damn

Ben Raines!”

“Khamsin is pulling his people back, General.”

Beth relayed the information to him. “The first units are already well out of range of our heaviest pieces.”

“Tell the gunners to pour it on. Napalm and Willie Peter. Let’s cause them all the grief we can while we can.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tank commanders along the Hudson began lobbing in the most dreaded of artillery: napalm and white phosphorus. The big 155 SP, capable of sending a shell screaming for twelve miles, elevated their nineteen-feet-ten-inch tubes and began sending out a round a minute. Within ten minutes, the area from North Bergen down to the New Jersey Turnpike bridge over Newark Bay was a smoking, burning hell as the long-vacant, dust-filled, and neglected buildings burst into flames.

Ben stood on a cloverleaf of the Henry Hudson Parkway and watched through binoculars as New Jersey burned. He was smiling grimly-a smile that only another soldier could understand.

“General?” Beth said quietly.

Ben turned. She was holding out the handset to him.

“Who is it?”

“Khamsin, sir.”

Ben took the handset. “What do you want, Khamsin?”

“I will overlook your boorishness, General, and be brief. You are a dead man. Walking around dead.

I am going to destroy you. Whatever it takes, including my own life, you will never leave that miserable island of concrete and steel alive.”

“There is that old saying about talk being cheap, Khamsin.”

The Libyan cursed him.

Ben broke the radio connection. “He’s losing his cool, gang. But he’s still a very dangerous man-maybe even more so now. I cost him a lot of face, and with those types of people, that’s very important.”

“And now?” Jerre asked.

“Nothing has changed. We keep Khamsin on the New Jersey side of the river and concentrate on wiping out the Night P. We’ve got a few days; it’ll take him that long to recover from the mauling we handed him and to make some plans. Let’s get down to some serious ass-kicking, people!”

But the creepies had vanished. There was not one shot fired from either side all that day.

“Khamsin’s been in contact with them,” Ben told his commanders that afternoon. “They’re cooking up something and there is no point in us sitting around worrying about it.

Let’s take this time and strip New York City.

We’ll take it block by block and

treasure-hunt. We’re going to take everything of value, and then I just might blow this goddamn place into oblivion. I don’t know; I haven’t decided yet.”

“Shore would take a lot of powder,” Ike drawled.

“Not as much as you might think,” Ben told him.

“Since I discovered a pocket of

methane gas over near where the kids were found, I’ve had some engineers working wherever they felt was clear of crawlers. The city is sitting on top of many, many pockets of methane. I may use it.

I don’t know.

“For the next few days, we’re going to strip New York City. Start working your sectors. Blow every bank, inspect every museum and gallery. Go into the major TV and radio networks and recording studios and take it all.”

After the men and women had left his CP, Ben sat alone, behind his desk, deep in thought. He looked up as Jerre entered the room.

“Am I interrupting, Ben?”

“No. Glad to have the company.”

“You looked deep in thought.”

“I was thinking about all the history I would destroy if I left this city in rubble. History that future generations can ill afford to lose. Central Park, City Hall, Fraunces Tavern, UN

headquarters, and a lot of other places I can’t recall off the top of my head.”

“Will there be future generations capable of understanding history, Ben?”

“Oh, yes, Jerre. Don’t ever lose

hope of that. That’s what we’re fighting for. Our own survival, to be sure. But much more than that, we’ve got to be planning for generations that will be along a century after we’re dry bones in the grave.”

“And that really matters to you, doesn’t it, Ben?”

“Yes, Jerre, it does.”

“Strange comment from a man who was once a mercenary, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” He smiled at her. “But I told you, I was more a soldier of fortune than a mercenary.”

“You think Khamsin and the creepies will be making more moves to kidnap me?”

“Yes. More than ever. Although it may not seem that way to you, for the first time, we’ve got them on the defensive. The Night People are fighting scared.

Morale must be terribly low in the Hot Wind’s army. Unfortunately, we’re not in a position to do much about it. We’re still stuck on this island.”

“But you could break out if you wanted to, couldn’t you, Ben?” She asked the question softly.

“Oh, yeah, kid. That we could do.”

She waited for him to elaborate. When he did not, she said, “What’s the matter, Ben? You don’t think I’m the informant, do you?”

“Oh, no, Jerre. Colonel Gray found him this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A man who’d been with us for several years.

Shows you how long the Night People have been monitoring us.”

“Where is the man?”

“I shot him about two hours ago.”

“Come on.” Ben shook Jerre’s foot. “We’re getting an early start today.”

She opened one eye and gave him a bleak look.

“Jesus, Ben! What time is it?”

“Two-thirty. We’re going to take a little trip this morning and see if we can’t catch some creepies with their drawers down.”

She swung out of the cot. “What a disgusting thought, especially at this time of the morning. Where are we going, Ben?”

“You’ll see. Shake a leg.” He began rousting out the others.

After advising them all that if they weren’t down on street level, in full combat gear, in fifteen minutes, he would reassign them all to the death barges, Ben walked down the steps and out onto the bitterly cold and dark street.

Dan was waiting for him. “Good morning, sir!” he said brightly, and poured Ben a cup of steaming coffee.

He handed him a sandwich.

“Do I dare ask what is in between these two pieces of bread, Dan?”

“I would not, sir. Just envision several thick pieces of bacon and try to convince your taste buds of the accuracy of that.”

“I was afraid of that.” He took a bite, and then his face brightened with a big smile. “I’ll be damned, Dan! Peanut butter and jelly!”

“We found a huge underground warehouse fairly packed with all sorts of goodies: cheeses, powdered milk, powdered eggs, potato flakes-all sorts of things. Some of it was ruined, naturally, but quite a lot of it was still in excellent shape.”

“Our luck is changing, Dan. I can feel it.”

“I think so as well, General. If our intelligence was correct, we’ll deal the Night People a terribly crippling blow this morning.”

“I’m counting on it, Dan.”

Cooper, Beth, Jersey, and Jerre came wandering out of the building, yawning and stretching and pulling at the uncomfortable body armor under their shirts.

“Grab you some coffee and a sandwich,” Ben told them. “I’ll drive.”

“Oh, God!” Jersey said. “We’ll never get there alive. Where the hell are we going anyway, sir?”

“You’ll see. Get in,” he said, as the Blazer was pulled around to the curb. Chuckling, Ben got behind the wheel. He frowned as three APC’S pulled out of a side street and took the point.

“You really didn’t think we’d let you take the point, did you, now, General?” Dan admonished him through the window.

“I could always hope. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. Who is taking point?”

“Buddy. See you at the train station, General.”

“Right.” Ben blinked his lights a couple of times and the APC’S pulled out.

“Wow!” Beth said. “These are peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” She took a big bite and rolled her eyes in satisfaction.

Ben pulled out andwitha free hand, pointed to the sandwich in Jerre’s hand. “Eat, kid, and be happy. How long’s it been since you had peanut butter and jelly?”

“Long time, Be … General.”

“You two can relax around us, for Christ sake!” Jersey managed to speak around a stuffed mouth. “So why don’t you knock off the formalities. Makes me edgy.”

“Maybe you’re just horny?” Cooper suggested.

“Put a zipper on it, Cooper! And eat!”

“We have about seven or eight miles to go,” Ben told them. “The others were briefed just before I ordered that early turn-in.”

“I wondered about that,” Jerre said, glancing at him. “You think there might be other informants among us?”

“I’m sure of it. Probably in all critical areas. Two more were ferreted out around ten o’clock.

They’re either still being questioned or they’re dead.”

“And our destination on this miserable morning?” Jerre asked, munching on her sandwich and sipping on the welcome coffee.

“Grand Central Station, gang. Actually, it was a terminal, not a station. You follow me in, and stay with me. We have very good intelligence that the place is swarming with creepies. The place is about fifty acres, that’s above and below ground. The underground yard stretches from Forty-fourth to Fifty-ninth Streets.

I have people already in position at Fifty-ninth, ready to go in. They’ve found rabbit holes the creepies have tunneled through. Buddy is hitting the main concourse first, clearing it. The terminal runs five stories below ground, and has a maze of old steam pipes. Going to be a lot of creepies among those pipes. This isn’t going to be either pleasant or easy. But it has to be done.

We’ve broken a leg from under the Night People already.

Let’s break the other leg this morning.”

Ben followed the tanks and APC’S as they turned south off 125th Street onto Park Avenue and headed south. Their unusual but tasty breakfast finished, the passengers in the Blazer tried to relax as best they could in their uncomfortable battle harnesses, loaded full with clip pouches and grenades.

“How do you know the creepies won’t be alerted and waiting for us?” Jerre asked.

“I don’t. But we’ve never launched a night attack directly at them, so it’s something they won’t be expecting from us.”

They crossed 116th Street. They had not seen one living thing since leaving the CP. The city seemed deserted under the layer of snow still blanketing the streets. The temperature was hovering right around ten above, andwiththe winds blowing, the chill factor was well below zero. The chains on the rear tires of the vehicles dug through the snow and clanked against the brick and concrete of the old streets as the convoy pushed south toward the terminal.

They passed 96th Street, still some fifty blocks away from their objective.

“You ever ride the trains out of this place, General?” Cooper asked.

“A few times. I remember the main concourse.

Huge place. The terminal used to be called-by some-the town square of Manhattan. You could buy a newspaper from London, have a photo taken, get your shoes shined, eat some oysters, or play tennis for about sixty-five or seventy dollars an hour.”

“Lots of people used the trains?” Jersey asked.

was “Bout a quarter of a million people a day, so I was told. It’s an old place. I’d guess maybe ninety years old.”

They rolled past 85th Street. It seemed to the Rebels that they were visitors on a distant planet-a cold, barren, lifeless planet. But they all knew only too well that death waited around every corner, every turn, in every building, and until recently, under the very streets they now drove, the headlights searching the darkness.

“Tunnel Rat to Eagle,” the speaker squawked.

Ben lifted the mike. “Go, Rat.”

“Swinging over onto Lexington at

Sixty-fourth.”

“Pull over and wait for us, Rat.”

“Ten-four, Eagle.”

“Eagle to Scout Team Three.”

“Three.”

“Are you in position?”

“Ten-four, sir. Waiting for the commuters.”

Ben grinned. “They’re in position at Fifty-ninth and have the holes plugged.” Lifting the mike, he said, “Hang tough and good luck.”

“Same to you, sir.”

The lead vehicles pulled over behind Buddy’s short column. “Bloomingdale’s is just a few blocks down,” Ben said. “You ladies want to go shopping? Maybe buy some nighties?”

“If they model them, can we watch, General?”

Cooper said with a grin.

“Cooper,” Jersey said, giving him an elbow in the ribs. “I swear to GodI think your brains are between your legs.”

Laughing, Ben got out of the Blazer and into the bitterly cold night. He walked up to his son. “Ready, boy?”

“Yes, sir. Dan and Tina are in position on the west side of the complex, ready to go in.” He grinned, his teeth flashing in the night. “General, Ike and Cecil are going to be highly irritated about being left out of his operation, you know?”

“Can’t be helped. I couldn’t risk the informants picking up on any transmissions and leaking it.”

He gripped the young man’s thick, muscular arm.

“Let’s go kick some ass, Buddy.”

“Good luck, Father.”

“Same to you, son.”

Back in the Blazer, Ben pulled out behind the lead vehicles and they rolled past Bloomingdale’s department store. Jerre was looking wistfully at the huge store.

“You reckon they really have some pretty nighties left in there?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Ben told her. “But in this weather, do you really want to trade your longhandles for a silk gown?”

“It’s gonna be spring sometime, General. I hope.”

“I feel like I’ve been cold for a damn month!” Beth said.

“I got news for you,” Ben said with a laugh. “You have!”

They rolled past Citibank and Citicorp, past the House of Seagrams and the YWCA. “The Waldorf-Astoria,” Ben pointed out.

“I bet they got beds with mirrors on the ceilings in there.” Cooper grinned at Jerre.

“Cooper,” she told him, “just think of your M16

as your pecker. And use it accordingly.”

The column stopped at 44th Street. “Jack ‘em in,” Ben said, bailing out of the Blazer.

“Let’s go!”

The sounds of hard gunfire split the night as Buddy and his team hit the main concourse, catching the Night People at rest, huddled together against the bitter cold. The booming and thudding of grenades ripped the gloom of the city blocks around the famous and majestic old terminal.

The APC’S and trucks spewed out Rebels. The tanks spun around in the snowy street, men and women manning machine guns, ready to chop down any crawlers who might try to escape the attack above ground.

The stench of the filthy hit them all hard as Ben led his team into the main concourse.

“Good God!” Jerre said, wrinkling her nose at the almost overpowering odor.

Ben lifted his Thompson and gave a black-robed bunch a short burst of .45-caliber Rebel retribution. The rattle of gunfire was echoing and reverberating in the 125-foot-high main concourse, bouncing back from its vaulted ceilings. Bullets were whining as they ricocheted off the marble floor and splattered and flattened against the walls.

“Pick your shots!” Ben yelled over the din.

“Watch for ricochets!”

The move by Ben and his Rebels had caught the Night People completely by surprise. This location was deep in controlled territory, and they thought they were safe. A group of Dan’s hand-picked Scouts had silently neutralized the guards moments before the attack came, leaving them sprawled in the cold and snow, knocked down and dead by silenced .22-caliber auto-loading pistols.

When several hundred heavily armed Rebels came storming into the huge terminal, the attack had further demoralized the already low-spirited crawlers.

Sleepy, cold, and hungry, the Night

People could do little for the first few moments except die.

And they died in stinking heaps on the cold floor of the terminal, their blood staining the filth-encrusted marble.

The main concourse was cleared in only a few minutes, and teams of Rebels began dragging the dead outside, to pile them on the street, awaiting transport to the death barges in the harbor. The floor could not be watered down, removing the blood, for the water would freeze seconds after hitting the floor.

“Gas masks!” Ben ordered. “Tear-gas

cannisters into the lower level!”

The cannisters went bouncing and hissing and spewing their fumes into the levels below the main concourse.

Those who ran in panic from the blinding tear gas only ran into more tear gas being tossed down from 59th Street, and from the street entrances of their thought-to-be-safe hidey holes. Half blinded by the harsh gas, the Night People ran right into the guns of the Rebels and died in bloody stacks amid the steam pipes of the old terminal.

There was no point in trying to surrender, and the creepies knew it, and did not attempt it. They died cursing Ben Raine and his Rebels.

The battle was short, savage, and

bloody. Ben did not order pursuit of the crawlers below the second level. “Blow it,” he ordered. “Bring it down on them or block them off.”

The Rebels made their way back out onto the streets around the old terminal and waited while the demolition teams did their work. It did not take long for them to plant their massive charges of C-4 and C-5. At their signal, Ben

ordered his people well away from the terminal and told the explosives experts to drop the hammer.

The concrete beneath their boots trembled when the radio-detonated explosives blew. One section of the building, that part bordering 45th and Lexington, collapsed, sending up clouds of dust and raining down bricks and steel and mortar.

Trucks arrived to cart off the frozen dead. “No point in leaving them here,” Ben observed. “Their friends would eat them.”

Ike and Cecil and West roared and clanked up.

Ike bailed out and began cussing and jumping up and down, yelling at Ben for being a damn fool and why in hell didn’t he let them in on the raid. Then the stocky ex-Navy SEAL lost his footing on the ice and snow and did a frantic,

arm-waving ballet before he thumped down on his butt in the middle of the street.

Ben and Dan were laughing so hard both men were clutching their sides at Ike’s antics.

“Baryshnikov should be here to see those moves, Fats,” Dan stuck the needle to Ike. “He’d be envious.”

“Who the hell is that?” Ike yelled, trying to get to his feet and only succeeding in falling down once again.

Even Cecil had lost his irritation and could no longer keep a straight face.

“Who is Baryshnikov?” Dan yelled at Ike, spinning around and around on the ice in the street.

“Only a redneck would ask that question, you … you cretin!”

“Redneck!” Ike squalled. “You prissy limey! Just for that, you’ll never get to listen to my George Jones records.”

“Who?”

Dan asked.

“George Jones, you heathen! Everybody in the world’s heard of George Jones. Somebody help me up, god damn it!”

“Who is George Jones?” Dan asked

Ben.

“He sang country songs.”

“From what country?” Dan asked, a confused look on his face.

“From America!” Ike squalled, getting to his boots, a clump of snow in one gloved hand. He balled it and tossed it at Dan, hitting the Englishman on the forehead.

And in the middle of sprawled death, standing in the freezing cold, America and England carried on the Revolution … with snowballs.

A blizzard was raging when Ben awakened that morning.

He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. And it was cold, the wind howling through the patched-up windows of his office.

He dressed quickly and stepped into the anteroom. The rest of his crew was just getting up and dressing. “When you get some coffee and food in you, Beth, advise the field commanders to hand out extra rations and keep the troops in as much as possible. I want guards changed every hour, and advise the medics to be on the lookout for frostbite.”

“Yes, sir. You want some coffee?”

“It would be much appreciated.” Over coffee, Ben said, “Have the vehicles pulled inside and heaters placed nearby. Make sure all extra batteries are fully charged.”

He counted heads among the crowd, making sure that Jerre was present. She caught him looking at her and as the song goes, for a moment there …

But she cut her eyes away and the moment was lost.

After Beth was finished with her transmissions, Ben took the radio on scramble. “It would be like Khamsin to try something on a day like this, people, so double your spotters and change frequently to keep your eyes fresh. And while we’ve got the creepies on the run, the fight is far from over. So stay alert and do your best to stay warm. This storm looks like it’s going to be a badoneanda long one.”

Ben walked back into his office and shoveled some more coal into the small stove, vented through a window and temporarily patched. Since the CP changed frequently, the accommodations were basic at best.

Buddy walked in and warmed his hands at the stove, then turned to face his father. “I have a bad feeling about this day, Father.”

“So do I, son. What’s got your hackles up?”

“It would be a dandy day for a hit-and-run attack.”

“Against whom?”

“Y. This office. Jerre.”

“Why not against yourself? Or Tina? Have you given that any thought?”

“Kidnapping a son or daughter is one thing, Father. Kidnapping the woman a man loves is quite another matter.”

Ben thought about that for a moment. “It’s that obvious and that well-known?”

“Yes.”

“Get some additional people in here, then. And I don’t mean surround the place with a battalion.” Again, Ben was silent in thought. “It would be a suicide run, Buddy. The lower level of this place has been checked out and is secure. A street level attack would be stopped before they reached the sidewalk.

If my intelligence is correct, they want her alive, not dead. So it’s going to have to come from the roof, and I will not station people up there in this weather.”

“I’ll move some people in quietly, Father. We’ll be stationed on the stairwells.”

“All right, son. Quiet is the word.”

Buddy nodded and left. Ben sat down in an old rat-chewed chair he pulled close to the stove.

He looked up as Beth entered the office.

“General, this storm is really screwing up radio transmissions. The units are virtually cut off from one another.”

“I was afraid of that. Heads up, Beth. I have a bad feeling about this day.”

She walked to the window and looked out. Visibility was down to near zero, and she said as much.

“They’ll be coming this day. And Khamsin will, too, I’m thinking. Do we have contact with the units in our immediate sector?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Advise them to go on full alert. I imagine that Ike and Cec and West have done the same. And Beth, don’t sell yourself short about being on a list of people the creepies would like to get their hands on. There are a lot of things happening that, of the people in this section, only you and I are privy to.”

“That has crossed my mind, General.”

“Stay on top of it, Beth. When you ladies go to the John, go together. Don’t go anywhere in this building alone.”

“Yes, sir.” She fixed a level gaze at him. “And what about you, sir?”

“I’m an old wolf, Beth. There have been bounties on my head for the past decade and a half.

You can’t poison me and I’m hard

to trap. I’m paranoid by nature.” He said the last with a smile.

“Yes, sir.” She left the room.

Ben walked to a window on the alley side and peeked through the dark drapes. The building across the narrow alley had been cleared, checked, and rechecked, but Ben knew only too well the creepies could have moved in minutes after his people had made their final check.

The Night People were fighting with desperation riding on their shoulders, knowing their very survival was at stake. They would stop at nothing now. If they lost fifty percent or ninety percent of their people to win, it would make no difference to them: they could always rebuild their perverted and hideous kingdom, for their way of life was a learned thing.

Like so many of the problems that had descended upon the United States when it was whole, from drugs to crime, lack of discipline and permissiveness, and everything related to them, it was a learned thing. And it could not be treated by a pat on the head and a promise from the malcontent that he or she would do better.

Ben had always felt that the way to have a crime-free society was to have no criminals. And for many years in the Tri-States, they had no crime.

One reason was they had no elaborate criminal justice system in the Tri-States that catered to the criminal instead of seeing to the needs of the victim.

Ben turned away from the window and picked up his Thompson, making sure the drum in its belly was leaded up full.

He slung it, opened his office door, and stepped out into the anteroom. He could feel the tension among his personal crew. They all were feeling that this day was going to be a bad one.

“Lighten up, gang,” Ben said, his voice calming them. “Whatever comes our way, we’ll handle it.

We always have, we always will. History might show us to be no more than aggressive savages, trying to shove our way of life down a lot of unwilling throats. It might show us to be the only force standing between total collapse and anarchy. I don’t know how future historians will treat us. And to be very honest, I don’t know, really, whether I give a damn. Brute force and a driving will to survive and to build a better way of life forged this nation several hundred years ago. Generations later, the powers that be forgot that in their quest to nitpick us into a bunch of whining pansies.” He smiled at the group.

“Anybody got a deck of cards? I don’t think there’s a one of you can beat me at gin rummy.”

The day dragged on, each tick of the clock seeming to be as slow as a funeral dirge. They all heard Buddy and his people get into place inside the building.

Ben pretended not to notice it.

Jerre studied his face for a moment, trying to read it.

She gave up when Ben said, “Deal.”

The winds howled and threw millions of bits of frozen ice against the old windows. Ben had guessed the

temperature at just a few degrees below freezing, perfect for snow and sleet. And the snow and sleet would alternate with the varying thermometer reading. Come the night, Ben suspected the mercury would drop like a brick and the temperature would be unbearable, especially if these hard winds continued, and they probably would.

The game continued.

Just the faintest of foulness drifted to Ben’s nostrils. Or was his mind playing tricks? He couldn’t be sure. No, there it was again. It was no illusion. The Night People were very near.

Ben studied his cards, arranged them in his hand, and, with a smile, laid them down on the table.

“Gin!”

“Damn, Ben!” Jerre said. “Do you have to win all the time?”

“Name of the game, kid.” He met her gaze. “You know what a sore loser I am.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read what he meant, but since she had misread his eyes for years, she finally gave up.

Ben stood up, slinging his Thompson. It drew no attention from the others. They all picked up their weapons whenever they moved around, even within the CP, and especially on this day.

“I’m going to the head, gang,” Ben said matter-of-factly. “Play a round without me.”

Jerre was already shuffling the cards as he opened the door and stepped out into the office.

Ben slipped his Thompson off safety and closed the door behind him. There was that terrible odor again. And it was much stronger than when he had smelled it in the anteroom of his office. He let his eyes sweep the floor for wet footprints. He could see nothing in this hall. But it was a big building, and even though most of it had been sealed off, that meant nothing. The creepies could have been working on it for days, or nights, opening new entrances.

Ben stepped back to the closed door and pushed it open.

The cardplayers looked up. When Ben spoke, his voice was just audible over the howling of the winds.

“Jack ‘em in, people. Assume defensive positions. The crud are in the building.” He started to close the door.

“What about you, Ben?” Jerre asked.

“I’m going head-hunting, kid. Watch your ass.”

He closed the door and quietly made his way up the hall. Halfway up the hall, he lifted his handy-talkie. “Rat?”

“Here, Eagle.”

“They’re in the building. Very close to me. I can smell them.”

“Orders?”

“Come down to my hallway. Quietly now, Buddy. And be very careful.”

“On my way.”

Ben squatted in the dark hallway, the only light coming from the windows at the street and alley end. He turned when the fire door at the far end opened, relaxing as Buddy stepped into the hallway. Buddy signaled that he would take one end of the hall, his father the other.

Ben nodded and held up one thumb. He stood and began moving up the hallway, toward the street side of the building, his boots soft on the floor.

He paused at each doorway, kneeling down and sniffing at the base of the door.

On the third door, he hit pay dirt-a pile of shit would be more like it-as the foulness assailed his nostrils. Reaching up, he clicked the handy-talkie’s talk button twice, and Buddy looked in his direction. Ben pointed to the closed door, and Buddy moved swiftly but quietly to his father’s side.

Ben took a fire-frag grenade from his battle harness and pulled the pin, holding the spoon down. The fire-frag is a mini-claymore, perhaps the most lethal grenade ever manufactured, filled with ball bearings that spew in all directions when the charge blows.

The screaming winds picked up in tempo, and Ben thought for a few seconds of the men and women assigned to guarding the still-open bridges connecting the island.

They must be miserable. He shook those thoughts away and cut his eyes to Buddy, nodding his head at the closed door and smiling. He released the spoon.

His son returned the smile and stepped back. He kicked the door open, and Ben tossed in the fire-frag, both of them moving to one side just as the mini-claymore lashed out its lethal load and splattered blood and bone and various parts of anatomy all over the stinking room.

Ben dropped to one knee and Buddy remained standing as they moved into position and began spraying the room with .45-caliber slugs, their identical Thompsons chugging and spitting out death.

“Maintain positions!” Ben yelled up the hall.

Then, as Buddy flashed a beam of light from his flashlight into the room, Ben methodically shot each creepie sprawled on the bloody floor.

Insurance against a crawler faking it.

The door behind them and to their right suddenly burst open.

But at the slight sound of the knob turning, Buddy and Ben had hit the floor and were hammering lead at the opening doorway, knowing that no Rebels were supposed to be in any of these rooms.

A wild scream of anguish was cut off in the man’s throat as the Thompson rose with the muzzle blast and the slugs struck the night creep from his chest to his face. He was flung backward into the room just as Buddy rolled in a grenade.

One creepie was flung out into the hall by the heavy blast of the beefed-up grenade, and a section of the wall collapsed, further confusing the dimness with a cloud of dust and plaster. The explosion had prevented them from hearing the gunfire from Ben’s office.

“Damn, boy!” Ben said. “Where’d you get that hand bomb?”

“Ordnance just came up with them.” Buddy grinned at his father. “Great, aren’t they?”

“Wonderful,” Ben said, coughing from the dust and the debris. “I’ll elaborate more when or if my hearing

ever returns.”

They listened as gunfire drummed from the stairwells and the rooftop of the building.

“They’re holding their own,” Ben said. “Let’s secure this floor and then grab a cup of coffee.”

He dropped the drum and inserted a thirty-round clip into the ponderous old antique. It lightened the weight of the old Chicago Piano considerably.

Door by door, room by darkened room, father and son cleared the floor, finding no more hostiles.

The floor cleared, the men returned to Ben’s office. Ben rapped on the door. “Secure in there?”

“Secure, sir!” Jersey’s voice called.

“Come on in.”

Buddy pushed open the hall door, stepping in front of his father and entering first. The door to Ben’s office was hanging on one hinge, the door bullet-pocked. Wind and snow were blowing into the office from shattered windows on the alley side.

A half a dozen dead night creepies lay sprawled on the floor.

“They crawled right up the side of the building, Ben,” Jerre told him. “Using ropes and hooks. I guess they thought the noise of the storm would cover any sound they might make.”

Ben nodded, and it was at that point he made up his mind on several issues that he had been vacillating back and forth on. “Buddy, take a team and clear the floor just above this one. And I mean clear it. Get me some offices about the size of this one and start setting up communications and heating.

Son?” Ben looked at him. “Blow the buildings on either side of this one, and in the rear, if possible.

Bring them down. As soon as we get our signals back with the other units, I’ll instruct them to do the same around the CP’S.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Let’s start packing up our gear, gang,” Ben told the others. “Cooper, help me with the bodies of this crud.”

The two men, one at the head and one at the foot, began picking up the bodies of the dead creepies and uncere-moniously tossing them out the shattered windows to the alley floor. They would soon lie in

grotesquely twisted and frozen heaps.

Ben summed up his feelings, and the feelings of all the other Rebels. “If their friends want to dine on these creeps, they’ll have to use a chain saw to fillet them!”

The storm raged on the remainder of that day and well into the night. About three hours after dark had slowly shoved light around the corners of the world, the snow and sleet stopped and the mercury tumbled. But the wind kept up its battering and howling.

With the cessation of snow and sleet, radio communications improved and Ben was able to speak with all units scattered around the Big Apple.

“Did you get hit today, Ike?” Ben asked.

“Ten-fifty, Ben. We ain’t seen nothin” down here. Been tryin’ to contact you all day.”

Ben got all commanders on the horn and quickly explained what had happened and what he had done about the buildings bordering his CP.

“We’ll start doing that this night, Ben,” Cecil told him. “Are we going to raze the city?”

“I don’t know, Cec. It really bothers me to think about doing it. I just haven’t fully made up my mind about that.”

“It may come to it, General,” West reminded him.

“Yeah. I know. How about the survivors around the Central Park area, West?”

“Gene Savie and his group?”

“Yes.”

“Most of them are New York born and reared. It makes them nervous to think about the city being destroyed.