Awakened Page 2

  The digital board in the Pavilion displayed an arrival time of 12:05.

  “Mr. Mayor, Christopher Fields from WNBC—”

  “I know who you are,” Cafferty said. “Have you come to spread some of your special joy?”

  Ignoring the comment, Fields said, “Sir, today’s the first time in nearly three months we’ve seen you and your wife together. Is it fair to say the project has impacted your personal life?”

  “No,” Cafferty snapped, though Fields, a renowned thorn in the side of city hall, had called it right—except that the rocky period was closer to three years. “Ellen and I lead busy lives. Let me know the next time you’d like a photo—we should have a chance in less than five minutes!”

  The crowd let out a murmur of laughter.

  On the overhead screen, the train glided from the platform. Plumes of confetti exploded from the sides of the track. The cars sped through the glittering cloud and disappeared inside the tunnel. Within minutes, the sound of its smooth, humming engine would carry into the Pavilion.

  “Speaking of my wife,” Cafferty said, “why don’t we see how everyone’s doing on board. Ellen, can you hear us?”

  The left speaker crackled. “Greetings from the best subway train in the world.”

  “Hi, honey. How’s the ride?”

  “Smooth sailing. I’m here with sixty-four passengers including the mayor of Jersey City and our two governors in the first car. The champagne is sweet; I’ll give you a taste in two minutes.”

  Claps rippled through the speaker.

  “Don’t drink too much,” Reynolds said.

  Ellen laughed. “We’ll save you a glass, Mr. President.”

  “Thanks for the live update,” Cafferty said, and faced the cameras. “My fellow New Yorkers, our neighbors in New Jersey, President Reynolds, distinguished guests, it’s my pleasure to christen New York’s newest technological innovation. This achievement pushes us ahead of any other city in the world. Ladies and gentlemen, in less than ninety seconds, I give you the Z Train!”

  The crowd burst into applause and a few members of the MTA team whistled. Cafferty took a deep breath. His decade-long dream was about to be realized, and with the project complete, his vow to rebuild his marriage could finally be attempted.

  A time of 12:04 displayed on the platform’s clock.

  “Ellen, can you see the Pavilion yet?” Cafferty asked.

  Nobody replied.

  “Ellen?”

  A short shriek erupted through the speaker, followed by a static hiss.

  The time changed to 12:05.

  The camera crews swung to face the tunnel. Quiet chatter filled the air, punctuated by several more static hisses. Cafferty checked his watch to make sure the platform’s clock wasn’t faulty. It displayed a time of 12:06, and he watched the second hand carry out a complete revolution.

  Reynolds stepped across to him. “Two minutes late, Tom.”

  “Patience.” Cafferty inclined toward the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, because of an earlier incident, the Z Train is running three minutes behind schedule.”

  A few of the guests laughed at his mocking of the typical intercom announcement by a subway conductor. However, the apprehensive faces of the MTA team matched Cafferty’s internal emotion. He couldn’t detect even the faintest noise of the train approaching.

  The platform clock flicked to 12:08.

  Three faint bangs rumbled from somewhere deep in the tunnel, and nervous mutters rippled through the crowd. At the same time, five of Reynolds’ Secret Service detail, stalking near the entrance to the semicircular walled command center, moved closer to the stage.

  But all eyes were focused on the tunnel, and another sixty seconds passed. Four minutes late confirmed something serious had gone wrong, and without any information forthcoming, Cafferty decided to find out for himself.

  Reynolds, now flanked by two human tanks in typical dark suits and dark glasses, blocked his path. “What’s the problem?”

  “Wait here. I’ll be a moment.”

  Cafferty calmly descended the stage, headed around the back of it, and entered the sturdy command center. Internally, his mind raced through the possible aftermath of a failed first run. He imagined front-page pictures of the train being towed into the Jersey City station, along with mocking headlines.

  He could feel things falling apart, just as they had with Ellen . . .

  He shook those thoughts from his head and headed toward Diego Munoz. As the Z Train’s head of operations, Diego sat inside the command center with his eight-person team. Each peered at the measurements and reports displayed on the monitors that filled the walls of the basketball-court-sized room. He twisted in his chair to face Cafferty and mirrored his look of concern.

  “What’s up?” Cafferty asked.

  “We don’t know. The train just vanished from the tracking display.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Munoz shrugged. “Tom, it vanished. Like it lost all power in an instant, without warning.”

  Cafferty rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb. He was seething but knew that exploding with rage wouldn’t help anyone. The team members here had been selected from the MTA’s star employees, and if they didn’t know the problem, nobody did. Raised voices outside broke him out of his thoughts and he returned to the main area of the Pavilion.

  David North, his reliable head of security, joined Cafferty as he made for the side of the track. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Looks like a power outage. What have I missed?”

  “Listen.”

  Metallic squeaks echoed in the distance. Cafferty quickened his stride and joined the crowd on the platform, peering into the pitch-black tunnel.

  The silhouette of the train appeared out of the darkness, rolling down the shallow incline toward the platform. Its silver nose emerged out of the tunnel, and its powerless body drifted to a standstill in front of the assembled crowd.

  The Pavilion echoed with sharp intakes of breath and the shuffling of shoes as people toward the front staggered back. Only a few small shards of glass remained around the edges of the front car’s twenty windows.

  Cafferty’s heart raced as he pushed his way forward.

  Blood smothered the interior. The walls. The ceiling. The seats. The floor. Everywhere. A crimson handprint on the opposite side of the car extended into four finger lines and stopped at a set of doors. The blood overwhelmed the train with both its dense color and coppery smell.

  But it was empty of passengers.

  Chapter Three

  Diego Munoz had grabbed a tool kit and left the command center shortly after Cafferty. Without any obvious clues in the reported data, he wanted to inspect the track before the maintenance team arrived. The sight of the train rolling to a halt fifty yards in front of him stopped him midstride.

  The black plastic case dropped from his hand.

  No one heard it fall, though, as shouts and screams swept through the Pavilion.

  People on the platform burst away from the train, stumbling backward in shock. Cameras flashed in front of the damaged car, brightening its bodywork and grisly interior. Cafferty and North stood frozen by a set of its mangled doors. Several cops drew their guns and aimed at the tunnel. Others barked orders, attempting to control the chaos.

  Nobody listened.

  Hundreds of footsteps pounded against the polished stone floor.

  A man lost his balance and crashed to the ground. A wave of guests and MTA workers trampled over him as they headed for the shopping concourse.

  TV cameras near the stage continued to roll, capturing the mayhem.

  “Diego,” a woman’s voice called.

  Munoz spun to face the command center.

  Anna Petrov, his second-in-command, wearing a dark blue jacket and with her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, waved him forward.

  As he made his way back, two Secret Service agents grabbed President Reynolds and dragged him from the s
tage. Five more agents flanked them, sweeping their guns in all directions as they headed for the command center.

  Realizing what was about to happen, Munoz sprinted for the doorway and reached it first. Inside, shouts filled the air. His team had left their workstations and clustered around the console, peering at a video feed of the Pavilion. Structural alarms, critical warnings, and network failure alerts from the Jersey City tunnel flowed across the overhead monitors.

  “Back to your damned positions,” Munoz shouted. “The president’s coming.”

  One of the agents hurtled inside with Reynolds under his arm, twisted to face the Pavilion, and shouted, “Guard the door from the outside!”

  The Secret Service detail fanned out into an arc and raised their guns.

  The agent with Reynolds, shaven-headed and built like a heavyweight boxer, scanned the command center. He drew his fist level with a waist-high button protected by safety glass.

  “Stop!” Munoz shouted. “Don’t touch that—”

  The agent punched through the glass and depressed the button.

  Dazzling red ceiling lights and a piercing siren engulfed the room. The floor-to-ceiling circular blast door began whining across the entrance, designed to protect the command center from fire, a nuclear blast, or ten thousand pounds of water pressure per square inch if the tunnel ever imploded. It was a marvel of engineering . . . and nothing could stop the lockdown once it was initiated.

  “Who’s in charge?” Reynolds asked.

  “Diego Munoz, Z Train operation manager, Mr. President.”

  “This is Agent Samuels, head of my Secret Service team. He’s here to protect us, so do as he says.”

  “We didn’t need to activate lockdown,” Munoz said. “Not unless—”

  “It’s not your call,” Samuels said, and turned to Reynolds. “Stand back. Now.”

  The siren had attracted the attention of at least forty guests and the press. They switched their direction of flight toward the command center.

  The president’s detail shouted warnings. Two of them extended their palms, gesturing the mini-stampede to halt. Munoz waved the people away, fearing for their lives if they attempted to surge past the six leveled guns, but he doubted they even saw him.

  Samuels tilted his head and raised his hand to his earpiece. “Negative. Stay outside. I’ll handle it in here.”

  Munoz glanced at Reynolds, who stared openmouthed at a video feed covering the area between the platform and the command center. The siren’s wail had triggered an extra layer of panic. Some people raced for the restrooms, others tried maintenance doors. Cops tried to ease the throng as at least a dozen tried to seek shelter in a Starbucks. Two figures, holding each other in a mutual headlock, crashed through the already splintered window.

  “Follow protocol,” Samuels transmitted again. “Any of them might be a threat. Hold the line. No one enters this command center. No one . . . That’s an order.”

  The blast door moved to within two feet of closing.

  The baying crowd screamed at the agents to let them inside, assuming—perhaps correctly—that the command center was the only safe place to be.

  Munoz took a step back and avoided eye contact with the people beyond the weapons. He hated himself for doing it, but he couldn’t help but acknowledge that Samuels’ judgment of isolating President Reynolds in a safe environment was a sound one.

  A red-haired Secret Service agent glanced over his shoulder and must have come to the same realization, because in seconds he broke from the defensive line and dove for the command center entrance, seizing a last opportunity before the blast door sealed entirely. His head and chest made it inside before the door’s steel edge forced itself against his stomach. He planted his hands on the wall and attempted to squirm his way through, flipping like a salmon but managing to move only a few inches. The increasing pressure suspended him three feet above the ground.

  A gunshot rang out in the Pavilion, close enough for Munoz to guess a civilian had tried to take advantage of the agent wedged in the tightening gap and rushed to gain access to the command center, only to suffer the consequences.

  The blast door’s pistons increased in pitch.

  The redheaded agent, suspended in midair, stared at Munoz with fear in his eyes. “Help me . . .”

  “Save him!” Reynolds yelled.

  “We can’t reverse the lockdown procedure,” Munoz said, helpless. “It’s impossible.”

  The agent clenched his teeth and reached out a hand. He tried to speak but his breath rasped in his throat, as the door crushed the life out of him, inch by inch.

  “Look away, Mr. President,” Samuels said. He stood over his stricken colleague, drew his gun, and placed the muzzle against the top of his head. “I’m sorry.”

  A gunshot split the air.

  The pistol kicked up. Blood spattered Samuels’ face and created an outline of his body on the command center’s wall. The agent’s head sagged, his arms flopped to his sides, and his gun clattered onto the tiled floor.

  Munoz’s team had frozen, staring with horror etched across their faces, and flinched at the sounds of snapping bones as the door traveled its final few inches.

  No MTA training had prepared Munoz for this experience. Neither had anything in his thirty-five years on the planet.

  The blast door’s ten steel bolts slammed into their locking positions.

  The agent’s upper body hit the floor like a bag of wet cement.

  Munoz recoiled and shuddered.

  Samuels shouldered past him. He ripped a fireproof blanket from the wall, unfolded it, and draped it over his dead colleague.

  For a moment there was seemingly no sound. Finally, though, the president said, “We need a phone and an update. Right now.”

  “Use my office,” Munoz said. “I’ll tell you what we know, but it’s not a lot, Mr. President.”

  Glancing at the blanket-covered body, Munoz couldn’t help but wonder what kind of situation they were in. The sight of the train had shaken him to his very core, never mind the brutal efficiency with which Samuels euthanized his dying colleague.

  Munoz led Samuels and Reynolds through the command center. He increased his pace as he neared his poky office, slipped through the door, and swiped his Star Trek action figures into his desk drawer before they entered. As much as he loved science fiction (he even worked as an audio engineer in his spare time for a conspiracy podcast), having Captain Picard, Lieutenant Worf, and a tribble standing between him and the president didn’t seem like a good idea.

  Reynolds circled the desk and sat in the chair. Samuels twisted the door’s lock and lowered the blinds.

  Munoz lifted the cordless handset from its base station. “Dial nine for an outside line.”

  “Not yet.” Reynolds shifted his focus to Samuels. “Who gave the order to drag me in here?”

  “I did, sir,” Samuels replied. “It’s the safest place right now. You saw the chaos outside.”

  “At six o’clock tonight, one hundred million Americans are going to see the president of the United States protecting his own ass, leaving dozens of people outside. Not to mention my Secret Service detail gunning down civilians.”

  “And they’ll know that our actions were necessary and justified, Mr. President. The Secret Service can’t concern itself with optics—the only thing that matters is that you’re safe. We don’t know what we’re facing, and until we do, you need to trust my lead, sir.”

  Reynolds slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn you, Samuels. I didn’t spend a career in the Marines for you to make me look like a coward and kill civilians at my expense.”

  “And with all due respect, sir, it’s not up to you. The state of the train suggests a terrorist attack. There’s a chance somebody outside is part of the same sleeper cell.”

  “With slightly less respect, if you’re wrong, you just cost me the reelection.”

  Samuels didn’t respond, and Munoz wasn’t sure he even registered the presiden
t’s words. They resonated with him, though. He remembered Reynolds sweeping through the primaries with his decorated war hero background and “man of the people” rhetoric, and he won the bitterly fought election using the same message. Things hadn’t gone well for him in the subsequent three years, mainly due to his alienating his own party, rising unemployment, and his blunt international diplomacy. It was easy to see his side, considering his usual tough talk, though Munoz doubted anyone would view his protection as cowardly.

  “What do you think?” Reynolds asked Munoz. “Are we under attack?”

  “It’s impossible to say. My team is sifting through the available data as I speak. Sir, if you only want secure communications leaving the Pavilion, I suggest we cut the relays, Wi-Fi access, and cellular boosters.”

  “Do it. We don’t need a bomb being triggered by a cell phone. Let’s control the flow of information until we know what’s happening. Anything else?”

  “Gimme two seconds.”

  Munoz crouched beside the desk and twisted a monitor toward himself. Nothing stood out on the network management system. Or, more accurately, everything did. He supposed whoever had carried out the attack had also damaged the tunnel’s electrical cabling. The position where the train had vanished from the tracking display, in between the Jersey City station and the underwater Pavilion, and its powerless state as it freewheeled into the Pavilion remained his only solid clues.

  “Visually, we know the grid’s down. I’ve got maintenance teams waiting at the Jersey City station and Broad Street station in Manhattan if needed.”

  “The grid?”

  “The electrical grid. There’s no power in the third rail. Whatever happened, it looks like it took down the whole system.”

  Reynolds gave an appreciative nod. “Stand down your maintenance teams for the moment. We need to rule out terrorism first. If this is an attack, we have to secure the Pavilion and get these people to safety before they strike again.”

  “What makes you think it’s terrorism?”

  “How else do you explain all the blood?” Reynolds asked dismissively.

  Somebody outside the room knocked three times. Samuels unlocked the door and pulled it ajar.