Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  The bus exited the freeway and gradually maneuvered its way from San Pascual Avenue to Arroyo Boulevard. Suddenly a voice from the front said, “Yo, check it out!”

  Although the stadium was not yet in view, there was no doubt as to its location. Up ahead, the sky was filled with aircraft of every sort. Emrick tried to count them all—at least four planes, six helicopters, and a blimp—stacked at different altitudes as if they were on shelves.

  Along the route to the stadium from the hotel, there had been pockets of waving fans. However, once they passed under the Ventura Freeway, the celebration began in earnest. The sides of the road for that final mile were filled with thousands of frenzied people cheering and holding signs.

  By the time the buses arrived at the Rose Bowl, the caravan could only inch its way forward. One of the barricades had fallen, and people had massed on the road. Finally helmeted police officers were able to push the crowd back with their Plexiglas shields, and the buses rolled down to their drop-off point.

  An audible groan swept through the bus as the doors opened and the sound of Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York” floated in. No one had anything against the great crooner, but everyone on the team had heard that song enough times in the past week to last a lifetime.

  A roar went through the crowd as the first players stepped off the bus. Emrick stood up next to his seat, tightened the knot on his tie, and walked out. He didn’t know what the day was going to hold for him, but he did know that he would never be the same again.

  Sunday, February 1

  El Espejo Road

  La Mirada, California

  1:30 p.m. PST

  Hakeem drove his two fists into the floor. He had been trying to pray for the past twenty minutes—trying to focus on Allah and on the task ahead—but all his mind kept giving him were images of Alessandra and of Riley, beaten and tied to a chair.

  Hakeem raised his head off the ground and, kneeling, lifted his hands toward heaven. Allah, I am yours. Give strength to your weak servant. Accept me into your paradise. Hakeem passed his cupped hands across his face and stood. “I am ready,” he called out.

  Immediately the three men who had been waiting outside the door entered. Rashid Ali Jabr was the owner of the house Hakeem had been staying in. Arshad Mahmud was the local cell leader of the Cause. The third to enter, a man Hakeem had not yet met, was a specialist hired for his particular skills. It was he who had assembled the bomb that Hakeem was now going to place on his body.

  “As-salaamu alaikum,” this man greeted Hakeem.

  “Wa ‘alaikum as-salaam.”

  “My name is Zalfikar Ali Khan. I lost my family six years ago in an American raid across the Afghanistan border into Pakistan. As you avenge your family, inshallah, you will be avenging mine.”

  Hakeem nodded silently.

  Khan opened the door of the closet where an oversized vest was stored. Once it had been brought into the house, Hakeem insisted on never letting it out of his sight. The Pakistani lifted the suicide bomb with an audible grunt and placed it on the dresser.

  “When I put this on you, you will feel its weight. There are twenty-seven kilos of C-4 and another seven of steel bearings. Most people couldn’t walk far wearing this, but I was told that you could handle the load. . . . Just remember, it will tire you out before you expect it to.”

  Hakeem remained quiet.

  Khan turned to the other two men. Stretching his hand out toward the vest, he said, “If you would be so kind.”

  As Jabr and Mahmud reached for the device, Hakeem put out a hand to stop them. He delved deeply into his pocket and pulled out the brass coin.

  The medallion had been so very important to him for so long. It had been a symbol of who he truly was, a constant reminder of his purpose in life. He had been born to die. But not just to die a common death; he had been chosen—called—to die with honor.

  As he looked at the three faded daggers etched into the brass, he drew strength from his roots. The words his uncle Ali had repeated to him over and over echoed in his ears: “Never forget who you are, Hakeem. Never forget who you are.”

  Hakeem pressed the disk to his mouth and felt the warm metal on his lips. Then he slipped the coin into the mesh ball-bearing pouch that would soon be covering the left side of his chest. Turning to Jabr and Mahmud, he nodded.

  “Let it down gently,” Khan said to the two men, who did as they were told and then stepped away. Taking half of a metal buckle in each hand, Khan told Hakeem, “When I make this connection, there will be no turning back. Are you prepared to do this?”

  The two men locked eyes, each seeing the sharpness of grief and the emptiness of revenge reflected in the other man’s stare.

  “Very good.” And with an audible click, Khan locked the suicide vest onto Hakeem’s body. Hakeem closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. Something cold and metallic found its way into his hand. Looking down, he saw that Khan had given him a shiny silver cylinder. “Please notice that the detonator has a metal cap on it. When you are ready, flip the cap up with your thumb and press the red button underneath.”

  “Is there anything else I need to know?” Hakeem asked.

  “No, you are ready.”

  “Then please leave me.”

  Khan bowed slightly. “Very well. Ma’salaama.”

  Hakeem nodded slightly without replying.

  When the three men had left his room, Hakeem picked up his button-down shirt. He slid his arms through the sleeves and slowly did the buttons, staring absently at an inky scribble that had been etched in the richly finished dark wood of the dresser. A small, empty jewelry box had been strategically placed directly over the shaky red letters. But the movement of the vest on the dresser’s surface had shifted the disguise, revealing the blemish. Hakeem smiled weakly as he pictured a little girl running out of paper and, the need to express herself overwhelming her common sense, scribbling her name onto her parents’ prized bedroom set.

  Oh, Alessandra . . .

  “I have no time for this,” he said out loud and pulled a canvas barn jacket over his shirt. Turning, he examined his reflection in the mirrored sliding closet door. With the vest on, he looked like a man who a couple of years ago had traded in his barbells for Budweisers. Satisfied with the effect, Hakeem removed the jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  The vest was definitely heavy, but he’d be able to tolerate it. Although it would be just one bomb, the explosion would be big and devastating. Besides, this was not so much about the blast itself as it was about the where and when of the attack. Today, a dagger would be thrust into the heart of the American people, and hundreds of millions worldwide would know of the weakness of this once mighty nation.

  Chapter 36

  Sunday, February 1

  Rose Bowl Stadium

  Pasadena, California

  2:30 p.m. PST

  “You know, today reminds me of my second PFL Cup down in Miami,” said ex-coach and current analyst Buddy Minter. His contribution to the ESPN expert panel was to tell a lot of pointless stories that rarely came to a conclusion. “Except Miami was a lot warmer and we were playing the Pittsburgh Miners—wait. . . . If it was the Miners, then that would have been my third PFL Cup, and we would have been in the Galaxydome. . . . No, I’m pretty sure—”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what it doesn’t remind me of,” interrupted Willy Schaefer, former All-Pro defensive lineman for the Twin Cities Norsemen. Willy was the clown of the group, and his jokes were often as unintelligible as they were plentiful. “It doesn’t remind me of New York, New York. If the Rose Bowl had to last a New York winter, it’d never bloom! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You got that right,” agreed Warner Schab, a former major-league first baseman who had inexplicably made his way into the football analyst’s chair. Warner rarely had an opinion of his own; even his feature segment, “Warner’s Winners,” in which he predicted the results of the day’s games, was scripted by a staff writer.

 
; Dale Dewey, ESPN lead analyst and the only one on the panel who really knew what he was doing, just shook his head. Dale had never thought he would miss his stints covering curling up in Ottawa for ESPN2. But from the moment he had been placed with these buffoons, he had been pining for the good old days. “Well, it’s definitely not New York. It’s a beautiful sunny day in Southern California. The people of Los Angeles are really taking advantage of this rare occurrence when the PFL Cup is not being played in a PFL city. This is a huge first salvo in the city’s battle for an expansion team.”

  “Yeah, maybe they’ll call them the L.A. Can’t-Keep-a-Teams! They’ll play their games in U-Haul Stadium! Ha, ha, ha,” Willy said.

  “See you later, alligator,” Warner added.

  Having learned long ago to ignore most of what the rest of his team said, Dale continued, “And as you look around the sea of Liberty and Dragons jerseys, you’ll see an equal number of purple number-32 James Anderson jerseys, blue number-86 Sal Ricci jerseys, and many others wearing the Predator and Mustang colors.”

  “Great show of support,” Willy agreed in a rare serious moment.

  “Awesome,” Warner said.

  Buddy looked like he was about to start a story, but a look from Dewey quickly shut him down. The lead analyst continued, “Security is extremely tight around the stadium, and the lines are unbelievably long. Each person entering the stadium is being individually checked.”

  “Yeah, I’m still having trouble walking after my examination! Ha, ha, ha,” Willy interjected, pretending to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Ouch,” Warner empathized.

  “You know, that reminds me of one time when I went to the doctor to—,” Buddy began.

  Dale quickly jumped in. “Well, it looks like it’s shaping up to be an interesting game. The Liberty could be in for it this afternoon. Everyone’s going to be watching to see if they can recover from the loss of Matt Tayse due to that freak ankle injury coming off the bus.”

  “First step’s a doozy! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “No doubt.”

  “You know, that reminds me of when we lost Ronde Jennings in the ’85 wild card game. The Dragons cleaned our clocks!”

  “Interesting. Since this season’s Liberty have never been known as a passing team, a lot of the yeoman’s work is going to fall on the shoulders of Johnson Mige and the smallish Jesse Emrick. Mige could probably play lead back on most teams in the PFL, but Emrick’s still a big question mark.”

  “I’m sorry to say, but I think the moment Emrick lifts his Bronx up, someone’s going to knock his Battery down! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “New York, New York.”

  “You know, he reminds me a bit of the great Wally Pearson, who, although he was slightly undersized at five-ten, still was able to lead the ’85 Chicago Stockmen to a 15–1 season and, despite being kept out of the end zone, was a significant factor in their 46–10 trouncing of the Boston Colonials in PFL Cup XX.”

  Everyone was momentarily stunned into silence by the unexpected appropriateness of Buddy’s story. “What?” Buddy asked, looking around.

  Dale regained his composure and said, “So, on to ‘Keys to the Game.’ Willy Schaefer?”

  “The Dragons know that their defense has the advantage, so it’s going to be up to the offense to put some points up. The Liberty have to hope that they’ll be able to find a running lane through the mighty Dragons defensive line. If they can, then they’ll bring the Dragons crashing down off of their skyscraping beanstalk! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Yeah, like Jack.”

  Dale tried unsuccessfully to hide his eye roll. “Warner, what’s your key to the game?”

  Warner, caught off guard by being asked a direct question, quickly consulted his prepared sheets. “I think we’re going to see a powerful defensive battle. Every point won will be a point earned. Every defensive stand will bring a team one step closer to victory. My prediction is that whoever scores first will finish last. Wait—” he looked back down at his paper—“I mean whoever scores last will finish first.”

  For the hundredth time, Dale wished that the network would fire Warner and put his writer on the panel instead. “What about you, Buddy? What’s your key to the game?”

  “You know, this game reminds me of PFL Cup XXVIII, which was held in the two-year-old, beautifully constructed, $214 million Delta Dome down in Hot-lanta. The Texas Outlaws soundly defeated the Buffalo Barrelriders by a score of 30–13. Interestingly enough, that was the only time in PFL history that the same two teams met in the PFL Cup two years in a row.” Buddy turned back to Dale.

  The twenty-year broadcast veteran, after vainly trying to formulate some sort of response, threw it to commercial.

  * * *

  3:15 p.m. PST

  “How’s Hakeem going to do it?” Scott’s frustration level had been steadily increasing over the past few hours. He wasn’t used to being stumped. “He didn’t plant explosives or anything prior to the game; the dogs have been over every inch of this stadium. He can’t come in on the ground; the gates are too heavily secured for that. He can’t come in from the air; besides it being impossible because of our defenses, it would be just plain silly. We’ve even got defenses that would intercept any rockets or missiles. And the Secret Service has checked and confirmed that no underground tunnels have been dug, as ridiculous as that possibility sounds.”

  “Maybe when he realized he had tipped his hand to Riley and that Riley had escaped, he called off the strike,” suggested Khadi, who was sitting across the small square table from Scott. Riley and Hicks occupied the other two sides.

  Riley shook his head. “That’s not Sal. His knowing that I know makes it even more likely that he’ll go through with it. You can chalk it up to male competitive spirit or whatever, but Sal’s going to hit today. I’m sure of it.”

  “But how?” Scott’s theme resonated through the room. Silence answered his question.

  Finally Riley said, “I think he’s going to walk right in.”

  “Sorry, Pach, there’s no way. Or if somehow he does make it in, he’ll be carrying nothing more than a squirt gun.”

  “No, Riley’s right, Weatherman,” Hicks chimed in. “Hakeem’s coming in on the ground. I don’t know how or where, but he’s walking in—and he’s walking in fully loaded.”

  * * *

  3:23 p.m. PST

  Hakeem confidently walked through the gate. No one questioned him. No one searched him. No one even gave him a second look. No one notices a dead man—a ghost floats where he wants. The Cheetah stalks silently and, before you know it, makes his kill.

  Now that he was through the gates, he slowed down. There was no rush anymore. The hard part was over; now it was a waiting game.

  Hakeem’s doubts had faded as he made the drive. He had always believed he could do what needed to be done. His biggest struggle was with whether he should do what needed to be done. Finally all questions had been trumped by the realization that he must do what needed to be done. He must do it for himself, for his family, for his people, for his posterity. America needed to be dealt with, and no matter what Riley Covington said, there was morality and justice in what he was doing.

  He looked at the crowd around him. Everyone was so excited. For many, being here was a dream come true—and many others around America doubtless wished they could be here as well. That was why what he was about to do would hurt so much.

  When a dream dies, it kills part of the soul.

  That was Hakeem’s mission: the death of a dream. The Cheetah, dead man walking, killer of souls.

  Hakeem smiled.

  * * *

  3:50 p.m. PST

  Blood dripped onto his white pants and turned black as it spread to the green stripe that ran down the outside of his thigh. But Emrick didn’t even notice the small chunk that had been taken out of his elbow—at least until he was sitting on the bench and a trainer ran up, cleaned the wound off, and slapped a large bandage on it.

  Emric
k was feeling too good to notice any pain. He looked up at the scoreboard: Liberty 7; Dragons 0.

  Six of those points are mine, he exulted.

  The Liberty offense had driven slowly down the field to the Dragons’ 34 yard line. It was third and eight. Emrick had lined up in the backfield at the halfback position, then run a pass route that swept across the middle before he suddenly broke downfield. The ball had reached his hands when he was at the 28 yard line, and he had just kept running. One quick juke and a wicked forearm later, he was in the end zone.

  It might only be the first quarter, but Emrick had the feeling that today was his day.

  * * *

  4:05 p.m. PST

  Riley, Khadi, Scott, and Hicks sat silently around the table deep in the heart of the Rose Bowl stadium; Skeeter guarded the door. Frustration was leading to desperation. Every muffled cheer from the crowd above sent a knife into Riley’s heart. He wondered how many people out there—and in here, for that matter—were going to die because of his failure. It didn’t make sense. Did I really hear Sal say what I thought I heard him say? Or was I so anxious to beat him at his own game that I read into his words?

  Riley shook the doubts from his head. He had gone over his conversation with Hakeem word for word with Hicks, Scott, and Khadi, and they all agreed with him. Sal had made it very clear that his next target was the PFL Cup. But why? Why would he have been so forthright with his intentions? Did he actually intend to have me killed after al-’Aqran was released? And wouldn’t he have known that I would try to signal something to my team? He’s a smart guy. Could he have made that big of a blunder? Was it a blunder?

  The silence in the room was so intense that when Riley’s cell phone rang, it caused Khadi to start, Scott to tip over in his already precariously positioned chair, and Skeeter to draw his weapon. Riley looked at the caller ID—Meg Ricci. He silenced the phone. “Sorry, guys.”