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“Carmella and I will report everything to JTTF right away. You have to go back and play out your role.”

  “No freaking way! I cannot stop the bombings alone.” Carson fanned his hands. “I will not ignite my bomb. I could drive the van into the Lincoln Tunnel, but not light the fuse. But how can I stop Gilbert from detonating his bomb in the Holland Tunnel? I can’t.”

  Carmella contemplated all that she had heard. “Matt is right. You have to go back or Rashid will find out that you are a mole. The Impoverished will explode the van bombs in other places in the city. We can never locate the van bombs in time to render them harmless. If you stick to the plan, we can focus on the two Hudson River Tunnels. We will have the bomb squad waiting on the Manhattan side of each tunnel.”

  Carson squared his shoulders. “All right, I will go back. But if I am going to play this out, I have to go now. I will spend the night in my apartment and then meet Mohamed in Weehawken in the morning.” He frowned. “This sucks.”

  Carmella nodded, “I know.” She smiled grimly and gave Carson a quick hug.

  Matt squeezed Carson’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

  He walked like a lost puppy through the bar. Carmella felt sorry for him, but he had to go back and play out his part.

  A few minutes after Carson left the bar, Carmella and Matt jumped into Matt’s Dodge and headed back to the station house. She ran downstairs to throw her knapsack, with her dirty uniforms and empty hangers into her locker. She will be spending another weekend in the city. The beach will always be there, it was the Hudson River Tunnels that she was worried about. She retrieved her firearm from the top shelf, slammed the locker shut and ran up the stairs.

  Chapter 31

  Carmella looked at the wall clock and cringed when she saw that it was four AM. She and Matt met up with Arthur Henderson less than two hours ago, but it felt like only a few minutes had passed. The clock hands seem to spin out of control. In five short hours, Carson and Gilbert will drive van-bombs into the tunnels.

  Carmella and Matt sat in the conference room with Henderson while the 29th floor of 26 Federal Plaza, slowly filled with detectives and agents. They were woken in the middle of the night by phone calls and pages to mobilize.

  Although pressed for time, Carmella and Matt told Henderson everything they learned from Carson, afraid to leave out the smallest detail. Henderson listened to them without interruption. He scratched notes on a pad without looking down.

  As soon as they finished, he asked, “What time is Carson picking up the van from Mohamed?”

  “0915 hours,” Carmella said.

  “Location?”

  “The corner of Maple and 27th Streets in Weehawken, near the Tunnel entrance.”

  “OK. Be right back.” Henderson darted from the room.

  He was back two minutes later. “There are two additional vans being transformed into van-bombs. There is a team watching the garage they are in right now. Since we now know, thanks to Carson’s information, that the execution of the attacks has been moved up to tomorrow morning, I dispatched two additional teams to the spot and alerted the bomb squad.”

  Carmella and Matt exchanged glances, their eyes wide.

  Matt asked, “Do you know the intended targets of the van-bombs in that garage?”

  “Yes,” said Henderson. “A foreign dignitary from the United Nations supplied our informant with a set of diplomatic license plates and a pass to enter the United Nations Garage. So we know that the United Nations is one of the targets.”

  “The UN – wow – and the other target?” Matt asked.

  Henderson frowned. “Terrorist operatives were caught conducting surveillance on this building just two weeks ago. Security officers observed men taking photographs of the main entrance on Broadway. When the men were approached, they fled and escaped through the Chambers Street subway station. But one of the men dropped a notepad containing drawings of the garage ramp and the guardhouse.”

  Carmella gulped. “So the building we are sitting in right now, is one of the targets?”

  “Yep.” Henderson said. “How does that make you feel? A little insecure, I bet. Try working here every day.”

  “No, thanks.” Carmella said.

  Henderson nodded. “Well, they are not getting this building tomorrow. The van-bombs destined for this building and the United Nations Building will never touch the city streets. We will raid the Queens garage in a few hours and the bomb squad will disarm the explosives.”

  Mat asked, “Why wait?”

  “We do not know where Carson and Gilbert’s van-bombs are garaged. They may be rolling out of Jersey City or Weehawken. Analysts and detectives from the FBI, JTTF, and the Intelligence Division are working, as we speak, to locate the garage. But, we are running out of time. The clock stops this morning, at 0915 hours, when Mohamed brings the brown van to Carson.”

  “But shouldn’t we diffuse the vans in the Queens garage as soon as possible?”

  “We can’t. If we take down the van-bombs that are destined for the buildings before the van-bombs destined for the tunnels roll out, The Impoverished will redirect the tunnel van-bombs to unknown locations and explode them before we could stop them. We would have no chance of stopping the van-bomb driven by Gilbert from exploding. Carson’s van will be redirected before he meets Mohamed, so that one will explode as well. The worst case scenario is there will be two explosions somewhere in Jersey City, Weehawken, downtown Manhattan or midtown Manhattan. We cannot take the chance of that happening. We have to time the take down operation just right.”

  Carmella said, “So you have to wait for the tunnel van-bombs to leave the garage before you take down the building van-bombs or The Impoverished will explode the tunnel van-bombs wherever they can, right?”

  “Right.” Henderson nodded.

  Henderson went to the door and called the detectives and agents that were lingering in the hallway to join them in the conference room.

  After Henderson outlined his plan, the NYPD captain from JTTF took the floor. He gave out assignments and after confirming that everyone understood those assignments, he dispersed the detail. “Good luck and be safe.”

  Chapter 32

  Although the sun rose less than an hour ago, the neighborhood was wide awake. Storeowners rolled up their gates, trucks made deliveries and pedestrians walked to the train station. Just like every weekday morning in Jamaica.

  This morning, the vehicles parked on Jamaica Avenue were not the usual delivery trucks and passenger sedans. Parked on both sides of the avenue were large dark suburbans, paneled vans and one white box truck.

  All the vehicles were parked, engines running. Inside the unmarked FBI and NYPD vehicles were federal agents, Emergency Service Cops and Bomb Squad technicians. The resources needed for a large scale take down operation were camouflaged amongst the delivery trucks and neighborhood cars.

  A fire engine and two ambulances waited two blocks away. Precautionary resources readily available, but well out of sight, in case the take down operation went bad.

  Arthur Henderson sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle of the caravan. As soon as the dark blue suburban pulled out, the raid on the garage, located one block away, would begin.

  Henderson tapped his foot on the floor mat, checked his side view mirror and groaned. Damn! No sign of the blue and whites. He asked for marked police cars from the 103rd Precinct to block vehicular and pedestrian traffic within a one block radius of the garage. He did not want any civilians injured in case the explosives in the garage detonate. But, he could not wait much longer.

  Henderson glanced at the dashboard clock and gulped. If the precinct cars did not arrive in the next minute or two he would begin the raid, with or without them. The van-bombs will roll out of the garage any minute. Henderson could not allow their tires to touch the blacktop. Too much could go wrong if the vans reach the street. To safely diffuse the explosives, the task force needed to take down the terrorists while they were still inside the garage.r />
  He looked out the back window one last time. Still no sign of the precinct cars. He closed his eyes and sighed. It was time. He looked at his driver and shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s roll.”

  As his driver headed south on 139th Street, Henderson waved his arm out the window to signal the drivers of the caravan to follow. The white box truck pulled away from the curb and passed Henderson’s suburban. It would circle the block and reach the garage from the opposite direction. The box truck was filled with Bomb Squad technicians and safety equipment. Of all the Federal and City vehicles involved with the take-down operation the box truck was the least suspicious. It looked like an ordinary delivery truck. Heck, it was an ordinary delivery truck. Even if the terrorists saw the truck they would think nothing of it. There was little chance of it giving away the operation. The truck will approach the garage from the other direction so that it had better access to the garage doors.

  The suburbans and vans pulled to the corner on 139th Street and parked a few yards away from the intersection. Federal Agents, NYPD Detectives, and Emergency Service Police Officers slipped out of the various vehicles and continued on foot to 90th Avenue.

  They crept towards the corrugated metal garage door. Henderson followed an Emergency Service cop towards the graffiti covered garage. Just before reaching the door, Henderson glanced back at the intersection. The 103rd Precinct police cars were blocking the street. They had arrived, just in time. He sighed and smiled. The injuries, if the bombs explode, will be minimized.

  Henderson watched as the Emergency Service cops slipped a thin metal bar under the garage door and carefully lifted the door just enough to allow them entry. They rolled under the garage door. Henderson noiselessly followed the officers into the dark garage.

  Henderson got to his feet. He hid behind a blue van and the ESU cops ducked behind a brown van. After a couple of seconds, Henderson’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. When he peeked out from behind the van saw the whole garage. Four middle-eastern men were each slowly rolling a fifty-five gallon drum towards the rear of the building.

  In the right corner of the garage, a dark-skinned man kneeled on a prayer rug. The suicide bomber praying before he takes the wheel of one of the vans waiting in the garage bay. A true believer. Shmuck.

  Henderson used hand signals to make sure the ESU cops saw all five terrorists. Four to the right and one to the left.

  As soon as the men settled the drums on the ground, the ESU cops leapt from behind the van and smacked handcuffs on them. Henderson pounced on the suicide bomber and placed him in handcuffs.

  Henderson eyes danced when he saw the shocked expressions on the men’s faces. They were in custody before they knew what happened. The take-down operation could not have gone better.

  Henderson pumped both fists with a thumbs up. The Bomb Squad technicians were waiting just outside the garage door.

  Within minutes, both bombs were safely diffused. Each van held a 500 pound bomb made from nitrate fertilizer and diesel fuel. They were simply constructed, but each bomb was capable of causing significant structural damage to a tunnel or building.

  While the technicians began the slow process of removing the explosive mixture and placing it in thick steel canisters, Henderson left the garage to notify the Tunnels teams to take down the other van-bombs.

  Two down – two to go.

  Chapter 33

  Carson sat in the driver’s seat of a brown Ford van staring at the floorboard. He rubbed his palms on his thighs over and over. His palms were raw. He could not believe what he was seeing. Two rope-like cords stuck out from under the front seat.

  Mohamed leaned over Carson’s left shoulder and pointed at the fuses. “Each fuse is ten feet long and runs from under your seat to the explosives in the cargo area of the van.”

  To a pile of explosives behind his seat. The fuses were connected to a freaking bomb! Behind his seat! What is he doing here? This is nuts!

  Carson remained silent and still. But his heart was racing. His pulse pounded in his ears.

  Mohamed dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a disposable cigarette lighter. He slapped it into Carson’s hand and pointed at the frayed ends of the fuses. “Once you light both fuses, the explosives will detonate in six minutes.”

  Carson stared at the Bic lighter. It was red. Fire-red.

  Mohamed checked his wristwatch. “You have to go now. We will celebrate in the Deposit Encampment tonight. Good luck.”

  Carson said nothing. He flipped the red lighter in his palm, over and over.

  Mohamed gingerly closed the driver’s side door. He stood on the sidewalk and waited for Carson to drive from the curb.

  Carson sat motionless in the driver’s seat, frozen stiff. He held the steering wheel, in a vice-like grip, with one hand. With the other hand he squeezed the Bic - tighter and tighter.

  Staring straight ahead, he thought about Gilbert. Sitting in his van. With only six minutes left to live.

  RAP! RAP!

  Carson’s zombie-like face turned towards the noise. He shook his head as if waking from a dream. Mohamed glared at him.

  RAP! RAP! Mohamed knocked on the glass, again.

  Carson rolled down the window. “I was picturing Gilbert sitting in his van, in the middle of the Holland Tunnel, waiting for it to blow up – for six minutes. It is freaking cruel. How could you ask him to do that?”

  “No, no.” Mohamed shook his head. “The explosives in his van will ignite immediately. The igniter for his bomb is a tank filled with compressed hydrogen gas. Gilbert will reach paradise as soon as the tank punctures. Now go, brother, drive with a clear head!”

  Carson nodded and slowly rolled the van away from the curb. As he depressed the gas pedal, he was surprised at how well the van handled. It was much easier to drive with the explosive cargo than the sandbags and cinderblocks. The weight was more evenly distributed. Still, he treated the gas pedal as if it were an eggshell. The cargo he carried was much more volatile than sand and blocks.

  He turned the steering wheel smoothly onto Pleasant Ave and drove onto the 495 entrance ramp. Less than a minute later, he drove the van through the toll booth plaza and entered the Manhattan-bound tube of the Lincoln Tunnel. His mouth was dry and he was afraid to breath.

  He stayed in the left lane of the roadway. When he reached the middle of the tunnel he saw the orange hazard fencing on the catwalk, exactly where Rashid said it would be.

  Carson tapped the brakes, put the hazard lights on and gradually slowed the van before bringing it to a complete stop. He took every possible precaution to avoid being struck in the rear. He was not going to let his cargo explode.

  He tried to exit the van, but he could not pry his white-knuckles from the steering wheel. He opened the door handle with his knee and pushed the door open with his foot. Cool air rushed in. His fingers slowly regained their brown color. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and shook the blood back into his fingers.

  He took the lighter from his pocket and flicked it. He covered the flame with his body and let the flame extinguish. He bent towards the floorboard and counted to five. In case Rashid had a camera somewhere he had to pretend to light the fuses.

  He carefully closed the van door and climbed onto the catwalk. He walked briskly in the direction he had come, towards the toll booth plaza. Carson peeked back at the van. Thankfully, it was not impeding traffic. The vehicles that were stuck behind the van detoured around it and continued eastbound towards Manhattan. The traffic flowed steadily, even though a disabled vehicle blocked one of the two lanes.

  As he walked west he was puzzled, but glad to see that the vehicular traffic was light. By the time he emerged from the mouth of the tunnel, the Manhattan-bound tube was empty of traffic.

  Carson walked to the Port Authority Building. The New Jersey State Police had blocked off the on-ramp. The Manhattan-bound traffic was diverted northbound, before it even reached the toll booths. Russo came through! He puffed
out his cheeks and pumped his fist.

  He knew that Russo got to the JTTF in time to avert the attacks because The New Jersey State Troopers were not sending traffic to the Holland Tunnel. They were sending it in the opposite direction. The Holland Tunnel must be closed down to traffic, as well. He felt light headed. He was suddenly cold and trembling.

  The NYPD’s bomb squad must be enroute to his van from the Manhattan side of the tunnel right now. But where is Gilbert’s van? Was it stopped before it reached the entrance to the Holland Tunnel? Craning his head and peering south, Carson looked for smoke and dreaded the sound of an explosion.

  He did not hear or see anything. But when he reached the Port of Authority employee doorway, the faint sound of sirens wailed from Hoboken. Oh no! He hugged his stomach. Gilbert’s van must have exploded!

  Chapter 34

  Rashid stood in front of his apartment building, in the middle of a swarm of pigeons. He was flying high with anticipation, not that anyone could tell by looking at him. He had a little more bounce to his step, that’s all. The second wave of attacks on New York would begin in a few minutes.

  He was giddy with excitement, but had to pretend everything was normal. He could not wait for the bombings to blindside the ignorant Americans. The bombings would take them by surprise.

  Even though, the twin towers’ garage was bombed just four months ago, Americans still believed they were safe. Fools! They believed whatever the lying American media told them to believe.

  Rashid was truly dumbfounded that Americans missed all the signs of the jihad. They must be wearing glasses that blind them of reality. Today, those glasses will be shattered.

  Sheikh Rahman and Osama bin Laden have issued numerous fatwas to destroy the United States. But Americans did not listen. They have been brainwashed for generations to believe in the American dream, while the international bankers steal their way of life from under their snotty American noses. American idiots!