Someone yelled out, "You lucky bastard, Lance Corporal!"
Claypoole smiled. He was already beginning to feel at home; the Stadtpolizei reminded him of the barracks back on Thorsfinni's World.
"Lance Corporal Claypoole was a target at the shooting at Juanita's some days ago," Lyies announced, "and three nights ago he and another Marine took on more than forty bandits down in Morgenluft." There was a low murmur among the assembled policemen, who had all heard the story on the media and from police reports. Claypoole breathed a sigh of relief. Juanita's was not in the Hidalgo Hills jurisdiction, so the officer he'd clobbered wouldn't be with these men.
"He also busted Chico's nose!" the man they called Hector shouted gleefully, and two others sitting nearby got up to pat Claypoole on the back.
"Chico, as you may be able to surmise," Shift Leader Lyies told Claypoole, "is a well-known asshole in this department."
Claypoole was definitely at home.
Shift Leader Lyies covered some announcements—lookouts for criminals and stolen landcars—then dismissed Charlie shift to its patrol areas.
Patrolman Fernandez was about Claypoole's age, slim, and in good physical condition. They shook hands warmly.
"I'm at your disposal. Officer," Claypoole told the young policeman.
"Call me Hwang, please! And you are...?"
"Rachman."
The men of Charlie shift filed out of the roll call room into the vehicle compound behind the station, where they entered their assigned landcars. The Brosigville police cruisers were light and dark blue with white reflective lettering. The roofs bristled with antennas and signal lights.
"You seldom get the same car each shift," Fernandez said, "so sometimes you get to clean out all the trash the shift before you left behind. We're supposed to clean up after ourselves, but most of us don't do a very good job of it. You'll see why if we have a busy shift today. By 0100 you'll just want to get cleared out of the station and back home." Fernandez began going through a checklist, inspecting the exterior of his vehicle and then the interior, the computerized communications system, and the Brady shot rifle. He carefully unloaded the rifle, checked all five magazines to be sure they were fully loaded, each mag with the proper ammunition, then gently replaced it in its rack. "Press this button here, and the gun pops out. Charge it with this lever here, then release the safety here, point and fire."
"Okay with you, Hwang, I'll just rely on my hand blaster." Claypoole patted his own side arm. "Can I just stow my shoulder weapon in the storage compartment for tonight? Don't think we'll need it, do you?"
"Probably not; go ahead, throw it in back there. Hey." He motioned for Claypoole to watch something. He bent quickly and snatched a small black object from inside his left leg, down by his ankle. "Know what this is?"
Claypoole shook his head. It was a pistol of some kind.
"This," Hwang announced proudly, "is a POS .25 caliber handgun. POS means 'piece of shit,' 'cause these guns are worthless firearms except at extremely close range. But we all carry them. To have a POS is a mark of distinction, means you're one of the team. They're manufactured here on Wanderjahr and are exact replicas of a pistol that was once quite famous back on Old Earth. It's fed by a magazine that holds six rounds. We carry 'em with one round in the chamber, so that gives us seven shots. It's for use in only the most desperate circumstances, like when your service pistol is out of ammo and you're out of hope." He pulled up his trouser leg. "I carry mine in this ankle holster. It only weighs about 430 grams; hardly even know it's down there after a while. Never had to use it and hope I never will."
Claypoole shook his head in wonder.
Inside the cab, the floor was sticky from coffee or some other kind of fluid someone had spilled there, and the storage compartments were stuffed with napkins, plastic spoons, and soiled blank forms that apparently were used only to sop up spills. Compartments in the door panels contained extra magazines for the Brady rifle and Fernandez's Sig pistol.
Fernandez plugged in his laptop. "We do as much report writing from inside these vehicles as we can. When you get it all done from here, you can go home when your shift is over. But there are times we have to finish up back at the station, and that's what the terminals in the roll call room are for. The shift leader reviews all his officers' reports from his console and then authorizes them for the central-records database. The station commander reviews all the reports on a daily basis. Lyies is pretty sharp, so hardly any mistakes ever get by him. Otherwise we'd be getting ass-chewings all the time. You'd be surprised how difficult it can be to write a lucid report with all the stuff that goes on out here in the streets on any given night. And when you don't have time to write up each incident, you just have to take notes with a pencil and paper and do all your reports after your shift. Some nights I've had to stay on duty until dawn just catching up with the reports."
Claypoole doubted Fernandez had much trouble writing lucid reports. He'd known the officer only a few minutes and already he respected the man's intelligent professionalism.
"Question?"
"Sure," Fernandez replied.
"Well... it's just that I've met Commissioner Landser several times, one or two times too often, if you get my drift. And I just wonder... well, given the kind of officer he is, how do you guys get away with, uh, I mean, manage to be so... so..." Claypoole made a helpless gesture.
"So fucked up?" Fernandez finished the sentence for him, laughing.
"No! I mean, so 'casual' about everything, especially the state of cleanliness back inside the station. You'd think with a guy like Landser in charge, you'd have white-glove inspections every shift."
Fernandez was silent before replying. "You gotta understand something about Landser, Old Allie, as we call him. He's a dandy, that's for sure, struts around like he's a character out of an old-fashioned opera or something. But he understands leadership. He lets his district commanders run their own shows. He knows we have enough to do keeping the streets safe without inspections and formations and all that crap. So long as we're presentable to the public and conduct ourselves professionally. Old Allie concentrates on polishing his shoes and leaves the street cops alone to do their jobs. And you know, when Chairman Arschmann put Chief Long in charge with the authority to fire Landser—we all know that—well, it cut him bad, real bad. Frankly, I don't think he deserved to be treated that way." Fernandez paused. "Not that I think Chief Long and his boys are bad for this department, and there's no doubt we really need you Marines here too. I've met the chief. He came to all the stations and talked to us. He's a good man. But you just don't take an officer like Old Allie and kick him like Arschmann did. And then right after Old Allie's kid brother got himself killed in that bombing."
"I didn't know about that," Claypoole said softly. At last finished with the checklist, Fernandez turned to Claypoole and said, "Strap yourself in, Rachman, and let's go out and kick some ass!"
Dean was riding with a burly patrolman named Valdez. Valdez did not welcome the Marine's presence in his car, and it was obvious the shift leader had made the assignment as a way to prove a point with the big man. And Valdez resented it. So did Dean, but he decided to keep quiet about things for the present.
"Your patrol area is 310C, down by the river, right?" Dean asked.
Valdez maneuvered his landcruiser into the late-afternoon traffic on the street outside the station. "Yeah," he answered finally.
"What kind of an area is it to work in?"
"Wet, if you go into the river," Valdez responded.
Dean bit his tongue. He'd go along for a while longer. Maybe the ice would melt.
Each landcruiser was connected to a central dispatch facility via its onboard computer system. The policemen logged on to the system each evening and logged out at the end of their shift. Meanwhile, orders and messages flowed across the computer screen all evening long. When something for a specific patrol was transmitted, the console would beep loudly. When an emergency message was transm
itted, the dispatcher used the voice channel and requested confirmation, to be sure the instructions were received and understood.
Before they'd left the station, Valdez had given Dean a small wrist communicator set to the same frequency as the cruiser's, so when they left the vehicle for any reason, they'd still be in contact with the dispatcher. "That's so if you get into trouble when you're outside the car, all you do is press this button or shout for help and the dispatcher'll know where to send it. We always tell the dispatcher our exact location when we stop, and we let them know what we're doing. Even when we stop to eat or take a piss."
Inside the cruiser Valdez pointed out some things on the console. "That button there releases the shot rifle. That yellow button there, never touch it unless we need assistance. That transmits what we call a Signal Thirteen, officer down. Mash that fucker by mistake and I'll be the laughingstock of the entire force."
And that was the extent of their conversation for the next five hours. Valdez made several traffic stops, but he never explained to Dean why. He was ordered to stay in the cruiser while the policeman talked to the drivers he'd pulled over. Dean didn't know if the drivers had committed traffic violations or were just friends of the policeman. Valdez also seemed immune to hunger, since he made no mention of supper, and Dean had grown so exasperated at his treatment he wouldn't break down and ask. At shortly past 19 hours. Dean was ready to go back to the station and ask the shift leader to assign him to another officer for the rest of the evening.
Meanwhile, Claypoole and Fernandez were getting along like old buddies. Fernandez carefully explained everything he was doing, and when he made traffic stops, he let Claypoole come along. "Just stand clear of my weapon side, Rachman, in case the situation goes bad. Traffic stops are the most dangerous activity for police officers in Brosigville. If the driver you stop doesn't attack you, you might still get hit by the oncoming traffic."
The neighborhoods in area 490 consisted of rows of small shops along the major thoroughfares and neat residential enclaves on the side streets. Claypoole was impressed at the friendliness of the people they encountered, most of whom addressed Fernandez as Hwang. "I've worked this area for three years," he said. It was hard for Claypoole to imagine the man ever drawing his weapon to shoot someone.
At supper in a local restaurant—"Cops get half price here," Fernandez explained the two exchanged personal details about themselves. Fernandez was married, with two children, a boy and a girl. He'd been a policeman for six years, all as a patrol officer in the Hidalgo Hills District.
At precisely 19 hours the dispatcher raised them on the voice channel. "Four ninety Charlie, proceed to the Anwar Shipping Company warehouse at 4990D Teufelfluss Promenade. Back up Unit 910C on an Eighty-nine Adam. Priority One event, but do not use lights or sound. All other units standby."
"Ten-four, dispatcher. Will proceed to 4990D Teufelfluss as backup for 910C. Priority One, no lights or sound." Several other patrol units who'd been monitoring the transmission chimed in, volunteering to go in place of 490C, but the dispatcher put them all on hold.
"An Eighty-nine Adam is a burglary in progress," Fernandez said. "We're the closest unit to the scene right now. Looks like the culprits are still inside the warehouse. That's why the call's a Priority One and they want us to proceed as quietly as possible."
"What if the bad guys are listening on their own radios?"
Fernandez shrugged. "Then there'll be a hot reception, Rachman."
"Who's unit 910C?"
"Ricardo Lanning. When we get there, you stick around the car, monitor the communications system." Fernandez had shown Claypoole how to use the voice system. "I doubt we'll need any Marine fire support, but keep your eyes open."
They pulled up silently behind Lanning's car. Lanning was a heavyset man with very closely cropped hair and tattoos peeking out from under his short-sleeve shirt. He came over to Fernandez. "Hwang, good to see you." They shook hands. Fernandez introduced Claypoole. "Marine?" Lanning asked. "You armed? Good. Stand by. We might need some more fire-power. I've called for more backup. The building's too big for only two of us to check."
"What's inside?" Claypoole asked. "Thule," Lanning answered. He grinned. "I think we've caught ourselves some big-time bad boys here tonight."
Two more cars drove silently up. Since the call was in Lanning's area and no supervisor was yet on the scene, he gave the orders. "Hwang, you and Claypoole cover the front of the place. The rest of us will go in through the back, if we can. Everyone stay in radio contact with Hwang."
Claypoole was about to leave the patrol car when a sharp ka-pow! came from the warehouse and Lanning's car erupted in a ball of flame. The four officers who'd been standing in a huddle were all knocked to the ground by the explosion. Fernandez mashed the Signal Thirteen button, released the Brady rifle, grabbed some Sig mags, and rolled into the street, where Claypoole was already crouched behind the car. There were several more shots. This time Claypoole could see bright flashes come from the darkened warehouse, and all four vehicles burst into flames. One of the officers rolled in the street to put out his burning clothes, and all five men hugged the pavement, temporarily out of sight from the warehouse behind the flames of their burning vehicles. "They're using shot rifles!" someone yelled. "That's a class-four felony," one of the officers muttered as he tried to squeeze himself between the cracks in the sidewalk.
Then the most frightening noise of all, the flat hiss-crack as several plasma bolts lanced out from the warehouse simultaneously and slagged the street in front of the burning police vehicles.
"Dispatcher!" Claypoole yelled into his wrist communicator. "Plasma weapons! They've got plasma weapons. Get Dean over here right now! He's riding in Kwangtun Heights."
"Jesu, it's hot!" someone screamed. The burning vehicles were generating terrible heat. They could not stay where they were any longer.
Dean unholstered his hand blaster, set it on full power, stood up, and began firing rapidly at the warehouse facade, splattering it with bolts. The four policemen did not have to be told what to do—they jumped up and darted out of the street into a nearby building. Claypoole ran after them.
The five men crouched panting inside a storefront whose front windows had been blown out in the explosions. The burned officer's clothing was still smoldering, but he gritted his teeth and kept saying he was all right, despite the burns he'd sustained along the left side of his body.
"They have us outgunned," Lanning rasped. He cursed and spoke rapidly into his communicator. "It'll take a few minutes to get a reaction force down here. Did anyone manage to grab a Brady rifle?" Claypoole said nothing. He'd left the rifle and the extra magazine in the street when he'd dashed for cover.
"I have four bolts left in this thing," Claypoole said, checking the gauge on his energy pack. He did not have a replacement for it. An infantryman, he relied on his shoulder weapon, which was now bubbling goo in the back of Hwang's patrol car.
"Then you're the man," Lanning said.
A plasma bolt hissed through the window and exploded in the back of the shop, spreading fire everywhere.
"We gotta get out of here now!" Lanning shouted.
Claypoole fired three bolts back at the warehouse. They ran through the rising flames into the rear of the store, which consisted of offices and a storeroom. Another bolt exploded in front of the building. Billowing smoke and roaring flames rapidly filled the front of the store. Breathing was becoming difficult with all the smoke in that confined space. Someone slammed the outer door to the storeroom shut, to give them some temporary protection from the conflagration. They stood panting and coughing in the smoky darkness, only partially illuminated by their glowballs as they sought a way out. Seconds later the five desperate men were confronted by a locked and bolted door at the rear of the storeroom. "This goddamned door is against the fire codes," someone muttered. The frangible bullets in their Sigs would be no use against the door's case-hardened steel panels.
"Oh, Jesus Lor
d, we're going to fry," someone whispered, his voice quavering on the edge of panic.
"Not if I can help it," Claypoole rasped.
"Unit 310 Charlie, you have a Marine on board?" the dispatcher asked.
Startled, Valdez answered in the affirmative and glanced at Dean. "Be advised, 310 Charlie, units in patrol area Four are under fire from plasma weapons and need immediate assistance at 4990D Teufelfluss Promenade. Proceed there at once and render whatever assistance is needed. Do you copy?"
"Three ten Charlie. Copy! On the way!" Valdez came to life immediately and grinned ferociously at Dean. "We got action, Marine! Get your gun!"
Dean, who had been carrying his blaster with him in the cab, checked the safety, glanced at the energy pack indicator light—it was at full charge—and put the weapon on full power. He was forced back into his seat as Valdez shifted the vehicle into drive and mashed the accelerator lever all the way down. The landcruiser leaped forward and within seconds was careening down a broad avenue at nearly 150 kilometers an hour, lights flashing and Klaxons screeching. "Whoooeeee!" Valdez hollered. "This is real police work!" Dean held on for his life.
Two blocks away from the warehouse, they saw the glow in the sky. Valdez slowed down until they were within sight of the place. Three separate fires raged: the warehouse facade was in flames along with a building directly across the street, and a third fire raged in the middle of the street, directly in their way. As Valdez pulled to a stop, a plasma bolt flashed from the warehouse into the burning building opposite.
"What the hell was that?" he asked.
"Hellfire," Dean answered. "You better take the Brady rifle, I don't think your pop guns can handle this." Valdez turned the landcruiser sidewise, blocking the street. They got out and took cover behind it.
"Four ninety Charlie, where are you?" Valdez screamed into his wrist communicator. A multichannel device like the ones the Marines carried, the police communicators were also programmed to respond to voice commands, and 490C should have been receiving Valdez clearly at this distance, but there was no response.
School of Fire Page 21
