by Mack Maloney
Wack knew that Russian soldiers sometimes passed through New York, but this was the first one he’d seen up close.
He moved on to the next man, then the next. It appeared as if each was wearing a .357 Magnum bullet wound somewhere on his head or neck. Strange, Wack thought. It was as if they’d all been shot from above …
Chapter Twenty-four
THE WIND WAS COLD and blustery at the tip of Manhattan. Despite the spring season, the four Calypso sentries were bundled up in their winter gear, standard equipment for anyone pulling duty outside and on top of Calypso’s WT buildings. It galled them that while four squads of Calypso’s personal security guards lounged around in comfort inside one floor below them, they, being lowly grunts in Calypso’s street army, had to freeze their asses off, sitting 112 stories high, exposed to the elements and watching for God-knows-what.
The men sat huddled around five cans of Sterno and killed time by rolling dice. All they had to drink was a bottle of Harlem Juice—powerful, but terrible stuff. Downstairs, inside the once famous restaurant called Windows of the World, they knew the security guards were taking turns on the two young things Calypso just used …
“But do we see any of that stuff way the fuck up here?” one of the men grumbled.
“No fucking way,” another answered.
“And that asshole Calypso give them to those pansy security guys,” a third said, taking a swig of the Harlem Juice. “You know, what’s the big fucking occasion that he’s treating those shitheads so good?”
A fourth man—the group’s sergeant and leader—grabbed the bottle and said: “No wonder you guys are all asshole privates. Don’t you know what’s going on here tonight?”
The three soldiers shook their heads.
“You ever hear of this guy Viktor? The leader of the whole fucking Circle? He’s coming here. Tonight,” the sergeant said.
“Here?” one of the men said. “You got to be shittin’ us.”
The sergeant took another long, slow swig and wiped his mouth. “What the fuck do you think all these heavyweights are here for?” he said. “The place is triple-decked with security guards and the whole Goddamn Battery company stationed up here tonight.”
“They are?” a soldier asked. “Then who the fuck’s watching the Battery?”
“Who the fuck cares?” the sergeant drunkenly screamed at the man. “This place is crawling with celebrities. Not like those assholes up town. I mean big shots. Top Mid-Ak guys. Air pirates. I hear some Family guys are in town. Even a bunch of Russians. They’re all here to see this Viktor guy.”
“Well just as long as Calypso don’t volunteer us to go fight out in the ’Bads,” one man said. “That’s the baddest shit that’s going down today, brother. I mean, they was recruiting up in Times Square three months ago. These dudes is signing up like they’d never seen a new suit of clothes before. They just say: Gimme the gun. Gimme the gun. These guys are dedicated, you understand? But they go out to the Badlands, I say half of them don’t make it back.”
“None of them make it back,” another soldier said, spitting out some impurity his teeth caught in the Harlem Juice. “There’s some bad ass flyboys out on the coast. And that’s who they is fighting out west. And you don’t never want to fool with these jet fighter guys. I mean, these guys are fast and they can drop some very big bombs on your ass. I know, I was there when The Family tried to take Football City. These fucking Free Forces guys in their airplanes kill about half the Family guys before they even cross the fucking river. Then, when they do get across, the Football City guys run back into this big motherfucker stadium and this dude Hunter—the famous guy—he calls in a B-52 strike! And when the dust cleared, there ain’t no Family no more. They’re ain’t even a fucking city left!”
“Fuck it man,” the sergeant said. “This guy Viktor is clutch. If anyone can bump off those jets, it’s The Circle. They say he even bought off the Russians to sneak in every fucking SAM they had left. You can’t fly over the Badlands any more. Fucking Russians will shoot you down.”
“They say he’s got a bunch of Chinamen riding around on horses out there, too,” another said.
“You bet your ass,” the sergeant said, grabbing the bottle again. “And he’s got a huge motherfucking army. So it’s all these people and rockets and cavalry and things against a bunch of jets fighters and about six divisions. Circle will kick their ass!”
The sergeant took the bottle, wiped the top and put it to his lips. He took a gulp and in doing so, raised his eyes to look directly at the full moon above him.
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 roc
ket 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 th
ey 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?”