“What do you need, Bill?”
“Opinions, sir. Do we shoot it down or do something else? I’m afraid we may only have a few minutes, if that much.”
“Got it. Bill. I’m switching you to the Sitch Room. Ray and I will hustle down. Meanwhile, our military guys and nuke experts are there. Start without me.”
The President put the phone on hold.
Ray picked up the other phone and ordered the call directed to the Situation Room, nine floors below. When he hung up, he asked the President, “Why did you choose not to tell him that his wife might be involved in the hostage scenario?”
“Do we know that for sure? He’s the point man for this administration in what, God forbid, could turn out to be the greatest mass murder in history. I need him focused on saving millions. If we find out that she is in danger, we’ll tell him what we know, but not rumors.”
“Yes, sir. One last thing, sir.”
“Yes.”
“We don’t know if the station bomb isn’t a failed suitcase device. It may blow. I recommend you prepare for that possibility.”
“How do you prepare for something like that?”
“Prayer?” Ray Reynolds said as he went off to put his staff and their minions on alert.
The President sat for a moment, the enormity of what could be going on settling in his mind. He looked at the picture of his daughter, Marie, on his desk. That nuke was still out there… the one they knew of. There could be more. He reached into his drawer and retrieved a folder. The breaking of the band that sealed the folder revealed in red letters across the face “Jesus Factor.” Mitchell spent the next three minutes uninterrupted as he read what only one of his predecessors had even seen.
On the 69th parallel, in the Aleutian Islands, there was a DEW line early tracking station. In its four-foot, concrete-walled installation was a circa 1969 IBM Systems 360 — 65 computer. It was hooked up to two radio-telescope dishes located out on the frozen tundra. Their sole purpose was to track to within a meter the true distance to the sun from the Earth at every second of the day for every day in the 35 years since it went online. Two Air Force techs at the Defense Early Warning facility checked on it every eight hours. They didn’t know why or for what reason they did this. The computer was hooked up to NORAD. There, at the North American Aerospace Defense Command, was a single unmanned console. The commander of the watch had sealed orders on how to operate the console if a call from the President ever came.
There was no need to authenticate the voice on the other end. The watch commander knew that this was the President’s personal line to NORAD.
“Yes sir,” he said crisply as he answered a phone that hadn’t rung since the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962.
“Commander of the watch, this is the Commander in Chief. Under National Command Authority, rule 10, I hereby authorize you to go to console 20–01 and place in these coordinates.” Mitchell was reading from a hand-typed sheet within the folder. He then scanned a map and found America in quadrant A1. “A1. Repeat, Alpha 1.”
“Copy and confirm coordinates. Alpha One, sir.”
“Confirmed, watch commander.”
The 42-year old colonel on watch broke the seal that held the plastic case over the old teletype-styled keyboard that was older than him. He opened his sealed orders, which still held the old name for NORAD, North American Air Defense Command, and followed directions.
In green dotted type on the round Multipurpose CRT in front of him was the simple computer query “Sector?: ___” He typed in A then 1. The keyboard actually clunked with each depression. A second later, a new line emerged. It simply read, “Fair to 16:00 EST Rain From 16:01 to 4:32 EST.”
He then dutifully read the “weather report” to the Commander in Chief.
The President wrote the information on his pad. He then called in his Nat Sec Advisor and formally initiated Archangel, a comprehensive, interagency directive that effectively put all the assets of government on what the military would call Def Con 1. Archangel specifically did not call for the military to change its defense condition. Against a domestic terrorism event, the military had little usefulness other than their traditional disaster roles. Archangel put the government on alert and put first responders on highest priority. It also authorized the release of N, B, and C countermeasures to be disseminated below the supervisory levels of federal and local response agencies in order to react more quickly to nuclear, biological, or chemical attacks in major urban areas. Archangel gave the government a prayer of a chance to stop or at least respond quickly enough to save some human life.
As he looked up at the TV in the Oval Office, he saw what millions of Americans were watching: the round edifice of Madison Square Garden rotating under the lens of the news helicopter circling above the Penn Station/Madison Square Garden complex, the thousands of flashing lights surrounding the Garden, and the thousands of flashing lights when the news channels cut to the other big story, the theater hostages.
It suddenly hit him. They created these preliminary events to get all of our first responders in one place, under the nuke. This would allow them to wipe out the city’s essential services in one kiloton of fire and destruction.
He taped the folder as he murmured to himself, “God, don’t let Hiccock be too late.”
Peter entered Kronos’ OEOB “office,” which looked like a broom closet-which it had been since the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, nee Old Executive Office Building, was built adjacent the West Wing in 1877. In this case, though, the broom closet was stuffed with computers, racks, and plasma displays.
“Kronos, how are you man?” Peter said.
“I’m cool. What’cha got?”
“Do you have my copy of the book here?”
“Better than that; it’s already scanned and searchable. All the formulas are inputted into our seven Crays across the SCIAD network.”
Peter handed him a memory stick. “Here’s what was in Ensiling’s Viennese safety deposit box. It’s a modifier to the aspect spectrum formulas.”
As he spoke, Kronos called up those formula fragments.
“Now here’s the tricky part. We have to move from eight-bit depth to 24-bit in order to achieve the same accuracy as…” Peter was speaking slowly so that he could impress the enormity of the task on Kronos.
“Done,” Kronos said.
“Whoa, I guess with seven Crays lashed together, nothing is tricky.”
“What’s the range for F over the value of X?”
“Let’s see; based on Ensiling’s notes, F is 3.14 times 10 to the 23rd power…”
As they updated the programs with Ensiling’s decoded formulas the two brainiacs bonded across mathematics that were four decades apart.
?§?
The gun smoke in the theater was causing the stage Fresnels to make cones of colored light. This made an eerie backdrop to the pandemonium in the audience. Janice had her arms wire-tied to a chair in the last row of the theater. A man was videotaping her as another wielded a scarab. He was speaking in half-English, half-Farsi. Janice knew he was threatening to cut her head off to whomever the tape was intended. The sheer terror of her predicament made her shiver, but she didn’t bow. She resisted their attempts to manhandle her. That earned her a slap across the face. She snapped her face back immediately with a defiant look that needed no translation into Farsi. It was the only means of defiance she had left.
Hiccock almost hit his head as he slammed on the brakes to avoid a woman with a stroller who absentmindedly stepped out right in front of them.
“For Pete’s sake!” Bridgestone snarled.
“That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“Take the wheel,” Hiccock said as he jumped out the driver door and around the front of the car to the passenger side. Bridgestone slid over and peered out the top of the windshield. He got a bead on the copter and peeled out before Bill had the door closed.
“White House signals, hold for Situation Room,” th
e voice on the other end of Bill’s phone announced.
“Tell the President I’ll call him back.”
That got an impressive look from Bridgestone.
Bill dumped the White House call and re-dialed. “Kronos… get Peter’s book.”
“You mean Harmonic Epsilon?”
“Yes. Put it up on the rings. I need this fast. Ready?”
“Got it; shoot!”
“The Jesus Factor. Where is New York City now and is there a cusp coming soon.”
“Got it. Where are you?”
“New York. Chasing the suitcase.”
“Are you out of your freakin’ gourd?”
“What can I tell ya? Trouble is just my middle name.”
“Where is New York now?” Bridgestone asked. “What does that mean?”
“What is New York’s exact distance from the sun at this instant,” Hiccock said.
Kronos came back over the speakerphone. “I got two Crays, strapped together at Dartmouth. We patched in Professor Quan Li and he is uploading an algorithm now.”
“I thought you said one of the scientists on that original committee was the leader’s brother, Dr. Brodenchy,” Bridge said.
“Yes, and that was back in ‘68. But I am hoping for a two-cushion-shot here.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Back then, a computer could carry something to eight decimal points.”
“You already lost me… Just give me the sit rep…”
“Huh? Oh, situational report. Well, I guess that abbreviation didn’t save any time. We might be able to shoot the thing down without a detonation.”
“How you going to pull that off? That’s a suitcase nuke up there and they are not too stable. A little thing like hitting the ground at 300 or so miles per hour might just trigger the thing off.”
“Jesus Factor, Bridge. We figured it out on a basketball.”
Bridge slowly turned and looked at Bill with a screwed expression.
“There’s a line in space, a cusp, and as the Earth goes through it, having large mass, one part is nuclear safe while the other is vulnerable. Then it all reverses cyclically. Depending on the position of a spot on Earth and the sun, you either can or can’t have a nuclear explosion.”
“I’ll be dipped. Like how, on New year’s Eve, it’s already next year in Austrailia when the sun hasn’t set in Times Square yet.”
“Exact… Yes, that’s exactly it. How come I didn’t think of that?”
“We’re running,” Kronos reported over the speakerphone of the Blackberry.
“Peter Remo theorized about instantaneous values of Harmonic 33. Kronos, can you run a time sweep and give me instantaneous values longitudinally? Also, can you give me an eight-place simulation as well.”
“Peter’s here and we already did that. Anything else?”
“Stand by; I am literally thinking on the run here.”
Bridgestone had a light bulb moment. “Okay, so I think I got it now, the bad guys are working with old data from way back when and they obviously think it will go off. Meanwhile, you and the characters on the other end of the phone are checking to see if this thing maybe can’t go off?”
“Exactly. Peter was involved in the early formulas and then worked with Ensiling on derivative instantaneous values of H33.”
Bridgestone held up his hand to signal “I surrender.”
Hiccock slowed it down, as much for him to work it through as to help Bridge. “What it comes down to is that the old equations just covered the U.S. in total, but New York is inside the footprint of America. It’s at least 300 miles inside the Maine shoreline. Today, computers can carry a number out to 40,000 decimal places.”
“160,000,” Peter corrected over the phone.”
“See, even better! Anyway, Brodenchy’s calculations will tell him when the entire U.S., to Maine, is vulnerable to nuclear detonation before he fires. But Peter and Kronos, using Ensiling’s new computations that Brodenchy couldn’t get from Ensiling — or from his own brother, who we have in custody — can tell the exact second before that when New York turns destroyable. Prior to that, it should be safe to risk shooting him down.”
Hiccock grabbed Bridgestone’s sat-com phone from its clip on his belt and flipped it open. “Signals, this is SCIAD, I want a joint call to Sitch Room White House, military air command, and NEST.”
“Stand by SCIAD. Voiceprint sampling now.”
“William Hiccock, Special Advisor to POTUS.” Bill spoke in an even tone, despite the frantic rush.
There were some beeps and a click. Both men strained to see the copter now disappearing and reappearing between the buildings of Manhattan.
“You drive; I’ll watch it,” Hiccock said with both phones in his hands and his head out the passenger window. “Go right on 34th….”
“I have a positive match. Your call is connected, SCIAD.”
“General, do we have the ability to shoot down a helicopter over Manhattan right now?” Hiccock didn’t know for sure, but assumed a general was somewhere on the line.
“Affirmative. We are two minutes into a CAP over Manhattan Island. Two F 15-E Strike Eagles out of Gabreski Air National Guard base on Long Island.”
“Have them identify and lock on to a blue-and-white news helicopter right now flying directly over the Empire State building.”
“Bill, this is the President. Are you targeting the press?”
“Sir, this is a stunt copter for a movie. Only one side is painted press. The other is all white. Maybe your pilots can confirm that. But do not fire, General, until I get the all clear.”
“From who?” the General said with umbrage at the fact that there was someone else higher in the chain of command. Hiccock could tell from that response that it was probably the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs on the line.
“Peter, Kronos,” Hiccock said and then talked into the other phone. “C’mon guys, I need to know now. There can’t be much time left.”
“Just a second more…. Got it. Okay, Cray Dartmouth says cusp in 40 seconds.”
“Kronos, be very sure of your next answer. Which way is the cusp going?”
“Hold on. Okay, it’s heading on a z axis through the ninth meridian…”
“Kronos! Is New York hot or not?”
The General’s tone was one of seeming protest to the President. “Sir, this man is advocating a weapons-free rule of engagement over a major metropolitan area. Do you trust him?”
“He’s trying to stop a nuke attack. He’s never let me down before.”
The Chief of Staff then interrupted and clarified, “Sir, the General needs to hear your order, sir.”
The weight of this landed squarely on the President’s shoulders.
“General, I order you to release weapons upon Mr. Hiccock’s signal for you to do so.”
“Duly noted. Thank you, Mr. President.”
“CAP control, lock onto target but hold fire until my command.”
Suddenly, a new voice came over Bill’s phone; it was scratchy and carried a southern accent. “Cap Con this is CAP One. I have acquired target. Confirmation it’s our bird, a half-painted whirly.”
“Now or never, Kronos,” Bill urged into the other phone.
“Okay, Peter and I agree, at 160,000 decimal points New York gets hot in 30 seconds; at the Earth’s 1000 mile per hour rotation and the angle of declination to the cusp line, the entire U.S. to Maine goes nuclear in 55 more seconds.”
“So he thinks he can’t detonate for 55 more seconds,” Bridgestone said. Hiccock was amazed that Bridgestone just got the dangerous part of the idea — that you could preemptively strike with impunity.
They both looked up as the sound of the copter’s rotors started to cavitate as it dug into the air in a maneuver to position the airburst in the most devastating position.
The sergeant looked at Hiccock and gave him a nod, setting his chin in the same way Bill’s father did when he saw Bill halfheartedly daring to dive off the high board
at Bronx Beach and Pool when he was 9. Bill survived the dive and went on to be a borough-wide swim team champ. If he were wrong, Bronx Beach and Pool and most of New York would be incinerated by his hand. But it was also a 100 % certainty that Brodenchy didn’t come all this way to bluff us. He will detonate.
“General, fire in 12 seconds.”
Just then, the Chief of Staff was handed a note that read “Confirmation. Janice Hiccock held hostage in NYC theater. All agents in detail presumed dead.”
He folded the note, running his fingertip along the new crease. Hiccock and half of New York could be dead in a few seconds. I won’t bother him with this news now.
The General had looked up at the big, digital clock in the Situation Room when Hiccock gave the order to shoot in twelve. That was at 12 seconds on the timer, so he was waiting for 24 before he gave the final command.
Hiccock and Bridgestone had pulled over on 34th and 7th. Bill started flashing his F.B.I. I.D. as they made their way closer to Penn Station and Madison Square Garden directly above. They couldn’t see the U.S. Air Force Strike Eagle circling its prey high above Manhattan, but the blue-and-white half-painted helicopter was right above them to the right. It hovered at about 300 feet above the sports arena.
“Is this going to work, sir?”
“The shot or the formula?”
“The shot’s going to kill that bird, sir. That’s a U.S. Air Force fact, I meant…”
It was Allah’s will that one of Russia’s precious devices-an instrument of the enemy of his family, invaders of his youth, and the drunken Cossacks who raped his sisters, killed his father, and forced him and his brother to become refugees-was transformed, in his hands, to the hammer of God. He was about to be the first of millions who would die in a burst of manmade sunlight. His death in the killing of so many Infidels would fulfill the prophecy, the Caliphate! It would be the supreme act of the Thousand Years War. His name would be hailed, studied, and prayed to in madrassas and mosques for a million-million years! He lifted his head to God, letting the prop wash from the copter cleanse his face in preparation for meeting Muhammad, when a white-hot yellow streak suddenly cracked across the skyline and bent in an arc towards the copter. As he saw the smoke flume racing towards his open door on the chopper, the thought in the younger Brodenchy’s, a.k.a. Jahim El Benhan’s a.k.a. Number 1’s prodigious brain, which had conceived, executed, and was within seconds of accomplishing the greatest terrorist attack in history, was How could anyone have found out? He looked up into the sky and prayed and pleaded in Arabic with Allah, “I am your servant, your will be done. Allah Akbar!” He then awaited either the intervention of God or the face of God.
The Hammer of God Page 31