“That means Juba has split our resources yet again,” Kyle said. “First Boston and now Tampa-St. Pete.”
“Not much down there,” said Walker.
General Middleton looked up from working the
The doorknob turned and Special Agent David Hunt came in. “He is still on the move. Flew from Tampa to Denver.”
Middleton swept the newspaper from the table and stood up. “Oh, fuck,” he growled. “That’s Cheyenne Mountain. Lizard, get me a secure voice link to the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon so they can lock ’em down.”
Walker knew the incredible importance of the system that was the electronic heart of the nation’s defenses. “That facility is buried two thousand feet underground. It’s heavily guarded and can be completely sealed off. Those people are totally safe from any gas attack.”
Kyle Swanson grimaced. “Their families aren’t. Even so, I can’t see that as the attack point. Not a big enough crowd, and the security level is always high throughout that area.”
“Then where is he going to hit?” asked Walker. “What is drawing him to these places?”
“Think about targets,” Kyle answered. “Juba wants a huge splash, something bigger than London. We don’t see it yet, but he does. He is not moving at random.”
SAN FRANCISCO
Xavier Sandoval found the garage address without difficulty, stopped the yellow Diablo Gourmet truck, and honked his horn. Juba pushed a button inside and the main garage door rolled back. Sandoval steered the truck inside and parked beside a huge SUV.
“Welcome, brother,” said Juba, embracing the man as a friend. “How do you feel after such a long drive?”
“Tired, but not too bad. I have grown to hate talk radio.” Sandoval laughed. He drank from a cold bottle of water offered by Juba. “You are aware of the police bulletins that are out with your name and description.”
Juba pointed to the little television set. “I have been watching most of the day. My parents have been arrested, but the Crusaders still have not figured out what is going to happen. We remain in control, but we must hurry. I hope you have a few more hours of work left in you.”
“That is why I am here, brother.”
They put on coveralls and stacked four fifty-pound sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer across the width of the SUV cargo compartment, which could handle up to a ton of payload. A small fork lift was used to hoist a single, heavy fifty-five-gallon drum of liquid nitromethane and carefully nudge it forward against the barrier of bags; then they packed four more sacks of fertilizer along the near side of the drum. Their work was fast and silent, and they moved with determination, climbing inside the Excursion to secure the deadly pyramid of explosive components with strong fabric straps. A blue and white striped awning, common at tailgate parties, was arranged over the stack and anchored by several plastic picnic coolers, lawn chairs, and a folding table. The forty-four-gallon gasoline tanks were topped off with a series of five-gallon cans. Then both took quick showers and washed off the stink and any residue from the dangerous mixture.
Once Juba and Sandoval were clean and dressed in fresh clothing, they pulled a rug from the little office area and spread it out, knelt down facing toward the east, and offered prayers to Allah. Two hours until game time.
Juba tested the circuit of a digital detonator, set it for four hours, and plugged it into four bricks of C-4 explosive that were tied together.
“Let’s go to the ballpark,” he said. The big door rolled up, and Juba drove away in the Excursion, followed by the Diablo Gourmet truck. The smells inside the SUV were overpowering and forced him to crank up the air conditioner all the way. He sprayed a couple of cans of air freshener back over his shoulder. Even that wasn’t enough, and he reluctantly opened the front windows for circulation, but not the blackened rear portals.
At the stadium, he joined one of the lines entering the parking lot, and the nineteen-year-old cash collector twitched her nose at the odor coming from the big SUV. “Gosh, mister, that’s some kinda smell!”
“Uh-huh. I run a lawn service,” said Juba. “Ordinarily I would have cleaned it, but I wanted to get here early to set up the tailgate. Me and my buddies got seats right by the Yankee dugout.” He smiled at her. “Hey, you looking for another job? Pay you good wages to muck out this truck every day.”
She took the money and gave him a ticket to put on his dashboard. “No way. Not with, like, that smell. You ain’t got that much money. Enjoy the game.”
He followed the striped lines until he found a parking spot near the edge of AT &T Park, where he got out and closed and locked the door. The truck had an American flag decal on a heavily tinted window, and a green bumper sticker proudly announced: MY DAUGHTER IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT TURNER MIDDLE SCHOOL. Juba considered those signs to be urban camouflage. The Excursion weighed seven thousand pounds, was almost nineteen feet long, and stood six and one-half feet tall but would not draw a second glance in any parking lot.
Still an hour before the first pitch. Beautiful evening. Sellout crowd.
Instead of entering the stadium, Juba walked across the parking lot and found a taxi heading out after dropping off a passenger. He gave directions to go to the apartment building across from the Saints. When he was in position, he called Xavier Sandoval, who was parked about a mile from the ballpark. The game was about to begin.
“ANOTHER MATCH! HE’S HOPSCOTCHING all over the place,” said Dave Hunt. “He went out of Denver on a flight to San Francisco. Anything of great military value out there, General?”
“No, not anymore.”
“We are scrambling the West Coast people to check the hotels and motels, and the cops are getting a readout that he might be in their area. Maybe he’s just passing through there, too.”
“Could he be going after some other government installation, say, a courthouse, like in Oklahoma City?” Sybelle didn’t believe it but was just throwing out ideas.
“Every city has government buildings. He would not have to keep moving around so much to attack one.”
“Maybe a big mall? A theme park.”
“Anywhere in the U.S.A., but none that are unusual or noteworthy in those three cities.”
Kyle Swanson was barely listening. There was nothing he could do but wait and try to think like a sniper stalking a target. He picked up the sports section of the
Stalk the target. Forget a hit on any military installation because the word was out and the guards were alert.
Swanson poked his finger onto the newspaper story. “The game. I’ll bet that he’s going after the baseball game between the Yankees and the Giants. More than forty thousand people will be there, sitting around peacefully in neat rows, waiting to be killed, with hardly any security to protect them.”
The room went silent for a few heartbeats as they stared at each other. Then Carolyn Walker and David Hunt crashed out of the door and started yelling orders to their people.
THE BOMB IN THE Excursion exploded during the third inning, raking the parking lot and shattering the broad edge of the urban ballpark, collapsing part of the wall into a pile of bricks. The first thought for San Francisco residents was that it was an earthquake, a feeling that lasted only a moment,
