He didn’t know that the subway was shut down. That the entire city limits and beyond were a no-fly zone for any aircraft under threat of being shot down by the US Naval aviators screaming high above in a figure-eight holding pattern. He didn’t know that every bridge and tunnel was on lockdown not only because of a suspicious number of simultaneous fires but also by the authorities. Only the Brooklyn Bridge remained undamaged, and the NYPD hadn’t got there in time to close it, so people streamed off the island as fast as they could on foot over the bridge and in the south by every available ferry.
Those that remained on the island, those who weren’t trying to escape, were shutting up their homes and businesses as an air of fear and foreboding descended over the city.
The NYPD, an almost forty-thousand strong army of law enforcement, expertly trained in anti-terror drills and well equipped, worked tirelessly. Those who weren’t actively involved in the cleanup operation or securing the scenes of the bombings, were either patrolling the streets to keep the peace or else preparing for the night. Experience dictated that public disorder, looting and mayhem, would likely take over during the darkness. Every man and woman of the department, unless already committed, was making their way to their station houses to protect their city.
Cal, despite his obviously battered appearance having been blown up, run down, and narrowly avoided having a helicopter land on his head, wandered the streets without anyone giving him a second glance for whole blocks at a time. Now, reaching the end of the second block he had walked on 23rd as he called them aloud to himself, he was approached by someone in jeans and a dark bomber jacket.
“Sir, are you okay? Are you hurt?” the young man said in a voice of clear professional intensity. His left hand was held out toward Cal with the palm outwards and his right hand was worryingly out of sight inside his jacket.
“Sir, can you tell me what happened?” he said again.
Cal faced him, holding up both hands as though his exhaustion had overtaken him and he was surrendering. “I’m just trying to get to my hotel,” he told the man who, now that he looked at him closely, seemed more of a boy than a man. Cal guessed he was in his early twenties at best, and guessed from his speech and body language that he was a cop. The young man had dropped a black bag at his feet to allow him effective use of both hands, and Cal guessed that he wasn’t expecting to get home for a shower and a change of clothes any time soon.
“Sir,” said the man again, “what happened to you?”
Cal sighed, knowing that he wasn’t going to be allowed to go until he had satisfied the evident rookie’s curiosity. “I was on Wall Street earlier,” he told him, “and there was a bomb in the subway. Then I got hit by a cab and then a helicopter crashed next to me. I just need to get to my hotel.”
“Sir, you need medical attention and then I need to interview you as a witness.” He produced a badge from a pocket with his left hand, bearing the shield logo of the NYPD.
“I don’t need medical attention,” Cal told him, “I need to go.”
“Sir!” the cop said, shuffling one pace backwards quickly as Cal had closed the gap by taking one step forwards. “Keep your hands where they are and stay back!”
“Oh, for fuck sake!” Cal snapped, regretting raising his voice as his head throbbed again. “Look, I’m not a threat, I’m not a terrorist and I need to get to my hotel.”
The young police officer was clearly torn between getting to his duty station and dealing with the situation he had caused. “Okay, sir. I’m going to need you to tell me your name and give me the details of your hotel so someone can ask you a few questions.”
“Fine,” Cal answered, “Owen Calhoun, and I’m staying at the Waldorf.”
“The Waldorf?” the cop answered, his surprise evident.
“Yes,” Cal said, tired and dizzy again now that his momentum had been lost.
“I’m Officer Peters from the One-Three,” he told Cal, as though the information would mean anything to him.
“Okay, Officer Peters. Can I go now?” he asked.
Peters hesitated, trying to figure out if keeping hold of this potential witness was his duty or whether he should wait for orders. He weighed up the pros and cons of the decision; if he let the guy go and he disappeared, then he would’ve walked away from a witness or maybe even a suspect. If he didn’t get to the station house four blocks away on 21st Street, then he would never live it down.
He wasn’t due on duty until the following Monday, but there was an unwritten rule that when something big happens, you got your ass to the house and rolled out. Eventually deciding that he could spare a couple hours at least before he walked into the precinct to report for extra duty, he stood and relaxed his stance.
“Yeah, but I’m going to see that you get back to your hotel first,” he told Cal as he stooped to pick up the heavy bag and loop it over his shoulder. “We’re about twenty blocks away. Reckon you can make a couple miles?” he asked Cal, who nodded and limped next to him as fast as was sustainable.
The panic in the streets was sometimes obvious, sometimes less so. All around people were crying and trying to make phone calls, and the steady flow of first responders heading south with lights and sirens blazing had a clear effect on Officer Peters, who seemed to want to leap into action like a superhero and save the world. Other people wandered almost nonchalantly, as though panicking was beneath them.
“You’re new, aren’t you Officer Peters?” Cal asked him, the question coming out a little less politely than intended.
“I’m in my second year with the NYPD,” he replied, clearly taking no offence. “Moved here four years ago.” Cal couldn’t place his accent but he had guessed he wasn’t native.
“My family’s from New Hampshire,” he said, anticipating the question. “I kind of upset the family tradition by wanting to be a cop,” he admitted.
“What’s the family business then?” Cal asked, not out of anything other than to pass the time as they skirted Grand Central Station and the crowds trying to get on trains which weren’t running.
“Wines and beers,” Peters said. “My father’s company owns a large distribution network and expected me and my brothers to take over the empire,” he told Cal with a smile. Something told the Englishman that the kid enjoyed upsetting the apple cart. “Told my dad I wanted to be a cop, and he went nuts. Then I told him I wanted to be a New York cop and he popped his cork. And it’s Jake.”
“Cal,” Cal replied. “So, he kicked you out and you went and did it anyway?”
“Kinda,” Jake replied, “my mom set me up with enough money to get a place here and didn’t tell my dad. She understands why I wanted to do this.”
“Why did you?” Cal asked, now interested in the answer as to why this young, rich kid wanted to be on the frontline.
Jake sighed before answering. “I was in the first grade when 9-11 happened. I remember watching it on TV and seeing what the first responders did to save people. Ever since then I wanted to be like them: someone who runs toward the danger instead of away from it.”
He stopped talking, making Cal suspect that the word ‘hero’ was on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t want to say it for fear of embarrassment.
“Well I think that’s noble,” Cal said, feeling embarrassed himself at having spoken his thoughts.
“Thanks,” Jake said, smiling at him, just as a scream pierced the afternoon air and sliced through the cacophony of a city in panic. Jake dropped his bag and drew his compact Glock 26 from the holster under his left arm; every man and woman of his squad carried a weapon off duty, wherever they were in the state, the only exception being when they were partying. Even then, their designated drivers usually had their off-duty carries with them.
“Stay here,” he hissed over his shoulder as he moved to the corner and peeked around it. Whipping his head back into cover he took three deep breaths and spun back again, disappearing into the side street. Cal moved to the corner where Jake had been and looked
around. He saw the young cop moving low and using the cover of a dumpster to mask his approach, but in the background, he saw a woman struggling with a man far taller than she was, both fighting over her purse.
“Gimme the bag, bitch!” Cal heard, just as Jake stood up from cover and shouted, “NYPD, FREEZE!”
The would-be robber didn’t freeze. He fled without hesitation, deciding that the night would probably have far better spoils than just this one purse. He had no way of knowing that Jake was off-duty and had no backup; he just ran. Cal limped out into sight having picked up Jake’s bag and followed as he saw the young cop approach the woman. She was sobbing on the ground as she tried to put the spilled contents of her purse back in.
“Ma’am, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Jake said, holding his badge out to show her but still scanning the street ahead with his gun raised. The woman tried to wipe her tears away but they were replaced as quickly as they were gone. She was sobbing and terrified, but tried to smile and nod her head to say she was okay.
By the time Cal had caught up with them he saw her nod turn into a shake of her head and the tears flowed again.
“We need to get you inside somewhere,” Cal said to her, bending down and offering her a hand.
Jake holstered the stubby, compact sidearm behind inside his jacket again and picked up the bag. “Ma’am, I need to call this in only I can’t get through when I try.” He turned to Cal. “We’re only a couple blocks from your hotel, we should get there, and I’ll try to get a unit to us.” For the first time Cal saw real concern on Jake’s face, like his bravery and bravado was a front and, just like everyone else, he was scared. Cal also noticed that he had failed to mention not being able to contact his precinct by phone. Coupled with the man who dragged him away from the helicopter wreckage saying that the 911 phone system was down, Cal began to suspect that the bombs may just be the start.
“Come on,” Jake said to them both before turning to the woman who was attempting to straighten her disheveled appearance. “Ma’am, I’m Officer Jake Peters and this is Mr. Owen Calhoun from England,” he told her, introducing Cal so formally that he actually felt a little ashamed of his shabby and battered appearance.
“We’re going to get you to the Waldorf hotel where I can call for a bus to check you both out.” She nodded weakly and walked with them. Jake turned to Cal and thanked him for his help.
“I didn’t do anything!” Cal told him, thinking that if Jake hadn’t been there then he wouldn’t have been able to offer much in the way of protection.
“Maybe not,” Jake told him, “but you came with me and saved my gear. I appreciate that.”
Cal said nothing in response, embarrassed at being told he had done a good thing. The three walked slowly the remainder of the way to the Waldorf, mainly due to the crying woman with her shaking legs. Arriving at the entrance they found it locked. Jake banged on the glass, showing his badge to the nervous-looking security guard inside.
Another man, taller and wearing a crisply cut gray suit, strode over, and shot the bolts back.
“Cal?” he said. “What the hell happened to you?”
The three of them piled inside and the doors were locked again.
“Got blown up,” he said glibly, “then I got knocked down by a cab, then a helicopter crashed next to me.” Somehow, reducing the last few hours of his life to these three events summed it up perfectly, and Sebastian’s usually unfazed exterior showed shock.
“Sir,” said Jake, taking charge of the conversation, “Officer Peters from the One-Three. We rescued this civilian nearby and I believe she needs medical attention.”
“Of course,” Sebastian answered. “Please, this way.” He gestured them further inside the lobby where he snapped his fingers at a member of his staff. She disappeared and returned quickly bearing a first aid kit as Cal sat the woman down on a comfortable chair.
“Sir, may I have a word with you in private?” Jake said softly to Sebastian, who wordlessly led the way back to the main desk. Cal didn’t seem to have been invited to join in the conversation, but similarly he wasn’t asked to stay out of it, so he followed the two men.
“I’ll be straight with you, I can’t contact my station house by telephone. I need to get a unit here to take the statement of Mr. Calhoun who witnessed the attacks and to deal with the attempted robbery of the lady back there.” Sebastian took all this in and nodded.
“Perhaps, Officer Peters, you’d care to try again from here?” he said, gesturing to the telephone on the desk.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, picking up the handset only to put it down again. “Line’s dead,” he told them. Pausing and hesitating, Jake looked them both in the eye. “I’m going back on foot, I’ll get back here as soon as I can,” he told them. “Sir, what’s your security situation here?” he asked Sebastian.
“I have four guards in the building and we are currently on lockdown. I know our guests so I’ll admit them if they return but other than that we will be keeping everyone inside the building.” Jake nodded. He turned to Cal. “I’ll be back as soon as I can to get your statement about today’s events,” he said formally, robotically, before he turned to the door.
“Jake,” Cal said, making the young cop turn back to face him, “be careful.”
“Don’t you worry about me, sir,” he said with a smile which he hoped made him seem confident.
Picking up his bag, he slung it on his back using the side straps like a backpack and nodded to the guard. The bolts shot back and Jake jogged out into the failing sunlight, turned left, and went to run the fifteen blocks to his station house. Cal’s memory kicked him square in the chest then, and he turned back to Sebastian, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“My, er, guest who stayed last night,” he said awkwardly. “Did she make it back?”
“Cal,” Sebastian replied seriously, “I haven’t let her back in since we locked the building down. We’ve turned away a few people who wanted to get inside but I swear to you I haven’t seen her.”
Cal limped toward the elevators as quickly as he could, cursing the slow speed as he went up. He pushed out of the sliding doors before they were fully open, stomped to his door, and let himself in with the key card.
Inside, the bed had been made but Louise wasn’t there. His heart dropped in his chest, making him feel cold and weak. The thought of her still out there, with the sun sinking and people already starting to commit crime at higher rates than normal, crushed him. He sank to the floor, too exhausted to cry, and his eyes rested on something by the bed. It wasn’t his, and it wasn’t there when he left. It was a large, battered backpack.
The bathroom door opened and she walked out, dropping the towel she was using to dry her hair the second she saw him.
“Oh my god, Cal, what the hell y’all been doing to yourself?” she said desperately, dropping to her knees and taking his face in her hands.
“Got blown up,” Cal said, “then I got knocked down by a cab, and then a helicopter crashed on me.” His rehearsed version of simplified events rolled off his tongue easily, like he knew he’d be retelling that story many times over in his life.
Louise wrapped him up in a tight hug, feeling the spasmodic convulsions of a grown man crying into her shoulder.
EXPECT NOTHING
Friday 5:20 p.m. - Free America Movement Headquarters
“Colonel Butler, sir?” said an aide, sporting acne-scarred cheeks and a confused but expectant look on his face.
“What is it, son?” Butler said, the evident success of the New York phase making him feel more inclined to talk.
“Sir,” stammered the boy, pointing at one of the screens, “did we do that?”
Butler’s eyes followed the outstretched digit, resting on one of the silent televisions which now showed mostly darkness. Fumbling for the remotes he tried to turn the sound on, growling at Suzanne who tried to step forward and take it from his hand to make it work. He finally found the sound controls and cranked it up.
“… can see here, whole city blocks are in darkness as the power is shutting down. Still no word on who was responsible for the attacks, but so far we know that six”—she put a finger to hear earpiece and paused momentarily as she glanced down—“no, seven explosions have occurred in the city, five of which have been confirmed as having been at subway entrances—”
The reporter stumbled as three or four people barged through their street-side film setup, jostling the cameraman who managed to regain himself and point the lens back at the anchor.
“You good? We still on?” she asked the man behind the camera, evidently getting the correct answer as she switched her gaze back down the lens and resumed her report.
“As I said, five confirmed explosions happened in subway tunnels and some mixed reports have come in saying that the stock exchange itself was the target. In fact, all attacks have been in and around the financial district of the city. Nobody has taken responsibility for the truck fires which blocked the bridges and tunnels, and NYPD press officers have not yet made any arrests in connection with the events earlier today. We have had confirmation that the NYPD’s air support has come under attacks and is unable to fly, with two helicopters having crashed in the city with the tragic loss of all lives onboard …”
The news anchor trailed off as the lights of every shop in the street failed, flickering into darkness. Despite the sun not having set, the sudden absence of artificial lighting inside the city’s man-made valleys between the high buildings made everything so much more sinister. The background noise of car horns tripled in intensity as every traffic light in the city died.
The reporter regained herself, flicking her hair out of her eyes and fixing her best ‘brave woman on the ground in a crisis’ face toward the camera lens. “As far as we know, no organization or person has yet to take credit for the attacks, and—”
Burning Skies (Book 1): The Fall Page 8