9:04 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dellenbaugh stood at the outer wall of the tower. Several large sections of glass had completely shattered. He stared out at a sky spanned in sharp clouds of smoke and fire, as if volcanoes had erupted.
Alarms wailed from inside the tower—and from outside the building. There was a constant rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire from the streets below.
Dellenbaugh’s eyes made first contact with Callanan, the lead Secret Service agent. Callanan was on his chest, on the floor, trying to stand up and move to Dellenbaugh, but his ears and nose were oozing blood.
There were loud groans coming from all over the floor.
But then one noise arose above all the other din. Dellenbaugh heard the explosive shriek as his eyes found Callanan. The shrill of a missile. From outside the building—and growing louder. The eerie, screaming whistle of the incoming missile was followed immediately by a deafening blast as an object came flying into the building, into the floor itself, and everything disappeared in a maelstrom of noise, heat, and destruction.
Dellenbaugh dived down just as the Strela ripped horizontally through the glass wall that had not already shattered from the concussion from the explosions. A sharp, powerful heat-filled outer stroke of steel, fire, and air came flying through the U.S. Mission on floor eighteen.
Dellenbaugh hit the ground just before a steel desk tore above his head, as if swept up in a tornado. He watched as a wall of crumbling glass slammed into Callanan’s head, pulverizing him. Dellenbaugh grabbed a section of wall and tucked his head down, trying to avoid the overwhelming wave of projectiles caused by the missile that had just struck the building.
Dellenbaugh watched as people he knew, staff members, Ambassador Wasik, all of them, were suddenly eviscerated in an awkward, horrible sequence, too ugly, too many moments of death, to fathom and he shut his eyes. Then, even as he tucked low, trying to survive, Dellenbaugh felt a sudden, hard object stab into his torso. He lost his grip and tumbled until the wave of energy from the explosion dissipated. He looked down and saw a piece of thick glass embedded in his stomach.
“Jesus,” he moaned as he clutched reflexively at his abdomen, unable to catch his breath. Then he coughed out a mouthful of blood.
Dellenbaugh tried to breathe but the wind was knocked out of him, and every breath was clotted with blood. He looked down and saw a foot-long section of window in the shape of a triangle jutting out from his stomach.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered aloud, to himself. He looked around, from the floor, bleeding badly. He couldn’t see any signs of life.
He spat blood.
“If you’re alive, say something,” he said as loud as he could, wheezing, coughing blood.
The pain was just starting. It was intense and he fought to remain lucid.
He called out again.
“Say something!” he shouted.
But there were no responses.
Both of Dellenbaugh’s hands went to the shard of glass. It was thick, and he studied where it entered him next to his navel. Blood chugged from the seams, in spurts, and ebbs, and yet as he held it he couldn’t do anything, as if all of his strength was gone. He started to try to slip it out, but it was stuck hard. But he knew he needed to stop the bleeding.
He saw smoke out through the broken glass window, a distant part of Manhattan, and felt helpless and desperate.
Dellenbaugh was on his back. Slowly, and in a considerable amount of pain, he worked his way out of his blazer and removed his tie. His shirt was ripped across the torso by the shard of glass. His hands were coated in blood. He tried to dial, but then dropped the phone as he felt his head drop to the floor.
He felt pain and watched as fog seemed to clog his eyes, and he felt tired. As hard as he fought, he couldn’t escape the feeling of total fatigue. It was in every inch, every molecule, of his body. Dellenbaugh shut his eyes as blood pooled beneath him. He slipped into unconsciousness.