by Brad Thor
When Ali hit the ground, it took him several moments to pull the officer’s body from the platform and hide it beneath one of the nearby trains. Once he was done, he radioed for the rest of the men to hurry up.
Though rappelling in made much more sense than trying to gain access to the tracks by walking through the middle of Grand Central Terminal, Ali wasn’t going to feel safe until they had left this location far behind them. His sixth sense was speaking to him again, and he didn’t like what it was saying.
Once the rest of the team had joined him, Ali led the way across the tracks toward 50th Street and the Waldorf-Astoria’s secret railway platform. Built in the early 1930s, the platform provided VIP guests with their own private railway cars—a covert alternative to Penn Station or Grand Central Terminal. The platform had been used to gain access to the hotel by such notables as Generals Douglas MacArthur and John Pershing as well as President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who appreciated yet another feature of what became known among the cognoscenti as the Waldorf’s secret station.
In the middle of the platform was an enormous six-foot-wide freight elevator capable of transporting Roosevelt’s 6,000-pound, armor-plated Pierce Arrow from the Waldorf station up to a highly secure and cleverly hidden section of the hotel’s garage, which had its own private exit.
In addition to being the official residence of the United States Ambassador to the United Nations, Abdul Ali prayed to his God that the Waldorf-Astoria was housing one other noteworthy guest—Mohammed bin Mohammed.
Approaching the freight elevator, Ali looked at his Casio and paused to catch his breath. Three minutes later, he entered the code given to him by the Troll and listened to the hum of the elevator as it made its way down to the platform. When it arrived, the team worked quickly to get themselves into place. Once they were all situated, Ali depressed the button for the elevator’s one and only other stop, and the team began its ascent.
When the man sitting in the emergency hatch gave the command, Ali halted the elevator. The torch was quickly lifted up, and the man set to work on the grate covering the old airshaft tunnel. Once it had been removed, the rest of the team crawled inside.
Sixty
The marines guarding the entrance to the Grail site, so codenamed because its analysts handled the most valuable of the Athena Program intelligence, had no idea what hit them when Ali and his team burst from a wall-mounted air duct with their guns blazing. Two additional teams simultaneously appeared from a hallway and a nearby stairwell.
Dropping to the floor of their bulletproof cubicle, the marines scrambled for their assault rifles. Ali’s men, though, didn’t let up for even a fraction of a second. In a perfectly choreographed ballet of deadly fire, the Chechens assaulted the security hut in wave after wave, never giving the marines a chance to return fire. So engaged, neither Ali nor his mercenaries noticed when a heavy metal plate was slid open in the upper corner of the wall behind the marines, and a large-caliber machine gun opened fire.
Two of the Chechens were mowed right down, their bodies torn to shreds by the heavy lead rounds. Falling back, the teams retreated to their breaching points as Sacha yelled orders to his men.
As the Chechens directed all their fire toward the marines in the security booth and the opening in the wall where the machine gun had appeared, Sacha loaded a fast-arming M381 high-explosive round into the 40mm grenade launcher mounted beneath his assault rifle and let the golf ball–sized projectile rip.
When it connected, the explosion was deafening, and it not only succeeded in knocking out the machine gun, but it tore a huge hole in the upper corner of the wall. One of the Chechens raced toward the security booth armed with his 9mm pistol and a good-sized shape charge, but neither did him any good. The two marines inside had opened a narrow slot in the bulletproof glass and began to return fire, killing the man before he could reach their position.
By focusing fire on the slot, the Chechens were able to push the marines back and keep them pinned down while another one of their teammates rushed forward and attached the shape charge to the side of the booth. Even if they had tried to escape, the marines never would have had a chance. The charge leveled the structure, killing both of its occupants instantly.
While the team kept watch for any more peepholes or slide boxes through which weapons could be fired, another shape charge was affixed to the facility’s main door. Retreating a safe distance away, the team donned their gasmasks, blew the charge, and immediately launched a series of tear gas canisters into the series of rooms on the other side.
When the first of the Chechens ran inside, two marines fully outfitted with gas masks of their own were waiting for him and blew the man apart. Stunned at their mounting losses, the Chechens came to a momentary standstill, but Sacha and Ali drove them forward. They hadn’t come this far to give up now.
By the sheer force of the resistance they were encountering, Ali felt in the depths of his soul that they had finally found where Mohammed bin Mohammed was being held captive. All they needed to do now was put down the last of the resistance. Loading another fast-arming M381 into his launcher and pointing it at the marines, Sacha looked ready to do just that.
The round exploded with an overwhelming concussion wave that knocked almost all of the Chechens to the ground, but when the Americans eventually arrived to claim their dead, they’d have to scrape what was left of their precious marines off the walls and the ceiling if they intended to have any sort of a burial for them.
Regaining their feet, the remaining Chechens quickly and methodically made their way through the facility. Ali was filled with anticipation with each door he kicked open, positive he would stumble upon Mohammed at any moment, but as the team swept into the last of the rooms, the man again was nowhere to be found.
Ali slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon, beside himself with both rage and frustration. How could they have hit four sites and not found him? Ali was about to share this thought with Sacha, when the redhaired giant took his small bag of electronic devices and headed toward the facility’s servers. At that moment, Ali’s sixth sense began speaking to him again. He probably should have pushed the outrageous thoughts from his mind, but he let them stay. Something told him that what he was thinking might not be so far off the mark. Ali was developing more than a sneaking suspicion that he had been used.
As Abdul Ali seethed, downstairs near the platform, fatally wounded MTA officer Patrick O’Donnell had finally summoned enough strength to radio for help.
Sixty-One
The debate, if it could have been called that, was over before it began. Tracy Hastings was right. There was only one way they could cover that kind of distance in enough time to have a chance to catch the terrorists on the other end.
While the team had been able to somewhat weave in and out of traffic and even ride down the sidewalk when necessary, it was still perilous and too often very slow going. That was where Tracy’s idea came in.
When they got to Times Square, they weren’t surprised to find that just like all the other subway stations in New York this one was closed too. A heavy iron gate at the bottom of the stairs had been locked tight. Harvath looked at Morgan as he dismounted from his bike and drew the Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun from his scabbard pack.
Morgan ejected his shells, replaced them with breaching rounds, and headed down the stairs. The subway system of the city that never sleeps had not intended its locks to ever be subjected to any real assault, so Morgan had the gate open with one deafening blast from his Mossberg. Less than a minute later, he had blown through a second lock on the handicap access gate near the turnstiles, and returned to the bottom of the stairs to wave the rest of the team on down.
Their motorbikes came clattering down the stairs and zipped past him. Once Morgan had retrieved his bike and had closed the gate behind them, the team rushed out onto the platform and zoomed down the access stairs into the tunnel.
Harvath had smelled worse, but this was still no garden walk
. Rats and rotting garbage mingled with pools of urine and human feces. Even the relatively cool air, a break from the oppressive heat on the streets above, brought little comfort.
They chose the number 7 Flushing local line because it provided the straightest shot to Grand Central Station. They weren’t in the tunnel for more than three minutes when they heard a rumbling noise over their engines and saw a light appear up ahead. They all knew it wasn’t the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, so, coming to a stop, they all hugged the tunnel wall.
Soon, a slow-moving, bloodred subway train passed, carrying a mixture of survivors and exhausted emergency personnel from the number 7’s tunnel that passed beneath the East River on its way to Queens.
It was surreal. Men and women inside were covered from head to toe in gray ash. Their eyes, no matter what color, looked like dark, hollowed-out sockets, giving their heads the appearance of being nothing more than skulls. They looked like the undead, and as they stared out the train windows, they gave no indication of seeing anything other than their own morbid reflections. They could have just as easily been recently departed spirits being ferried across the River Styx toward the hereafter. It was a chilling sight.
When the train had passed, the team continued on their way.
At the Grand Central stop, they emerged onto a single island–style platform. The rounded ceiling above reminded Harvath of the London Underground or Paris Métro and he remarked again at how little he really knew of New York.
At the center of the platform, they took one last moment to go over their plan. They had no idea what to expect when they hit Grand Central Terminal itself. All they knew was that they were not going to stop for anybody or anything—that included any police or military.
Nodding his head, Harvath revved his bike and took off. Herrington, Cates, Morgan, and Hastings followed right behind.
According to Tecklin’s diagram, the secret Waldorf station was located between tracks 61 and 63. It took them several minutes to find the right platform and twice they had to double back. The entire station was easily deserted. Once they were sure they were in the correct spot, they leapt their motorbikes down to track level and headed north.
Harvath had never been this deep inside an underground train depot before, much less one the size of Grand Central. The amount of tracks, equipment, and machinery that filled the cavernous underground space was beyond incredible. It seemed to stretch for miles.
The Waldorf platform was more than six blocks away from where they had started. As they neared, Harvath had the sinking feeling that they were already too late. Two MTA officers were tending to a colleague whose chest was covered with blood. As Harvath pulled up alongside, he displayed his credentials and asked, “What happened?”
“He’s been shot, and we can’t get any medical personnel to respond down here. They’re all tied up at other locations,” replied one of the officers.
Harvath didn’t need to say anything. In a flash, Paul Morgan was off his bike and had broken out his medical kit.
As Morgan tended the wounded man, Harvath tried to get more information out of the other two officers, but all they knew was that some sort of assault team had rappelled down from one of the sidewalk grates, shot their colleague, and had made their way upstairs via the Waldorf platform freight elevator.
After Morgan explained to the MTA officers what to do until help arrived, the team headed for the elevator. Harvath punched in the code Tecklin had given them, but nothing happened. Either the code was incorrect or the elevator had been locked down.
“What now, boss?” asked Cates.
It was a strange way for any of them to be addressing him, but apparently the mantle of leadership had been passed. Harvath looked up and down the platform. According to the diagram, there were two sets of stairs to the Grail facility, but they were locked behind heavy, exit-only iron doors at the 49th and 50th street sides of the hotel. There was also the hidden private garage exit, but Tecklin had made only brief mention of it to Morgan, and it wasn’t specifically indicated on the diagram. The marine had anticipated the team going in the way the rest of the Grail facility employees entered, via the Waldorf platform. Harvath had a decision to make.
Turning back toward the MTA officers, Harvath asked for the quickest way up to the street level. One of the officers pointed to a doorway at the other end of the platform and told him the stairs led to a service corridor just off the hotel lobby. Leaving their motorbikes behind, the team ran for the door and bounded up the stairs. When they hit the service corridor, they raced toward the lobby door, and that’s when they heard the telltale sounds of gunfire.
Sixty-Two
Abdul Ali ejected his newly spent magazine and slapped in a fresh one. They must have found the body on the train tracks. It was the only reason he could think of for the police having found them. But at the same time, such a disproportionate response could only mean that the officer he’d shot wasn’t dead. The man must have radioed in the details, because what had just showed up was no ordinary police unit.
The heavily armed ESU team laid down waves of suppression fire. They were incredibly accurate and extremely disciplined. Through the fog of the firefight, there was something else that was clearly evident. These men were angry. Their city had been attacked. Fellow policemen and citizens had been killed and now they were prepared to fight to the death if they had to. It made Ali extremely nervous. He knew that a motivated, determined enemy was the most fearsome foe of all.
The ESU team threw so much lead in their direction that even the five battle-hardened Chechen Spetsnaz soldiers were showing signs of concern. While an eventuality like this had been considered, it hadn’t been deemed very probable. Their plan from the beginning had been to tie up as many tactical units as possible and then never to stay in any one location long enough for any to catch up with them. The ESU team that had found them must have been attached to a nearby high-probability attack site, maybe Grand Central itself. Whatever the case, Ali had no choice but to order his men back into the 49th Street stairwell.
Once everyone was inside, Sacha slammed the door shut. As he followed his soldiers up the stairs, he removed the last two fragmentation grenades from his tactical vest. Halfway up, he rigged a crude booby trap. Though it wouldn’t hold their attackers back indefinitely, it would at least slow them down and hopefully thin their ranks by two or three men.
Bursting into the Grail facility’s entry corridor, Sacha began barking orders at his four remaining men. In the event that they couldn’t find another way out, they were going to have to make a stand right where they were. Both Sacha and Ali knew that the longer they stayed there, the greater the chances that the Americans would be able to summon backup. If that happened, not only would Abdul Ali’s mission be in jeopardy but so would the lives of all the men on his team.
The escape route that seemed to make the most sense for them was the one they immediately dismissed. If it was the MTA officer who had drawn the ESU team to the scene, then it was very likely there were police on the train platform downstairs outside the freight elevator. Going back the way Ali had come was definitely out of the question. That left them with either the 50th Street stairwell or the private exit from the garage.
Staring at the carnage that had been created during the assault on the Grail facility, Ali began to formulate a plan.
Sixty-Three
By the time Harvath and his team stormed through the Waldorf’s Lexington Avenue entrance, the sound of gunfire had already stopped. They couldn’t help but suppose the worst.
Running toward 49th Street, the team pulled up short just before the corner of the building. Peering around the side, Harvath saw a very well equipped NYPD Emergency Services Unit preparing to breach what appeared to be a Grail facility stairwell door.
Raising his ID above his head, Harvath whistled to get the men’s attention and began walking toward them. Seeing the weapon tucked into his waistband, several of the officers spun and square
d up on Harvath ready to fire. He didn’t have to see the red dots painted on his chest to know that their laser sights were lighting him up like a Christmas tree. He moved purposefully, but without making any sudden moves that could be misinterpreted.
“Department of Homeland Security,” said Harvath as he came within earshot of the team commander.
The commander waved him off, yelling, “We’ve got active shooters on site. Get the hell out of here, now!”
“Negative,” said Harvath as he continued approaching. “My team and I have been on their trail most of the evening. Trust me, you’re going to need our help.”
Though reluctant to waste any more time, or accept assistance from a Federal agent he knew nothing about, the commander was smart enough to realize that Harvath might very well have intelligence that could prove helpful. Leaving a contingent of men to watch the door in case the shooters reemerged, he moved behind the safety of a blacked-out Tahoe parked on the sidewalk to speak with Harvath. “Okay,” he said, “you’ve got about thirty seconds to tell me what’s going on here.”
Harvath really didn’t care about maintaining the secrecy of the NSA and its covert operation, but nevertheless he remained circumspect. “The men inside that stairwell have hit three other government installations this afternoon.”
“Three others?” replied the man whose name tab on his vest identified him as McGahan. “This is a hotel, not a government installation. The closest thing we’ve got to government inside this building is the residence of the U.S. Ambassador to the UN.”
