by Ben Coes
“Hey, asshole,” came a voice.
Dewey grinned. He opened the back door and climbed inside.
“You working for Uber now?” he asked.
Seated in the back was a striking blond-haired woman, dressed in a stylish tight-fitting dress.
“Jesus,” said Dewey as he sat down next to Katie.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was on a date.”
“Lucky guy.”
The SUV peeled out.
“Is Hector alive?” Tacoma asked.
“Yes,” said Dewey.
“What are you not telling us?” asked Katie.
“We know the reason Hector had a heart attack,” he said. “Daisy called him. She’s inside the dorm at Columbia.”
Dewey stared at Katie for a few seconds, then looked out the window.
* * *
Katie Foxx and Rob Tacoma were, next to Hector, Dewey’s closest friends. The truth is, he didn’t have many friends. For too long, he’d lived the kind of life that didn’t lend itself well to establishing relationships. Since Boston College, Dewey had been a soldier, a roughneck on a succession of offshore oil platforms off the coasts of the UK, Africa, and South America, a ranch hand, a CIA agent, and, for a brief time, an accused murderer, rotting away in a Georgia jail cell. Not the kind of places for making friends. Dewey didn’t talk much, hated fakes and idiots, and preferred the solitude of the outdoors and the satisfaction of manual labor to socializing.
But Katie and Tacoma were different. It was a relationship based on a shared profession. They could talk without breaking the law. Katie was thirty-three years old and had already served as deputy director of the National Clandestine Service before leaving Langley to start her own consulting business with Tacoma. Tacoma, a twenty-nine-year-old former Navy SEAL, had been recruited by Katie into Special Operations Group. Now their firm, RISCON, was the most exclusive for-hire security and intelligence firm in the world. Hiring Katie and Tacoma was like hiring the cream-of-the-crop from CIA paramilitary. They worked all over the world, primarily for a handful of large multinational corporations. RISCON had broken many laws in many countries, but one thing about the firm was sacrosanct: they viewed themselves as an extension of the U.S. government. They refused any client that Calibrisi didn’t like and they turned down assignments from clients they felt weren’t in the country’s best interest. That was why their biggest client was the CIA.
Katie and Tacoma had been instrumental in a series of successful operations going back four years, when Dewey needed help infiltrating Iran in order to steal Iran’s first completed nuclear device and free Kohl Meir from Evin Prison. When agents from Chinese Intelligence killed Dewey’s fiancée in a failed attempt at Dewey, Katie and Tacoma had helped plan and orchestrate the violent counterstrike against China. And the summer before, the pair had helped thwart an attempted nuclear strike on New York City.
Tacoma was handsome, rugged, disorganized, and had the maturity, at times, of a fraternity brother. He was also a phenomenal athlete who’d risen meteorically within the SEALs and then NCS. Katie, on the other hand, was elegant, shrewd, highly organized, strategic, and sometimes seemed like a scolding parent to Tacoma. She was also gorgeous, sinewy, with a girl-next-door smile and look that implied the potential for being a troublemaker.
They were an odd pair, like brother and sister, but it worked. They’d grown close to Dewey based on some very hairy times together. But there was something more. In Dewey, Katie and Tacoma saw someone who shared a similar approach to America’s enemies, a willingness to take big risks, advanced combat skills, and a religious-like belief in the critical importance, of taking no prisoners.
* * *
The Suburban’s special plates allowed it to move quickly up Broadway toward Columbia, past roadblock after roadblock.
Dewey was seated in the backseat, alongside Katie. Tacoma was in the front next to an FBI agent who was tasked with taking them to the scene.
Broadway was virtually empty. Starting thirty blocks away, National Guard trucks sat across the road, blocking any traffic that might’ve contemplated getting through. Every block, another tan camo truck sat across the street, forcing the Suburban to run up onto the sidewalk. They came to a halt at 100th Street—almost a mile from the campus.
“What’s going on?” Dewey asked.
The driver pointed.
Dewey looked through the front window. The street was clogged with satellite trucks and reporters.
“It goes for ten blocks,” said the driver. “That’s the perimeter.”
“And how are we supposed to get through?”
The driver looked in the rearview mirror.
“I’m not in charge. I was told to pick you up and take you up here.”
“Well, the bad guys are that way,” said Dewey, a touch of anger in his voice. He pointed toward the campus. “Start fucking driving. Honk your horn if you have to.”
* * *
The tenth floor was crowded with hostages and reeked of sweat.
Sirhan had a wild look, anger at losing Fahd. With the AK-47 raised, he pushed his way down the crowded hallway, past silent, terrified students and parents seated along the walls, many crying, holding hands, only a few daring to even look at him. He entered a dorm room four stories above the room Fahd had been killed in. The room was crowded with people, perhaps twenty in all. They were seated on the ground, families grouped together, cowering in fear.
Sirhan walked quickly to the window. He glanced out, looking for the sniper on a nearby roof. In the distance, he saw a pair of helicopters, hovering. They were news choppers, no doubt broadcasting live to America—to the world.
“You want some news?” he whispered. “I’ll give you some news.”
Near the opposite end of Columbia’s campus, he saw a line of armored vehicles.
You think you’re in charge? I will show you who’s in charge.
Sirhan retreated from the window and looked around the room. A family of four was against the wall, huddled up together. None of them returned his gaze. They stared at the floor, as if it might cause Sirhan to somehow not notice them. It was a mother, father, and two sisters, one no more than ten, the other an incoming Columbia freshman. They were Korean.
Sirhan stepped in front of the older sister. He trained the muzzle of his rifle on her.
“Get up,” he said.
* * *
The Suburban maneuvered through crowds of onlookers on Broadway, then the small armada of media trucks parked closer to the campus. The sidewalks were filled with dozens of reporters, some lined up one after the other along the block, all doing live dispatches from the scene. Bright halogen lights on stanchions shone down on those reporters closest to the scene. These were the network news channels—ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, and Fox, and the local NY1. Cameramen jostled for position, yelling at anyone who stepped between their talent and the camera.
At 113th Street, a line of steel barriers was staged across the road and sidewalks. Uniformed police officers along with a horde of FBI agents in SWAT gear stood guard behind the barriers, many clutching carbines or submachine guns.
The Suburban stopped at the barrier. Dewey and Tacoma climbed out. When Katie started to get out, he leaned against the door, indicating he didn’t want her to come. He spoke quietly.
“I need you to do something.”
“What?”
“Go find Igor. We’ll meet you at his apartment.”
Katie gave him a quizzical look. “Igor?”
“Brief him,” said Dewey. “Have him start analyzing this thing.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?” she asked, smiling.
“God, you’re a pain in the ass. Just because. See you in a little while. Tell him to look in the basement. He’ll know what I mean.”
Dewey had on khakis and a short-sleeve light blue button-down shirt. In front of the barriers, several dozen people milled about: curious onlookers, journalists, frien
ds of the hostages. Dewey pushed his way through the throngs of people. He stepped to a break between sections of the barrier, where several police officers and FBI agents stood.
The streets and sidewalks were in a state of total bedlam. Broadway was filled with people. It was noisy, hot, and chaotic: reporters doing live feeds, conversations in front of the barriers, the occasional horn or siren coming from a side street nearby, and, loudest of all, the steady electric whirr of helicopters overhead—law enforcement as well as news channels.
Dewey knew the area near Columbia would be pandemonium. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
For the first time, he looked at the dormitory.
On a campus of majestic brick buildings and classical architecture, Carman Hall looked very out of place. It was just plain ugly, as if it had been designed by an architect from the Soviet Union. Almost unnoticeable, partially hidden by Lerner Hall, Carman was—in tactical terms—a fortress. As a place to stage a hostage strike, it was ideal.
The sidewalks and streets immediately surrounding the building were empty except for armed gunmen, who stood at each corner of the building, behind portable steel barricades brought in to shield them from bullets. Sunlight splashed off the windows, making it impossible to see into the rooms. If the terrorists’ choice of the building was intentional, it was a good choice: stand-alone, limited number of windows. It was like a medieval fortress: ugly but built for defense.
“At least one good thing might come out of this,” said Tacoma.
“What’s that?”
“If these guys blow themselves up, maybe they’ll take down that ugly fuckin’ building.”
“Good one,” said Dewey.
At the barrier, a tall man in SWAT gear, clutching a carbine, blocked his path. Dewey pushed his way through.
“I’m here to see Damon Smith,” said Dewey.
The guard eyed Dewey, then glanced at Tacoma, who had on jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes.
“The perimeter’s shut down.”
“He’s expecting me.”
The man eyed Dewey an extra moment, looked at Tacoma again, then turned. A pair of FBI agents stood off behind the line of men keeping watch. The guard motioned to one of the agents, who nodded. He had on jeans and a blue coat with FBI in bright yellow emblazoned across the chest. He looked young, no more than thirty years old. He stepped toward the barrier.
“What is it?” he said, looking at the guard, who nodded at Dewey.
“I’m here to see Smith.”
“Are you Dewey?”
Dewey nodded.
“Come with me. He’s expecting you.”
* * *
“I said, get up!” screamed Sirhan.
The Korean girl burst out crying. Sirhan grabbed her arm and lifted her violently from the floor. Amid a low chorus of sobs from many in the room, Sirhan dragged the girl to the window ledge. He pumped a spray of slugs at the window, shattering it. Screams came from the girl’s sister. Sirhan lifted the girl to the ledge and pushed her toward the opening. She let out a low moan as, behind her, her mother cried out in Korean.
“Ani, nae agi, nal delyeoga!”
Not my baby, take me.
The girl faced the wind, inches from the precipice, the only thing holding her back was Sirhan, who had one hand on the back of her shirt.
Sirhan’s eyes pored over the roofline of the buildings nearby. This time, he found the sniper. He was on his stomach, partially blocked by a copper balustrade on the roof. His legs were exposed, along with part of the rifle. The sniper had his weapon trained at the building. Indeed, it seemed to be aimed directly at the room.
Sirhan put the muzzle of his rifle between the girl’s legs. He moved the fire selector to full-auto. He framed the sniper in the sight. Then he fired. A fusillade of bullets rained down at the FBI gunman. Dust and mortar arose from the roof as the sniper scrambled to get all the way behind the balustrade. Across the chasm between the two buildings, he heard a pained yelp. He stopped firing, staring down through the scope. A large splash of blood covered the place where the sniper’s legs had been.
* * *
Dewey and Tacoma were led in a circuitous route, along 113th Street to Amsterdam Avenue, then up a block to 114th Street, out of the way of snipers. They entered the John Jay common room and followed the agent through the crowded central area, filled with VIPs, including the governor of New York, the mayor, both U.S. senators, a posse of congressmen, and various staff, past tables filled with people on laptops, as well as others standing before one of the many plasma screens now alight.
At the back of the room, glass-paned French doors were shut. Behind them were five individuals, a few seated, the others poring over a document on the table, which, along with the blueprints, was covered in paper, coffee cups, and a charging device with several cell phones and other devices attached to it.
The room was uncrowded. This was the nerve center.
The young agent led Dewey and Tacoma in, then departed, shutting the doors behind him. Two plasma screens, volume down, hung on the wall behind Smith. One showed live visual of Carman Hall, separated into four sections. The other displayed an aerial view of the roof of the building.
Smith was dressed in jeans and a blue polo shirt, tucked in neatly. Smith scanned Dewey from head to toe, then Tacoma.
“Dewey?” said Smith, reaching out his hand. “I’m Damon Smith.”
“Thanks for seeing me. This is Rob Tacoma.”
“Hi, Rob.”
“Commander,” said Tacoma, shaking his hand.
Smith introduced Dewey and Tacoma to the other men in the room: Francisco, Calder, Moore, and McNaughton.
“I’m supposed to give you a briefing,” said Smith, “but if you’ll forgive me, I don’t have the time. Knowing a little bit about your background, however, I don’t think you need a briefing. Ask me anything you want. I’ll try and answer.”
Dewey got right to the point. “What’s the penetration shell?”
Smith pointed at the blueprints on his desk. The sheet was large, three feet by two feet. It looked like an architectural drawing of Carman, with the building laid out by floor. Pencil notes were scribbled at various points on the architectural rendering.
Dewey and Tacoma moved closer.
Smith picked up a pencil and placed it on the roof.
“The roof is wired,” he said, scratching an X on the paper. “Six IEDs the size of shoe boxes. Same with the stairs and the basement. They have four students tied up there; if we force in the door they all die. I’d be okay with that, by the way, if it was our only option, but I’m not sure it is. That bomb is just one story below the one on the stairs. It would probably collapse that whole side of the building.” He drew a zigzag line down each stairwell, then put a big X in the basement. “We analyzed electrical inputs, and it appears all elevators have been destroyed.” Smith made large slash marks on the drawing over the elevator shafts. “All the students are on the tenth floor. High enough so they won’t jump.”
Dewey nodded, thinking to himself.
“Any outbound commo?”
“They confiscated the cell phones. But there’s a citizen in there, father of one of the students.” Smith circled the third floor. “Hid when the terrorists came, killed one of ’em.”
“Ex-military?”
“No, a general contractor from Philadelphia. After he killed the guy, he made everyone on the floor jump, including his own daughter.”
“Smart,” said Dewey.
“Real smart. Other than some broken bones, he saved a lot of lives.”
Smith pulled out a stack of photos. They showed up-close views of the bomb and wire.
“He took these.”
Dewey flipped through the photos.
“Semtex. That’s enough to blow a pretty big hole in the building.”
“There are thirteen of them, including the one in the basement. They’re sitting on wires and the detonators are trigger buttons. If any of them falls f
rom the wires, it’ll go off. If one goes off, they all go off. It’s like dominoes.”
“So moving in through the ground floor with some sort of armored vehicle would set off the bombs on the stairs, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah.”
“How many men do they have?”
“Hard to say. In looking at video of the event taken by several people, we believe eight or nine, but we don’t know for sure. One of my snipers took out one of them. Sullivan did too. So maybe seven left.”
“How many snipers do you have?”
“Nine.”
“What are the rules of engagement?”
“At will. The snipers can shoot what they want. I trust them all.”
Dewey glanced at Tacoma, then back to Smith.
“What do you think?” asked Smith.
Dewey shrugged. “I think it’s a clusterfuck. They designed it well. They have leverage. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking, why are you here?” said Smith.
“I want to help,” said Dewey. “I don’t like these guys. I don’t want all those people to die. Plus, I know someone in there.”
Smith took a step back. He looked at Francisco, then the others, nodding subtly, telling them to vacate. When they were gone and the doors were shut, he looked at Dewey.
“If I had to pull up and shoot right this second, I’d wait until dark and then go in through lower-floor windows,” said Smith. “Cover fire from everywhere so the team gets inside the building without getting killed, but I expect we’d take some casualties. Once we’re inside, assess the architecture of the stairs, the wires, the bombs, then build work-arounds or defuse. The fact that they’re trigger buttons might help us. It gives us parameters. Move up and start hunting.”
“That sounds like a heavy casualty count.”
“In the hundreds. If we’re lucky, maybe half survive. That’s if we manage to not set off an IED. In that case, almost everyone dies. But it’s the only scenario I can think of. Whether the president gives them the weapons or not, they’re going to kill everybody. As ugly as it seems, I think we’re going to have to go in real hard, with a lot of men, and a plan to seize control up through the bombs on the stairs.”
