“We heard gunshots,” one of the Russians replied in a pretty good American accent. “When we saw everyone else running, we ran too.”
“Shit, man, this is the biggest panic I’ve seen since the eighty-nine earthquake,” another worker said. “What did you see?”
“A huge explosion,” the Russian replied. “A huge fireball, as big as those suspension towers.”
“What?” the worker asked. “What are you talking about? I didn’t see no explosion.”
“Oh. Uyobyvat! Are you kidding!” And at that, he pulled out a small cell phone, hit a speed-dial button, then pressed the green Send key—and the white panel truck, loaded with almost two thousand kilos of high explosives, detonated in a massive fireball. The entire easternmost section of the Bay Bridge blew apart, sending hundreds of vehicles flying through the air and crashing down to the edge of San Francisco Bay. The toll plaza and hundreds more cars were swallowed up by the fireball, with thousands of liters of gasoline adding their fury to the tremendous blast.
But that was not the last explosion to occur on the Bay area bridges that morning.
When the terrorists’ emergency call went out, a second terrorist team already caught in heavy traffic on the westbound span of the bridge west of Yerba Buena Island in a large Chevy panel van also exited their vehicle, ran through traffic toward San Francisco, and detonated the explosives by remote control when they saw police officers up ahead in their path. The terrorists had a brief firefight with police before both terrorists were killed—but not before another section of the Bay Bridge, this time high above San Francisco Bay, collapsed. Another explosion farther east on the eastbound deck of the bridge also created havoc as several dozen vehicles plunged hundreds of feet into the Bay through the decimated bridge.
The Golden Gate Bridge to the northwest was not spared. Another truck filled with explosives detonated in the northbound lane several meters from the toll plaza, and a second truck bomb exploded almost exactly at mid- span in the southbound lanes. The suspension bridge twisted wildly, several of the cables holding the span snapped, and huge chunks of the roadway fell into the straits, but the bridge somehow held.
Market Street in the heart of San Francisco came under attack moments later. Huge explosions ripped just two blocks from theU.S. Mint, collapsing part of an old hotel onto the busy street, and another explosion on Market Street east of the U.S. Mint ruptured a natural gas line, sending a column of fire into the early-morning sky. Pedestrians scattered, pushing and shoving others in a frenzied attempt to get off the street before another explosion occurred.
Through clouds of smoke wafting in all directions, six Humvees and two large sports-utility vehicles made their way through the debris and craters in the street. Each Humvee had a soldier in regular-looking green camouflage fatigues in the gunner’s turret, manning a fifty-caliber machine gun. Two Humvees blocked the intersections of Drumm, California, and Market Streets, deploying two terrorists from each vehicle. The terrorists hid small remote-control explosive devices in trash containers or under parked vehicles, then took up defensive positions on opposite street corners. The four remaining Humvee and the SUVs continued down Drumm Street to a high-rise just west of Justin Herman Plaza, overlooking the San Francisco Ferry Building and World Trade Center on the waterfront.
“Inner security units, report,” Pavel Khalimov ordered on his secure FM transceiver. One by one, each Humvee and dismounted reconnaissance commando reported in. “Very good. Keep your eyes open and report any movement. Remember you are U.S. soldiers—tell anyone who approaches, including police, that you are army soldiers and order them away from the area. That should dissuade most of them. Engage only if they’re stupid enough to stay. Strike team one, proceed with insertion.”
One Humvee and two SUVs proceeded right up to the front of the high-rise building—the Harold Chester Kingman Building, world headquarters of TransGlobal Energy. Two soldiers got out of the vehicle, retrieved TOW antitank missiles, aimed, and opened fire on the front doors of the building. While one soldier provided cover, the second carried two backpack-like satchel charges inside. Gunshots rang out, but otherwise the high-rise was quiet for several moments; then, the two terrorists ran back outside. Moments later the ground shook and thick clouds of smoke blew out the front of the building as the two high-explosive charges detonated.
“Elevators and main stairways eliminated,” came the report. The terrorists returned to the Humvee to retrieve several remote-control explosive devices, and then planted them around the outside of the building. Meanwhile, the two SUVs drove through the shattered front entryway and into the immense lobby of the Kingman Building.
“Security two, patrol cars coming,” one terrorist reported on the FM frequency. Seconds later a loud explosion erupted east of their position as the terrorist detonated one of his remote-control roadside bombs, completely obliterating one San Francisco Police Department patrol car and overturning a second.
“Security Eight, two patrol cars on Market near Beale,” another terrorist reported. “Looks like they’re setting up a perimeter.”
“Security Ten, another one going up on California near Davis,” another reported. They heard several gunshots, then a loud explosion. “Responders down, huyisos,” the terrorist radioed moments later. “Fucker tried to take a shot at me! More patrol cars setting up on California out to Frost Street now.”
“Strike team is out,” the terrorists reported after leaving the two SUVs in the lobby of the Kingman Building. “Device is in place.”
Khalimov entered the lobby, opened the back cargo doors of the first SUV, worked for a few moments, then carefully closed the cargo doors. “Stand by to evacuate,” Khalimov radioed.
“Security Twelve, I’ve got something out here, Drumm and Washington,” another terrorist team radioed. “It’s a dune buggy, but it looks military.”
Khalimov looked north up Drumm Street, couldn’t see it, but he didn’t need to—he had a feeling he knew who it was. They were here. “Anyone else?”
“Yes. Another one, Market and…wait one…gas, gas, Market Street, heading east fast!” The little dune buggy raced down Market Street, firing gas canisters up the street ahead of it, obscuring it from view. “I lost it!”
“Stand by to repel, boys,” Khalimov said. “All teams, follow plan Alpha, repeat, plan Alpha. Go! Go!” He turned and started to race down Drumm Street toward Market. As he reached the corner of Drumm and Market he saw the two dismounts running toward their Humvee stationed on Market Street…
…just as a streak of fire appeared down along Main Street and hit the Humvee, blowing it into a red-orange fireball!
“Security Eight is under attack!” Khalimov radioed. “Let’s move, move, mo—!”
And then he saw it, running up to the intersection of Market and Main Streets—the robot. It wore an immense backpack, but it moved as quickly and with the same agility as he first saw it in Porto do Santos. He saw what appeared to be a cannon barrel over its right shoulder, swiveling from side to side but finally centering on him. “It is here,” he radioed. “The fucking mashina cheloveka is here. All units, plan Alpha and evacuate. Repeat, plan Alpha and evacuate!”
Khalimov ran up Drumm Street while the Humvee that had been stationed at Drumm and California drove beside him to pick him up. He heard a sound and turned, just in time to see one of the military-looking dune buggies stopped at the intersection. A soldier was standing on the back, aiming a wicked-looking large-caliber machine gun or grenade launcher at him. The Humvee gunner opened fire, and the dune buggy returned fire and sped away, firing what appeared to be gas canisters at the terrorists.
“Everyone, get your gas masks on,” Khalimov ordered, quickly donning his own mask.
The Humvee gunner let loose a long burst of machine gun fire, then shouted, “Captain! Pasmatryet!” Khalimov turned…and saw a second robot standing at the intersection of Drumm and California Streets, also wearing a grenade launcher backpack! Behind him, several soldiers in pixilated desert camouflage fatigues moved from corner to corner, guns trained on the Humvee.
“Get that bastard!” Khalimov shouted. The machine gunner in the Humvee opened fire on the robot. “Not with that! Bullets won’t hurt it! Use the TOWs!” Khalimov’s soldiers jumped out of the Humvee with shoulder-fired TOW missile launchers, took quick aim, and fired. The robot moved too fast and both missiles missed—but both missiles hit the facade of the building behind it, causing most of the front of the three-story building to come down on top of the robot.
“We got it! We nailed it!” one terrorist shouted. But just as the terrorists began to celebrate their apparent victory, the robot started to climb out from under the collapsed building.
“Time has run out, tovarischniys,” Khalimov said on his secure FM transceiver. “When it gets up, it will be
