Blood Covenent, page 10
Hassan fit one of the many profiles used at U.S. Ports of Entry to find and track potential terrorist threats. He was under thirty, traveling alone, male, and of Middle Eastern extraction. His departure point was a respected European country, and he traveled on a vetted international airline. He carried only a single bag and no garment bag. The luggage did not match the man.
Janet had developed a system to link security cameras at passport entry control, and specific opportunity targets like Trump Tower or the Empire State Building to the FBI’s burgeoning image database. Using the same technology developed to facilitate fingerprint analysis, the image system was linked into a spider web of security cameras. Increased transmission bandwidth and faster imaging systems created a passive network of sensors looking for a specific bunch of bad guys. It ran a match on a thirty-six-point image scan for face print identification. The system kicked in whenever seventy percent recognition was attained. Then lowly humans were called by their cybernetic masters to makeintelligent decisions. Janet’s system ran as a pilot project within the limited scope of New York City, Boston, Washington, D.C. and Miami.
Three hours ago a match was made as Hassan returned to Trump Tower after a morning jog in Central Park and the security system dutifully tracked him to his current location on the forty-eighth floor. Larry found his day sliding out of control as America’s counter-terrorist apparatus roused itself to this uncertain threat. Vacations were cancelled, kids disappointed, and wives upset as their men answered duty’s call.
“There are some problems we are encountering,” he began, and quickly detailed the problems with the windows, the doorway, and probable problems with the ventilation system.
Harris cut him off before he was done. “Okay—okay. So they’re as dumb as a box of rocks.” Harris and Buford would never become fishing buddies. “Larry, this is what you’re going to do. Get into the apartment above the target, go over the side, set your charges, and then go through the door and the windows at the same time. Got that?”
“Yeah.” Larry glanced sideways at Buford. The locals were going to love this scenario.
“If you can get something through the ventilation system in the way of a fiber optic camera, great. But I don’t think you’ll have time,” continued Harris.
Larry walked away from Buford, hoping the man would keep his distance, but an invisible tether seemed to pull the SWAT Captain along. “Why are we in such a rush?” he whispered. Haste usually got people killed.
“Larry, understand something,” cut in Feldman. “Hassan is connected with the Iraqis or the Iranians or the Libyans, we’re really not sure. But the very fact that he is here, and today is July third, suggests they are planning something for tomorrow night. Our guess is a bomb. Our guess is that it’s inside that condominium.” Feldman had not been on a field operation in five years, and he was issuing guesses.
Larry glanced at the ninja. Something was missing in the explanation. He simply mumbled, “Uh-huh.” They were guessing and they were scared. Harvey, his old partner, never cared for guessing. The suits were too far removed from the field. They sat in a war room inside the JEH Building and delivered orders. Display monitors, computer printouts, and floor plans never told the entire story. Sometimes you needed to feel the essence of the area. This place made his gut churn.
Larry tapped somebody on the shoulder and wrote down on the notepad: GET THE BOMB SQUAD. Buford glared at the note and cursed. Larry tended to agree with the ninja’s assessment. He listened to the advice from Washington and stared out the window across the divide to Trump Tower. They were working on hunches and guesses, caught by surprise that Janet’s technological marvel actually worked, and now they had a terrorist on their hands where he was not supposed to be. They were the FBI, and they were supposed to do something.
The conversation mercifully ended with a series of quick instructions to call them on the quarter-hours. Larry shrugged and tossed the cell phone onto the desk and looked back to the ninja.
“So what did they say?” he asked.
Ingrained throughout his career was never to embarrass the Bureau. To do so was to commit the unforgivable sin. Harvey never worried about embarrassment or career choices; he had taken his chances and now he found himself chasing down stray buffalo meandering out of Yellowstone. Larry still had a family to support and kids to send to college. His attitude was less cavalier.
“They’re clueless,” he mumbled and looked back to the Tower. “Can we get into the condo on the forty-ninth floor and blow the windows out from there?”
The ninja plucked the binoculars from his chest and examined the Tower façade. “Yes. We can do that.”
“Good.”
“Besides bad guys, what else is inside there?”
“A bomb—they think there’s a bomb in there.” He smirked again, remembering Harvey. “They think it’s still disarmed or disassembled.”
The ninja nodded again. A smile emerged under the handlebar mustache. “All right.”
“It might be nice to leave someone alive in there once you go in,” suggested Larry.
“Right,” he replied absently as he hurried off. Buford seemed happy that he might get to play with his toys today. Larry could almost smell the smoke.
* * * *
Hassan Jamal walked through the condo. He examined the defensive perimeter. Steel rods—the kind used in building construction—were strung across the double door entryway. Crossing bars mounted into the floor and ceiling further anchored them. Hassan’s group took advantage of the Tower’s fortress like construction.
A belt fed .50 machine gun sat on a tripod forty feet back from the entryway. It was bracketed by forty-pound bags of water softener salt. Not as pliable as sand, but enough of them should provide some insulation against the inevitable assault.
All of his men were wearing level three Kevlar vests, and gas masks slung behind their backs were capable of being pulled and secured within twenty seconds. Everyone drilled three times a day. Each carried a sidearm strapped to their hips with a holster. Except for the machine gun team, the rest had short-barreled Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns.
Hassan had no elusions about surviving this mission. The weapon in the master bedroom would prove to be his death, but he would kill many Americans and demolish this lavish palace of wealth and elegance. For the last ten years, death had been his companion. Now, he would find revenge and salvation in his final act.
The body armor, masks, and weapons were simply to ensure the mission succeeded. He pulled the slip of paper with the arming sequence out of his pocket. The meaningless string of numbers would bring the nuclear weapon to life. The Americans called them firecrackers—his would be bigger than most.
His cell phone chirped. He picked the digital device off his belt and stared at it. Nothing good would come from this. It chirped a second time, and everything inside the condo came to a halt. His men stared at the phone.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“My brother, they know. They’re closing off the streets and people are being moved out of the building.”
“I understand—get clear,” he clicked off.
There would be no miraculous escape. They were inside a box forty-eight stories above hard ground. He looked at the five pairs of eyes and said quietly, “It is time.” His lips split into a wide grin as he said, “I’ll see you in Paradise.”
It was always good to promise the faithful. Hassan doubted he would see anything. Hassan ceased believing in Allah a long time ago. For him it had been a job where his worth was measured in the mayhem he created. An end would be a welcomed change, and he looked back to the master bedroom. Death waited in a stainless steel case.
He felt before he heard the overpressure from the entryway. The two doors broke apart in pieces, bending over the rebarred steel rods and spinning through the interior like square, broken Frisbees. Hassan tumbled sideways and came to an uncomfortable stop next to one of the couches.
His ears rang and blood dribbled from his nostrils. Hassan reached for his gas mask, amazed that the rebarred steel remained in place. The anchor rods were twisted and one rod was broken, but a formidable barrier remained. The smoke and fire remained outside in the wide corridors. Overpressure worked two ways. His attackers were probably as stunned as he was.
He pushed himself into a sitting position and worked the mask. No time to figure out what else had happened. He had one mission:arm the bomb!
The first tear gas canister hit one of the steel rods and bounced back into the corridor. Everything seemed strangely muted, and viscous blood stuck to his fingers as he pulled the mask over his face.
A second pressure wave rolled through the condo from the master bedroom. One of his men bounced sideways through the doorway. He landed hard against the drywall, leaving a dent. His hands opened and his head canted sideways. Dead or dying, it would not matter in a few moments.
He pulled the gas mask straps tight and realized he had lost his submachine gun. Hassan levered himself up and pulled himself to his feet. He swayed drunkenly before pushing himself towards the bedroom. He felt the heavy drumbeat as the brainchild of John Moses Browning roared to life. The heavy seven-hundred-grain bullets roared out the double door into the corridor beyond. Whoever was coming through the front door just met a very nasty surprise.
They would give him time. He staggered across the room, stumbling over his unconscious man. He bent over and picked up the discarded MP5. He flipped the selector to automatic. No need to conserve ammunition now. Tomorrow would never come.
The plywood sheets behind the thermal blankets over the windows hung sideways. Through the haze, he could see the black nylon ropes as black clad men swung from above through the jagged remains of the triple pane windows. He braced the MP5 against his shoulder, pulled the trigger back, and panned the muzzle in a wide arc. One of the men lost his balance and tumbled backward through the window’s opening. He wondered if he would remain conscious as he fell to the concrete and tar below.
A second ninja-clad attacker crumpled backwards holding his shoulder. He pressed the magazine release, allowing the thirty-round magazine to drop to his feet. He pulled another one off his web belt, and drove the magazine home.
* * * *
The frightful hammering of the .50 stopped abruptly. Larry looked up from where he lay in one of the side corridors. He could see two men lying terribly still in the branch corridor leading to Hassan’s Condo. The corridor walls, ceiling, and floor were gouged with rough furrows from the heavy steel-jacketed rounds, and nobody’s body armor was designed to take the full brunt of a machine gun.
A thick gray smoke hung lifeless on the dead air. Two other SWAT team members were rolled to one side of his corridor. The expensive vinyl wallboard was splattered with their blood and sweat. Their highly prized weapons lay useless next to them, and from the distance, they could still hear gunfire, but it sounded like popcorn compared to roar of the .50.
Buford stood, holding the wall with one hand, and shouting into his handheld radio with the other. He dropped the radio, finding Larry amongst the gloom. All the soft lighting had been obliterated by the flash bang grenades and explosive charges used to knock down the door.
“What have you gotten us into?” he snapped. “I’ve got people down everywhere.”
Larry nodded dumbly and shrugged. He wondered what kind of bomb they were talking about.
Buford cursed again and pulled a fragmentation grenade from his web belt. Definitely, this was not part of the standard ordinance issued to police departments. “Grab a gun, we’re gonna go get these SOBs,” he snarled.
Larry grabbed a Remington 870 with an extended tubular magazine and a Sure-Fire flashlight system. He pulled the 870 to his chest and flipped on the light. He snapped off the cross bolt safety and checked to see that the red fire stud was showing.
Buford moved to the edge of the corridor. He tossed the grenade underhanded and pulled back from the open corridor. Someone shouted in a muffled tone before the angry orange flame and concussion sent screaming metal shards ripping through the two-million-dollar apartment. Buford hardly waited for the angry orange flame to retreat before he lobbed a second grenade after the first.
Again, the walls trembled and more plaster dust shook loose. The opportunity to question prisoners was quickly evaporating. After the second orange flame licked sideways and retreated, Buford twisted his body around the corner and started running. He emptied an entire magazine before he reached the condo’s entry.
Larry followed behind him and loosed three loads of tactical 00 buckshot into the smoke. His eyes stung from the heat and smoke. Rodgers slammed a fresh magazine home and kicked at the rebarred rods. This time they retreated from their anchorage. He clambered through the broken entrance and fired again.
Larry stepped through behind the ninja and heard bluntly, “Down!”
Larry dropped as Buford tossed another grenade into the living room. Larry felt his clothing ripple across his back from the resultingWhump! Blood flowed from his nostrils, and his ears hurt from the terrible noise.
Buford rushed the machine gun emplacement set up behind forty-pound salt bags. He fired a controlled burst into the two men lying next to the .50. Buford ignored their chests and made sure his work was permanent. Each oozed blood and gore from newly added orifices.
Larry came up beside Buford. There was a third man down in the center of the living room. The last grenade finished him. His flashlight revealed a fourth lying broken next to the master bedroom entrance. He died clutching at his throat. Perhaps one of Buford’s snipers had found his mark.
What was this all about anyway?
Larry pushed by Buford towards the bedroom. He stuck the 870’s barrel into the master bedroom. He found two more SWAT team members lying broken next to the windows where they forced their entry. The New York City Morgue and Coroner’s Office would be busy today. New York produced enough dead people in the normal course of business. They had just added a great many more to the caseload.
He eased the door all the way open and scanned the rest of the room. Hassan Jamal stared back at him. Blood dribbled from several wounds. His weapon lay next to him on the floor and one arm was slung over some sort of crate.
Larry focused the 870 on Hassan’s chest and started across the room. Hassan’s eyes flipped open, having long ago discarded the gas mask. He choked out a laugh and announced, “You are too late.” He slumped back against the wall he was propped against.
Larry moved forward, kicking the H&K away from Hassan’s hands. His eyes came to rest, but not on the man or the spent shell casings rolling under his feet. There in a padded case was a stainless steel oblong capsule and an LED display counting down seconds. “Buford!” he yelled. “Buford get the bomb squad up here, NOW!”
CHAPTER 10
New York City
Saturday, July 3, 1999
10:45 A.M. EDT
Sergeant Eddie Pritchard, a veteran of too many bomb threats, examined the stainless steel capsule. The red diodes announced with startling clarity 2:43:29 and remorselessly continued to count down. His body bore the scars of close calls, powder burns, and the odd piece of shrapnel breaking loose at the wrong time.
His bomb twiddling days began in Vietnam. He worked as a sapper to flush Charlie out of their precious tunnels and avoid becoming rat food in the process. He had dealt with snakes, spiders, bamboo pungi sticks, and a half dozen water traps, and in the process he had forced the detonation of Russian, Chinese, and American ordinance.
He folded his arms and blew a cloud of smoke in the direction of shattered windows, oblivious to the paramedic crews hauling the wounded away on stretchers. He looked up at Rodgers and Wheeler. The heavy bomb shield he wore was already discarded on the floor behind him. His ball cap twisted around so the bill pointed backwards and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows.
Pointing a finger at the bomb, he announced, “Not your garden variety pipe bomb.”
Rodgers grunted and turned to see where his men were being taken.
Wheeler sighed. “What is it?”
Pritchard glanced up to the FBI man and said in a concerned voice, “It’s a bomb alright. A very tidy piece of work.”
“Can you disarm it?” queried Larry.
Eddie shook his head as he squatted over the capsule and held his hand close to the steel skin. “If I can’t, I think we should probably clear out in about two and half hours.” He tapped some cigar ash on the rug. The condo needed redecorating. He craned his neck and said louder, “Hey Buford, you leave any of these terrorists alive?”
Rodgers looked back at the bomb man. “After they killed two of my men, I quit caring,” he snarled.
Eddie bobbed his head and said, “Old blood and guts Buford. Did it occur to you we might be dealing with something beyond the ordinary?”
Rodgers turned back to face Pritchard. “Yeah. The minute they opened up with a .50 machine gun and two of my men broke apart like dry kindling.”
Eddie rolled the cigar across his mouth and plucked it out with the other hand jabbing at the bomb. “I’m real sorry about your guys. I’ve lost a few myself, but we got something here that might kill all of us, unless we get real creative real fast.” He blew another cloud into the room.
Larry looked across to Hassan Jamal and walked to where he lay. Someone had placed a couple of pressure bandages on his wounds. He squatted next to the paramedic applying the bandages. His chest was soaked with blood and there were several impact dents from bullets hitting his Kevlar vest. Hassan was in tough shape, but to Larry’s practiced eye he figured he would live.
“Got any smelling salts?”
The Medic glanced at Larry and the badge hanging around his neck. There were powder smudges around his eyes, and blood on his face. “Yeah,” he replied.
“Wake him up,” ordered Larry.
“He’s in bad shape.”
Larry nodded. “This was his party—wake him up.”
