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 they 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.
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 beginning 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 the 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.
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 away 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 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 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.
Calypso walked over to the door and greeted the Circle leader, as the rest of the gathering watched in hushed silence. It was like two heads of state meeting.
“Welcome to my city,” Calypso bellowed. “We’re honored to have someone of your stature here with us.”
“Thank you,” Viktor said in a vaguely accented voice, adding, “We must talk.”
“Talk?” Calypso asked, handing Viktor a cocaine-laced cocktail. “Surely we will talk. But first, let me introduce you to my guests. Then, you can introduce me to this lovely creature with you …”
Meanwhile, in the corridor outside the function room, a disturbance was taking place. The sergeant who was stationed on the top of the WTC building now found himself pinned up against the wall by four Circle storm troopers, four Uzi barrels pointed at his head. The sergeant had foolishly burst into the corridor right after Viktor had entered the function room, and the Circle soldiers were on him in an instant.
“I tell you, there’s a guy flying around outside!” the sergeant tried to tell the storm troopers. But they were looking at him as if they didn’t speak the language.
The sergeant tried to wiggle free but the Circle soldiers didn’t flinch. A number of Calypso’s personal security guards were looking on, but no way were they going to buck the Circle storm troopers.
“I’m trying to tell you,” the sergeant pleaded. “There’s a guy—he’s in a little airplane—a rocket jet or something—flying around outside! I saw him!”
A Circle major appeared and leaned into the man. “He’s drunk,” the officer whispered sternly.
The man tried a third time. “Look, we’re up on top of this ’scraper to be on the lookout, right? Well we’ve seen something!”
“A man in a ‘little jet?’” the major mocked him. Then, he motioned the four soldiers to take care of the man.
The storm troopers hustled the now-screaming and kicking man out the exit door he’d come in through, and back up to the roof. They didn’t stop until they
reached the edge. Without a moment’s hesitation, they threw the struggling man off the roof and watched as he plunged 112 stories to his death.
The three other Calypso grunts had watched in terror as their boss was pitched over the edge. One of the Circle troopers turned his attention to them. He was dressed entirely in black and looked like a vision of death to the Calypso soldiers. “Anyone of you assholes see a man in a little jet?” he asked.
Inside, Viktor had already tired of Calypso and his crude excuse for a party. But he was here to deal.
He pulled on the obese man’s robe. “We must talk, Mr. Calypso,” he said.
“Yes, talk!” Calypso said loudly. “Let us talk. Here. In front of my friends. I have no secrets.”
Viktor shifted his eyes around the room. Mid-Aks, Family, air pirates. All losers. Even the Russians were cowering in the far corner as if they had left home without their guns. He decided to show them all how a real winner operated.
“Very well. I call for a toast to you, Mr. Calypso,” Viktor said loud enough for all the guests to hear. “To a man of real courage. A man who knows wealth and how to use it!”
“Hear! Hear!” the crowd laughed.
“Now, let us make a deal,” Viktor said. The crowd gathered in a little, forming a loose circle around the two men. “I understand you have a map. A very valuable map.”
Calypso smiled broadly and nodded.
“I am prepared to pay you one hundred million dollars for that map, Mr. Calypso,” Viktor declared.
An audible gasp ran through the crowd at the mention of the large amount of money.
Calypso laughed again, this time louder. “I don’t want your money, Mr. Robotov,” Calypso said.
“Two hundred million in real silver,” Viktor said quickly. He enjoyed the bargaining.
Calypso shook his head. “No, not money,” he replied.
“Three hundred million dollars …”
“Please!” Calypso said, drunkenly looking for his cocaine cocktail. “I have enough money.”
“Then what do you want, Mr. Calypso?” Viktor asked, showing some authentic curiosity.
Calypso smiled and reached inside his pocket. He drew something out and slowly unfolded it. It was the photograph of Viktor and Dominique, the same one found all over the Badlands. He handed the photo to Viktor, then set his eyes on Dominique.
“This, sir,” Calypso said lecherously. “This is what I want.”
The partygoers were on the verge of shock by this time. It took a few seconds to sink in that Calypso had turned down $300 million in real silver.
Viktor looked at Dominique. Her eyes had been cast down since they had entered the party. She had fulfilled her role nicely over the past several years, he thought. A student of mass hypnotism and propaganda, Viktor knew that Dominique’s mysterious sexual allure would serve to increase his control over the vast Circle Army. Carefully staged photographs, released only sporadically at first, were the vehicle used to introduce her to the troops, while their field commanders were under strict orders not to let them near anything even resembling a woman. Thus, Dominique became the pin-up girl for this war—an X-rated queen in a land that hadn’t seen a nudie magazine in more than five years. It was that “something about her” that got to them all. She became New Order America’s fantasy girl, at least in the Circle lands east of the Mississippi. “People will fight for a king,” Viktor was fond of saying. “But they will die for a queen.” And that she was Hunter’s love made it all the more appealing to Viktor.
Dominique had been his prisoner since the day two of his agents kidnapped her right after she stepped off the plane in Montreal a few years earlier. Hunter had put her on that flight shortly before the Mid-Aks put Hunter’s former employers—the Northeast Zone Patrol—out of business. Some way—she never found out exactly how—Viktor knew of her close relationship with Hunter. His agents knocked her out with a drug, then she was shipped to some unknown country—possibly Switzerland—where she was held against her will in a huge chalet. She was confined to a suite of rooms, though she never wanted for anything. Except her freedom.
Viktor would sometimes come in the middle of the night and take photographs of her, frequently drugging her food beforehand. Sometimes, he’d take her. She resisted at first. But he had convinced her of one thing which made her give up hope. Hunter was dead, he told her, over and over. Killed during the Battle for Football City. Viktor even went through the trouble of showing her photographs of a crashed F-16, the bloody remnants of the pilot clearly visible through the wreckage. She didn’t want to believe him at first, but he broke her down. And although she never really accepted in her heart that the man she loved was really dead, she frequently questioned whether it was true.
And that’s all Viktor needed.
“But, Mr. Calypso!” Viktor said. “This is my queen …”
Calypso took Dominique’s hand and kissed it. “Yes, he said. “And this is what I want.”
Viktor laughed. He owned her. He could give her away.
“Granted.” he said.
Another gasp ran through the captivated crowd. Even the air pirates—slugs who worked hard at maintaining their reputation—were fascinated at the ritual of high shelf white slavery.
Calypso held up his hand. “Wait, Mr. Robotov,” he said. “You have only heard half my offer.”
Viktor looked at him curiously. “I have given her to you, Mr. Calypso. What more could you want?”
Calypso leered at Dominique. The cocaine had his hormones boiling. She looked so innocent, standing there, shy, like a schoolgirl, yet dressed in a gown so low, he imagined he could see the outline of her nipples. Her long blond hair was curled so seductively. She reminded him so much of Bridget Bardot. A soft little sex kitten, yet really a mature young woman. This is what Calypso knew he needed.
“I want her,” Calypso said. “Here. Now.” With that, he clapped his hands. Some one of his aides, off in another room unseen, pushed a button and two fur-lined chains slowly descended from the ceiling. The room doubled as Calypso’s sexual playground. For the first time, Dominique looked up. She felt a shiver go through her. Did the man really want to chain her up and force love on her? In front of the crowd?
“Wait!” Viktor said, bringing a quick end to the hushed conversation that had rippled through the guests. “My queen is one thing. To expose her is another …” He bit his lip in thought, then said: “What else do you have to offer, Mr. Calypso?”
The man had not taken his lusting eyes off Dominique. “Name it, Mr. Robotov. It’s yours. Jewels. Gold.” Calypso started to undo his toga’s belt.
Viktor countered. “I have jewels, Mr. Calypso. And I have gold. I want something of value.”
Two words popped into Calypso’s head. “The black box,” he said, smiling at the black uniformed, goateed man. “It belonged to the U.S. Air Force before the war. God knows what it does. But I’m sure you—or your allies—would want to disassemble it. Study it, perhaps.” With that, the big man clapped his hands and a moment later, another aide appeared, carrying the black box.
The Russian officers looked on enviously as Viktor took the box and examined it. He was smart enough to know it was more valuable than all his money. Or his queen.
He looked at Calypso, then at Dominique. He ran his hand through her blond hair and laughed.
“Take her …” he said finally. “Do what you want with her.”
Chapter Twenty-five
IT TOOK CALYPSO’S MEN just a minute to secure Dominique to the fur-covered chains. The drug-induced guests cheered as she hung helplessly, her arms stretched out, her feet barely touching the ground. Calypso undid his tunic to reveal his lardish plump body, grossly clad now only in briefs. Once Dominique was secured, he ripped off the front of her dress, exposing her pert breasts to the crowd. She gasped and moaned: “No … please. No.” But her pleas only brought laughs and jeers to the crowd. Even the paranoid Russians seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.
“I am the king of New York City!” he proclaimed, drunk and drooling. “What I want … I get!”
With that, he charged forward and attempted to enter her.
One of the Russian officers saw it first. A flame, outside one of the huge plate glass windows, clearly reflecting against the night sky. It was getting closer—moving very fast …
“What the fuck is …” he began to say in Russian. But before the words came out, he had his answer.
There was a mighty crash, ear-splitting with the sound of exploding glass, as one of the huge windows near where Dominique was about to be raped exploded inward. The glass, shattering into pebble sized shards, flew all over the room like a million diamonds, reflected in a ball of flame.
Behind the smoke and the shower of the glass was the minijet—with Hunter behind the controls.
The hole in the huge window caused a violent whirlwind around the room. The lights flickered, objects were flying everywhere. The noise was tremendous. Things began getting sucked out as the difference in air pressures caused a great vacuum effect. One of the air pirates went first, screaming as he was unwillingly drawn out into the night. A Family thug and his moll went next, their desperate attempts to grasp on to something—anything—failing. Calypso was the next victim of the vortex—his large frame slamming against the jagged edges of the glass, ripping his jugular as he went out the window and plunged to a bloody death. Dominique, although close to the hole, was prevented from being drawn to it as she was still secured to the rape chains.
Everywhere in the room, people were screaming, holding on for their lives. Other windows started bursting. Two of Calypso’s men were slowly drawn out a new, smaller hole, though the slow suction made it a long and painful prelude to death. One of the storm troopers, vainly holding on to the edge of the sill, finally weakened and allowed himself to be sucked out, but not before letting out a chilling scream. Another Family moll followed right behind him.
Circle War Page 19