The sub slowed to a halt just off Liberty Island. The captain called down a warning to his steering
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crew that the massive severed head of the Liberty Statue sat in ten feet of dirty water right off the sub's bow. The sub obediently backed-up for 20 feet then steered around toward deeper water.
The captain wished the men good luck as they scrambled down the tower's ladder and into a large rubber raft they had inflated. The captain looked up at the full moon. Smoke from a fire way uptown was drifting in front of it, giving everything struck by moonbeams a dark orange tinge. It took five brave men to go into that city alone, the captain thought as, the men paddled away. He hoped they were being well-paid.
The Lincoln Continental gun wagon roared through the abandoned intersection of West 41st Street and Broadway. The noise of the relentless explosions coming from the X^orpCats and MaxArmy Inc. battle six blocks back, drowned out the car's own, muffler-free racket. Inside the car sat five soldiers plus a tail gunner. The powerful beams of the six modified headlights provided a path of light through the darkened streets. The gunmen were from The House of David; every man wore gray camouflage fatigues, long shoulder-length hair and a beard. Their squad commander —a former Israeli Army lieutenant — sat behind the wheel, careening the big car through a routine patrol of the southern edge of their territory.
If there was a moderate force in New York City, it was the House of David.
They were into diamonds —
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buying them, selling them. Most of their members were former Israeli soldiers who headed for America after parts of the Middle East were obliterated during the war. Through their leadership, the House Army was tough, well-trained and very dangerous in a fight. Although the smallest of the big league groups, no one on the island wanted to tangle with the House if they could at all avoid it.
The Lincoln screamed around the corner of West 38th Street and turned onto Eighth Avenue. That's when they saw the bodies. The squad commander —a young man called Zack Wack —stood on the brakes as his troopers readied their weapons. The car screeched to a halt and the five soldiers leaped out and assumed defensive positions. The rear gunner, working a M60 heavy machinegun out of a small turret placed where the car's trunk used to be, covered their tails. The men watched and waited.
Slowly, Wack moved forward. The heavily-littered avenue was completely deserted except for the eight bodies that were lying in the middle of the block. Wack didn't like the looks of it. It appeared the men had been ambushed. But if that was the case, it must have been a quick fight. All eight men went quickly, even before they were able to get to cover. Either that or someone had lured them out into the open.
He reached the first body and pulled the man over. Wack thought it might have been a soldier from Adzubah —the House of David's mortal enemy —but he knew right away this was not the case. This man was Nordic and new in town; his uniform was still creased and his hands were clean. He carried no 250
papers but Wack knew right away what the man's nationality was. He could tell by his boots. Only one army in the world issued black leather ankle-boots as standard equipment. The man was a Russian soldier.
Wack knew that Russian soldiers sometimes passed through New York, but this was the first one he'd seen up close.
He moved on to the next man, then the next. It appeared as if each was wearing a .357 Magnum bullet wound somewhere on his head or neck. Strange, Wack thought. It was as if they'd all been, shot from above ...
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The wind was cold and blustery at the tip of Manhattan. Despite the spring season, the four Calypso sentries were bundled up in their winter gear, standard equipment for anyone pulling duty outside and on top of Calypso's WT
buildings. It galled them that while four squads, of Calypso's personal security guards lounged around in comfort inside one floor below them, they, being lowly grunts in Calypso's street army, had to freeze their asses off, sitting 112 stories high, exposed to the elements and watching for God-knows-what.
The men sat huddled around five cans of Sterno and killed time by rolling dice. All they had to drink was a bottle of Harlem Juice —powerful, but terrible stuff. Downstairs, inside the once famous restaurant called Windows of the World, they knew the security guards were taking turns on the two young things Calypso just used ...
"But do we see any of that stuff way the fuck up 253
here?" one of the men grumbled.
"No fucking way," another answered.
"And that asshole Calypso give them to those pansy security guys," a third said, taking a swig of the Harlem Juice. "You know, what's the big fucking occasion that he's treating those shitheads so good?"
A fourth man —the group's sergeant and leader— grabbed the bottle and said:
"No wonder you guys are all asshole privates. Don't you know what's going on here tonight?"
The three soldiers shook their heads.
"You ever hear of this guy Viktor? The leader of the whole fucking Circle?
He's coming here. Tonight," the sergeant said.
"Here?" one of the men said. "You got to be shittin' us."
The sergeant took another long, slow swig and wiped his mouth. "What the fuck do you think all these heavyweights are here for?" he said. "The place is triple-decked with security guards and the whole Goddamn Battery company stationed up here tonight."
"They are?" a soldier asked. "Then who the fuck's watching the Battery?"
"Who the fuck cares?" the sergeant drunkenly screamed at the man. "This place is crawling with celebrities. Not like those assholes up town. 1 mean big shots. Top Mid-Ak guys. Air pirates. I hear some Family guys are in town. Even a bunch of Russians. They're all here to see this Viktor guy."
"Well just as long as Calypso don't volunteer us to go fight out in the
'Bads," one man said. "That's the
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baddest shit that's going down today, brother. I mean, they was recruiting up in Times Square three months ago. These dudes is signing up like they'd never seen a new suit of clothes before. They just say: Gimme the gun. Gimme the gun. These guys are dedicated, you understand? But they go out to the Badlands, I say half of them don't make it back."
"None of them make it back," another soldier said, spitting out some impurity his teeth caught in the Harlem Juice. "There's some bad ass flyboys out on the coast. And that's who they is fighting out / west. And you don't never want to fool with these jet fighter guys. I mean, these guys are fast and they can drop some very big bombs on your ass. I know, I was there when The Family tried to take Football City. These fucking Free Forces guys in their airplanes kill about half the Family guys before they even cross the fucking river.
Then, when they do get across, the Football City guys run back'into this big motherfucker stadium and this dude Hunter—the famous guy —he calls in a B-52
strike! And when the dust cleared, there ain't no Family no more. They're ain't even a fucking city left!"
"Fuck it man," the sergeant said. "This guy Viktor is clutch. If anyone can bump off those jets, it's The Circle. They say he even bought off the Russians to sneak in every fucking SAM they had left. You can't fly over the Badlands any more. Fucking Russians will shoot you down."
"They say he's got a bunch of Chinamen riding around on horses out there, too," another said.
"You bet your ass," the sergeant said, grabbing the 255
bottle again. "And he's got a huge motherfucking army. So it's all these people and rockets and cavalry and things against a bunch of jets fighters and about six divisions. Circle will kick their ass!"
The sergeant took the bottle, wiped the top and put it to his lips. He took a gulp and in doing so, raised his eyes to look directly at the full moon above him.
That's when he saw the man fly by ...
The commando team from the Free Canadian submarine landed on a small beach near the Battery on the very tip of lower Manhattan. They ditched the raft, checked their maps and confirmed their location. Each man fitted his M-14 with a NightScope. Then, in precision pattern, they moved into the streets using every alley and doorstep to their advantage.
Silently, they headed for the World Trade Center.
Normally they knew the area would be crawling with Calypso troops, but tonight the streets were nearly deserted. Their intelligence proved correct; most of the soldiers usually assigned to guard every street corner on this end of the island were all assigned to the Trade Center tonight. The commandos avoided an artillery 'scraper on the edge of Wall Street, then circled around a machinegun checkpoint near West Street. When the reached the edge of WTC
plaza, they split up, found individual hiding places. The first part of their plan went off without a hitch. Now, they settled in to wait.
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One hundred and ten stories above them, Calypso was swallowing a handful of amphetamine pills, washing them down with a swig of his cocaine cocktail. He had long since finished with the young girls. His personal security forces were now having their way with them. He could hear the troopers in the next room, yelping and screaming like a bunch of dogs in heat. Calypso only smiled.
He would never have condoned this type of bullshit if he wasn't in such a good mood. But this was a special night.
It was nearly 2 AM, and his guests were begining, to arrive. He stayed in his room, waiting for everyone to show up before he made his entrance. Tonight would be his night. Nothing could ruin it.
He had quintupled the guard, but it was more for show than anything else. He expected Viktor would arrive with about a hundred of his top security troops —
Calypso had at least 500 troops somewhere inside or close by outside tlje building. At least he could beat Viktor in numbers.
He opened his walk-in vault and stepped inside. The shelves were stocked with boxes of diamonds, gold and real silver, but there were only two items that he considered of real value. One was a small black box with a tiny blinking red light on top. Some Air Force guy had sold it to him a few years back right before the war. Calypso had no idea what it was, but he knew it was some kind of top secret thing and that someone would come looking for it someday.
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It was his second valuable item —a small gold box —that he retrieved. Inside was a map. A map that the Circle wanted. And Calypso would give it to Viktor, but only when Viktor gave Calypso what he wanted in return.
A short time later, five faint red lights appeared out on the eastern night sky. Gradually the lights got larger and larger and a loud chopping noise could be heard accompanying them.
The lights turned into three Russian-built Hind helicopter gunships and two big Chinook choppers, all five painted entirely black. The aircraft landed on the WTC plaza which was bathed in the light of a dozen high powered searchlamps, giving the whole affair the look of a Hollywood premiere. As soon as their blades stopped rotating the choppers were quickly surrounded by Calypso's troops. The door on the first Chinook slid open and a contingent of black uniformed Circle Special Forces leaped out and elbowed the Calypso soldiers for positions around the other big helicopter. The two groups of soldiers eyed each other nervously, they were jittery allies at best. The Hind gunships didn't stop their engines — all the better to clear a way with their twin cannons and rocket launchers should they have to make a quick exit.
Watching from their hiding places nearby, the Free Canadian commando team saw the door to the other Chinook finally open. A dozen more Circle soldiers—elite storm troopers —jumped out. They
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formed a human phalanx, surrounding two more individuals who slowly alighted from the chopper. The commandos couldn't see the faces of the people being escorted toward the entrance of Calypso's buildings but they didn't have to-they knew who they were. As the entourage disappeared into one of the building's elevators, the Circle troops snapped into a frozen line of attention and didn't move a muscle. Though not as practiced, the Calypso soldiers did the same thing. Together, they stood on uneasy guard over the plaza and the entrance to building.
The main room of Calypso's suite looked like a who's who of New Order American terrorism. Five Mid-Ak officers, the last of a shrinking corps, were gathered in one corner locked in an animated discussion about how they won, .then lost control over the entire eastern seaboard of the continent. A contingent of Family members had arrived —five thugs in three-piece suits, each with a blonde bombshell on his arm, and a stooge carrying a machinegun at his back.
Seven leather-clad air pirates sat on Calypso's favorite couch, sloppily eating appetizers by the handful and drinking liquor straight from the bottle.
A dozen or so partially clad young women and girls circulated about the crowd, serving drinks and cocaine and letting any guest who wanted to fondle their private parts.
Watching it all from a far corner were three plainly worried Soviet Army officers. Their discussion
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dwelled on the whereabouts of the rest of their group. It had been planned that eight special bodyguards were to have accompanied them to the gathering.
But these men were nowhere to be seen, leaving the Soviet officers virtually defenseless should any trouble break out.
Suddenly the huge glass doors to the suite opened and twelve Circle Storm Troopers walked in. They eyed every guest suspiciously, paying particular attention to the rowdy air pirates. Finally satisfied the room was secure, one of them returned to the suite's elevator and gave a thumbs-up signal. With a rush of excitement, the infamous Viktor strode into the room. The woman on his arm, dressed in a stunning low-cut black evening gown, was Dominique.
Calypso made his entrance almost simultaneously. He was dressed in a flowing white robe, bedecked with jewels and gold medallions. He looked like a huge, post-modern Caesar. In contrast, Viktor was dressed in a tight, black military uniform, apparently of his own design, but looking suspiciously Nazi-like. He was thin, tall, remarkably devilish-looking.