Dozer took his feet off the desk and pulled his chair closer to Hunter’s.
“Look, Hawk,” he said, “I appreciate that you love her. Everyone does. But time goes by fast these days. What we were all doing six months ago is already history, and what we were doing fifteen years ago is already ancient history. You know what I’m saying?”
Hunter nodded solemnly. “You think she might not want to be … rescued?”
Dozer winced at the pain he heard in his friend’s voice. But that was exactly what he meant.
“You have to at least consider the possibility,” he said. “I mean, this high-level Russian officer she’s with must know who she is, and must know how tight you two were. And women like her need protecting these days. And she’s attracted to powerful men—like you.”
“But would she really switch sides, Bull?” Hunter asked him sincerely. “Or is it maybe I’m actually in another universe where things like that don’t matter as much? Don’t people who’ve found each other generally stick together here?”
Dozer held up five fingers. “Don’t you remember?” he said with a grin. “I’ve been divorced five times. So you’re asking the wrong person.”
Hunter paused for a moment, then said, “Well, maybe I am in the wrong universe. And maybe in this one Dominique is different and not the same girl I loved. Or maybe I’m in the right place and she’s just changed.
“But either way … I’ve got to know.”
Chapter Twelve
It had already been a crazy night for the two troopers up in the 7CAV spy tower. But it was about to get stranger.
The excitement of the Wingman’s arrival an hour ago had finally settled down. The balloon cam was holding steady in moderate winds. The sky was clear of any other airplanes, friend or foe. The troopers even managed to drink another pot of coffee, flavoring it with some no-name whiskey Dozer left behind.
But at exactly 0130 hours, one of the troopers made an alarming discovery. Using his night-vision goggles to routinely scan the glorified dirt trail that led to the secret base, he saw a large heat source about a half mile to the south.
His partner saw it, too. The heat source was moving, and now they could hear engine noise as well. Some sort of vehicle was coming up the hill and heading right toward the 7CAV base.
Because it was passing through such thick woods, the troopers couldn’t make out its exact profile; in the eerie emerald world of night vision, it looked like nothing more than a hot, greenish blob. But this blob was substantial in size and mowing down small trees and bushes as it approached. The troopers grimly surmised that a tank, a mobile gun, or some other kind of tracked weapon was coming their way.
Maybe the first of many.
Back at the secret base, Hunter quietly greeted the 7CAV troopers as they came into the Quonset hut for chow.
The Seventh Cavalry ate breakfast at one thirty in the morning these days. Because they were so close to so many enemy troops, the unit was on a night-ops schedule; very active between sunset and sunrise and mostly lying low during the day. These troopers were all astonished to see the hero fighter pilot in flesh and bone, upright and breathing, talking to them as if nothing had happened. It was a little spooky.
Once the buzz died down, Hunter sat with Dozer at a dining table away from the rest of 7CAV. The menu this morning was Dozer’s whiskey stew, again. It was the staple of the unit. But while Hunter couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real meal, he passed on taking a bowl for himself. He was too restless to eat.
As Dozer drained three enormous bowls of his own creation, Hunter provided more details about his recent activities.
He’d taken the half million in silver from the talent scout and used some of it to buy the plane with the big wheels from the people who owned Mudtown’s airport casino, along with some gas. He’d deconstructed the little aircraft, packed it into a pair of massive emptied-out under-wing fuel tanks, attached them to his F-16XL, and then flew to his secret base in Vermont Territory’s Green Mountains. He put the clown plane back together again and commenced his bizarre scouting mission of New York City the following day.
But after the clown plane got hit over the city, he let his instinct take over, and it led him to the Pine Barrens. A good thing, too, because he would have never made it back to the highway in Trenton.
On hearing that, Dozer nodded to the next table over, where the bandaged-up numbers-running Worm was working on his third bowl of stew.
“Cosmic sensory perception in your case,” Dozer told Hunter. “Dumbass luck in his.”
The conversation came back to the present and what would happen next.
Dozer knew Hunter wanted to return to New York as soon as his clown plane was fixed. But he told the Wingman of his own dilemma of how and where to counterattack the Russians. And of having to go it alone.
Hunter was mystified by Dozer’s inability to communicate with their old warrior friends, people who should have been here in a heartbeat after the Russians invaded New York City.
“Nothing on your radio,” Hunter said. “Just like nothing was happening on Mudtown’s radios either. Very strange.”
They got down to the crux of the matter. They had similar goals. Dozer wanted to do something in New York City to hurt the Russians and send a signal to Moscow that this wasn’t going to be a free ride. And so did Hunter. But the Wingman also wanted to go back to find Dominique.
“How about we plan something together,” Hunter suggested. “I’ll help you guys do your thing, then I can go do mine—and find her for real this time.”
Dozer didn’t argue with him. While he couldn’t condone the idea of his friend’s crazy one-man rescue mission, he knew that in addition to being the greatest pilot who’d ever lived, Hunter was also an expert war strategist and extremely adept at coming up with ideas out of left field that always seemed to work. That’s what the 7CAV needed right now.
Dozer gave him a fist bump.
“You got a deal, Hawk,” he said. “But only if you promise not to get killed when you go out solo.”
“It will be a piece of cake,” Hunter deadpanned. “Either that or a walk in the park.”
But Hunter knew none of it was going to be easy. Intelligence collected by the spy tower had allowed 7CAV to piece together the Russians’ order of battle—their strengths, their weapons, troop deployments, and resupply. And for the first time in Russia’s military history, everything appeared to be moving along smoothly.
Conversely, they knew very little about Russian weaknesses, if they even had any. If a small force like the 7CAV was going to take a swing at such a giant, it would be good to know if the giant had an Achilles’ heel.
“That’s what really scares me,” Dozer told him now. “From what we’ve seen on the balloon cam, and what we’ve heard them bragging about on Red Radio, and by keeping tabs on how many of their supply ships have arrived already, they don’t seem to lack anything. I think the Reds really thought of everything this time.”
“There’s always a weakness somewhere,” Hunter replied quietly. “The trouble is, sometimes it takes so long to find it, it’s too late to do you any good.”
Now it was Hunter who motioned toward the Worm, who was still feeding his face.
“We need what he already has,” Hunter said. “A big bowl of dumb luck.”
The base’s intruder-alert alarms went off a moment later.
The next thing Hunter knew, he was behind the wheel of Dozer’s jeep, driving like a madman through the night.
Around trees, over gigantic roots, through sand pits and small ravines. There were no roads, no signs—and the jeep didn’t have any headlights. Hunter couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven anything other than an airplane. Making it worse, he was beyond exhausted and really drunk.
He was at the head of the 7CAV’s twenty-four-man Quick Re
action Force as it was speeding toward the one and only way leading into the base. Three 7CAV troop trucks full of heavily armed soldiers followed behind him. The trucks were right on his tail, weaving as he was weaving. It was almost as hairy as flying around the Manhattan skyline.
The only reason Hunter was driving was because Dozer was on the radiophone with the two spy-tower soldiers. They’d spotted a large vehicle of some kind approaching the base—and it was at least the size of a tank. The troopers had called it in, climbed down from the tower, and set up their 50-caliber machine gun at a bend in the dirt trail.
Through it all, Dozer remained unflustered. Cigar clenched between his teeth, bouncing around as if the jeep had no shock absorbers, he was getting a running commentary from the two troopers on what was happening and where the heat blob was. And at the moment, it was just around the bend from them, seconds from revealing itself. But the quick reaction troops were still a half mile away. No matter how fast Hunter drove, they would not reach the men in time.
Whatever it was, the two troopers would have to take it on alone.
Dozer told them to stay calm and to keep talking to him on the radiophone. When he heard their gasps as the heat blob came around the corner a few moments later, he expected the worst.
The troopers said they were ready to fire and then … nothing but silence.
A few long seconds passed.
Still nothing. …
Finally, Dozer heard one of the troopers say off the radio: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Then the other trooper said directly to Dozer, “Captain … you’re not going to believe this.”
The 7CAV arrived a minute later and found something that was indeed unbelievable.
The two troopers were still in position at the side of the trail, still hunched over their machine gun, but in obvious relief.
Twenty feet in front of them was not a Russian T-72 tank or a Brozi gun truck or any other kind of fierce mobile weapon.
It was a New York City garbage truck.
And only one person had been aboard—the driver, who’d been ordered out of the truck by the two troopers and told to lie face down on the muddy unpaved path, hands spread out in front of him.
The Quick Reaction troops off the first truck sprinted over to him and searched him for weapons. He had none. They pulled him up to a sitting position, while the rest of the team spread out and established a defense perimeter.
The driver was a short, round man with a scraggly gray beard and long matted hair. He was shabbily dressed, and although it was difficult to tell his age, late-thirties would have been a good guess. While his eyes looked wild, he was holding a small American flag in his right hand and was waving it vigorously, making sure everyone could see it.
Carrying an American flag in New York was a punishable offense. Dozer knew whoever this character was, he was taking a huge risk just by having the flag on him.
“I’m a friend!” he was crying, his somewhat distinguished voice not matching his ragged appearance at all. “I’m an American!”
Hunter and Dozer climbed out of the jeep, both carrying M-16s, and walked up to the little man. When he saw Hunter, he almost fainted.
“I knew it! I knew you were still alive.”
Hunter looked at Dozer and just shrugged.
“What are you doing out here?” Dozer demanded.
The guy just shook his head and began his strange story.
“I’m a weapons buyer out of the old DC,” he said. “I was in New York for a big deal when all of a sudden the Russians are getting off their boats. I mean, I’d heard the mob warnings to stay off the streets the night before, but I didn’t think the whole fucking Red Army was coming. They sealed off the city that night.
“I was holding a lot of money and trying to figure out how I could get out of the city without some Russian ripping me off. The weeks went by, and I couldn’t find anyone to help me. I was living in an abandoned apartment building down near the Staten Island ferry, and there was a nest of Reds down there, which made walking around in the daytime a scary proposition. Plus, they have those crazy Chekski religious nuts riding around at night, and they’re even worse.
“I had a shortwave radio with me, but the freaking thing died just as soon as the Reds came to town. I thought I’d be safer if I changed my appearance to make it look like I didn’t have a penny. My hair was pretty radical to begin with, so I let my beard grow and didn’t wash my clothes, and in a week, I looked like a typical homeless guy. That allowed me to at least go out and move around, or so I thought.
“Then, this afternoon, I saw the Chekskis execute a bunch of homeless people on Houston Street. Right in the middle of the day, probably one hundred and fifty in all. A Russian officer was making some of these poor bastards kneel on the street and beg for their lives. He’d pretend to listen while one of his goons would sneak up in back of the person, slit his throat, then cut his head right off. It gave this officer his jollies. Meanwhile, he looks like a monster himself. He has a scar that runs from ear to ear and makes it look like he is smiling. Sick fucker.
“But there I was looking like a homeless person, and obviously there’s some cleansing going on. I realized it was just a matter of time before they got me, too.
“So I prayed that the ghost plane would come again tonight, because when that crazy shit started happening over Rockefeller Plaza, a lot of the Russian soldiers weren’t paying attention to anything else, and …”
He stopped for a moment and looked up at Dozer and Hunter. “You know what I mean by the ‘ghost plane,’ don’t you? Some weird ass airplane—”
Dozer raised his hand and interrupted him. “Yes—we’ve heard all about it.”
The man went on, “Well, once the crazy airplane showed up, I snuck down to the Staten Island Ferry parking lot—that’s where they keep all the buses and the garbage trucks. When everyone climbed up on the roofs to see the ghost plane, I jumped into this rig and just started driving. I left my money behind, my clothes, my gun. I didn’t want to get caught carrying any of it, but also I didn’t care about any of it, either. I just wanted to get out of there.
“I was waved through the only two checkpoints I came to. The guards didn’t even look up at me as I drove by; they were too interested in what was happening over Midtown with the little plane. That’s the beauty of stealing a garbage truck. It’s not a Cadillac. No one noticed me.
“I thought if I could make it to the Barrens, the Reds probably wouldn’t follow me in. They’re always on the radio telling their guys to avoid this part of New Jersey, so I figured it would be a good place to hide out.
The man took a deep breath. “And that’s my story,” he concluded.
Dozer lit his cigar. Suddenly, the 7CAV was in possession of two strangers. Not prisoners exactly, but the men definitely presented complications. Just another little problem to add to 7CAV’s list.
Dozer looked over at Hunter and murmured, “Another mouth to feed.”
But the Wingman wasn’t paying attention; he was studying the garbage truck itself. Then he turned back to the little round man. “Where did you say you stole this from?”
“The ferry parking lot, down by Battery Park, near the commie canteen,” he replied.
“And is the back empty or full of garbage?”
“Oh, it’s full,” the guy said in near-disgust. “I could barely get it to do over thirty-five miles an hour, it’s so full.”
That’s when Hunter’s eyes lit up. He turned back to Dozer and said, “Bull, old friend—we might have just gotten ‘Worm lucky.’”
Thirty minutes later, the garbage truck was parked at the north end of the 7CAV’s runway, where the unit’s civilian engineers managed to dump its contents onto the tarmac.
Ten of the civvies volunteered to join Hunter sort through the thirty-foot mound of trash. He was operati
ng on the old theory that going through your enemy’s garbage was one of the best ways to get intelligence on him. They all donned yellow hazmat suits, helmets, and gloves, and using bayonets as probes, they waded into the mountain of rubbish, looking for anything useful.
There was a lot of the usual. Discarded food products, general litter, empty alcohol bottles. But also the unusual, including lots of discarded Kremlin propaganda leaflets. Written in both Russian and English, many of the leaflets appeared to have been used as dinner napkins by the Red troops. Hunter found it interesting that the troops didn’t pay attention to the Russian high command’s spin on things.
Twenty minutes in, he and two civilians stumbled across a large cardboard box, something a washing machine would come in. Oddly, it was wrapped tight with plastic tape. Why would anyone wrap a box they were throwing away? Hunter cut off the tape, and like a suddenly sprung jack in the box, a stream of paper flew out. Discarded computer printouts, thousands of pages, all on serrated, hole-punched paper.
Hunter read the first page and tapped his fist twice on his chest. They’d found a potential treasure chest.
He and the two civilians carried the box over to the Quonset hut and set it down next to Dozer’s desk. The civvies then departed with Hunter’s thanks. Dozer was sitting in his usual position, feet up on his desk, watching over his two new visitors, the Worm and the weapons dealer, who everyone had begun calling the Trashman.
“Any chance there’s a couple of cases of vodka in there?” Dozer asked Hunter, studying the box.
“Maybe better,” the Wingman replied.
He moved Dozer’s feet and dumped the printouts onto his desk.
“These are the daily food-ration orders for every Russian in New York City,” Hunter told him.
“No kidding?” Dozer replied, half seriously.
“Not only do they tell us what they eat and how much,” Hunter went on, “they also tell us which unit gets what, and they refer to each unit by name. It covers their entire canteen operation for a few days of last week.”
Battle for America Page 8
