Escape From New York (6 page)

The man nodded in understanding, gave him the thumbs-up sign and hurried off. Hauk started for the choppers again. He was through with war; he really was. And this was too much like it.

Leningrad had iced it for him. He took an early retirement after that one and, somehow, when he packed and came home, he had forgotten to pack his medals. It made him think of Snake Plissken for just a second. He had almost gotten to meet the man who had kept the USPF on the run for nearly five years. Now he didn’t know if he’d ever get to. Once you were dumped in the city—that was it. You were gone.

Bob Hauk knew that for a fact.

The blackbelly with the backpack ran up to him. Hauk took the black canvas sack from him with a silent nod. The man smiled broadly, his eyes glazed with the excitement. Hauk tightened his lips and moved on.

He was into the field of copters, caught in their vortex. The air swirled angrily around him. He wanted to remove himself mentally from the whole business, but he couldn’t. He’d spent too many years in the military, too many years giving and receiving orders. He would do what was expected of him. Always what was expected of him.

Black figures were blurring past, troopers in full battle dress: backpacks with survival gear, helmets, rifles, infrared goggles. Their mouths were open full, screaming, but Hauk couldn’t hear them above the helicopter noise.

He slipped off his jacket and threw it to the ground, then looped his arms through the straps of the pack and snugged it up against his back.

He kept as much distance from the whole thing as he could, tried to stay right on the edge of it. But he was a soldier, a professional soldier, and the call of battle was like sex to him. He was getting sucked in.

He kept walking until he caught sight of the command copter. It bore, in shining gold, the seal of the USPF. He looked at the icon of the eagle in the seal’s center. Its eye was staring and angry; its talons were wrapped around a length of barbed wire. The word COMMISSIONER was stenciled neatly just below the shield.

Opening the copter door, he hoisted himself into the big machine. He had a hard time getting himself situated in the seat with the bulky pack on his back. He wouldn’t be wearing it except that a regulation had come down saying that all personnel who entered the prison most wear survival gear. It was his own regulation.

When he got squared away, he shut the door. It cut down the outside noise considerably. The radio speaker blared static in front of him. He pointed to it.

“Traffic control?” he asked loudly.

The man grunted, yelling. “Yeah. Rehme’s on it.”

A headset with attached mike was lying on the console. Hauk picked it up and put it on his head, juicing the transmit switch. “Rehme . . . this is Hauk. You there? Over.”

Rehme’s voice came back firm and in control. “I’m here.”

“You got the location? Over.”

“Yeah . . . we’re talking about the south. Somewhere around the corner of Beaver and . . . uh . . . Nassau.”

Hauk didn’t know the city that well. “Listen, Control. Where the hell is . . .”

“You know where Battery Park is?”

“Sure.”

“Just get to Battery Park and look for the smoke.”

“Gotcha.” Hauk started to toggle off, then, “Is he . . . how’s the monitor?”

“Vital signs are still positive,” Rehme’s distorted voice said. “He’s still alive. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Hauk nodded once to the pilot and stuck his thumb in the air. The man lifted them off at once, pointing them to the north and east. The other copters went up too, buzzing, crying. Hauk felt as if he were in the middle of a flock of carrion birds.

Bob Hauk had come back from the war feeling old, used up. He came back to find that he had lost his family. His wife was just gone, no trace or even conjecture as to what could have happened. Of his two grown sons, Walt died in the L.A. fire bombing; Jerry was caught looting a supermarket in Chicago. They said he was crazy. They sent him to prison. In New York.

Hauk was all empty inside. He felt like a Halloween jack-o-lantern that had had the guts removed and a lit candle stuck inside to make it look like the thing was alive.

He came to the prison to find Jerry, but they wouldn’t let him inside. So he hired on as a trooper, but when they found out who he was, they offered him the job of Commissioner. Nobody else would touch the job with a hundred-foot bayonet.

Hauk didn’t want it either, but it was the only way he could think of to find his son. For several years he went into the city every chance he got, but it was a useless exercise. The only records kept were of the prisoners going in. Once inside the city, they were on their own—for life.

Within the anarchy of the city itself, it was worse than useless trying to find anything out—it was madness. Hauk had beaten his head against the wall of silence so many times that he felt as if he were permanently bruised.

Then one day, he just quit looking. He had drained out what little bit of life force that had been left within him, finally and irrevocably, until only the burnt-out shell remained. That had been a year ago, and he hadn’t been anywhere near the city since.

The pilot was pointing down at the shoreline. “There’s the Park,” he said loudly.

Hauk followed his finger down to the dark open ground without buildings. Somehow, it looked better at night. He couldn’t see the barren ground and skeletons of trees that had once been fertile and alive.

He switched on the transmitter. “This is Hauk, over the Battery . . . we’re moving down.”

He had the pilot take him down low, down to the rooftops. Straight ahead he could see a large cloud of rising smoke, lit from beneath. The pressure and humidity were pushing against the smoke, forcing it back down upon itself. It seemed to just hang there, suspended in space and time.

Hauk was back on the mike, “Crash site ahead, Rehme.”

“Roger,” came the reply. “I have you on the board.”

“We’re going down.”

They brought the copters down right on the streets. Deadly streets. Visions of perdition. They were in a valley, canyons of stone towering all around them. The streets were dark and desolate, the garbage of internal decay strewn everywhere. The burned-out and silent hulks of dead cars lined the roadway. They slept on rusted axles, tires long gone as good burning fuel for fires. The street was filled with smoke rolling back upon itself, a surreal landscape in the lower levels of hell. A fire burned in the midst of the smoke. A bright, sputtering fire that ignited the smoke and lit the street to a flickering nightmare.

“Don’t shut down the engines,” Hauk told the pilot, and opened the door to the racket. The dark mouths of the other choppers had opened already, vomiting blackbellies with long, shiny rifles and glowing red goggles for eyes.

Their flashlights came on, stabbing the darkness with small, symmetrical lines of brightness. The smoke came down on the beams, giving solid substance to them. Smoke danced in the light, made a game of it all.

The blackbellies formed tight defensive lines and began to advance, flashlight beams dancing and jiggling with the smoke as they moved. Hauk narrowed his eyes to a squint, trying to see through the congestion.

They moved slowly, carefully. Hauk was worried about the men. They were pumped up, ready to kill. If it came to that, he would have a difficult time controlling them.

“Commissioner!” someone yelled. “Sir!”

He moved out of the line, toward the voice. He waded through the curtain of smoke, unable to peg the sounds.

“Where are you?” he called.

“Here, sir. Over here!”

A flashlight beam was wiggling through the haze, coming back at him. He walked to the beam, tracing it back like a lifeline. A uniformed captain was attached to the other end.

“What have you got?” Hauk asked when he got up on the man.

“Here . . . something.”

He tilted the beam in the other direction. Something as bright and orange as a gasoline fire was billowing into the light

“The chute,” Hauk said.

They moved toward the thing, twenty yards in the distance. It was trying to rise in the natural updraft between the buildings, but the low pressure kept pushing it back down. They followed the chute lines for another thirty feet and found the pod.

It was round, the size of a weather balloon and was solidly imbedded in the side of a building, only about half exposed. Hauk ran up to it. The hatch was already open.

“Damn.” He leaned over the opening and looked inside. The monitor board was blipping happily, but the pod was empty. The President’s vital signs were there; he was gone.

The captain was at his elbow. “Look.”

He looked. The man was pointing.

A figure was moving out of the smoke and the darkness toward them. It moved slowly, shuffling.

The captain brought a rifle up beside Hauk. The Commissioner pushed it aside. He could hear the sound of weapons being primed off in the smoke.

“Hold your fire!” he barked into the haze.

The figure, gauzy and ethereal, came closer. It was a man or least it had once been. Hauk started moving toward him. He was thin like ice on the Hudson, pale and wispy as the gray smoke that stirred around him, clinging to his ragged clothes. He was living death, a walking corpse. He stopped

“I’m Romero,” he rasped.

Hauk walked right up to him, smelling the rot that rolled out of his mouth and passed for breath. “I’m Hauk.”

“I know.”

Romero smiled broadly, a grinning deathshead smile. All of his teeth had been filed down to tiny, razor sharp points. He spoke slowly, dragging the words up painfully through the slime pit of his lungs. “If you touch me,” he said, “he dies. If you’re not in the air in thirty seconds, he dies. If you come back in, he dies.”

Hauk just stared at him, trying to read behind the lifeless, sunken eyes. Couldn’t.

“I have something for you,” Romero said, and held out his hand. Hauk reached out, never taking his eyes off Romero’s. The man, chuckling softly, dropped something lightly in his palm.

Hauk looked down to see a small, rolled up cloth.

Blood had soaked through it. He looked once at Romero’s grinning teeth and unwound the wrapping. It contained a finger, severed at the third joint. There was a ring on the finger. And on the ring—the Presidential seal.

Hauk raised his eyes once more to Romero.

“Twenty seconds,” the man said.

“I’m ready to talk.”

“Nineteen. Eighteen.”

“What do you want?”

Romero just grinned—a mask, a grinning demon in human disguise.

“Seventeen. Sixteen.”

Hauk realized that the man had no idea what he wanted. He started backing away, never taking his eyes from Romero. He waved his hand above his head.

“Let’s go. Let’s go!”

There were shouts, confusion. They didn’t want to go. The tension was built and demanded release. Somewhere in the smoke, a gun went off.

Hauk was screaming now, trying to control them with his fury. “Hold your fire, goddamnit! Hold it!”

“Fifteen. Fourteen.”

Hauk turned his back on Romero and ran into the midst of his people. He started grabbing them, turning them back toward the distant copters.

“We’re getting out of here,” he screamed. “Let’s go! Now!”

They started turning, reluctantly.

“Move, damnit! Run!”

Finally they turned and committed, putting the stoppers back on their lust for a little while, Hauk made sure they were all leaving, then turned back to Romero. He was gone.

He ran quickly to the command copter and ordered the pilot into the sky as soon as he got in. His insides were jangling, raw, exposed nerves.

They had him. The lunatics had the President, and god only knew what they had in mind.

It began, finally, to rain.

LIBERTY ISLAND
EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE SUITE

8:53
P.M.

Hauk walked alone down the unlit hallway. Office doors were open down the hall’s length, some of them spilling globs of harsh neon light out into the corridor like tiny drifts of white, powdered snow. It had been a long time since Hauk had seen snow that was any color except dingy gray brown.

The Secretary of State was waiting for him in conference. He had been traveling in a follow-up plane that came behind the President’s, to avoid any accidents that could claim too many important lives. He was going to ask what they were going to do about the President.

Hauk had a very specific feeling about that. He felt that they should simply get themselves another President. He wasn’t going to say that to the Secretary, though. He was too much of a soldier for that

He arrived at the conference door and hesitated for a second before going in. He looked like a wreck. His face and clothes were dirty and sooty from the smoke. His eyes burned and his mouth was dry and overridden with a taste of plastic. He had lost his coat out on the landing field.

The Secretary was a man used to taking orders, not giving them. He would want Hauk to take as much responsibility for whatever was going to happen as he could. Hauk didn’t like that, but he didn’t see any way around it.

He opened the door. It was bright in the room, garish. The Secretary had turned on every light in the place, almost as if he were afraid of dealing with the dark corners. All the windows were shut tight to keep out any trace of the gas that wasn’t coming down with the light rain outside. It was stuffy in the room due to the lack of circulating air. With no ventilation, cigarette smoke hazed the air, hanging down in sleepy, drifting clouds.

The Secretary sat at the big walnut conference table, red telephone by one arm, already-full ashtray by the other. He was a slight man dressed in a gray suit. His eyes were fixed, staring vacantly at the large map of the city that occupied the entire wall opposite him. His face was probably amiable generally, but now that it was transfixed by worry it was an ugly face. He seemed, like most politicians, to be on the very edge of exhaustion, with a small outer fence of desperation the only thing holding him in one piece.

Hauk was not going to like working with him. Politicians were wait-and-see folks; they were let’s-check-it-out-in-the-polls-and-then-compromise-it folks, who weren’t used to any real decision-making.