The cat stood in the middle of the floor, still holding the cord. It was only a sparkle cord that ignited at the end when it was squeezed and it was stuck into the mouth of a black ball.
Heller dragged Faustino’s hands behind his back and looped a tie cord around his wrists. He boosted the man over the table and from behind, gave him a shove toward the office.
“Drop it now,” said Heller to the cat. “Come on!”
They banged through the office door. Faustino seemed to stumble. He fell beside the steel canopy.
“Guard him!” shouted Heller to the cat. He turned to bolt the door to the banquet room. He flicked on a small pocket light so he could see.
There was a yowling from the cat. Heller whirled.
Faustino had rolled himself under the canopy!
The cat was on top of him, clawing.
Heller started to move.
CRASH!
The steel canopy came down!
Faustino had triggered something! The man and cat were obscured!
Heller grabbed at the canopy edge. He tried to lift it. It would not budge!
He scrambled for his satchel.
He could hear men coming up the hall.
He dived for the hall door and bolted it from within.
Heller raced back and got the satchel open. Palming the disintegrator gun, he leaped to the canopy. Working at an angle so as not to hit the cat, who might be underneath, he tried to make a hole in the steel.
A voice in the banquet hall. “It’s not a bomb! It’s a fake!”
There were now men at both office doors! Shoulders and boots were thudding at them!
The steel was armor alloy and very resistant. Heller stepped up the beam strength of the gun. He had made only a little hole!
A shotgun blasted at the hall door lock!
Heller banged a shot at it with Faustino’s gun!
He glanced at his watch. The glow told him he was almost out of time.
He wasn’t making progress fast enough getting through the canopy. He shined his light through the slot he had cut.
EMPTINESS!
No Faustino! No cat! No floor!
He could make out the outlines of a spiral chute going down!
A shotgun blasted again at the door.
Heller grabbed his satchels.
He threw himself on the spacetrooper sled.
The shotgun roared again!
Heller hit the controls.
The sound of the door bursting in.
The sled started out the window.
Another shotgun blast!
Something tugged at his heel!
He shot out into the dark night!
THE FIRST EXPLOSION WENT!
It sounded just like lightning had struck close to hand, a blasting, cracking roar that filled the night!
The sled bucked and twisted.
It plummeted earthward from thirty-five stories high.
THE SECOND EXPLOSION WENT!
Convulsively, Heller gripped the sled controls. The ground was coming up, unseen, but it must be very near!
He got the sled into a climb.
THE THIRD EXPLOSION WENT!
The sled slewed.
Heller got it straightened out.
A tree straight ahead!
Heller zoomed over it.
At least he knew where the ground was now.
He settled the sled vertically and played his light down.
He landed.
THE FOURTH EXPLOSION WENT!
He was behind Babe’s lines, half a block from the building.
Quickly he collapsed the sled and lashed it to his satchel.
He started to run forward, toward the building.
“Stand where you are!”
A flash of light hit him in the face.
“It’s the kid!” said somebody else. “Don’t shoot him.” Corleone men, part of the ring around the building.
Heller was worried about the cat. “Let me through! I’ve got to get back there!”
“Naw, naw, kid. You stay here! They’re pouring out of there like rats from a sinking ship.”
THE FIFTH EXPLOSION WENT!
It was like a nearby crack of lightning but no flash or flame. The explosions were coming from the building top, progressing down where he had planted them.
A rush of running feet from the building. A crash and a yell.
Three more Narcotici men had slammed into the fishnets strung across the streets.
Corleones gathered them up, disarmed them and shunted them over to a group where they were quickly tied.
THE SIXTH EXPLOSION WENT!
“Jesus, what are those things?” said a Corleone to Jet. “There ain’t any flame or debris. Sounds like a whole god (bleep) floor goes up each time.”
Heller could have told him that they were matter-vibration-intensifying bombs used by Voltar combat engineers to create diversions at point B when they were really quietly blowing up point A. They did not transmit their sound directly into the air but only through matter molecules. They didn’t destroy anything except perhaps an eardrum if you were inside the place. But Heller said, in Italian, “Who knows? The wrath of Gods, perhaps.”
THE SEVENTH EXPLOSION WENT!
When its crack ceased echoing, Babe’s voice came over somebody’s walkie-talkie. “Signore! What’s the count now?”
“Five hundred and thirty-six, mia capa,” crackled back.
“Couple hundred to go,” came Babe’s voice. “Stay on your toes! Has anybody seen Jerome?”
THE EIGHTH EXPLOSION WENT!
Heller grabbed his two-way response radio. “I’m on the ground, Mrs. Corleone. I’m okay. I’m at Station Six. Please tell the men to let me through. I’ve got to get back to the building.”
THE NINTH EXPLOSION WENT!
A dozen Narcotici men, running in panic from the building in the dark, hit the net near Heller. They were jumped on promptly, disarmed and carted aside.
Babe’s voice: “Station Six. Don’t let Jerome through until after you’ve launched the general assault.”
“Yes, yes, mia capa.”
THE TENTH EXPLOSION WENT!
A hissing series of orders sizzled near Jerome. The same sound, more distant, was coming from other stations all around the encircled building.
A sudden shout from half a thousand throats, “CORLEONE!”
A rush and thunder of feet moving forward in the blackness.
The general assault had begun.
A blaze of gunfire flamed.
“You can go now, kid,” said a voice near Heller.
Heller rushed forward. It was not quite as dark. Gun flashes coming from lower windows and those replying gave the night a fitful, jerking light. Most of the assault force was inside now but those in view were seen like sudden still pictures as a rifle went.
Somebody yelled, “Army tanks rolling south, half a mile! Mop this up fast!”
Heller sized up the building. There had been no spiral chute on the plans. The basement under this section below Faustino’s office was all furnaces.
He went up close to the wall, pressing in against it. He edged along. He must be now directly below Faustino’s office. There were huge, black blocks of stone here, flanking the street.
Gunfire was rolling inside where diehards were holding out. He heard the thud of a grenade.
He was looking for a manhole cover, some telltale.
AN ARCED SCAR ON THE PAVEMENT!
It matched one of the black stone edges. At some time when it had swung open, a bit of debris had been under it, making the mark.
There was a vertical line where two stones went together. He took his disintegrator gun and widened the crack. He took a bar and forced it in and pried.
It was a door!
Once more he applied the disintegrator gun. The latch dogs vanished.
He shoved the bar in further.
The door reluctantly opened!
He shined in the light.
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There was the cat!
He was sitting on the tied Faustino’s chest!
Faustino tried to turn toward Heller’s light. “Save me!” he screamed.
The cat hit him.
“I got it, Mister Calico,” said Heller. “You’ve done great tonight!”
Heller grabbed Faustino and got him to his feet. “Corleone!” he yelled over his shoulder. “To me!”
The firing around the building had died. Two men sprinted over to Jet. He thrust Faustino into their hands. “Rush this guy to Babe direct!”
They shoved Faustino out and pushed him along the sidewalk. Heller reached back in to pick up the cat.
When he emerged he was hit in the face with a spotlight!
A TANK!
Heller let the cat jump away and held his arms high and wide. He walked directly to the tank.
The tank’s machine guns were trained on his chest.
An officer was standing in the turret, covering him with a .45. By the light from inside the turret, Heller saw the silver eagle of a colonel.
“What the hell’s all this?” roared the colonel.
“May I identify myself, sir?” called Heller.
“Advance easy or I’ll shoot!”
Heller, arms held wide, sprang up on the tread. “Reach in my side pocket, sir.” He made a brief indication which one.
The colonel looked at the tuxedo and then, holding the .45 wide, pulled the papers out.
“Lieutenant Wister of Army Intelligence, sir,” said Heller. “Rounding up Maysabongo saboteurs. The men you see are my unit in mufti.”
The colonel scanned the ID and then the orders. “Why wasn’t I informed?” he said.
“All hush-hush,” said Heller. “But we got them before they could blow up the whole city.”
“The vicious (bleepards)!” exclaimed the colonel. “A (bleeped) good thing you did! Loudest explosions I ever heard in my life! Are you sure you got them all?” he added, looking around.
“We’re just mopping up,” said Heller.
There was a thunder of feet on the street behind them.
COPS!
Police Inspector Grafferty, blowing from his run, came into the tank’s lights. “You’re all under arrest!” he bellowed.
The colonel stiffened. He stared down at Grafferty. “This is an Army operation!” he roared. “How dare you interfere!”
Grafferty’s eye suddenly caught sight of Heller. “WISTER!” he shouted. “Colonel, I know this man! He’s a criminal!”
The colonel glared at him. “So now you’re calling Army officers criminals, are you! Get the hell out of this operation before I turn my guns loose on you!”
Grafferty quailed. He hastily withdrew and gave an urgent signal to the cops to leave with him.
Heller saluted. “Sir, I’ve got to get the prisoners to the stockade, so please excuse me if you will.”
“Of course, of course,” said the colonel. “You seem to have done very well.” He glanced at the orders before he handed them and the ID back. “I’ll commend you to the Secretary of War.”
“Oh, that’s awfully nice of you, sir,” said Heller. “But I am just doing my duty.”
“Splendid, Wister. You’ll mention me as assisting? I’m Colonel Boots.”
“Of course, sir,” said Heller.
“Very good, Lieutenant. I’ll get my unit back to the park. Carry on.”
Heller trotted off around the building. Things were quiet now. The mobs of captured Narcotici men were gone. The fishnets had disappeared. There was only an old Corleone soldato left picking up cartridge empties.
Heller got to the limousine and opened the door. Faustino was lying on the floor, tied up very thoroughly. The cat had evidently followed the mobster, for Mister Calico now sat on a jump seat, ready in case a claw rake was needed.
Babe was sitting there with her radios. She looked up with a glad smile when the door light came on.
Before she could speak, Saggezza’s voice came over. “Mia capa, all computers have been taken. All Faustino’s notebooks are in our hands. No data banks or books have been damaged. I am putting men throughout the building. The whole operation is in our hands.”
Babe said, “Splendidly done, signore. We have the fat one right here, so that’s the end of them complete.”
Heller said, “Did you get the New York Chief of Police?”
“And every other official of the city, including the mayor. They’re over there behind those bushes blubbering for their lives.”
“Well, please have that police chief told that he must phone and have the guard taken off the Empire State Building at once.”
“Of course, Jerome. Anything you want. The whole city is ours!”
Not yet, thought Heller privately. This could still rebound like a comet return unless I can finish it before Monday.
PART SEVENTY
Chapter 6
Two hours later, Izzy, Bang-Bang and Twoey were celebrating their joyous deliverance from the Empire State Building by eating anything and everything Heller could stuff into them at Sardine’s Restaurant.
When there was nothing left to consume but the tablecloth, he sent them home to get rested and cleaned up with orders to meet him in the morning at the condo.
The battle was not over. The hardest part was just ahead: Rockecenter. And in this one, Heller was very short of troops.
From Army Intelligence Headquarters, Heller learned that Rockecenter was at his Pokantickle Estate, north of Hairytown. The place was being guarded by a regiment of hastily mobilized New York National Guard under the command of a major general, no less.
Heller also learned that Rockecenter would leave there this Sunday afternoon and drive to Philadelphia. There he would join the Swillerberger Conference of International Financiers, which he thoroughly controlled, and Sunday night, the president of the United States would be summoned before this private body. Then, on Monday, the president would address Congress in Washington and formal war would be declared on the Republic of Maysabongo.
Heller knew that he was now up against the powers that ruled Earth. The preparation he could do on this one was pretty thin at best, but he had better get on with it.
He returned to the condo through a dark New York. He got on some coveralls and went to work on the old cab. Using a Voltarian light he turned its color to olive drab, then, using a spray can and brush, he gave it white Army insignia and numbers.
While he worked, the radio battered him with war hysteria, not the least of which was news that Maysabongo saboteurs had attempted to blow up the New York City Hall but had been foiled by an Army tank unit under Colonel Boots. Motorists were also being warned to keep off major highways and leave them clear for the Army: a safe enough order since there wasn’t any gas. People were also being requested to stay alert for Maysabongo partisans who might be planning to blow up railroads, airfields and convoys, and to report such information to the Army.
Much martial music was also on the airways. The country was obviously girding up its loins for battle. Heller knew that, with a lot of luck, he might be able to prevent it. Nobody else seemed to be trying.
About 8:00 AM, he dressed in a clean uniform. Then he loaded a khaki-colored shoulder bag with the tools of the trade of a Voltar Fleet combat engineer—mainly bombs.
Bang-Bang Rimbombo showed up. He was dressed in his ROTC uniform and Heller made him remove the shoulder patch so he would look like an Army driver.
Izzy Epstein arrived, hollow-eyed and worried.
Delbert John Rockecenter II got there, upset because he couldn’t have the time to go out and see to his surviving pigs in New Jersey.
They set off, looking very official, for Pokantickle Hills, twenty-three miles or more to the north. There were no cars on the road. All the traffic lights were off. The old cab, now running not on gas but on a carburetor that converted asphalt into oxygen and hydrogen, had lots of speed and pep. Bang-Bang, having no cars to run into, had them at the gate
s of the estate by nine.
Mission Earth Volume 8: Disaster Page 31