Read Monday Night Jihad Online

Authors: Steve Jason & Yohn Elam

Monday Night Jihad (13 page)

BOOK: Monday Night Jihad
9.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“So tomorrow, when you get on your train or your plane or your bus, maybe you will see me and you will wonder what’s in that briefcase I’m holding. Maybe when you’re stuck in traffic, you will see me in the car beside you and you will wonder what’s on the seat next to me. Or maybe when you enter your church or your synagogue or even your mosque—for you milquetoast Muslims—you will see me and you will wonder what I have strapped to my chest.

“Hear me! This will happen again . . . and again . . . and again. There is a new reality for you. The days of Pax Americana are gone.”

Hakeem reviewed all this in his mind while outwardly he appeared serene and composed. Though the attack next week would be deadly, he knew that when the video he had created was released after the attack, it would have a much more far-reaching effect. Sow seeds of distrust. Create fear. If you poke the sleeping devil just right, he will wake up and devour himself looking for the offender.

Now that Hakeem had taken a night to think through his performance, he was even more anxious for the final hour to come. Eight days seemed like such a long time. I’ve waited over a decade and a half for this. I can wait a few more days. For now, he had to try to focus. Any deviation in his cover now, and the whole plan could collapse in pieces around him.

Sunday, December 21

CTD North Central Division Headquarters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

“It’s good to see you drinking a man’s drink,” Jim Hicks said to Scott Ross as they sat down at Hicks’s desk, each with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

“That’s only because I haven’t been out of this building for the past eighteen hours.”

“You should get some sleep. Maybe it’d help you—”

The look from Scott stopped Hicks midsentence.

“Never mind. I should have known. You know, Weatherman, you and I are a lot alike. You just don’t have the twenty years of having your soul sucked out of you yet.”

“Golly, Jim, it’s a wonder CTD doesn’t have you in the recruitment department. ‘Join CTD. See the world. Lose your soul!’”

Hicks laughed as he reached into his drawer and pulled out a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream. “You want a little shot for your coffee?”

“No thanks, man. I learned long ago that for me one shot leads to another, which leads to another, which leads to another, and pretty soon I’d be up on your desk dancing the one-man lambada.”

“The lambada, huh? Isn’t that the forbidden dance?”

“Sí, pero necesito bailar.”

“Nice try, Weatherman, but the lambada was a Brazilian dance, not Spanish. I know that because my second wife was from São Paulo.”

“My bad. Sim, mas mim necessite dançar.”

Hicks stared at Scott; then he laughed as he stretched back in his chair and kicked his feet up on his desk. “You are a strange one, son. Now, let’s go back over what we’ve got for a fourth time so that when the higher-ups ask, I can use some word other than diddly-squat.”

“Okay,” Scott began, leaning back into the same position as Hicks. “We’ve got the name ‘Hakeem,’ and from what you learned in your follow-up conversations with Abdel, we know this Hakeem is going to be coordinating more attacks. Abdel said that there had always been rumors in the Cause of some mole or sleeper known only by the name Hakeem, who would one day rise up and inflict great pain upon the West.”

“Hold up there a second,” Hicks said. “You know, that’s one thing that struck me. As Abdel was walking me through his story, he mentioned Hakeem a few times. Each time it was while he was talking about his own recruitment or training. At first he mentioned the rumor of Hakeem in relation to attacking the West. But toward the end, he mentioned him twice in relation to America. That happened all three times I had him tell his story. Was that just semantics, you think?”

“Could be. Or it could be that Hakeem’s focus has narrowed.” Scott paused and looked away for a moment. “If it did narrow, then why? Maybe because of the second Gulf War—although Abdel was recruited after it started. Maybe because of a focus shift in the Cause itself.”

“Yeah, maybe . . . maybe. Or maybe the mole moved. Maybe Hakeem was based in Europe but always wanted to move to America. Then, when he got his chance, he took it.”

“That’s a lot of maybes, but I’m tracking with you. If you’re right, then we’re looking for some sort of businessman or professional, like a doctor or maybe an IT guy. If he was just some everyday worker bee, he could have come over anytime. But his power is in his position. So when the opportunity came for his position to move, he came with it.” Scott whipped out his phone and hit speed-dial two. Three rings later, Tara Walsh answered. Tara had reluctantly flown home last night to head the efforts of the team. “Tara, did they bump you up to first class like I asked them to?”

“Would have been tough for them to do, since, as you well know, I flew home on our Gulfstream.”

“True, true. But I still think you deserve the finer things.”

“I’m flattered. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re kind of busy here.”

“Always business with you. Look, I want you to pull Virgil and Joey out of whatever they’re doing and set them to researching European businessmen and professionals who have moved to the States in the last three years.”

Tara’s loud and long reaction to the request caused Scott to cover the mouthpiece of the phone and say to Hicks with a grin, “Apparently she feels our parameters are a bit wide.”

Then back to Tara: “There now, do you feel better? So, pull Virgil and Joey out of whatever they’re doing and set them to researching European businessmen and professionals who moved here in the last three years, starting with any that might be of Middle Eastern extraction. Okay? . . . Yeah, but . . . yeah, but . . . yeah, I know. Just try. . . . Okay, good-bye. . . . Thanks. . . . Good-bye. . . .” Finally he closed the cover to the phone.

“She said she’s thrilled to help out in any way she can,” Scott said as he eyed the Baileys longingly.

Chapter 11

Sunday, December 21

Golden West Stadium

Oakland, California

“Praying in the showers! Praying in the showers!” Chaplain Walter Washburne yelled.

About twenty men slowly rose from the seats in front of their lockers and made their way to the large shower area for a pregame prayer. The players knelt, held hands, and bowed their heads. Washburne prayed, “Lord, thank You for these men and the opportunity You’ve given them to use their gifts today. Protect them from the other players but especially from these fans.”

A small chuckle went through the group.

“This stadium is the mission field to which You have called these men today. So give them the courage of David, the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Samson, and the integrity of Daniel. Whatever happens here today with the game, help these men to be able to walk out of here with their heads held high. We ask that Your will be done in all things. Amen.”

Most of the guys rose and made their way back toward their lockers. Some remained on their knees, silently praying on their own. For many, this was one of the hardest times—getting up to face the reality of game day. As long as they remained down on their knees, they couldn’t make mistakes and they couldn’t get hurt. Anticipation of the coming events played havoc with all of the players’ emotions, and each handled it in his own way.

Silence overtook the locker room again. The defensive linemen passed around an ammonia strip designed to wake the dead. The overwhelming smell cleared the sinuses and brought complete focus. As the strip passed from hand to hand, it left each man with tears pouring down his face and an overwhelming desire to go out and hurt people.

The offensive linemen were dealing with their own pregame tension. They knew that they were only noticed when they failed and the quarterback got smacked. Center Chris Gorkowski’s nerves were beginning to get the best of him. He grabbed a towel off the floor and began to make convulsive noises into it.

“Get that little demon out, Snap!” All-Pro fullback Marius Washington blurted through the silence. “C’mon, get it out!”

That was all the trigger Gorkowski needed. After relieving himself of the morning’s breakfast buffet, he threw the towel on the ground. The lineman grabbed his helmet, leaped to his feet, and screamed, “WOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO!”

Coach Burton yelled, “Bring it up!”

The guys huddled around him.

“I’d like nothing more than to embarrass this team in their own backyard. We all know they embarrass themselves enough. Just make sure each and every one of you leaves it all on the field today!”

Burton then led the team in the Lord’s Prayer, which for most was more a ritual of superstition than sincerity.

At the end of the prayer, the team ran out the door, through the tunnel, and onto the field. They were greeted with the thunderous sound of seventy thousand boos from the Bandit Nation. Most of the players ignored it, but a few played to the crowd, dancing around and waving their arms, trying to get them to yell even louder.

The Mustangs ran across the field to their sideline, where they set up camp and waited for the Bandits to take the field.

As the first Bandit emerged from the tunnel, the boos turned to wild cheers. The sound was deafening as the players sprinted onto the field to AC/DC’s “Back in Black.”

A few minutes later, the Mustangs’ team captains—quarterback Randy Meyer, defensive end Micah Pittman, and Riley—met with the Bandits’ captains at midfield for the coin toss. The players all shook hands, and Riley took a couple seconds to say a few words to his old air force teammate, Bandits cornerback Alex McNeill. The coin tossed, Meyer called heads, and it landed tails, causing the crowd to burst again into an ear-splitting cheer. The Bandits chose to receive, and the captains went back to their sidelines to the jeering of the fans and the growing odor of stale beer.

Coach Burton walked down to where the defense was waiting. “Hey, fellas, just play your game and be patient. They will make a mistake.”

At 0–14, the Bandits would be playing hard for a number of reasons. First, they had no desire to go into the record books as the first team to go winless in a season since the 1976 expansion Tampa Bay Tarpons. That was back when there were only fourteen games in a season, so the Bandits had already tied that woeful record. The other reason they were playing hard was their rivalry with the Mustangs. There was simply too much history and too much hatred between these two teams for either franchise to lie down for the other.

For as far back as most fans could remember, there had been loathing between these two clubs. If you asked ten Mustangs fans, you’d probably get ten different answers as to why that hatred existed. Some still despised the Bandits’ ex-coach-turned-announcer Jim Madison. Others took their aggressions out against the reign of ancient, tyrannical owner Arthur Drake. Still others were offended at the team’s bouncing from Oakland to Los Angeles and back to Oakland. And the Bandits fans each had their own reasons to hate the Mustangs. Ultimately, the rivalry had taken on an existence all its own. It didn’t need a plausible explanation; it just was. The players felt it too. That’s why, no matter the record, anytime the Mustangs and Bandits played, the outcome could go either way.

The game started at a quick pace. The Bandits began with their hurry-up offense, trying to catch the Mustangs off guard. Six plays into the drive, the Bandits were already past midfield. Riley was getting frustrated, and his frustration turned to anger when he missed the key tackle on one, two, three plays in a row by just a step or two.

The Bandits drove all the way to the Mustangs’ 10 yard line. It was third and five. The Bandits quarterback took the snap and dropped back a few steps. Riley held his zone. Suddenly he saw the quarterback’s eyes flash to the tight end. Riley broke on the ball, swung at it, and missed. As he fell to the ground, he heard a roar from the crowd as the tight end pulled in the ball at the goal line for a touchdown.

Riley slammed his fist into the ground, then popped back up. After the extra point, the defense ran off the field to regroup. Most of the coaches were yelling, “Keep your heads up!” and “That’s okay, fellas; just keep battling!” Riley was irritated at the way the game had begun, but he knew there was a lot of football still to play.

The sideline phones began to erupt almost immediately. On one of them, defensive end LeMonjello (pronounced Le-MAHN-jel-lo, and don’t you dare say it wrong!) Fredericks was getting some feedback from the defensive line coach. LeMonjello was affectionately known by his teammates as “Jiggly,” after the tasty kids’ treat. Coach Cox must have said something that Jiggly disagreed with, because he grabbed the phone with his enormous hands and ripped it off its mount. He held the phone up toward the coach’s box and yelled, “Coach this!” He slammed the phone into the trash can behind the bench and dropped himself back onto his seat. Almost immediately empty space opened on both sides of Fredericks’s huge frame. Apparently the rest of the guys on the bench felt it best to give Jiggly a little space.

Sal Ricci jogged onto the field with the rest of the Mustangs’ offense after the kickoff. He waited in the huddle for the play call, then took his place on the end of the line of scrimmage. He knew there was no way he would hear the snap count with all the noise in the stadium, so he didn’t bother straining his ears to hear Randy Meyer’s shouts. Instead he watched for the telltale tightening of Gorkowski’s hands that indicated he was about to snap the ball. The instant he saw the ball fly back into Meyer’s hands, Ricci shot forward, meeting the defensive end’s jam head-on before spinning away and taking off on his route.

The play was a scissors pattern that had Ricci crossing midfield. His eyes were on Meyer as he ran, but out of his peripheral vision he saw a linebacker bearing down on him. Slightly altering his course, he went on the inside of the umpire, causing the linebacker to plow over the unsuspecting official and send both of them sprawling. Three steps later Meyer had the ball in Ricci’s hand. Ricci looked downfield only to see three very large black-shirted Bandits in his path. He juked past the first defender, but the next two sandwiched him between their foul-smelling jerseys and brought him to the ground.

BOOK: Monday Night Jihad
9.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Angel and the Highlander by Fletcher, Donna
Facing the Wave by Gretel Ehrlich
Poor Tom Is Cold by Maureen Jennings
Murder on Marble Row by Victoria Thompson
Beyond Betrayal by Christine Michels
The Year of Living Famously by Laura Caldwell
Hera by Chrystalla Thoma
Dead Man Running by Jack Heath