Out of the chaos, she saw Hazel rush toward Grandma, raising his pistol. She hesitated and fired two shots; Hazel fell. She jumped over his body, kicking him in the groin.
“C’mon.” Puppy grabbed Grandma’s arm.
“There’s no way out,” Kenuda shouted as hysterical fans ran in all directions amid the slaughter.
“Yes there is,” Mooshie said grimly. She smashed a bat against the Yankee insignia by the on-deck circle; a door slid open. Ty and Mickey nodded for them to go, turning back to the Miners with bats cocked.
Puppy, Cheng and Kenuda led Grandma down the steps while Mooshie fired a few last covering shots. She smacked a button and the door closed. The tunnel shuddered with an explosion directly above.
They ran through the black underground for about two hundred yards, dirt and concrete falling, then up a steep passage onto River Avenue.
Police cars and fire engines roared through the panicked crowd. Fiery balls illuminated thick clouds of smoke. Blue Shirts pulled Grandma into a squad car.
Her face twisted. “I want it destroyed. Once and for all.”
The cop car sped toward a phalanx of ‘copters landing on 161st Street on top of scorched vehicles, flaming tents, shrieking people.
Fighter jets lashed the ballpark with rockets, waves of debris crashing onto the burning infield, where Miners fell beneath the withering counter-attack. The upper deck in right field collapsed, burying screaming fans. The dugouts exploded. Concrete blocks tumbled mindlessly onto the street, trapping more screeching people. Guns fired without any targets other than to kill.
Puppy watched Yankee Stadium burn before Kenuda and Mooshie were able to drag him up a ladder into a ‘copter. A Miner staggered beneath the blades and fired two shots; a Black Top, perched by the open door, riddled the body with bullets.
They stealthed themselves, but not the carnage.
The Bronx burned, but so did the rest of the country. For the first time since the end of the war, Black Tops patrolled the streets to secure dawn-to-dusk curfews.
It didn’t help. Anyone wearing a baseball cap or just plain cap was arrested and beaten; there were reports of siblings simply gunned down. Like 10/12, huge pyres consumed baseball memorabilia. The new sporting goods factories were bulldozed by BTs while siblings trailed, like an infantry following a tank division, ransacking the buildings.
The higher the pyre, the louder the cheers.
Baseball fans fought back. They wouldn’t be blamed again. The vidnews screamed non-stop about sleeper Miners cells, touting John Hazel as a ringleader along with Singh and Sun Yen, both in custody. BT attempts to crush the miniature Fenway Park were met with stone-tossing fans, who stunned the guards and stole their weapons. Wrigley Field was another battleground, bodies burning in the newly planted ivy while fans fought BTs with bats. More weapons were stolen.
Kill Allahs signs leaped onto the sides of buildings. Then there were the stunned soldiers, their memories desecrated. They quickly joined the baseball fans, forming small brigades. BTs and soldiers fought house to house in Philadelphia. Reports said parts of Manhattan were infiltrated; a firefight raged at Rockefeller Center.
The vidnews played this up, linking Miners and soldiers and fans in one horrible alliance. Captured GIs were sent to makeshift camps. Pennsylvania Avenue, fenced off as a sacred shrine to Islamic treachery, became a detention center by desperate authorities. Hundreds, thousands of soldiers were rounded up.
That was just the first twenty-four hours.
42
Gunfire crackled outside Azhar’s tiny cabin, heavy vehicles rumbling to a halt. Waking from the wary half-sleep, Mustafa slid under the bed and grabbed the thin knife he’d been hiding for whomever came for him first. Mufti’s people. Abdullah’s people. He wouldn’t die alone. The two familiar large bodyguards kicked down the door, flipped over the mattress and shoved him out the door.
They let him keep the knife, a good sign he felt, tossing him into a dark SUV and tearing into the forest ahead of exploding tank shells.
“Where’s the Son?” Mustafa retied his shoelace for something to do.
“We don’t know.” The driver shrugged.
“Then where are we going?”
The bodyguards exchanged vague looks. This was the extent of the plan. In an emergency, get the Captain. Mustafa tipped his head wearily against the seat. A week of waiting. For this?
“What do you think about America?” one of the bodyguards asked after a while, making conversation.
“What happened?”
The bodyguard in the passenger seat shook his head. “You don’t know?”
“They took away my mobile device.”
“The rebels tried to kill Grandma again.”
Azhar swallowed hard. “And?”
The bodyguard passed his cell phone over the seat. A presenter on The Truth news program ranted about the vicious treachery of the Crusaders slandering the Mufti and his son with this false video.
“They wish any pretext to begin another war, so let it be,” the old, fat Mufti said calmly, talking from behind his large oak desk. “I love my son and my son loves Allah. These are lies and those who defile our people with their filth will be destroyed. Allahu Akbar.”
Mustafa stared hard at the crowds across the Islamic Empire cheering the destruction of the baseball stadium. Angry Crusader soldiers marched, chanting Death to Allahs. Massive Islamic armies ran forward in battle. Crusaders ships sank and their planes blew up. Churches burnt. The last war? Or had this new one already started?
The bodyguard took back the phone.
“Now you know,” he said simply.
Fighters roared overhead. The SUV took a wild turn ahead of some popping noises. The back window shattered and Azhar covered his head, kneeling on the floor. They bounced down a rocky ramp toward a small airfield. Something exploded nearby. Azhar prayed, then stopped. Who was listening?
A blue Cessna waited impatiently, guarded by a tank, its turret swiveling menacingly. Three armed guards in white robes angrily gestured for Akhar to hurry up the steps.
Aboard, two more white robed guards shouted to buckle up. The plane began taxiing as the tank fired several shells at an approaching armored
