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Authors: Mack Maloney

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BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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A police car … .
Lights flashing, siren wailing, it was screaming right through the middle of the huge empty parking lot, heading for the main admission gate.
“Son of a bitch …” Ryder breathed. “This ain't good … .”
The ghost team didn't mind people seeing what they were doing—or at least having no misconceptions as to what they were up to. But they didn't want to get
caught
in the act. Not by the police, not by anyone. That would put an end to this flying circus way too soon.
So, Ryder knew he had to do something—but what?
 
He raised the copter up and over the water park, over the remains of the smoldering roller-coaster hill, and headed toward the parking lot.
The police car had a lot of ground to cover—the parking lot was almost a quarter-mile long. Ryder brought the copter down to just 20 feet off the asphalt, perpendicular to the police car. He booted throttle and went rocketing over the top of the unsuspecting patrol car, carrying a storm of dust and noise along with him. The massive downdraft hit the vehicle full force, nearly tipping it over. There was a mighty screech of brakes; the two cops hadn't seen him until the very last moment. The concussion was so severe, it caused both airbags to burst open.
Ryder turned the copter over and was soon pointing back at the police car again. No doubt, the cops inside were stunned—and baffled as well. He could see them wrestling with the airbags, trying to look out their front window at the same time. They'd been called here for a report of shots fired. Why would a Coast Guard helicopter begin buzzing them?
Ryder turned up and over again. The police car, its occupants recovered, started creeping forward once more. Lower and faster, Ryder came at them head-on. The downwash slammed into the roof of the car, forcing it almost down to its axles. It screeched to a halt again. Ryder turned, hoping he'd popped at least a couple of its tires.
No such luck, though. In fact, the cruiser started rolling forward yet again. Ryder could see one cop on the radio. The other was unhitching a shotgun from his dashboard.
Not good … .
He went around again, lost as to what to do next. Ryder could still see the cruiser's driver, steering the car with one hand while on the radio with the other. The second cop was pumping his shotgun and getting ready to aim it out the window. Ryder's mind was racing, weighing the circumstances. Then, reluctantly, he armed the copter's forward gun.
He booted throttles and came at the police car head-on again. Making sure he was well out in front, he let loose a barrage from the big fifty. As always, it was blinding, noisy, and violent. The stream of tracer shells smashed into the parking lot 500 feet in front of the police cruiser, tearing up
a huge portion of asphalt. Still the police car kept coming.
Ryder came back around yet again and repeated the maneuver, this time laying down a barrage just 250 feet away from the patrol car. The police car kept on coming.
Ryder swore again, whipping the copter around tail first. These cops were fearless. Plus they were now halfway across the huge parking lot and getting near a cluster of parked cars. He bore down on them, not 20 feet off the ground, and put a surgically placed, noisy barrage right over the top of their roof. The concussion of the fussilade alone took out the flashing-light assembly on top of the cruiser, exploding it in hundreds of multicolored pieces.
That was all it took. The cops finally slammed on their brakes, put their car in reverse, and retreated.
Ryder breathed a sigh of relief. His hands were shaking.
“
That
was too fucking close,” he whispered.
 
Meanwhile, back in the park, Gallant was looking everywhere for the Sky Horse.
“Where the hell did he go?” he yelled to Puglisi.
The Delta soldier just shook his head. “I don't know,” he yelled back to Gallant. “I just hope he doesn't forget us down here.”
They both turned their attention back to the matter at hand. They had the last terrorist cornered in the Angry Alien fun house. But how could they get him out? They could hear the siren in the distance and maybe the clatter of gunfire—and maybe that's where Ryder was. They could also hear the crowd at the main gate, yelling, shouting, screaming. It all added up to a shortage of time.
Puglisi and Gallant ran forward now, taking up positions near the ride's entryway. It was a large building, not one of the newest attractions at the theme park but elaborate nevertheless. Bates had scrambled around to the back and confirmed there were no rear exits that he could see. So the last mook was indeed trapped. Trouble was, the ghosts didn't have time to go in and flush him out.
Gallant and Puglisi just looked back at Fox, who had set up the big fifty near an ice-cream stand. All three just shrugged. Then Fox yelled, “Get Brainiac back out here!”
Gallant yelled for Bates; he soon came running back to the main midway, knowing what would happen next. Joining Gallant and Puglisi, they all retreated to Fox's position. Bates immediately fed a belt of ammunition into the .50-caliber. Fox cocked the gun and then let loose a fierce barrage at the front of the fun house. He never let off the trigger. The stream of tracer bullets was frightening as the huge rounds perforated the saucer-shaped building. Pieces of wood and metal went flying, some sparkling with sudden heat. Fox just kept spraying back and forth, taking the building apart seemingly one board, one piece, at a time.
It took almost a half-minute, so long the barrel of the huge gun was nearly red-hot. But the building finally collapsed on itself; then it caught on fire.
“Who the fuck is going to pay for that!” Gallant yelled wildly.
The terrorist staggered out, burned and bloody. Puglisi ran forward, hatchet in hand. Bates had a small video camera he'd found in his care package. He recorded the mayhem that followed. The screams were horrible. Gallant and Fox had to look away. When it was over, though, they saw Puglisi stuffing hot dogs into the dead terrorist's mouth.
“God damn,” Gallant said. “That's freaking nasty.”
At that moment, they heard a great roar above them.
The Sky Horse had returned.
 
Ryder had picked up the action on the ground.
He saw the fifty take apart the fun house. He saw Puglisi first riddle the terrorist with bullets, then chop off his hands. And Puglisi was now stuffing frankfurters into the man's mouth.
Are hot dogs made out of pork
? Ryder found himself thinking.
Then he snapped back to reality. They were through here. It was time to go.
“Jesus, c'mon!” Ryder was yelling at his comrades on the ground now. Fox was already on the still-dangling ladder. Gallant was holding the bottom for Puglisi to start climbing. But where was Bates?
Ryder was straining his neck looking for the wayward computer whiz, this as he was doing his best to keep the old chopper steady as the others tried to ascend.
Fox reached the cargo bay and scrambled aboard.
“Where's the Brain?” he yelled back to the DSA officer.
“Jesuzz, he was right behind me!” came the reply.
Now Puglisi fell into the cargo bay. He was carrying the dead terrorists' weapons plus their cell phones. He didn't know where Bates was, either. Ryder could just about see through a hole in the roller coaster, out through the main gate. He saw a small army of police cars now approaching the park.
“Damn!” he cried again.
He looked below and saw Gallant, still holding the bottom of the ladder, looking up at him and pointing to a spot deeper into the food court. Ryder turned to where Gallant was pointing, and that's when he saw Bates. He was kicking the crap out of one of the concession vending machines and picking up its contents from the ground.
“Is he insane?” Fox roared. “We gotta get out of here!”
But then Ryder turned the chopper slightly, and this gave him a better view of Bates.
And he saw Bates wasn't busting up a candy vendor or a Coke dispenser. He was robbing a cigarette machine.
Ryder let out a whoop.
“Atta boy!” he yelled. “
Now
you're using your head!”
Ozzi heard a phone ringing just as they were entering the Holland tunnel.
Hunn was driving their van, a six-panel delivery type. They'd rented it earlier that day, maxxing out Li's Visa card, this after treating themselves to new duds at her local Kmart. They'd made the drive from D.C. to Jersey in about six hours, Hunn doing his best to behave, and keep their speed somewhere below 80 miles an hour. Only guilty people go the speed limit, he'd told Ozzi. But did the New Jersey State Police know that? Ozzi had to wonder.
The phone rang again. Ozzi took the brown paper bag out from under his seat and opened it. There were more than 20 different cell phones inside.
“Damn, I can't tell which one it is,” he said as Hunn paid the toll.
“We're getting as bad as the mooks,” Hunn replied. “With the cell phones, I mean. Between us and them, I'm surprised there are any left for other people to buy.”
Hunn's complaints weren't helping, but Ozzi knew what he meant. The collection of cell phones was a necessary evil. Despite their brilliant escape from Gitmo, they knew the government would eventually realize they weren't all dead. When that happened, the Feds would start looking very hard
for them, if they weren't already. The ghosts still had to communicate with one another, though, even if it meant using codes and having only brief conversations. So just like the Islamic terrorists, they'd gobbled up a bunch of cell phones—again, courtesy of Li's Visa card—got the phone numbers to their colleagues out west and now would use them for only one conversation at a time.
Ozzi heard the ring again, a very annoying digital symphony. He reached into the bag and took out a handful of the cell phones. None were lit up or vibrating. They entered the tunnel. Now Ozzi could hardly see—but that was good. When the phone rang again, he spotted the glow from its screen light at the bottom of the bag. He fished it out and finally answered it.
It was Bates. Calling from somewhere in Minnesota.
“I think the car you sold me is a lemon,” Bates said cryptically.
“How come?” Ozzi replied.
“Because I've already changed the oil in it four times—”
“Four times?
Wow—is that the only problem you're having with it?”
“We spilled a lot of fluid the last time. Almost got a speeding ticket, too. But yes, everything else is running OK. We will probably do a fifth oil change in the next couple days, or maybe sooner. What are you up to?”
“We're on our way to get some help to look for that cup of spilled coffee.”
“You've gone Apple picking, you mean?”
“Yes, we will be able to do just that in about three minutes, I'd say … .”
“OK—let us know how that goes. And have you read the newspaper this morning?”
“Just the comics. There was nothing else I was interested in.”
“OK—talk to you … .”
Ozzi hung up, put the phone on the floor, and crushed it with his boot. Then he threw the remains out the window and put the rest of the phones away.
“That's encouraging, I guess,” he said to Hunn, translating the coded conversation now. “They've already found four of the missile teams and greased them.”
“Four—nice!” Hunn whooped, illegally switching lanes inside the tunnel. “I
knew
those guys would wind up having all the fun.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Sergeant,” Ozzi reminded him. “Sometimes they comes true.”
“Tell you the truth, Lieutenant,” Hunn replied soberly, “I don't like it when things go
so
easy. Nothing stays smooth forever. It's almost like bad luck to have too much good luck, all at once.”
“I hear you,” Ozzi said. “The mooks will
have
to figure out at some point that we're on to them. We know they don't talk to each other at all, beyond ringing their phones when they're about to do something. But I'm sure they monitor all the important newspapers and watch the TV news. I mean, they expected four planes to be
shot down
by now. They must know
something
is wrong.”
“Those assholes can really adapt, though,” Hunn grumbled. “They're like a virus. They'll speed up their timetable, or they'll start skipping around. Or they'll have their ringmaster dream up something new. If they have a ringmaster, that is—and I'm sure they do. But they'll do something. That's why it would be so much easier just to hit the first bus.”
“If only the copter guys could find it,” Ozzi said.
Hunn wildly switched lanes again, not once, but twice, viciously cutting off several different cars.
“Four teams
kaput
!” he said excitedly again. “Well, this is going to hit the newspapers soon enough. About us and the mooks. I know when we were in the Middle East, Murphy was able to keep some things under wraps in the media, until we got a little crazy, that is. But it might be hard to keep all this out of the public eye for very long.”
Ozzi was surprised. He rarely heard any of the original ghost team members invoke the name of the very mysterious Bobby Murphy.
Hunn went on: “I mean, eventually, people are going to freak out when they realize there's a little war going on, right inside our own country.”
Ozzi just looked out the window at the dirty tunnel walls. “Yes,” he said. “Freak out they will … .”
They emerged from the tunnel to see Manhattan standing before them like a large gray Oz. Hunn headed across the island, doing battle with the early-evening traffic. He began running red lights and driving very fast through the dense, pedestrian-packed streets of midtown. Ozzi just sat back and said nothing. He knew what Hunn knew: a van
not
driving like this—that is, like a typical New York City driver—would probably raise more suspicion than one that was.
When in Rome …
he thought.
 
Speeding over bridges, along crowded expressways and parkways, around detours and traffic jams, they somehow got to Queens in one piece.
It was dark by now. Ozzi had never been in this part of New York City. He was surprised to see trees here and blocks of houses that almost looked like suburbia. There were many people out and about, enjoying a warm early evening. Ozzi had grown up in an exclusive part of Maryland. At the moment, he might as well have been on Mars.
Hunn wound them through the streets as if on autopilot. The huge Delta soldier got more animated with each intersection, each set of traffic lights they passed through. He was getting close to his old neighborhood, Ozzi could tell. He could only imagine the emotions building inside his oversize colleague.
Another set of traffic lights, a few more turns, left and right, then suddenly Hunn slowed down. On the next corner was a storefront with frosted-over windows making it impossible to see all but one dim light inside. The name on the door read: GREATER QUEENS SOCIAL CLUB. They rolled past the building; then Hunn went around the block again. When they drove by this time, the light behind the frosted windows had been turned out.
Hunn went around the block again, but this time he pulled into the dark alley next to the storefront. There was a small garage back here. Its door was open, and a guy almost as big as Hunn was standing beside it. Hunn eased the van into the garage and the man quickly closed the door behind it.
Hunn shut off the engine, then turned to Ozzi.
“If you don't mind, Lieutenant, let me do the talking, OK?” Hunn asked Ozzi.
Ozzi almost laughed. “Be my guest,” he said.
They got out of the van to find the man waiting for them. He was holding a flashlight up to his face. His features were hard: deep black eyes, very red nose, and oddly, his eyebrows had been recently singed. He smelled of burning wood. He and Hunn just stared at each other for a very long time—so long, Ozzi had a sudden terrible thought: Was this the wrong thing to do? Had they been set up?
But then Hunn and the guy shook hands and even embraced. The awkward moment passed. “Good to see you again, Davey,” the guy said to Hunn. “It's not the same around here since you've been … well, other places.”
Hunn thanked the man, then asked, “Is everything set up?”
The guy just nodded. “Set up and waiting … .”
Then Hunn introduced Ozzi this way: “This guy's an officer. Everything we say, he has to be in on.”
The huge man studied Ozzi up and down. Ozzi felt like he was looking up a side of a mountain. This guy might have been the whitest person he'd ever met. Ozzi finally shook his hand.
“Sean O'Flaherty,” the man said. “Welcome to Queens.”
 
O'Flaherty led them out of the garage, down half the length of the very dark alley, between two abandoned buildings, and back toward the street again. This roundabout route got them to the rear door of the social club.
O‘Flaherty knocked three times, waited a moment, then knocked twice more. The door opened immediately; on the other side was an individual almost as large as O'Flaherty. Hunn and Ozzi hustled inside. They found themselves in a
small wood-paneled room. Very dark interior, with a few low lights over a pair of card tables and a Budweiser sign on the wall. It took a moment for Ozzi's eyes to adjust.
The man who let them in nodded quickly, then disappeared outside. “Keep a good watch out,” O'Flaherty told him as they passed. “We don't want any surprises tonight.”
There was a small bar in the corner of the wood-paneled room. O‘Flaherty headed right for it. “You guys want a beer?” he asked Hunn and Ozzi, even as he went behind the bar and got them two bottles of Bud. Ozzi accepted his without hesitation and drank it greedily. He'd been needing a drink for some time now. They moved to the rear of the first floor, through a kitchen, and down a set of stairs. Now in the basement, they came to a huge padded door. Again O'Flaherty knocked three times, then twice more. This door opened and inside was another room. This one had no windows; it was all cement blocks.
An old fallout shelter,
Ozzi thought correctly.
There was a table set up at one end, with a bunch of folding chairs lined up in front of it. About two dozen individuals were milling about, all as white and huge as Hunn and O'Flaherty. Some of them were dressed casually, but others were wearing denim shirts and yellow utility pants and boots. Most had mustaches or beards. Many wore Fu Manchu facial hair and had heads shaved clean. They looked Irish and Italian mostly, hard-nosed, hard-drinking. Not unlike the cast of a Road Warrior movie.
Which was close.
Actually, they were members of the FDNY—the Fire Department of New York.
 
Ozzi would come to think of what transpired in the next two hours as historical, like signing the Declaration of Independence or drafting the Bill of Rights.
It should be said, though, he would drain six more Buds in that time and that may have altered his perceptions a bit. But not by much. What happened in the tiny cement block room in the middle of Queens went beyond civil disobedience,
beyond simple defiance of authority. It bordered on sedition. Not quite insurrection—though you never knew how these things would turn out. But it was, no argument, an example of pure, unadulterated American anger and true-blue patriotism.
Strange.
Historical …
In a boozy sort of way.
Hunn knew everyone in the room. He was from a long line of firefighters—his father, uncles, cousins. They immediately fell silent and sat down when Hunn entered. It was obvious they knew he'd come here for a very important reason. And Hunn did not disappoint.
It was outrageous right from the start, for as soon as Hunn took his place at the front of the room he commenced to tell the firefighters
everything.
About the secret unit. About what they had done at Hormuz and Singapore. About what they'd tried to do in the Philippines. Hunn spoke with amazing eloquence yet in a language his audience could understand. They hardly moved, so rapt were they at his words. Ozzi found himself transfixed as well. Working on his second Bud now, he was hearing parts of the story for the first time, too.
Hunn told the jakes about the Stinger missiles, the two buses, about George Mann and what the reporter had found out before he was murdered. He told them about Palm Tree and about the split-off ghost team that was now in the American Midwest, trying to stop the terrorists before they could knock down any airliners. He told them the ghost team had proof that highly placed people inside the U.S. government knew the Stinger missiles were in the country yet were doing nothing to prevent the chaos the missiles could cause. He told them there was a good chance that TWA Flight 800, which had crashed off Long Island years before, as well as the more recent Flight 587 crash in Queens, not far away from this very neighborhood, were both brought down by Al Qaeda and that the government was covering it up. His point was: the terrorists were back and the threat was much, much greater this time.
BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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