by Ben Coes
Then Shahin suddenly saw white energy everywhere, and, for a fraction of a moment, felt warmth that grew hot, and suddenly there came the sound—and he felt the concussion as it blew out his ears, as he lost his vision, he felt pain, and saw the final moment and then it was all gone—it went black—as he was vaporized by the explosion. It all blurred into nothingness and one, a continuum, as suddenly he was immolated in heat and fire, as the octanitrocubane exploded out, sucking up oxygen, incinerating everything, including steel, and the end of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel suddenly fell down from above in white heat, unfathomable destruction that shot back into the tunnel and cascaded out the other end in massive chutes of chemical-laden flames.
The explosions occurred toward the end of each of the tunnels. The four vans had all made it into the last hundred feet of each respective tunnel. There were only four vehicle tunnels into Manhattan. For decades, this vulnerability had been studied by law enforcement and by those in charge of America’s national security. Now, it was done.
In each tunnel, the concussive blast moving back into the tunnel melted every vehicle for fifty feet. The larger destruction occurred at the ends of the tunnels. Blue and orange flames blew out from the site of the actual detonations into a fearsome tornado of heat, fire, and seismic trauma. Within seconds, the blocks surrounding the end of the tunnels, where they fed up into Manhattan, were caught up in bluish-orange fire. Anyone or anything nearby was pulverized, melted, killed, by the first flash from the octanitrocubane.
Soon smoke, fire, and heat overwhelmed the surrounding areas, and buildings went alight in fiery winds as automatic heat-sensored alarms screamed from buildings all around.
The cataclysm was all fire and wind. The heat was beyond intense, shooting in every direction, scorching anything nearby the tunnel entrances.
The terrorists now had time to conduct an even broader attack on America. On the president. On the Federal Reserve.
Manhattan was cut off. It was an island.
41
9:00 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dellenbaugh felt his legs get kicked back by a powerful, invisible force, like a wind—and then he fell down onto his stomach—abruptly—and was thrown back like a toothpick in a hurricane.
The UN building shook violently—glass shattered along the west wall of the eighteenth floor as a concussive pressure slammed it invisibly, then came the sound of a distant explosion, and then others. The building was rocked, and screams mixed with the sound of shattering glass.
Emergency alarms wailed.…
Dellenbaugh caught himself by grabbing onto the wall.
The air was filled with screams as people were thrown through the air, across the room, down to the floor. When the percussion faded, the president got up and ran to the broken windows, as winds cut sharply across the wide-open suite of offices.
In the distance, he saw billowing silver-and-red smoke from explosions ripping high into the morning sky. He looked left and saw another plume of fire and chaos. Sirens roared from inside the building, and fires raged in the vicinity of the explosions. Dellenbaugh looked in shock at the storm clouds. He was disoriented, but he realized it was the tunnels leading into Manhattan.
He still had his phone—he listened for Adrian King, but couldn’t hear anything except the faint echo of his name. He looked at the phone. It was red with wet blood. He reached for his ear and wiped his hand across it, then looked at it. It was covered in blood. He put the phone to his other ear. All he heard was sharp ringing—and the faint voice of his chief of staff.
“Mr. President!” said King. “Mr. President!”
“We’re under attack,” said Dellenbaugh.
“I know. We’re on our way, sir. But you need to get to the roof.”
“What about the explosions?”
“Don’t worry about that,” said King. “NYPD, FBI, everyone is on it. You need to think about one thing. Get to the goddam roof!”
“It’s easier to get to the airport in a car,” said Dellenbaugh.
“No longer an option, sir,” said King. “They’re coming after you. Do you fucking understand? They’re coming from below. Do you understand?”
Dellenbaugh felt nauseous. Vomit started pouring from his mouth. After several violent retches, he spoke again.
“Yeah,” said Dellenbaugh.
He looked at the people around him. Everyone had been dropped by the blast. Several people were moaning, and he saw a few unconscious after the shock wave.
“You okay?” said King.
“Yeah,” said Dellenbaugh.
Dellenbaugh looked down and saw thick wisps of blood in his throw-up.
“You can get to the roof?” said King.
“Yeah,” said Dellenbaugh, feeling a sense of stupor, even numbness. He absentmindedly put his hand to his ear, feeling the blood he knew was trickling out. “I got it.”
42
9:01 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
The driver of the school bus stood up and took the lead position at the bus door. He held up his hand.
“For the Republic,” he said.
Then the ground shook like a small earthquake, kicking the bus sideways though it didn’t turn over.
The driver waved the first man through and then others, as they’d been assigned. There were thirty-four on each bus, and each man had long since made his deal with Allah.
The first gunman stepped to the sidewalk, stepping over the dead FBI agent. He was followed by other gunmen from the bus, all clutching rifles or submachine guns (SMGs). He started firing at the gathered media, pumping slugs into on-air reporters.
The other gunmen spread around the bus, shooting at anything and everything that moved. Right behind the first bus, the second yellow school bus also poured out.
Dozens of shooters remained on each bus—firing from windows to the west, away from the UN, pumping lead into people and cars, focusing in on any NYPD cruisers or official-looking vehicles, though it didn’t matter; they shot at everything they could see moving.
Gunmen on each bus faced the UN and were there to provide cover. Each gunman had on thermal optics. These soldiers were in place to soften up the interior layer of the security perimeter, the men closest to the president.
As the buses emptied out, several brigades of Hezbollah soldiers—dressed in street clothes—moved toward the UN complex, shooting in front of them as they charged forward, running at the UN building. Inside the buses remained highly trained Hezbollah snipers, who watched as the frontline gunmen moved toward the UN building.
Suddenly, glass shattered and bullets started flying from the UN back at the Iranians. A low boom, then another, and soon the Iranians charging at the tower started to drop, like dominoes.
The snipers knew how to work; there was no need for coordination. They started pounding the area behind the broken glass with slugs, even as bullets continued to fire in the direction of the men in front of them, running forward, also shooting.
A window on a higher floor in the tower shattered at the same instant one of the bus snipers was slammed in the forehead by a cartridge that opened upon impact and ripped out the back half of the man’s skull, blowing it out across the side window in a bloody mess.
43
9:02 A.M.
SS DORSET
NEW YORK HARBOR
Dewey felt the first explosion and turned.
He was on the deck of the Dorset, on a wooden sheet of deck in the lee of a massive sail, along with dozens of people, all being served breakfast after the morning shoot. The Dorset was just south of Manhattan, in the harbor, treading water on a crystal-clear morning. Dewey was sipping his third beer even though it was 9 A.M., but shooting skeet often involves alcohol, and the truth was he’d
had less than most. That’s when he felt it—like thunder—and turned.
He saw fire.
Inside his ear, he heard a low beep.
Dewey saw the fiery plumes of smoke and flames, then felt a second and a third shock wave, as in other spots in the skyline, across the distance of the island, smoke suddenly appeared in the sky, rising above distant buildings. Dewey stared at the balls of smoke pirouetting into the blue sky from Manhattan.
He tapped his earbud:
“Identify.”
“NOC 2495–6.”
“Hold.”
Dewey glanced around the deck. Silence and a sense of fear took over the yacht. He looked around for Jenna. She was standing at the far side of the deck.
“Dewey, it’s Bill,” said Polk. “Bringing you in. The president is at the UN and he’s being extracted from the roof.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Dewey.
“Why?” said Polk.
“They’re ready for that,” said Dewey.
“Too late and I disagree,” said Polk. “They have an army of shooters running around the city. Active shooters. Bridges are cut off so the only NYPD available is Manhattan and it’s not enough. Busloads of Hezbollah are cutting off the UN from the ground. The president departing by land is not an option any longer.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Dewey. “Wow. What do you need from me?”
“I need you to get over there,” said Polk, “in case the roof extraction goes sideways.”
“Is there a fastboat?” said Dewey.
“Yes,” said Polk, “ex-UDT who are backup on the Black Hawks. But let’s just assume the worst. We need you in there.”
“Got it,” said Dewey. “Rob’s here too.”
“Yes,” said Polk. “He’s my next call. I’ll coordinate from above but in-theater I want you guys focusing on mission, got it?”
“Yeah.”
“You have open-territory protocol. The president is trapped. I’m looking at his RPS and he’s not moving. This is EP recon, Dewey.”
“What about Quantico or NYPD?” said Dewey.
“They’re fighting guerrilla wars all over the city,” said Polk. “Iran embedded hundreds of active shooters; NYPD needs to deal with them. NYPD also needs to deal with the tunnels,” added Polk. “The bridges into Manhattan are also blocked. As for FBI, you have a limited number on the island. Iran has strategic advantage. Get moving and focus on the target.”
“Roger that,” said Dewey, tapping out.
The entire party of guests aboard the Dorset stood in awe and shock, staring across the water at Manhattan and the smoky skyline.
Jenna said something to her mother and then walked over to Dewey. As she approached, so too did her father.
“They’ve blown up the tunnels into the city,” said Jenna. “Not to mention what happened to you in Georgetown. Highly choreographed, tightly executed.”
Dewey looked at her with a blank expression as Farragut came close.
“Would it be all right if I had access to the weapons room, Bobby?” said Dewey. “I need to borrow a few guns.”
“Of course,” said Farragut.
“Also, I need your tender,” Dewey said, referring to the twenty-nine-foot speedboat used for quick trips to shore.
“Take whatever you want, though the helicopter would be faster,” said Farragut.
“Thank you,” said Dewey, “but whoever it is has probably already thought about that.”
“I get it,” said Farragut. “Do you need a wingman? I was First Battalion Alpha SAS.”
Jenna grabbed her father. “Dad?”
Dewey nodded. “Sure, I could use you,” he said, “but I think you need to calm down the people on this boat, and I would lift anchor immediately and head for open water.”
“Good advice,” said Farragut. “But we’re staying right here. If you need us to do something, we will.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Dewey said, shaking Farragut’s hand. “Please thank Jemima for me.”
“I will. Look forward to seeing you again, Dewey.”
* * *
Jenna led Dewey down a circular stairwell and unlocked the door. Inside was the weapons cache he’d seen earlier that day, military grade, neatly arrayed in racks.
“Take the tender up the East River and abandon it on Roosevelt Island, then swim in. You’ll need to kill your way in. They’ll already have taken the ground floor, but there’s no other way. Then get up and find the president.”
Dewey took a black MP7A1 and found a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle. A Colt M1911A1 was already holstered beneath his armpit. He found a vest with a large watertight compartment in back and put it on, then loaded it with mags. He saw a pair of flippers and grabbed them. Then he saw Jenna watching him and the whole last day ran through his head.
He looked down at the ground.
“I’m sorry this ended, I was really having fun,” said Dewey, without looking at Jenna. “I’ll play it by ear once I get closer. Can you show me where the boat is?”
“Come on,” she said.
She stepped into his path and put a hand against his chest. He finally looked her in the eyes.
“Please come back alive,” said Jenna.
Dewey smiled.
“I will. Promise.”
44
9:03 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mansour clutched the door of the van, Ali, the steering wheel, each holding tight. Just as someone behind them honked, the ground seemed to shake, and then glass shattered—it was the bus, to the right. The minivan bounced as if made of rubber. Then came the sound of an explosion. To the left, above the East River, a cloud of black-and-gray smoke erupted into the sky, then there were flames. The flames tunneled up within the smoke as the heat soared into the sky.
Another rumble, from a different direction, to the right, more diffuse, nevertheless made the ground shake for a second time.
Mansour registered two yellow buses then heard automatic gunfire coming in a cloud of noise from in and around the buses.
A white van was just a few cars away from the line of policemen, trapped in a bumper-to-bumper turn, where traffic was being diverted, when suddenly the van’s back doors opened. Two men clutching AR-15s, clad in street clothes, leapt out, flanked the van, and looked to the line of officers, then trained their weapons and started firing at them, trying to hold the perimeter of the UN. The raw staccato of the AR-15s arose above the noise. Screams were next, as SWAT and police tried to lurch out of the way of incoming firepower.…
The scene erupted in chaos.…
Mansour and Ali opened the doors of the van in unison, stepping out onto the street.
In the distance, in front of them, Mansour assayed the scene. He registered pedestrians—on the ground—blown by the explosion. Some of them were injured. Second Avenue was clogged with cars and buses, all of the occupants no doubt in a state of shock.
Then Mansour registered the layer: soldiers. Dozens of men, climbing from cars, clutching firearms.
Just as he and Ali stepped out of the sedan clutching weapons, so too did a small army of others. Mansour could see many. Stepping out of various vehicles: cab, Uber, and Lyft drivers; delivery people. But those were aliases. All were QUDS. Mansour checked behind him, too, and saw yet more men.
Twenty men in all; they’d been handpicked by Mansour. They were sent to the United States, many through Canada, a few under manufactured identities, all of them immigrants, from various countries. But all of them were Iranian, and all were QUDS. The top tier: Hezbollah.
The UN was on the banks of the East River. The apron ran from the side of the river a block north from the UN in an arc that spread in a half-moon to Second Avenue, then curved back into the East River below the UN. A cordon.
The area inside the arc was the UN, and the objective was straightforwar
d: kill every person inside the arc, particularly the president of the United States.
The security would be vulnerable. Despite the fact that it was the president, the inner tiers of last-line security were rusty, even atrophied. It didn’t matter if they were Secret Service, FBI, or NYPD—they weren’t Delta or SEALs. The ones assigned here today were there as a gift to them, a prestigious and exciting opportunity to see the president. The protective unit, the envelope, was a chink in the armor.
Mansour kicked the door shut just as, a few cars away, a bearded Italian man in a black Suburban opened the door. He was dressed in a sweatshirt. He held a pistol. It was just a citizen. He was not one of them. He looked around, then saw Mansour. Mansour trained the AR-15 on the man and pulled back on the trigger. A spray of bullets pounded the Italian in the chest, throwing him back against the Suburban, splattering blood across the vehicle.
Suddenly, the sound of automatic gunfire erupted as Mansour started firing at other vehicles, and then the sound was amplified as every Hezbollah gunman also started firing. They shot pedestrians prone on the sidewalks, killing them like they were whacking weeds, then moved into the vehicles. They sprayed bullets into every vehicle in the vicinity of where they were, in the semicircle around the UN—and then, led by Mansour, they all turned and moved in toward the UN complex.
The gunmen shredded the line, firing indiscriminately both behind the line of gunmen and forward, at the UN, beginning the process of clawing their way in.
A few officers in the immediate area—not caught in the initial killing arc of Iranian bullets—returned fire and soon it was an all-out firefight, even as screams and smoke and ash from the explosion at the tunnel started to choke the air.
Mansour climbed into the back of the van. He grabbed a shoulder-fired missile launcher; a Russian-made 9K32 Strela-2. He strapped it over his shoulder, sights extended, launch tube balanced perfectly, gripstock in his hand—and a long, thin missile already loaded and ready to fly. The missile itself was a “directed-energy” blast fragmentation warhead, with detonation immediate and grazing fuses that had a fifteen-second built-in delay before automatic self-destruction, once fired.
