Now Dozer recognized the value of the find. At the very least, they’d get an accurate idea of how many Russian soldiers were inside the city and what kind of units they were in, whether they be combat, support, or engineering. But they also might be able to find some hidden weakness, a much sought-after Achilles’ heel they could exploit to make the Russians bleed a little.
Sitting at a table nearby, the Trashman was gulping down hot coffee, while across the table from him, the Worm was eating more stew.
Dozer called over to the ragged little arms dealer. “You risked a lot to come out here. And you brought us something we might be able to use. So we owe you.”
“How about getting my ass out of here, then?” the little man replied. “I don’t care if it ain’t DC. I’ll go anywhere. Just as long as it’s not New York. Those Russians freak me out, man.”
Dozer looked at Hunter, who just shrugged.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Dozer said.
They spread the printouts across the barracks floor and then started reading them, crawling from one pile to the next, drinking coffee mixed with whiskey.
The pages showing food tallies listed large quantities of potatoes, bread, preserved meats, plus the makings for all kinds of soup. Because the Russians had either hired or forced some unlucky New Yorkers to do kitchen work, the lists were printed in both Russian and English.
Many of the army pages specified which units were to be fed, at what time, and how much food they would need per man, per unit, per certain day. So the specialty of each unit was mentioned many times over: infantry, armor, engineers, transportation.
The navy lists were the same, only simpler: warships and supply ships. The Russians didn’t sail anything else, so you were either on one or the other and that was your specialty when it came to food distribution.
But what amazed Hunter and Dozer was the number of specialist units in the third branch of the Okupatsi, the one known as Military Operations Personnel. Paint squads, sign squads, and traffic squads were routinely cited on the meal lists. Carpenters, plumbers, pipe fitters, metal workers, diesel mechanics, computer techs—even soldiers assigned to trim the foliage and cut the grass in Central Park.
It was dawn by the time they reached the end of the computer printouts.
Now they had a much clearer picture of how many Russians were in the occupation force—64,500 or so by Dozer’s count—and the amount of combat equipment they had in the city and floating offshore, which was a lot.
But as far as finding any weaknesses in the Reds’ order of battle, they’d come up empty. The Kremlin had apparently addressed every last detail of the Okupatsi, so they had no weak spots. In other words, for Hunter and Dozer, no Holy Grail.
Exhausted, they finished yet another pot of coffee and sat on the floor.
“They’ll be building a fucking dome over the city next,” Dozer said wearily. “Because they probably brought a bunch of fucking dome engineers with them.”
For some reason, at that moment, Hunter recalled someone once describing Jazz to him as the music found between the notes. What was not there was just as important as what was.
He suddenly sat up. Could the real value of the printouts come from what they didn’t tell them?
He began scanning the lists again; one page he’d seen had stuck in his mind. Because all the food for the occupation forces came out of the enormous Russian canteen near Battery Park, it was easy to follow how much went to what ground unit and when. It was the same for every ship in the harbor; which ship got what and how much. While the Russian ground units never complained about the amount of food they received, the Russian sailors were constantly asking for more. No matter how much they were already getting, every ship wanted more meat, more potatoes, more ice cream.
Except for one … a cargo vessel called the Bruynyzi. The ship’s name was on the list of vessels requiring canteen service once the invasion began. But that was nearly five weeks ago, and the ship had yet to complain about its daily complement of chow. Why would this crew have manners when none of the others did?
Hunter went back to a graph showing the amount of food sent to navy ships in the past five weeks and discovered the Bruynyzi hadn’t received any at all, never mind asking for seconds. Could all this mean the ship hadn’t made it to New York City?
He began tossing the printouts aside; he was looking for just one page now: a certain sheet that broke down every supply ship’s crew and passengers by name and rank. This told you what unit was traveling aboard what ship and what they did in the order of battle.
He finally found the sheet for the Bruynyzi—and with it, the Holy Grail.
The Bruynyzi was actually an oceangoing car ferry, another civilian ship the Russians had converted for military use. It was carrying yet another MOP unit and all their equipment. But it was the unit’s specialty that held the key.
Hunter crawled across the floor to where Dozer had passed out and shook his old friend awake.
“I think the Reds are missing something critical,” he told the sleepy officer. “Not because they forgot it, but because it hasn’t arrived yet.”
Dozer replied with a yawn, “Please … tell me.”
Suddenly, Hunter couldn’t stop smiling. The Russians had engineers, plumbers, electricians, and painters. Mechanics and computer techs, doctors and nurses, sanitation experts and bus drivers, even arborists. The list went on and on.
But …
“This ship was supposed to arrive the first night of the invasion,” Hunter told Dozer. “Maybe it broke down or got lost or sank or something. But I think one thing’s for sure, it never made it here.”
“So?” Dozer asked with another yawn.
“Look at what it was carrying,” Hunter urged him.
Dozer read the sheet and then sat straight up.
The Bruynyzi was carrying five one hundred–man companies of the First Moscow Fire Brigade, plus five squadrons of fire trucks, one hundred and twenty five vehicles in all.
“Holy crap,” Dozer exclaimed softly. “They don’t have a fire department.”
Chapter Thirteen
May 6
It was completely dark. No moon. No clouds. No wind.
No noise.
Until 2330 hours exactly. That’s when the camouflage netting over 7CAV’s hidden base slowly opened up.
Then came the growl of airplane engines. Nine in all, coughing to life, the smallest much louder than the rest. Their combined roar washed through the Pine Barrens, shaking the trees and scaring the ghosts.
Inside of a minute, the 7CAV’s four Sherpa airplanes were lined up on the runway, awaiting the order to take off.
It had been a long, intense day for Hunter, Dozer, and the men of the 7CAV.
They’d spent most of it on the quartet of homely Sherpa cargo planes. The freight humpers had undergone a startling transformation in the past twelve hours. Each plane now had six machine-gun positions: one in the nose, two on each side, and one in the back next to the access ramp, doubling the crew on each. The planes’ old gray dispersion paint scheme had been replaced with jet-black camouflage, nose to tail. An enormous American flag had been painted on both sides of their fuselages just behind the wing.
But the biggest alteration to the Sherpas had taken place inside their cargo bays. All nonessential equipment had been stripped out and large improvised bomb racks had been put in. Then each plane was loaded with a dozen extremely unusual bombs.
By sunset, the venerable Seventh Cavalry had been turned on its head. It still consisted of the same men under the same commander and possessed the same patriotic thirst to hit back against the Russian invaders … but technically the 7CAV was no longer a ground attack unit. It was now in the air-assault business.
At 2335 hours, the Sherpas got the go-code to launch.
One after another, they too
k off, their propellers aided by homemade JATO bottles under their wings. These temporary rocket boosters provided the extra lift needed for the overloaded planes to rise into the night.
Only the noisy fifth plane was left on the runway. Hunter’s clown car with wings. Taped and glued and wired back together, it looked stranger than ever.
Dozer was having a shouted conversation with Hunter while the Wingman was doing one last check of his control surfaces. The marine wasn’t exactly in a good place, though. He was trying to reason with Hunter.
“You’ve taken people up in this thing before,” he was shouting in Hunter’s ear. “There must be room in there for me. I’ll be able to help you.”
But Hunter wasn’t having any of it.
“I’m not taking you,” he said, loading some rope and a hastily made three-prong grappling hook into his cockpit. They’d been through it all day. “Like I said, if we both buy the farm, who’s going to run your outfit? Too many people count on you—and when that happens, then you truly are the commanding officer. And that’s when the book says you don’t go on combat missions.”
Dozer had reached his frustration level. “So how about the people who count on you?” he retorted sharply.
Hunter just shrugged. “I was already dead, remember? People stopped counting on me a long time ago.”
Dozer threw his cigar on the ground and started to walk away. Hunter felt terrible, but he just had to do this mission alone. Still, there was something he’d wanted to tell his old friend since coming here—and now might be the last time he’d be able to do it.
“Hey, Bull,” Hunter yelled.
Dozer walked the few steps back over to the cockpit.
“Listen,” Hunter began, “I’m pretty sure I’m not in the exact same place I’d been when I left in the shuttle. It’s real close, but a few things are different.”
Hunter looked at his old friend now. He’d been trying to hone his memory, and he was certain now that before he’d gone on that last shuttle mission, Dozer had been killed fighting Viceroy Dick’s army in the Battle of Indianapolis. That’s why, the night before, he’d had such a hard time believing he was really seeing and talking to his old friend. He was going to tell Dozer this because he felt it was something the marine officer should know.
But at the last instant, he stopped himself. Why mention it at all? Bull was here, alive. Other things—and other people—might be different, but in this case, it was actually like a small miracle. Who gets to meet a good friend, living and breathing again, after that friend has passed on?
At that moment, Hunter knew for sure all bets were off. If Dozer was here in this place, but was dead in the time and place Hunter had been in before, then there was a chance that Dominique was not the same woman he’d once loved. Or maybe, even worse, she had simply changed and traded in her beautiful heart for a dark one. He had to find out. That’s why this mission was so important.
Switching gears smoothly, he hoped, he said to his old friend, “I just wanted to say you haven’t changed a bit, buddy. And take it from me, you’re a good guy in at least two universes.”
Dozer put a new cigar between his teeth and lit it. Then he grinned widely.
“Good to know,” he said.
Then he tapped Hunter twice on the shoulder and was gone.
Hunter did one last check of his flight panel, closed his canopy, and pulled away. The little aircraft rolled down the runway for barely five feet before its engine let out a scream and its nose lifted dramatically.
At full throttle, its wings slotted back, the clown plane ascended straight up, through the hole in the roof, and into the night.
All this activity was a result of the deal Hunter and Dozer had made earlier.
Their objective was to bring the fight to the Russians, giving the 7CAV a chance to make them hurt somewhere while providing Hunter with the cover he needed to carry out his second, more personal mission.
While nothing they did this night could adequately address the mammoth problem of dislodging sixty-five thousand enemy troops from New York City, at least it would give the invaders and their masters in Moscow something to think about.
This is why no one had worked harder that day than Hunter himself. He knew the men aboard the newly lethal Sherpas would be risking their lives, not just to make a statement to the world about the Russian occupation of New York City, but also to allow him to do his thing. He had to make sure that before they left the ground, he had given them every possible advantage to survive the mission.
In addition to designing and helping install the planes’ new gun stations, he’d written a complete flight plan for the Sherpas to follow. Not only did it include an exact release point for the “barrel bombs,” which would allow them to hit most effectively, he also built in a huge safety factor for the plane crews.
They immediately dubbed it the Goldilocks Zone. It was a combat altitude of exactly three thousand feet that would give them the best chance to get to the target unscathed and escape the same way. Why three thousand? Because Hunter knew the truck-borne machine guns that had fired at him earlier could only reach two thousand feet with any effectiveness. And a giant SA-4 SAM couldn’t hit anything below four thousand feet without blowing up first. If the Sherpa pilots stayed at three thousand feet while over the city, then two of the Russians’ most deadly weapons couldn’t touch them.
Not too hot, not too cold. Just right—the Goldilocks Zone.
Once airborne, the four Sherpas quickly formed a chevron over the base. Taking up position at the nose of the V was the little plane with the big wheels.
Then the five planes turned northeast.
Just beyond the horizon, the crews could already see the crimson glow of Russkiy-NYC.
Chapter Fourteen
Dominique was naked.
Lying in a huge, white oval bathtub in the penthouse at 30 Rock, suds covering half her body, she was methodically washing herself, scrubbing every bit of her skin over and over again. She’d done this at least twice a day for the past four weeks.
Commissar Zmeya could see her from the bed. He’d told her to keep the door ajar while she bathed, and she’d obeyed. He’d been watching her for about thirty minutes, and there had not been a word between them. Yet he’d become intensely aroused by the view.
He still hadn’t been able to figure her out; that’s what made her so fascinating. Sizing up people was his business. Strong or weak. Brave or cowardly. Sexy or not. He’d met only one kind of woman during his dramatic rise to the top of the NKVD: the Americans called them starfuckers. Women who wanted to be with him because he was powerful. Unpleasantries such as the sight of a little blood before lovemaking or rougher antics during the act had not dissuaded any of them. Hours or even days of carnal romping usually followed, until it was time for them to go.
But Dominique?
She was different.
She’d been waiting for him when he first arrived at Battery Park. It was the third night of the Okupatsi, and his own personal cruiser, the Zosef, had just endured two weeks on the rough Atlantic. While he did not get seasick during the voyage, he was glad to get back on land.
Because his ETA had been kept a secret, when the Zosef pulled up to the dock just before midnight, few were there to notice except the cooks working in the huge canteen nearby. The landing area had been previously swept and secured by naval marines. They’d been quickly replaced by Zmeya’s own personal bodyguards.
It had rained all day and was raining still when the ship tied up. Fog mixed with the smoke and steam coming from the giant outdoor kitchen made the visibility almost zero. Zmeya recalled thinking, Is New York always this dreary?
With his arrival, the Kremlin’s propaganda ministry planned to distribute millions of flyers around the world saying, “Law and Order has reached America” in the form of the famous Commissar Zmeya. When info
rmed he was being branded as the toughest man in the world, Zmeya couldn’t say no.
But a photo of him stepping off his ship would be required. He and his security people had been told to expect a MOP photographer and an assistant at the dock. But when they came down the ship’s gangway, there was only one person waiting for them.
It was Dominique.
Their eyes met, and Zmeya felt a surge of electricity go through him. He knew who she was immediately, while the security people around him—dumb peasants, all of them—had no idea. In this apocalyptic video-game world of global conquest and heroes and villains, she was a celebrity. And so was he. It was as if they knew each other already.
But what was she doing here?
She was holding a camera with a flash attached. It could have been a gun in disguise, Zmeya had supposed, or a bomb. But in that instant, he couldn’t imagine the famous Hawk Hunter’s equally famous girlfriend performing a suicide mission. If this was an assassination attempt, the Wingman would have done it himself. And if he was dead as everyone thought, certainly one of his band of merry American patriots would have stepped in.
No, this was something different. This was a woman being bold.
He’d not realized until then how hauntingly beautiful she was. Blond hair, porcelain skin, enormous blue eyes. A face that could launch a thousand ships. She was dressed in an all-black formal MOP uniform, but with alterations. The blouse was form fitting with three top buttons undone. The uniform skirt was very short. She was wearing dark stockings and knee-high boots. Hair tied back, a hint of eye shadow.
Zmeya remembered saying to himself, I must have this.
His bodyguards quickly surrounded her, but she’d seemed unaffected by them. She explained in perfect Russian that her commander at MOP had been detained, unable to come, possibly a security issue.
Then she simply asked Zmeya, “So? Can I take your picture?”
He’d nodded eagerly, and she snapped off two rolls of film. Then he shooed his security men away so he could talk to her alone.
Battle for America Page 9
