by James Rosone
The bus driver was stunned in a frozen state of shock. “Excuse me, sir, can you open the door, please?” pleaded Hanaa.
The driver didn’t say anything, but he did manage to pull himself together enough to hit the button so that everyone could get out. Almost all of the passengers rushed off the bus. Most of them began to run away from the direction of the blast, but Hanaa ran right toward it.
She saw numerous people writhing on the ground in agony and pain. Some people’s bodies weren’t moving at all and were clearly on fire. Hanaa ran toward the injured, wanting to help them. She was a nurse, after all.
She quickly surveyed the scene. The first order of business was to stop the flames on those who were still alive. She took off her winter overcoat and began to slap it down on flames to extinguish them. She saw a few people on the edge, staring at the scene in shock, and she cried out, “Hey! I could use your help. Can you help me put out these flames?”
A few of them seemed awoken by her call to action and began to help her blot out the fires. When the blazes were extinguished, she realized that although a lot of people had seen what happened, it was possible that no emergency responders had yet been notified. She touched the shoulder of a woman who had been helping her and said, “Thank you for your help. Can you call 9-1-1? I don’t know if anyone has yet.”
The woman nodded and pulled out her cell.
Once she was sure that additional help was on the way, she looked around to see what needed to happen next. There wasn’t anything she could do for the dead, so she would have to leave their bodies to be taken care of by someone else. Some of the people had serious third-degree burns, but she didn’t have any IV catheters or solutions hanging out in her bag. As Hanaa surveyed the injured, she found a few people who had severe abrasions. With what she found around her, she was able to MacGyver some fabric into makeshift tourniquets. That should at least hold them until help arrived.
One man had a head wound, and he was flipping out at the sight of his own blood. Head wounds are notoriously heavy bleeders. Hanaa signaled to one of the other people there who had been helping to come over. “I need you to apply pressure here,” she directed, showing the man what to do. Then, seeing that her patient was possibly going to pass out, she quietly whispered to her new friend, “See if you can get him to drink some water, slowly. Then move him to the side and help him to lie down. Try to do what you can to distract him from thinking about the blood. Hopefully, that will keep him from passing out until the ambulances start to arrive.”
The man replied, “You’ve got it,” and then dutifully began to do as he was told.
Suddenly, a tall dark-haired man began yelling at Hanaa. “Hey, you! Raghead! You’ve done enough damage. Go back to your terrorist country and stay there!” He started to walk toward her in a menacing manner.
Hanaa suddenly felt very exposed. She was on the petite side and this man seemed to be twice her size.
The guy who had been guarding the head wound stood up quickly and put himself as a shield in front of Hanaa. “Hey, man, don’t be an idiot,” he said, putting out his hand as if to say, “Back up.” “Not everyone that wears a hijab is a terrorist. She’s a nurse. Don’t you see the scrubs and the name tag? She’s been helping people. She may have even saved some lives.”
The man slowed down but still seemed angry. Another witness to the situation also moved himself between Hanaa and the agitator. “Hey, man, calm down. We need her help. Maybe you should be helping, too.”
At that moment, the first ambulance arrived, and the man seemed to decide that Hanaa wasn’t worth his trouble. He walked away.
“Thank you,” Hanaa said, grateful for the two men who had stood up for her.
“I’m sorry that guy came at you like that. Thank you for helping all these people and showing us what to do.”
There wasn’t any more time to talk. Hanaa was needed to help the ambulances identify the patients who were the most critical. When there was a break in the action, Hanaa called her boss to let her know why she was late. She breathed a sigh of relief when her supervisor told her to do whatever she needed to do and just come in when she could.
*******
Dr. Ibrahim Eliamam was sitting quietly at his desk in the office of the medical clinic. As he sipped his tea, he silently watched the seconds on the clock continue to countdown, until finally, the designated time had arrived. A few seconds passed, and Ibrahim hadn’t heard anything yet. He began to think that their martyr might have been captured. Then he heard the thunderous boom as the bomb went off more than a mile away. He smiled inwardly, knowing that today marked the beginning of what was going to be a reign of terror on the Americans.
A few minutes later, one of the physician’s assistants walked into his office out of breath and exclaimed, “There’s been a massive explosion at Union Station! Quick, you should come see it on the news.”
Outwardly, Ibrahim looked shocked, then horrified by the news. He quickly rose from his chair and followed the man down the hall to a waiting room that had Channel 9 News playing on the television. What they saw on the screen was horrendous. Bodies were lying everywhere: on the street, the sidewalks, and inside the lobbies of buildings nearby. Most of the glass faces of the structures around Union Station had shattered from the concussion of the blast.
A WGN Channel 9 news crew had been conducting a live report two blocks away when the explosion took place. Though their camera didn’t catch a glimpse of the fireball escaping the Metra center from Adams Street, they were quickly on the scene, showing the devastation for all the world to see.
One of his physician’s assistants immediately requested, “Dr. Eliamam, can I please head over there to help those poor people?”
An RN and a CNA joined in, “Yes, please. I want to go, too!” Several others could be heard making similar comments.
Ibrahim raised his hand, calling for calm. “I beg you, for your own safety, please stay here at the clinic. Right now, we don’t know if there are other bombs out there. What if a second attack takes place? You will do no good to anyone if you are injured or killed yourselves.”
The room was still restless, and Ibrahim could tell that his response wasn’t enough to appease the group. “I will make some calls to the local hospitals, and we can take some of the patients who are injured but do not require surgery. I’m sure that the emergency rooms are going to be flooded. We can still help from here.”
Everyone in the room breathed a collective sigh of relief, and they all started scurrying around, preparing trays for dressings, stitches and IVs.
The hospitals were very grateful for the help, and it wasn’t long before patients were arriving at the clinic. Soon their rooms were filled with second degree burns, abrasions, and patients who were stable but in shock.
Ibrahim knew the next attack was about to take place, so he finished his last call with a hospital and returned to help his staff get ready to receive injured people from the terrorist attack he had so elegantly designed.
Chapter 15
First Responders
Upon hearing the details of their mission, John Osborn had insisted that his partner Zameer should join him at one of the indoor/outdoor gun ranges in the suburbs and practice how to properly operate the AR-15s they were going to use. He would spend the next four days teaching Zameer how to use the rifle, going over the equipment for it and imparting some basic fighting tactics. They both knew this was going to be a suicide mission, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t kill as many people as possible before they went to paradise. After several days of training, John was confident that Zameer knew what he was doing enough that at least he wouldn’t get himself killed right away.
As John and Zameer sat in their truck, they saw that they had about five minutes until the bomb in the Metra station went off. They decided they had better get out of the van and try to look busy. They technically weren’t supposed to park there, and they didn’t need a police car coming along right at that momen
t, forcing them to move.
They exited the vehicle and began to take some measurements of the sidewalk. Then they sprayed some markings on it, as if they were identifying where future cables would be laid. As they continued to look busy, they heard the thunderous blast come from the Metra station just down the block. In seconds, they saw smoke rising from the station entrance and hear the loud screams of terror, agony and pain. For a split second, everyone just stood still, not sure if what they had heard was really a bomb.
From John and Zameer’s vantage point, they couldn’t directly see the Adams Street entrance, but it wasn’t long before emergency response sirens rushed toward the scene of the attack.
John turned to Zameer. “Hey, it’s time to get back in the van. We need to get ourselves ready for our part.”
As they climbed back into the van, Zameer felt like he had a million butterflies in his stomach. He wasn’t sure he could do this.
As John took his Comcast utility vest off, he saw the angst across Zameer’s face. “Hey, man, take a deep breath and calm down. Everything’s going to be fine,” John reassured his partner.
Zameer did take several deep breaths to try and calm his nerves. He felt a little better, but he still had a million butterflies in his stomach. He looked at John and asked, “How are you not nervous? I feel like I’m about to throw up.”
John just smiled. Once he finished strapping on his individual body armor, he checked to make sure that each of the six magazines he had was full and ready. “Zameer,” he said, “I am nervous. I’m just controlling my emotions by focusing on the task at hand. You need to close your eyes and just focus on our assignment, going over what you’re supposed to do and how you are going to do it. This will help to clear your mind.”
Zameer nodded and did what John had suggested. When he opened his eyes a few seconds later, he felt a lot calmer. He felt ready. He got his own IBA on and checked his magazines, just as John had taught him. He then reached down between the seats and pulled his AR-15 out. Their AR-15s were identical. Each had a fourteen-inch short barrel with forward grips, EOTech holographic sights, and an adjustable butt stock. They both loaded their weapons and readied themselves.
Just as they were about to exit the van, John held up his hand and quietly said, “Wait.”
Zameer felt panic creeping back up. “What’s going on, John? What’s wrong?” he asked, voice shaking.
John responded, “I just saw four ambulances pull up across the street, along with a couple of fire trucks. They look like they’re setting up a triage tent. We need to wait a couple of minutes and see how this new turn of events unfolds.”
“But the bomb is going to go off in twenty-three minutes now,” asserted Zameer, glancing at his watch several times.
“I know, but we need to wait a couple of minutes. They will have their triage area set up soon.” He turned to face Zameer adding, “In a few minutes, there will be thirty or more first responders at that makeshift aid station. Trust me, our attack will be a lot more devastating if we just wait a few more minutes.”
John continued to watch the scene unfold as Zameer began to sweat profusely from the pressure of uncertainty. Then, a lightbulb seemed to go off over John’s head. “Zameer, we’re going to change the plan. When we get out of the vehicle and start our attack, we need to bum-rush the triage center and attack the people there. Now, if we can get beyond the triage hub and past the buildings on the next block, we could survive the blast of our truck. Then we could continue to attack civilians and emergency responders as well.”
“This is a huge deviation from the plan, John,” protested Zameer. “They want us to die in the blast so there is no possibility of us being injured or captured.”
“I know, but if we are going to be martyrs, I want our sacrifice to count for as much as it can,” replied John.
Zameer eventually nodded in acquiescence. John was the team leader, so he’d do as he was told.
John asserted, “I need you to stick with me. Move quick and continue to shoot. Don’t get bogged down. We don’t have much time. Once the van goes off, we’ll reemerge and begin to attack the firemen, police and paramedics until we are killed. Don’t let yourself be taken alive. Remember to use your cyanide tooth if you have to.”
Although Zameer didn’t feel comfortable straying from the plan, John seemed to know what he was doing, and Zameer was confident in following him. If his brother in the holy jihad had a better idea for killing more people, then he was all for it.
John checked his rifle one last time and then looked at Zameer. “We go on three…one, two, three.”
With that, they both emerged from their vehicle and walked toward the triage center, no more than a hundred feet away. John took aim at a paramedic kneeling over a woman who was clearly in great pain from an arm injury. John took a deep breath. His heart rate slowed, and all he could see was the red dot where his gun was about to fire. He gently squeezed the trigger and his rifle barked. The paramedic was struck in the center of his chest, and he instantly fell backwards, away from the patient.
John shifted his rifle to the left and saw a policeman helping to carry an injured man. He centered his scope on the officer’s chest, just below the neck where the police body armor didn’t cover, and gently squeezed the trigger. The officer went down immediately, and so did the man he had been carrying to safety.
Zameer quickly calculated that John was picking people off to the left of their position, so he aimed toward the right. He saw several firefighters working to hook up a hose from their truck to one of the fire hydrants; he took aim at them and fired off a string of shots, hitting each of them multiple times. Then he moved his rifle to a group of civilians who were attempting to give first aid to some people who had been injured by falling glass. He aimed at the group of men and women and began to fire at them. Several of them were hit. A couple of them dropped to the ground or sought cover.
As John and Zameer approached the triage point, they had shot over two dozen people, mostly first responders. John saw several police cruisers heading toward their position down the road. He yelled to Zameer, “Quick, we need to get down to the end of the block! The van’s going to go up in less than four minutes.”
The two of them swiftly started to trot past the triage point. They moved down the sidewalk along South Wacker Drive, heading to the corner of Monroe Street and the Deloitte buildings. As they approached the corner, they saw a slew of cars stuck in traffic. Many people were standing outside their cars, pointing in the direction of the first bomb. They were completely caught off guard when John and Zameer came running toward them, until they started shooting at them. Several people were hit before the onlookers and pedestrians began to scream and run for cover.
John saw a Loomis armored truck stuck in the traffic jam and quickly pointed it out to Zameer, yelling, “We need to get to the other side of that armored truck!”
Zameer was out of breath, so he just nodded. They swiftly made it to the armored truck and placed it between themselves and the location of their utility van bomb that was about to go off.
At this point, a small group of police officers saw that the two gun-toting hostiles had hidden themselves behind the armored truck. They slowly moved in two groups. One group swooped in toward the front of the truck while the other group headed toward the back. They wanted to box them in and not let them run any further until additional police officers could assist them in taking them out.
John saw what the police officers were doing, and he didn’t like it. They were doing exactly what he would do if the roles were reversed. He checked the timer on his watch and saw that they had less than sixty seconds before the van would explode. With that, he raised his rifle and took aim at one of the police officers. As the officer ran from one car to another, John squeezed the trigger and hit his target twice in the chest.
Then, as if on cue, the Comcast van exploded. The roar of the blast was deafening. John could hear the whizzing of thousands of ball bea
rings flying from down the block, some obliterating the vehicles nearby. Nearly all of the police officers who were in the process of surrounding them were hit by fragments from the blast. Several of the glass faces of the buildings around them shattered and rained glass down all around them.
John turned to look at Zameer to see how he was doing and found him lying on the ground with a bullet in his head, a pool of blood forming around him. Somehow, before the blast, one of the police officers trying to surround the armored truck had managed to get off a good shot.
It must’ve happened just prior to the explosion, he thought.
John quickly leapt to his feet and began to run further down Monroe Street. As he continued to run down the road, he shot everyone he came across. Many people raised their hands as if he would somehow take them prisoner. He just shot them instead. It wasn’t until he got to the corner of Monroe and Franklin Streets that a group of police officers appeared from behind a bus and proceeded to unload their pistols on him. Most of the rounds hit him in his body armor; however, several hit his legs and both arms. He tried to pick up his weapon to aim it at them, but one of the officer’s shots managed to hit him in the face. As he dropped to the ground, he had one final thought—the image of his wife’s face.
*******
The mayor of Chicago stood in the mobile police command center, not far from Union Station. He watched the screen as reports came in from the Metra attack. He was shocked and almost mesmerized; the images flashing on the screen were appalling. Fortunately, the city wasn’t dependent on his actions alone. Dozens of emergency plans had been put forward for a multitude of scenarios, and people began to do the necessary work without much instruction.
