First Strike

by Ben Coes

  38

  NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT

  PUBLIC SAFETY ANSWERING CENTER

  METROTECH CENTER

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  The first call came in at 1:18 P.M. Officer Manuela Vega of the NYPD took the call.

  Vega was one of fifteen hundred emergency operators inside the sprawling Public Safety Answering Center.

  “Nine-one-one, Operator Vega.”

  “Terrorists!” shouted the caller. Vega leaned forward, hearing what sounded like gunshots in the background. The caller continued, “They’re shooting people in the streets!”

  Vega’s brown eyes flashed across the six computer screens in her cubicle. Her right hand reached out, touching one of the screens where a red light was flashing. This light was the location of the caller. She touched the screen and the view zoomed in, showing where the call had originated.

  “I have you at 114th and Broadway, near Columbia.”

  “Yes.”

  Another screen brought up a grid of local, state, and federal agencies Vega could immediately inform of the incident, again by simply touching the screen. Every New York law enforcement agency, its individual branches, along with emergency medical and fire response, were integrated into MetroTech’s extremely powerful technology infrastructure, making cross-department and interagency awareness and response immediate. State and federal law enforcement was also part of the MetroTech IT matrix, including the FBI, whose counterterrorism center Vega quickly searched for, found, and prepared to inform.

  Vega linked the incident to the closest NYPD precinct, the 26th, along with emergency response.

  Before she sounded a broader alarm, she wanted some sort of further confirmation. She tapped a third screen, one that could focus satellite feed in real time. She linked it to the caller’s location. The picture was unfocused and hazy, but with each second it sharpened.

  “Has anyone been hit?”

  “Yes! Several people. They’re dead. There are bodies in the street.”

  “How many gunmen?”

  “Three or four, maybe more. I … I ran.”

  “That’s okay. That’s what you should’ve done.”

  Vega tried to get a better view from the video, but it was too unfocused.

  She didn’t wait any longer. She tapped several modules on the agency integration screen, sending the call to the emergency dispatch centers inside a multitude of NYPD, local, and federal entities, including NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau, NYPD Strategic Response Group, FDNY, and FBI CENTCOM.

  “Should I do anything?” asked the panicked caller.

  “No, you’ve already done something. Thank you.”

  Vega hung up and immediately pressed a red button on one of three phone consoles in her cubicle.

  “Gutierrez.”

  “This is Operator two-two-six, Vega. I believe we have an active shooter scenario and what could be some sort of terror strike. I just uplinked it.”

  “Got it. My board is flashing here. We have multiple reports. I’m going to define the protocol and elevate. Thank you, Vega.”

  Suddenly, a low, emphatic emergency beacon sounded on the MetroTech intercom. This meant the active duty supervisor of the Public Safety Answering Center was establishing a protocol spelling out what all operators should advise citizens calling about what was happening at Columbia. This guidance flashed across the screens of all fifteen hundred operators.

  In addition, the incident was being elevated. Jurisdiction was being officially passed up the food chain to the commissioner’s office, with a cross-departmental “crisis patch” with active response guided by an intra-NYPD task force led by two departments: Emergency Services Unit and Counterterrorism.

  * * *

  Within three minutes of the first 911 call, several patrol cars from the NYPD’s 26th Precinct were at the scene, along with a number of ambulances. The scene was chaotic. Working with Columbia University security, the first priority was evacuating the campus. A campuswide alarm system was activated—a piercing alarm sounded in every building, accompanied by a recording calling for all students, teachers, staff, and visitors to leave the campus immediately. Officers from the 26th quickly cordoned off the area. A security perimeter was established between Riverside Drive to the west and Morningside Drive to the east, and between 113th and 120th Streets. No vehicular traffic was allowed. Foot traffic was allowed up to the west side of Broadway and to the east side of Amsterdam Avenue for residents with proper identification. The campus itself was off-limits to everyone except law enforcement.

  EMTs removed casualties from 114th Street and along the steps leading into the campus. Once police determined that the terrorists were not targeting the EMTs yet, corpses were quickly removed from the walk in front of Carman.

  * * *

  Within four minutes of the first 911 call, the commissioner of the NYPD, along with every deputy commissioner in the department, knew about the situation at Columbia.

  In addition, the commanding officers of Emergency Services Unit and Counterterrorism were already together on the fourth floor of NYPD headquarters at 1 Police Plaza, in the Situation Center, a cavernous, windowless conference room that looked like Mission Control at NASA. Several dozen uniformed and plainclothes men and women populated the room, either at workstations, which filled the center of the room, or scrambling around to look at one of the fifty or so large plasma screens that lined the walls.

  Henry Kaan, commanding officer of NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit, stood before a conference table in the center of the room, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  Across from him was Vince Blaisdell, commanding officer of the Counterterrorism Bureau.

  A phone console was between them. Seated at the table were several officers, in front of them laptop computers enabling them to monitor the situation at Columbia and access various information.

  “Patch him in,” said Blaisdell, nodding to one of his deputies, who hit a button on the phone.

  “Henry, Vince, what’s the situation?”

  The speaker was Temba Maqubela, who ran the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division.

  “We have reports of as few as six and as many as a dozen gunmen, all Middle Eastern, taking over a dorm at Columbia. So far, there are eleven confirmed casualties outside the building. We’ve received a number of calls from students inside, and it sounds like many more have been shot.”

  “How many people inside the building?”

  “We estimate three to five hundred. We have students and we have some parents too. It’s orientation day.”

  “I know it’s early,” said Maqubela, “but what are the options if we were to move now?”

  “Option one, we enter with heavy weapons, explosives, armored vehicles, and a shit ton of SWAT via the ground floor. Option two, we drop a tight team onto the roof. Two or three choppers, a dozen men. Then we make it slightly more surgical.”

  “Have you modeled casualty counts?”

  “Temba, it’s five minutes old. It’ll be high either way.”

  “What are chances for success?” asked Maqubela.

  “We haven’t even started the regression analysis. Again—”

  “I know, I know, it’s five minutes old.”

  “What do you think?” asked Blaisdell.

  “We need to hold off,” said Maqubela. “Don’t fire until you’re sure the guns are not aimed at your own head, as my father used to say to me.”

  “You guys are the ones preaching preemptivity.”

  “I know,” said Maqubela, “but this feels different. We have a badly security-graphed structure, a large group of students, and unknown variables. This isn’t an active shooter. I would worry about the ground assault. If we go hard with overwhelming force this early, they might simply blow up the whole building. I’m against doing anything other than getting a lot of snipers up there until we know a little more.”

  “Are you guys taking over?”

  “Good question,” said Maqubela. “Hold on
.”

  Kaan looked at Blaisdell as they waited for Maqubela to get back on the line. They wanted to hold onto jurisdiction, but both men knew the Feds were about to take it. There was no question: it was a terrorist event. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter much who had jurisdiction as far as they were concerned. It didn’t mean they wouldn’t be involved. They would do whatever was asked of them, by whoever asked.

  The phone beeped as Maqubela came on the line.

  “Hey, guys, sorry. Yeah, it’s ours. We still need you. Doesn’t change a thing. I’ll get you the paperwork. In the meantime we’ve already assigned Damon Smith to it. He’s en route from Quantico.”

  “Got it,” said Kaan. “We’ll get the baseline established up there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The door to the Situation Center opened. A tall, attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair entered the room. She was wearing black pants, high heels, a white blouse, and a red blazer. It was the commissioner of the NYPD, Judith Talkiewicz, trailed by several staff members.

  Talkiewicz made a beeline for Blaisdell and Kaan. She stood at the head of the table, a stern, pissed-off look on her face.

  “I want those choppers in the air right now,” said Talkiewicz. “It’ll take the goddam FBI two weeks to figure out what to do and I want to move now. Until the paper arrives, jurisdiction is still NYPD. Get them flying.”

  39

  OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The Oval Office was eerily quiet. Those who remained—Polk, Brubaker, Kratovil, Mason, and several other officials—were speechless. Many exchanged glances.

  “Should we take a five-minute break?” asked Josh Brubaker, the national security advisor. “I think I need to take a break, if that’s okay.”

  All eyes looked to Polk, Calibrisi’s longtime deputy and closest confidant. It was an awkward situation. The Nazir call required thought and discussion. Perhaps even action. Yet the head of the CIA had just suffered a massive coronary. It was a moment that America’s leaders must sometimes face, a moment out of view of most citizens, when the larger challenges of a violent, enemy-filled world are visited by mortal pain—by loss on a personal level, death not to faceless soldiers overseas but to individuals they know. Both hurt, but seeing Calibrisi down cut them all. They all knew they needed to go on. America needed them to go on. But they had shared a glimpse of mortality and fate, and it was a hard moment.

  “Good idea,” said Polk, standing up from the sofa. “By the way, he’s going to be fine.”

  As Brubaker stood up, his eyes were drawn to the carpet near the president’s desk. Lying on the ground was a cell phone. He picked it up. A red light indicated that whatever conversation had been going on was still live.

  Was it Calibrisi’s phone?

  Brubaker couldn’t remember if Calibrisi had been talking on the phone before he collapsed. It was all a blur.

  “Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a soft female voice. She sounded like she was crying.

  “This is Josh Brubaker,” he said. “Is this … are you … were you talking with Hector Calibrisi?”

  “Hector is my dad. Where is he? He just stopped talking. Is everything okay?”

  Brubaker didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, over the phone, he heard several gunshots in the background. A cold chill struck Brubaker in his spine and swept over him.

  “My God, what was that?” he asked.

  “My father didn’t tell you? Where is he? Please tell me.”

  “He … wasn’t feeling good.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, yes, he’s fine. But what is that? Was that gunfire?”

  “I’m in a dorm at Columbia University. We’re being attacked by terrorists! I think they’re taking over the dorm.”

  “What?” Brubaker asked, incredulous.

  More gunshots. A girl screaming. Calibrisi’s daughter was sobbing into the phone.

  “Listen, it’s going to be okay,” Brubaker said in a soothing voice. With his free hand, he snapped his fingers, getting Polk’s attention. Dellenbaugh, returning from the South Lawn, appeared at the door. Brubaker held up his finger, letting Dellenbaugh and Polk know that something was going on. “I’m Josh Brubaker. What’s your name?”

  “Daisy.”

  “That’s a nice name, Daisy. Forgive me, I didn’t know Hector had a daughter at Columbia.”

  “I’m not a student. I was bringing my Little Sister here. She’s a freshman.”

  “I was a Big Brother where I grew up, in Chicago,” said Brubaker. “Now tell me what’s happening.”

  “Terrorists,” she sobbed. “I counted eight. They’re shooting everyone. We’re trapped in a dorm.”

  “Daisy, hold on for one second, will you?”

  Brubaker covered the phone and looked at Polk, then Dellenbaugh, then the others, all of whom were waiting for him to explain what was going on.

  “It’s Hector’s daughter,” said Brubaker. “She’s at Columbia University. She says they’re under attack. Terrorists are taking over the dorm. I heard gunfire.”

  “ISIS,” said Dellenbaugh. He looked at Kratovil. “George, get some people up there.”

  “Whatever you do, Josh,” said Polk, stepping closer to Brubaker, “do not tell Daisy about her dad. Not right now. Not yet.”

  “What do I tell her?”

  “Tell her to remain strong and do what they say.”

  Just then, the FBI director’s phone made a loud beeping noise. A moment later, the Homeland Security chief’s did as well. Soon it seemed every phone in the Oval Office was ringing.

  Brubaker took his hand off the phone.

  “Daisy, we’re all over this. We’re moving people to Columbia as we speak. FBI, New York Police, everything we have. We’re going to get you and everyone else out of there. But I need you to do something for me.”

  Daisy didn’t answer. All he could hear was her sobbing.

  “Daisy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need you to remain strong. Can you do that?”

  “He had another heart attack, didn’t he?” whispered Daisy in between sobs.

  Brubaker glanced at Polk, who was on his phone.

  “Yes, he did. But he’s going to be fine. He’s at the hospital.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Brubaker. In a strange way, I feel better.”

  “You do?”

  “When he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’s going to need me. I’ll stay strong. I’ll stay more than strong. For my dad.”

  40

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  Dewey removed the unconscious gunman’s ski mask and pulled it over his own head. Then he stood up, placed his foot on the man’s chin, and stomped down, snapping his neck. He took the terrorist’s .45 and stuck it between his belt and back.

  He remembered the words from training: When the shadows are gone, when the night has turned to day, when all around you is the enemy, you must hide in plain sight.

  Dewey moved into the corridor, now crowded with gunmen, all looking for him. Doors were kicked in as soldiers searched. Shouting in Arabic added to the sense of bedlam and confusion.

  Dewey counted six men, none of them Garotin. Like him, all had on black T-shirts and black face masks.

  Dewey followed the line of gunmen, keeping the rifle trained out in front of him. He went past them, taking his turn at the next room in the line, kicking in a hospital-room door, staring for a few moments at a pair of men strapped to beds. Both had light skin; they looked French. Dewey pretended to scan the room, then left.

  Dewey was last in line when the group reached the stairs at the end of the corridor. He followed the men to the door, then held back for a brief moment. By the time he entered the windowless stairwell, he heard footsteps below and followed. From a half flight up, he watched as the last of the gunmen stepped through the door onto the fourth floor. />
  Dewey charged down the empty stairwell, leaping three steps at a time. Every second mattered now. Every moment was a lifetime.

  At the first floor, he glanced through a small window in the door. The place was in a state of pandemonium. In the middle of the floor he saw Garotin. He appeared calm, standing with his elbow on top of the nurses’ station, leaning over and studying a laptop computer. Garotin was distracted. There were bigger fish to fry—or else his men had yet to tell him of Dewey’s escape.

  Suddenly, Garotin looked up. His face had a look of urgency, then he started yelling.

  Dewey charged down the stairs to the basement, assuming Garotin was yelling about his escape. But his ears caught the high-pitched buzz of a missile—the noise Garotin had heard a second before. Then an explosion rocked the ground. He was thrown forward, down the stairs, landing on his arm, rolling and slamming into the wall. The missile took out the stairwell lights. Silence came, followed by shouting and a few muted screams.

  It was a Hellfire or Tomahawk or something Russian, if he had to guess. A direct hit somewhere up above him, at the other end of the building.

  Move. Get up.

  The opportunity for escape was now.

  Dewey got to his feet. He continued down the pitch-black stairs, navigating with his hands, feeling the concrete walls. He came to a door and opened it.

  Another corridor. Ambient light came from somewhere. The corridor was dank and gray. His eyes adjusted as he skulked down the hallway. Suddenly, he spied three bodies on the floor. There were two terrorists, both lying awkwardly after being thrown by the explosion. Next to them was a corpse.

  Dewey aimed the rifle down as he moved toward the men. One was trying to get up. He noticed Dewey and said something in Arabic. Dewey fired, striking him in the head. He swept the rifle to the right and fired again, placing a slug in the second terrorist’s chest.

  In the shadowy light, he followed a trail of blood leading down the corridor to a pair of swinging doors. Dewey went through. It was a large storage room. Wooden pallets were lined up in rows, with boxes of medical supplies stacked high. At the far side of the room, the ceiling was freshly collapsed. Dust from the rubble created a cloud. He heard voices and pained moaning drifting down from above.