First Strike (33 page)

“Traffic.”

 

44

CARMAN HALL

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

The tenth floor was soon fetid with heat and so many people in such a tight space. The initial hysteria had dissipated into quiet disbelief and sorrow.

Ali dumped out a large cardboard box from one of the bedrooms. He and Mohammed stood just inside the entrance to the tenth floor, each man holding a cell phone detector, which they waved over every person as he or she entered, confiscating cell phones.

*   *   *

As his men corralled the students onto the tenth floor, Sirhan climbed the empty east stairs to the roof. It was imperative to secure the roof before the FBI or NYPD had time to mobilize an assault team and drop it down on top of the building by chopper.

He clutched an AK-47, safety off, finger on the trigger, and slowly pushed the door open. The urgent scream of sirens came from several directions at street level below. He crouched low and glanced cautiously around, his rifle sweeping the air along with his eyes. He surveyed the surrounding buildings and distant skyline. Seeing no movement, he placed his canvas rucksack on the ground and pulled out binoculars, again searching for movement. He saw none—but he knew snipers were coming soon. Perhaps they were already in position but waiting for the order to shoot. The FBI might attempt to negotiate before staging any counterassault or attempting to kill anyone, though he doubted it, especially after the trail of blood they'd left in the street.

The roof was empty and unfinished. A waist-high brick parapet ran around the edge. A few beer bottles, a broken lawn chair, and cigarette butts were evidence of its occasional use by students.

Looking up, Sirhan again scanned the buildings in proximity to Carman. None were as tall. Across 114th Street, several floors below, he eyed a few people at windows, looking down on the street, checking out the dead bodies and watching as police and ambulances arrived on the scene. They were oblivious of him.

Tariq stepped onto the roof. He was perspiring.

“Where is the case?” asked Sirhan.

“Behind me,” said Tariq. “Just inside.”

Sirhan nodded.

“Is it ready if we need them?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now let's hurry up and get the roof wired. They're going to be here any minute. If they take the roof, they'll be able to stop us.”

Sirhan knelt next to his rucksack and removed a large spool of tungsten wire, the same kind that Fahd and Omar were using on the stairs. He fastened one end to a steel post near a corner of the roof, at waist level. He walked diagonally across to the opposite corner. He pulled the wire around a piece of steel roof support and drew it tight. He moved to the middle of the roof, looking for another structure strong enough to hold the line. He found a thick pipe and wrapped the wire around it, and moved in the opposite direction, quickly building a latticework of tightly knit wire, a web that soon crisscrossed every section of the roof.

Meanwhile, Tariq removed six IEDs from the rucksack. They were exact copies of the ones on the stairs—Semtex 10 with firing buttons sticking out. On each device, Tariq attached the wires to the batteries, getting them ready. Gently, he handed each live IED to Sirhan, who set them on top of the tungsten web. If any part of the wiring was cut, the latticework would collapse, the IEDs would drop to the ground, their firing buttons would strike the hard surface, and they would explode. It was now impossible for the dorm to be infiltrated from above.

Each IED had enough explosive force to level whatever was on the roof and destroy part of the floor below. If they all blew at the same time, the building would likely lose several floors in the blast.

Tariq was near the edge of the roof. Looking down the smooth side of the dorm, he saw a figure. It was a student, a male, standing on a windowsill of the third floor. Suddenly, the boy jumped. He landed on the sidewalk next to the building and tumbled, clutching his leg.

“Sirhan.”

Sirhan was near the opposite side of the roof. He'd crawled along the edge with an IED and was setting it on top of the wire.

“What is it?” he asked. Sirhan turned and looked at the sky to the south. Then he heard it: the distant whirr of helicopters.

Sirhan put the IED gently atop the wire. He shimmied backward until he was in the corner. He had one more IED to set, but he was exposed, crawling along the brick precipice of the roof, the wires laden with IEDs on one side, open air to the other.

Sirhan's eyes shot to Tariq. He nodded toward the door. “Go.”

Tariq went inside the building as Sirhan crawled along the edge of the roof and set the fifth IED.

Tariq undid the latches on the long case. He removed the SAM and the battery-cooling unit, a round canister that powered up the missile while it was still in the launcher as well as kept it cool. He placed the weapon on his right shoulder. With his left hand, he stuck the battery-cooling unit into an opening in the underside of the SAM. He flipped up a square metal slat, enabling him to target the missile. He placed his left hand on the uncage button at the front of the launcher, then gripped the trigger with his right hand. He used his thumb to press down on the safety-and-actuator switch behind the trigger and prepared to fire.

At the open doorway, Tariq eyed a pair of choppers cutting over the skyline to his right.

He put his right eye against the sight and activated the missile's guidance system on the blue sky all around the approaching choppers, then focused in on the nearest one, rushing toward them. He listened for the hum that would signal the target's acquisition.

“Sirhan,” he said, as he held the SAM steady and prepared to let it rip. “They're getting close.”

Sirhan was along the near edge of the rooftop, holding the final IED in his left hand. He set it on top of the wire.

Tariq heard the hum as the first boom came from the approaching chopper. Bullets ripped the roof just behind Sirhan. He didn't have time to crawl backward.

Tariq fired. The missile tore from the end of the launcher. A low hiss mixed with the sound of the chopper's guns. A trail of smoke followed the missile, which weaved in the air, then straightened out. The chopper abruptly swerved left and up, accelerating to avoid the incoming missile. But it was too close. It took just seconds for the missile to slam into the right side of the helicopter. A moment later, it exploded—orange, black, and red flames shot out in a cataclysm of smoke and fire. Then a cloud of thick smoke plumed outward. The chopper broke into parts, plummeting to earth several blocks away. Distant screams could be heard from the streets below.

Sirhan, who was on his stomach, clutching the precipice of the roof, turned his head. He said nothing. He inched backward as the other chopper cut high and away.

Sirhan crawled to the door, where Tariq was waiting.

“Thank you, brother.”

 

45

IN THE AIR

He was asleep. Then he felt it. A hand on his shoulder. He was back in the hospital. He felt the knife on his neck. He lurched up from the chair.

“Dewey, hey, it's me!”

Dewey was standing, his right arm around her neck. It was the female copilot. His mind raced. Then he remembered. He let go.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Instinct.”

He looked down. In the pilot's right hand was a small knife that was now pressed against Dewey's torso. He looked up as she pulled it back.

“Sorry,” she said, a small grin on her face. “Instinct.”

Dewey laughed.

“Is that how you usually greet a girl when she wakes you up?” she asked.

Dewey shook his head.

He reached absentmindedly for his neck, feeling the spot where Garotin had pressed the KA-BAR knife. There was a small scab. It didn't hurt, yet he couldn't stop thinking about it. The thought of being beheaded had never crossed his mind. He realized now that having his head cut off was infinitely more horrifying to him than being shot. Perhaps it was because he'd been shot—on multiple occasions—and knew he could handle it. Or maybe it was how close he'd just come to death. He removed his hand from his neck and forced himself to banish the thought from his mind.

“Only the pretty ones,” he said to the female pilot.

“You should put a Band-Aid on that,” she said.

“How long have I been out?”

“We left Israel four hours ago.”

“How long until Andrews?”

“They're not letting us land at Andrews. There's been some sort of attack in New York City. The FBI has it under control, but Homeland is rerouting all inbound flights along the eastern seaboard. We're trying to get clearance, but it isn't working. Everyone is panicking.”

“I need a SAT phone.”

“Sure.” She went to the cabin and returned with a phone. Dewey extended the antenna and dialed Calibrisi. The call went to voice mail. He tried several times, leaving a message after the fourth attempt.

“Hey, it's me. I'm on the plane. Call if you get this.”

Dewey dialed a six-digit number he knew by heart. The phone clicked several times, then a female voice came on.

“Identify.”

“NOC 2294 dash six.”

“Hold.”

A series of beeps followed, then a male voice came on.

“Control, please hold for voice RECOG. Go.”

“Andreas, Dewey.”

Again a series of beeps, then another voice.

“Control, who do you need, Dewey?”

“Hector.”

There was a slight pause. “He's not available.”

“Tell him I need him. It's urgent.”

Another pause.

“Hold on.”

Several seconds later, the phone started ringing.

“Dewey?”

It was Polk.

“Hi, Bill. Where is he?”

“Where are you?”

“In the air. I'll be back in an hour, but they're not letting us land at Andrews.”

“I'll get you clearance.”

“Where's Hector? Was the information actionable?”

“Very,” said Polk. “But we have a situation.”

“I heard. Where in New York? What happened?”

“At Columbia. A dormitory was taken over. It's a hostage situation. But that's not what I'm talking about. Dewey, Hector is at GW Hospital. He had a massive heart attack.”

Dewey was silent.

“They…” Polk started, then paused. Dewey could hear him trying to control his emotions. “They don't know if he's going to make it.”

Dewey shut his eyes. He reached out and put his hand against the seat back, steadying himself.

“I'm here right now,” said Polk. “They put him into a coma. Even if he does make it, they're not sure how long he went without oxygen.”

Dewey cleared his throat. “Has someone told Vivian?”

“Yes. She's on her way.”

“Bill, can you make sure there's a chopper waiting for me at Andrews?”

“Yes, of course. By the way, how are you doing?”

“Fine. See you in a few.”

 

46

CARMAN HALL

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

By the time Mohammed stepped onto the eleventh floor, gunfire and screams had repeated themselves so many times the students and parents were terrified into silent acquiescence. Mohammed cleared the floor without incident, just a few gunshots into the ceiling to get people to hurry up.

The problem was, the stairs were overcrowded as everyone moved ineluctably to the tenth floor. The doorway itself was a logjam. The floor was getting filled to capacity.

Many of the hostages had watched in horror as the helicopter was shot down. Everyone heard it. If any resistance had existed, the sight and sound of the chopper being blown up in midair shut up even the boldest of the crowd.

Meuse was responsible for the twelfth floor. He stepped inside, but before he even raised his gun, a young woman in a hijab stepped from the hushed crowd and held up a hand, then spoke to him in Arabic.

“You don't need to shoot,” she said. “We'll do what you say.”

“Go to the tenth floor,” he said. “Praise Allah.”

At Meuse's words, the girl's face grew angry, but she held her tongue. She turned.

“Tenth floor, everyone,” she said.

*   *   *

Sullivan was crouching on one knee, pivoting almost constantly between the ends of the third-floor hallway, moving the gun back and forth. He could feel his heart racing.

Had someone told him that morning that he would kill someone—by snapping his neck—as dozens of people looked on, including his daughter, Sullivan would've spat out his coffee. The most violent thing he'd ever done to another living creature was during a fistfight in college, when he'd been reluctantly dragged into a barroom brawl in Brunswick, Maine. Sullivan had beaten the crap out of two locals after they picked a fight with him and his roommate. Sullivan's roommate had gotten knocked out with a beer bottle. Even then, he'd tried to avoid the fight, pleading with the two drunk bikers to let him walk away and take his unconscious roommate to the hospital. But they were having none of it. Sullivan had broken one of the thug's arms and the other man's nose on the way to beating them both senseless. To this day, he didn't know where it had come from.

His mind flashed to that memory and a slight grin came over his face. He was still batting a thousand.

As for handling a firearm, he was completely inexperienced. He clutched the terrorist's assault rifle and tried to familiarize himself with it, though other than the trigger he wasn't quite sure what most of the various switches, latches, and knobs were for.

He glanced behind him. The dorm room was half-empty as students and parents did what he'd asked them to do, and what his daughter showed them was possible—leaping two floors to the hard ground below.

They're going too slow,
he thought.

His mind raced with worry. The terrorists were obviously distracted as they tried to secure the building. The minute one of them saw someone jump, all hell would break loose. They'd know something was wrong—that their man was dead—and they would come looking.