Awakened Page 3

  Anna’s face appeared in the gap. “There’s something you need to see.”

  “Can it wait?” Reynolds asked. “I’m about to call the secretaries of defense and homeland security.”

  “Mr. President, this cannot wait.”

  The group followed Anna into the main body of the command center and surrounded her chair. Munoz knew she rarely acted on impulse and nobody knew the integrated systems better. The ventilation management system measurements above her workstation confirmed his fear.

  “What are we looking at?” Reynolds asked.

  Anna pointed to a screen with eight fluctuating bars: seven green at a similar height, one twice the size and red. “Sir, this system monitors the ventilation in the subway tunnels and alerts us in the event of a biological or chemical attack. Methane levels are at three percent in the Jersey City tunnel and rising. We don’t know the source or cause, but at this rate, it’ll reach the LEL in a matter of minutes.”

  Reynolds frowned. “LEL?”

  “The lower explosive limit, sir. Methane explodes when it reaches five to fifteen percent of air density. Once we reach the LEL, any kind of spark could make the Jersey City tunnel blow.”

  “Including the Visitors’ Pavilion?”

  “Not the Pavilion,” Munoz said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “But we’re reading smaller leaks in the Manhattan and Brooklyn tunnels,” Anna said. “At its current rise, those tunnels could reach the LEL in roughly fifty minutes.”

  “Sir,” Munoz added, “the Manhattan tunnel is the closest exit from the Pavilion. I suggest we evacuate everyone along that route.”

  Reynolds walked over to the blast door, gazed at the fire blanket, and shook his head. After a moment of silence, he spun to face Anna. “Negative. I’m not risking another life today by sending people into the muzzles of terrorists. They could be waiting for us to try to evacuate. You say we’ve got time to send our counterassault teams through the Manhattan tunnel?”

  Anna nodded. “If they’re quick. There’s no telling if the methane leak will continue at this pace.”

  “Sir,” Samuels said, “you need to execute the order for our special forces to come from Manhattan and call the DSRV.”

  “DSRV?” Reynolds asked.

  “A deep submergence rescue vehicle,” Munoz explained. “Basically, a submarine that connects to a docking station under the Hudson. An emergency tunnel leads from this command center to the docking station. Sir, the DSRV can be here within the hour.”

  “The DSRV is the best way to get you to safety, Mr. President,” Samuels added.

  “Call it, but I’m only boarding as a last resort.” Reynolds studied the fluctuating bars monitoring the methane levels. “What happens if the cavalry doesn’t arrive in time?”

  “They need to arrive in time, Mr. President,” Munoz replied. “Because in less than an hour, everyone in the Pavilion dies of asphyxiation.”

  “If the terrorists don’t get us,” Samuels said.

  “Or if the tunnel doesn’t explode first,” Anna muttered.

  Chapter Four

  Cafferty stood staring at the train, frozen. Fear, anger, guilt, and desperation warred within him and rooted him to the spot. He had persuaded Ellen to join the inaugural run, telling her the project’s end signaled a significant change in their lives, but obviously he had not meant it like this. Instead of greeting his wife for a mutual renewal of their relationship, he faced an empty car, potentially stained with her blood.

  David North snapped him out of his trancelike state by grabbing his shoulders and twisting him away. Cafferty blinked and surveyed the Pavilion.

  Three deathly still bodies lay in front of the Secret Service agents, who roared warnings to anyone moving within close proximity. Behind them, two legs protruded from the blast door.

  Four cops wrestled with a woman and man outside the Starbucks; a jet of orange pepper spray splashed over the store’s shattered window. Inside, three bloodied figures sat slumped against the counter. Others peered over tables.

  Several casualties lay between the platform and the command center, likely the victims of the surge after the train arrived; none was receiving treatment.

  People crouched by the side of the stage, behind trash cans, or hugged the walls. Others fumbled with their phones. Cafferty could barely hear himself think above the confused mix of shouts. He forced Ellen and the passengers from the front of his mind.

  First, a semblance of order needed restoring.

  Cafferty hustled to the stage and climbed the steps, ignoring a camera crew who tracked his moves as he made his way back to the mic.

  “Everyone calm down,” he bellowed. “Right now!”

  Voices shouted back at him in rapid succession.

  “Are we in danger?”

  “Is this a terrorist attack?”

  “How come the president is in there and we’re out here?” a man yelled from the side of an empty newsstand.

  “Because he’s the goddamn president of the United States,” Cafferty shouted. “Now start acting like New Yorkers and pull yourselves together. First, I want everyone to calmly head to the food court. In the meantime, I’ll coordinate with emergency personnel and the command center. Once I get the all clear, we’ll evacuate. But we need to work together right now.”

  “What if they come here next? What if they attack again?” a woman asked, her voice riddled with panic.

  A serious-faced, white-shirted police lieutenant with a bushy mustache approached the stage. “I’ve sent twenty of my squad to cover the tunnels. Whoever attacked that train isn’t getting in here without a fight.”

  “You’re damn right about that,” Cafferty said. He pulled the lieutenant aside. “What’s your name, officer?”

  “Lieutenant Arnolds, sir.”

  “Good work with deploying your men. We need a plan for the casualties and injured.”

  “I’ll set up a triage area in one of the stores.”

  Cafferty peered at the growing number of faces gathering to his front. Raising his voice to the group, he said, “There’s a lot of hurt people here. Anyone with medical experience, speak with Lieutenant Arnolds. The rest of you, let’s get moving.”

  The majority headed to the food court while shooting nervous glances toward the train. Cops, now free from the burden of chaos, helped the injured to their feet and escorted them to triage. The five dead—one from the stampede, another shredded by the café window, and three at the hands of the Secret Service—were placed in a line and had jackets draped over their faces.

  Cafferty descended the steps, where he was met by North, and they made their way to the sealed command center. All five of Reynolds’ Secret Service team eyed him as he neared. None saw the anger flaring inside him at the thought of people getting shot for trying to save their own lives.

  One of the agents advanced and met them before they reached the blast door. “The president’s secure, sir.”

  “Why did your team shoot these three civilians?” Cafferty asked.

  “We followed a direct order to secure the door.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “As harsh as it looks, if one of those people wore a suicide vest . . .”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “If they did? We didn’t have time to chance that. In this moment, everyone is a threat to the president until they’re not.” His tone was no-nonsense, almost patronizing.

  The thing was the agent had a point, and one Cafferty mentally conceded. The action still seemed disproportionate, like using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut, considering the vetted guests and MTA workers in attendance. But he’d have to worry about that later.

  “Everyone in this Pavilion needs to be searched,” the agent said. “Immediately.”

  North nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  “If you want to make yourselves useful,” Cafferty said to the Secret Service, “shut off those goddamn TV cameras and help us guard the entranc
es to the Pavilion.”

  “Sir, we’re not moving from this blast door.”

  “Superman couldn’t smash through that,” Cafferty said. The stone-faced agents didn’t respond or move an inch. “Please. I’m asking you for help protecting these people.”

  “Sorry, sir. As long as the president is behind this door, we’re not moving.”

  Cafferty knew he couldn’t win this argument. In his mind’s eye, the safer option was more guns guarding the tunnels in case of a second attack, but he understood the Secret Service’s primary duty. The logic of it didn’t make him any happier, though.

  With the Pavilion secured and organized as best as possible under the current circumstances, Cafferty headed into the men’s bathroom and locked the door. He tore his tie loose, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face.

  The blood-soaked subway car appeared fresh in his mind. Nausea swelled inside him and his hands trembled. He rushed into a stall, hunched over, and dry heaved.

  Ellen had been on the train at his request.

  A couple of corners had been cut during the construction to meet deadlines, but they wouldn’t have led to this. Slashing costs on materials and quietly settling an industrial accident out of the public’s eye had no tangible link to the appearance of the train when it rolled into the Pavilion.

  The blood surely meant terrorism.

  All that blood . . .

  This wasn’t his fault. He had no control over the action of terrorists.

  His eyes teared up and he heaved again. A string of saliva dangled from his bottom lip. He knew he had to get a grip for the sake of everyone in the Pavilion and the passengers—if any of the latter remained alive, of course.

  No. They have to be alive. Ellen has to be alive.

  Cafferty rose from the bathroom floor, straightened his suit, and glared into the mirror. His salt-and-pepper hair had sagged over his forehead from his side part. The blaze from the overhead lights accentuated his wrinkled forehead and crow’s-feet, making it appear as if he had aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

  Nothing like the fresh-faced man who had somehow gotten Ellen’s number all those years ago. She was the love of his life for the best part of fifteen years. He remembered locking eyes with her for the first time and her radiant smile from across a packed Williamsburg bar. A driven, independent woman, and a good listener when he regularly came home late and blew off steam. She had put up with his Z Train obsession while he neglected her . . . or as much as a person could stand being neglected.

  He had been working so hard for so long that he couldn’t remember when he stopped seeing his wife. He just realized it one day. He hadn’t been intimate with her in almost a year.

  And then, just pure stupidity. Looking back, he couldn’t believe he even did it. One stupid mistake. He had won an award from . . . he didn’t even remember anymore. Ellen couldn’t make the ceremony. He was drinking, she was young. Ellen was a shrewd enough businesswoman to keep his indiscretion private for now, but it was just another nail in the coffin of their marriage. That was nearly six months ago.

  Now she was gone before he could make amends.

  Get a grip, he told himself again.

  For all Cafferty knew, dazed passengers might be staggering out of the Jersey City tunnel right now as his mind raced with speculation and dread. He slipped his phone out of his jacket and hit the redial button. “Ellen Cell” flashed on the screen. The call began connecting . . .

  . . . and then the signal bars vanished and the call cut.

  The public Wi-Fi also dropped out.

  Unless the terrorists had damaged the communication systems, somebody in the command center had disabled the network boosters and routers. It made sense—cell phones were an easy remote trigger for bombs. Not only that, but it’s always a good idea to control the story, and with a few dozen civilian “reporters” to go along with the actual reporters, cutting off the cellular signal wasn’t a bad idea. But it meant he was also cut off. He racked his brain for a second, pushing past the frustration, and finally remembered there was an internal landline in the AV room.

  He shoved open the swing door and reentered the main area of the Pavilion.

  North acknowledged him with a nod. “Are you okay, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Relatively speaking, yes.”

  “I hear you,” North murmured.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve sent our team to recheck civilians for suicide vests or weapons of any kind.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t find any. Give me a minute—I’m calling the command center to get us an update.”

  A faint buzz of chatter came from inside the food court. The NYPD had dragged tables and chairs into the central eating area and attended to the injured. A few cops stood by the train, while ten each lined up in front of the Jersey City and Manhattan tunnel entrances.

  Cafferty walked to the left of the command center, down a short corridor, and entered the AV room. Pinhead lights illuminated a bank of computers, which controlled the advertising displays and the projection on the Pavilion’s wall. He picked up a telephone with an alphanumeric keypad and small video screen, entered his PIN, and raised the handset.

  The phone rang four times.

  The image of Diego Munoz’s face appeared and he offered a thin smile. “Mr. Mayor, I thought you’d call.”

  “Is everyone all right in there?”

  President Reynolds nudged Munoz out of the way. “We’re fine, Tom. I see you’re controlling things outside. Great work.”

  “What happened to the networks? We’ve got no cell service, no internet, no broadcast signal.”

  “Emergency services only. We don’t need false information getting out and panic spreading in the city. And if this attack isn’t over yet . . .”

  Cafferty nodded in agreement. “What about the response?”

  “We’re working on it,” Reynolds replied. “Rescue teams are coming your way through the Manhattan tunnel.”

  “Why not the Jersey City tunnel? The missing passengers are in there.”

  Munoz leaned back into shot. “We’re monitoring—”

  “The decision rests in capable hands,” Reynolds said. “Keep everyone calm and inform them help is on the way.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Cafferty said, still puzzled as to why teams weren’t descending from both directions. “Any info on the passengers?”

  “Like I said, Tom, we’re working on it. Hang tight and we’ll let you know as soon as we have any further information.”

  Munoz looked like he was about to say something else, but Reynolds rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

  Cafferty shook his head. “The attack happened in the Jersey tunnel. Surely canceling the threat first makes the most sense?”

  “For the third time, we’re on it, Tom,” Reynolds said. “Have your team inspect the train for any clues and we’ll keep you updated. Sound like a plan?”

  “All right. And what’s your plan, Mr. President?”

  “We called the DSRV, but I’m only boarding as a last resort. We’ll see this through together. Good luck, Tom.”

  “Likewise.” Cafferty hung up the phone. “Not that you’ll need it behind twenty inches of steel.”

  It all seemed reasonable, yet something didn’t add up. Reynolds, as a fellow politician, should have known he couldn’t bullshit a bullshitter. Cafferty drummed his fingers against the desk and scanned the AV room. A closed laptop sat on a bench to his left. He reached across and flipped open the lid, and the operating system blinked on. Commercial communications were down, but he guessed the MTA’s private network remained active.

  The laptop searched for available wireless networks. A wave of relief washed over him when “MTA-P” appeared in the box and automatically connected. He launched the browser and input his government username and password.

  Cafferty navigated to the contacts list and only the command center staff appeared online. He selected the
private message envelope next to Munoz’s name. With no cameras or president to kowtow to, he dropped the niceties.

  TC: Diego, what the fuck is going on?

  Chapter Five

  A message notification beeped from Munoz’s workstation. He wheeled his chair from the telephone to his laptop, and as he had hoped, the on-screen speech bubble contained Cafferty’s name. In his peripheral vision, the hulking frame of Samuels moved toward him.

  Munoz quickly tabbed his display to a spreadsheet.

  “What’re you doing?” Samuels asked.

  “Nothin’.”

  “You look guilty of something.”

  “I am: not telling Mayor Cafferty about the methane leaks.”

  Samuels glared down at him with a laser-like intensity. “Every move made in this command center is subject to my or the president’s approval. I don’t like loose cannons rolling around my deck. Don’t even consider a unilateral course of action. Do we understand each other?”

  “As clean as a whistle.”

  “It’s clear as a whistle.”

  Munoz shrugged but held eye contact. “Let’s just do our respective jobs. But let’s also be clear: you don’t need to treat us like children.”

  “Act how you like when I’m not here protecting the president. For now, you follow my instructions. Period.”

  Munoz shrugged once more. Nothing much intimidated him, not after growing up in Brownsville. He had been sucked into a street gang as an impressionable teenager. It hadn’t lasted long—he soon realized that kind of existence ruined the lives of those around him, not to mention the agonizing toll it took on their families. The drugs. The guns. The senseless territorial disputes. But it had been long enough, and he spent years constantly looking over his shoulder and wondering if he would live to see another sunrise.

  Munoz had faced down threats from people with far worse intentions than this guy. So to have someone try to stare him down when they all had a job to do? It wasn’t going to happen. Munoz didn’t go straight and claw his way to genuine respectability for people like Samuels to kick sand in his face. Not today.