Manhattan Lockdown

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

THERE WAS NO need for Gina Carbone and Roger Davidson to speak again since they had many times, in the isolation of her office at One Police Plaza, spoken about strategies to follow depending on how what they called “war games” developed. One of the endgames had now happened in the Holland Tunnel. This was one of the possible scenarios they had discussed. They had known that if they ever had to seize the men on the hit list it might be necessary to move them from Pier 37 to another secure location. One of those was the never-used labyrinth, built in the Depression, that connected the tunnel to the huge, eerie complex that was designed as a “safe” place in the event of a disaster in the tunnel. Davidson and his crew had taken the prisoners in sealed NYPD vans to the tunnel complex as soon as Davidson learned that Harlan Lazarus had ordered a cadre of Homeland Security agents to invade and search Pier 37.

Gina had given Davidson-a name she knew was not his real one although she knew everything about his background from the time he first landed as a United States advisor in Afghanistan to train local Afghan fighters during the failed Soviet invasion in the 1980s-the power to use Plan A, Plan B, or Plan C of Code Apache. He was to decide when the end game had been reached and that there was no longer a need for the eighteen or so men on the hit list who had been taken down in the immediate aftermath of the first bombings at the Met.

Plan A was simply to return the men to the small houses and apartments where they had been when they were seized in the first hours of Code Apache. Of course the men would be likely to speak out if Davidson put Plan A in place, but he and the commissioner were certain no one would believe or care about their stories.

Plan B was to bring them into the standard criminal justice system, booking them at several different precincts in Manhattan, as if they had been separately arrested on weapons charges, putting them in holding cells, and then several hours later bringing them in front of different judges for arraignment; they would all be denied bail and then held in separate cells at the sprawling Rikers Island prison complex. And, Gina and Davidson also agreed, no one would believe their stories.

But both of them tacitly knew Davidson would opt for Plan C, the “Charlie plan.” And that when the Charlie plan ended Davidson and his corps of ten men whom he had recruited over the last two years and the only men, all with fake names, who knew the essence of Code Apache’s details, would themselves just disappear to different places around the planet.

Plan C began as soon as Gabriel Hauser became a black, utterly misshapen skeleton at the bottom of the cage in glimmering light over the Hudson River. Davidson addressed the members of his team who had been with him on the roof of the blockhouse, the men who had filmed Mohammad speaking and then Gabriel Houser in flames. “Throw the equipment into the river and let’s get downstairs fast. Keep the masks on.” More gently he told Mohammad, “Good work. Come down with us.”

They raced down the iron stairwell, ripping off their black masks now that they were out of the sight of the outside world. On the factory-like floor of the blockhouse the prisoners were still in clusters of five or six, each cluster guarded by other members of Davidson’s crew armed with M-16s and various German-manufactured pistols. “Let’s get them all back in the tunnel,” Davidson ordered. The sullen men moved, some of them reluctantly, responding to the commands of the three men in his group who spoke Arabic.

Once inside the tunnel the prisoners were again separated into small groups spaced about thirty feet from one another. “This,” Davidson said, “is Plan C. Let’s get it on.”

At those words from Davidson, volleys of rifle and pistol shots resonated through the inside of the tunnel. Davidson, too, was shooting. He and all of his team wore bulletproof vests and lay prone on the tunnel’s floor to minimize the risks of ricocheting bullets. Within thirty seconds all eighteen men who had been on the hit list were riddled with bullet holes. All were dead. Mohammed, too, was dead.

Davidson’s men then took out of the sealed vans the hidden supplies of ISIS-style weapons, primarily AK-47 rifles and Ruger pistols. They placed those weapons and spent bullet casings from them in the inert hands and near the bodies of the dead. As his people worked methodically through the well-rehearsed ruse of Plan C, Davidson ran down the corridor through which he had, less than forty-five minutes earlier, calmly walked with Gabriel Hauser. At that time Davidson had known exactly what would happen to Hauser.

Davidson walked deliberately to Silas Nasar’s body. He shot Nasar seven times. Wearing plastic gloves, Davidson put the Russian-made AK-47 in Nasar’s right hand.

All that remained of Plan C was for the man known as Roger Davidson to disappear, to slip into anonymity. He was in the back of one of the windowless vans when it emerged from the Holland Tunnel. He was in plainclothes. All of his other special team members were in the uniform and helmets of the NYPD Counterterrorism Unit.

No one on Canal Street, that southern border of Chinatown now teeming with oblivious Chinese immigrants, noticed Roger Davidson as he stepped quickly from the rear door of the van.

Andrew Carter stood in his exquisitely tailored suit in the middle of the stage in the small press room in Gracie Mansion. The stage was covered in black carpet, and behind him was a big, vivid American flag. He had rejected the idea of standing behind a podium with the presidential seal or a desk with the seal. He was now perfectly composed, convinced that the simple act of standing would convey better to the world that he was well and unhurt by the horrific explosion on First Avenue. And he had no notes and no prompters. A tiny microphone was attached to his lapel. Reporters were excluded from the room, just as they had been excluded from the mansion itself.

The president began, “As you can see, I am alive and well. I came here to see for myself the condition of this largest and most important urban center in the United States.

“Obviously the route of my travel was discovered by the ever-contracting remnants of the people who have been attempting to carry out a reign of terror here. Because of my presence, the brave men and women who traveled with me were the targets of yet another cowardly attack. But it was a desperate one, a man and a woman strapped with explosives. One was killed by a highly skilled sharpshooter. That was the woman. The man, too, was shot at the same time by another sharpshooter, but unfortunately the massive amount of explosives strapped to his body detonated. The cowardliness of this attack is demonstrated by the fact that he had placed himself next to a playground.

“My heart goes out to the brave men and women on motorcycles who accompanied me on this trip. Five of them are dead. The sixth is in a nearby hospital, where her condition is critical, but she is expected to survive her wounds. I know well all of these brave people. They protected me and the office I hold for years. More important, they were my friends.

“At the same time, my deepest sympathies are with the children and their parents, all of them totally innocent, who were trying to bring this city to its vital normalcy. We will soon release the count of the dead and wounded in the playground.”

Andrew Carter as he spoke moved slightly with the grace he had learned as a college and professional basketball player. They were slight movements, but fluid, natural. It was a Steve Jobs performance, unadorned, confident, and direct. He intended the movements to reveal that nothing had harmed him, that he was healthy and intact. “There is positive news. Thanks to the efforts of United States Homeland Security agents, thousands of brave United States soldiers, and the heroic counterterrorism tactics of the New York City Police Department, the tide has immensely and successfully turned against these terrorists. They have been weakened immeasurably, and, as to the few who are left, we know where they are and are hunting them down. They will soon pose no threat.

“Along with Mayor Roland Fortune, we will soon announce that this essential, and successful, lockdown of Manhattan is coming to an end. The mayor, although severely injured during the first explosions, has led this city through this crisis with his characteristic charisma and care.”

Andrew Carter paused. “Thousands of brave men and women have met and thwarted these attacks. Much of the credit for that goes to Gina Carbone, the commissioner of the police department of this great city.”