Independence Day (50 page)

Calibrisi glanced at his watch: 6:10
A.M
.

“Fire up the call,” he said.

Igor hit a few keystrokes, and suddenly the voice of President Dellenbaugh came on the line.

“I want a status,” said Dellenbaugh. “What assets do we have in or around the statue?”

“We have snipers in four places, sir,” said someone from the FBI. “Ellis Island, Governors Island, Liberty State Park, and in or around the statue itself. That’s fifty-two in all. In addition, we have another two dozen in boats. We’re using a combination of commandeered tour boats and civilian vessels. Everyone is in plain clothing.”

“Captain Ambern,” said Dellenbaugh. “What were you able to do overnight?”

“There are five SDVs in the water as we speak, ten frogmen, all in a tight frame around the island,” said Ambern from the USS
Fort Worth.
“In addition, we are at battle stations and prepared to take out the Hinckley, on command. If you ask me, Mr. President, once we have a lock on the target, I would use our missiles in addition to any snipers.”

“What would be the damage to nearby boats?” asked someone in the Situation Room.

“There would be collateral damage,” said Ambern. “But blowing up the bomb is different from detonating it. We’re talking a few lives versus several hundred thousand.”

“What’s the flight time on a missile to the statue?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“From button press to target? About five seconds, maybe less.”

“Let’s talk about the target itself,” said Dellenbaugh. “Hector?”

Calibrisi looked at Igor.

“You ready to live-wire this?” whispered Calibrisi.

Igor nodded.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “What you’re all about to see is real-time visual of the harbor as filtered through a software program based on facial recognition technology. The software is scanning every square foot of water, detecting the make and model of the boat we believe the bomb is on. As a camera locks the target, it pushes the image against a database, removing anything that doesn’t match.”

“Hector, Greer here, how do we triage? I’m assuming we’re going to get some false positives. Worst thing that could happen would be if we identify the wrong guy and the terrorist just goes on his merry way and detonates the bomb.”

“You’re right,” said Calibrisi. “The software can only take us so far. There needs to be a human cipher at the end of the line.

“That’s you, Hector,” said Dellenbaugh. “Everyone else, get ready. Let’s keep all lines open.”

Calibrisi looked at Igor.

“Mute it.”

He looked at Katie and Tacoma.

“You guys all set?” he asked.

Tacoma nodded.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

107

WALL STREET

NEW YORK HARBOR

Polk carried two Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups, which he passed to Katie and Tacoma as they climbed into the speedboat.

Polk fired up the engine. He was dressed in a madras button-down and shorts. His legs were the white that comes when skin hasn’t seen sun in a few years.

Tacoma took a sip.

“I fuckin’ hate Dunkin’ Donuts,” he said.

“Fuck you,” said Polk.

Polk untied the boat from the dock, then stepped to the wheel and put the boat in gear, putting out from the dock.

Tacoma glanced in front. The water was crowded with boats. There were hundreds of them, power boats and sailboats, small cruise ships, ferries, even dozens of kayaks. He looked at his green Rolex. It was 7:10.

Polk glanced back, then nodded to the transom. A small cardboard box was on it. Katie opened it. In the box were two tiny glass cases, inside of which were earpieces. Katie and Tacoma each put one in their ears.

“You guys hear me?” asked Polk.

“Yeah,” said Katie.

“I’m good,” said Tacoma.

“Get your eyes on,” said Polk, pointing to a duffel bag on the floor.

Tacoma pulled out two pairs of sunglasses, handing one to Katie. They were specialized; the right lens was a high-powered monocular.

“Guys, it’s me,” said Calibrisi over commo. “We have our first hard target. Putting it on your screen right now.”

A digital tablet was Velcroed to the transom of the boat. On it was a brightly illuminated map of the harbor, with the boat’s location at the center. A flashing red dot hit the screen, indicating the boat Calibrisi and Igor had marked, then a line between the two boats cut in yellow across the screen, along with the precise distance between the boats: 1,071 feet.

“Got it,” said Polk, cutting left, then speeding up.

“I want you guys to make the first sweep,” said Calibrisi. “That’s why you’re out there. If and when we mark the bomber, we’ll make the call as to whether we use the frogmen or the snipers.”

“Or us,” added Katie.

“Or you,” said Calibrisi. “Robbie, you ready if we need you?”

“Just put me in, Coach,” Tacoma whispered as he stepped to Polk’s side and scanned for the boat.

“Not too fast, Bill,” said Calibrisi.

Polk eased up a little as he steered through the crowded harbor.

Tacoma scanned the water, counting boats, losing count when he got to two hundred.

In the distance, he saw the Statue of Liberty. It was the first moment he realized not only the gravity of the situation, and the hard truth about what could be lost that day, but that if they didn’t stop the terrorists, he too would die.

He closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head.

“What is it?” asked Katie.

Tacoma looked her.

“Nothing.”

His gaze returned to the horizon, then the boats.

“We’re getting close,” said Polk.

“I see it,” said Tacoma. “Slow down. At one thirty, next to a sailboat.”

Polk steered in a curving arc toward the boat as all three of them studied it from afar.

“We have another match,” said Calibrisi. “Are you guys ready?”

“It’s blue,” said Katie. “I see a bunch of girls on the boat.”

Polk changed his course.

“That first one is a negative, Chief.”

“Okay, second should be on your screen right now.”

“Got it,” said Polk.

*   *   *

As Cloud had demanded, they came from the north via the Hudson River.

The assumption that guided them—that the Americans were searching for them—had guided them from the moment they set out from Sevastopol.

The radio was on. A news station continued its coverage of Boston. There was no mention of the bomb, only a plot by terrorists. The news was filled with quotes by various American officials, cautiously gloating about the foiled plot.

Faqir stood next to the Talaria’s steering wheel. He leaned against a railing as Naji maneuvered the yacht into New York harbor. Faqir’s olive-colored skin had turned grayish, as if someone had spread chalk across his now gaunt, hairless head and face.

He felt weak and slightly dizzy. But something had happened during his sleep. He’d awakened with newfound energy and purpose. Perhaps it was the coming achievement of an objective he’d sought for as long as he could remember. Or maybe it was the determination and toughness that Faqir so prided himself on.

He often felt that, in different times, he would’ve been a military leader, perhaps even a king. But that wasn’t the world he’d been born to. Instead of a country or a battalion, he’d been chosen by a different battle. Jihad.

Naji pointed to a building to the left. It was the gleaming glass-and-steel spire of the Freedom Tower. The sight gave Faqir goose bumps.

You’re at war. What you do today will live forever. You’ll be revered for the horror you deliver into the heart of the enemy.

After centuries of enslavement and silence, Allah’s soldiers were finally taking what was theirs. It would take time. Hundreds of years. But it was happening. They were coming. And today would be the second chapter in the great book that would be written about Islam’s victory over America. This day, July Fourth, would be looked upon by Muslims the same way Americans looked at the Boston Tea Party.

Faqir’s name would be as famous to Muslims as Paul Revere’s was to Americans.

On both sides of the boat, the water was crowded with boats, so many boats—sailboats and motorboats, even kayakers, close to shore, paddling beneath the warm sun.

If any of them were worried about a terror plot today, they certainly didn’t act like it. It felt …
easy.

So far, they had seen only three police boats, all near the Brooklyn Navy Yard. A Coast Guard cutter loomed a quarter mile offshore, beyond that was a U.S. Navy destroyer, but its presence seemed ceremonial.

Naji steered in a slow, casual way, remaining in a line behind a smaller boat filled with a family.

“Naji,” Faqir whispered.

“Yes?”

“We’re here,” he whispered.

Faqir pointed into the distance at the Statue of Liberty, raising his arm slowly in the air.

Naji reached to a shelf above the console. He removed a small cardboard box and handed it to Faqir.

*   *   *

Calibrisi was seated next to Igor. His jacket and tie were removed, his sleeves were rolled up.

Igor’s fingers flew over the computer keyboard so fast Calibrisi stopped trying to understand how he did it.

By ten o’clock, they had spotted nine suspicious vessels. Polk, Katie, and Tacoma had swept six of them. The other three were checked out by plainclothes FBI agents in sniper boats.

Every passing minute brought with it increasing anxiety. With each possible boat, Calibrisi sensed the anticipation and urgency from the White House, revealed on one of the screens above, revealed in the way Dellenbaugh paced the Situation Room, eager to see if the terrorist had been found.

Igor suddenly elbowed him.

“We got something,” he said, hitting the keyboard. “Coming into the harbor from the Hudson.”

The camera shot down and focused. The passengers were beneath the bimini roof, out of sight line. The boat was green. The photo was so clear that the small gold Hinckley insignia was visible along the side of the boat.

“Bill,” said Calibrisi, “we have something behind you. Putting it on your screen right now.”

“I got it,” said Polk.

Calibrisi looked at the plasma upper left. Greer Ambern was standing on the bridge of the
Fort Worth,
surrounded by his battle team.

“Greer?”

“I see it, Hector.”

“Where’s the nearest SDV?”

“A couple hundred yards away,” said Ambern. “They’ll be there in less than a minute.”

*   *   *

Faqir placed the cardboard box on the table. He leaned against the table for stability. Carefully, he lifted the top of the box. Reaching inside, he took out a small square device made of stainless steel, with a small red button on top. The detonator.

Faqir looked at Naji.

“Naji,” he said.

Naji’s face was turned away from Faqir as he steered.

“Think quick,” said Faqir.

He tossed the detonator through the air. Naji’s face took on a look of horror as he removed his hands from the wheel then stabbed them out, catching the detonator before it tumbled to the ground.

He held the detonator gently as he studied Faqir’s grinning face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, shocked that Faqir would be so reckless.

“It doesn’t matter now. We’re here. Go ahead. Do you want to press it?”

*   *   *

The SEAL Delivery Vehicle pushed silently through the water, a dozen feet below the surface. There were three SEALs now clutching the submersible. The pilot and copilot sat near the front of the minisub in tiny compartments open to the water. Burns, the combat swimmer, clutched a handle near the rear.

Above, the waterline was chaos. Each boat engine churned the surface of the water, creating eddies that blurred the view. There were so many hulls they seemed to blend together.

Burns listened to his SDV pilot over commo as they steered toward the target boat.

“Captain,” said the pilot, “I need a hard GPS lock on that boat’s position. There are too many boat hulls out here.”

“Roger, that,” said someone on the
Fort Worth.
“I’m going to take your nav over for a sec.”

On the pilot’s nav screen, illuminated dots, representing the boats directly above the SDV, suddenly started to flash. Then a green circle appeared around one, pulsed three times, and locked on. A bright green target symbol flashed.

“Got it.”

The pilot locked the nav onto the target boat. The SDV hovered beneath it at precisely the same depth and speed. The SDV now moved in conjunction with the target boat, tracking it. The pilot let go of the controls. He and the copilot were now ready to join Burns in the attack.

The pilot turned back to Burns.

Over commo, he asked, “You ready, Burnsy?”

Burns put his free hand to the airtight pocket on his chest, feeling the bulge of his gun, a suppressed Beretta 9mm.

“Affirmative, Captain.”

“
Fort Worth,
” said the SDV pilot, “on your go.”

“Hold until we get the surface sweep.”

*   *   *

On Polk’s screen, the boat’s location flashed red.

Then the words appeared:
705 feet.

Polk steered toward the target boat. He weaved between vessels, all moving slowly, many distracted by Lady Liberty in the distance. Polk glanced at his watch: 10:28. There were, he knew, four fireworks displays scheduled for the day. The first, he knew, started at 10:30.

As he watched the screen, he heard a sudden yell.

“
Watch it!
”

Polk looked up just as the bow of the boat grazed a cigarette boat, its engine growling loudly.

“Sorry,” Polk said.

A tall man with a potbelly was behind the wheel. Behind him was a woman, who came running to the side of the boat, looking to see if there was damage.

“If that left a scratch—” the man began.

“
It did!
” the woman exclaimed. “It left a big black mark, Rudy!”

The man ran to the side of the cigarette boat. Polk put his boat in reverse. As he started to back up, the man grabbed one of the boat’s cleats, holding the vessel against his boat.