by Ben Coes
Smoke from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel just to the south swirled like fog across the streets and buildings across a concrete canyon that separated the UN building from the plain of skyscrapers on the west side of First Avenue. First Avenue was a parking lot of abandoned vehicles, windshields blown out, and bodies littering the street and sidewalks.
He locked the sight into the American sniper, paused, then pressed the trigger. There was a loud smack then a high whistle noise as the Strela shot from the launcher. The man watched through the hazy trail of the missile’s flight. He saw the sniper suddenly turn and look up in his direction. The American had recognized the shrill cry of the incoming missile, though it was too late.
The missile slammed directly into the tower, a little high, through a window on the fourth floor, but it was less than ten feet above where the gunman was and it didn’t matter. There was a loud explosion and glass for several floors above rained down as the third and fourth floors along the northwest corner of the tower were eviscerated.
76
9:26 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mansour heard the telltale snap of the missile launcher, then the low whistle. His eyes caught the smoke trail from the roof of the building across First Avenue from the UN. He watched as the missile slammed into the low part of the Secretariat Building, followed by the explosion, which blew out everything in and around where the sniper had been. The ground vibrated beneath him.
The sniper was gone. The hit had been almost direct.
Mansour moved.
He saw several of his men in the distance, shooting their way into the lobby. He watched as one of them dropped, struck in the chest from inside the lobby, a nest of security, trying to hold the lobby.
Mansour pumped bullets at where he guessed the nest of gunmen was retreating back into the lobby and trying to hold it, shooting back at his men, encroaching foot by foot, numbers on their side.
Mansour fired at the lobby, emptying the mag, switched out mags, then started to move along the fringes of the courtyard, weaving toward the UN building.
He watched from the distance as one of his men stalked from the opposite side of the lobby, entering the atrium, now littered in broken glass and dead bodies. Mansour recognized the gunman, and he felt a surge of pride. Most of the large windows were either cracked or destroyed. He watched as the soldier made a quick dash to a concrete pillar, then cut silently around the pillar toward the interior of the tower, where the concentration of American security was trying to hold out access to the elevators and stairs.
Mansour sprinted across the open courtyard toward the tower, exposed to the gunmen in the lobby. He could hear the staccato fire of his gunmen, overwhelming the cluster of last-line defense from UN Security, FBI, and Secret Service. He leapt through a shattered opening in the lobby glass, ninety degrees from his men, but directly across from the area of the lobby where the few remaining Americans were hiding. They were trying to stay down and take shots at the flank of Hezbollah at the far side of the lobby. Mansour stepped over a body and targeted the rifle at the group. He pumped the trigger, holding it back as bullets hailed in a furious spray across the open atrium of the tower lobby.
77
9:26 A.M.
RIVERSIDE PARK
UPPER WEST SIDE
NEW YORK CITY
“What do you need?” said Singerman, tapping his earbud as he drove south, weaving in and out of the crowd of panicked pedestrians.
“They’re going after the Federal Reserve,” said Igor. “This morning, all four governors were murdered. The killers removed an eye and thumb from each one. Bill said you have some knowledge of the Fed.”
“Give me a sec,” said Singerman as he came toward the end of Riverside Park near Seventy-second Street. He charged the Suburban up a set of stairs and barreled out onto a crowded street, littered with cars not moving. He went right down along Riverside Boulevard, staying along the Hudson River, driving up onto the sidewalk and hitting the gas.
Singerman tapped his ear.
“Are you sure they have the fingers and eyes?” said Singerman as he weaved south on the sidewalk, barely avoiding people running to the north.
“Yes,” said Igor.
“That’s not good,” said Singerman. “They’re going after Fedwire.”
“What’s the exposure?” said Polk.
“Exposure is down to hard assets,” said Singerman. “Cash and gold.”
“Is there any way for me to provision inside the cordon and create redundancy?” said Igor.
“It’s a single-point-of-entry protocol system behind an iodine sheet field,” said Singerman. “It’s a single-track system and all data is outward facing. You need to be in the room itself.”
“What happens then?” said Igor.
“It’s a Risch algorithm,” said Singerman. “It’s complicated.”
“Risch is about antiderivatives?” said Igor. “I thought it wasn’t possible to build Risch and make it manageable? Too much computing power required over limited time.”
“You’re right, but it is possible, I did it with my professor,” said Singerman. “The problem is that was ten years ago. Someone this sophisticated will undoubtedly introduce some sort of higher-order pattern-unification algorithm to break away at it. Once inside the room, an experienced hacker will code a path into the core of the Risch. It will only require a matter of time to get to the metadata. Minutes, not hours.”
“Divert to the Fed, Aaron,” said Polk.
78
9:27 A.M.
EAST RIVER
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey was dripping wet. His clothing—a canvas vest over a long-sleeved polo and khakis—clung to his body.
He took the terrorist’s AR-15 and put it down on the wood of the dock. He took a snub-nosed oblate spheroid silencer from his khaki pocket, a custom-made multi-caliber silencer. He screwed it into the muzzle of the rifle and walked down the maintenance pier with his finger on the trigger, staring up at clouds of smoke, hearing intermittent gunshots. He found a set of makeshift temporary stairs up to the street and started climbing.
The river was approximately one floor below the FDR Drive and the streets that ran beneath the UN complex. The UN was one floor above the roadway.
Dewey arrived at street level and looked at the mess of cars and trucks scattered in the roadway. Traffic was stopped though a few cars were still trying to burrow through lines of abandoned vehicles. He saw movement in many vehicles, people hiding out and hoping that by remaining there they would be safe. It wasn’t a bad instinct. By now, the pandemonium across Manhattan was established. Whoever had done this knew how to create a distraction.
Dewey put the weapon across his chest and climbed onto a concrete embankment along the highway. He moved to a column at the corner of the FDR Drive, a wide piece of steel rebar helping to hold up the level above, where the UN esplanade—a massive concrete visitors’ park—spread out, and where the entrance to the UN building was.
Dewey felt the column and grabbed at an edge with both hands, finding a line of leverage. He jumped and, holding the steel and pressing his feet against it below, he scaled the column quickly, moving up until he could grab the lower edge of the concrete above, then lifting himself up onto the esplanade.
It was the large area behind the UN building, away from First Avenue, bordering the river. A secure area, gated in, largely empty, supposedly guarded, but now Hezbollah had killed whatever UN Security and Secret Service was supposed to be there and there was an abandoned feeling to the concrete patch.
Dewey ducked behind a bench and then looked through slats at the tower in the distance, where Dellenbaugh was. He listened and watched. Anyone looking in his direction would see only a shadow. He lifted the AR-15 and positioned the barrel on top of the bench, remaining crouched. He scanned from the outer edge of the periphery. He saw one m
an directly to his left, fifty or sixty feet away, and he acquired him. When he was about to shoot, he saw movement. Through the optic, he found another man at the far end of the esplanade.
Dewey paused.
The man near him was standing against a concrete wall, guarding a pathway leading to the UN building. He held a submachine gun and was looking around. Next to him, on the ground, was a MANPAD, a firing kit, with a missile.
Dewey studied the gunman at the far border of the esplanade through the optic and focused tightly in. He moved the fire selector to semi and pumped the trigger. Three bullets spat from the rifle in a brief hail of lead. The man was kicked to the ground in a crimson burst, his groan loud and awful.
The gunman to Dewey’s left registered the shots and swept his rifle toward Dewey, pounding rounds across the pavement, but Dewey fired before the gunman caught up to him. Dewey’s bullets were on target, and a lake of red burst across the young Iranian’s stomach. The killer was kicked back off his feet as the slugs slammed him broadside, dropping the thug in a pool of blood.
Just as the man fell, Dewey turned and scanned, making sure there were no others. He walked to where the dead Iranian lay, coming on him with the alloy tip of the silencer zeroed in on the dying man’s skull. The killer was paralyzed in agony. Blood coursed from his chest and torso. He looked up at Dewey with gray eyes. Dewey pulled the trigger and ripped bullets across his neck, then turned and started charging for the tower.
79
9:29 A.M.
EIGHTH AVENUE AND 49TH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma was on foot, running south on Eighth Avenue. He weaved his way down from Columbus Circle toward the UN. The traffic on Eighth Avenue was still moving in places but would not be for long. Sirens from police cars and ambulances were in the dozens, along with sporadic gunfire. He cut over on a parking lot–like West Forty-ninth Street, stalking at the corner, looking out for any of the Iranian active shooters running rampant.
Tacoma had on stretch khakis, running shoes, and a long-sleeved navy blue T-shirt with a Tampa Bay Lightning logo on the chest. He gripped a suppressed submachine gun—MP7A1—and wore a tactical backpack over his already stuffed weapons vest that held extra magazines. Beneath his right armpit was a customized holster that held a suppressed P226. Like most operators, he also had several combat blades sheathed in key places across his person. Tacoma had seen combat in urban settings on several occasions. Moving quickly—and in large chunks when you have open theater—was important. So was killing.
He heard a noise just behind him, then saw a man on a motorcycle moving along the sidewalk down Eighth. Tacoma tucked against the egress of a restaurant, watching the man. Perhaps he was just a citizen trying to get away? But then he saw the man raise a pistol and fire at a car, followed by a scream.
Tacoma sighted him and pumped the trigger. The bullet thwacked from the MP7 and hit the motorcycle rider in the head. He crashed, slamming into the wall of a building across the street. Tacoma kept moving east across the city.
The streets were shut down, and a canopy of silt and smoke was in the sky, a layer of black above Lexington Avenue and in the air above, cantilevered between skyscrapers. Cars had long ago been abandoned as people ran for cover.
The sidewalks and streets were almost empty, but some people were still trying to run away. Screams, sirens, and the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire filled the air.
People ran to whichever building was nearest and attempted to enter, seeking shelter and safety. Still others ran down sidewalks, as if there were a destination.
Bodies littered the ground. An old woman carrying a Bergdorf Goodman bag had been shot in the back in cold blood. One of the shooters had already come through, killing everything in his sight.
Tacoma stalked down Lexington, clutching the MP7, flash suppressor screwed into the muzzle of the gun. An extended magazine sticking down. He hugged the buildings on the left side of Lexington.
A tall black-haired man came into Tacoma’s line of sight, emerging from a building several blocks away, down Lexington, holding an AR-15. The man pumped the trigger as he ran, and he’d had it set to full auto. A sound of screams and pandemonium echoed back up the avenue. Bullets spat from the rifle and several people were abruptly shot in cold blood as they sought to flee the chaos.
The sky overhead was smoky and gray. A vague smell of burning chemicals was everywhere.
Tacoma moved down along the left-hand side of the avenue, running in the lee of the buildings, knowing his movement would blend into a continuum in the peripheral vision of the killer. Tacoma was sprinting hard; in stride he let go of the MP7’s strap, letting it settle behind his back, as he pulled a suppressed P226 from beneath his armpit.
On the other side of the avenue, the killer was walking calmly down the sidewalk shooting people.
Tacoma was across the block, running and yet skulking, in the shadows, out of view.
This man was irrelevant. He needed to get across town to the UN.
It’s on the way, he told himself, as he cut right.
He came closer to the tall man, watching at all times over his shoulder as he came within a half block of the Hezbollah.
Tacoma broke right—toward the avenue, running across several lanes of cars, all abandoned, weaving in and out, as quietly as he could. He raised the P226 as he came onto the sidewalk. For the first time, the killer turned and saw him, and Tacoma by now was at a full-on sprint. Tacoma trained the pistol on the gunman, even as the killer swiveled and sighted Tacoma, triggering early; the harsh thwack thwack thwack of automatic rifle cracked and echoed against the skyscrapers.
As the killer came closer to acquiring Tacoma, Tacoma pumped the trigger. The bullet hit the gunman in the stomach. Tacoma fired again, hitting the gunman’s leg at the knee, dropping him to the street in a world of pain.
Tacoma pulled the AR-15 from the gunman’s hands as the Iranian moaned in agony. Blood pooled almost immediately on the sidewalk beneath the man. Tacoma stepped over him, training the P226 down at his eyes.
“Iran?” said Tacoma inquisitively.
The Iranian clutched at his knee as blood oozed out. He didn’t respond.
Tacoma placed the tip of the suppressor against the Iranian’s eye and pushed hard, into the socket. As he held him tight beneath the suppressor, Tacoma knelt and reached down toward the killer’s arm. He grabbed the man’s collar at the shoulder and yanked, ripping material at the seam. He could now see the man’s shoulder blade. Tacoma saw a small tattoo, a blue lightning bolt.
Tacoma stood.
“Hezbollah,” he said, nodding.
He met eyes with the gunman, then Tacoma pumped the trigger, blowing a large section of his head onto the sidewalk.
80
9:28 A.M.
EAST FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Rokan exited the Westin through a revolving door that fed into a crowded, chaotic, even violent sidewalk on Forty-second Street.
Smoke filled the sky and people were running and they didn’t give a shit about who they ran over.
Traffic was still moving, though it was every man for himself, and he saw a minivan hurdle the sidewalk as it attempted to move west on Forty-second.
There were police sirens wailing in every direction.
But there were no active shooters. His path to the Fed would hopefully be clear. For even though he was on their side, any embedded Iranian shooter would have no way of knowing Rokan from anyone else. As such, Mansour had forbidden any actions on Forty-second Street.
He fell in with a stream of people moving toward the west, away from the UN. They all seemed to realize that the area to the east—behind them, where the UN was located—was radioactive. Smoke and dust were everywhere.
Rokan had never been deployed into a live operating situation. He was a technologist, a computer wizard of the highest caliber. But if he expected to feel fear, Rokan found himself in a state of giddiness, even delirium. Rokan�
��s father had been one of Iran’s highest-ranking nuclear scientists until the morning he and Rokan’s mother were blown up by a limpet bomb attached to his father’s car by Americans. As Rokan jogged west on the sidewalk, he pushed people aside, ignoring screams, and remembered his father and mother. He was receiving his second Ph.D. at the time, at Carnegie-Mellon in Pittsburgh. He dropped out the day his parents were murdered and went back to Tehran, applying for transfer and being accepted to the Iranian military’s war college, the Supreme National Defense University, where he graduated number one in the advanced cyber training platform, a multidisciplinary doctorate considered the hardest and most prestigious degree at the university.
Rokan’s life was altered the day his parents died, altered with but one purpose: to avenge their deaths. But until this moment, as he jogged down the sidewalk amid pandemonium, he’d always understood his hatred for the U.S. in a way that was intellectual. Now, for the first time, he could feel it. It was the danger of the mission, certainly, but more so it was a feeling of exhilaration as he risked his life to avenge the death of his parents.
At Sixth Avenue, Rokan went right, moving along the west side of the street. Sixth Avenue was gridlocked. Screams echoed down the avenue and there was intermittent gunfire just a few blocks ahead.
Rokan charged between cars stopped in traffic, running north.
He came to a skyscraper, an older building of dark blue glass and limestone that arose in an austere rectangle, forty-five stories into the sky.
1135 Sixth Avenue.
Rokan paused as he reached the entrance. The sidewalk was crowded, as was the entrance. He stepped toward the street, where a line of black sedans was queued up. There were armed security men inside the lobby, guarding the entrance. Rokan walked to the door and waved at one of the guards.
