Battle for America

by Maloney, Mack;

  “On whose orders?” he asked.

  “The commissar’s,” she replied dryly. “He doesn’t want them any nearer to him than that.”

  The next three checkpoints were manned by uniformed male Militsiyas. They had rigged the elevators to stop at three random floors for a security check. Every time the doors opened and a guard read his note, Samsonov could see more and more armed NKVD cops roaming around. Even some apparatchiks were now carrying weapons.

  He reached the 110th floor, the site of Zmeya’s new gigantic apartment in the sky, to find a small army of extremely tough-looking gunmen hanging around, special plainclothes Militsiya he assumed. Each was holding an AK-47 and eyeing him suspiciously.

  Finally, the NKVD guard at the last checkpoint looked at the letter and told him, “Down the hallway, second door on the right. If it’s open, go in. If it’s closed, knock.”

  Samsonov walked down the darkened corridor, suddenly feeling very uneasy. Who knew what really awaited him? After all, this was the NKVD. Plus, he was mess. His uniform was soaking wet, his hair plastered to his head.

  He paused before the second door and tried to straighten himself out. Deep breath. Push back the hair. Put on the game face.

  Knock twice.

  The door opened—and suddenly he was face to face with Dominique.

  She was wearing a very short negligee and was smiling sweetly.

  “Oh my goodness, you’re all wet,” she said.

  Samsonov nearly passed out. The angel herself, standing right in front of him, dressed like …

  “I am Colonel Ivan Samsonov, reporting as requested,” he said, having no idea how he got the words out.

  She never lost her smile. “Come in,” she said. “He’s on the radiophone, and that usually takes a while. In fact, you would not believe some of the things he’s been missing because of that damn phone.”

  She fetched a towel for him and then led him into the huge living area. Zmeya was in the other room, his back to them, viciously berating someone on the other end of the phone.

  “It’s a fucking aircraft carrier,” he was saying through gritted teeth. “It’s enormous. You’ve got more than a hundred satellites. Why can’t you find the goddamn thing?”

  “Your next meeting is here,” she called to him with mock weariness.

  “Sit him down,” Zmeya yelled back over his shoulder. “Give him some mineral water or something.”

  She led Samsonov to an alcove off the main living area where a curved couch awaited. They sat down, her right next to him. The view was spectacular.

  “Looking out on the world from the top of the world,” she said with a sigh. “It’s like you can see all of Earth from here.”

  Samsonov was still in shock that this was happening, his brain’s reaction to the sudden overload of stimuli. But now with her sitting so close to him, he began praying that another part of his body wouldn’t start reacting. It was going to be a tough job.

  She was so natural in her short negligee, her legs and feet as perfect as the rest of her. She smelled beautiful. And she was smiling at him, and sitting very close and giving off the aura of someone who was ready to have sex at any moment.

  “You know, I know who you are,” she told him.

  That was it; he could barely breathe.

  “Because I was the army liaison officer to the commissar’s office?” he managed to spit out.

  She playfully slapped his leg. “No—silly. You’re the hero. The person who shot the ghost plane.”

  Samsonov flashed back to that awful night when he was holding on for dear life at the top of 30 Rock. He was so scared then. But how strange is life? He’d only done it in the hope that Dominique would become aware of his courageous act—and him. Now he was here talking to her. His plan had worked beyond all expectations.

  But old-fashioned honor led him to reply, in a whisper, “But the ghost plane came back, my lady. The next night …”

  She just touched his hand for a moment and said, “I know.”

  Samsonov could no longer sit up properly. He silently began reciting prayers at twice the normal speed.

  “How did you survive the firestorm?” she asked. “Wasn’t it horrible?”

  “It was the one night I decided to go home,” he told her. “The first time I’d slept in my billet in almost two weeks. It is only by luck that I wasn’t in my office when the bombing happened.”

  “I’m glad you were not hurt,” she said.

  “I am as well, my lady,” he said with a smile.

  They looked out at Manhattan again. It was dizzying at this height.

  “Such a great city it is,” she said with another sigh.

  “I think that’s why we are here, my lady.”

  She laughed at that. She was so easygoing, he felt as if he’d known her for years.

  “It would really be a shame if the city were destroyed,” she said wistfully. “We came close with the firebombing. What happens next time?”

  “Talking as a security officer,” he replied, “it’s always good to have a contingency plan.”

  It was more of a joke than anything else, very dry Russian humor. And she laughed at it as well.

  “The way things are going,” she said, “I think the only contingency at this point would be a gigantic submarine. Avoid everything else. Just come up, get us, go back down, and sail away. Who would ever know?”

  “It is the navy who has the submarines, my lady,” he said, kidding her again. “I’m no expert, but they have at least a handful. Nuclear-powered, of course. They could go forever.”

  “Really?” she asked, leaning even closer to him. “Are they here you mean? Attached to the Okupatsi? Nearby … underwater?”

  Samsonov started to answer, but suddenly became aware of someone standing behind them.

  It was Commissar Zmeya, looming over him.

  “This is … what’s the word? Cozy,” Zmeya sneered.

  Samsonov could already see the muzzle flashes of the firing squad in his near future. He’d just been caught talking mush with the commissar’s mistress, who just happened to be the girl of his dreams.

  But Zmeya was on another mission entirely. He made Dominique get up so he could sit down with Samsonov.

  “Don’t forget what we were in the middle of doing,” she told Zmeya coyly.

  Then she wandered away.

  Zmeya gave him a perfunctory handshake.

  “Congratulations, Samsonov,” he said, not even looking at him. “Please try to do your best for the Motherland, so on and so forth.”

  “So, it is true, Commissar? I am the new supreme commander?”

  “Of course you are,” Zmeya snapped. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “But what about the Sostva? People haven’t seen them in the flesh since the firebombing. They were not hurt I hope.”

  Zmeya was already getting exasperated.

  “The Sostva officers decided to take some time off to work on their radio-broadcasting skills,” he said, adding ominously, “over on Staten Island. Now, is there anything else you’re curious about, Samsonov?”

  Samsonov put his hand to his mouth, indicating he would shut up. Zmeya took out the contents of an envelope he was holding. Plans for the massive bombardment of a section of New Jersey about forty miles south of New York City.

  “This is the only ongoing operation that’s important at the moment,” Zmeya told him.

  “The Pine Barrens?” Samsonov asked, looking at the map. “The haunted forest?”

  “Yes,” Zmeya said. “Under NKVD direction, the army hit it with a series of rocket artillery strikes just hours ago. We’re sending in a battalion of Chekskis to clear it of the guerillas who firebombed us.”

  “You found them, sir?”

  “Of course we did,” Zmeya snapped again. �
�And we’ve taken care of the problem, as you can see. But I brought you up here to warn you, Samsonov. The NKVD cannot continue to do things the army should be doing. These are critical times for the Okupatsi. If there are enemies around us, then do your duty, and do something about them, so we can continue our important work. That’s it. You can go.”

  Samsonov got to his feet and saluted.

  When he didn’t move right away, Zmeya looked up at him. “Is there something else?”

  “Yes, sir,” he began, “I am now head of all the military in Russkiy-NYC. Is it because I was a hero? Because I damaged the ghost plane?”

  Zmeya just glowered up at him. “Of course not, you fool. That bastard clown was back the next night—and look what that led to.”

  “Then why, Commissar? Why me?”

  Zmeya stood up and faced him almost nose to nose.

  “If you’re a hero,” he said, “it’s only because you got Cadillacs and hookers for my men. Now, we are done here.”

  Samsonov saluted again and finally turned to go. But Zmeya caught him by the sleeve and added coldly, “And by the way, Samsonov—you weren’t the first choice for the job.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Samsonov ran back to his office in the rain, this time without a trash bag for protection.

  He felt like a young colt. Running through the depressingly gray smoke and mist, the stale smell of something burning inside the sprawling canteen. The stink of the Midtown fires still in the air. None of it mattered.

  Dominique …

  He’d met her, he’d talked to her, she’d touched him. And sex had been in the air. It was crazy, yet it had just happened. Cerebral orgasms. It was the only way he could describe the joy he’d experienced by being so close to her.

  He reached the Liberty Building headquarters and took the stairs to the top floor, still floating. He would do everything Zmeya wanted and more. Not out of loyalty to the murderous thug, but to endear himself to the head of the secret police, just so he could see Dominique again.

  He’d do anything for her.

  The top of the HQ was deserted when he arrived. All the third-shift duty people were working on the floor below. He cut through his office to his small apartment and closed the door. He flicked the light switch—but no lights came on.

  He tried again, and that’s when he felt something cold pressing against his temple.

  In the dim light coming in the apartment’s only window, he saw the shadow of an enormous .357 Magnum pistol pointing at him. It looked like a small cannon.

  Deeper in the shadows, a man dressed in combat fatigues but wearing a fighter pilot’s helmet was holding the weapon.

  Damn. Could this be who he thought it was?

  “We need to talk,” the gunman said. “You speak English, right?”

  Samsonov nodded.

  “You’re the new CO of all the military in town?”

  Samsonov nodded again.

  “Okay, I’ll say this once,” he began. “In a matter of hours, this city will come under attack. The target is strictly the NKVD—this time anyway. Now, you can avoid a lot of unpleasantness by giving your people one simple order.”

  “What—to surrender?” Samsonov asked, almost interrupting him. “Just because you threaten to shoot me in the head? They wouldn’t follow that order. I’m not that important.”

  “I’m not saying surrender,” the gunman told him, pressing the gun deeper. “Just keep them in their barracks when things get going.”

  But Samsonov laughed—he couldn’t help it. “You want me to tell my soldiers and sailors to stand down while you … what? Fight the NKVD?”

  The gunman nodded. “That’s exactly right. They’ve fucked with the wrong people. And now, they need to pay.”

  “Then you must be insane, whoever you are,” Samsonov told him. “If I did as you want, those NKVD monsters would cut me up and feed me to the fish—me and everyone in this building.”

  “Not if all of the monsters are dead,” the gunman said coolly.

  This gave Samsonov pause.

  “You’re that sure of victory, are you?” he finally asked. “Who do you represent? An army of angels?”

  The gunman yanked Samsonov over to his only window to get some light. He handed him an envelope. It was bulging with Polaroid instant photographs.

  “Look at them,” the gunman ordered him.

  Samsonov did as told, holding the first one up to the light.

  It showed stacks of lead-lined canisters, all labeled in Russian as being nerve agents and extremely deadly. Other photos were close-ups of nuclear warheads. Still others of long-range artillery shells filled with poison gas.

  Samsonov had seen WMD before, but just not so much in one place.

  “Where did you get this nonsense?” Samsonov challenged him.

  “Look at the last two pictures,” he was told.

  Samsonov picked up the two photos. One depicted a group of men gathered in front of yet another array of awesomely deadly weapons. They were holding up a large American flag. The second picture was an aerial view of the Admiral Isakov. Several dozen men were standing on the crooked, smoky deck in such a way that they spelled out “USA.”

  Samsonov was totally confused now. “What is this all about?”

  “The NKVD’s toy boat? The Admiral Isakov, the largest aircraft carrier in the world?” the gunman replied. “It was on its way here, to New York, carrying all that WMD, when we intercepted it and captured it. Plus, a troop transport carrying thirty thousand Chekskis was sunk with no survivors. And you’re hearing about all this for the first time?”

  Samsonov couldn’t reply. Clearly, the NKVD did not consider him important enough to be told of this military disaster. But now he knew why the shit drill was going on inside Tower Two.

  The gunman pressed him. “I’d say for you not to be informed of this means the Russian military’s role in Russkiy-NYC is questionable at best.”

  Again, Samsonov could not reply.

  “Getting the idea now?” the gunman went on. “We can drop some or all of this scary stuff on top of all of you, and it won’t bother us a bit. There are hardly any civilians left in the city; they all left after the firestorm, right?”

  Samsonov could only nod. It was true; the city had emptied out so quickly after that night, there hadn’t been enough time to seal all the tunnels and bridges. More than a few deserters were reported among the swiftly moving masses.

  “Okay then, you see?” the gunman said. “Collateral damage will not be a concern. So we can get most of you with just a few punches. The question is: Do you really want New York to be the graveyard for you and all your people? Thousands of them? Stalingrad in reverse?”

  Samsonov pushed the photos back into the gunman’s hands.

  “But I can’t do what you ask,” he told him. “It’s … illogical.”

  “Screw logic, my friend,” the gunman cautioned him. “You let us take care of the NKVD, then you guys can get on your ships and sail out of here, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “You’re that certain of victory?” Samsonov asked him again.

  “Let’s just say we’re all betting men,” the gunman replied. “And we’re betting you’re not going to be a fool and let sixty thousand of your guys get killed by WMD that have made in russia stamped on them.”

  “You’d destroy your own city, just for that?”

  “We took out thirty-five city blocks, didn’t we?” the gunman replied. “If the question is if we’ll destroy it before letting you have it, the answer is yes. A thousand times, yes.”

  A long pause.

  Then the gunman lowered his weapon. “Look, pal, just give us an hour. Just stay out of the way.”

  Samsonov shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s a matter of honor. The thought o
f betraying my country like that? It’s not like betraying Moscow or the Kremlin. I would be betraying Mother Russia herself.”

  “You need further motivation then,” the gunman said.

  Samsonov just shook his head and waited. The lights in his tiny apartment suddenly came on. Much to his embarrassment the walls were covered with photographs—of Dominique.

  Many had been shot from telephoto lenses, skyscraper to skyscraper. Others were just enlargements of the famous Circle War photo. But they were all of the blonde beauty.

  “Okay, then,” the gunman said. “Will you do it for her?”

  With the new illumination, Samsonov saw the man for the first time. Not his eyes, as his helmet’s visor was down—and, strangely, the helmet itself was being held together by duct tape.

  But Samsonov knew for certain who the man was.

  Hawk Hunter, the Wingman. Back from the dead.

  “I see we have something in common,” he told Samsonov, indicating all the photos.

  “More than you know,” Samsonov replied. “I wanted her to notice me, one way or another. And I accomplished that by shooting at that flying bug of yours.”

  “You’re the guy who shot the RPG at me?”

  “I am,” Samsonov replied with almost a bow.

  “Well, next time, Comrade, learn how to aim one of those things.”

  There was a long awkward silence.

  Finally, Samsonov said, “And what will I get if I do this? An autographed picture of her? A peck on the cheek at some point?”

  “You get to help keep her alive,” his visitor told him plainly. “You know Zmeya’s track record. How long do you think she’s going to last once the Kremlin realizes its flagship and all those weapons are now in our hands?”

  Samsonov thought a few more moments, looking at her pictures surrounding them.

  Then he said, “You have one hour—and none of my men get hurt.”

  “One hour. And you’d better be a man of your word, or you will be fish food. I guarantee it.”