“Bloody hell,” breathed Downing.
ODYSSEUS
They moved using a modified version of a leapfrog advance: after the rear man moved forward, Caine swerved out of cover to follow him at a distance of about five meters, staying close and low against the same wall. They were nearing a bank of elevators when Little Guy, who was in the lead, dropped to one knee, fist raised.
Caine heard it too. Gunshots. Full automatic—breathy and extremely rapid. Almost like someone tearing a paperback in half: the individual reports were so quick that they bled into one smooth patter of sound. Meyerson had come off the tail position, kneeled next to Caine.
“Damn.”
Little Guy looked back, harpooned Meyerson with his eyes. “Until it’s your turn to advance, you watch our six.”
Meyerson looked to the rear—but his head spun back forward as the sounds resumed, closer this time, apparently rising up through the stairwell that was co-located with the elevators. Caine listened, heard a buzz of sharp, thin snaps mixed seamlessly into the reports.
“Machine pistols. Silenced,” Meyerson commented.
Before Caine could think the better of it, he was voicing his own assessment. “Maybe not. Each of those little snaps is a round going supersonic. But that high rate of fire and smooth suppression—I think they’re using liquid propellant assault rifles. No ejection ports, so only the muzzle blast to suppress. And only full-bore rifle rounds have that crisp supersonic snap.”
Meyerson looked incredulously at Caine, then smirked. “Anything else?”
Caine shrugged, looked forward. “Probably bullpup weapons; they’ll want something short and handy for close-quarters combat.”
Meyerson grinned forward toward the back of Little Guy. “You believe this? He’s a real—”
“He’s right. And this is the last time I’m going to tell you to watch our six, Meyerson. We’re heading for the roof, now. Let’s go.”
They rose, Little Guy’s weapon up and ready. Caine edged closer to him. “Those guns—doesn’t seem like amateur hour.”
“No, sir. I think you’re right about that.”
Six meters from the elevator gallery.
“Probably had to come in on the ground.”
“That’s certain: we’ve got the airspace locked up tight. Sensors all over. Verticals on two-minute standby.”
Two meters.
“Which they’d probably anticipate.”
One meter. Little Guy paused. “What are you saying?”
“Even if they don’t dare go to the roof themselves, wouldn’t they try to prevent us from getting there? Send someone ahead?”
Little Guy turned to look at Caine. “A blocking force.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Little Guy nodded, moved forward at the double-quick, waving for Meyerson to catch up. Meyerson did, went for the stairs: Little Guy waved him off.
Meyerson’s eyes were surprised, his voice quizzical: “We’re taking the elevator? It’s a death trap.”
Little Guy shook his head. “Cover me.” When Meyerson had set himself up, Little Guy took out a palmtop. Looking over his shoulder, Caine saw a building schematic on the small screen. Little Guy scrolled through it, selected, enlarged, selected again—too fast for Caine to follow. Then he was turning off the palmtop, slipping it back into his shoulder pocket, and pulling a master key/wrench combination from a pouch on his web-gear.
“Can I give you a hand?”
Little Guy nodded at Caine, who followed him over to a panel between the staircase and the leftmost of the elevators. Jerking his head at the wall panel, he told Caine, “Keep it from falling. No noise.” He already had the first of the restraining bolts out of the panel.
About twenty seconds later, the last bolt came out and the panel sagged forward toward Caine—who lugged it away from the wall and lowered it to the floor. A half-size access door was embedded in the wall.
“Meyerson.” Little Guy had the key in the lock; the access door swung open with a stiff squeal.
“Yeah?”
“Give us ten seconds, then follow us up. Close the door after you and keep watching below as we climb.”
Little Guy stuck his head in the maintenance shaft, did a quick up-down check. Popped back out, looked at Caine. “Here’s the drill. I go in first. Give me five seconds, then you start up. It’s not a self-contained chute; it’s a recessed ladder in an access channel that runs the length of the elevator shaft. Keep your rump and your shoulders within that channel and you’ll be invisible. Stay about five feet lower than I am and don’t come out on to the roof until I give you an all-clear. We’re on the second floor; the roof is only three above us, so you shouldn’t need to pace yourself on the climb. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay. And good thinking about that blocking force.”
Little Guy ducked under the top edge of the doorway and was gone. Caine counted to five and swung himself in.
Little Guy was already far above him. Down below was nothing but blackness, except for what sounded like a distant rush of falling water, the sound one hears when nearing a waterfall. Caine looked down. Far below—was that a hint of movement? He listened for a second he couldn’t spare: only liquid susurrations. No time to check again. He aimed his eyes at the disappearing soles of Little Guy’s boots and started to climb.
CALYPSO
Just ahead, through the torrents of water, Opal could see two elevators at a T intersection, flanking a large letter “B.” So she was in the basement. Great.
And she wasn’t alone. Approaching the elevators from the opposite direction were three figures. Running. In white coats. Workers.
She was about to wave, then ducked back as far as she could into the doorway, which was her cover: one of the workers kept looking back over his shoulder, panicked. The first of the three—a woman—reached the elevators, evidently found them inoperable, jumped over to the stairway fire door, hand upon the knob—
The center of her white lab coat exploded outward into a red smear, followed quickly by another bloody eruption from where her appendix would be, and a third misty blast that shattered her right knee, almost severing the lower leg. The growling hiss of suppressed weapons-fire grew: the other two bodies tumbled, one losing an arm. Stray rounds streaked past Opal’s shallow shelter, emitting vicious cracks as they did: projectiles sharply breaking the sound barrier. What the hell kind of guns were these?
Then, silence, except for the dull thunder of the water spraying down. She waited. Through the water, she barely heard footsteps approach, then stop about fifteen, maybe twenty feet away: right about where the kill zone had been. Muttered reports, a pause, a response, then footsteps again—receding, but the sound took longer to die away. They were not returning the way they had come: they were going down the corridor that branched off from the intersection, down the leg of the T.
So she had to wait. If she went to the elevators now, and they turned around, they’d have her. So move as close to the elevators as possible, listen, maybe steal a quick peek.
Which she did, keeping her bare feet in gliding contact with the wet floor: anything else and she would sound like a kid playing in a puddle. She reached the corner of the T intersection, went low, did a quick out-and-back check: three distant figures disappearing into the artificial downpour, then pausing, preparing to make an assault entry to another room. Timing was everything now: she took the risk of looking again, saw one of the strikers fire a round into the lock, just before another shouldered the door open. Now.
Using the cover of their noise, she limp-sprinted to the elevator, wedged her arm through the partially open door, braced her legs and pushed one direction with her arms, the other direction with the shoulder-blade she had squirmed into the gap. A moment of resistance—and breath-stopping pain—and the door opened enough for her to slide through sideways.
Inside the elevator, she found what she had been hoping to find at a medical facility: handrail/bumpers l
ining the interior at about waist height. And at the rear left corner of the ceiling, an overhead panel.
One last agony, now. Facing into the left rear corner, she raised her shaking left leg up onto one of the handrails and wedged her left hand into the crevice between the left and rear wall panels. Trembling with the effort and pain, she hoisted herself off the floor, got her other foot up onto the rear wall handrail. Once she was steady, she pushed upward against the overhead access panel with her free hand. Stuck or locked. But flimsy. No choice. She hammered upwards with her fist, thinking: any second, they’ll hear it.
But after three blows, the panel popped up, the sheared head of a single restraining screw dropping past her. Now, both arms through the access panel, palms to either side, and lift. Slowly, she rose into the darkness of the elevator shaft, choking on the dust—and then began shaking convulsively. She couldn’t tell if it was from relief, exhaustion, pain, or noradrenal aftermath—or all of them.
Guiding the access panel back with careful fingers, she snugged it in place, thought: I just might make it—
She heard a faint metallic squeak overhead, threw herself to the side of the elevator car’s roof, almost tumbling into the gap between it and the wall. She was still, silent. So too was whatever had made the noise overhead. Where, looking up, she saw a faint hint of something other than absolute darkness. Not a light, per se: more like a reflection of twilight? And were those voices she heard? A hint of a whisper and then nothing?
Alongside her, disappearing up into the near shadows, was a ladder in a recessed channel. It was a pathway to salvation—or to death. The all-important variable was this: whose voices had she—maybe—heard up there? Was it the intruders? Had they come in that way?
She leaned back against the ladder: wondering won’t do any good. You have to think, and then you have to act. So she thought: this might be a secure facility, but she doubted it was top secret. It had the sprawling look of a complex built for, and worked by, civilians. That meant it would have high security, but was unlikely to be some remote subterranean warren that was dozens of klicks from human habitation. So the building was probably situated in a typical civilian environment. If that was the case, would the bad guys have come in through the roof?
Probably not. Aerial insertion would be risky if they were in a developed area—and aerial extraction would be suicide. Local forces would be on the way in, and the first thing they’d be able to assess and control was the surrounding airspace.
Unless this was a black op—where the “intruders” were actually the “men in black” from the government—in which case there was no hope either way. Local law enforcement would be countermanded or delayed long enough to give the hunter-killer teams plenty of time to finish their sweeps.
So it was either men in black and certain death, or honest-to-god intruders—which meant that the cavalry was probably be on the way, and they would almost certainly come by air and secure the roof first.
She turned slowly, reached out for the rungs of the ladder and hoped her legs would hold her for what looked like—judging from the distance of that little bit of grayness above her—a five story climb.
ODYSSEUS
Little Guy’s hand appeared in the shaft above him, waving sharply. All clear.
Caine yanked himself up the last five rungs, but, despite his eagerness to be outside, kept low as he came out. Little Guy, watching from a crouch, gave a nod of approval, then stared meaningfully off into the night. Caine followed his gaze.
A green and red light, blinking, about three kilometers away, and coming closer—rapidly. The roar of VTOL jets crescendoed: the approaching craft was swiveling them into more of a vertical lift attitude.
“Our ride?”
Little Guy nodded, scuttled crablike to a spot a few meters away, where he set and adjusted a black disk about the size of a hockey puck.
“What is it?”
He didn’t look up. “Multiphase UV beacon: can’t see it without special goggles, set to see the right frequencies at the right intervals.”
Meyerson burst out of the doorway, somewhat crouched, but ready to stand. Caine reached up, grabbed the front of his web-gear, tugged him down.
“Son of a—”
Little Guy interrupted. “Meyerson.”
Meyerson looked away. “Okay. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.”
“You’ll get dead if you do it standing up. Stay low.”
The VTOL roared closer, looming larger and on what seemed like a collision course.
“Hey—” began Caine.
“No worries,” commented Little Guy. “Standard operating procedure for a hot extraction. They’ll keep pouring on the speed until the last second, then they’ll swivel into vertical hard and fast: can shake your teeth loose, but minimizes the amount of time that you’re a sitting duck for hostiles.”
Caine tried hard to believe Little Guy’s explanation as the twelve-meter attack sled cleared the far end of the roof—and then, like a bristly mechanical wasp, came to a sudden, shuddering midair halt, vertical thrusters slamming forward with a high-RPM scream.
Meyerson was coiled to go, Caine—for once—ready to follow his lead, when Little Guy’s hand came down on his left bicep. “No, we wait for the signal.”
“Which is?”
But Little Guy was watching the vertibird through narrowed eyes. The craft seemed to roll lazily toward the left side of the roof, turning slightly as it did so. A ready door gunner rotated into view; the chin-mounted autocannon swiveled in the opposite direction.
Meyerson fidgeted. “What’s taking—?”
Little Guy made a harsh noise. “Something’s wrong.”
The VTOL stopped for a second, then danced quickly to the right, thrusters swiveling sharply into lateral flight mode. It started picking up speed, swinging back out over the street—
From somewhere off to the left, a sharp, growling cough gave birth to another sound—that of a severed pressure hose, which up-dopplered sharply. A flash of motion from behind them—and then the object was past, the sound down-dopplering. Caine identified it as a missile just before it hit the VTOL a meter behind the cockpit.
The explosion was ferocious: the sudden blast of flame and heat whited out his goggles’ thermal imaging circuits, blinding Caine just as the shockwave knocked him back several feet. Something heavy and hot—he couldn’t tell what—went crashing past him.
The goggles faded back in: burning wreckage, a madman’s arabesque of twisted metal.
“Jesus Christ!” shouted Meyerson.
“Stow that, or I’ll kick your ass when—if—we get back to the shack.” Little Guy scanned to the left, took off his goggles, stared intently, then put them back on and signaled to Meyerson.
“What’s up, Petty?”
“Target, adjoining rooftop. Wearing a cold suit—probably running a chill can, so no IR signature: that’s why the bird didn’t see him at first. He won’t be alone.”
“I’m on it.” Meyerson went past, running a jack from his goggles into the scope of his gun.
Caine felt himself being tugged in the other direction: Little Guy was moving low and fast to the center of the roof, into a cluster of fan cowlings, ventilators, and elevator access sheds. The master key appeared in his hand as they drew abreast of a waist-high tool and materials locker. He opened it, raised the lid. “In you go.”
“In there?”
“Now. No time for arguments.”
“Wait a minute; I can help you wi—”
The stunning blow—a palm heel strike to Caine’s chin—was so fast and unexpected that he didn’t even see Little Guy unleash it. Didn’t even feel himself fall into the locker backwards. Caine was dimly aware of Little Guy’s voice. “You’re a stand-up guy, but you’re a newb—and you’re the package we’re here to protect.”
As Caine started swimming up out of his unsteady fog, he heard Meyerson’s rifle stutter off into the night. The lid of the locker banged shut ov
er him and the key turned in the lock. Damn it…
Meyerson’s fire went on—a sustained raucous ripping sound that lasted three or four seconds: he had emptied his magazine in one long blast of fire. A moment of silence, another—and then, even through the metal sides of the locker, Caine heard a roaring response that sounded like a horrible mix between a calliope and an immense, high-speed chainsaw. A rotary machine gun of some kind: good Christ. After a brief pause, it roared again—but was swiftly counterpointed by a whispering rush that ended in a sharp blast. The rotary gun abruptly fell silent, did not speak again.
Caine couldn’t follow much after that, as sporadic bursts of fire alternated with long stretches of silence. Eventually, the thin metal walls of the locker started to hum with the approach of something airborne and powerful—just before the lid lifted up and a hand came in to help him out. Again, Little Guy. Caine clambered out, saw another VTOL swing past, firing single rounds down at a nearby roof, although not the one from which the missile had been launched. He turned to Little Guy. “Where’s Meyerson?”
Little Guy shook his head. “He didn’t make it. Come on.” Yet another VTOL—a troop carrier—was skimming across the rooftops, approaching swiftly. Little Guy led the way back toward the elevator access doorway, put down another UV beacon. Again, the sudden shrill blast of thrusters as the VTOL rotated them into the vertical mode—so loud that the pair almost didn’t hear the faint scrabbling in the doorway behind them.
Caine rolled to the side; Little Guy spun, gun up so fast that it didn’t look like a human action at all. It was as though he went from cradling the gun to having it ready and aimed without any intervening motion of his arms or body.
A gasped “Hold…your fire!” stayed his trigger finger long enough to reveal that it wasn’t an assassin emerging from the shaft behind them. Not unless one of the assassins had disguised herself as a young woman in a drenched and clinging hospital gown, with blood staining the back.
Caine, doubled over to run low, reached her and helped her out onto the roof. The blood was not just a stain on the back of her shift: a steady trickle ran down the back of her right leg.
Fire With Fire-eARC Page 14
