Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [112]
Everything depended on the final act of Green Band.
Chapter 84
THE VETS CABS appeared suddenly. They paraded single file out of an abandoned warehouse garage in downtown Manhattan.
The cabs were assimilated into normal traffic flow until they branched onto Division and Catherine streets leading toward the East River and FDR Drive.
Each of the Checker cabs had been equipped with PRC-77 transmitter-receivers, known in Viet Nam as monsters. The PRC units automatically scrambled and unscrambled all transmissions. There was no way the New York police could intercept messages traveling between the cabs.
There were six cabs, which could carry fourteen heavily armed Vets: an assault platoon with rifleman-snipers, M-60 gas-operated machine gunners, a thumper man with an M-79 grenade launcher, a communications operator.
The most spectacular touch in the commando raid was that the ground attack force had air support. Two Cobra Assault copters would be backing the Vets if any combat action started on the street.
David Hudson, who scouted and studied the street from the lead cab, was beginning to feel an unexpected sense of release. It was almost over. Finally, dignity. Finally, revenge.
He experienced some of his old combat sensations from Viet Nam, only this time with a difference.
A big, important difference.
This time, they were going to be allowed to win.
A New York police detective, Ernie “Cowboy” Tubbs, who had been dragged unceremoniously out of bed to join the manhunt, saw one of the cabs go past on Division Street.
Then he saw two more Vets cabs.
He turned to his partner, Detective Maury Klein, a short man in a black tent of a raincoat. Tubbs said, “Christ, that’s them. That’s Green Band. Bingo, Maury.”
Detective Klein, who was addicted to Rolaids and Pepto-Bismol, peered sorrowfully through the windshield. His stomach was already killing him.
“Jee-sus Christ, Ernie! Half those bastards are supposed to be Special Forces.”
Ernie “Cowboy” Tubbs shrugged and swung their late model Dodge out behind the line of yellow cabs. Only a single car separated them from the rearguard Vets cab.
“We’ve spotted Green Band!” Tubbs rasped into the hand-mike on his dashboard.
Maury Klein uneasily cradled an American-180 submachine gun in both arms. The assault gun looked out of place inside the Dodge, middle-class family car. The American-180 fired thirty rounds per second. It was never used in city fighting for that reason.
“This sucks, man. Sucks! Bar on 125th Street, I tangled with one Green Beret Special Forces dude. That was enough for me, forever.” Maury Klein continued to complain. The notion of mixing it up with ex-Special Forces veterans seemed like one of the worst ideas he’d ever had in his police-force life. Maury Klein was a vet, too, class of ‘53, Korea.
At Henry Street there were only a few working traffic lights. There was almost no other traffic. An eerie, dockside feeling pervaded the steamy gray area of lower Manhattan.
“Looks like they’re going to the FDR Drive for sure…. Entrance is down here somewhere. Right around Houston.”
“North or south?” Ernie Tubbs yelled to his partner and gave a quick glance.
“I think both ways. South for sure. We’ll see it here any … there! That’s it.”
Just then, Tubbs spotted the dilapidated ramp to the south lanes of the drive himself.
The Vets cabs were approaching fast from both directions. The first cabs were already rattling up the crumbling stone and metal rampways.
Tubbs flicked on his hand mike again. “Contact! All units. They’re getting on the FDR! They’re heading due south! Over.”
Suddenly the rear Vets cab veered sharply. It tried to cut Tubbs’ car off.
“Son of a bitch!”
Tubbs swerved left with skillful, near-perfect timing. The unmarked