here. We were just starting to get a reliable flow of food and supplies from the nearest Burroughs—and now Army vehicles are starting to appear at strategic points. Bridges, tunnels, the main roads.”
“Are they in force?”
“No,” said Samir, relief evident in his voice. He paused to catch his breath at the next floor. “They move fast and never stay more than a few hours in the same spot. Some say it is only a few vehicles. I believe they are scouts for a much larger force.”
Malcolm nodded at his regional commander’s astute assessment. “I agree. They are probing our lines, trying to find the extent of our domain. We saw some similar tactics in Chicago.” He thought for a moment. “Are they concentrating anywhere? Anywhere at all? Where have they been seen the most?”
“Near the tunnels. Never in the tunnels, but on the far side from Manhattan.”
Malcolm shifted his briefcase to his left hand. The grip was sweaty and he nearly dropped it. How many more stairs, for the love of Allah?
A door crashed a few floors above them, the sound painful to Malcolm’s ears. He flinched. Samir paused and grew quiet.
“Samir!” a voice shouted from high above them. The sound echoed past them and disappeared into the stairwell abyss.
“Yes?” he answered.
“A scout has just radioed—he has found the Man at the Holland Tunnel!”
“Again?” asked Samir. He sighed and began climbing again.
“Yes—they are setting up lights—many vehicles and more men than we have seen since the first fighting!”
Malcolm heard Samir turn on the stairs. “It is starting.”
“Yes,” agreed Malcolm, his voice grim. “We must hurry—I need to see a map.”
Looks like I will get no sleep this night…
GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN out of the Killer Egg helicopter and walked away from the still roaring rotors in a slight stoop. The instant he had taken the required number of steps from the small aircraft to be safe from the blades that cut the air above his head, he stood up straight.
He was standing in the middle of the great mass of roads that fed into the Holland Tunnel. Before him stretched the darkened skyline of New York City across the Hudson River. America’s First City. Gotham. Now just another name in a sad collection of pitch-black hell-holes spread across the humbled nation. Millions of people had been thrown into the Middle Ages: no running water, no sanitation, no food delivery, no electricity, no cops…the list went on.
One of his aides rushed to his side and saluted. The young man was in his full kit, complete to the helmet strapped on his head. Stapleton suppressed a grin. Another point of pride in the swirling shit-storm around him: even though his command staff were not used to being on the front line, they were acting like hardened veterans.
Because New York was about to be a war zone.
“Sir,” the lieutenant hollered over the roar of the helicopter as it lifted off in a cloud of dust and pebbles. “If you’ll come with me, I can take you to the command center.”
“Lead on, MacDuff,” Stapleton muttered. He always felt more alive when he was on the front lines. This was where he was meant to be, not hiding behind some desk and millions of dollars of technology and communications equipment half a world away from the fighting. A general should lead by example. A general should lead his men into battle. A general should lead .
Old Caesar had the right idea , he thought to himself as he passed a group of soldiers hauling gear into a Port Authority substation. A figure on the roof of the two story, narrow-faced little building was attaching one hell of a collapsible satellite dish to the roof. A ring of M-ATVs had their headlights on the building, providing illumination in the pitch-black night.
As they neared the building, Stapleton could hear more than one helicopter in the area. A line of headlights
“Are they in force?”
“No,” said Samir, relief evident in his voice. He paused to catch his breath at the next floor. “They move fast and never stay more than a few hours in the same spot. Some say it is only a few vehicles. I believe they are scouts for a much larger force.”
Malcolm nodded at his regional commander’s astute assessment. “I agree. They are probing our lines, trying to find the extent of our domain. We saw some similar tactics in Chicago.” He thought for a moment. “Are they concentrating anywhere? Anywhere at all? Where have they been seen the most?”
“Near the tunnels. Never in the tunnels, but on the far side from Manhattan.”
Malcolm shifted his briefcase to his left hand. The grip was sweaty and he nearly dropped it. How many more stairs, for the love of Allah?
A door crashed a few floors above them, the sound painful to Malcolm’s ears. He flinched. Samir paused and grew quiet.
“Samir!” a voice shouted from high above them. The sound echoed past them and disappeared into the stairwell abyss.
“Yes?” he answered.
“A scout has just radioed—he has found the Man at the Holland Tunnel!”
“Again?” asked Samir. He sighed and began climbing again.
“Yes—they are setting up lights—many vehicles and more men than we have seen since the first fighting!”
Malcolm heard Samir turn on the stairs. “It is starting.”
“Yes,” agreed Malcolm, his voice grim. “We must hurry—I need to see a map.”
Looks like I will get no sleep this night…
GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN out of the Killer Egg helicopter and walked away from the still roaring rotors in a slight stoop. The instant he had taken the required number of steps from the small aircraft to be safe from the blades that cut the air above his head, he stood up straight.
He was standing in the middle of the great mass of roads that fed into the Holland Tunnel. Before him stretched the darkened skyline of New York City across the Hudson River. America’s First City. Gotham. Now just another name in a sad collection of pitch-black hell-holes spread across the humbled nation. Millions of people had been thrown into the Middle Ages: no running water, no sanitation, no food delivery, no electricity, no cops…the list went on.
One of his aides rushed to his side and saluted. The young man was in his full kit, complete to the helmet strapped on his head. Stapleton suppressed a grin. Another point of pride in the swirling shit-storm around him: even though his command staff were not used to being on the front line, they were acting like hardened veterans.
Because New York was about to be a war zone.
“Sir,” the lieutenant hollered over the roar of the helicopter as it lifted off in a cloud of dust and pebbles. “If you’ll come with me, I can take you to the command center.”
“Lead on, MacDuff,” Stapleton muttered. He always felt more alive when he was on the front lines. This was where he was meant to be, not hiding behind some desk and millions of dollars of technology and communications equipment half a world away from the fighting. A general should lead by example. A general should lead his men into battle. A general should lead .
Old Caesar had the right idea , he thought to himself as he passed a group of soldiers hauling gear into a Port Authority substation. A figure on the roof of the two story, narrow-faced little building was attaching one hell of a collapsible satellite dish to the roof. A ring of M-ATVs had their headlights on the building, providing illumination in the pitch-black night.
As they neared the building, Stapleton could hear more than one helicopter in the area. A line of headlights
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