Finally they made it to the other side of the mall. The frigid air hit them in the face even before they cleared the now glassless doors of the north entrance. Spotting smoke fifty yards into the parking lot, they pushed through the screaming crowd of people and continued their sprint.
The nearer they came to the blast site, the greater the damage they saw. Car windows were shattered all around them. Some higher-profile vehicles had large round holes punched into the sheet metal. When they arrived at ground zero, Hicks held up his CTD badge.
As he surveyed the site, his mind flashed back to the carnage he had seen in Desert Storm. Surrounding them were blasted-out cars—most smoking, a few still burning as agents tried to put out the flames with fire extinguishers that had been pulled from the entrance to the mall. Flashing blue and red lights in the distance briefly caught Hicks’s eye as emergency vehicles approached. To his right, agents and officers had congregated in two huddles, looking at something on the ground. Blood reddened the snow as it flowed beyond the circles of men.
Hicks grabbed the nearest CTD agent, showed his badge, and leaned in close. “What’s going on?” he yelled over the deafening sound of hundreds of car alarms.
“When lockdown was called, about fifteen cops came bursting out the doors, surprising the bejeebers out of some guy who was about to enter. The perp took off running, so two of the officers went after him. He gets out here, holds up his hand, and then vaporizes. Unfortunately, he took the two cops with him.”
“Kurshumi, number one,” Hicks muttered. “Aamir and Abdel, two and three. This must have been Bogra, which would make him the fourth and, hopefully, last.” Turning to Scott, he said, “Do me a favor and get back to Abdel. I want you to oversee the bomb squad getting that vest off of him. And then get him hauled back to CTD for interrogation ASAP.”
“You got it.” Scott ran back the way he had come.
Hicks stared at the smoke swirling in the cold Minnesota wind. These guys were just pawns, but they had to have known the chess master. Or at least they’ve heard of him. The seeping blood of the slain officers had reached his feet, and he instinctively stepped back. This can’t happen again. This cannot happen again! Not here. Not in America. Abdel knows something and he’s going to talk! No matter what I have to do, he will talk!
Hicks turned and slowly made his way back inside. Although he had helped save thousands of lives, the two dead cops weighed on him. He sensed the direction that the Abdel interview would take. While he walked, he mentally began distancing himself from what he was about to do. However, the weight of the knife belted on his leg was a persistent reminder of the heaviness of the guilt that was strapped to his conscience.
Chapter 7
Saturday, December 20
Denver International Airport
Denver, Colorado
“Where’s my chicken? I want my chicken!” Chris Gorkowski, in his usual understated way, was wandering the aisles of the chartered Boeing 767 in search of a bucket of Popeye’s. The rookies were expected to bring fried chicken, biscuits, and mashed potatoes and gravy for the veteran players in order to help offset the typical airline food. For the rookie who overlooked his poultry obligations, there was usually awaiting him when he arrived back home a little ritual in which the player was dog-piled by the rest of the team, duct-taped so he couldn’t move, and then dumped into the ice tub.
Gorkowski’s bulk brushed past Riley Covington, who had settled himself into seats 35H and J for the two-hour flight to San Francisco. Coach Burton had such an intense hatred for the city of Oakland that he refused to stay in a hotel on that side of the bay. So tonight would be spent in downtown San Francisco, and tomorrow morning they would bus across the Bay Bridge to Golden West Stadium.
Riley checked his watch—1:35 p.m. The plane was set to depart in twenty-five minutes. Slipping earbuds into his ears, Riley toggled his iPod to A Decade of Steely Dan, closed his eyes, and absorbed the smooth tones of “Deacon Blues.” The players each got two seats to stretch out their large frames, while the coaching staff enjoyed the luxury of first class. The plane was fairly empty now, but it would fill up quickly as the three remaining buses emptied of players, coaches, support staff, media, and the owner’s guests. Eventually the plane would take off with more than 150 passengers on board, along with thousands of pounds of game-day gear, medical supplies, and video equipment.
Saturdays were meant to be relaxing days. Everyone involved in special teams gathered at Inverness Training Center at 8:30 a.m. for a review. The rest of the players made their way in by nine for thirty minutes with the position coaches to finalize the game plan and answer any questions.
After these short get-togethers, most of the players went home and packed before returning to Inverness. Some of the players who didn’t have family to go back to hung around in the players’ lounge playing pinball or Xbox or poker. The buses left promptly at 12:30 p.m. Anyone not there on time was fined five thousand dollars plus the cost of a first-class ticket to wherever the team was playing that week.
At Denver International Airport, the team buses pulled up planeside. Security was cleared with surprising efficiency: tables were set up next to the plane, and ten TSA personnel screened the bags while another ten screened the passengers with the light saber–esque magnetometers. There were no checked bags for the players.
“Hey Nineteen” had just begun gliding into Riley’s ears when a voice roused him from his half doze. “Riley Covington to the cockpit, please. The captain would like to speak to you.”
Riley grinned. He had a good idea why the captain wanted to see him.
He dropped his iPod into his shirt pocket and began working his way against the human traffic to the front. About halfway up the aisle, he had to squeeze in over Sal Ricci to let some people by. Ricci cursed at him, something Riley had rarely heard him do.
“Sal, you kiss your daughter with that mouth?” Riley asked. Looking down at his friend, Riley saw that he was pale and sweat was on his forehead. “You okay, man? You look stressed.”
“I’m sorry, Pach. You know how I hate flying.”
“You want me to send Bones back here to give you something to take the edge off?” Bones was Ted Bonham, the head of the medical team.
“No, I’m all right. I just need to relax a bit.”
Riley pulled his iPod out and dropped it on Ricci’s lap. “Put it on Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach: The Six Unaccompanied Cello Suites, then sit back and close your eyes. If that doesn’t take you to your happy place, then you can’t get there from here.”
Ricci managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Pach. I’ll give it a try.”
Riley saw a brief opening in the traffic and bolted down the aisle. About ten rows up, he glanced back at Ricci, who was still sitting there ignoring the iPod. Someday I’ll take him up in a Cessna and help him get over his fear. Not too many people are still scared of flying after they hold the yoke of a plane in their hands.
Finally arriving at the front of the plane, he poked his head into the cockpit. The captain slid his seat back and extended his hand. “Mr. Covington, I’m Mike Flores—Air Force Academy, class of ’76. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’ve been a fan for a long time.”
“Call me Riley. How long did you serve?”
“I put in twenty years, then began flying commercial.”
“Well then, it’s truly an honor to meet you.” He shot a quick glance at the first officer, who was awkwardly trying to stand from his seat.
“Steve Davis. Nice to meet you, Riley.”
“Likewise,” Riley said as he shook his hand. Then turning back to Captain Flores, he asked, “So, what’s up?”
“We were wondering if you’d like to sit in the jump seat for the flight. You’re more than welcome.”
This was what Riley had been hoping for. Any day he could fly in the cockpit of a big jet like this was a great day for him. “Sure, I’d love it. I do have to take a short position test for Coach Texeira, but I’m sure I can take it
up here.”
Captian Flores gave him a quizzical look.
“The position test is nothing major, just going over a few Xs and Os. I’d be done in no time.”
“Excellent,” the captain said. “We have a few things to do, and then we’ll be on our way. I know your special ops training required you to pick up your FAA air traffic controller’s license. So, if you’d like, you’re welcome to handle the communications on the flight.”
“You sure about that?” Riley was almost giddy at the prospect.
“Absolutely,” the first officer threw in, knowing his workload had been dramatically reduced. Federal aviation regulations were much more lenient with charters. The whole atmosphere of a chartered flight was quite a bit more relaxed. In fact, during takeoff, it was not unusual to have players standing in the aisles or even talking on their cell phones.
The captain handed Riley the mic and said, “From now on, we’re United 1918.”
“Got it.” Riley stretched up to click the cabin communication button. “Ladies, gentlemen, and Mr. Gorkowski, this is Captain Covington. Welcome aboard flight 1918, with nonstop service to San Francisco. At this time, I would like to ask everyone to take their seats and ensure their tray tables and seat backs are in their full upright and locked positions.” By this time, some of the good-natured hoots and jeers of the players began reaching the cockpit. “Today we are expecting moderate to severe turbulence on takeoff. Gorkowski, this means Mr. Plane go bump-bump.” Riley heard Gorkowski make a reply, but thankfully he couldn’t make out the words. “I’ll try to keep her steady, but I’m not promising anything. Last time I flew one of these, I had to put her down on a highway outside of Kabul.”
Flores and Davis laughed when Riley winked at them. They had stopped their preflight checklist to listen to this little speech. Riley knew the media people in the back of the plane would be scrambling for their notepads to record what was going on up front.
“I’ll be back with you shortly,” Riley continued, “but for now please give your undivided attention to your flight attendants for our safety demonstration.” Then, “accidentally” leaving the mic keyed, he said, “Hey, Captain, now that the announcement is over with, can you remind me which of these pedals down here is the gas and which one’s the clutch?” This remark caused at least three players to spit out their drinks, which led to a series of colorful comments from the recipients of the spray.
Captain Flores and First Officer Davis were having a hard time completing their work through the tears in their eyes. “Tell you what,” Riley said to them. “I’m going to take my position test out in the cabin while you guys finish up your work.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Flores agreed, wiping his eyes.
“I certainly don’t want to overstep my bounds, but there are a few guys I’d love to mess with back there once we get in the air.”
“As long as we aren’t breaking any FAA regs, I’d love to hear what you have planned next.”
* * *
Riley made his way back to the coaches and found Rex Texeira. “Hey, Tex-Rex, mind if I knock out that position test?”
Texeira handed over the test without even looking up. Both men knew the test was merely a formality. What made Riley such a great player was that he was not only physically blessed with strength and speed but was also one of the smartest players in the league. He had tremendous instincts, always knew his assignment—often better than the coaches—and never had wasted steps. He usually recognized where the play was going before the snap and routinely disrupted it immediately.
Riley began the examination as the plane took off and quickly breezed through the test; he drew lines to where he was responsible for filling various gaps, he identified the men he was to pick up on pass routes, and he showed the proper zone drops he had to cover. The plane was climbing past fourteen thousand feet when he finished. He walked back to the cockpit, taking a quick detour to look out the galley window and admire the snow-covered Rocky Mountains.
Riley entered the cockpit and leaned between the pilots. “How’s everything looking, fellas?”
“Good call on the turbulence,” Davis, the copilot, said. “The PIREPs are showing moderate to severe instability all the way to flight level 400.”
“All the way to forty thousand feet? Perfect! I think it’s about time I address the passengers again,” Riley announced with a mischievous smirk.
“Go for it,” Davis laughed as he handed Riley the mic.
Riley sat back in the jump seat and crossed his leg over his knee. “Ladies, gentlemen, and Mr. Gorkowski, this is Captain Covington from the flight deck. As you can tell, we are encountering significant chop, and from what the planes ahead of us are saying, it’s not going to stop. Give an extra tug on those seat belts—or for you offensive linemen, those seatbelt extensions—and remember the airsick bags are in the seat pockets in front of you. I’ll be right back.” Again keeping the mic keyed, he asked, “Hey, cool radio, Captain. Does it get FM?”
Riley released the button on the mic and looked to Captain Flores. “Would it be okay to push the Warning button the next time I’m talking to the guys?”
“Well, it’s not exactly authorized procedure, but . . . go ahead. I’m enjoying this.”
A voice came over the radio. “United 1918, climb—maintain flight level 340.”
Riley immediately keyed the mic. “Up to three-four-zero, United 1918.” As he released the mic, the plane made another shift right and dropped about a hundred feet, causing Gatorades throughout the plane to fall into laps and aisles. An angry protest came from some now-queasy players.
Switching back to cabin communications, the fake captain said, “Sorry, folks, sometimes I don’t know my rudder from my aileron. There’re just so many buttons up here.” Turning slightly from the mic, he continued, “Hey, Captain, do you have the owner’s manual up here? I can’t for the life of me remember what this little doohickey here does.” Just then, the plane hit more turbulence and took another sharp jolt. About this time, some guys were probably beginning to wonder if Riley was still playing or if they had a real situation on their hands.
Coach Burton screamed from his seat in 1A, “Knock it off, Covington!”
But Riley was on a roll. “Hey, Captain, when the elevation thingy says twelve thousand feet, is that from sea level or from the top of the mountains?” As he said that, he reached up and hit a button while keeping the mic on. A computerized voice came over the intercom: “WARNING; WARNING; TERRAIN; PULL UP. . . . WARNING; WARNING; TERRAIN; PULL UP!”
A collective gasp and a few screams could be heard throughout the cabin. With almost perfect timing, the plane hit another air pocket. It rolled a bit left and dropped. After a long, uncomfortable pause, Riley keyed the mic again. “This is Captain Covington. We are now leveling off at thirty-four thousand feet, and I am passing the controls back to Captain Flores. Please enjoy the remainder of your flight.”
* * *
As the plane began its descent, the aircraft’s FMS computer system printed out a message to the pilots. Captain Flores ripped the small white paper from the printer, scanned the message, and then read it again more slowly. “Take a look at this, Steve.”
Davis skimmed it and looked at Flores, speechless. He then handed the paper back to Riley, who read the message:
U.S. hit by terrorists at Mall of America
Casualties unknown at this time
All flights proceed as scheduled
Riley leaned back in the jump seat and stared at the words, hardly able to comprehend them. Another terrorist attack on U.S. soil. He knew from his air force intelligence briefings that another attack had been inevitable. But now that it had actually happened, reality just wouldn’t sink in.
“We’d better check with OPs to see how this is going to play out,” Flores told Davis.
Riley stood up, still clutching the paper. “Gentlemen, I know things may get busy up here, so I’m gonna head back to my seat. Thanks fo
r letting me hang out with you.”
They both wished him well. As Riley exited the cockpit, Davis was already pecking away on the flight computer.
Riley walked back to his seat, getting a fairly even mixture of high fives and glares for his little prank. As he passed Gorkowski’s seat, he saw that the veteran had an enormous gravy stain down the front of his tailored yellow shirt and his Emilio Pucci silk tie. “A little baking soda might get that out,” Riley suggested with a smile.
“You’re a dead man, Covington,” the fuming offensive lineman replied.
Riley found his row and fell back into his seat. A few guys came up to him wanting to relive his little joke, but Riley was not in the mood anymore. The military man in him overshadowed the football player. It was times like these that he wondered if he had made the right choice giving up the air force for the PFL.
The Mustangs charter landed without incident at 3:16 p.m. PST in San Francisco. The plane taxied to the four luxury buses and stopped. The players, coaching staff, and guests transferred from their air transportation to their land transportation and were off.
On bus one, Riley was surprised no one had mentioned the attack yet. Several guys had their BlackBerries out and were checking the college football scores. Finally Robert Taylor, the PR man, shouted, “Unbelievable! The Mall of America was bombed!”
A few of the guys at the front of the bus spun around in their seats.
Taylor read the headline from his BlackBerry: “‘Suspected Terrorists Attack Crowded Mall of America.’ It doesn’t seem like they have a lot of information yet.”
Sal Ricci made his way to Taylor’s row and said, “That’s Minneapolis, isn’t it? My wife has some old friends there. Can you check a different Web site?”
“That’s all I’m seeing on these sites. We’ll be at the Hyatt in a few minutes; you can check the news there. In the meantime, let me call some of my network sources.” Taylor immediately started dialing numbers, while Ricci stood in the aisle leaning over his shoulder.
Monday Night Jihad Page 8
