CHAPTER 14

For Ike and his teams under the river, it was slow going clearing the tunnel while above them, the shells whistled across the waters and slammed into New Jersey.

In the tunnel, the men and women were forced to work in gas masks until the engineers could get the ventilation system back in operation. Without any type of maintenance for more than a decade, the twin tubes of the tunnel were showing signs of deterioration. Before any clearing could be started, pumps had to be brought in to suck up the stinking pools of water that had gathered over ten years of leakage.

And the rats sat like big cats above the Rebels, on the catwalks, watching every move, not one bit afraid, their naked snaky tails twitching back and forth. It was a bit unnerving for the workers.

“Ten more years,” Ike muttered, the words unheard through his mask, “this place won’t be here.”

A blast of cold air dried the sweat from the faces of the men and women.

A grimy-faced Rebel walked up to Ike.

“We got the suction pumps working again, General. But we had to divert the outside air to straight in. The

expansion boxes under here,” he stomped the road bed, “are all screwed up. What we’re gonna do, once the suction pulls the bad air out, is set up a series of stations, so to speak, using fire hoses to channel the air around. It still isn’t gonna be real pleasant, but it’ll beat the hell out of before.”

Ike nodded and slapped the man on the back.

“Stay with it. Tell me when we can safely cause some sparks in here. We gotta start winching these rust-buckets out of the way.”

“Doctor Holly’s people said it was OK now.

They’ve tested the air for about three thousand feet in,” he waved toward the darkness that yawned westward, “and they haven’t found any signs of methane.”

Conversation soon became impossible over the squalling and shrieking of metal against concrete as the long-abandoned cars and trucks were pulled out, towed out, or shoved to one side of the tunnel.

A Rebel backed a bob truck up to where Ike was standing in the middle of a lane. “More extension cords, General. But some of them are dry-rotted. Gonna have to be stretched out and taped.” He grinned. “Wonder what the record is for the world’s longest extension cord.”

“All the way under and across the Atlantic Ocean,”

Ike said. “In a manner of speaking.”

“No kidding?” the young man asked. “What’d they use it for?”

“So Mama Leone in Milan could talk to her son in Brooklyn. Come on, let’s get back to work.”

“Must have been a hell of an expensive phone call,” the young man muttered, walking away.

They had cleared a thousand feet of tunnel by nightfall, another five hundred by midnight.

The lights were a problem: faulty extension cords were always going out, sparking briefly in the dampness.

And Ike had gotten tired of the rats and assigned a squad to rat patrol … armed with pump-up pellet guns.

“First one of you that misses and shoots me in the butt is gonna be in trouble,” he warned with his ever-present grin.

At midnight, Ben ordered Ike out and to get some rest.

By dawn, the Rebels had cleared three thousand feet closer to the friendlies trapped in New Jersey.

Over on the New Jersey side, American, Canadian, and Russian were working just as steadily, but much slower, since they could not run into the nearest store and pick up extension cords and sockets and light bulbs. Teams were sent in as far as Bergen Avenue, on a scrounging mission and to set up as many booby traps as they could.

The whistle and crash of the shelling continued all night, but at staggered intervals, and not nearly so heavy.

Ben was letting his people in New Jersey handle most of it with mortars and 90mm and 40mm cannon fire. The Rebels’ big guns across the river would pick it up again at dawn, when Savie’s spotters could see.

“It’s going to happen at any moment,” Ben muttered, glancing at his watch just after he had ordered Ike to get some rest.

“What’s gonna happen, General?” Jersey asked.

“The creepies are going to pop up and come pouring across the line from Spuyten Duyvil in the north and from University Heights and Morris Heights and High Bridge from the east. That is what I’d forgotten. Passaic brought it back to me.

The Night People don’t just live underground here in Manhattan. They’ve been tunneling for years; five or ten or fifteen miles in all

directions in New Jersey and over in Brooklyn and up north of us. Maybe even fifty or a hundred years, growing in strength. Beth, use translators on this, and get me our people at the bridges up north.”

“Got them, sir.”

“Tell them heads up and go on full alert.

Advise Ike’s people to do the same. Prepare for a mass attack. They’re going to be coming up from under us and from all directions. They’re going to be coming out of buildings and out of the subways, across the bridges and by water. And I think they’re going to hit us with everything they’ve got-try to shock us, hurt us bad.

Hold. Those are my orders. Tell everybody to hold until we get those people out of New Jersey.

And tell what Rebels are still over in Brooklyn to bug out and get over here, pronto.

“Tell our Dusters and Big Thumper people and heavy machine gunners to lower down and stack up the bodies until they can’t see over them. Everybody on the line, Beth. Tell the cooks and the intel people and the walking wounded to fall out and draw weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you’ve done that, you and Jersey and Cooper get some sleep.” Ben tossed a sleeping bag into the back of a deuce-and-a-half and crawled in and closed his eyes. He opened one eye and looked at Jersey. “Wake me up when the action starts.”

Then he went to sleep.

They hit at four o’clock in the morning, wave after wave after human wave of stinking, black-robed, screaming Night P. They poured across the Williamsburg Bridge, the Manhattan

Bridge, and the Brooklyn Bridge from the east.

They came chanting and shouting in a suicide run across the High Bridge, the Alexander Hamilton, the Washington, and the University Heights Bridge. From the north, they came in a dark fury from Spuyten Duyvil.

Jersey grabbed Ben’s boot through the sleeping bag and shook it. “They’re here, sir. All over the damn place.”

“Advise the crews in the tunnels to keep working and the gunners to remain in place. They’ll resume shelling across the river at dawn.” Ben slipped out of his sleeping bag and picked up his Thompson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get Ike up. Nothing like starting the morning listening to his bitching.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben pointed to one of his bodyguards. “See that subway entrance over there, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want two M-60’s right here. There’s gonna be bogies coming out of that hole in the ground at any moment. Let’s be ready for them.”

To Beth, it seemed that they were completely surrounded by hostile fire.

“Steady now, Beth,” Ben patted her on the shoulder. “We’ve been in worse spots than this.”

She looked at him through serious brown eyes. “When and where, sir?”

Ben laughed. “Good question, Beth.”

Night People came out of the subway entrance in a rush, bringing conversation to an end as the immediate night was shattered by automatic weapons fire from the bi-podded M-60’s.

“Lob some grenades in there,” Ben ordered. He did not have to specify what type, since the Rebels almost exclusively used their own version of the Fire-Frag, possibly the deadliest grenade ever manufactured.

The yowls of pain springing from the subway opening offered living, and dying, proof of the Fire-Frag’s effectiveness. No more creepies came from that hole.

Ben’s presence was a solid one in the midst of what appeared to be mindless chaos. He squatted down beside the deuce-and-a-half and quietly pulled his besieged Rebels together.

“Hold your positions, people,” he radioed. “We no longer have an identifiable front. It may seem that you’re cut off for a time. Just stay low and hold what you’ve got. The creepies may be all around you, but

so are your friends. Don’t shoot at shadows; make damn certain of your targets. Repeat: all Rebels maintain your positions. Hold!”

To Beth: “Tell Katzman to keep issuing those orders. Make sure every station understands.”

A bullet wanged very close to Ben’s head, knocking a hole in the bed of the truck. He lifted his walkie-talkie. “This is Eagle. We have bogies on the rooftops. Let’s start clearing them. I need a Duster at Fort

Washington and One Hundred and Seventy-third.”

A quick little Duster rounded the corner, lifted its twin 40mm guns, and began blasting, the rounds directed just below the rooftops, while the machine gunner added to the death-dealing with .50-caliber slugs.

“Shark to Eagle.”

Beth handed Ben the mike. “Go, Shark.”

“Our situation is sorta crappy down here, Eagle. We got bogies coming out of holes where there ain’t supposed to be holes.”

“That’s ten-four, Shark. Same here. I have ordered all Rebels to hold their positions. Stand tough, Ike.”

“Ten-four, Eagle. Cec is out of the hospital and has resumed command in his sector. Work is continuing well under the water.”

“Ten-four. Eagle out.” Ben shifted positions, working his way under the truck, Jersey and Beth and Cooper with him. Beth was practically on top of him. Ben grinned at her. “My, isn’t this cozy?”

Slugs whined and howled off the street. Beth said, “I have come to the conclusion that cows ain’t so bad, after all.”

“You’d miss all the excitement, Beth.”

“Probably,” she admitted glumly.

The actions of the Rebels confused the Night P.

They had expected the Rebels to run, to regroup, to attempt the setting up of a defined front from which to fight.

When the Rebels did not run, but chose instead to hold their positions and fight only when directly confronted, the creepies became disorganized. This was not what the Judges had told them would happen.

But theirs was an autocratic society, not a democratic system, albeit a shared

dictatorship. The Judges were the law, the first and last word, and all must obey.

The Night People ducked back into their holes just as gray began pushing the blackness into murky light.

Ben slipped out from under the truck. “Get me reports, Beth. Let’s see how we fared.”

Not bad, he thought, after all stations had reported.

A lot better than he had expected, considering all the confusion that had reigned for a time.

“Sir?” Beth said. “Savie’s people are reporting the creepies are once more advancing toward the tunnel.”

“Tell the gunners to resume shelling. And get me Ike, please.”

Ike on the horn, Ben asked, “How’s it looking, Shark?”

“Noon tomorrow, Eagle. We ought to punch through at noon. That’s the best we can do.”

“They’ll have to hold. If they want to live, they’ll have to hold.”

Emil stuck his head into the tunnel, New Jersey side, and shuddered. He hated tunnels, caves, elevators … anything that hemmed him in. He stepped inside, on the catwalk. A rat ran across his boots, and he almost invented a new dance before he got himself under control. The crashing and booming of the incoming shells had not let up. He hoped Ben Raines had enough rounds to see them through the tunnels-and through the winter-for it was a lead-pipe cinch they were all going to be trapped over there in the Big Apple.

With creepies all around them.

He beat it back outside and passed Tina Raines talking with the Russian, Striganov. From the expression on their faces, the news wasn’t good. Emil hurried on. He didn’t want to hear any bad news; he was depressed enough.

“We’re almost out of fuel,” Striganov said. “I propose we leave the trucks-there are trucks everywhere-and use the fuel for the tanks, SP’S, APC’S, and mortar carriers.”

“I agree. And we’ve also got to get the badly wounded over. We can’t wait any longer.”

“Carry them across?”

“That’s the only way I see.”

“Agreed. You and Young Mister Raines shall lead the teams with the wounded through the tunnel. There is no point in your returning.”

“Now, look, General … to was

“I give the orders here, Captain. You will do as you are told.”

There was steel in the Russian’s voice, and Tina knew there would be no back-up in him. “Yes, sir. I’ll start gathering up our wounded.”

After she had gone, Rebet stepped forward. “A very noble gesture, sir.”

Striganov looked at him. “Noble gesture?

Bah! This is war. She happens to be very good at what she does, that’s all. Sentiment has nothing to do with it.” But his eyes gave away the lie.

Rebet kept a straight face. “Of course, sir. Whatever you say.”

“Get the wounded transported down to the tunnel opening immediately, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated.

“Something else, Stefan?”

“Yes, sir. I think the … strange-looking civilianstsoldiers should go over with Captain Raines.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. See that they are notified, Colonel.”

Rebet gone, Georgi motioned for his radio man.

“Get me General Raines.”

“Translator, sir?”

“No need for that now. The loss of less than a thousand personnel does not make that much difference when one is facing the numbers we face. If Ben’s shelling stops, we’ll be overrun in a matter of minutes.”

“Yes, sir. General Raines, sir.”

“Ben! I’m sending our wounded over on the catwalks. I’m also sending the, ah, hippies over with

them. Give the devil his due, Ben; they’re good fighters. I’ve ordered Tina and Buddy Raines to lead them through. Tina was not too happy about it when I told her this was not a Return If Possible assignment.”

“Typical Raines. Hardheaded.”

“You said it, not I.”

“I owe you a couple, Georgi.”

“Bah! You’re worse than Rebet. Always letting sentiment get in your way. You know perfectly well I would never allow anything like that to muddle a battlefield decision.”

“Of course, Georgi. Right. Rough and ready, that’s you.”

“But of course!”

“Georgi? In case you’re worried about the amount of mail we’re sending across, don’t. I laid in enough stamps to last a long time.”

“That is very gratifying to hear. When we get across, I must sign my name on several pieces.”

“You do that. See you soon, Farmer Brown.”

“Keep flying, Eagle.”