Threat Level Black

Chapter 1

Madison Square Garden was neither near Madison Avenue nor appreciably square, and the last time anything approaching a garden had been on the spot, the local Indians were unloading swampland on the Dutch.

Which made it the quintessential New York landmark, if not the essence of New York itself.

“You’re being kind of hard on the place, Andy,” said Macklin as they walked across Eighth Avenue. Ordinarily that would have been suicidal, but the area had been blocked off for the game. Traffic snarled through the rest of the city, but the streets around Madison Square Garden were a veritable island of peace and tranquillity.

Except, of course, for the troop trucks, Humvees, Stinger antiaircraft missile batteries, two tanks, and upward of five thousand National Guardsmen, soldiers, and police officers.

“You’d think they’d’ve let a pretzel guy inside the barricades,” said Fisher.

“Well, well, Cassandra showed up in person,” said a voice from behind a phalanx of approaching soldiers.

“Kowalski, it’s about time you got here,” said Fisher. “Did you find the UAV yet?”

“I have half the damn Air Force flying overhead, Fisher. You sure as hell better be right.”

“Only half, Kowalski? I thought you had pull.”

“Yeah, yeah, wiseass. Real funny. How are they getting the gas into the place, anyway? Did you think about that?”

“I thought about it, but I couldn’t figure it out,” admitted Fisher.

“We have the ventilation system guarded,” said Macklin. “And the backup generators. Everything’s been checked and rechecked. Power goes off, we’ll have it back on in a jiff.”

“Unless they blow up the bomb overhead, right?” said Fisher.

“Well, yeah.”

“Or within five miles.”

“Or more, depending on how good the bomb is,” said Macklin. “But if they don’t, we’re fine.”

“That’s what I like about you, Michael: You’re always looking on the brighter side of things.”

“Maybe I should get more batteries,” said Macklin.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” said Kowalski. “I think this is all just the product of Fisher’s wild imagination. Even the maestro of conspiracy falters once in a while.”

“Don’t lie, Kowalski,” said Fisher, taking out his cigarettes. “I get it wrong all the time. Want one?”

“I wish I did smoke,” said Kowalski, shaking his head. “What a fuckin’ nightmare. I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or wrong.”

“Wrong’s better,” said Fisher. “What’s the latest on the florist trucks?”

“NYPD’s got a good handle on it,” said Macklin. “They have an exclusion area and they’ve already searched beyond it. There are no vans within ten blocks.”

“Oh,” said Fisher.

“Oh?”

“Stop the trains.”

“Which trains?”

“Anything that goes anywhere near Penn Station.” He threw his cigarette away and began running toward the nearest police command post. “Amtrak, LIRR, New Jersey, subways — everything.”

“Andy?” yelled Macklin.

“Just do it!”

Chapter 2

Faud huddled near the end of the passage, sipping the last of his bottles of water. He did not know exactly when the time would be. He knew only that he was to wait until the lights blinked off.

The journey across the tracks had been an ordeal — a train had come just as he opened the panel — but it was past. The rest now was easy.

When the lights went off, he would put on the heavy coat and the hat, pull up the two tanks that looked like an oxygen pack. He would need the goggles to see. He had a light, but it was better to use the goggles: The light would give him away.

Faud would carry the pistol in his hand.

Several times he had thought of dressing and being ready, but the weight of the gear dissuaded him. He also had been instructed to keep the tanks in their insulated case for as long as possible.

The air tube where he could insert the gas was only a few feet from the shaft he had to climb. He had a small drill to make the hole. Once the nozzle was inserted, he would set the unit down and turn the wheel at the base of the tanks, activating the pressure feed. The gas itself was under very high pressure and would probably fill the ventilation system itself so long as it remained hot, but there was no way of knowing whether the loss of power would permanently disrupt the forced-air system, and the mechanism was designed to cover that contingency. The room above the insertion point had steam pipes that would make the system considerably hotter than the seventy degrees necessary for the sarin to remain a gas. If the auxiliary power came on, the gas would be forcefully pulled into the building, killing everyone within seconds; but even if it didn’t, the flow of air through the system and the difference in pressure would bring the gas up into the building.

As long as Faud managed to find the right duct line. There were three; he had to tap the one farthest to his right as he climbed from the shaft.

That was what he had been told. He knew a great deal about the gas, but nothing about the shafts.

If all else failed, he had already decided on an alternate plan: He would pass the ventilation shaft and walk to the end of the room, where the stairs led to a hallway behind a concession area. He would simply turn on the gas and walk through the stuffy building. Those who did not die of the gas would die from the panic as they tried to escape.

His place in Paradise would be guaranteed no matter what else happened.

The imam had insisted on giving him a plan to escape after he placed the gas, and told him it was his duty to follow it.

Was it, though? The imam had been wrong on many things; perhaps he was wrong on this as well.

Was it sacrilegious to ask such a question?

Faud finished the water. He should not think of it anymore. His path now was clear. He had only to wait for the dim light at the far end of the shaft fifty feet away to go out.

Chapter 3

The lights on the coast shone like the diamonds of a woman’s necklace, glittering against the blackness of the nearby water. A yellow string of jewels circled the shore, the lights of cars on the Belt Parkway.

A 747 had just taken off from Kennedy Airport; Howe could see it climbing off to his right. Air traffic in the region had been strictly curtailed, and the few flights allowed into the New York metropolitan area had to follow instructions to the millimeter. Two Air National Guard F-16s circled over Manhattan, ready to pounce. Another pair was standing by on the ground in nearby New Jersey.

Howe’s aircraft, the Iron Hawk, was not equipped with offensive weapons, but its AMV radar provided a finer detection net than the F-16s’ APG-68. So far all he’d spotted were a few birds. The radar popped them on the screen momentarily, briefly tracking them before its program decided for sure that they were birds, not a cleverly designed aircraft whose radar profile mimicked a seagull.

If Fisher was wrong, Howe would look like a fool. He could already hear Nelson’s voice and see Blitz’s disapproving stare. But he had decided he didn’t care. He had to do what he thought was right, which meant risking looking like a fool.

No, it meant he would look like a fool sometimes. But it was worse to feel like a fool.

Howe checked his fuel and the rest of his instruments, then began a turn as he banked over New Jersey. Patrolling like this was surprisingly difficult; it was so boring that the natural temptation was to wish something would happen. That he didn’t want: Among the eight million people down there in the city was his friend Jimmy, who’d scalped tickets to the basketball game Fisher thought was the target. Howe had tried calling him but gotten only his machine.

The F-16 pilots were jumpy despite the cool and laconic snaps of their communications. When an Airbus heading in from Chicago failed to acknowledge a ground communication, the lead pilot jumped on the air so quickly that the airliner’s captain apologized three or four times for what was, at worst, a moment’s inattention.

“Iron Hawk, this is Falcon One,” said the F-16 flight leader as they worked through their patrol pattern.

“Iron Hawk,” said Howe, acknowledging.

“Viper Flight is about to take off,” said the pilot, informing Howe that a second group of F-16s was coming up to spell the first group. Falcon One and Two would head back once their replacements were on station. Another pair of F-16s would take their turn below on standby, providing blanket coverage of the airspace.

Howe started to acknowledge when a ground controller from an FAA station to the north came onto the line with a warning: A light plane was straying off its flight plan toward the restricted area north of Manhattan and, thus far, had failed to answer hails.

The pilot in Falcon One opted to check it out himself, instructing his wingman to remain in the patrol area until he was relieved. Even as he was giving the instructions, the F-16 pilot was changing course and lining up an intercept on the small plane, which was just heading over the Hudson River south of the Tappan Zee Bridge.

“It is what they say it is,” Howe told Falcon One, checking the contact with the AMV radar. He was too far to see if there was a bomb aboard. “Nothing else there.”

“Falcon One.”

Howe checked his position, orienting himself in the night sky as he flew westward, tracking over New Jersey as he flew toward the light plane. The police had already been alerted to check all of the airports in the area that might be used to launch the UAV. Vehicle-based installations of Stinger missiles were guarding the main power plants in the area, and a separate F-16 flight was over Indian Point, the nuclear power station along the Hudson up near Peekskill, fifty-something miles north of New York City.

Everything was covered. Except what they didn’t expect.

And what would that be?

A light plane reconfigured to hold a bomb?

The civilian pilot was answering the F-16’s radio call.

If Howe had the UAV, he’d set it up in a barn somewhere north of the city, one that had an open field for it to climb through after the rocket engines ignited. When the time came, he’d pull open the big doors and fire away.

Something flashed in the sky ahead. Howe’s breath caught in his chest as his brain tried to make sense of what his eyes had just seen.

Chapter 4

Fisher stood on the A train platform, hands on hips. Six National Guardsmen with M16s and bulletproof vests watched from the stairs behind him; another knot of men patrolled both sides of the long platform, which sat between the north- and southbound tracks.

NYPD had already considered the problem of trains coming into Penn Station, which sat below the Madison Square Garden area, and posted details to search the trains before they got to the station. The job was not as difficult as might be imagined: Relatively few trains were inbound to the station at this time of day, and their progress could be easily tracked.

The subway was a somewhat different matter, though here, too, the police seemed to have corralled the problem. The stations on Thirty-fourth street — not just at Eighth and Seventh Avenues but Herald Square on Sixth as well — were closed. Trains were permitted to run through on the lines but there was no stopping.

“What’s going to happen?” Kowalski asked Fisher, joining him on the platform. “They pack the train with the gas, then arrange to set off the E-bomb when it’s in the station?”

Fisher didn’t answer. A light lit the tunnel at the far end. The platform vibrated with a low rumble as the A train approached. The noise of the train’s steel wheels grinding against the rails crescendoed into a loud smack of rolling thunder as the train sped through the station. Fisher saw that there were armed policemen and Guardsmen in each car.

“Maybe we should have them just shut down the trains,” said Kowalski after the train passed. “You think? We can. We’ve arranged it.”

“Not necessary,” said Fisher. He went over to the edge of the tracks. “Okay.”

“Okay what? Stop the trains?”

“Nah. That’ll tip them off.”

“But—”

Fisher jumped down onto the tracks.

“Jesus, Andy, are you out of your mind?” yelled Kowalski. “That’s a live track. You touch that third rail and you fry.”

“You coming?”

“No fucking way.”

“Your call. Tell Macklin to meet me inside Madison Square Garden.”

“Inside where?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to go this way, right?”

Chapter 5

There was no reading on the radar. The flash had come from the ground well in the distance. Howe hit the magnifier command, confirmed that it was clean, and then went quickly to the infrared screen, even though the computer should have already used the sensor to compile its “read.”

Nothing.

So what had he seen?

He nudged his left wing down, sliding the Iron Hawk into an orbit over the spot where he had seen the spark of light. All he could think of was the flash of a rocket — or the UAV — taking off.

The F-16 pilots were talking about the light plane. Howe ignored them, pushing against his restraints. He had to find the stinking thing: He had to see it so he could shoot it down.

Or, rather, tell the others to shoot it down.

“Iron Hawk, this is Falcon Two.”

Was that it, the blur at the right side of his windscreen?

The smudge disintegrated into a shadow. Howe started tacking south and then saw lights on the ground, red lights…

A fire?

With that much of a spark?

He eased back even more on the throttle. The Iron Hawk practically walked over the spot: The gear said the plane was doing only 120 knots at 3,000 feet.

A fire truck. Several fire trucks.

Something shot into the sky.

A gas station was on fire.

He was surprised to realize he was a little disappointed. He had no right to be: No doubt the men fighting the blaze down there were in every bit as much danger as he would have been, if not more. He pulled back gently on the stick, starting to recover.

“Iron Hawk, Falcon One is escorting this aircraft out of the restricted zone. Pilot appears lost,” said the F-16’s pilot.

Howe acknowledged. He switched the radar back to its standard settings; the F-16 and the private plane were at the top of the scan area, heading to the northwest and a small airfield where a squad’s worth of regular Army soldiers would be waiting along with local police and a federal marshal. The small plane’s pilot was about to spend several of the most uncomfortable hours of his life.

Howe cut back east, heading in the direction of Connecticut. The replacement F-16s were now on station. Howe checked in with the new pilots, one of whom he thought he knew from a temporary assignment in Alaska nearly a decade before.

Before he could ask, a civilian ground controller broke into the circuit.

“We have a landline threat, a phone call,” said the man, his words rushing together in his excitement. “A hijacking on Qual-Air Flight 111 out of Boston!”

The Viper commander acknowledged the communication calmly, then checked with his military ground controller. The Qual-Air flight was legitimate, a charter plane that had just taken off. The civilian controllers were still in the process of contacting the pilot to see what was going on, but there was no indication that the plane had been hijacked.

A hijacking?

More likely, a ruse intended to cover the real attack, thought Howe.

The airspace over the corridor was effectively locked down; controllers began holding takeoffs and diverting anything that might come even remotely close. The two F-16s on the ground in New Jersey took off. Viper flight began tracking north, one airplane on a direct intercept with the other hanging back in reserve.

Howe tracked southward over the Hudson River, certain that this was a trick. But where would the real attack come from?

The west, he thought, where there were plenty of places to launch the UAV. He banked ten thousand feet over the George Washington Bridge, turning in that direction. As he did, the radar buzzed with a contact forty miles beyond the clutter of the land. It was low, close to the water. Howe stared at the display, where the red triangle for the unidentified object glowed like a pinpoint in the long-range scan.

Probably another bird, he thought.

He waited for it to disappear from the screen.

It didn’t.

Chapter 6

Blitz nearly jumped when the phone rang. He glanced across the room at the President, then picked it up.

“Nothing new,” said Brott, the NSC military aide who was monitoring the situation from the Pentagon. “Civilian plane, false alarm.”

“Right,” said Blitz.

The Secret Service had asked — demanded, really — that the President leave the city when the alert came through three hours before. The President had folded his arms across his chest, listened patiently to their arguments, and looked at Blitz.

“I think you should go,” Blitz had told him. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew D’Amici wouldn’t.

“With due respect, gentlemen, fuck yourselves,” said the President. It was the only time in his life that Blitzcould remember the President using that particular profanity, at least since he had been elected to office. “The people of the United States did not elect me to run away and hide from terrorists,” continued the President. “And if something horrible does happen here, then this will be exactly where I should be.”

He was a stubborn son of a bitch. That’s what it came down to. It wasn’t the fact that he thought his place was here; it wasn’t that he thought the political ramifications of running from a rumor of danger were immense. The real reason he was staying was that he wouldn’t back down from any confrontation. In his heart of hearts, he probably wanted to go down on the streets and work with the details trying to catch these jerks.

Blitz admired that instinct, even as he questioned the wisdom of it.

“Keep me informed,” he told Brott.

“Yes, sir. Mozelle wanted to talk to you.”

Blitz pushed down the button on the receiver and called his aide at the White House.

“You okay up there?” she asked as soon as she heard his voice.

“Not a problem here,” he said.

“ Lot of calls. One in particular I thought you’d want to know about,” said Mozelle. “Your friend Kevin Smith called. He was mad that you didn’t tell him you were coming into the city.”

Smith was an old friend; they often got together when Blitz was in New York or he was in D.C., but security and the press of business had prevented him from calling this time. Blitz made a mental note to call Smith later on and tell him he was sorry.

“He said he had tickets to the NCAA championship game tonight,” Mozelle continued, “and he would have taken you instead of his brother-in-law.”

“Oh,” said Blitz softly.

Tempted as he was to call Smith’s cell phone — he knew the number by heart — he realized he couldn’t. Instead he hung up and rose, looking out the nearby window at the brilliantly lit Manhattan skyline.

“I hope you’re okay, Kevin,” he told the glass. “I hope to God we’re all okay.”

Chapter 7

Fisher walked up along the track about a hundred yards, slowing as the light from the station faded behind him. The problem wasn’t the darkness; he could see fairly well. But the schematic of the tunnel system he’d seen earlier had shown a passage here to his left, and he couldn’t find it now.

Fisher took another two steps. There should be a little work light along the narrow walkway that flanked the tracks here somewhere.

As he stared at the wall, the light appeared about ten yards to his right. But it was dark. The socket was empty.

Fisher glanced down the tracks. The light bulb had been unscrewed and thrown on the tracks. He could see the glass shards quite clearly.

Which was a problem, actually. All of a sudden there was plenty of light flooding into the dark tunnel: A train was approaching.

Rather quickly too.

The door he was looking for stood next to the light. He made it with something like three seconds to spare, pulling himself up onto the ledge as the train’s brakes squealed and the tunnel shook.

When the train passed, Fisher took his pistol from its holster and opened the door.

Chapter 8

Howe steadied Iron Hawk on its course toward the contact, riding over the rooftops of Bergen County, New Jersey. He had the UAV now, the computer boxing it in the upper right corner of his screen.

“Zoom on Unidentified 1-3-1,” Howe told the computer, using its tag for the contact. The image blossomed in his screen. It was as if Howe were hovering just in front of its nose. The UAV was moving at just over three hundred knots, skimming above the waves at about eight feet roughly forty miles from the tip of Manhattan, across Brooklyn in the Atlantic due south of Long Beach, Long Island.

“Viper Two to Iron Hawk. Colonel, is this it?” asked the pilot in the second F-16. He was approximately twenty miles beyond the Statue of Liberty, just about ready for an intercept. Viper One was north, escorting Qual-Air back to Boston because of the earlier threat.

“Affirmative, I have the target on my screen,” said Howe. He read off the UAV’s location, heading, and speed, pulling back on the magnification level so he could better direct the F-16.

The fighters that had just taken off checked in. One peeled off to back up Viper Two; the other took up a patrol position in case this, too, was a ruse.

It wasn’t. Howe felt his heart beating steady now, the rhythm familiar. His fingers felt heavy, his eyes almost hollow.

He’d flown in combat before, but this time it was different: This time there were people he knew on the ground, in harm’s way. This time his own people were in the crosshairs.

The contact tucked left, adjusting its course. There were thirty-five miles between it and New York.

As Viper Two approached, it quickly became apparent that he would have to get very close to the UAV to shoot it down. The UAV’s extremely small radar profile protected it against a longer range shot by the AMRAAM missiles; the pilot’s best bet would be to choose either heat seekers or his cannon. Howe could see him sizing up his strategy and preparing for it: He had a parallel track to the UAV’s course that would allow him to turn and get on its tail as it approached; the F-16’s superior speed would make the terrorist craft an easy target.

Not easy, exactly. Viper Two still had no idea where it was. In the dark night, moving at hundreds of miles an hour, the world was a flashing blur. The airplane and its target moved through four dimensions — three spatial, one of time — in a complicated dance. It was man against machine, and the jock at the stick of the F-16 was now in a confrontation where the slightest error, the wrong twitch at the wrong moment, might mean disaster. The pilot had trained for countless hours, but no simulation, no drill, could come close to duplicating what he was flying against now.

Howe had been there himself. You reached down at that moment and found what you had.

He watched the display. Viper Two couldn’t find the UAV, even as he closed.

“Turn,” snapped Howe. “Now.”

The F-16 stuttered in the display. Then it moved downward toward the water, pirouetting on its wing, 18,000 pounds of metal and machinery transformed into a graceful ballerina. The wings straightened and the dancer became a linebacker blitzing unmolested toward the fleeing quarterback.

“Range is five miles,” said Howe. “You’re dead on. Dead on and steady.”

“Roger that.”

Howe told the computer system to zoom in on the target. The screen blinked — and then went back to the large-area scan.

He started to curse, then saw the change was not due to a malfunction: A second contact had been spotted, this one behind him, only five miles south of the Statue of Liberty.

Chapter 9

The only person in the room whose face wasn’t a mask of worry was the President’s. Blitz watched him from the other end of the suite, still working the phone as he talked to congressional leaders about an amendment to the Medicare Prescription Bill. Each call began the same way: Senator, how are you? Did you catch my speech? We need your support on this legislation.

It was impossible to tell from the President’s reaction whether the man or woman on the other line was for or against the proposal. Only when the call ended and he signaled one of his aides with a thumbs-up or — down could one judge the success of the call.

Meanwhile, the Secret Service detail, chief of staff, and military aides were walking back and forth, trying to appear calm. They had formulated and reformulated and formulated once again plans in case the alert proved real. They had flashlights, night-vision goggles, flak vests — everything they needed, Blitz thought, which only made the situation seem even more impossible.

The President finally put down the phone and got up from his chair.

“So, what do you think, Professor?” he asked. “Should we head over to the Garden?”

The Secret Service people began to protest en masse. The President raised his hand to shush them.

“What do you say, Doc? We getting over there or what?” asked the President.

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of the professionals while they were doing their work,” said Blitz.

“Neither would I,” answered the President. “Come on. We’re not cowering in a hotel room.”

“Sir…” started the head of the Secret Service detail. “With all due respect, your safety—”

“My safety isn’t the question,” said the President. “The question is, who’s going to win this stinking basketball game? Syracuse or Kentucky? I have Syracuse. My national security advisor takes Kentucky. Now, let’s get our act together so we don’t hold up too much traffic, all right?”

Chapter 10

Three people tried to speak over the same radio frequency at once. Howe sifted through the cacophony, eyes glued on the new triangle on the right side of the display.

How the hell had the system missed the contact earlier?

Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe this was just an anomaly, a screwup.

Or maybe it had been lost in the clutter until now.

Howe yanked at his stick, snapping back in the direction of the UAV. The Iron Hawk pulled nearly 9 g’s, testing the limits of his flight suit and its wing structure as it jerked onto the new course. A pair of fists smashed against Howe’s temples, gravity angry that he had dared to fight it. Momentum slammed against his chest, drove down against his groin; Howe fought through it, his brain swimming hard to keep up with the superbly engineered plane as she shrugged off the awesome forces trying to pull her back.

The aircraft won. Iron Hawk began accelerating.

Howe blinked his eyes and saw his target on the screen seven miles away, flying to his right now as he leaned on the throttle and strained against the stick.

Lady Liberty stood proud in the harbor, her arm holding a beacon to the oppressed of the world.

“Splash Target One!” reported the F-16 pilot. “Splash that motherfucker!”

“I have a new target,” reported Howe, belatedly realizing he had forgotten to alert the others. “Tracking.

The UAV dipped right. There was a Navy destroyer ahead, near the mouth of the harbor.

Someone was hailing him.

The Navy people couldn’t see the target, but they could see him: The targeting radars on their ship-to-air missiles were locking on him, ready to fire.

“Iron Hawk acknowledges,” said Howe, slapping at his Talk button. “I am in pursuit of an unidentified aircraft, probably one of our targets.”

The black shadow flew toward the center of the statue ahead.

Those bastards are going to blow up the Statue of Liberty, Howe thought to himself. And there isn’t anything I can do about it.

Chapter 11

The corridor was a utility passage that connected to another set of tracks and opened directly across from a passage way below the Garden. The only way across was through a set of girders and then over the tracks; unlike the other tunnel, there was no walkway on the side.

According to the plans, the access had been closed off. Pretty much a dead giveaway, as far as Fisher was concerned.

He climbed down between the girders, trying to judge whether the rumble he felt was coming in his direction or not. Finally he decided to take his chances; with all these tracks down here, the odds were that it wasn’t.

But it was. Fisher was just reaching the metal plate that covered the opening when the yellowish-white light crept across the wall.

He pulled down against the plate, trying to get it to open. It didn’t budge.

Fisher took a step back. Ordinarily he would have reached for a cigarette so that he could fully contemplate the implications of the panel being secured in place. But the approaching train made such contemplation a difficult venture. The FBI agent kicked at the bottom of the metal with his foot.

It still didn’t move. The tunnel now practically quaked with the thunder of the approaching subway cars, the rattle moving the ground in a motion not unlike the steady, comforting perk-perk-perk of an old-fashioned coffeemaker.

The light filled the space, casting him in shadow. Fisher glanced to the left, admiring his growing length…

And finally spotting a second panel, six feet away.

He stepped over to it and saw that it was propped up at the side of the opening. The FBI agent slid in feetfirst, and found himself in a dank, water-filled hole.

Chapter 12

Howe watched the UAV pass under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge like a rifle bullet moving at just over 275 knots. It nudged right slightly, its faceted beak aimed directly for the Statue of Liberty. Howe was flying more than a hundred miles an hour faster than the UAV, but even with that advantage he couldn’t close the distance between him and the UAV before it slammed into the statue.

And even if he did, he had no weapons aboard.

But he couldn’t simply pull off. He stayed on his course.

And then the UAV made a course correct, turning not right, which would have taken it over Manhattan, but left, flying toward northern New Jersey.

Howe didn’t understand for a moment. It seemed to him that the enemy plane — an unthinking missile — had had a change of heart, warned off by the glare of the statue herself.

Then he realized that it had never been programmed to strike the statue.

An E-bomb would be targeted for a power yard or a transformer station to have maximum effect on the power grid. It was possible to shield some devices against the weapon itself, but a close-range hit on a weak link could not be defended against. Even if the weapon proved not as powerful as its designers intended, a jolt directly over a concentration of power lines would fry the Northeast grid for months.

There were plenty of choices in northeastern New Jersey. Hit the right one and the power grid would come down. You didn’t have to hit Manhattan at all.

“Iron Hawk, this is Viper One. I need vectors to the target. Iron Hawk? Iron Hawk?”

Howe responded with the course and location, even though he knew the F-16 was too far off. It would take it at least three minutes to close the gap. By then the UAV would be over its target.

The UAV began to rise. That must mean it was getting ready to ignite its bomb.

He had it in his screen now, less than two miles ahead. If he had a cannon, he could easily shoot it down.

He could run the damn thing down, collide with it.

I don’t want to die.

The idea shot into his head, the errant firing of a cramping muscle.

It was just ahead of his left wing now, eight hundred meters, seven hundred. The AMV showed it clearly in the display — the bomb was lashed to the body — but he wasn’t watching the screen; he was looking at it in his windscreen.

He’d have only one chance. Howe eased his grip on the stick, trying to avoid the tendency to overcorrect.

As Howe came up, something about the night reminded him of the dim computer screen he’d fiddled with in the Smithsonian, the simulation of the Hurricanes taking on the V-1s in the air over the Channel.

He could do that now.

Tip the wing right, get the UAV to tumble into the water.

Was he chickening out?

There was no more time to think. Howe pushed the stick, threw his body with it, came back.

A long tunnel opened behind him, the rushing howl of the engine rising two octaves into a shrill hiss. He felt his right arm cramp into a rock.

The Iron Hawk stumbled but held solid, following its pilot’s command.

The wings of the two aircraft smacked against each other. The UAV tumbled, its gull wings spinning. The craft’s tail turned over once, twice, three times. The plane’s internal guidance system started to correct but it was too late: It was far too low to recover from the spin. Gravity had too firm a grip for the craft to shake off; it spun once more, then hit the water about ten yards from shore, disappearing in a volcanic burst of steam.

Iron Hawk rolled awkwardly but recovered, the modifications designed to ensure her survivability in combat proving her salvation now. Howe steadied the craft, eyes on the AMV screen, hardly breathing. He was lost, unsure where he was in the sky — unsure even if he hadn’t blown himself up.

He blinked, and he had it all back.

He was rising over the Hudson River, turning eastward now, New York City a bright mélange of lights. The UAV hit the water below.

He’d saved the damn place, he and the F-16 pilots, and Fisher, and a million other people, doing their jobs and putting their necks on the line.

He’d saved the whole damn place. Manhattan sparkled like a fistful of diamonds, her bright lights blazing in the dark night. New York, New York, brighter than ever.

And then every light in the city flashed out.

Chapter 13

Now. It was time. Faud pulled on the goggles and fumbled with the pack, removing the coat.

Was this what God wanted?

To even ask the question was blasphemy.

Faud felt his body tremble as he hoisted the oxygen pack to his back. His hands were so slippery that the pistol fell to the cement, clattering on the floor. As he stooped down to grab at the gun, the blood rushed to his head. Faud felt himself loosing his balance. He tightened his hand around the weapon and straightened slowly.

He must not fail, he told himself.

Chapter 14

Fisher waded through the water, reaching a set of concrete steps as the lights snapped off.

Damn it, he thought to himself, I’m always running late in this stinking city.

He stepped up to the top of the stairs. A long stretch of pipes ran to the right, splitting the passage in two. He heard something move ahead.

“Yo. Give it up,” yelled Fisher.

There was no answer.

“You’re not going to make it to the ventilation system. You have to climb all the way up the shaft. I’ll shoot you before you make it halfway up. A couple of times.”

No answer. Fisher sighed and reached to touch the wall with his left hand, walking gingerly along it. The bottom of a service elevator shaft opened about fifty feet ahead.

“You see me, Faud?”

The terrorist answered by firing a gun.

“Dinky little twenty-two, I bet,” said Fisher.

The gun flashed again, this time giving Fisher an idea of where it was. He fired three of his .44’s six bullets, and all smacked hard against a pipe at the far end.

The terrorist shot again. He, too, missed, though Fisher noted that the ricochet was a bit closer.

“All right, let’s get this part out of the way,” yelled the FBI agent. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney—”

A succession of bullets flew through the air. Fisher fired again. When he heard Faud dropping his gear, he realized he’d missed again.

“Hey!” shouted someone from above. Macklin was in the elevator shaft. “Hey!”

More gunfire. More smoke. Fisher tried to remember what the technical people had told him a few weeks earlier about sarin’s ability to spread.

Just as well he couldn’t remember, he thought.

“Stop him!” yelled a voice as the subbasement once more echoed with the roar of gunfire.

Fisher dropped to his knee.

So, where was the terrorist? And did he have friends?

Fisher realized where he was too late to beat him back to the passage. He fired a shot, then yelled to Macklin to grab the canisters.

“Where are they?” shouted Macklin.

“I haven’t a clue,” yelled Fisher. “But they’ll look out of place, even down here, don’t you think?”

Fisher stopped, listening near the opening. Faud was out on the track somewhere.

“Firemen,” said Fisher aloud.

“Firemen?”

“Who would you let into a building in a blackout? A fireman,” said Fisher, answering his own question. “Jeez, what a dummy. I’ve been thinking Con Ed. Look for a fireman’s oxygen tank,” he shouted to Macklin.

“Really?”

“Macklin, if you’re going to ask me questions all day, we’re never going to catch this scumbag,” said Fisher.

He stuck his hand through the opening, then pulled back just as a fusillade of bullets hit the wall. He got down on his stomach and slid beneath the pipes to the entrance Faud had used. But it was still pitch-black and he couldn’t see.

Cursing, Fisher reached back and pulled off his shoe, then slid around so he could throw it in front of the other opening. When Faud started firing, Fisher pulled himself out, fired once, and tumbled down onto the tracks.

Faud stood in the darkness a few feet away. Fisher brought his gun up to fire. As he did, Faud aimed first and pulled the trigger.

Empty.

“Who says today’s not my lucky day?” asked Fisher, rising slowly.

He, too, was out of bullets, though he wasn’t about to share that bit of news.

“You heard your rights, right?” Fisher asked.

The terrorist threw down the gun. Fisher saw him pull something from his pocket — not a weapon, but some sort of canister.

“Let me just guess: sarin gas, right? Going to kill us both?” Fisher took a step. Faud took two backward.

“Except you took the antidote, right? I did,” lied Fisher.

They’d offered him a shot but he hated needles.

“Give it up,” said Fisher. “You’re only going to kill yourself. The antidote might not work.”

“You’ll die too,” growled the man.

“Hey, let’s say you’re right. Where’s the thrill in that?”

Fisher took an awkward step forward with his shoeless foot. The terrorist had taken off or lost his night vision goggles. They were twelve feet apart.

“Better watch where you’re going,” said the agent as Faud edged down the tunnel. “Lights are going to come on and you’re going to fry yourself.”

Faud took a step backward, then another.

“Mrs. DeGarmo says hi,” said Fisher.

Faud didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think that was going to work,” said Fisher. “But seriously, now, you better watch where you’re going. Power comes on, this tunnel’s a death trap. Come out with me and we’ll talk.”

“The power won’t be on for months.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Con Ed’s not nearly as inefficient as everyone thinks.”

“Go to hell.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. And I’m not kidding about the rail. Really.”

Fisher saw the man move his hands. He dropped down, grabbing for the backup Glock he had in a holster on his calf. Before he could fire, a flash of light blinded him.

Then there was an awful sound, something like a scream that twisted in half. The tunnel filled with acrid smoke, the scent of burnt flesh permeating the dank space.

“Told you the lights were coming back on,” said Fisher. “You didn’t think I could keep them off forever, did you? The paperwork alone is ridiculous.”

He holstered his pistol. Faud lay slumped against the third rail, still frying. The can of gas lay in the middle of the tracks, unopened.

“Andy! Andy Fisher!” yelled Macklin.

“Where the hell have you been, Macklin?” asked Fisher, turning back.

“He hit the third rail?”

“Guess he didn’t believe me about the power.” Fisher pulled out his cigarette pack. “You stopped the trains, right?”

“Like you said.”

Fisher lit up. “Good. Only damn place in New York City you can smoke in peace anymore.”