The Green And The Gray

46

"Here they come," Messerling murmured, his head lifted just high enough to put his binoculars over the low stone edging of the balcony he and the others were lying on.

Cautiously, feeling cold and awkward and more than a little scared, Powell arched his back and eased his own head up over the stone. Beyond the tree-lined esplanade to the south, he could see the lights of the Galen's Tenth puttering its way northward along the Hudson River, headed for the boat basin directly below them.

The boat basin. Powell lifted his head another inch, shifting his gaze downward over the balcony to look across the wide stone walkways and manicured grass and neatly trimmed trees of the World Financial Center Plaza to the dark water and gently bobbing floating docks. At any given time, he knew, there were at least a couple of yachts tied up there, as well as a tour boat or one of the city's fleet of water taxis. But at the moment the basin was empty, all other ships moved out at Messerling's orders.

The plaza itself looked just as empty. The normal daytime pedestrian traffic of financiers and clients was long gone, the evening's collection of youthful cyclists and skateboarders had retired to homework or TV, and the throngs of commuters waiting for ferries to Hoboken or Fulton or Port Imperial were already home.

But here, unlike the boat basin itself, the emptiness was an illusion. Crouching behind the hedges or lying prone behind low walls or stretched out behind balcony walls like the one he and Messerling were on were over forty armed and armored S.W.A.T. cops. Another twenty skulked around the buildings and park areas to the north and south, backup forces for a three-sided box that would theoretically trap the incoming gang soldiers against the Hudson with no way to escape.

Theoretically.

Turning his head, Powell looked to his right at the majestic glass walls and arched roof of the Winter Palace nestled between the taller but far less spectacular Buildings Two and Three of the World Financial Center. The Winter Palace was the WFC's showpiece, a glittering multilevel expanse of marble and brass and sixteen live palm trees that served as a haven of calm and stability amid the more frantic chasing after money that took place in the buildings around it all day.

It was also the site of public performances and exhibits, as well as a myriad of private functions for the city's wealthy and powerful throughout the year, and the owners had not been at all happy at the possibility of a full-bore firefight taking place on its doorstep. Messerling's insistence that this was the only way had fallen on deaf ears, as had his assurances that even rabid gang fighters were surely rational enough to surrender once they saw the firepower arrayed against them. It was only when the Police Commissioner himself had intervened that they'd finally been able to get some grudging cooperation. If any of those impressive windows got shot out, Powell mused, the gang would be the least of their worries.

"All units, stand ready," Messerling murmured into his helmet mike.

Powell shifted his attention back to the river. The yacht had reached the entrance to the harbor and was making its way inside, moving with the ease and confidence of a pilot who'd performed this maneuver dozens of times and knew exactly what he was doing. "Anyone have a view of the civilians?" he asked. "Spotters?"

"They're both in the wheelhouse," Spotter One's voice reported crisply in Powell's ear. "Along with an older male and female and... looks like three young males and a female."

"Copy," Messerling said. "All units, keep that in mind if we have to open fire."

Powell reached up to wrap his hand around his mike. "What do we do if they're still aboard when they spot your people?" he asked Messerling.

"We'll wait as long as we can," Messerling told him, covering his own mike. "But the primary objective here is to contain and neutralize. We do not want these people escaping the box and running loose in the city." He lifted his head a bit. "Damn," he muttered. "They're taking one of the north docks."

Powell hunched himself up to look. Sure enough, the yacht had turned into the open area between two of the northern docks, a spray of water roiling at its aft end as the pilot reversed the screws to brake the craft to a halt. "Is that a problem?"

"Most of my men are on the south and east sides," Messerling told him. "The only close cover we had on the north is that curved wall right beside the basin, and there was only enough room there for five guys."

"But you've got men on the other balcony over there, right?" Powell asked, nodding past the Winter Garden toward the counterpart to the balcony they themselves were on.

"Sure, but they can't do anything from there except provide backup fire," Messerling gritted. "I'd rather avoid gunfire entirely, and a massive show of force on the ground is the best way to do that.

We've got the troops, but now they'll have to cross a lot of open ground to get to the debarkation area."

Two young men hopped from the yacht to the dock and began tying up the ship. Other shadowy figures had appeared from below decks, and even before the boat was completely secured they were slipping over the side onto the dock. Looking around cautiously, they moved in an orderly line toward the double set of stairs that led up in both directions from the basin to the plaza level. The reached the steps and split into two groups, one heading up each flight. Back on the yacht, other figures were appearing from the companionway, lining up on both sides of the deck as they waited their turns to disembark. "I don't see any heavy weapons anywhere," Messerling murmured.

"Anyone?"

"Negative," Spotter One's voice replied.

"Negative here, too," Spotter Two confirmed. "In fact, I don't see any drawn weapons of any sort."

"Maybe we can catch them sleepwalking," Messerling said, reaching for the bullhorn at his side. "All units: stand by. One... two..."

The leading men in the line reached the top of the stairs, one group now directly beneath the curved wall where the nearest cops lay in wait—

"Go!" Messerling snapped.

And abruptly, the entire plaza area blazed with daylight brightness as a dozen small floodlights opened up from concealment on balconies and behind shrubs. At the same instant, the cops behind the curved wall popped up into view, their compact Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns pointed down at the line of men suddenly frozen in place along the stairways. "Police!" Messerling shouted into the bullhorn, his amplified voice echoing eerily back from the buildings around them. "You're completely surrounded. Stay where you are and put up your hands."

Caroline's first terrified thought as the light burst suddenly in her eyes was that there had been an explosion in one of the dark buildings towering over the boat basin. She gasped, throwing up an arm to shield her face, her hip slamming painfully into the edge of the yacht's control panel as she jerked backward—

"Police!" an amplified voice boomed across the night. "You're completely surrounded. Stay where you are and put up your hands."

Her breath went out in a huff, her momentary panic twisting into confusion and stunned disbelief.

The police? But how—?

And then her brain caught up with her, and the hard knot in her stomach suddenly loosened amid a surge of unexpected hope.

Her secret message had gotten through.

Squinting against the glare, she looked over at Sylvia. The Command-Tactician's face was turned away from her, impossible to read. But there was something in the way she was standing that sent a shiver up Caroline's back. If the police expected her to simply surrender, they were in for a nasty surprise. Even before the echoes had finished bouncing off the buildings she sensed a flurry of silent Green commands ripple across her mind—

And floundered off-balance as the deck of the yacht suddenly rocked beneath her and the sound of multiple splashes came from the far side of the ship.

"What the hell?" Powell said, frowning with surprise as the entire far side of the yacht seemed to explode with Whitewater spray as at least twenty of the soldiers hurled themselves into the harbor.

"They're in the water," Messerling snapped into his mike. "Units Five and Six, get down to the basin and watch for them to come up. And watch out for those sonic weapons."

There was a curt acknowledgment, and a half-dozen armored cops crouching behind the low wall fifty feet south of the harbor vaulted over their protective barrier and ran toward the harbor, MP5s held ready in front of them. "Watch it—they're at the south dock," Spotter One warned. "I can see two—make that three of them in the water, hanging onto the side."

Powell looked that direction. Sure enough, there were three heads bobbing together in the water at the section of the dock opposite the yacht's aft end. The two outside men each had a hand up on the edge of the dock to steady themselves, while the one in the middle was apparently just treading water.

"Damn fast swimmers," Messerling muttered. "Stay sharp everyone; these three may be a diversion."

The six cops reached the railing by the south ramp and came to a halt, lowering their muzzles to point into the water where the three men were hanging.

And a second later jerked back in startled confusion as, with a single powerful heave, the two submerged men on the sides hurled their companion upward out of the water and over the railing to drop squarely into the center of their formation. There was a burst of stray gunfire into the air as he grabbed the two nearest cops and shoved them back into their comrades, sending the whole bunch sprawling to the pavement. Regaining his own balance, the attacker ducked to his right and sprinted in a zigzag run toward the south esplanade and the Hudson River beyond.

"Damn it," Messerling snarled into his mike. "Get him!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when all hell broke loose.

In the water of the harbor, a dozen of the other would-be escapers suddenly popped into view, their heads and torsos bobbing upward like dolphins surfacing. Each of them had one arm cocked back behind his head like a quarterback preparing to throw an end-zone pass, Powell saw in that brief glance, with the other arm stretched straight forward in front of him. He caught the glint of metal

—"Watch it!" he snapped, cringing back reflexively. The men reached the top of their bounce and dropped back beneath the gentle waves—

And half a dozen of the spotlights scattered around the plaza suddenly shattered and went dark.

"What the—?"

"Slingshots," Spotter Two snapped. "They're targeting the lights—"

"There they go!" someone else cut him off.

The men lined up on the north boat basin steps, who had been standing impassively under the glare of the lights and guns of the cops crouched above them, were suddenly scattering in all directions.

Some of them jumped back down to the level of the dock and sprinted east, where the height differential between basin and plaza would provide cover from the guns trained on them from across at the park. Others leaped up over the railing and ran toward the row of trees lining the north end of the plaza and the buildings beyond, while still others charged straight into the guns of the cops crouched behind the curved wall. One of the cops half rose and lifted his gun—

Abruptly, a high-pitched yelp cut through the air, sending a violent twitch through Powell's body.

The effects on the cops below was even more dramatic. They staggered backward, the one who'd been bringing his gun to bear nearly falling over as the weapon's muzzle swung drunkenly around.

Before he could recover, a metal disk came spinning at him from one of the figures sprinting toward the trees, knocking the weapon out of his hands.

At the corner of Powell's eye, another group bobbed back to the surface of the water, and he looked back just as they let fly a second slingshot volley. With a multiple tinkle of shattered glass, the rest of the spotlights went dark. By the last dying flicker of their light, Powell saw that the attackers had overrun the dazed cops on the curving wall.

"It's like a three-ring circus down there," Messerling muttered. "All right, that's it. Ground level: masks on. Flash-bangs: fire."

There was a stuttering chuff of grenade launchers, and Powell turned his head away, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Two seconds later, the flash-bangs went off, bursting with a thunderclap of sound that seemed to lift him straight off the balcony and a flash of light that was dazzling even through his closed eyelids. The light faded, and he lifted his head again to look over the balcony.

Even with the spotlights gone, there was enough light filtering into the area from the city around them to see the plaza. There should certainly have been enough light for them to see the bodies laid out on the stone walkways, writhing or twitching with the aftereffects of the grenades.

Only there weren't any bodies to be seen.

The soldiers had vanished.

"Where did they go?" he demanded, looking frantically around the plaza, blinking his eyes as if that would change the reality stretched out in front of him. There wasn't anywhere down there where that many people could be hiding. There certainly wasn't any place they could have gotten to in such a short stretch of time, especially not with flash-bangs going off all around them. They couldn't be gone.

But they were.

"Look alive, spotters," Messerling called into his mike. "Where did they go?"

"I don't know," Spotter One said, sounding as confused as Powell felt. "They were right there. And then..." He trailed off in confusion.

"Flankers, move in," Messerling ordered, his voice under rigid control. "Seal the area, and I mean seal it. Units Seven and Two, check the buildings on the north side for open doors. Unit Nine, get aboard that yacht and retrieve the hostages."

"No," a voice said from behind them. Powell twisted around to look—

As Fierenzo and Roger Whittier dropped into a crouch beside him and Messerling.

"Fierenzo?" Messerling demanded disbelievingly. "I thought you'd been kidnapped."

"Forget the yacht for now," Fierenzo told him. "You have to make a perimeter—"

"Just a damn minute," Messerling cut him off, glaring up at him. "I thought this whole thing started because you'd disappeared." He shifted the glare to Powell. "Powell said these guys snatched you."

"Never mind that now," Fierenzo said. "Call Unit Nine back. By my count, there are another twentyfive soldiers still aboard."

"By your count?" Messerling demanded. "Look—"

He broke off as a sudden commotion erupted from the shrubs and trees of the park area at the plaza's south end. "We're under attack!" a voice snapped over the radio. "They just—oof!"

He broke off. "Gas 'em!" Messerling snapped. "Wisbaski?"

"I'm on it," a cop at the far end of their balcony snapped back. Standing up, he swiveled his multishot CS grenade launcher around toward the sound of the struggle below and lifted it to his shoulder.

But before he could fire, another of the strange yips swept across the balcony, sending another twitch through Powell's muscles and staggering Wisbaski backward. With a muffled curse, he stepped forward again, the muzzle of his launcher weaving noticeably as he pointed it toward the commotion below.

And as his shoulders tensed in preparation for firing, another of the metal disks shot up from the plaza, catching the underside of the launcher and knocking it back and up. The shot went wild, the gas canister arching almost straight up into the air, trailing a thin plume of tear gas behind it.

"Oh, hell!" Messerling snarled, grabbing the gas mask hanging from his belt. "Incoming!"

Powell fumbled for his own mask and got it free. Then, on sudden impulse, he shoved it into Fierenzo's hands. "Here," was all he had time to say. He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut—

The canister hit the balcony and burst into a roiling white cloud of stinging gas. Staying as still as he could, trying to conserve his air, Powell felt his eyes begin to tingle as the gas worked its way beneath his eyelids.

For him, he knew, the battle was over.

It wasn't until the hand closed on her wrist and someone began to haul her upright that Caroline realized that she had in fact been lying on the wheelhouse deck. "What happened?" she murmured through dry lips, blinking as she tried to focus on the chaos outside.

"Stun grenades," Sylvia said, her voice sounding distant through the ringing in Caroline's ears.

"Sound and flash. You must have been looking at one when it went off."

Caroline blinked some more, trying to see around the purple blob floating in the center of her vision.

Even with the blob in the way, she could see that the Plaza was inexplicably empty. "Where is everyone?" she asked, a sudden, horrible thought cutting through her. "Did the police—?"

"Kill them?" Sylvia snorted. "Hardly, though I do have to give them points for restraint. No, the Warriors have simply gone to ground." She pointed past the bow end of the yacht. "Many of them are in that row of trees along the north of the boat basin. Others were able to get into the trees on the south side, over by that grassy park area. Others swam out to the river and are heading farther north and south."

There was a sudden sound of commotion from somewhere. "And others worked their way to that other park over by the building," Sylvia added dryly. "Lots of nice trees there to pop in and out of.

The police will never even know what hit them."

Caroline looked that direction; and as she did so, she caught a glimpse of a thin trail of white as it arched into the sky and then tumbled back down onto the balcony to explode into a flat cloud of thick white vapor. "Excellent," Sylvia murmured. "One balcony out of commission. One more to go."

Caroline looked over at the balcony on the other side of the Winter Garden, where she could vaguely see dark helmets and guns poking over the railing. "You're not going to hurt them, are you?"

"Not unless I have to," Sylvia said. "But it may come to that. They're quite good." She paused briefly. "As are you, Caroline. I see now that I missed your hidden message completely. What exactly did all those X's signify?"

It took Caroline a moment to shift gears. "I was using Roman numerals," Caroline told her. "The

'roaming Warriors' line was meant to point Roger in the right direction." She felt her lip twitch. "It was also supposed to refer back to a conversation we'd had Wednesday night that should have told him everything I'd said before had been a lie. I guess he missed that one."

"And I'd seen Roman numerals, too," Sylvia said, sounding slightly disgusted with herself. "Very clever." She shrugged, dismissing her failure. "But no real harm done. Our observers confirm that nearly all of Torvald's troops are still gathered in Upper Manhattan, awaiting our arrival there. With Halfdan's forces scattered with equal pointlessness on sentry duty, that means that once we've bypassed this little obstacle, we'll have free run of the island."

Caroline took a deep breath. "You don't have to do this, Sylvia," she said, trying one last time.

"There has to be another way."

"There," Sylvia said, pointing.

Caroline followed the direction of her finger to the balcony still awash in the wayward tear gas. A

pair of Warriors had emerged from the now quiet trees and low hedges of the park below, running across the ground toward a position beneath the balcony's edge. As they braked to a halt, each flung something upward toward the railing. Caroline braced herself for an explosion or another burst of tear gas; instead, the Warriors suddenly rose off the ground, pulling themselves upward hand over hand through the drifting mist on invisible lines. "Of course," she murmured. "Trassks as cables and grappling hooks. Tear gas doesn't bother you, then?"

"Yes, but not to the same extent as it does you Humans," Sylvia said. "In this case, these two Warriors are merely holding their breath and keeping their eyes closed."

They reached the balcony, ducking down into the drifting cloud, and Caroline caught glimpses of quick movements as they beat back whatever opposition was still left up there. One of them partially emerged from the cloud with something that looked like an oversized shotgun and pointed it past the Winter Garden at the other balcony. There was the jerk of a recoil, and another tear-gas canister flew across the open area to wrap the balcony in a white cloud of its own.

"And now we complete the neutralization," Sylvia said calmly. From one of the trees lining the walk another pair of Warriors appeared and sprinted toward the balcony with their own grappling hooks in hand.

"And they're doing all this blind?" Caroline asked.

"Not entirely," Sylvia said. "Their eyes are shut, true, but the Farspeaker currently floating beside one of the docks can put some of what she sees into their minds, giving them a fair idea of what's around them. The rest of the details they fill in with hearing and touch."

Caroline watched in silence as the two Warriors made it up onto the second balcony and disappeared into the tear gas cloud. A minute later, they reappeared, rappelling to the ground and then twitching their grapples to free them. There was a shout from somewhere, and Caroline winced as a burst of gunfire ricocheted off the building behind them.

The Greens didn't wait for their attackers' aim to improve, but turned and raced back across the plaza, bullets chewing up bits of the pavement at their heels as they ran. Caroline tensed, wondering if they would make it back to the trees in time and wondering how they would get back inside without any of the cops seeing them. They were nearly there when another short Shriek split the air, rocking her back on her heels and startling her eyes momentarily shut. When she opened them again, the two running Warriors had vanished.

"And now only those on the south side of the boat basin remain," Sylvia commented calmly.

"They're already masked against the gas, so the Warriors are having to approach with a little more prudence. Ah."

"What?" Caroline asked, turning and peering to the south.

"No, not there," Sylvia said, pointing her back the opposite direction. "There. The police backup forces have arrived."

Caroline turned again. "Where?"

"They've just come around the sides of the buildings," Sylvia said. "Moving in very carefully." She shook her head. "Not that that's going to help, of course. Whatever information Roger gave them, he seems to have failed to mention who and what we truly are."

Caroline felt her stomach tighten. "He just wanted the police to keep you from attacking the Grays," she murmured. "He didn't want the government hauling you off somewhere to be studied like lab rats for the rest of your lives."

"More likely he didn't want to end up in a psychiatric ward," Sylvia said cynically. "At any rate, half a tale is going to buy him exactly nothing. In fact, unless they have something more impressive in reserve, we're hardly even going to be inconvenienced. Here they come."

Caroline looked again across at the buildings. Sylvia was right: she could see shadowy figures moving stealthily along the sides of the buildings. "They can search the buildings all they want,"

Sylvia told her. "Sooner or later, they'll come close enough to the trees."

She gave Caroline a faint smile. "Just relax," she said soothingly. "It'll soon be over, and you'll be able to go home."

"And the Grays?"

"As I said," Sylvia said softly, turning back to face the approaching cops. "It'll soon be over."