Project StrikeForce (28 page)

Across from him, Ahmed looked up. “You are sure?”

“I studied civil engineering. I worked in these
tunnels. Now, hush child. In the name of Allah.” He punched in the number, hit
the send button, and waited.

Nothing happened.

He felt the first twinge of panic. That was not
right. He ended the call and dialed again but the call did not connect.

The cell phone displayed no signal. He held the
phone aloft, but still no signal. He looked around and noticed that people up
and down the street were holding their phones aloft, faces puzzled.

The Americans have jammed the cell phones.

He grabbed Ahmed by the coat. “They have shut down
the phones. We will have to trigger the bomb manually,” he said through
clenched teeth.

Ahmed nodded, face pale. “I will do it.”

He turned to leave but Abdullah grabbed him by the
shoulder. “No. I will go.”

He turned and started back toward the truck,
trying to appear nonchalant. He was almost there when he heard a roar echo
throughout the concrete and steel walls of Manhattan.

He turned his gaze skyward. A black arrow-shaped
aircraft was plunging toward Times Square.

Impossible!

He wanted to run to the truck and trigger the
explosives but he froze in awe. Something hurtled from the aircraft, and then
with a roar that made him clap his hands to his ears, the aircraft rocketed
off, windows shattering in its wake, the people below running from the shower
of glass raining down.

An object had dropped from the aircraft and arced
down, moving fast, and then it blew apart and the top half shot skyward,
rockets firing, cables dragging a form below it, a shape he realized was a man.

People around him gasped in awe and terror and
Abdullah joined them. He watched, dumbstruck, as rockets slowed the man’s
descent and he got his first look at the man’s back.

He was tall and dressed in black body armor and
matching helmet. With an explosive crack, the man was cut free, falling onto
the hood of a stopped car. The man jumped to the street and rushed north to the
PEPCO truck.

It was too late to stop the man from disarming the
bomb. His only chance lay in escape. He turned and saw Ahmed watching from the
distance, still standing in front of the open manhole. He ran back, waving to
the manhole. They had only moments before the armored man would come for them.

He reached Ahmed and motioned to the hole. “Down,
you fool! Hurry!”

Ahmed scampered down the ladder, deep into the
dark, and Abdullah followed, taking time to put on a headband lamp from his
pocket. The walls of the tunnel were shiny and slick as they descended the
ladder, heading toward their escape.

* * *

John ran to the back of the PEPCO
truck. He bit his lip, then tried to turn the door handle. There was no
explosion, but the door was locked.

“Try the front,” Eric said.

He came around the truck but two police officers
from the corner had made their way through the crowd.

“Don’t move,” yelled the first officer, his gun
drawn. “Don’t you even move!”

The other officer, a short man with a mustache,
put his hand on the first officer’s arm. “I don’t think he’s a bad guy, Bill.
You see what just happened?”

“I’m a Federal Agent,” John said. “This truck is
loaded with explosives. You have to evacuate the area.”

The first officer lowered his gun slightly. “What
agency are you with?”

John read his name badge. “Officer Scarpello, if
you don’t evacuate this area, you’ll be held responsible.” He pointed to the
second officer. “Help me with the front door.”

He ran to the front of the truck. “What’s your
name?”

“Joey. Joey Knox,” the man said.

“Well, Officer Knox, today is the day you help
save New York City.”

The passenger door was locked and John glanced
down at his gloves, then punched the window, his fist spiderwebbing the glass.
He punched again and the glass collapsed. He reached in, unlocked the door, and
climbed inside, Knox close behind. He opened the door to the rear and heard
Knox gasp.

“Oh, shit,” Knox said.

“I need help, Eric.” He swung his head back and
forth, making sure the VISOR got a clear glimpse of the explosives-packed
truck.

“There should be a cell phone wired to blasting
caps,” Eric said. “Look to the left.”

John turned his head and saw the cell phone wired
to a circuit board. “Do you think it’s safe to pull?”

There was a pause before Eric replied. “Doesn’t
appear to be any booby traps.”

I wish he’d said yes.

He turned to Officer Knox. “You feel lucky?”

Officer Knox gulped. “I don’t think this is a good
idea.”

He nodded his agreement, but took the circuit
board in one hand and the cell phone in the other and pulled hard, snapping the
wires. He looked around at the now-inert explosives. “Hey, it worked.” He
pushed a green-faced Knox backwards out of the truck. “Get your partner. Call
DHS. Tell them to get a VIPR team here as soon as possible.”

He turned to go. Scarpello yelled something, but
Knox stopped him. “He’s one of the good guys,” Knox explained. “The truck was
wired. He disarmed it.”

He gave Knox a thumbs up. “There’s a manhole west
of here, that’s where they went. I’m going after them. Stay with the truck and
make sure it’s secure. Send backup when DHS gets here.”

Knox nodded, and with Scarpello’s help, they
started yelling at the New Yorkers crowding around the truck, waving them back.

John sprinted west on 46th as bystanders scrambled
from his path.

“Nice work,” Eric said, “but when you go underground,
we’ll lose contact. The VISOR’s signal won’t penetrate the ground.”

John made it to the open manhole cover, fire
screaming up his legs, lungs aching. People stood in front of the Paramount
hotel, pointing and staring. He looked down at the hole, then climbed inside.

The ladder deposited him into a concrete tunnel
twenty feet below the surface of the street. He looked to the left and right.
There was no signs of the two Arabic men. He mentally flipped a coin, pulled
his M11 from his holster, then headed west down the sloping tunnel.

The darkness pressed in and he activated the night
vision’s thermal overlay, cranking up the resolution until he could see a dim
outline of the tunnel wall.

He came to a tee and looked to the right, but it
appeared to dead-end in the distance. He turned left, and as he went deeper his
thermal vision showed clouds of heat from the steam pipes on each side of the
tunnel. He continued on, heading under what he believed was the building to the
south.

He rounded the turn, and a small crack in the
steam-pipe to his left sent a billowing cloud that turned his thermal vision
red, blinding him. He stepped forward and felt his left shin catch on something
and he knew he had made a mistake.

There was a thunderous explosion that smashed him
against the wall and everything went black.

ohn floated in a golden liquid
syrup. He knew he should wake, but he preferred to remain bathed in the warm
glow—until the nagging voice roused him.

”John Frist. Wake up, John Frist.”

Don’t wanna.

“Wake up, John Frist. You are in danger. Wake up.”

He opened his eyes and tried not to puke in the
VISOR. He hurt everywhere, but especially his left foot. He tried to move it
and white-hot fire shot up his leg. The VISOR hummed as it vainly tried to
clear the acrid smoke from inside the helmet.

“John Frist. You must wake up. Your vitals are
falling. You are in danger.”

Where is that voice coming from?
“Who the
hell is this?”

The voice rattled inside the VISOR, insistent. “I
am the Emergency Medical Adviser. You have been seriously injured. You must
assess the situation. Are you alone?”

John took a choking breath. “Fuck yeah, I’m
alone.” He looked down at his left leg. It was a mass of blood and glowed
sickly red in the thermal vision. His foot was barely connected to his ankle by
strands of flesh and ligaments, the boot shredded.

“Confirming you are alone,” the VISOR said. “Have
you been wounded?”

“Yeah,” he managed, inching his back up against
the wall, dragging his leg, the pain so intense his vision blurred and he
thought he might pass out.

“Are you bleeding? Your blood pressure is low.
I’ve activated the Implant, you should feel a reduction in pain.”

“It’s not working,” he groaned.

“You’ve been receiving pain medication for the
past thirty seconds. You must stop the bleeding.”

Right.
“How am I supposed to do that?”

“You must stop the bleeding.”

He wanted to scream. Elliot and Oshensker and
their stupid VISOR! The displays in the HUD were a mass of red and he knew the
VISOR program was correct. He had to stop the bleeding.

He removed his emergency medical kit, a small
black Kevlar pouch attached to his harness, and tore open the package of white
clotting agent, then screamed as he dumped the powder over what remained of his
left foot. The clotting agent worked quickly, but he was still losing blood at
an alarming rate.

“I’m still bleeding,” he panted.

“Okay, you are still bleeding. You must stop the
bleeding.”

“I know that!” He dumped the contents of the
medical kit on the wet concrete, rummaging until he found the black nylon
strip. He reached down and pulled the pant-leg up from his boot.

He placed the nylon strip around his calf, right
above the boot line, and threaded it through the end of the device. He pushed
the button on the side and it activated, pulling tight, and he screamed again
as the emergency tourniquet locked in place, slowing the blood flow to his leg.

He felt his heart thudding in his chest and knew
he had lost a lot of blood. There was no way he could go on.

I’m dying.

“Your vitals are stabilizing, but you must seek
medical attention.”

“Fuck you,” he said weakly. “Fuck the Office. And
fuck Eric.” He took stock of the rest of him. The Battlesuit was shredded and
he bled from more places than he could count. The VISOR had shielded his head
but his brains felt scrambled.

If he could just sleep, for just a few minutes. No
one could blame him. He did his best.

The two men would get away.

No.

He might be a complete screw up, but this was his
chance. He could make things right. He was responsible for all those he killed
at the Red Cross, but he
could
make a difference.

Eric believed in him.

He pulled a roll of black fabric tape from his
medical kit and wrapped it around his foot, across the gaping holes in the
flesh and bone and the remains of his boot. He covered as much as he could, the
sprayed the accelerant over the tape.

It smoked as the quick-set epoxy hardened,
tendrils of steam drifting up and mixing with the steam that geysered above his
head.

The pain was exquisite. His heart hammered hard in
his chest, then stopped.

His eyes went dark, only a pinprick of light in
his vision, then a massive jolt thudded into his chest.

“I’ve activated the defibrillator in the Implant.
You must seek medical attention.”

“No time for that,” he choked out. He grabbed the
scalding hot steam pipe, burning his hands through the gloves, and pulled
himself up, staggering forward, walking on his good foot and dragging the
remains of his left.

* * *

Abdullah led Ahmed through the
steam tunnel until they came to the fork. If they continued left, it would lead
deeper and he had no confidence that he could find his way out, but the right
tunnel led to an access door under the Hirschfeld Theater where they could
easily make their way to the surface.

They had been so close, but the Americans had
foiled his plan.

I will make them suffer for the innocents they
have killed.

An explosion echoed down the tunnel and he knew
that someone had stumbled into his hastily built trap.

Ahmed grinned. “At least you killed that American!”

He smiled and they continued forward, nearing the
access hatch, until they came to a gleaming gray wall that blocked their path.

No!

Ahmed grabbed his arm. “What is this?”

“They must have walled off the door after 9/11,”
Abdullah said. He took the steel bar they had used to lift the manhole cover
and started beating at it, small concrete chips whizzing away, the stinging
impact buzzing up his arm. “We have to break through. The door is on the other
side.”

“Can we go back?”

“No, I do not know another way to the surface. We
will be stuck here until they find us.” He pounded the wall and Ahmed joined in
at a furious pace but they both quickly tired, gasping for air.

From down the tunnel they heard a
scrape-scraping
,
the sound of something dragging across the tunnel floor.

“It can’t be the American,” Ahmed said, eyes wide,
trembling with exhaustion.

Abdullah feared it was. “We must kill him.”

“Stay here,” Ahmed said. “You must continue the
Jihad.”

Abdullah wanted to argue. He thought of brave
Naseer, now dead, and of Mahbeer and Shahid, and of poor young Koshen. He
nodded. “I will pray for you.”

Ahmed hugged him. “You must escape. Allah is with
you.” He turned and stumbled back down the tunnel.

* * *

John struggled forward, his left
foot dragging against the ground.

Scrape-scrape.

He shifted his weight to his right foot, then
again dragged his left foot forward. With each footstep he thought about
stopping—about the hard tunnel floor and how nice it would be to rest—then took
another step forward.

Scrape-scrape.

The young Arabic man, Ahmed, stepped from the
tunnel ahead. The man had dropped his PEPCO coat and was carrying a steel rod
in his hands, a yard long, with a hook on one end and a ring on the other.

He stopped and stared as he realized his M11 was
dozens of yards behind him. He reached down as Ahmed surged forward, but before
he could pull the M11 from his left hip-holster Ahmed was on him, screaming,
the metal rod catching his left hand as it pulled out the M11. The handgun went
spinning through the darkened tunnel and he screamed as the impact shattered
his writs.

Ahmed did not let up. He swung again and again,
striking John in the head, the VISOR’s HUD flashing with every strike. He tried
to throw a blow to the man’s neck, but he stumbled and his left leg exploded in
pain.

The liquid armor plates absorbed much of the
damage but the blows hurt more and more and he knew the plates were losing
their effectiveness, no longer able to distribute the kinetic load.

With his right hand, he pulled the K-bar knife, then
grabbed the man by the leg, tripping him. He pulled himself along the
struggling man until he could plunge the knife into the side of the man’s neck.

The young man went rigid, then kicked wildly as
John pulled the knife free and plunged it into Ahmed’s neck, again and again,
as the blood spurted out in rhythm to the man’s franticly beating heart.

The young man slackened his grip, then went still.

He rolled off. It was a struggle to stand, every
part of his body crying in protest, and he cursed the young man, barely out of
his teens. He cursed at the unfairness of it. He cursed Abdullah. He cursed the
Office.

“John,” The VISOR said, “You must seek medical
attention.”

“Yeah,” he panted, head spinning. “I heard you.”

* * *

Abdullah chipped away uselessly at
the concrete wall separating him from freedom. There were small pockmarks from
his desperate hammering but no sign that he was about to burst through. He
heard Ahmed’s screams trail off, then silence. He backed against the concrete
wall, trying to will himself through it.

The man in black came forward,
scrape-scraping
the floor. His foot was a mess of blood and his armored suit was split and
torn, pieces of armor plates hanging loose or missing. He carried a knife in
one hand and the other hung limply at his side.

The man stopped in front of him, an arm’s length
away, his faceless helmet staring at him, then the man dropped to his knee and
pitched forward.

Abdullah’s heart soared. He lunged forward,
swinging the steel rod against the man’s helmet. It bounced off and he swung at
the man’s back. The man woofed and Abdullah swung again, wild with fury. “You
will not kill me. Allah will protect me!”

He struck the man again and again, with all his
might. “You will die,” he screamed, “for all the innocents you have murdered!”

* * *

The VISOR went crazy, alarms
buzzing and shrieking. Abdullah beat him and every blow brought him closer to
eternal darkness.

In a moment of clarity, between Abdullah’s
screams, he knew he was going to die. Abdullah would kill him. Abdullah would
escape.

He had failed.

Something inside him, the last remnants of the old
John Frist, whispered in his ear.
Give up. Death will bring peace.

No.

Between blows, he licked his lips and tried to
speak. “No.” He choked on a mouthful of blood and tried again. “No,” he
managed, louder.

Abdullah screamed with primal fury and hit him in
the head so hard the VISOR went black, the on-board computer finally silenced.

Sightless, he reached out and grabbed Abdullah’s
leg, pulling on it, and he felt the man go down. He heard the air woof from
Abdullah, and used the opportunity to pop the clamshell open, pull the VISOR
off, and smash it into Abdullah’s face.

The headband lamp went spinning from Abdullah’s
head, the light dancing along the slick tunnel walls, and he saw crimson red
gush from Abdullah’s nose.

His eyes locked with Abdullah’s as the man
frantically tried to shake him off.

“Allah is with me,” Abdullah said.

John took the K-bar knife and using his body for
leverage, plunged it into Abdullah’s stomach.

Abdullah convulsed and John pulled the knife back
and plunged again, this time aiming for the kidney.

Abdullah stopped struggling. He looked at John
with empty eyes. “I miss my wife.”

John lay over Abdullah’s body, pinning him, as the
man died. He reached out and took the dying man’s hand and held it tight. He
wanted to speak, but had no words. The man stopped breathing, his body limp.

John collapsed next to him and looked up at the
dark tunnel ceiling.

The damage was catching up. His arms and legs were
cold as ice, his body racked with shivers. His vision swam, then the light
faded as he had one last thought.

I didn’t fail.