First Strike (29 page)

“Have you modeled casualty counts?”

“Temba, it's five minutes old. It'll be high either way.”

“What are chances for success?” asked Maqubela.

“We haven't even started the regression analysis. Again—”

“I know, I know, it's five minutes old.”

“What do you think?” asked Blaisdell.

“We need to hold off,” said Maqubela. “Don't fire until you're sure the guns are not aimed at your own head, as my father used to say to me.”

“You guys are the ones preaching preemptivity.”

“I know,” said Maqubela, “but this feels different. We have a badly security-graphed structure, a large group of students, and unknown variables. This isn't an active shooter. I would worry about the ground assault. If we go hard with overwhelming force this early, they might simply blow up the whole building. I'm against doing anything other than getting a lot of snipers up there until we know a little more.”

“Are you guys taking over?”

“Good question,” said Maqubela. “Hold on.”

Kaan looked at Blaisdell as they waited for Maqubela to get back on the line. They wanted to hold onto jurisdiction, but both men knew the Feds were about to take it. There was no question: it was a terrorist event. At the end of the day, it didn't matter much who had jurisdiction as far as they were concerned. It didn't mean they wouldn't be involved. They would do whatever was asked of them, by whoever asked.

The phone beeped as Maqubela came on the line.

“Hey, guys, sorry. Yeah, it's ours. We still need you. Doesn't change a thing. I'll get you the paperwork. In the meantime we've already assigned Damon Smith to it. He's en route from Quantico.”

“Got it,” said Kaan. “We'll get the baseline established up there.”

“Sounds good.”

The door to the Situation Center opened. A tall, attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair entered the room. She was wearing black pants, high heels, a white blouse, and a red blazer. It was the commissioner of the NYPD, Judith Talkiewicz, trailed by several staff members.

Talkiewicz made a beeline for Blaisdell and Kaan. She stood at the head of the table, a stern, pissed-off look on her face.

“I want those choppers in the air right now,” said Talkiewicz. “It'll take the goddam FBI two weeks to figure out what to do and I want to move now. Until the paper arrives, jurisdiction is still NYPD. Get them flying.”

 

39

OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The Oval Office was eerily quiet. Those who remained—Polk, Brubaker, Kratovil, Mason, and several other officials—were speechless. Many exchanged glances.

“Should we take a five-minute break?” asked Josh Brubaker, the national security advisor. “I think I need to take a break, if that's okay.”

All eyes looked to Polk, Calibrisi's longtime deputy and closest confidant. It was an awkward situation. The Nazir call required thought and discussion. Perhaps even action. Yet the head of the CIA had just suffered a massive coronary. It was a moment that America's leaders must sometimes face, a moment out of view of most citizens, when the larger challenges of a violent, enemy-filled world are visited by mortal pain—by loss on a personal level, death not to faceless soldiers overseas but to individuals they know. Both hurt, but seeing Calibrisi down cut them all. They all knew they needed to go on. America needed them to go on. But they had shared a glimpse of mortality and fate, and it was a hard moment.

“Good idea,” said Polk, standing up from the sofa. “By the way, he's going to be fine.”

As Brubaker stood up, his eyes were drawn to the carpet near the president's desk. Lying on the ground was a cell phone. He picked it up. A red light indicated that whatever conversation had been going on was still live.

Was it Calibrisi's phone?

Brubaker couldn't remember if Calibrisi had been talking on the phone before he collapsed. It was all a blur.

“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

“Yes.”

It was a soft female voice. She sounded like she was crying.

“This is Josh Brubaker,” he said. “Is this … are you … were you talking with Hector Calibrisi?”

“Hector is my dad. Where is he? He just stopped talking. Is everything okay?”

Brubaker didn't know what to say. Suddenly, over the phone, he heard several gunshots in the background. A cold chill struck Brubaker in his spine and swept over him.

“
My God,
what was that?” he asked.

“My father didn't tell you?
Where is he?
Please tell me.”

“He … wasn't feeling good.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, yes, he's fine. But what is that? Was that gunfire?”

“I'm in a dorm at Columbia University. We're being attacked by terrorists! I think they're taking over the dorm.”

“
What?
” Brubaker asked, incredulous.

More gunshots. A girl screaming. Calibrisi's daughter was sobbing into the phone.

“Listen, it's going to be okay,” Brubaker said in a soothing voice. With his free hand, he snapped his fingers, getting Polk's attention. Dellenbaugh, returning from the South Lawn, appeared at the door. Brubaker held up his finger, letting Dellenbaugh and Polk know that something was going on. “I'm Josh Brubaker. What's your name?”

“Daisy.”

“That's a nice name, Daisy. Forgive me, I didn't know Hector had a daughter at Columbia.”

“I'm not a student. I was bringing my Little Sister here. She's a freshman.”

“I was a Big Brother where I grew up, in Chicago,” said Brubaker. “Now tell me what's happening.”

“Terrorists,” she sobbed. “I counted eight. They're shooting everyone. We're trapped in a dorm.”

“Daisy, hold on for one second, will you?”

Brubaker covered the phone and looked at Polk, then Dellenbaugh, then the others, all of whom were waiting for him to explain what was going on.

“It's Hector's daughter,” said Brubaker. “She's at Columbia University. She says they're under attack. Terrorists are taking over the dorm. I heard gunfire.”

“ISIS,” said Dellenbaugh. He looked at Kratovil. “George, get some people up there.”

“Whatever you do, Josh,” said Polk, stepping closer to Brubaker, “do
not
tell Daisy about her dad. Not right now. Not yet.”

“What
do
I tell her?”

“Tell her to remain strong and do what they say.”

Just then, the FBI director's phone made a loud beeping noise. A moment later, the Homeland Security chief's did as well. Soon it seemed every phone in the Oval Office was ringing.

Brubaker took his hand off the phone.

“Daisy, we're all over this. We're moving people to Columbia as we speak. FBI, New York Police, everything we have. We're going to get you and everyone else out of there. But I need you to do something for me.”

Daisy didn't answer. All he could hear was her sobbing.

“Daisy?”

“Yeah.”

“I need you to remain strong. Can you do that?”

“He had another heart attack, didn't he?” whispered Daisy in between sobs.

Brubaker glanced at Polk, who was on his phone.

“Yes, he did. But he's going to be fine. He's at the hospital.”

“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Brubaker. In a strange way, I feel better.”

“You do?”

“When he wakes up, if he wakes up, he's going to need me. I'll stay strong. I'll stay more than strong. For my dad.”

 

40

ALEPPO, SYRIA

Dewey removed the unconscious gunman's ski mask and pulled it over his own head. Then he stood up, placed his foot on the man's chin, and stomped down, snapping his neck. He took the terrorist's .45 and stuck it between his belt and back.

He remembered the words from training:
When the shadows are gone, when the night has turned to day, when all around you is the enemy, you must hide in plain sight.

Dewey moved into the corridor, now crowded with gunmen, all looking for him. Doors were kicked in as soldiers searched. Shouting in Arabic added to the sense of bedlam and confusion.

Dewey counted six men, none of them Garotin. Like him, all had on black T-shirts and black face masks.

Dewey followed the line of gunmen, keeping the rifle trained out in front of him. He went past them, taking his turn at the next room in the line, kicking in a hospital-room door, staring for a few moments at a pair of men strapped to beds. Both had light skin; they looked French. Dewey pretended to scan the room, then left.

Dewey was last in line when the group reached the stairs at the end of the corridor. He followed the men to the door, then held back for a brief moment. By the time he entered the windowless stairwell, he heard footsteps below and followed. From a half flight up, he watched as the last of the gunmen stepped through the door onto the fourth floor.

Dewey charged down the empty stairwell, leaping three steps at a time. Every second mattered now. Every moment was a lifetime.

At the first floor, he glanced through a small window in the door. The place was in a state of pandemonium. In the middle of the floor he saw Garotin. He appeared calm, standing with his elbow on top of the nurses' station, leaning over and studying a laptop computer. Garotin was distracted. There were bigger fish to fry—or else his men had yet to tell him of Dewey's escape.

Suddenly, Garotin looked up. His face had a look of urgency, then he started yelling.

Dewey charged down the stairs to the basement, assuming Garotin was yelling about his escape. But his ears caught the high-pitched buzz of a missile—the noise Garotin had heard a second before. Then an explosion rocked the ground. He was thrown forward, down the stairs, landing on his arm, rolling and slamming into the wall. The missile took out the stairwell lights. Silence came, followed by shouting and a few muted screams.

It was a Hellfire or Tomahawk or something Russian, if he had to guess. A direct hit somewhere up above him, at the other end of the building.

Move. Get up.

The opportunity for escape was
now.

Dewey got to his feet. He continued down the pitch-black stairs, navigating with his hands, feeling the concrete walls. He came to a door and opened it.

Another corridor. Ambient light came from somewhere. The corridor was dank and gray. His eyes adjusted as he skulked down the hallway. Suddenly, he spied three bodies on the floor. There were two terrorists, both lying awkwardly after being thrown by the explosion. Next to them was a corpse.

Dewey aimed the rifle down as he moved toward the men. One was trying to get up. He noticed Dewey and said something in Arabic. Dewey fired, striking him in the head. He swept the rifle to the right and fired again, placing a slug in the second terrorist's chest.

In the shadowy light, he followed a trail of blood leading down the corridor to a pair of swinging doors. Dewey went through. It was a large storage room. Wooden pallets were lined up in rows, with boxes of medical supplies stacked high. At the far side of the room, the ceiling was freshly collapsed. Dust from the rubble created a cloud. He heard voices and pained moaning drifting down from above.

He moved quickly through the large room toward the light. Past the stacks of boxes were loading docks. Parked at the first loading dock, backed up to the large opening, was a flatbed semitruck. A cold, nauseating feeling came over Dewey as he stared at corpses, dozens of them, thrown haphazardly onto the truck and piled so high he could make out only the top foot of the truck's cab.

Dewey retraced his steps. He searched the pockets of one of the men in the hallway and found a pistol and a pack of cigarettes. He took the pistol. The other man had a cell phone and the keys to the truck. He grabbed both.

Dewey picked up the corpse they'd been lugging. He dragged it down the hall and through the storage room. Through another loading dock he could see a black-clad soldier standing in the parking lot. He was pointing up at the hospital and speaking to someone. He noticed Dewey but said nothing. The missile strike had created a world of confusion. Whatever search had been going on for the escaped American was superseded by the disaster.

Dewey threw the dead man onto the stack of corpses. He jumped down from the loading dock and moved to the front of the flatbed trailer, releasing the fifth-wheel locking handle, which cradled the trailer's kingpin and kept it attached to the cab of the truck. He lifted the ends of a pair of chains connecting the trailer and cab, letting them drop to the ground. Dewey climbed into the cab of the semi and started the engine. He released the air brakes, put the truck in gear, and drove forward. When he felt the air and electrical lines holding the trailer to the cab, he stomped down on the gas, ripping away from the flatbed. He glanced right just as the trailer slammed to the tar, collapsing onto its front. The guard in the lot looked over. Dewey raised his gun and fired before the man could react. The slug tore the top of his head off.

Dewey maneuvered the cab through a badly damaged parking lot, watching to see if anyone was following, seeing no one. At the edge of the parking lot, a gunman came running toward him. Dewey pulled the pistol from his back and clutched it as the man charged, motioning with his hand as he gave Dewey an order in Arabic, no doubt telling him to return to the hospital.

In the side mirror, Dewey eyed the hospital. The missile had struck the side of the building, causing a massive gash in the concrete. Other than a few steel beams that stood in the free air, one entire end of the hospital was destroyed. Thick smoke and dust rose in a steady cloud from the crater.

The gunman moved in front of the truck, raising his hand to stop it. As Dewey came closer, he suddenly accelerated. A scream preceded the sound of the truck slamming into the terrorist, followed by a noticeable bump as the front tires squashed him like roadkill.