9:25 A.M.
EAST RIVER
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey saw where the missiles had come from. He drifted down the river, pulled along by the current, at times violent enough to heave him down beneath the surface. He kicked his way so that he was in a direct path toward the dock. At the bank of the river he reached up and felt a wall of granite blocks. He continued to be swept by the current but let his hand feel along the wall of granite. It was slippery, covered in years of algae, oily spillage, and other sorts of dirt and grime. He found a small divot—a missing corner of a rock above his head—and he held on and kicked off his fins. He pulled up on the small, slippery inch of rock and hoisted himself up, above water, then let the water pour off him and his weapons. Dewey’s foot found an edge and he started scrambling, grasping for pieces of granite, his feet reaching desperately for small edges, and he slinked up the wall of stone and came to the esplanade. Then a surge of river hit him and he was back in the furious current, tossed into the river which swirled him a sudden five feet away from the bank.
He caught his breath and resurfaced. The river appeared to be calm, yet beneath it was constantly churning and hauling Dewey down.
He let himself drift—he didn’t feel like fighting the river anymore—and the current carried him closer and closer to the tower of smoke still pouring from the end of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel where the explosion had occurred. He saw the dock. It was a maintenance dock. It was stacked with machinery, a crane, and piles of cement bags. A temporary dock, clinging by a chain to the shore.
As Dewey drifted closer, he registered movement. Halfway down the dock. It was a man looking up the river in his direction. Dewey watched as he abruptly placed the rifle down and picked up a shoulder-fired missile. Dewey realized he was the one who had shot down the American helicopters on the way in to save the president.
Dewey took a deep breath and went below the water, submerging a few feet and swimming hard. He let the river take his body in a drift, then swam up when he saw the dark outline of the dock above. Quietly, he grabbed the underside of it with one hand. He moved carefully to the back of the dock, until he was at a thin gap between the dock and the bank.
He surfaced and took a noiseless breath as he glanced down the length of the dock. It was crowded with pallets of stone, bags of cement, stacks of buckets, tools covered by tarps, and a mobile crane. His clothing blended into the background, and he wasn’t moving, like a rattlesnake hidden in tall grass. The terrorist, now clutching an AR-15, was approximately three-quarters of the way down the dock.
In the distance, on the streets just above the river, gunfire was rampant. Sharp staccato fusillades of submachine guns interwoven with pounding single blasts from automatic rifles. There were screams, sirens, and the air, even down on the water, smelled like gunpowder.
Dewey went back underwater. He moved along the back of the dock, holding himself below the water. He looked up through the water and tracked the dark edge of the pier against the sky. Holding his breath, Dewey reached to his ankle and removed a knife from a sheath strapped to his leg. It was a steel combat blade: SOG SEAL Pup. It was nine inches long. The blade was black and double serrated. He put the hilt of the knife in his mouth and bit down, clutching it between his teeth, as the fast-moving water coursed against him, and his lungs started to burn. He paused below the water until he felt he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, then emerged and climbed silently onto the dock, behind the Iranian, lifting himself up with his hands then stepping onto the wooden platform, blade between his teeth just as the Iranian sensed or heard him. The Iranian pivoted—AR-15 in his clutch—and swept the muzzle toward Dewey. As a drumming of bullets cracked the air, Dewey lurched and slashed the blade down at the killer, slamming the knife into his chest. He ripped it beneath the terrorist’s armpit in a violent hacking cut, gashing through clothing, skin, muscle, and bone. His cries of agony were muted by the surrounding din. Dewey buried the knife deep inside the terrorist’s chest, from the side, then, just as quickly, wrenched it back out, yanking up and letting the upper serrated teeth of the SEAL Pup gore through yet more of the man’s insides. Without taking his eyes off him, Dewey dunked the bloody blade in the river to wash it off, then resheathed it.
He stared down at the young Iranian who was bleeding out. Dewey took the AR-15 from the terrorist’s hands. He inspected it as the man made a few last flails, hitting at Dewey’s legs. Dewey ignored the dying man and reached down, removing two mags from his vest. He aimed the rifle at the Iranian’s skull, but then put it slightly to the side and fired, testing the firearm. The Iranian jerked to the side, even though Dewey hadn’t shot him. A dime-sized hole tore into the wood of the dock. Dewey ran his hands over the weapon and then clutched it in his right hand.
Dewey finally focused in on the bleeding-out Hezbollah on the dock. Dewey looked down into his eyes. The man fought to keep his eyes open, looking up at Dewey as dark, almost black maroon blood chugged from his nostrils, mouth, and ears, like a faucet.
“I’m sorry this didn’t work out,” said Dewey to the terrorist. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Dewey put his foot beneath his torso and kicked forward, tossing the bleeding terrorist into the river. He watched as he drifted away in the fierce current, at first trying to swim, then rolling and sinking beneath the black water.
“Don’t forget to write!” Dewey yelled.