| |
Darrell Stickman opened his mini-computer and searched for Mall of America. His room was quiet, good for taking yet another look at tomorrow’s target and putting together a final to-do list.
The mall is the perfect target, he thought, capitalism with a capital C. Opening more than a quarter century ago at a cost of six hundred twenty million dollars, its long-term building plan still called for it to double to nearly five million square feet. As if it already isn’t huge enough, he thought as he read the site’s “Facts” section, envisioning a story of self-indulgent extremes run amok: More than five hundred twenty stores where Americans gorge themselves on overconsumption and more than fifty restaurants where they pile on calories. Just spending ten minutes in each store would take eighty-six hours to get through the mall. There was space – captured in a photo gallery that struck him as gauche and garish – big enough for thirty-two Boeing 747s or seven Yankee Stadiums or where two hundred fifty-eight Statues of Liberty might lie.
The mind-bending statistics rolled on: The “nation’s largest indoor theme park” with twenty-seven rides and attractions. A one million two hundred thousand-gallon aquarium. More than forty million visitors annually. Mall of America “has revolutionized the shopping experience,” the site bragged. I like that word, revolutionized, Stickman said to himself. I like hitting this place even more than I would like hitting Wall Street. Wall Street symbolizes wealth and power and pompous CEOs making up America’s 1 percent. Mall of America is the remaining 99 percent. Friends and neighbors and everything they see as good about their country. Good times and clean fun and well-deserved relaxation. Job opportunities. A civilized pace. It is the heart of the Heartland, where people trust one another and value having a safe place to raise their children and are not so driven by ambition and greed. After tomorrow, he thought with satisfaction, that sense of security will be shattered long-term, more than it was by 9/11 or by our successful attack on the Russian Embassy. New York and the nation’s capital know they are targets. Tomorrow, all of the United States will feel like a target. Will? Could. Tomorrow could bring a new day, one to inspire others to radical jihad. But much, Stickman reflected somberly, depends on how well Dog is doing his work.
––––––––
Swale was with the other men, giving up his room so Dog could be alone to prepare the C-4. Dog had lined the blocks up neatly on the bed, along with fuses, detonators, timers and the tools he needed to assemble six deadly packages. Stacked on the corner chair were six used backpacks, all different, one nearly new, one well-worn and the others somewhere in between. When Dog was done, each backpack would carry more than two pounds of C-4.
One challenge he faced was constructing bombs with redundancy. To achieve that, there would be three scenarios for ignition. Each timer was set for five seconds, with a safety lock to prevent accidental detonation. As the men went to their assigned theatres, there was the danger of being stopped by security officers or police. If being searched became a near-certainty, one option was to flip off the lock and detonate enough C-4 to demolish a dump truck. Put another way, each man could choose martyrdom or hurl the backpack at passing shoppers and scramble for cover. To bolster chances of escape, each man would be armed with a handgun and knife. An explosion would signal other carriers to detonate their C-4 and retreat to their cars. That scenario promised so much confusion that, in reality, it would be every man for himself.
Dog molded the small blocks into a total of six, each armed with an electronic fuse. All were set to the same frequency. Under the second scenario, the men would plant their backpacks in the theaters, return to their cars and leave the mall. Stickman would call both cars to confirm they were on the road – and hit a toggle switch. He had declared that he, and only he, had the honor of remotely igniting the six death chambers.
But before leaving the theaters, the carriers would reset the timers, for five forty-five. If remote detonation failed, the timers would determine the mission’s success. Option three.
Dog whistled as he molded the six blocks of C-4 to form-fit a bottom corner of each backpack. He smiled as he used much-disparaged duct tape to hold the explosive in place, further anchoring the tape to the backpacks with large safety pins. “Baby, it doesn’t get any better than this,” he chuckled at his little joke.
The C-4, by itself, could cause extensive damage. To the backpacks Dog added ugly projectiles that Stickman had brought from Pennsylvania. There were roofing nails stolen from construction sites. Screws similarly liberated. Ball bearings and buckets of nuts and bolts and washers picked up for a little of nothing at garage sales. For years, Stickman and Maple inconspicuously collected common pieces of metal that already-destructive C-4 would turn into ugly projectiles of mayhem. They were packaged in thick canvas bags to prevent punctures by nails and screws. “A backpack looking like a porcupine could turn a cop’s head,” Dog said aloud. For best results, the C-4 needed to be against a solid surface, like a wall, with the metal aimed to carry the force of the explosion outward, sending hundreds of small missiles on haphazard flights to kill and maim.
His companions, after checking in, had each picked up several books from the motel’s small library. Adding the Gideon bibles in their rooms, Dog used the books to fill out the backpacks. He set them in rows of two on the desk and declared, “Job well done.”
In the morning, Dog would brief the men. “Your job is not complicated,” he would tell them, “but how well you do it will mean the difference between setting off some fireworks and petrifying the nation.”