by Dale Brown
If I can dream it, why can’t it be?
A somewhat naive credo, and yet look where it had taken him.
Massina was lost in thoughts of cybergenic prosthetics and autonomous ships when the security system alerted him to the car that had pulled up to the gate.
He was surprised to see that it was one of his company SUVs, driven by Johnny Givens.
“Open gate,” he told the system, then went to meet Johnny on the landing to the front steps.
“You have today off,” said Massina sharply as his deputy security supervisor got out of the truck. “Why are you here?”
“Terrorists are attacking the city,” said Givens tersely. “There’s been an explosion in the T, hostages at a hotel downtown, a bombing—”
“Take me to the office.”
“Beef wanted you to stay here. It’s safer.”
“We’re leaving now,” said Massina. “Do you want to drive or should I?”
Johnny Givens had only worked at Smart Metal for a short time, but he wasn’t surprised at all by Massina’s decision. He doubted Bozzone would be either.
Getting downtown, however, was not an easy task. The police had cordoned off the area near the Patriot Hotel, and traffic was snarled to the point that they reached a standstill about a dozen blocks from their office. Massina surveyed the situation, sat patiently for about thirty seconds, then unlocked his door and hopped out.
“Mr. Massina!” Johnny shouted. “At least let me come with you.”
“Well, come on, then.”
“I can’t abandon the truck.”
Massina shrugged and started away.
They had passed a parking lot a half a block away. Johnny edged his way onto the sidewalk—fortunately empty—then backed all the way to the lot. He pulled into a space, then ran to catch up to his boss.
The inventor was rather short, and Givens had the benefit of appendages that were several times more powerful than “normal” legs. Still, it took him several blocks to catch up. By that time, they were within sight of the renovated factory that housed Smart Metal’s offices in the city center.
Two policemen dressed in riot gear stopped them on the next block. Givens prepared himself for an argument, but he didn’t get a word out of his mouth.
“Hey, Jimmy O’Brien,” said Massina, walking over to the taller of the two officers. “I saw your father at mass this morning. He’s looking very well.”
“Mr. Massina, how are you?” said the policeman, pushing up the shield on his helmet to see Massina better.
“Not good. What the hell is going on?”
“We’re not sure, but the city’s on lockdown.”
“I’ll be at my office,” said Massina, already starting past. “If you need anything, send someone around to see Bozzone. We’ll send you out some coffee. I’m not sure if there’s food, but if so, we’ll get you that, too.”
“Thank you.”
“You know everybody in the city?” asked Givens, catching up.
“Just the important people.”
Bozzone met Massina in the entrance hall. “You were supposed to stay at your house.”
“You’re giving the orders now? What’s the situation here?”
“We’re secure,” said Bozzone.
“How about our people?”
“I don’t know where everyone is but—”
“But you’re working on it,” snapped Massina. It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
“Good.”
“The police want everyone to shelter in place,” said Bozzone.
“Is that wise?”
“Probably.”
“Unless they happen to be in a place where the terrorists are,” said Massina. “Make sure everyone is accounted for. Update me upstairs in twenty—no, ten minutes.”
4
Boston—around the same time
Chelsea crawled around the back of the dining room toward a door that led to a hallway with storerooms and a bathroom. She could hear gunshots and a commotion at the front of the room, but knew better than to stop and see what was going on.
“Still with me, Aunt Vic?”
“Right behind you,” said Victoria.
The lights snapped off just as Chelsea reached the entrance to the hallway. She took her aunt by the hand, then rose and began running down the corridor.
Her first thought was the restroom, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a metal fire door and realized it meant there was a stairway behind it.
“The stairs,” she hissed. “Come on!”
She slammed her shoulder against the crash bar as if she were punching into a scrum in a field-hockey game. The door gave way easier than she had expected, slamming against the concrete wall of the stairwell and punching her in the side. Victoria rushed past, ducking to the right as Chelsea pushed the door closed. There was no lock.
“Up the stairs, come on,” she told Victoria, though her aunt was already leading the way.
Chelsea expected the older woman to fade as they hit the second flight, but either fear or her daily running exercise—perhaps both—gave her the energy of someone forty years younger. She wasn’t even breathing heavily as they reached the third-floor landing.
“How far up should we go?” asked Victoria.
“To the roof!” decided Chelsea.
Unlike the richly paneled and stuccoed walls of the hotel’s public areas, plain cement blocks lined this stairwell. Cold to the touch, their solid, no-nonsense, whitewashed surface reassured Chelsea as she climbed. It was a bunker-like womb, a literal stairway to safety.
Or so it seemed until a loud crash reverberated from above. A woman screamed—high-pitched, the sound bounced off the hard surfaces of the walls, vibrating the loose metal of the treads so that the entire stairwell tingled with fear. A deeper sound followed, one even more frightful—it was male, a grunt that turned into a shriek before sinking to a groan, pain mixing with despair. Its echo lingered for only a moment, disrupted by the sound of automatic gunfire, a rapid click and whistle, ricochets dicing the surface of the cement. Splinters began to fall, and a cloud of dust—cement, gun gases, blood—filled the stairwell.
“We gotta get out,” Chelsea told her aunt, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the door of the landing they’d just climbed to. The doorknob turned but the door wouldn’t open. Chelsea’s adrenaline took over. She pulled her aunt with her, descending to the next level down.
Don’t panic, she told herself. Step by step.
She thought of her trip to the Ukraine, and her training, and how to breathe. She forced herself to slow as she reached the next landing, fighting her adrenaline.
This door also seemed blocked, even though the knob turned.
Oh, for crapsake!
She was pushing, when of course the damn thing opened into the stairway.
Calm is better!
Slow is sure. Sure is fast. Slow is fast and sure!
Chelsea closed the door behind them as gently as she could. A fresh shock of gunfire rang from above as the latch closed.
Head leaning forward, arms out as if to catch a fall, Victoria moved in slow motion down the hallway, her head swiveling back and forth.
“Stay close to the wall,” Chelsea told her. She put her hand on her aunt’s shoulder, gently holding her back so she could take the lead.
“Careful,” said a male voice, so loud that she thought it was coming from behind her. She glanced back.
There was no one else in the hall. Chelsea lowered herself into a half crouch and began walking again, her right shoulder hugging the wall. The rooms along the hallway were laid out similarly to the ones in the restaurant—the stairwell at the end, a men’s room, a ladies’ room. Rather than opening into a larger room, however, this hall led to another passage. Chelsea went down on her knee, peering forward to scan the hall. It was only a few yards in either direction; each end gave way to another hall.
She listened, hoping to hear the voice again. The
re was strength in numbers.
“Which way do you think?” asked Victoria.
“Right, I think,” said Chelsea. “Toward the front of the hotel. Did you hear that voice?”
“No.”
“There must be other guests.”
“I hope they’re on our side.”
Chelsea peered around the corner, not sure what to expect. The hall ran for about six feet before giving way to a lounge area that rose above the main lobby. Seeing it, Chelsea knew where she was; the reservation desk was below and to her right. There was a small coffee kiosk around the corner from it. Most of the rest of the lobby area was a maze of low couches and chairs. A bank of elevators lined the hall on the left.
“This is kind of a balcony,” Chelsea told her aunt, leaning back. “It’s about eight feet wide, and it’s over the lobby. The front doors are just over there, and there are a couple of side entrances around that way.” She pointed to the section beyond the reservation desk. “It’s too high to jump down, but there are stairs at the far end. It’s like thirty yards.”
“OK.”
“The lobby is empty,” said Chelsea. She leaned back around the corner, making sure she was right. “Let’s go that way while we have a chance.”
“Out the front?”
“I think it’s our best bet.”
“Sneak or run?”
“Run . . . OK?”
Chelsea looked at her aunt’s face. Her eyes had narrowed, and while her lips were pressed together, she looked determined.
Chelsea started to get up.
“Wait,” said Victoria, grabbing her.
“What?”
“Do you have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“We should call and tell someone what’s going on.”
“God.” Chelsea dug into her pocket for her phone. She hadn’t thought of that.
But the phone couldn’t get a signal. Reception here was always iffy.
“Try yours,” she told her aunt.
“I left it in my pocketbook.”
“Forget it,” said Chelsea. “Let’s get out of here. On three.”
“On two.” Victoria raised her thumb.
Chelsea turned back toward the lobby, leaning forward to make sure the way was clear.
“One, two,” she whispered, and then she was off, flying across the long expanse. The deep carpet muffled her footsteps. The hotel remained eerily silent, without even mechanical noises, let alone people or guns or explosions.
As Chelsea reached the far side of the balcony, she spotted an alcove to the right. A red exit sign lit the corner. She decided that would be a safer route, since they wouldn’t be exposed.
“This way, come on,” she said, changing direction. She ran into the alcove and stopped at the door.
Just then the lights flickered and the place blackened. Emergency lights tripped on a moment later, casting the hall in a yellowish, almost sepia-toned hue.
“I just need to catch my breath,” said Victoria. “What’s this? I thought we were going out the front.”
“This might go directly outside,” said Chelsea. “Better not to be seen.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
But rather than leading to a separate entrance, the staircase came out on the side of the lobby, not far from the reservation desk. Chelsea took a step toward the desk, then quickly retreated as shadows moved across the floor.
She held her breath, waiting. There was no sound, and the shadows were gone.
“Ready?” she whispered to her aunt.
“Yes!”
“We go right to the door,” said Chelsea. “When we get outside, run left. I passed a Starbucks there, across the intersection. We’ll get help there.”
“And lattes,” said her aunt.
“Lattes, yes,” said Chelsea. “On three.”
Though they’d rested for only a moment, her legs muscles had tightened, and Chelsea felt her calves straining as she leaped forward, glancing both ways to make sure the lobby was empty. Heart pounding, she shot toward the row of doors.
A chain linked the bars of the set closest to her. Chelsea ran to the next set—another chain.
They were all chained.
Victoria either didn’t see it or didn’t quite realize what it meant. She continued past Chelsea and landed both hands on the crash bar. The door budged about an inch and a half before stopping abruptly. Victoria smacked hard against the glass.
Chelsea grabbed her aunt, holding her up.
“That hall,” she said. “Come on.”
The hallway off the lobby ran parallel to the front of the building. The right side rested against the building’s outer wall; the other was lined with offices. Chelsea wondered if people were hiding in some, but decided not to stop or check—they needed an exit, not allies.
There was an external door and a stairwell at the far end of the hall. This door, too, was chained, but the stairway was open. It led to the parking garage, which had several exits and entrances.
“The steps,” said Chelsea.
“More steps,” said Victoria, her voice resigned but almost comically so, as if they were running a steeplechase or some exercise course, not fleeing for their lives.
The steel doors to the garage were open. Exhaust mingled with fresh air, a good sign, thought Chelsea. She reached the bottom and ran into the garage proper. The ramp to the street was about forty yards away, the gate up, the entrance unblocked. The emergency lights were on, but there was also plenty of light coming from the street and skylights that were incorporated into the garden courtyard in the middle of the hotel.
“Aunt Vic, come on,” said Chelsea, helping Victoria as she entered the garage. The older woman was really straining now, and limping—she’d twisted her knee coming down the stairs.
“We’re out, we’re out,” said Chelsea, stooping down to take Victoria’s arm and shoulder her out. It was a three-legged race, a lark in the park—an old memory or maybe a dream flitting into Chelsea’s thoughts as they half jogged, half hobbled to the entrance.
Thank God! thought Chelsea.
They were maybe ten feet from the ramp when something darted from the left side. It moved quickly, so fast that Chelsea wasn’t sure what it was at first. It seemed unworldly, a wraith.
Then she saw it was a man.
Then she saw he held a rifle.
Then she realized the rifle was pointing at her and her aunt.
5
Boston—around the same time
Massina listened intently as Bozzone described the situation as he knew it: there had been at least one explosion in the T, a car or truck bomb had detonated on the departure level of Airport Road, a group of terrorists had taken over the Patriot Hotel, another group had taken over the Boston Children’s Museum, and a suicide bomber had struck at the Back Bay Police Station. There were reports as well of an attack on a small restaurant in the North End and a disturbance of some sort at a bank on Massachusetts Avenue.
“Those are attacks that are confirmed,” said Bozzone. “You’re going to have rumors and misinformation, but the bottom line is the whole city is under attack.”
“Who?” asked Massina.
“Looks like an ISIS attack, similar to what they did in Paris,” said Bozzone. “This isn’t just a lone wolf either. This is coordinated.”
Massina had reached the same conclusion. But it didn’t matter at the moment who was responsible. The attacks had to be countered.
Revenge would come later.
And they would get revenge. The news of the attacks had awakened a feeling of rage in him, one he knew his city would share.
“What can we do to help?” he asked Bozzone. “Have you contacted the police?”
“I’m not sure they want our help,” said Bozzone. “They have their—”
“Nonsense. Offer them our UAVs and bomb mechs for a start. We have ten aircraft just sitting in our warehouse shipping area, ready to go. And probably the same number of mechs. W
here’s Tommy Blake? Is he at home?”
“No, he’s downstairs. He was a few blocks away when he heard the news and—”
“Good. Tell him to meet me in the Box.”
“Lou, we really have to leave this to the professionals.”
“We’re professionals,” thundered Massina. “I’ll talk to the chief myself. Find the rest of our people. Get them here. Where’s Chelsea Goodman?”
“The city is on lockdown.”
“Not for us.”
Ten minutes later, having spoken to the police chief and the mayor, Massina strode into the “Box,” a secure communications facility he had established with the help of the CIA a few months before. He had done so for a mission he considered a patriotic duty. This time, things were different. This was personal: his city was under attack.
Johnny Givens shadowed him, ostensibly as his bodyguard.
“Here,” Massina told him, handing him a phone with an outside line. “Call your old boss at the FBI and tell him every asset I have is at his disposal. Tell him we’re launching a half-dozen drones in the next ten minutes with infrared and daylight cameras to work with the city police. We can tie them into his network if he wants. I have six bots they can use for bomb disposal. They’re on standby until someone needs them.”
“You got it,” said Givens.
Massina surveyed the row of multipurpose 4K screens sitting on the shared consoles in front of him. Each showed a different news channel. The Box—it was literally that, a large rectangular room sitting in the middle of an open basement space—had dedicated satellite communications and a link to the CIA’s Langley headquarters. It also had its own mainframes and a backup power unit independent of the filtered network that powered Smart Metal’s own massive arrays.
All these resources, thought Massina. And yet cable news was the go-to source for information.
Bozzone buzzed him on the intercompany talk channel.
