by SJ Hailey
The visibility was virtually zero, and he could only use a compass and estimate the distance travelled. He went down to twenty feet, the Buttermilk Channel between the island and Brooklyn was only forty feet deep at best, climbing up to twenty-five near the piers he intended to land at. The sea scooter whirred along, full throttle to get through the centre section of the channel, his weapons and other kit in a cylinder towed between his legs. The current was flowing against him and pushing him towards the island, he was constantly compensating and checking the compass heading displayed on his helmet visor. Within an hour he had reached the small piers near Kimmel Road, opposite the Admiral’s house, and came to rest below.
His sea scooter was tethered under the water, out of sight, ready for his extraction later. He hauled his tube container out, his large arms having little resistance from the forty pounds of kit. He moved rapidly to shore, removed his dry suit, opened his container, the park ranger uniform and weapons protected from the river. With his green trousers, light shirt and cream brimmed hat he put the remaining kit in his rucksack, stowed the container in a bush and moved off up Kimmel Road. He only had a short walk to get to his firing position; his sniper rifle was in another container offshore, awaiting retrieval. He walked at a sedate pace, the trees which bordered the road reminding him of his childhood in Russia. Passing the junction of Andes Road another ranger approached; something he had allowed for, but not desired.
The polite and smiling face of the Ranger, black hair a small beard and moustache surrounded a large smile ‘Are you new here buddy?’
Alfred answered, his accent impeccable, ‘yeah just got here, going to check the top shore.’
‘Oh that’s all done, doing extra checks with the camera’s being out up there.’
Alfred had disabled the cameras the previous night, assuming they would be inspected and repaired after he had left; the ubiquitous budget restraints.
‘Well no harm checking it twice?’
The ranger looked puzzled, ‘Say I did not see your name on the roster. What was it again?’
Since the second Alfred had seen the ranger, he had scanned the perimeter for witnesses, there were none. He had wandered towards the trees, naturally seeking cover, the ranger had moved with him, intercepting his path. With a technique practised over many deaths, he moved the knife concealed against his right sleeve forward, the eight inch blade slashing any scream in his victim’s throat. The shock and surprise was now on the Rangers face, and Alfred stepped forward, grabbed the back of his head, and rammed the knife up through his jaw and mouth, puncturing his brain and killing him. Two seconds had passed since he removed his knife from his sleeve. He lowered the corpse to the floor, checking all directions with precise movements.
The green grass hid the blood splatter, but his clothes were covered with the warm fluid. He took the jacket from his rucksack and dabbed the patches on his shirt with a cloth. The ranger’s body was discarded in a bush, an unfortunate but necessary act. Alfred had been seen before or after assassinations, and if he had, the witness had not survived.
He moved onto Barry Road and there on the right was his destination, a white octagonal building, one hundred twenty five feet wide and almost one hundred feet high, sitting on its own island just off shore. It was built to ventilate the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, running under the riverbed, stop the occupants from breathing in all the fumes their cars expunged every hour.
The tunnel system had three of these vents, but this one gave him line of sight with the Manhattan Heliport one kilometre north-north east. It was not accessible from the tunnel, the masses of warm air flowing up, would disguise his heat signature from passing patrols. His main concern was the NYPD Aviation Unit who routinely over-flew the area using night vision and heat sensitive cameras. If he was on the land he would glow in the dark to them, but the vent should reduce his image.
He climbed the substantial fence on the shoreline, and moved along the edge of the causeway. He knew it had motion sensors on the surface for anything larger than a gull, but he did not want to get wet again. He fired his piton into the newly placed stone façade of the vent, cracking the finish as it secured itself. The structure appeared like an ancient temple floating on the water, crisp clean white lines of the stone against the blue brown of the river. He slid along the rope line, traversing swiftly to the top of the structure an awkward but necessary manoeuvre, in the late afternoon, his body only a few feet above the water, better than a black wetsuit against the white stone. If he had come out of the river on any side of the vent building, his silhouette may have attracted unwanted attention. He would leave the same way he arrived, avoiding detection and returning to the Brooklyn side of the river.
He climbed quickly, levered himself over the lip of the building and onto the timber supports. He threw a line over the side and hooked his gear stored in another canister underwater, the third attempt snagging it. His substantial muscles straining as he pulled the sixty pounds of gear upwards and onto the timbers inside, avoiding the fifteen foot vents below his feet. Checking the time, he rapidly assembled his M-82A-1A Barrett sniper rifle, clipping it to a chest harness, while he secured a soft mount to place it on. A single pin through the weapon secured it, allowing him to pivot and target without taking on the thirteen kilogram weight.
He loaded the ten round magazine of fifty-calibre ammunition, originally designed for a heavy machine gun. The rifle was his favourite weapon. It was almost four feet in length, a long removable spring-loaded barrel, leading to the main body and a single pistol grip. There was a thick pad on the rear and a second grip point to steady the weapon during firing, and reduce the substantial recoil. The tip of the barrel had a twin vented exhaust port, to displace some of the recoil; the spring-loaded barrel reduced the transmission of this back to the shooter. The muzzle flash was his main concern, it was substantial, a ball of flame three feet in diameter exiting from the front and sides of the weapons barrel. The first shot would give away his position; to the trained observer any second shot would confirm it.
The old rule of three people sharing a light, remembered from sniper school. His instructor had told them it was considered bad luck for three people to light cigarettes with one lighter or match during the First World War. The reason was simple, the first light would attract the attention of enemy snipers in the trenches opposite, the second they would aim at, and the third light they would shoot. If you were number three you were getting probably about to be shot.
The only compensation was that his range and isolation would make it difficult for the Diplomatic Security Service team to return fire immediately and with their firearms he was just out of lethal range. They could summon assistance from either NYPD or other DSS units, and he had taken precautions to reduce this threat during his window of opportunity. He had to hit the President with one shot, from one kilometre, he had done it before in Chechnya.
The President arrived as scheduled, his limousine gliding up to the heliport. The security detail made their perimeter checks, a litter collector arguing that he wanted to clear up the cans and cardboard scattered around the car park. The Diplomatic Security Service remained in place, one large black SUV in front and behind, each with four armed agents. They were discreet but imposed an unspoken authority, their weapons holstered, sunglasses off in the dim light, eyes scanned in all directions. Uncotto and his assistants remained in the vehicle as instructed, while the agents swiftly and efficiently acted.
They were familiar with the heliport adjacent to the FDR Expressway, the two storey grey office building blocking direct access to the helicopters. The building sat on a concrete pier which extended one hundred metres out into the East River, with another section on the left at ninety degrees going out some ninety metres to support the constant airborne activity. Their helicopter was close to the building, only a few metres exposed before entering the security of the Dauphin EC155. He had arrived in the same machine, twelve seats, two pilots and enough room for his four man
escort and assistants to travel in comfort. They moved through the building, two agents ahead moving out to the helicopter, its engines starting up at their command. Uncotto was about to move out to the helicopter when his private line rang.
Alfred could see that the group had stopped, then moved back into the building, the helicopter warmed up, rotors increased speed, two agents waited, watched, by the double doors. Minutes passed and he grew impatient, he had only a short time before the Ranger’s body was discovered and then he knew NYPD would be all over the island and its perimeter. Alfred had to provoke the DSS to move.
The first set of explosions was from the road the sound carrying through the surrounding buildings. It was adjacent to the limousine and SUV’s in the car park, the shrapnel from one hitting the DSS agent outside the car. His two colleagues moved him into one of the hard cars and drew their SIG Sauer handguns, their training taking the safety off as they did so in one smooth movement, seeking a target. A car near the entrance exploded blocking the exit in a pool of fire. They could locate no direct threat and so secured the scene and prepared to move.
Uncotto and his team had moved back into the building just a minute before, and were ready to respond to any threat, scanning the perimeter, the two agents by the helicopter the most exposed, moved back inside the entrance.
Alfred had placed the improvised incendiary devices before taking the water taxi, a variety of cans and cartons containing plastic explosive, nails and glass for maximum damage. The mobile phone he had dumped in a bin was within range, and when called had set off the devices. To ensure the protection team could not call for backup, he had placed a small jammer to block all radio and cell-phone signals, this was active now, he could see the DSS agents checking their equipment for faults. The combination of explosives and signal jammer isolated the team, and did not allow them to call specific back up, they would have to wait for response from local NYPD officers nearby, that would give him the few minutes he needed.
The DSS Senior Agent in Charge Mark James knew that leaving the security of the building was a risk, if the bomber was within sight he may have other devices in place, and was waiting for them to move. Like all protection agents, he knew that you reduce the risk to a minimum, but you can never fully eliminate it. He would normally return fire and evacuate the principal, but presently he could not execute. For now the building would shield them from any other devices, and it was less likely bombs were within the heliport building. The remaining four man team had surrounded Uncotto and his aides, and secured the building. All the employees were locking the exits and doors, while the members of the public were put into a waiting room and told to stay down.
Albert was getting irritated by this delay, he checked the perimeter still no sign of NYPD or any other agency, or though there was some activity up river. He fired into the area that he presumed the DSS would use to secure the building.
James would normally have been comfortable with the level of protection the block building offered, until Alfred’s first round arrived.
This target was perfect for this type of ammunition. Alfred was firing the Raufoss, a ten centimetre long projectile, a bullet within a bullet. It was designed for penetrating armoured targets, the copper jacket stripping on impact, the high explosive igniting and the tungsten carbide penetrator round ripping through the front of the bullet and into the target. The hole it made would drag the high explosive and zirconium powder into the target and ignite, the explosion ripping apart most materials. This weapon could take out people through walls, helicopters and lightly armoured vehicles.
The bullet reached the outer wall before the sound wave, penetrating and exploding just by the inner wall. Plaster fragments showered down on the people inside, the blast from the projectile shattered the vending machine it had hit as it arrived. Streams of carbonated drinks were flowing down the back, shorting out the machine and starting a small electrical fire, a nearby member of staff quickly brought under control. The second shot missed the machine, entering the building at chest height and slamming into an unfortunate businessman. He was annoyed at having his flight delayed, and had not heeded the advice of the DSS agents. The momentum of the bullet, travelling at over eight hundred feet per second, took him off his feet and slammed him against the wall a few feet away. As his body slumped down the wall, a large red stain remained; his chest now a bloody mass of bone, sinew and flesh, open to the elements. The zirconium powder still burned in the wound and where it entered the building. The remaining occupants of the building began screaming at the shock of the destruction.
Alfred knew he was taking a calculated risk, his muzzle flash from two shots would give him away, but he also knew failure would get him killed. He had to ensure that the president died, and now it would look like a determined terrorist attack, rather than an accident as he had originally planned.
James decided to get aboard the helicopter and away, the likelihood of a bomber getting onto the helipad was much lower than the public access car park. With his comms out he knew that leaving the area was best, they were too exposed and vulnerable. But now this building was just as deadly. While his team informed the other people in the building of what to do, James had exited from the other double side doors, using the shape of the building to shield his position. It was risky, but they had no choice. The fire fighting hose was to his right; a small snow plough still on the ground just up from it. He ducked down, flat to the floor the snowplough shape may deflect a bullet, but there was no guarantee with the type of ammunition being used against them. His heart pounded as he wedged the fire hose into the mounting bracket of the snowplough, ensuring it was firmly held. With the pressure it should buck up like a young stallion and wedge itself harder into position.
Alfred saw the team moving, he steadied his aim, preparing for his shot. He knew that following the explosions Uncotto would sit in the middle of the group, with an agent either side. Alfred’s plan was to fire at the DSS agent sitting beside Uncotto, hitting him in the neck or head, the bullet would reach the helicopter in just over one second after leaving the rifle on Governors Island. Upon hitting the DSS agent it would release the tungsten carbide section, travelling out of his head and into Uncotto, taking the explosive mix with it. The bullet would then explode either just inside Uncotto or right next to him, inflicting serious damage. Alfred would then fire a second round into the helicopters fuel tank above the cabin, even with the self-sealing, the RDX explosive and zirconium powder burn would ignite the aviation fuel, destroying it just to make sure. He could then arrange that an extremist group had evidence planted that implicated them and The Consortium would have their man in place.
The NYPD Aviation Unit was the oldest in the world, established in 1928. They had received a call from near the heliport of an attack and explosions. A threat to a diplomat and his detail. They scrambled from Floyd Bennett Field fifteen kilometres southeast, taking a NYPD sniper with them. This was unusual but with an extremely high threat they felt it prudent.
James turned on the fire hose. The spray coming out in a wide fan across the heliport, going fifteen feet up and right out past the waiting helicopter obscuring any view from downriver, the cold water would fool a heat sensitive camera, hiding their bodies behind its white curtain.
Using the spray for cover, Uncotto moved to the helicopter, two agents flanking him, they reached it and strapped in, weapons still drawn. The second team escorted the assistants on board and the pilot was instructed to lift off and away from the heliport rapidly.
Alfred could not see anything through his scope, the spray from the fire hose destroyed any clear line of sight he had, he had to hit the helicopter, but it was difficult to judge with the spray interfering with his view. He could not just fire wildly, even though he had been careless so far, he had to guarantee killing his target.
Uncotto did not realise what was happening, the DSS agents moving swiftly unclipped his seatbelt, and pushed him down to the ground as the first bullet came throu
gh the composite body of the aircraft. It passed out the other side of and exploded in a lamppost, snapping it in half. The DSS agents returned fire in the direction of the shot, showering the area with bullets.
At max speed the NYPD Agusta Koala A119 was on station in four minutes, the pilot used the heat camera to scan the area but as Alfred had planned the emissions from the vent made his body invisible to the sensors. They had switched to night vision and began a sweep of the shore opposite the heliport, when the first shot lit up the vents near the island.
Alfred felt a searing pain in his leg. He had just fired his first shot at the helicopter a kilometre away, the muzzle flash lighting up the top of the structure. He was about to fire the second shot into where he thought the fuel tank was, when he was hit. He rolled over as the only place he could be shot from was above, and then he saw them.
The NYPD sniper on board targeted the assassin and shot him in the leg from over five hundred metres away, as the helicopter swung round and approached the island. There would be no warning for this man, NYPD would deal with any threat with necessary force, and any assassin knew the risks he was taking coming to New York.
Alfred went to turn the large rifle at the police helicopter. The Koala loitered just above and behind him, the thunder of the warm air Alfred had used for camouflage, had masked the sound of the rotor blades approaching. He wrenched at the rifle but the soft support he had used to secure it was still pinned in place, desperately he pulled at the pin to remove it and allow a shot at the chopper behind him. He drew his handgun with his free hand, at this range he could not disable the aircraft, but could either kill or wound the crew.
