Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

This incident didn’t promote Emrick to the number-one back-that role went to third-down back, Johnson Mige, who was adding his own chorus to the medley three doors down. However, this did move Emrick into the role of lead third-down back. He was going to be the clutch go-to guy.

He dragged himself into the glass shower stall and turned the water on hot. As the dual showerheads cascaded the steaming water onto his body, he sat on the tile floor, absentmindedly picking at the grout with his fingernail.

This was one of the wonderful things about staying in these fancy hotels. Back home, once his mom and two sisters finished up, he’d get maybe two minutes of lukewarm water, tops. Here, the cleansing, hot waterfall never ended.

Emrick had forty-five minutes until the breakfast buffet downstairs, three hours until chapel, and three and a half hours until the pregame meal. Breakfast? I’ll think I’ll pass. Chapel? I’ll see what I can do. Pregame meal? Yes, but only because I’ll get fined if I don’t show. If he wanted, allowing a half hour to get dressed, he could spend the next three hours letting the water wash his cares away.

Sunday, February 1

Rose Bowl Stadium

Pasadena, California

11:30 a.m. PST

Something’s not right, Riley thought. What are we missing? He was walking around the perimeter of the field, scanning the stands. Skeeter was next to him; Hicks was a few steps ahead.

The three men had just made a full circuit of the Rose Bowl grounds. They’d visited the makeshift tower where Matt Logan was keeping his eye on the air traffic controllers. Also in the tower they checked in with Kim Li, who was keeping in communication with the folks from Edwards Air Force Base and NORAD. Both men had reported absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

They had stopped by the four large trailers that were the Secret Service command and control centers. After a brief word with a very busy Director LeBlanc and his head of operations, they had spoken to Ted Hummel and Jay Kruse, who were monitoring all that was going on in the operation’s “brains.” The two veteran agents both felt that things were fairly well in hand.

Before going under the stands, the three men walked across the western sidelines. Looking up at the scoreboards, Hicks and Riley got a status report from the three men who were embedded there with the Secret Service snipers. Carlos Guitiérrez, over the north scoreboard, gave an all clear. Steve Kasay, atop the press box on the west side of the stadium, called out the same. Kyle Arsdale, in the south, made the report unanimous-everything was looking good.

As they walked off the field and through a tunnel, they made one last status check. “Bird One, how’re things looking from there?” Hicks called into his comm system.

“Good to go,” came Chris Johnson’s reply from the LAPD helicopter that he had hitched a ride in.

The three men entered a small room where Scott and Khadi already sat. The two had been brainstorming possible chinks in the security’s armor. Hicks took a chair next to Khadi, while Skeeter positioned himself by the door.

“You guys come up with anything yet?” Hicks asked.

Khadi shook her head. “These Secret Service guys are incredibly thorough. Everything we’ve come up with, they’ve already thought of and dealt with.”

Riley walked around the table and pulled out a chair. When he sat, he put his elbows on his knees, leaned over, and locked his hands behind his neck.

“Pach, what is it? You okay?” Scott’s inquiries as to his friend’s quietness and distance had been growing more and more frequent.

Without raising his head, Riley answered, “There’s got to be something we’re missing! Sal’s a smart guy. He knows what security will be like, especially after Platte River…” Riley’s voice caught on the last word. He took a deep breath, then looked up at the four others. “It’s not going to happen again. Not on my watch! It will not happen again!” Riley’s expression was almost pleading. The dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his complexion attested to the fact that he was still not well. Recognizing what a pitiful character he must look like, he lowered his head and locked his hands again behind his neck.

“Don’t worry, man. We’re going to figure this thing out,” Scott encouraged him. Turning to the rest of the group, he said, “Okay, let’s start from the beginning…”

Sunday, February 1

Los Angeles, California

1:05 p.m. PST

The stack of equipment bags rose outside the bus. Emrick added his to the pile and climbed aboard. When the bus was fully loaded, the bags were transferred two at a time to the lower cargo area.

Soon the bus was humming along the freeway at seventy-five miles per hour. It was the second in a line of three motor coaches; a fourth bus, carrying the coaching staff and some overly anxious players, had left the hotel an hour before the others. Ahead of the caravan, four California Highway Patrol motorcycles and three cruisers led the way with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Emrick stretched out on the left side of the bus, halfway back. Although his nerves were getting progressively worse, at least his stomach had calmed down. He had slowly eaten a large plate of pasta with a light butter sauce and actually managed to hold it down thus far. Like everyone else on the bus, he prayed that no one would lose it, because the resulting chain reaction would make the rest of the trip extremely unpleasant.

The bus exited the freeway and gradually maneuvered its way from San Pascual Avenue to Arroyo Boulevard. Suddenly a voice from the front said, “Yo, check it out!”

Although the stadium was not yet in view, there was no doubt as to its location. Up ahead, the sky was filled with aircraft of every sort. Emrick tried to count them all-at least four planes, six helicopters, and a blimp-stacked at different altitudes as if they were on shelves.

Along the route to the stadium from the hotel, there had been pockets of waving fans. However, once they passed under the Ventura Freeway, the celebration began in earnest. The sides of the road for that final mile were filled with thousands of frenzied people cheering and holding signs.

By the time the buses arrived at the Rose Bowl, the caravan could only inch its way forward. One of the barricades had fallen, and people had massed on the road. Finally helmeted police officers were able to push the crowd back with their Plexiglas shields, and the buses rolled down to their drop-off point.

An audible groan swept through the bus as the doors opened and the sound of Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York” floated in. No one had anything against the great crooner, but everyone on the team had heard that song enough times in the past week to last a lifetime.

A roar went through the crowd as the first players stepped off the bus. Emrick stood up next to his seat, tightened the knot on his tie, and walked out. He didn’t know what the day was going to hold for him, but he did know that he would never be the same again.

Sunday, February 1

El Espejo Road

La Mirada, California

1:30 p.m. PST

Hakeem drove his two fists into the floor. He had been trying to pray for the past twenty minutes-trying to focus on Allah and on the task ahead-but all his mind kept giving him were images of Alessandra and of Riley, beaten and tied to a chair.

Hakeem raised his head off the ground and, kneeling, lifted his hands toward heaven. Allah, I am yours. Give strength to your weak servant. Accept me into your paradise. Hakeem passed his cupped hands across his face and stood. “I am ready,” he called out.

Immediately the three men who had been waiting outside the door entered. Rashid Ali Jabr was the owner of the house Hakeem had been staying in. Arshad Mahmud was the local cell leader of the Cause. The third to enter, a man Hakeem had not yet met, was a specialist hired for his particular skills. It was he who had assembled the bomb that Hakeem was now going to place on his body.