Before Cal could say anything, mostly that he couldn’t afford a private car, Sebastian steered him toward the coffee machine and poured him a coffee before adding cream and two sugars; how the man knew how he took his coffee was beyond his comprehension and the question struggled to compete in his half-asleep brain for priority, but it was headed off.
“Mike will get you to Battery Park,” Sebastian said, holding up a hand to stop any objection. “He isn’t needed for an hour, and it’s compliments of the Waldorf—”
“I know,” interrupted Cal. “Compliments of the bloody hotel. Why are you being nice to me?” he said, instantly regretting the harshness in his voice as he crossed way over into aggressive ingratitude.
“Cal,” said Sebastian, patient and calm, “don’t argue, just take the car, sir.”
Cal locked eyes with him, seeing a kindred spirit capable of more kindness than he felt he deserved, and softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, failing to fully convey how he felt, “I’m just angry all the time…”
“I know,” said Sebastian, still patient and understanding despite Cal’s behavior, “and I’m sure it will pass. Don’t you Brits have a saying about looking gift horses in the mouth?”
“Yes,” replied Cal, “but I never understood it.”
“It means,” Sebastian said patiently, “that if you’re given something for free, don’t check it out like you’re buying it. Now take your coffee and get in the limo.”
He smiled, turned away and greeted another guest by name, switching into another language with effortless grace. Cal sipped his coffee, good coffee, and walked outside to see a shiny, black town car with a dark-suited man holding the door open.
“Good morning, Mr. Calhoun,” he said. “Battery Park shouldn’t take us long at this hour.” He smiled, gestured Cal into the back of a car he couldn’t afford the insurance for, and closed the door after him.
Cal, as grateful as he was for the kindness showed him, did not enjoy the cold and windswept tour around the Statue of Liberty. He was hungover, despite the three cups of coffee he had poured down his neck in standard NATO form of milk and two sugars—a distant memory from his younger days which had become an ingrained habit—and he was suffering. As much as he suffered, he was still pissed that the Ellis Island ferry seemed to offer better views of the Statue. He spent the tour close in under the shadow and constantly craning his neck upwards. By the time the ferry brought him back, complete with his obligatory ‘Statue of Liberty in the background selfies’ on his phone, he was hungry and he was pissed.
Stopping off at the first hot dog stand he found, he paid cash for two with everything, not that he knew what everything entailed, and ate them both as he walked feeling cheated out of the ten dollars he had just been charged.
I must look like a tourist, he thought.
He knew he was near the monument at ground zero, the site of the former World Trade Center and home to an incredible monument to the fallen, but he couldn’t face the sadness he might feel seeing it.
Maybe tomorrow, he told himself.
Feeling better with a full stomach he rode the subway, which he found was an experience unlike any other, and he had used the London Underground more times than he could count. He wasn’t prepared for the differences, which were accentuated by his thinking that he knew what to expect. The noise and sheer number of passengers deafened him, and the trains seemed so much louder than he had expected. He had even intentionally missed two trains to stay and watch the incredible street performers in a subway station, after finding himself drawn to the music as though his bad mood needed the company of music. He uncharacteristically dropped money into the collection box and exchanged a happy nod with the front man playing an oversized saxophone.
Eventually, he found himself in Midtown where he stood and marveled, not caring if he looked like a tourist or not, at the gargantuan flashing neon lights of Times Square. Finding quickly that the daylight fireworks display of flashing lights soon lost its appeal, he told himself he had to come back at night to fully appreciate it.
A tall man with a bright yellow snake draped across his shoulders made straight for him, flashing an almost maniacal smile. Cal fought the urge to turn and run, to ignore the strict rules on jaywalking and flee across lanes of busy traffic, but the mood he carried from the subway performers stayed with him and he held his ground, posing for awkward pictures as the huge constrictor wrapped itself slowly around his neck.
A few photos taken on his phone later, taken purely for social media use and to prove to everyone, including his ex-fiancée who he was certain would be indulging in some online stalking, that he was enjoying life, he turned and headed south again.
An hour later, he shuffled in line waiting to get into the Empire State building, taking his tourist headphones and listening to the voiceover of a stereotypical New York cabbie inundate him with facts and history about the tower.
As he rode the long elevator to the top of the world, Cal’s ears popped uncomfortably long before he had to get out and move to a different elevator to reach the observation deck.
ORGANIZED CHAOS
Thursday 10:20 a.m. – Manhattan South District
Leland sat in the bland and empty apartment with two Movement soldiers acting as his security detail. The door knocked occasionally and one of the soldiers would admit a man or woman who sat at the small table with him. No names were exchanged, but each gave the code phrase which Leland gave the correct response to.
Another knock at the door and a heavy-set Hispanic man with a fearsome beard entered. He nodded to the man who admitted him, sat down heavily after stomping the wet sludge from his boots, and looked into Leland’s eyes. He had the look of a trucker, Leland thought, which made sense.
“Cold for this time of year,” the man said woodenly.
“Better weather is on the way,” Leland replied, emotionless.
Their exchange held no tone of conversation; it was simply a question and an answer: Can I trust you? Yes.
Leland produced a stack of papers and asked the man if he knew his target. He confirmed that he did. Leland asked if he knew the timings. He answered, “Affirmative, Gunny.”
A former Devil Dog then, thought Leland. Judging by his age, he guessed the man had probably served in Beirut.
Leland shook his hand before he left, and ticked off a line on his list.
Manhattan, Williamsburg, Queensboro, Kennedy, Willis, 3rd, Madison, West 145th, Macomb’s Dam, the ’95 in both directions, Washington on both sides of the island, West 207th, Broadway, Hudson Parkway, and all of the tunnels. Only the Brooklyn Bridge was left untouched, by whatever design the colonel intended, but that wasn’t his concern.
The logistics of the operation were massive, but the execution was simple.
Carlos Rodriguez took the stairs one at a time, the pain in his back returning. He had good days and bad, and recently spending long hours behind the wheel aggravated the old shrapnel wound. He was entitled to disability, but it wasn’t enough to live on so he was forced back into work. He got through by trucking, a skill he had obtained in the Corps, and he found himself easily recruited to the Movement.
He had to admit, the plan was brilliant. Stealing C4 and blowing bridges with precision charges would have a high casualty rate, not to mention permanently harm the infrastructure with millions of dollars’ worth of damage caused. This way was effective, more temporary, and easily achieved.