Andrew Britton: The Operative

Kealey considered the other options. Aside from the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge or Statue of Liberty, which he’d already determined could be destroyed by conventional weapons, Staten Island, Brooklyn, and the Atlantic Ocean were the closest southern targets. He didn’t think those made sense. Farther south were Philadelphia and Washington, but Kealey didn’t believe Hunt would want that kind of exposure for the time it would take to reach them. North was… what? The George Washington Bridge. Highways clogged with cars trying to get out. A pair of baseball stadiums, which would be empty in light of what had happened that morning.

There was a map on a monitor that sat on a thin metal arm beside the seat.

“How do I work this?” Kealey asked.

Perlman held up an index finger, wagged it up and down.

Kealey nodded, used his finger to scroll the map. It responded faster than MapQuest on his laptop.

“You can expand the view using your thumb and index finger,” Perlman said.

“Got it. Thanks.”

Kealey followed the river north, out of the city and into Westchester, Putnam, Dutchess counties. Nothing jumped out. He magnified the image and went back toward the city slowly.

“Shit,” Kealey said suddenly.

“What is it?” Perlman asked.

“They may not be going after people this time.”

He expanded a view. Perlman looked at it on his screen.

Save for the whapping sound of the rotors, the cabin was very quiet.

“We need to stop this,” Perlman said.

“We do,” Kealey agreed. “But if we commit to going north, and he isn’t there, we’re screwed.”

“I can take us to the GW Bridge and wait for the ping,” Sagal said. “That’ll put us more or less equidistant, in reach of him north and south.”

“In reach or on top of him?” Kealey asked. “We won’t have a lot of leeway here, about thirty seconds.”

Sagal shook his head. “No way to answer that, Mr. Kealey. It depends where he plants himself. If he goes ashore, tucks himself under a bridge or tunnel-”

“Of course.” Kealey considered their options. They hadn’t any. “Let your aviation unit know. They have other choppers they can put on this?”

“Yeah, plus maritime,” Sagal told him.

“But we’re the only ones that can hear the GPS signal.”

“In time to act,” Perlman said. “It’ll have to go through channels to turn all our ears on this.”

“Time is something we don’t have,” Kealey said. “Let’s get other eyes up there and head for the bridge.”

Sagal gave him a thumbs-up and turned the helicopter north along the river.

BUCHANAN, NEW YORK

It was called the Indian Point Energy Center because nuclear power plant had an unfashionable connotation that summoned images of Chernobyl and Fukushima. In operation since September 1962, the facility had undergone many upgrades since then, some in response to geological concerns, others as a result of terrorism 38 miles to the south, in New York City.

The red buildings with their yellow-golden domes were a familiar and inherently ominous sight to local residents. Despite assurances from Entergy Corporation, which owned the facility, the truth was that no nuclear power plant could ever be made entirely safe.

Though the plant had received the Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s top safety rating, and there was a National Guard base a mile away, Alexander Hunt had read the reports from the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation and Columbia University’s Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory findings that the power plant was nonetheless vulnerable to earthquakes and megaton-level attacks. With the sophisticated radiation detection systems attached to any nuclear plant, no one was anticipating anyone being able to smuggle even a well-protected nuke into the vicinity.

Hunt had also read a 2003 report prepared for then governor George Pataki, which noted that radiological response systems were inadequate to protect the citizens of three states from radiation that could be released from Indian Point in a worst-case scenario. Yasmin’s mission was to be a one-time hit. This one would be a lingering and constant reminder that the Muslim world represented an ongoing and inevitably catastrophic danger. The sooner they were dealt with, the quicker the world could move from the present Dark Age.

The runabout entered Haverstraw Bay, which carried them northwest around the promontory that preceded the plant. There were other boats moving through the area, some of them pleasure vessels, others patrol ships on alert because of the events in New York. As long as Hunt kept them moving north, they would be fine. No one would think to stop a vessel that had already passed by the facility.

The facility was on the northeastern side of the large outcrop of land; the first part of it that became visible was the white smokestack with its distinctive red bands. It sat between the three domes.

Like an ace of clubs, Hunt thought as the entire complex rolled past. He had instructed Samson to take them to the western side of the river, where 202 broke off from Old Ayers Road, the route that ran along the Hudson. He would fire the rocket from that point, and they would move farther up the river to West Point. That was where Dr. Samson would leave and a heroic FBI officer would shoot the monstrous Dr. Gillani. She was sitting placidly beside him, playing absently with a drawstring on the Windbreaker she had donned against the brisk river breeze. A cloud cover had rolled in, and the wind had a bit of a nip. The scientist was probably trying to figure out how things had gone wrong with Yasmin Rassin. Maybe they hadn’t. It was possible that Bishop or Kealey had caught up with her at One West, prevented her from completing her mission. That was why they needed two nukes. As with the rest of her mission, Yasmin was there to keep the authorities moving, distracted, focused on someone who was more or less a sideshow. The irony was that all those people she had chased from Manhattan with her sniping- all of them would be even more vulnerable to the radiation cloud that would spew from the reactors. Most of them were closer now, in their suburban homes.

“Any place in particular suit you?” Samson asked.

Hunt looked over at the shore. “That cluster of trees,” he said, pointing to a row of oaks along the shore. “We’ll tie up there.”

He needed the cover of the canvas top, but Hunt wanted the boat to be secured when he fired. There were yachts and motorboats moving mostly north along the river, along with the private security boat hired by the plant, which ran by every ten minutes or so. He didn’t want the wake of one of those to cause him to miss one of the domes. The blast was guaranteed to kick down the door, but only if it landed squarely.

Samson maneuvered the runabout toward the shore.

“Wait until the security boat has passed,” Hunt said, watching as the black and white speedboat sliced by, close to the opposite shore. He didn’t catch the glint of sunlight off binoculars, but that didn’t mean the men on board weren’t watching. If something had happened to Yasmin, the NYPD might have put out an alert to watch out for another nuke. They might even be told to watch out for a rogue FBI agent, though he wouldn’t be expected to announce himself. A crew of three agents would probably get a pass.

If not, then a security unit would die, Hunt thought.

Samson powered down the runabout as he nosed toward shore. The current carried it sideways, and he brought them to a low sandstone cliff. Branches hung over the water. Samson took the towline that was attached to the bow ring and slung it over a limb. Hunt went to the back of the cockpit.

Excitement burned in his belly.