“Where is Ali?” Yousef asked.
“He has joined Salim,” one of the men answered between coughs.
“May Allah be merciful,” Yousef mumbled as he drove away from the curb.
The team on the opposite side of the building was not as fortunate as Yousef’s team. They had encountered resistance shortly after they began firing on the crowd trying to exit the mall. In the crowd at their door were several off-duty police officers with their families, a couple of on-duty MPs from the nearby Lackland Air Force Base on a quick shopping trip for their commander’s birthday, and a few local cowboys who didn’t go anywhere unarmed.
As soon as the first explosion rocked the building they began directing people away from the doors. A few people too frightened to accept their directions panicked and ran out the doors directly into the first volley of fire from the terrorists. Upon the realization that there was not only an explosion with fire but that someone was firing assault weapons into the mall, the off-duty police officers and the MPs rapidly formed a defensive line which allowed them to quickly cut down the first three attackers as they burst through the smoke shrouded doorway, no questions asked.
The other two attackers, both tanker drivers, seeing their comrades fall, stopped and quickly took up positions behind large concrete planters that were located on opposite sides of the entranceway. From the planters, they continued firing randomly into the building.
As the firefight continued, two of the off-duty police officers found a rear entrance to the loading dock through one of the stores; several storefronts back from the gun battle. They quickly began ushering the terrified crowd outside out of sight of the attackers behind a large brick wall in the loading area.
After several minutes, with the fire bearing down on the defenders, the police officers stopped ushering people outside and moved outside themselves on a flanking maneuver against the attackers. They instructed the people who had already escaped the flames to remain in the loading dock area until they could assure them that it was safe to continue into the parking lot.
The officers quickly moved along the wall until they reached the end of it. Then the lead officer stopped, dropped to the ground, and crawled over to a shrub planted a few yards beyond the end of the wall. Slowly he crept up and under the bush, pushing aside several branches to provide a clear view of the attackers. The closest one was just ten yards away, crouched behind a planter. The man was shooting wildly over the top of the planter without looking.
For a moment, the officer thought he should yell, “Stop! Police!” but common sense prevailed, and he shot the man without even so much as a “howdy do.”
The second attacker noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that his partner had lunged forward and sprawled on the ground. He turned and stared at his prone comrade for a moment before he accepted he was dead.
The death of his accomplice rattled the man, causing him to duck down low and then slowly slink away. He remained crouched down until he reached the corner of the building. Once around the corner he stood up, hesitated for moment, then started to run away.
The second officer from the loading area had just stepped clear of the wall in time to see the attacker start running. He fired two shots rapidly. The first shot missed by a hair, punching a hole in a Chevy Impala several yards past the attacker. The second shot, though, caught the attacker in the upper right chest just under the collarbone as he looked back. The force from the bullet’s impact spun the man around, causing him to stumble backwards as if kicked by a mule, and he fell hard to the pavement.
With the man down, the two officers moved slowly and cautiously across the parking lot. The lead officer approached the downed man as his partner scanned the area trying to determine if there were any other attackers. Once he determine there were no other threats, he stopped ten yards behind his partner to cover him. The approaching officer kicked the wounded man’s gun out of reach while keeping his own gun trained on him, then he slowly knelt down beside him to check the man’s pulse. As he leaned over he saw the man blink. He was still alive so he backed away several feet and told the man to remain still, don’t resist, he was under arrest. The only response from the man was a vacant stare.
Behind the officers the crowd of shoppers began pouring from the mall entrance and from out of the loading dock area. Smoke and flames were now starting to curl over the edge of the roof line over the entryway making the crowd’s escape all that more critical.
The terrorist lay on his back with his arms splayed to his sides. He felt an extreme burning sensation in his chest and knew he was dying. His thoughts raced—first about his family, then about how he would be a martyr and how pleased Allah would be with him, then to how his mother would cry but his father would boast of his brave son.
The sun seemed to dim and his thoughts turned to making one final attempt at killing infidels. He moved his left hand slightly, then he moved his legs a fraction of an inch. He heard voices yelling something, but he didn’t understand English, so he continued to move slowly. With great effort he sat up. Then, he pressed his hand by instinct to his chest where he felt the warmth and the wetness of his own blood. Looking down he saw blood had covered his hand and was pooling on the ground around him. Funny, he thought, it didn’t seem to hurt as much now that he was sitting up.
The police officer closest to the wounded man was shouting continually, “Don’t move! Police!” But the man continued to move, slowly and deliberately. After sitting and staring at his hand for several moments, the attacker looked up and smiled at the officer. It was an evil smile.
“Don’t move!” the officer shouted again, between glances back towards the crowd that was now running from the building and making their way towards him.
The wounded man looked at his hand again as he grimaced from the pain that had suddenly flared through his body. The officer shouted once again, “Don’t move!”
The people fleeing the mall dazed by the situation were beginning to stop and mill around the parking lot directly behind the officer. They were far too close for the officer’s comfort.
He called out for his partner to move the people back and so he did. He holstered his gun and began waving his arms, directing people away while his partner continued to watch the downed terrorist.
At the entrance to the mall, the other officers and MPs were quickly ushering people away from the smoky mall entrance, unaware of the wounded terrorist and unable to hear the warning of the other officer over the din of the crowd and the roaring flames. The scene was one of utter confusion—everyone’s attention focused on ushering people away from the mall—when the terrorist with his last lucid thought saw his chance to act.
For a split second, the officer watching the terrorist turned his head to check on the crowd’s progress. In that split second, when he was looking at the crowd, the terrorist acted. He quickly reached inside his jacket, into the pocket just under where he’d been shot, and pulled out a small caliber handgun. In a surprisingly fluid motion he brought the gun to bear on the nearest officer and fired. A slight crack split the air, like that of a small firecracker exploding, and the officer went down.
The movement of the falling officer caught the attention of his partner along with the other officers and MPs who instinctively swung around and brought their guns to bear on the terrorist. They fired almost in unison. Not all of the shots fired by the defenders hit the terrorist, but at least three did. The attacker’s body flopped backwards to the pavement with a dull, wet thud and lay motionless as the men raced to the fallen officer. His partner was the first to reach him. He dropped to his knees franticly checking for a pulse.
Two other officers raced to the terrorist. They kicked the second gun away and stood over the body with their guns trained on the terrorist’s twisted and smiling face. Then one officer’s dropped to one knee and searched for other hidden weapons, then a pulse.
“Shit! Shit!” the partner of the fallen officer was saying as he checked for his partner’s pulse. Findin
g him alive, he reached out to try and turn the officer over when he heard the man say, “Who was supposed to be watching that guy?”
“Aw, man, I’m so sorry. You told me to move the crowd back.”
“Oh, sure, blame me for getting shot, like I was supposed to be watching him or something.” the wounded officer moaned.
“Are you hurt badly? Where are you hit? Just lay still. Someone call for backup and medical,” his partner called out.
“Relax. It just grazed my side. It hurts like hell, but it ain’t fatal. Got a handkerchief?” the wounded officer asked.
“What?” the other officer replied with a confused look on his face. His partner simply pointed towards his side as he rolled over on his back showing a streak of blood running along the side of his stomach, “Oh, hey, anybody got a handkerchief?” his partner called out.
The officer kneeling by the attacker gave his partner a thumbs down, signaling that the man was dead. He then stood and kicked the body hard in the side for good measure. He stood staring at the dead man as if memorizing the attacker’s face and the evil smile forever etched upon it. He then looked at the building with the smoke billowing into the air from the raging fire. He saw the dead bodies strewn by the entrance and in the parking lot. A rage built within him, and as the other officer started to walk away, he kicked the body several times over and over again. “Piece of shit!” he exclaimed, then spit on the corpse before he turned and walked away.
“Let’s check the other entrances,” someone yelled and the MPs, police officers and cowboys split equally and started to trot towards the other entrances in opposite directions. The slightly wounded officer trailed along behind his partner’s group holding a handkerchief to his side, knowing there was work to do and lives to be saved.
Yousef had weaved his way through the mayhem that was the mall’s parking lot. On the way, he had stopped and picked up Ali who had made it out of the inferno by another path. Ali’s shirt had several small burn holes and the skin on his arms and face appeared to have received second degree burns. With Ali on board, Yousef took the path of least resistance and exited the parking lot by cutting across the median to the service drive that lead to the main road outside the mall’s property. In another few minutes, they would be clear of the traffic jam and on their way out of the country. Praise be to Allah!
As they waited in the traffic jam caused by the shoppers fleeing the burning mall and the arrival of the fire department, first responders and the police. Yousef watched as several dozen police cars raced into the mall’s parking lot without stopping anyone from leaving, but they had blocked off the road so the officers could get in. Many of the cars and mini vans struggling to escape from the parking lot followed Yousef’s example and drove across the lawn to escape as quickly as they could. Cars scattered in all directions at once on the access roads creating dozens of fender benders adding to the chaos. Yousef smiled broadly at the crowd of panicking shoppers. Just as he had hoped, chaos reigned supreme.
“Quickly! Lie down flat,” Yousef commanded, and the men in back flattened themselves as much as possible. Yousef made no eye contact with any of the police or firefighters as he drove past. He saw no reason to tempt fate.
Once clear of the mall access road, Yousef began smiling broadly. All five men then craned their necks to view their handiwork from a distance. Thick dark smoke billowed skyward, and flames could be seen lapping at the sky at least two hundred feet above the roof. The huge Santa and reindeer display so prominent before was nowhere to be seen.
“Look at the entryways. They look like fire-breathing dragons,” one man exclaimed as he watched the flames shooting out through the doorways.
“Yes, a dragon is about right—a fire-breathing dragon,” Yousef repeated as he wondered how many deaths had occurred. He was sure the Americans had lied about the Twin Towers’ body count. The planners knew that the buildings would be full at that time of day. They had scouted the site so many times and did so many head counts, that there had to be at least twenty thousand dead in the twin towers. But the American government would only admit to around three thousand having died in the two tower collapses, the Pentagon and the plane in Pennsylvania.
Yousef was confident that between yesterday and today he had killed at least twenty thousand. That was the count he would print on the Internet a few days from now when he took credit as the leader of the Islamic Freedom Fighters.
Once they reached the freeway the men relaxed. They sat back up and began sightseeing. As they passed through downtown San Antonio, Yousef got off the freeway and drove them through the river district, just as if they were tourists. They marveled at the old rundown Spanish mission called the Alamo. How could something that was so rundown, so small, be considered a national treasure by the infidels? It was pathetic when compared to even a small, modest American mosque.
“It will be good to bring these godless souls to Allah. Perhaps then they might create true marvels pleasing to Allah!” Yousef shared as they continued back towards the Interstate.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Despite the holiday, General Clarett had been in his office working since 5:00 a.m. He’d reviewed several action briefs from the continuing operations in Afghanistan before he found, buried in the bottom of his inbox, a briefing about possible terrorist attacks from a couple of months ago. It cited an increase in phone traffic to and from the Midwest to Arabia. Most of the calls originated from the St. Louis area and were made using disposable cell phones and phone cards.
The conclusion of the CIA was that this warranted deeper investigation, but the White House had nixed the effort saying it was too controversial. They cited the fact that minorities were the main consumers of disposable cell phones and prepaid phone cards. They were concerned the investigation would be labeled as profiling by the media. As he added this tidbit to his growing briefing file for the 11:00 a.m. security briefing at the White House, he decided to turn on the TV and check the latest news from Houston and the still burning fires at the refineries.
“With further news from New York and the latest fallout from the fires in Houston, here is our own Chrissy Jeffers,” the talking head announced as the picture cut from a middle-aged man with slightly graying temples and a pleasant enough face to a young, blonde woman wearing far too much eyeshadow and a blouse with a plunging neckline. She was standing in front of the New York Stock Exchange next the famous bull statue. For several seconds, she was silent as she waited for her off-camera cue. Chip had apparently just missed the Houston update, but before he could change the channel, the young woman spoke up and caught his attention.
“It came as no surprise to most Wall Street observers this morning, when what is usually a very light trading day both here in the States and overseas, the market exploded with sell orders. After the news of the incident in Houston, Dow Futures opened sharply lower, plunging over eight hundred points in minutes. The automatic stop losses took effect at that point, and as of now the market is closed by order of the president.
“If overseas trading continues to point to a much lower market tomorrow, the president could delay trading beyond Monday until the full scope of the damage can be ascertained. White House sources are hinting that may be the case as the rumors of major gasoline shortages are sweeping the nation. Several of the companies who operated the fire-damaged refineries in Houston are rumored to be ready to file for bankruptcy protection later this morning, apparently having their lawyers working on the filings through the Thanksgiving holiday.”
“Oil refining stocks are leading the downward spiral on the Dow Futures and many have suspended trading on their own in an effort to stay in business. Oil futures, though, have skyrocketed as the price of crude has jumped to $175.00 per barrel during the first hour of trading overseas today on the FTSE in London and the Singapore Exchanges. Currently, Oil Futures are at an all-time high of $185.00 a barrel. Analysts expect the price to go even higher as the destruction is tallied up and the fires continue to bur
n in Houston. Many stock analysts are predicting a deep drop in all stocks when the market is finally allowed to open on Monday; that is, unless the president takes unprecedented measures. Now back to the studio—I’m Chrissy Jeffers, live from New York.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like good news,” the male talking head said, stating the obvious.
“You popfart,” the general swore at the television news anchor.
“For a look at how this might affect your local gas prices and local reaction to it, we now go to John Daily, who’s on the streets of metro Washington,” the local newscast continued, unhindered by the general’s insult.
“Well, it’s a beautiful day here in Washington, although there maybe some storm clouds on our horizon…” General Clarett let the sound fade from his attention as he dialed Steven’s private line. Steven answered in two rings as Chip shut the TV off.
“I knew it would be you,” Steven stated.
“Yeah, well can your telepathic abilities predict if this thing is going to be as bad as 9/11?”
“Cute. You stay up all night thinking that one up? So, what are you referring to—the public outcry, the moral indignation, the camera gagging by the politicos, or the stock market?” Steven fired back rapidly as he smirked to himself over his retort.
“Yeah, all of it, but mostly the stock market—you know, oil stocks, gas prices and oil futures.”
“I bought two hundred thousand shares of oil futures yesterday as soon as we hung up, and today I just bought another fifty thousand. Yeah, I think it will get far worse this time. In fact, it’s already setting records with the price of oil trading over $195.00 a barrel,” Steven replied soberly.
“Okay, you can sugarcoat it for me! I was hoping for a little good news, actually,” the general quietly replied.
“So was I, like you found the guys responsible.”
“No,” was the general’s one word reply.
“Have any clues?” Steven pried.
Reprisal!- The Eagle Rises Page 15
