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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nurse Tulli prepared John for surgery, and Eric was reminded of a picture his Mom had taped to her refrigerator door, his father in the hospital, IV’s dripping chemo in his arms. Dr. Elliot and Dr. Oshensker were scrubbing up and preparing to operate while a host of other nurses and technicians monitored John’s vitals.
Kelly stood next to him. “Jesus,” he breathed. “He looks worse then when we snuck him out of Bellevue.”
Nancy nodded. “At least they managed to keep his heart beating,” she said.
Eric dismissed them and walked next door to the recovery area. Deion lay in a hospital bed, but his eyes were open and he pulled himself up and grinned, giving Eric a thumbs up. Eric saluted him. Deion tipped his hand to his temple in a mock salute, then settled back in bed, smirking.
Martin Taylor lay in the next bed, his head bandaged from the emergency brain surgery. He did not smile, but he nodded weakly before closing his eyes.
Eric shook his head and went back to the observation room. He watched as the operation started, until Fulton Smith entered, the door closing softly behind him.
Smith stood quietly, watching the surgery. “Excellent work, Mr. Wise. You saved New York City.”
He shook his head. “John saved New York.”
“Did you have problems retrieving him?”
“No, we flashed some paperwork and the locals handed him over. The feds weren’t too happy. I’m afraid the DHS might be causing some trouble.”
Smith smiled icily. “No, they won’t. What about the VISOR?”
“Nancy removed the evidence bag from the NYPD, along with the rest of the Battlesuit.”
“Very good.” There was a pause. “It was a bold move, dropping him in Times Square.”
Eric returned the icy smile. “It worked.”
Smith raised an eyebrow. “Indeed it did. How is Mr. Frist?”
“He’s got severe trauma to pretty much everything. They’re going to have to amputate his foot. He’s got a broken wrist, multiple fractures to his skull and ribs, several cracked vertebrae. Shards of nano-carbon from the bones in his foot lacerated his other leg. And, he has a concussion.”
Smith turned back to the operating table. “He will live?”
“The docs think so. Everything will heal, except for the foot. They want to fit him with a prosthetic.”
Smith leaned closer to the window. “You sound morose.”
There was no going back. “You don’t actually care about him. He’s just a guinea pig.”
Smith glanced sideways. “After what he did? The people he killed? Tell me why I should care?”
“Because he’s still a person,” Eric said. “In the end, he almost killed himself to stop Abdullah. He did the job.”
Smith turned, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “You’re a good man, Eric, that’s why I want you to be my successor.” He stuck out his hand.
Eric reflexively took it, then paused. His eyes were opened to what the Office did and how it operated.
Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anyone he trusted to do the job.
He shook Smith’s hand firmly. “I guess I’m your man.”
Smith nodded. “I always knew you were.”
“Do you know how many problems you’ve caused?” the President asked. “I’ve got the Joint Chiefs on my ass wanting to know why the hell a secret space plane was flying through Manhattan.”
Smith blinked in the harsh light of the underground bunker. “It’s not as bad as it appears. The Pentagon has known for years that work continued on a supersonic stealth aircraft, ever since Project Aurora.”
The President frowned. “It’s called stealth for a reason, Fulton.”
“Mr. President, the world knew we had a stealth plane, just not how advanced it was. But, think of this. What good is a weapon if your enemy doesn’t know about it? The entire concept of MAD was based upon both parties knowing they had the capability to annihilate their enemy, and furthermore, their enemy knowing the same. Without Russian displays of nuclear force, would we have been so hesitant to attack? I can assure you, Mr. President, I was there for those discussions. It was closer than you realize.”
The President shook his head, but his face softened. He picked up his coffee cup and blew on it before taking a long sip. “The military isn’t supposed to operate on domestic soil. I could be found guilty of treason. Impeached, at the very least. My own party thinks I’m an incompetent boob, and the Vice-President is ready to measure the Oval Office for new drapes.”
Smith noticed the President’s weary face, the deep bags under his eyes. He understood the weight of such a position and what it cost a man. His relationship with his daughter was a daily testament. “I can handle the Vice-President. I’m afraid he’s not fit for this office. His heart isn’t in it.”
“You could keep him from running?”
“Nothing like that. It’s his heart. I’ve seen his medical report. It couldn’t handle the strain.”
“What about the Joint Chiefs? What am I supposed to tell them?”
Smith handed the President a folder. “Here is the report. DHS stopped a man from attempting to detonate a primitive bomb in Times Square, and that through the hard work of the NYPD and DHS, this tragedy was prevented. Unfortunately, the mentally ill man, an Afghani engineer, was killed. He was driven mad with grief over his wife’s death from cancer, and blamed the entire city of New York for her lack of medical care. The crude explosive device was dismantled and destroyed.”
The President leafed through the folder, then closed it, staring at the cover. “Even an idiot wouldn’t believe that. You think that’ll play in Peoria?”
“The back-story has already been created. They can claim a conspiracy if they want. In fact, that might tamp down a few of these more troublesome groups.”
The President opened the folder again and leafed through it. “What was the real reason? Why did this Abdullah fellow want to nuke Times Square?”
Smith shook his head. “He wanted to set off a dirty bomb, to spread fear, to create panic. To strike back.”
“Why?”
“We killed his wife. Jack Trevino, one of the CIA officers killed in FOB Wildcat, mistakenly authorized the strike based upon SIGINT from the Sentinel drone. They bombed Abdullah’s house, killing his wife. Revenge is a powerful motivator.”
The President leaned back. “We make our own problems, don’t we?” he mused. “What about Frist? What do we do with him?”
“Project StrikeForce has succeeded beyond our wildest hopes.”
“I still don’t trust him,” the President said. “What if I told you to cancel it?”