First Strike (38 page)

Calder was in charge of external affairs, which was mainly managing the press corps, keeping them in line and not in the way, answering their questions, and utilizing them for the purpose of managing whatever message the FBI wanted out there.

Francisco's job was managing the various nonoperational constituencies—families, university officials, politicians and staff, and other VIPs—and keeping them happy.

McNaughton was Smith's in-theater strike force commander. It was Dave McNaughton who, along with Smith, had handpicked the team on the ground near Carman, manned them with communications and weapons, and who would now implement whatever tactical design Smith came up with for freeing the students.

Smith knew the key to successful management of the hostage crisis was being able to think and react to events as they occurred. The chaos would quickly overwhelm his ability to act and react, to take advantage of potential mistakes made by the terrorists, and, at some point, to attempt to free the students. Moore, Calder, and Francisco were there to free Smith from the time-consuming and ultimately purposeless aspects of dealing with what had become a major crisis, not only in the United States but also abroad. Of the five hundred students inside Carman, more than one hundred were from foreign countries.

Calder, Moore, and Francisco did the things Smith didn't need to do, so that he, with McNaughton's help, could somehow figure out a way to save the students, whether through negotiation or violence.

Smith was a veteran, the FBI's top on-the-dirt crisis manager. He took a disciplined approach to everything he did and it showed. Usually, he was a picture of calm. But right now he was livid. He rarely showed emotion, but he couldn't hide his anger.

The reason why he was so angry appeared at the entrance to the room, surrounded by several aides. Judith Talkiewicz, the NYPD commissioner, who had sent in an NYPD helicopter which the terrorists had shot from the sky. Talkiewicz entered the room. When her aides started to join her, Smith held up his hand, signaling them to stay out.

“I want them with me,” said Talkiewicz.

“Tough,” said Smith as Calder shut the door. “Let me explain something to you, Commissioner: that was a bullshit stunt you pulled. There are five hundred hostages in that building. This is not PR time. You cost the lives of seven people, including a twelve-year-old girl who got hit by part of that fucking chopper. Six men in the chopper, employees of yours.”

“I'm aware of the situation, Lieutenant,” said Talkiewicz. “Obviously we didn't expect them to have MANPADs.”

“You didn't? Then you're a bigger fucking idiot than I thought.”

“Is that why you brought me here?” asked Talkiewicz, taking a step toward Smith, unafraid. “To ream me out?”

“Partially, yes. But the main reason is that I want to make something crystal fucking clear. This is an FBI operation, got it? I expect full cooperation from your officers, access to any and all NYPD assets and information, and I expect your people to do exactly as I say. Am I clear?”

“We're both after the same thing.”

“The difference is, I know how to do it. You're a politician.”

“I heard you were a megalomaniac,” said Talkiewicz.

“I don't care what you heard,” said Smith. “I implement strategies, that's all. Someone much higher than me is going to make the call on what we do here. But I can't do that if I have a police commissioner making unsanctioned operational moves that haven't been vetted, discussed, or approved. Got it?”

Talkiewicz stormed out.

Smith glanced at McNaughton. “Was I too harsh, Dave?” he asked.

“No,” said McNaughton quietly. “I will say this: that chopper did force them to waste one of their SAMs. I can't imagine they have many more. Also, we broke down the video from the chopper. The roof is wired. Looks like they have five or six IEDs. Munitions thinks it's Semtex. They're exactly the same as the ones on the stairs.”

“What about the tunnel in the basement from the library?” asked Smith.

“They wired it,” said McNaughton. “It's identical. Semtex. They've also tied up four students just behind the door. Even if there wasn't a bomb, opening the door into Carman would kill all of them.”

“What kind of detonators?”

“Trigger buttons. The ones on the stairs, like the ones on the roof, are balanced on some sort of wire web. Unless they're fake, we're talking about a very dangerous situation. Frankly, we're lucky the NYPD minigun didn't hit the wire. If that thing breaks, they all fall. One of 'em is bound to explode. And when one explodes, all the others will too. It cuts off any penetration opportunities from above.”

“And if the stairs are set—” Smith didn't need to finish the sentence.

“It's a big suicide bomb,” said Francisco, seated in front of one of the plasmas. “Whatever they want, whoever is behind this, they have the leverage. It's scary how asymmetrical the situation is. They have five hundred hostages, an impenetrable fortress, and a pack of suicide bombers. We're looking at the next nine-eleven. I don't mean to be so dark, but that's what we're looking at.”

Smith stared at Francisco. He was his closest friend in the FBI. He couldn't remember all the times they had been together at the beginning of a tough operation, but Smith knew that Francisco was usually right about these things.

A low beeping noise sounded in Smith's ear, over a Tic Tac–size earbud connected live to CENCOM.

“CENCOM one four one, Commander Smith, please hold for Director Kratovil.”

Smith put his hand to his ear. He looked around the table, holding up a finger, indicating he needed to take the call. He stepped to the corner.

“Hi, Damon.”

“Mr. Director.”

“What's the status?”

“It's the same as last hour. Everything is stabilized. We've seen no activity.”

“What about your perimeters?”

“Perimeters, manpower, tactical control are now live and functional. Team communication protocols are aligned. We're ready to implement any directives from CENCOM.”

“Well, it sounds like an improvement over an hour ago.”

“An hour ago one of my snipers killed one of the terrorists,” said Smith. “I'm not sure how you improve on that, sir.”

“You know what I meant,” snapped Kratovil.

Smith was silent. He knew what Kratovil meant. He didn't appreciate it.

“Director, are we negotiating with these guys?”

Kratovil paused. “That's still being worked out.”

“What's the delay? Every minute that passes cuts off opportunities. If we're negotiating, it doesn't matter. But if we're not, the sooner we design and stage an assault, the better our odds for minimizing casualties.”

“This thing is not simply a hostage crisis. There are a number of parties at the table: Langley, the Pentagon, the White House. We're trying to keep it from becoming a turf war, but the president wants to make sure we have the … well … the team that will give us the best chance of limiting casualties and saving those kids.”

“Of course,” said Smith. “I understand. But until that happens, I'm flying a little blind here. What if our best shot to take the dorm is right now?”

“They have five hundred hostages in there,” said Kratovil. “They have strategic advantage. They're also jihadists. If they're willing to die, no assault is going to matter. They'll simply blow the building. Whoever is behind this wants something. That negotiation is under way.”

“What do they want?”

“This is top secret, Damon, FYEO. No one in that room is authorized to know.”

Smith was quiet.

“We stopped a shipment of arms to Syria in the Med. They want it. That's what this thing is all about.”

“And the president doesn't want to do it?”

“Of course not. But the alternative is worse. If he lets it go, ISIS will have enough guns, ammo, and missiles to finish the job in Syria and possibly Iraq. We're talking about a container ship. Almost a billion dollars' worth of weapons.”

“Billion with a
b
?”

“Yes. The president is in an impossible situation. Damon, you need to assume you're going to be asked to design and execute a plan to take over the dorm in a way that minimizes casualties and allows the president to stop the shipment.”

“What time frame are we talking about here, George?”

“Hours. This needs to happen soon. I have a feeling they're not just going to sit and wait for a response.”

“You mean—”

“Polk thinks they're going to start executing students,” said Kratovil.

“Jesus,” said Smith. “Okay. I'll get to work. Do I need official approvals and whatnot?”

“Yes. But obviously everyone including the president is standing by.”

“I understand.”

“Listen,” said Kratovil, “the main reason I called is to see how you're holding up.”

“I'm all right,” said Smith. “But my men are spending half their time entertaining fucking VIPs. The governor, the mayor, senators, you name it. It's getting in the way.”

“Delegate it.”

“I did. But you try to tell the governor to stay the hell away. These assholes are interfering with my ability to calm things down so that we can properly watch, analyze, and make clear tactical decisions.”

Kratovil cleared his throat. “Then you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you.”

“What do you mean?”

“There's someone coming to see you,” said the FBI director.

“Who?”

“He's a former Ranger, like yourself, Damon.”

“There's lots of former Rangers.”

“He also spent some time in Combat Applications Group. He's high level. He was part of the team that stopped the nuclear bomb a few months ago.”

“Why?” asked Smith. “Am I being taken off this?”

“Chill the fuck out,” said Kratovil, “or you
will
be taken off it. I'm not the one sending him in. The president of the United States is the one sending him. Got it? You might consider having an open mind. He's there to help. I know him. He's not a talker. If he can't do anything, he'll tell you.”

“Fine. What's his name?”

“Dewey Andreas.”

There was a momentary pause.

“I know who he is,” said Smith, calming down. “That's fine. Look, that's more than fine. You're right, he might have some ideas. I hope he does.”

Smith tapped his ear, cutting off the call. He looked at McNaughton.

“I want three scenarios. You have fifteen minutes.”

McNaughton nodded and walked into the next room.

Andreas.

Smith stared at the table, thinking back.

Winter School. Rangers. Smith was in the same class. He knew Dewey, or knew of him at least. Andreas didn't talk much. He didn't have any friends. All business. But Smith used to watch him. He shocked everyone when he won the boxing championship. But it was more than that. It was as if he wasn't meant to be there, confined by the uniform and the rules and the need to rely on others. He was different. Everyone knew it. He wouldn't have won a popularity contest, but every Ranger in that class feared him. He was the real deal.

Smith got Francisco's attention. “We have a visitor coming.”

“Who is it?”

“His name's Andreas. When he gets here, bring him in.”

“You got it.”

 

52

AIR PEGASUS HELIPORT

WEST THIRTIETH STREET

NEW YORK CITY

An hour later, after a smooth flight from D.C., the CIA-owned Sikorsky S-76C landed on the small helipad at West Thirtieth Street, Manhattan.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Dewey, leaning into the cockpit.

“No worries,” said the man on the left. “SPEC OPS Group briefed us on the way up. We're gonna refuel and stay here, in case you need us.”

Dewey opened the cabin door and stepped quickly down. He took the stairs from the helipad and walked to the street. A black Suburban was idling.

The front passenger window slid down.

“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.