Liberty (57 page)

Authors: Stephen Coonts

BOOK: Liberty

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He was wiping furiously on the barrel of the cannon when the first drops of rain splattered on his face.

The marine detachment officer in charge aboard the
Reagan
, Captain BoBo Joachim, had brought his four most senior enlisted marines with him. He left them behind the admin building, out of sight of the statue, when he reported during the small hours of the morning. Now he had
them positioned so that each had a good view of the torch. Each man had a shot of about three hundred yards. The steep angle allowed each rifle to be placed on a rest, in this case a rolled-up marine blanket. Over each man was a camouflage net or burlap bag, whatever seemed to best break up his outline and make him blend into the landscape.

Two of the marines were trained snipers, and Joachim had given them the two scoped sniper rifles from the ship's armory. The other two, both expert riflemen, were using issue M-16s with peep sights.

All the marines wore headsets that allowed them to listen on the tactical net, yet not transmit. If and when Admiral Grafton gave the order to fire, they would hear it as the words were spoken.

When BoBo Joachim returned from checking on his men, he stationed himself in the window near Grafton and focused his binoculars on the torch. His job was to call Carmellini's and the Tran brothers' position for Grafton.

He was scanning with the binoculars when he saw Tommy Carmellini, a tiny figure, move up onto the tablet in the statue's left arm. He told Grafton he was there.

Tommy Carmellini was resting where the tablet and Liberty's arm made a flat spot when a handful of raindrops hit him. Uh-oh. Rain would make this copper slick as snot.

“Tommy,” he whispered. “I'm on the tablet.”

He had no time to lose. It would probably be quicker if he free-climbed the rest of the way. He looked up, searching the folds of Lady Liberty's robe for hand- and footholds, then stood to his full height and reached. The wind buffeted him and more raindrops hit his cheeks and hands. He got a good hold with his left hand and hoisted himself up.

Jake Grafton fingered the small statue, studied the tablet that bore the date “July 4, 1776” in Roman numerals.

“It's raining,” he heard Rita say. “Just a few drops, so far.”

He looked at his watch. 6:25.

The raindrops didn't bother Brendan McDonald on his perch on top of the crane's control cab. He had his neutral camo blanket rigged over him to break up his shape and silhouette, and that kept the rain off. The wind pulled at the blanket and threatened to tear it off before he got it secured, but he had it now.

It was a miracle he hadn't fallen off this friggin' thing when he was getting up here and wrestling with the blanket and getting into position under it.

The real benefit of the blanket was that it functioned like a set of blinders on a horseâit forced him to concentrate on the only thing he could see, the view through the telescopic sight on the rifle. No one on the torch had seen him when he was getting into position and rigging the blanket, which was damned lucky. At this range they could have shot him right off this crane. Or pushed the button on the bomb.

The torch was about twenty feet below him, so his view was slightly down. Staring through the sight now, he could see the legs and lap of a man on the balcony. The man had a submachine gun in his lap and was smoking a cigarette. He fondles that weapon like it was a rosary, McDonald thought. The other man wasn't in sight.

He told Jake Grafton about the man on the balcony and received an acknowledgment.

His parents had wanted him to go into accounting, which was their profession. Perched 350 feet above the ground sweating a bullet or nuclear incineration, Brendan
McDonald realized that he should have listened to his parents.

Tommy Carmellini felt as if he were scaling an Alp, a damn steep, slick one. He crossed under Liberty's chin and gained her right shoulder. Standing on it with his back to her neck, he looked up, trying to catch his breath. He was tired; two weeks of soft living without exercise had taken their toll.

He was about thirty feet under the torch. He had another ten feet of robe to cross, then the smooth plates of the goddess's arm rising up to the torch. He readjusted his gear, drained a small plastic water bottle and restowed it.

“Tommy. I'm ready for the arm,” he said over the net.

“One man on the balcony, Tommy, east side, sitting.” Jake Grafton's voice. “Go.”

Carmellini scrambled upward. When he gained the top of her robe, he readied the suction cups and attached the first two. The copper was wet; he found the cups had to be as tight as he could get them to hold. A light misty rain blew on his face.

Inadvertently he glanced downward. God, he was high!

He paused and removed the coil of rope from his shoulder. Holding one end, he tossed it around the arm with his right, trying to make it come back to his left.

And missed.

He pulled the rope in and tried again. This time he got it. He snapped the hooks on the end of the rope to the carabiner ring on his safety harness. Just in case. Then he started upward using the suction cups.

Sitting in the little area at the top of the ladder inside the torch, Sonny Tran heard the slap of the rope on the arm twenty feet below him. It was a single sound that echoed inside the arm.

A moment later he heard it again.

He listened carefully. Something was down there.

“Nguyen,” he called, “you see anything?”

“No.”

“Get off your ass and look.”

Up on the balcony, Nguyen picked up the binoculars and sat erect. He looked over the edge of the balcony rail, looked at the
Reagan
and the cutter, looked at the ground far below. And saw nothing that piqued his interest. He moved to the north side of the balcony, staying low, and looked again.

He examined the crane with binoculars. No one in the control cab yet. Man, how would you like to have the job of operating that damned thing, climbing up and spending the day there, then climbing down every evening? If that crane ever collapsed, the operator was a dead man.

He moved on around the balcony to the west side, right in front of the open door. He studied the admin buildings, the boat dockâthere was a boat arriving now and people getting offâglassed the piles of construction material and the walks and buildings.

He moved on over to the south side, right beside the weapon. He patted it, then glassed the south side of the island.

“Looks okay to me,” he told his brother, who was seated below him, inside the door.

“Well, I heard something. I'm going to set the timer for fifteen minutes, then I'm going downstairs for a look. Check your watch.”

Nguyen did so. It was 6:47 A.M.

“Okay,” Nguyen said. “I'll turn my radio on.”

After setting the timer, Sonny turned and went backward down the ladder inside the arm.

With his head literally against the arm, Tommy Carmellini heard the noises of Sonny descending. He didn't have a free hand. He had his tac net earpiece in his left ear, so
he turned his head and pressed his right ear against the copper skin. He could hear someone in there, which meant they could also hear him. He froze.

Sonny descended the ladder to the door that blocked public access to the arm. He and Nguyen had installed a padlock on the inside last nightâhe unlocked it now, and with pistol in hand, gently pushed the door open.

Not a soul in sight. He gingerly looked around, pistol in hand, ready for anything.

Christ, he had heard something!

Maybe a bird that accidentally flew into the structure, or a skin plate cooling.

He used the radio. “All clear. I'm going on down for a look. Stay alert.”

“Right.”

The words came over a scanner that the FBI technicians had set up to monitor the civilian two-way radio frequencies. Jake Grafton heard it and recognized Sonny's voice.

He keyed the mike for the tactical net. “Rita and Toad, Sonny's coming down. You snipers, be alert.”

Sal Molina sat erect in his chair. His eyes were closed, but he was listening, Jake knew, visualizing the people and what was happening.

Jake Grafton picked up the miniature statue, turned it over in his hand, rubbed it with his fingers.

Sonny Tran descended the steps slowly, stopping frequently to listen. Whatever that noise was, he had not heard it again.

Down, down, down, the steps went on and on. He descended slowly, making no noise, the pistol at the ready.

If they got him they wouldn't win. Nguyen would hear
the shot, would set off the warhead. And send all these fucking bastards straight to hell.

Carmellini stayed frozen until he heard Jake's voice in his left ear.

Still misting rain. The water coursing down the side of the arm had soaked him. He moved upward and, holding his weight with his left arm, used his right to remove a suction cup and attach it higher.

Running out of strength. He should not have agreed to do this. He was out of shape, too old for this shit, and he damn well knew it.

He pulled himself up with his right hand and used his left to detach that cup. He had it off and was moving it when the right cup slipped.

He grabbed with both hands, but there was nothing to hold on to. Off the arm he went, falling toward the earth far below.

Brendan McDonald saw Carmellini fall. “Tommy fell. He's hanging on the end of the safety line.”

Jake Grafton heard the words and snapped over the net, “Where's the man on the balcony? Watch him!”

Carmellini hung from the safety line adjacent to Liberty's right armpit, three or four feet below the arm. He still had a suction cup in each hand.

His heart was hammering, his chest was heaving â¦ He paused for ten seconds to gather his strength, then stowed the cups and began pulling himself up the line toward the arm. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, fighting the water dripping off the structure, he attached a suction cup with his right hand and heaved himself up.

Sonny listened at the door at the foot of the stairs for half a minute before he unlocked it. He pushed it open. No one in sight. He put the pistol in his waistband under his windbreaker and stepped out into the area in front of the ticket booths.

Satisfied, he jabbed the button to call the elevator. Funny that it should be down. He had ridden it up and left it here when he went up.

Perhaps a watchman had ridden up and looked around, then ridden down. That would explain it. Or perhaps the elevator was on a timer.

When the door opened he entered. Jabbed the down button.

The door closed and the elevator descended the shaft toward ground level.

He stood to one side as the door opened, moved carefully.

Damn place was empty as a pharaoh's tomb.

He walked out and turned the corner.

Toad Tarkington was standing there with the submachine gun leveled. Even as Sonny realized who it was, Toad pulled the trigger.

The silenced submachine gun buzzed loudly, and shells kicked out as Toad held the trigger down. The bullets marched up Sonny's chest and neck and smashed his head back, jackhammering him off his feet.

He was dead when he hit the ground.

“Sonny's down,” Toad said on the tac net.

“Get up there,” Jake Grafton told him. “Nguyen's alive and well and Tommy's dangling off the arm.”

Toad took the time to check Sonny's pockets. He pulled out the two-way radio and put it in his own pocket. No radio-control unit, he noted, that might be used to detonate the warhead remotely.

He took the elevator up and met Rita at the door. She also had a submachine gunâshe had been waiting out on
the observation deck in the event Sonny went out there first.

Together they began climbing the stairs.

Scrambling back up onto the arm, Tommy Carmellini was making noise, noise that even the wind couldn't muffle. Nguyen Tran heard it. Staying low, he moved around to the north side of the balcony and looked down. And saw Carmellini.

He didn't know who he wasâhe had never seen him beforeâbut it was obvious that the authorities were up to something. People don't scale the Statue of Liberty on a lark.

Nguyen and Sonny had agreed months ago what they would do if the authorities got on to them. They would detonate the weapon then and there. And win!

Nguyen keyed the mike on the radio. “Sonny? Sonny?”

No answer.

Well, hell, why not?

He straightened up, grasped the Glock in both hands, leaned over the rail, and took careful aim at Tommy Carmellini.

“Hey, asshole!” he called. “Look up here! Look up and see what I'm going to give you!”