The Bomb Squad guys were standing with Walsh at the rear of the trailer, but I could see that the doors were still closed. Come on, guys. I said 8:46 A.M.--not P.M.
I had hoped the bomb would be defused by now--and maybe it was. Or better yet, maybe they'd already opened the doors and found masonry supplies inside, and I had some explaining to do.
Kate also noticed that the doors were closed and asked, "Why are they just standing there?"
Coffee break? I said hopefully, "Maybe they're finished."
We were off the ramp now, and the ambulance was fishtailing in the soft earth, but within a minute we were inside the yellow tape and pulling up to the big semi.
Kate and I jumped out, and Kate yelled to Jeena, "Get out of here! Go!"
Jeena made a quick U-turn and gunned the big vehicle back toward the ramp.
Tom was speaking to the Bomb Squad guys, and I could tell they were a little tense--so this was not over.
I looked at the time on Kate's cell phone--8:31--then it changed to 8:32.
I said to Kate, "They don't look happy."
She nodded.
I watched Tom and the two guys speaking quietly, as though a loud noise would set off the bomb.
Bomb Squad people are, by definition, nuts. They volunteer for this. And I knew from past experience that they have a weird sense of humor about getting blown up. But they're highly trained and cool, and these two guys didn't look panicky yet, though Tom was a bit pale. But... well, I give him my brass balls award for this.
Finally, Tom turned his attention to us, checked out my pjs, gave me an annoyed look, then said to Kate, "Get in that Bomb Squad truck and get out of here. Now!"
Kate replied, "I'm not leaving unless we all leave."
There wasn't much time left to argue so Tom said, "Okay... here's what's happening--we sent the other Bomb Squad team away with the dog, who gave a positive reaction. Also, Dutch"--he indicated the older guy--"and Bobby say they can smell ammonium nitrate, diesel fuel, and whatever. So we have a bomb."
Right. I could smell it, too, and I noticed now that the doors were open just a crack, and Bobby was looking inside with a flashlight.
I suggested, "Maybe they should think about defusing it now."
It was Dutch who replied, "Sometimes these things are rigged with a booby-trap detonator." He added, "If we had time, we'd use the robot, but the robot is slow and you're telling me it could be set for eight forty-six--so Bobby is the robot."
In fact, Bobby was now standing on the rear bumper rail with his flashlight, and he called out, "I still don't see any indication of a booby-trap detonator." He added, "But you never know until you try." He turned and said to Dutch and to Tom, "Your call." He asked, "Open it?"
Tom and Dutch looked at each other, then Dutch looked at his watch and said, "If it is set for eight forty-six, we have about ten minutes to defuse it, or ten minutes to get in our truck and get ourselves into a bank vault or something."
Tom Walsh looked at the towering buildings around us, which we all knew were still filled with people, despite the warnings to clear the area.
Dutch informed us, "We're talking about a mile, mile-and-a-half blast radius... depending on what they have in that fifty-three-footer."
Tom nodded, but didn't respond.
Dutch also let us know, "If it's a simple detonator--without any tricks--I can defuse it in a few seconds, by cutting some wires or interrupting the power source."
I asked, of course, "And if it's not so simple?"
He replied, "If it looks like it's rigged with a current interruption switch, or maybe a second power source or some other sneaky detonating device... then..." He shrugged and said, "If I had more time, I could dope it out... but we don't have a lot of time, so I just start cutting wires and see what happens."
He went to school for this?
Dutch also let us know, "And maybe it's command detonated. Like, someone is going to make a cell phone call and that trips the switch."
No one had anything to say about that, and Dutch reminded us, "Meanwhile, we got to decide if we're going to open that door--that's step one. I can't defuse it from here."
Bobby, who I thought had shown a lot of patience, said, "I think our time is almost up to get out of here."
Kate said to Tom, "Open the doors."
Tom glanced at his watch.
To help Tom with his decision--before it was too late to run and too late to defuse the bomb--I said, "I'm guessing that Khalil stashed the PA cops' bodies in there, so the doors have already been opened." Recalling that Boris told me he'd never trained Khalil to work with bombs, I concluded, "I don't think Khalil would risk disarming or rearming a booby trap."
Tom looked at me, then at Dutch, and said, "Open the doors."
Dutch said to his partner, "Bobby--do it."
Bobby grabbed the handle on the left door, and Dutch put his hands over his ears. What the fuck is wrong with these people? This is not funny.
The big door swung open, and, just as I predicted, nothing happened. Or I was in heaven now. But Walsh was here.
Dutch was already in motion, and he jumped up into the trailer where a stack of cement bags formed a wall almost to the roof. Bobby gave him a boost, and Dutch scrambled up the bags, lay on the top row, and shone his flashlight into the trailer. For a second, I thought he was going to say, "Just cement," but he said, "Mother of God..."
Oh, shit.
Bobby called up to him, "What do we have, Dutch?"
Dutch replied, "Well, for starters, five bodies. Two PA cops--male and female--and three males in civilian clothing."
Bobby made the sign of the cross, which these guys probably did a lot.
Dutch said, "Also, about eighty... ninety fifty-five-gallon drums... with wires running to them."
Bobby asked Dutch, "Do you think it's a bomb?"
I looked at Tom, who was looking at me. And he thought I was nuts? These guys just lowered the nut bar to ground level.
Kate took my hand, then surprised me by taking Tom's hand, too. Well, we could sort this out in heaven.
Meanwhile, Dutch had some bad news. "I don't see the power source or the timer or the switch."
They're definitely in there, Dutch. Look hard.
Dutch gave Bobby a hand, and Bobby scrambled up to the top of the cement bags and shone his light into the trailer. He said, "It's gotta be over there. See where the wires are running?"
"Yeah... but... it's tight in there..."
Tom called out helpfully, "Four minutes."
Dutch said to Bobby, "Okay, let's walk on barrels."
They both dropped behind the wall of cement bags and disappeared.
I didn't want to rip my stitches, but in about four minutes that would be the least of my problems, so I hopped up onto the bumper, followed by Kate and Tom. We boosted and pulled one another to the top of the cement bags and poked our heads into the dark trailer.
Tom had a flashlight, and below us was a two-foot space between the wall of bags and the first row of drums, and in that space were five bodies piled on the floor. In fact, I could smell them over the chemical smells. The three civilians looked young and burly, and I could see blood on their faces as though they'd each been shot in the head. I assumed, too, that these guys had something to do with the truck and with Khalil.
Tom was shining his light around, and I looked into the trailer and saw the tightly packed rows of fifty-five-gallon drums, each one covered with a lid. I could now see the wires running into the centers of the lids.
Neither Kate nor Tom said anything for a few seconds, then Kate said, "That bastard."
Dutch and Bobby were walking carefully on the rims of the drums making their way toward the front of the trailer, shining their flashlights between the drums as they walked.
Tom asked them, "Is there anything we can do?"
Neither man replied, and I had the sense that even these two were getting a little tense. I didn't want to look at the clock on Kate'
s cell phone, but I was estimating about two minutes until eternity.
Dutch said, "Here it is."
Good news.
"Hard to reach."
Bad news.
Dutch flattened himself on top of the drums in the far right corner, and Bobby squatted beside him and kept his light trained into the dark space.
Dutch said, "I see the twelve-volt... but I don't see the timer or the switch."
Bobby agreed and added, "They could be anyplace."
I strongly suggested, "Take the fucking cable off the battery."
"Yeah," Dutch replied, "that's what I'm trying to do... thanks for the tip... tight in here... this vise grip was made by the lowest bidder... hope there's not a second battery somewhere..."
So Kate, Tom, and I lay there on top of the wall of concrete bags, peering into the dark, waiting for some positive statement from Dutch.
Also, I was trying to remember why I thought I needed to be here. On that subject, I said to Kate, "Sorry."
She replied, "It's okay, John."
Right. I already saved her life once--so I was allowed one fatal mistake.
Tom was staring at his cell phone and said, very calmly, I thought, "It is now eight forty-five."
No one had anything to say about that.
It got very quiet in the trailer, and I could actually hear the metallic sound of Dutch's vise grip trying to loosen the nut on the positive cable lead.
Dutch said, "Got it."
Bobby said, "That's the wrong one."
They both laughed.
I shut my eyes, and I could hear the bells of nearby St. Paul's Chapel, which chimed every morning at 8:46.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As in all my novels, I've called on friends, acquaintances, and professionals to assist me with technical details, and all the other bits and pieces of information that a novelist needs but can't find in a book or on the Internet. And, as I always do, I'd like to thank those individuals here:
First and foremost, I want to publicly thank my beautiful wife, Sandy Dillingham DeMille, for the first reading of the manuscript and for her excellent suggestions and also for the patience and good cheer she displayed while I was working long hours on this and other novels. No matter how late I came home from the writing office, Sandy always greeted me with a cocktail, and a smile.
One of those smiles led to James Nelson DeMille, age three, who recently asked me, "Daddy, do you live in the office?" Well, that made me stop and think, so I thank James for the idea that I should do more of my writing at home.
None of my John Corey books would have been possible without the assistance of Detective Kenny Hieb (NYPD, retired), formerly with the Joint Terrorism Task Force. Kenny lived the life of John Corey, and I've been fortunate to have him as my reliable source for technical and procedural details and as my friend.
Another great source of information and advice for this and other novels has been my good friend John Kennedy, Deputy Police Commissioner, Nassau County Police Department (retired), labor arbitrator, and member of the New York State Bar.
When real life and literary license clash, license and drama usually win, so any errors or omissions regarding legal matters or law enforcement are mine alone.
As in many of my past novels, I want to thank U.S. Airways Captain Thomas Block (retired), contributing editor and columnist to many aviation magazines, and co-author with me of Mayday, as well as the author of six other novels. Tom and I have known each other since grade school, and we used to be able to finish each other's sentences, but now we can't even finish our own sentences. Nevertheless, when it comes to research and writing, Tom provides the answers to all those pesky technical questions a novelist needs to ask to give the fiction its facts.
Many thanks, too, to Sharon Block, Tom's lovely wife, former flight attendant for Braniff International and U.S. Airways, for her timely and careful reading of the manuscript, and for her excellent suggestions and her enthusiasm and encouragement.
The Russian nightclub scenes in this book would not have been possible without a visit to a real Russian nightclub, with companions to help with this arduous research. I'd like to thank Tom and Joanne Eschmann, and Carol and Mike Sheintul, for joining me and my wife at Tatiana's in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Mike's knowledge of the Russian language, the culture, and the food made the evening lots of fun and gave me good food for thought.
The ambulance and hospital scenes in this book would have been impossible to write without the assistance of three people--Dr. Robert Kurrle, former naval flight surgeon; Ashley Atiyeh, EMT with multiple ambulance services; and Bob Whiting, Ex-Captain, EMT, Glenwood Fire Company, NY.
Any errors in trauma care, emergency response, or other medical details in these scenes are a result of my misunderstanding or my decision to omit what was told to me by these three knowledgeable professionals.
One of the most difficult scenes to write in this book was the skydiving scene, and though I've jumped out of an aircraft once, I've managed to suppress any memory of that experience. So, to fill in all the blanks, I went to Bill Jackson, a former twelve-year member of the U.S. Army Golden Knights Parachute Team, and past World Champion in the Classics-event category of skydiving competition. Bill has made over 12,000 jumps--11,999 more than I have--and I thank him for his time and for sharing with me his knowledge of this difficult sport. Again, any errors or omissions in the relevant scenes in this book are mine alone.
It would truly have been impossible for me to write this book without the hard work and dedication of my two assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester. Dianne and Patricia have read and commented on the manuscript, chapter by chapter, page by page, and word by word. They've done amazing research and fact checking, and they've freed me from all the distractions that writers are subject to when trying to write. I am truly blessed to have these ladies on my team.
And finally, many thanks to the other individuals in law enforcement and counterterrorism who have helped me in my research, and who wish to remain anonymous.
The following people have made generous contributions to charities in return for having their name used as a character's in this novel:
Andrew Goldberg, who contributed to Joan's Legacy; Brian Gold, "The Candyman"--Fanconi Anemia; Mindy Jacobs--Crohn's & Colitis Foundation; Irv Gomprecht, "Gomp"--Horizons Student Enrichment Program; Kiera Liantonio--St. Joseph's Catholic School PTA; Matt Miller--Fanconi Anemia; Ed Regan--Hospice Care Network; and A. J. Nastasi--Crohn's & Colitis Foundation.
I hope they all enjoy their fictitious alter egos and that they continue their good work for worthy causes.
Nelson DeMille, The Lion's Game
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