The Lincoln screamed around the corner of West 38th Street and turned onto Eighth Avenue. That's when they saw the bodies. The squad commander — a young man called Zack Wack — stood on the brakes as his troopers readied their weapons. The car screeched to a halt and the five soldiers leaped out and assumed defensive positions. The rear gunner, working a M60 heavy machinegun out of a small turret placed where the car's trunk used to be, covered their tails. The men watched and waited.
Slowly, Wack moved forward. The heavily-littered avenue was completely deserted except for the eight bodies that were lying in the middle of the block. Wack didn't like the looks of it. It appeared the men had been ambushed. But if that was the case, it must have been a quick fight. All eight men went quickly, even before they were able to get to cover. Either that or someone had lured them out into the open.
He reached the first body and pulled the man over. Wack thought it might have been a soldier from Adzubah — the House of David's mortal enemy — but he knew right away this was not the case. This man was Nordic and new in town; his uniform was still creased and his hands were clean. He carried no papers but Wack knew right away what the man's nationality was. He could tell by his boots. Only one army in the world issued black leather ankle-boots as standard equipment. The man was a Russian soldier.
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. 1 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 the 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.