out the rein. The one-ton horse traversed the half-block from Broadway in eight seconds, during which time 10 people were hit. Eddie pulled his Glock and, like a cavalry trooper, started firing at full gallop at the gunman in the long coat spraying the street. His third and fourth shots found center mass on the shooter and he went down. A second shooter on the other side of the theater was too far away for him to get a good shot at while not hitting a pedestrian.
Atticus didn’t hesitate when Eddie nudged him in closer to the shooter, yelling for everyone to get down and take cover. Two white-shield anti-crime cops who were looking out for scalpers and pickpockets had their guns drawn down and in front of them as they advanced one car at a time for cover towards the shooter. As soon as they felt they had a shot, they both swung onto the hood and trunk of a Town Car and pumped 30 shots into the shooter who went down screaming, “Jihad.”
Eddie Deagan took on the role of lookout from his perch atop Atticus. He triggered his lapel-mounted radio. “MTS mounted to Central K. Shots fired, multiple gunmen IFO 256 West 47th Street. Repeat, multiple gunmen. Citizens down, many down.” He scanned the street as the undercover cops kicked the dead shooter’s gun from his body.
He saw a man in a wheelchair keel over as a young boy ran from behind him, then he realized it was Rufus, the vet he’d chased from spot to spot every day. Today, Rufus bought the spot he died in…a hero.
It went out as a Critical Response Call. Immediately, 75 patrol cars, almost one from each precinct in the city, headed toward the theater district. The rolling roadblock method they utilized, where the lead car blocks a cross-town street while the main body zooms by then takes up position in the rear, meant they cut a swath through the city at speeds as high as 60 m.p.h. They got there in less than 120 seconds from their recent post at the Museum of Natural History.
Eddie Deagan was down from his mount and, heard how the shooters were part of a group of men who went into the theater. He tried the doors, but they wouldn’t open.
Of course, none of this happened without the news services being aware. News trucks and helicopters scrambled to the theater district.
For the terrorists, all was going according to plan.
A theater is acoustically a live-end/dead-end room. The live end, where the actors work, amplifies sound so that all their nuances of performance can be heard. The dead end, where the audience sits, is designed to muffle sound and absorb reverberation. So when the house manager came into the lobby to see what all the fuss was about, the shot that perforated her forehead didn’t sound out more than 10 feet. The instant human reaction was also muffled, so the rest of the theater was not aware of what was happening in the rear of the house. In time, though, the screams became more numerous and, hence, louder and clearer.
From his perspective returning from the men’s room, Phil Dunowsky, an off-duty corrections officer, gauged the situation and decided he could get the guy with the gun. He drew a bead on the guy who just shot the woman with the headset on. He was about to do it by the book and yell “Police, freeze,” when he saw the thug point his gun at an old guy who witnessed the killing.
“You bastard. I’m going to shove that gun up your ass!” Mitchell Herzog, a veteran of the Korean War, blurted out. He was more angry than smart. He realized this when the hooligan with the gun turned it towards his face.
Phil fired three times and the bad guy fell. As he died a spasm-induced pull on the trigger fired the gun, just missing the old guy and shattering a sconce on the back wall of the theater. What Phil would never know was that there were more than just that guy in the theater. His world went unexpectedly black as another terrorist loosed a three-shot burst into his head from behind.
From their spot in the parking lot at Citi Field, 100 yards from the shooting set of the film, they began to see some activity.
“Let’s roll,” Bill said as his cell rang. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He ended the call and said “Call Joey.” to his voice-activated iPhone.
“Joey, the President has covered your agent Burrell under the same executive order as Bridgestone and Ross. Tell her she is free to use any means necessary.”
“Roger that. Thanks, Bill. How’s your end going?”
“I’m late for the theater and we are about to see if the movie guys are really making a bomb. Parking lot at Citi Field. Have NEST and extraction teams ready waiting for my order. If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, come in blazing.”
The inter-agency alarms, triggered by the possible sighting of Rashid, took 12 seconds to ripple through every cop, national guardsman, plainclothes and uniformed railroad security personnel throughout Pennsylvania Station. Within a minute, they thought they had a target located in the upper concourse next to the Amtrak waiting area. They didn’t want to spook the guy until they had a clear shot and a chance to secure the case.
One of the FBI agents assigned to Penn made a chilling observation. The subject appeared to have radiation burns on his face and hands. This was confirmed when the subject passed within 10 feet of one of the radiation monitors and it reported, to the secure room deep within the station, that a low-level exposure had taken place. Two plainclothes officers, one dressed as a homeless person, the other as a Knicks fan, came up on either side of the target. They timed their approach just as the target was passing by a trashcan. In an instant, they grabbed him and, in one smooth move, wrestled the case away by breaking his wrist as he was going down. Then, like an NBA star, the “homeless guy” slam-dunked the case into the can. Fifty cops suddenly came out of nowhere, screaming for everyone to get away. The two plainclothes cops hustled the target out of the concourse.
From the side of the concourse, a forklift-type machine rolled out and towards the trashcan. The Kevlar and composite resin receptacles lined with blast absorbing bubble wrap like insulation, were located throughout the station and specially designed to direct a blast upward, not outward, to minimize collateral damage if a traditional bomb were planted in one, or, as in this case, placed there by police to limit damage. The forklift carried a two-ton cover cylinder of the same material as the can. It slid the cover over the can, sealing it under 4,000 lbs of weight. For good measure, the cop driving the lift pressed the forks down on the top, adding the weight of the machine to the downward force. In all, 32 seconds elapsed between the takedown of the target and the securing of the canister. Unfortunately, it took the rumors less than half that time to spread to the street.
CNN, being right upstairs and across the street from Penn Station, had the first scoop. Then it took all of three minutes and the word was out — worldwide.
“Let me know if he talks.” Bill slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Bridgestone. “They’re waiting for a robot x-ray of the bomb containment vessel to see what they’re dealing with. Rashid ain’t talking yet.”
“Whose got ‘em?”
“FBI AIC.”
“Too bad. The agent will have to play by the book.”
“
Bill reopened his phone and pressed a speed dial key. “Get me the President.”
Number 1 had just heard of the events at Penn.
Number 2 was concerned. “If it didn’t go off, are we still going ahead?”
“Yes. Half of the news establishment is already at the theater. No detonation means there will be more reporters there, waiting for something to blow up so they can catch it on film. Yes, the threat of the bomb works better for us than the bomb itself! Let’s go! Number 10 should be in position for transfer in five minutes.”
“Roger that.”
Agent Burrell couldn’t believe her ears, but she trusted Joe and knew Bill. She hung up her phone, ordered all of the other agents out of the room, and told them to guard the door.
