“Exact… Yes, that’s exactly it. How come I didn’t think of that?”
“We’re running,” Kronos reported over the speakerphone of the Blackberry.
“Peter Remo theorized about instantaneous values of Harmonic 33. Kronos, can you run a time sweep and give me instantaneous values longitudinally? Also, can you give me an eight-place simulation as well.”
“Peter’s here and we already did that. Anything else?”
“Stand by; I am literally thinking on the run here.”
Bridgestone had a light bulb moment. “Okay, so I think I got it now, the bad guys are working with old data from way back when and they obviously think it will go off. Meanwhile, you and the characters on the other end of the phone are checking to see if this thing maybe can’t go off?”
“Exactly. Peter was involved in the early formulas and then worked with Ensiling on derivative instantaneous values of H33.”
Bridgestone held up his hand to signal “I surrender.”
Hiccock slowed it down, as much for him to work it through as to help Bridge. “What it comes down to is that the old equations just covered the U.S. in total, but New York is inside the footprint of America. It’s at least 300 miles inside the Maine shoreline. Today, computers can carry a number out to 40,000 decimal places.”
“160,000,” Peter corrected over the phone.”
“See, even better! Anyway, Brodenchy’s calculations will tell him when the entire U.S., to Maine, is vulnerable to nuclear detonation before he fires. But Peter and Kronos, using Ensiling’s new computations that Brodenchy couldn’t get from Ensiling — or from his own brother, who we have in custody — can tell the exact second before that when New York turns destroyable. Prior to that, it should be safe to risk shooting him down.”
Hiccock grabbed Bridgestone’s sat-com phone from its clip on his belt and flipped it open. “Signals, this is SCIAD, I want a joint call to Sitch Room White House, military air command, and NEST.”
“Stand by SCIAD. Voiceprint sampling now.”
“William Hiccock, Special Advisor to POTUS.” Bill spoke in an even tone, despite the frantic rush.
There were some beeps and a click. Both men strained to see the copter now disappearing and reappearing between the buildings of Manhattan.
“You drive; I’ll watch it,” Hiccock said with both phones in his hands and his head out the passenger window. “Go right on 34th….”
“I have a positive match. Your call is connected, SCIAD.”
“General, do we have the ability to shoot down a helicopter over Manhattan right now?” Hiccock didn’t know for sure, but assumed a general was somewhere on the line.
“Affirmative. We are two minutes into a CAP over Manhattan Island. Two F 15-E Strike Eagles out of Gabreski Air National Guard base on Long Island.”
“Have them identify and lock on to a blue-and-white news helicopter right now flying directly over the Empire State building.”
“Bill, this is the President. Are you targeting the press?”
“Sir, this is a stunt copter for a movie. Only one side is painted press. The other is all white. Maybe your pilots can confirm that. But do not fire, General, until I get the all clear.”
“From who?” the General said with umbrage at the fact that there was someone else higher in the chain of command. Hiccock could tell from that response that it was probably the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs on the line.
“Peter, Kronos,” Hiccock said and then talked into the other phone. “C’mon guys, I need to know now. There can’t be much time left.”
“Just a second more…. Got it. Okay, Cray Dartmouth says cusp in 40 seconds.”
“Kronos, be very sure of your next answer. Which way is the cusp going?”
“Hold on. Okay, it’s heading on a z axis through the ninth meridian…”
“Kronos! Is New York hot or not?”
The General’s tone was one of seeming protest to the President. “Sir, this man is advocating a weapons-free rule of engagement over a major metropolitan area. Do you trust him?”
“He’s trying to stop a nuke attack. He’s never let me down before.”
The Chief of Staff then interrupted and clarified, “Sir, the General needs to hear your order, sir.”
The weight of this landed squarely on the President’s shoulders.
“General, I order you to release weapons upon Mr. Hiccock’s signal for you to do so.”
“Duly noted. Thank you, Mr. President.”
“CAP control, lock onto target but hold fire until my command.”
Suddenly, a new voice came over Bill’s phone; it was scratchy and carried a southern accent. “Cap Con this is CAP One. I have acquired target. Confirmation it’s our bird, a half-painted whirly.”
“Now or never, Kronos,” Bill urged into the other phone.
“Okay, Peter and I agree, at 160,000 decimal points New York gets hot in 30 seconds; at the Earth’s 1000 mile per hour rotation and the angle of declination to the cusp line, the entire U.S. to Maine goes nuclear in 55 more seconds.”
“So he thinks he can’t detonate for 55 more seconds,” Bridgestone said. Hiccock was amazed that Bridgestone just got the dangerous part of the idea — that you could preemptively strike with impunity.
They both looked up as the sound of the copter’s rotors started to cavitate as it dug into the air in a maneuver to position the airburst in the most devastating position.
The sergeant looked at Hiccock and gave him a nod, setting his chin in the same way Bill’s father did when he saw Bill halfheartedly daring to dive off the high board at Bronx Beach and Pool when he was 9. Bill survived the dive and went on to be a borough-wide swim team champ. If he were wrong, Bronx Beach and Pool and most of New York would be incinerated by his hand. But it was also a 100 % certainty that Brodenchy didn’t come all this way to bluff us. He will detonate.
“General, fire in 12 seconds.”
Just then, the Chief of Staff was handed a note that read “Confirmation. Janice Hiccock held hostage in NYC theater. All agents in detail presumed dead.”
He folded the note, running his fingertip along the new crease
The General had looked up at the big, digital clock in the Situation Room when Hiccock gave the order to shoot in twelve. That was at 12 seconds on the timer, so he was waiting for 24 before he gave the final command.
Hiccock and Bridgestone had pulled over on 34th and 7th. Bill started flashing his F.B.I. I.D. as they made their way closer to Penn Station and Madison Square Garden directly above. They couldn’t see the U.S. Air Force Strike Eagle circling its prey high above Manhattan, but the blue-and-white half-painted helicopter was right above them to the right. It hovered at about 300 feet above the sports arena.
“Is this going to work, sir?”
“The shot or the formula?”
“The shot’s going to kill that bird, sir. That’s a U.S. Air Force fact, I meant…”
It was Allah’s will that one of Russia’s precious devices-an instrument of the enemy of his family, invaders of his youth, and the drunken Cossacks who raped his sisters, killed his father, and forced him and his brother to become refugees-was transformed, in his hands, to the hammer of God. He was about to be the first of millions who would die in a burst of manmade sunlight. His death in the killing of so many Infidels would fulfill the prophecy, the Caliphate! It would be the supreme act of the Thousand Years War. His name would be hailed, studied, and prayed to in madrassas and mosques for a million-million years! He lifted his head to God, letting the prop wash from the copter cleanse his face in preparation for meeting Muhammad, when a white-hot yellow streak suddenly cracked across the skyline and bent in an arc towards the copter. As he saw the smoke flume racing towards his open door on the chopper, the thought in the younger Brodenchy’s, a.k.a. Jahim El Benhan’s a.k.a. Number 1’s prodigious brain, which had conceived, executed, and was within seconds of accomplishing the greatest terrorist
