“Do you have an open comm with D.C. yet?” she asked, glancing over at the sergeant.
“Still working on it.”
The camera panned as the masked figure abandoned Gilpin, walking over to the group of hostages. “To assure you that I will not fail to keep my promise if our demands are not met, I will execute one hostage every twenty minutes until the plane departs from Guantanamo with the warrior of Allah aboard. Starting now.”
There was no warning, nothing. Just his gun hand coming up, the Glock moving to cover a middle-aged woman in the front row.
There was nothing anyone could have done. Marika watched in cold fury as the muzzle of his pistol exploded in fire, the camera recording every gruesome detail for the world to see. Death.
The screams of the yet-living.
“You have your authorization,” she began, turning to Nichols. “On my authority and mine alone.”
A nod. He knew exactly what she meant. “We’ll all twist in the wind together.”
Chapter 27
11:40 P.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“I want it taken down…now.”
“They’re working on it, Roger,” Cahill answered, placing a bottle of water on the table in front of the President. “It’s being streamed through someplace in the Middle East…DHS has already shut off stateside service providers from being able to access it.”
Hancock looked up at the clocks on the wall of the Situation Room. “What is our status with the Joint Chiefs, Ian?”
Cahill shook his head. “It’s Christmas Eve. General Nealen is on his way in from the Commandant’s residence, but he’s the only one in town—the rest of the JCS is scattered. We’re trying to establish a satellite uplink with General Rosenberg in St. Thomas. I’ll be frank. We can’t wait on them to help make a decision. The situation demands swift action on your part.”
“Don’t patronize me! I know what I need to do.” The President ran a hand across his face. “We have to get ahead of this, Ian. This is the largest attack since 9/11 and it’s happening on my watch.”
An aide entered before Cahill could respond. “We have Las Vegas for you, Mr. President.”
“Put them up on the screen.” Hancock watched as the large plasma came to life, revealing a middle-aged woman standing in what appeared to be a darkened vehicle—perhaps a mobile command center. She was wearing an FBI windbreaker, her hair tucked up under a ball cap. She looked familiar.
“Mr. President.”
“Special Agent…uh—”
“Altmann, Mr. President. Marika Altmann. After the death of S-A-C Powers, I became the ranking agent on-scene.”
“A tragic loss,” Hancock murmured. “What is the situation at present, Agent Altmann? We’re hearing everything and nothing at the same time.”
“The Bellagio’s security, working with LVMPD officers, has successfully contained the terrorist threat there to the “O” theatre. We’re still in the process of evacuating the rest of the resort. Reports are spotty from north of the Strip, but I understand that Metro SWAT is still in a firefight there.”
“And the crash site of Delta 94?”
“Emergency personnel were dispatched, sir. I’ve heard nothing—we’re still dealing with the active scenarios. I’ve been attempting unsuccessfully to establish contact with the Southern Nevada Counterterrorism Center…perhaps you would have more success.”
“Understood. Do you anticipate being able to launch an assault to free the hostages before their deadline runs out?”
She looked off-screen for a moment before replying. “I don’t know the timeframe, Mr. President. Our tactical team just arrived on-scene. We’ve begun to prep assault options.”
Hancock opened his mouth to say something, hesitating as if thinking better of it. “I want to know…before you go in, Agent Altmann. If an assault proves to be too risky, we may want to consider our—other options.”
8:42 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Does anyone know how many people are still inside—how many hostages we’re potentially looking at here?” Harry asked, walking through the bullet-shattered doors of the Bellagio’s side entrance, into the atrium.
It was like stepping into a charnel house, the tiles smeared with still-wet blood where bodies had been dragged away by the first responders.
Altmann shook her head in the negative, barely a half-step behind him. “We’ve lost all audio-visual inside the theatre. The stories from those who escaped are all over the place. I’d say the reality is probably between fifty and eighty. Living hostages.”
“He can keep this up all night.” Harry’s lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless line, his eyes flickering across the casino floor. The wounded had been evacuated to a makeshift triage being set-up deeper in the hotel, but some of the dead still lay where they fell, one man’s lifeless body draped over a video poker machine. “Where are we at on the guest list?”
“Still working on it, in between evacuating the resort,” Altmann replied. “It was apparently a special showing of Cirque, so only Gilpin’s entourage was in the theatre at the time of the attack.”
“He knew that.” Harry paused, glancing along the narrow corridor back to the “O”. “Knew that all of his targets would be in one place—to themselves. This was well-planned, and he’s not leaving anything to chance. Anticipating our tactics.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it—we’d be trying to delay him, trying to stall when the aircraft lands at Gitmo. Anything to keep them on the ground without rousing their suspicions. But he’s taken all that away from us. He’s going to execute a hostage every twenty minutes no matter what we do. Every twenty minutes until KSM is safely airborne.”
“They’re going to give him up, if it comes to that.”
Harry snorted. “Then everyone dies. We don’t negotiate with terrorists. Never have—even Hancock knows better than to start now.”
The look in Altmann’s eyes told him something different.
“What do you know?”
The older agent didn’t back down an inch, favoring him with a look made of steel. “You are still operating under my authorization, Nichols. Giving you authority to lead the assault on the theatre didn’t serve to extend your jurisdiction over the entire operation.”
He ran a hand over the stubble of his beard, his gaze darting around the casino—taking in the perimeter the LVMPD had established near the entrance to the theatre itself, officers with patrol rifles leveled holding the line. “And since I’m going to be leading the assault…if D.C. has another agenda in all this, I need to know about it.”
Altmann hesitated for a long moment before responding. “I could see it in the President’s eyes when he spoke of ‘other options.’ If time runs out, they will release Khaled Sheikh Mohammed.”
“Fools…” Harry murmured bitterly. Insulated in their own petty little world of bribery, blackmail, and backroom deals, the politicians couldn’t begin to comprehend an enemy who couldn’t be negotiated with. An enemy for whom the martyr’s death was the ultimate victory. “I want the LVMPD to seal down that perimeter out there, make it airtight. Get their snipers into the high ground—on the roofs of the surrounding resorts. Keep anyone else from slipping in under the wire.”
“Already in progress.”
He paused. “And if we’re dealing with soman…we need a way to treat it. The Agency trains with military-grade equipment, auto-injectors designed for the purpose.”
“What are you thinking?”
“The flyboys at Nellis might have a supply on-hand. They’d be the closest.”
“I’ll get a man out there. And in the meantime?”
“We get eyes and ears back in the theatre.”
11:46 P.M. Eastern Time
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
“Where could this plane be coming fro
m, general?” Hancock looked up over the rim of his glasses, staring up at the screen on the wall of the Situation Room. The figure of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs filled the screen, a trim white-haired man in his early sixties. His floral Hawaiian shirt was an incongruous touch, the most informal Hancock had ever seen him in all of his years in office. A well-deserved vacation interrupted.
There was a slight satellite delay before General Neil Rosenberg responded. “Almost anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, Mr. President. Perhaps even someplace as far away as Cape Verde or the Canaries, depending on the airframe. The terrorists have apparently demanded that we refuel the plane while it’s on the ground at Guantanamo, so…”
“It could mean they don’t have the range for a round trip,” the Marine Corps commandant added from his seat just down the table from the President.
“I concur, General Nealen—that is the most likely interpretation. Or it could simply be a ruse.”
Hancock cleared his throat, making an exasperated gesture. “So…what are your recommendations, gentlemen?”
Onscreen, the figure of General Rosenberg could be seen to shake his head. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists, Mr. President—that’s been the policy of the United States for decades.”
The President snarled an obscenity. “We’ve never faced this situation before, and everyone here knows it. They’ve brought down an airliner over an American city—if they did it once, they can probably do it again. And the carnage if a rescue attempt goes wrong…I have to decide whether I can even afford to take that risk.”
“What are you saying, Mr. President?” Cahill asked from across the conference table, using his title once again in the presence of the generals.
“I’m saying that freeing Khaled Sheikh Mohammed in exchange for the lives of the hostages not only is on the table—it may be the most viable option available to us.”
8:55 P.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Gilpin murmured, the words calming her. She cradled her aide’s body in her arms, brushing the young woman’s hair back from her ashen face.
“Shut up!” one of the terrorists snapped, speaking in clear, almost unaccented English—young eyes glaring out from behind his mask.
“I will fear no evil,” she continued, staring him in the eye. “Thy rod and Thy staff, they—”
His rifle butt slammed into her collarbone with a sickening crunch, numbing pain shooting through her.
She bit her tongue, the metallic taste of blood pervading her mouth as she struggled not to cry out. Dimly, as if through a fog, she heard someone cry out, a familiar voice, sobbing in terror. Pleading for his life.
“Please, please…no.”
Gilpin opened her eyes to see the figure of a young man kneeling in front of the terrorists. Lucas…was it? She could have cursed herself in that moment for forgetting his name. Still in college, he had manned the phone banks for her through the final weeks of the campaign, putting in twelve-hour days. Don’t thank me. This is our country…
Gilad Cohen could see it all from where he knelt, across the platform—among the second group of hostages. They had separated he and Gilpin when they emerged from the backstage, throwing her down beside her wounded aide and kicking the congresswoman in the stomach as she lay there.
Protect her. But how? His weapon was gone, along with the headset he had used to communicate with the remnants of his security team.
He glanced up the steps of the theatre—seeing one of his men laying dead there perhaps fifteen feet up, his body still draped over one of the seats. Where he had fallen.
His suit jacket was stained with his own blood and gaping open, revealing the butt of his sidearm tucked just within.
Fifteen feet. Cohen took another look at the terrorists as they moved back and forth. He’d be dead before he could reach it…and even if he could—even if he got off a shot, to what end? He couldn’t tell whether they were wearing suicide vests, but the bombs between his group and Gilpin’s were proof enough of what would happen if he acted in haste.
A quick death. Perhaps it would be more merciful that way, than one by one, begging for their lives.
“Until the meddling of the Zionists is at an end, until America’s imperialism has been defeated,” he heard the terrorists’ leader declaim, looking into the lens of the camera, “…your people will continue to die.”
The gun came up…
8:56 P.M.
“Do you have daylight yet?” It was a whisper, nothing more—Thomas’s voice coming over his earpiece.
“Negative,” Harry replied, watching the small screen in his hands. Placing the camera would be the tricky part, keeping it out of sight of the terrorists while securing a good view of their positions.
The Bellagio’s security team had assured them that the maze of lighting in the theatre’s ceiling would be more than enough to keep it hidden.
“Harry, I’m picking up on some transmissions coming from the theatre.” Carol’s voice, from the Bellagio’s underground security center where he had dispatched her. “It sounds as if Tarik Abdul Muhammad is using two-way radio to communicate with his team. I’m going to see if we can intercept the transmissions and figure out what he’s saying. Fort Meade is monitoring for outbound calls, with Langley in the loop on that.”
“Good work. Do it.” It took everything in him not to say something more to her…but it was an open channel. And the mission was all that mattered in this moment.
Still nothing worthwhile on the screen, just jostling in the dark, the image shaking. “Audio’s coming through loud and clear,” he observed, glancing up the ladder to where Thomas had disappeared, a maintenance access.
“Isn’t that just peachy?” came the voice again.
A single gunshot echoed from deep within the theatre and Harry felt his breath catch, waiting for the one to be followed by more.
Nothing. Relief washed over him, followed by guilt at the very thought of it. Another of the hostages was dead…but only one.
It was math, he told himself—just that simple. That clear-cut. That cold. Don’t think of the lives, just the numbers.
Keep it all locked away.
“EAGLE SIX, we have a problem.” Harry turned back from the ladder at the sound of Tex’s voice, keying his mike.
“Go for it. What are we looking at?” He’d dispatched the former Marine explosives expert to the main entrance of the theatre, along with Han—scoping out their tactical options.
“The doors are wired to blow,” came the reply. “Same deal with the balcony entrance, up the escalator.”
That effectively ruled out a frontal assault. “Any way to disarm the bombs?”
“No.” He’d known the answer, but he had to hear it. “What’s thermal giving you?” The LVMPD had managed to scrounge up more than a bit of gear for them. And ammunition.
“No one close to the main entrance doors,” Han’s voice interjected. “Judging from the blurred image I’m getting, I’d say they’re grouped together well inside.”
That wasn’t going to be enough. “We’re going to need those blueprints,” Harry said. Agent Altmann was supposed to be getting them. The main door backstage was no doubt guarded as well by now, but there had to be dozens of access points for maintenance. It was just finding the right one—getting inside without being observed.
“Eyes up, EAGLE SIX.” He glanced down at the screen in his hand, the picture swaying slightly as Thomas fixed the cam more securely in position.
Tapping in a command on the small keypad, he watched as the wireless camera panned right, swinging across the seats of the theatre until the first group of hostages…and their guards.
It wasn’t a perfect image, but it gave them something to work with. Enough to pick out faces. “Come on back—we’ve got a twenty on the subjects. Looks like Cohen is still alive.”
A look at his watch remi
nded him of the grim reality. Sixteen minutes—another would die.
It wasn’t going to be enough.
“Altmann,” he barked into his radio, “are the Metro snipers in position yet?”
9:06 P.M.
Caesar’s Palace
“The service elevator will take you directly to the top floor of the Augustus Tower, sergeant,” the concierge said, leading the way down a back hallway. “The roof access is behind the door with the Employees Only sign.”
“Locked?” Sergeant Wayne Zimmerman asked, extending his left hand to the concierge.
A nod as the man reached into his pocket. “Keycard. Here, take it. And, sergeant…”
Zimmerman paused at the door of the elevator, the hard polymer case containing his sniper rifle clutched in his right hand. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
The sergeant acknowledged the thanks with a silent nod, turning into the elevator. Building materials were piled on top of a stack of pallets in one corner of the service elevator, detritus from one of the Palace’s renovation projects. He remembered seeing an article about it in the Review-Journal, two weeks before.
It had only been scant hours ago that he’d left home, heading out for another day at the “office”. Seemed like a lifetime.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” he’d told his wife with a laugh, as they had moved the stash of presents for a fifth(and final) time. And then he had gone out the door.
The LVMPD trained for terrorism. But this…he felt the rage build within him. Too many of his brothers in the Zebra units were already dead—fourteen at the last report coming from Winchester. As many incapacitated.
It felt surreal, almost numbing.
Zimmerman looked up, only then noticing that the wire running from the security camera in one corner of the elevator had been torn away from the wall.
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 53
