Salah al Semn found the waiting hard. He fidgeted. He tried to avoid eye contact with his fellow passengers on the train to New York, but found that he was watching them, sizing them up, wondering who they were as they got on and off at the depots in Baltimore and Wilmington. He repeatedly checked his watch. He was acutely aware that the two young men opposite him were watching him. Every time he glanced their way their eyes were upon him, and they didn’t look away.
He would kill them first, he thought. Infidel dogs.
The train was sliding into the station in Philadelphia when Salah al Semn checked his watch for the last time, picked up the backpack, which he had placed on the floor under his legs, and made his way toward the restroom.
Marine Sergeant Mike Ivy and Lance Corporal Scott Weidmann were from Brooklyn. They were on their way home for a week’s leave before they shipped out for tours in South Korea.
“He’s got a gun in that bag,” Weidmann whispered to Ivy.
“Something hard, with angles,” Ivy agreed. “Ain’t his underwear.”
As al Semn opened the door to the restroom and went inside, Ivy and Weidmann got up and went to the restroom door. Ivy put his ear to the door. The train coasted to a stop in the Philadelphia station.
The two Marines had to make way for people getting on and off the train, but in a moment the rush was over. Ivy leaned nonchalantly against the restroom door and listened while Weidmann watched the passengers in the car to see if anyone was paying attention. They weren’t, he decided. Everyone was getting settled for the ride on to Newark, then Pennsylvania Station in New York.
Ivy said to Weidmann, “Bastard’s putting his weapon together. Ain’t nothing else sounds like that.”
“What do you want to do?” Weidmann asked. He automatically deferred to the senior man.
“I figure it’s a rifle or something. He’ll come out of there with the thing pointing up so he can make the turn. Not much room. You slam the door on him and I’ll take it away from him.”
They took their positions and waited.
In Arlington Heights, the three men in the van inspected their weapons. Each made sure he had two extra magazines in his pocket, and pulled a ski mask down over his head. They doubted that they would survive this strike so it didn’t matter if their faces were seen: they wore the masks to create terror in the heart of everyone who saw them. Terrorized people don’t think or fight back, so they are easy to slaughter. Not that any of the three thought the nuns and children and suburban parents would fight back. These people were Christians, who routinely defamed and ridiculed the Prophet, may he rest in peace. They deserved what was coming.
In Yankee Stadium Nuri Said met his fellow terrorists at a trash can near a service door. One of them, from Iraq, had worked at the stadium for two weeks and had smuggled in weapons and ammunition, which were hidden in the can. As the last minutes ticked by and the national anthem played on the loudspeakers throughout the stadium, Nuri and his three jihadists reached into the can, dug out the trash that covered the weapons, and removed them. Checked that they were loaded. Pocketed spare magazines. And pulled black ski masks over their heads.
Then they walked toward the nearest portal to the stands. There was a woman policeman there, and Nuri saw her before she saw him. He shot her. Even though she was wearing a bulletproof vest, she went down from the impact. The report of the weapon seemed magnified inside that concrete gallery, like a thunderclap. It triggered screams. Or perhaps the sight of the ski masks and weapons triggered them.
People panicked and tried to run. One of the terrorists stood there methodically firing single shots as fast as he could aim his weapon. His three colleagues ran out the portal into the grandstands.
Salah al Semn stood in the tiny restroom aboard the express train with his AR-15 at port arms, loaded, with the safety off, and looked at his watch again. One minute to go. The train was accelerating out of the station. He could see the concrete and roofs moving through the little window and feel the motion of the car on the uneven rails.
He knew precisely what he had to do. Exit the restroom and start shooting people in this car, the nearest first.
When he had shot everyone in this car, he was to proceed forward to the other cars, where three other shooters were working. When everyone in all four cars was dead, he and any surviving shooters were to proceed all the way forward, executing people until they reached the engine.
Salah al Semn knew he would see Paradise soon, and he was ready. He would go with the blood of infidels on his hands, one of the holiest martyrs. The Prophet would be proud!
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
As it opened, he saw one of the American soldiers standing there, the black man, within a foot. He grabbed for Salah’s weapon and jerked it toward him. Salah grabbed for the trigger, and the door slammed into him with terrific force. He lost control of the rifle.
Sergeant Mike Ivy didn’t hesitate. He merely pulled the rifle toward him, then drove the butt at al Semn’s Adam’s apple with all the force he could muster. The blow pushed the Syrian back into the restroom. The commode caught the back of his legs, and he lost his balance and fell.
Mike Ivy was already examining the AR-15. It was loaded, with a round chambered. Ivy and Weidmann both heard muffled shots from the passenger car ahead of this one. Ivy glanced at Weidmann, nodded to the restroom, and Weidmann said, “Go.”
Mike Ivy began running forward as people screamed and tried to cower behind their seats.
Lance Corporal Scott Weidmann jerked the door open and reached down for Salah al Semn, jerking him upright. The Syrian decided to fight, which was a fatal error. Weidmann’s first blow was aimed at his solar plexus, which took the air out of the Syrian and doubled him up. His second blow, an elbow to the man’s left ear, was delivered with so much force that the man’s neck snapped. Dead on his feet, Salah al Semn collapsed…and started his journey to Paradise. Or Hell, depending on your faith.
Scott Weidmann left the Syrian sprawled half in, half out of the restroom and ran after Sergeant Ivy, toward the sound of shots.
He jerked open the door to the car ahead just in time to see Ivy shoot a terrorist and drop him in the aisle. People were sobbing and shouting; an unknown number had been shot. Ivy reached the body of the hooded man first, grabbed his weapon, and tossed it back to Weidmann, who fielded it in the air. As Ivy turned to go forward, Weidmann stomped on the terrorist’s larynx, crushing it. Then the two Marines ran on, toward the next car.
The three shooters walked into the parochial school and the first person they saw was a nun, so they shot her. One of them, a Yemeni named Hassan, stopped to cut her throat with a knife as the other two shot down several families standing there, men, women, and kids.
Vinnie Latucca was in the principal’s office with his granddaughter talking to Sister Mary Catherine, who had been one of his teachers when he was a pupil at Our Sisters of Mercy forty-some years ago. He heard the sound of gunfire and reached into his pocket for his .38 Smith & Wesson with a four-inch barrel. Vinnie never went anywhere without it.
Telling Sister Mary Catherine and his granddaughter to stay where they were, he opened the door a crack. One of the gunmen entered the office area with his weapon up. As the gunman fired at the ten or twelve people in the room, Vinnie Latucca cocked his revolver, steadied it on the door jam, and fired. One shot. The masked man with a rifle went down.
Gunfire continued to sound. A woman was bent over her limp child, cradling him, sobbing softly as Vinnie Latucca shot the gunman again, this time in the head, and then helped himself to the AR. He eased the outer office door open so he could see down the hallway.
No shooter in sight, so he pocketed his revolver and stepped out.
He walked toward the sound of gunfire and found the next shooter in a classroom. The fool had his back to the door and was shooting kids. Vinnie shot him twice in the back with the AR, then rolled him over and jerked the ski mask from his head. He put the barre
l of the rifle in the man’s mouth and pulled the trigger, exploding his head. The man might have been dead by then, but Vinnie hoped not.
The third man must have wondered why there was no more gunfire, because when Vinnie Latucca stepped out of the classroom into the corridor he fired a shot at him. Vinnie was quicker. Three fast, aimed shots dropped the man. He didn’t even twitch. If he had, Vinnie would have blown his head off too. He ripped off the ski mask, saw the fixed eyes, and stood listening for shots.
What he heard was the sound of a siren. For the first time in his life, the sound filled Vinnie Latucca with relief.
Detective Victor Goldman, NYPD, was in the middle of his seating section when the gunmen who exited the portal into the grandstand area opened fire. He heard the shots and saw two of them. He didn’t know there were three.
He had a .380 automatic strapped to his ankle, so he pulled it out and tried to get a shot. People were sobbing, shouting, diving for cover so he couldn’t get a clear shot. And he was too far away. At least thirty feet, with a pistol with a three-inch barrel and a million people behind the gunmen, so if he missed he would hit a civilian or two.
He had to get closer. He made his two boys get down under the seats, then he started trying to crawl over people to get closer to the shooters, who were blazing away.
His chance came when the nearest gunman realized his magazine was empty and bent down to pop it out of his weapon and insert another. Vic Goldman had closed to ten feet. He took careful aim, using both hands on the hideout pistol, and shot the gunman in the chest. He half-turned and Vic shot him again.
That was when the gunman Vic hadn’t seen shot him high in the back. Vic went down on his face, fatally wounded. He was dead when police shooting from the portals killed all the gunmen still standing, and still dead an hour later when a paramedic team found him with his two sons, ages seven and nine, holding his hands.
Someone pulled the emergency cord on the Amtrak train, so the brakes locked on every car and it screeched to a stop. Mike Ivy and Scott Weidmann had killed the third shooter by then.
After the train stopped, the fourth gunman leaped from the train onto the gravel beside the tracks. He was on a dead run heading for Newark when Sergeant Mike Ivy dropped him from a distance of one hundred yards with one shot between the shoulder blades.
As Ivy and Weidmann stood in front of the locomotive looking down at the terrorist, Weidmann said, “Nice shot, Sarge.”
Ivy pointed the rifle at the dead man’s crotch and fired a shot.
“Bastard won’t be able to fuck his virgins in Paradise,” he explained.
“You believe that shit?”
“Hell, no, but they do. Send them cock-less.”
It was late afternoon in Arlington Heights when Assistant District Attorney Ronald Farrington walked into the room where Vinnie Latucca sat with two uniformed police officers and motioned to them. They stood and left, closing the door behind them.
The lawyer laid Vinnie’s .38 on the table and nodded to it. “If we get a bullet for comparison, are we going to find any bullets from old open cases that match it?”
“Of course not,” Vinnie said disgustedly. “That’s a clean gun.”
“Or you wouldn’t have been carrying it.”
Vinnie nodded and lit a cigarette.
“The nuns don’t allow smoking in the building.”
“I don’t think they’ll mind this evening,” Vinnie replied, and blew smoke around.
Farrington sighed. “How many guys have you hit, anyway? Off the record.”
Vinnie smoked in silence.
“We have you on a weapons charge if the DA decides to prosecute. I doubt if he will. You did good today. Saved a lot of lives.”
Vinnie didn’t say anything.
“Put your gun in your pocket and go home,” Farrington said.
Vinnie pocketed the piece and stood.
Farrington held out his hand. “I’d like to shake your hand,” the lawyer said.
Vinnie grinned, shook hands, and walked out. His daughter and granddaughter were waiting for him on the school lawn.
ONE
Occasionally people ask me, What were you doing that day? You know—that day, that Saturday the terrorists hit the United States hard? Again. Fifteen years after 9/11 had dropped the World Trade Center, more American blood had been spilled on the altar of global jihad.
My name is Tommy Carmellini, and the people who ask that question know that back then I worked for Jake Grafton. At the time he was the director of the CIA, the Central Intelligence Agency. Perhaps I should tell you a bit about Jake Grafton, a retired two-star navy admiral, a former attack pilot, a genuinely nice guy, and the worst enemy you could imagine in an alcohol-soaked nightmare. He was a pretty good spook too. So-so shuffling paper. He had an uncanny ability to connect the dots, not just the ones you and I could see, but the ones that only a savant could have suspected might be there.
Yet Jake Grafton was pretty closemouthed. He never talked about his boss. He took orders and gave orders and you never knew what the man who lived behind those gray eyes was really thinking. Until the shooting started. Then…well, then you found out that Jake Grafton was the perfect attack pilot. Away up there in the blue going fast, out of sight of the people on the ground, he could roll in, draw a bead with his bomb, and turn it loose. To kill you. Then he pulled out and dodged the flak and pointed his ass at the blast and left the vicinity to get on with his life. While your doom was falling from the sky, toward you. That was Jake Grafton.
So…what was I doing that day, the day the old world came to an end? Well, I was in Colorado watching the windup to a Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) exercise, Jade Helm 16.
When I got back to my hotel, the television in the lobby said over a hundred people were dead and another hundred injured, some seriously, not expected to live, after the three terror strikes. At least three of the terrorists had been Syrian refugees, and several of the others were here illegally.
Around the world, the news was all bad, but especially in the Middle East, where it looked like the Sunnis and Shiites were well on their way to a Hundred Years’ War, each sect trying to exterminate the other, and any Christians who happened to be available. There were rumors of stray nuclear weapons, and there were definitely floods of refugees—and who knew, maybe terrorists among then—pouring into Turkey and Europe.
Back in the good old USA, we were already getting started on a presidential election campaign, and it was ugly. Both sides assured the voters that if the other side won, it was the end of civilization as we know it. And then there was the Soetoro government, getting ready for a civil war.
On Sunday I flew back to Washington. The airports looked like armed camps. Armed soldiers in full battle dress were everywhere, and there weren’t many people volunteering to be victims of an airliner bombing. My plane was less than half full.
On Monday I finished my report on the FEMA exercise at my cubbyhole office at the CIA facility in the Langley, Virginia, neighborhood. When I ran out of words I decided to print out my opus and proof it. I stamped the report secret using my desk inkpad, stapled it together, and read it through. Signed it.
I had spent the two weeks of the exercise in Colorado at exercise headquarters, the buildings that the Federal Emergency Management Agency occupied on the federal reservation on West Sixth Avenue in Lakewood, a suburb of Denver. The head dog was a Homeland Security career civil servant who had obviously impressed his political bosses with his zeal and commitment to the cause of federal supremacy against all domestic foes.
When my report was ready for prime time on Monday morning, I walked it and the classified summary down the hall to the director’s office. Admiral Grafton was in, the receptionist said.
I just had time to pour myself a cup of coffee before the receptionist sent me in. Grafton was sitting there behind his desk looking sour, and Sal Molina, the president’s man Friday, was sitting across from him. Molina looked sour
too. I guess the view from the White House wasn’t much better than it was from my apartment.
Grafton motioned me to a seat. I handed him my report, with the classified summary attached, and he flipped through it. He was a tad over six feet tall, lean and ropy, with thinning, graying hair combed straight back. No one would ever call him handsome, not with a nose that was a size too large. When you looked straight at him, you forgot about the nose. It was those cold gray eyes that captured you.
Molina, on the other hand, was a middle-sized guy with a twenty-pound spare tire and a shiny dome. He looked as if he were about ten years younger than Grafton, in his mid to late fifties.
The admiral tossed the report at Molina and said to me, “Tell us about it.”
“Jade Helm is an exercise about how the government will put down a right-wing uprising, or rebellion, and arrest everyone they think might be sympathetic with the rebels. They’ll use these paramilitary police they have tucked into every government alphabet agency as storm troopers and SS troops—”
That was as far as I got. Molina exploded. “Comparing the federal government to Nazis is unacceptable. I am not going to sit here listening to that kind of shit, Carmellini.”
I didn’t say anything. Sal Molina couldn’t fire me, and if Grafton did, I was ready to be on my way. Truth was, I had been in the belly of the beast for far too long.
“Go on, Tommy,” Grafton prompted, ignoring Molina.
“They’ll arrest every prominent Republican they can find and hold them in guarded camps, mainly at military bases. They have computer-generated lists. Gun owners, people who run their mouths on Facebook and Twitter, radio talk-show hosts, editors and publishers of Republican newspapers…you know, dangerous enemies of society.”
“Who ran the exercise?”
“A senior Homeland Security dude named Zag Lambert. Wore a uniform shirt and a belt with a holstered pistol. Honest to God, all he needed was a Hitler mustache. That guy should be kept in a padded room.”
Liberty's Last Stand Page 2
