March of War
Page 8
“How long will you be?” he asked.
She shot a look back at Chang.
“Hopefully less than two hours,” Suleiman replied.
“Hopefully much less,” she growled, taking back her tablet.
The guard indicated for them to enter. “You know the way, I assume?”
“Yes,” Katja replied, already past him and through the doors.
As they had anticipated, the building was quiet. The only sounds were their soft footfalls and the jangle of Chang’s tool bag. Katja scanned the network around them, and Chang did likewise. She quickly isolated a pair of terminals active on the third floor.
The “prize” was Sarah Goldberg, the State official they were here to protect. She was busily reading messages, responding to some and forwarding others to a person who occupied the office beside hers. An executive assistant, most likely.
Katja suddenly felt a momentary sting in her ribcage. She glanced back at Chang and returned a signal of her own. He nodded. Both of their entanglement implants were functioning normally.
Someone had tried to explain the physics to her once, and she thought she understood it. Both she and Chang had been implanted with tiny devices, each of which held a group of individual elementary particles. Each set of particles had been entangled, and then separated in such a way that they were held in isolation from the rest of the surrounding environments.
Because the particles were entangled, what happened to one set would affect the other, and vice versa—instantly and no matter how far apart in the universe they were. Albert Einstein had first called it “spooky action at a distance,” more than five hundred years ago.
It gave the two operatives the ability to keep tabs on each other’s bodily status, to the point that each would know instantly if the other was alive or dead. Every time a signal was sent, however, that entangled pair of particles “collapsed” and could not be used again.
They boarded an elevator and, after a swift rise, the door opened and they stepped out onto the third floor. The corridor was at half-light, a broad, square window at the far end shining pale pink in the last flames of the sunset beyond. She reached out to sense for any surveillance equipment, while Chang found the network maintenance closet and stepped inside. She heard the soft clink of “tools” as he began assembling them into a pair of energy weapons. She would have preferred something more traditional, but State buildings employed scanners that could detect the unique inner mechanisms necessary for modern projectile weapons.
At least their opponents would be equally disadvantaged.
As Chang expertly constructed the weapons, he tapped directly into the network to begin a rapid sweep of the building. Katja activated her quantum-flux and walked slowly along the corridor, scanning a pair of offices. She saw the forms of the two people, each at a desk, and the quantum glow of their terminals. A single, thin wall separated them, but it was likely that there was a door open between the two rooms.
Katja turned and slowly retraced her steps, switching to infrared. The hot elevator shaft blazed, as did the air ducts which pushed new air to these outer offices in an eternal war against the Martian winter. It swirled in a maelstrom of eddies, some funneled upward into the office of Goldberg’s assistant, while the rest fluctuated along the duct and toward the corner room. There seemed to be more turbulence than was necessary, and she turned, walking slowly back toward the window as she studied the flow of heat in the ducts beneath the floor.
Something wasn’t right.
Her ears picked up the whoosh of the door sliding open and the rattle of a hovercart being pushed out and turned sharply in the corridor. It was guided by a middle-aged man, thinning gray hair, strong frame clothed in a cleaning staff uniform. In no way a fit to the description of the Centauri target, but her instincts still pushed her into fight mode.
She winked off infra-red and strode toward the cleaner.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The man stopped between the elevator and Goldberg’s suite. He looked up in surprise, but quickly brought a smile to his face.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said amiably, glancing at the insignia on her work uniform. “Working late tonight?”
She didn’t slow, trying to close the distance. Chang still had both of the energy weapons. Five paces to go.
“Are you authorized to be here?” she barked, watching his expression carefully. His eyes widened, but not with the sort of fear she’d expect from a low-pay civilian.
Just as she reached the hovercart, the cleaner reached down.
“Hands up!” she shouted.
His right arm began to rise.
She dropped to a crouch and slammed her shoulder into the hovercart. It surged forward into the cleaner. She heard his feet stumble backward, and then the thump as he fell to the floor. She pushed the cart toward him, spotting an energy pistol in his hand. Launching her weight off the cart, she hurled against the door to the suite, grunting as it snapped open and she sprawled across the floor.
Scrambling forward, she stumbled as a burst of fiery pain exploded in her leg. Falling to her knees she rolled to clear the doorway, coming up against the desk and spotting the wide-eyed face of a very young man in a suit, half-risen from his chair behind the desk.
Energy blasts hissed in the corridor behind her. With her good leg she vaulted across the desk and tackled the man, taking them both down as his chair crashed away.
“Police emergency,” she hissed as she lay on top of him. “Stay down.”
He nodded weakly.
She pulled herself up, peeking once over the desk before ducking down again. The firing had stopped.
She hauled herself up and limped to the open door into Goldberg’s office. Her left leg was unable to take any weight. She looked down and saw the blackened flesh of her calf mixed with the charred tatters of her suit leg. Her body had shut down all pain receptors to allow her to focus, but she wouldn’t be in the action for much longer.
Sarah Goldberg had abandoned her chair for the floor, and her eyes were barely visible over the solid wooden desk top.
“Senior Advisor,” Katja called out, “this is a police emergency. Please stay down.”
“Who are you?” Goldberg answered in a frightened but still commanding voice. Katja propped herself against the doorframe, rapidly scanning the room. The walls were secure, no surveillance kit, no hacks detected on Goldberg’s network. Two large windows formed the corner, and through them the last pink glow of sunset was fading beyond a dark landscape.
She switched to quantum-flux. All clear. She switched to infra-red. The river of heat sweeping along the air duct below the floor was moving smoothly. In fact, she noted suddenly, there was hardly a ripple. The hot air was plumed unhindered into the room, and from within the plume, a figure emerged.
she roared into the Cloud.
“Goldberg,” she shouted, “behind you!”
The woman turned and raised her arms in defense at a figure leaping in her direction. Katja broke into a run, stumbling as her left leg collapsed beneath her. She caught her own fall and rolled up into a fighting stance, just as a blade struck down and Goldberg screamed.
An energy blast sizzled into the dark form, enough to stop another stab. Chang came charging in behind her, but even as a second blast hissed forth, the assassin hefted Goldberg’s slumped figure as a shield. The energy scorched through the prize’s clothes and burned into her bac
k.
Katja charged forward, only to collapse again. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breath coming in quick gasps. She couldn’t feel the pain, but her body was suffering.
Chang’s massive form leapt into the air, taking both Goldberg and her attacker in a flying tackle. The floor shook as all three slammed down. Katja scrambled to the desk and pulled herself up in time to see Chang on his feet, grappling with a much smaller form in what was clearly a black pressure suit. The helmet was clear on three sides, and Katja caught a glimpse of the woman’s snarl as she took a step back and braced against Chang’s push.
Through blurring vision Katja realized what she was seeing. This woman, not much bigger than her, was fighting Suleiman Chang in a test of strength, and winning.
A sudden surge by the enemy knocked Chang back on his heels. She wrenched her hands free, recoiled into a perfect side kick to his midsection. Chang was knocked clear off his feet, crashing against the far wall.
The assassin turned to Katja, eyes burning with murderous intent. She pulled the blade free of Goldberg’s limp body and stepped forward.
Katja heard the malice in the voice even through the Cloud. She struggled to hold her defensive fighting stance, favoring her uninjured leg. Alarms began sounding in every room, indicating a security alert on the third floor. Chang pulled himself to his feet.
The Centauri’s eyes flickered between Katja and Chang, then toward the doorway. With a snarl she stepped back, rearing to deliver a kick to one of the picture windows. The glass cracked on the first impact.
Katja dove to the floor and clutched the solid leg of the desk. The sound of another crack was followed by an ominous shattering. A breeze began to blow, transforming in seconds to a torrent of air as the pressurized room bled out into the Martian atmosphere. Katja hung onto the wooden leg and shut her eyes, pulling her suit jacket over her face in a desperate attempt to trap a last gasp of air.
A metallic slam brought the windstorm to a sudden, silent halt. Katja glanced up and saw that the safety barrier had activated and sealed over the breach. Her lungs burned as they gulped in as much oxygen as they could, but she forced herself to let go of the desk and roll across the floor.
Sarah Goldberg was dead. Of that there was no question. The body lay almost within arm’s reach, but Katja made no move to examine it. Instead she struggled to her hands and knees to regard Chang, slumped against the wall, hands clutching the handles of an emergency fire equipment station.
He moved a hand, although his eyes didn’t open.
His eyes snapped open. She shifted her leg to reveal the burn. He looked off toward the outer office and frowned.
She hadn’t heard anything, and suddenly realized that her entire world was silent. She lay back down and touched fingers to her ears. There was blood on both sides. As Chang loomed over her and scooped her up in his arms, she saw that his ears were bleeding, as well.
A group of guards appeared and poured into the room.
* * *
In the chaos around the death of Goldberg and the unconscious Centauri “janitor,” the young assistant made it clear that Katja and Chang weren’t the assassins, so most of the police ignored them as they slipped out into the corridor. One armored officer did a quick medical check, and escorted them down to one of the ambulances in the central dome.
Chang placed Katja onto a stretcher and heaved himself up next to her in the back of the ambulance, firmly dismissing any attempts by the medic to assess him.
“Take care of her leg first,” he growled, pointing at the mangled calf.
The mission had gone to shit. Their prize was dead and the enemy had escaped. Katja wanted to get angry, wanted to give chase to that Centauri bitch, but her injured leg was completely unresponsive and she doubted she could even walk. Chang slumped in the seat as the ambulance swayed along the roadway, and was probably much more badly injured than he was letting on.
But he’d been doing this for years. He’d get her clear, she knew.
He always did.
8
The hangar was bustling with activity, even though only a single Hawk was present. Thomas walked against the bulkhead, keeping clear of the craft as it swung around to face the airlock through which it had just landed. Even before the ramp had lowered, the ground crew began their efficient movements to rearm and resupply it.
He gave the crew a minute to do their jobs on the bird, ignoring the restless shifting behind him as his strike team waited impatiently. Like him, they wore their armored spacesuits, loaded with weapons and extra ammo. Everyone was still haunted by the dark, empty tomb that had been Toronto—now they had the chance to stop that from happening again, and they wanted to move now.
Finally, the flight chief waved at the troopers to approach. Thomas stepped off in his heavy suit, hearing the steady thumping of his team moving in single file behind him. He clambered up into the Hawk, passing the newly installed benches in the main cabin and nodding to the young operator seated at her side console.
“Master Rating Singh,” he said.
“Sir,” she murmured, unable to hold his gaze as her eyes swept over the armor and weapons piling into her ship. Thomas stepped forward and tapped the Hawk’s pilot on the shoulder.
“Hey, Wings,” Thomas said. “Captain wants to get my team over to Singapore—looks like the rebels are trying to board her.” Jack barely glanced up. He cycled through a series of displays on his console and tapped in quick commands.
“Okay.” He leaned over his shoulder to make sure Singh could hear. “I’ve tasked Spinners Three and Four to cover. I’m going to do a straight, fast approach, no jinking, and get the strike team locked on. What entry point do you want?”
His words were so clipped and efficient, it took Thomas a second to realize the question was aimed at him.
“Top-part midships.”
“Your team strapped in?”
Thomas glanced back to the main cabin. All the troopers were squeezed down on the benches. Buns gave him a thumbs-up.
“We’re ready to go, sir.”
Jack nodded and initiated departure procedures. The Hawk began to roll forward into the airlock even as Thomas took his own seat behind the pilot’s right shoulder. The flashing lights of the hangar gave way to the muted airlock, and then finally to the starry blackness of deep space. Thomas felt the gentle push as the Hawk thrust clear of Bowen.
Then he gasped as Jack threw open the throttle and hauled to port. The view ahead swung and then straightened with a hard jerk, and Thomas saw his distant target—the Terran destroyer Singapore. Flashes indicated anti-attack fire, most likely to keep the pack of rebel ships at bay. The line officer in him immediately began assessing the symbols on Jack’s 3D display, and experience suggested that the Hawk had a clear run to target.
That could change quickly, he knew, but it wasn’t his problem. His problem would be the rebel troops fighting their way through Singapore’s interior.
The dark form of the destroyer loomed against the blackness. Thomas gritted his teeth and gripped his seat as the Hawk decelerated and moved to a hover next to the hull. Jack nudged his bird in, clamping to the destroyer’s airlock.
“We’re secure,” he said.
Thomas unstrapped from his seat and floated into the zero-g environment, noting
that his troopers were already moving to open the Hawk’s side airlock and make room for Buns to glide through. She activated the controls and did so.
“This is Bravo-One,” she reported on the strike circuit. “Entry point clear. Gravity in place, full atmo. No hostiles.”
“Deploy,” Thomas ordered.
“I’m going to lift off,” Jack said as the troopers began moving through the airlock. “I’m too much of a target here, and I reckon you don’t need an escape route like you usually do.”
Thomas’s strike instincts screamed at him to maintain the extraction point, but he knew Jack was right. Better to have the Hawk nearby in one piece, rather than splattered across Singapore’s hull.
“Agreed,” he said. “Just don’t stray too far.”
“I got your back.”
He patted Jack’s shoulder and moved to follow his troopers. The Hawk’s tactical operator, Singh, offered him a nervous smile as he passed.
“See you soon,” he said, giving her a friendly wink. Then he swung around to slide feet-first into the airlock, feeling the destroyer’s gravity field tug at him and create a “down” as he dropped through the tubing and thumped onto the deck.
His rifle was up to the guard, and he swept his eyes both directions down the familiar-looking passageway. His troopers had spread out behind what little cover was afforded, also watching both directions. The way aft was sealed off by an airtight door, but the route forward was much more exposed. The nearest exit had been buckled and torn free of its structure. Further ahead, another door had been blown completely out of its combing.
There was pounding and clanking in the distance.
Buns activated one of Singapore’s bulkhead panels to display a diagram of the ship’s interior.
“Mother, this is Alpha-One,” Thomas said on the command circuit. “Touchdown, ops yellow. Ready for orders, over.”
“This is Mother,” Bowen responded, “tactical control of your team is now shifted to callsign Raffles on this circuit. Break. Raffles, go.”