9:09 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dellenbaugh opened his eyes. His face was matted to the carpet in a pool of sticky blood. He tried to breathe. He needed air, and he began to inhale. A sharp, stabbing pain slashed across him. He looked down. It looked otherworldly, like a scene from a horror movie.
He was on a thinly carpeted floor in an office suite. He had no idea how long he’d been out.
The piece of glass was large and thick, at least a foot long and an inch wide. It was embedded in his stomach but most of the glass was not inside him. Only the front tip of the shard had penetrated him, perhaps one or two inches—yet it was the worst pain he’d ever felt, or ever even imagined. His button-down was stuffed into the edges, but it was drenched in blood. He stared at the thick shard of glass jutting from his body, crimson flooding the surface. It looked surreal. He put his hand on it and just the faintest touch made sharp pain soar through his body. He let go, then grabbed it again and pulled. But it was lodged inside.
Dellenbaugh glanced around the suite. It was a picture of pure carnage.
Moments before, staff members from the U.S. Mission were gathered, along with several other UN countries’ consulate delegations, including delegations from England, Ireland, Israel, Canada, most of Europe, South Korea, Japan, Mexico, and other countries. A hundred or so. Now, they were dead.
Next to him, Dellenbaugh saw one of his Secret Service protectors, Gene Callanan, lying on his stomach, dead on the floor, part of his torso missing.
Gene Callanan had been on Dellenbaugh’s protective detail starting the day Rob Allaire had asked Dellenbaugh to be his vice president three years ago. Callanan’s head was turned toward him. His face looked calm, his eyes were open; dull eyes staring into oblivion. His torso was severed by some sort of metal, a desk or cabinet, ripped apart by the missiles, sent into his body like a steak knife through butter.
At that moment, beyond any pain, Dellenbaugh could think only about what had happened in the moments before it had all come crashing down. He had to think about that—as much as he hurt. He alone was president. He had to register what had occurred.
Explosions in different parts of the island. Uptown and east, downtown, bursts of thick black smoke chuting into the morning sky.
The tunnels.
Dellenbaugh put his hand on the end of the glass shard. He looked around. No one was moving.
“Is anyone alive?” he said again.
But Dellenbaugh heard nothing.
He felt the glass in his gut. He knew he was alive. As long as he was alive he needed to fight.
“Is anyone there?” he shouted, tasting blood somehow coming up from his body.
He shut his eyes, steeling himself. This was not how it ended. They could kill him, but he wouldn’t give up.…
Yet, the pain was deep. Dellenbaugh coughed and a spitwad of blood-tainted saliva shot out, landing on his thigh. His chief of staff was usually correct. Dellenbaugh grinned as he fought off shock. Adrian was right:
There isn’t going to be any speech, sir.