That ought to be enough to get Schaefer away from the feds, or from whatever was flying those ships.
"Give me a hand with it, will you, Sal?"
Salvati nodded. "I'll get a cart."
People looked up and watched curiously as Rasche and Salvati hauled the weapons out to the sidewalk and loaded the van, but no one said anything, no one interfered. After all, Rasche thought, who would be crazy enough to walk out with that stuff in broad daylight if they weren't supposed to?
Rasche smiled to himself. He might not be as crazy as Schaefer, but he was getting there.
For his part, Schaefer had been choppered out of the jungle, flown to Newark aboard some sort of fancied-up army jet that looked as if it was meant for VIPs, then marched straight across the tarmac to a waiting copter.
He was being treated as a very important person, and that made him very nervous.
"All right," he said to Philips as they boarded the chopper, "we're back. Now I want some answers."
Philips looked at him but didn't answer. He did wave off the two guards; they looked surprised. Schaefer guessed they had thought they were coming along.
Maybe that meant that once they were in the air without any unwanted ears listening in, Philips would be willing to talk. Schaefer climbed aboard and strapped in without saying anything more.
Once they were aloft, though, Schaefer demanded, "What the hell are we dealing with? What was that thing I killed? Who were those things that took out Eschevera's camp?"
Philips shook his head. "You want a name?" he said. "We haven't got one. You want a place? Not earth. And that's damn near all we know"
Schaefer glanced at him, obviously disbelieving.
"You want theories, though, we've got a dozen, a hundred," Philips told him. "We've got legends and guesswork up the wazoo. The people back there in the jungle tell us they've been coming here for centuries-always in the heat, when it's hot even for the goddamn tropics; they don't like cold, don't like anything we'd consider decent weather, but when it's a fucking steam bath . . ."
"Like this year," Schaefer said.
Philips nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Anyway, they hunt. They like the chase. We've got people who think it was these things that wiped out the dinosaurs-hunted 'em to extinction. For all I know, it's true-all that Enquirer crap about aliens and ancient- astronauts, for all we can really tell about these things, it could be true. There's one guy we've got who says these things may have bred us, helped our technology, started our wars, to build us up into more interesting targets, more challenging prey-and for all we know, the son of a bitch could be right." He shrugged. "Or he could be full of shit. Maybe they've only been coming since we started shooting each other, maybe the smell of gunpowder brought 'em. We don't know. We don't know shit about them. And everything we thought we did know . . . Well, we never thought we'd have to deal with them this far north."
Schaefer said, "Not our problem if they don't mess with us, huh?"
"Something like that," Philips admitted. "Up until now, going by the stories we've heard, by the radar traces we've mapped, they've only hit the equatorial countries-South America, maybe Africa, possibly Asia." He grimaced. "Goddamn greenhouse effect."
"Or maybe they just got bored with the jungles," Schaefer suggested. "Hell, if Earth's Disneyland, New York's gotta be an E ticket."
"Could be that," Philips agreed. He hesitated. "Or it could be something else."
Schaefer looked at him, waiting.
"You think it's a coincidence, that thing tagging the brother of the one man we know has beaten them? Not one man in a million ever sees one of these things, and the two of you do, thousands of miles apart? These things seem to like you Schaefer boys. Maybe they can track the genetic patterns somehow, maybe they just smelled you, we don't know, but maybe they came to New York looking for you."
Schaefer stared at him silently for a moment, considering that. "Good," he said at last. "They'll like me even more after I blow their ugly asses straight to hell."
Philips shook his head and drew his trusty old .45. "I'm sorry, son," he said, "I'm afraid we've got something else in mind." He leaned away from Schaefer and pointed the pistol at him.
Schaefer stared again, then said, "I should have guessed. You're giving me to them, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid so," Philips said. "You killed one of them, Schaefer-if we don't turn you over, there's no telling what they'll do."
"It was trying to kill me."
"That doesn't matter. They came after you, Schaefer-you saw that, in that camp. They don't care about this Eschevera, they wanted you."
Schaefer nodded. "I'd figured that much for myself," he said. "So why'd you pick me up? Why didn't you let them have me?"
"Because we need to make a goodwill gesture," Philips replied. "We need to let them know we're trying to help them, trying to communicate with them."
"They don't seem real interested in talking, General."
"We have to try."
"Because you're too goddamn chicken to fight them?"
Philips exploded. "Dammit, Schaefer, be realistic! We're talking about hundreds of thousands of lives here-maybe millions, maybe the whole damn planet! We need to show them we aren't hostile, so they'll go away and leave us alone! They don't consider us worth talking to, or they wouldn't hunt us, and we can't let ourselves be too dangerous, or they'll wipe us out, so we're trying to find a middle ground, show 'em we're smart but friendly"
"Why? Why not fight back, if you want the bastards to respect you?"
"Fight?" Philips shook his head. "Schaefer, you saw that blast site in the jungle, that crater-Dutch told us that was done by a gadget the one he fought carried on its wrist! Even if they don't bring in their heavy artillery, imagine the devastation if something like that exploded in New York-the city would be destroyed!"
Schaefer glared at him. "You say that as if it were a bad thing."
"Christ, Schaefer . . ."
"So you're going to give me to them-what do you think that'll do? You think they'll say, `Oh, thank you, sir, sorry we bothered you,' and go away and never come back?"
"I think it'll get them the hell out of New York. They'll have got what they came for."
"Wasn't me they butchered, Philips. They came for fun, not for me."
"You were the one they marked, though, with that thing on your neck!"
"And maybe they want the fun of finding me for themselves. Maybe you're going to be the guy who gives away the ending of the movie, handing me over. Maybe they'll be more pissed than ever. Ever think of that?"
"Dammit, Schaefer, we can't let them chase you through the streets-innocent people will get hurt! And everyone will see them, it'll start a panic! We've been keeping this hushed up for years . . . . "
"Maybe you shouldn't have," Schaefer interrupted. "Maybe you should let people know what's out there, let 'em stand up for themselves."
"You can't stand up to these things!"
"I did. Dutch did."
"All right, but nobody else-most people just die when they come up against one of these hunters. Look, Schaefer, this may be our chance to talk to them, to convince them we're intelligent, to make real contact . . ."
"They know how intelligent we are," Schaefer said, "which isn't very, in most cases. Thing is, they don't care."
"Yeah, well, maybe if we show them that we can help them, they'll care. They want you, Schaefer, and we're going to give you to them."
"I've got a better idea, General." Schaefer's hands flew out without warning and grabbed Philips's wrist, shoving upward; the .45 fired, and the slug punched a hole through the copter's roof.
"Sorry about this," Schaefer said as he snatched the pistol away with one hand and knocked Philips aside with the other. The general struggled, tried to hold on to the gun, but he'd been caught by surprise and was no match for Schaefer in any case.
His head hit a steel rib, and the old man folded into an unconscious heap on the floor.
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Schaefer checked the general's pulse-Philips was still alive, just out.
Then he took the .45, pulled aside the drape separating the passenger compartment from the cockpit, and put the pistol's barrel to the pilot's head.
"Hi," he said. "Where are we headed?"
The pilot started, looked up, saw the pistol, gulped, and said, "The MetLife building. The heliport on the roof there. The brass are trying to arrange some kind of special meeting, I heard."
"What kind?"
"They didn't say just told me not to be surprised by anything I saw there."
"Right," Schaefer said. "You just keep on, then, you're doing fine."
"Yessir."
Trying to arrange a meeting, he had said-so Philips wasn't really in communication with the aliens. He'd probably been planning just to stake Schaefer out on the rooftop there, like a goat as bait for a tiger.
It probably wouldn't even have worked; those things had their own ideas. If Philips had really wanted to keep them happy, he should have just left Schaefer loose in the jungle and let them track him down there.
Schaefer watched the familiar skyline sliding past; as they approached the midtown heliport, he counted six military types on the roof.
He didn't see any of the creatures-but, then, even if they were there, he wouldn't see them. Not with that invisibility gadget they used.
Six men didn't seem like very many; he supposed the feds were trying to keep the operation low-key.
Wishful thinking.
Maybe that was their problem, Schaefer thought. You don't wish this kind of trouble away you've got to face it. It was time to quit pretending there was some easy solution, time to show those ugly mothers who was the boss around this particular planet.
They'd had their way long enough.
"Set it down nice and easy," he told the pilot. "Then just sit quiet and be a good boy."
"Yessir."
The landing came off without a hitch; then Schaefer just waited. He didn't open the door; instead he stood beside it, waiting, with the pistol still pointed at the pilot.
Sure enough, the men who had been waiting on the roof got impatient; one of them slid the door open.
Schaefer's fist took him in the face, and in an instant Schaefer was out of the copter and snatching up the M16 the man had been carrying.
He stood and faced the others on the rooftop with a weapon ready in each hand and shouted, "Drop 'em!"
The other five hesitated, then, one by one, they dropped their weapons.
Schaefer smiled. He was back in control. The aliens weren't here, but they were going to come after him sooner or later, he was sure.
And when they did, he'd be ready for them-not staked out and helpless, but able to give them the fight they probably wanted.
Maybe he could convince them not to mess with the Schaefer boys.
He might die doing it, of course, but that was nothing new. He could die anytime.
"Put on some music and open the bar, boys," he said. "It's party time!"
* * *
29
Rasche looked up from the Park Avenue sidewalk in angry frustration as the helicopter descended toward the MetLife building; the damn thing was early! It was only five forty-five, and the copter was landing!
He'd been trying to get there in time, he'd been caught in traffic, he'd gone through hell getting the van parked, he'd finally made it with ten minutes to spare, and the goddamn copter was early!
He didn't have time for subtlety. He'd been thinking about trying to sneak up there with a hidden weapon, maybe take a hostage or something, but there was no time to try anything that complicated.
Instead, he went for the direct approach-he pulled an automatic rifle out of the collection in the back of the van, slung an ammo belt on his shoulder, and headed for the MetLife building.
He charged in from the north, the side away from Grand Central, with the rifle ready in his hands. Terrified late commuters scattered as he ran through the lobby.
When an elevator door opened he pointed the weapon into the car.
"Police," he shouted, "everybody out! This is an emergency!"
The frightened businessmen hurried to obey, and a moment later Rasche had the elevator all to himself and was headed upward.
Five minutes later he burst out onto the rooftop, shouting, "All right, drop . . ."
Then he saw Schaefer standing there, M-16 in hand, guarding half a dozen unarmed men with their hands on their heads.
". . . 'em," he finished weakly.
"Jesus, Rasche," Schaefer said, "where the hell have you been?"
Rasche stared angrily, then smiled.
"Got held up in traffic, Schaef," he said.
"Well, you're here now-let's get the hell out of here and get on with business!"
They left Philips and his men sitting on the roof of the MetLife building, their wrists tied behind them, and headed for Rasche's rented van.
Schaefer smiled at the sight of the arsenal in the back, but he didn't say anything about it; instead he climbed into the passenger side, laid his appropriated M-16 across his lap, and told Rasche, "Head downtown."
Rasche shrugged and started the engine. "You want to tell me what the hell happened in Central America, and how you wound up at the MetLife heliport holding that popgun on a U.S. Army general?"
"Nope."
Rasche backed out of his parking spot. "Okay, it can wait," he said. "Care to tell me what we're going to do now?"
Schaefer nodded at the weapons. "We're going to use this stuff to blow those alien shits to hell."
Rasche considered that as he maneuvered the van out into traffic and got it headed south on Park Avenue.
He considered it very carefully.
Schaefer obviously knew they were up against aliens--Rasche didn't know how he knew, but he knew. Maybe Philips had told him.
But how much did he know about them, really?
Talking about blowing them to hell-Rasche didn't think Schaefer appreciated just what he was saying.
As he waited for the light at Twenty-third Street, he remarked, "You know, Schaef, you've been out of town, maybe you're not up on everything. I've been giving this some thought, and it seems to me we're outgunned."
"Why's that?" Schaefer asked, shifting the M-16 and glancing at the darkly gleaming weapons in the back.
"C'mon, Schaef, you have to ask?" Rasche said. "They're invisible, they've got spaceships, they probably have ray guns the way they shot up those guys . . ."
"They do," Schaefer agreed. "I've seen 'em."
"You haven't seen their ships, have you?"
"Nope."
"I have," Rasche told him. "Big ones, cruising over the city. You can see 'em through that mask you took off the one on Beekman. I don't know how many ships; or how many of those things are on each ship-more than one, though. I've seen at least four."
"So?"
"So I'll go through doors with you any day, Schaef, but we can't take those fuckers on alone. It's suicide."
"So who said anything about taking them down alone?"
The light changed and Rasche stepped on the gas, trying to figure out what Schaefer was talking about.
The feds weren't going to help-the whole damn government seemed to be on the side of the aliens, going by the plan to hand Schaefer over to them. And Philips would make sure that the rest of the NYPD was out of the picture, too-McComb and company weren't about to argue with him.
Salvati and Brownlow and a few others might have helped-except Salvati hadn't been out on the streets in years, he'd been running a desk, and right now he was still banged up enough Rasche wasn't sure he could handle that. And Rasche didn't know where Brownlow was, or how far he'd be willing to go-he and Ortiz and the rest still thought this was some kind of terrorist deal the feds were hushing up.
Besides, Schaefer didn't know about Salvati or Brownlow-he hadn't asked where Rasche had gotten all the guns. Schaefer had never exactly had a lot of close f
riends on the force. So he wasn't talking about recruiting more cops.
So who did he think was going to help?
"Take Fourth Avenue," Schaefer said as Union Square came into sight. He turned around in his seat and began looking through the array of weapons in back.
"You mind telling me where the hell we're going?" Rasche asked.
"Carr's place." Schaefer put the M-16 down and reached back.
"Carr?" Rasche's foot hit the brake without conscious direction.
"Keep rolling," Schaefer said. "Yeah, Carr. Who else's got a personal grudge against those things, besides you, me, and the rest of the department?"
"Carr's a complete psycho!"
"I know," Schaefer said, coming up with a pumpaction shotgun. He began loading shells. "Seems to me that's what we need for this."
"How the hell do you know where Carr is now? You've been gone for more'n a week!"
"I don't know for sure," Schaefer replied, "but I have a pretty good idea."
"How?" Rasche demanded. "Why should Carr be anywhere you know?"
"Because Lamb's dead," Schaefer explained. "Carr's going to try to take over the whole schmear, and that means he's gotta be where Lamb's people can find him, so they can sign up-and that includes all the junkies who are down to their last few brain cells. So Carr's gonna be where Carr always is when he's not hiding."
"And you know where that is?"
Schaefer didn't bother to answer that. "Turn left," he said.
Rasche decided not to argue anymore; he drove, following Schaefer's directions.
A few moments later they pulled up across the street from a decaying tenement with DEATH ZONE painted across the door.
"That's it?" Rasche asked.
Schaefer nodded.
"He might be out to dinner or something."
"He might be, but he isn't," Schaefer said. "I can feel it."
"You and your goddamn feelings," Rasche muttered. "What if he isn't in there, Schaef?"
"Then we'll look somewhere else until we find him," Schaefer said as he got out of the van. He looked over the building, then leaned back in the window of the van and said, "You wait here. If I'm not back in ten minutes, come inside and kill anything that moves."
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Predator 01 Page 18