9:15 A.M.
MISSION THEATER TARGA
NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Perry entered the mission theater. The amphitheater was dimly lit.
Targa was one of five mission theaters inside the Directorate of Operations. It was an amphitheater of several dozen built-in, theater-like leather chairs ascending away from a large, rectangular LCD sheet, and two data management stations occupied by analysts.
On the screen were several live feeds, spread like tiles across the screen: Two were aerial views of Manhattan, one by satellite, one by drone.
Both showed Manhattan from the sky. Blue sky was visible but not in and around Manhattan, which looked, by satellite, as if it was on fire. Four clusters of smoke and fire lit up the view.
The view from the drone was more intimate, several cameras displaying live feed simultaneously of Manhattan from a few hundred feet in the air, directly above. Yet the views from the drone were even more illustrative as to the situation. The streets were afire in gun battles, and red sparks of gunfire dotted the view.
“Give us POV from both helicopters as well as the boat,” said Perry.
The screens in the theater flashed into two live video feeds, one feed from the lead helicopter, the other from the Zodiac CZ7 now hidden beneath FDR Drive.
The CIA theater was displaying live video feeds of all available aspects of the operation.
A deep monotone voice came through the feed, the low sound of engines behind it. It was Ferrara, the captain of the fastboat.
The screen shot large for everyone in Targa, live feeding from Ferrara’s helmet.
“Coming in range,” said Ferrara.
The view showed the bow of the Zodiac and the water beyond—straight to the destroyed shoreline south of the UN where the Queens-Midtown Tunnel fed into Manhattan. From the boat’s vantage point, it was a fiery mess of clouds and flames. The FDR Drive was ripped in seams of tar and steel. Cars were dangling and then falling into the fast-moving river from above.
It was a horrible scene. Several people in the room audibly winced or groaned. It was utter mayhem.
Perry stood in front of the screen, analyzing the view.
“Look right,” said Perry. “Give me a slow scan of the waterline.”
Ferrara looked to his right, idling the engine, and the view in the theater showed the shore of the East River, a stone-and-concrete structure that was at least twenty feet taller in height than the river. There was no access, but that wasn’t what Perry was searching for. He didn’t need to tell Ferrara how his men should get up. Perry was looking for hostiles. But he saw nothing.
The boat engines purred. The Zodiac was still beneath the UN Tunnel. Then it emerged into the light just beneath the UN.
“Mack, I’m right below,” said Ferrara.
“Air team is inbound,” said Perry. “Hold at the embankment point.”
“Roger that,” said Ferrara.
Perry suddenly felt a wave of nausea coming on from the chemotherapy. He turned and found Polk.
Polk stood and walked to Perry.
“Good presentation,” said Polk.
“Thanks,” said Perry, “are we missing something?”
“Probably,” said Polk.
“Have you run the Tier Ones?” said Perry.
“Yes—Andreas, Tacoma, and Singerman,” said Polk.
“Awesome,” said Perry, wincing as nausea hit even harder.
Polk took Perry quietly aside and walked with him toward the door into Targa, as if privately discussing some issue involving what was going on.
“When were you going to tell me?” said Polk.
“Tell you what?” said Perry.
“My wife had cancer, Mack,” he replied, holding his shoulder and walking with him. “I understand. Let’s get to the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” said Perry.
Perry walked to the bathroom alone. Once inside, he found the toilet and collapsed to his knees. He vomited profusely for almost a minute. Perry flushed a few times as he spat out. He washed his hands and face, and walked back across the dimly lit hallway. Polk was waiting for him outside the door to the mission theater.
Polk put his arm on Perry’s shoulder.
“I’d tell you it gets better, but it doesn’t,” said Polk, opening the door. “Now let’s get Dellenbaugh out of there.”
Inside Targa, Perry studied the half-arc of theater seating semi-filled with people, even as he directed the operation. He looked at the screen displaying the view from the undersides of the two helicopters as they flew across the sky toward the UN building in the distance.
Perry looked at another screen. The vantage point went to a Zodiac on the East River. The camera was on the helmet of one of the Navy SEALs tucked beneath the FDR.
Perry stood to the left of the screens, watching along with the others in the mission theater.
On the right screen, the Zodiac suddenly revved forward, out from beneath the overhang of the FDR Drive, beneath the UN.
Meanwhile, on the left screen, the lead Black Hawk flew toward Manhattan, directly into the path of a smoky cloud thundering up from where the tunnel leading into the city had been destroyed.
Sound from the two teams was on low but still discernible, mostly verbal interchange between Minelli and Ferrara.
Perry looked at Calibrisi.
“Any word from the president?” Perry said, barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “A trauma surgeon spoke to him on the phone. He was struck by a piece of glass. She said that he either died or became unconscious during the call.”