by Ben Coes
9:14 A.M.
WESTIN NEW YORK GRAND CENTRAL
212 EAST FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Four men sat in different parts of the large lobby of the Westin Hotel, which was very busy. A hodgepodge of business travelers and tourists moved briskly about as, outside, chaos descended. Hotel security had closed off the entrance to the hotel and several armed security guards stood near the entrance. They had a difficult task—on the one hand, letting people in to find refuge from the active shooters now moving down Manhattan streets—and on the other, being prepared to shoot any of the terrorists if they attempted to enter the Westin.
The four Iranians in the Westin lobby all knew one another. They’d trained together, first in QUDS, then in North Africa and then in Neyshabur, near the Turkmenistan and Afghanistan border, after being recruited by Hezbollah. Yet the four men didn’t acknowledge each other.
Each man was young, early twenties. The oldest was twenty-four years old.
Each man was dressed in casual clothing. No one stood out. Even if they’d been sitting together, they probably wouldn’t have raised many eyebrows, even though they all looked vaguely Middle Eastern.
Each man had spent the morning chopping off thumbs and plucking eyeballs from the sockets of the four governors of the Federal Reserve.
Away from the lobby, the elevator doors opened and a dozen people stepped out, including a short, bespectacled man in a gray suit and no tie. He had dark hair, combed neatly to the side. He was thin, even gaunt. He had a mustache. He had droopy eyes, with bags beneath them, though his overall mien was that of a successful businessman or lawyer. Of course, no truly successful businessman or lawyer would stay at the Westin near Grand Central, but that didn’t matter, for he was only trying to look anonymous.
The man, Rokan, walked to a chair out of the way. He put a backpack on the floor next to him and opened it. Rokan looked up, making sure no one was about, then eyed one of the men who’d been waiting.
The man approached and reached into his pocket as he came close. He took a plastic ziplock bag and surreptitiously dropped it into the backpack. Rokan handed him a plastic card.
“Eight twelve,” said Rokan in a whisper.
Three other Hezbollah operators approached Rokan over the next minute, each placing a plastic bag in the backpack.
Rokan stood without saying anything. He strolled across the lobby with four eyeballs, four thumbs, and an address.
* * *
In room 812, the four killers of the Fed governors gathered.
A pair of large duffel bags were on the bed.
In silence, the gunmen took weapons from the duffel bags. It was a mix of guns: three Uzis, an AR-15, a Kalashnikov, a DP-12 twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun, and a bunch of various handguns. The important part of the cache was the ammunition, and each man, after selecting his weapon of choice, found spare magazines and stuffed his pockets as full as he could.
One of the men used the bathroom.
They sat in the room, in silence.
Two of the men, Muhammed and Turan, knew each other like brothers—but they didn’t speak. Instead, they waited.
The one who’d used the bathroom spoke:
“We wait a minute,” he said, chambering a round. “Turan, you go first. We’ll meet up on the other side.”
60
9:15 A.M.
MISSION THEATER TARGA
NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Mack Perry, the thirty-one-year-old director of Special Operations Group, was pulling into the outer entrance to CIA Headquarters when his cell phone suddenly shrieked a high-pitched series of repetitive beeps.
He tapped his ear.
“Perry,” he said. “I’m just pulling in. I need a breaker at the gate.”
“You got it,” said a female voice. “Opening in five, four—”
“Thank you,” said Perry as he swerved around a corner of the parking lot. He pulled an IV from his forearm, a mobile unit of chemo he’d made the hospital rig up for him.
No one knew yet about Perry’s cancer. Today, at least, he wanted to keep it that way.
“Patching you in,” said the woman.
Perry heard a few clicks as he veered out of the line of cars.
The gravelly voice of Bill Polk, the head of the National Clandestine Service boomed in his ear.
“Mack, where the hell are you?” said Polk, his boss.
Perry drove a slightly beat-up white Chevy Suburban, and slammed the gas as he moved out of the line of cars and bolted toward a special entrance at the north corner of the gate.
“I’m pulling in. Where are you?”
“Targa,” said Polk.
“Be right there.”
He spun the wheel and was soon barreling toward a high steel fence, which was slowly opening electronically. He shot through the opening and came into a half-empty basement-level embankment, barely lit.
In Perry’s ear:
“What’s your MANSET at the UN?” said Polk.
“What happened?” said Perry.
“All four tunnels leading into or out of Manhattan were blown up,” said Polk. “Destroyed. We have an extraction team airborne to get Dellenbaugh but what’s your MANSET?”
“I have a team on the river,” said Perry. “Six frogmen.”
Perry parked, opened the door, and threw up. When he finished, he sprinted to the closest door, which was being held open by a man in a suit and no tie.
“Where’s the team?” said Polk in Perry’s ear.
“Fifty-second Street, under the FDR,” said Perry.
“Who’s running the go boat?” said Polk.
“Ferrara,” said Perry.
Perry charged down two flights of stairs, then went through a steel door into a brightly lit, eerily modern, windowless hallway carpeted in white, silent enough to hear a pin drop. He saw Kaufman—the CIA general counsel—ahead; the fact that he was at the meeting signified everything.
The shit was hitting the fan.
He heard Polk’s voice in his ear just as he came to the door to Targa.
“Hold,” whispered Polk.
A moment later, Perry’s eyes met Polk’s through the open door. Polk nodded. He wanted to tell Perry something before he entered.
“Do not come in yet,” said Polk, still whispering.
“Roger.”
Again, Polk, barely above a whisper:
“The president’s chief of staff, Adrian King, is live-wired watching this,” said Polk. “So is the SECDEF. Get Ferrara running right now, before you walk in. We’ve lost contact with the president, and his last known position was the eighteenth floor of the UN.”
Perry watched Polk talk into his hand, hiding his words, from fifty feet away.
“Full recon, right?” said Perry.
“Affirmative,” said Polk. “Safeties off. Watch your point of attack, and watch your fields of fire.”
“Okay, give me a sec.”
Perry moved down the hall, past the operations theater.
“CENCOM, cut me in to Ferrara.”
“Yes, sir.”
He heard a beep.
“Vinny?”
“Yeah, Mack.”
“Are you aware of the situation?”
“Affirmative.”
“There’s an air crew coming in to extract Dellenbaugh but this thing is a shit show,” said Perry. “When you see choppers, your team is go, move out. Don’t go until you see the choppers. Got it? Get close by and use your ‘not nice’ side. We got to assume the worst.”
“Roger that,” said Ferrara. “But just so we’re clear, what do you mean by ‘worst’?”
“This is Extreme Priority,” said Perry. “Assume the helicopter exfiltration doesn’t work. You need to get in there and get him out some other way. Take the building and get to eighteen. Start looking for the president there. Enemy is already at the UN.”
“CENCOM, live-wire all comms through SIPRNet,” said Perry. “We’re in a full-combat situation in Manhattan. Sanitize any actions taken by NCS personnel inside or near Manhattan. This is an open-territory situation and their actions will be deemed necessary on behalf of the U S of A, per Perry as of this event.”
“Yes, sir,” came a female voice from CENCOM.
61
9:15 A.M.
IN THE AIR
LONG ISLAND SOUND
Both helicopters were similar in their setup: Sikorsky UH-60s off the deck of the USS Eisenhower, which was north of the coast of Connecticut.
The choppers swooped in toward the coastline, cutting above the water at a furious pace.
Each chopper was painted in a special paint diffused with microparticles of amber stealth alloy, which made the helicopters blend into the coloring of the sky to anyone looking up, and more importantly, refracted and confused advanced radar systems.
Minelli, in the lead chopper, peeked into the small cockpit of the Black Hawk. Minelli was geared up. Tight-quarters combat, daylight— he wore a camouflage set in white, olive, black, and blue, a tactical vest, and clutched a beefed-out M4.
“What do we got?” he said.
“Six and thirty,” said one of the pilots, over comms, without moving.
Minelli tapped his ear.
“CENCOM, this is Lieutenant Colonel Lincoln Minelli, SEAL Team 4.”
“Go, Colonel.”
“I need access into whoever is running the extraction.”
“Hold.”
A voice came on. It was Perry.
“Who is this?” said Perry.
“Minelli, lieutenant colonel, U.S. Navy, SEAL Team 4.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Perry. “I was on Four, too.”
“I know.”
“Where are you?” said Perry.
“We’re a few minutes out,” said Minelli. “What are you thinking?”
“I want a lead chopper with green-line backup a hundred feet up, but that’s just a suggestion,” said Perry. “Remember your combat training; this is a force recon. I didn’t fly choppers but I certainly flew in my share of choppers. I always think speed and eyes. You do what you need to do.”
“You got it.”
“You’ve got a team of UDT coming in by water,” said Perry. “Don’t shoot ’em.”
“Affirmative,” said Minelli. “We are on that. Do we know where the president is?”
“We’ve lost contact with the president. Last communication, he was on floor eighteen. This is hopefully going to be a rooftop extraction,” said Perry. “If POTUS isn’t there when you get there, you need to enter the building and get down to eighteen.”
“Roger that, Mack,” said Minelli.
Minelli stepped back into the cabin. He looked out a window and saw the other helicopter cut up, tracking behind, a hundred feet above, moving gradually into a tight attack pattern with the lead chopper. Minelli glanced through the cockpit window and studied the scene—a smoke-filled skyline above iconic skyscrapers. He registered the four smoke stacks above the island of Manhattan as the choppers approached, moving closer. The city seemed infinitely large and the two choppers tiny against the smoky sky.
At least, that’s how he hoped their approach would be perceived by anyone on the ground.
Then he saw the tower of blue glass that was the United Nations.
A section of the building itself—several lower floors—was destroyed and on fire.
Minelli turned back in to the cabin. He tapped his comms, tying him into the other commandos as well as everyone on the second chopper, trailing just behind.
“We’re getting close,” said Minelli, looking at the other Navy SEALs, six in all. “This is a recon of the president of the United States. If he’s not on the roof, we will need to deploy and engage. Last comms, he was on eighteen. Watch your fields of fire. We have the lead and will take the roof. Air Two, you approach in an RPO line above the East River and hold until we have POTUS—or something goes wrong, in which case move in. This a binary operation and the exfiltration of the president is the only objective. Pilots should assume enemy engagement. Let’s get there fast and hard. Eyes out the windows, everyone’s, but especially pilots’.”
The pair of Black Hawks moved at the maximum capability of their design—227 mph—across the Atlantic Ocean, just off the coast, each chopper tilting forward slightly, then they split apart above Brooklyn, slashing left and down, right and up, maintaining speed. The lead chopper balanced out at approximately rooftop elevation as the backup chopper soared several hundred feet higher. They both cut south until they were at the confluence of the Hudson and East Rivers. Swerving again, they flew up the East River.
In each Black Hawk cockpit, the pilots wore dark helmets with black visor glass, enabling them to not only fly the helicopters but to also manage the weapons systems bolted to the underbellies of the highly customized choppers. It was also more reliable than looking out through the front windows. The air was a cloud of gray, white, and black smoke and soot. At certain moments, it was impossible to even see the Manhattan skyline. The pilots were going on instruments only.
Minelli leaned in.
“Evasive measures, guys, both choppers,” said Minelli. “Jack up your fuckin’ radar. This reminds me of getting shot down in Baghdad.”
“Me, too,” said one of the pilots.
62
9:15 A.M.
MISSION THEATER TARGA
NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Perry entered the mission theater. The amphitheater was dimly lit.
Targa was one of five mission theaters inside the Directorate of Operations. It was an amphitheater of several dozen built-in, theater-like leather chairs ascending away from a large, rectangular LCD sheet, and two data management stations occupied by analysts.
On the screen were several live feeds, spread like tiles across the screen: Two were aerial views of Manhattan, one by satellite, one by drone.
Both showed Manhattan from the sky. Blue sky was visible but not in and around Manhattan, which looked, by satellite, as if it was on fire. Four clusters of smoke and fire lit up the view.
The view from the drone was more intimate, several cameras displaying live feed simultaneously of Manhattan from a few hundred feet in the air, directly above. Yet the views from the drone were even more illustrative as to the situation. The streets were afire in gun battles, and red sparks of gunfire dotted the view.
“Give us POV from both helicopters as well as the boat,” said Perry.
The screens in the theater flashed into two live video feeds, one feed from the lead helicopter, the other from the Zodiac CZ7 now hidden beneath FDR Drive.
The CIA theater was displaying live video feeds of all available aspects of the operation.
A deep monotone voice came through the feed, the low sound of engines behind it. It was Ferrara, the captain of the fastboat.
The screen shot large for everyone in Targa, live feeding from Ferrara’s helmet.
“Coming in range,” said Ferrara.
The view showed the bow of the Zodiac and the water beyond—straight to the destroyed shoreline south of the UN where the Queens-Midtown Tunnel fed into Manhattan. From the boat’s vantage point, it was a fiery mess of clouds and flames. The FDR Drive was ripped in seams of tar and steel. Cars were dangling and then falling into the fast-moving river from above.
It was a horrible scene. Several people in the room audibly winced or groaned. It was utter mayhem.
Perry stood in front of the screen, analyzing the view.
“Look right,” said Perry. “Give me a slow scan of the waterline.”
Ferrara looked to his right, idling the engine, and the view in the theater showed the shore of the East River, a stone-and-concrete structure that was at least twenty fee
t taller in height than the river. There was no access, but that wasn’t what Perry was searching for. He didn’t need to tell Ferrara how his men should get up. Perry was looking for hostiles. But he saw nothing.
The boat engines purred. The Zodiac was still beneath the UN Tunnel. Then it emerged into the light just beneath the UN.
“Mack, I’m right below,” said Ferrara.
“Air team is inbound,” said Perry. “Hold at the embankment point.”
“Roger that,” said Ferrara.
Perry suddenly felt a wave of nausea coming on from the chemotherapy. He turned and found Polk.
Polk stood and walked to Perry.
“Good presentation,” said Polk.
“Thanks,” said Perry, “are we missing something?”
“Probably,” said Polk.
“Have you run the Tier Ones?” said Perry.
“Yes—Andreas, Tacoma, and Singerman,” said Polk.
“Awesome,” said Perry, wincing as nausea hit even harder.
Polk took Perry quietly aside and walked with him toward the door into Targa, as if privately discussing some issue involving what was going on.
“When were you going to tell me?” said Polk.
“Tell you what?” said Perry.
“My wife had cancer, Mack,” he replied, holding his shoulder and walking with him. “I understand. Let’s get to the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” said Perry.
Perry walked to the bathroom alone. Once inside, he found the toilet and collapsed to his knees. He vomited profusely for almost a minute. Perry flushed a few times as he spat out. He washed his hands and face, and walked back across the dimly lit hallway. Polk was waiting for him outside the door to the mission theater.
Polk put his arm on Perry’s shoulder.
“I’d tell you it gets better, but it doesn’t,” said Polk, opening the door. “Now let’s get Dellenbaugh out of there.”
* * *
Inside Targa, Perry studied the half-arc of theater seating semi-filled with people, even as he directed the operation. He looked at the screen displaying the view from the undersides of the two helicopters as they flew across the sky toward the UN building in the distance.