The Enemy Within

Qalib swung into action, moving rapidly through an often rehearsed series of actions. First he dipped into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out a tube of fast-drying epoxy. Then he reached under the top layer of gift-wrapped packages in his bag, took out a metal case painted to match the compartment interior, and set it on his lap. It was six inches long, six inches wide, and three inches high. “Property of Disneyland” had been stenciled across the case’s outer face. There were adhesive strips attached to its underside.

He flipped the top open and pressed a button on a small digital watch attached to the inside front. Instantly, the display shifted from the current time to a preset number and began counting down. A quick scan of the wires leading out from the improvised timer showed no loose connections. Satisfied, he shut the case and sealed the top with a blob of epoxy. That should stop any prying hands for the short time needed, he thought.

The young Somali glanced up from his work. The monorail was just beginning its long arc over the crowded Disneyland parking lot. Careful to keep his hands away from the adhesive, he leaned over, set the metal case against the compartment wall at his feet, and tamped it into place.

He slid across the monorail compartment, closer to the door, and surveyed his handiwork for a brief moment. Placed below eye level, the case blended fairly well with its surroundings. It should escape immediate notice.

The train began slowing. They were almost back to the hotel.

Qalib recapped the epoxy, dropped it into his bag, and stripped off his windbreaker. That was the easiest form of disguise. Whites could rarely tell blacks apart by their facial features. The station attendants should see no immediate connection between the gray jacketed black man who’d gotten on the monorail only minutes before and the young man in a bright Mickey Mouse sweatshirt who was coming back.

When the doors slid open, the Somali walked unhurriedly toward the stairs, completely ignoring the milling crowds waiting to board. They were no longer his concern.

Ten-year-old Brian Tate mumbled a favorite swear word under his breath as his freely swinging ankles jarred painfully against that dorky raised bump that stuck out from the side of the compartment. He sneaked a fearful look toward his parents to see if they’d heard him. Nope. He relaxed. Both of them were way too busy pointing out the sights to his bratty younger brother and sister. They were crossing over that stupid submarine ride he’d taken two years ago. He sneered. You didn’t see anything cool, he thought. Just swimming pool water and some stuffed fish. Even the submarines were on tracks.

Curious now, Brian bent over to inspect the wall. His hands brushed against the bump and came away sticky. This was definitely very weird. Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the train. It was a metal box.

The ten-year-old looked up. “Hey, Dad! Check this out…”

Inside Qalib’s metal case, the timer blinked from 00:00:01 to 00:00:00.

Thirty feet over Tomorrowland, the Disneyland monorail exploded, torn from end to end by a powerful blast. A ball of fire pushing razor-edged shards of steel and aluminum roared outward in a searing, deadly tide that surged over the tightly packed people waiting in lines below and left them charred or broken and bleeding on the ground.

Most of the warped, burning remnants of the monorail were blown off the track and plunged hissing into the lagoon.

New Hope Baptist Church, near Churchill Downs, Louisville, Kentucky

The deep, joy-filled voices of the New Hope Baptist Church choir were loud enough to be heard in the parking lot outside the whitewashed, wood-frame church. A special night service full of prayers for civic and racial peace was in full swing. Other gatherings were planned later in the week in churches of other denominations. Louisville’s religious and political leaders wanted to calm emotions that were boiling dangerously near the surface as racial attack after racial attack rocked the country.

To help keep the peace and make sure there were no ugly incidents, two officers from the Louisville police department sat in a parked patrol car outside the church.

Officer Joe Bailey listened to the music for a few moments before rolling his window shut. He grinned over at his rookie partner. “Fine singing, Hank. Mighty fine singing. Just kind of reaches down and picks your spirit right up, don’t it?”

Hank Smith nodded politely without saying anything. Music was one of the things he and the older policeman would never agree on. His own tastes ran more to U2 than to country or gospel.