There was not enough room in the equipment-packed helicopter for four passengers; as the helicopter set down, the copilot exited and Kealey took his place. The intelligence officer had rudimentary flying skills and would be able to land the bird if necessary.
“Mike Perlman,” the crew chief said, offering his hand as Kealey came aboard.
“Ron Sagal,” the pilot said.
Kealey introduced himself as the exiting copilot shut the door. The chopper rose instantly. In any helicopter, there was a sensation of the bottom dropping out when you rose; the amount of hardware in this one, the weight of the reinforced airframe, made the sense of the bottom about to drop out even stronger. And it was more cramped than any aircraft Kealey had ever flown in. Surrounded by hardware and tubes filled with cables, it was literally impossible to turn to either side in some sections of the helicopter.
Kealey slipped on the headphones offered by Sagal. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to hear.
“Where are we going?” Sagal asked.
Kealey adjusted the microphone. “We’re checking the Hudson for a launch that will be headed somewhere in a hurry,” he said.
“Is that all you got for us?” Perlman asked.
“No,” Kealey added. “We think it’s carrying a nuke that can be fired from a rocket launcher. I’ve got that.”
The men were instantly focused as the chopper rose.
“Any way we can patch my cell into these?” Kealey tapped the headphones.
The crew chief nodded. He plugged a jack into the phone, pasted a Velcro strip to the back, pressed it on a patch on the console beside him. “When it rings, I’ll hit TALK. You want me to cut Ron and me out?”
“No,” Kealey told him. “I’m hoping it’s the FBI. One of their guys is chasing a second nuke.”
“Mother of God,” the pilot said.
“The good news is, both weapons have GPS locators,” Kealey went on. “The bad news is, they’ll only be active thirty seconds before the weapon can be fired. How do you scan for signals like that?”
“The signals come from the satellites to the cars, cell phones, etcetera, on the ground,” Sagal told him. “Those are just passive receivers.”
“Okay, so we’re looking for an incoming signal. The weapon won’t activate without it-”
“The weapon will have to be in the open,” Perlman said. “Signals can be intermittent in those canyons.” He pointed to the city, which was falling beneath them.
“River or top of a building, then,” Kealey said. “How do we find two goddamn signals?”
“Are the weapons identical?” Perlman asked.
“Twins.”
“So we’re looking for one signal in two places,” Perlman said. “Anything data the manufacturer can provide?”
“Negative,” Kealey said. He didn’t bother explaining that people at Trask were probably involved.
“Is this DoD ordnance?” Perlman asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a break,” he said. “We’ll watch for the Y-code.”
“Which is?”
“It’s an encryption sequence designed to prevent spoofing-mucking with military signals,” he said. “The normal satellite-to-earth signal is a P-code, a precision code. That’s used to piggyback a modulated W-code, which creates a Y-code.”
“Can you block the Y-code? That will shut the weapon down.”
“No,” Perlman said. “The W vacillates, so you can’t pin a tail on that donkey. But the W is about fifteen times slower than the five hundred kHz of the P. Not a lot of those footdraggers bouncing about. We can watch for that. Narrows the field to a manageable number.”
“Do it,” Kealey said.
“We going to circle or pick a direction?” Sagal asked.
“Not sure,” Kealey said. There was a pair of binoculars in a case at the side of the seat. He took them out and looked at the river, some 2,000 feet below. There was still a lot of traffic going to New Jersey, upriver, out of Manhattan. He looked south, hoping to catch sight of the boat Bishop had described.
“Shit,” he said.
“What is it?” Sagal asked.
“South, by the marina. There’s a launch just sitting there.”
“The one you’re looking for?” the pilot asked.
“Possibly,” Kealey said. It was empty. He looked around the area. A man with a rocket launcher would not be inconspicuous, especially in a city on high alert.
So where the hell would he go?
The freight elevator opened next to the mechanical room, the housing for the elevator equipment. Bishop stepped out, followed by the short, elderly handyman. He was dressed in a blue janitorial uniform splattered with white paint. There was, indeed, a putty knife in his back pocket.
“Is that door locked?” Bishop asked.
Bunuel tried it, nodded.
“Where’s the apartment with the lab?”
“This way,” the handyman said, pointing around a corner.
“I need to get in. Hurry.”
Bishop drew his gun as he followed Bunuel. He had no idea what he would find there. And then he saw the bloody footsteps on the hall carpet. They went in the opposite direction a few paces before vanishing.
“Sweet Jesus Christ,” the handyman cried.
“Where do those footprints in the hallway lead?”
“To the stairwell, it looks like,” Bunuel replied.
“Up as well as down?”
“Yes.”
Someone opened their apartment door, peeked out. “Is everything all right, Michel?” the young woman asked.
“It’s fine,” Bishop answered, waving with the gun. “Back inside, please.” The door slammed.
The two men hurried, then stopped by the lab door. Bishop held up a hand before the handyman could use his master key. He listened. There was no sound inside. He looked along the jamb. He couldn’t see any wiring, smell any putty. That didn’t mean there weren’t plastic explosives on the other side. It just meant he couldn’t detect any.
“Okay, Michel. Open it. Then get behind me,” Bishop said.
Bunuel did so and stepped back. Bishop tapped the door with the base of his toe, allowed it to swing in. He immediately saw the body on the floor, the empty room. He stepped in cautiously, took a quick look around. He noticed the open crate with a Trask Industries stencil on the outside. He saw the garment bag with a distinctive outline pressing against the vinyl. He went to the latter.
A sniper rifle. Fired fairly recently, from the smell of it. He took another look around. There was a window, a gurney, a booth…
What the hell were you doing up here, Hunt?
There was no time now to try and figure that out. He looked out the window, saw the Hudson. At the edge of the window he saw the western corner of the World Trade Center site. He looked up at the ceiling. The roof was above them. He looked back at the Hudson, thought for a moment. Then he swore as he grabbed the rifle. He ran into the hallway.
“Michel, call nine-one-one,” Bishop said. “Tell them we need a bomb squad, and tell them to go to the roof.”
“Sir?”
“Just do it. Inform them we’ve got a dead body in the penthouse. Make sure you tell them to take the stairs, not to come in by chopper, and to hurry like hell.” He started down the hall, then stopped. “Also, tell them not to take out the guy with the rifle. That will be me. I’m on their side.”
Bishop turned to his left, and followed the bloody footprints to the stairwell. He had no idea what the configuration of the roof was like, where she might have positioned herself. If seconds mattered, he wanted to have the range of a rifle.
There was only a single flight of concrete stairs between the thirty-sixth floor and the roof. He opened the door quietly; he didn’t want her to hear him and fire prematurely. He peered out. From where he stood, he could see most of the roof to the north. It was covered with cement tiles 3 feet square, and it was empty. He took a few steps out, looked around, and cleared the dormer-like exit that blocked the view to the south.