First Strike (46 page)

It was Katie who broke the silence, in between rushed gasps for air. She looked at Dewey in the light from her Petzl, then smiled. “You okay?” she asked.

Dewey started coughing. It became slightly uncontrollable. Finally, he stopped.

“Yeah.”

 

65

THE PIERRE HOTEL

FIFTH AVENUE

NEW YORK CITY

Back at his apartment, Igor went to work.

On his desk, five big plasma screens were spread in an arc. The largest screen, on his left, showed Carman Hall in a three-dimensional grid, with the precise architecture of the entire building. This was the “master” screen. Small holographs of the building's occupants were lit up. These digital representations of the students, parents, and terrorists were like tiny lights. Igor had created a state-of-the-art, real-time tracking tool, capable of monitoring the dormitory floor by floor, to see the individuals on each floor and to monitor their movements. With a click, Igor could zero in on a particular floor or individual, then put that magnified view up on one of the other screens, enabling him to manage the team's movements, including multiple simultaneous actions, while at the same time, through the master screen, maintaining a more holistic picture of what was going on.

The screen to Igor's far right was a tile of live video of the building from different angles. The feeds mirrored what the FBI was looking at.

The underlying technological platform Igor had built was a relational database capable of integrating multiple diagnostic inputs from various external applications. A dynamic GPS module was one of more than two dozen programs feeding into the database, which could synchronize multiple streams of information around particular individuals; an individual marked as a probable terrorist by Igor could thus be tracked, monitored, and dimensionalized by the appliance.

Igor had also figured out a creative way to hitch a ride on the dormitory's wireless network infrastructure and install a custom-built thermal-imaging scanner that worked in conjunction with the GPS, thus creating very accurate representations of the exact locations and movements of everyone inside the building.

What's more, a powerful air quality module—also run via the dorm's wireless routers—could read an assortment of chemical, electronic, and environmental emissions. Igor customized the underlying algorithm to focus in on a tighter framework of objects. By targeting microwave emissions, radio frequency waves, and non-ionizing radiation, for example, he'd been able to isolate all cell phones in the building, including those turned off. Because the terrorists had collected all cell phones and placed them in a room on the eighth floor, Igor was able to locate those few still in use.

Another flourish Igor had coded on was a simple time-elapse replay module. He was thus able to watch and replay certain events and mark the actions of specific individuals against those events.

The goal was to look at the past not in order to know what had happened; it was to know what had happened in order to mark the terrorists with confidence so that Dewey and his team could kill them.

Igor was the conductor. He watched the unfolding events in real time so as to direct Dewey and the team as they made their assault on the building.

Igor had marked all nine terrorists, including the two dead men, whose corpses lay on three and six. He also had a tracking protocol on Sullivan, who was on three. But there was a slight discrepancy.

A low beeping noise came from the computer. He double-clicked on a star-shaped icon. The view of the building shifted lower, focusing on the underground floors. Thermal images, four in all, came into sharper relief as the figures came into range. The first climber was small and thin, with a female form: Katie. She moved quickly, trailed by three larger figures.

Moving the mouse and hovering, he quickly clicked on each one, making them a bright fluorescent green and labeling each holograph with initials:
D, K, T, S.

*   *   *

Daisy held the gunman around his neck, trying to pull him down as he swung violently. People in the room were screaming. She didn't care anymore if she lived or died. A low, guttural moan came from the terrorist. Suddenly, he let go of Andy's hair. But then Daisy was being lifted—an arm on her hip, another squeezing her armpit—and she was hurled through the air. Her back slammed into the wall, and she dropped to the floor.

Daisy looked up. She felt woozy. She saw Andy. She slashed her eyes left, toward the door, signaling to Andy:
Move. Get out of the room.

The gunman had his rifle trained on Daisy's head.

A loud voice echoed down the hallway, shouting in Arabic. The gunman stared at Daisy for a little longer, then his eyes shot to Andy. He looked panicked, as if he might just kill everyone in the room. He took the rifle in both hands, moved toward Daisy, and slammed the butt into her face.

Gasps of horror mingled with sobs.

The steel struck Daisy below the eye, kicking her into the wall. Blood soon covered her face as she lay crumpled on the floor.

The terrorist ran to the door.

Andy crawled toward her, grabbing her head and cradling it. She took off her sweatshirt and pressed it against the wound.

“Is there a doctor?” Andy asked, looking around the room at the terrified faces. “Anyone?”

 

66

CARMAN HALL

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

Sirhan moved to the tenth floor. The smell had become overwhelming. That he didn't mind. The thing he did worry about was the possibility of a rebellion. If anyone in the group understood basic guerrilla tactics, they would know that even with weapons, the sheer number of students and parents gave them an advantage—if they were willing to use it. It would entail rushing against Sirhan and his men and sacrificing themselves to the bullets, but five hundred people working together could do it—and most would survive.

He found Ali standing just inside the hallway entrance.

“Move half the people to eleven,” he said. “There are too many in one place.”

“Yes, Sirhan.”

Tariq approached from the stairs.

“We're splitting the students up,” said Sirhan. “Get Omar and Mohammed up here. They will guard eleven. You and Meuse guard ten.”

Tariq nodded.

Sirhan glanced at his watch. It was nearly half past the hour.

“And throw someone out a window,” he added.

*   *   *

They moved up through the tunnel toward the basement of Carman. As the Plumber predicted, a few lights were still on—old fluorescent bulbs that somehow hadn't burnt out over the years—and they cast grainy, bluish light.

They scrambled up the steel ladders. Katie set a blistering pace. Dewey panted hard, still coughing water. His legs and arms burned. To distract himself from the pain, he again counted rungs on the ladder. By the time Katie stopped climbing and signaled with her hand that she was at the top, Dewey had counted out 296 rungs.

Katie aimed her headlamp at the steel plate above.

“You guys ready?”

“Hold on,” said Dewey. He removed a small airtight canister from a side pocket and put his earbud in his left ear. He tapped his ear several times. The others followed suit. Katie had an extra bud, which she handed to Smith.

“Igor,” said Dewey.

“I'm here,” came Igor's voice. “I need a COMMS check.”

“Commo one,” said Katie.

“Two,” said Tacoma.

Katie looked down the tunnel at Smith, pointing to her ear, instructing him how to trigger the device.

“Smith,” he said.

“You're all coming through loud and clear,” said Igor. “You're in the building. Katie is just below the entrance to the subbasement. Rob is next, then Damon. Then you.”

“Give us the lay of the land,” said Dewey.

“We have three-dimensional, real-time multilateral views of the interior of the building. Katie, push up the plate. There's nobody in the room or, for that matter, within two floors. You're safe.”

Katie pushed open the plate and climbed into the room, followed quickly by Tacoma, Smith, and Dewey. The room was cavernous, dimly lit, and loud—a utility room, with several large boilers on one side and a mess of pipes crossing the other.

They set down the duffels and unzipped them. Dewey nodded to Tacoma, pointing to the duffels, indicating he wanted him to get the four geared up as soon as possible.

“I've isolated the terrorists,” said Igor.

“Are the students still on the tenth floor?”

“Yes.”

“What about the terrorists?” asked Dewey.

“They're spread out. A few roam between floors. Right now, I have one on six, one on seven, one on nine, three on ten, one on twelve.”

“Are they still throwing people out of the building?”

“Every hour.”

Dewey swallowed, momentarily silent. In the dim light, he glanced at Katie.

“Have they…”

“There have only been two females,” said Igor, anticipating Dewey's question. “One was Middle Eastern, the other was Japanese or Korean.”

Dewey felt guilty for even asking, and even guiltier for the peace of mind that washed over him when he realized Daisy was still alive.

“What is the news saying?” asked Dewey. “Are we negotiating?”

“They don't know. They're speculating that some sort of negotiation is going on, but they don't know.”

“
We
need to know,” said Katie.

“I know someone who will know,” said Dewey. “Igor, patch in the following number.”

Dewey read off Dellenbaugh's cell number.

“Will do. Hold on.”

A few seconds later, Dellenbaugh's calm, deep voice came over commo.

“Hi, Dewey.”

“Mr. President,” said Dewey, “we're inside the building and preparing to move. I'm on commo with a few other people. Before we go in, can you give us a status on what's happening? Are we negotiating?”

“Yes, but it's going nowhere. We're trying to get them to stop the killing before we'll discuss terms. It's not working. They won't stop throwing people until the shipment arrives.”

“What's the ask?”

“ISIS gets the weapons, the students go free. The problem is, those weapons will kill a lot more than five hundred Americans if the shipment is delivered. The bigger problem is that Nazir is a pathological liar. Doing any deal requires him to keep his word. If these guys are suicide bombers, they'll wait for the shipment to arrive, then blow up themselves and the building.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck.”

Dewey tapped his ear. He looked at Smith.

“Should we check in with your guys?”

“Good idea. Igor, can you patch me into McNaughton?”

“Sure.”

A few moments later, Dave McNaughton from the FBI came on.

Smith tapped his ear. “Hey, it's me.”

“Are you in?”

“Yes. You're on a party line. We made it into the basement and are getting ready to move. Is there anything we need to know?”

“We managed to place a jamming device up high,” said McNaughton. “It was Robbins. They shot him, but he managed to set it before that.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Smith.

Dewey spoke up. “Getting that jammer up high was critical. Their interoperability is now shut off, not to mention being able to communicate with Nazir.”

“I think now is the time to start pre-positioning for the different scenarios our assault is going to create,” said Smith. “Hopefully, we're successful, but you'll need munitions people before you can even get to anyone upstairs. After that, it's medical.”

“Already on it,” said McNaughton.

“I figured,” said Smith. “Now, if we aren't successful, it's because of one of two things. Either they stopped us and held the building, in which case I believe you'll have to look at one of your assault scenarios. I'm not sure which one, but getting half these kids out of there is better than none. If somehow they manage to detonate all or part of the building, well, we don't need to talk about that one. You know what to do.”

“It won't be that one,” said McNaughton. “Good luck in there.”

Tacoma stood up. On the floor was a neatly lined-up array of submachine guns, handguns, and a variety of more firearms, as well as knives and piles of mags.

“We need to move right now,” he said.

*   *   *

Tariq entered the tenth floor and fired an unmuted shot into the wall. Except for a few grief-filled moans and cries, the gunfire no longer caused the pandemonium it once had.

“Everyone on the right side of the dorm,” he barked, “up to eleven. Now!”

He looked into a room on his right, realizing that, depending on which direction he was walking, either side could be the right-hand side of the building.

“That's everyone in here!” he shouted, firing a round into the ceiling.

“What about those of us in the window?” asked someone who was shielding the room from snipers.

Tariq suddenly remembered: Sirhan had told him to push another one out. He was quietly grateful to the student who reminded him.

“Good question.” Tariq moved behind the boy who had asked the question, pumping a round next to his head, which shattered the glass. “If you're in the window, remain standing in the window.”

Tariq pushed the boy out. He tumbled forward, screaming as he fell.

Two students were running toward him. Both were male. One was tall, with long, curly blond hair. The other was shorter and stockier.

Tariq triggered the gun just as they leapt, aiming at the short boy, who was closer, at the same time lurching to his right, away from the tall one, whom he knew he would not have time to hit. Then a set of arms grabbed him from behind, just as his first shots ripped the short student's chest and sent him spiraling to the floor amid screaming and confusion.