9:02 A.M.
SS DORSET
NEW YORK HARBOR
Dewey felt the first explosion and turned.
He was on the deck of the Dorset, on a wooden sheet of deck in the lee of a massive sail, along with dozens of people, all being served breakfast after the morning shoot. The Dorset was just south of Manhattan, in the harbor, treading water on a crystal-clear morning. Dewey was sipping his third beer even though it was 9 A.M., but shooting skeet often involves alcohol, and the truth was he’d had less than most. That’s when he felt it—like thunder—and turned.
He saw fire.
Inside his ear, he heard a low beep.
Dewey saw the fiery plumes of smoke and flames, then felt a second and a third shock wave, as in other spots in the skyline, across the distance of the island, smoke suddenly appeared in the sky, rising above distant buildings. Dewey stared at the balls of smoke pirouetting into the blue sky from Manhattan.
He tapped his earbud:
“Identify.”
“NOC 2495–6.”
“Hold.”
Dewey glanced around the deck. Silence and a sense of fear took over the yacht. He looked around for Jenna. She was standing at the far side of the deck.
“Dewey, it’s Bill,” said Polk. “Bringing you in. The president is at the UN and he’s being extracted from the roof.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Dewey.
“Why?” said Polk.
“They’re ready for that,” said Dewey.
“Too late and I disagree,” said Polk. “They have an army of shooters running around the city. Active shooters. Bridges are cut off so the only NYPD available is Manhattan and it’s not enough. Busloads of Hezbollah are cutting off the UN from the ground. The president departing by land is not an option any longer.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Dewey. “Wow. What do you need from me?”
“I need you to get over there,” said Polk, “in case the roof extraction goes sideways.”
“Is there a fastboat?” said Dewey.
“Yes,” said Polk, “ex-UDT who are backup on the Black Hawks. But let’s just assume the worst. We need you in there.”
“Got it,” said Dewey. “Rob’s here too.”
“Yes,” said Polk. “He’s my next call. I’ll coordinate from above but in-theater I want you guys focusing on mission, got it?”
“Yeah.”
“You have open-territory protocol. The president is trapped. I’m looking at his RPS and he’s not moving. This is EP recon, Dewey.”
“What about Quantico or NYPD?” said Dewey.
“They’re fighting guerrilla wars all over the city,” said Polk. “Iran embedded hundreds of active shooters; NYPD needs to deal with them. NYPD also needs to deal with the tunnels,” added Polk. “The bridges into Manhattan are also blocked. As for FBI, you have a limited number on the island. Iran has strategic advantage. Get moving and focus on the target.”
“Roger that,” said Dewey, tapping out.
The entire party of guests aboard the Dorset stood in awe and shock, staring across the water at Manhattan and the smoky skyline.
Jenna said something to her mother and then walked over to Dewey. As she approached, so too did her father.
“They’ve blown up the tunnels into the city,” said Jenna. “Not to mention what happened to you in Georgetown. Highly choreographed, tightly executed.”
Dewey looked at her with a blank expression as Farragut came close.
“Would it be all right if I had access to the weapons room, Bobby?” said Dewey. “I need to borrow a few guns.”
“Of course,” said Farragut.
“Also, I need your tender,” Dewey said, referring to the twenty-nine-foot speedboat used for quick trips to shore.
“Take whatever you want, though the helicopter would be faster,” said Farragut.
“Thank you,” said Dewey, “but whoever it is has probably already thought about that.”
“I get it,” said Farragut. “Do you need a wingman? I was First Battalion Alpha SAS.”
Jenna grabbed her father. “Dad?”
Dewey nodded. “Sure, I could use you,” he said, “but I think you need to calm down the people on this boat, and I would lift anchor immediately and head for open water.”
“Good advice,” said Farragut. “But we’re staying right here. If you need us to do something, we will.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Dewey said, shaking Farragut’s hand. “Please thank Jemima for me.”
“I will. Look forward to seeing you again, Dewey.”
Jenna led Dewey down a circular stairwell and unlocked the door. Inside was the weapons cache he’d seen earlier that day, military grade, neatly arrayed in racks.
“Take the tender up the East River and abandon it on Roosevelt Island, then swim in. You’ll need to kill your way in. They’ll already have taken the ground floor, but there’s no other way. Then get up and find the president.”
Dewey took a black MP7A1 and found a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle. A Colt M1911A1 was already holstered beneath his armpit. He found a vest with a large watertight compartment in back and put it on, then loaded it with mags. He saw a pair of flippers and grabbed them. Then he saw Jenna watching him and the whole last day ran through his head.
He looked down at the ground.
“I’m sorry this ended, I was really having fun,” said Dewey, without looking at Jenna. “I’ll play it by ear once I get closer. Can you show me where the boat is?”
“Come on,” she said.
She stepped into his path and put a hand against his chest. He finally looked her in the eyes.
“Please come back alive,” said Jenna.
Dewey smiled.
“I will. Promise.”