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The next day began with a final equipment check and briefing. But by mid-morning the men restlessly watched television or tried to read, mostly succeeding in getting on each other’s nerves. Well before the late checkout arranged by Stickman, Abu and a swarthy, spidery man called Mohammad lobbied for a beer run. Stickman flatly refused, telling them to “just suck it up.” They did, grumbling.
As they checked out, Maple suggested returning to Cahokia Mounds for a walk to burn off nervous energy. He and Stickman led the way, taking advantage of the spacious grounds to go over their plan of attack yet again, confident they were not being overheard. Away from prying eyes they spread maps of the multi-state region on the ground, marking routes they might use to scatter in three directions. They knew their flight would be determined, in part, by the response of law enforcement. In part, too, by the condition of their vehicles and, of course, by who was standing after the attack.
Finally, at four-forty-five, with rush hour traffic in full flow, Maple moved the F-150 alongside a large van in a far corner of the Cahokia Mounds parking lot. In the van’s visual cover, the sedans that had delivered Assiri and his crew pulled in by the pickup. Within a minute the deadly contents of the tool box were distributed.
The F-150 led the caravan onto Collinsville Road. Maple took state highway 157 north to get on Interstate-55/70 at Exit 11. Even with heavy traffic it took only a few minutes to reach Exit 10 – their destination. They joined traffic moving slowly to a stoplight, where they turned left and immediately flipped a U back to the light. When the light changed to stop the main flow of traffic, they turned right and went up the entrance ramp as if heading back to I-55/70.
But at the top of the ramp Maple stopped and the crew piled out on the overpass, weapons in hand. No one had followed them from the cross street. When the light changed, the main flow of traffic started across the intersection. With no hesitation, Maple and an Assiri recruit named Omar took out the lead cars with high-explosive anti-tank rounds. Milliseconds before Maple fired he made out the face of the driver grimacing in fear as she saw weapons pointed at her. Her car and its shadowy occupants – children picked up after soccer practice? – disappeared in a flaming explosion the attackers could feel.
The other men armed with rocket launchers stepped up for long shots of more than a quarter-mile. One hit a car head-on but the second missed – a rocket wasted – and Maple quickly stepped in, firing on target. A large SUV exploded. Suddenly a killing ground had been created with burning vehicles at either end, virtually trapping all traffic in between. Stickman and the others opened fire – three fully automatic AK-47s punishing the closest cars, three more accurate M-16s deliberately seeking individual targets farther out. Men, women and children bailed fearfully from their vehicles, making the terrorists’ jobs easier. Abu was in his glory, the machine gun jumping in his strong hands as he rained bullets at the innocent, a crazed laugh rolling from deep in his belly as he slapped in a fresh thirty-round clip.
Drivers desperately fled the roadway, seeking cross-country routes to escape the carnage. They high-centered in ditches and collided after zig-zag patterns that smacked of bumper cars. People leaped from disabled vehicles, exposing themselves to the gunmen’s deadly intent. Some people frantically sought cover behind vehicles or hugged low-lying areas, anywhere offering hope of protection. The underbelly of a small overpass gave respite to a lucky few, who shoved out others threatening their sanctuary. Screams mixed with gunfire and the explosions of gas tanks. An eighteen-wheeler became a battering ram as it backed up in a clumsy three-point turn, crushing two teenagers in a tiny sports car before an anti-tank round turned the truck into an inferno. Another truck loaded with explosive material went up in a tower of sparks and flames, incinerating everything and everybody for yards around. Panic was in order. The dead were suddenly counted in scores.
But this stretch of gore was not the primary target. That distinction went to interstate traffic approaching from the northeast. Heavy gauge fencing topped most interstate overpasses, but not at Exit 10. Stickman had selected it for the clear view that would make the attack much more effective, deadlier, than one where fencing obstructed lines of fire.
On Stickman’s signal, Maple and the three others with launchers took positions to punish oncoming interstate traffic with close-in and long-range shots. The interstate’s multiple traffic lanes were a bigger challenge to sealing off a killing ground. The result was sloppier, with more vehicles finding escape routes. But a fertile killing field was soon accomplished, with vehicles exploding in flames, painful screams of the dying and wounded, undiluted panic. Again, deadly AK-47 and M-16 fire sought out fleeing victims, some falling to withering bursts, others to the sniper’s cold efficiency. Hapless victims of a sluggish rush hour fell under the relentless onslaught of the terrorists.
With rockets dwindling, Maple and Omar picked their interstate targets carefully – a gasoline tanker, a tour bus, a U.S. Army van, a bright yellow school bus. Maple surprised himself when he momentarily teared up as he put the school bus in his sights. But after that passing nod to mercy, he calmly fired. Without reaction he watched the school bus explode.
Meanwhile, a lone rifleman, still working the first killing ground, methodically found fresh targets, bolstering the death count.
Above the din of slaughter, sirens could be heard and, quickly, their threatening whine drew close. If the sounds of gunfire and explosions hadn’t alerted a passing law officer, there no doubt was a barrage of 911 calls from still-surviving victims. Suddenly a police car was coming up the ramp the wrong way. Stickman and Assiri fired long bursts, shattering the car’s windshield. It veered out of control, rolling off the ramp.
Sirens grew louder. Stickman shouted an order to quit firing, to leave. Major damage had been inflicted. Remaining targets were in the margins, not worth the accelerating risk. Stickman shouted again to be sure he was heard. Maple took no convincing. He moved to the driver’s door of the pickup with a spare M-16 liberated from Rouhani, firing every few seconds at fresh targets on the interstate. Assiri raced to one of the sedans, scrambling behind the wheel, most of his men hard behind him. But Abu and Mohammad wanted more blood. “Allahu akbar!” Abu screamed, firing the AK-47 with delight, raking the closest burning cars though they showed no signs of life. “Allahu akbar!” The spidery Mohammad stood at his shoulder, trying to wave others back to the slaughter, pointing as if to say there still were targets to bring down. Abu emptied his clip and instead of reloading, reached beneath his loose-fitting shirt, jerking the Walker Colt free from the back of his waistband. He gripped the horse pistol in both hands, squeezing off shots at someone, something in the killing field.
Maple saw him and boiled with anger. He raised the M-16, ready to execute this fool who was putting them all in jeopardy. Instead, he shouted, “Assiri, get your men out of here! Leave those assholes!”
Without warning a police helicopter swooped in from the opposite side, the empty side, of the interstate, its approach muted by the mayhem. Abu and Mohammad, oblivious in their blood-fueled zeal, were clear targets. A police sharpshooter expertly riddled their backs with gunfire. They crumbled, face-first, dead before they hit the pavement, Abu’s beloved horse pistol still in his hand.
The sharpshooter turned his fire on the fleeing terrorists as Assiri punched the accelerator, deserting his man still firing on the first killing ground. The sniper’s frantic sprint for the car ended in another hail of gunfire from the helicopter, one overlapped by a barrage from Stickman and Maple. The helicopter heaved away from them, wobbling over the second killing ground in a stream of smoke that angled into the school bus Maple had destroyed. Impact brought yet another explosion.
On the clear side of the overpass, the ramp gives interstate-bound drivers the option of turning left onto a state highway. That was the terrorists’ preferred escape route, with success tied to blending into the flow of rush hour and not getting caught in gridlock. The swiftly executed attack that left hundreds dead had also generated a massive volume of phone calls, from passing drivers as well as victims. Descriptions of the terrorists’ vehicles varied so much as to be worthless. But some approaching drivers frantically reversed direction to flee the carnage, adding to the confusion and helpful to the fleeing attackers.
But gridlock did threaten as Maple and Stickman came to the first stop light on the state highway, Assiri and the packed sedan right behind. Maple squeezed into the intersection on yellow and forced a left turn against a woman laying on her horn. She was not to be twice denied and Assiri was stuck at the light. When it finally changed, oncoming traffic immediately blocked him from turning, but he saw no advantage in trying a caravan escape, anyway. That was fortunate for Stickman and Maple. A camera in the downed helicopter had captured and transmitted the license number of Assiri’s sedan, but not the pickup’s.
Every responding lawman had that number and soon a patrolman spotted Assiri’s car. Approaching each other slowly in the traffic, the patrolman rammed his car into Assiri’s, then hopped out in the protection of his door. Handgun leveled, he ordered Assiri and his remaining crew to step out with hands raised. Assiri signaled Omar, sitting beside him, to attack. As Assiri ducked low in his seat, the patrolman saw Omar’s Glock and opened fire. Omar and the man behind him jumped out, returning fire. The patrolman’s rapid fire poked spider holes across the sedan’s windshield before he fell, blood flowing from head and neck. Assiri hadn’t ducked low enough. His forehead was neatly punctured. One man in the back seat was badly wounded. Omar slipped back in the car and seeing his leader dead, reached across to open the door and unceremoniously shoved Assiri onto the pavement. Finding the sedan not entangled with the patrol car, Omar backed up and swerved out of the traffic lane, fleeing along the shoulder.
Luck was running out. The sedan’s radiator had been pierced in the collision. Omar thought about abandoning the sedan and commandeering another car. It would be easy enough. Facing three armed men, with no compunction about killing, a family would be more than happy to give up their mini-van. What then? Another barrage of 911 calls, with the van’s description and license number. Omar did not hesitate. Shouting, “Akbar! Akbar!” he drove wildly, bouncing off creeping cars and skidding around a corner as steam rose from the radiator. The street fed an industrial park, with broad streets and open space that afforded little cover. He sped up briefly until the engine coughed, ignoring his violent entreaties on the accelerator. Making a shredding sound, the sedan rolled to a stop. Omar jumped out, AK-47 in hand and still in full throat, “Akbar! Akbar!” A police helicopter swooped in. Omar squeezed off an errant burst before a sharpshooter cut him down, his head exploding.
“You in the car. Step out with your hands raised.”
The terrorists did.