Hard Road (42 page)

“You want us to out the power?” the chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said.

“Absolutely, sir.”

“There will be no air conditioning, everyone will be in darkness, is that what you're saying?”

“Sir, with respect, it's a risk and not something I take lightly. But we are looking at a bio-terrorist attack in the offing. Their killing of two FBI Special Agents and members of the public means we can't just sit back and react to the situation as it develops. We have to do everything in our power to stop this train reaching its target destination. We pull the power, the train will be unable to move. We will have confined the threat, and we can focus on taking down those responsible inside the train.”

Professor Horowitz appeared on another screen from New York, still dealing with the first incident. “Can I say something?”

The chairman nodded. “Go right ahead.”

“Assistant Director Meyerstein's analysis is sound. We need to stop this train from getting into the tunnel and to the Pentagon Metro where I believe they will release their bio-material. And the consequences will be devastating, until we find an antidote and have the vaccine.”

The chairman stared out of the huge plasma screen and said nothing.

“Sir, we're wasting valuable time. We need to do this. We haven't got the luxury to debate this at length.”

“You'll need to run this past Homeland Security.”

“Sir, we need a decision right now!”

“I said, run it past Homeland Security.”

Meyerstein wanted to curse him for his timidity, but instead she let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course, sir. If you give the go ahead, I can speak to them in a matter of seconds.”

A long silence opened up as he considered his options.

Meyerstein glanced at the clock, the seconds ticking by. She glanced at the
real-time
feed from the Metro carriage. It showed hysterical passengers at the rear of the train, jolting violently as the terrorists tried to get the train moving again. “Sir, they are trying to get the train into gear as we speak. Now this is not something that we should drag our heels on. This is not time for a discussion. I need a decision.”

The chairman sighed. “Do you think this will work?”

“It'll have to.”

“Then do what you have to do.”

The seconds ticked by on the SIOC Command Center clocks showing the time in the major cities around the world, as Meyerstein was put straight through to Sarah Harper, Under Secretary at the Department of Homeland Security's National Protection and Programs Directorate. Meyerstein skipped the pleasantries and went straight to what she needed.

Harper sounded officious. “I'm in charge of the Office of Infrastructure Protection. We're supposed to reduce the risk to our critical infrastructures and key resources during any acts of terrorism. Isn't that exactly the opposite of what you're asking me to do?”

Meyerstein felt her blood pressure hike up a notch as she watched the train's CCTV. “Listen, I don't want to hear your bullshit. We need to shut down a small segment of DC and we need to do it now. If we don't, we'll all be plunged into darkness if this attack is successful.”

“You can't seriously expect me to–”

“Listen to me, this is not the time for a lengthy discussion. Here's the choice. You either make that decision right now or I'll be on the phone to the Secretary of Homeland Security, your boss, who reports direct to the President, demanding to know why you are obstructing this critical request.”

A beat. “Are you threatening me?”

“You're damn right I am. Either you speak to Pepco and pull the plug on the Pentagon City Metro or I'll drag your bony ass out of there and do it myself.”

She let out a long sigh. “OK, leave it with me.”

“I didn't ask to leave it with you. You do this now, or you'll be facing Federal charges, do you understand?”

“I'll do it right now.”

Then she hung up.

Meyerstein slammed down the phone on the desk and began to pace the operations room. She adjusted her headset, needing direct contact with Reznick in this critical phase. A few moments later a phone rang and Stamper picked it up. He nodded then hung up.

“Ten seconds to blackout.”

Meyerstein turned and stared up at the huge screens. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The train was moving into the tunnel.

FORTY

The train lurched forward as it headed into the tunnel and Reznick was thrown to the floor.

“Jon, I'm giving you the full authorisation,” Meyerstein said into his earpiece.

Reznick crouched down low as he peered into the first carriage. Dead bodies, glass strewn everywhere, pools of blood on the floor, bodies of two dead Feds and innocent passengers. At the front of the train, he saw one of the bad guys at the controls in the operator's cab and the man with the gun barking instructions. But he couldn't see Caan. “What about the lights?”

“Jon, five seconds till the power goes down. Do you copy?”

“Affirmative.”

“Jon, you must stop these guys at any cost, do you understand?”

“Leave it with me.”

A click signaled the conversation was over.

Reznick was on his own. He peered through into the first carriage. The man with the gun was still shouting instructions. Time slowed as he heard his heart pound.

Suddenly, they were plunged into darkness. Muffled screams from the rear carriages and terrible wails as the train ground to a screeching halt.

Reznick crawled fast towards the first carriage. Head low, body low, flush with the ground. The military low crawl was perfected in muddy trenches under barbed wire, battle-hardened Marines screaming abuse. Stay low or get hit.

Closer and closer. Inches.

He now saw three separate silhouettes. Two in the driver's compartment and one up in the far right of the carriage.

He crawled on into the first carriage and he felt thick fluid on his hands. Blood. To his right were the dead FBI men lying slumped. He felt in the dark through the men's clothes, and took out a handgun magazine from an inside pocket which he put in his back pocket. Then he groped around on the floor until he felt the cold metal gun.

He pulled back the slide and focused on the guy at the far right.

Shoot, move, communicate. The soldier's mantra.

He edged a few inches closer. Then he aimed and squeezed the trigger. Flashes of fire spewed out of the gun illuminating the darkness around him. The figure collapsed in a heap. Reznick rolled sideways and aimed at the tallest man in the operator's compartment. He fired off two shots and the bullets tore through the glass and into the man's head. The fire from the gun lit up the blood-spattered shards of glass. The smell of cordite and smoke heavy in the air. But the third man had disappeared.

Had he hit the ground? Had he been hit by a ricochet?

“I've hit two of them, both down!” he shouted. “Can't see the third.”

Reznick crawled fast down the first carriage, keeping his head low. He moved past the slumped body of the first man he had killed. The sound of broken glass crunching as he crawled through on his hands and knees, ignoring the searing pain as the glass cut into his skin.

Then he pointed his gun at the remaining glass in the operator's compartment and fired off the rest of his magazine. Glass shattered. The sound was deafening in such an enclosed space. His ears were ringing. In the distance he heard a scream.

Reznick got up and kicked in the operator's door. The slumped body of a man in uniform, drenched in blood, glass covering his body, and Caan's second accomplice. Then he saw a floor panel had been lifted.

Caan had escaped.

“Our guy has gone! I repeat, he has gone.”

“Get after him!”

Reznick ejected the magazine from his gun and slid the new magazine until it locked into place. He pulled back the slide and tucked his gun into his waistband. Then he lowered himself down onto the tracks and crawled out from underneath the train.

Further up the line, in the tunnel, the sound of crunching footsteps on gravel.

“He's on the tracks heading towards Pentagon Metro station! I'm on it, over!”

“Take him out, for chrissakes!”

Reznick sprinted along the wooden beams along the tracks and headed deep into the blackness of the tunnel. He reckoned Caan had a one hundred yard start. Maybe more. His brain went into overdrive. The seconds seemed to slow down.

His blood was pumping and his heart pounding as he gave chase in pitch darkness, all senses switched on. He made the calculation. Caan was barely one hundred yards into the tunnel. It was a mile or so or one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards. Therefore, just over one thousand five hundred yards until the target reached the Pentagon Metro station.

On a running track it would take around four and a half minutes. On this terrain, nearer six.

He pumped his arms harder as he went deeper into the darkness of the tunnel. Up ahead on the right, he saw a pale blue light. He knew that would be an emergency call box. The smell of dirt and damp and oil pervaded the musky air. But the ghostly light gave Reznick the first glimpse of the running silhouette.

The guy was fit. And he had a bag slung over his shoulder.

“He's got to be stopped. And quick. We're checking the train as we speak for any other bio-materials, but nothing so far.”

Reznick knew a headshot still wasn't possible. His mind raced, scenarios running through his brain. He had to stop him now, in his tracks. But a shot to the back – the best target area – might inadvertently pierce the bag as well, and release the bio-contents, releasing them into the tunnel.

Reznick was gaining on him. The silhouetted man – Scott Caan – weaved and bobbed along the tracks. Then he disappeared from sight.

“Fuck!”

Reznick slowed down to gauge where Caan was.

“Reznick, talk to me!”

Up ahead the sound of heavy panting and stones crunching told Reznick that Caan was still on the move, but perhaps struggling with the terrain or conditions.

Reznick picked up the pace. He felt the sweat sticking to his shirt, beading his forehead.

“Reznick!”

His breathing was getting harder. He didn't need distractions. But he didn't want to pull out the earpiece or lapel microphone. They needed to know what was happening. He stopped for a moment, panting hard. He turned his head slightly so the peripheral vision could kick in better. He knew that the human eye has rod cells – sensory cells at the back of the eye, apart from the center, opposite the pupil – meaning peripheral vision is better in low light and detecting movement.

Reznick looked down in the pitch-black tunnel and saw two tiny pale yellow strips. Rear reflective strips from Caan's trainers.

He locked onto the tiny yellow dots in the distance and began running along the concrete ties, which ran down the track. Faster and faster, gaze fixed on the yellow strips, moving up and down like pistons, as Caan kept running.

A couple of hundred yards up ahead a soft red light. Not a train signal, but like a road sign.

Reznick's eyes were getting more accustomed to the pitch dark. The light bathed the track in a soft red glow. The silhouetted figure was heading straight for it.

Suddenly the figure stopped and turned. A glint of metal and a flash before a deafening bang and what sounded like a ricochet.

A searing pain tore through his right shoulder as if it was on fire. Reznick gritted his teeth as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. It was like a hot poker pressed into an open wound. He stared into the suffocating darkness and tried to pinpoint the whereabouts of Caan as sweat dripped from his brow. He tentatively touched the wound. Superficial graze, albeit painful.

“What the hell is going on down there?” Meyerstein said. “Jon, I need you to speak to me.”

Reznick ground his teeth against the pain. His mind flashed back to the deranged pain of Delta's vomit-inducing forty mile cross country movement with a sixty pound rucksack and weapon. Staff sergeants just looked on. No interaction. They didn't give feedback if you were doing bad or good, or going too slow. It screwed a lot of guys up who could not adjust to it. It was all about self-motivation. Who had the will to dig deep without any help? He had to push through the pain and psychological barrier himself, time and time again. He taught himself to love the pain.
Pain is your friend. Suck it up and see.

The sound of running up ahead on gravel echoed around the tunnel. Caan was on the move.

Reznick willed himself to ignore the pain and head down the tracks again into the blackness, only the palest of red lights for guidance. Up ahead the sound of a metal door screeching open. A sickly yellow light spilled out illuminating Caan for the briefest moment.

“Jon, are you alright, copy?”

“I've been grazed. I'm OK. I'll survive.”

A long pause before a sigh. “Take him down with a body shot if need be, Jon. Do you copy?”

“Too risky. I need to get in closer.”

Reznick felt sweat running down his face and into his ears as he pounded down the track. He felt the earpiece slipping and before he could stop it, the damn thing had fallen out of his ear. “Goddamn,” he said.

He was on his own.

He sprinted onward towards the red sign. A hundred yards. Then fifty. Then he saw it was a red emergency sign glowing in the dark. Yellow marking on the metallic door. He yanked at the handle and went inside. He flinched as the harsh yellowish light burned his eyes. A discarded grey sweatshirt and brown satchel lay strewn on the ground.