Black Market

“How 'bout that! Class of seventy, too. Well, here we go again, sports fans. I take it you don't much like airplane rides?”

Before Carroll had a chance to answer, the copter jumped straight up from the parking lot. The ascent left Carroll's small intestines somewhere behind. The chopper pierced the smoky city afternoon, hugging the dusky walls of nearby buildings and cleverly avoiding swift winds sweeping off the river.

As the copter swung out wide toward the East River, another Bell joined in from due south.

“No, I'm not real crazy about helicopters. No offense, Luther.”

Adrenaline flowed wildly through Carroll's body. Down below, he could see traffic streaming on the FDR.

The police pilot shouted over the roaring rotors. “Beautiful day, man. You can see Long Island, Co

“Beautiful day to get shot in the fucking heart.”

Parrish snorted a laugh. “You been to 'Nam all right. Let's see, we've got two, maybe three, armed patrol helicopters on them right now. Pick up more help once we find out which borough they're goin' to. I think we'll be fine.”

“I hope you're right.”

“You see them down there? Little toy taxicabs. See? See right there?”

“Yeah, with little toy M-Sixteens, toy rocket launchers,” Carroll said to the pilot.

“You talk just like ex-infantry. Ironic-type shit. Makin' me all misty eyed.”

“Still infantry from the look of things. Except I'm afraid we're fighting the Green Berets today.”

The black pilot turned to Carroll with a knowing look. “They're bad dudes all right. Definitely Special Forces.” He nodded as if to a secret beat. He almost seemed proud of the Vets bravado. Their urban street-fighting style had hit a chord.

A thousand feet below, the FDR Drive was a delicate ribbon of silver and shiny jet black. The Vets cabs looked intensely yellow down there. As the lineup of cabs crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the two helicopters swung high and wide to avoid being seen. They actually disappeared briefly into low-flying clouds.

Carroll's shirt was already soaked through. Everything seemed to be happening at a distance. The world was slightly fuzzed and unreal. They were going to solve Green Band, after all.

On the Brooklyn side of the bridge, he could see that traffic was heavy but moving. The steady whoosh of cars, an occasional bleating horn, traveled all the way up to the cockpit.

“They're getting off at the exit for the Navy Yard! This is Carroll to control. The Vets convoy is exiting at the Navy Yard! They're proceeding northeast into Brooklyn!” Carroll screeched into the microphone.

Brooklyn

At that same instant, a deafening explosion jarred the underbelly of the helicopter with a jolt that rattled right through Carroll's bones. His head cracked hard against the metal roof, and sharp bolts of pain stabbed behind his eyes.

Then a second jarring blast struck the cockpit.

Splinters of glass flew in all directions. Star fractures cob-webbed across the windshield. Everywhere, metal was ringing with gunshots. Glaring red flashes were angrily ribboning the sky.

“Ohhh, goddamn, I'm hit. I'm hit,” Parrish moaned as he slumped forward.

A machine gun chattered loudly off to Carroll's left. He caught a brief glimpse of floating, blinking red lamps on the right and the hulking shapes of two choppers he hadn't seen before.

Christ! Two Cobras were attacking.

The sky filled with bright, jarring yellow orbs of light, with roaring fire and billowing black smoke. The companion police helicopter had disintegrated before Carroll's eyes.

Within seconds there was nothing left of the chopper but leaping gold-and-orange flames. Nothing but an eerie, fading afterimage in the sky.

Carroll could see that Luther Parrish had been badly hit. Puddles of blood were collecting from a wound on the side of his head. The electric circuits in the cockpit seemed to be completely out.

Heavy machine-gun fire suddenly welled up from below. The pilot moaned and grabbed his legs. The helicopter had begun to fall, to somersault and plummet.

Carroll crazily fired his M-16 at one of the attacking Cobras. The red light winked derisively-then the copter calmly disappeared from sight.

Carroll froze. The police helicopter suddenly flipped over. It was upside down. Blood was rushing, swirling through his head.

The helicopter was now in a deadfall, sailing and spi

A deserted grid of avenues and streets appeared through the windshield as the chopper cleared the last building. Cars were parked in long, uneven lines up both sides.

Carroll was familiar with helicopters from his many trips in Vietnam, though not how to fly. Reflexively he grabbed at the controls.

He was beyond all fear now, beyond anything he'd even felt in combat or police action. He was in a new realm-a place where he was acutely conscious of everything around him.

This was it, he thought. He was going to die.

The helicopter's belly cleanly sheared the rooftops off half a dozen parked cars. Carroll covered his face and shielded Parrish as best he could.

The helicopter struck the street on a side angle. It skidded, bounded violently, then issued a grinding shriek. Sparks, plumes of intense red flames, flew in every direction. Whole sides of parked automobiles, headlights, and bumpers were effortlessly cut away. A fire hydrant popped out of the sidewalk.

The helicopter plowed to a tearing, screaming, crunching halt against two crushed cars.

A man in a factory security uniform came ru

Carroll cradled the badly wounded pilot. “Grab hold. You just hold me,” he whispered, hoping the man wasn't already dead. “Just hold me, Luther. Don't let go.”

He began to half carry the hulking NYPD pilot away from the burning helicopter wreckage. His eyes nervously searched the skies for the attacking Cobras, but he could see nothing.

The choppers might as well have been a nightmare. The nightmare of Vietnam all over again. But it was happening right here on the streets of Brooklyn.

And now Archer Carroll was out of the grand chase. He had lost Green Band. They had eluded him again.

40

The Vets cabs proceeded northeast, then almost due east across Brooklyn. They were moving inexorably toward François Monserrat and the appointed end of Green Band. Everything was precisely on schedule.

Erect and alert behind the wheel, David Hudson was experiencing a moment of unusual anxiety. It all had to do with being this close to the end. They were less than seven minutes from the rendezvous with Monserrat.

Nothing could distract David Hudson from Green Band now. He would concentrate as if he were entering a combat zone. Nothing must look even mildly suspicious…

François Monserrat's soldiers could be watching the streets from neighborhood rooftops and darkened apartment windows. If they spotted the unexpected attack force, the final massive exchange of Wall Street securities would fail. Green Band would fail.

Like an advance scout in 'Nam, Hudson noted everything. A knot of black youths was easing out of Turner's Grill. Their voices carried-low, guttural sounds in syncopated street rhythms. He checked and rechecked the squat, cheerless brick buildings as he drove closer to the agreed-upon meeting place.