Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

“No, its Jahim El Benhan, Alzir’s brother. His name was Dr. Brodenchy before he converted. He’s a nuclear scientist, or was.”

“No clicks from my counter. The bomb is not here.”

They both watched as the “producer” boarded the helicopter. One of the A.D.s announced, “This is a camera rehearsal! Everybody clear the copter.”

The blades turned and picked up speed.

“What do we do?”

Bridgestone grabbed a kid carrying a film magazine from one of the trucks. “What are they doing right now?”

“They’re doing a test to see how the blades look on camera. If they go too fast we won’t see them.”

“So they’re not taking off?”

“That thing? Nah, it don’t fly, it’s a prop. The action in this shot takes place after it has landed. The second unit will shoot a real helicopter landing from the air tomorrow.”

Then, to everyone’s surprise, the copter lifted off, tilted, and headed for Manhattan.

“Come on,” Bill said to Bridgestone. Bill ran to the cop car that was driven here by the now dead cops, got in, and drove over to Bridgestone’s car. “Throw your shit in here. This will get us through.”

The cop car fishtailed out of the parking lot and shuddered as Hiccock floored the accelerator up the ramp to the Whitestone Expressway. “Bridge, find the lights and sirens.”

From the driver’s side, Bill kept one eye on the copter, the other on the road. He took the BQE and jumped off at the LIE. Bridgestone was locked on the copter with his binoculars as they reached the peak of the rise of roadway right before the tunnel entrance. Hiccock took the exit for Van Dam Street in order to take the bridge rather than losing the visual as they went through the tunnel. They lost sight of the copter for a moment as they navigated the streets of this industrial part of Long Island City. Their red lights and sirens cleared the way for them to reach the bridge in record time. From the upper roadway, they re-acquired the copter as it hovered over a building on the edge of the river north of the bridge.

“What’s he doing?” Bill asked as he swerved through one of the separators to take the single outside lane. “Looks like he’s going to land on that white building.

“That’s a hospital. It’s an air med-evac landing pad.”

“Holy shit!”

“What?”

“There’s a flock of helicopters over that way and another over there!”

Bill looked left and saw what looked like a swarm of 20 or so helicopters circling and hovering over a part of midtown. To the right were another 15 or so. He flipped on the police radio. “Why didn’t I think of turning this on before?”

There was a non-stop chain of radio reports and squelching. “Something big must have happened,” Bridgestone said. “They are stepping all over their communications.”

Through all the static and partial sentences, they gleaned that something was happening at Penn Station. A momentary clear allowed the words “NEST team” to jut out of the radio traffic. Both men instinctively knew the acronym: Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Bill then thought he heard “47th and 8th hostage situation.” But it was quickly stepped on.

Joey Palumbo didn’t wait to confirm the information before him. He dialed up Bill’s cell. “Bill, Teva Radiological out of Israel had a Palestinian driver who met B amp;R’s truck driver in the desert. He loaded the suitcase nuke into a nuclear MRI machine in a container. Like you thought, the machine was delivered before we clamped down, so they just inspected the container and verified a hot machine inside and then with a police escort passed all our detectors to …”

“NYU Medical Center. I got it!”

Joey was speechless. Bill had hung up as Joey said, “How did you…”

The laundry hamper bumped and rumbled across the roof despite the efforts of the orderly not to disturb the case cushioned atop 10 dirty pillows and made snug by rolled-up heavy blankets on all sides. Once he landed, Number 1 ran to help him, ordering, “Lift; take the weight off the wheels to lessen the bumps.”

Near the aircraft, they lifted the case, kicked over the hamper, and rested it on the hamper’s side. Number 1 opened the case and methodically armed each part of the firing circuits in the exact sequence. The Russian legends and Cyrillic markings on the bomb, long since translated in his head, posed no challenge. Then he removed a lead separator, which kept the volatile nuclear isotopes relatively safe during transit. He dialed a timer to five minutes. Satisfied that this was done, he pulled a pin from a switch guard. There was no longer a physical obstruction in the way of the switch handle’s path.

“For Allah, for my people, for my father and my sisters, and with my brother moving my hand, let the Caliphate begin.”

He threw the last switch.

“The Ambassador to the U.N., her staff, Undersecretary of Commerce, and SCIAD.” The head of the Secret Service read off the short list of administration assets in New York City to the President and his COS.

“Are they all safe and in secure environments?” The Chief of Staff asked.

The Ambassador is at the U.N. and has her detail. The Under Sec is now at the Fed Dep and secure. Quarterback, er, SCIAD and Mrs. Hiccock are presently unaccounted for.”

“What does Bill’s detail report?”

“Well, sir, I am sorry to say that Mr. Hiccock left the hotel without notifying his detail.”

“He’s a science nerd and he gave your top-notch agents the slip?”

“With all due respect, my men were essentially escorting him. We had no threats, no actionable intelligence. As you know, the weakest link in any protection plan is the protectee. If they don’t play ball, short of physical restraint, there isn’t much we can do. Unless the President orders us to close-cover the protectee as a national asset, then we remove the possibility of them exercising any discretion on the level of protection.”

The COS waved him off. “Okay, okay. Don’t quote me the manual chapter and verse.”

“What about Mrs. Hiccock? I personally ordered protection for her. Can’t we find her by calling them?”

“There’s been some sort of hostage scenario occurring in New York. We’re getting more intel now, but even the NYPD doesn’t have a clear picture yet.”

“First the radiological bomb in the station and now a hostage taking? What’s the FBI think?” the President asked.

“They’re just getting this also. We’re talking the last 30 seconds, sir.”

“Find the Hiccocks. I want quarter-hours on this. You brief me, Bob.”

They were going up First Avenue when Bill’s cell rang. “Agent Burell, have you found out anything?”

Bridgestone tried to glean the gist of the call.

“And you are pretty certain that this is golden? Okay, thanks and sorry you had to do that.” Bill ended the phone call.

“What are we dealing with, Mr. Hiccock?”

“Agent Burrell learned that they do have the nuke and are planning on an airburst over midtown from the copter. You were right; the hospital was the cover for the radiological signature.”

“How did the lady come to this knowledge?”

“She had to cut him a few times and threaten to take away his ability to procreate, but he ain’t dead.”

“We should buy her a drink if we survive this afternoon.”

The Chief of Staff hurriedly entered the room. “Mr. President, Bill Hiccock on the line.”

“Bill, where are you?”

Bill’s voice filled the room from the speakerphone. “I’m in midtown Manhattan. Bridgestone and I are in hot pursuit of a news helicopter that may be the delivery method of the suitcase nuke.”