The Island--A Thriller

by Ben Coes

  “Yes,” he said. “When you get to your suite, I want you to text your family, your friends, colleagues, anyone you know in New York City.”

  “Why?”

  “Tell them to get inside, or stay inside if they’re already there,” said Tacoma. “It’s for their own safety.”

  “I will,” she said. She stepped forward and leaned in to Tacoma. They were both still naked. Her white hair cascaded down her back. They kissed for a brief moment. “I knew you were cute,” she said, touching her hand to his bare, muscled torso, “but I didn’t know you were such a gentleman,” as she kissed him again.

  If you knew what I was about to do, you wouldn’t think I’m such a gentleman, he thought.

  The doorbell chimed. The door opened and a refined-looking Asian woman stepped in.

  “It will be my pleasure to take you to your suite, miss.”

  49

  9:08 A.M.

  UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING

  FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  The NYPD officer, Ricky, ran for a stairwell at the back of the UN building, following orders from Koch. He climbed as alarms roared inside the stairwell. He entered the third floor of the tower and moved down the hallway. He lock-picked a door and entered an empty office suite, some sort of ceremonial room, which appeared as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. An inner door near where he wanted to be was locked and he shot out the area around the steel door handle. He kicked in the door.

  Ricky skulked to the window. He registered two school buses with men pouring out carrying automatic weapons. Ricky walked back, staggering a little, grabbed a satchel full of mags, went back to the shattered window, set the fire selector on a custom-rigged AR-15 to full auto, and started firing at the men swarming from the school buses—pumping bullets at the Iranians now attacking from street level.

  Then he saw a man to his right and started targeting him.

  50

  9:09 A.M.

  FLOOR 18

  UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING

  FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  Dellenbaugh opened his eyes. His face was matted to the carpet in a pool of sticky blood. He tried to breathe. He needed air, and he began to inhale. A sharp, stabbing pain slashed across him. He looked down. It looked otherworldly, like a scene from a horror movie.

  He was on a thinly carpeted floor in an office suite. He had no idea how long he’d been out.

  The piece of glass was large and thick, at least a foot long and an inch wide. It was embedded in his stomach but most of the glass was not inside him. Only the front tip of the shard had penetrated him, perhaps one or two inches—yet it was the worst pain he’d ever felt, or ever even imagined. His button-down was stuffed into the edges, but it was drenched in blood. He stared at the thick shard of glass jutting from his body, crimson flooding the surface. It looked surreal. He put his hand on it and just the faintest touch made sharp pain soar through his body. He let go, then grabbed it again and pulled. But it was lodged inside.

  Dellenbaugh glanced around the suite. It was a picture of pure carnage.

  Moments before, staff members from the U.S. Mission were gathered, along with several other UN countries’ consulate delegations, including delegations from England, Ireland, Israel, Canada, most of Europe, South Korea, Japan, Mexico, and other countries. A hundred or so. Now, they were dead.

  Next to him, Dellenbaugh saw one of his Secret Service protectors, Gene Callanan, lying on his stomach, dead on the floor, part of his torso missing.

  Gene Callanan had been on Dellenbaugh’s protective detail starting the day Rob Allaire had asked Dellenbaugh to be his vice president three years ago. Callanan’s head was turned toward him. His face looked calm, his eyes were open; dull eyes staring into oblivion. His torso was severed by some sort of metal, a desk or cabinet, ripped apart by the missiles, sent into his body like a steak knife through butter.

  At that moment, beyond any pain, Dellenbaugh could think only about what had happened in the moments before it had all come crashing down. He had to think about that—as much as he hurt. He alone was president. He had to register what had occurred.

  Explosions in different parts of the island. Uptown and east, downtown, bursts of thick black smoke chuting into the morning sky.

  The tunnels.

  Dellenbaugh put his hand on the end of the glass shard. He looked around. No one was moving.

  “Is anyone alive?” he said again.

  But Dellenbaugh heard nothing.

  He felt the glass in his gut. He knew he was alive. As long as he was alive he needed to fight.

  “Is anyone there?” he shouted, tasting blood somehow coming up from his body.

  He shut his eyes, steeling himself. This was not how it ended. They could kill him, but he wouldn’t give up.…

  Yet, the pain was deep. Dellenbaugh coughed and a spitwad of blood-tainted saliva shot out, landing on his thigh. His chief of staff was usually correct. Dellenbaugh grinned as he fought off shock. Adrian was right:

  There isn’t going to be any speech, sir.

  51

  9:09 A.M.

  EAST RIVER

  NEW YORK CITY

  Dewey stood at the console of the Hinckley Runabout 29. It was white, black, quiet—and fast.

  Dewey took the boat up the East River from the south, throttling the boat to its max. He moved back and lifted the engine casing, then disabled a green wire—a circuit he’d been trained in—along the side of the big engine. The wire, he knew, was there to protect the engine, but right now Dewey needed speed. He raised the engine and planed out on the water. As the prop lifted so too did the front of the hull and soon the boat was moving at the height of its maximum speed, barely the prop, barely the hull, everything else suspended in forward motion—and the dial soon read 57 knots. The governor gone, he soon had the boat gliding at an arc up the East River.

  He gashed the boat up into the cavern of the East River, smoke across the waterfront, and for the first time Dewey spied the top floors of the UN. Then he looked lower. It was in flames.

  He was still far away. Yet he saw the city in ruins, and parts of the UN were on fire. Whole sections had been destroyed.

  He tapped his ear twice.

  “CENCOM.”

  “Identify.”

  “2495–6.”

  “Go.”

  “I need to speak with the president,” said Dewey.

  A pause, then a high-pitched monotone.

  “I’m not getting through,” said the voice.

  Dewey waited and waited as he moved up the East River. As he came closer—within sight line of the smoking explosion at the tunnel near the UN, he spoke.

  “Anything?” said Dewey.

  “I’ve run it repeatedly,” said the CENCOM operator. “No answer.”

  52

  9:09 A.M.

  UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING

  FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  The perimeter of the UN was highly secure and most of it was inaccessible—high-voltage electronic iron fence stretched around the seventeen-acre complex. The front of the facility faced First Avenue, and this was the only way in quickly. But it was heavily guarded with UN Security forces and, on this day, U.S. Secret Service, FBI, and NYPD.

  These gunmen were firing back at Mansour and his soldiers, but with six vans and two buses filled with trained Hezbollah soldiers, the attackers were gaining ground. First Avenue near the UN looked and sounded like a combat zone. Hezbollah was encroaching with each passing minute. The external layer of UN Security had either retreated back toward the tower or had been shot in cold blood.

  Still, as Mansour tucked against a sedan on First Avenue, he looked south and saw six or seven dead Iranians.

  It would be over soon. The whole thing would be over soon.

  He heard sirens—more NYPD was coming.


  Mansour ignored the carnage and broken glass and moved toward the UN. He cut across First Avenue, clutching an AR-15 and gunning toward any movement he saw from the Americans.

  Within the piece of land, the footprint of the UN building occupied less than an acre.

  Mansour knew that his men needed to get to the tower and control access. That meant controlling the lobby. It was operating leverage; a confined space that, if secured, enabled its possessor to control the tower. Control the lobby and roof, that was what they had to do. It was his soldiers’ job to take hold of the lobby. To control the roof, that was why he bought missiles and had men stationed to use them as needed.

  Mansour was pinned down behind an SUV on First Avenue, struggling to get closer. He watched, in the distance across the courtyard, as uniformed UN Security, NYPD, and FBI SWAT were pushed backward across the large, open concrete area outside the tower; ineluctably backward, ducking and afraid, spraying bullets at the Iranians, trying to protect themselves in a last-ditch effort.

  He saw one of his soldiers breach the outer ring of the courtyard. Several Hezbollah gunmen moved in, but in moments two of them were shot dead, dropped to the hard ground. But the wave of Iranians was winning out and the Americans were dropping quickly. Hezbollah moved in closer. He glanced right. Windows on vehicles were shattered, and there were hundreds of bullet holes in cars. There were dead civilians along the sidewalk on First Avenue. Several of Mansour’s men were down, dead, killed—but the UN cordon had been broken.

  Now Mansour skulked from behind the SUV. Suddenly, slugs rained down from the UN building. He was at least a thousand feet away, yet the bullets had come close. He tucked back against the SUV just as several bullets ricocheted inches from him.

  Mansour had been marked. A sniper inside the UN building had him locked. He wasn’t about to let go.

  Mansour paused a few moments, on his heels, crouched back against the vehicle.

  On the other side of the SUV was a sidewalk, and then a three-foot-high line of pine shrubs, then an iron fence, and beyond was the courtyard in front of the tower he needed to get to.

  Mansour stuck his hand out ever so slightly in front of the back bumper. He held it for a few moments, then instinctively yanked it back just as a dull boom echoed from the tower and a slug slammed into the bumper where his hand had just been.

  He saw red and blue lights north of him, up First Avenue.

  A Hezbollah soldier was positioned in that direction. The gunman started hammering bullets at the oncoming NYPD cruiser. The cruiser abruptly swerved and smashed into a parked, or abandoned, car. Mansour lurched through the break in the vehicles and sprinted across the sidewalk, leaping at the fence, hitting the shrubs with his feet and scaling the fence as bullets flew just behind him. Bullets pulsed the concrete just behind him.

  A guard booth was on the other side of the fence. It would provide shelter from the sniper. As he got over the fence, he heard another boom in the same instant his knee erupted in blood and pain. He was hit—but he continued moving even as white-hot pain burned through his kneecap.

  “Fuck,” he muttered as he moved to the small guardhouse, out of the sniper’s aim.

  He looked down. His right knee was a mess. Blood was all over the place; a patch of his pants was torn. He ripped material aside, exposing the wound. The bullet had only grazed him. He could still function as long as he stemmed the blood and could deal with the pain.

  He glanced around the guard station. He gazed across the concrete courtyard before the entrance to the tower, as his gunmen created a shock wave of cover around the outer edges of the facility, where law enforcement was trying to fight them off, pumping slugs back at them, but there were too many Hezbollah.

  Mansour’s team was hatcheting through whatever security existed at the UN—even though dozens of his most loyal and talented men lay dead on the ground.

  He felt cold wetness at his ankle. He’d already processed the pain and was moving it to a box inside his mind, as he’d been taught. But he needed to deal with the blood that was trickling, like a faucet that hadn’t been turned fully off, from his knee.

  53

  9:09 A.M.

  CBS BROADCAST CENTER

  WEST FIFTY-SEVENTH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  Lee Van Allen was broadcasting live. The monitor cut to a wide-angle, grainy video feed showing clouds of smoke, in real time, over part of Manhattan.

  A bright red digital strip cut across the bottom of the screen: SPECIAL REPORT.

  “One,” said Wood in Van Allen’s ear. “Go, kid.”

  “This is Lee Van Allen, reporting to you live from CBS headquarters in New York City. It is nine oh nine A.M. and what you are seeing is what appears to be some sort of terrorist attack on New York City.…”

  Abruptly, the feed cut and displayed a different camera angle, this time from the air.

  It was the under-mounted camera on the local CBS affiliate’s helicopter, used mainly for traffic reports. The chopper was above the Lower West Side, where tall spires of thick smoke reached into the sky.

  “I believe what you’re seeing is the Lincoln Tunnel,” said Van Allen, her voice wavering as she narrated the stunning scene. “I’m seeing this just as you are. I’m going to do my best not to get emotional but I can’t make any promises. It appears that once again New York City is under attack.”

  As the helicopter cut across the city and climbed, the camera picked up three more towering columns of smoke rising at the boundaries of the city. Van Allen knew immediately what it meant.

  “Oh my Lord,” she said, even though she was live. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is live footage from above New York City, where it looks like at least four large explosions have taken place, all in the vicinity of the tunnels leading into Manhattan.”

  As the chopper moved toward the East Side, the UN came into view, in the distance, shrouded by clouds of smoke pouring out of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, but also from the UN building itself. Part of the front of the building was destroyed—a large hole in the sleek blue glass marred the front, halfway up—then another missile sped from somewhere on the ground up into another part of the building and punched a hole in a different section.

  “My God,” said Van Allen. “They’re attacking the UN where, as I speak, President J. P. Dellenbaugh is scheduled to address the General Assembly.…”

  54

  9:10 A.M.

  FLOOR 18

  UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING

  FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  The president crawled on his back even as the glass stabbed him in the torso. He came to a dead woman and found a cell phone in her hand. He dialed 911.

  It rang several times, then an operator came on.

  “NYPD Emergency,” came a female voice.

  Dellenbaugh tried to speak but only coughed.

  “Hello, this is NYPD first response, is someone there?”

  “Yes,” whispered Dellenbaugh. He sounded weak and lost. “I have a piece of glass in my stomach.”

  “Thank you,” said the operator. “I see you’re at the UN. We have teams of first responders either there already or on their way.”

  “I need to speak to someone with medical training,” said Dellenbaugh slowly.

  “Sir, I’m not sure that’s feasible,” said the operator. “However, I can send an ambulance and EMTs to your specific location. What floor are you on?”

  “Eighteen,” said Dellenbaugh. “This is J. P. Dellenbaugh, the president. I need to speak to someone immediately with a medical background.”

  The operator was silent for a few moments.

  “Oh, sir, Mr. President, forgive me. Please hold the line. I’ll have someone in a few moments.”

  Dellenbaugh lay down on his back, propping his head on the leg of the dead woman. Then a new voice came on the line.

  “Mr. President, this is Alison Scott, are you there?”

  “Y
es.”

  “I’m a trauma surgeon at Mt. Sinai. Where is the glass, Mr. President?” she said.

  “My right side,” said Dellenbaugh. “Stomach.”

  “How big?”

  “I don’t know. A foot. It’s thick.”

  “How much is inside you?” said Scott.

  “A few inches.”

  “That’s good. Is your nose or mouth bleeding?” said Dr. Scott.

  “I don’t know,” said Dellenbaugh.

  “Put your hand to your nose and your mouth,” she ordered. “Tell me if it’s bleeding.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said.

  “That’s good. I want you to pull that piece of glass out of your stomach,” said the doctor.

  “It’s too deep,” said the president weakly.

  “You need to do it,” said Scott firmly. “I’m here with you,” she added empathetically. “People are coming. I know the FBI or Secret Service will be there soon.” Then her tone got harder-edged. “But I need you to pull the glass out right now.”

  Dellenbaugh was breathing heavily, trying to live through the pain, which was exacerbated by every tiny movement.

  “I know you’re feeling like you’re about to die, but you’re not,” said Scott. “I need you to pull that glass out, right now. Just yank it out. This isn’t over. It’s just the beginning, but I need you, we need you, to join the fight.”

  * * *

  Dellenbaugh forced himself to sit up and crab to a wall near the entrance to the suite. He looked down and saw his midsection. It was a riot of blood, soaking wet. A trail of blood was on the floor. He put the cell down and wrapped both hands around the large shard of glass at its tip. Groaning in a low, deep voice, Dellenbaugh pulled for several moments, trying to get the object out, but it was too painful. He gave himself a few seconds as he caught his breath. He was sweating profusely and in agony, though he took the glass again and rocked it back and forth as blood oozed out from the seams around where it was stabbed into him. He pulled as hard as he could and felt the end of the glass slide out, making a terrible sloshing noise. He dropped it on the floor as he tried to catch his breath amid the wracking pain.