I filled in the breach quickly. "This is Mr. Bury of Swindle and Crouch. He represents the Rockecenter interests."

Oh, my Lords! That brigadier came to a salute so stiff his arm vibrated and quivered. Without turning, he cried, "Crews, Ho-o! Sa-loot fohmahtion! Roy-yall!"

There was a shattering hammer of boots upon the pavement. The mob turned into a tight, impressive formation behind him, every eye stiffly front, every body at tense attention.

"Roy-all sa-loot! HUP!" cried the brigadier.

Every hand rose as one in the most impressive salute I have ever seen.

"TWO!" cried the brigadier. All hands and his own came down.

"At yo' ser-vice, SUH!" cried the brigadier and did a one-two-three-four foot stamp the way the British do.

Bury stood there in his narrow, snap-brim, New York hat and civilian overcoat. He raised his right hand ever so slightly. "If you would call your officers," he said, "we will have a consultation in camera."

On the brigadier's crisp command, they were shortly clustered. They synchronized their watches. Bury took out an Octopus map of Manhattan. He issued orders so fast, it was a blur to me. He told them exactly what he wanted them to do.

The brigadier barked. Crews of fifteen tanks raced to their monsters and with military precision, scrambled in.

The brigadier produced a small walkie-talkie from his blouse. He barked orders into it by the number.

With roaring, snarling engines, fifteen tanks surged ahead and rushed northward on Twelfth Avenue.

The brigadier then courteously handed the walkie-talkie to Bury and with gestures and a salute, offered Bury the sixteenth tank.

Presently, with the brigadier somewhere inside, with Bury standing in his little snap-brim hat in the open command turret and with me standing on an exterior tread cover, we began to roll slowly northward.

There was a handhold on the turret side. I held on with some misgivings. But Bury had no misgivings. He was standing there in the turret, his Wall Street lawyer eyes alert to everything ahead, the walkie-talkie held in his left hand.

We stealthily crept to a position about fifty feet short of the entrance to Pier 92. We stopped.

To our left rolled the black river. Before us stretched the deserted street. And there was the silent lair of our quarry, the blackly gaping warehouse.

Bury looked at his watch. We were in plenty of time. Bury looked down at me perched precariously on the tread cover. "Brilliant man, Hatchetheimer. He rapped off this plan, just like that. A masterpiece. I hope it works. Too bad he chose the wrong side more than three-quarters of a century ago. A loss to the world. Eighteen different countries want him as a war criminal. It makes it difficult to send him supplies for his terrorist activities. In the next half hour, we'll know the best or the worst. The loosing of the dogs of war is always a chancy thing. But 'Cry havoc,' I say. When the courts fail to return a favorable verdict, there is always the bazooka to decide the last event. You should remember that, Ink-switch. In your present position you have to get used to these times that try men's souls. In minutes now, the case goes to the final judge and we either stand, weapon-shorn, before the last tribunal or we will have that God (bleeped) Madison safely in our clutches. The prosecution rests."

His attention was now fixed upon the center of the river and so I looked in that direction.

Someone from below in the tank passed him up some infrared binoculars. He began to sweep the river with them.

"Ah!" he said at last. He handed the binoculars to me.

Speed launches! But they were not speeding. They were creeping into position out on the black water. They had U.S.S. Saratoga on them. There was some activity on the far side of them. I could not make it out.

Bury looked at his watch. He took the glasses back and began to watch the end of Pier 92. Then suddenly he began to nod. He handed me the glasses.

Out of the water, lines were shooting. Grapnels were clutching at the far edge of the pier.

Then black figures were slithering out of the water, going quietly up the lines. They had assault rifles across their backs! And a bazooka!

Bury took back the glasses. "Frogmen," he said. "U.S. Navy SEALS. The carrier must have had a contingent of them aboard. Clever Hatchetheimer!"

He had evidently signalled the brigadier in the armored guts below. We rolled silently ahead, very slowly.

"My main worry now," said Bury, "is his God (bleeped) car. It's an Excalibur. It's a replica of a 1930 open touring phaeton, mostly chrome. But totally deceptive. Just like Madison. An Excalibur's total machinery is as modern as a jet. Cadillac engine, biggest ever built. It can outrun this tank like a rabbit can outrun a turtle! Ah, I hope this works."

We had halted again. We were just beyond the south edge of the open door of Pier 92. It was dark where we were. I could see inside. Lights showed a sign at the far end:

FREE ZONE!

INTERNATIONAL TERRITORY! KEEP OUT!

Cargos could be unloaded into it and picked up without ever entering U.S. Customs.

A huge case, the kind you ship autos in, a big sign on it:

EXPORT

It bulked in the dimness at the extreme outward end. There seemed to be a frail, small figure advancing toward it. His mother! She had a lunch basket in her hand.

One could not see any U.S. Navy SEALS in the far darkness, but one knew they must be there, getting into position, getting ready, cocking and pointing weapons.

Bury had his eye on his watch.

Zero!

With a stuttering roar a wall of savage flame burst out of the far dark! Automatic weapons! Deafening!

I cringed down!

My Gods, we were right in their line of fire!

Bury was not ducking! What a brave man!

To keep me from running, Bury barked at me, "Those are blanks. Stay still!"

The rush, flash and roar of a bazooka! It wasn't a blank! It hit the back side of the huge case!

Above the shattering din, a car engine burst into a roar!

The front of the box burst apart!

The Excalibur hurtled out!

The flame from the guns flashed upon its chrome exhausts!

Blue flame was shooting out behind it!

The frail woman went down! The lunch basket flew!

The open touring phaeton roared toward us!

The automatic weapon fire redoubled!

Out of Pier 92 came the car!

"NOW!" Bury shouted.

The four forward machine guns of the tank opened up!

The concussions almost knocked me flat!

The car veered away from us!

With a scream of tires, it turned. It sought to escape to a side street. Banked squad cars turned on their chortling cacophony!

The car tires screamed.

The Excalibur raced up Twelfth Avenue.

Under me the tank got into motion. Faster and faster we went.

I held on to the handhold desperately.

Bury was barking into the walkie-talkie. The wind was tugging at his snap-brim. The NATO flag streamed out.

We were really going!

Eighty? Ninety? A hundred!

The car ahead of us began to draw away, its huge power plant beginning to assert its mastery!

We were on the West Side Elevated Highway. The British tank driver was driving on the wrong side!

The rails and lampposts fled by in a giddy blur. All New York seemed to be turning.

I could barely hold on!

Now, in sudden bursts, the tank's guns were firing once more! The concussion almost finished the job of knocking me loose.

Bury, framed against the bowed antenna pennons, backed by the cracking, whipping flag, leaned forward in his snap-brim hat.

"Any moment now!" he roared into the wind.

It happened!

Ahead of us the Excalibur gave a jerk. It abruptly slowed!

The tank slued and skittered sideways on its treads. The scream was deafening!