by Evan Currie
The bombardment slowed, finally trickling out as a last few shells erupted through a nearby building, sending chunks of cement and glass spraying out into the street, and then stopped. Smoke and dust began to settle into the street, obscuring the view of everything but the flickering of red and orange light from the burning helicopter.
“Now Sir?”
“Quiet!” Pierson hissed in response.
The men fell silent, some almost afraid to breath as they waited. The silence grew oppressive, consuming the instants between each breath like a hideous monster, making each man shiver as their own heartbeats began to thunder through the silence, stalking them. Then, finally, through that hideous silence, there was a scrape of boots on loose concrete and a curse that echoed down the streets.
“Get into position!” Pierson hissed quietly, his tone urgent as he waved his men forward.
They moved quickly, but as quietly as they could, relieved to have something to do. They took up positions in the window and doorframe, leveling their XM-90’s down the street as they peered into the dust.
When they appeared, it was like the movies almost, dark figures just melting out of the smoke and dust, moving cautiously toward one of the fallen soldiers who still lay out in the middle of the street. The men looked to Pierson, waiting for the order, as the seconds began to weigh on them, but the Colonel held his hand out flat in the order to hold.
They didn’t like it, but they held.
More seconds passed, and more figures appeared from the smoke and dust, and the lead group nudged at the body on the ground, rolling him over. The man ripped open the soldier’s BDU jacket, opening the carbon fibre reinforced light armor and then yanked the tags from around his neck.
Pierson winced as the man’s head jerked up, then fell back and bounced off the asphalt. Not knowing if the man was alive or dead, he didn’t move his hand, refusing to give the order.
So they continued to hold.
More shapes appeared through the dust and smoke, moving slowly as they swept up the street, their weapons becoming visible in their hands. Pierson ran a quick count and came up with just under a dozen, and did a mental wager with himself as he held his order.
A moment later he won that bet, and one more man appeared from the smoke to start giving orders to the rest.
Pierson snapped his fingers into a balled fist and dropped it down in a sharp motion.
And they no longer held.
The snarl of the 6.58mm XM-90’s tore through the air, rending it in an instant of horrible sound, the bullets reaching out from the camped soldiers and cutting down their targets without mercy. The entire ‘battle’ lasted only seconds, the dozen armed men in their sights falling like wheat before the thresher.
After it was over, the roar of the rifles’ fire still echoing in their ears, the men turned to look at the Colonel.
“Now,” He said grimly, “We go look for survivors.”
*****
The Tower City Fire Department had several trucks, located in two separate station houses on opposite sides of the city ring, to the East and to the West of the tower. East Precinct House received the call to duty shortly after the impromptu fireworks in the western sky had those on duty scratching their heads in puzzlement.
None of them had any word of fireworks scheduled for the day, but of course there was the pre-anniversary party in the Tower Greenhouse that might have something to do with it. Certainly, no one had informed them about that either.
When the alarm bell sounded, though, it was all business.
The men of the East Precinct House made it into their suits and onto their trucks in record time, some of them having to chase the trucks out of the station when they paused to grab for their helmets, but they clambered aboard quickly and then they were off.
The trucks held their sirens, not needing them in the little to no traffic of the city’s main thoroughfare, and so flew along almost silently on their electric motors. The call was in the west precinct’s district, but they all knew that if it had come through to them, then there was enough trouble to go around.
The last time they’d had a call big enough to bring everyone out was over two years earlier, and many of them were still making their reputations on stories of the freak lightning storm that had hit that day. Today was clear though, so the Precinct Captain couldn’t figure out what could possibly have happened to call out both station houses at once.
He got his first taste as the engine slid around the gently curving streets, black smoke curling to the skies ahead of them, and he grabbed for his radio to make a call.
“Truck One this is Tanker One, can you see that fire yet?”
He waited a moment, but nothing but static came back over the radio. He frowned, thumbing the send button again.
“Truck One, come in.”
Nothing.
The truck he was trying to call was just up ahead of him, he could see it coming into view again as it slowed. It’s lights were going and the driver of the tanker began to slow as well as the source of the smoke came into view.
“Bloody hell…”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God.” The Captain whispered in shock, just staring at the helicopter tail rotor that was sticking out of a building ahead of him as the tanker slid to a stop just behind the lead truck.
He knew he’d frozen for a moment when he finally came out of it, but not for how long, and nor did he have time to worry about it. He jumped out of the truck, waving to the other men as they started pulling the hoses down.
“Get the chemicals primed! We’ve got a fuel fire here! Use those hoses to control its spread! Move it damn it, or we’ll lose the block!”
“Jesus, Cap! What happened here!”
“How the hell should I know what happened, Joey!?” He growled, grabbing the slack jawed man’s shoulder and spinning him around. “Worry about how we get it under control! Move it!”
Joey moved.
The Captain took a moment to survey the blaze while his men moved around him, unrolling hoses and pulling out the tanks of inert chemicals that would form the basis of the firefighting compounds they would probably have to use to put out the searing flames, and just stared at the chunk of fuselage he could see.
There were military markings, he could see the Australian Armed Forces insignia on the tail, so he immediately began to worry about whether it was loaded with munitions or not.
“Survivors!” He yelled quickly.
“What?!” Someone stopped, turning to stare at him.
“Suits! We’ve got to see if there are any survivors! Fast!” He gave his order, then followed it up by reaching back into the truck and grabbing his heavy fire jacket and the air rig that went with it. “Carl, come over here and check my fittings!”
Carl ran over as he shrugged into the air rig, then pulled his encapsulated helmet on while Carl started sealing the gaskets on his jacket. A few seconds later the rig’s hose connected to the back of his helmet, and air was flowing.
“I’m good to go!” He said over his helmet radio, trying to move off, only to find Carl hold him back. “Hey! I’m good to go!”
Carl looked at him in confusion, this time seeing his mouth move but hearing nothing.
“Bloody hell!” He snarled, breaking the seal and yanking his helmet off. “The radio’s busted! Get me a spare!”
Another helmet was located in seconds, while others suited up around him, but it soon became obvious that the problem they had was a little deeper than they’d thought.
“Fuck me!,” Someone yelled, “None of the radios work, Cap!”
The Captain swore, shaking his head and thinking fast. Something was seriously screwed up here, but he just didn’t have time to worry about it.
“We go in any way!” He ordered finally, grabbing his own helmet back and yanking it halfway down his head, “Everyone stay close! We’ll chain our way in, no one goes out of sight of the guy behind him! Got it!”
They nodded, and he yanked
his helmet down the rest of the way and went through the procedure of sealing the gaskets again and checking the airflow.
This time he gave Carl a thumbs up, and the other man nodded once and thumped him on the helmet. He could read the words ‘good luck’ on Carl’s lips as the man let him go, then ran back to man the hoses.
This was going to be an ugly one, he could feel it in his bones.
He shrugged the feeling off, though, and waved to the others who were suited up as he started forward.
Not knowing what was inside the burning chopper, unable to talk to each other, they followed him anyway as he charged up to the building. At its base, they took one more look up at the tail of the chopper above them, then pushed forward into the smoke and heat.
Forward into hell, and damn the fires.
*****
“Damn it!” Gwendolen Dougal cursed, reaching out and thumping the dash of the Eliica as she kept the pedal to the floor, causing the car to shimmy down the center of the street in response t her lack of attention.
“Whoa! Gwen! Building! Building!”
“Huh? Oh…” She corrected, coming back around the gently curve of the road, then slapped the dash again.
“Stop beating up the car!” Anselm snapped from beside her, noting that in the back seat of the squad car the SAS Major and Interpol Lieutenant were both holding tight to the door with white knuckles and pained expressions. “And for Christ’s sake, slow down! We’re losing the others!”
Gwen glanced in the OLED screen built over the windshield, currently set for rearview, and grimaced as she reluctantly let up on the accelerator. “Where’d they learn to drive anyway?”
“They didn’t learn on a rally track, I assure you.” Major Malcolm growled from behind them, “So if you’d be so kind as to avoid losing them, because we might have a use for their guns when we get where we’re going.”
“Yeah yeah.” Gwen muttered, still thumping the dash.
“Why do you keep hitting the dash!?” Anselm finally yelled, throwing up one arm and rolling his eyes.
“I miss my network.” She replied sullenly.
“Oh Christ.” Malcolm shook his head, “Damn tech-heads. Can’t live without a high speed connection piped right between their eyes, where their brains ought to be.”
“Hey!,” She snarled, turning to look at him while still driving, “Do you mind? If my network was up we could warn the Fire department, coordinate with your soldier friends, exchange data with the government…”
“Why do you think the bad guys JAMMED the network!?” Malcolm snapped back, then pointed out the windshield, “And for God’s sake, watch the road!!”
Gwen turned back, calmly correcting the drift in the wheel before they ran up on the sidewalk, and shook her head. “What is it with you guys anyway?”
“We’re used to driving in cities where the cops don’t drive like maniacs unless they’re chasing someone!”
“Oh relax,” She rolled her eyes, “It’s not like there’s anyone else on the road.”
“I can’t believe that you actually have the nerve to give other people tickets.” Anselm told her flatly, shaking his head.
Gwen just snorted in response, glancing up ahead as the curling smoke came into sight. “We’re almost there. You think you babies can handle that?”
“Lady, just because I can handle anything you could possibly dish out doesn’t mean I WANT to handle it,” Malcolm replied dryly from the back seat, “I’m in the Special Air Service, Inspector. That makes me CRAZY, not stupid.”
Anselm snickered, drawing an irate glare from Gwen as they sped up on the fire trucks flashing their red lights. “Shut up, Interpol!”
Lieutenant Greene chose that moment to point wildly ahead of them and start yelling, “Fire fighters! Fire fighters! Don’t hit the fire fighters!”
*****
“Here come the police, Johnny.”
John Mann nodded absently, looking up at the flashing lights coming their way, then narrowed his eyes. “Uhh…”
The car didn’t slow down as it approached, and his narrowed eyes widened double quick.
“Holy hell! That’s Gwen!”
Realization came too late as both firefighters put their hands out in a futile attempt to stop the oncoming vehicle by sheer force of will alone. The police car pulled to the right and broke into a skid as it kept on coming, and both men froze as they yelled in fear. The police Eliica slid smoothly to a stop, its side door just out of reach when the car rocked to a final stop and the doors slid open.
“Jesus Christ, Gwen!” John gasped out, “Are you trying to scare ten years off my life!?”
“Sorry, Johnny,” Gwen Dougal said sweetly as she climbed out of the vehicle, escorted by three men. “We’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“Well, yeah, I guessed as much. These fires are bad, Gwen…”
“Not the fires, Johnny. We’ve got bigger problems.” Gwen told him grimly as she turned to survey the flames pouring from the building. “You have people inside?”
“Yeah, course. The Captain went in, looking for anyone alive.”
Gwen nodded, then motioned to the people beside her. “Johnny, this is Major Malcolm, SAS. Agent Gunnar, Interpol. And Lieutenant Greene, Interpol.”
The firefighter blinked, “Ok, I get the SAS guy, but what’s Interpol got to do with the helicopter crash?”
“It’s bigger than one chopper, Johnny. We’ve got major problems in the Tower. Terrorists.”
The Firefighter blinked, his expression becoming incredulous. “Here? No offence, Gwen, but you been drinking?”
She scowled at him, “I wish. This is deadly serious, Johnny. How many guys do you have in the building?”
He looked over his shoulder at the smoke and flames that were pouring from the building, then looked back, his expression now uncertain as a hint of genuine worry began to filter through. “Six now. Why?”
“Because the people who shot that bird out of the sky might come around to make sure they finished the job,” Major Malcolm put in grimly, lifting his hand to wave over some of his people. “Inspector, we can’t stay here. We have a mission.”
Gwen grimaced, looking around at the flames and smoke pouring from her city. She grimaced, running her hand through her hair as she kept a pained look on her face.
“Shot?? Hey, wait a second!” The firefighter held up his hands, “What do you think this is? Beirut? The only guns in the entire place, other than a few shotguns, are in the police station!”
“Sir, even if that was true once, it’s not anymore.” Anselm Gunnar stepped in, waving to Greene and the Interpol Tactical Team to go with the soldiers, “So what we need to do is clear that building fast and get your people out of there so we can move you on to damage control in other areas.”
“Look, pal, those men are going as fast as they possibly can,” John told Anselm, gesturing in the air with his index figure, “And even if they weren’t, we’ve got no radio to talk with them anyway.”
Gwen cursed, grimacing, “Damned jamming!”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Anselm interjected, “Look, we’ve got a lot of shit coming down on us, so we can’t stay. There’s more people in trouble here…just watch your ass, alright?”
“Yeah…yeah…” John muttered, waving his head, “Whatever. Look, I’ve got shit to do.”
Anselm looked over at Gwen, sympathizing with her obvious desire to stay and do what she could locally. “You don’t have to come, Gwen. We can handle the tower without you.”
The Australian police inspector grimaced, instantly shaking ehr head. “No. No. I’m coming damn it. I’m coming.”
“Then let’s move already!” Malcolm growled out.
*****
The smell of smoke was acrid with Flight Engineer Samuel ‘Sammy’ Canning started to come too, filling his nose and eyes with the burning scent of plastics and metals that had been heated way past their point of useful tolerances.
He groaned as he felt in the dark for his helmet, trying to push it off his head, but wound up crying out in pain instead as a spike of agony shot through his chest.
He couldn’t move much without invoking a repeat of that, but he could tell that his helmet had actually been twisted around his skull by the impact, mashing his nose hard into the side of it. If he looked at just the right angle, there was a flickering light out of the corner of his right eye.
Impact!
That word was a real pale substitute for what he felt just then, but he remembered when the Black Hawk went down. The seat had pitched wildly, the ground twisting under them, and when the rotors had intersected with the building, it was all over. The crash was just a blur to him, but he could only wonder if anyone else had made it through.
Only meters away from the trapped soldier, the lead firefighter was already hammering his way through a cheap office door with the blunted edge of his axe, splintering the wood into thousands of shards as the frame and catch gave way to let the wrecked wood swing open. He stepped over the wreckage, his heavy boot crushing part of the door underfoot as the smoke poured out of the room and into the hallway behind him.
Captain Stan Marion of TCFD East Precinct paused for a moment as the smoke swept around him, looking carefully through the infrared imagery projected on the OLED Heads Up Display (HUD) inside his helmet screen. The heat differential of the floor and walls told him where not to step as he began to move through, and even through the thick smoke he could easily make out the forms of three people lying prone on the ground.
Marion paused for another moment, looking over his shoulder. Through the smoke he spotted the next man in the chain and waved sharply to get his attention. When the man waved back, Marion held up three fingers and pointed ahead of him. The man nodded, and Marion saw him pass the message back, albeit a little clumsily, and he moved forward to grab the first figure.
The equipment he carried and wore were a mixed bag of traditional and hi-tech, from the dull and heavy axe to the high tech, normally networked, Heads Up Display he wore on his head. Some of it was spun off of military equipment, some of it was hand tooled, but all of it was precision tailored to the job Marion and his men had to do.
