Chapter Seven

An unconfirmed report from a source within the NYPD claimed that the SWAT team, which had been placed on alert, was deployed ten minutes ago to an unknown destination.

-AP News Report, 2015

“Marine or not, you’re not going in with the first team,” Sergeant David Crawford said, firmly. “My orders are to keep you out of harm’s way.”

Art scowled at him, but knew that further arguing would be futile, even without telepathy. He couldn’t really blame Crawford for his attitude. If he’d been running a raid with a platoon of Marines, he wouldn’t want outsiders crawling all over the operation and getting in the way himself. He’d taken a moment to read Crawford’s file and he’d been impressed. The NYPD SWAT team had a good record for dealing with terrorists, snipers and other threats to public safety. Behind the SWAT team members, who were donning body armour and checking their weapons, he could see the small NEST team that had been hastily summoned. The Nuclear Emergency Support Team had worked closely with the SWAT team in the past, after there had been reports – false, apparently – that a nuclear weapon had been smuggled into the city.

“Fine,” he said, gracelessly. He should have known better than to think anyone would have let him close to the action. It sounded petulant, he acknowledged a second later, but it was galling to be needed for an attribute he didn’t want and would throw away if he could. The background murmur of the city seemed to be growing louder in his mind. “I’ll be coming in as soon as you have secured the warehouse.”

Crawford didn’t bother to argue that point. Instead, he strode away to his team and began barking orders. Art had to admit that he had a good voice, although the Marine in him found the SWAT team to be alarmingly unprofessional. But then, the Marines operated in war zones, while the SWAT team had to operate in a civilian environment. If they shot an American citizen by accident, all hell would break loose. He glanced over at Alice, who was looking down at the charts of the warehouse that someone had pulled out of City Hall, and then wandered over to join her. Being so close to a dirty bomb – even though dirty bombs were not quite as dangerous as the media made them sound – was bothering her. Art didn’t blame her. It was bothering him too.

Patel’s father, according to the records, had bought the warehouse before the first economic shockwaves had started to shake the entire financial system. He’d found himself with a white elephant, a warehouse that had to be maintained, but with very little to actually store in it. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that the warehouse was in a very rough area of New York City and that local gangs kept breaking into the building in search of drugs or money. He was surprised that Patel had chosen to risk using it as a base, but he had to admit that the terrorists would probably be capable of dealing with any intrusion from the gangs and no one in authority would give the building a second glance. The chances were good that his father or his relatives would never look at the building until it was far too late.

The SWAT team had sent a set of covert observers into the area as soon as they’d received the warning and they had slipped close to the building, their tiny cameras sending back a live feed to the SWAT team at the assembly point. The building itself had only three entrances; a small door at the front, an oversized loading bay and a fire escape at the rear. According to the plans, there was a small office at the front of the building and the remainder was storage space, but Crawford had warned them that they couldn’t rely completely on the plans. There were plenty of tricks the terrorists could have pulled to make life hard for the team, just to buy them time to detonate the bomb and score a victory, of sorts. A dirty bomb going off anywhere in New York City would be a victory for the terrorists.

“All right, listen up,” Crawford said, as the team assembled. They’d already been briefed extensively, but he was clearly the type of person who insisted on going over the high points before each operation began. “You know what’s reported to be in that warehouse. You know there are people alive in there. We will take them alive, if possible, but if they move towards the bomb, or draw weapons, shoot to kill. You may not get a second chance.”

Art scowled to himself. The NEST team had run a covert scanner – disguised as a bird, of all things – near the warehouse, but they’d been unable to pick up any traces of radiation. The bomb, assuming that it was still in the warehouse, could be anywhere. Patel’s mind had sworn blind that the terrorists were packing it into a white van, one that wouldn’t earn a second glance from anyone who might have been able to stop them before it was too late, but they could have lied to him. If a person who was lying – without knowing that he was lying – could fool a lie detector, he could fool a telepath as well. Patel’s mind had been a seething cauldron of resentment and hatred, but underlying it all had been an uneasy concern about his allies. Were they setting him up for a fall?

“Good,” Crawford said. “Let’s go.”

Art had been curious to see how the operation was conducted and watched with interest as the SWAT team moved into position. It had been decided not to attempt to evacuate the surrounding area – a gutsy call on Crawford’s part, Art knew – as that ran the risk of alerting the terrorists. Instead, several unmarked police vans would convey the SWAT team to their destination and then standby to provide support if necessary. Additional forces – and the NEST team – were already on alert. They’d be moved into position as soon as the SWAT team launched their offensive.

“They’ll be cutting power to the warehouse just before they go into view of the security cameras,” the watch officer commented. Art could sense a knot of concern in his mind, a fear that something would go badly wrong. “Ah…there they go.”

On the screens, Art saw a group of men in black outfits running forward to the two small doors and smashing them down, charging in with weapons raised and shouting orders for the terrorists to throw down their weapons and raise their hands. A handful of gunshots rang out in the confined space, seconds before the NEST team was called into the building. The SWAT team searched the building from end to end before calling back to the base and reporting that it was secure. Art just hoped they they’d remembered to tell the enemy that the building was secure. While clearing houses in Afghanistan, the Marines had often been surprised by enemy fighters who had hidden within the buildings or crept back to reoccupy a cleared house.

“All clear,” Crawford’s voice said, finally. “Come on in; the water’s fine.”

Art concealed a smile as he was escorted into a police van and driven the five blocks to the terrorist-held warehouse. From the outside, it wasn’t any more impressive than the pictures had made it seem, although the presence of police vehicles – marked, this time – suggested that something bad was going on inside the building. The uniformed police officers were already setting up lines and warning a handful of curious onlookers to keep their distance; it wouldn’t be long before the media arrived. The chances were good that someone with a cell phone had already called the media and – if they had a camera on their phone – had taken footage that would probably be uploaded to the internet. It was very hard to do anything in total secrecy, Art knew, even in the intelligence community.

The interior of the warehouse was almost empty. A single white transit van sat in the centre of the cavernous interior, with the NEST team poring over it. Art realised, with a shiver, that the Emir might have intended to launch the attack ahead of time, perhaps because Patel had been arrested or because he had never trusted his ally. His mind sensed the terrorists before he saw them; seven men, lying on the hard floor with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Two more terrorists lay dead on the ground. Art checked the bodies out of habit and discovered that they’d been put down swiftly and professionally. He guessed that they’d made the mistake of attempting to fire on the SWAT team and had been gunned down.

“We have a problem,” Crawford said. “Come and look at this.”

Art followed him over to the van. The terrorists had pulled out the van’s normal fittings and piled in a crate, attached to a simple remote timer and keypad. The timer was clearly counting down to something, but the display had been scrambled, making it impossible to tell how long they had left before the bomb detonated. The NEST team’s bomb disposal officer looked up and shook his head. The weapon, Art realised from his mind, had been carefully constructed to make defusing it impossible.

“I push into this and it will explode,” the officer said, flatly. Art sensed the cold professionalism underlying his words and shivered. Bomb disposal officers were the bravest of the brave. “We need their disarming code.”

Art nodded. “Lucky I came along, then,” he said. Crawford scowled. He’d been briefed on Art’s abilities, but he hadn’t believed a word of it. It wouldn’t be the first time officers and men had been fed an absurd story to see how much of it they believed before common sense asserted itself. Art had always hated the practice, even though he understood it. It would be a disaster if a team of Force Recon Marines blindly followed orders that ended with the assassination of the President, or worse. “Which one of the assholes is in charge?”

Crawford stepped out of the van and pointed to one of the terrorists. “That was the one giving orders when we broke in,” he said. His droll tone couldn’t conceal the urgency spreading through his mind, the fear that the bomb might go off after all and kill his team. “You’ll have to ask him personally.”

Art nodded and stepped over to the terrorist. Up close, cuffed and helpless, he didn’t look that impressive, but then they never did. The cowardly shits who were happy to beat up women and children – and force them to follow an ideology that was alien to them – rarely turned out to be impressive warriors. He’d discovered that while the Taliban were tough and determined fighters, the same couldn’t be said for the allies they recruited from the West. Many of them had second thoughts when it was too late to back out.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Art said, flatly. “I want the code for disarming the bomb. If you don’t give it to me willingly, I will take it from you by force.”

“Burn in hell,” the man said, finally. He had an accent that reminded Art of a joint operation the Marines had conducted with the Pakistani Army, back along the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. “I accept death for my cause and…”

“Enough,” Art said. He drew back his foot, as if he was going to kick the helpless terrorist in the ribs. “Believe me; I will get it out of you.”

“You’re not allowed to torture me,” the terrorist sneered. “And even if you did, I can hold out long enough to make it useless. The bomb is going to go off very soon.”

Art shrugged and reached out with his mind. “What is the code to disarm the bomb?”

“176363,” the terrorist said, out loud. Art knew he was lying; the falsehood blazed through his words. The code would actually trigger the bomb ahead of time. Ignoring it, he reached into the terrorist’s mind as he repeated his question. This time, the answer floated on the top of the terrorist’s mind.

“273939,” Art said. The terrorist was staring at him in disbelief – the entire room was staring at him in disbelief. Even the terrorist who seemed to be on the verge of breaking into tears was staring at him. “Put the code in and disarm the bomb before it is too late.”

The NEST bomb disposal officer scrambled back into the van and started to input the code. Art braced himself for an explosion and sudden death – the bomb was partly made up of C4, used for scattering radioactive material everywhere – but nothing happened. The team could dismantle the bomb and remove the radioactive material without any further problems. The terrorist was still staring at him, sheer terror flickering through his mind. Art smiled at him and the terrorist recoiled. Somehow, deep within his mind, the terrorist had guessed what had happened. Art knew, beyond all doubt, that he was terrified. What did it mean for Global Jihad if minds could be read at will?

“You can answer me one other question,” he said, flatly. “Where is the Emir?”

The terrorist tried to stammer out an untruthful answer, but the real answer was bubbling away on the top of his mind. The Emir, after a brief visit to Ground Zero, had gone undercover – hidden even from his own most trusted adherents – until the time came to use the bomb. He was actually expected at the warehouse that evening, after the bomb had been completed and everything else prepared for action. Details of the full scope of the terrorist plot – details concealed from Patel, for whatever reason – flared through his mind. The terrorists had obtained assault rifles from a crooked arms dealer and intended to attack the emergency services when they responded to the dirty bomb. The carnage would have been unbelievable and horrific. Art allowed himself a moment of relief. The chances were good that they’d headed the terrorist plot off at the pass completely.

“He’s coming here this evening,” Art said. It was odd. If the terrorists had intended to launch their attack so soon, where had they intended to target? The Mayor hadn’t brought his speech forward for their convenience, after all. He posed the question to the terrorists and found nothing. The Emir hadn’t bothered to tell them the target. “We’ll be here, waiting for him.”

“He won’t come,” one of the terrorists spat out. “He’ll see you here and vanish before you can catch him.”

Crawford nodded. “The bastard is probably right,” he said, as the follow-up teams arrived. The terrorists were picked up, their legs were chained to make running impossible and they were marched out towards the prison van. They’d be transported to a secure prison and held until charges could be filed. The dirty bomb would provide all the evidence the FBI needed to charge them with terrorism. The forensic teams might pick up enough evidence to make additional charges stick on Patel, rolling up the entire terrorist network. “The media have already been alerted and reporters are on their way. My superiors want to make a public statement.”

Art rolled his eyes. “Just remember to say nothing about how the information was obtained,” he said. He knew that it was probably useless. The entire warehouse had seen telepathy in action. Someone – he wondered who – would spill the beans to someone else and the word would be out. Even a rumour would be disquieting to the world … on the other hand, there had been conspiracy theories about secret groups of telepaths running the world for years and society hadn’t broken down into anarchy. “What about …?”

“You saw the Emir in their minds,” Alice said, suddenly. “You could do a composite picture of him so we’d know who to look for and then …”

“Good idea,” Agent Evens said. She’d remained behind with her two friends and colleagues. Art had been privately grateful, as – he knew – had Crawford. The last thing either of them needed was superior officers blundering around and issuing impossible orders. “Once we have the picture, we’ll upload it into facial recognition programs and issue a public warning. Someone may well come forward and tell us where he is. It’s certainly worked before.”

Art nodded. “All right,” he said, shortly. The background hum of the city was growing louder, distracting him. “Let’s go back to base and we can work on the image there.”

***

As it happened, once the FBI’s best artist had helped Art come up with an image of the Emir as his men had seen him, the Emir was arrested within four hours. His face had been picked up by a set of security cameras as he made his way in and out of an expensive hotel – where he’d stayed while his men slept on hard floors in the warehouse – and stored until the image had been uploaded into the NYPD’s database. As soon as the cameras had reported his presence, the SWAT team had mobilised, secured the hotel and arrested him. They’d expected a fight, or a suicide attempt, but instead the Emir surrendered at once. Art wasn’t too surprised. Terrorism was the weapon of a coward and the men who sent people out to die in his name were rarely the bravest of the brave.

“You did well today,” Alice said, once they’d been allowed to move into their sleeping quarters and get some rest. The FBI seemed reluctant to let them out of its building and had already arranged for Art to be present when the Emir was interrogated. “You’ve changed the world.”

Art grinned. “I have, haven’t I?”