The Hammer of God (31 page)

One of the FBI agents assigned to Penn made a chilling observation. The subject appeared to have radiation burns on his face and hands. This was confirmed when the subject passed within 10 feet of one of the radiation monitors and it reported, to the secure room deep within the station, that a low-level exposure had taken place. Two plainclothes officers, one dressed as a homeless person, the other as a Knicks fan, came up on either side of the target. They timed their approach just as the target was passing by a trashcan. In an instant, they grabbed him and, in one smooth move, wrestled the case away by breaking his wrist as he was going down. Then, like an NBA star, the “homeless guy” slam-dunked the case into the can. Fifty cops suddenly came out of nowhere, screaming for everyone to get away. The two plainclothes cops hustled the target out of the concourse.

From the side of the concourse, a forklift-type machine rolled out and towards the trashcan. The Kevlar and composite resin receptacles lined with blast absorbing bubble wrap like insulation, were located throughout the station and specially designed to direct a blast upward, not outward, to minimize collateral damage if a traditional bomb were planted in one, or, as in this case, placed there by police to limit damage. The forklift carried a two-ton cover cylinder of the same material as the can. It slid the cover over the can, sealing it under 4,000 lbs of weight. For good measure, the cop driving the lift pressed the forks down on the top, adding the weight of the machine to the downward force. In all, 32 seconds elapsed between the takedown of the target and the securing of the canister. Unfortunately, it took the rumors less than half that time to spread to the street.

CNN, being right upstairs and across the street from Penn Station, had the first scoop. Then it took all of three minutes and the word was out – worldwide.
Dirty bomb at Penn Station.
Every news organization was heading towards 34th Street and 7th Avenue, including at least 14 additional news copters who were not covering the Broadway theater hostage drama.

∞§∞

“Let me know if he talks.” Bill slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Bridgestone. “They're waiting for a robot x-ray of the bomb containment vessel to see what they're dealing with. Rashid ain't talking yet.”

“Whose got ‘em?”

“FBI AIC.”

“Too bad. The agent will have to play by the book.”

“
She'll
have to. The Agent-in-Charge is Brooke Burrell. Joey is heading to Headquarters. But you just gave me an idea.”

Bill reopened his phone and pressed a speed dial key. “Get me the President.”

∞§∞

Number 1 had just heard of the events at Penn.

Number 2 was concerned. “If it didn't go off, are we still going ahead?”

“Yes. Half of the news establishment is already at the theater. No detonation means there will be more reporters there, waiting for something to blow up so they can catch it on film. Yes, the threat of the bomb works better for us than the bomb itself! Let's go! Number 10 should be in position for transfer in five minutes.”

∞§∞

“Roger that.”

Agent Burrell couldn't believe her ears, but she trusted Joe and knew Bill. She hung up her phone, ordered all of the other agents out of the room, and told them to guard the door.

Rashid protested. “No woman. Only man! No woman!”

Brooke turned to a shackled Rashid. “Because women don't have balls, Rashid? They are beneath you because they don't have testicles? Well, we can fix that. That call was bad news, Rashid. The President of the United States just gave me permission to remove each one of your balls slowly and feed them to you.” She opened a knife that no self-respecting agent, let alone a woman, should carry. “So, soon we'll be equals.”

Rashid stiffened.

∞§∞

Agent Warner turned immediately upon the first screams that echoed through the theater and instinctively grabbed Janice and headed for the exit. She was his primary concern due to her security clearance. Unfortunately, he was not responsible for the elder Hiccocks. Janice protested, but he overwhelmed her and got as far as the lower stage-right exit doors. They opened as two men, in long overcoats and brandishing machine guns appeared. Warner pushed Janice safely out of the line of fire and tapped two perfect kills in the foreheads of each intruder. As he reached down for Janice, she saw his chest explode as a fusillade of bullets ripped him from behind. He fell and didn't move.

Number 4 grabbed Janice. “Your in-laws are dead unless you do everything we say.”

Janice was in shock, yet she noticed men in long coats placing sacks in doorways and stringing wires. Others were herding people at the back of the theater. The Hiccocks were being corralled up the aisle. To her, it was all like a dream in slow motion.

“Where is your husband?”

“He's not here. Why are you doing this?”

He slapped her. “Shut up. No questions.” He then yelled to two others, “Find him. Try the lavatories.”

∞§∞

“Hey pal, can I use the can?”

“Yes, it's by the white truck,” Sammy said to Hiccock who hastened his step in the manner of a man responding to nature's call.

Bridgestone remained and chatted up the caterer. “Egyptian?”

“Yes. Been in America for 12 years now.”

“Good business?”

“I have three trucks and do over 500 meals a day.”

“It smells good.”

“Try this.” Sammy tore off a piece of flatbread and dragged it through some baba ghanoush. He handed this to Bridgestone with a napkin under it.

“Mmmmm, that's really good. Cumin?”

“Yes, and paprika and dill.”

“That's really tasty. I can see why you are successful. What's going on here today?”

“First day of an Iranian film. They are shooting all the exteriors here in New York. Then they'll go back to Teheran and shoot the interiors. They should be here for a month. That's why the Halaal food.”

“Who's the producer?”

“Rashani. Biggest producer in Iran.”

“Which one is he?”

“Over there in the brown jacket by the helicopter.”

Bridgestone looked and something clicked. Bill came over feigning relief, “Thanks, man. What are you guys shooting here?”

“He already told me. It's an Iranian film. Being made by that guy there, Rashani.” Bridgestone turned back to the caterer. “Mind if we watch for a minute or two?”

“It's fine by me. If the A.D.s hassle you, just tell them you are with me, Sammy. Here take my card. I also do weddings, bar mitzvahs, graduations….”

Bridgestone turned and concealed a laugh.
Bar mitzvahs.

“That's not Rashani,” Bridgestone said to Hiccock as they walked towards the set.

“No, its Jahim El Benhan, Alzir's brother. His name was Dr. Brodenchy before he converted. He's a nuclear scientist, or was.”

“No clicks from my counter. The bomb is not here.”

They both watched as the “producer” boarded the helicopter. One of the A.D.s announced, “This is a camera rehearsal! Everybody clear the copter.”

The blades turned and picked up speed.

“What do we do?”

Bridgestone grabbed a kid carrying a film magazine from one of the trucks. “What are they doing right now?”

“They're doing a test to see how the blades look on camera. If they go too fast we won't see them.”

“So they're not taking off?”

“That thing? Nah, it don't fly, it's a prop. The action in this shot takes place after it has landed. The second unit will shoot a real helicopter landing from the air tomorrow.”

Then, to everyone's surprise, the copter lifted off, tilted, and headed for Manhattan.

“Come on,” Bill said to Bridgestone. Bill ran to the cop car that was driven here by the now dead cops, got in, and drove over to Bridgestone's car. “Throw your shit in here. This will get us through.”

The cop car fishtailed out of the parking lot and shuddered as Hiccock floored the accelerator up the ramp to the Whitestone Expressway. “Bridge, find the lights and sirens.”

From the driver's side, Bill kept one eye on the copter, the other on the road. He took the BQE and jumped off at the LIE. Bridgestone was locked on the copter with his binoculars as they reached the peak of the rise of roadway right before the tunnel entrance. Hiccock took the exit for Van Dam Street in order to take the bridge rather than losing the visual as they went through the tunnel. They lost sight of the copter for a moment as they navigated the streets of this industrial part of Long Island City. Their red lights and sirens cleared the way for them to reach the bridge in record time. From the upper roadway, they re-acquired the copter as it hovered over a building on the edge of the river north of the bridge.

“What's he doing?” Bill asked as he swerved through one of the separators to take the single outside lane. “Looks like he's going to land on that white building.

“That's a hospital. It's an air med-evac landing pad.”

“Holy shit!”

“What?”

“There's a flock of helicopters over that way and another over there!”

Bill looked left and saw what looked like a swarm of 20 or so helicopters circling and hovering over a part of midtown. To the right were another 15 or so. He flipped on the police radio. “Why didn't I think of turning this on before?”

There was a non-stop chain of radio reports and squelching. “Something big must have happened,” Bridgestone said. “They are stepping all over their communications.”

Through all the static and partial sentences, they gleaned that something was happening at Penn Station. A momentary clear allowed the words “NEST team” to jut out of the radio traffic. Both men instinctively knew the acronym: Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Bill then thought he heard “47th and 8th hostage situation.” But it was quickly stepped on.

∞§∞

Joey Palumbo didn't wait to confirm the information before him. He dialed up Bill's cell. “Bill, Teva Radiological out of Israel had a Palestinian driver who met B&R's truck driver in the desert. He loaded the suitcase nuke into a nuclear MRI machine in a container. Like you thought, the machine was delivered before we clamped down, so they just inspected the container and verified a hot machine inside and then with a police escort passed all our detectors to …”

“NYU Medical Center. I got it!”

Joey was speechless. Bill had hung up as Joey said, “How did you…”

∞§∞

The laundry hamper bumped and rumbled across the roof despite the efforts of the orderly not to disturb the case cushioned atop 10 dirty pillows and made snug by rolled-up heavy blankets on all sides. Once he landed, Number 1 ran to help him, ordering, “Lift; take the weight off the wheels to lessen the bumps.”

Near the aircraft, they lifted the case, kicked over the hamper, and rested it on the hamper's side. Number 1 opened the case and methodically armed each part of the firing circuits in the exact sequence. The Russian legends and Cyrillic markings on the bomb, long since translated in his head, posed no challenge. Then he removed a lead separator, which kept the volatile nuclear isotopes relatively safe during transit. He dialed a timer to five minutes. Satisfied that this was done, he pulled a pin from a switch guard. There was no longer a physical obstruction in the way of the switch handle's path.

“For Allah, for my people, for my father and my sisters, and with my brother moving my hand, let the
Caliphate
begin.”

He threw the last switch.

∞§∞

“The Ambassador to the U.N., her staff, Undersecretary of Commerce, and SCIAD.” The head of the Secret Service read off the short list of administration assets in New York City to the President and his COS.

“Are they all safe and in secure environments?” The Chief of Staff asked.

The Ambassador is at the U.N. and has her detail. The Under Sec is now at the Fed Dep and secure. Quarterback, er, SCIAD and Mrs. Hiccock are presently unaccounted for.”

“What does Bill's detail report?”

“Well, sir, I am sorry to say that Mr. Hiccock left the hotel without notifying his detail.”

“He's a science nerd and he gave your top-notch agents the slip?”

“With all due respect, my men were essentially escorting him. We had no threats, no actionable intelligence. As you know, the weakest link in any protection plan is the protectee. If they don't play ball, short of physical restraint, there isn't much we can do. Unless the President orders us to close-cover the protectee as a national asset, then we remove the possibility of them exercising any discretion on the level of protection.”

The COS waved him off. “Okay, okay. Don't quote me the manual chapter and verse.”

“What about Mrs. Hiccock? I personally ordered protection for her. Can't we find her by calling them?”

“There's been some sort of hostage scenario occurring in New York. We're getting more intel now, but even the NYPD doesn't have a clear picture yet.”

“First the radiological bomb in the station and now a hostage taking? What's the FBI think?” the President asked.

“They're just getting this also. We're talking the last 30 seconds, sir.”

“Find the Hiccocks. I want quarter-hours on this. You brief me, Bob.”

∞§∞

They were going up First Avenue when Bill's cell rang. “Agent Burell, have you found out anything?”

Bridgestone tried to glean the gist of the call.

“And you are pretty certain that this is golden? Okay, thanks and sorry you had to do that.” Bill ended the phone call.

“What are we dealing with, Mr. Hiccock?”

“Agent Burrell learned that they do have the nuke and are planning on an airburst over midtown from the copter. You were right; the hospital was the cover for the radiological signature.”

“How did the lady come to this knowledge?”

“She had to cut him a few times and threaten to take away his ability to procreate, but he ain't dead.”

“We should buy her a drink if we survive this afternoon.”

∞§∞

The Chief of Staff hurriedly entered the room. “Mr. President, Bill Hiccock on the line.”

“Bill, where are you?”

Bill's voice filled the room from the speakerphone. “I'm in midtown Manhattan. Bridgestone and I are in hot pursuit of a news helicopter that may be the delivery method of the suitcase nuke.”

“Another suitcase nuke? What makes you think that, Bill?”

“Could be the same one, sir. Dr. Quan Li confirmed the Persian Gulf spike was weaker than the refinery spike. The attack on our ship was intended to fail and appear like we sunk the suitcase nuke as well. It was just a low-level radiological device. Everything, including the seemingly premature announcement taking credit, was all deception. Thanks to your order covering her, Agent Burrell has derived intelligence to support that they have the loose nuke in the city and are planning an airburst.”

“Airburst? How can they pull off an airburst?”

“Bridgestone's trail led to a movie company that rigged up a copter and we've just observed it landing at a hospital in Manhattan. They could be transferring the nuke now, sir.”

“What do you need, Bill?”

“Opinions, sir. Do we shoot it down or do something else? I'm afraid we may only have a few minutes, if that much.”

“Got it. Bill. I'm switching you to the Sitch Room. Ray and I will hustle down. Meanwhile, our military guys and nuke experts are there. Start without me.”

The President put the phone on hold.

Ray picked up the other phone and ordered the call directed to the Situation Room, nine floors below. When he hung up, he asked the President, “Why did you choose not to tell him that his wife might be involved in the hostage scenario?”

“Do we know that for sure? He's the point man for this administration in what, God forbid, could turn out to be the greatest mass murder in history. I need him focused on saving millions. If we find out that she is in danger, we'll tell him what we know, but not rumors.”

“Yes, sir. One last thing, sir.”

“Yes.”

“We don't know if the station bomb isn't a failed suitcase device. It may blow. I recommend you prepare for that possibility.”

“How do you prepare for something like that?”

“Prayer?” Ray Reynolds said as he went off to put his staff and their minions on alert.

The President sat for a moment, the enormity of what could be going on settling in his mind. He looked at the picture of his daughter, Marie, on his desk. That nuke was still out there… the one they knew of. There could be more. He reached into his drawer and retrieved a folder. The breaking of the band that sealed the folder revealed in red letters across the face “Jesus Factor.” Mitchell spent the next three minutes uninterrupted as he read what only one of his predecessors had even seen.

On the 69th parallel, in the Aleutian Islands, there was a DEW line early tracking station. In its four-foot, concrete-walled installation was a circa 1969 IBM Systems 360 – 65 computer. It was hooked up to two radio-telescope dishes located out on the frozen tundra. Their sole purpose was to track to within a meter the true distance to the sun from the Earth at every second of the day for every day in the 35 years since it went online. Two Air Force techs at the Defense Early Warning facility checked on it every eight hours. They didn't know why or for what reason they did this. The computer was hooked up to NORAD. There, at the North American Aerospace Defense Command, was a single unmanned console. The commander of the watch had sealed orders on how to operate the console if a call from the President ever came.

There was no need to authenticate the voice on the other end. The watch commander knew that this was the President's personal line to NORAD.

“Yes sir,” he said crisply as he answered a phone that hadn't rung since the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962.

“Commander of the watch, this is the Commander in Chief. Under National Command Authority, rule 10, I hereby authorize you to go to console 20-01 and place in these coordinates.” Mitchell was reading from a hand-typed sheet within the folder. He then scanned a map and found America in quadrant A1. “A1. Repeat, Alpha 1.”

“Copy and confirm coordinates. Alpha One, sir.”

“Confirmed, watch commander.”

The 42-year old colonel on watch broke the seal that held the plastic case over the old teletype-styled keyboard that was older than him. He opened his sealed orders, which still held the old name for NORAD, North American Air Defense Command, and followed directions.

In green dotted type on the round Multipurpose CRT in front of him was the simple computer query “Sector?: ___” He typed in A then 1. The keyboard actually clunked with each depression. A second later, a new line emerged. It simply read, “Fair to 16:00 EST Rain From 16:01 to 4:32 EST.”

He then dutifully read the “weather report” to the Commander in Chief.

The President wrote the information on his pad. He then called in his Nat Sec Advisor and formally initiated Archangel, a comprehensive, interagency directive that effectively put all the assets of government on what the military would call Def Con 1. Archangel specifically did not call for the military to change its defense condition. Against a domestic terrorism event, the military had little usefulness other than their traditional disaster roles. Archangel put the government on alert and put first responders on highest priority. It also authorized the release of N, B, and C countermeasures to be disseminated below the supervisory levels of federal and local response agencies in order to react more quickly to nuclear, biological, or chemical attacks in major urban areas. Archangel gave the government a prayer of a chance to stop or at least respond quickly enough to save some human life.

As he looked up at the TV in the Oval Office, he saw what millions of Americans were watching: the round edifice of Madison Square Garden rotating under the lens of the news helicopter circling above the Penn Station/Madison Square Garden complex, the thousands of flashing lights surrounding the Garden, and the thousands of flashing lights when the news channels cut to the other big story, the theater hostages.

It suddenly hit him. They created these preliminary events to get all of our first responders in one place, under the nuke. This would allow them to wipe out the city's essential services in one kiloton of fire and destruction.

He taped the folder as he murmured to himself, “God, don't let Hiccock be too late.”

∞§∞

Peter entered Kronos' OEOB “office,” which looked like a broom closet––which it had been since the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, nee Old Executive Office Building, was built adjacent the West Wing in 1877. In this case, though, the broom closet was stuffed with computers, racks, and plasma displays.

“Kronos, how are you man?” Peter said.

“I'm cool. What'cha got?”

“Do you have my copy of the book here?”

“Better than that; it's already scanned and searchable. All the formulas are inputted into our seven Crays across the SCIAD network.”

Peter handed him a memory stick. “Here's what was in Ensiling's Viennese safety deposit box. It's a modifier to the aspect spectrum formulas.”

As he spoke, Kronos called up those formula fragments.

“Now here's the tricky part. We have to move from eight-bit depth to 24-bit in order to achieve the same accuracy as…” Peter was speaking slowly so that he could impress the enormity of the task on Kronos.