Chapter 12
Howe watched the UAV pass under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge like a rifle bullet moving at just over 275 knots. It nudged right slightly, its faceted beak aimed directly for the Statue of Liberty. Howe was flying more than a hundred miles an hour faster than the UAV, but even with that advantage he couldn’t close the distance between him and the UAV before it slammed into the statue.
And even if he did, he had no weapons aboard.
But he couldn’t simply pull off. He stayed on his course.
And then the UAV made a course correct, turning not right, which would have taken it over Manhattan, but left, flying toward northern New Jersey.
Howe didn’t understand for a moment. It seemed to him that the enemy plane — an unthinking missile — had had a change of heart, warned off by the glare of the statue herself.
Then he realized that it had never been programmed to strike the statue.
An E-bomb would be targeted for a power yard or a transformer station to have maximum effect on the power grid. It was possible to shield some devices against the weapon itself, but a close-range hit on a weak link could not be defended against. Even if the weapon proved not as powerful as its designers intended, a jolt directly over a concentration of power lines would fry the Northeast grid for months.
There were plenty of choices in northeastern New Jersey. Hit the right one and the power grid would come down. You didn’t have to hit Manhattan at all.
“Iron Hawk, this is Viper One. I need vectors to the target. Iron Hawk? Iron Hawk?”
Howe responded with the course and location, even though he knew the F-16 was too far off. It would take it at least three minutes to close the gap. By then the UAV would be over its target.
The UAV began to rise. That must mean it was getting ready to ignite its bomb.
He had it in his screen now, less than two miles ahead. If he had a cannon, he could easily shoot it down.
He could run the damn thing down, collide with it.
I don’t want to die.
The idea shot into his head, the errant firing of a cramping muscle.
It was just ahead of his left wing now, eight hundred meters, seven hundred. The AMV showed it clearly in the display — the bomb was lashed to the body — but he wasn’t watching the screen; he was looking at it in his windscreen.
He’d have only one chance. Howe eased his grip on the stick, trying to avoid the tendency to overcorrect.
As Howe came up, something about the night reminded him of the dim computer screen he’d fiddled with in the Smithsonian, the simulation of the Hurricanes taking on the V-1s in the air over the Channel.
He could do that now.
Tip the wing right, get the UAV to tumble into the water.
Was he chickening out?
There was no more time to think. Howe pushed the stick, threw his body with it, came back.
A long tunnel opened behind him, the rushing howl of the engine rising two octaves into a shrill hiss. He felt his right arm cramp into a rock.
The Iron Hawk stumbled but held solid, following its pilot’s command.
The wings of the two aircraft smacked against each other. The UAV tumbled, its gull wings spinning. The craft’s tail turned over once, twice, three times. The plane’s internal guidance system started to correct but it was too late: It was far too low to recover from the spin. Gravity had too firm a grip for the craft to shake off; it spun once more, then hit the water about ten yards from shore, disappearing in a volcanic burst of steam.
Iron Hawk rolled awkwardly but recovered, the modifications designed to ensure her survivability in combat proving her salvation now. Howe steadied the craft, eyes on the AMV screen, hardly breathing. He was lost, unsure where he was in the sky — unsure even if he hadn’t blown himself up.
He blinked, and he had it all back.
He was rising over the Hudson River, turning eastward now, New York City a bright melange of lights. The UAV hit the water below.
He’d saved the damn place, he and the F-16 pilots, and Fisher, and a million other people, doing their jobs and putting their necks on the line.
He’d saved the whole damn place. Manhattan sparkled like a fistful of diamonds, her bright lights blazing in the dark night. New York, New York, brighter than ever.
And then every light in the city flashed out.
Chapter 13
Now. It was time. Faud pulled on the goggles and fumbled with the pack, removing the coat.
Was this what God wanted?
To even ask the question was blasphemy.
Faud felt his body tremble as he hoisted the oxygen pack to his back. His hands were so slippery that the pistol fell to the cement, clattering on the floor. As he stooped down to grab at the gun, the blood rushed to his head. Faud felt himself loosing his balance. He tightened his hand around the weapon and straightened slowly.
He must not fail, he told himself.
Chapter 14
Fisher waded through the water, reaching a set of concrete steps as the lights snapped off.
Damn it, he thought to himself, I’m always running late in this stinking city.
He stepped up to the top of the stairs. A long stretch of pipes ran to the right, splitting the passage in two. He heard something move ahead.
“Yo. Give it up,” yelled Fisher.
There was no answer.
“You’re not going to make it to the ventilation system. You have to climb all the way up the shaft. I’ll shoot you before you make it halfway up. A couple of times.”
No answer. Fisher sighed and reached to touch the wall with his left hand, walking gingerly along it. The bottom of a service elevator shaft opened about fifty feet ahead.
“You see me, Faud?”
The terrorist answered by firing a gun.
“Dinky little twenty-two, I bet,” said Fisher.
The gun flashed again, this time giving Fisher an idea of where it was. He fired three of his .44’s six bullets, and all smacked hard against a pipe at the far end.
The terrorist shot again. He, too, missed, though Fisher noted that the ricochet was a bit closer.
“All right, let’s get this part out of the way,” yelled the FBI agent. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney—”
A succession of bullets flew through the air. Fisher fired again. When he heard Faud dropping his gear, he realized he’d missed again.
“Hey!” shouted someone from above. Macklin was in the elevator shaft. “Hey!”
More gunfire. More smoke. Fisher tried to remember what the technical people had told him a few weeks
