Shock Warning d-3

by Michael Walsh

  “Why do you keep saying that. ‘Wahoo, Nebraska’?”

  “Because that’s how they say it. Wahoo, Nebraska, accent on the ‘hoo.’ And he didn’t. He just said Wahoo. So I said, you mean, Wahoo, Nebraska, and he just looked at me. That was when I knew he wasn’t from Wahoo.”

  “Nebraska,” finished Lannie.

  “Exactly. Plus he accented ‘Wa.’ ”

  “Okay, now where did he go? Was he ever carrying anything? Did he walk over here or take a bike?”

  “Neither,” said Alonzo. “He rode one of those threewheelers with a compartment up front to put stuff in. You’ve seen ’em.”

  Lannie felt his heart racing. “Where’s the service entrance?”

  They were there eight minutes later. Lannie was punching in text on his phone the whole way.

  The room was downstairs, just as he feared.

  “Are there any storage rooms around here? Places the service personnel use to store things?”

  “It’s okay, Ralph,” said Schmidt to a big man in a security guard’s rig. “Everything cool. Right over here, Detective.”

  Lannie tried the door. “It’s locked.”

  “Not locked. The door’s busted, stuck or something, and we haven’t gotten around to getting it fixed. Not a lot of use for it anyway.”

  “We have to break it down,” said Lannie, deadly serious. “Come on, help me.”

  He and Alonzo threw themselves at it. Nothing. Celina tried as well. They felt it move a little, but that was all. “Come on, Ralph, get your ass over here,” said Alonzo.

  The fat man added his weight to the mix. The door groaned and buckled but did not give.

  “Stand back,” said Lannie, drawing his weapon, the Sig P226, the model that was among the standard-issue nine-millimeters in the department. Even his chief, Frankie Byrne, had switched, although more out of necessity than choice. He fired a single round. “Okay, again,” he said, and the four of them put their combined weight behind it….

  Open. There was the trike. “Fuck a duck,” said Lannie.

  He raced to the trike and opened the compartment. Empty. It would have been a miracle were it not, and it seemed that for New York City miracles were just about in as short supply as love.

  Lannie punched another message, then looked up. “How far could he have gotten with whatever he was carrying before somebody noticed him?”

  “Depends on the time of day,” said Celina. “Late at night…”

  Late at night, hospitals were just about the least secure places in the city. Just the comatose patients and a few overworked interns heading into the twentieth consecutive hour of work while most of the doctors slept soundly at home in the Oranges or Westchester or Ridgefield in Connecticut, and the help went home to the Bronx and Staten Island. If that kid had gotten entry to the hospital at night, he could have left his package anywhere.

  “Thanks, Ralph, you’ve been very helpful,” said Lannie to the fat man, and began to walk away. He dropped his voice as he spoke to Celina and Alonzo. “You’re not to speak of this to anybody, you understand. This is police business. Alonzo, get me a radiation check on that trike ASAP. Celina, I need you to start asking around… quietly… among the staff if anybody remembers seeing your boyfriend Raymond one night before the attacks. And I need to see the head administrator, right now.”

  “I’ll take to you Dr. Leopold’s office,” offered Celina.

  “I knew something was wrong,” muttered Alonzo. “I felt it. I felt like something was hiding from me”

  Celina and Lannie were heading for the elevator that would take them to the administration floor. “Do you think you can feel it one more time?” asked Lannie. “And find it? Our lives are going to depend on it.”

  “You can count on me, Detective,” said Schmidt. “If there’s something hot in this place, I’ll get it.”

  “Make it snappy,” said Lannie. Then, to Celina, “Let’s—”

  She was taking an in-house page on her cell phone. The look on her face told Lannie something was terribly wrong. “Can you please repeat that?” she said, signaling frantically to Lannie to come close and listen. “I’m having a hard time hearing you. This is a hospital, you know. It’s noisy around here. Wait, let me put you on speakerphone.”

  She hit the button. Together, they listened to the voice.

  “Did you give him my message?”

  Lannie signaled for her to play along, string out the conversation, keep him on the line as much as possible as he frantically sent a message back to Sid Sheinberg at CTU headquarters. In hospitals, cell phone service was tied in with Internet service; the relay stations worked off the wireless service. If he could just keep the guy talking long enough, they could get a read on his position.

  “Give who the message?”

  “Detective Aslan Saleh—” and then the words devolved into some kind of Middle Eastern gibberish again, words that Celina had no chance of ever understanding, no matter how many times she went to Brooklyn.

  Lannie was still texting when his ear caught the change of language. A look of disbelief came over his face as he listened, and a sneer of derision appeared on his lips.

  “He’s right there with you, isn’t he?” said the man, speaking in English again. “So this is my message to you, Detective Saleh, you dog son of a thousand whores. There is fatwa against you and your family for the crime of apostasy. There is fatwa against you and your family for the crime of insulting Islam. There is fatwa against you for the crime of collaborating with the infidel. May you make your peace with Allah and beg his most compassionate forgiveness. Taubeh kon! For the day of reckoning is at—”

  Lannie grabbed the phone. “Listen to me, fella. You can take your goddamn fucking threats and shove them up your ass. This is my town, my country, my home and if you don’t like then go blow a camel. You ever show up here, you’re dead meat. You wanna see repentance? By the time I’m finished with you, you’re gonna confess to murdering Judge Crater. Capisce?”

  But the bastard had rung off. No matter — he’d kept him on the phone long enough. Sid Sheinberg would track his ass down. The long arm of the NYPD would reach out and take his fucking head right off.

  “Everything okay, Detective?” asked Celina.

  “Let’s get to work,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  Millie Dhouri hated to interrupt the President when he was power napping but the FBI was on the line. “It’s Deputy Director Byrne, Mr. President,” she said. “On the phone. Says it’s a matter of national security.”

  Jeb Tyler shook his head to clear the cobwebs. What was he, some middle manager? Didn’t anybody go through channels anymore? It was easy for the President to say that the door to the Oval Office was always open, but he wasn’t supposed to mean it.

  Before he took the call he went into the small room just off the Oval Office that one of his predecessors had made famous and splashed some water on his face. He loved playing poker as much as the next good ol’ boy, but this was the highest-stakes game he ever hoped to play in. The situation was fluid and changing by the minute. Prophets and Virgins were appearing in the skies, the Iranians had just fired off three Shahabs to make sure everybody was paying attention, he’d just signed off on an op that, if it failed, would ensure that he ranked right up there with Jimmy Carter and the failed hostage rescue attempt in the annals of presidential futility, fecklessness, and infamy.

  What was not to like?

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a bomb at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. The NYPD won’t confirm that, but I can.”

  “What kind of bomb?”

  “Suitcase nuke, we think. The media’s been telling folks for years there’s no such thing, but you and I both know better, don’t we, Mr. President?”

  Tyler could see why everybody loathed Tom Byrne. The man was rude, crude, and lewd, and probably screwed, blooed, and tattooed as well. Nevertheless he was damn good a
t his job precisely because of all those unsavory character traits.

  “How do you know? Did your brother tell you? And if he didn’t, why wasn’t I informed?”

  “You’ll have to ask Frankie that, Mr. President. He and I don’t get along so good, as you probably know. But I’ve got a little bird in the CTU, and he sings like a regular canary.”

  Tyler felt his blood boiling. Goddamned clannish Irish and their goddamned NYPD blue line and their goddamned mick version of omertá.

  “Thank you for informing me, Deputy Director Byrne,” said Tyler. “I’ll task it to the proper authorities.”

  It was clear Byrne didn’t like getting blown off. “I think you should let the FBI handle it, sir.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Homeland Security.”

  If he’d been present, Byrne would have laughed in his face. The sneer came through loud and clear over the phone. “You have got to be kidding me, sir.”

  “I’m the President of the United States,” Tyler reminded him.

  “Yes, you are, sir. And the statutory authority is clear: This is an FBI matter, Mr. President. So please let us handle it. We have the men, the training, and the equipment. And I have my… special relationship… with the head of the CTU, as you know.”

  Tyler ran through the calculations in his head. Results were all that counted now, and there was no time to waste. The thought of dragging that idiot Colangelo into the case and getting him up to speed made him ill. Whatever the bad blood between the Byrne brothers was, it didn’t matter at this moment. All that mattered was finding that bomb, defusing it, and getting it the hell out of Manhattan with the public none the wiser.

  “If this goes tits up…” said Tyler.

  “Then we’ve both got bigger problems than jurisdiction.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the Acela, on my way to Penn Station. Will be there in forty-five minutes.”

  So the die was already cast. After this was over, if somehow he won reelection, he was going to clean house. Except for Seelye and maybe Shalika Johnson, there wouldn’t be anybody left standing from the old regime. Well, maybe with one or two exceptions, depending on how well they carried out their current missions. But Thomas A. Byrne, he felt quite sure, was destined for early retirement.

  “Deputy Director Byrne?” said the President.

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Don’t fuck up.”

  “Thank you, sir. And if you ever need a, you know, favor…”

  Tyler kept him on the line. He didn’t have to worry about Byrne hanging up. You didn’t hang up on the President, he hung up on you.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m thinking…. Listen, Tom, what’s this I hear about you and a certain lady…?”

  Thank God for interagency gossip, and his appetite for it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Al Dhafra, United Arab Emirates

  It was more than a little creepy to see the memorial models of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon outside the fire department. At least, thought Devlin, we had some friends in the Arab world. Especially here, in the Emirates and near the other Gulf states. They all had their problems with the United States, but they had an even bigger problem with their Shiite minorities, who were growing more restive by the day, whipped up and egged on by the Iranians and their proxies in the Levant. Thank Allah for the ancient principle that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, or we wouldn’t have any friends in the Middle East at all.

  They were inside a secure transmission area. The base, a stone’s throw from Abu Dhabi and not far from Dubai, was used by the UAE air force, but also by the French and, most important for their purposes, the 380th Air Expeditionary Wing of the U.S. Air Force. Its mission was mostly recon and air refueling, but it could do some damage when it wanted to and its presence there, in the heart of Sunni Arabia, was a powerful reminder that the Great Satan still had some punch left in him.

  Both Danny and Devlin knew that every word they said would be recorded and that every keystroke on a computer terminal would be logged. Friendship only went so far, especially among natural enemies. So they were using a double Playfair cipher to disguise the real purpose of their communications with Washington. They had worked out the key phrase and grid on the flight over, and for two experienced pros, it was a fairly simple matter to send back a stream of official-sounding but innocuous reports to the DoD, which would in turn be decoded on the spot and relayed from the SecDef to the Building in Fort Meade.

  “You know they’re playing us, don’t you?” said Devlin when they were back outside. The temperature was over one hundred degrees, and even the waters of the Gulf looked like the beach in hell. “We think we have a mission, but Tyler is as cunning as a snake. He’ll piggyback some damn thing or another on top of what we’re doing. That way, if things go south and we have to abort, or get captured, he can leave us ‘rogues’ hanging out to dry and walk away.”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “Not to me. My official job is track down Emanuel Skorzeny and terminate him. My personal job is to find Maryam and get her out, and muss the Iranians’ hair. Your job is to fly me in and fly us out from the rendezvous point — Maryam, me, and whoever tags along. The Hornets will take out the missiles. And our job is to stay in touch with Byrne at the NYPD and try to terminate the bomb at its source.”

  “I have one other job.”

  “What’s that?

  “To come home.”

  “Which is why you’ve got the job you do. Look, no one can fly a chopper like you and I know your men are your equal in skill.”

  “Better. Younger.”

  “So you’re going to succeed where those poor bastards of Operation Eagle Claw failed. They failed because shit happened and the command lost its nerve and Carter pulled the plug. They failed because we weren’t ready for desert warfare back then. We didn’t know we’d be fighting these same damn people for the next thirty years and more. Which is why, this time—”

  “This time, we’re going to get it right.”

  “Damn right we are. Jesus, it’s hot.”

  “Not as hot as it’s going to be.”

  They got out of the sun and headed for the base canteen. A cold beer would taste great right about now, and the nice thing about the Emirates and the other playpens nearby was that you could actually get one. A wise man once said that living in the old Soviet Union was like living with your parents for the rest of your life, but the U.S.S.R. was like a vacation at a topless beach in St. Tropez compared to the Arab world, where sin was resolutely hidden and more often to be found in Paris or London than Doha or, God knew, Riyadh.

  Devlin bought the beers. The base was pretty quiet. Whatever Tyler was planning wasn’t going to come from this direction. Danny drank, wiped his mouth, pointed east.

  “That’s where SOAR got its start. Even Carter could figure out that to the mobile belonged the future, and that if we ever again were going in to a place like Tabas, we’d damn sure better be prepared.”

  “And we are.”

  “Think we’ll come back?”

  “You will, as long as you dodge the haboob.” That would be the fine desert sand mist that had brought down Carter’s choppers.

  There was no further need to go over the plan. Timing was everything. As soon as Maryam was able to get a signal out, they would move. It was all in her hands now.

  “Code names?” asked Danny.

  “Pick yours. I’ve got mine.”

  “Black Hawk will do just fine. You?”

  “Malak al-Maut.”

  “Malak al-Maut?” repeated Danny. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You ought to know. You’ve heard me say it enough times.”

  A big grin spread across Danny’s face. “The Angel of Death.”

  They shook hands. “It’s a dirty job,” said Devlin, “but somebody’s got to do it.”

  It was good to finally meet a friend. />
  “What about the name of the op?” asked Danny.

  “Only name it can have: Operation Honey Badger.”

  “The one that never got off the ground. The second rescue operation.”

  “Terminated on account of a presidential election. The minute Reagan took the oath of office, the hostages were released.”

  “End of story.”

  “But not end of problem.”

  He felt his Android buzz. There was no bother about taking the message — it had been coded and rerouted so many times that it would be indecipherable to all but him. He looked at the display:

  QOM. DANGER. HURRY.

  Devlin looked at Danny: “Let’s roll.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  New York City

  “Captain Byrne? I’m Hope Gardner.”

  Frankie looked at the woman standing in front of his desk. She’d been brought from Stewart directly to the CTU in a car with its rear windows tinted both inside and out and a partition between her and the driver. The location of the Counter-Terrorism Unit was still a secret, and Byrne wanted to keep it that way.

  “Very pleased to meet you. I gather we shared some experiences on Forty-second Street during the… late unpleasantness. Your husband is a mighty fine man, Mrs. Gardner.”

  “He’s not my husband… yet,” she said, and that explained it all.

  “Then I wish you both nothing but the best, when the time is right. All I can say is, your fiancé is a lucky man.”

  Hope looked down. “Thank you, Captain Byrne.”

  “So let’s both make him proud. Here’s the deal. I understand that the man who flew the police helicopter for me over the East River—‘Martin Ferguson,’ I think he called himself — is on assignment somewhere classified, and very dangerous. I further understand — nobody told me this, but I’m not as dumb as I look — that he’s with the man who saved my life—”

  “—and ours. He got us to the hospital after… after the building collapsed…”