by Mack Maloney
Calypso leered at Dominique. The cocaine had his hormones boiling. She looked so innocent, standing there, shy, like a schoolgirl, yet dressed in a gown so low, he imagined he could see the outline of her nipples. Her long blond hair was curled so seductively. She reminded him so much of Bridget Bardot. A soft little sex kitten, yet really a mature young woman. This is what Calypso knew he needed.
“I want her,” Calypso said. “Here. Now.” With that, he clapped his hands. Some one of his aides, off in another room unseen, pushed a button and two fur-lined chains slowly descended from the ceiling. The room doubled as Calypso’s sexual playground. For the first time, Dominique looked up. She felt a shiver go through her. Did the man really want to chain her up and force love on her? In front of the crowd?
“Wait!” Viktor said, bringing a quick end to the hushed conversation that had rippled through the guests. “My queen is one thing. To expose her is another …” He bit his lip in thought, then said: “What else do you have to offer, Mr. Calypso?”
The man had not taken his lusting eyes off Dominique. “Name it, Mr. Robotov. It’s yours. Jewels. Gold.” Calypso started to undo his toga’s belt.
Viktor countered. “I have jewels, Mr. Calypso. And I have gold. I want something of value.”
Two words popped into Calypso’s head. “The black box,” he said, smiling at the black uniformed, goateed man. “It belonged to the U.S. Air Force before the war. God knows what it does. But I’m sure you—or your allies—would want to disassemble it. Study it, perhaps.” With that, the big man clapped his hands and a moment later, another aide appeared, carrying the black box.
The Russian officers looked on enviously as Viktor took the box and examined it. He was smart enough to know it was more valuable than all his money. Or his queen.
He looked at Calypso, then at Dominique. He ran his hand through her blond hair and laughed.
“Take her …” he said finally. “Do what you want with her.”
Chapter Twenty-five
IT TOOK CALYPSO’S MEN just a minute to secure Dominique to the fur-covered chains. The drug-induced guests cheered as she hung helplessly, her arms stretched out, her feet barely touching the ground. Calypso undid his tunic to reveal his lardish plump body, grossly clad now only in briefs. Once Dominique was secured, he ripped off the front of her dress, exposing her pert breasts to the crowd. She gasped and moaned: “No … please. No.” But her pleas only brought laughs and jeers to the crowd. Even the paranoid Russians seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.
Viktor laughed as Calypso stepped up and roughly fondled Dominique’s beautiful body. He ran his hands down her breasts to her exposed soft stomach, then down one of her black-stockinged legs. He tried to kiss her, but she spit at him, much to the crowd’s delight. He then slapped her cruelly and removed his briefs to reveal a stubby erection.
“I am the king of New York City!” he proclaimed, drunk and drooling. “What I want … I get!”
With that, he charged forward and attempted to enter her.
One of the Russian officers saw it first. A flame, outside one of the huge plate glass windows, clearly reflecting against the night sky. It was getting closer—moving very fast …
“What the fuck is …” he began to say in Russian. But before the words came out, he had his answer.
There was a mighty crash, ear-splitting with the sound of exploding glass, as one of the huge windows near where Dominique was about to be raped exploded inward. The glass, shattering into pebble sized shards, flew all over the room like a million diamonds, reflected in a ball of flame.
Behind the smoke and the shower of the glass was the minijet—with Hunter behind the controls.
The hole in the huge window caused a violent whirlwind around the room. The lights flickered, objects were flying everywhere. The noise was tremendous. Things began getting sucked out as the difference in air pressures caused a great vacuum effect. One of the air pirates went first, screaming as he was unwillingly drawn out into the night. A Family thug and his moll went next, their desperate attempts to grasp on to something—anything—failing. Calypso was the next victim of the vortex—his large frame slamming against the jagged edges of the glass, ripping his jugular as he went out the window and plunged to a bloody death. Dominique, although close to the hole, was prevented from being drawn to it as she was still secured to the rape chains.
Everywhere in the room, people were screaming, holding on for their lives. Other windows started bursting. Two of Calypso’s men were slowly drawn out a new, smaller hole, though the slow suction made it a long and painful prelude to death. One of the storm troopers, vainly holding on to the edge of the sill, finally weakened and allowed himself to be sucked out, but not before letting out a chilling scream. Another Family moll followed right behind him.
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? In
credible 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 Chinat
own 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.