Prologue

A tractor-trailer rolled to a stop on a Route 287 exit lane, the truck’s top less than a foot from a Route 80 overpass. A burly driver squeezed out the passenger side, bumping the door against a concrete side wall that supported the bridge. He hopped into a black Toyota that accelerated around the ramp and sped onto Route 80 West, leaving the truck abandoned in the night, honked at by irate motorists.

The man checked his watch, counting intervals every five seconds. He looked at the driver. It was exactly midnight, Eastern Daylight Time, in Parsippany, New Jersey. “Un minuto, Dante.”

The driver nodded.

The passenger punched in eleven numbers on his cell-phone. Two seconds later, the truck exploded, blowing a gaping crater in Route 287 and shooting mangled hunks of the overpass hundreds of feet into the October night. Debris rained down three football fields away, the fireball visible from Manhattan skyscrapers. One chunk of roadway landed on the eastbound passing lane of Route 80, squashing a skidding Grand Am and its driver, Sam James.

One minute later, 800 miles west, a second truck-bomb exploded under another Route 80 overpass—this one south of Chicago. The blast obliterated a rented van carrying employees and customers of the Paulson Electronics Company.

Within several minutes, six other truck bombs demolished Route 80 overpasses at major interchanges across the continent. The explosions killed 461, wounding 939. All eight interchanges were impassable, choking traffic from New Jersey to California. Repairs would take months and cost hundreds of millions. By the eleven o’clock news in L.A., the media had given the attacks an instant label: I-80.


* * *


On a Mediterranean hillside, cheers erupted on the patio of a secluded hacienda. Six men celebrated, jabbering Spanish.

“It is confirmed,” a drunken voice crowed. “Eight hits. Victory for Sabah Al Khair! A good morning, indeed!” The men cheered.

“Speech, Diego,” said a higher voice, one that grated like an un-tuned violin.

“Yes, speech, Diego,” implored another.

Five brothers, all in western clothes and with bags the size of pears under their eyes, gazed at their oldest brother.

The most somber of the party—the one with a stubbly beard—stood and raised an arm until the others were silent. “You want a victory speech?”

“Yes, yes!”

The bearded man frowned. “Wine has made you sloppy—never call me Diego where our work is concerned. The deception must be complete. I am Anwar. And as for victory speeches, do not be fools. There is too much more work to talk of victory. And what of the two cells that failed?”

The five lowered their eyes.

Anwar faced the Mediterranean, reveling in a southerly breeze. “I’ll grant that Sabah Al Khair achieved success today, but do not claim victory. Just as a venomous snake becomes wary when tormented, so the Americans will become more vigilant.”

He paused, aware of the power he held over his family. “Do not misunderstand. I am pleased at what we accomplished. Trucking, the pulse of the United States economy, will be disrupted, and the Americans will be paralyzed, fearful of driving their extravagant automobiles.” His voice rose to a crescendo. “Instilling fear of everyday life, that is how we will gain our revenge!”

He placed his hand on the pager-sized device clipped to his belt. “Remember, my brothers, secrecy is the key, and for our next project, the night owl will protect us.”

The youngest brother cleared his throat. “Then surely we can be ourselves in the safety of our home?”

“But what if a satellite is taking pictures right now?” Anwar dropped to his knees, gazing east—toward Mecca—smiling at his cleverness. “For the benefit of American spies, join me in Islamic prayer…for the next great blow in our Jihad—clean water.” He laughed, and his five brothers laughed and bowed with him.

The rising sun bathed the hacienda’s red-tiled roof in golden light. It was a good morning.