I decided to discuss security arrangements with Chip tomorrow morning. As it stood, the Arthur Ashe stadium presented an easy target for Genesis Alliance. I felt sure that tomorrow would only be the start of our fight.
Rick broke my concentration by flopping down on a seat next to me. “All okay, Harry?”
“Fine. I’m set for a scouting mission in a few hours. They’re starting to cattle prod tomorrow. Where’s Jack?”
“He went over to Lisa’s room. Probably helping you with the harder part of the task. What time are we going?”
“You’re not going. It’s me and two of the company.” Rick frowned. I cut him off before he had chance to protest. “Did he get the prod from the weapons room?”
“I think so, said he wanted to sort them out first.”
I returned my gaze to the sky. Typical Jack, wanting to help the most vulnerable first. I knew he would be annoyed at not being invited along for the mission, and I think I could have insisted he come along, but he deserved a break.
Rick hit the hay and I read a motorcycle magazine on the couch for an hour. At ten in the evening, I blew out the candles. Jack quietly entered the room an hour or two later and headed straight for bed. I considered telling him about Chip’s plan, but drifted off.
Somebody thumped on the door. I immediately sprang from the couch, grabbed my rifle, and swung the door open. A flashlight beamed in my face.
“Wakey, wakey, Harry,” Chip said.
The light winked off. I checked my watch. One in the morning. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Chip’s stocky silhouette stood in front of me.
Jack groaned and pulled his duvet to one side. “What’s going on?”
He propped himself up by his elbows and squinted toward the door.
“I’m just nipping out for an hour or two,” I said. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Need me to come?”
“No. Just a routine thing around here I agreed to help with. Get some sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
Why should both of us suffer when we’d finally found a place to get a safe night’s rest? I planned to catch up on sleep in the early afternoon before our main assault. I slung my rifle and fastened my bootlaces.
“Harry, come on,” Chip said.
Harris waited outside, dressed in black, his face smeared in cam cream. Chip was also dressed in black and took out a cam stick. He painted diagonal green stripes across his face and passed it to me. I rubbed the greasy end across my cheeks, nose, and forehead.
“What’s the plan, Chip?” I asked.
“We’re heading to the eastern edge of Little Bay. If there’s lights on Hart Island, we might be able to pick them out.”
He shined his flashlight on a laminated map. It looked like a sixteen-mile round trip, and even then, the island looked too far away.
“That’s gonna take us all night,” I said.
Chip smiled and placed the map inside his jacket pocket. “We’ve got a fully charged golf cart outside. Nice silent mode of transport with a range of thirty miles.”
“I’ve patrolled that way,” Harris said. “We’ve got a relatively clear route. Should be back in three hours.”
“And if we don’t see anything?” I said.
“We attack anyway,” Chip said. “I’ll tell Morgan that I identified the enemy force.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” I said, pleased that at least one man in the leadership team recognized the threat and was prepared to act without solid evidence. Morgan was a corporate thinker; Chip had a better head for our current situation.
Harris led us through dark corridors, eventually down a staircase and back to the main entrance.
A guard opened the glass door. “Good luck, guys.”
I mumbled thanks as I passed him. A white four-seater golf cart, with the number twenty-one plastered on the front and side, waited outside.
“Harris, you take the back seat and cover our rear. You ride with me, Harry, and cover our right flank.”
He didn’t waste any time starting the cart, and soon we hummed our way along the moonlit Whitestone Expressway, cutting a path between the shadows of carnage.
I aimed at gaps in the debris and listened for any suspicious sounds. After an hour of trundling along without facing any threats, Chip veered onto the Cross Island Parkway, taking us directly to Little Bay. I had to hand it to him: He’d picked a perfect form of transport. The cart sneaked through gaps impossible for a car to get through and quietly moved at a nice speed.
“It’s not all that bad you know,” Chip said.
“What isn’t?”
“The company. Sure, Morgan’s an asshole, but we’ve got hope. There are some good people back at the stadium. A community of survivors that come together to provide mutual protection and a possible future.”
I remained focused on the parkway. “If we don’t squash GA, there is no future.”
“That’s why I took your story so seriously. We’re a green shoot of recovery. Anyone who tries to stamp on us has to be eliminated.”
“I wish it were a story, Chip. We need a good plan and plenty of numbers if we want to take these fuckers out.”
The cart jumped in the air and landed with a crash. I looked back. A chrome exhaust pipe settled on the road surface.
“Careful where you go, Chip,” Harris said.
“I can’t avoid everything. Just keep your eyes peeled.”
After twenty more uneventful minutes, Chip stopped the cart. “It’s five minutes on foot from here to Willet’s Point. We’ll travel in extended line. I’ll take the front, Harris—you cover our rear. If we get split, we meet back here. Shoot first, ask questions later. Let’s move.”
He jumped out of the cart and headed down a road, scanning to the front with his rifle. I liked his no-nonsense style, and as I followed, glancing from side to side, rifle shouldered, I felt part of a small but slick formation.
“Are you going to stay after we take them out?” Harris asked from behind.
“Are you?” I said.
“I like it. Once you meet more of the people, I think you will too. Where else is there to go?”
I thought for a moment and decided he might be right. Morgan seemed the only blocker. But what community didn’t have at least one difficult person?
“Don’t you get pissed off with Morgan?” I asked.
“Nah, he’s all right once you get to know him. Behind that silly exterior, he means well. He listens and generally goes along with our advice. You just need to make him think he’s making the decisions.”
Chip turned back. “Quit yammering. You’ll have plenty of time to talk once we’re back.”
I guessed he meant talking and understood his point, although it felt like I’d just been dressed down by a schoolteacher.
Chip continued down a moonlit tree-lined street, through a small wooded area to an old stone fortification. He knelt next to a black cannon, the type used a couple of centuries ago, ripped open a kidney pouch on his webbing, and pulled out a pair of binoculars.
I stooped on the other side of the cannon and trained my rifle behind Harris. He crept alongside me.
“You take the left arc, I’ll cover the right,” Harris said.
In my peripheral vision, Chip shuffled to a gap in the rampart and planted the binoculars against his eyes. He scanned across the bay, stopped, and adjusted the lenses.
“Harry, come here.” I edged backward. He passed me the binoculars. “Look straight ahead. You’ll see a faint light in the distance. That’s Hart Island. That’s our confirmation.”