The Island--A Thriller

by Ben Coes

  The guard held a submachine gun, which he kept trained on Rokan. Behind the guard, the lobby was mostly empty, though a few people ran for the elevators.

  “I work here,” said Rokan. “They’re killing people! Please, I just want to go to my office.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the guard, lowering his weapon. “I just need to see some ID.”

  “Yes, please hold on,” said Rokan. “Thank you.”

  Rokan reached into his backpack as if retrieving his wallet. He removed an Uzi Pro 9x19 and started pumping the trigger as he whipped it around at the security guard. A dull, staccato drum of metallic thwap thwap thwap thwap echoed in the stone atrium as bullets splattered in a diagonal line up the guard’s chest. Rokan kept firing as he stepped inside the lobby, shooting down half a dozen people, as bullets from a handgun shattered glass just behind him. Rokan registered the source—a second guard behind the security desk—and whaled on him with the Uzi, spraying slugs in a furious collage in and around the man, hitting him in the head.

  He went behind the security desk and pressed a series of buttons beneath it and there was a hydraulic noise as a steel wall descended inside the glass lobby, along the outer-facing glass, shutting off access in or out of the building.

  Rokan had never liked the violence or killing. Though he was trained thoroughly in all manner of firearms and explosives, self-defense, and cold weapons, including years spent learning face-to-face combat, though he knew how to do it all, and do it well, this was not a source of pride. Rather, he found numbers, and their correlation to the real world via computers, to be the world in which he excelled. As he looked down at one of the dead security men, his chest and face already layered in congealing blood, he paused. What he did with numbers was far more cruel than what he had just done to the security officer. Yet the sight of the dead man made him sick to his stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rokan, kneeling and touching the man’s hand.

  * * *

  On his way to the elevators, he saw a woman he’d already shot, trying to crawl through her own blood. He lifted the firearm, pumped the trigger, and sent a few bullets into her head.

  He reached the dead security guard and removed an access card from his pocket.

  There was no doubt the Federal Reserve did not allow security personnel onto its floor. Rokan knew the card wouldn’t get him provisioned to twenty-five. Not yet, anyway. He held the barcode up to his phone and scanned it. The program scanned the barcode and then went into the underlying layer of XML, rewriting it so as to allow entrance to the floor Rokan wanted to go to. After a few moments, the screen lit up with a self-generated barcode provisioning Rokan. He stepped into the elevator and placed the phone in front of a scanner. The doors closed and the elevator cab ascended. When it stopped, he stepped off. The number “25” was on the brass jamb of the elevator, though the floor itself was sterile and strangely lit with bright chemical lights in white along with diffuse orange and light blue.

  Rokan moved to his left, down a corridor without doors, walking in the direction of the light. A low humming noise grew louder as he walked toward the source of the light. When, finally, he came around the corner, he took in a sight he’d only just imagined. It was the entrance to the governors’ room. The room was across a thin hallway and in between was a mesmerizing wall of digital orange, white, and light blue.

  It was the American government’s last line of defense—an iodine sheet field, a wall of energy with unbelievable heat and power. Rokan had studied the general concept of sheet fields and understood the basic idea: a controlled plane of energy created by computing power connected to it. The Americans had built a way of managing its money and, with the iodine sheet field, used the electrical heat of the metadata to create an impenetrable fortress.

  There was no way in but with the irises and thumbprints of the four governors, and all four of them at once.

  Directly before the thin corridor to the governors’ room there were four waist-high lecterns, atop of which were digital screens, where the governors were provisioned in by eye and thumb scanners. Beyond was a corridor that led to the governors’ room. The passageway was bright and glowing. An incessant, audible buzz permeated the air, like a bug trap.

  Rokan walked slowly toward the four screens. He took a pen from his pocket and threw it at the sheet field. As it crossed the threshold into the delta of light, the pen disappeared in a millisecond of orange and a faint sizzle.

  Rokan took off his jacket and hurled it at the passageway and watched as it disappeared in a crooked wisp of blue. There was not even a hint of smoke, and only the faintest noise.

  Rokan put his backpack on the floor. He knelt down and removed the four small ziplock bags and held them up in front of him. He felt sick from the sight of the eyeballs and fingers, most of all from the blood. He stood up and went to the scanners.

  81

  9:32 A.M.

  ESPLANADE

  UNITED NATIONS PLAZA

  FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  Dewey ran for the UN building. He heard a scream to his right, followed by the metallic rat-a-tat-tat of a submachine gun. He turned and saw a woman in a business suit running toward the river. His eyes went to a lone gunman. He watched the killer shoot her from behind, spraying the woman with bullets from an Uzi. She kicked sideways, down to the concrete, falling into the path of her own blood.

  Dewey took a knee, targeting the gunman as he searched for others to kill. Dewey marked him in the crosshairs of the optic, waited a second, then pumped the trigger. A low twangy thud was the only sound. In the same instant, the bullet hit the man in the neck. The Iranian dropped as a hole gashed straight through his neck, and soon he was gushing blood as he toppled to the concrete in agony.

  Dewey continued along the hedge until he was directly left of the UN, across a few hundred feet of concrete, brick, and various greenery and statues.

  The sound of gunfire was constant now. He stopped and listened, and tried to watch. He had to discern what was happening. The noise was emanating mostly from the tower. The Iranians were in the process of creating—or already had created—a security cordon. It was clear they’d taken the lobby. They were now enforcing the perimeter as police and other law enforcement agents attempted to get into the UN from First Avenue, a battle of commitment and attrition. It was a fusillade in both directions.

  Beyond the tower, Dewey could see a car speeding away from the area around the UN complex. Down a one-way street, then onto the sidewalk, scrambling to get away. Some unlucky individual, maybe a tourist, who had stumbled onto the scene.

  Smoke and fire were in the mist. Panic and fear had overtaken the city. Sidewalks going away from the UN that Dewey could see showed people running from the gunfire around the UN. Sirens pealed from emergency vehicles, lampposts, and buildings.

  It was the worst mayhem he’d ever seen.

  Irregular war. Guerrilla war. Close-quarters combat.

  What he always remembered:

  Avoid direct confrontation.

  Dewey had just killed part of the cordon and now he needed to move.

  There is only the time between when you create the opening in the perimeter and they realize.

  He looked at his watch. 9:33. He had to attack now, there was no time anymore.

  He saw movement at the outer edge of the tower. Another gunman. The man had seen Dewey. He hadn’t moved quickly enough. The man ducked behind a bench and started firing at Dewey with a high-powered rifle. The second or third bullet clanged against the rifle, kicking it in the barrel, barely missing Dewey’s hand.

  As multiple rifles turned in Dewey’s direction and fired, he knew he was outnumbered. Bullets ricocheted near him as he turned around and sprinted back along the boxwood hedge. With his left hand he took the AR-15 and pumped the trigger, shooting back in the general direction of the tower, creating cover for himself as he ran toward the river and the stairs he’d come up from. H
e cut in a zigzag pattern as they fired and he fired blindly back, then he came to the East River. He leapt up to a concrete embankment and jumped, kicking his feet as bullets shredded the air near him. He vaulted into open air above the river, trying to get to water, then in front of him and below he saw the top of the mobile crane. He felt the air and suddenly slammed into the crane neck halfway down, his hands catching steel just as bullets pulsed the neck of the crane a foot above. Dewey slid down the crane, slipping out of range, even as gunmen ran closer and fired at the crane, hemming him in. From the crane, he didn’t go all the way down to the dock but rather stopped halfway down the crane, as bullets pounded the steel just above him. Dewey leapt to the FDR Drive, beneath the esplanade, and sprinted for his life down the tunnel. The FDR was smoke clogged, crowded with empty cars, not moving, many still running, and sirens roared. The entrance to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel was just below and foul-smelling smoke and ash spiraled up across the air nearby. Dewey sprinted between the lanes of cars and trucks, running to the north along the jammed highway beneath the esplanade.

  When he came to the overhang at the north side of the tunnel he leapt onto a concrete barrier, then jumped up to a rusty steel fence that guarded the northern edge of the UN property. He clawed up to the top of the fence and climbed over, dropping to the ground in a restricted work area bordered by trees, where containers were stored along with a backhoe and various landscaping equipment. He maneuvered through the trees toward the esplanade. There, he spied three gunmen looking for him around where he’d jumped.

  He was at least five hundred feet from the three men. Balancing the barrel of the rifle on a branch, he trained in on the closest terrorist and yanked hard on the trigger, ripping bullets across the distance. One by one, the men were hit by bullets. Each dropped to the ground.

  A spike of adrenaline radiated up from the base of his spine like fire. He counted five bodies of Hezbollah scattered on the esplanade, dead. He had killed them all. He knew there were more, but it was a start.

  Dewey was inside the Hezbollah cordon. The perimeter was now fragmented. He’d penetrated the cordon for the second time. This time, he couldn’t lose strategic advantage. He sprinted to the UN building but at the opposite side of the tower from where he’d begun—at the north. The crack of automatic gunfire from out in front of the building grew louder. It was almost constant, emanating from in front of the UN.

  The terrorists had had strategic advantage after securing the lobby of the tower but now there was a break in the line, a break they weren’t even aware of.

  Irregular warfare.

  Hezbollah would leave the bodies of their own. QUDS battle theater strategies and systems were built to suffer casualties and keep fighting. Another layer existed, and then another, until you got to the layer that was in charge.

  Dewey was within striking distance of the Hezbollah front edge. But he needed to act before some other level of the cordon chased him back to the water, or killed him.

  Dewey moved to the tower. The front and back of the rectangular skyscraper were all glass—but the north- and south-facing parts of the rectangle, the thinner walls, were windowless.

  The walls were just limestone.

  Dewey ran to the north wall, then went to the First Avenue corner. He looked around the corner, assessing the area in front of the tower. A gun battle was taking place between the tower and First Avenue, between Hezbollah inside the tower and law enforcement. It was loud, and the sound of weapon fire in both directions was fierce.

  It was a tightly planned, highly coordinated operation. As long as they held a layer between them and the president, that was all that mattered. Soon, they would give up the lobby. Their goal was to kill Dellenbaugh and they were all willing to die doing it.

  It wasn’t guerrilla war. It was a suicide bomb.

  A weapons vest made of worn canvas covered Dewey’s torso and chest. Three extended magazines for the MP7 were belted at each side of his lower torso. Beneath his armpit was a holstered Colt M1911 A1 .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol, suppressed, chambered, safety off. Mags for the .45 lined the upper part of the vest. His shirt and khakis were still damp from the swim. He breathed heavily in and out, trying to think.

  He put the AR-15 down on the ground and unscrewed the suppressor. He pulled the MP7A1 from over his back.

  The Iranian attack was perfectly planned and well executed. But the best operations were always vulnerable to something more powerful than perfection. The proverbial fly in the ointment. A lone operator. It was the one thing no mission could rule out, as hard as it might try.

  Glancing low around the corner of the tower, Dewey saw a man just a few feet to his left, guarding the front of the tower. He was oblivious to Dewey’s presence, yet Dewey held off, even as he slowly pivoted the end of the suppressor toward the young Iranian. The killer had long hair, a mustache, and was dressed in jeans and a tan short-sleeved shirt. In his hands was an Uzi Pro SB. Dewey put his finger to the fire selector on the MP7A1 and moved it to manual. Dewey stepped out beyond the corner of the tower. The terrorist turned, searching. Just as his eyes met Dewey’s, the killer saw the glossy black rim of the suppressor, now aimed at his head. Before he could say anything, or even move, Dewey pumped the trigger on the MP7A1. A slug whacked the man in the forehead. As he fell Dewey slid the fire selector to full auto, and took a few steps in front of the tower and fired—spraying bullets into the lobby, then stepping back, using the corner of the building as a shield. He repeated the move three times—a quick spray of bullets, then retreat. On the fourth try, a gunman emerged from the tower. The Iranian fired—Dewey ducked, pivoted, and pumped the ceramic trigger. He hit the terrorist with the first hail of bullets, a concentric circle across the man’s torso, killing him in a tornado of slugs.

  Suddenly, Dewey’s thigh was slammed by a bullet from several floors above. He was thrown down and sideways and blood spilled from his leg. Dewey crawled back to the corner. He looked up at the face of the tower, trying to stay out of the way but still trying to find the gunman. As he cursed at the slug in his thigh, he saw movement. A small piece of black steel—muzzle—then the gunman leaned out, holding a rifle in his right arm as, behind him, another arm clutched the man’s belt, holding him so that he could lean out and target Dewey again.

  Dewey pulsed the trigger on full auto. Bullets washed up in the direction of the terrorist. He heard a shout; he lost sight of the gunmen even as he held the trigger hard, pumping slugs. He threw everything he could up at them, until he heard a yelp and saw a small burst of red, then he heard a horrible scream that echoed down through the smoke-crossed air. Both men tumbled forward from the open window, somersaulting to the concrete and landing next to each other just a dozen feet away.

  He looked at his thigh. He knew the bullet was lodged in there. It hadn’t gone straight on through, but it hadn’t broken his femur and though it hurt, Dewey tried to compartmentalize it, put it in a box.

  Pain was Dewey’s strength. He understood how to endure pain.

  Dewey took the blade from his ankle and cut away the material of his pants near his thigh. He stuck the end of the knife into the red spigot of blood, hitting steel. Dewey put a finger into the opening of the wound, as horrible electric pain shot from his leg. He pulled the bullet from his thigh as blood gushed down his knee and calf and shoe. He cut the arm of his shirt at the shoulder and tied it across the wound, then he moved.

  82

  9:34 A.M.

  DEWITT CLINTON PARK

  WEST FIFTY-FOURTH STREET

  UPPER WEST SIDE

  NEW YORK CITY

  Singerman sped the Suburban down Twelfth Avenue. Polk had ordered him to divert to the Federal Reserve, as fast as possible.

  The area looked like a wasteland, streets clogged with cars that had either been abandoned or contained people who’d already been shot and killed. At the sight of a park at Fifty-fourth Street, Singerman decided to abandon the Suburban. He ducked onto Fifty-fourth, where
there was another standstill wall of cars. He drove to the sidewalk and stopped, preparing to climb out. Then he heard automatic gunfire, a staccato rat-a-tat-tat from nearby. He remained still inside the vehicle, slowly raising the MP7A2. He scanned and found a gunman walking alone in the park. He was short and wore jeans and a dark hoodie. He had a short tan submachine gun Singerman recognized immediately: Uzi Flattop X95-S with a built-in suppressor. He pumped slugs when he saw someone hiding in the park, or running. He came to Fifty-fourth Street just a hundred feet away, pumping bullets into car windows, then aiming up at buildings, randomly selecting a building and firing, then turning in an unpredictable arc and shooting something again, then changing out mags.

  Singerman climbed out of the Suburban, ducking prone to the pavement, invisible to the dark-haired gunman. Singerman squared the butt of the MP7 on the bumper, aimed, and pumped the trigger. The bullet missed and the gunman turned, looking for the source of the gunfire. Singerman flipped the fire selector to full auto and fired again. Bullets ripped into the shooter’s shoulder, dropping him.

  Singerman moved in the direction of the man he’d just shot, knowing he wasn’t dead yet. He came upon him as the gunman sat up, blood coursing from his shoulder. As the killer reached for his Uzi, Singerman fired again. A handful of bullets hit the gunman’s forehead, splattering his skull and everything above his neck across the sidewalk.

  Singerman went to the dead Iranian and lifted his Uzi, and then looked at the dead man. Singerman knelt and put the Uzi down next to the killer’s head. He unbuckled an ammo belt from the terrorist, stacked with spare magazines, and wrapped it around his own waist, tightening it. He lifted the Uzi and moved, hiding in an alcove in the lee of an office building. Beneath the alcove, he strapped the MP7A2 across his back and inspected the Uzi.