The Zero Hour

And then Sarah saw Jared climb down the helicopter’s three small steps and run across to the roof to her and virtually leap into her arms. She squeezed him tight. He was weeping, and then she was weeping.

“Oh, Jared, honey,” she said.

The pilot limped over to the watchers. “Asshole better be careful with that chopper,” Dan Hammond said. “Expensive piece of machinery.”

“You’re lucky to be alive yourself,” Vigiani said. “And not in prison.”

“Hey,” Hammond said. “We got a deal. I cooperated. You guys better keep your half of the bargain.”

***

Inside the helicopter, it was just the two men now, facing each other, guns trained on each other.

“Now,” Baumann said, “since I’m getting into the pilot’s seat, you’re going to have to drop your gun first.”

Roth stared. “You kill me,” he said defiantly, “and there’s nothing going to stop the sharpshooters on the roof from dropping you. You know that.”

Baumann nodded. “Believe me, a live hostage is far more valuable to me than a dead cop. Drop the gun.”

Roth considered taking the brave shot, but knew he was outclassed, that Baumann could kill him in a split second and then take his chances with the sharpshooters. He had to trust Baumann’s survival instincts.

He lowered the gun, then dropped it to the floor of the helicopter.

“Now, empty your pockets,” Baumann ordered.

Roth did so, dropping change and rings of keys to the floor.

Lightning-fast, Baumann smashed the butt end of his pistol against Roth’s temple, just hard enough to knock him unconscious. Roth sagged to the floor of the helicopter. Baumann didn’t want to kill him or even disable him. It was better for Roth to remain a living hostage.

Baumann handcuffed Roth to the steel frame of the seat and jumped into the pilot’s seat. He inspected the controls, familiarizing himself with them. It worked differently from any helicopter he had piloted before.

He did not see Roth stir.

He did not see Roth’s eyes flutter open.

Out of Baumann’s sight, Roth opened his eyes. Slowly, he slid his left hand, the one that wasn’t handcuffed to the seat, down toward his belt, slipped his index finger inside the belt, felt around until he had located the concealed pocket in which he always kept his spare handcuff key.

It is a little-known fact that virtually all handcuffs use the same universal key. The cuffs that connected Roth’s right wrist to the seat frame-a Smith & Wesson Model 100-could be unlocked by the key to Roth’s Peerless handcuffs. Thank God Baumann hadn’t used the much rarer Smith & Wesson Model 104, the high-security model, which had its own unique key.

From this angle Roth could not see Baumann, but he knew from the sound of the engine that the helicopter was still idling atop the building. Quietly, he slipped the key into the handcuff lock. With a slight twisting motion of his wrist, he got the handcuffs open.

Then, stealthily, praying Baumann was too preoccupied to see, he slid one hand up to the seat and toggled the bomb back on.

With one smooth motion he rolled over and out of the door of the helicopter, down five feet or so, landing on the roof of the building.

Baumann looked up just in time to see Roth roll out of the helicopter door, but he did not panic. He pulled the collective and lifted the helicopter up into the air, up above the building.

Baumann understood how things worked. He knew that the FBI and the police had nothing larger than small arms, which could not shoot down a helicopter. He also knew that, according to the century-old Posse Comitatus Act, the U.S. military was prohibited from acting in a domestic law-enforcement capacity. Which meant that the military could not shoot the helicopter down from the sky.

His hostage-first Jared, then Roth-had afforded him the opportunity to take off. That was really all he needed. The helicopter lifted high into the air above lower Manhattan and headed toward a remote area of New Jersey, and Baumann was filled with pride, with a knowledge that he had just surmounted the greatest challenge of his career, that although he had made mistakes, there was still none better.

***

“Roth!” Sarah shouted. “What-what happened? What about the bomb?”

“Bomb?” Roth asked innocently, and shrugged. He was still a bit unsteady from toppling onto the roof. He went up to Dr. Richard Payne of the Nuclear Emergency Search Team. “Your signal generator thingamabob,” Roth said, reaching under the waistband of his blue police uniform, just below his paunch, and removing an oblong object the size of a cigarette pack. He handed it to Payne. “Thanks.”

Sarah saw the exchange of knowing glances between Roth and Dr. Payne, and didn’t understand what was going on.

But then her attention was diverted by an explosion half a mile away or so, directly over the Hudson River.