiar high-jump style, adjusting cleanly on the other side into a somersault position. Out of the somersault he landed on his feet, but the gun went flying. The platform was crowded with people who started backing away from him quickly when they saw the gun. Several of the astonished people closest to him gasped and a small crowd started running for the exit.

  His big problem now was the gun, and the fact that two men were advancing towards him with one of them scooping up the gun on their way. Omar could run for it but his chances of getting away would be slim without the gun, being pegged now by every witness as a perpetrator. And the police would soon be there. And if he surrendered to these 'Captain Americas' walking toward him, he would be held for the police and simply die along with the rest of them in the next explosion which was mere minutes away. There was only one option.

  Omar raised his hands in response to one of the men shouting, "Citizen's arrest!" That man held the gun on him while the other went behind and held him by the arms

  In a move so quick that neither of his arresters had a chance to even digest what was happening, Omar thrust himself forward and down, head-butting the guy with the gun while in the same move locking the arms of the man behind him and throwing him over his shoulders into his head-butted buddy. The two men lay stunned on the floor as the gun slid away. Omar dove to the floor to retrieve it but suddenly another hero appeared on the scene. A tall, athletic-looking guy with a shaven scalp confidently picked up the gun and pointed it down at Omar's head. "You stupid camel-fucker." He smiled and pulled the trigger...but nothing happened. In a panic he looked down at the gun and started fiddling with it.

  To Omar's luck, safety switches weren't quick and easy to find on Uzis. From his lying position on the ground, he swung his right leg toward the skinhead's knee, snapping it instantly. The man went down screaming in pain. Omar quic
kly got to his feet and yanked the gun from his hand. "See, there is a safety here that you forgot about. I think you are the stupid camel-fucker, no?" Omar switched off the safety and fired three rounds into the man's face.

  More screams and people running.

  Omar turned now to the two men he had thrown to the ground. They were just starting to struggle to their feet. One of them held his hands up and pleaded, "Take it easy man, no sweat here." Omar fired the Uzi again, this time several rounds at the chest, bellies and crotches of the two would-be heroes, practically splitting them down the middle.

  The platform was in a state of utter chaos now. Horrified people were scattering in all directions, dropping their parcels and covering their heads.

  Some ran for the exits, but others actually jumped down onto the tracks. Fatefully, a few of them ran the wrong way into the tunnel, facing certain death in just a few minutes time.

  Omar turned and ran toward the exit, glancing at his watch as he moved. He had three minutes to go. He popped the almost empty magazine out of the pistol, shoved a fresh one in, and slid the bolt on the top. This time he kept the gun in his hand because he was certain he would have to use it again.

  He muscled his way through a crowd of people trying to make the stairs, then took those stairs three at a time. On his way up he saw the blur of two policemen in the adjacent stairway, on their way down. They stopped and began to pull their guns. Before they even had their straps unbuckled Omar cut them down. He continued on his breakneck pace toward the exit. He could see the doors now, and the darkness of night outside. He leaped over the turnstiles and came face to face with another police officer. He had his gun out but only at hip-height. Omar brought his Uzi up to the man's face but couldn't pull the trigger. The officer was Arab, and something passed between them. The officer's eyes seemed to convey understanding, and Omar thought he detected a slight nod of his head. Omar ripped the gun out of the officer's hand, and pushed past him.