Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  “Here,” he said. “Speed dial one is me.”

  Dewey opened the door and charged toward the building.

  * * *

  Cloud picked up his gun. He walked to the window. On the street, a block away, he saw the bright cherry red of a Ferrari. They were here already.

  “But Cloud,” said Sascha, “if we don’t at least wipe it—”

  “Leave it,” snapped Cloud. “Don’t even sign off. They’re inside. They know precisely where we are. We couldn’t wipe it if we wanted to.”

  Sascha picked up his backpack and started running to the door. Cloud followed. Sascha held the door open for Cloud. As Cloud approached, he raised his arm and aimed the gun at Sascha.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” said Cloud. “You will only slow me down.”

  He fired. The slug struck Sascha in the chest, dropping him. Blood rapidly spread out in a dark pancake through his shirt. Sascha appeared neither surprised nor angry.

  From the ground, he looked up at Cloud, staring for a final moment, then shut his eyes.

  Cloud heard his phone chime.

  C:Users02> I don’t negotiate

  Cloud stepped into the stairwell, clutching the gun, staring at the screen. He descended to the next landing, then stopped and typed:

  I’ll tell you where the bomb is going but I want something in return

  C:Users02> what do you want?

  Cloud didn’t answer. He pocketed the phone, then ran down the stairs toward the basement.

  * * *

  Dewey sprinted toward the building’s entrance. He pulled open the door and was standing in a dim stairwell, lit by a single lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling of the top floor, four flights up.

  Dewey scanned the landing, gun out, water dripping from his hair and face. The entrance was quiet and deserted, and yet he’d heard something. Or had he?

  The only lights in the building had come from the top-floor windows. Yet Dewey stared down the stairs toward the basement.

  * * *

  Cloud entered the basement seconds before he heard the door to the building open. He was panting. His heart was beating fast. He lurched behind the wall, raising the gun, then peeked out. It was Andreas.

  The American had an angry look on his face as he entered the building. His gun was raised, trained out in front of him, the muzzle moving in time with his eyes, which scanned the entrance area.

  Cloud studied him as he looked around the first-floor landing. Cloud’s hands were trembling. He heard Andreas’s footsteps just above his head as he opened the door to the first floor, searching for him.

  Should I kill him?

  Cloud remained still, in the basement, hiding against the concrete wall, waiting for Andreas to come back. Then, from above, he heard more footsteps, then the sound of the door shutting. He peered out. He saw one of Andreas’s legs, then the rest of his body came into view. Suddenly, his eyes shot down toward him, as if he’d sensed him there. Cloud remained still, holding his breath.

  No. He would win that battle. Before you have time to aim and fire, a bullet will rip through you. He won’t kill you, not yet anyway. Not until he tortures the information out of you.

  Cloud remembered the cell phone in his pocket. He’d forgotten to turn off the ringer. The conversation with the hacker. If he received a message now, the chime would be loud enough for Andreas to hear. Yet if he moved his arm to shut it off, even the faintest scratch of friction might be caught by the American …

  Cloud held the gun tight, wanting nothing more than to not drop it or make a noise.

  Gently, he slipped his left hand into his pocket and turned off the phone’s ringer, keeping his eyes on the landing one flight above.

  Andreas’s eyes stared into the dark stairwell for another two or three seconds. It felt like an eternity. Then he turned and moved out of view.

  * * *

  Dewey opened the door to the first floor.

  The room was empty and dark. He glanced down toward the basement, seeing nothing but darkness. He climbed the stairs, moving floor by floor. At the second floor, he opened the door. It too was empty. When he opened the door to the third floor, heat escaped from the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw hundreds of computer servers, stacked together in rows, with large coils of black cable interspersed between them. Their pulsing lights casting a red and green hue.

  Dewey climbed the stairs to the top floor. Quietly, he twisted the door handle and opened the steel door.

  He entered quickly, gun raised, sweeping the muzzle of the Desert Eagle .50 AE across the air as his eyes scanned for movement. The room was large, mostly empty, except for tables, a few chairs, and computers.

  Then he registered the corpse on the ground. It was the man he’d seen in front of the safe house. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing, his chest was drenched in red.

  Dewey moved into the room. He held the gun out in front, searching corner to corner, but the room was empty. Cloud was gone.

  * * *

  Cloud waited several minutes, listening for the sound of doors opening and closing as Andreas ascended. When he heard the door to the third floor open, then close, then heard the faint pounding of footsteps climbing to the fourth floor, he ran across the garage to the wall nearest the exit. A steel box was bolted to the wall. He opened it, then took out his cell phone and trained its light on the inside of the box. There were four red switches. Their purpose was simple: they controlled the fire doors to each floor.

  In one fluid motion, Cloud flipped all four switches. Even from the basement, he heard the faint slamming of steel from the floors above as the dead bolts locked the fire doors on each floor.

  He went to his motorcycle, pulled on the helmet, and raised the kickstand. He turned the ignition key. The Ducati roared to life. He juiced it once. The sound of raw power exploded across the windowless basement. Cloud flipped on the lights, then scorched out of the building into the rainy night.

  * * *

  The silence was interrupted by the sound of metal slamming into metal, like a hammer striking an anvil.

  The unmistakable sound of dead bolts slamming shut.

  Dewey walked to the door. It was sealed tight. He pulled his cell from his pocket as he moved back toward the exit. He pressed 1 and held the button down, speed-dialing Malnikov.

  “Do you have him?” asked Malnikov.

  “He’s not here,” said Dewey. “And I’m locked in.”

  “I’ll be right up—”

  Malnikov’s words were interrupted by a high-pitched squealing noise: the unmistakable screech of rubber ripping too fast against tar.

  Dewey ran to the window and looked to the street below. Through the rain, he saw the orange of a motorcycle breaking from the building’s basement.

  “He went out a side entrance,” said Dewey. “You need to move. Go up a block, then left. Follow him.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Dewey watched as Cloud sped up a side street into the rain-crossed darkness. A few seconds later, the red Ferrari burst around the corner after him.

  * * *

  “Are you sure he got it?” asked Calibrisi, referring to Igor’s last message.

  “Yes, I’m sure. He also read it.”

  Calibrisi glanced at Polk.

  “Any ideas?” asked Calibrisi.

  “It’s time to sacrifice our queen,” said Polk.

  Calibrisi nodded.

  “Tell Igor to offer up Katya,” said Calibrisi, picking up the phone. “Control, get Derek Chalmers on the line.”

  * * *

  Chalmers was seated in front of the fireplace when his cell rang. Despite the fact that it was July, the temperature in Scotland, aided by the rainstorm, remained in the fifties, and so he’d built a fire. Katya was downstairs. After two six-hour sessions, Chalmers was allowing her to sleep for a few hours, though the truth was, he didn’t think there was much more to find.

  “Chalmers.”

  “It’s Hec
tor.”

  “Hello, Hector.”

  “We found him. He wants to do a deal.”

  Chalmers stood up.

  “Hector, I don’t need to tell you the criticality of not being played,” said Chalmers.

  “No, you don’t. But I’m going to offer him something in exchange for the bomb.”

  The door to the basement suddenly opened. Katya slowly popped her head out. She smiled at Chalmers.

  “I’ll have her ready,” said Chalmers. “One question though: What happens after he tells you where the bomb is?”

  Calibrisi was silent. Both men knew the answer. The moment the bomb was stopped, Cloud would die, and it would likely be a strike from a drone high in the sky. The collateral damage would destroy anyone within fifty feet of Cloud.

  “Don’t you get played either,” said Calibrisi. “It’s unavoidable. I’ll let you know what he says, but in the meantime, I’d get airborne.”

  “And go where?”

  “Set a course for Moscow. I’ll have the secretary of state arrange the permissions.”

  “Does Russia know about the bomb?”

  “No. As far as they’re concerned, we’re simply returning their ballerina.”

  “At this point, why not tell them?” asked Chalmers.

  “Because I’m not a hundred percent sure they’d want to stop the bomb.”

  * * *

  Dewey searched for another way out of the room. In the far corner was another door, but it too was bolted shut. He tried to kick open each of the doors, but it was futile. He was trapped.

  He went to the window and looked out, trying to think of a way out.

  Glancing around, he saw cables linking the different computers and screens together. There weren’t many, but perhaps there were enough to lower himself at least another floor, maybe two, and then jump.

  He raised the gun, aimed at the window, and fired. The slug tore into the window and made a dull thump, and that was all. He fired again, same spot, same thud. Then again. This time the slug hit the embedded slug and ricocheted. He fired again and again, until the mag was spent.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, hurling the gun against the glass.

  He called Malnikov.

  “Talk fast,” said Malnikov.

  “I can’t get out,” said Dewey. “The windows are bulletproof. The doors are bolted shut.”

  “Can you get to the roof?”

  Dewey looked up.

  “Maybe.”

  88

  IN THE AIR

  OVER THE NORTH SEA

  One of the pilots looked back from the cockpit.

  “There’s an alarm going off in the loo, Derek,” said the pilot.

  Chalmers unlatched himself from his seat. He stood up and walked to the rear of the jet. He knocked on the door to the restroom.

  “Katya?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

  Katya didn’t respond. This time, Chalmers banged harder.

  “Katya!”

  Both pilots emerged from the cockpit.

  “Where’s the key?” barked Chalmers.

  One pilot charged to the door and inserted a key. Chalmers tried to push in the door, but it was blocked by Katya’s body. Chalmers slammed his shoulder at the door and was able to stick his head in.

  Katya lay unconscious on the floor. Her wrists were exposed and bleeding.

  “Get the first-aid kit,” said Chalmers. “We need to land and get her to a hospital.”

  Chalmers reached his arm down and moved her body, then pushed the door in. He pulled Katya out, lifted her up, and carried her to one of the leather sofas midcabin and laid her down. She was covered from her chest down in blood. He felt her neck.

  “She’s still alive,” he said.

  Chalmers shook her shoulders, trying to bring her out of unconsciousness. When that didn’t work, he slapped her hard across the face. Her eyes opened.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I swear.”

  “Know what?”

  “Where the bomb is going. But I remember. I heard him speaking. It was through the wall.”

  “Where?” asked Chalmers, pulling his cell out and dialing Calibrisi.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Then I remembered.”

  “Where is it going, Katya?”

  “Boston.”

  89

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Calibrisi and Polk were in the small office down the hall from the Situation Room when Calibrisi’s cell vibrated. It was Chalmers.

  “Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi. “Are you in the air?”

  “Yes. She gave me a target.”

  Calibrisi snapped his fingers, getting Polk’s attention. He put it on speaker.

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Yes. She tried to commit suicide. I think she’s starting to realize that if she doesn’t help us, she’s complicit, if not legally, then morally.”

  “Where’s it going?”

  “Boston.”

  “Does she have anything more specific?”

  “No.”

  Polk nodded at Calibrisi, then sprinted out of the office to the Situation Room.

  “We’re going to land,” said Chalmers. “She needs medical attention.”

  “You’re going to have to patch her up on the plane,” said Calibrisi. “We need to get her to Moscow.”

  “She’s going to bleed to death.”

  “At this point, we have the name of a city and that’s it. And who knows if it’s even the right city. Until we find that bomb, Katya is the only card we have to play. Please, Derek, get her to Moscow.”

  90

  SITUATION ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Inside the Situation Room, there wasn’t a spare chair or place to stand. The mood was surprisingly calm.

  In addition to President Dellenbaugh, most key White House, Pentagon, and intelligence officials were gathered. Anyone not there in person was patched in, their faces adorning plasma screens along the walls.

  President Dellenbaugh was seated at the head of the large mahogany conference table. The plasma to Dellenbaugh’s right showed live video from Boston, taken from a satellite in the sky. The Boston waterfront was fully visible. All Coast Guard, FBI, police, and military assets were highlighted in red, including a pair of Navy Aegis destroyers, three Coast Guard cutters, and more than one hundred FBI, Boston Police, and other law enforcement vessels.

  Superimposed atop the live satellite image was a bright green grid, which was tied into the Defense Intelligence Agency. They were running the feed against a Milstar satellite and its IONDS platform, which was sweeping over the harbor, searching for signs of tritium, uranium, or plutonium emissions.

  All eyes were glued to one of the screens. Bob Schieffer of CBS News was speaking, the volume turned up. Six other screens displayed different TV channels, all of which had the volume down as they continued to show normal programming.

  As Schieffer spoke, one by one the other screens cut away from normal programming and went live to special reports, cascading like dominoes down the wall.

  Dellenbaugh flashed a look to an aide who controlled the TVs, and the volume from the screen behind him abruptly lowered.

  “How are we going to find it?” asked Dellenbaugh.

  “We have eight hundred people with Geigers spreading out across the waterfront,” said Kratovil, the director of the FBI. “General Electric is bringing in Geigers from their Pittsfield facility. Siemens emptied their warehouse to fill in the gap. We’re going boat by boat. If the bomb’s there, Mr. President, we’ll find it.”

  91

  MOSCOW

  As his Ferrari ripped west on the freeway, Malnikov hit speed dial.

  Stihl, Malnikov’s helicopter pilot, answered.

  “Alexei, it’s three thirty in the morning.”

  “I don’t have time to talk,” said Malnikov. “You need to pick someone up. He’s outside the city.”

  “Where?” asked Stihl.

  �
�Elektrostal. A building at the corner of Vostochnyy and Michurinskiy.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  “The S-92?” asked Stihl, referring to Malnikov’s most luxurious helicopter, a Sikorsky S-92 VVIP.

  “No,” said Malnikov. “Take the Dauphin.”

  “There’s no seating, Alexei. I had it retrofitted for tactical assaults.”

  “That’s the idea. Now get going. His name is Dewey.”

  * * *

  Every time Malnikov thought he was getting closer, Cloud seemed to sense it, finding an extra burst of speed at precisely the right moment. He was running the bike recklessly, stabbing left and right, dodging the occasional car or truck, trying to get away.

  Malnikov owned six motorcycles. He’d climbed aboard his first when he was only twelve. But the thought of going as fast as Cloud was now going—and in the rain—was unfathomable.

  He glanced down at the speedometer: 144 mph.

  He couldn’t go any faster, and yet, when he saw the straightaway, he throttled the Ferrari even harder. He watched as the distance between the Ferrari and the Ducati slowly decreased. A quarter mile became a few hundred yards, then only a hundred.

  Above the blurry lights of the motorcycle, Moscow’s skyscrapers came into sharp relief, spires of glass and steel illuminated against the dark sky.

  As Malnikov came within a dozen feet of the Ducati, Cloud suddenly slowed, then burst right down an exit ramp. Malnikov didn’t see it coming. He hit the brakes, put the car in reverse, then slammed the gas, ripping backward until he was even with the ramp. He jammed the car into forward then shot off the highway.

  Again Cloud opened up distance, but Malnikov tasted blood. He trailed Cloud along the river, soon closing the gap. Near the center of Moscow’s business district, Cloud abruptly slashed right, charting a course that led into the crowded warren of steel and glass that constituted Moscow’s skyscrapers.

  Malnikov pushed the Ferrari as fast as it would go without skidding out of control. Looking down, he saw the number: 160 mph.

  As he brought the Ferrari alongside Cloud, time seemed to freeze. Despite the low primitive growl of the Ferrari, despite the high-pitched roar of the Ducati, despite the rain and the chaos, Malnikov felt nothing but stillness and calm.