Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  Naji nodded.

  “I understand.”

  Faqir removed the optics and handed them to Naji.

  “You keep watch for a little while. I’m going to try and sleep.”

  105

  IN THE AIR

  MOSCOW

  The rotors of the chopper picked up discernibly, then the wheels bounced and they rose into the sky.

  “Where to?” asked Stihl.

  “Doesn’t matter. Just get us up.”

  Dewey turned back to the cockpit. His eyes met Chalmers’s, who stared back with a blank expression. He looked down at Cloud, then out the window. Within moments of takeoff, they were several hundred feet in the air.

  Dewey reached to the wall and hit a button. Suddenly, the side doors slid open. The roar of the rotors burst into the cabin. Wind and rain came in, dousing the cabin and everyone inside.

  Dewey reached down and grabbed the front of Katya’s jacket.

  “Dewey!” yelled Chalmers as, in the same moment, Katya screamed.

  With one hand, he lifted her up and carried her toward the open door as she screamed, punched, and kicked at Dewey, but he held her—like a doll.

  With his left hand, Dewey grabbed a strap above the door so he wouldn’t fall out with her as, with his right hand, he clutched her jacket and thrust her out the open door. Dewey stood, holding the strap, dangling Katya out the side of the chopper. She grasped at his forearm, trying to hold on, then looked below at the buildings rushing by. Then her mouth opened again in panic and she tried to scream, but no noise came out. She was hysterical. Her hair whipped in a chaotic swirl, the slapping at Dewey’s arm as she tried to hold on the only sound, and it blended darkly with the rain and wind and roar of the rotors, and the voice of Chalmers.

  “Don’t do it, Dewey!” he called. “She’s innocent.”

  Dewey held Katya there for a dozen seconds, then turned and looked into Cloud’s eyes.

  “You have exactly five seconds to tell me where the bomb is going,” Dewey said, a calm look on his face. “Then I drop her.”

  Cloud shut his eyes. He rocked his head back and forth.

  “Five,” said Dewey, beginning the countdown, “four … three…”

  Katya tried to say something to Cloud, but she was so panic-stricken that no sound came out as her mouth moved in silent terror.

  “Two…”

  Cloud stopped moving his head. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if he was calculating something. He struggled to move his lips, ushering the last remaining strength he had left. He looked at Katya, his eyes finding hers across the mist.

  “New York City,” he said in his dying breath, blood seeping from his mouth and nose. Then, his last words: “The Statue of Liberty.”

  106

  THE CARLYLE

  MADISON AVENUE

  NEW YORK CITY

  At 5:30 A.M., the CIA Sikorsky helicopter touched down at Haverstraw Airport just north of Manhattan.

  Calibrisi had a pair of Catch-22s on his hands.

  The first: a nuclear device was in a boat headed for the Statue of Liberty. Assuming the terrorists hadn’t switched boats, the U.S. government knew the precise make and model of the vessel the nuclear bomb was now on. But if the terrorists suspected anything, they would simply detonate the bomb. Cloud had coveted the idea of hitting one of America’s most sacred and important historical structures. But a nuclear bomb detonated anywhere along America’s coastline would do damage no less dramatic and permanent.

  The second conundrum was his own government. They needed to pinpoint the boat, then move without being noticed. It would require patience, subterfuge, and utter secrecy. Any inkling that they were being watched would cause the terrorists to act preemptively.

  Calibrisi had little faith in the ability of law enforcement to pull off a delicate covert mission. He had more confidence in the Navy. Greer Ambern was the in-theater commander of the Navy team. The week before, in anticipation of what might come, Ambern had moved the Navy’s newest combat vessel, the USS Fort Worth, into the mid-Atlantic.

  But even knowing and trusting Ambern as he did, Calibrisi still felt uneasy.

  Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma were met at the Haverstraw helipad by a black Suburban, which took them to a private entrance at the Carlyle Hotel. They boarded an elevator to the tenth floor, where there were two private apartments. Standing outside one of them was Igor.

  Igor’s hair looked as if he’d just stuck his finger in a plug. He was barefoot and was wearing jeans. His white tank top had AK-47 embossed in gold across his chest, and sewn beneath the lettering was a figure of the rifle in pink thread.

  “Nice shirt,” said Tacoma as they stepped through the door.

  “This shirt cost me eight hundred dollars,” said Igor.

  “I’ll sell you mine for a hundred,” said Tacoma.

  They stepped inside and followed Igor to an office. On the desk was a panel of six plasma screens, three on top, three on the bottom, all attached. The two side screens on the bottom showed aerial maps of New York harbor. Every few moments, a small red circle appeared, then shot down to a vessel, highlighting a boat. The middle screen was computer code, black text on a white screen. The three screens on top all showed people. The left was the operations room aboard the USS Fort Worth. The second screen was a conference room at the FBI’s New York field office. The last was the White House Situation Room. The audio was turned off.

  Overnight, the president had ordered a multiple-layer approach to the management of the government’s military and law enforcement assets. The first level of coverage and preferred method of stopping the terrorists would be with snipers, managed by the FBI. The second layer would be provided by the Navy, using SEALs in SDVs beneath the water around the statue. The Fort Worth would also be prepared, if necessary, to fire RIM-116 missiles, or simply let loose with its 57mm cannons.

  NYPD’s marine units would patrol as usual. It was important to maintain normal appearances.

  “Do you want to start the call?” asked Igor.

  “Not yet,” said Calibrisi, pointing at the video feeds from the harbor. “Tell us what you have. First, any police or Coast Guard reports of missing or stolen boats?”

  “Nothing from Maine to Florida.”

  “Tell us about the software.”

  “I did as you suggested,” said Igor, nodding to the screens. “The two shots of the harbor are live. The cameras are scanning the water. What you’re seeing is, for lack of a better expression, the world’s first boat recognition software.”

  “How often does it run the scan?”

  “Ten times a second. When the software finds a vessel close to the dimensions of the Talaria, it locks, rescans, then runs the photo against the database.”

  “Whose video are you using?” asked Katie.

  “It’s actually a feed from a Google satellite. I was able to call in a favor, although the person I called it in from isn’t aware of it yet.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes, maybe a little too well. It will find the Hinckley Talaria if it comes into the harbor. The problem is, it also captures boats of the same length and width of the Talaria, and there are quite a few. It’s six A.M. now. The program has already cataloged thirty-one boats of the same size.”

  Calibrisi glanced at his watch: 6:10 A.M.

  “Fire up the call,” he said.

  Igor hit a few keystrokes, and suddenly the voice of President Dellenbaugh came on the line.

  “I want a status,” said Dellenbaugh. “What assets do we have in or around the statue?”

  “We have snipers in four places, sir,” said someone from the FBI. “Ellis Island, Governors Island, Liberty State Park, and in or around the statue itself. That’s fifty-two in all. In addition, we have another two dozen in boats. We’re using a combination of commandeered tour boats and civilian vessels. Everyone is in plain clothing.”

  “Captain Ambern,” said Dellenbaugh. “What were you able to do overnight?
”

  “There are five SDVs in the water as we speak, ten frogmen, all in a tight frame around the island,” said Ambern from the USS Fort Worth. “In addition, we are at battle stations and prepared to take out the Hinckley, on command. If you ask me, Mr. President, once we have a lock on the target, I would use our missiles in addition to any snipers.”

  “What would be the damage to nearby boats?” asked someone in the Situation Room.

  “There would be collateral damage,” said Ambern. “But blowing up the bomb is different from detonating it. We’re talking a few lives versus several hundred thousand.”

  “What’s the flight time on a missile to the statue?” asked Dellenbaugh.

  “From button press to target? About five seconds, maybe less.”

  “Let’s talk about the target itself,” said Dellenbaugh. “Hector?”

  Calibrisi looked at Igor.

  “You ready to live-wire this?” whispered Calibrisi.

  Igor nodded.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “What you’re all about to see is real-time visual of the harbor as filtered through a software program based on facial recognition technology. The software is scanning every square foot of water, detecting the make and model of the boat we believe the bomb is on. As a camera locks the target, it pushes the image against a database, removing anything that doesn’t match.”

  “Hector, Greer here, how do we triage? I’m assuming we’re going to get some false positives. Worst thing that could happen would be if we identify the wrong guy and the terrorist just goes on his merry way and detonates the bomb.”

  “You’re right,” said Calibrisi. “The software can only take us so far. There needs to be a human cipher at the end of the line.

  “That’s you, Hector,” said Dellenbaugh. “Everyone else, get ready. Let’s keep all lines open.”

  Calibrisi looked at Igor.

  “Mute it.”

  He looked at Katie and Tacoma.

  “You guys all set?” he asked.

  Tacoma nodded.

  “Yeah, we’re good.”

  107

  WALL STREET

  NEW YORK HARBOR

  Polk carried two Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups, which he passed to Katie and Tacoma as they climbed into the speedboat.

  Polk fired up the engine. He was dressed in a madras button-down and shorts. His legs were the white that comes when skin hasn’t seen sun in a few years.

  Tacoma took a sip.

  “I fuckin’ hate Dunkin’ Donuts,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” said Polk.

  Polk untied the boat from the dock, then stepped to the wheel and put the boat in gear, putting out from the dock.

  Tacoma glanced in front. The water was crowded with boats. There were hundreds of them, power boats and sailboats, small cruise ships, ferries, even dozens of kayaks. He looked at his green Rolex. It was 7:10.

  Polk glanced back, then nodded to the transom. A small cardboard box was on it. Katie opened it. In the box were two tiny glass cases, inside of which were earpieces. Katie and Tacoma each put one in their ears.

  “You guys hear me?” asked Polk.

  “Yeah,” said Katie.

  “I’m good,” said Tacoma.

  “Get your eyes on,” said Polk, pointing to a duffel bag on the floor.

  Tacoma pulled out two pairs of sunglasses, handing one to Katie. They were specialized; the right lens was a high-powered monocular.

  “Guys, it’s me,” said Calibrisi over commo. “We have our first hard target. Putting it on your screen right now.”

  A digital tablet was Velcroed to the transom of the boat. On it was a brightly illuminated map of the harbor, with the boat’s location at the center. A flashing red dot hit the screen, indicating the boat Calibrisi and Igor had marked, then a line between the two boats cut in yellow across the screen, along with the precise distance between the boats: 1,071 feet.

  “Got it,” said Polk, cutting left, then speeding up.

  “I want you guys to make the first sweep,” said Calibrisi. “That’s why you’re out there. If and when we mark the bomber, we’ll make the call as to whether we use the frogmen or the snipers.”

  “Or us,” added Katie.

  “Or you,” said Calibrisi. “Robbie, you ready if we need you?”

  “Just put me in, Coach,” Tacoma whispered as he stepped to Polk’s side and scanned for the boat.

  “Not too fast, Bill,” said Calibrisi.

  Polk eased up a little as he steered through the crowded harbor.

  Tacoma scanned the water, counting boats, losing count when he got to two hundred.

  In the distance, he saw the Statue of Liberty. It was the first moment he realized not only the gravity of the situation, and the hard truth about what could be lost that day, but that if they didn’t stop the terrorists, he too would die.

  He closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head.

  “What is it?” asked Katie.

  Tacoma looked her.

  “Nothing.”

  His gaze returned to the horizon, then the boats.

  “We’re getting close,” said Polk.

  “I see it,” said Tacoma. “Slow down. At one thirty, next to a sailboat.”

  Polk steered in a curving arc toward the boat as all three of them studied it from afar.

  “We have another match,” said Calibrisi. “Are you guys ready?”

  “It’s blue,” said Katie. “I see a bunch of girls on the boat.”

  Polk changed his course.

  “That first one is a negative, Chief.”

  “Okay, second should be on your screen right now.”

  “Got it,” said Polk.

  * * *

  As Cloud had demanded, they came from the north via the Hudson River.

  The assumption that guided them—that the Americans were searching for them—had guided them from the moment they set out from Sevastopol.

  The radio was on. A news station continued its coverage of Boston. There was no mention of the bomb, only a plot by terrorists. The news was filled with quotes by various American officials, cautiously gloating about the foiled plot.

  Faqir stood next to the Talaria’s steering wheel. He leaned against a railing as Naji maneuvered the yacht into New York harbor. Faqir’s olive-colored skin had turned grayish, as if someone had spread chalk across his now gaunt, hairless head and face.

  He felt weak and slightly dizzy. But something had happened during his sleep. He’d awakened with newfound energy and purpose. Perhaps it was the coming achievement of an objective he’d sought for as long as he could remember. Or maybe it was the determination and toughness that Faqir so prided himself on.

  He often felt that, in different times, he would’ve been a military leader, perhaps even a king. But that wasn’t the world he’d been born to. Instead of a country or a battalion, he’d been chosen by a different battle. Jihad.

  Naji pointed to a building to the left. It was the gleaming glass-and-steel spire of the Freedom Tower. The sight gave Faqir goose bumps.

  You’re at war. What you do today will live forever. You’ll be revered for the horror you deliver into the heart of the enemy.

  After centuries of enslavement and silence, Allah’s soldiers were finally taking what was theirs. It would take time. Hundreds of years. But it was happening. They were coming. And today would be the second chapter in the great book that would be written about Islam’s victory over America. This day, July Fourth, would be looked upon by Muslims the same way Americans looked at the Boston Tea Party.

  Faqir’s name would be as famous to Muslims as Paul Revere’s was to Americans.

  On both sides of the boat, the water was crowded with boats, so many boats—sailboats and motorboats, even kayakers, close to shore, paddling beneath the warm sun.

  If any of them were worried about a terror plot today, they certainly didn’t act like it. It felt … easy.

  So far, they had seen o
nly three police boats, all near the Brooklyn Navy Yard. A Coast Guard cutter loomed a quarter mile offshore, beyond that was a U.S. Navy destroyer, but its presence seemed ceremonial.

  Naji steered in a slow, casual way, remaining in a line behind a smaller boat filled with a family.

  “Naji,” Faqir whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re here,” he whispered.

  Faqir pointed into the distance at the Statue of Liberty, raising his arm slowly in the air.

  Naji reached to a shelf above the console. He removed a small cardboard box and handed it to Faqir.

  * * *

  Calibrisi was seated next to Igor. His jacket and tie were removed, his sleeves were rolled up.

  Igor’s fingers flew over the computer keyboard so fast Calibrisi stopped trying to understand how he did it.

  By ten o’clock, they had spotted nine suspicious vessels. Polk, Katie, and Tacoma had swept six of them. The other three were checked out by plainclothes FBI agents in sniper boats.

  Every passing minute brought with it increasing anxiety. With each possible boat, Calibrisi sensed the anticipation and urgency from the White House, revealed on one of the screens above, revealed in the way Dellenbaugh paced the Situation Room, eager to see if the terrorist had been found.

  Igor suddenly elbowed him.

  “We got something,” he said, hitting the keyboard. “Coming into the harbor from the Hudson.”

  The camera shot down and focused. The passengers were beneath the bimini roof, out of sight line. The boat was green. The photo was so clear that the small gold Hinckley insignia was visible along the side of the boat.

  “Bill,” said Calibrisi, “we have something behind you. Putting it on your screen right now.”

  “I got it,” said Polk.

  Calibrisi looked at the plasma upper left. Greer Ambern was standing on the bridge of the Fort Worth, surrounded by his battle team.

  “Greer?”

  “I see it, Hector.”

  “Where’s the nearest SDV?”

  “A couple hundred yards away,” said Ambern. “They’ll be there in less than a minute.”

  * * *

  Faqir placed the cardboard box on the table. He leaned against the table for stability. Carefully, he lifted the top of the box. Reaching inside, he took out a small square device made of stainless steel, with a small red button on top. The detonator.