Quake (13 page)

“‘Don't take any wooden nickels'?” Lauren said.

“It's an idiom,” Mommy said, smiling.

“An
express-shun
.”

“Right, sweetheart.”

“But, Mom, what does it
mean?
”

“It's just something my grandfather used to tell me any time I left his and my grandmother's house. It's something you say when someone leaves. You're telling them to be careful, to be safe. Like ‘Have a good trip and don't take any wooden nickels.'”

Her mom rose off her haunches and turned for the door. Lauren followed. When her mom opened the door and started down the concrete steps, Lauren held the door open and watched her go. She was heading down to the subway station. The subway would take her all the way to the World Trade Center.

Lauren felt a pang in her stomach. She had the strongest urge to race down those stairs and chase after her, to ask her mom if she could make it a “take your daughter to work” day. Instead, she stood there. Waited until her mom was almost out of earshot, then yelled at the top of her lungs, “
Mom!
”

Her mother stopped halfway down the block and turned back to her daughter. “What is it, sweetie? I'm running very, very late. I have to go now.”

“I know,” Lauren called back. “Just . . . just don't take any wooden nickels, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Her mom smiled. “I won't take
any
wooden nickels today.”

Lauren smiled back and said, “Thanks, Mommy,” and waved as her mother turned and started down the block again.

It was the last Lauren ever saw of her. Nearly three thousand people in New York City would take wooden nickels that day.

Feroz Saeed Alivi switched off the flashlight he'd plucked from his dead attorney's fingers. “You will provide the light that leads my way to freedom after all, infidel,” he had muttered to himself before low-crawling into a twisty tunnel of ruins which eventually led to the windblown opening where he now crouched.

Even after dispatching the Americans once charged with his fate, he was under no illusion that his escape was a foregone conclusion. He had no idea what the death toll was, or what things were like outside the courthouse. Nevertheless, Alivi took a certain satisfaction in the thought that the very building meant to facilitate the end of his life now served as his impromptu hideout, shielding him from his hunters, sheltering him from not only law enforcement and the military's special teams, but the common rabble he knew would seek to capture him for the bounty on his head, if not for a misguided sense of justice or revenge. By way of motivation, he pictured some fat, pink American posing with a rifle in his hands, Alivi's bullet-ridden body under one of his booted feet with a smartphone camera held high in one hand. For he knew that he would be hunted until he was either recaptured or his body found, identity confirmed with DNA, after which the disposition of his corpse would be argued over until he was buried at sea or some other injudicious infidel construct designed to stifle his martyrdom.

Peering up into the night sky (it always amazed him how few stars could be seen from New York; in his homeland, the night sky was a sparkling tapestry provided by Allah to light his people's way), Alivi listened carefully while he slowly swiveled his head left, right, then back left again. There was no sign of it yet, but he knew full well that rescue crews would be combing through the rubble at first light, special forces teams mobilizing, converging, striking. He wished he could remain in the ruins for longer. Unlike everyone else, Alivi found the close confines of his rubble-strewn lair somewhat comforting, probably because they reminded him of times long past in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan when he'd live in caves for weeks on end. Those times were a simple yet fulfilling existence full of prayer, sleep, organic meals, meditation, and strategic thinking—thinking that had eventually led him here—a simple farmer's son, halfway around the planet, one of the most notorious people on Earth. He'd even graced the cover of major Western magazines in the weeks leading up to his trial, a controversial firebrand who demanded—nay, who deserved—recognition.

But he was well aware that his current situation was no mountain retreat, not even a defensible battleground deep in his homeland where the infidels must journey to fight him and his own army on his own terms. He was as deep in enemy territory as he could get, literally in the belly of the beast. And he was alone.

Or was he?

Although Alivi himself had been locked up for some time, he knew that his organization would have descended upon New York in advance. In fact, coded messages passed through his attorney, very limited as they were, told him as much. Not that they had had the capabilities of extracting him from the maw of the infidel beast—far from it—but with the eyes of the world on the trial at Ground Zero, they would not wish to miss an opportunity to spread their message.

But now the earthquake had changed everything. His deployed sleeper cell—depending on how they had weathered the quake—would be shifting their focus from multimedia propaganda machine to paramilitary extraction unit. If he could reach any of his people here in the city, Alivi might have a prolonged chance at avoiding detection. As it was, he was a stranger in a strange land. Even wearing a suit with his beard chopped (forgive me, Allah, peace be with you) he knew all too well that he would not go unnoticed for long.

But where to find his fellow jihadists? He had no method of communication. He could probably scavenge a mobile phone from one of the corpses, which would not be traceable to him, but even the man who had once effectively communicated for an entire year using nothing but carrier pigeons was aware that the cellular networks would be nowhere close to functional yet. And even if they were, to call any of the numbers he had committed to memory would no doubt run the risk of triggering a flag in some computer algorithm running on the MacBook Air of some analyst in Virginia.

But although he did not have an address for a safe house, he recalled one of his strategizing sessions, years ago, where he and a band of his close confidants—some of whom were now sleeper cell leaders—had discussed how to regroup following a strike. And this was certainly the equivalent of a strike, Alivi thought, taking in the tortured quake scape spreading out from the decimated courthouse, myriad spot fires dancing in the dark like spirited harem girls.

He allowed the fires to warm his memory, until he was sitting cross-legged on luxurious Afghan rugs spread out on the floor of a cave, smoking from a hookah while he and his associates had opined on the Quran. He intoned the words from what he knew to be verses 56:58–70, taking comfort in their familiar voice:

“And have you seen the water that you drink? Is it you who brought it down from the clouds, or is it We who bring it down? If We willed, We could make it bitter, so why are you not grateful?”

The relationship between water and Islam was one that represented purity and renewal. The ablution rituals required it. It ran in the afterlife through rivers on whose banks basked endless virgins....

Alivi summoned the rest of the conversation stored deep in the convolutions of his brain matter.

“If nothing else, we can always make it a point to reconvene along the nearest body of water,” one of his lieutenants had said.

“Fresh water,” another had clarified, “not ocean or swamp. It must be pure. But lakes, and especially—”

“
Rivers
,” another had said excitedly.

“A river would be most excellent, if available.”

Alivi forced himself back to the present.
A river . . . New York City ...

Once again he flashed back to one of his countless “war room” gatherings, where this time a printed map of NYC was spread out on the floor of a desert mud hut. He visualized it now, cross-checking what he saw with his recent knowledge and experience.

The Hudson River.

Certainly, if his sleeper cell colleagues carried out their old plan, the Hudson was where he would find them. It was a huge river, but if nothing else, Alivi reasoned as he directed his gaze to the west, it would make a decent travel corridor.

And he was thirsty. So thirsty.

 

 

Alivi slithered down from his perch onto the scarred ground. For a while he alternately ran at a crouch and then crawled through jumbled patchworks of scattered debris, but before long he had reached the uneven perimeter of the courthouse's field of ruins.

Careful
.

He wished he had a compass. He needed to strike out in a westerly direction to hit the bank of the Hudson. He could not afford to meander in the wrong direction.

And then he heard it—what he thought was a female cry for help. Weak, barely audible. Like a wolf drawn to a trapped animal, Alivi approached the source of the suffering. He stayed low, crawling between chunks of concrete, until he reached a sizable fracture in the earth itself.

A small chasm had opened and filled partially with wreckage. Six feet deep in this pit lay a young woman, still clad in the uniform of the infidel—a charcoal pantsuit—now shredded and dust-caked. Her face was streaked with dried blood, hair that was once blond now a mottled tapestry of dust, soot, and blood. He saw her eyes alight with hope at the sight of him. She tried to reach out an arm, but was tightly caged in a twisted matrix of rebar and concrete.

He eased his way down into the crevice until he was even with her.

“Thank God you're here,” she nearly whispered. “Water . . .”

A thought flashed reflexively through Alivi's skull, something about thanking the wrong God, but he kept his focus, knowing that was what Allah now demanded.

He stretched an arm through the snarled lattice of rebar and felt along the woman's suit. So many pockets.

“What . . . ?” she seemed not to have the energy to complete the question or possibly the protest. Alivi continued frisking her until he felt a solid bulge along the side of her midsection. He slipped a hand inside her jacket and felt a cell phone in the inside pocket. He dug his leading foot deeper into the dirt so as not to lose his balance and impale himself on the rebar next to the woman, and then slid the phone out of the pocket, across her breast, and out of her jacket.

He powered the device on, watching the victim's eyes track his every movement. As expected, once it came alive the phone's screen indicated it had no carrier signal. But he did not wish to make a call. He recognized the smartphone as one that featured GPS, which he knew to run directly off a satellite network, separate from that of the cellular carriers. He opened a map application and was pleased to see a marker pinpointed on the screen indicating his current location. He zoomed out the map, patiently fumbling with the tiny buttons until he succeeded. And there it was, a big blue line, just northwest of here.

The Hudson.

He took the phone to the top of the pit where he oriented himself, turning with it and watching the map rotate around his position marker. He looked up and picked out a landmark in a northwesterly direction. He balked at the distance, all the open space. He knew that as bad as the quake was, that there would be many people still about in this city of millions, and soon more would be arriving from outside.

But he had been prepared to die years ago when he had embarked on the first of many holy missions. It was almost as if he had resigned himself to a suicide that had failed to work, and so every day he lived thereafter was but a miracle bestowed upon him by none other than Allah Himself. This earthquake, it was yet another confirmation that he'd been chosen to carry out the will of Allah. Death didn't scare him—failing to deliver after being given this new lease on life did. He had to contact his people.

Pocketing the phone, Alivi lined up his landmark and ran.

“Control to Response Team Three, I repeat: What's your status?” Jeffries's voice was loud and rife with concern.

Jasper Howard looked at Peterson, who was rubbing his right shoulder where it had hit when the ladder slammed into the wall. Jasper's left knee had suffered a similar fate, and he was dismayed to notice he was favoring it, leaning on his right even as he gripped the railing with both hands while he peered down at Alex White's floating body.

Peterson responded first. “Mr. White fell from the ladder into SFP number two.”

“What? Is he alive? The readings down there are—” He cut himself off. “Mr. White! Can you hear me?”

At the mention of “readings,” Jasper went to consult his dosimeter, but it no longer hung from his neck.

“He's unresponsive, floating on his back, not moving,” Peterson said, shining his flashlight beam on the blue hazmat suit floating in the pool.

“I'll need you two to carry out Mr. White's activities in his place,” Jeffries said.

“What!” Jasper said. “We have to get him out of there.”

“The buoyancy his suit provides will keep him afloat as long as he didn't tear it on the way down. He might get out later.”

Jasper made a spitting noise in spite of himself. “What are you talking about, he
might get out later
? He's not floating on a raft at Waikiki Beach! He fell two stories into a contaminated waste pool. And who knows what he hit on the way down.”

Jeffries sounded calm. “Take it easy, Mr. Howard. I'm only trying to point out that it's possible he's unconscious.”

Jasper was quick to respond. “Is there even a way to get out from down there? In case he is?” Peterson let the conversation play out while his flashlight beam roved first over White's body, then slowly traced the perimeter of the pool's waterline.

“There is an access ladder that our divers use for periodic maintenance inspections.” This was from Jeffries. “But listen, we're getting off track here. I'm afraid that there's very little we can do for Mr. White at this time, and meanwhile, there are certain actions we can take that may ensure the safety of not only ourselves, but millions of people.”

To Jasper, who had always gone to great lengths to all but guarantee the safety of his workers—the guys who entered crawl spaces and climbed rooftops and used power tools—abandoning an injured or even dead worker was unthinkable.

Jasper quickly considered the situation from Jeffries's end before speaking. “But we need him, right? For the fuel rod controls? And whatever else might go wrong down here? So if there's a chance he's still alive, shouldn't we find out?”

“If it doesn't take too long,” Jeffries conceded.

“So where's this ladder?” Jasper asked, afraid to ask how long was “too long.” He doubted the question had a simple answer anyway, but no doubt would begin with “It depends . . .” He was getting sick of it, and wished he was back on his normal job where he was in control and understood anything that might come up.

“Let me check the schematic for pool two. . . .” They heard him tapping a computer keyboard before continuing. “Okay. Iron rungs, fixed into the pool wall on your side, to your left if you're still at the catwalk's former connection point. And if they weren't damaged in the quake. Can you see them?”

Jasper leaned over the rail and looked down along the concrete wall. Peterson shone his light. “Yeah, the rungs are still there,” he said.

Jeffries said, “Is his body even close enough to the bottom of the rungs that if one of you went down there, you might be able to get ahold of him, at least close enough to see if he's breathing?”

Peterson nodded silently while Jasper said, “Yes, right now, anyway. Looks like he's slowly drifting out toward the center, though.”

“So let's do this if we're going to. Which one of you is going down the ladder?”

“My knee's messed up,” Jasper admitted.

Jasper and Peterson eyed one another through their faceplates. Peterson spoke first.

“You've got to do it. I must maintain watch.”

“Watch? Watch for what?” Jasper asked, looking around at the seemingly deserted facility.

A lengthy silence followed. Jasper broke it.

“Will one of you say something? I said my knee's messed up. Why can't Peterson go?”

“My shoulder's been dislocated from hitting the wall on the ladder,” Peterson said.

“Oh, so you're a medical doctor now?” Jasper retorted. “You already know it's been
dislocated?
” Jasper was used to ribbing his maintenance guys when they made some excuse to get out of a job, or occasionally for a workman's compensation claim.

But Peterson's response was matter-of-fact. “Medical doctors told me I dislocated it once before playing high school football. Believe me, it's not hard to recognize. Anterior dislocation. Hurts like a bitch.” He gingerly flexed his shoulder.

“Well, I think I tore my ACL when I hit the wall,” Jasper said.

“Really, so you're a medical doctor, too?”

“Well, I used to play hockey, and—”

“Ladies, please,” Jeffries cut in. “We've got one hell of a job to do. Now tell me. Do either of you have any rips in your suit?”

That shut them both up. Silence followed while both men self-examined the integrity of their hazmat suits, especially the areas over their injuries.

“Not that I can tell,” Peterson said.

“Ditto,” Jasper added.

“Inspect each other's suits on the back and places you can't see yourself,” Jeffries instructed. Jasper and Peterson walked around each other in turn, looking at the suits.

“Your suit's intact,” Peterson said.

“Yours, too,” Jasper confirmed.

“Good. Now Jasper, you're the one who wanted to check Mr. White. Mr. Peterson needs to maintain watch. So you go ahead and descend the ladder, please. Try not to come into contact with the water, but if you do, as long as your suit is intact you should be fine.”

“
Should be
fine. Great.” Jasper walked along the rail until he reached the access ladder, with the nuclear technician's body floating beneath it. He eyed the rungs. They looked sturdy, but after the earthquake it was possible that some of them were “loosey-goosey,” as he liked to say. But there was a man floating down there who could still be alive. Jasper didn't know what kind of stress Jeffries was under to ask them to just leave White behind, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he threw a leg over the rail, bounced on the first rung a couple of times while still holding on to the railing. It was solid. He hoped the ones below were, too.

Peterson shone the beam for him while he slowly and methodically descended toward the radioactive pool. When he reached the bottom, he knew right away that he wasn't going to be able to retrieve Alex White if he was alive. A little too far away. But he did have a clear view of his face. He asked Peterson to turn off the flashlight because it was reflecting off White's faceplate.

Peterson killed the light and Jasper got a look at Alex's face.

Not breathing.

Worse, Jasper could now see that the man's eyes were open.

He watched for a full minute more, just to be sure. The radiation suit was too bulky to be able to see the chest rising, if he was breathing. But his face was perfectly still, eyes unblinkingly open. He looked for evidence of what had killed him, but didn't see anything obvious—no suit ruptures, no water in the suit that he could tell. He wasn't glowing green or anything like that. Then a new notion overtook him: Could this water be so highly radioactive that it killed him right through the suit? The thought made Jasper want to jump back up the rungs and he forced himself to calm down. He should have asked Peterson for his dosimeter to bring down here.

Whatever you do, don't fall into this damned pool. And note to self: After you get back up, stop volunteering for stupid shit.

“He's dead. His eyes are open. I don't see anything wrong with his suit.”

“It's possible that he hit his head on one of the rungs when he fell,” Jeffries speculated.

Jasper took a last look at Alex White and wondered how long he'd be floating in this godforsaken pool. If the place had a full-on meltdown and they all died, possibly indefinitely? The spent fuel pool would eventually be sealed beneath lead containment domes for a century before anyone would even think about entering again, complete with a preserved corpse (or perhaps a skeleton?) in a sealed hazmat suit floating through the next hundred years in a radioactive sarcophagus like a toxic pirate guarding a noxious treasure in the afterlife.

Then he shook aside the grim imagining and got his bearings on the rungs, remembering to favor his left leg before he started. Jeffries talked while he climbed.

“So back to my original course of action. I'm going to need both of you to get over to the fuel rod controls that Mr. White was trying to access. I'll have to talk you through the procedure. . . .”

Jeffries continued transmitting, but Jasper tuned out the rest of what he was saying while he ascended, for along with his next thought, it was all he could do to concentrate on having a safe climb.

If Jeffries said his guys can't reach the control area, and now my ladder bridge is on this side of the pool . . . How the hell am I going to get out of here?