The report also had an entry that simply read: “Three full reinforced squadrons, operational,” which could have meant just about anything.
The document referenced another ship sailing in the convoy only as “LTV,” which most likely meant a “large troop vessel.” This entry was just as alarming as the first, because this vessel, obviously huge, was carrying not Russian soldiers or engineers or sailors—but Chekskis.
Thirty thousand of them.
And they were bringing with them thousands of axes, swords, and long knives. Medieval weapons that were of little use on a modern battlefield … but perfect for beheadings.
The rest of Convoy 56 consisted of five picket destroyers and two battle cruisers.
Dozer felt his heart drop to his feet. He looked up at Hunter, who was wearing the same pained expression.
“This isn’t any ‘convoy,’” Hunter told him. “This is a battle fleet, full of nothing but weapons and firepower, with something big and nasty called a VLV out in front.”
Dozer used his sleeve to wearily wipe the grime from his forehead.
“And this isn’t about just taking over New York City anymore,” Hunter went on. “This is about Moscow taking over the entire country—and using New York as their jumping-off point. They’ve got their cavemen and their battle axes, plus they’re bringing nukes. They’re going to unleash these fanatics on us; they’re going to gas us again. And if we don’t roll over for them, they might drop nukes.”
Dozer nodded grimly. He indicated a line in the plans about eliminating the “surplus” population of New York City and beyond.
“They’re going to do it through terrorism,” he said bitterly. “That’s how they think they can finally conquer us. Organized, calculated terrorism, from suicide bombers to bioweapon artillery to nukes. And it doesn’t even mention the Russian military. Nothing about the army or MOP; none of the ships in the convoy has any reference to the navy. All of this is addressed to the NKVD. In fact, the Red military might not even be aware of what’s about to happen.”
All the documents were signed at the bottom by Commissar Zmeya, head of the NKVD in America—and Dominique’s gentleman friend.
Dozer only recognized the name, though. “He’s the mystery-man commissar you hear them praising all the time on Red Radio. Do you know who I mean?”
Hunter laughed darkly.
“I know all about him—now,” he replied. “But that’s for another day. The priority here is stopping the ships in this convoy from getting here. Or as many as we can. If we don’t, then we might as well just shut off the lights. Because if they land and all that stuff is taken off and spread around—as well as thirty thousand more Chekskis?—we’ll never get rid of them.”
Dozer nodded gravely. “But how do we stop them? This isn’t like dropping barrel bombs on Midtown. There’s at least one very large vessel carrying all these weapons from hell, and while we don’t know what kind of warship it is, you can be sure it’s armed to the hilt. And there’s another with all those freaks on it. And then the battle cruisers and other warships? Jeez, man, this is really climbing the mountain.”
Hunter ran his hand over his tired face.
“I know,” he said wearily.
At this point, Dozer told him about his radio’s suddenly coming alive with messages from all their friends—and how they were all eager to fight.
“Did something happen during the bombing runs?” Dozer asked. “Or did you bust up anything in your travels? Anything that might have been serving as a jamming device?”
“Only one very big red star at the top of 30 Rock,” Hunter replied. “Lots of gizmos stuffed inside. Might have been a very happy accident.”
“Well, at least now we can talk to people and organize some help,” Dozer went on. “But you know the usual players—and even altogether, we’ll be lucky if we can get a couple thousand guys on short notice. Even that won’t be enough with all those religious nuts heading our way, never mind the regular Red troops already here.”
Dozer was dead right. How were a couple thousand American patriots going to overwhelm these two massive troop concentrations?
Hunter thought a few moments more, then said, “Okay—first things first. We’ve got to find these ships and get a look at them. At least then we’ll see what we’re up against.”
The document indicated the ships’ last known position. Hunter did some quick calculations and determined they were less than thirty-six hours away from New York Harbor.
“We can’t look for them in the Sherpas,” Dozer told him. “I’m not sure any of them will ever fly again. From the looks of them, I don’t think we have enough duct tape to fix them. And even if we did get them airborne, they won’t be able to stay up long enough for a sea search. Those Russian ships are probably still too far out in the Atlantic for us to find them and make it back again. And that includes your clown plane. What we need is something that’s really fast. But we don’t have any really fast planes here.”
“There’s only one other option then,” Hunter said. “My XL back in Vermont. It’s the only plane we can get our hands on that can fly far enough and fast enough to ID those ships and still have time to dream up some way to stop them. But how am I going to get up there with all of our planes so banged up?”
A voice from behind them said, “I’ll fly you there.”
Hunter and Dozer turned to find the Worm standing right behind them, the Trashman at his side. They wondered how long they’d been there and how much they’d heard.
“In what?” Dozer snapped, upset that the 7CAV’s two guests had been eavesdropping.
“In my plane,” the numbers runner replied. “I can fix it in a couple hours with the Wingman’s help. Then I’ll fly him up to Vermont … as long as I can keep on going to Canada afterward.”
He indicated the Trashman beside him. “I can take him with me—he wants to get out of here, too, right?”
The little arms dealer nodded enthusiastically. “And we can take that blonde you just rode in with, too,” he added eagerly. “I’m sure she’ll want out, too.”
Dozer dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “You’ve both been eating too much of my stew. You know the alcohol in it doesn’t cook away like in other dishes. That’s the secret to the recipe.”
But Hunter pulled on his chin thoughtfully for a moment, taking off a thin layer of soot with his fingers.
“You know, just because they’re looped doesn’t mean it’s a crazy idea,” he said to Dozer.
The marine was mildly shocked. “You’re actually considering this? I mean ‘crazy’ rarely works.”
“I know,” Hunter said with a shrug. “But it will get me to Vermont, and it takes three problems off your hands. And you talked to Frostie right?”
Colonel Rene Frost was a commander for the Free Canadian Air Force, but he was also a close ally of the patriotic Americans. He’d helped them many times in their quest to put their country back together again.
Dozer nodded. “He was one of the first voices to come through.”
“We can ask him to send down a couple fighters to escort the Worm’s plane to Canada after they drop me off,” Hunter said. “That will make sure there’s no funny business once I’m out. Plus, he can look after the girl.”
Dozer thought about it then looked at the two men, their mouths and chins stained with stew. “Well, at the very least, it will cut down on our food bill.”
Chapter Twenty
New York’s Twin Towers were never included in the Russian military’s invasion plans.
The 110-story skyscrapers had been deemed too big, too unwieldy, too expensive for the military triad to operate. Plus, Moscow wanted the MMZ to be right in the middle of Manhattan, the heart of the city, not down on the southern tip of the island.
The NKVD, however, had had their eye on the World Trade
Center buildings. Luxurious as it was, 30 Rock was never meant to be their permanent home. The WTC’s Twin Towers were intended to be the secret police’s eventual world headquarters, bigger than their present facility back in Moscow. It was from here that NKVD intended to rule the planet.
So MOP had gone through the twin buildings and turned on the essentials. But by far, most of the work had been done on Tower Two, getting the 110th floor penthouse ready for Commissar Zmeya.
It was still a work in progress, but its new resident had to move in a little early.
Zmeya and Dominique had said little to each other since they’d evacuated 30 Rock.
She had not been allowed to gather her things at the Ritz, her off-MMZ hideaway; she’d not been allowed out of his sight. Their new penthouse in Tower Two still smelled of recent plastering and the floors were mostly unadorned concrete. It was spacious, and somewhat well appointed, but practically empty.
Zmeya had been on his shortwave radio or his radiophone almost every second since they’d arrived. Even Dominique’s dressing up in the babydoll lingerie he’d told her to put on did nothing to break the ice.
The fire was still raging across Midtown. It was easy to see from Tower Two. The wind continued to blow it eastward at a slow but steady rate, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. The hope was that it would simply burn out when it finally reached the East River. But with any kind of shift in the wind, the catastrophe would probably be prolonged.
To say the Russian military was in disarray was an understatement. Army units could be seen and heard speeding through the streets, but none of them seemed to have any kind of destination. They sure weren’t fighting the fires. Some of the navy ships in the harbor had actually pulled anchor and moved to positions closer to New Jersey, just in case all of Manhattan went up in flames.
But most troubling for Zmeya was the loss of his vast eavesdropping and electronic-interference suite formerly housed inside the big red star. Assuming the secret equipment had melted in the tremendous heat of the firebombing, Zmeya couldn’t listen in on anybody anymore.
The multitude of different voices usually bouncing around his head was down to one. His own. And that was enough to drive him mad.
He finally spoke to her.
He was at his desk looking out the 110th story window at the glowing, burning city beyond. The smoke alone was incredible.
She was lying on the bed in the next room, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, when the wind would gust, she could feel the great building sway.
“This is all your boyfriend’s fault,” he growled loud enough for her to hear. “From the clown plane all the way to trying to burn down this city. He’s had a hand in all of this.”
“He’s supposed to be dead,” she called back.
Zmeya laughed at her. “We know you don’t believe that anymore, don’t we?”
She swore softly under her breath and then said, “We’re going to start talking about what each of us believes now?”
He was out of his seat, into the bedroom, and up against her in an instant, a switchblade at her throat.
“He was spotted by many people in Football City not long ago,” he hissed at her. “And he was seen flying over Detroit. And at just about the same time, our Asian friends in Nevada swear he was out there in their own backyard, making their lives miserable.”
He pressed the knife just a little harder against her skin.
“So you see, my dear, this is why I can’t trust you completely,” he sneered. “I think you’re hoping he’s still out there. You might even be in cahoots with him—or more. And that’s why you won’t make love with me. Do I finally have it right?”
Dominique said nothing. She remained cool, which made him even more furious.
He held her even tighter, the knife even closer to slicing her throat.
“Is that the truth?” he demanded. “Is that how it is?”
But suddenly, Zmeya felt something sticking into his groin. He looked down to see Dominique holding a dagger the size of a hunting knife. It was three times bigger than his stiletto and the sharp point was just touching his sensitive area. Yet his first thought was: Where the hell has she been hiding that thing?
He looked up into her eyes, momentarily speechless. She was unpredictable.
“I think it’s time for your meds,” she whispered.
Her words came with utter contempt, something he didn’t totally dislike.
“I think you might be right.”
A knock came on their door. It was 0200 hours, but time had lost all meaning in Russkiy-NYC. A crisis was afoot.
Weapons back to their hiding places, Zmeya yelled, “Enter!”
Two Militsiya gunmen walked in followed by the three members of the Sostva.
Summoned here by Zmeya, the trio of bull-doggish officers were in awe of his new, if unfinished, apartment in the sky, especially the view. Their medals clinked as they looked around the place.
There were no greetings. No salutes. Zmeya got right to the point.
“Do you have any idea who bombed us a few hours ago?” he asked them.
The frumpy officers all shook their heads. “We were hoping you’d tell us,” Alexei said weakly.
“It was some American patriot gang,” Zmeya said, eyeing Dominique, who was back in the bedroom. “We have intelligence that one of their premier leaders is alive and well and operating in the area.”
Zmeya led the three high commanders to his desk where a map of New York and New Jersey was spread out.
“Did you happen to see the type of planes that bombed us a few hours ago?” Zmeya asked.
“We did,” Admiral Kartunov replied in a smug tone. It wasn’t a lie; they’d briefly seen the raiders flying over the East Village. “Odd-looking things. I can’t imagine any officer wanting them for an air fleet.”
“That’s because they weren’t military planes, Admiral,” Zmeya told him. “They were small civilian cargo planes, adapted to drop bombs. That tells me they didn’t fly in from very far away.”
Zmeya had circled all the known airfields big and small within a two-hundred-mile radius of New York City. But satellite photos he’d obtained from Moscow showed all of them were in some kind of postwar disrepair and unusable.
“And the bombs they dropped weren’t military-issue, either,” Zmeya went on. “They were barrels full of napalm with impact fuses. That tells me they didn’t have access to an arsenal or stores. They had to improvise.”
He studied the map again.
“So we’re looking for a hidden base,” Zmeya said. “Big enough to support a hundred or so insurgents, along with a short landing strip, maybe fifteen hundred feet. Small enough to keep hidden, but relatively nearby. A place they would never expect us to look.”
The officers scanned the map, looking for someplace that would match the criteria. Surprisingly, it was the sleepy Marshal MOP who saw it first.
He put his finger down on a point about forty miles southwest of the city.
The Pine Barrens.
“Haunted place,” he said. “We’d punish our troops if they were caught in there. In fact, we broadcast the penalties against it daily on intercity radio.”
Zmeya studied the spot on the map for a long time. It was obviously a heavily wooded area, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a road or a small field from which aircraft could operate under camouflage.
Finally, he asked Alexei, “How far can your rocket artillery units fire a typical volley?”
“We have BM-30s,” Alexei replied proudly. “They have a range of fifty-five miles.”
Zmeya tapped his fist softly on the map.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “For reasons I can’t discuss, this situation has to be settled within the next thirty-six hours. Therefore, I strongly recommend the army gear up its rocket artillery units and d
eploy them to the most advantageous spot in the city to shoot at this Pine Barrens place. I’ll get back to you on the timing.”
General Alexei looked puzzled. “Do you have specific target coordinates in mind?”
Zmeya started folding up the map. “If I can get an infrared satellite image from Moscow in time, then yes,” he replied coldly. “If not, we’ll just keep firing until the whole place is flattened.”
That was it. End of meeting. The Sostva officers saluted and left. Ten seconds later, Militsiya Sublieutenant Boris Borski walked into the room.
Zmeya could barely look at him; both the scar and the man were repulsive. He chose to turn away when talking to the freakish officer.
“I’m going to give you two assignments, Sublieutenant,” he told him. “Both equally important. First, you are to round up two thousand New Yorkers and transport them to Yankee Stadium. Homeless, troublemakers, dissidents, ethnics, the nonproductive types. No one who works for the rackets, but everyone else is fair game.
“On my command, you will execute these people. I don’t have to know how you do it; just don’t waste a lot of ammunition in the process. And make them dig their own graves first, so we don’t squander our manpower. Film it, three-camera shoot, and send the rushes to me.”
Borski was grinning from ear to ear, which just made his scar look even more revolting. Mass executions. This was a dream assignment for him.
Zmeya then handed him a short note he’d just jotted down.
“Your second assignment is contained in here,” Zmeya said. “It is highly classified. Don’t let anyone else see it.”
Borski became so excited he left the room without a salute or an order that he was dismissed. Punishable infractions in normal times.
“Idiot,” Zmeya said under his breath as he watched him go.
Dominique was soon beside him. She was horrified.
Battle for America Page 14