Liberty's Last Stand (2 page)

The name of the school, Our Sisters of Mercy, was emblazoned above the main entrance, but the men in the van couldn't read the words. Not only did they not know how to read and write English, they were illiterate in all the world's languages, including their own, which was Farsi. The only education any of the three had ever received was in an Islamic school, where the sole item in the curriculum was the memorization of the Koran. The Prophet's message, their teachers knew, was all the boys really needed to know to wend their way through this vale of tears and earn their way into Paradise.

The men in the van checked their watches. As the two in the front seat scrutinized every vehicle and watched traffic on the street, the man in back began opening bags and extracting semiautomatic AR-15 assault rifles, into which he inserted magazines.

At Yankee Stadium in the Bronx the players were on the field warming up, tossing balls around, taking batting practice, and signing autographs for the kids and fans who hung over the rails. The Yanks were not having a good year; they were third in the American League East standings, ten games off the pace, so management expected that only half the seats in the stadium would have bodies in them when the game against the Detroit Tigers started at precisely one o'clock.

The jihadist, Nuri Said, sat in the top tier of seats watching the activities on the field as fans wandered in. He had attended two games in the past few weeks and had a rudimentary understanding of the game, which he thought boring. Mainly he watched the uniformed police who stood here and there at the portals that people had to pass through to get to and from the stands to the vast galleries where there were restaurants, fast food stands, and restrooms.

Nuri had chosen Yankee Stadium for his jihad strike because of the television cameras that would make him and his three mates famous and immortal. The police were a necessary evil, he thought, and would kill all four of them, but not until after the cameras had captured the naked power of Islam for all the world's infidels to see and ponder. Nuri Said and his three fellow believers would please Allah, he knew, which was more than most men accomplished in this life. That would be enough.

Salah al Semn found the waiting hard. He fidgeted. He tried to avoid eye contact with his fellow passengers on the train to New York, but found that he was watching them, sizing them up, wondering who they were as they got on and off at the depots in Baltimore and Wilmington.
He repeatedly checked his watch. He was acutely aware that the two young men opposite him were watching him. Every time he glanced their way their eyes were upon him, and they didn't look away.

He would kill them first, he thought. Infidel dogs.

The train was sliding into the station in Philadelphia when Salah al Semn checked his watch for the last time, picked up the backpack, which he had placed on the floor under his legs, and made his way toward the restroom.

Marine Sergeant Mike Ivy and Lance Corporal Scott Weidmann were from Brooklyn. They were on their way home for a week's leave before they shipped out for tours in South Korea.

“He's got a gun in that bag,” Weidmann whispered to Ivy.

“Something hard, with angles,” Ivy agreed. “Ain't his underwear.”

As al Semn opened the door to the restroom and went inside, Ivy and Weidmann got up and went to the restroom door. Ivy put his ear to the door. The train coasted to a stop in the Philadelphia station.

The two Marines had to make way for people getting on and off the train, but in a moment the rush was over. Ivy leaned nonchalantly against the restroom door and listened while Weidmann watched the passengers in the car to see if anyone was paying attention. They weren't, he decided. Everyone was getting settled for the ride on to Newark, then Pennsylvania Station in New York.

Ivy said to Weidmann, “Bastard's putting his weapon together. Ain't nothing else sounds like that.”

“What do you want to do?” Weidmann asked. He automatically deferred to the senior man.

“I figure it's a rifle or something. He'll come out of there with the thing pointing up so he can make the turn. Not much room. You slam the door on him and I'll take it away from him.”

They took their positions and waited.

In Arlington Heights, the three men in the van inspected their weapons. Each made sure he had two extra magazines in his pocket, and pulled a ski mask down over his head. They doubted that they would survive this strike so it didn't matter if their faces were seen: they wore the masks to create terror in the heart of everyone who saw them.
Terrorized people don't think or fight back, so they are easy to slaughter. Not that any of the three thought the nuns and children and suburban parents would fight back. These people were Christians, who routinely defamed and ridiculed the Prophet, may he rest in peace. They deserved what was coming.

In Yankee Stadium Nuri Said met his fellow terrorists at a trash can near a service door. One of them, from Iraq, had worked at the stadium for two weeks and had smuggled in weapons and ammunition, which were hidden in the can. As the last minutes ticked by and the national anthem played on the loudspeakers throughout the stadium, Nuri and his three jihadists reached into the can, dug out the trash that covered the weapons, and removed them. Checked that they were loaded. Pocketed spare magazines. And pulled black ski masks over their heads.

Then they walked toward the nearest portal to the stands. There was a woman policeman there, and Nuri saw her before she saw him. He shot her. Even though she was wearing a bulletproof vest, she went down from the impact. The report of the weapon seemed magnified inside that concrete gallery, like a thunderclap. It triggered screams. Or perhaps the sight of the ski masks and weapons triggered them.

People panicked and tried to run. One of the terrorists stood there methodically firing single shots as fast as he could aim his weapon. His three colleagues ran out the portal into the grandstands.

Salah al Semn stood in the tiny restroom aboard the express train with his AR-15 at port arms, loaded, with the safety off, and looked at his watch again. One minute to go. The train was accelerating out of the
station. He could see the concrete and roofs moving through the little window and feel the motion of the car on the uneven rails.

He knew precisely what he had to do. Exit the restroom and start shooting people in this car, the nearest first.

When he had shot everyone in this car, he was to proceed forward to the other cars, where three other shooters were working. When everyone in all four cars was dead, he and any surviving shooters were to proceed all the way forward, executing people until they reached the engine.

Salah al Semn knew he would see Paradise soon, and he was ready. He would go with the blood of infidels on his hands, one of the holiest martyrs. The Prophet would be proud!

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

As it opened, he saw one of the American soldiers standing there, the black man, within a foot. He grabbed for Salah's weapon and jerked it toward him. Salah grabbed for the trigger, and the door slammed into him with terrific force. He lost control of the rifle.

Sergeant Mike Ivy didn't hesitate. He merely pulled the rifle toward him, then drove the butt at al Semn's Adam's apple with all the force he could muster. The blow pushed the Syrian back into the restroom. The commode caught the back of his legs, and he lost his balance and fell.

Mike Ivy was already examining the AR-15. It was loaded, with a round chambered. Ivy and Weidmann both heard muffled shots from the passenger car ahead of this one. Ivy glanced at Weidmann, nodded to the restroom, and Weidmann said, “Go.”

Mike Ivy began running forward as people screamed and tried to cower behind their seats.

Lance Corporal Scott Weidmann jerked the door open and reached down for Salah al Semn, jerking him upright. The Syrian decided to fight, which was a fatal error. Weidmann's first blow was aimed at his solar plexus, which took the air out of the Syrian and doubled him up. His second blow, an elbow to the man's left ear, was delivered with so much force that the man's neck snapped. Dead on his feet, Salah al Semn collapsed. . .and started his journey to Paradise. Or Hell, depending on your faith.

Scott Weidmann left the Syrian sprawled half in, half out of the restroom and ran after Sergeant Ivy, toward the sound of shots.

He jerked open the door to the car ahead just in time to see Ivy shoot a terrorist and drop him in the aisle. People were sobbing and shouting; an unknown number had been shot. Ivy reached the body of the hooded man first, grabbed his weapon, and tossed it back to Weidmann, who fielded it in the air. As Ivy turned to go forward, Weidmann stomped on the terrorist's larynx, crushing it. Then the two Marines ran on, toward the next car.