Escape From New York

XIX

3:30 P.M.

The Secretary had been on Hauk’s case all morning. Things were not looking good and he was making doubly sure that every bit of the blame rested squarely on the Commissioner’s shoulders. It was the basis of all politics: cover your own ass.

Hauk smiled a little at that, because he didn’t care one way or the other anymore who got the blame for anything. And besides, the really funny part about it was the fact that Prather’s people in Washington would blame the Secretary anyway-he was the federal official on the scene, and naturally responsible.

The copter blades beat their relentless rhythm above his head, and the murky daylight burned starlike glare patterns on the machine’s bubble. They were coming up on Central Park. Food Drop.

Hauk hadn’t been on Food Drop for a long time. He used to come every two weeks to search the crowds for Jerry, but he had given all that up.

Now he was coming again, searching again-this time for someone else. Someone for whom he felt an unbreakable bond of kinship and understanding. Someone who had promised to kill him at the first opportunity.

The Park stretched out before him, cold dead ground and naked trees. Thousands of inmates were jammed, a clamoring throng, all around the outer edges of the Park; but none, by ritual and mutual consent, were coming in. They were cheering; they were cheering the food.

They got above the Park and the two other choppers closed ranks to descend. Only two of the machines held food. Hauk’s held another kind of surprise. Blackbelly pie-just in case. They came down slowly.

Hauk’s pilot was pointing out the window. “Check it out,” he said.

The Commissioner strained his eyes through the window glare. Below them, on the ground, was a large white X. It was surrounded by a cordon of inmates. Gypsies. The Duke’s people.

“Take her down!” Hauk yelled to the pilot above the motor noise, and they broke from the other copters and floated toward the spot.

He took the microphone from the controls and flipped it to P.A. so he could speak to the squad in back. “We’re going down,” he said. “Something’s happening. Be ready, but no shooting unless I give the word. Understand that. I will kill the first man who uses a weapon without authorization.”

He stuck the mike back on its cradle. There would be no repeats of the scene at the fallen plane.

They were coming down on the X. Bullseye. The Gypsies started backing away, moving for the trees. He glanced over at the other copters in the distance. They hovered just above the ground, mammoth, covered crates disgorging from their underbellies. This was the first drop of the day. There would be many others. Tremendous masses of people were converging on the food, charging across the barren ground, waving their arms. The copters lifted off and their bundles completely disappeared under the sheer crush of numbers.

Hauk’s chopper settled to the ground; the Gypies were gone, all vanished. His men were out of the machine immediately, encircling the copter for protection.

Something was laying on the ground in the clearing. Hauk watched from the copilot’s seat as one of his men ran over to pick it up. He ran back toward the Commissioner, holding it high in the air.

It was a briefcase. It was the briefcase.

The sound of the oil rig used to drive Maggie crazy, its continual thump-da-thump sound going too fast, driving the human body to move faster than it normally would.

But Brain had taught her to disassociate herself from it, and now she never even noticed that it made any sound at all.

Brain was thinking, trying to think, and Maggie was prodding him as gently, yet firmly, as she could. Moving him along the proper channels.

“He has to have an angle, Brain,” she said. “You’ve told me how bad he hates the Man. He wouldn’t just go to work for him like that”

Brain had his back to her, studying the map. “I just can’t figure it, you know? Just can’t get it straight in my head.”

She was holding Plissken’s pistol, turning it around in her hands. It was cold and gray, standard army issue. She pulled out the clip and looked it over, trying to figure out how many shots were left. She shoved it back in the gun. “It’s all too crazy to be a lie,” she said. “I believe him.”

“God,” Brain answered, his fingers traveling over the mapface. “What if he is telling the truth?” He turned to shake his bearded head at her. “I really hate that guy.”

He looked at her for a long second, and she could tell that he was finally, really, working it all out. “There are only a few places he could land a glider,” he said, his eyes getting distant the way they did when he was thinking. “Top of the Port Authority.” He shook his head. “Too low to the ground.” He stroked his furry beard. “In the Park?”

He turned back to the map, his finger hurrying across its face. He stopped down south, down by the bay. He stabbed the map viciously with his finger. “Top of the World Trade Center,” he said. “Bingo! That’s got to be it”

Maggie smiled at him. Sometimes she thought that she was almost in love with Brain Hellman. “So, now what?” she asked.

Hauk walked into the control bunker and threw the briefcase on a table. Rehme turned white. Prather began to get excited. Hauk could see by the man’s face that he was already thinking of ways that he could get credit for the recovery. Prather should have looked more closely at the Commissioner’s face.

Neither of them touched the briefcase. Neither could bear that particular strain. Bob Hauk frowned; he had to do it all himself.

Not a word had been spoken. There were no words. Hauk sighed deeply and reached into the satchel. Extracting a piece of paper, he sat himself on the edge of the table and read it aloud: “Amnesty for all prisoners in New York City in exchange for President. Fifty Ninth Street Bridge. Tomorrow. Twelve noon. No bullshit or he’s dead.”

“Where’s the tape?” Prather asked, getting down to the heart of the matter.

Hauk fixed him with cold eyes. “It’s not here.”

“Well, then…”

“There’s more,” Hauk said. Reaching into the case, he pulled out a pair of infrared goggles and threw them on the table. Each lens had a nail stuck through it. Hauk felt as if he were wearing those goggles.

“They’re Plissken’s,” Rehme said softly.

Prather immediately pulled into his hard politician’s shell. His voice got domineering and hateful. “So much for your man, Hauk.”

Hauk wanted to grab him, wanted to go right across the table and rip his razored tongue right out of his mealy mouth. No one would blame him if he did, either. But he didn’t. That would have made him too much like the other uniformed maniacs. Instead, he said: “Warm up the choppers. We’re going in.”

He watched Rehme bolt out the door. He watched the entire bunker spring to life with merely a word. He felt strange inside. Dead.