by Ben Coes
110
10:20 A.M.
UNITED STATES FEDERAL RESERVE
1135 SIXTH AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma waited outside the elevators, leaning against the wall. He stared at the four screens and the tunnel. The wall of light, the iodine sheet field, hummed.
After several minutes, silence in which Tacoma listened as Igor typed, Igor finally stopped typing and spoke.
“Rob, I can create a window for you to get through the sheet field,” said Igor. “It’s fifty feet. How fast can you run fifty feet?”
It took him a little over ten seconds to run the hundred-yard dash. During a race, the runner goes different speeds at different parts of the hundred yards. A good runner was fastest in the last section.
“I need four seconds. I might be able to do it in four,” said Tacoma, standing before the elevator banks.
Igor was silent for a few moments.
“Unfortunately, I believe I can only get you two point six or seven seconds, Rob,” said Igor in a soft Russian accent.
Tacoma stared blankly at the tunnel in the distance.
“Not even three?”
“No,” said Igor. “It’s two point six, maybe seven. If you can’t do it, don’t try.”
In his head, Tacoma counted out the distance between the wall at the far end of the elevator banks and the tunnel. He guessed it was approximately twice the distance. A hundred feet.
He understood he would have two and a half seconds to run through the tunnel, and that’s if he and Igor timed it perfectly. He wasn’t sure he’d ever run fifty feet that fast.
If any part of the sheet field came into contact with him, he understood the result: he would be burned alive. He would disintegrate like a matchstick tossed into an inferno.
He walked to his right, away from the tunnel, to the end of the hallway. Tacoma estimated the distance from the wall to the beginning of the sheet field. He guessed it was a hundred and twenty feet.
He had to hit the apex of his human capability at one hundred feet and accelerate. He had to hit the screens and be still accelerating when he reached the iodine sheet field. He had to run as fast as he’d ever run, and if Igor somehow fucked up and couldn’t turn off the sheet field he would die.
“Let’s do it,” said Tacoma. “I’ll start running from the elevators.”
“How long until you reach the sheet field?” said Igor. “I need to know precisely how long.”
“Exactly four seconds,” said Tacoma.
Tacoma walked to the back wall. He paced out the path all the way back to the screens, examining the carpet, looking for any ridges or anything else that might trip him up.
“On your go,” said Igor.
“Okay. Give me a minute.”
Tacoma removed his loafers, socks, pants, and shirt, dropping them in a pile on the ground. He had on a pair of red-and-gray close-fitting athletic boxers and he kept them on. The only other thing Tacoma had on was a silver necklace with a cross. He kept hold of his P226. He unscrewed the suppressor and tossed it on top of his shirt, then swung it slowly up and down, thinking about how to run with it.
Tacoma bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, pistol in his hand. He passed it to his left, then back to his right as he jumped up and down, twisting his head, breathing quickly, getting his heart rate up, kicking his legs out. He looked like a prizefighter before a fight, raring to go, though then he took his warm-up further. He swung his arms left right and right left, then slashed a 270-degree kick to the air, pivoting in the air as his foot struck an imaginary object, eight feet above the ground.
“I’m almost ready,” said Tacoma, huffing and puffing. He held the gun in one hand, and put his right hand against the wall as he squatted into a starting position.
“You sure?” said Igor.
“Yeah,” said Tacoma.
“On my go,” said Igor. “I’ll count down and shut it off at exactly four seconds after I say the word ‘go.’ So you know, and this is not the countdown, that means five, four, three, two, one, go. At ‘go’ you start running. Not before, not after.”
“Got it,” said Rob.
“Here comes the countdown, Rob. Good luck.”
There was a long silence. Then, Igor spoke:
“On my mark,” said Igor. “Five, four, three, two, one—”
Tacoma kicked off the wall before Igor said the word “go.”
His first step hit the floor just as the word came out.
He started into a hard sprint, pistol in his hand in stride as his arms stroked furiously through the air. His legs reached for the right balance of distance and torque, and, as he approached the security screens he felt his head adjust slightly backward, as if watching as his body performed.
He was moving fast as he passed between two of the screens. He hit the tunnel at precisely 3.9 seconds after the word “go,” and fortunately Igor had anticipated it.
Tacoma entered the tunnel galloping as he kicked into the most important piece of the run. The tunnel abruptly shot dark. Tacoma hadn’t thought about the fact that the lights would go out, but he found a distant light above the far door and he pushed even harder, knowing that any loss of even a fraction of a second would kill him. He accelerated a second after he passed the screens, pushing himself as hard as he could, finding a pattern between his legs and his arms that meshed together in a continuum. He felt sharp pain in his feet, abdomen, and lungs, but he also felt the warmth of the pursuit. Tacoma closed out the last few feet and charged across the end of the tunnel, arms pumping, not thinking about stopping, just as the corridor shot bright yellow right behind him, in a laser-like tapestry of blue and orange light.
There were no windows. A column of numbers streamed up in dazzling colors at the center of the room. It looked like nothing he’d ever seen before. A round chute of vivid digits scrolling up, ascending in a tunnel fueled from within by light, a grid that climbed into the ceiling and disappeared. He searched for the hacker, but the table was empty. Tacoma turned just as a man—hidden at the entrance—swung at him, striking Tacoma in the stomach, following with a knee to Tacoma’s chin, then pivoting in a roundhouse 270-degree kick that met Tacoma’s mouth with brutal force.
As Tacoma fell, he fired. The sound of unmuted gunfire was followed by a dank thud as the bullet ripped a hole in the terrorist’s shoulder, but the man charged at Tacoma and dived to his arm, wresting the pistol from Tacoma. The hacker stood up, despite the blood coursing down his shoulder, and stepped back, giving himself room in case Tacoma went after him again. He stood at the entrance to the room. He aimed the P226 at Tacoma.
Tacoma stared into the muzzle of the pistol, then looked past the gunman, his eyes widening, as if he saw something or someone just behind the Iranian. The hacker turned and as he did his arm and part of his face were suddenly incinerated by the iodine sheet field. He dropped to the floor and blood and pieces of his internal organs spilled out.
Tacoma stood, rubbing his jaw, and kicked the dead terrorist into the sheet field. He sat down at the keyboard. He tapped his ear.
“Igor, I’m here,” said Tacoma, looking down at the keyboard, and then the lights in front of him.
“Where are you?” said Igor.
“I’m in front of a keyboard,” said Tacoma. “What’s next? Is it like a video game?”
“Whatever you do, don’t fuck with the keyboard!” shouted Igor. “I want you to type the following, all caps.”
“Go ahead.” said Tacoma.
“JACK314,” said Igor.
Tacoma typed in the letters and numbers.
“Okay,” said Tacoma.
“Hit Enter,” said Igor.
Tacoma hit Enter. In front of him, the chute of light disappeared.
“Okay, now what?” said Tacoma.
“Now what?” yelled Igor. “Now you’re a fucking hero. You just saved the Fed. No, you just saved the world!”
Tacoma turned, looking down the hallway at the iod
ine sheet field that surrounded him.
“That’s great,” said Tacoma. “One question. How do I get out of here?”
111
10:20 A.M.
COLUMBIA-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL
168TH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dr. Hiroo Takayama was in the finishing stages of a six-hour cardiac operation, carefully sewing an almost invisible plastic ring to the mitral valve of someone’s heart.
A female voice came over the operating room speaker.
“Dr. Takayama,” the voice said. “The president of the United States is being flown to the hospital. He’s in critical condition. Are you close?”
“Yes,” said Takayama. “What happened?”
“A terrorist attack,” she said.
“How bad?” said Takayama, continuing to work.
“Assume an ISS of seventy-five,” said the woman, “and please prepare for emergency surgery.”
There was one other surgeon in the OR, along with two anesthesiologists and a half dozen nurses.
The procedure was being filmed. Takayama’s surgical techniques were studied by surgeons across the world, regardless of language or nationality.
Takayama finished the weaving of the area beneath the man’s mitral valve, then nodded at the other surgeon as he cut from the operating theater, disrobing as he moved. Beneath his purple surgical garments, Takayama wore a pair of worn jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes. He was soon sprinting to the elevator. He took it two floors down and ran to his office. He opened a filing cabinet and removed a small steel suitcase, then ran.
Takayama took the elevator to the roof. There, he opened the steel case. Inside was a form-fitting protective cushion. There were three things inside, nesting in the foam. One was a tall vial filled with a hazy yellowish fluid. There was a syringe. There was a black rectangular box, made of lead.
The vial contained pure adrenaline which Takayama had purchased himself from a cattle farm in Matsuzaka, Japan, extracted from the adrenal glands of bulls. Takayama worked routinely with synthetic adrenaline but the manufactured version, epinephrine, was different from the real thing.
He threaded the syringe and opened the tiny cork on the top of the vial, filling the syringe so that it was ready to be injected. He replaced the cork in the vial and set both vial and syringe back into the steel case next to the lead box, shut it, then stood next to the helipad, waiting.
For the first time, Takayama looked at the sky in the distance. His mouth opened, though he was speechless. A pair of nurses appeared and came to Takayama’s side, followed by a team rolling a bed.
Takayama pointed at a man near the door.
“Please get a second team up here immediately,” said Takayama. “Also, page Dr. Argenziano and Dr. Lee. Make sure the theater OR is ready.”
112
10:20 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey looked at Murphy, who’d lowered the pistol and was staring in disbelief at the two dead Iranians, as well as Dellenbaugh.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Dewey.
He pulled his SEAL Pup from the sheath at his ankle and cut the flex-cuffs holding the president’s wrists together. Dewey looked at the president’s wound. It was just above his navel. He didn’t pull material back or attempt to inspect it. There wasn’t time for that. It was obviously a mess and Dellenbaugh was bleeding out. A large oval of dark red shimmered in wetness. He scanned below. Dellenbaugh’s legs were both wet with blood.
A large pool had spread across the carpeted floor beneath the chair.
But waiting for first aid—or for that matter administering it—was not feasible.
“This is going to hurt,” said Dewey to an unconscious Dellenbaugh.
Dewey reached down, wrapped his arms around Dellenbaugh’s waist, and lifted him up, throwing him over his shoulder, a fireman’s carry. Dellenbaugh was heavy, and Dewey grunted as he hoisted all two hundred and twenty pounds of him. He positioned him on his right shoulder and moved. Dellenbaugh groaned in agony as his wound pressed against Dewey’s shoulder.
“I’m the one doing all the work,” said Dewey.
Dewey moved, the president on his shoulder, and Murphy followed. When they got to the elevators, Dewey said to Murphy, “Do you mind picking up those guns over there?”
Murphy walked to an MP7 and a suppressed Colt M1911A1.
Dewey took the MP7 into his right hand, his finger moving to the steel trigger.
He carried the president to the elevator, but before going through the door, looked around one last time for any more Hezbollah gunmen. With Dellenbaugh on his shoulder, he went onto the elevator, along with Murphy.
113
10:20 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Sayyari awoke in pain, knowing he’d been shot. He was awakened by shouting from Mansour. Sayyari stood up and put his hand against the wall, going toward the noise.
He came to the suite entrance and saw the American president strapped to a chair, and next to him Andreas, on the ground. Before he went in, Sayyari looked through a seam in the doorframe. Sayyari made out Mansour clutching a submachine gun aimed at Dellenbaugh.
Suddenly, a blast of unmuted gunfire rattled the room. Sayyari looked right. A man was standing in the doorway, holding a pistol. His eyes traced the direction of his aim and saw Mansour on the floor, hit in the neck. Then Andreas stabbed the other soldier.
Sayyari felt for a weapon but he didn’t have one on him.
His brothers were on the floor, one shot dead, one stabbed to death, and Andreas was lifting Dellenbaugh onto his shoulder.
Sayyari let Dewey retrieve the president, remaining ducked behind the door. He was too weak to try to take Andreas by force. There was nothing he could do.
Andreas was extracting the American president. The video of an American president being beheaded on live television was now no longer a possibility. Even killing him was now gone … or was it?
He waited and followed Andreas, the gunman who killed Mansour, and Dellenbaugh, staying out of sight. After the elevator doors shut, he watched where they were going. The lights climbed. Andreas was taking the president to the roof.
The entire world would be watching.
It wasn’t the original plan—but it was perhaps even better. What the entire world would be watching would not be Dellenbaugh’s beheading. Instead, the President of the United States would be shot from the sky. His rescue would be interrupted in the cruelest of ways.
Sayyari gathered his strength and pulled himself to his feet. He went back and found his rifle. He made his way back to the elevator and pressed “39.” When he reached the roof, he stayed tucked into the side of the elevator, his finger on the Door Open button. When he heard no one, he skulked silently out of the elevator and took a knee behind a partial wall, out of sight, watching. He could see Andreas and Dellenbaugh at the edge of the helipad as wind buffeted the air. The distinct electric rotor slash of an approaching helicopter was unmistakable. He saw a sleek black helicopter weaving up through smoke and dust, within a steel-and-glass canyon, in between buildings.
The helicopter came in for a fast landing. Andreas carried the president the last few steps and a blond woman emerged and opened a door to the cabin. He watched as Andreas loaded the president into the helicopter. The female climbed back in just as the rotors on the chopper began to churn furiously. Sayyari checked his optics and placed his finger against the trigger, wondering why they were paused. Then the other American emerged from a door to his left and started running to the waiting helicopter. It was the man who’d killed Mansour.
Sayyari aimed at the running figure, fired, missed, then fired again, this time ripping a bullet into his chest. Sayyari turned back to the
chopper, but it lifted quickly up and gashed right and down, out of range.
114
10:26 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey leaned into the cockpit.
“Get back to the tower,” said Dewey. “Come up from the west, give me a firing line.”
Barnes nodded in response.
The chopper sliced right and did a daring rotation around the tower a few floors below the roof, then tore skyward.
Dewey lifted his MP7A1 and trained it out an open window.
As the chopper crested the plane of the roof, the killer came into view. Dewey pumped the trigger, missing wildly, kicked by the furious wind and motion of the helicopter. He fired again, slamming a slug into the gunman’s forehead. He tumbled to the concrete next to Murphy.
Murphy was lying on the concrete next to the helipad. His chest was ruined in crimson.
Dewey glanced at Dellenbaugh, who was unconscious, then his eyes met Jenna’s. She stared blankly back at him.
After the chopper set down, Dewey climbed out and lifted Murphy up onto his shoulder and carried him to the waiting helicopter.
Both Dellenbaugh and Murphy were unconscious and bleeding badly.
Dewey said nothing. He just breathed rapidly, trying to catch his breath.
Without moving her eyes away from Dewey’s, Jenna tapped her ear and spoke:
“CENCOM, we have the president and one more. Both gravely injured and unresponsive, one definitely cardiac,” she said. “We need two trauma teams at the nearest location you have.”
“Understood. Tell your pilot to go to Columbia-Presbyterian at 168th Street. Two trauma teams will be waiting on the helipad,” said the voice. “Where are the injuries?”
“One is a deep puncture wound in the abdomen,” said Jenna. “The other’s a gunshot wound to the chest, looks like the heart.”
