“Hey, Carol, great game, huh?” Abby Rawlins called down to her.
“They’re my Mustangs!” Carol replied, forcing herself to give the biggest smile that her face could fake.
* * *
When the game clock indicated 6:30 left in the second quarter, the man sitting in seat 102-4A slowly reached into his coat, pulled out a thin wire attached to a 6.3 mm plug, and connected it to a jack that was just barely visible in the tip of a football—a ball that had been on his lap the entire game.
As the digital numbers on the giant clock across from his seat passed 6:15, he toggled a small switch on the cylinder in his left pocket, arming the device.
At 6:05, he stood and turned his back to the field and yelled to the people around him, “I am the Cause! May Allah have his retribution! Allahu Akhbar!”
As the spectators within hearing distance reacted with fear and shock, the man pressed down on a button set in the top of the cylinder.
In a split second, an electrical signal was sent through a wire into the center of the football, triggering the blasting cap, which had plenty of power to set off a reaction in the surrounding explosive. The football exploded.
The detonation sent a shock wave filled with ball bearings tearing through the man’s body and shooting out in every direction. The man, along with everyone within twenty feet of him, was immediately ripped into small pieces. Even beyond twenty feet, the ball bearings continued to shred flesh as the shock wave scrambled internal organs. As the distance grew greater, the shock wave became less deadly, but there was no stopping the ball bearings. The deadly projectiles continued to fly until something—or someone—intercepted their path.
* * *
Riley and Keith Simmons reached to slap hands as they did before each play. As their hands met, Riley heard a whistling sound and, at the same time, saw Simmons’s eyes grow wide. A concussive shock wave slammed against Riley’s abdomen—a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the mortars dropping in the Bagram Valley. Then the sound of an explosion overpowered the deafening crowd noise.
Riley’s military instincts kicked in immediately. He dropped to a crouch and scanned the stadium for the source of the blast. What he saw rocked him to the core.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Simmons fall to the ground holding his left thigh—red beginning to stain the white of his uniform pants. At least three other Mustangs were down.
Smoke was pouring out of section 102. It looked as though everyone within a thirty-foot radius of the blast’s epicenter had been killed instantly. Seats and debris littered the area, along with massive amounts of blood.
The crowd of seventy-two thousand stood in stunned silence.
* * *
The second man was gratified to hear the explosion. It had begun! Allah had finally brought his wrath again to the shores of the Great Satan. Never again would anyone in this country feel safe.
The first explosion had taken place in the first level, where everyone in the stadium could see it. It had gotten everyone’s attention, which was its purpose. The purpose of the second explosion was to create mass confusion and get people moving. Thus, the second man’s position was in the top deck, across the stadium from the first explosion.
After the first blast, the second man began counting. When he reached fifteen, he stood and slid sideways onto the stairs. He faced the crowd and began shouting the words he had been practicing for weeks.
* * *
Todd Penner was shaking the whipped cream can when he heard a roar that he had heard only once before—when he and his dad were fishing the Bear Creek Lake and a bolt of lightning had hit about twenty-five feet away from them. Instinctively, Todd looked up at the sky for a thunderhead, then realized that they were much more likely to face a blizzard than a rainstorm this time of year. Then he saw the smoke in the lower section across the stadium.
Todd stood looking at the scene of destruction, too horrified to move. The tray of hot chocolate lay at his feet. The silence of the crowd was eerie. Suddenly, a man began yelling. The speaker was on the steps about four rows down. Todd heard something about an American and wrath, but that was all he could make out. The man was facing the section to Todd’s right and was holding both arms up as he spoke. In one hand was a football. Todd couldn’t see what was in the other, but the poised thumb gave a pretty good indication of what it might be.
Without thinking about what he was doing, Todd bent down, picked up his tray, and let the hot chocolate fly. The nearly full tray hit the man in the neck and right shoulder, causing him to go sprawling backward and the ball to go flying out of his hand. Screams of surprise and pain came from the people surrounding the man as the hot liquid splashed onto their hands and faces. The man tumbled down the steps and crashed face-first into the metal guardrail.
* * *
As Riley crouched on the 30 yard line, the crowd finally reacted to the explosion. It was as if a switch had suddenly been thrown, and pandemonium broke loose. People were screaming and holding on to wounds all across the playing field and as far as three sections over in the stands from where the bomb had gone off. Everywhere, people began fighting and pushing for the exits. Players ran toward the tunnels.
Riley ran to Simmons to check his wound, but the linebacker was already starting to lift himself up.
“I’m okay,” Simmons yelled over the noise.
“Can you get yourself off the field?”
When Simmons nodded, Riley pointed him to the side tunnel and gave him a push. Simmons joined the stream of people rushing to get under the stadium, while Riley began scanning the crowd again.
The initial surprise of the attack was being overtaken by anger. The anger soon progressed to rage. After the attack at the Mall of America, Riley had no doubt who was behind this. You better hide deep in your caves, you cowards! Even if it’s the last thing I do, I swear I’ll hunt you down!
* * *
Todd ran down the steps toward the man he had hit with the tray of hot chocolate, though he had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. But before Todd could reach him, the terrorist was pounced on by a bald man with a salt-and-pepper goatee who had crawled his way over a row of people, leaving two bloody noses and a black eye in his path.
“Police!” the man yelled at Todd as he drove the would-be bomber’s face into the guardrail one more time, causing a horrible crunching noise that Todd heard even above the screams and curses filling the air around him. As the off-duty cop whipped out some handcuffs, a massive wave of people came rushing down the steps. The smell from the first blast was just beginning to reach their noses.
“C’mon, kid,” the cop yelled to Todd. He lifted the bomber up and shoved him against the railing. He stood tight against the man’s right side and pulled Todd up against his left. “Hold tight and don’t move!” It was a command Todd couldn’t help but obey as the crowd slammed itself against him, driving the air out of his lungs.
Lord, Todd prayed, help me breathe. Please, just help me breathe!
* * *
The third man waited for the second explosion, but it never came.
He fought against panic. He had been trained for this very eventuality. He knew that the second explosion was to be fifteen seconds after the first, and the third—his—was to be thirty seconds after that.
He had been sitting in section 107 and was now caught up in the flow of people who were trying to escape to the concourse. His count had only reached thirty-seven, but he was in danger of being sucked into the tunnel. That wouldn’t do, because this explosion was designed to be seen by all. He raised his football up in one hand and the detonator in the other.
“Allahu Akbar!” he yelled and in a split second wiped out 122 lives, including his own.
* * *
After Riley got control of his growing rage, he began moving through the two teams, yelling, “Out the side tunnel! Get into the locker room!”
Most followed his instructions until the second explosion, af
ter which everything became complete bedlam. Fans began pouring over the railings, not realizing how far the drop onto the field was. Some got back up and limped off. Others appeared to break bones in the fall and, after a few dozen more dropped on top of them, never got up again.
Riley ran toward the Mustangs’ sideline. He had no clue what he was doing; he just let his instinct guide him. Most of the players had already fled, but a few sat frozen on the benches.
Riley dropped in front of one player, who had put his helmet back on for protection. “Chris! Chris!”
“What? Oh, hey, Riley,” Chris Gorkowski answered. He had obviously drifted off to some happier place far from the devastation in the stadium.
“Chris, you gotta get up and get out of here!”
“Nah, Riley. I was thinking that I’m probably fine right here.”
Riley slapped the side of Gorkowski’s helmet—probably harder than he needed to—then grabbed the offensive lineman’s face mask. “Listen to me, you big idiot! You have to get to the locker room! Now! See Skid and Bama over there?” Riley twisted the big center’s helmet toward the two other players who were sitting on the bench, then twisted it back to face himself. “You’re going to get those two out of here! Got it? Anything happens to them, I’m taking it out on you!” Riley gave Gorkowski’s helmet one final neck-jarring slap and ran off.
When he looked back, he saw Gorkowski with a handful of both players’ jerseys, yanking them off the bench and dragging them toward the locker room. Riley began working his way back to the center of the field, but it was getting harder to move as more and more terrified people flocked to the grass.
As he looked around, he saw people stacked up at each exit from the field—players and fans alike. He felt the rage building up again. Get ahold of yourself! You’re no good to anyone if you lose control! Riley put his shoulder down and drove himself through the crowd.
* * *
Carol Marks couldn’t believe what she was seeing. After the first blast across the field, the eight Buckaroos had remained frozen in their seats like everyone else. Then, as if on some inaudible cue, the whole crowd of people moved at once toward the small tunnels that would take them to the concourse and out of harm’s way. The four couples were nine rows down from the exit and were quickly swept into the wave of humanity.
What little control and order had existed were destroyed with the second blast. The crowd took on a life of its own. Paul and Carol had been seated in the center of the row and held tight to each other’s hand, determined not to get separated. The other three couples were swallowed by the crowd as soon as they hit the steps.
Doug Rawlins turned around as he was being pushed toward the tunnel and mouthed the words Meet at the cars! Meet at the cars!
Paul gave a thumbs-up in response.
At last, Paul and Carol made it to the aisle. But as soon as they hit it, Paul was wrenched away. Carol screamed and stretched for his hand, but he was already out of reach. Paul was yelling back to her, “Just go with the flow, babe! Meet me at the car!”
Carol felt a hit from behind that nearly took her breath away as she was forced into the flow. Her sixty-year-old legs were having a hard time keeping up the pace. A couple of times she stumbled on the steps, but the mass of people was so tight that she had nowhere to fall. Finally she reached the top of the stairs and was funneled into the narrow tunnel.
As Carol entered, her foot hit something soft yet solid. This time when she stumbled, there was more space in front of her, and she went down. While she was falling, she realized what she had tripped on. And as she landed, she realized that she was about to find herself in the same situation as the person whose body had sent her tumbling. Immediately she tried to lift herself up, but a foot in the center of her back pushed her down again, forcing the air out of her lungs.
That first foot was followed by another and another. She struggled to get air, but the continuous flow of feet on her back and her head made it impossible. She tried to scream, but there was nothing there. Her arms were pinned underneath her as she squirmed her body back and forth.
A Sorel Caribou boot landing on her temple put an end to her movement. Darkness began in her peripheral vision and quickly moved toward the center. Her last thought as she faded away was So this is what it feels like to die.
* * *
As soon as people started moving, Michael Goff scooped Kevin into his arms and looked for a chance to enter the human river.
Kevin was crying. “What’s happening, Daddy?” He always slipped back to Daddy when he was scared.
“I don’t know, sport. Just hold tight. Got it? Lock those arms around me, and give my neck the strongest Hulk hug you’ve ever given.”
The resulting squeeze almost threw Michael’s neck out of alignment, but he didn’t care. As long as he was in pain, he knew that Kevin was safe.
Michael forced his way into the aisle and down the steps. People were screaming all around him. Then he heard the second blast. Gotta keep a cool head. Down the steps, out to the concourse. Skip the escalator—that’ll be a death trap with this crowd. Ride the wave down the ramps. “I’m gonna get us out of here, sweetheart. Daddy’s got you.”
The force of the crowd was overwhelming. Michael had little control over where he was going. But since everyone was heading the direction he wanted to go, he stopped trying to fight the flow and went with it instead.
The crowd pressed through the entrance to the tunnel. Michael could see people ahead stepping over some obstacles. He thought they must be backpacks that people had accidentally dropped until he stepped on one. The “Ohhh” from below him as his foot fell told him exactly what he was stepping on. He desperately wanted to reach down and help the person he had just walked over, but before he could, he was out the tunnel and into the mass of people in the concourse.
* * *
The fourth man was exhausted after being pushed, jostled, and cursed at for the past three minutes. He had been sitting in section 120 and had allowed himself to get caught up with the wave of people. While going through the narrow tunnel to the concourse, he was gratified to feel the give of several bodies beneath his feet.
When he heard the first explosion, he had started the timer on his digital watch. A moment of fear had gripped him when the second man hadn’t completed his mission as planned. But when he heard a second blast from the lower deck, he knew that Allah’s plan would continue in spite of the one man’s failure.
As he looked around, all he could see was people—tightly packed, fish in a barrel. Exactly what they had hoped for. He reached the place where the ramps spilled out to ground level. It was time.
He managed to squeeze his arm up from the press of bodies and watched the stopwatch reach 3:30. Knowing he would never be able to get the football over his head, he cried out, “I am the Cause! Die, infidels! Allahu Akbar!”
Then he pressed the red button on his detonator and joined the flood of souls rushing to meet their Maker.
* * *
Michael was nearing the ramp when he heard another explosion directly below. Suddenly the forward momentum of the mass going down the ramp was halted by another mass trying to escape the new blast by going back up. The resulting collision of two immovable forces snapped bones and crushed the life out of scores of people on the seam.
The pressure against his back was almost unbearable, and Michael joined in the chorus of “Go back! Go back!” Finally the momentum of the crowd shifted and the flow started toward the next ramp along the concourse.
“Keep hanging on, sport!” Michael yelled into his son’s ear.
“I’m scared, Daddy!”
“I know, baby. I’ll get you home. You’re doing an awesome job holding on!”
* * *
The fifth man had never entered the stadium. He had been spending his time pacing back and forth in front of the bronze sculpture of five mustang stallions, a mare, and a colt. He couldn’t see the game clock from his vantage point, so he had just w
aited nervously for the first explosion. He was wound so tight that when the blast finally reached his ear, he lost control of his bladder.
He started his digital stopwatch and waited.
Soon people began pouring out of the stadium and running past him. He fought not to get swept into the crowd and positioned himself directly in front of the giant sculpture, in the only pocket free of people. Soon it would be his turn. His job was to get the fleeing people to turn back toward the stadium and into each other.
He kept checking his stopwatch, knowing without thinking about it that he was watching the final countdown of his life.
When the bomb went off at 3:30, he knew his time was short. He stared at the increasing numbers—3:58, 3:59, 4:00.
He stepped out from behind his shelter and shouted, knowing that no one would hear, “I am the Cause! Allahu Akbar!”
The power of the blast knocked the sculpture from its foundation, and the sound of the ball bearings against the bronze was like a thousand marbles being dropped into the bottom of a metal trash can. The giant horses tumbled onto the crowd, but when they landed, they hurt no one. Everyone around was already dead.
* * *
The sound of another explosion echoed through the stadium, this one from much farther away. The resulting surge of the crowd again almost knocked Kevin’s dad off his feet.
Monday Night Jihad Page 15
