Chapter Thirty-Six

At midnight, a sound was heard high above New York City.

It was so distinct that no matter what people were doing, they naturally looked up at the sky.

Those with extraordinary eyesight or night-vision goggles saw something all too familiar cruising over Manhattan.

A tiny aircraft with a noisy engine and very big wheels.

The ghost plane was back.

Pitch-black. Absolutely opaque. A night sky without any stars.

That was what it was like to fly in a tunnel. And that’s what Hunter was doing at the moment.

A passenger was squeezed into the clown plane with him—Colonel Donnie Kurjan of the United American Army, the large, well-organized quasi-militia that came together in national emergencies. Kurjan had cheated death several times in the conflicts that had followed the Big War, earning the nickname Lazarus.

His specialty—or at least one of them—was an expert knowledge of electricity. And while he and Hunter had fought together more times than they could count and were old friends, Kurjan might have been the most important person in New York City at the moment.

They were both wearing gas masks, which helped as they flew along in the darkness. They were also wearing night-vision goggles—but they were practically useless. Their sensors were so devoid of light that the illuminating gear could only provide crackling, indistinct images.

This was such a dangerous mission that, at first, Hunter had been determined to do it himself. Journey into the deepest part of the tunnels and do what he needed to do without getting caught. How could he ask anyone to join him?

But he was not an expert on everything, and there could be no guesswork here. That’s why Kurjan was with him. He knew a lot about certain things that could be found deep in this abyss.

No surprise, then, that before heading out from Nantucket, they’d had a few shots of Dozer’s brutal whiskey.

They’d performed the noisy flyover of the city earlier for a reason. Hunter wanted to see if the Russian SAM batteries would paint him with their radars. If they did, the city’s air-raid sirens would go off. As for making the already jumpy city a little more on edge? Another part of the plan.

They’d found the tunnel entrance up around 168th Street in North Harlem. It was a very isolated place and about a mile north of the Russians’ twenty-foot high barbed-wire outer defense line.

Hunter had done this very same thing back during his adventure at Area 51 not two months ago. But that had been in a more stable jet fighter, and the tunnel had been huge—and well lit. There was not a hint of any light or even the dimmest glow down here, and the tunnel was much narrower. Nor was it all one straight shot. The tunnels were full of twists and turns, and Hunter had to rely on Kurjan to cry out a warning to get them safely around every corner. They were both pros, but this was stressful.

Deeper and deeper into the blackness they flew. They kept track of how far they were going by silently counting the seconds. Thirty seconds should equal a mile; a minute equaled two.

They had to go in at least three miles. Ninety seconds, the longest seconds either of them had experienced in their lives.

Landing was virtually blind and bumpy. The big tires allowed the plane to come down on the rails and not the rock bed, meaning they should be able to take off again, but it was a painful touchdown.

They got out of the plane and grabbed their M-16s. As they alked slowly to their left, their hands out in front of them, their night-vision goggles showed just about a blank screen. They were mostly walking over sharp gravel and broken bottles, but also the occasional skeleton. The dead had lain here in the pitch-darkness for fifteen years, maybe more.

Kurgan finally found a wall; this is what they wanted. They began feeling along its base and even below it, trying to find something other than bones.

But it was not to be. They gave their best, five minutes of looking around for something that just wasn’t there. They had to move on.

Takeoff was rough. They almost slammed into the ceiling. There was no wind in the tunnels and that actually made for a hairier ride. Once they’d counted off another three miles, they landed again, crawled to the wall, and felt around. But once again, they found nothing.

Six miles in. Two crap-outs.

Near the junction of two tunnels, Hunter landed again in another extremely rough touchdown. Still wearing his duct-taped crash helmet, he hit the top of the canopy so hard he put another large crack in it.

They crawled and groped and tried to sweep the bones and dust away—and finally Kurjan found it: a thick cable running along the base of the wall. It led them to a large metal box affixed to a pole nearby. They studied its insides. Up very close with their night-vision goggles, struggling, Hunter saw a panel of industrial-size circuit breakers and one large switch.

The switch was what they came here for.

“You’re sure this is the right one, right location, and so on?” Hunter asked, whispering for some reason in the absolute blackness.

“I think so,” Kurjan replied. “I was into trains big-time as a kid—then I got into what made them run. The NYC Transit Authority put junction boxes every three to nine miles along their subway routes. It was a safety thing, in case the third rail had to be turned off in an emergency. At most, only nine miles of the line would go down. But if you switched just one of them back on, the entire line would be back up and running.”

Hunter took a breath and put his hand on the switch—but Kurjan brushed it away.

“Do you have a license to handle electrical equipment in the City of New York, Major Hunter?” he asked.

“No—I don’t.”

“And I don’t have a pilot’s license,” Kurjan said. “So this one is on me.”

He put his hand on the switch, drew a deep breath, and pulled.

There was a huge flash, followed by a storm of electrical sparks. In the same instant, ten thousand volts went right up Kurjan’s arm, throwing him high in the air.

He came down hard, at least thirty feet away from Hunter. The Wingman frantically ran over to him, tripping and stumbling in the dark. Yet, incredibly, when he arrived, Kurjan was already standing up, all in one piece, dusting himself off.

Judging by the jolt he’d been hit with, he should have been dead.

“Mission accomplished, no?” he asked Hunter. They could barely see each other in the faint emerald night-vision glow. “The juice still works way down here in the tunnels.”

Hunter was still speechless.

Finally, he said, “I guess that’s why they call you Lazarus.”

Kurjan was the first to hear them coming.

He and Hunter were still in absolute darkness, sitting now, backs against a wall from which they’d cleared any human remains. It had been about an hour since they got the electricity running again.

It came as a rumble at first; Kurjan actually felt it before he heard it. Hunter was aware of it an instant later.

It was incredibly loud. The squealing alone was enough to bust eardrums, the awful roar of something big and fast coming that might not be able to slow down. The noise of something unstoppable.

They were up in an instant, flattening themselves against the wall. They saw the light a moment later. Cutting through the black to their right, far off but still seemingly as bright as the sun.

The noise got louder. Everything around them began to shake, including the post holding the electrical panel and all those bones.

Kurjan tried to yell something to Hunter, but it was lost immediately, buried in the absolute shrieking going on around them.

The train went by them a moment later.

It had a dozen cars and each one was packed with United American soldiers, all in classic UA dark green fatigues, heavily armed and heading south.

The train was visible for just a few seconds before it disappeared to their left, vanishing into the tunnel as if it was plunging into the blackness of space itself. But the awful noise remained.

Another train went roaring by. This one was twice as long and carrying members of the Football City Special Forces, unmistakable in their black-and-gold combat suits.

A third train sped by. It was filled with soldiers in unmarked uniforms, but by their maroon battle hats, it was obvious they were members of the Free Canadian Special Forces. Sometimes not wearing a flag was the best way to let your feelings be known.

A fourth train was carrying the 101st Airborne Regiment of the PAAF—the Pacific American Armed Forces. They’d parachuted into Yonkers less than an hour ago and walked down to Manhattan. After them, more trains came. Some were loaded with local militia companies, some with mercs from as far away as Mudtown, Free Pennsylvania. Some were even carrying battlefield weapons—anything that could fit on board a typical New York City subway car. Recoilless rifles, small rocket launchers, small artillery pieces—and lots of ammunition.

There were thirteen trains in all. When the last one came screaming down the track, it actually hit its brakes and came to an earsplitting stop, the last car ending up right in front of Hunter and Kurjan.

The rear door opened and Bull Dozer stepped out. “We have a passenger to pick up?” he yelled.

Kurjan turned to Hunter and said, “Don’t stay down here any longer than you have to, Hawk. You never know what’s living down here these days.”

Hunter was mildly shocked. “Now you tell me?”

They shook hands.

“See you on the other side,” Kurjan said.