SAN FRANCISCO

      Hassan reached the truck that had been left next to the park in a suburb of the city called Little Italy. A beautiful Catholic church could be seen across the park through the trees, and he spat in the direction of the church as he walked toward the truck. He looked down the hill toward the bay; the Coit Tower, which looked like the end of a giant fire hose, was perched on the rocks that overlooked the harbour.

      Whoever had left the truck for Hassan had placed four plastic traffic cones around the vehicle, so that it did not look out of place. It looked like it was making an innocent delivery. Hassan looked beneath the only traffic cone that had a flashing yellow light on top of it, and beneath it was the key to the vehicle. He moved the cone from in front of the truck, opened the lock and climbed in. The truck was a small gas storage tanker. The words America Gas were painted down the side of the Mack driving rig, which had five thousand litres of propane gas stored in the bulbous tank behind his cab. Anyone looking in his direction may have thought it odd, that this man that was dressed in Islamic clothing, with a `ZZ top` beard, was delivering propane in Little Italy, but no one saw anything as he started the engine.

      Hassan reached beneath the passenger seat and took out a red cool box, which had been hidden there, and he noticed it still had the price tag from Publix supermarket stuck on it. He lifted the lid and placed the contents of the box onto the seat next to him. He put a claw hammer and a roll of silver duct tape next to each other on the passenger seat. Two grenades and a reel of fishing twine he placed on his lap. Last, he removed a `38 Calibre Smith and Wesson, which he slid under the driver’s seat. He decided to set up the truck in preparation for the attack where it was quiet, as he did not want to be disturbed, and he needed to make enough time to enable him to pay a visit to the old maritime museum on the way. The men that had ridiculed him would pay for their insults with their lives.

      Hassan recognized the two different types of grenade that he had been given from his training in Somalia. One was a regular explosive fragmentation grenade, the other a phosphorous device. He needed no further instructions; the plan was deadly simple. He turned to face the rear window of the Mack truck and smashed the glass with the hammer. He used the claw to pull the glass remnants into the cab, and the broken window left the exposed bulkhead of the gas tank only feet away from him. He taped the two grenades to the tanker`s metal bulkhead. He then tied some twine to both activation pins, and attached the twine to his steering wheel. When the time was right he would pull the twine, which would release the activation pins. Hassan knew that one grenade should be sufficient to rupture the tank and ignite the gas. If it did not then the phosphor grenade would do the trick. Hassan firmly believed he was a Mujahideen warrior fighting the Jihad. If he were to fail today then he would bring shame on Islam. With the grenades in place, he put the truck in gear and drove toward the museum.

      Hassan pulled the America Gas truck to a stop, mounting the curb. He was fifty yards from the huge scaffold structure that covered the front of the maritime museum. The truck was facing the Giradelli chocolate factory at the bottom of Polk Street. The workmen that had shouted insults to him earlier that morning all wore yellow hats and high viz jackets, and Hassan watched as they swarmed over the scaffold at every level, stonemasons, carpenters and painters were all busy repairing the old building to its former glory.

      Hassan engaged drive and steered the truck toward the legs and supports of the steel scaffold that resembled a metal spider’s web. Hassan slammed his foot down on the accelerator pedal as the truck made contact with the scaffold poles, and the vehicle lurched forward tearing the scaffold away from the building as it roared down the road. Steel bars clanged to the floor along with wooden gangplanks, and men lay injured all over the road, some still clung to the building above, hanging on for dear life itself.

      Hassan looked in the rear view mirror at the scene. There were bodies scattered all over the road. Men lay prone on the tarmac, some were still, not moving, while others were crawling and screaming because their bones were broken. Hassan spotted the man that he had heard called McAllister by his supervisor earlier that morning. He was about thirty yards away lying on his side in the road, and his heavy moustache and ponytail identified him from the other injured men. The truck`s wheels screeched as Hassan put it into reverse revving the engine as it closed the distance between himself and his tormenter. McAllister lay on the tarmac and was confused as he watched the tanker race toward him. He thought he had been involved in a terrible accident when a gas truck had brought down the scaffold, but he looked incredulously as the truck`s reversing lights came on, and the vehicle lurched toward him. It was almost as if the driver was aiming for him deliberately. He raised his head from the tarmac desperately trying to get his broken body out of the vehicles path but to no avail, and the last thing he heard was the loud crack as his hardhat collapsed beneath the crushing weight of the truck, his skull split, spilling its contents across the road. The truck lurched forward again. Hassan weaved slowly through the injured men that lay prone and helpless in the road. He aimed the truck at the men that were still moving as he drove down the bay road toward Pier 39.

            Hassan had driven about a mile by the time he approached Fisherman’s Wharf and Pier 39; they were on his left hand side as he past them. Tourists milled around the shops and stalls that sold fresh crab of every size and description, and cafe bars and restaurants were full of tourists on both sides of the road as he drove the gas truck toward Pier 39. He heard the sound of sirens coming toward him and he slowed as the emergency services past him by. They were heading toward the carnage that he had left behind him at the old museum. He turned toward the bay and looked out at the Golden Gate Bridge. There was mist and low cloud covering the top of the huge red structure. He looked toward the Rock, Alcatraz. He saw the passenger ferries carrying tourists from the famous redundant federal penitentiary. It had once been the home of such famous gangsters as Al `Scarface` Capone and `Machinegun Kelly`. The huge white ferries took tourists from the empty prison back to Pier 39. Hassan could hear the incessant barking of hundreds of elephant seals, drifting from the bay on the wind.

      Hassan steered the truck in the direction of the ferry terminal and veered left across the pavement toward the entrance to Pier 39. The security chain that was stretched across the terminal entrance snapped like cotton as the vehicle struck it at speed, and it hurtled toward the waiting crowds.

The waiting area at Pier 39 looked like a car lot. The dock itself made a square. One edge was the sea wall where the ferries docked, and two sides were made with old tramcars that tourists could sit in to shelter from the freezing bay winds. The final edge was the entrance from Bay road. The centre of the square was cordoned into a long zigzag queuing area where people waited in line for the boats to take them to the Rock. A ferry had just docked; the pier was full as one ferry load of passengers waited to board, while another was disembarking.

      Petur Petersson was an Icelandic national. He was blond haired and blue eyed, as was his wife Ingrid, his son Petur Jnr. and daughter Anna. They stood huddled together in a line waiting to board a ferry that would take them to Alcatraz. They were shifting their weight from one foot to the other as cold people do. They all wore the same style fleece jackets, San Francisco embroidered on the front. The two men wore black jackets and the women wore pink. They laughed as they counted how many people had the same style fleece tops on as they did.

      Mark Twain said. “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” `Never a truer word was spoken`, Petur had thought as he had paid for the four garments earlier that morning. Even though the sun was shining and the sky was blue, it was bitterly cold, and the sea breeze caught out many tourists who had arrived in the bay wearing shorts and tee shirts. By lunchtime most days, hundreds of tourists had been forced to buy fleece coats from the market traders to hide them from the bitter bay winds.

      Petur heard the loud `Thwack` noise as the security chain snapped, and he tried to make sense of the scene, as a large gas truck appeared to be out of control. It ploughed through the crowds at speed. The vehicle crushed everyone that was in its path as it headed toward the ferry, which had just docked. Most of the crowd had nowhere to run, hemmed in by the sheer numbers of people that were on the dock. Petur turned and grabbed his family, pushing them out of the path of the truck, which showed no sign of stopping. He looked into the cab as it neared; the driver seemed to pull some invisible cord. Petur was thrown clear as the concussion wave from the grenades hit him; his ears were ringing from the blast when the gas truck exploded turning Pier 39, the ferry and hundreds of people into a fireball.