The Last Day

PROLOGUE THERE IS NO PERFECT SECURITY OCTOBER 8, 2003—NEW YORK CITY—UNDISCLOSED LOCATIONKristin Bermudez was well beyond panic, barely looking both ways before accelerating through the red light. Traffic was light in this remote section of a New York City outer borough, so congestion would not be an excuse for her lateness. It had only been five months since she was hired by the NYPD—not as a cop, but as an analyst, and she did not want to draw negative attention to herself. Her efforts were failing due in large part to three prior occasions where she could not arrive by the start of her 7 a.m. shift. Kristin’s four years in army intelligence along with her freshly minted master’s degree made her a prime candidate to be scooped up by the newly opened Counterterrorism Bureau, but her tardiness was beginning to put her on her boss’s radar, and not in a positive way. With five minutes until the start of her tour, Kristin’s Toyota sped through a maze of streets lined with junkyards and auto-body shops before finally coming to a stop in a parking lot adjacent to an unmarked red brick building. Here, miles from Manhattan, was the headquarters of the NYPD's new Counterterrorism Bureau. Kristin trotted through the parking lot and through the plain metal door at the side of the building. Entering through that door had the same effect as falling down the rabbit hole, as Kristin was instantly transported from the mostly desolate, semi-industrial area in the shadow of an elevated highway into the new, high-tech, post-9/11 world of the New York City Police Department. The interior was gleaming and futuristic—so unlike the average police precinct with furniture and equipment circa 1960. Headlines raced across LED news tickers. There were electronic maps and international-time walls with digital readouts for cities such as Moscow, London, Tel Aviv, Riyadh, Islamabad, Manila, Sydney, Baghdad, and Tokyo. In the Global Intelligence Room, twelve large flat-screen TVs hung from ceiling mounts, broadcasting Al-Jazeera and a variety of other foreign programming received via satellite. The police department's newly identified language specialists—who spoke, among other tongues, Arabic, Pashto, and Urdu—sat with headphones on, monitoring the broadcasts. There were racks of high-end audio equipment for listening, taping, and dubbing; computer access to a host of super databases; stacks of intelligence reports and briefing books on all the world's known terrorist organizations; and a big bulletin board featuring a grid with the names and phone numbers of key people in other police departments in the United States and around the world. The security area just inside the door was encased not only in bulletproof glass but in ballistic sheetrock as well. Kristin was breathing heavily from her sprint as she stopped at her cubicle and rummaged through the clutter on her desktop. She grabbed a folder labeled DAILY BRIEFING and was again moving at a fast trot. Kristin hesitated momentarily and took a deep breath before attempting to covertly slide into the crowded conference room. She was relieved upon observing Inspector Morgan at the head of the table, fully engrossed in buttering a bagel. Kristin claimed an empty chair next to Sean McGinn and tried to appear as if she had been present for fifteen minutes. The inspector appeared satisfied with his buttering job as evidenced by the huge bite. With his mouth full of bagel, he addressed the staff gathered around the table. “OK, who has something?” Sean McGinn, an analyst hired two weeks after Kristin, cautiously raised his hand. Inspector Morgan wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah, what is it, Steve?” “Sean sir.” The next big bite was fully underway. “Yeah, yeah, Sean—what do you have?” “Well, sir, I have a report from British Intelligence. It seems the Brits intercepted a communication from Zawahiri.” “Who’s Zorro Hero?” Inspector Morgan inquired as he worked the buttered knife across the remaining portion of his bagel. Sean shot a quick glance at Kristin and rolled his eyes. From the chair next to Morgan, Lieutenant Joey Galeno interjected, “Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri is Al Qaeda’s number two.” The inspector shot back with bagel in hand. “Of course—all those names sound alike to me.” He took the first bite of a new bagel. “So, what was Zorro Hero talking about?” Sean realized there was no point trying to correct the pronunciation, so he sighed deeply and continued. “Zawahiri was talking about a plot to unleash poison gas in the New York City subway system.” Inspector Morgan cut Sean off. “Yeah, yeah—that’s old news. They’ve been talking about this subway chemical attack for months.” Morgan returned to his bagel while Sean again raised his right hand. “Excuse me inspector, but this intercept does contain new information.” Between chews, Morgan mouthed, “Continue.” Sean opened his folder to make sure he relayed the information correctly. “In this intercept, Zawahiri is calling off the chemical attack.” “Why would he do that?” asked Morgan. Sean put the folder down on the table. “The intercept says that Zawahiri was dropping the chemical attack for something better.” Inspector Morgan had the last big piece of the bagel in his mouth when it hit him. He grabbed some napkins to spit out the bagel remnants as best he could, but the majority of the bits found their way to Lt. Galeno’s uniform shirt. “Jesus Christ—what if they have a nuke.” MARCH 12, 2017: NEW YORK CITYDr. John Hickey had lost interest in the current speech. He was the next scheduled speaker and was desperately attempting to get a waiter’s attention to bring water to the dais. His wave finally caught the eye of a fast-moving young server, and a minute later he was clearing his throat with a much-needed cold drink. The symposium on subway crime was his first public event as NYPD Deputy Commissioner for Counterterrorism, and he found himself unexpectedly nervous while waiting to speak. Just one month earlier, Dr. Hickey was the youngest chairman of the Department of Terrorism Studies at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. One long conversation at a dinner party with the progressive mayor regarding strategies for fighting terrorism in the city was all it took for the thirty-six-year-old Hickey to be appointed the youngest NYPD deputy commissioner. Over the last month, however, reality was setting in for the doctor. His background was purely academic, and he was quickly finding a huge divide between the theoretical world of academia and the real world of counterterrorism operations. The symposium was his first opportunity to establish himself as the NYPD’s counterterrorism czar. The five hundred guests mostly represented management from transportation systems throughout the United States and Canada. As Dr. Hickey drained his water glass and scanned the ball room, he noted the elegant décor. The grand ballroom in Manhattan’s luxurious Four Seasons Hotel was truly awe-inspiring, with finely adorned tables, thirty-five-foot ceilings, turn-of-the-century teardrop chandeliers, blond hardwood floors, a horseshoe-shaped balcony, and a built-in stage. The scene reminded Dr. Hickey of an upscale wedding reception, rather than a subway crime conference. The polite applause signaled that the chief of the NYPD Transit Bureau was done with his remarks. Dr. Hickey fidgeted in his chair as the master of ceremonies read a very complimentary introduction. As the applause resonated, Dr. Hickey collected his notes and moved behind the ornate wooden podium. Despite drinking so much water, he still had to clear his throat several times before commencing his speech. “Good morning. It is imperative to understand that the open nature of the subway system will always leave it vulnerable. How is this potential target defended when some experts assert that the environment is indefensible? Herein lies the dilemma of a free society. We simply cannot protect every person against every risk at every moment in every place. There is no perfect security. If we tried to attain total security the cost would be exorbitant—in financial terms and in lost freedom and prosperity. Balancing risk necessarily means applying resources against the highest risks—and not against all risk.” Dr. Hickey then switched to another set of notes to highlight the tactics utilized by the NYPD. He mentioned rapid deployment of assets like the heavily armed Hercules teams, the public awareness “see something—say something” campaign, and the random bag check program on subway stations. Dr. Hickey placed his notes on the podium and removed his reading glasses. “Any questions?” A hand shot up from one of the rear tables. “Go ahead, sir,” Dr. Hickey acknowledged as a conference worker sprinted to the table with a microphone. The bald, heavyset male at the SEPTA table rose from his chair. “What would be the result of a nuclear bomb detonating in the New York City subway system?” Lacking the expertise to respond to the query, Dr. Hickey quickly scanned the dais, focusing his attention to the man at the last chair to his right. “Perhaps Dr. Cummings would like to handle the question?” Preston Cummings was not on the agenda to speak at the symposium, but Hickey was aware of the physicist’s scholarly research regarding the effects of a nuclear attack on New York City. The sixty-eight-year-old, silver-haired Cummings shifted in his seat and shrugged, indicating “Why not” to Dr. Hickey’s offer. Showing no sign of vacating his seat on the dais, the MC hurried to Dr. Cummings and handed him a wireless microphone. Cummings then commenced speaking in an emotionless, monotone manner that would have been well suited for a routine weather forecast as opposed to a description of a nuclear h*******t. “My study identifies Manhattan as a target—not specifically the subway. Detonating a nuclear device in Midtown positions the bomb where the largest number of people would be located. Assume the device is detonated near the Empire State Building at 11:45 a.m. Assume that the weapon is a one hundred fifty kiloton HEU g*n-type bomb. Damage estimates can be scaled down to approximate damage and casualties should the bomb be a lower-yield weapon. Assume the day is the beautiful day that 9/11 was—clear and cool, few clouds in the sky, with a light wind from the east. Assume the population density is uniform, with an average of a hundred twenty-five thousand people per square mile. Assume the bomb’s shock wave spreads out evenly, not affected by the structures. Within the first second, a shock wave with an overpressure of twenty psi extends four-tenths of a mile from ground zero. This destroys the Empire State Building and all other buildings within that radius, including Madison Square Garden, Penn Station, and the New York Public Library. The reinforced steel in the skyscrapers does nothing to support them. Everything within the first four-tenths of a mile from ground zero is reduced to a pile of debris hundreds of feet deep in places. No one in this area survives or even knows what happened to them. The blast kills somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred thousand people instantly. Those outside in direct line with the blast are vaporized from the heat. Those inside the buildings who survive the blast are killed as the buildings collapse. A mushroom cloud and fireball expand upward. Instantly, all communications that depend on this area for broadcast stop. National television stations and hundreds of radio channels are instantly off the air. Cell phones throughout the region malfunction. New York City drops off the world communication map. It is not like 9-11, where the rest of the world could switch on their televisions and watch live what was happening.” Cummings paused briefly for a quick sip of water. “As the shock wave spreads out, an additional three hundred thousand people are killed and a hundred thousand more are injured. Almost no one within a mile ring escapes injury. Those below ground in the subways will escape this first blast with few injuries, though the loss of electricity may shock the cars to a stop. Blocked exits may trap all subway passengers underground indefinitely. All power in New York City goes out or experiences difficulty. Telephone service stops. There is no radio or television from New York City and no information passing to the outside world about the damage or casualties. Six seconds after detonation, the shock wave expands to one point five miles from ground zero. The damage spreads to Carnegie Hall, the Lincoln Center, and the Queensboro Bridge. Gone are Grand Central Station and the Met Life Building. The Chrysler Building is gone, as are virtually all the name-recognized buildings along Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue. The thermal pulse kills another thirty thousand people who were in direct sight of the blast, including virtually everyone on the street at the time of the blast. Some five hundred thousand people in this ring are dead. Another a hundred and ninety thousand within buildings are killed by flying debris or are crushed when the buildings collapse. Of those buildings left standing, about five percent burst into flames instantly. Within twenty-four hours, virtually all buildings that remain standing catch fire.” Dr. Cummings removed his glasses and placed them on the table. A slight smirk appeared on his face as he continued in his emotionless tone. “Now that I’ve scared the heck out of you, let me say that it is extremely unlikely that an entity other than a very few nation states would have the capability to build and deploy a one hundred fifty kiloton nuclear weapon. The much greater risk comes from the possibility of a much smaller weapon being smuggled into the country. It is well documented that during the cold war, both the United States and Soviet Union produced miniature, suitcase nuclear weapons. Supposedly, they weighed anywhere from thirty-five to fifty pounds and were in the three to five kiloton range. The lightest nuclear warhead ever acknowledged to have been manufactured by the U.S. is the W54, which was used in both the Davy Crockett 120 mm recoilless rifle–launched warhead, and the backpack-carried version called the Mk-54 SADM, or Special Atomic Demolition Munition. The bare warhead package was an eleven inch by sixteen inch cylinder that weighed fifty-one pounds. It was, however, small enough to fit in a footlocker-sized container. While the explosive power of the W54—up to an equivalent of six kilotons—is not much by the normal standards of a nuclear weapon, their value lies in their ability to be easily smuggled across borders, transported by means widely available, and placed as close to the target as possible. Even a one kiloton nuclear weapon would be many times more powerful than even the largest truck bombs for purposes of destroying a single building or target.” Dr. Cummings wiped his brow with a napkin and put his glasses back on. “Let’s face reality. If an organization was committed to acquiring nuclear materials they could do so. Finding the scientists to build such a weapon, whether dirty or actual, wouldn’t be all that difficult.” Cummings paused for another sip of water. “Let me throw a hypothetical operation onto the table. The Islamic State has billions of dollars in the bank, so they call on their friendly province in Pakistan to purchase a nuclear device through weapons dealers with links to corrupt officials in the region. The weapon is then transported overland until it makes it to Libya, where the mujahidin move it south to Nigeria. d**g shipments from Columbia bound for Europe pass through West Africa, so moving other types of contraband from East to West is just as possible. The nuke and accompanying mujahidin arrive on the shorelines of South America and are transported through the porous borders of Central America before arriving in Mexico and up to the border with the United States. From there it’s just a quick hop through a smuggling tunnel and hey, presto, they’re mingling with another twelve million “illegal” aliens in America with a nuclear bomb in the trunk of their car.” Dr. Cummings sat back in his chair, looked at Hickey and shrugged his shoulders again, “That’s all I have.” There was complete silence in the room. Only the distant sound of clanging silverware in the kitchen could be heard. Dr. Hickey broke the silence. "Any other questions?" A middle-aged woman sitting at the Baltimore Area Rapid Transit table raised her hand. "Yes, ma’am." "New York City has such a huge subway system. What would stop a terrorist from entering the subway in one of the outer boroughs with one of these suitcase devices and simply riding the train into midtown Manhattan?" Dr. Hickey took one last sip of water and cleared his throat. He leaned in closer to the microphone. "Nothing."