Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [8]
From the White, House Communications Center, the President had been put into audio and visual contact with the Pinnacle Club in New York City.
The FBI Chief, Walter Trentkamp, stepped forward to appear on the monitor screen from New York. Trentkamp had short silver-gray hair; time and his job had also added a tough, weathered policeman’s look and a harassed attitude to match.
“There’s been no further contact from Green Band, other than the firebombing of Pier 33–34, which is the demonstration they promised us, Mr. President. It’s the kind of guerrilla warfare we’ve seen in Belfast, Beirut, Tel Aviv. Never before in the United States …
“We’re all waiting, Mr. President,” Trentkamp went on. “It’s five zero six and about forty seconds. We’re clearly past their stated deadline.”
“Have any of the terrorist groups come forward and claimed responsibility?”
“They have. We’re checking into them. So far none has shown any knowledge of the content of the warning phone call this morning.”
5:06 became 5:07, The time was leaden.
5:07 became 5:08. A minute had never seemed so long.
It was 5:09 … 5:10 and slowly, slowly counting.
The Director of the CIA moved before the lights and cameras in the White House emergency room. Philip Berger was a small, irascible man, highly unpopular in Washington, chiefly skilled at keeping the major American intelligence agencies competitive among themselves. “Is there any activity you can make out on Wall Street? Any people down there? Any moving vehicles? Small plane activity?”
“Nothing, Phil. Apart from the police, the fire department vehicles on the periphery of the area, it could be a peaceful Sunday morning.”
“They’re goddamn bluffing,” someone said in Washington.
“Or,” President Kearney said, “they’re playing an enormous game of fucking nerves.”
No one agreed, or disagreed, with the President.
No one said anything now.
Speech had been replaced by the terrifying anxiety and uncertainty of waiting.
Just waiting.
5:15 …
5:18 …
5:20 …
5:24 …
5:30 …
Waiting for what, though?
Chapter 6
6:20 P.M., Colonel David Hudson was doing the single thing that still mattered—that mattered more than anything else in his life.
David Hudson was on patrol. He was back in combat; he was leading a quality-at-every-position platoon into the field again—only the field was now an American city.
Hudson was one of those men who looked vaguely familiar to people, only they couldn’t say precisely why. His blond hair was cut in a short crew, which was suddenly back in vogue again. He was handsome; his looks were very American.
He had the kind of strong, almost noble face that photographs extremely well, and a seemingly unconscious air of self-confidence, a consistently reassuring look that emphatically said, “Yes, I can do that—whatever it is.”
There was only one thing wrong, which a lot of people didn’t notice right away—David Hudson had lost his left arm in the Viet Nam War.
His Checker cab marked VETS CABS AND MESSENGERS rolled cautiously forward, reconnoitering past the bright green pumps at the Hess gas station on Eleventh Avenue and 45th Street. This was one of those times when David Hudson could see himself, as if in an eerie dream, when he could objectively watch himself from somewhere outside the scene. He knew this uncomfortable, distorted feeling extremely well from combat duty.
Now he felt it again, this time in the sharp wintry wind blowing through the snowy gray streets of New York City.
Colonel David Hudson was purposely allowing the Green Band mission to wind out just a little longer; one important notch tighter.
Every second had been rigidly accounted for. More than anything else, David Hudson’s mind appreciated the subtleties of precision; Hudson appreciated