by L. D Beyer
“We’re getting hits on the rad meter. Both at the main entrance at Park and at Vanderbilt.” There was a hiss. “Very high readings, boss.”
“Shit!” the chief swore under his breath. “Hold your position, Sixty-Five.” He pictured the scene in his mind. The Park Avenue overpass created a canopy over the main entrance on Forty-Second Street, but the south side of the station was also accessible at the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue on the west side, both at Forty-Second Street and at Forty-Third. It was also accessible from below ground.
“Engine Sixty-Five. Establish a perimeter. Take readings at the subway entrances.” Those, the chief knew, were across the street. He made another call, instructing Engine Eight and Two Truck to stop at 43rd Street. The Graybar Building had a passageway that led to the main concourse. Seconds later, as his aide pulled to the curb, men were already hopping out of the fire trucks in front.
As the chief climbed out of the Suburban, the firefighters were jogging toward the entrance. Suddenly, they stopped short and the captain began waving them away from the doors. The chief could hear the shouts.
“Get back! Get back!”
Shit! The chief thought as the captain herded his men to the other side of the trucks. He didn’t need to be told; the meters had gone off and the captain was using the trucks as a shield. He saw the people streaming out the doors, panic and confusion on their faces.
“Chief, this entrance is hot,” McGrath heard the captain say on the Handy-Talkie, confirming his suspicions. He glanced across the street at the captain, at the firefighters, at his men, praying the levels were low, praying the exposure was brief. Then he turned and signaled to his aide. As he did, he heard the voices behind him. But, Cap! There’re people inside!
“Manhattan wants the signal on the box,” the aide said.
“Ten-Eighty,” the chief barked without hesitation. His face was hard. “Code Four.”
There was a scream, and he glanced back at the door. It was the first time in thirty-five years that he had ever made such a call. He watched firefighters lifting a mother and her two kids off the sidewalk. They had apparently been knocked down by the surge behind them. Before they could be trampled, firefighters had rushed to their aid. Ten-Eighty was a hazardous material incident. Code Four indicated large-scale contamination of both first responders and civilians. The signal would result in the automatic deployment of the Mass Decontamination Task Force as well as specialized HazMat and Rescue battalions and a huge contingent of support personnel. The chief prayed that they would get there quickly.
He turned back to his aide. “And, God damn it, I need TA and Metro-North. Now,” he snapped. Leaving his aide to make the call, he turned back to the door. Firefighters were carrying the mom and her children away from the building’s entrance. He saw the terror in the little girl’s eyes. He held the Handy-Talkie to his mouth.
“All units responding Box Zero-Seven-Eight-Nine,” the chief radioed. “All second and third due units to check the entrances north of Forty-Second Street, along Vanderbilt, Park, and Lexington, including the northwest and northeast passages. Call in your readings prior to entering the scene.” He paused then added. “Command post is at Forty-Third and Lexington, in front of Graybar Building. Staging area one block south.”
The chief turned and watched as panicked commuters, tourists, and office workers continued to pour out the doors. How many people were in the terminal at this hour? he wondered. And in the connecting passageways and office buildings? Ten, fifteen thousand? More? The firefighters were directing the fleeing crowd across the street, finding anything solid to hide behind. There were likely injured and dying people inside, he knew, and potentially a fire still burning. But the squads and the HazMat teams were the only units equipped with radiation suits and Level A protective gear. Until the special teams arrived, there was little he could do.
CHAPTER FIFTY
President Kendall climbed down the steps to the cheers of the small crowd. He returned the salutes of the Air Force officers and enlisted airmen at the bottom of the steps then walked over and shook hands with the mayor, the governor, and then the assembled U.S. and state senators waiting for him on the tarmac.
In Atlanta to celebrate the opening of a new series of treatment centers, part of a public-private-partnership to expand drug education, treatment, and rehabilitation, the president planned to meet with state and local officials and the leaders of almost a dozen churches and community organizations that had brought the vision to life. Then he would tour two facilities where he would meet with those who were in dire need of treatment and recovery services, and with those on the front lines who were devoting their time and energy to provide hope for a better tomorrow. He would deliver his comments from the second facility, praising the people involved and the progress they had made, before flying back to Washington in the afternoon.
He waved to the reporters and posed briefly for pictures with the governor and then the mayor. Then the trio began walking toward the motorcade. Out of the corner of his eye, the president saw Burt Phillips hurrying over. He caught the look in his Chief of Staff’s eye, something most would miss, and then felt rather than saw the subtle change in his bodyguards.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He smiled and excused himself, then stepped back to join Phillips as a dozen Secret Service agents formed a ring.
Turning the president away from the cameras, Phillips leaned in and whispered. “There’s been an attack in New York City, sir. A bomb was detonated in Grand Central Terminal just a few minutes ago.”
“Do we know the extent of the damage? The number of casualties?”
Phillips shook his head.
The president nodded slowly. “Okay. See if you can get the mayor or the governor on the line. If you can’t, try to reach Pat Monahan. He has a lot of people in Manhattan. We need to find out what’s going on.”
Phillips nodded.
“Let’s regroup on the plane,” the president said after a moment. “If it’s big, it’ll be on the news shortly.”
Phillips nodded again then gestured toward the local officials huddled in their own group. “Invite them to join us. They’ll probably hear the news in a minute or two, if they haven’t already. If we can’t reach officials in New York, they might be able to give you a perspective into what their counterparts in New York are facing.”
As Phillips headed back to Air Force One, the president turned toward his hosts. He heard his name, the sudden shouts from the press, and could see in the governor and the mayor’s faces that they had just heard the news.
___
Matthew Richter pressed the button on the speaker phone. While he waited for Burt Phillips to come on the line, he glanced briefly at the members of the cabinet with him in the Situation Room. Several, including the vice president were absent. After a few seconds, they connected, one-by-one, to the call. The vice president, Richter didn’t have to be told, was in the PEOC—the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, below the East Wing of the White House. More secure than the Situation Room, which itself was located in the basement of the West Wing, the PEOC was designed to withstand all but a direct nuclear attack. However, it was normally only used as a temporary bunker before evacuating to a more secure location outside of Washington. The vice president, he suspected, wouldn’t be there for long.
There was another click on the line and, after a quick roll call, Phillips began.
“The president has ordered continuity of government to be put into effect immediately.” There was a murmur in the room as Phillips continued. “The vice president and the following members of the administration will be moved to the designated standby locations: the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, and the Secretary of Homeland Security. For everyone else, the president requests that you remain in Washington and that your designated deputies be moved to the secure locations.”
Each department, agency, and function, Richter knew, had their own continuity plans that stipu
lated chain of command. He scribbled the name Jessica on his pad. Jessica Williams, along with key members of the National Security team, would be sent to one of the secure bunkers. Knowing Williams, he thought, this wouldn’t come as a surprise. He remembered the exercises from when he last worked in the White House. In the event of an emergency, key leaders within the government and military were moved to secure, underground bunkers to ensure that government was able to function in the event that there was a direct attack on the White House or on the president. There was no credible evidence of an imminent attack, he knew, but it was a precaution that was warranted under the circumstances. From the underground bunkers, the leaders would remain in touch and in control of their agencies and departments. Those deputies and the seconds-in-command sent to the bunkers would be ready to take over should their bosses on the outside fall victim. All told, there were some one hundred governmental officials who would be moved to one of various locations around the country within the next few hours. None though, Richter thought, was more important than the vice president.
“Where is the president now?” he heard the vice president ask.
There was a click on the line, and they suddenly heard the president’s voice.
“I’m on my way to New York to meet with the mayor and the governor. I will be back in Washington by early afternoon at which time I plan to address the nation.”
There was another murmur in the room.
“This will be followed by a joint National Security Council and cabinet meeting.” There was a pause on the line before the president continued. “I understand Burt has already relayed my COG order.” There was another pause. “You all know the plans. You’ve practiced this and you know what to do.”
Richter could hear the steel in the president’s voice. It was clear that he was in charge.
“Our country needs us,” the president continued, “now more than ever. We will not let them down.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
As he re-zipped his carry-on, Terry Fogel noted the National Guard troops beyond the screening tables. They were carrying automatic weapons. He had seen more outside earlier, after he had hopped off the rental car bus. He slung his bag over his shoulder. The security check had taken longer than normal as nervous TSA screeners checked every piece of luggage, and every passenger was subject to a pat down while wary cops and soldiers watched. He hid his smile as he headed for the bar. The drive to Philadelphia, just over two hours, had been easy, and with fifty minutes before he had to board, he decided that he had time for a drink. Just one. To celebrate.
All of the seats at the bar were taken and there was a small cluster of people standing to the side. Everyone was watching the TV. The screen showed fire trucks, police cars and vans, and the EMS Units lined up along 42nd Street. The announcer, a disembodied voice, described the scene and, after a moment, Fogel realized that they hadn’t learned anything new. It was the same thing he had heard on the radio. The station played again a brief statement from the mayor. In a voice that sounded tinny but very much in charge, the mayor announced that it now appeared that a bomb had been detonated. The city’s emergency response plan had been implemented immediately, and first responders were on the scene. All train service had been suspended and the mayor had ordered people to stay away from the area. There was no estimate yet on the number of casualties.
On the screen, Fogel saw dozens of firemen in hazmat suits streaming in and out of the building. The announcer speculated that it was a precaution for the potential lethal dust in the air. Or, she said, to guard against the noxious fumes from the plastic, rubber, and oil that were apparently still fueling the fire inside the building. Fogel knew that wasn’t the reason.
He turned, caught the bartender’s eye, and ordered a beer. While he waited, he listened to the conversations around him.
“Can you believe it, man? Fucking Muslims!”
“We should nuke the whole God-damned country!”
“Which one? Iran? Libya? Syria?”
“Hell! Bomb them all! It’s time we show those fuckers that we won’t put up with this shit!”
Fogel hid his grin. They were so predictable.
“How long ago did this happen?”
He turned at the sound of the voice. The man was dressed in a business suit, a computer bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a worried scowl.
“I think shortly after eight,” Fogel responded. He gestured toward the TV. “At least that’s what they said.”
The man shook his head as he punched a button on his phone. “My brother takes the train in every day,” he said softly as he brought the phone to his ear. “But I haven’t been able to reach him.”
That’s life, Fogel wanted to say. And with life came death. It was something he had seen so often in his twenty-eight years in Belfast that he had grown numb to it. Friends, relatives, and neighbors killed by the police, by the British Army, all because they wanted to be free. And the U.S., with all of its talk of democracy, of freedom, had always sided with the British. Fogel didn’t mention this. Instead, he shook his head and shared the man’s pained look.
He glanced at his watch then swallowed the rest of his beer. As he left the bar and made his way to his gate, he knew that what had happened in New York that morning was just the beginning. He would be in Mexico City by evening and tomorrow he would find out what his client wanted to do next. That there would be something next was a given.
___
“Because this occurred in the tunnels, we think the fallout has been somewhat contained,” the fire chief said. There was a hint of the stereotypical Irish brogue that had once been common across the ranks of cops and firemen alike. The Chief of Department was the highest ranking uniformed officer and had been a fireman for forty-three years.
The president, wearing a silver radiation suit, nodded. He was standing with the mayor, the governor, and a handful of emergency management officials, all similarly dressed, around a table, on top of which was an elaborate three-dimensional scale model of the city. In a secure bunker that housed the police command and control center in lower Manhattan, they were over three miles from Grand Central and the radioactivity. Still, the Secret Service had been nervous and had warned against the trip; the president had ignored the warnings and had come anyway. How couldn’t he, he thought.
“What about the subways?” he asked. “Aren’t they connected?”
The chief nodded, his face grim. “That’s one of our concerns, sir. There are connections to the Lexington Avenue line, to the Number Seven which goes out to Queens and to the Times Square Shuttle and on to the Javits Center.” He paused and frowned. “But we’re more concerned about the air vents. As soon as we knew that this was radiological, we shut those off. However,” he paused again, “there were a number of trains coming and going at the time of the blast: the subways, Metro-North. As those trains move through the tunnels, they move a lot of air, kind of like a bicycle pump. It took a little while, but we shut off the third rail on Metro-North and on the affected subway lines.”
The president nodded somberly.
“That’s one of the challenges as well,” the chief continued. “When we shut off the power—that stopped the trains wherever they were. Most were in the middle of tunnels at the time and we’re still working on evacuating the people on board.”
He pointed to several spots on the model with his finger. “We’ve set up decontamination centers at multiple points around the city,” he added, explaining that those who were in or near Grand Central or were on the subway and commuter trains had been herded into temporary shelters. There they were ordered to remove their clothes and to shower before they were given a fresh set of clothes. Then they were quarantined until emergency workers were able to record their personal information and verify their exposure levels. Emergency medical personnel, in white hazmat suits, were on hand to deal with medical emergencies. There was no antidote for cesium-137, the chief added; only something called Prussian blue which might
help victims who had ingested the radioactive material from absorbing it in their bodies. The city had been prepared, and the decontamination centers had ample supplies of the pharmaceutical form of the blue dye on hand.
The chief gestured toward the map and drew a circle in the air. “We’ve declared the area around Grand Central, some twenty square blocks, a hot zone,” he said, explaining the elaborate emergency response procedures that the city had put in place after September 11th. He traced his finger around several other areas, including where major air vents were located and where the Metro-North tracks exited the tunnels below Park Avenue at 96th Street. Although the initial readings had been low, those areas, he told the president, were being treated as hot zones as well.
The president nodded as local officials went on to describe an amazingly quick and organized response to the bombing. Specialized teams of firemen, policemen, and EMTs from all five boroughs had responded immediately. Travel into and out of the affected zone had been restricted, effectively quarantining those inside. The emergency communications plan had been activated, and cell and landline circuits in the hot zone had been restricted to emergency calls. Hospitals city-wide had implemented their own disaster response plans and were dealing with the spike of heart attacks, broken bones, concussions, burns, and assorted injuries in the wake of the bombing as well as monitoring all new patients for radiation. Police helicopters and unmarked SUVs equipped with sophisticated detectors—what the Police Commissioner referred to as the radiological suite—were canvassing the city, checking for hot spots. Emergency response teams were deployed immediately to those areas where readings indicated higher than normal levels of radiation. Both the mayor and the governor had declared states of emergency, and the governor had mobilized the National Guard who, with the police, were in the process of securing critical infrastructure: the bridges and tunnels around the city, the aqueducts supplying the eight million residents with water, as well as Kennedy and La Guardia airports. Subways, bus stations, the Empire State Building, the Freedom Tower, Wall Street, police headquarters, and key sites throughout the city were all operating under a heightened state of alert.