by Jon Land
“Momentarily,” she said.
“I’m patched in here with the state police, the national guard, and Fort Dix in New Jersey.”
“What can we expect from them in the way of assistance?”
“The first deployment of troops from Fort Dix should be airborne in a matter of minutes. MPs, logistical support, and combat engineers, if I’m reading this memo correctly. They’ll need a landing zone, by the way.”
“Already taken care of, sir,” said Kirkland, finally settling into his chair. “This is Assistant Director Sam Kirkland of the FBI. We’ve cleared a stretch of land in Central Park. I’ve been in touch with Fort Dix’s people to relay the proper coordinates.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Now,” Kirkland continued, “if you’ll open the folders I distributed, you’ll find the dossier on the man our information suggests is responsible. Governor, I faxed it to you en route.”
“I have it right before me,” the governor said over the speakerphone.
Kirkland stood up again and rested his knuckles on the table. “Jack Tyrell, alias Jackie Terror, a founding member of the radical Weatherman movement of the 1960s, who later broke off to establish an even more radical and violent group called Midnight Run, responsible for a series of bombings and other terrorist actions in the early 1970s.”
“Number one on the FBI’s Most Wanted List for five years running,” noted New York City Police Chief Daniel Logan, without reading ahead. “I was walking a beat when the Mercantile Bank blew, twenty-five years ago.”
“I’m confused, Mr. Kirkland,” said Mayor Corrente. “How were you able to identify Tyrell so quickly?”
Kirkland sighed. “I received information last night that placed him in the city and strongly indicated a possible threat.”
“And you did nothing about it?” asked Public Safety Commissioner Corrothers.
“The information was impossible to confirm.”
“And the source?” wondered Corrente.
“An ex—intelligence operative.”
“Ex?” echoed Logan.
“Yes.”
“And do we have his file here as well?”
“No.”
“You’re being evasive, Mr. Kirkland,” the mayor said critically.
Kirkland looked at Corrente, then at the department heads gathered around the table. “This city is facing a crisis of unprecedented proportions, which promises to get worse before it gets better. Telling you everything I might suspect right now would only pose an unnecessary distraction. Let’s stick to what we know.”
“Does that include the type of explosive Tyrell used to shut off this city from the outside world?” challenged Chief Logan. “My people tell me there’s no evidence at any of the blast sites of a standard bomb or incendiary device.”
“Beyond that,” added the city’s chief fire official, Hideo Takamura, “my own experience indicates it would take an explosive device the size of a two-ton truck to blast through a bridge, and even then the results wouldn’t be as catastrophic as we’ve seen.”
“The explosive Tyrell used is an experimental one,” Kirkland offered noncommittally.
“Not anymore it’s not,” Lucille Corrente chastised.
“It’s called Devil’s Brew, developed under a tight seal at Brookhaven Labs,” Kirkland said, repeating the information Blaine McCracken had given him.
“Apparently not tight enough to keep it out of the hands of a terrorist,” countered city Department of Transportation Director Les Carney. Carney’s right arm beat the air dramatically as he spoke, while his left, a cosmetic prosthesis, rested motionless on the table.
Chief Logan was shaking his head. “If it was stolen, why weren’t local law enforcement agencies notified?”
“I wasn’t notified, either.”
“Then how can you be sure your information is correct?”
“Same source.”
“This one ex—intelligence agent?”
“Yes.”
“We should get one of Brookhaven’s experts on the line to explain exactly what it is we’re dealing with,” suggested Mayor Corrente.
“I already tried. Nobody there will confirm the existence of the explosive, never mind elaborate on its capabilities.”
Corrente’s features flared, the look many said exemplified the nononsense, draw-the-line campaign that had brought her to office. “Is that what you call a tight seal, Mr. Kirkland?”
“It was done for safety, ma’am, to keep anyone on the outside from learning of Devil’s Brew’s existence.”
“I think it’s safe to say that strategy has backfired,” noted the mayor. “And for the time being we’ve got more pressing concerns. Bottom line: Now that we know who we’re dealing with and what he has in his possession, how can we catch him before he makes good on the threat he issued over the radio?”
Again Kirkland took the floor, relieved to have the subject changed. It was as difficult explaining McCracken’s role in this as to explain why Kirkland hadn’t acted preemptively. Not that he could have done anything, short of closing down the city or trying to evacuate it altogether. In fact, there had been no time to do either, even if he had wanted to.
“We’ve confirmed that the call Tyrell made to the radio station came in via cellular phone operating on a digital channel. We are now on-line with a tracking satellite that will enable us to pin down his precise location when he makes contact again.”
“And then?” from Corrente.
Kirkland sounded more confident now, back in his element. “I’ve got six strike teams standing by in jets no more than one hour from any locale in the country.”
A lone black telephone on the table rang.
“Goddamn it, he’s early!” Chief Logan protested.
“No,” Kirkland reminded. “He said ‘by’ eleven on the radio, not ‘at’ eleven!” He swung toward his technicians, who’d barely finished setting up shop against the far wall. “Talk to me!”
The men were studying the data readouts flying across their monitor screens.
“It’s definitely cellular!” concluded one.
“And digital!” another added. “We’ve got him!”
“We’re on-line here!” the governor said through the other phone.
Kirkland waited until Lucille Corrente nodded before reaching out and touching the Speaker button on the black phone.
“Hello, Mr. Tyrell,” the mayor greeted.
The top officials of the city of New York heard a brief laugh before a voice resounded through the speakerphone. “My, my, my, I guess I don’t have to introduce myself.”
“Why are you doing this?” Corrente demanded, trying to stay on the offensive.
“Long story. Goes back a whole lotta years.”
“You’ve made your point.”
A chuckle. “Lucy, I’m just getting started. Now you got a choice to make: either you go down as the mayor who saved her city or the mayor who lost it.”
“How much do you want? You said you’d tell us.”
“Everything have to have a monetary value?”
“Usually, when hostages are involved.”
“Well, I got plenty of them. That means we’re talking lots of monetary value. Say, fifteen billion dollars delivered before three o’clock this afternoon, or your city is toast, Lucy.”
The entire conference room seemed to quiver.
“Did you say fifteen billion?”
“I did, I did. You got maybe five million people trapped in Manhattan right now, which puts the price at maybe three hundred bucks a head—a bargain when you look at it that way.”
“Five million and one,” said Blaine McCracken from the doorway.
McCracken’s clothes were shredded and smudged. He advanced grimacing, clearly in considerable pain. The first New York City policeman to arrive on the scene of the helicopter crash on Park Avenue had become his reluctant chauffeur to City Hall on an excruciatingly long drive through the gridlocked street
s. The personnel standing around the conference table did a collective double take, watching him.
“I know that voice,” Jack Tyrell droned through the black phone’s speaker.
“We were never formally introduced, Tyrell.”
“Pleased to meet you. Glad you guessed my name.” Then, after a pause, “You fucked up my operation at the Monument, killed one of my men in Pennsylvania, and now you cost me a helicopter, asshole.”
“I’m going to cost you a whole lot more than that before this day is over.”
“This day ends at three o’clock.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Hey, Lucy, I’ll call you back with the details. How I want the money broken up, where to deliver it—that sort of shit.”
Click.
Kirkland swung from the conference table toward his team of technicians. “Talk to me!”
“We got it!” a man wearing a headset announced.
Kirkland grabbed the receiver of the phone set before his chair at the table. “Get strike teams ready to roll!”
“Damn!” said his technician, working the keyboard.
“What is it?”
“This guy’s good … .”
“Where is he?”
The technician spoke while still punching keys. “Birmingham, Alabama. But it’s the signal, not the call. He’s got direct linkup with a satellite. No way we can get him.”
“Can’t you—”
“Wait a minute, I’ve got something here. Just an echo, but if it’s right …”
“Talk!” Kirkland ordered.
The technician spun his chair around. “He’s here. He’s calling from somewhere in New York City.”
“Like I told you last night,” McCracken reminded.
That was enough for the mayor to put everything together. “This is your source?” she asked Kirkland, eyeing the disheveled Blaine disparagingly.
Kirkland shrugged, nodded. “Meet Blaine McCracken.”
“The man from the George Washington Bridge,” Corrente realized, recalling Tyrell’s mention of a helicopter.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Just like he happened to be in the neighborhood of the Washington Monument when Tyrell seized that six months ago,” Kirkland said by way of explanation.
“You seem to be the resident expert on this man, Mr. McCracken,” noted Mayor Corrente. “We’d like to hear what you know.”
“He’s going to blow up this city.”
“That much we’re already aware of,” Chief Logan said snidely.
“No, what I mean is he’s going to blow up the city at three o’clock whether you pay him or not.”
“Well, then,” began Mayor Corrente, only half sarcastically, “if you could save the Monument, we better hope you can save New York.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Blaine said, producing the charred piece of paper he had salvaged from the helicopter.
“Here’s our boy,” Marbles called to Jack Tyrell. “His name is Blaine McCracken. His file’s got more seals on it than I can penetrate, but this is good enough.”
“One tough fucking son of a bitch, I’d say,” Tyrell said, reading over his shoulder.
“Jackie,” one of his communications monitors yelled out. “We got trouble at New York Harbor.”
“I was waiting for that,” Tyrell said, leaving Blaine McCracken behind to move to another area of the command center.
McCracken flattened out the tattered, slightly charred page as best he could before holding it up for those around the conference table to see. At first glance it looked like the outline of a hand with a single finger pointing upward, dotted with upwards of two dozen small circles.
“It’s a plan of the island of Manhattan,” realized Transportation Director Carney.
“What about those circles?” wondered Chief Takamura.
Blaine shrugged. “They form an irregular line across the city, but it’s not symmetrical. And if you wanted to maximize the effect of the explosives, you’d want it to be symmetrical.”
“What then?” Corrente asked him.
“Why don’t we start with an explanation of how this Devil’s Brew works?” Logan suggested. “Mr. McCracken, you seem to be the only one here who knows anything about it … .”
Blaine summarized the volatile properties of the deadly substance, laying out for his audience what their city was facing.
“You’re talking about a bomb that effectively has no working parts,” concluded a flabbergasted Mayor Corrente.
“Then how can it be set off?” asked Corrothers.
“A number of different alternatives are possible. The most viable trigger is electronic, via a digital or transistor receiver that would respond to a preprogrammed signal. Once the signal is received, a charge is sent down a thin wire connecting the receiver or capacitor to the position of the Devil’s Brew.”
Chief Logan leaned forward. “This receiver be about the size of a Walkman?”
“Even smaller, maybe.”
“I think we’ve got one. One of my squads recovered something matching that description from the explosion at the Queensboro Bridge. It’s almost intact.”
McCracken turned to Kirkland. “You have any communications experts at the New York office?”
“Only the best.”
“Then get the receiver over to him. If he can identify the controller chip’s frequency, we might be able to send a signal with enough power to burn out the rest of the capacitors Tyrell must have wired throughout the city.”
“Would Devil’s Brew show up in explosives sensor equipment?” asked Chief Takamura.
“Yes,” Blaine replied. “In the high-end models used in airports.”
“The city bomb squad just purchased four of the portable variety,” Logan said, almost proudly. “And the units en route from Fort Dix are bringing three more.”
“Still leaves us several short,” Blaine noted.
“How about using dogs?” suggested Les Carney.
“If there’s enough Devil’s Brew left for them to pick up the scent, absolutely,” said McCracken.
“How much would it have taken to blow each of the bridges and tunnels?” the mayor asked him.
“Twenty gallons each would be a fair estimate.”
“That’s all?” exclaimed a flabbergasted Logan.
“And how much is in the missing tanker that was traced to Manhattan?” the mayor added.
“The entire reserve that Brookhaven manufactured: fifty thousand gallons.”
The whole room fell into shocked silence, broken finally by Corrente in a voice grim with resignation. “Tyrell really can destroy this city, can’t he?”
“The question,” said Blaine, “is where has he planted the tanker’s contents?”
“According to you, it could be anywhere.”
“The sewers would be my guess,” proposed Chief Logan.
“No,” said Blaine. “Too much of the blast would be focused downward to achieve the effect Tyrell wants. He’d destroy a good deal of the city’s infrastructure, level some buildings, and collapse a few streets, but that’s not enough for a man who intends to destroy the city.” Again he glanced at the tattered map. “It’s got to be something else, something he wouldn’t expect us to consider.”
“Can I see that?” Carney asked, and Blaine slid the map down the table. Carney took it in his working hand. “This map is drawn perfectly to scale.” He looked up at the mayor. “Given time, I think I can pin down the exact locations of these circles.”
“How much time?”
“An hour; forty-five minutes if we’re lucky.”
“With dogs and the explosives sensors,” started Logan, “we can come up with ten teams, possibly eleven.
“That’s two sites per team at least, Chief,” Blaine noted without enthusiasm.
“You got a better idea?”
“I want an update on all emergency efforts currently under way before we listen to any n
ew ideas,” broke in Lucille Corrente.
Fire Chief Takamura took the floor. “Our first priority, as you know, has been to clear routes to the blast sites in order to reach all the casualties.”
“Toward that end,” picked up Corrothers from Public Safety, “my crews are doing their best to clear the tunnels and bridges. I called in every tow and haul vendor in the Manhattan yellow pages, but it became clear pretty quickly even that wasn’t going to be enough.”
“That’s where my people came in,” said Carney, still holding the outline of Manhattan, as Corrothers moved to a television in the front of the room and switched it on, scanning channels for the scene he was looking for. “I had a hundred snowplows in the shop gathering dust, so I recommended we use them to shove aside the smashed cars in the roadways.”
“Our biggest problem at this point is that we just don’t have enough emergency personnel to treat all the wounded,” Takamura explained somberly. “I’ve portioned out our rescue and fire forces as best I can. Then, of course, there’s the added problem of getting to the wounded and then getting them to hospitals. What we’ve managed to do instead is to distribute hospital crews—teams of doctors and nurses with as much equipment as they can carry—to the blast sites to set up triage facilities.”
“Do we have an update on the number of casualties?” Corrente asked.
“No one’s had the time to sit down and tabulate all that’s been reported. CNN is estimating a thousand dead and ten times that number wounded.”
“Oh my God …”
“Here we go,” said Corrothers.
The screen filled with a shot of a line of massive plows effortlessly shoving aside wrecked cars on the George Washington Bridge, mashing them against each other to create a wide channel for the emergency vehicles that kept arriving on the scene. The plows worked right up to a makeshift barrier where one of the triage units Takamura had mentioned had already been organized.
“What we’ve been doing on the streets where traffic was gridlocked,” started Chief Logan, “is similar in strategy. Our goal is to get two lanes open on every major artery and north-south city street by forcing the traffic to one side, use the sidewalks for parking if we have to. We’ve blocked off every primary access route so no more nonessential traffic can enter. But our job is being substantially complicated by the crowds of people filling the streets.”