Monday Night Jihad (18 page)

Halfway through the second quarter, the score was 17–0, and the Mustangs had all the momentum. The game had the makings of a blowout. But Riley knew all too well not to take any victory for granted. In week three, the Mustangs had been in the same situation against the San Diego Thunder. The defense had let its guard down, and that game had ended in a humiliating Thunder comeback victory.

Riley, as the middle linebacker, gave the call in the huddle. “Okay, guys, keep it burning. Don’t forget these guys are good. Forty-four Cover Three Sky—Forty-four Cover Three Sky! Break!”

Forty-four gave the formation—four linemen and four linebackers. Typically the Mustangs ran a 4–3 formation, but Coach Burton, expecting a handoff to Anderson, had added an extra linebacker. The rest of the play call directed each player to cover his proper gap in the offensive line.

The Predators approached the line of scrimmage. Riley, seeing the tight end go to the left side of the line, called out “Leo! Leo!” The call of “Leo” echoed throughout the defense. Everybody tensed. Riley homed in on the quarterback as he gave the call.

“Blue Eighty-nine! Blue Eighty-nine! Go!” Holguin, the Mustangs’ right end, launched himself into the Predators’ line, then realized that no one else had moved. Whistles blew and flags went in the air. Everyone stood and walked back to their huddles.

Riley watched the sideline as he walked. He saw Coach Burton say something behind his hand to the defensive coordinator, who then signaled a play to Riley. Riley nodded, then jogged to the huddle.

When the defense had gathered around Riley, he reached across and gave Holguin a light slap on the helmet. “That’s what I’m talking about, Hulk! Keep it focused!”

“Won’t happen again, Pach,” Holguin replied.

“Okay, Crank Jet Forty-four Mike Box Cover One—Crank Jet Forty-four Mike Box Cover One! Break!”

As they ran back to the line, Riley knew that this run coverage play had him covering the “A” gap, to the left side of the center. Burton was betting on another run up the middle, and Riley’s job was to sprint to that gap and kill it.

As the Predators lined up, Riley saw that the tight end had moved to the other side. “Rex! Rex!” The rest of the defense followed his lead.

“Red Sixty-five! Red Sixty-five! Go! Go! Go!” The ball snapped, and Riley shot to his gap. He saw the quarterback lodge the ball in Anderson’s hands and saw the halfback come straight for his hole. Just before they met, Riley felt a leg whip catch him down low, sending him falling to the ground. He caught Anderson’s jersey enough to slow him down before Simmons came flying in, placing his helmet right on the running back’s hands.

The ball flew into the air, bounced once, then landed immediately in front of Riley. Riley tucked the ball under his body just as five fully loaded cement trucks dropped onto him—at least that’s how his brain deciphered the sensation. Hands began reaching under him for the ball. But those weren’t the hands he was concerned about. The first of the two that disturbed him was reaching under his face mask. A thumb was in his left nostril, and the rest of the fingers were digging for sockets. The second hand of concern delivered a third punch to an area of his body that no man wants to have assaulted in any way. This punch was enough for Riley to momentarily lose his grip on the ball, which he felt quickly slide from underneath him. Just like that, what should have been the third turnover became an offensive fumble recovery.

After everyone unpiled from him, Riley rolled over and lay there until Simmons came and pulled him up. He slowly made his way back to the huddle, trying to catch his breath. When he got there, the defensive coordinator signaled in the call. Riley turned to his teammates and said in a shrill falsetto, “Forty-four Strong Safety . . .” He cleared his throat while the rest of the guys laughed. “And that, my dear boys, is why we never forget our hard plastic friends. Okay, Forty-four Strong Safety Delta Box Three Zone—Forty-four Strong Safety Delta Box Three Zone! Break!”

It was third and 11 for the Predators on their own 38 yard line, facing the south end zone. Both teams came out of their huddles.

The game clock ticked down: 7:05, 7:04, 7:03.

Todd Penner knew he had a sale. He was walking section 530 and working his way south when he saw some crazy guy and his kid whip off the blanket they had been huddled under, revealing their fully painted bodies. They started screaming and dancing around as all the folks around them cheered them on. That’s a kid who desperately needs some hot chocolate, Todd thought.

When he finally made his way down the stairs next to the colorful duo, he said, “You two interested in a little warming up?”

“Good call,” the dad answered. “We’ll take two.”

“You look like a kid who likes whipped cream,” Todd said to the boy.

“You betcha!”

“All right, two chocolates—one with super massive mongo amounts of whipped cream—coming right up.” Gotta work the tips, Todd thought as he lifted the belt off of his neck and set the tray down on the steps.

Carol was doing her best to enjoy the game, but her mind was far away from the stadium. She had purposely sat on the far end of the line of eight seats so she could process. She tried to pretend the reason she was so quiet was that she was really into the game.

Sure, there will still be three couples left. And it isn’t like Paul and I haven’t discussed this very eventuality umpteen times. But the reality of it actually happening is like a slap in the face. Why couldn’t they just be snowbirds living half the time here and half in Arizona? Well, that makes a lot of sense, you goose—if they were here for Mustangs season, they would be spending winters here and summers in Arizona. Oh, why am I even worrying about this? What’s done is done.

“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, after 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.