Four hours had passed since Cavan Coakley's call to Los Angeles. Two hours since the bomb threat had been revealed to the public over a university FM station.
Within the hour, half the stations in L.A. repeated the warning. Like a grass fire fanned by a stiff breeze, the news had spread nationwide.
There was no longer any hope of concealing the existence of the stolen warheads.
The bedroom of the Essex House suite had been converted to a command post, furniture removed and a radio communication center established. Banks of telephones had been installed, including a direct line to Stony Man and another to the White House.
Brognola shut the door as he came out of the bedroom to cut off the noise made by the antiterrorist experts and technicians working there. News could be relayed instantly, but the living-room suite served as a think tank for Phoenix Force, a place where they could concentrate on the movements of the terrorists—and try to outguess what Riley would do next.
"Are you sure you can trust your man?" David asked.
"He was my man before he was Riley's," said Heffernan stiffly. He resented the presence of the Englishman and made no effort to conceal his hatred.
"I sent him with Riley," he added, "knowing the Provos had to stay in close touch with any scheme he was proposing."
"And the other factions," said Brognola.
Heffernan lifted a shoulder. "The other factions can look out for themselves. It's the Provos who are fighting the real war and bearing the brunt of it."
While Phoenix Force members monitored Riley and planned their course of action, the city of Los Angeles was erupting in a state of panic. The freeways were clogged in all directions, city streets a mad circus as frightened drivers ran traffic lights in the hope of gaining an advantage over the next car. The populacewas fleeing frantically with no destination in mind. They were fleeing the bomb.
Some, with foresight, were prepared and had loaded their cars and trucks and vans with canned goods and blankets, cans of water and gasoline, rifles and handguns. A few were pragmatic, prepared for any emergency from earthquake to fire to mudslides that could seal off canyon roads for days or weeks. Others were survivalists, ready to shoot down neighbor or friend if it helped them to live.
Still others, less practical and panic-stricken, grabbed whatever they could before leaving their homes.
Those who lived in the marinas and had boats and yachts headed out to sea. Others, less fortunate economically, stole transportation that ranged from those same marina boats to custom Excalibur automobiles to small planes, and even city buses.
In the chaos of evacuation, looting had started. Watts was near riot. Every off-duty city policeman and sheriff's deputy had been called in, along with the civilian reserves. Many were still struggling to reach their duty stations. Others had joined the exodus.
The mayors of Los Angeles and Santa Monica, Pasadena and Long Beach, Anaheim and Ventura and Torrance and the other incorporated cities of Los Angeles and the surrounding counties were on the panic line to Sacramento,demanding that the governor send out the National Guard.
The governor was on another line, to Washington, pleading to get the same guard released from the federalization alert called when the first threat of the Irish terrorists surfaced.
North, south and east, the mass of panic-stricken people surged, heading for the supposed safety of the hills, the high desert, Palm Springs, the Sierras, Mexico, Las Vegas.
The evacuation and the looters were civil problems. If Seamus Riley was not stopped, such civil problems would be stifled in the rage of a nuclear blast. The civil problems could wait.
They would have to wait.
Phoenix Force concentrated on Riley.
They were looking for the three remaining bombs.
"What's the plan?" McCarter asked.
"We figure the guards in the warehouse will evacuate at least three hours before zero hour," said Hal Brognola. "Probably earlier, considering the problem they've given themselves of getting out of there."
"Assuming they're not suicidal like the one who blew himself apart with his grenade in Chicago," said Rafael.
"We have to make that assumption," said Hal. "They must have escape routes prepared. They need men to continue their 'war.' You agree, Heffernan?"
The Irishman shrugged. "If raided, they would set off the bomb and die. But they're not fools. Lives are not to be thrown away needlessly. Riley needs men for his army."
Brognola nodded. "We'll go in as soon as they leave and neutralize the bomb. We'll have tails on the guards. There's a slim chance they'll lead us to Riley, or at least to the other bombs."
"Unlikely," said Yakov. "He has his army well compartmented. Each group seems to know only what it must know to carry out its function."
"Riley knows what he's doing," said Heffernan. "The man may be crazy, but he's also cagey."
"There's a stronger possibility the guards will try to report to Riley," said Brognola. "We've got our people in Washington—with a little help from our friends at the phone company—doing a little tapping in the area. If they make a call, we'll know about it."
"What about the bomb itself?" Gary Manning asked Heffernan. "Is it on a timer, or will it be set off by remote control?"
"My man knows nothing about the firing device," said Heffernan. "Only the guy who actually armed the bomb knows that."
"It's probably a combination of the two," said Manning. "If it fails to go off on the timer, there'll be a backup. It's unlikely it would he radio controlled—I'd do it by telephone. They're easy to work by phone—you call twice,or even three times. Let it ring twice, three times, and then the second or third call fires the bomb."
"We'd take the bomb now," Brognola said, "but if Riley is alerted he'll just switch to one of the backups."
"We don't know where those bastard bombs are," McCarter said.
"One's got to be in New York," Yakov said. "Washington," added Manning.
"They're going for the biggest cities," said Keio. "It's only logical. They are trying to punish the United States for not forcing the companies to give in to the original demand."
"Houston or Chicago," said Rafael. "It's probably one of those, along with New York and Washington."
The bedroom door opened. A man in shirt-sleeves and suspenders stood there, necktie pulled loose from his collar.
"Riordan's come back to his apartment," he said. "From the sounds we're pickin' up on the bugs, he doesn't intend to stay very long. He might just have a meeting planned with his old buddy Riley."
The Phoenix Force agents moved into the other room. A map of Manhattan showing the streets and major reference points from the Battery to Central Park was covered with a plastic overlay, marked with pins and grease pencils. Another showed the city from 42nd Street to the South Bronx, and others covered the other boroughs and Long Island.
A technician held up a hand. "Riordan's leaving the apartment. Heading for Sixth Avenue."
More than a minute passed as reports were relayed by the full team of city and federal agents that had been spotted on Riordan. The others waited in silence.
"He just went into the subway, the uptown IND on the side."
The Phoenix Force antiterrorists broke for the other room, scooping up outer wear and radios that would keep them in communication with the command post. Brognola and Heffernan stayed behind.
Every possibility had been covered. Two men would be on the subway car with Riordan, two more in each adjoining car.
Teams of men had the subway system blanketed, while others covered bus terminals, airports .... If Riordan tried to leave town, rent a car, buy a magazine or breath, he would be covered.
But they hoped he stayed in Manhattan; Riordan was important to Phoenix Force and their New York City helpers only if he led them to Riley, his Irish gang and the bombs. If he left Manhattan, if he skipped the country, he was just a lead that died before it blossomed.
The Phoenix Force members separated asthey hit
59th Street and spread out to cover the most likely routes Riordan could choose.
Gary Manning sprinted for an unmarked car that would be in contact with the command post in the Essex House.
For two days Gary Manning had been chasing shadows, trying to capture clues while the other Phoenix Force agents tasted action. He was not, a watcher. He yearned for the fight. And Riordan was his meat. His hunch about Ames Computronics in Sussex had been wrong, but he would make up for that. He would even the score.
18
GARY MANNING piled into the back seat of the unmarked car, which was already manned by two New York City plainclothes detectives. But there was no place to go. In a moment the radio, tuned to a special channel that received the reports by the teams on Riordan, crackled to life.
"Subject entered a train, headed uptown." Time passed, minutes dragged.
"Subject left train at 42nd Street. Now he'sheaded for exit. Moving toward Port Authority.
Manning followed Riordan's every move with the aid of the radio.
Riordan left the subway train at 42nd Street then entered the Port Authority bus terminal, meandering along, stopping to purchase a dozen donuts.
"Donuts, for God's sake," retorted one of the cops in Manning's car when he heard that report. "Donuts . . . ."
From there Riordan reentered the subway and moved toward the tunnel to Times Square. He then caught the shuttle, took the short crosstown trip and headed for Grand Central, out onto Lexington Avenue then cut north and east along 48th Street.
"Subject just entered 866 UN Plaza," came the report from a cop tail.
"What's there?" Manning asked.
Hal Brognola's booming voice answered the question over the radio. "That's the Libyan Mission. His wife works in the building."
Manning's impatience grew. "Head toward the Mission," he told the driver. The driver obeyed, but crosstown traffic was sluggish.
"Subject just left Mission with a woman," the voice said, returning after a short silence. "Women is in her late forties, dumpy, dyed brown hair."
"That's his wife," Cormick Heffernan's voice interjected.
Neal Riordan hailed a cab. He then bundled his wife into the cab, gave the driver instructions and left his wife with a quick wink and a smile.
Brognola's voice boomed again. "Someone follow the damn cab. God only knows what his wife is up to."
"We've got the cab covered by helicopter, Hal," said a New York cop who was helping coordinate the tail. "Looks like it's headed for the 59th Street Bridge."
Meanwhile, Riordan had reached 50th Street, crossing Second Avenue.
Gary Manning heard this update and he felt the pent-up frustration explode. He busted outof the back seat of the unmarked car and hollered as he took off: "I'll keep on the bastard by foot."
Manning, bumping bodies, ignoring glares, stares and curses, kept the radio held to his ear as he stormed after Riordan.
"Subject crossing Lexington. Subject entering downtown entrance to subway."
As the voice died, Manning reached the subway station, the breath ripped from his lungs. He pounded down the stairs. Hitting the bottom, he looked about as three other agents came barreling down other stairways.
Riordan, unaware of the tails, stood at the south end of the train station, near where the first car of the train would stop. Stepping behind a crowd of commuters, Manning reported in.
"Manning. I have the subject."
The train rumbled in from the north. Manning entered the same car as Riordan. The Irish-man snatched a seat away from a tall woman in a miniskirt. Manning leaned against a steel post.
The subway train entered Grand Central and discharged most of its passengers. Manning surveyed the train as it rumbled along. It was filthy, its walls and windows smeared with graffiti, its seats scarred and gouged by vandals.
The train passed under the east side of the island and came to a stop at the Brooklyn Bridge station. Riordan hopped out, followedby Manning and the other agents who made themselves scarce as they went up the stairs.
Manning let the Irishman get a hundred feet ahead before he followed. He picked him up again at the top of the stairs. The tailing became tricky as Riordan worked his way north several blocks and then moved east, crossing Avenue A and Avenue B. But the subject seemed oblivious to the fact that he might be followed. Whistling, he turned north on Avenue C, crossed the avenue and turned east on the next block. By the time Manning reached the corner, he was mounting the stoop of a five-story tenement.
Manning continued across the corner as Riordan entered the building. The other agents had picked him up; one broke into a run to the next corner, and then turned east—he circled the block and came in from the other side. A second turned boldly onto the block, walked on the south side and showed no apparent interest in the north side of the street.
The third agent stopped, checked his watch. This part of New York was a wasteland, buildings abandoned and burned out, the people dressed in ill-fitting coats and suspicious of strangers. Several black men ambled along Avenue C, eyeing the white interlopers. Manning ignored them, his eyes searching for lookouts.
He cast a last look down the block and moved to where he could duck below a stoop. ThereManning took out the radio and reported. The other three agents did the same.
"There's a man in the fourth-floor front window."
"Another on the roof. Make that two. They're both carrying rifles."
Brognola came on. "Is there any indication Choirboy is there?"
Choirboy was the code name for Seamus Riley. Rafael Encizo had suggested it, only half facetiously, when it was learned that Riley had been a sought-after tenor during his youth.
"Nothing," said one of the other agents. "But somebody or something damn important is there."
"The bombs?" said another.
Another of the men came on. "Can't we get some better coverage? I think the guy in the window made me."
"Sit tight, it's on the way," said the commander. "Take up positions where you can watch the block even if you have to lose the building. Stay out of sight."
Brognola came back. "P-team, converge."
That was the signal for the Phoenix Force agents to come together. Manning worked the fingers of his right hand, unconsciously nodding as the various voices came on.
If Riley was in there, the bastard would not slip through his fingers this time.
Manning glanced at the sky. There was no way they could take the terrorists by day; not bya full frontal assault. They had to take them alive in a firefight.
Riley had to be alive.
They would have to wait until dark and go over the roof.
Sunset would arrive in three hours.
Three hours until wartime—New York style. Phoenix Force style.
19
A BUM WEAVED DOWN AVENUE C, occasionally stopping to peer through litter in a trash can. He wore a filthy gray overcoat that dragged on the ground, drab army cap and dirty, torn brown cotton gloves.
He started to cross the street but stopped in the middle of the road, swaying again. He turned abruptly and staggered into an open stairwell. The bum stayed there for quite some time then started down the street. He reached no Farther than two houses before he collapsed onto the stoop. For a moment he sat with knees splayed and hands between his thighs. Then he slowly folded onto his side, curled up on the step, and fell asleep.
Twenty minutes later an aging Ford Econo-line van turned onto the avenue, heading north. The van's body was heavily dented, scarred and showed rust-red undercoating beneath blue paint. A bumper sticker proclaimed PUERTO RICAN POWER!
As the van drew abreast of the terrorist house, its right front tire blew. The van bumped to a stop. A Hispanic youth jumped out of thedriver's side, stared at the tire then hauled off and kicked the side of the fender, shouting a loud curse.
The other door popped open and four more - youths got out. The five young people gathered around the flat tire, staring, and then an argument
broke out over the driver's stupidity in not having a spare.
The argument grew very loud with hands waving wildly. One of the five, a girl, grabbed one of the boys by the arm. They began to argue, the girl trying to tug him toward the corner. At last he surrendered and said they were leaving. The others followed.
The driver had been deserted. He glared at the van, kicked it again then hurried after his friends.
That left only three men hidden in the back o the van.
Traffic on Avenue C picked up. A Consolidated Edison van came to a stop at a manhole. Two men jumped out, pried up the cover and set up a circular steel fence around the hole. They brought lights and equipment from the back of the truck, lowered it into the hole and disappeared.
Gary Manning, leaving his hiding place, approached the rear door of the van. It opened Rafael Encizo reached out, caught his hand and yanked him inside.
"Welcome, amigo," said the Cuban, grinning.
Manning stripped off his street clothing. He donned a combat suit and began to check out his weapons in the tight confines of the truck. When he finished, he settled himself to wait.
They were ready for the assault.
It was only a matter of time.
Other agents poured into the area, moving into the surrounding empty houses. At the same time the denizens of these rat dens departed for more seemly climes. Two blocks north of the terrorist house agents climbed to the roof, took up positions overlooking the target.
Reports continued to come over the radio.
The police helicopter had trailed the cab carrying Riordan's wife over the 59th Street Bridge and along Queens Boulevard to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The cab stayed with the BQE until it merged with the Grand Central Parkway, headed east to La Guardia. Ground agents took over, men who had been staked out against the possibility of Riordan himself trying to leave that way. They followed her to the Eastern Airlines counter and reported she bought a one-way ticket to Miami.
Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs Page 10