by Peter Telep
At the same time, the waves produced by the collapse of the southbound span, along with the continued plunging of debris, swept over Sekani and his men. It was then that his head lolled back and he raised his arms. He shouted to Allah as the tons of concrete, rebar, and steel trusses above them began breaking free.
His vision narrowed, as though he were staring through a telescope, and in those final few seconds, as the roadway hung by gossamers, he rejoiced. They had taken out both spans of the bridge, yes, but they had accomplished something even greater. They had issued a bold statement to America’s military, most notably its Naval forces.
Al-Saif’s intel indicated that ten Los Angeles Class and six Virginia Class nuclear submarines called New London, Connecticut home. At any given time half of the assigned submarines were deployed. Several were on call to the U.S. Naval Submarine School for student training.
With Christmas fast approaching there were eight subs in port along with an Ohio Class, USS Michigan, SSGN-727 awaiting dry dock space at the nearby Electric Boat Shipyard. Michigan, a former Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine had been converted to a cruise missile platform carrying 145 Tomahawk Cruise Missiles, the equivalent of what was typically deployed in a surface battle group.
Also in port was a holiday visitor, the Astute Class, HMS Ambush, S-120, a nuclear fleet submarine of the Royal Navy.
What the skippers of those submarines would learn in the hours to come was that the bridge collapse had cut off passage to and from Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Their boats were trapped.
Al-Saif had just proven that even the greatest submarine fleet in the world was not impervious to attack. If someone would have told the President of the United States that jihadis could render immobile a collection of nuclear submarines in one fell swoop, he would have grinned and snorted. He would not be smiling now.
With gooseflesh fanning across his shoulders and his heart swelling over the magnificence and audacity of their attack, Senaki raised his palms toward that gargantuan slab of concrete now floating above him. From the corners of the slab came sedans and SUVs and motorcycles soaring through the air like birds flying south for the winter. Shadows lengthened across the waves, and before Senaki could gasp, the world came down on him.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Old Mad Dog Mattis said there is no better friend, no worse enemy than a United States Marine. Today, everyone knows that, especially those bastards trying to kill us.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
The white, nondescript truck’s rear axle was practically dragging along the pavement as it started across the 14th Street Bridge in Arlington. Eric Gordon had confronted similar trucks while downrange in Iraq and Afghanistan, and these were, more often than not, jammed with explosives intended to maim and/or kill as many coalition forces as possible.
As the vehicle slowed in heavy traffic, drawing within twenty meters, Gordon locked gazes with the bearded driver, who tugged on the brim of his ball cap to better shield his cherubic face.
Seeing that the man was just getting onto the bridge and probably not in his intended strike zone, Gordon began waving his hands, crossing between cars as he did so. Traffic slowed to a standstill as he motioned for the driver to lower his window. The man drew back his head but complied.
“Hey, there!” Gordon shouted. “Maybe you can help me out. What do you got in the truck?”
The driver’s gaze registered alarm. He turned to the passenger’s seat.
Gordon thrust himself at the truck, grabbing the side view mirror with one hand to hoist himself up. He launched himself in through the open window while reaching across the driver’s lap. On the seat were a remote detonator and a pistol—a 9mm judging from the size of the barrel.
The jihadi reached the pistol before Gordon could, but Gordon locked a hand around the man’s wrist as the gun went off, the round blasting through the windshield, the boom stinging Gordon’s ears as he wriggled himself across the door and got his other hand on the weapon.
Using the gun for leverage, Gordon reared back with his free hand and punched the jihadi in the right eye. The blow sent his head twisting, his grip loosening, and Gordon wrenched the pistol from his hands.
However, before Gordon could turn the gun around, the jihadi jammed down the accelerator and spun the wheel. He smashed around the sedan in front of them, the car’s bumper peeling off as they plowed between lanes. Side mirrors snapped off and car doors crunched as the truck bulldozed toward the center of the bridge.
Gordon dropped the gun and went for the detonator, but again, the jihadi was faster and snatched it into his hand.
Before he could release the detonator’s safety toggle, Gordon elbowed the driver in the face then clutched the wheel and rolled it to the right.
Aided by its extreme weight, the truck traversed the sidewalk and crashed into the concrete barrier wall with such force that it broke through.
The cabin grew quiet as wheels spun in midair and the truck’s hood tipped down toward the Potomac. Next came the cold rush of air through the open window as the jihadi’s detonator flashed red.
Eric Gordon did not care if those commuters on the bridge understood what he was doing. He did not care if they shared his political views or his religion; he was not interested if they supported the troops or if they were completely apathetic about their nation’s place in the world. He was giving his life for them without question because he was a Marine and held to the highest standards. His dedication, commitment, and faith in the ideals of the United States of America were all the motivation he needed. He did not expect a thank you, a posthumous hero’s parade, or any mention of his name in a news report. Protecting his family and his fellow Americans had always been his mission, and he would do so until his last breath. As the recon creed so boldly stated, he would maintain the tremendous reputation of those who had come before him.
The truck never reached the water, and Gordon was thankful for that. He preferred summer over winter, and the extreme heat that engulfed the cab was far more welcome.
Up ahead, shimmering out of the darkness, came a group of men. As he drew closer, he cursed with joy and laughed aloud. Every Marine Corps friend he had lost downrange stood there in full combat gear, waving him on and smiling from ear to ear. As Gordon reached them, he glanced down at his body; he was no longer made of flesh but of something else, something without limitations, something that connected them forever.
* * *
Achmed was behind the wheel of a rental car and had followed the Blue Bayou Catfish truck all the way to Chalmette. As planned, the truck’s driver had taken them to the unguarded parking lot near the ExonMobil Refinery, where they had matter-of-factly lifted the truck’s side panels and set up.
The tripods held fast as they began their attack on the refinery’s processing center and storage tanks. Missiles tore away with a hollow roar, trailing exhaust clouds that unspooled across the facility like spider webs.
One after another, the tanks burst apart, hurtling themselves across the yard to trigger secondary explosions that ignited the early morning sky. The flames waltzed with each other, reminding Achmed of Kuwait’s burning oil fields during the first Gulf War.
A video texted to him from the other team confirmed they, too, were having great success at the Phillips66 Alliance Refinery. They reported that two police cars had rolled up but were summarily dispatched in dramatic fashion. The team had brought one of their launchers to bear on the units and obliterated them and their occupants.
Because the refineries were infrastructure targets and not time-specific, Achmed had chosen to strike them by eight a.m. EST so that they could be added to the list of locations under attack and further add to the widespread panic and fear across the nation. Both refineries were now suffering catastrophic damage due to secondary explosions and unquenchable fires. More importantly, both were vital in the production of domestic gasoline. The impact on domesti
c transportation would be immeasurable. Even with oil reserves readily available in the local area, the loss of refining ability would contribute to the country’s economic disaster.
After his ExonMobil team launched their last missile and checked in with him, Achmed threw his car in gear and thumbed a remote.
The Blue Bayou Catfish detonated in a spectacular fireball that lifted the rear wheels several feet in the air. With a carcass aglow in flames beneath cloaks of smoke, the truck would sit there and continue to burn, its tires melting across the lot.
Whispering his thanks to Allah and tightening his grip on the wheel, Achmed started off for the Phillips66 Alliance Refinery, so he could martyr that team.
In a moment of weakness, he wished he could remain alive so he could watch the birth of this glorious caliphate. All the other stars in the morning sky would switch off in deference to a lone star and a crescent moon. Yes, once America was brought to her knees, the other democracies would follow, and an Islamic state would rule the world.
* * *
Victor Lugano had become a believer in a matter of sixty seconds. He had been standing there outside his Chicago firehouse, reading that text message from his friend in Alabama, when two of his fellow firefighters joined him outside to share the news: explosions had occurred in New York, Orlando, Arizona, and there were reports of oil refinery fires in Louisiana, with more bombings happening around the country. The nation was under attack. Lugano had gone to a Marine Corps Facebook page as his friend had instructed and had read the target list. GPS coordinates in Chicago placed an attack on the corner of West Grand Ave and North State Street—
Which was right around the corner from his firehouse. He and his colleagues had taken off running, while a third remained behind to call law enforcement.
They stood there now, just outside the Rock Bottom Brewery, staring across the intersection at the towering Hilton Garden Inn and the bus stop to their immediate right. Walled in by skyscrapers and with rush hour traffic beginning to mount, the corner buzzed with activity, and a bomber—be he on foot or in a car—would be difficult to spot. Lugano paced up and down the corner, scrutinizing the throngs of pedestrians who came down the block. About ten commuters huddled beneath the glass awning at the bus stop, trying to avoid the wind. Lugano motioned to his buddies that they should cross the street for a better look.
Before they could move, those at the bus stop turned their gazes skyward like extras in a Superman movie. Several pointed.
From the gray morning sky came an improbable sight: a parachutist descending toward the street corner.
But this was not just any parachutist. He was dressed in a Santa Claus suit replete with fat belly and long, white beard.
“Must be some radio station publicity stunt,” said one of Lugano’s buddies.
The floating Santa deftly maneuvered himself toward the road, just as a bus, CTA Route #65, came rolling up West Grand, toward the Redline stop at the northeast corner of State. Santa swooped behind the bus and touched down with practiced ease. He detached his chute and jogged after the bus as it stopped at the corner. As he ran, a curly black beard shone beneath the fake one, while his belly bounced with a suspicious rhythm of its own. He clenched something in his right hand.
This was no radio station publicity stunt. This was a statement being made by jihadis who deemed Santa Claus yet another symbol of American greed and corruption.
Although Victor Lugano was no law enforcement officer and unarmed, he had something else in his possession that, at this moment, could be more powerful than a pistol or a shotgun. He had the training and mindset of a United States Marine.
Without a second’s hesitation, he bounded after the man, taking a flying leap and tackling the jihadi from behind just as he reached the back of the bus. Lugano hit the ground, then forced the man onto his back, where he straddled him, ripped off his fake beard, then tore open his jacket, which had been fastened with safety pins.
Haji Claus had enough C4 to take out the bus and most of the street corner.
Lugano’s gaze flicked to the man’s hand, where he clutched the detonator, his thumb heavy on the trigger.
People at the bus stop screamed as they caught sight of the man’s chest. Lugano’s colleagues were hollering and rushing up behind him. Diesel exhaust blasted into his face as he glared back at this scumbag jihadi, who began to say something—
But Lugano interrupted him with a curse and battle cry, “Oorah!” He smothered the jihadi to protect those around him.
Something clicked. Lugano gritted his teeth and accepted the explosion.
* * *
In Indianapolis, Indiana, Chemistry teacher Michael Bhardwaj stood before his crying and breathless homeroom students at North Central High. “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard the announcement. We’re on lockdown.”
“Mr. Bhardwaj?”
The young lady with her hand raised had swollen eyes and bright red hair. Her name was Allison Smythe, and she was in Bhardwaj’s fifth period class. She was an excellent student, well-read, and polite to a fault.
“What is it?”
“Are we going to die?”
Bhardwaj lowered his head. At that second he realized he could not bear the truth of what he was and what he wore beneath his loose-fitting sweater. He had lied to himself about his inner strength, about his dedication to Allah and the cause. He had fallen in love with his wife, his children. He had fallen in love with America. Those feelings were real. He could not turn his back on freedom—but neither could he turn his back on Al-Saif.
He cleared his throat and answered the girl, “We’ll all be okay. Now all of you wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Out in the hallway, he vomited across a row of lockers. A security guard at the far end shouted, “Stay in your classroom!”
Returning an awkward wave, Bhardwaj sprinted in the opposite direction, toward doors at the end of the hall. While locked from the inside, he could still slam past the broad handles and escape.
The cold air seized him as he stole his way around the building, toward the parking lot and 86th Street, where the dates for winter break were glowing on the electronic sign. Five or six police cars were rolling into the lot, and as Bhardwaj turned back, he spotted the security guard bounding after him.
With no where else to run, Bhardwaj started for the school sign, beating a wide path and drawing the attention of officers as they exited their vehicles.
By the time he neared the sign, he was heaving and panting, his nose already running in the cold, his eyes burning.
Mr. Michal Bhardwaj—model American citizen, gifted teacher, and pillar of his community—could hide no more.
He was thirty-eight years old.
The police officers rushed toward him with guns drawn.
“Stay back,” he shouted, lifting his sweater to show them his vest.
As if controlled by a switch, the officers broke off their pursuit to remain about fifteen meters away. A few lifted their palms to show they respected his space.
Bhardwaj could not allow himself to be taken into custody. He had failed Al-Saif, and if he remained alive, they would kill him and punish his family.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he shouted, his voice cracking.
He thought of Tommy and Elizabeth and the expressions on their faces when they heard the news. His eyes blurred even more with tears.
Before he could break down any further, he glanced at the sign, the school, then up at the American flag flapping in the cold breeze. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the inevitable.
* * *
At the marina in Seadrift, Texas, Dr. Mohammad Nazari was eavesdropping on the streaming news reports coming in over the Marines’ computer. During the last five minutes, he had pieced together an unsettling truth: Johnny Johansen had published the target list on the internet and Marines were rising to the occasion to thwart Nazari’s cells. However, in many cases they were failing, as they had at the Hoover Dam and now
at the North Anna Nuclear Power Plant northwest of Richmond, Virginia.
According to CNN, a lone surviving Information Center employee told authorities that a semitrailer and three pickup trucks, all advertising an exhibit of the Vietnam Traveling Wall, pulled into the Information Center parking lot at 0750. A half-dozen men stormed the center and attacked the five employees.
During the initial barrage of gunfire, the office manager was able to hit the panic button before being struck down. Four security vehicles were dispatched from the station admin building three miles from the center and, upon arrival at the scene, confronted three ATVs in the wooded area midway between the Information Center and the Spent Nuclear Fuel Storage facility roughly 1,700 feet due east. The security team was taken under gunfire even as two of the ATVs launched Baktar-Shikan missiles at the twenty-seven spent fuel storage casks sitting in the open on a concrete slab. Additional missiles were fired into the casks. The exact number was not yet known.
A long distance inspection with binoculars and rifle scopes already revealed that at least eight of the casks had been breached. Smoke and flames were obscuring a detailed inspection. Highly radioactive materials were now exposed to the atmosphere. The contamination plume was drifting northeast toward Chesapeake Bay to create a fifty mile or more contamination zone affecting over two million people, according to experts chiming in via Skype.
No lowly ex-Marine on his way to a minimum wage job at the auto parts store could have stopped that.
For the attacks on the North Anna casks and the water treatment plants supplying Palo Verde, Nazari had relied heavily on intelligence he had received from Zahir Al-Jabiri, a Muslim-American turned jihadist. Between 2002 and 2008, Al-Jabiri worked at five different nuclear power stations: Limerick, Peach Bottom, and Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania; Salem Hope Creek in New Jersey; and Calvert Cliffs on Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. During his six years of employment he had “unescorted access” to the interior of all five plants.
