by Ben Coes
He heard gunfire coming closer and two men came into view. Both men were clutching rifles and—as with the last man—shooting anything that moved, and a lot of stuff that didn’t. The sidewalk was still, littered already with bodies of the ones who hadn’t managed to get away. Singerman acquired a firing line and clutched back on the Uzi trigger. A metallic fusillade rang out above the din. He hit both men in a line of slugs across the midsection of their bodies. Blood sprayed behind them onto vehicles and the street. Singerman watched them drop awkwardly to the pavement.
Now on foot, he moved in the direction of the skyscraper that housed the governors’ room. It wasn’t a sexy building or even that remarkable. They’d created a corporation called Interchem to house the system, buying the building, renting out unused floors so as to create the illusion that nothing important occurred there. Singerman had spent so much time there he knew every inch.
* * *
The economies of the world lived and grew upon a digital framework, a series of debits and credits, protected by technological encryption, redundancy, an agreed-upon set of rules that the world’s treasuries adhered to, or else faced a blighted existence outside the financial and economic mainframe. The mainframe was the U.S. Federal Reserve. It was the bulwark of the world economy.
Singerman, as a doctoral student at Wharton, had designed it all. Though his professor had helped him, the technological framework for the Federal Reserve had been his idea. It was his Ph.D. dissertation. He’d come up with an architectural construct designed to achieve certain ends based on an algorithm that, if harnessed properly, offered galactic scalability and numerical outcome perfection. His professor had seen the implications immediately. It was a way to harness energy based on an inherently large path of defined numerical outcomes. But to run it required a massive amount of energy in a highly defined, extensible, and scalable footprint. In other words, actually using the algorithm to, for example, guide a set of financial transactions, required massive amounts of energy confined within a finite space. Thus, as part of the algorithm Singerman designed, a heuristic link was made to a wall of pure energy they called an iodine sheet field. Because it was fueled with the radioactive output of the algorithm itself, it created, in essence, a self-fueled machine faster and more powerful, per square inch, than any computer in the world, by a factor of one trillion times. There were more powerful computers, but powering them required massive server farms spanning football fields and caverns in Iceland.
When he was recruited to implement the design for the Fed, Singerman had designed entry protocols and basic functionality dependent on human interaction. Singerman, even then, feared that removing the human in the day-to-day management of the Fed grid, while theoretically possible, would lead to unforeseen consequences.
His design: a parabolic DNA-based security corridor—in essence a room—whose door could open only if four individuals pressed a thumb on a reader and looked into an ocular scanner at the same time. While it sounded simple, Singerman had calculated the odds and it was basically impossible to hack into because of the human layer. It was game theory, extrapolated into a physical design so as to prevent penetration. Singerman hadn’t been worried about someone breaking in. The design was based on his fear of AI. He inserted a human alloy between the hacker and the Risch algorithm.
Blocks from the Federal Reserve, he heard a beep in his ear. Singerman tapped it.
“Aaron, it’s Igor. Are you close?”
83
9:37 A.M.
LOBBY
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Gunfire continued, though now it was the Iranians who controlled the lobby of the UN building.
Mansour whistled, holding up two fingers. His men stopped firing, though bullets continued to rain in from outside.
Blood and bodies were scattered everywhere in the light-filled vestibule. An eruption of violence.
Mansour counted out men and saw that he had nine soldiers still alive. He spoke in Persian.
The lobby is ours. Four men at the windows, now! Now is when we build strategic advantage!
Mansour nodded at one of the men, a tall bald man named Sayyari. They crossed the lobby, stepping over dead men.
Gunfire continued as the four soldiers pumped slugs back out at American law enforcement disaggregated across the open area between the lobby and First Avenue.
His four men—using the building itself as protection—were holding back an army of NYPD and FBI SWAT.
Despite the bullets now pilfering in from First Avenue, Mansour walked with Sayyari to the front line of men. He got close enough so that he could give them one final command.
He again spoke in Persian.
“You four stay here, in the lobby,” said Mansour. “Brothers, we need just a little more time. Hold them off.” He looked at Sayyari and two other men. “You lead. Come in from above. If they’re still working, take the elevators to twenty. Guard the nearest stairwell and the elevator banks on twenty and nineteen. You,” said Mansour, pointing at Sayyari, “if you get there before us, kill him.”
Mansour pointed at the remaining two gunmen and said, “You’re with me.” He started walking to the stairs, then turned.
“Shoot everything you see,” said Mansour. “Take no prisoners.”
84
9:38 A.M.
LOBBY
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mike Murphy was on his stomach, tucked behind a large display case designed for tourists, in the lobby of the UN building. The front of the structure showed a pictorial history of the UN. Behind the case was empty space, out of sight. That’s where Murphy was hidden.
He was hiding for his life.
When the first Hezbollah gunmen encroached upon the tower, Murphy had, in point of fact, been looking at the display case. After Dellenbaugh arrived and went up to the office of the UN Secretary General, Murphy decided to hang back and kill time. He was looking forward to watching Dellenbaugh give his speech, watching him excoriate the UN for being utterly worthless. He’d been looking at the photos when everything went haywire, and he’d ducked behind the display case. Now, that display case was the only reason he was alive.
Murphy watched in absolute shock, consternation, and horror as a gun battle took place to his right, across the lobby. He’d watched as men were shot and killed. In front of him bodies of both sides were scattered.
The lobby itself was a mess. There was broken glass all over the place. He peeked around the end of the display and saw carnage. Several large windows were shattered. Bodies were strewn across the lobby, corpses. But now a group of terrorists patrolled the lobby.
Murphy tucked back in and stayed motionless. He’d been that way since the gunfight between Secret Service and whoever was out there moved inside the tower. He pulled a phone out of his pocket. He looked again, and counted three gunmen, then saw a fourth … and then another. He didn’t actually know how many there were, but they were now in control.
Murphy scrolled through his contacts, then hit a button. After a few seconds, it rang.
“Yes?” said Amy Dellenbaugh. She answered immediately and her voice was emotional. She had a heightened, concerned demeanor in her voice.
“Amy, its Mike,” Murphy whispered as—in the background—he heard voices.
“Where are you?” said Amy.
Murphy heard a voice nearby; one of the gunmen was just on the other side of the display case.
“Hold on,” said Murphy in a whisper.
Murphy listened as the young Hezbollah spoke Persian in a quiet tone. He wished he could understand. He heard shooting at the far side of the lobby and peeked around the display case, watching one of them run.
“I’m at the UN. I need your help,” said Murphy, in a hushed voice.
“Oh my God.”
“Please can you get Adrian King to call me?” breathed Murphy. “Or anyone.”
“Yes,” said Amy. “Yes, right now, of course I will.”
85
9:39 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dellenbaugh was awakened by gunfire nearby. Then he heard a shout. His first thought was that it didn’t sound like law enforcement.
He opened his eyes, looking around at the destruction, then remembering. He turned his head and could see the open wall where glass had been, where the missile had come through. Sirens and gunfire echoed in the distance, but faintly, and the decimated floor seemed surreal. The ceiling was gone in one large section, and desks from above, and people, had fallen through. There were dozens of corpses. It was impossible to recognize anyone. He glanced down and looked at his wound. It was still bleeding but not as badly. He reached out and touched it, sending a stabbing thrust through his stomach and he closed his eyes as the pain swept over him again.
He wanted to call Amy. She probably thought he was dead. Yet he knew all that would do was expend energy he needed to survive.
Again, he heard automatic-weapon fire. It wasn’t from outside. It was in the tower somewhere below. He felt more lucid. The pain was acute—but maybe it was waking him up. Dellenbaugh was still leaning on a woman’s leg and he turned to look at her. Her skull was crushed and he couldn’t recognize her. He reached out his hand and touched her bloody hand, the woman whose leg he’d been resting on, whose cell he’d borrowed. Dellenbaugh remembered the doctor’s words. He swallowed the pain and unbuttoned his shirt. Once it was off, he held it and tried to breathe deep and stop the pain. The shirt was wet from sweat and stained from blood. He tied it around his torso and yanked, tightening it against the wound.
He heard screams, then more gunshots—fierce bursts of rifle fire. This time it was closer.
Dellenbaugh lifted his head up from the woman’s leg and tried to stand, but he didn’t have the strength. His legs felt brittle and weak. He started crawling on his side, using his hands to pull himself along. He came to a dead agent and pushed him over, searching. Beneath the man’s arm was a holster.
Dellenbaugh removed the pistol and got down onto his stomach next to the dead agent, holding the gun in his hand aimed back at the entrance to the suite, tucking it against his leg, pretending to be dead. A young gunman entered the suite, clenching a submachine gun. A second terrorist entered just after him.
Dellenbaugh watched from the corner of his eye, pretending to be dead.
The two gunmen walked into the suite. They spoke back and forth in Persian. They assayed the carnage, but were searching for signs of life—for Dellenbaugh.
He watched as one of the men looked at the trail of blood, still wet, across the floor, that led to him.
As the man turned, Dellenbaugh fired. His bullet hit the gunman in the leg, dropping him. Dellenbaugh moved his arm and aimed at the second man, then fired. The bullet struck him in the mouth, shattering his head. Dellenbaugh aimed the gun back at the first gunman and fired several times into his torso and chest, killing him.
86
9:40 A.M.
THE PENTAGON
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Dale Arnold flew by helicopter from the South Lawn of the White House to the Pentagon and was soon jogging to his office, passing through several outer rooms filled with both uniformed and civilian staffers and into the secretary of defense’s massive office. The room was brightly lit, had coffered ceilings, and mint-hued, light green wallpaper, along with two large seating areas. His desk was in the middle of the spacious room.
Jessica Park, Arnold’s chief of staff, followed him in.
Already seated were the eight members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—the chairman and vice chairman, along with the service chiefs of the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, Air Force, Space Force, and National Guard. A few key Pentagon staffers were also present.
“Let’s hear it,” said Arnold. “What do we got?”
“Well, Dale, I think there’s a divergence of opinion here,” said the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Gus Mailer. “Three of us think we should drop a tactical nuke on Tehran. The other five believe we should drop two.”
Arnold grabbed a cup of coffee from his desk and walked to the seating area. Other than Arnold and Park, everyone was in military uniform.
“Not going to happen,” said Arnold, taking a seat.
The eight members of the Joint Chiefs traded glances.
Admiral Bill Pollard, the Navy chief, spoke:
“They’re midstream on a deep penetration of America,” said Pollard. “We need to stop them in their tracks.”
“We’re going to make it hurt a lot more than a nuke would,” said Arnold. “A surgical removal of the man who ordered this. What do we have nearby, Bill?”
“The Nimitz Carrier Strike Group is in the Gulf of Oman. That includes the Nimitz itself, the guided-missile cruiser Princeton, and three Burke-class destroyers, along with nine fighter squadrons,” said Pollard, highlighting the ships on the map. “That’s approximately two hundred and twenty Tomahawks, give or take.”
“Deployment and time to target?” said Arnold.
“About an hour.”
“And what are the targets?” asked General Mailer.
“Four possible targets,” said Arnold, standing up and walking to the door. “Suleiman’s residence, his office, his country house, and the mosque where he worships. Make it happen, immediately. Consider this my final sign-off, General Mailer, you have command.”
87
9:42 A.M.
LOBBY
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mike Murphy’s cell came to life.
KING A
“Mike?” said King. “Where are you?”
“At the UN.”
“For fuck’s sake,” said King.
“I’m in the lobby. There are bodies everywhere. I’m hiding. They don’t know I’m here,” said Murphy, “and I want to try and save him.”
There was a long pause.
“There’s an attack going on and they’re isolating the president,” said Murphy.
“No shit,” said King.
“They have it blocked off,” said Murphy. “I’m behind their lines. Just tell me what to do.”
King was silent for several moments.
“Mike, I want you to just stay put,” said King. “Let law enforcement do their job.”
“Goddam it! They’re trying to kill the president!” said Murphy in a shouted whisper.
“Do you have a gun?” said King.
“A gun?” said Murphy incredulously. “No, I don’t have a fucking gun. I’m a goddam political consultant.”
“Exactly,” said King evenly.
“Fine, I’ll go up there myself,” said Murphy sarcastically. “Thanks for the help, asshole.”
“Chill out,” said King. “I’m trying to save your life.”
“I’d rather die than just watch,” said Murphy.
“Look, we’re trying to get inside the building,” said King. “If you run up there on your own without a weapon, you’re useless. You will die. But we’re trying to get in. I’ll make sure they know you’re there. Stay put, Rambo.”
88
9:43 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mansour and two other gunmen took the remaining working elevator to seventeen and got off. They found the fire stairs and charged up one flight to eighteen. Mansour opened the door and entered a hallway behind the elevator banks. Then he cut left, immediately feeling wind whipping through broken windows.
Mansour clutched a PS90 as he came around the
corner. The entrance was gone—destroyed—and the rest was a chaotic mess of corpses, bent metal, pieces of what had been furniture, and above all, blood and glass everywhere. The wind whipped through the open wall. Outside, sirens and gunfire sounded from different directions below.
He knew it had all come down to this, and he realized the American president was dead. He had to be. Mansour would be satisfied if Dellenbaugh was dead. It would signify a successful operation. But a pang of loss ran through him. Mansour had wanted to be the one to put a bullet in the president.
“Colonel,” said a voice.
Mansour turned, searching.
The voice was weak: “Here.”
Mansour’s eyes went to a blood-soaked body he hadn’t noticed. It was Sayyari. He lay on his back next to another corpse, behind a broken desk. Mansour stepped closer. Part of Sayyari’s chin was missing.
Mansour came to Sayyari and knelt. He examined the wound.
“Who did this?” said Mansour.
“He’s right over there,” whispered Sayyari as blood chugged from his chin and mouth. “The president. He has a gun.”
Mansour put his hand to Sayyari’s eyes and closed his eyelids.
He looked at the two other Hezbollah.
“Find the American president,” said Mansour. “He’s here.”
89
9:44 A.M.
LEXINGTON AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma jogged down Lexington Avenue, weaving his way toward the UN. The street was largely deserted—the people all inside buildings, or dead on the street, or in cars. It appeared like a combat zone, wrecked by prior violence.
There was no way for NYPD to get close with a vehicle due to the cars and trucks clogging the streets. It was mayhem yet largely empty of people. The active shooters had already passed through this block and it looked like the coast was clear. He ducked in front of a shot-out Italian restaurant, littered with customers and employees someone had gunned down in cold blood.
