The Siege

by Stephen White

There are a lot of tears.

  “Somebody talk to me,” he says as he pats each of them down.

  The pilot says, “We dropped two off at the jet. One is a girl in a wedding dress. One is . . . one of them, I think.”

  Poe says, “You know it’s a girl, or you think it’s a girl?”

  “I think.”

  Poe taps the foot of the young man in the ski mask. “You agree?”

  The kid doesn’t answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  The kid doesn’t answer.

  Poe is thinking, You don’t want to see any more of your friends murdered.

  Poe tells the pilot to get up. “Lead them over to that building. Sit against that wall, wait for the FBI. These people are your responsibility.”

  Poe doesn’t wait for a response. He takes off in full sprint toward the distant jet.

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  Sam

  Carlos is staring at his watch to time the beginning of the jet’s roll to the moment his watch finishes ticking off the proscribed minute. He says, “And we’re taxiing.”

  “Roll straight into position for takeoff. Hold there, at the end of the runway.”

  Hold there? What?

  I text Dee again. Still stalling.

  I am considering making a charge for the man in the mask. He is sitting across the aisle from the person in the wedding gown. I am thinking that has to be Jane, that she was offered to the Calderóns in trade for the jet. The white veil continues to completely cover her eyes. It is held in place by headphones that cover her ears. She has no idea what is going on inside the plane.

  My plan would be to use my body to cover the explosives that are on the man’s waist. My effort might be enough to save Jane and her brother. If I don’t try, we will all die. I am certain of that. If I do try, I will die, but the others might not.

  I’m thinking United 93. A lesser-of-two-evils strategy. Active hero versus passive victim.

  Problem is, I can’t figure out how to get out of the damn harness that I’m in fast enough to make a charge at anything or anyone.

  I’m afraid it would take me two minutes just to get out of my chair.

  Other than a desperate charge at the man, I’m unable to think of an additional thing I can do that might be helpful. I’m saying my prayers. And I’m already thinking about how I’m going to try to explain this whole thing to Carmen when she joins me in heaven.

  Dee responds to my text. Got it. Don’t provoke him do not.

  I wonder what she knows. Why she is so certain that we are not seconds away from catastrophe.

  I am at least that certain that we are.

  Carlos points the jet straight down the long runway. I feel him pressure the brakes. He says, “Holding. Ready for throttle.”

  I unlatch the big clip on the harness. I turn to see if the killer is watching me.

  I see him send a quick text with his cell phone.

  I send one, too. Mine is to Dee: Wtf?

  The man speaks to Carlos. “Throttle for takeoff. Count down to rotation. Loudly. Got it? Go. Now.”

  Carlos says, “There’s a man charging onto the runway. See him?”

  “Ignore him. Full power.”

  I’ve been watching the man approach the runway, too. It’s Poe.

  “Power for takeoff,” Carlos says. Carlos pushes some big levers.

  The jet jumps. I feel the g’s hit me like the gale of a chinook as I’m forced against the back of my seat.

  In almost any other circumstance I think I’d really be enjoying this.

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  NEW HAVEN

  The comm officer says, “Two passengers departed the helicopter and boarded the Gulfstream. One of the men. And the person in the wedding dress.”

  “I knew it,” says the SAC. “An unsub and a hostage. Likely female.”

  “We have no visuals on the interior of the aircraft.”

  “Registration?”

  “Checking Nancy-six-four-nine-three-Victor.”

  Deirdre is in the SAC’s face. She says, “This is a trap, Commander. Stand down. This equation is not about whether the hostages are more valuable than the library or the submarine base. Don’t fire. Don’t be provoked.”

  “I shouldn’t be provoked by a mass murderer with a big plane full of jet fuel and a helicopter possibly carrying a thousand-pound bomb? Why on earth wouldn’t I consider that provocative?”

  “Jet door closed,” monotones the comm officer. “No munitions transfer.”

  Dee’s BlackBerry vibrates. A text from Sam. Guy is stalling, I think.

  Yes, of course he is, she thinks. He’s giving us time to screw this up.

  As fast as she can thumb, she replies, Yes, hold fire.

  “Keep me posted in real time,” says the SAC to the comm officer.

  He replies, “RPG tube has just been moved forward. It is within inches of the opening in the vent and is visible to the naked eye. Aim is steady at the wall of the library.”

  Dee says, “He’s making sure you can’t miss the weapon. He has no reason to move it into the open other than to be provocative. He’s trying to get you to fire on the RPG position. If you do, the hostages inside the tomb die. This is a trap.”

  The comm officer says, “We have reports of a solitary individual running across the airfield toward the G-Two hundred. No visual. Correction, we do have a visual. Monitor five.”

  A long shot showing the man sprinting across the tarmac pops up on a small monitor.

  Under her breath, Dee says, “Poe.”

  She gets another text. Sam. Still stalling.

  Dee suddenly understands what is happening.

  The whole scenario comes into focus in her head. She sees the bad version. She sees the awful version. She raises her voice so that everyone in the vehicle understands her position. “Commander, your unsub is provoking you. He wants you to fire. Do not shoot at the RPG position. Do not allow the military to fire at that jet on the ground. Or on the helicopter. Stand . . . fucking . . . down.”

  Her thumbs fly. Got it. Don’t provoke him do not

  The SAC looks at her. With condescension coating his tone, he says, “Yeah? What if the jet starts to take off? We have a submarine base minutes from that airport. SUBASE New London is nuclear. And what if he fires round one from the RPG? What about the library? I just let them take the second shot?

  “You’re telling me I’m supposed to let this asshole start destroying national treasures, like the library, and vital national assets, like a nuclear sub base, because you don’t want me to fire on hostages? Where exactly does that ball stop rolling? Do we let him take off and head toward the White House? Or just give him clearance to fly that jet into the George Washington Bridge? UN? Empire State Building? What?

  “No, ma’am. No. We do not negotiate with terrorists. We will not be blackmailed by terrorists. It is unfortunate, but sometimes civilians perish in the national interest.”

  Dee says, “And sometimes civilians perish unnecessarily. This isn’t about the library being more valuable than the hostages, or the sub base being more valuable than the hostages. This guy is begging you to start sacrificing civilians. You don’t have to go along. You have margin. The first RPG round won’t destroy the library. Right? What is the rounds-per-minute for that thing?”

  The HRT hostage negotiator answers, “Four to six, depending on the operator.”

  “Commander, after he fires once you have fifteen seconds until he can fire again. Maybe more. You’ll have time to assess and respond. The air force is scrambled and has assets ready to take out the jet. Five minutes is a lifetime for an F-Sixteen—the Gulfstream can be shot down long before it reaches New London. Be smart, use your margin. This is about our overreaction right now. Don’t fall for his feints.”

  “Feints? We have intel. Hard intel.”

  Deirdre remembers reading the reports on the wedding bombings in Afghanistan. The officers who ordered those strikes thoug
ht they had hard intel, too. She says, “You only think you do, Commander. What you definitely have is time.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, lady. Victor sniper? On my order.”

  Victor sniper replies, “Copy.”

  Another text from Sam: Wtf? Dee moves close to the SAC. She whispers in his ear. “Sir, I have a man in that jet. It will not hit a target. Got it?”

  The commander spins to look at her. His tone is faux-whisper. He wants everyone to hear it. “You have a man in that attic, too?”

  There is an audible communal gasp in the command center as the first RPG round blows out of the gable vent of the tomb. The whoooosh of the little rocket is audible through the speakers. The explosion is instantaneous and sharp.

  One of the stone panels in the side of Beinecke Library disintegrates in a cloud of smoke and dust and debris.

  Dee barks, “Don’t retaliate. Do not.”

  The comm officer says, “Jet is . . . rolling. Monitor three.”

  All eyes shift to monitor three. The Gulfstream is roaring down the runway.

  The HRT hostage negotiator says, “We are nine seconds to reload on the RPG. Eight . . . seven . . .”

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  Sam

  Carlos calls out, “I will rotate in five . . . four . . .”

  I don’t know what “rotate” means. I figure that I will find out in five . . . four . . .

  My cheeks, the ones on my face, are quivering from the mounting g forces.

  Outside the side window the world is flying by.

  Beyond the glass of the windshield I see Poe standing as tranquil as a statue. He’s on the centerline of the runway, staring a big-ass jet in the face.

  He’s not walking his box. He’s not locked in his prison.

  Poe is serene.

  He actually thinks he can stop us from taking off. I have no idea if he’s right. Will colliding with a solitary man keep a jet from . . . rotating?

  I think I’m about to find out.

  Carlos says, “. . . three . . .”

  I brace myself for something.

  Carlos doesn’t wait for “two” or “one.” I watch him pull back on the yoke. The nose tilts up.

  I’m thinking we just rotated.

  I lose sight of Poe.

  I wait for a thunk.

  In a pressured voice, the man says to Carlos, “Abort takeoff. Now! Do not go round. Back down! Down!”

  Carlos says, “Shit.”

  His hands jump on the controls. I’m thinking maybe Carlos is wishing he had a real copilot sitting beside him.

  He says, “Not possible. We can’t stop in time.”

  I’m processing so many stimuli that I’m on complete overload.

  Fear is clear, though. I’m scared shitless.

  As my body tries to adjust to the rapid deceleration, I’m also wondering what the hell happened to Poe.

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  NEW HAVEN

  Dee sees the perfect coordination of the timing of the takeoff with the firing of the first RPG round as confirmation of her theory.

  “Do not fire a shot you’ll want back, Commander,” she says. “You can’t recall it.”

  The SAC doesn’t reply.

  “Jet is wheels-up,” says the comm officer.

  Dee says, “Don’t. Do not. You have margin. Five minutes is a lot of margin.”

  The SAC says, “Advise DOD to take down the G-Two hundred the moment it is over Long Island Sound.”

  “Copy.”

  “Don’t do it,” Dee implores. “Use your margin.”

  The HRT hostage negotiator says, “We are four seconds to RPG reload . . . three . . .”

  The commander says, “Victor sniper, take out the RPG position on my order—”

  The comm officer interrupts. “Uh . . . Rear wheels are back down on the jet. Hard braking. Nose coming down. Aborted takeoff. Aborted takeoff.”

  Heads swivel to the monitor that is displaying the Tweed runway.

  The SAC says, “Hold fire. Victor, hold your fire.”

  Victor sniper says, “Copy.”

  The HRT hostage negotiator says, “Reload window is complete for the RPG. Second round can fire at any time.”

  All eyes are on the small monitors.

  One shows the jet careening down the runway, smoke popping in bursts from its superheated tires. One shows the smoldering damage on the side of Beinecke Library. The third is a close-up on the gable vent and the RPG position in the tomb.

  The big monitor highlights the hole in the wall of the library. The first rocket has obliterated an entire marble panel. The hole is large. A second shot from the RPG will have an unimpeded path to the interior glass containment cube that protects the priceless collection in Beinecke.

  The jet is in obvious trouble. It is rocking side to side on its rear wheels. The nose is not yet down on the runway. The plane has way too much speed.

  Someone in the back of the room is focusing all his attention on the RPG. He is praying aloud, “Don’t fire it, don’t fire it, don’t fire it.”

  The SAC says, “Victor sniper, remain at ready.”

  “Copy.”

  Five more seconds pass. Ten.

  The nose of the Gulfstream comes down just as the plane blows off the end of the concrete.

  It’s apparent that the pilot has been trying valiantly to keep the jet on the runway after he aborted the takeoff. But the laws of physics are against him.

  He fails. The front gear collapses a split second after the wheel goes from concrete to the soft earth that’s intended to retard a speeding plane. The jet comes to rest after overshooting the runway by more than a hundred yards and spinning two hundred and seventy degrees.

  Dee says, “What about the man on the runway? Where is he?”

  The camera has followed the jet as it aborted its takeoff. The location where Poe was standing on the runway is not visible in the frame.

  The IT guy says, “We don’t have that visual.”

  Dee says, “Anybody? Please?”

  “Waiting on a report.”

  Dee’s BlackBerry sings two notes. She lifts it. Looks at the screen.

  Whererud?

  She says, “Holy.”

  Christine Carmody is back in position on Grove Street when the front door of the tomb opens. Joey Blanks is at her side.

  She has already told Jack Lobatini to get his liaising face out of her face.

  Almost four minutes have passed since the RPG blew the hole in the side of Beinecke.

  A long stream of young men and women are walking out the door of Book & Snake in single file. Their hands are in the air. They take seats next to each other on the top step of the staircase that leads to the tomb.

  Every one of them looks shocked at the spectacle in front of them.

  None of them is wearing orange.

  After all are seated, a solitary man follows them out the door. His hands are in the air. In his left hand is a mobile phone. In his right hand is a closed contact switch.

  He walks down the steps to the first landing before he stops.

  He lowers one hand, glances at his mobile phone. With his thumb, he hits SEND.

  The text reads, I was right. We live. End of part one.

  He removes the contact switch—the dead man’s switch—from the fingers of his right hand. He locks the device into a closed position. He holds it up for all to see before he places it on the stone at his feet.

  In a loud, heavily accented voice, the man says, “I would like to speak to my attorney. Check your phones. I’ve sent you all his number.”

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  Sam

  Poe is standing on the soft dirt beside the jet. He is not patient. He is walking his box. It’s been only a few minutes since the plane came to a stop.

  I’ve done a lot with my few minutes.

  The first thing that happened was that the man in the mask told me to keep the FBI away from the p
lane while we worked out his surrender.

  I really liked the sound of that. I texted Poe. Be patient. Keep HRT far away. It’s almost over. I didn’t call him with the news because I didn’t want to argue with him.

  I then stepped in front of Carlos, who was on his way to release Andrew and Jane. I said, “Once this guy is in the custody of the FBI, we can free the kids, Carlos. Not now. The less Andrew sees and hears, the better. Neither of them needs to know I was here or who I am. It’s much better for Jane, in the long run. Think about it. The danger for the Calderón family isn’t over.”

  Carlos covered the necessary ground in seconds. He said, “I got it.”

  “And later, please give this to Mr. Calderón, not to Andrew.” I wiped my prints from Andrew’s iPhone, just in case, before I handed it to Carlos.

  Everything I told him was true. What I didn’t say was also true: If Andrew or Jane knew I was in New Haven, Dulce would know. If Dulce knew, Carmen would know.

  Carmen would be furious with me, possibly even homicidal.

  Being that rageful wouldn’t be good for her, given her condition.

  Once I had dealt with Poe, and with Andrew and Jane, and with Carlos, I did what I thought I was never supposed to do: I negotiated with the terrorist.

  It didn’t take long to come to an understanding. He was ready to give up.

  I was so friggin’ ready for him to give up.

  Carlos, however, was having trouble getting the door of the damaged jet open. “This could take a while, Sam,” he said.

  “I got no place else to be, Carlos,” I said.

  While Carlos struggled with the door, I stood less than three feet from the murderer near the front of the luxurious jet. The man continued to keep the contact switch compressed between his thumb and index finger.

  I couldn’t resist asking. I said, “Why?”

  In almost accent-free English, he said, “I thought you would want to know where I’m from.”

  “Really?” I said. “Where you’re from?”

  “ ‘ Where are you from?’ is a thousand questions,” he said. “ ‘ Where are you from?’ is ‘What motivates you?’ ‘Where are you from?’ is ‘Why are you so angry?’ ‘Where are you from?’ is ‘Who is your God?’ ‘Where are you from?’ is ‘What do you want?’ ‘Where are you from?’ is ‘How could you do this?’ ”