The squad leader ignored her and watched the firemen coming through the hatches, taking over the hoses from his Assault Squad. He shouted to his men. “Move out! Into the bell tower!”
He turned back to Jean Kearney, noticing the tattered green Aer Lingus uniform; he looked at her freckled features in the subdued light and pointed at a smoldering pile of wood. “Are you crazy?”
She looked him in the eye. “We’re loyal.”
The squad leader listened to the sound of his men double-timing over the catwalks toward the tower passage. As he reached for the aid kit on his belt his eyes darted around at the firemen who were occupied with the large chemical hoses.
Jean Kearney’s hand flew out and expertly snatched his pistol, put it to her heart, and fired. She back-pedaled, her arms swinging in wide circular motions until she toppled over to the dusty catwalk.
The squad leader looked at her, stunned, and then bent over and retrieved his pistol. “Crazy … crazy.”
A thick mass of foam moved across the catwalk and slid over Jean Kearney’s body; the white billowing bubbles tinged with red.
Flynn used the field phone to call the choir loft. He spoke quickly to Megan. “I think they’ve taken the attic. They’ll be coming through the side doors into the choir loft. Keep the doors covered so Leary can shoot.”
Megan’s voice was angry, nearly hysterical. “How the hell did they take the attic? What the bloody hell is going on, Brian? What the fuck is going wrong here?”
He drew a long breath. “Megan, when you’ve been on fifty missions, you’ll know not to ask those questions. You just fight, and you die or you don’t die, but you never ask—Listen, tell Leary to scan Farrell’s post—I think they’re also up there—”
“Who the hell ever said you were a military genius?”
“The British—it made them feel more important.”
She hesitated, then said, “Why did you let Hickey do that to my brother?”
Flynn glanced at Pedar Fitzgerald’s body propped up on the organ bench. “Hickey—like Mr. Leary—is a friend of yours, not mine. Ask Hickey when next you meet. Also, tell Leary to scan Gallagher’s triforium—”
Megan cut in. “Brian … listen … listen …”
He recognized the tone of her voice, that childlike lilt she used when she became repentant about something. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say and hung up.
Bellini scanned with the periscope as he reported to all points on the field phone. “Yeah … they’re starting to look over their shoulders now. Man at the chancel organ … but he looks … dead … Still don’t see Hickey…. Might be in the crawl space. Two hostages … Malone and Baxter … Murphy still missing … shit … Cardinal still missing—”
The Fifth Squad leader in the octagon room to the side of the sacristy gates cut in. “Captain, I’m looking at the gates with a periscope … bad angle … but someone—looks like the Cardinal—is cuffed to them. Advise.”
Bellini swore softly. “Make sure it’s him, and stand by for orders.” He turned to Burke. “These Mick bastards still have some tricky shit up their shillelaghs— Cardinal’s cuffed to the gates.” He focused the periscope on Flynn in the pulpit directly below. “Smart guy…. Well, this potato-eating bastard is mine … but it’s a tough shot…. Canopy overhead and a marble wall around him. He knows it’s going down the tube, but he can’t do shit about it. Cocksucker.”
Burke said, “If the attic is secure and you get the bombs … you ought to try negotiating. Flynn will talk with twenty rifles pointing down at him. He’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
“Nobody told me nothing about asking him to surrender.” Bellini put his face close to Burke’s. “Don’t get carried away with yourself and start giving orders, or I swear to God I’ll grease you. I’m doing okay, Burke—I’m doing fine—I’m golden tonight—fuck you and fuck Flynn—let him squirm—then let him die.”
The Fifth Assault Squad dropped one at a time from the duct opening and lay on the damp floor of the crawl space, forming a defensive perimeter. The squad leader cranked his field phone and reported, “Okay, Captain, we’re in the crawl space. No movement here—”
Bellini answered, “You sure you’re not in the fucking attic now? Okay, I’m sending the dogs and their handlers through the ducts with Peterson’s Bomb Squad. When you rendezvous, move out. Be advised that Hickey may be down there—maybe others. Keep your head out of your ass.”
Bellini signaled to Wendy Peterson. “Perimeter secure. Move through the ducts. Follow the commo wire and don’t get lost.”
She answered in a laconic voice that echoed in the ducts, “We’re already moving, Captain.”
Bellini looked at his watch. “Okay … it’s 5:45 now. At 6:00—at 5:55 my people are getting the hell out of there, whether or not you think you got all the bombs. I suggest you do the same.”
Peterson answered, “We’ll play it by ear.”
“Yeah, you do that.” He hung up and looked at Burke. “I think it’s time—before our luck turns.”
Burke said nothing.
Bellini rubbed his chin, hesitated, then reached for the phone and called the garage under Rockefeller Center. “Okay, Colonel, the word is Bull—fucking—Run. Ready?”
Logan answered, “Been ready a while. You’re cutting it close.”
Bellini’s voice was caustic. “It’s past close—it’s probably too damned late, but that doesn’t mean you can’t earn a medal.”
Colonel Logan threw the field phone down from the commander’s hatch of the armored carrier and called to the driver, “Go!”
The twenty thousand pounds of armor began rumbling up the ramp of the underground garage. The big overhead door rose, and the carrier slid into Forty-ninth Street, turned right, and approached Fifth Avenue at twenty-five miles per hour, then veered north up the Avenue gathering speed.
Logan stood in the hatch with an M-16 rifle, the wind billowing his fatigue jacket. He stared at the Cathedral coming up on his right front, then glanced up at the towers and roof. Smoke billowed over the Cathedral, and helicopters hovered, beating the smoke downward, thick hoses dropping into the attic hatches. “Good Lord …”
Logan looked into the silent predawn streets, empty except for the police posted in recessed doorways. One of them gave him a thumbs up, another saluted. Logan stood taller in the hatch; his mind raced faster than the carrier’s engines, and his blood pounded through his veins.
The armored carrier raced up to the Cathedral. The driver locked the right-hand treads, and the carrier pivoted around, ripping up large slabs of the blacktop. The driver released the treads as the carrier pointed toward the front doors, and he gunned the engines. The vehicle fishtailed and raced across the wide sidewalk, bounced, and hit the granite steps, tearing away the stone as the treads climbed upward. The brass handrails disappeared beneath the treads, and the ten tons of armor headed straight for the ten tons of bronze ceremonial doors.
Logan made the sign of the cross, ducked into the hatch, and pulled the lid shut. The truck tires attached to the front of the carrier hit the doors, and the bolts snapped, sending the massive doors flying inward. The alarms sounded with a piercing ring. The carrier was nearly into the vestibule when the delayed mines on the doors began to explode, scattering shrapnel across the sides of the vehicle. The carrier kept moving through the vestibule and skidded across the marble floor to a stop beneath the choir loft overhang.