Dead Simple (29 page)
Authors: Jon Land
R
obert Corrothers, New York City’s public safety commissioner, had been conducting his own meeting, three floors down from the mayor’s office in City Hall, when the blast shook the walls. He knew instantly it was bad, but how bad would not become clear until he witnessed the bedlam that broke out in the various offices occupied by his personnel in the ensuing moments.
obert Corrothers, New York City’s public safety commissioner, had been conducting his own meeting, three floors down from the mayor’s office in City Hall, when the blast shook the walls. He knew instantly it was bad, but how bad would not become clear until he witnessed the bedlam that broke out in the various offices occupied by his personnel in the ensuing moments.
Within seven minutes of the initial series of blasts, he had spoken with the Traffic Control Bureau, Emergency 911 Response, and the City Engineer’s Office in an attempt to get a handle on the scope and magnitude of what had occurred. Corrothers could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and it only got worse with each call.
His chief assistant, Patty Tope, found him in the “bunker” where the public safety team holed up during major storms and other natural disasters.
But there was nothing natural about this, Corrothers knew.
“We just got confirmation on the Willis Avenue Bridge,” Patty Tope reported, reading from a clipboard held shakily in her hand, “the Third Avenue Bridge, the Madison Avenue Bridge, the Macombs Dam Bridge—”
“What about Transit?”
“Power’s still out on all lines. They’re trying to track down the problem now.”
Corrothers continued scanning the various angles of New York City pictured on the screens before him, most coming courtesy of local television
stations, which by now had interrupted their regular programming for continuous coverage of the unfolding crisis. Right now that crisis included one monster traffic jam that encompassed every single street in Manhattan. Corrothers had a dozen major sites that needed emergency response immediately, and he didn’t have a clue as to how it was going to get there. And that, he figured, was exactly what the person or persons behind this wanted.
stations, which by now had interrupted their regular programming for continuous coverage of the unfolding crisis. Right now that crisis included one monster traffic jam that encompassed every single street in Manhattan. Corrothers had a dozen major sites that needed emergency response immediately, and he didn’t have a clue as to how it was going to get there. And that, he figured, was exactly what the person or persons behind this wanted.
“The problem,” Corrothers told Patty Tope, “is that somebody blew Transit up too.”
T
he atmosphere in the Midnight Run command center had become that of a football game, with most of Jack Tyrell’s men crowded around the screen that pictured the dangling school bus. Rousing cheers erupted when it dropped for what seemed like its final plunge, only to be held up yet again when the cable snared on another part of its frame.
he atmosphere in the Midnight Run command center had become that of a football game, with most of Jack Tyrell’s men crowded around the screen that pictured the dangling school bus. Rousing cheers erupted when it dropped for what seemed like its final plunge, only to be held up yet again when the cable snared on another part of its frame.
“Well, well, well,” Tyrell said, loving the scene as the traffic chopper hovered as low as possible to catch the efforts of bystanders still doing their utmost to save the children. “A bunch of heroes auditioning for the movie of the week.” He yanked his wallet from his pocket. “I got ten bucks here says the kids die.”
The ruckus picked up again as odds were given excitedly and money changed hands. And this, Tyrell thought, this is only the beginning. The best was yet to come.
The traffic chopper swooped in closer, catching the grimly determined visage of a bystander who had managed to work his way into the bus itself.
Jackie Terror froze, hands dropping to his sides.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. His euphoria vanished as he recognized the bearded face that had been plastered on the screen for one long moment. “All bets are off,” he announced suddenly, and his men went dead quiet. “I’m about to change the odds big-time. Marbles,” he called to the bespectacled man who had not budged from his post at the console.
“Yeah?”
“I want to talk to the people in our chopper. I want to talk to them now.”
T
he
tires!
Blaine realized. The cable had snared under the tires.
he
tires!
Blaine realized. The cable had snared under the tires.
But that gave little reason for celebration. Holding on to a pair of seats to keep from falling straight through the bus’s windshield, Blaine shifted his frame enough to fix his gaze upward. The bridge was twenty-five feet away now, the human chain that had helped evacuate all but four of the kids rendered useless. Blaine, meanwhile, was in no position any longer to help anyone, not even himself.
From this angle he was afforded an incredible view of the damage done by the blast. Blaine had seen the best in the business work with everything
from C-4 to shape charges to fuel-air bombs, but he had never, never, seen anything that could shred layers of steel and asphalt as fast and cleanly as Devil’s Brew.
from C-4 to shape charges to fuel-air bombs, but he had never, never, seen anything that could shred layers of steel and asphalt as fast and cleanly as Devil’s Brew.
Above him on the bridge, Johnny Wareagle had organized a group of bystanders to try to lift the tow truck back upright so he could try working the winch again.
Sal Belamo, meanwhile, rushed to the spot on the safety rail where the bungee cord remained fastened in place. He uncoiled it and pushed through the hordes of gawking onlookers directly over the swaying bus.
“Boss!”
Thirty feet below, McCracken heard the call and looked up. Sal knotted the cord onto the section of rail and then dropped it straight toward the open emergency exit. The cord fluttered through on the first try, and Blaine snatched it easily.
He had the cord knotted around his waist in the next instant, the support it provided enough to let him return to the task of getting the kids safely out. Fighting the bus’ slight sway, he grabbed the girl closest to him and raised her through the emergency exit.
“Grab the cable!” he instructed. “Pull yourself up!”
The girl’s feet had barely cleared the door when Blaine called for the next-closest child to climb toward him. He could feel the bus descending slowly, almost imperceptibly, just an inch or so at a time, as the winch cable ate its way through the thick tires. Trying hard not to calculate how much time he had left, Blaine pushed the second-to-last child through and then reached down for the final boy.
“Come on!” He waved.
“My foot,” the boy moaned. “It’s stuck.”
Blaine took all the slack the bungee cord would give him to drop down even with the boy. His sneakered foot was caught in the seat. Blaine jimmied it gently until it came free. He angled himself closer to ease the boy out and saw a shape squeezed beneath the dashboard.
The bus driver! In all the chaos, he had forgotten about the driver!
“Hold on to me,” Blaine ordered the terrified boy, as he began to climb back for the emergency exit. “Don’t let go. Hold on tight and keep your eyes closed!”
The bus rocked harder, making Blaine’s ascent to the exit even more difficult. But he reached the hatch and hoisted the boy through. Above him, a pair of kids were just being lifted over the side, back onto the bridge.
“Climb!” Blaine ordered the boy.
“I can’t!”
“You
can
!
”
Then he lowered his voice. “Just a little at a time, until they can reach down for you from the bridge.”
can
!
”
Then he lowered his voice. “Just a little at a time, until they can reach down for you from the bridge.”
The boy gritted his teeth and began to shimmy himself upward. Blaine
turned and slid back through the hatch, holding one hand to the bungee cord as he negotiated his way toward the bus driver, apparently unconscious.
turned and slid back through the hatch, holding one hand to the bungee cord as he negotiated his way toward the bus driver, apparently unconscious.
When he reached the dashboard, he saw it was a woman, a blessing since her weight was likely considerably less than a man’s. Blaine hooked a hand under her belt and hoisted her up to the shoulder Buck Torrey had fixed. This left him one arm to help retrace his path up the aisle. He pushed off the seats to quicken his ascent to the emergency exit and grabbed the cable with both hands. Then he hoisted himself and the driver up through the hatch, steadying his feet on the bus’ rear just as the cable cut through what was left of the tires.
The bus plunged, and Blaine dangled in the air, supported by the bungee cord as he struggled to hold tight to the woman. Below, the school bus hit the Hudson River nose-first, the crushing impact breaking apart its front end before it sank quickly beneath the surface.
Above him, meanwhile, the last two of the kids he had guided out were struggling to climb, losing the battle to both fear and the wind, which played havoc with the cable now that the weight of the bus no longer held it steady. Blaine managed to snare the cable in his free hand and knotted it around the unconscious bus driver’s waist. He looked toward the bridge and flashed a signal to Johnny, then released the cable, as Wareagle began supervising the arduous task of drawing it upward manually.
Blaine dangled from the bungee cord and watched the cable rise gradually above him, the weight of the driver anchoring its end. Blaine would have Johnny pull him up once everyone else was settled safely on the bridge. For now, he was satisfied to feel his heart thump hard every time a child was lifted over the side.
The news helicopter still hovered in camera range, capturing it all. The operator turned the lens briefly on Blaine, who flashed a thumbs-up sign in the moment before a second chopper flitted onto the scene.
J
ohnny Wareagle watched the new helicopter speeding toward the bridge’s upper span as though it were angling to attack. There were still two kids dangling beneath the safety rail, being hauled up by more hands than the cable had room for. Still not enough.
ohnny Wareagle watched the new helicopter speeding toward the bridge’s upper span as though it were angling to attack. There were still two kids dangling beneath the safety rail, being hauled up by more hands than the cable had room for. Still not enough.
Movement flashed inside the chopper as Johnny lent his own strength to the cable. The closest child soared over the safety rail, but the final boy was several yards away.
“Get the children away from here!” he ordered the bystanders, leaving only Liz Halprin leaning over the edge to help the last boy. “Get everyone away from here!”
People scurried past him, to a safer spot near the center of the span. Johnny slid sideways to grab hold of the bungee cord and, with Sal Belamo, began hoisting McCracken up, when a shape leaned out the left-hand side of the chopper’s rear bay.
B
laine saw the M-203 combination M-16 and grenade launcher before he glimpsed the man wielding it.
laine saw the M-203 combination M-16 and grenade launcher before he glimpsed the man wielding it.
What was happening?
The gunman pumped a grenade from the launcher slung under his barrel. The grenade hummed out and slammed into the safety rail in the center of the upper deck, sending another shower of rubble spraying through the air and hurling Sal Belamo and Johnny Wareagle backwards.
Liz Halprin managed to yank the last child over the edge. But the dangling bus driver was lost beneath her when the blast tore the rest of the cable away.
The part of the rail that had been supporting Blaine’s bungee cord was destroyed as well. Severed, the cord dropped, and McCracken dropped with it, almost straight for the chopper as it swooned beneath the bridge’s lower deck. The chopper banked on an angle that allowed one of its pods to snare the falling bungee cord.
Blaine felt a sudden jolt and looked up to see himself attached to the chopper as it banked agilely away.
B
lood
…
lood
…
It was the first thing Liz Halprin saw and felt upon her, so much she could smell it. Her ears rang from the percussion of the grenade blast, and her insides felt as though they’d been dumped in a blender.
The blast had thrown her and the boy she had hoisted over the rail onto the hood of a car. A boy not much older than Justin, lying atop her now.
The blood! Was it hers or—
Liz shifted tentatively and saw the jagged shard of shrapnel protruding from the boy’s thigh, the wound pumping blood.
Suddenly bystanders surrounded her, a few reaching for the boy.
“No!” Liz screamed. “Don’t move him!”
She couldn’t do anything for the bus driver or for those who had plunged to their deaths when the two spans of the bridge blew. But she could do something for this boy.
Liz eased him from her gently, as Johnny Wareagle, his coal-black hair sprinkled with chalky dust, approached through the crowd.
“I need something to stanch the—”
Wareagle was already extending his belt to her.
“This is no good,” she said, after turning it into a makeshift tourniquet, the blood loss slowed but not stopped. Liz looked around, fully aware it would be quite some time before rescue personnel and their vehicles could even get close. “He’ll die if we don’t get him to a hospital!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Johnny promised.
B
laine saw the pilot look down after the craft’s nose responded sluggishly to his commands. He imagined the man’s eyes bulging at the sight of him strung beneath the chopper and strained to reach the pistol holstered around his ankle.
laine saw the pilot look down after the craft’s nose responded sluggishly to his commands. He imagined the man’s eyes bulging at the sight of him strung beneath the chopper and strained to reach the pistol holstered around his ankle.
No matter how much Blaine stretched, though, he couldn’t grasp it. He noted the pilot was coming around again, slipping into a rise, and realized he intended to slam him against the structure of the upper deck or, perhaps, snare him in the suspension bridge’s guy wires.
Blaine saw the upper deck coming up fast, in his mind’s eye saw himself
crushed against it. Two hundred feet before impact, he dropped all his weight downward to stretch the bungee cord taut. Then he let it snap back upward like a rubber band and follow the course of its momentum to spirit him up and over the span, even briefly with the chopper.
crushed against it. Two hundred feet before impact, he dropped all his weight downward to stretch the bungee cord taut. Then he let it snap back upward like a rubber band and follow the course of its momentum to spirit him up and over the span, even briefly with the chopper.
The chopper listed, then shot away, angling toward Manhattan as the gunman wielding the M-203 poked his head out again in search of a shot.
“
I
f it isn’t the mayor this time, you’re fired, stupid,” Don Imus snapped at his producer, who poked his head into the studio again.
I
f it isn’t the mayor this time, you’re fired, stupid,” Don Imus snapped at his producer, who poked his head into the studio again.
“Better.”
“Better than the mayor?”
“The bomber.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious.”
“What line?”
“Seven.”
Imus reached over and hit the button. The whole studio lapsed into an eerie silence after twenty harried minutes of juggling calls coming in from all over the city.
“What do you want?” Imus snapped into his headset.
“That’s no way to greet a fan,” said Jackie Terror.
“Must be a towelhead,” interjected Bernard McGuirk, one of Imus’ sidekicks.
“Shut up, Bernard. I want to talk to this moron,” said Imus. “So you blow up our city and expect Welcome Wagon? Why don’t you go somewhere else, like Baghdad?”
Jack Tyrell’s laughter filled the studio through all the speakers. “Man, they told me you were good.”
“They
told you? What, you don’t listen for yourself?”
told you? What, you don’t listen for yourself?”
“I’ve been indisposed for a while.”
“Killing innocent people somewhere else, of course, you son of a—”
“Are we on the air?”
“Sure. And the sponsors are loving it.”
“Really?”
“If you blow your own brains out while we’re on, I’ll pick up another ten cities by tomorrow. Providing you haven’t blown them all up by then too, of course.”
“Don’t you want to know why I called?”
“I don’t care. Do I sound like I care?”
“You’re back on top.”
“Have you been talking to my wife?”
“I’m being serious here. You were up, down, and now you’re up again. Same thing with me. I figured that made you deserve getting an exclusive on my announcement.”
“This go under the category of public service?”
“Does it ever! See, I want you to give Mayor Corrente a message for me. Tell Her Honor that I have taken all the people in this city hostage, and all five million will die when I destroy the city unless my terms are met.”
“I can’t wait to hear this … .”
“Sorry, that’s for the mayor’s ears only. I’ll be calling her directly by eleven o’clock.”
“Is that A.M. or P.M.?”
“If my terms aren’t met, there won’t be anybody left to take the call by P.M.”
“Why don’t I give you my shrink’s number? You can tell him I referred you.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I’m planning to have a lot of time on my hands.”
L
iz used a collection of shirts from equally concerned bystanders to wrap the boy’s wound, pinning the shard of metal in place. She knew from experience that removing it would result in catastrophic blood loss and almost instant death. This was the best chance the boy had, but he had no chance unless Johnny Wareagle figured out a way to get him to a hospital within the next few minutes.
iz used a collection of shirts from equally concerned bystanders to wrap the boy’s wound, pinning the shard of metal in place. She knew from experience that removing it would result in catastrophic blood loss and almost instant death. This was the best chance the boy had, but he had no chance unless Johnny Wareagle figured out a way to get him to a hospital within the next few minutes.
There was a time after she learned how to shoot when Liz sneaked out hunting with some local boys. Her father had found the two rabbits she’d shot hidden in the barn. She had never seen Buck more angry, so dismayed was he that she had not heeded his lessons about the value and sanctity of life. Liz figured that was as near as he ever came to striking her. Instead Buck had hung up the carcasses in her room, leaving them there long after they began to decompose and stink. She thought about life and death differently after that, unable to kill anything that wasn’t trying to do likewise to her.
With all the carnage and horror around her, the boy was all that mattered right now to Liz. She looked at him and saw Justin, remembering how close she had been to losing him at his school a month before and how much she hated losing him to his father. Looked at the boy and saw Buck, so angry he had tears in his eyes upon finding the dead rabbits hidden in the barn. After he finally pulled their carcasses out of her room, he yanked the bullets from her .22 and left them on her dresser.
Maybe all the years since had been about making up for that one mistake. Proving that she was worthy of his training. Save this boy today and make her father proud.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clip
…
…
Liz knew that sound, but it made no sense to her here and now on the bridge. She gazed ahead through the clutter of twisted, smoking vehicles and actually blinked to make sure it wasn’t a concussion-induced illusion.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” she heard Sal Belamo mutter at her
side, himself bleeding from a deep scalp wound that he’d wrapped tightly in a borrowed scarf.
side, himself bleeding from a deep scalp wound that he’d wrapped tightly in a borrowed scarf.
Johnny Wareagle was adroitly leading a pair of black horses, salvaged from a dented horse trailer, through the sea of wrecks.
B
laine’s wild ride on the bungee cord continued without pause over the remaining stretch of the Hudson River toward midtown Manhattan. He quickly learned how to control his sway through the air by angling his body in various directions. Almost as quickly, the gunman inside the rear of the chopper gave up wasting bullets. Blaine felt triumphant only until it became clear what fate the pilot had in mind for him.
laine’s wild ride on the bungee cord continued without pause over the remaining stretch of the Hudson River toward midtown Manhattan. He quickly learned how to control his sway through the air by angling his body in various directions. Almost as quickly, the gunman inside the rear of the chopper gave up wasting bullets. Blaine felt triumphant only until it became clear what fate the pilot had in mind for him.
He was still trying to free his gun from its holster when the helicopter approached the forest of skyscrapers dotting the skyline. The pilot banked sharply to the right, throwing Blaine hard to the left directly in line with a million tons of steel and glass. He avoided the collision by straightening out and twisting his body back into the wind, steering himself close enough to the fiftieth floor to reach out and swipe the glass.
The pilot saw that his first attempt at splattering Blaine across the cityscape had failed, and he veered to try again, squeezing within a narrow space between buildings overlooking Central Park. It seemed impossible for Blaine to adjust his path quickly and frequently enough to miss all the buildings, but he dipped and darted, swerved and swirled, to avoid one after another. Coming close enough on a few occasions to actually push off with his legs.
He felt like a puppet on a string, his toughest trick being to figure a way to free his pistol from its holster. The leather safety strip that restrained it was snapped tightly in place across the trigger guard, and Blaine couldn’t risk keeping still long enough to unsnap it without setting himself up for the gunman inside the chopper’s rear bay.
Added to that was the problem of the buildings the pilot was directing him ever closer to. The next pair was separated by a gap little wider than he was. The chopper pulled its nose just over them, and Blaine actually had to turn sideways, the wind screaming past him as he soared with hands and legs pressed close.
No sooner had he managed that feat than the chopper went into a swoon, significantly reducing his maneuverability before it flitted sharply to the right. The result was to snap him out like a rock from a slingshot, spilled sideways on a direct path with the top floors of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
Blaine had actually started unknotting the cord, ready to take his chances with a plunge to the awnings below, when the chopper banked sharply again. The loosened cord slipped down his legs and reknotted itself around his ankles, redistributing so much of his weight that he missed the Waldorf altogether but got a very good look at himself flying by its shiny windows.
He was soaring upside down. If nothing else, the pistol was now in easier reach, and he imitated the motions of a Roman Chair sit-up to snatch it. He managed to get the holster unsnapped with the first stab, and the gun freed with the second. Then he nearly lost his grip on it, as the chopper soared down a traffic-snarled Park Avenue, with Blaine swaying wildly beneath it.
Blaine first thought that the pilot intended to leave him smeared against any number of stalled trucks and buses in the street below. Instead, though, he slowed his speed considerably and left McCracken dangling almost directly beneath the chopper, a much easier target for the gunman, who immediately opened up with his M-16.
The first barrage missed him, stitching a jagged design across the tops of cars mired in the gridlock below. Blaine curled upward at the waist and steadied his pistol as best he could before clacking off a few rounds to chase the gunman back inside. His bullets clanged off the chopper’s frame, but he managed to pull back up to a standing position, grasping the cord with his free hand.
The gunman lunged into the doorway again and let go a wild spray downward. But McCracken was gone, not even the bungee cord in sight.
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