Takedown (20 page)

T
he debate, if it could have been called that, was over before it began. Tracy Hastings was right. There was only one way they could cover that kind of distance in enough time to have a chance to catch the terrorists on the other end.

While the team had been able to somewhat weave in and out of traffic and even ride down the sidewalk when necessary, it was still perilous and too often very slow going. That was where Tracy’s idea came in.

When they got to Times Square, they weren’t surprised to find that just like all the other subway stations in New York this one was closed too. A heavy iron gate at the bottom of the stairs had been locked tight. Harvath looked at Morgan as he dismounted from his bike and drew the Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun from his scabbard pack.

Morgan ejected his shells, replaced them with breaching rounds, and headed down the stairs. The subway system of the city that never sleeps had not intended its locks to ever be subjected to any real assault, so Morgan had the gate open with one deafening blast from his Mossberg. Less than a minute later, he had blown through a second lock on the handicap access gate near the turnstiles, and returned to the bottom of the stairs to wave the rest of the team on down.

Their motorbikes came clattering down the stairs and zipped past him. Once Morgan had retrieved his bike and had closed the gate behind them, the team rushed out onto the platform and zoomed down the access stairs into the tunnel.

Harvath had smelled worse, but this was still no garden walk. Rats and rotting garbage mingled with pools of urine and human feces. Even the relatively cool air, a break from the oppressive heat on the streets above, brought little comfort.

They chose the number 7 Flushing local line because it provided the straightest shot to Grand Central Station. They weren’t in the tunnel for more than three minutes when they heard a rumbling noise over their engines and saw a light appear up ahead. They all knew it wasn’t the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, so, coming to a stop, they all hugged the tunnel wall.

Soon, a slow-moving, bloodred subway train passed, carrying a mixture of survivors and exhausted emergency personnel from the number 7’s tunnel that passed beneath the East River on its way to Queens.

It was surreal. Men and women inside were covered from head to toe in gray ash. Their eyes, no matter what color, looked like dark, hollowed-out sockets, giving their heads the appearance of being nothing more than skulls. They looked like the undead, and as they stared out the train windows, they gave no indication of seeing anything other than their own morbid reflections. They could have just as easily been recently departed spirits being ferried across the River Styx toward the hereafter. It was a chilling sight.

When the train had passed, the team continued on their way.

At the Grand Central stop, they emerged onto a single island–style platform. The rounded ceiling above reminded Harvath of the London Underground or Paris Métro and he remarked again at how little he really knew of New York.

At the center of the platform, they took one last moment to go over their plan. They had no idea what to expect when they hit Grand Central Terminal itself. All they knew was that they were not going to stop for anybody or anything—that included any police or military.

Nodding his head, Harvath revved his bike and took off. Herrington, Cates, Morgan, and Hastings followed right behind.

According to Tecklin’s diagram, the secret Waldorf station was located between tracks 61 and 63. It took them several minutes to find the right platform and twice they had to double back. The entire station was easily deserted. Once they were sure they were in the correct spot, they leapt their motorbikes down to track level and headed north.

Harvath had never been this deep inside an underground train depot before, much less one the size of Grand Central. The amount of tracks, equipment, and machinery that filled the cavernous underground space was beyond incredible. It seemed to stretch for miles.

The Waldorf platform was more than six blocks away from where they had started. As they neared, Harvath had the sinking feeling that they were already too late. Two MTA officers were tending to a colleague whose chest was covered with blood. As Harvath pulled up alongside, he displayed his credentials and asked, “What happened?”

“He’s been shot, and we can’t get any medical personnel to respond down here. They’re all tied up at other locations,” replied one of the officers.

Harvath didn’t need to say anything. In a flash, Paul Morgan was off his bike and had broken out his medical kit.

As Morgan tended the wounded man, Harvath tried to get more information out of the other two officers, but all they knew was that some sort of assault team had rappelled down from one of the sidewalk grates, shot their colleague, and had made their way upstairs via the Waldorf platform freight elevator.

After Morgan explained to the MTA officers what to do until help arrived, the team headed for the elevator. Harvath punched in the code Tecklin had given them, but nothing happened. Either the code was incorrect or the elevator had been locked down.

“What now, boss?” asked Cates.

It was a strange way for any of them to be addressing him, but apparently the mantle of leadership had been passed. Harvath looked up and down the platform. According to the diagram, there were two sets of stairs to the Grail facility, but they were locked behind heavy, exit-only iron doors at the 49th and 50th street sides of the hotel. There was also the hidden private garage exit, but Tecklin had made only brief mention of it to Morgan, and it wasn’t specifically indicated on the diagram. The marine had anticipated the team going in the way the rest of the Grail facility employees entered, via the Waldorf platform. Harvath had a decision to make.

Turning back toward the MTA officers, Harvath asked for the quickest way up to the street level. One of the officers pointed to a doorway at the other end of the platform and told him the stairs led to a service corridor just off the hotel lobby. Leaving their motorbikes behind, the team ran for the door and bounded up the stairs. When they hit the service corridor, they raced toward the lobby door, and that’s when they heard the telltale sounds of gunfire.

A
bdul Ali ejected his newly spent magazine and slapped in a fresh one.
They must have found the body on the train tracks.
It was the only reason he could think of for the police having found them. But at the same time, such a disproportionate response could only mean that the officer he’d shot wasn’t dead. The man must have radioed in the details, because what had just showed up was no ordinary police unit.

The heavily armed ESU team laid down waves of suppression fire. They were incredibly accurate and extremely disciplined. Through the fog of the firefight, there was something else that was clearly evident. These men were angry. Their city had been attacked. Fellow policemen and citizens had been killed and now they were prepared to fight to the death if they had to. It made Ali extremely nervous. He knew that a motivated, determined enemy was the most fearsome foe of all.

The ESU team threw so much lead in their direction that even the five battle-hardened Chechen Spetsnaz soldiers were showing signs of concern. While an eventuality like this had been considered, it hadn’t been deemed very probable. Their plan from the beginning had been to tie up as many tactical units as possible and then never to stay in any one location long enough for any to catch up with them. The ESU team that had found them must have been attached to a nearby high-probability attack site, maybe Grand Central itself. Whatever the case, Ali had no choice but to order his men back into the 49th Street stairwell.

Once everyone was inside, Sacha slammed the door shut. As he followed his soldiers up the stairs, he removed the last two fragmentation grenades from his tactical vest. Halfway up, he rigged a crude booby trap. Though it wouldn’t hold their attackers back indefinitely, it would at least slow them down and hopefully thin their ranks by two or three men.

Bursting into the Grail facility’s entry corridor, Sacha began barking orders at his four remaining men. In the event that they couldn’t find another way out, they were going to have to make a stand right where they were. Both Sacha and Ali knew that the longer they stayed there, the greater the chances that the Americans would be able to summon backup. If that happened, not only would Abdul Ali’s mission be in jeopardy but so would the lives of all the men on his team.

The escape route that seemed to make the most sense for them was the one they immediately dismissed. If it
was
the MTA officer who had drawn the ESU team to the scene, then it was very likely there were police on the train platform downstairs outside the freight elevator. Going back the way Ali had come was definitely out of the question. That left them with either the 50th Street stairwell or the private exit from the garage.

Staring at the carnage that had been created during the assault on the Grail facility, Ali began to formulate a plan.

B
y the time Harvath and his team stormed through the Waldorf’s Lexington Avenue entrance, the sound of gunfire had already stopped. They couldn’t help but suppose the worst.

Running toward 49th Street, the team pulled up short just before the corner of the building. Peering around the side, Harvath saw a very well equipped NYPD Emergency Services Unit preparing to breach what appeared to be a Grail facility stairwell door.

Raising his ID above his head, Harvath whistled to get the men’s attention and began walking toward them. Seeing the weapon tucked into his waistband, several of the officers spun and squared up on Harvath ready to fire. He didn’t have to see the red dots painted on his chest to know that their laser sights were lighting him up like a Christmas tree. He moved purposefully, but without making any sudden moves that could be misinterpreted.

“Department of Homeland Security,” said Harvath as he came within earshot of the team commander.

The commander waved him off, yelling, “We’ve got active shooters on site. Get the hell out of here, now!”

“Negative,” said Harvath as he continued approaching. “My team and I have been on their trail most of the evening. Trust me, you’re going to need our help.”

Though reluctant to waste any more time, or accept assistance from a Federal agent he knew nothing about, the commander was smart enough to realize that Harvath might very well have intelligence that could prove helpful. Leaving a contingent of men to watch the door in case the shooters reemerged, he moved behind the safety of a blacked-out Tahoe parked on the sidewalk to speak with Harvath. “Okay,” he said, “you’ve got about thirty seconds to tell me what’s going on here.”

Harvath really didn’t care about maintaining the secrecy of the NSA and its covert operation, but nevertheless he remained circumspect. “The men inside that stairwell have hit three other government installations this afternoon.”

“Three
others
?” replied the man whose name tab on his vest identified him as McGahan. “This is a hotel, not a government installation. The closest thing we’ve got to government inside this building is the residence of the U.S. Ambassador to the UN.”

“There’s a special freight elevator from the train platform beneath the hotel,” said Harvath. “It goes to a secret facility within the hotel that is being used by one of our intelligence agencies.”

McGahan looked at him like he was nuts. “Are you for real?”

Harvath gave the commander the broad brushstrokes of what they had witnessed up to that point and then let the man make up his own mind.

It didn’t take McGahan long. “And you’re sure about the diagram that marine gave you?”

“One hundred percent,” said Harvath.

McGahan walked over to one of his men, relieved him of his radio, and brought it over to Harvath. “I wish I had more, but that’s all I can spare. Our truck is two blocks over and I don’t think either of us want to waste any more time.”

“You mean,
this
isn’t your truck?” asked Harvath as he took a step back from the Tahoe.

“This belongs to whoever the shooters are.”

Harvath should have known they wouldn’t leave their escape vehicle too far away. With its lights left flashing, who would have suspected it was anything other than a very official vehicle on very official business? It really was a clever idea. “Did your people look through it?”

“We were just wrapping up a quick cursory when the shooters came out of the stairwell and began firing at us.”

“Did your men find anything?”

“No. It’s pretty clean.”

Harvath nodded his head. A more thorough search of the truck would have to wait. Hopefully, though, it wouldn’t be necessary. Pulling the LaRue tactical knife from the sheath on his vest, Harvath punctured both passenger-side tires. One could never be too careful.

“Okay, then,” said the commander. “Get your team over here. I want to brief them and be inside that building in less than three minutes.”

Harvath signaled Herrington, who brought the rest of the team from around the corner and up 49th Street to where he and the commander were standing.

Compared to the special response unit, Harvath’s team was woefully underequipped, but there was nothing they could do about it. Even if the NYPD officers had wanted to help out, it wasn’t as if they drove around with duffels full of extra helmets, kneepads, and body armor. What they did have, though, were explosives.

After synchronizing their watches, the Emergency Services Unit breacher tapped Harvath on the shoulder, handed him a small canvas bag with det cord and everything else necessary to blow a heavy metal door off its hinges, and said, “Just in case.”

P
ulling the secretary of defense to the side of the situation room, the president demanded, “Where’s General Waddell?”

“He’s still tied up at DIA and asked me to give you his regrets.”

“Regrets?
What the hell does he think this is, a tea party?”

“Of course not, sir, but—”

The president cut him off. “Don’t defend him, Bob. This situation has gotten way out of control. It’s worse than I could have imagined. How the hell did al-Qaeda figure out we have Mohammed bin Mohammed in New York in the first place?”

“Again, sir, we don’t know that the intercept specifically referred to Mohammed. It could have been referring to Sayed Jamal.”

“Like hell it was,” replied Rutledge. “It only happened this morning, and you and I both know that Scot Harvath conducted a perfectly clean grab. He dragged the man back through the woods to get him across the border, for crying out loud. Nobody was following them. This attack on New York is in retaliation for Mohammed.”

“Either way, someplace there’s a leak, and we’re working overtime on identifying it.”

“What about the operation itself? Whether al-Qaeda knows about Jamal or Mohammed doesn’t matter. They know we have one of their people in New York. How do we know they’re not mounting some kind of rescue operation?”

Hilliman chuckled and said, “I think that’s highly unlikely, sir.”

The president didn’t find any of this amusing. “What should have been highly unlikely is anyone finding out that we had either one of those men in New York in the first place, but it still happened, didn’t it?”

The smile fell from the secretary’s face. “Yes, sir, it did.”

“So what’s being done to help reinforce the men running this operation?”

“Nothing,” replied Hilliman.

“Nothing?
What are you talking about?”

“Sir, in all fairness, the intercept didn’t specify a location. All it referred to was our taking a subject to New York City.”

“What about the man who’s running the operation for us—what does he think?”

“Mike Jaffe? From what I was told, he wanted immediate evacuation.”

“So why wasn’t it granted?”

“Sir, the only way we can preserve Mohammed’s legal status is to make sure he doesn’t touch U.S. soil until we’re ready to close out the interrogation phase and move him to trial. If we evac him, we’d have to position an appropriate vessel outside our territorial waters and airlift Mohammed back out to sea. When that NYPD helicopter was shot down, a bubble was placed over Manhattan. No air traffic in or out.”

“But that was hours ago.”

“And in that time, Jaffe and his team have reported no problems whatsoever,” said Hilliman as a bit of a cocky smile crept back across his face.

“What are you saying?” asked Rutledge.

“I’m saying that if al-Qaeda knew where we were holding Mohammed, they would have tried something by now. They’re not coming, Mr. President. These horrible attacks on New York were just that—horrible attacks. Al-Qaeda was doing the only thing they could do in retaliation for our grabbing Mohammed. It shows you how devastated they are by his capture.” The secretary waited a moment for that to sink in and then said, “I know it’s an incredibly high price to pay and I know it doesn’t look like it now, but we beat them, Mr. President. The nuclear attacks Mohammed was spearheading would have been a significant turning point in the war on terror, and it would have turned the war in their favor, but we cut them off at the knees. What we saw today was their death knell. We’ve clamped the lid down and as soon as we break Mohammed, we’ll begin nailing that lid to the top of their coffin.”

The president wanted desperately for his secretary of defense to be right. He wanted to be able to tell himself that as horrific as today’s attacks were, the Americans who had perished hadn’t died in vain—that their deaths meant something and that they marked a long-awaited turning point in the war on terror.

But as much as the president wanted to believe Bob Hilliman, a man who in over five years had never steered him wrong on matters of national security, he had learned early on in his presidency that things were never exactly as they seemed, especially when it came to terrorism.