by Ben Coes
Perry looked at another screen. The vantage point went to a Zodiac on the East River. The camera was on the helmet of one of the Navy SEALs tucked beneath the FDR.
Perry stood to the left of the screens, watching along with the others in the mission theater.
On the right screen, the Zodiac suddenly revved forward, out from beneath the overhang of the FDR Drive, beneath the UN.
Meanwhile, on the left screen, the lead Black Hawk flew toward Manhattan, directly into the path of a smoky cloud thundering up from where the tunnel leading into the city had been destroyed.
Sound from the two teams was on low but still discernible, mostly verbal interchange between Minelli and Ferrara.
Perry looked at Calibrisi.
“Any word from the president?” Perry said, barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “A trauma surgeon spoke to him on the phone. He was struck by a piece of glass. She said that he either died or became unconscious during the call.”
63
9:15 A.M.
MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL
COLUMBUS CIRCLE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma took an elevator to the second floor of the building. He exited and moved down the hallway until he came to the fire stairs. Before entering, he removed a suppressed SIG Sauer P226 from beneath his armpit. He chambered a round as he lifted the pistol next to his head.
With his free hand, he felt for a knife, sheathed at his torso, an old habit, an insecurity; simply seeing if the blade was still there. Next he reached over his shoulder, making sure the MP7A1 was positioned properly for a quick go.
Tacoma put his hand on the door to the fire stairs. He heard automatic-weapon fire from the lobby—sharp bullet fire—and there were shouts.
He removed his cell and opened an application called Trojan Spirit. It was a proprietary application developed by the Pentagon’s DARPA team with interagency involvement that included CIA, NSA, DHS, and State. Its purpose was simple. Trojan Spirit was basically a field-level chat room and messaging system outside the internet and could be purposed on the fly for certain groups, such as, in this case, retired members of the military who had served in Special Forces, and who remained in good standing and thus were provisioned into the application. Trojan Spirit could only be used for “critical communications during threats to U.S. national security.”
It was Tacoma’s first time ever opening the application. He typed quickly, segmenting an audience of ex-operators confined to New York City. He sent six texts:
TROJAN SPIRIT
FLASH (Y) activation
This is Tacoma ex SEAL 6
HEZBOLLAH @MANHATTAN approx 500+ active shooters
Permission ddcia to take up arms activation extreme priority
Kill as many motherfuckers as u can
** know your fields of fire
Tacoma pocketed the cell and opened the door to the stairwell, training the P226 in a tight arc, finger on the trigger. The stairwell was empty.
Tacoma moved rapidly down the stairs as another round of automatic gunfire could be heard from just below. He came to the ground floor of the Mandarin and saw a door to the lobby. He approached the door warily. Through a small window, he saw a gunman, patrolling just on the other side of the door. The fatal tunnel. Tacoma ducked before the gunman could see him. He glanced one more time, from a sharp angle, and saw corpses strewn about the lobby.
Tacoma cut in the opposite direction, away from the door, and traveled down a maze of corridors until he found another door. Through a small window, he could see into a corridor. He holstered the 226 beneath his armpit and lifted the MP7A1 from over his back. He flipped the fire selector to full auto, then clutched the trigger and opened the door.
He heard more gunfire—the single crack of a pistol. He heard a woman shouting, and more gunfire … and he picked up his pace.
Tacoma came into the lobby across from where the gunman was positioned, kitty-corner to a bank of elevators. Pausing for a second as he heard the sound of more gunfire, he reached to his thigh and found a long cylindrical object, a B&T alloy suppressor, and screwed it quickly to the muzzle of the gun, then flipped the fire selector to manual. He moved out in front of the bank of elevators, training the weapon at the lobby as he emerged into the light-filled atrium. He registered blood splashed on walls and bodies across the entrance floor. Then he saw a gunman. He was across the bank of elevators, still guarding the fire door. Tacoma sighted him and pulled the trigger. A bullet spat from the end of the firearm with a metallic thwack—ripping the front of the killer’s forehead. The man dropped with barely a groan. He heard voices in Persian. He flipped the fire selector to full auto and stepped toward the hotel’s vast, light-crossed glass-walled lobby, clutching the trigger but not firing as he entered.
A man at the door … someone pivoting … bodies, blood.
A young, dark-haired man with a beard turned as Tacoma entered. He had on a white T-shirt and held a Kalashnikov. The gunman swept the gun toward Tacoma. Tacoma’s eyes went past the gunman and he saw two others. They were similar-looking—young, dark hair, holding weapons. That was all he had time to understand before his finger instinctively pumped the trigger. The spit spit spit of suppressed gunfire was audible, but muted. The ammo burst leveled the man who was about to shoot—then Tacoma turned the submachine gun at the two other terrorists. He fired and slugs ripped sideways across the foreheads of the men, sending dark, misty clouds of blood across the lobby and dropping the men to the marble floor.
Tacoma saw other gunmen outside the building. He counted five men as he walked across the lobby. Out on the street in front of the Mandarin, he saw one of the corpses he’d blown away from his deck. Someone had seen him and they were there to kill him. Tacoma pulled the trigger and a wash of bullets tore through the glass. He clutched the trigger, moving the SMG from left to right, emptying the mag. He dumped the mag and slammed in another.
Tacoma walked outside through a destroyed wall of glass. One of the gunmen was still moving and Tacoma fired a short burst of bullets into his chest, killing him.
64
9:15 A.M.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
116TH STREET AND BROADWAY
NEW YORK CITY
Singerman was almost at Broadway when he heard the crack of gunfire just in front of him. From the pavement, he watched as a man stepped from a car holding a submachine gun—and started firing at people indiscriminately. There were screams and then Singerman saw another gunman emerge behind him.
Singerman dived behind the gates that marked the entrance to Columbia. He waited as the two killers started to move south on Broadway, automatic rifles out.
He watched and began to get up when—through the gates—he saw one of the killers turn.
Singerman recognized the gait. He tucked himself against the bricks.
In his ear, Polk was still there:
“Aaron, where’s your weapon?”
Singerman looked at his briefcase. He opened it and ripped out the back, revealing a long, thin, fixed-blade Benchmade combat knife. He got to his feet, crouching.
Automatic-weapon fire erupted just feet away—on the other side of the gate.
As the gunman walked past the gate, Singerman lurched and slashed the blade into the gunman’s stomach, ripping fast sideways, cutting almost back to the man’s spine, and the terrorist’s stomach and organs spilled to the bricks along with a burst of dark crimson as he let out a horrific scream.
Stepping over the dying terrorist’s body, Singerman picked up the gunman’s Uzi. He moved to Broadway in a crouch and found the other gunman, across Broadway and a few car lengths down, clutching an AK-47 and looking around. Singerman pumped the trigger, sending bullets in the direction of the unsuspecting terrorist. A line of nickel-sized holes shredded the man across the chest, leaving a miasma of crimson.
Singerman ran down the curved slope from Broadway to Riverside Drive. Halfway down the block, he came to a wi
de limestone-and-brick townhouse. At an old iron gate, he found a small black digital box, which he put his left index finger against, and the gate unlocked.
“I’m clear,” said Singerman.
Singerman went inside and crossed through the grand but empty entrance to the kitchen and went to a door in back, then descended to the basement of the town house. He flipped on the lights. A large gun safe stood alone in the dimly lit basement. It was green and red, and said BROWNING along the side. He opened the heavy door.
“What do you need from me?” said Singerman into his earbud as he put the Uzi down. He picked up an MP7A2 and threaded a silencer into the muzzle, then jammed a tactical vest with mags.
“Get armed up and down to the UN,” said Polk. “The president is under attack.”
“Roger that, Bill, on my way,” said Singerman.
65
9:15 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mansour was slumped against the guardhouse, inside the UN complex, but away from the major gun battle, though he was involved. Pinned down.
Mansour was bleeding from his knee. The sniper had moved and reacquired him from inside the UN building. Each time Mansour started to move out from behind the security station, a bullet slammed the ground nearby.
The sniper had him locked in.
On either side of the security station, toward the tower, was open concrete, slightly away from the main battle. But he had no chance to run across it now, not until the sniper ran out of ammo or was dead.
How could he have been so stupid? He was sure that he’d thought of everything, but clearly he hadn’t.
Meanwhile, his knee throbbed with pain. His shoe was drenched in blood. It had trickled down his calf and ankle from his knee.
He was going to bandage it, but he was slipping into shock and was in the pre-stages when the pain becomes so overwhelming it makes one dull. It wasn’t bleeding obscenely, but it was bleeding badly, and he was losing the energy to bandage it. Mansour knew he had to, but he was too tired. He had to deal with the pain, he knew.
When he felt his eyes become droopy and start to involuntarily shut, he knew he was on the verge of slipping into shock.
He reached to a pocket of his coat and took out a small circular container. He unscrewed the top. Inside was a pile of small white pills. Oxycontin. He took three and swallowed them. Mansour knew he would lose part of his capabilities by taking the pills, yet if he didn’t treat the pain he would fall into shock and then he’d be dead, shot by the first NYPD SWAT to come across him, or the sniper.
He felt warmth and a sense of elation, and the pain started to ebb.
Voices across First Avenue, then Mansour saw an FBI man weaving toward him from up First Avenue. The agent was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, clutching an MP7. He wore a bulletproof vest, with the letters FBI in yellow. Mansour remained still as the man cut between vehicles, shielding himself. Mansour raised his rifle, moved the fire selector to manual, and fired. The bullet hit the FBI agent in the eye, kicking out the back of his skull and spraying blood and brains across several cars.
Mansour took out his cell phone. He hit a speed dial as he looked up at the glass-and-steel skyscraper across from the UN, on First Avenue. A luxury building filled with foreign diplomats. One of the four Hezbollah missile men was on the roof.
“Commander,” said Kouros.
“I need one of your men to do something,” said Mansour.
“Yes, Commander.”
“There’s a sniper at the UN. He has me trapped. I’m behind the guardhouse.”
“Facing First Avenue?” said Kouros.
Kouros was on the East River side of the UN.
“What floor?” said Kouros.
“I don’t know,” said Mansour. “A low floor.”
Kouros texted his soldier, a man who was on the roof of a luxury condominium tower across First Avenue from the UN.
> Sniper low floor
>> Yes I see him third floor
> Prepare to kill
“My man sees him,” said Kouros.
“Can you shoot him?” said Mansour.
“May I be honest?” said Kouros.
“Lies are useless to me,” said Mansour.
“It’s too far for my soldier’s rifle, Commander,” said Kouros. “But, sir, he can destroy him with one of the Strelas.”
“Do it, brother,” said Mansour.
66
9:15 A.M.
EAST RIVER
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey had the boat gunning, throttles wide open, and was moving fast across the open Upper Bay of New York Harbor. Between Governors Island and Brooklyn there was a channel, and Dewey steered the Hinckley into it, even as a procession of sailboats, ferries, motorboats, and even rowing shells moved down the channel and away from Manhattan.
He could see Manhattan to his left, like a monolith behind Governors Island, covered in clouds of smoke, and he was but a small speck in the boat. Nevertheless, he knew the Iranians were likely watching the mouth of the East River. That’s what he would do in their position.
It was a race against time. There was no way Hezbollah could keep American forces out for very long—but the Iranians didn’t need to keep them out for more than a few hours at most; they only needed to keep them out for as long as it took them to find J. P. Dellenbaugh and kill him.
Dewey kept the Hinckley as close as possible to Brooklyn’s shoreline, on his starboard side, to the right. After passing Governors Island, he exited the channel and moved north, along Brooklyn’s crowded waterfront, into open water, exposed, though at least a quarter mile from any part of Manhattan, and was soon at the mouth of the East River, cutting between Manhattan and Brooklyn.
The currents were fierce as the river poured into the harbor.
At the mouth of the East River, he could suddenly hear the faintest rat-a-tat-tat of automatic-weapon fire coming from somewhere at the southern edge of Manhattan, to his left—Battery Park, Wall Street, or the Seaport. There was no way to tell where the noise was coming from, but it didn’t seem as if they were aiming for him. But as he kept going, sporadic gunfire grew louder.
In the distance, spanning the low sky between Brooklyn and Manhattan, was the Brooklyn Bridge. It came into view gradually, but through the mist Dewey could see a small fire at approximately midpoint of the bridge.
Hezbollah had blown up the openings to the four tunnels. They didn’t need to destroy the bridges. All they needed to do was tie up traffic. The Iranians were doing it by simply killing motorists. The cars would provide the barrier. It was, tactically, a smart move. The result was chaos. As he moved closer beneath the bridge, Dewey heard screams and shouting, and the sound of gunfire became louder. He registered people running toward Brooklyn, away from Manhattan. Small dots of red, white, orange, and black in the distance.
The sheer scope of the Iranian attack was mind-boggling.
From a purely tactical perspective, it was coordinated, overwhelming, detail-oriented, and above all fast. They had huge operating leverage, meaning that with a relatively small group of soldiers they could inflict a great deal of damage. Four bombers in the tunnels. Active shooters mowing down a thoroughly unprepared citizenry, taking advantage of streets clogged with vehicles whose drivers were now dead or had run. It was a major challenge for law enforcement.
Where the East River met the ocean was a wide spread of water. Getting upstream to the UN wouldn’t be a problem. He was a tiny moving part of a larger maelstrom. Any gunmen looking for attacks coming from the river would need to be focused. Moreover, any Hezbollah on the bridges were likely there to settle traffic on the bridge. Dewey guessed that any men looking for people in boats would be set up in a separate location from the frontline shooter, or shooters, on the bridge.
As he came up to the Brooklyn Bridge, Dewey watched a woman running along the bridge, trying to get a
way, as a pair of Hezbollah gunmen fired submachine guns. Her body was interrupted in a violent thrust—she didn’t make it. He eyed the two killers as the boat approached and started to go out of sight, beneath the bridge. He raised the rifle. The closest one, a young man with a beard and mustache, with long, black hair, was too focused on the bridge to look down.
They didn’t notice Dewey below.
Dewey knew his responsibility was to get to the UN and yet he couldn’t resist. He set the fire selector on the AR-15 to manual. Just as the boat went beneath the outer steel of the bridge, he found the bearded thug in the optic. Dewey pumped the trigger. A slug from the rifle struck the killer square center in the ear, kicking him back—blowing his skull in a wet, red rain across the windshield of an empty SUV just as the Hinckley went beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.
Dewey quickly tied a line to the wheel, keeping the boat straight as it could go and letting it steer itself. As he acclimated to the speed, the shift in the Hinckley, and the movement of the Iranian, he stared up at the bottom of the Brooklyn Bridge.
The other gunman would no doubt see his dead comrade and come to the north side of the bridge to kill him.
Dewey went to the stern of the Hinckley. He crouched and moved the fire selector to semimanual, then targeted the bridge above, adjusting his eyes against the dark of the steel, knowing he would need to fire just as bright light hit after the bridge. He adjusted the optic. It took him several moments staring through the sight, but he locked in on the side of the bridge, tracking it, before even seeing anyone. As the boat moved out from beneath the bridge, Dewey heard gunfire from above as bullets ripped into the aft end of the boat. Dewey saw muzzle flash. He registered a gunman, aiming down and firing. Dewey swept and fired, spraying slugs which struck steel, and then one of the bullets hit the Hezbollah in the forehead. The killer stumbled over the railing of the bridge, twisting in a limp somersault and splashing into the East River less than twenty feet from Dewey’s boat, then he was quickly swept away by the fierce current.