Independence Day (49 page)
“She tried to kill herself,” said Chalmers, out of Katya’s earshot. “Make this quick. She needs to get to a hospital.”
“I’ll do my best, Derek. But right now, I only care about one thing.”
Dewey opened the door of the helicopter and climbed inside, followed by Katya. Chalmers paused at the door, then followed, sliding it shut behind him.
Katya searched in the dimly lit cabin, her eyes finding Cloud. She dropped to her knees beside him. A horrified look crossed her face as she registered his right leg, cleaved of its skin below the knee. Then she saw Cloud’s hip, the dark red bandage, the blood on the floor.
She looked at Dewey. As much as Cloud’s actions horrified her, Katya’s expression showed an even stronger reaction. Her eyes betrayed revulsion at what Dewey had done to him.
She looked back to Cloud.
“Pyotr,” she said. “Pyotr, it’s me.”
Cloud’s head remained limp.
Behind Katya, Dewey removed the syringe. He knelt next to her.
“This is adrenaline,” said Dewey. “I’m going to try and bring him back. Let me speak first.”
Katya nodded.
Dewey pulled the collar of Cloud’s shirt down, exposing his chest. With his left hand, he felt Cloud’s chest, locating the breastplate. He kept two fingers pressed to a specific spot almost directly in the center of the chest, then placed the end of the needle between his fingers and pushed the needle in. Blood spurted from the puncture. He moved the needle in several inches, then pressed the plunger and pumped adrenaline directly into Cloud’s heart.
Cloud’s eyes opened up, then shut. A moment later, he screamed. He said something in Russian, repeating it over and over.
“What’s he saying?” asked Dewey.
“Kill me,” said Malnikov.
“Pyotr, listen to me,” said Dewey.
Cloud continued to scream. His eyes again opened. He turned and looked up at Dewey.
“I know what they did. What we did,” Dewey told him.
“You couldn’t know,” whispered Cloud.
“We killed your father. Your mother. I know about it. But the man who did that was a killer. One man. He was slated for termination because of what he did.”
“
You lie!
”
“Roberts,” said Dewey. “That was his name. He did it. The people you’re planning on killing, the people in Boston you tried to kill—they didn’t kill your parents. One man did. An evil man.”
“Lies,” Cloud groaned.
Dewey stood up and moved toward the front of the cabin.
For the first time, Cloud saw Katya.
“Oh, God,” he said in a pained whisper. “I’m…”
“Pyotr,” she said as she began to cry, “you have to tell them.”
Cloud looked away from her, shutting his eyes.
“You have to tell the Americans where the bomb is going. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”
“There’s no such thing as fair, Katya,” he said. “Don’t you see that?”
“You’re going to kill a million innocent people. What they did was wrong, but God will judge the man who did that.”
“I was innocent too. My mother was innocent. My father, he was innocent.”
He stared into Katya’s eyes. He was blinking rapidly, trying to hold back his emotions.
“Tell them,” Katya pleaded. “Please, for me.”
Cloud stared at Katya.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Of course I love you.”
“And if I was there? If I was in the place where you are sending the bomb? Would you tell them? Or would you let me die?”
“I would tell them,” he whispered. His eyes moved to Dewey, then back to Katya. “But you’re not there.”
She leaned over him, her head just inches from him, her lips nearly touching his.
“Pyotr,” she whispered. “Please show them the person I know. Show me the person I love.”
Dewey took a step back. He leaned into the cockpit. Stihl turned and looked at Dewey.
“Take us up,” Dewey said.
BENEATH THE 145TH STREET BRIDGE
HARLEM RIVER
NEW YORK CITY
Faqir steered the boat up the Harlem River, away from New York harbor. The running lights were off. Over his head was a pair of night optics. He had the Talaria moving slowly, its engine barely above a whisper, as he cut north.
The logical approach to the Statue of Liberty would be from the sea. The authorities would not be looking in the Harlem River or the Hudson. And if they were looking—if they did find him—Faqir possessed the ultimate backup plan: detonate the bomb. As soon as he entered the Harlem River, he had the ability to level untold acres, to bring down building upon building, to kill hundreds of thousands.
He stared up at the green steel of the bridge as he purred north. That was the moment he realized that he’d already won. There was nothing the Americans could do now. All he had to do was press the red button on top of the device.
Faqir pulled out a drawer next to the steering wheel. He picked up the detonator. Ever so lightly, he rubbed his index finger across the button. Then he placed it on the teak table that adorned the center of the deck.
Suddenly, the door to the cabin opened. Naji stepped onto the deck. His hands and clothing were spotted in white paint.
“I painted above the waterline, as you asked,” said Naji.
Faqir held a finger to his lips as an angry scowl came to his face. He motioned for Naji to come closer. He pushed the optics to his forehead so he could look into Naji’s eyes.
“First,” Faqir whispered, “shut the fuck up. Look around you. We’re in the belly of the beast. They could very well be looking for us.”
“You heard the radio,” Naji whispered. “Their own president thinks they stopped us.”
“Unless they’re playing a game,” said Faqir. “The Americans are not very smart, but even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every once in a while. So do us both a favor, shut the hell up.”
Naji nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. I finished painting the hull. That’s all.”
“Good. How does it look?”
“Like Rembrandt.”
“We’ll drop anchor here for a few hours and let it dry.”
Faqir steered close to the west side of the river, so that the boat was now hidden by a combination of the bridge and the riverbank, a concrete wall that arose thirty feet into the air above the water. He pressed a button that controlled the anchor, dropping it from a built-in compartment at the bow. When he felt the anchor hit the riverbed, he let go of the button and looked at Naji.
“It’s important you understand what I’m about to tell you,” said Faqir, barely even whispering, eyes casting about. He nodded at the detonator.
“We’re now free and clear. It is July Fourth. We did it. So if they catch us, press the button.”
“I thought the Statue of Liberty is our target,” said Naji.
“It is. But if somehow they find us before we get there—”
Naji nodded.
“I understand.”
Faqir removed the optics and handed them to Naji.
“You keep watch for a little while. I’m going to try and sleep.”
IN THE AIR
MOSCOW
The rotors of the chopper picked up discernibly, then the wheels bounced and they rose into the sky.
“Where to?” asked Stihl.
“Doesn’t matter. Just get us up.”
Dewey turned back to the cockpit. His eyes met Chalmers’s, who stared back with a blank expression. He looked down at Cloud, then out the window. Within moments of takeoff, they were several hundred feet in the air.
Dewey reached to the wall and hit a button. Suddenly, the side doors slid open. The roar of the rotors burst into the cabin. Wind and rain came in, dousing the cabin and everyone inside.
Dewey reached down and grabbed the front of Katya’s jacket.
“
Dewey!
” yelled Chalmers as, in the same moment, Katya screamed.
With one hand, he lifted her up and carried her toward the open door as she screamed, punched, and kicked at Dewey, but he held her—like a doll.
With his left hand, Dewey grabbed a strap above the door so he wouldn’t fall out with her as, with his right hand, he clutched her jacket and thrust her out the open door. Dewey stood, holding the strap, dangling Katya out the side of the chopper. She grasped at his forearm, trying to hold on, then looked below at the buildings rushing by. Then her mouth opened again in panic and she tried to scream, but no noise came out. She was hysterical. Her hair whipped in a chaotic swirl, the slapping at Dewey’s arm as she tried to hold on the only sound, and it blended darkly with the rain and wind and roar of the rotors, and the voice of Chalmers.
“
Don’t do it, Dewey!
” he called. “
She’s innocent.
”
Dewey held Katya there for a dozen seconds, then turned and looked into Cloud’s eyes.
“You have exactly five seconds to tell me where the bomb is going,” Dewey said, a calm look on his face. “Then I drop her.”
Cloud shut his eyes. He rocked his head back and forth.
“Five,” said Dewey, beginning the countdown, “four … three…”
Katya tried to say something to Cloud, but she was so panic-stricken that no sound came out as her mouth moved in silent terror.
“
Two
…”
Cloud stopped moving his head. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if he was calculating something. He struggled to move his lips, ushering the last remaining strength he had left. He looked at Katya, his eyes finding hers across the mist.
“New York City,” he said in his dying breath, blood seeping from his mouth and nose. Then, his last words: “The Statue of Liberty.”
THE CARLYLE
MADISON AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
At 5:30
A.M.,
the CIA Sikorsky helicopter touched down at Haverstraw Airport just north of Manhattan.
Calibrisi had a pair of Catch-22s on his hands.
The first: a nuclear device was in a boat headed for the Statue of Liberty. Assuming the terrorists hadn’t switched boats, the U.S. government knew the precise make and model of the vessel the nuclear bomb was now on. But if the terrorists suspected anything, they would simply detonate the bomb. Cloud had coveted the idea of hitting one of America’s most sacred and important historical structures. But a nuclear bomb detonated anywhere along America’s coastline would do damage no less dramatic and permanent.
The second conundrum was his own government. They needed to pinpoint the boat, then move without being noticed. It would require patience, subterfuge, and utter secrecy. Any inkling that they were being watched would cause the terrorists to act preemptively.
Calibrisi had little faith in the ability of law enforcement to pull off a delicate covert mission. He had more confidence in the Navy. Greer Ambern was the in-theater commander of the Navy team. The week before, in anticipation of what might come, Ambern had moved the Navy’s newest combat vessel, the USS
Fort Worth,
into the mid-Atlantic.
But even knowing and trusting Ambern as he did, Calibrisi still felt uneasy.
Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma were met at the Haverstraw helipad by a black Suburban, which took them to a private entrance at the Carlyle Hotel. They boarded an elevator to the tenth floor, where there were two private apartments. Standing outside one of them was Igor.
Igor’s hair looked as if he’d just stuck his finger in a plug. He was barefoot and was wearing jeans. His white tank top had
AK-47
embossed in gold across his chest, and sewn beneath the lettering was a figure of the rifle in pink thread.
“Nice shirt,” said Tacoma as they stepped through the door.
“This shirt cost me eight hundred dollars,” said Igor.
“I’ll sell you mine for a hundred,” said Tacoma.
They stepped inside and followed Igor to an office. On the desk was a panel of six plasma screens, three on top, three on the bottom, all attached. The two side screens on the bottom showed aerial maps of New York harbor. Every few moments, a small red circle appeared, then shot down to a vessel, highlighting a boat. The middle screen was computer code, black text on a white screen. The three screens on top all showed people. The left was the operations room aboard the USS
Fort Worth.
The second screen was a conference room at the FBI’s New York field office. The last was the White House Situation Room. The audio was turned off.
Overnight, the president had ordered a multiple-layer approach to the management of the government’s military and law enforcement assets. The first level of coverage and preferred method of stopping the terrorists would be with snipers, managed by the FBI. The second layer would be provided by the Navy, using SEALs in SDVs beneath the water around the statue. The
Fort Worth
would also be prepared, if necessary, to fire RIM-116 missiles, or simply let loose with its 57mm cannons.
NYPD’s marine units would patrol as usual. It was important to maintain normal appearances.
“Do you want to start the call?” asked Igor.
“Not yet,” said Calibrisi, pointing at the video feeds from the harbor. “Tell us what you have. First, any police or Coast Guard reports of missing or stolen boats?”
“Nothing from Maine to Florida.”
“Tell us about the software.”
“I did as you suggested,” said Igor, nodding to the screens. “The two shots of the harbor are live. The cameras are scanning the water. What you’re seeing is, for lack of a better expression, the world’s first boat recognition software.”
“How often does it run the scan?”
“Ten times a second. When the software finds a vessel close to the dimensions of the Talaria, it locks, rescans, then runs the photo against the database.”
“Whose video are you using?” asked Katie.
“It’s actually a feed from a Google satellite. I was able to call in a favor, although the person I called it in from isn’t aware of it yet.”
“Does it work?”
“Yes, maybe a little too well. It will find the Hinckley Talaria if it comes into the harbor. The problem is, it also captures boats of the same length and width of the Talaria, and there are quite a few. It’s six
A.M
. now. The program has already cataloged thirty-one boats of the same size.”
