“Explosive device, John,” Cohen called out, processing the information and integrating it faster than anyone. Lightfoote cut in, “Second Avenue, near the plaza. Can't see through the smoke.”
An altered image of the scene displayed in false color revealed no obscuring smoke but rather illuminated solid structures — buildings, cars, and rubble — in an eerie green.
“Filtering it through the IATIA satellite, looks like a hole…there!” King called out. Several intakes of breath were heard over the clacking of keyboards.
“Damn,” said Savas. “Something was blown to hell and back.”
Immediately, another image of the area occupied the screen controlled by Rideout. It showed the same region, in real color and without the hole.
“SAT photo before the bombing, sometime last week,” Rideout chimed in. “It's the corner of Second and Forty-Sixth Street.”
“OK, people, what is it? Let's find out what was in that hole.”
Cohen leaned back. “John, fire department chatter confirms what we're seeing. There was a massive explosion. There is some severe damage, and there are reports of many injuries and secondary carnage from car fires and falling debris.”
“Well, they've come back to visit again, folks, that much is clear. Anyone know what the hell they hit yet?”
“Got it! It's a UN office building. 866 Second Avenue,” said Rideout. An image flashed, showing a tall, black-glass building. “Damn. I'm getting one international office located there after another: representatives from Ecuador, Greece, Guyana, Honduras, even the Saudi General Consulate…they're spread out on different floors and offices.”
Miller muttered, “I don't think it's gonna matter what floor those poor bastards were on.”
“No, indeed,” echoed Savas. “OK, so, what we have is an attack on UN personnel, a UN building for all practical purposes, with enough shit to take the entire building down.”
“Structural damage to neighboring buildings is minimal from both the SAT and chatter, John,” said Cohen.
“OK. Your point?”
“Well, they didn't use airplanes this time, that's for sure,” said Miller.
Cohen nodded. “This was a surgical strike, John. Whoever did this managed to obliterate an entire building in midtown Manhattan without much collateral damage. Unless they got supremely lucky, we're looking at some very highly skilled munitions work.”
“I guess they've been busy in those caves all these years,” said Savas, turning toward the screen. “Manuel, what do we have in terms of munitions analysis?”
“Ah, John, that isn't exactly anything I know much about or that can be done easily with software. We'll need to farm this out to forensics.”
“Yeah, figured. But that means we're waiting as usual to sift through the aftermath. This is in real-time, folks. OK, what else can we pull out of this?”
“CNN, Fearless Leader,” said Lightfoote.
Her terminal cut to a live broadcast from the news organization. A reporter stood before a mob of people kept at a distance by police and fire department personnel, who themselves were partially obscured by pouring smoke. The reporter's words were barely audible over the sound of sirens and voices.
“…about half an hour ago, Brian. This is as close as our crew was able to get. As you can see, there is simply an incredible amount of smoke, and the building lies in complete ruins. Onlookers report an enormous explosion, or series of explosions. One elderly woman said the ground shook and she nearly fell.”
“Doesn't look like Second Avenue to me…” started King.
“It's not,” said Savas. “It's not even New York. Go to full screen, Rebecca.”
The image grew to fill the entire projection screen. People were running in all directions while the reporter continued speaking. Savas grabbed a chair, flipped it around so that its back faced him, and sat down as he listened to the footage. His hands gripped the chair back tightly.
“I'm sorry, Brian, it's just chaos here; I can't hear you. Let me repeat, there has been a major explosion at the Saudi Arabian Embassy here in Washington, DC. None of us can get close enough to see what's going on, but from what we can see, it seems that the embassy has been severely damaged…of considerable power.…Police and fire crews…uncertain…injuries…” The transmission was breaking up slightly. King used this moment to speak.
“John, I've got this on the SAT.”
“Put it up.”
The green-colored image occluded a portion of the news feed. Next to it, King superimposed a photograph of the Saudi Embassy from space. In the false-color image that cut through the smoke and clouds, the results of the explosion were obvious to all.
“My God, the whole thing's gone,” said Rideout. “Just like here. This is like some 9/11 replay. They're hitting us in New York and Washington at the same time.”
Rideout's words were like blows to the stomach. Savas felt himself become unhinged in time. Towers like sand crumbling in the wind. Falling, falling slowly, a million tons of concrete and metal…and flesh and bone. Police beneath, young officers, daughters…sons. Beneath a mountain falling…
Cohen's voice became a lifeline.
“John, you're not going to believe this.”
Savas's eyes, unfocused and in another time, turned toward her and became completely alert. She was holding a cell phone.
“One of the agents guarding the Sheikh is on the phone. They lost him. Two of them are down. Somebody took them out, and the Sheikh bolted. Our man is wounded. He doesn't know if the Sheikh is alive or dead.”
13
The group sat still in the dim lighting and bright screens of the Intel 1 crisis center, listening silently to a cell phone message play over the speaker in the room. They heard a strained voice, winded, the man obviously hurt and struggling to speak.
“They knew we were there,” he panted. “Shots came — Jones and Richards went down. I think they're dead.” He coughed, a harsh and grating sound. “I'm hit, but I can move. The rat ran. I tried to follow,” he paused, out of breath, requiring several seconds to speak again. “Couldn't keep up. Trace my cell. I need help. Losing blood.”
Cohen stopped the playback. Her voice was soft and flat. “We have an ambulance on the way.”
All eyes in Intel 1 turned to Savas. On the screens were the continuing images of the terror attacks: flashing lights of emergency vehicles, smoke, and statements to the press from US and foreign government officials. A voice called out that Kanter was on his way down.
“All right, people, we literally have the world blowing up around us. Let's think carefully but quickly.” Savas paced around the room, talking as much toward the floor and ceiling as to the members of his team. “We have major attacks in New York and Washington, coordinated attacks, unlike anything since 9/11. The FBI, the White House, the nation will demand that the majority of our resources be focused on these attacks — and they're right. So, unless Larry countermands me on this, I want most of you busting your asses to get everything you can on these bombings. However, if anything, this ambush on our protection squad convinces me that we are onto something. It may be too late — the Sheikh may be dead. But we don't know that. I'll work with Frank to try to locate him, intercept him, and bring him in if he's not already flower food. Any objections?”
“Damn inconvenient timing!” barked Kanter, who was standing in the doorway listening. “Your contact surely excels in planning, orchestrating his near murder right as we scramble to cover this nightmare!”
“Someone may indeed have a sense of timing, Larry, but I don't think it's the Sheikh.”