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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
John 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.”