by Jim DeFelice
And even if he did, he had no weapons aboard.
But he couldn’t simply pull off. He stayed on his course.
And then the UAV made a course correct, turning not right, which would have taken it over Manhattan, but left, flying toward northern New Jersey.
Howe didn’t understand for a moment. It seemed to him that the enemy plane — an unthinking missile — had had a change of heart, warned off by the glare of the statue herself.
Then he realized that it had never been programmed to strike the statue.
An E-bomb would be targeted for a power yard or a transformer station to have maximum effect on the power grid. It was possible to shield some devices against the weapon itself, but a close-range hit on a weak link could not be defended against. Even if the weapon proved not as powerful as its designers intended, a jolt directly over a concentration of power lines would fry the Northeast grid for months.
There were plenty of choices in northeastern New Jersey. Hit the right one and the power grid would come down. You didn’t have to hit Manhattan at all.
“Iron Hawk, this is Viper One. I need vectors to the target. Iron Hawk? Iron Hawk?”
Howe responded with the course and location, even though he knew the F-16 was too far off. It would take it at least three minutes to close the gap. By then the UAV would be over its target.
The UAV began to rise. That must mean it was getting ready to ignite its bomb.
He had it in his screen now, less than two miles ahead. If he had a cannon, he could easily shoot it down.
He could run the damn thing down, collide with it.
I don’t want to die.
The idea shot into his head, the errant firing of a cramping muscle.
It was just ahead of his left wing now, eight hundred meters, seven hundred. The AMV showed it clearly in the display — the bomb was lashed to the body — but he wasn’t watching the screen; he was looking at it in his windscreen.
He’d have only one chance. Howe eased his grip on the stick, trying to avoid the tendency to overcorrect.
As Howe came up, something about the night reminded him of the dim computer screen he’d fiddled with in the Smithsonian, the simulation of the Hurricanes taking on the V-1s in the air over the Channel.
He could do that now.
Tip the wing right, get the UAV to tumble into the water.
Was he chickening out?
There was no more time to think. Howe pushed the stick, threw his body with it, came back.
A long tunnel opened behind him, the rushing howl of the engine rising two octaves into a shrill hiss. He felt his right arm cramp into a rock.
The Iron Hawk stumbled but held solid, following its pilot’s command.
The wings of the two aircraft smacked against each other. The UAV tumbled, its gull wings spinning. The craft’s tail turned over once, twice, three times. The plane’s internal guidance system started to correct but it was too late: It was far too low to recover from the spin. Gravity had too firm a grip for the craft to shake off; it spun once more, then hit the water about ten yards from shore, disappearing in a volcanic burst of steam.
Iron Hawk rolled awkwardly but recovered, the modifications designed to ensure her survivability in combat proving her salvation now. Howe steadied the craft, eyes on the AMV screen, hardly breathing. He was lost, unsure where he was in the sky — unsure even if he hadn’t blown himself up.
He blinked, and he had it all back.
He was rising over the Hudson River, turning eastward now, New York City a bright mélange of lights. The UAV hit the water below.
He’d saved the damn place, he and the F-16 pilots, and Fisher, and a million other people, doing their jobs and putting their necks on the line.
He’d saved the whole damn place. Manhattan sparkled like a fistful of diamonds, her bright lights blazing in the dark night. New York, New York, brighter than ever.
And then every light in the city flashed out.
Chapter 13
Now. It was time. Faud pulled on the goggles and fumbled with the pack, removing the coat.
Was this what God wanted?
To even ask the question was blasphemy.
Faud felt his body tremble as he hoisted the oxygen pack to his back. His hands were so slippery that the pistol fell to the cement, clattering on the floor. As he stooped down to grab at the gun, the blood rushed to his head. Faud felt himself loosing his balance. He tightened his hand around the weapon and straightened slowly.
He must not fail, he told himself.
Chapter 14
Fisher waded through the water, reaching a set of concrete steps as the lights snapped off.
Damn it, he thought to himself, I’m always running late in this stinking city.
He stepped up to the top of the stairs. A long stretch of pipes ran to the right, splitting the passage in two. He heard something move ahead.
“Yo. Give it up,” yelled Fisher.
There was no answer.
“You’re not going to make it to the ventilation system. You have to climb all the way up the shaft. I’ll shoot you before you make it halfway up. A couple of times.”
No answer. Fisher sighed and reached to touch the wall with his left hand, walking gingerly along it. The bottom of a service elevator shaft opened about fifty feet ahead.
“You see me, Faud?”
The terrorist answered by firing a gun.
“Dinky little twenty-two, I bet,” said Fisher.
The gun flashed again, this time giving Fisher an idea of where it was. He fired three of his .44’s six bullets, and all smacked hard against a pipe at the far end.
The terrorist shot again. He, too, missed, though Fisher noted that the ricochet was a bit closer.
“All right, let’s get this part out of the way,” yelled the FBI agent. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney—”
A succession of bullets flew through the air. Fisher fired again. When he heard Faud dropping his gear, he realized he’d missed again.
“Hey!” shouted someone from above. Macklin was in the elevator shaft. “Hey!”
More gunfire. More smoke. Fisher tried to remember what the technical people had told him a few weeks earlier about sarin’s ability to spread.
Just as well he couldn’t remember, he thought.
“Stop him!” yelled a voice as the subbasement once more echoed with the roar of gunfire.
Fisher dropped to his knee.
So, where was the terrorist? And did he have friends?
Fisher realized where he was too late to beat him back to the passage. He fired a shot, then yelled to Macklin to grab the canisters.
“Where are they?” shouted Macklin.
“I haven’t a clue,” yelled Fisher. “But they’ll look out of place, even down here, don’t you think?”
Fisher stopped, listening near the opening. Faud was out on the track somewhere.
“Firemen,” said Fisher aloud.
“Firemen?”
“Who would you let into a building in a blackout? A fireman,” said Fisher, answering his own question. “Jeez, what a dummy. I’ve been thinking Con Ed. Look for a fireman’s oxygen tank,” he shouted to Macklin.
“Really?”
“Macklin, if you’re going to ask me questions all day, we’re never going to catch this scumbag,” said Fisher.
He stuck his hand through the opening, then pulled back just as a fusillade of bullets hit the wall. He got down on his stomach and slid beneath the pipes to the entrance Faud had used. But it was still pitch-black and he couldn’t see.
Cursing, Fisher reached back and pulled off his shoe, then slid around so he could throw it in front of the other opening. When Faud started firing, Fisher pulled himself out, fired once, and tumbled down onto the tracks.
Faud stood in the darkness a few feet away. Fisher brought his gun up to fire. As he did, Faud a
imed first and pulled the trigger.
Empty.
“Who says today’s not my lucky day?” asked Fisher, rising slowly.
He, too, was out of bullets, though he wasn’t about to share that bit of news.
“You heard your rights, right?” Fisher asked.
The terrorist threw down the gun. Fisher saw him pull something from his pocket — not a weapon, but some sort of canister.
“Let me just guess: sarin gas, right? Going to kill us both?” Fisher took a step. Faud took two backward.
“Except you took the antidote, right? I did,” lied Fisher.
They’d offered him a shot but he hated needles.
“Give it up,” said Fisher. “You’re only going to kill yourself. The antidote might not work.”
“You’ll die too,” growled the man.
“Hey, let’s say you’re right. Where’s the thrill in that?”
Fisher took an awkward step forward with his shoeless foot. The terrorist had taken off or lost his night vision goggles. They were twelve feet apart.
“Better watch where you’re going,” said the agent as Faud edged down the tunnel. “Lights are going to come on and you’re going to fry yourself.”
Faud took a step backward, then another.
“Mrs. DeGarmo says hi,” said Fisher.
Faud didn’t answer.
“I didn’t think that was going to work,” said Fisher. “But seriously, now, you better watch where you’re going. Power comes on, this tunnel’s a death trap. Come out with me and we’ll talk.”
“The power won’t be on for months.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Con Ed’s not nearly as inefficient as everyone thinks.”
“Go to hell.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. And I’m not kidding about the rail. Really.”
Fisher saw the man move his hands. He dropped down, grabbing for the backup Glock he had in a holster on his calf. Before he could fire, a flash of light blinded him.
Then there was an awful sound, something like a scream that twisted in half. The tunnel filled with acrid smoke, the scent of burnt flesh permeating the dank space.
“Told you the lights were coming back on,” said Fisher. “You didn’t think I could keep them off forever, did you? The paperwork alone is ridiculous.”
He holstered his pistol. Faud lay slumped against the third rail, still frying. The can of gas lay in the middle of the tracks, unopened.
“Andy! Andy Fisher!” yelled Macklin.
“Where the hell have you been, Macklin?” asked Fisher, turning back.
“He hit the third rail?”
“Guess he didn’t believe me about the power.” Fisher pulled out his cigarette pack. “You stopped the trains, right?”
“Like you said.”
Fisher lit up. “Good. Only damn place in New York City you can smoke in peace anymore.”
Part Seven. Home Again
Chapter 1
They left it up to the President.
The terrorist was dead, his canisters of sarin gas secured. A thorough search had turned up nothing, there were guards all over the place, and the crowd outside was as patient as New Yorkers could be.
Which wasn’t very.
“I say let’s move on with it,” said the President. “The hell with these terrorist scumbags.”
“You shouldn’t say scumbags,” said one of his advisors.
“You want me to say what I really think of them?”
The man shut his mouth.
The tip-off started at ten P.M., a delay of only an hour and a half. As an added bonus, the network agreed to cut the number of commercials and show the game as it was meant to be played, without interference.
Dr. Blitz left the President just before the end of first half of the game, walking outside with the Secret Service bodyguard to the task force trailer. There he was briefed personally by the Homeland Security agent who had coordinated the operation, Michael Macklin. Macklin, his clothes soiled with dirt and sweat, looked as if had crawled through the sewer to get there.
“We don’t know yet if the man who died down there worked alone or not,” Macklin told him. “He didn’t have an accomplice on the scene that we’ve found, which was one reason we were able to fool him with the temporary blackout. That was supposed to be his signal to begin.”
“Who figured that out?” asked Blitz.
“Andy Fisher,” said DIA agent Kowalski, standing nearby. He had a pained expression on his face. “The Andy Fisher.”
“So Fisher and Colonel Howe were right: It was connected to the UAV and the E-bomb,” said Blitz. “Which means the Korean is still at large somewhere.”
“Or he sold the thing to them before he escaped.”
Blitz turned around. A tall, bedraggled man in a rumbled brown suit stood before him. He was missing a shoe.
“Agent Fisher, how are you?”
“Actually, that’s Special Agent Fisher.” Fisher took a puff on his cigarette. “They screwed up the paperwork somewhere a few years ago and promoted me by mistake.”
Blitz shook his head. As the President said, a real pistol.
“So, where is this Korean?” Blitz asked.
Fisher shrugged. “Not my case.”
“Maybe it ought to be,” said Howe.
“Take it up with the boss,” said Fisher, drawing on his cigarette. “Meantime, I thought I’d go watch the end of this basketball game.”
Chapter 2
When dawn broke, Kuong’s ship was several hundred miles from the American coast, well on its way to Africa. Once there, Kuong would make his way to Nigeria, where he would board the first of several airplanes for the flight to Peru. How long it would take to accomplish that journey, he did not know; it would be many days if not weeks, considerably longer than the trip he had taken to board the Beneficent Goddess. But this was necessary, and because it was necessary, he did not mind it.
He had watched CNN via the satellite dish during the night. By the time the clock passed ten and there was no announcement, Kuong knew there would be none. His plan had failed.
He had been reluctant to turn the set off, hoping still that the stories would come. He longed to watch the casualty lists and footage of looters rampaging the city. He wanted to see the parade of ambulances and the somber faces. He would have laughed at their tears.
It was not to be — not now. Revenge would have to be sought far in the future.
Some men would conclude optimistically that failure would make his future success that much more delicious. But Kuong did not believe such lies. Bitterness could never really be washed away. He stood at the bow of the ship, staring at the pink light pushing back the gray of the ocean.
Chapter 3
Howe swung the door open. “Home!” he yelled.
He heard his mother talking in the kitchen, muttering about the food or maybe complaining that he was late.
“Hey,” he said, coming through the small dining room.
“Well, about time.” His mother turned from the stove and kissed him. Howe saw she hadn’t been talking to herself but to his friend Jimmy’s wife. They’d just arrived for dinner. “Hey, Deb,” he said to her.
“Hey yourself. And you’re Alice?”
Alice stood in the doorway, a bashful smile on her face. Whether it was the light or the smile or something else, she looked more beautiful than ever.
“How’d you get hooked up with this character?” Deb asked.
“I tried to rent him an apartment.”
As his mother introduced herself, Howe slid toward the back of the kitchen and helped himself to beer. A few minutes later, with the women showing no sign of needing him or even noticing that he was still there, he slipped out the side door and went to find Jimmy. He found him hauling out some brush in the side yard.
“Working for your supper?” he asked his friend.
“I figured I’d at least earn a beer.”
Howe handed him his.
&nbs
p; “Don’t mind if I wipe the bottle,” said Jimmy.
“I would if I were you.”
“So? They catch the bastard?”
Howe shook his head. He trusted his friend more than just about anyone in the world, but he still had to be careful what he said. After the first flush of stories, the news reports had been very vague about what had happened, saying there seemed to be a Korean connection but not really explaining. And of course they didn’t know about Howe’s role in it all.
It was clear that the UAVs had been launched at sea. Dalton said the booster would have made it possible. The Navy had several candidates, but thus far the ships they had checked had turned up clean.
More than likely, the man Howe had rescued had been involved in the attack. They knew who he was now: a high-ranking relative of Kim Jong Il who’d commanded a military unit as well as a development facility. He’d been too well known to sneak out of the country on his own — or maybe too cunning to miss the chance of turning his escape into a gesture of defiance against the Americans. It was just a matter of time before they found him, Howe thought.
But it might also be just a matter of time before he struck again.
It wasn’t his job to worry about it. He’d been thanked for getting involved — but also subtly reminded that it wasn’t his job.
Screw that, he’d told them all. Except the President.
“Don’t drink it all,” said Howe, reaching for the bottle.
“Get your own,” laughed Jimmy. “You can afford it.”
“It’s not the money, it’s the principle,” said Howe. But he let his friend keep his beer.
About Jim DeFelice
Jim DeFelice is the bestselling author of two thrillers Coyote Bird and War Breaker. But he is best known for his collaborative work with — amongst others — Dale Brown. Dreamland which he wrote with Brown was a New York Times bestseller.
