The Hammer of God

Idling on the La Guardia tarmac was a New York State Police helicopter, wet and wild and ready to zip Hiccock into Manhattan. From the cabin, Bill looked down at the cluster of buildings huddled in the middle of Manhattan Island. Below 34th Street, the skyline receded, owing to the fact that the bedrock under that part of the island couldn’t support the weight of skyscrapers the way the midtown area could.

At the 34th Street heliport, a Secret Service war wagon and two N.Y.P.D. chase cars had their lights flashing. Hiccock walked from the copter to the wagon and they were off.

Inside was Secret Service Agent Henry Barnes. “Welcome to New York, Mr. Hiccock. We will be going right into the Federal Depository. There we’ll switch to my personal vehicle and meet up with Tom and Jerry quietly in the park.”

Made sense, Hiccock thought. Secret Service was part of Treasury; they ran the Fed Dep in Lower Manhattan. The switch was necessary not to bring attention and flashing lights to B amp;R, who the Secret Service code-named Tom and Jerry. They didn’t even know who these guys were.

It turned out agent Barnes’ personal car was a tricked-out Scion TC. It made Bill look at the agent one more time. Without the suit, dark glasses, service weapon, and earpiece, he was probably just a 28 year-old kid. “Nice ride.”

“Thanks. I customized it on the web, picked it up two weeks later. Listen to this.” He punched the satellite radio; it was like thunder and lightning. Heavy bass filled the car and the dashboard lights pulsed. Suddenly Bill was in a disco, a very loud disco. After a few seconds, Barnes turned down the music, probably out of deference to the blood that was surely trickling from Bill’s ears.

“Cool. Does it go slower when you are draining all that power?”

“Fuel injection.”

“Very cool.” Bill never felt so old.

The Soldiers and Sailors monument down at Battery Park was an open space with 12-inch walls of granite, which meant no clear shot for a would-be assassin. Two agents had watched the area for two hours prior to Bill’s arrival. There was a police boat 200 yards off the lower Manhattan seawall just in case somebody was snooping with a speedboat or raft. In all, 23 agents, police officers, and sailors were making sure this Washington VIP could visit this sight, and pray or look up his father’s name or whatever he was doing, undisturbed.

Barnes talked into his sleeve mic. “Quarterback has arrived!”

Bill couldn’t hear the “all clear” that followed, but Barnes got out and came around, opening the door for him.

The two walked through the park under the watchful eyes of the other agents. Bill then separated from Barnes, went to one of the walls, and looked at the names. On the first wall facing the water, next to the name Ross, Charles E. Fireman 2C Maryland, was a Post-it note. It read, “The Fort. Come alone.”

Bill was momentarily thrown. What was this, a hostage situation? He steeled himself. These are my guys. They are just being super-cautious.

He yelled over to Barnes. “Stay here; don’t follow.”

Adjacent to the monument about a half-mile away was Castle Clinton, actually a fort during the War of 1812, now a national monument. Clinton was a big name in New York history even before Bill and Hill. DeWitt Clinton was the first governor of the state. As he walked past a giant eagle statue, Bill saw that the castle was still open and U.S. Park Service officers in their Smokey the Bear hats were standing guard.

He entered the castle and was immediately flanked by two men.

“Professor?”

“Bill.”

“Bill, Sergeants Bridgestone and Ross at your service,” Bridge said.

They brought him to a dark place, out of the view of a security camera. “How are you guys doing?”

“This is a cakewalk for us, sir,” Ross said. “We are usually in some godforsaken shithole eating things you’d usually step on. Last night we actually had a beer and corned beef down here.”

“New York, a city of anonymity.”

“Sorry for the spy crap sir, but whoever is running your security here might be popping some pictures. We don’t take much to being photographed.”

“I totally understand.”

“We both want to thank you for going to bat for us; we owe you.”

“You got it all wrong,” Bill said. “We owe you. You guys get to do the dirty work so the rest of us can keep our hands clean. Here are your orders and background, 50 thousand in cash to get around with, and a few different I.D’s. There is also a digital camera and laminator so you can pop your own photos for ID. Also in there is a secure phone directly to me.”

“Who outfitted this?”

“My best friend and a former FBI agent now working for me. You met him at Desert Tango 1.”

“Palumbo! Yeah, good man. No bullshit.”

“There’s a lot of good men and women on this, guys. You two are ‘on-point’ for all of them. You have two weeks, if the bomb doesn’t go off before then. After that, you will have no Presidential coverage and your mission will be called off. Any questions?”