The minijet sat in the middle of the confusion, its jets still smoking and sparks from its engine starting small fires around the room. The canopy popped and Hunter came out, his helmet visor down, his .357 Magnum blazing. He took out two of the Circle storm troopers first, then spun around and shot a Family goon right between the eyes. Storm troopers out in the corridor had recovered from his bursting in and started to return fire, but they were shooting so wildly, they were hitting some of the guests instead of Hunter.
The noise inside the room was like a tornado. More windows were exploding. More people, some no more than bloody masses of pulp, were being sucked out. Glasses, bottles, lamps, ashtrays were whipping around the room like missiles, striking people before disappearing out of one of the broken windows.
Hunter quickly jumped down from the minijet and made his way toward Dominique. She had fainted by this time. Hunter reached her by carefully crouch-running from one secured object to the next. Another couple of windows exploded, showering the already bloody guests with more sharp pieces of glass.
Hunter knew that every window that exploded served to balance the air pressure, reducing the danger of being sucked out into the night. He had to move quickly. Rescuing Dominique was his first priority, but getting the black box ran a close second. He was also looking for Viktor, but in the darkness and confusion, the man was nowhere to be seen.
Hunter reached Dominique and two quick blasts from the Magnum busted her chains. She fell into his arms, and at that moment, in the swirl of blood, flame of death all around him, he tenderly held her close to him. “I’ve got you,” he whispered to her.
Her eyes opened weakly and she saw him for the first time in years. “Hawk?” she cried faintly. “Is it really you?”
He momentarily opened his helmet’s visor. “The original, honey,” he said, winking.
Hunter had flown to New York in the F-16, carrying the collapsible mini-jet on one of the jet’s underwing “hard points,” the place where weapons would normally be attached. He had landed at the abandoned JFK airport, hid the ’16 in a remote hangar, then had taken off in the minijet for Manhattan. He was armed only with his sophisticated electronic eavesdropping device, the one he carried in the U-2 and later into the Badlands. He had adjusted it so as to listen in to conversations anywhere within a 50-foot radius of his position—even through building walls. This was how he had planned to recover the fifth and last black box. Eavesdrop on the whole fucking Manhattan until he tripped over a clue.
It had been a bold plan—an improvised, one-in-a-million shot. But it had gone better than clockwork. Using the tip from Tracy back in the Grand Canyon, he had nailed down who Calypso was. After Hunter had iced the Russian patrol he happened upon, he spent the good part of the night floating around Calypso’s ’scraper, monitoring everything the decadent slob said and did. But, as always seemed to happen to him, Hunter was really in the right place at the right time, almost as if he sometimes forced fate to take over. The fact that the night he picked to take on Calypso also happened to be the night that Viktor was in town with Dominique was another in a long line of complete flukes. His life had been full of them. Bolts of divine intervention? Incredible coincidences? Synchronicity? Hunter preferred to think of it as something in the middle—maybe someone, somewhere in the ether, was pulling for him. Whatever it was, he was the first to admit that at crucial times in his life, he was the luckiest bastard on earth.
But now he still had to get Dominique and himself out of the skyscraper in one piece. She had thankfully lapsed back into unconsciousness as he gathered her up and started to plot his escape. Then luck hit again. Next to where she had been chained lay the black box. He would never have seen it except for its tiny blinking red light. And beside it was the gold case which held Calypso’s secret map. Having listened in on Calypso for the past few hours, Hunter knew about the map’s existence, although he didn’t have any idea where it led or what would be found once a person got there.
But he was going to try like hell to find out …
He draped Dominique over his shoulder and started for the door. The inside of the room was quickly filling with smoke. Human shapes were moving through the flames. His wrecked mini-jet being the center of the conflagration. He hated to see it go—it had served him so well. But he had no time to get sentimental. It was getting too fucking hot!
He made it to the corridor and found that whatever guards had been stationed there had long since fled. Smoke was filling the top floors of the sky-high building. He had to get out—quick. He pushed the elevator button and crossed his fingers. Instantly no less than 10 of the available twelve doors slid open, amidst of great ringing of bells. He wasn’t all that surprised—the elevator call button was activated by heat—the slight amount on the tip of a person’s finger normally did the trick. But the heat of a fire ironically called all the available elevators to the scene of the blaze. “Ah, technology,” he said, stepping into the lift.
He took one last look into the devastated room for Viktor. Did he get sucked out into the night? Did he perish in the flames? Did he escape? Hunter had no time to ponder the questions. He pushed the down button.
He didn’t know what to expect when the elevator reached the bottom floor. Dominique was still out, her face oddly showing a slightly contented look. He watched the floor numbers slide by. He saw other elevators were also descending from the top floor—possibly containing some surviving guests, possibly some storm troopers as well. Maybe even Viktor himself. But Hunter’s elevator would win this race, but he still had to worry about what—or who—would greet him when the lift stopped at the bottom. By the fifth floor, he had Dominique back over his shoulder and his hand cannon up and ready for gunplay. But when the doors opened he was surprised to find the gunfight had started without him.
It was confusing at first to determine who was fighting whom. The whole bottom floor of the building, as well as the plaza outside, was being raked with rifle and automatic weapons fire. He saw some Circle storm troopers, plus a very few Calypso soldiers firing in the direction of some darkened buildings near by. Hunter took advantage of the confusion to run out behind the enemy troops, and leave the building by a side door.
Dominique was coming to and, though woozy, she was able to stand on her own feet. She refused to let go of him however, as he hurriedly moved in the shadows toward the front of the WTC. Whoever was fighting against the storm troopers was getting the worst of it. “My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” he thought. He had to help out.
Despite all the flying lead, the glass front of the building’s lobby was still intact. But not for long. Assuming a classic firing position, Hunter popped off six rounds from the powerful Magnum, each one taking out an enormous plate glass window. The resulting crash of broken glass—a sound he’d been hearing a lot lately—served to divert the storm troopers’ attention. Hunter knew if the people hidden in the building had any smarts, they’d be leaving tout de suite right about now.
Sure enough, he saw one, then two figures emerge from the rear of the building across from the WTC. Two others quickly followed. Somewhat recovered, the Circle troops began firing at the building once again, not realizing that their quarry had escaped.
Hunter moved down the block toward the five running people. He felt more than compelled to link up with them—he was drawn to them. He just hoped they wouldn’t shoot back.
There was a brief lull in the action as the Circle soldiers realized they weren’t getting any return fire. Hunter saw his chance.
“USA!” he yelled into the night. “Hey, USA!”
The five figures stopped in their tracks then hit the pavement. They were only a block away from Hunter by this time. He tried again: “Hey, USA here!”
This time a reply came back: “Keeping talking, pilgrim!”
“Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps!” he called back.
“Hawk?” a familiar voice called out. “Is that you, buddy?”
Jesus Christ,
Hunter thought, who the hell would know him out here?
“It’s Zal!” the voice called again. “From the Aerodrome!”
One of Mike Fitzgerald’s boys? Out here? Slowly Hunter moved toward the voice. Finally a face appeared from out of the darkness and smoke. It was Zal. He was one of Fitzie’s best fighter pilots. In fact, Hunter and Zal had been captured by a gang of air pirates name The Stukas a while back, only to escape via a hot air balloon.
They hugged each other like long lost brothers.
“What the hell are you doing here, Hawk?” Zal asked.
Hunter looked at Zal’s commando clothing, up to his blackened face. “I have to ask you the same question,” he said. “You’re a long way from flying one of Fitzie’s F-105s.”
Just then Zal’s attention was diverted over Hunter’s shoulder. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Zal said in such a tone Hunter thought his friend was going to make the sign of the cross. Hunter turned around to see that Dominique had groggily moved into the faint light. “We’re looking for her!”
Hunter put it all together in an instant. As a favor to him, Fitzie had had his intelligence people looking for Dominique since she had disappeared. Zal was one of those guys.
“We’ve been tracking her—and Viktor—for two weeks,” Zal explained. “Ever since those strange pictures of her started showing up. We haven’t been able to contact Fitzie since Syracuse was evacuated. But we went undercover and spotted her near Boston, traveling with the big creepo. We grabbed one of his guards, beat the shit out of him and found out he was due down here tonight. That’s when we called in some help from Montreal. The guys with me are Free Canadian Sea Commandos. The best in the business. We were going to rescue her, Hawk. Been looking forward to it, in fact.”
“Well, thanks, Zal,” Hunter said, shaking the man’s hand. “But right now, I think we’d better figure out how to get the hell out of here.”
As if to emphasize his point, a burst of gunfire coming from the WTC plaza ripped the concrete above their heads.
“We’re with you, Hawk!” Zal said, waving his arm at the rest of the group. By this time, Hunter was already running down the street, supporting Dominique with one arm, and trying to reload the .357 with his free hand.
Chapter Twenty-six
THE HOUSE OF DAVID gun wagon moved cautiously down Canal Street. Zack Wack was still at the wheel, his troopers, their guns at ready, checking every window, every doorway, for anyone hostile. They were way out of their territory—further out than Zack Wack could remember. But he was taking advantage of an unusual situation.
The House of David’s southern border ended where Calypso’s empire began. An unwritten, uneasy truce of sorts was in force between the two groups, though firefights erupted occasionally. But now, tonight, there wasn’t a Calypso soldier to be found. Wack knew that in the ever changing fortunes of living in New Order Manhattan, intelligence was the best weapon. He was a highly-trained Israeli soldier. Back in the Middle East, a smart soldier took advantage of everything. Wack knew something weird was happening on Calypso’s turf. It was worth the risk to find out what was going on.
They had just entered what was left of the old Chinatown section of the city when he first spotted fire coming from one of the WTC buildings. His hunch was right; there was trouble in Calypso’s paradise. He called back to his men to up their vigilance another notch, then turned onto Chambers Street. That’s when he saw the group of seven individuals running toward them.
It was an odd collection. Five guys dressed in black, their faces blackened; one guy dressed like a pilot and a girl, the front of her dress in tatters. “Now what the hell is this?” Wack asked.
He screeched on the car brakes and turned the wheel to the left. The resulting skid brought the car perpendicular to the street, allowing the rear gunner to swing his big .50 caliber around. Wack reached for his own M-16.
Suddenly, there were explosions right in back of the group running toward him. Then he could see other individuals—soldiers—were chasing the first group. Wack knew he had three choices. Do nothing. Take off. Or help the people being chased.
Screw it, he thought. He’d been saddled with compassion all his life. Also there was a woman with them. He stood up in the car and started yelling: “Come on! Come on!” By this time the group was nearly in front of them. Wack looked at the pilot—strange, he seemed familiar. But it was no time to exchange greetings. Urging them on with his arms, the seven people piled into the gun wagon and Wack floored the gas pedal. With a great amount of smoke and tire squealing the big Lincoln roared away into the night, leaving nothing for the pursuing Circle troops to shoot at.
Chapter Twenty-seven
THE CITY BLOCK WHERE the temple was located was surrounded by a variety of heavy machine guns, rocket launchers and other defensive weapons. Its perimeter was patrolled by heavily-armed soldiers, many of them wearing original pre-war uniforms of the Israeli Defense Forces. At strategic points, tall, recently-erected towers served as lookout stations and gun posts. The block—home of headquarters of the House of David and located right in the middle of their 14-block turf—was probably the best protected, best secured area in Manhattan.
The overcrowded gun wagon rode through a checkpoint, past the perfectly preserved temple and pulled into a warehouse-turned-barracks next door. The group piled out and followed the House of David men into the building. Inside was a table with a meal already cooked and waiting for the patrol. Several elderly women wearing homespun aprons and wide smiles greeted the House of David men like family. Word was passed that there would be seven more eating, and within a minute, seven more meals appeared.
As they all sat down to the late-night meal, there were grateful handshakes all around—both Hunter and the commando team members knew the House men had saved their asses from a very dangerous situation.
Hunter was especially grateful to Zack Wack, the patrol leader.
“I feel I know you from somewhere,” Wack told the pilot as they sat and ate together.
Hunter looked at the man. He seemed familiar too. He was about 35, rugged, slightly balding, with a full black beard.
“Your name is Zack Wack,” Hunter said. “Could that be short for Zachariah Wackerman?”
Wack looked surprised. “Yes, it is,” he said.
“Was your father’s name Saul Wackerman?”
Now Wack looked absolutely astonished. “Yes, it was,” he replied. “But how would you know?”
Hunter’s mind went into instant flashback. When he and Dozer and the 7th Cavalry first arrived in New York after the war, Manhattan was in the midst of a battle between the National Guards of New York State and New Jersey. Dozer’s men had rescued a bunch of civilians, but one of them—an elderly man who had been proudly displaying the American flag—was shot in the back by a sniper. He died in Hunter’s arms, still clutching the small Stars and Stripes. This was the same flag Hunter carried with him. The man who died holding it was named Saul Wackerman. A picture in the dead man’s wallet showed a son who was in the Israeli Army.
Hunter reached into his pocket and pulled out the neatly folded, slightly tattered flag.
“Do you recognize this?” Hunter asked. “Could it have belonged to your father?”
Wack took the flag and felt it. “Yes, he said almost immediately. “My father was a tailor. He made this himself. I know his work. But how did you get it?”
Hunter took a deep breath, then said: “I was there when your father died.”
Hunter then told the man the entire story, much to the astonishment of the others who couldn’t help being caught up in the moving tale.
“So you’re the famous Hawk Hunter,” Wack said after a while. “We’ve heard of you, even in this place. We always admired you ZAP guys, then when we heard about Football City—well, we were ready to pack up and come out and join you.”
“I think your father would have told you to stay here,” Hunter said. “From what I can see, you guys are the only ones
trying to preserve what this city once was.”
Wack shook his head. “It’s a crazy place,” he said, pouring out grape wine for all at the table. “We’re a small group. We’re doing okay now, but one never knows what tomorrow will bring.”
Hunter felt Dominique lean on his shoulder. She was more interested in sleeping then eating. He put his arm around her and she immediately dozed off.
“We’re in a lot of trouble out in the Badlands,” Hunter said, draining his cup of wine. “While we were busy fighting the Family, the Russians infiltrated six or seven SAM divisions. Brought in a whole cavalry unit, too. Apparently they’ve been in league with Viktor for quite some time.”
“We hear bits and pieces of it here,” Wack said. “It seems like this Viktor came from nowhere. When we first heard of him, it appeared as if he were a chairman of the board type—The Circle was supposed to mean an alliance between the Mid-Aks, The Family, the air pirates. But it’s Viktor who’s behind it all. He is The Circle. His boys have been sneaking around down here for a while, buying weapons and paying for them with drugs, or gold or young girls.”
Wack shook his head. “The worst thing about it all is that Viktor knew there were still a lot of crazies on the continent who would fight—for any cause—just as long as they were fed. They’re his puppets. Like Germany in the Thirties.”
“True,” Hunter said. “But puppets hang by thin strings. Break a string here and there and the whole thing tumbles down.”
Hunter left the thought hanging. He reached in his pocket and pulled out Calypso’s gold box. For the first time since he recovered it, he took out the map that Viktor had deemed so valuable, quickly explaining how he got it to Wack and his men. Hunter unfolded it, expecting an elaborately detailed plan. But he was in for a surprise. It was a simple drawing showing—of all places—Yankee Stadium. An “X” indicated somewhere near the left field wall.
Circle War Page 20