Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival (10 page)

Raheb was known as Roberto to his co-workers. He attributed his odd Spanish accent to being an exchange student when he was younger. Raheb’s job was simple enough; he sprayed for mosquitoes. A burgeoning industry, mosquito trucks trek along interstates and subdivisions alike, spraying a cloudy mist of insecticide in the air. The technique is often referred to as fogging, and occurs while most folks are settling in for a bit of shuteye. When Raheb’s email arrived, he paused for a few moments. America had been good to him, and he had come to think of the people as fair and generous. His doubt was short lived. He reminded himself that his family would be very well taken care of in Jordan after he accomplished his mission, even if he didn’t survive.

Survival was not a big concern for
Raheb. He had been trained by his Al-Qaeda leader for over a month on how to handle the “soup.” After he crossed the border with Mexican papers in the middle of a hot New Mexico night, it was simple enough to secure the bus ticket to Chicago. Arriving in the Windy City, he mingled with the illegal Hispanic community and worked assorted odd jobs doing everything from landscaping to low skill construction work. It wasn’t long before funds were transferred into his modest bank account, an “inheritance” from a wealthy Mexican uncle who had passed away. 

He purchased the used Nissan pickup truck easily enough for cash
. The fogging sprayer, holding tanks and other equipment required for his mission were acquired through the internet and local supply stores. He assembled everything in the garage of his apartment, purchased a magnetic sign for his truck and became “West Side Pest Control” practically overnight. On three different occasions, he filled the truck with the normal insecticide and patrolled suburban neighborhoods in the early morning hours to verify everything worked correctly. He was never hired or paid, he was just testing the equipment, and passing police cars ignored him.

R
aheb took pictures of his equipment and emailed them to his “family” back home in Mexico. While anyone looking at the emails may have questioned why he took so many pictures of the steel storage tanks in the back of the truck, overall the correspondence implied he was a proud new business owner showing off.

After accomplishing the first stage of his mission, he settled into a quiet, isolated routine of reading the Koran, praying
, and making sure his truck and equipment were well maintained. He drove the truck once or twice a week to verify his route and become familiar with the territory. He took walks to the local grocery store, paid his rent right on time, and occasionally went to the bank. His only problem in life was a combination of boredom and the anticipation of when, or even if, the email would arrive.  

The UPS driver delivered a new shipment of insecticide
two days after Raheb received his email. The three steel tanks contained the exact same labels, warnings, and fixtures as the ones he had previously tested. Raheb knew that was where the similarities ended and took extra precaution storing the tanks in his garage.

The morning of D-Day, Raheb awoke early and prepared his truck. As per his training, he checked the local weather report and verified that it would be a typical sunny day with calm winds out of the southwest. The direction and strength of the wind were critical to his mission.
Perfect
, he thought,
Allah smiles upon me
. He dressed as instructed, and before leaving the apartment, disconnected the gas line that fueled his hot water heater. He could smell the gas leaking as he locked the door for the final time. He went down the steps to the garage and double-checked his equipment. He started the truck and proceeded on his route to the Dan Ryan Expressway.

His arrival was timed perfectly as the local traffic report indicated that the seven lanes of inbound cars had clogged the massive roadway
. The average speed was less than five miles per hour, and already two fender benders were causing gawkers to bottleneck the flow.

Raheb
worked his way onto the entrance ramp and slowly merged with traffic. Although he was heading north and the wind was from the southwest, it wasn’t strong enough to affect his work. He made his way cautiously to the inner most lane. He could see a long, flat stretch and made sure the shoulder was clear of any emergency vehicles or accidents. He reached in the seat beside him and pulled on the hazmat mask, equipped with a high-quality micro air filter and put it on. He wore a homemade suit that was mostly latex and duct tape. It was important that the “soup” not touch his skin or be inhaled.

He flipped on his emergency blinkers and pulled
onto the shoulder that separated the north and southbound lanes and accelerated to 20 miles per hour. He reached for the pump switch on the dash and turned it on.
God is great
, he thought.

In the back of Raheb’s truck, a high compression pump engaged and began pulling the “soup” out of the two five
-gallon steel tanks. The pump mixed the substance with the amount of air required, and the nozzles shot a cloud almost 70 feet into the air out both sides of the truck bed.

The
“soup” was VX1 nerve gas, one of the most deadly chemical weapons ever developed. A single drop on exposed skin would kill a person in less than two seconds, and when inhaled, it was even more deadly. VX1 was only slightly heavier than air, and its molecules were so tiny that they would pass right through the average filter. It was odorless, had no taste, and thus offered no warning.

As Raheb’s truck passe
d hundreds and hundreds of slow-moving commuters, the cloud of death created by his fogger fell slowly onto the roadway. Death was practically instantaneous. A few of the dying pressed downward on their gas pedals, but bumped harmlessly into the car in front of them. The speed of the northbound traffic was already so slow that traffic helicopters didn’t notice anything at first.

The
southbound traffic was a completely different story. Going against the rush hour masses headed from downtown Chicago, the counter flow was moving at 30-40 mph. At least it was until Raheb’s poison was inhaled by an 18-wheel truck driver who died instantly and rolled his rig, causing a spectacular crash blocking several lanes. The southbound side backed up instantly, and now Raheb’s cloud had double the number of targets. The Chicago EL, or elevated train, ran on tracks laid between the north and south lanes of the expressway. Every half mile there was a platform built in the middle of the super-highway. Hundreds of morning commuters were waiting for trains in these open-air stations. They died where they had stood, toppling over on top of one another.

Raheb’s tanks held enough gas to spray continuously for
30 minutes. As he slowly moved along the shoulder, he kept his speed at a constant 20 mph. At one point, an annoyed cab driver saw Raheb approaching in his rearview mirror. The cabbie decided that Raheb was just “one of those jerks” who could not wait their turn like everyone else. He swerved his cab over to block the shoulder. Raheb had been ready for this and slowed down to follow the cabbie for a few seconds. As his cloud killed the drivers behind him, it created an opening when their vehicles stopped. He changed lanes, passed the cab, and proceeded on his tour of destruction. After going almost five miles, Raheb exited the Dan Ryan and proceed going south on the Skyway.

The Skyway was actually an elevated roadway passing above the rooftops of several neighborhoods.
He drove through an automated toll lane, but did not have the mandatory electronic transmitter in his truck causing a red light to flash over the lane. A Chicago Transit Authority traffic cop saw the violation and pulled out to give the violator a ticket. The policeman’s hand never made it to the switch to turn on his lights as he inhaled the gas and died instantly. As the Skyway elevated to its 128-foot height, the victims of the gas changed. The surface streets and sidewalks below the fly-over were littered with the bodies of those who had fallen. 

R
aheb heard the pump change its tone indicating he was running out of the poisonous gas. He drove for another few minutes and exited the Skyway in Indiana. He moved along the surface streets of suburban Gary until he found a run-down carwash well away from any main street. He pulled the truck into the bay and looked around. That early in the morning, not many people were washing their cars. Seeing he was alone, he dropped coins in the machine to quickly spray down the truck and himself. He took a box cutter knife and removed his latex suit, discarded it in the trashcan, and removed the magnetic signs from the truck.

He drove another few blocks to a city park that would be incredibly busy later in the day. He found a remote spot and parked the truck
. He used a tarp to cover the spray pump and exchanged his license plates for ones that he stole weeks ago. He slowly walked for almost a half an hour and entered a small diner that served breakfast. He ordered coffee and watched the television over the counter to see the results of his work. A few hours later, he hailed a cab, rented a car, and secured lodging at a Detroit inn. His plans included a short layover, entry into Canada and eventually a flight to Germany.

The time of 8:
30 a.m., Chicago time, had been carefully selected by the general’s staff. It was 9:30 in Boston and 5:30 in Los Angeles. The fogger in Boston was actually a city maintenance truck that had its nozzle and pumps hidden amongst road cones and other equipment stored in the back. The yellow warning lights on top of the truck ensured it passed the morning traffic flow unnoticed until it was too late. In Los Angeles, the I-5 was already packed with commuters trying to beat rush hour traffic. It was precisely 6:00 a.m. when a converted ambulance, flashing red lights, began its trip.

Within 30 minutes, the United States of America suffered over 30,000
deaths at the hands of three terrorists. The carnage had only just begun.

A line of stalled traffic
would normally attract the attention of the Chicago Transit Authority immediately. A line in both directions would double the chances of someone seeing the odd pattern on the city’s wide network of traffic-cams. What caught their attention this time was the
lack
of traffic beyond the point where Raheb had exited to the Skyway. The Dan Ryan was practically empty after that. A call went out to the authority’s own police department and within minutes Officer Patrick Merrill was bypassing the hundreds of cars trying to enter the expressway via ramp #114. He drove his cruiser along the shoulder of the ramp and eventually reached the expressway. He started driving at a high rate of speed along the shoulder to get around the honking, angry masses of people who could not move an inch. He looked in his rearview mirror to see another set of red lights a short distance behind him and recognized the car of an Illinois State Trooper who was quickly catching up with him. He welcomed the backup, while wondering which of the troopers was bringing up the rear.

Officer
Merrill had driven just over a half mile when he finally entered the kill zone caused by the attack. He never noticed that all of the honking had stopped. A few hundred feet ahead, a car was blocking the shoulder, appearing to have run off of the road and struck a guardrail. He stopped just short of the accident and thought it strange that there was little damage to the vehicle - that no one was standing around like he had seen a hundred times before when driving up to an accident. It was almost as if the driver had just parked there. As he rushed to the side of the car, he could see the driver was slumped over the steering wheel. He tapped on the window of the car and said loudly, “Transit Police.” The driver did not move. He rapped a little louder and still received no response. He looked down and noticed the door was locked. The state trooper had parked his cruiser and was walking up behind Officer Merrill, who turned and looked back at the trooper and moved his arms in the “I have no idea” motion and then laid his hand on the roof of the car. There was an invisible film of VX on the surface, and it killed him. He just fell over, dead before he even hit the ground.

The state t
rooper froze mid-step and quickly knelt down and drew his weapon. A veteran of both Iraqi wars, the only time he had ever seen a man fall like that was when he had been shot by a sniper. The trooper keyed his shoulder radio and reported, “Officer down! Officer down! Possible sniper at mile marker 115 Dan Ryan northbound.” He then quickly moved to a nearby car for cover. He was moving as fast as he could and grabbed the fender of the car to keep his balance. He was dead in seconds.

The Chicago Police Department and associated law enforcement agencies lost seven more officers before a paramedic
wearing latex gloves was checking Officer Merrill’s body and discovered no one had been shot by any sniper. At that time, only one thing was certain - anyone entering the area seemed to die immediately. Almost two full hours passed after Raheb had first turned on his pump before authorities realized they had been the victims of a chemical attack.

Cameron
, Louisiana had been practically devastated by Hurricane Ike. After the storm, 90% of the buildings were damaged or destroyed, and many people never rebuilt or returned. Once an oil town with the majority of its employment centered on the offshore drilling and gas production industry, it now looked more like a ghost town from a “B” horror flick.

When someone bought the old Mobil gas station on Marshall Street and started doing repairs, the few remaining residents were happy
. Within a few weeks, a hand-painted sign announcing “Ramirez Welding and Repair” hung out front, and an old mobile home was being hooked up outside the building. The few folks who stopped in to welcome the new business all heard the same story about Mr. Ramirez losing his business in New Orleans from Katrina. He had been saving money to reopen his welding business as soon as possible.

There was very little oil
field work in the area, but the residents overlooked that fact in favor of blind optimism that maybe the good old days would return. A local farmer broke the axle on his grain wagon and needed a welder. His regular man was on vacation, so he decided to give the “quiet Mexican guy” a chance. Mr. Ramirez did an excellent job repairing the equipment and charged less than half of what the farmer had expected. After telling a few of the locals the story at the café, Mr. Ramirez started doing a legit business at his shop for shrimpers, truckers, and farmers.

Of course,
Mr. Ramirez wasn’t from Mexico, but he was a welder by trade. He had grown up welding in Iranian oil fields and knew the equipment and industry like the back of his hand. He had two sons who had left Iran to fight the Americans in Iraq. Both had been killed in that conflict. The Iranian government did not tell Mr. Ramirez the entire truth about the situation, but they channeled his hatred of America into a very motivated and loyal man.

While he did not know the intended target
or use of the devices he was creating, he would make certain they were built
exactly
as the drawings specified. Not long after his shop had opened, four shipping containers were delivered that “required repairs.” Mr. Ramirez began creating a very unusual pressure vessel with concave sides inside each container. He was turning the 20-foot long steel containers into what explosives experts called a shape charge. Developed right before WWII, both German and British scientists worked on methods to direct an explosion’s energy in a single direction. Sometimes referred to as focused explosives, the method used a bowl-shaped backstop that directed the energy in one direction. Shape charges were now commonly used in practically every type of anti-armor munitions.

Mr. Ramirez
finished his work several months before the email came. He had thought that the message might never arrive, but had no alternative other than continuing with his business and keeping his story straight. When the email finally came, he happily filled the pressure vessels with the contents of several welding tanks stored around his shop. A very specific mixture was transferred to each shipping container. Over the next two days, four flatbed trucks arrived, and the big steel containers were winched onto each one. On the back of the flatbeds were bags of common industrial chemicals that had been slowly gathered over the previous months so as not to attract attention. The bags were emptied into shipping containers. A cell phone was wired into a specific place on the side of each pressure vessel, and the container doors were closed and padlocked. The trucks left Cameron without attracting any attention.

Timed to c
oordinate with the gassing of Chicago, each of the trucks leaving Cameron had traveled to its destination bridge. Truck #1 had traveled the shortest distance, slightly over 100 miles to Baton Rouge. The truck began its climb up the causeway to the Horace Wilkinson Bridge, which carried I-10 across the Mississippi River at a height of over 170 feet. As the driver approached the second of four trussed peaks, he started downshifting, hitting the brake, and attempting to switch lanes. He had studied numerous photographs of the bridge and had practiced crossing it with his rig over a dozen times. At precisely the right location, he hit the emergency flashers and stopped the truck, partially blocking both of the inner lanes. He checked his position, and lurched the truck forward about four feet for exact placement before setting the emergency brake.

A few of the angry drivers behind him honked,
but this was the Deep South where most people thought it rude to sound their horns in protest. The stranded drivers saw the trucker climb out of the cab and open the hood. He then walked to the side of the bridge and pulled out a cell phone. Believing the truck was disabled, motorists began to focus their attention on getting into the one remaining open lane and ignored the driver.

Acting
as if he were talking on his cell phone, he continued to walk further from his truck. When he was about 100 meters away, he looked at the cell phone again, pressed the “Send” button, and started running.

It took about 3 seconds for the call to be put through to the cell phone in the shipping container
. The phone had been modified to transmit an electronic signal rather than ring, igniting the bomb. The blast did not cause that much damage to the surface level of the bridge, but that wasn’t the target. This truck-sized shape charge directed its energy straight down. Over 350 pounds of molten copper shot through the bottom of the shipping container at hypersonic speed, acting like a 20-foot long saw blade. It cut through the blacktop and plate steel surface of the bridge without losing energy. The structural tower, supporting the west fulcrum of the bridge, was directly below the container bomb. It was embedded over 100 feet into the bottom of the river and was sheered completely in half in two different spots.

The bags of
aluminum powder, phosphorous and nitrates stacked in the top half of the container ignited less than a half second later. This was technically a separate bomb, and created an enormous pressure wave downward onto the already crippled bridge.

The
reinforced concrete tower split in half and collapsed upon itself leaving over half of the deck unsupported. The deck swayed back and forth for almost 15 seconds before collapsing with over 600 feet of the span falling into the Mississippi below. Thousands of tons of concrete and steel landed directly in the navigation channel, blocking the mighty river to all marine traffic. One of the busiest waterways in the world was now closed.

In the few seconds required for the deck to fall, a motorist had picked up a cell phone and filmed the collapse. The video
would be aired repeatedly all over the world to the horror of most viewers. They would learn that 113 people were lost as their cars and trucks fell into the river. While the death toll may have been minimal when compared to the nerve gas attacks, the graphic images of cars, mini-vans and trucks sliding down the steeply angled deck before falling into the river became the iconic image of the attacks that day.

At St. Louis, Memphis and Cairo, Illinois similar explosions occurred within 13 minutes of each other. Although the bridges at Baton Rouge and Memphis were the only two that fell into the water below, the others sustained enough damage to close them for months.

There were over 200 bridges crossing the Mississippi river
. The destruction of four of them was hardly enough to split the United States geographically. The general’s plan, however, had worked perfectly. He didn’t have to divide the country - the Department of Homeland Security would do it for him.

The two most important orders
ever issued by a United States President were within one hour of each other.

The first
order was “Close the bridges.”

The second
, “Close the roads,” made the first obsolete.