Escape From New York (7 page)

The man came to his feet when Hauk walked in. His spirit lightened, almost as if he were literally transferring his burden over to the Commissioner.

“Mister Secretary,” Hauk said.

The man was around the desk and vigorously pumping Hauk’s hand.
That
was something the man could relate to. “Bill Prather,” he said, and fixed Hauk with a professional stare. “Am I glad to see you.”

Hauk looked the man over. He had a full head of silver hair, but it didn’t mean that he was old. He was of very indeterminate age, probably somewhere between forty and sixty. He had a good set of teeth and the easily accessible face of a favorite uncle, back when people still had uncles who weren’t crazy.

“Bob Hauk,” he responded, and broke the Secretary’s grip on his hand.

“What’s the news?” Prather asked.

“Not very good, I’m afraid,” Hauk answered.

The Secretary walked back to the desk and took a cigarette out of the pack, even though another one was still smoldering in the cut glass ashtray. He fidgeted getting the thing into his mouth, his hand visibly shaking when he lit it “Give it to me,” he mumbled around the smoker.

Hauk walked up to the opposite side of the table, resting his hands on its top. “The President went down in the prison,” he said, then moved away from the table, over to the big map.

He pointed to Battery Park. “He went down around here. We sent a task force in immediately, but it was too late. They already had him.”

The Secretary exhaled a lungful of smoke. “They?”

“The prisoners,” Hauk answered.

Prather shrugged broadly. “Well surely, Commissioner, you must just go in and take him out.”

Hauk walked back to the table again. “It’s not that simple,” he said quietly.

“Why not?”

“These people are very dangerous, I . . .”

“Come on, Hauk,” Prather said, and his tone was condescending. “This is your prison. Don’t you have any control over your own prison?”

Hauk felt the anger rise up his throat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cloth-wrapped finger and tossed it onto the table. The wrapping came loose as he did so.

“No, sir,” he said. “I don’t”

Prather’s mouth fell open when he saw the finger. His body convulsed slightly and he turned his head. “Hauk,” he choked. “Put it away. Please.”

Hauk stuck the finger back into his pocket “Those people rule themselves in there, Mister Secretary. All we do here is keep them from getting out.”

The man turned back around, breathing deeply. The false bravado was gone completely; all that was exposed now was the frightened shell of a petty bureaucrat who was in over his head. “How could such a situation . . .”

Hauk put up a hand to silence him. “Listen,” he said. “I didn’t invent the fucking system, you people did.”

“I don’t think I like your tone of voice.”

Hauk drew himself up full. “Fine,” he said, and turned to the door. “You handle things then. I’m going to go home and get some sleep.”

He started for the door, wishing, really wishing, that Prather would let him go. He knew that he wouldn’t, though.

“No,” the man said, before Hauk even got halfway across the room.

He turned back around.

“P-please,” Prather stammered. “I need your help. I can’t handle anything like this.”

“Yeah,” Hauk said, and returned to the table. He sat down in the chair opposite the Secretary.

Prather took short, nervous pulls on his cigarette. He didn’t offer one to the Commissioner, so Hauk just reached across the table and took one.

“What have we got?” Prather asked.

Hauk lit up and took a deep drag. It tasted stale, metallic. “We’ve got two choices,” he replied. “We can either try to go in and get him out, or we can wait on the prisoners. They’re holding him for something, some kind of ransom. As soon as they figure out what they want, they’ll try to deal for him.”

He sat back, watching the glowing, dead ash build up on the end of the smoker, “It’s a big city,” he said, “in case you haven’t noticed. I seriously doubt that we could even find him if we went in, much less rescue him alive. So, I strongly suggest that we wait for the ransom demands.”

“We can’t,” Prather said softly.

“What do you mean, we can’t?”

Prather pursed his lips, his eyes once again drifting to the city map. “John Harker is on a very delicate mission right now. He was on his way to a summit meeting in Hartford that will, most likely, determine the final outcome of the war.”

Hauk closed his eyes and leaned back. He didn’t want to hear this. “What sort of mission?”

Prather looked around, as if somebody might be eavesdropping. He lowered his nervous voice. “There is a briefcase cuffed to his arm that holds a cassette. The cassette talks about a powerful new bomb, a fusion bomb that . . .”

“Never mind,” Hauk snapped. “I don’t need to know. How much time have you got to get him there?”

“Just about twenty-four hours,” Prather answered. “After that, the Russians and Chinese go back home and things get crazy again. We’ve worked for years to set up this meeting. I doubt that we could ever get another chance.”

Hauk stood up and began pacing. “Who’s making the top end decisions right now?” he asked after a minute.

“The Vice President,” Prather answered, and rested his hand on the red phone. “He’s waiting on the other end of this line to hear from us.”

“Will he be cooperative?”

“What have you got in mind?”

Hauk stopped pacing and stood, staring at the map, his hands at parade rest behind him. “We could never get in there with troops,” he said over his shoulder. “We’d never even find enough of him to bury.”

“Then, what?”

“One person could get in,” he said. “One person could move around unnoticed.”

“Have you got someone in mind?”

Hauk turned around, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it on the floor. “Maybe,” he said, and crushed the smoldering butt with the heel of his shoe.

He moved across the room to a phone by the map. He picked it up and spoke as soon as the operator came on. “Cronenberg,” was all he said.

He waited while the receiver buzzed in his ear. After several rings, a craggy voice came through the line. “Medical,” it said.

“Cronenberg, this is Hauk.”

“Hello, Commissioner, I haven’t heard from you in . . .”

“Do you have a prisoner down there named Plissken?”

“Why, yes, he’s a . . .”

“I’ve got no time, Doctor. Just listen to me: detain Plissken in processing. I may have something for him. Can you do that?”

“Well, yes. I . . .”

“No time, Doctor. Are you still working on that Stinger Project?”

“On and off.”

“Does it work?”

“Theoretically.”

“Get it ready. We may be testing it out.”

“You mean . . . on a human?”

“Yeah. I’m up in conference. Get your directives going and get your ass up here.”

He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply, then turned back to Prather. “Here it is: we’ve got a prisoner here, name of Plissken. He’s one of the world’s all-time slippery bastards. I say we offer him amnesty, and give him twenty-four hours to get the President out to earn it. He’s smart and he’s one of them. He could do things that we can’t.”

“Do you really think it will work?”

Hauk walked over and leaned on the table, staring Prather down. “Probably not,” he replied. “But it’s the only game in town.”

“How do you know he’ll even keep his part of the bargain?”

Hauk smiled slightly, more a grimace. “I’ve got an ace in the hole.” He sat back down. “I would suggest that you get your Vice President on the phone right now.”

Prather picked up the receiver and waited for the connections. Hauk thought a minute and realized that he didn’t even know the Vice President’s name. Was he that far out of touch?

He moved away from the table, back over to the map. Prather began talking over the phone, but his voice was just outside the range of Hauk’s hearing.

It was an old map, pre-war. The Battery Park area was shaded a pale green. If they did the map now, they’d have to make it dull brown. He traced the streets with his eyes. Many of them he had walked at length, looking for Jerry.

He listened to the drone of Prather’s voice for a minute, then turned and walked near the Secretary to catch what was being said.

The man was nodding his head. “I’m convinced there’s no connection, sir. The prisoners aren’t aware of the hijacking. As far as they’re concerned, it was an accident . . . yes sir. He’s right here.”

Prather made a face. “This is Bob Hauk,” he said and handed the red receiver across the table. It was warm to the touch.

Hauk stood there, hearing the man’s voice, but not really listening. The Vice President was simply saying all the same things that Prather had said earlier.

“We can’t,” Hauk said at the proper time. “If we go down there with choppers, they’ll kill him. We’re lucky now if he’s still alive.”

“What do they want?” the voice said, and it sounded tired, too.

“They don’t want anything, yet, and by the time they figure out what they want, it’ll be too late.”

Prather was tugging on his sleeve. “Tell him we have to go with your plan
now!”

On the phone, the Vice President was saying something about tomorrow. He didn’t want to make a decision either.

“We can’t wait until tomorrow. If we have to move in and take the island, it’s a last resort. It’s nine oh five. I want permission to try the rescue.”

There was dead air on the line for a time, then, “All right. Try your rescue. But, I’m warning you . . .”

“I know,” Hauk interrupted. “It’s my responsibility.”

He hung up the phone and looked at Prather. The tension was draining somewhat out of the man’s face. There was a sharp knock on the door.

“Come,” Hauk said, and Cronenberg walked in. He was tall and slightly stooped, his posture and long white lab coat making him look somewhat like a whooping crane. He was old-looking, but it was a healthy old. His features were rugged and likable.

“Is it ready?” Hauk asked.

The man fixed him with a cold stare. “Yes, but I can’t guarantee . . .”

“How long will it take?”

“A few seconds. But I’m against using it.”

Hauk slapped a hand on the tabletop. “I have a directive from Washington.”

Cronenberg moved over to him, and it was obvious that the man was angry inside, that he was just barely keeping that anger under control. “This is an experimental unit, Hauk,” he said. “I’ve never tried it on a man. This isn’t like you.”

Hauk didn’t have time to be diplomatic. “You can test it out,” he said.

A black-suited, overweight sergeant stuck his head in the door. His eyes bypassed Hauk and stopped on Cronenberg. “They just took him in to quarantine,” he said.

“Bring him to my office,” Hauk returned. The man left. He looked at Cronenberg. “Warm up your machine, Doctor.”

The doctor’s eyes flared, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he turned sharply on his heels and marched out of the room. There was silence for a few seconds, then Prather spoke:

“There’s something that needs to be said, Hauk,” he began. “The President is, of course, very important to us . . . but the briefcase—that’s more important right now.”

“Yeah,” Hauk replied. “I kind of figured that one out for myself.”

THE STERI-CHAMBER

9:00
P.M.

They sat Plissken in the steri-chamber, so he could think about it for awhile. There was nothing fancy or scientific about the steri-chamber. It was a small, white room where they strapped you naked on a stainless steel table, then put a box about the size of a typewriter over your hips. The machine then, quite quickly and smartly, would cut your balls off.

They had a blackbelly named Duggan in there to watch him. Duggan was the craziest son of a bitch that Plissken had ever seen. If anyone belonged in the steri-chamber getting his balls cut off, it was Duggan.

The blackbelly was hopping around the room on all fours, imitating a rabbit he had seen once that had gotten a dose of gas. Plissken had a pretty good loop of chain to work with while he was sitting down. If he could only get Duggan close enough to him, he could try to get it around the man’s neck. Then, with any luck, he could use his gun to shoot off the chains.

“And then . . . and then . . .” Duggan was out of breath, eyes wide, unable to stop laughing. “And then, he’d kindly go on off to the side.”

The man flung himself wildly off at an angle, banging into a small table full of instruments and gauze. The table fell down, skittering the instruments loudly across the shiny floor.

Duggan jumped to his feet and his head darted around. His gummy monkey face suddenly solidified into something rock hard and perverted. He pulled a .45 out of his belt and leveled it at the Snake. His hand was shaking with rage,

“So, that’s the way it’s going to be, is it,” he said, his voice quaking. He was breathing loudly through his nose. “Just look what you did, you gutless bastard.” He nodded his head toward the mess on the floor.

Plissken tightened his hands on the chain, waiting for his opportunity.

“You know what you’re gonna do?” Duggan asked rhetorically. “You’re gonna get down there right now and pick that stuff up, that’s what.”

“Go to hell,” Plissken said.

Duggan began vibrating physically. He primed the bolt on the gun. His arm was shaking, weaving around. When he tried to speak, the words got all balled up in his throat.

“Down . . . on the . . . floor. NOW!”

Plissken moved off the bench, his length of chain stretching full as he stood up. He set the table upright, then squatted down and began picking up the scattered metal clamps and hemostats. Duggan stayed just out of arm’s reach, always out of arm’s reach.

Plissken looked up at him from the floor. The man had a monstrous grin plastered on his face. He turned back to the work. All at once, Duggan was right there. Plissken had turned his head just enough to see the steel-toed boot curling toward his exposed side.

The kick was well-intentioned; it had authority. It caught him just below the rib cage, and his whole side exploded. He jerked up with it, crashing back into the instrument table, all his work gone, clattering back to the floor. He hit the wall hard, then slid and doubled over to the floor.