The old video monitor was connected to a similarly elderly video camera, which was attached to a tethered helium balloon flying nine hundred feet above the tower. A primitive gyro built of marbles and rubber bands packed inside a soup can kept the camera steady and aiming fifty-three degrees northeast. Right at Russian-occupied New York City.
Every night, Dozer and his men launched the crude surveillance balloon from the tower and recorded footage of Red Gotham, glowing like a perverse Oz just forty miles to the north. The camera had a rudimentary infrared capability and a telescopic lens. On nights like this, they could make out Russian aircraft, ship traffic, and even troops and people moving around the city.
Usually, what they saw made them feel worse than the night before. Tonight was no different.
By raising or lowering the height of the balloon, the camera could zoom in on a half dozen key spots in Manhattan. Tonight, there was lots of truck traffic, lots of banners being hung across major streets, lots of red lights popping on inside Midtown skyscrapers. Some kind of citywide celebration was in the offing.
“May Day,” Dozer grumbled now, refilling their cups with the whiskey-coffee mixture. “Like these Commies need another excuse to get drunk.”
A hulk of a man, right down to the buzz cut, chiseled jaw, and scary forearm tats, Dozer was the commanding officer of a patriotic group known as the Seventh Cavalry.
It was a notoriously inaccurate name: None of its members had ever served in the US Army; they were all ex-marines. Nor were they a cavalry. They were actually a ground attack outfit. Boot leather and truck tires carried them into battle.
The hundred-man unit was the remnants of Dozer’s last official US military command. Hard-nosed survivors of the ground battles of World War III, he’d led them out of devastated Europe and back to America, where they’d stuck together in the chaotic years since. Many anti-American enemies dedicated to keeping the United States fractured and unstable had risen up in that time, including the Mid-Aks, a ruthless treasonous army from the Middle Atlantic States; the Circle, a collection of the worst criminals and terrorists on the continent; and the Fourth Reich—a name that said it all. Religious nuts, gun freaks, drug lords, drug cults, and the Reds themselves, the 7CAV had fought them all, and many others, for one simple reason: They wanted to put the United States back together again. … or die trying.
Just about all of these campaigns to keep America splintered were the work of the Russian superspy Viktor Robotov. Forever lurking in the shadows, Viktor was the anti-Christ for anyone still living in the United States, no matter their religions. In another universe, his name would have been Keyser Söze. Or Dr. Moriarty. Or simply Lucifer. He was in the habit of laying low for months, or even years, spreading rumors of his own demise, only to return to bring a little more misery to an already miserable place before vanishing again. He was the bogeyman for broken America.
The superspy hadn’t been heard from in some time, though. And from the looks of things through the 7CAV’s camera, the Russians had managed to take over New York City without any help from him—thank God.
As bad as things were, at least this new Russian operation didn’t have Robotov’s bloody fingerprints all over it.
When a spy plane belonging to one of the 7CAV’s allies in northern Maine spotted the Russian invasion fleet off the New England coast, heading south, four weeks ago Dozer knew New York City was the obvious destination. It was no secret the Big Apple was being run by Russian gangsters, so why not the Russian Army?
At the time, Dozer thought, Here we go again.
The 7CAV’s main headquarters was in Saratoga, Free State of New York, about two hundred miles north of Manhattan. When some quick aerial intelligence found positive elements about the Pine Barrens, Dozer mobilized his men, his equipment, and twenty civilian technicians.
They had deployed in less than a day.
Since arriving in the Pine Barrens, Dozer had spent most of his nights crammed atop the shaky spy tower.
While his men monitored the aerial camera, he usually sat in the opposite corner, hunched over his ancient radio set. A self-taught electronics whiz, he’d sent out a steady stream of coded messages in the past twenty-eight days, announcing his presence to friends and allies and declaring the 7CAV ready to take on the Russian invaders.
Yet he’d received nothing in reply. His radio set was old, but it wasn’t broken; he had no problem listening to the Russian military’s intercity radio broadcasts coming from forty miles away. But for some reason, no one was answering his calls.
This puzzled him greatly. He’d expected 7CAV would be just one of many fighting units revving up to take on the uninvited Reds. In the past, these combat groups, many run by close friends of his, always flew right to the action, managed to find one another on the radio and then rode into battle together.
But he’d sent out hundreds of messages so far and had not received a peep back.
Russian flags were flying over New York, for Christ’s sake.
Where the hell was everybody?
Chapter Four
The May Day Victory parade kicked off at eight o’clock the next morning.
Forty columns of Okupatsi troops marched past the Fifth Avenue reviewing stand. They looked impressive in their crisp lime-green uniforms. Eyes right, weapons held tight against their chests, their helmets and bayonets gleamed in the early sun.
Follow-on troops carried banners bearing socialist slogans. They were followed by more soldiers carrying huge portraits of Stalin, Lenin, and Marx. All the while, the pair of noisy Yak-38 VTOL fighters circled continuously overhead, red-dye contrails spewing from their exhausts.
Thanks to the joint ops cadre, a bounty of vodka had arrived from Russia earlier that week, twenty-six thousand gallons of it. Carried in huge metal kegs, a substantial portion reached Midtown at the parade’s conclusion. This was when the real celebration began. Thousands of soldiers took advantage of the free alcohol. They drank and sang and danced in the streets. Music blasted from everywhere. Fireworks were lit off.
Out on Eighth Avenue, a handful of T-72 tank crews drunkenly fired their massive 122-millimeter guns into the Hudson River, killing thousands of fish. At high noon, the three dozen Russian ships anchored off Battery Park began blasting their horns and would not stop. The Yak fighter jets returned over Midtown every half hour or so to perform wildly reckless—some said drunken—maneuvers, one trying to outdo the other, to the delight of the boozy crowds below.
This raucous citywide party would last through the night and into the following day.
The Russian success was also celebrated on the top floor of 30 Rock.
Enveloped in security gear, guarded by nearly a hundred Militsiya police, and off-limits even to the three commanders of the Sostva, it was the kvartira v nebe, the apartment in the sky, the lavish penthouse that Commissar Vladimir Zmeya Mikhailovich, chief of NKVD operations in America, called home.
With fifteen rooms, six fireplaces, six bars, and two Jacuzzis, the space included a vast kitchen and dining area and an even larger function room. Lots of polished brass, lots of red oak walls. It was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows and had a view that seemed to go all the way to California.
By midnight, the penthouse’s ballroom was crowded with senior NKVD officers: one hundred and six of them, all in black dress jackets, Cossack pants, and knee-high Kirza boots.
This was a very exclusive group, the top of the NKVD’s chain of command in America. Still, every officer had to pass three extensive security checks just to get to the front door, including surrendering all firearms.
There were a similar number of high-priced prostitutes in the room. Some had been dragooned into being waitresses and barmaids; others mingled with the crowd. All were blond; all were wearing short tuxedo-like negligee dresses and black heels. They, too, had had to pass rigorous security measures for entry in
to the penthouse, including spending a week in isolation, under twenty-four-hour NKVD surveillance.
The penthouse itself was guarded by ninety-two Militsiya special-operations police. They were assisted by two dozen Milashki—or Cuties—an all-female NKVD unit who processed IDs, checked fingerprints, and operated body scanners. All had pledged their lives to keep Zmeya safe.
As for the Chekskis, none had ever gotten within twenty floors of this place. The Militsiya considered their NKVD cousins foul and unstable, a view shared by the commissar himself.
A stage had been set up at one end of the big function room. A curtain behind it hid a massive, well-stocked horseshoe bar and, beyond that, windows to the outside world.
While the city went crazy below, no alcohol had been served up here yet, putting everyone on edge, especially the NKVD officers. Although this was the first reception held in Zmeya’s new American apartment in the sky, they’d attended similar functions he’d organized overseas in the last couple of years. They knew how terrifying they could be.
The problem was the boss himself. Zmeya was a masterful tactician, a whiz at intelligence gathering, and as cold and calculating and vicious as they came. He got things done, which is why he was here in New York. The Kremlin adored him.
But Zmeya had issues, one of them being EDS, emotional disregulation syndrome. Antisocial behavior, compulsiveness, hostility, lack of restraint, sexual deviation, he’d displayed all of these symptoms in public at various times. He had medication but took it sparingly.
The commissar also had a second, even more disturbing, condition: He was a bad drunk.
Anything could happen with him after a few cocktails, especially if he hadn’t taken his meds. The horror stories were well known. During one gathering in newly occupied France a year ago, Zmeya drunkenly ordered the hats of two latecomers nailed into their skulls because they didn’t take them off quick enough in his presence.
Zmeya demanded that his lovers beat him before the act, enjoying bloodletting as foreplay. Videotaping his assignations was routine; three-camera shoots were de rigueur. He also loved to watch other people have sex. As part of his massive luggage train, he carried a giant glass terrarium. Twenty feet by twenty, it contained a king-size bed and nothing else. Toward the end of almost every drunken gathering, Zmeya would select a couple of guests—not always of the opposite sex—and force them inside the huge glass room.
They would be ordered to have intercourse or else, while the commissar and selected attendees sat outside and watched. If Zmeya liked the performance, the participants would be rewarded with their lives. If not, and depending on how drunk Zmeya was, a more unpleasant outcome awaited them.
Attending the commissar’s bacchanals was mandatory; it’s just that guests didn’t know if they’d live to see the party end. A single wrong word, or if Zmeya didn’t like the look of you—or your female companion—and you might never see the sun rise again.
The function room’s lights dimmed and Zmeya himself finally stepped out from behind the curtain. There was no applause. The one hundred officers saluted him, and he saluted back. Then the room fell silent. Half the crowd was in awe, the rest were trying hard to look that way.
Zmeya was dressed in black as always. A fitted NKVD uniform, a tailored leather trench coat, and Kirza boots. His face was partially hidden by an oversize black fedora, pulled down low, and dark glasses.
He was handsome, though, or at least what could be seen of him. His narrow jawline appeared chiseled from the same granite as the penthouse’s kitchen counters, but the rest of his face was soft and almost feminine. He had blond hair and cobalt-blue eyes. Standing six feet one and obviously muscular, he was so good-looking, in the past, people had mistaken him for being German.
Zmeya reminded some of a younger version of another ghastly Russian hero, Viktor Robotov, the superspy. Positively Luciferish in looks, no one ever mistook Viktor for being anything but Russian. Still there was an eerie resemblance.
Zmeya had appeared out of nowhere two years before, joining the reconstituted NKVD as an interrogation officer in Leningrad. In just a few weeks, he’d eliminated all his rivals, quickly moving up the ranks. Twenty months later, he’d taken over the coveted top spot, commander of the NKVD’s Foreign Operations Bureau. This was where he and others had planned how to take over the world.
From a nobody to running the most feared police organization in the world in less than two years? Gossip said Zmeya had had substantial inside help during his rocket-like ascent, assists from someone even higher up the very secretive Moscow food chain.
Zmeya stepped up to the microphone. He covertly retrieved a handful of index cards from his pocket and palmed them in his left hand. This would be his victory speech. But he was not a good public speaker and had displayed anxiety when addressing large groups in the past.
“We are here to make the vision of our leaders back in Moscow a reality,” he began. “And we have taken a big step in that regard as our forces have successfully occupied the grandest city in the world.”
A murmur immediately went through the crowd. Something was not right here. Zmeya usually communicated in a low, surly voice, hunched over the microphone, at times barely audible. He also tended to phrase everything breathlessly, as if every other word contained breaking news.
But now he was standing straight, head up and projecting his voice in an even manner. He was speaking clearly, enunciating every word with its proper emphasis. What’s more, his straggly hair appeared to be combed under his hat and he was wearing a sexy two-day growth of beard.
None of this was normal.
“Our goal is to finally put an end to America and replace it with a new country,” he continued. “Our new country. One large colony of Russia. A Communist paradise. A paradise we can all live in together.”
He paused again, almost laughing at those last few words. He seemed to be happy and nervous at the same time—and completely sober. Again, not normal.
He smiled, briefly, but long enough to elicit another gasp from the crowd. Few people had ever seen him smile. He realized immediately what he’d done, and his face flushed.
He returned to his index cards. “But to get there, a lot of work still needs to be done, and more battles need to be fought. I’ll be blunt with you: This continent needs to be cleansed—and we are here to do it.”
More murmurs from the crowd, then an uncomfortable silence. A signal from offstage made him put down his notes. This would be a new experience for him. Zmeya unscripted.
“But let’s not dwell on such gloomy matters,” he said brightly. “Before coming out here, I received a message from Moscow. They are so pleased with the results of this past month, they’ve asked me to declare this city renamed. It is no longer New York City, my friends. From this moment on, it will be known as Russkiy-NYC.”
Now there was applause. A lot of it. It became boisterous and stayed that way until Zmeya signaled for calm. This brought everyone’s attention back to him. Again, the people standing before him wondered about his odd behavior. Nothing had changed in his job performance. Just an hour earlier, he’d signed an executive order allowing the Chekskis to execute and dispose of two hundred “homeless hooligans” they’d picked up, including children. As head of the secret police, he’d okayed orders like this every night this week and many during the previous month. No trials. No explanations. Just cleansing.
So why this change?
After the applause died down completely, Zmeya stood in silence for a few seconds. His eyes darted left, and some in the crowd caught the shadow of a woman standing just offstage. She was wearing a long, dark cloak with its hood up, showing only her face, most of which was in shadow. Still, that was enough for people to see that she was stunning.
There had been rumors of a new girl in the commissar’s life and reports that she was different. These were hard to give credence to, though,
because there were so many Zmeya stories floating around and so many women in the past couple years.
But, at that moment, it seemed like an angel was standing just twenty feet away from him, directing him, encouraging him, making him seem more … human.
Finally, Zmeya tossed away the index cards, wished everyone a good evening, and left the stage with a big wave. Thirty seconds later, he and his companion were seen walking through the shadows backstage, hand-in-hand. Then they were gone, off into the night.
The guests were stunned. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Zmeya leaving his own party? It was unthinkable.
But then the guests’ surprise turned to giddiness, then giggling, and finally to outright laughter of pure relief.
Maybe they’d see the sunrise after all.
Chapter Five
May 3
Colonel Ivan Samsonov pushed his way through the revolving door at the Army Building’s main entrance on Fifth Avenue and walked into the crowded lobby.
It still reeked of spilled vodka and cigarette smoke from the May Day celebration, forty-eight hours ago. He sprinted to the nearest elevator and hit the button for the forty-fourth floor. Only when the doors had closed did he finally exhale.
Thirty-five years old, tall and sturdy, with a shock of blond Slavic hair, Samsonov was the chief security officer for the army headquarters. He held a senior position, which was good for his career, but his stress level was off the charts. His duty sheet ran the length of three pages, but his primary job was to keep the newly acquired skyscraper protected at all times. This meant around-the-clock guards at every door and every stairway. Machine gun posts on Fifth Avenue covered the front entrances; more protected the back. No one came in without proper papers. Surveillance cameras were everywhere.
The doors to the elevator opened and Samsonov walked to his spacious corner office. It was flooded with morning sun, its massive windows providing a spectacular view of Manhattan. This was certainly not Petrograd Oblast. But he couldn’t appreciate the moment because his eyes were instantly drawn to the red-striped courier pouch on his desk.
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