State of Siege

FORTY-FIVE

Colonel Brett August moved like a leopard through the silent park. There were no helicopters positioned over this sector; their lights were all on the UN and its immediate approaches. Save for the spillover from the spotlights around the UN complex, the grounds were dark.

August’s stride was long and sure, his body bent low, his balance perfect. The high stakes energized rather than daunted him. Despite the odds against him, he was eager to engage, eager to test himself. And despite the fact that nothing was ever guaranteed in combat, he was confident. Confident of his training, his abilities, and the necessity of what he was doing.

He was also confident of the plan. What General Rodgers had said about the chaotic, quicksilver nature of combat was absolutely true. And the bottleneck gave a unit the ability to contain it somewhat.

The bottleneck operation is a classic maneuver that was first used, as far as anyone could determine, by a small, ragtag army of Russian peasants serving under Prince Alexander Nevsky. The Russians were battling heavily armed and armored Teutonic invaders in the twelfth century. The only way they could conceivably defeat the larger, better-equipped force was by squeezing them onto a frozen lake, where the ice cracked beneath the weight of their armor. Virtually all of the enemy soldiers drowned. The strategy had been adapted by Striker’s former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Charles Squires, for low-personnel offensives.

The idea was to select an area where there was sufficient cover on two sides of an enemy force — such as a gorge, a forest, or a lakeshore. Finding such a spot, the unit, however small, would split into two sections. One group would flank the opposing force, leaving the enemy between them. One part of the divided force would then advance in a tight formation, moving down the neck of a bottle, so to speak. The enemy couldn’t afford to flee, since a hidden army dogging their progress would be able to snipe at them. And if the enemy tried to counterattack, the force in the bottleneck would be able to attack to the front, left, or right. As the attack forced the enemy back, they’d find themselves surprised by the force that had moved behind them. Both sections of the divided unit would then hammer them. Done well, under cover of night or geography, the bottleneck made it possible for a small force to overcome a much larger one.

Colonel August would not have the darkness to cover his move into the chamber. Even if he could kill the lights for a second or two, that would give the terrorists a heads-up. He preferred surprise. Unfortunately, with the lights on, the enemy would know that he was just one man. They would see him come into the chamber, just as they’d seen the United Nations security team enter. If they acted quickly, the bottleneck could be broken.

If that happened, August would still have several advantages. He had been trained as a soldier, not as a security guard. The seats in the Security Council would offer him cover. Thanks to the long, open staircases, the terrorists would find it difficult to sneak up on him, especially if he kept moving low through the upper tiers. And if the terrorists tried to use hostages as a shield, the Striker leader had two other advantages. One was his eye. Brett August was one of the deadliest shots in the combined special forces, and he had the medals to prove it. Only Mike Rodgers had won more. The other advantage was that August wouldn’t be afraid to fire. If he had to risk killing a hostage to take out a terrorist, he was prepared to do that. As Mike Rodgers had said earlier, if they didn’t act decisively and soon, the hostages were going to die anyway.

The garden stretched southward for several blocks. It was actually a small, tree-filled park anchored by a towering sculpture of Saint George slaying the dragon. The statue, a gift of the former Soviet Union, was made from pieces of Soviet SS-20 and American Pershing nuclear missiles that had been destroyed under the terms of the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty of 1987. Like the UN itself, the statue was a public relations gesture: a loud, bold lie saluting peace. The Soviets knew damn well that peace didn’t work unless you had the SS-20s and Pershing missiles to back it up.

Or a good tactic like the bottleneck, he thought. That was a Russian monument he could respect.

Large, gray rats were moving furtively among the rosebushes. Rats were good scouts that way. If they were out, it meant there probably wasn’t anyone up ahead. The animals scattered as August moved by.

The Colonel crouched lower as he neared the end of the park. Beyond the greenery was an open courtyard roughly seventy feet across that led to the main lobby of the General Assembly Building. There were still too many bushes and trees for him to see it clearly.

August was carrying one of the two Berettas that Rodgers had given him. The other handgun was in his right pants pocket. The colonel had posed as a tourist on his recent mission to Spain, a disguise that had taught him to wear pants with pockets deep enough to carry a concealed weapon. He was also still carrying the radio, just in case he needed it to help him get inside. Otherwise, August would have shut it off and left it behind. A communication or a burst of static at the wrong time could give his position away. Ironically, that was the very thing he might need to get inside the building.

Pausing when he was about two hundred and fifty feet from the General Assembly Building, August looked past the other, smaller sculptures toward the United Nations compound itself. In addition to three helicopters hovering over the area, the spotlights were on in the wide courtyard and a half-dozen NYPD officers were stationed at the main lobby entrance. Rodgers was right. The police had been allowed to move from their command booths on the street to the grounds when the UN guards were called away. August couldn’t risk taking the steps and being spotted. The NYPD wasn’t like the UN police. They were more like Striker. They knew how to take people down and keep them down. When he was a NATO adviser, August had spent time with a former NYPD Emergency Service chief of department who had briefed NATO strategists on hostage situations. New York Police Department policy was to establish and secure an inner perimeter, as tight as possible, then bring in specialized weapons, heavy vests, and be ready to tackle the hostage-takers in case negotiations broke down. This situation would have ended hours ago if Chatterjee hadn’t been so obliging. It was all part of the post-Desert Storm world mind-set. Someone breaks the law. Then, in the cause of world peace, everyone else talks and negotiates while the lawbreaker grows stronger and more entrenched. When you finally decide to do something about it, you need a coalition.

That was crap. All you needed was the guy who started it in your gunsight. He’d back down fast enough.

August rarely paid attention to clocks. He always moved as fast as he could, as efficiently as he could, and assumed that he had less time than he did. To date, he’d never missed a deadline. But even without checking his watch, he knew he didn’t have time to explain who he was or what he was doing here. Instead, he decided to leave the garden and go down to the FDR Drive. The highway ran under the wide esplanade that bordered the garden on the east. Though he’d have to drop down instead of using the stairs behind the UN, it was the only way he’d get to the garage unseen.

Turning toward the river, August made his way alongside the gravel path that led to the concrete walkway. Crossing the esplanade, he came to a low metal fence and swung over it. Lying on his belly, facing east, he looked over the edge of the walkway. It was a drop of about twelve feet to the highway, but there was nothing to hold onto. Removing the radio from his pocket, he replaced it with the gun. Then he took off his belt, slid the flap-end through the radio case, and pulled until the case rested against the buckle. Then he looped the belt around one of the thin stanchions that supported the rail. Holding the two ends of the strap, he lowered himself over the side. Still holding the buckle end of the belt and the radio, he let go of the other end and dropped the five feet to the asphalt.

August landed with his knees slightly bent. He stood quickly. The United Nations garage was to the south, directly ahead. August couldn’t see the site clearly yet, since it was blocked by the corner of a building on the northeastern side of the street.

August put his belt back on as he crept through the eerie silence under the highway. As he neared the garage entrance, he saw two policemen standing to the east of the open door. The inside of the garage was lighted, but the outside was dark. If he could draw the officers away, then getting to the door unseen wouldn’t be a problem.

August looked at his watch. In twenty seconds, Rodgers would turn his own radio to maximum volume. With his own radio turned up, the overload would generate a static feedback. When that happened, the police would do one of three things. Both officers would go to investigate; one officer would investigate while the other remained at his post; or they would call for backup.

August expected that both officers would go. They couldn’t afford to leave a possible threat unchecked, and he imagined that the NYPD followed the field policy of most big-city police departments. That officers were not allowed to enter a potentially dangerous situation alone.

If that didn’t happen, August was going to have to take down one or both officers. He didn’t relish attacking men who were on the same team, but he was prepared to do it. He shifted to a confrontational mind-set, with his focus on the goal and not the means.

The colonel moved quickly through the shadows under the highway, then put his radio down beside the curb. He made sure the volume was turned all the way up. Then, with just seconds remaining, he ducked into a darkened doorway across from the garage. He was approximately thirty feet from the corner and roughly the same distance from the garage.

August slipped off his shoes.

Less than five seconds later, a piercing screech ripped through the night. August watched as the officers looked over. One drew his gun and flashlight and started toward the street while the other radioed in the 10–59, which identified it as a non-crime-related noise.

“Sounds like a radio,” said the officer who was reporting the incident. “We have anyone else on the block?”

“Negative,” said the dispatcher.

“I copy that,” said the officer. “I’m going over with Orlando.”

The first police officer approached cautiously with his flashlight turned toward the side of the building on the northeast corner. The second officer stayed slightly to the side, his gun drawn and his radio on. He was betting that these men would shoot him on sight if they saw him. He had to make certain that they did not.

While the radio continued to crackle loudly, August watched the officers. When they reached the corner, he ducked low and ran across the street in his stocking feet. He made no sound, did not feel anything he stepped on. The goal was all that mattered. And as he entered the garage and saw the elevator ahead, he had only one goal.

To win.