Tom Clancy's the Division

by Alex Irvine

  Koopman was back at his desk, writing something down in a notebook and referring to his computer terminal. He looked up. “Merch?”

  “For Merchant. I had to give you a nickname while I was working through the book.” She paused, trying to figure out exactly what she wanted to say. “Listen, I want you to know that I’m grateful. Your book kept me alive, and when I started to see there was more to it than the survival advice, that kept me going. I don’t know whether Bill would still be alive if you’d called CNN instead of writing the book. I guess I’ll never know. But I do know I wouldn’t be here. So thank you.”

  He stood and inclined his head, almost bowing. There was something courtly about his bearing. “I should be thanking you,” he said. “Everything you did to get here validates what I was trying to do in the book. I wish you good luck, April Kelleher. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Koopman directed her to the JTF checkpoint nearest his hideout, where Sixth Avenue dead-ended into Fifty-ninth Street. Moving fast and keeping the Super 90 visible, April got there with no trouble. The checkpoint was a fortified sandbag emplacement on top of a cargo container, covering a gated gap in the Dark Zone barrier. JTF sentries called out when she was still in the middle of the street. “Do not approach! You will be fired on!”

  She slung the Super 90 and kept her hands out in front of her. “My name is April Kelleher,” she said. “I was told to come to this checkpoint.”

  “By whom?”

  “Roger Koopman. Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Approach slowly.”

  She did, looking up at the two sentries. One of them said, “She fits the description.”

  The other sentry looked down behind the barrier and said, “Open the gate.”

  As the gate racked open, April walked over and slid through the minute the gap was wide enough for her to pass. Two more JTF soldiers were at the base of the wall on that side. They kept guns on her as she came through, then shut the gate behind her. April turned west along the southern border of Central Park, thinking of the other times she’d gone into and out of the Dark Zone. If she was lucky, she’d never have to do it again.

  She caught breakfast at the market in front of the Natural History Museum and then kept going north, staying at the edge of the park all the way up to 110th and then cutting over to Riverside Drive for the rest of the long walk up to the far northern tip of Manhattan Island. The closer you stayed to the river, the more often you ran into JTF patrols. April wanted to be visible to them in case she ran into trouble.

  But she didn’t, and an hour later she passed the 190th Street subway station and followed a winding road into Fort Tryon Park. This was a beautiful part of Manhattan, and one she’d only seen once before. High forested bluffs fell away on her left toward the Hudson River. Beyond the river she could see the Palisades of New Jersey, spotted with condo towers. The Henry Hudson Parkway, below her at the edge of the river, was empty and silent. She passed the old fort itself, and a few minutes after that she became aware that someone was following her.

  When she turned around, she saw that in fact there were three of them. They were fifty yards or so behind her, trailing her along the park road. She stopped and took in their appearance. Three men. Two white, one black. Full beards, matching handmade tunics bearing what she recognized as some kind of medieval cross. All three carried rifles.

  “You not from around here?” the black guy asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Didn’t think so, or you would have known not to come. This is a sacred place. Visitors are not permitted. If you want to join, that’s another story. You have to talk to the Master.” He nodded past her, toward—she assumed—the tower of the Cloisters, which was where she was going anyway.

  “I don’t want to join,” she said. “Thank you. But I do need to speak to the Master.”

  “I am Brother Michael. I decide who sees the Master. What is your errand?”

  She started to shrug her backpack off, but thought better of it. From Koopman’s brief description of the Riverside Templars, surprising them didn’t seem like a good idea. Instead she said, “I have a letter for him.”

  His eyebrows rose. “A letter? From whom?”

  “It’s for the Master,” April said. “Please take me to him.”

  He held her gaze for another moment, then said, “Very well.”

  One of the white guys took her shotgun while the other gave her a respectful pat-down. Then they fell into step next to her while Brother Michael led the way toward the Cloisters.

  The one other time she’d been up here was right after she’d moved to New York, fresh out of college and determined to take in all the sights as fast as she could. It had been quiet then by New York standards, with the traffic noise from the Hudson Parkway muffled by trees and most other people picnicking or walking dogs or walking the grounds in tour groups. Now both the traffic and people were gone, and the only sounds were their footsteps on the road against a backdrop of birdsong and leaves ruffling in the wind.

  The Cloisters was a museum complex built a hundred years before from pieces of various medieval monasteries. She remembered that much from taking the tour. Now it was reborn as an actual monastery, from the looks of it, but the Riverside Templars weren’t the contemplative type of monks who spent their days transcribing manuscripts and singing vespers. She saw them at work on the grounds outside the museum. They were building fortifications, conducting combat drills, sending out patrols. She saw a few women, but mostly men. No wonder it was quiet, April thought. Any criminal gang or band of thieves would only make the mistake of testing the Templars once.

  Brother Michael guided her through an entrance, nodding at the guards on either side. April remembered there being a café in the building somewhere, but she didn’t see it as they passed deeper into the building and came out again into a courtyard. The gardens were manicured and the stone walkways swept.

  The Master stood by himself near the center of the courtyard, looking down at the still water in a large basin. He was tall, thin, with head shaved but beard thick and white against the dark brown of his skin. “Brother Michael,” he said as they approached. “Who is this?”

  “She says she has a letter for you, Master,” Brother Michael said.

  The Master still had not made eye contact with any of them. “Then let her produce it.”

  April set her backpack on the stones and took the letter out. Brother Michael plucked it from her fingers and walked to the Master, who opened it and read it. “Thank you, Brother Michael,” he said. “I will speak to her.”

  He looked up at them for the first time and saw one of the other Templars holding two guns. “One of those is hers, Brother Javier?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may return it to her.”

  Brother Javier held the Super 90 out by the strap and April took it. She slung it over her shoulder, very careful not to give anyone the impression she might be pointing it at the Master along the way.

  “You will excuse us, Brothers,” the Master said.

  The three Templars nodded and went back inside.

  The Master was looking at the letter again. “Roger Koopman,” he said. “How do you know him, Miss Kelleher?”

  “April is fine,” she said. “What do I call you?” She didn’t have a lot of patience for ceremonial titles in any circumstance, and the whole warrior-monk performance was already wearing on her. Maybe they needed it to keep themselves together, but she didn’t feel like participating.

  “My given name is Andrew Bartholomew Rhodes,” the Master said. “Colonel, United States Marines, retired. Also Doctor. I acquired a PhD in medieval European history during my service.”

  That started to clarify things a little, April thought. A retired marine officer with an interest in medieval histo
ry, faced with the collapse of civilization. Why wouldn’t he do what some medieval Europeans had done, and create a monastic order to preserve what otherwise might be lost?

  “So do I call you Dr. Rhodes or Colonel Rhodes?” she asked.

  He cracked a smile. “Andrew will be fine for now,” he said. “But you have not answered my question.” He didn’t repeat it.

  “Roger Koopman knew some important things about how my husband, Bill, was killed,” she said. “I found him so I could learn what he knew. Now I need to find some other people, and to do that I need to get across the river.”

  “So his letter explained,” the Master said. “Now perhaps I should explain why he suggested you approach us for aid. We, the Riverside Templars, have taken up the cause of protecting the innocent while the United States of America is in the process of deciding whether or not it still exists. The influence of the Joint Task Force rarely extends this far north, and without us, the entire area north of the George Washington Bridge would be a lawless waste.”

  That fit what April had already assumed. “You must be doing a good job,” she said. “It’s quiet up here.”

  He nodded. “We keep it that way. We also understand that some of the actions of the JTF impose undue hardships on those innocents we are charged to protect. People need food and medicine, yes; but they also need news of their loved ones beyond this island. And, every so often, they need to—as you said—get across the river.”

  Warrior-monks who were also smugglers, April thought. This was a strange new world the Dollar Bug had made. “I see,” she said.

  “I expect you do,” the Master said. “Koopman speaks highly of you in this letter, and he is not by disposition a man who speaks highly of many people.”

  He folded the letter and tucked it away inside his tunic. Then he glanced up at the sky. Heavy rain clouds hung over New Jersey, and the first drops of rain were already spattering the stone walkways and dimpling the surface of the water in the basin. “It is five hours yet until sunset,” he said. “We will get you across the river, but not until dark. In the meantime, permit me to extend the hospitality of the Riverside Templars. You are welcome here. Rest, refresh yourself. Bathe if you wish.” He looked past April, and she turned to see that Brother Michael had reappeared.

  “Conduct our guest to a room, Brother Michael,” the Master said. “See that she has what she needs.” To April he added, “Someone will call for you at approximately ten o’clock. It is important you be ready.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and she followed Brother Michael back inside.

  10

  AURELIO

  When the rain moved in late that afternoon, Aurelio was on a mission clearing a group of smugglers out of a condo building in the Meatpacking District. He was sweaty from running stairs, dusty from the clouds of drywall particles kicked up in the fight, and limping a little because a ricochet had clipped him on the right ankle. It was already sapped of most of its force, so it hadn’t even penetrated his boot, but it still felt like someone had cracked him with a baseball bat.

  He was better off than the smugglers, though.

  Privately Aurelio didn’t have a problem with some of the black-market commerce happening all over Manhattan. People had to get things, and there were dozens of vendors bringing in food, pharmaceuticals, and various mundane items. As far as Aurelio was concerned, they weren’t hurting anybody. But there were also groups bringing in guns and hard drugs. Some of them also offered coyote services, claiming they could smuggle people out. This particular group specialized in wringing everything they could out of desperate people who wanted to get to Jersey or points west. Then those people ended up in the river. Word never spread because none of the people who wanted out ever planned on coming back anyway, but JTF patrols farther south started finding bodies with their throats cut. They investigated and traced the grapevine right back to its roots in a condo tower at the far western end of Fourteenth Street.

  The first JTF strike team had run into trouble and called for fire support. Aurelio, who had just delivered the document package into the capable hands of Lieutenant Hendricks, headed down the High Line to see what he could do. Just south of Fourteenth, the High Line path ran underneath the building, creating a small elevated plaza. He’d shot his way in, cleared the stairwell leading down to the floors occupied by the smugglers, and kicked through the fire door just in time to save the JTF team from getting caught in what would have been a lethal crossfire. They were fully engaged with a group at the far end of the hall, and just as Aurelio came out of the stairwell, four of the smugglers burst out of a door near him. Since they were looking the other way, toward the embattled JTF team, Aurelio had put them down tout de suite. He ducked into the doorway they’d come out of, to pop a fresh magazine into the G36, and that was when he noticed that the smugglers had punched holes through the walls between condos.

  He ran the length of the hall, coming out in the last corner unit. The hole there was in a bathroom wall. He came through, stepping into a master bedroom with three terrified civilians huddled against the wall behind the bed. Aurelio motioned for them to stay put. ISAC told him the hostiles were in and around the unit’s front door, on the other side of a big open living room.

  When he stepped sideways out into the living room, he saw six smugglers, all focused on the JTF team that was hopscotching down doorways toward them. Aurelio stepped back into the bedroom, pulled the pin from a grenade, and hooked it around the bedroom doorway across the living room.

  He heard the thunk of it landing on the wood floor. Then one of the smugglers shouted, “What the fuck!”

  Then it went off.

  With the sound still ringing in his ears, Aurelio sidestepped into the living room again. Through the smoke he saw four of the smugglers down and still. ISAC tracked two more. The first of those had ducked out into the hall to avoid the grenade, but that put him right in the sights of the JTF team, who didn’t miss.

  The last smuggler popped up from inside a laundry closet on the far side of the unit’s front door. He got off a haphazard burst from what looked like a TEC-9, and Aurelio’s right leg went out from under him.

  As he was hitting the floor, though, Aurelio was firing, a long burst that splintered the closet door frame and sent the smuggler staggering back. He hit the far side of the doorway and sank down, dead by the time his ass made contact with the floor.

  Aurelio got to his feet. “Hostiles down!” he called out into the hall. He tested his leg. It hurt, and the outside of his foot was numb, but he could stand.

  Two of the smugglers were still moving, but judging from the amount of blood on the floor and the walls, they wouldn’t be for much longer. Aurelio decided he would leave it up to the JTF whether they got medical attention or not.

  “Identify yourself!” one of the JTF officers called. ISAC, combing deployment status notifications, told Diaz his name was Franklin.

  “Division agent Aurelio Diaz,” he called back. “You’re Sergeant Franklin?”

  “How the hell do you know that? Stay where you are. We’re coming in.”

  Typical, Aurelio thought. Call for help, then get suspicious when you show up and give it. “There are three civilians in the master bedroom,” he said when Franklin entered, his M4 pointed in Aurelio’s general direction. Aurelio tried not to take offense. People got jumpy after a firefight.

  He pointed behind him. “Back that way.”

  Franklin lowered the M4 and looked down at the bodies of the smugglers. One of them was still breathing, but barely. He looked back at Aurelio. “You know if this is all of them?”

  “There were guards at the High Line entrance, and they had the stairwell guarded, too,” Aurelio said. “All clear now. Another four of them at the far end of the hall. I took care of them. Then these.”

  He let that hang in the air. That’s right, he didn’t add. I just smoked a dozen
hostiles while you were trying to get three doors down the hall. Maybe you could show a little respect.

  “Understood,” Franklin said. He called back into the hall. “Civilians inside! Let’s get a medic in here!” When he looked back at Aurelio, he added, “We’ll take it from here. Appreciate the help.”

  “De nada,” Aurelio said. He waited until the JTF medic was past him into the bedroom, ignoring the last dying smuggler. Then he limped back out, back up the stairs, and out into the rain. On the way he passed two dead JTF soldiers.

  * * *

  • • •

  Now, already soaked, he stood for a while on an overgrown stretch of the High Line elevated park that ran from Gansevoort Street up to the Javits Center. The JTF tried to keep the High Line open and relatively safe, because it gave quick access to the entire stretch of Manhattan’s west side from Hudson Yards all the way down to Greenwich Village, with superior sight lines down the east–west streets along the way. The problem with the High Line was that it was lined with high-rises, so JTF teams were routinely under sniper fire whenever they operated. The rain and wind made that less of a problem, so Aurelio felt reasonably safe as he leaned on a railing and looked down the empty canyon of Fourteenth Street. Beyond Eighth Avenue, it disappeared into the rain.

  He flexed his ankle. Feeling had come back to his foot and he didn’t think anything was broken, but the next time he took off his boot he was going to have a hell of a time getting it back on. The ankle was going to swell.

  Problem for another time. He was thinking about the three civilians in the smugglers’ condo. One of them had been a girl maybe twelve or thirteen. Now that he thought about it, they were probably a family group. Unlikely all three had survived the Green Poison as a nuclear family, but the adults had gotten together in the aftermath. Now they were trying to get out, and if Aurelio hadn’t shown up—with some credit to the JTF, too, sure—all three of them would have been facedown in the Hudson sometime later that night.