Thermals

by Evan Currie

  The DCI winced at the blast from the phone and shook his head, “We’re already doing everything we can, Sir…Yes Sir, I’m aware that the politics have just become much more complicated. I’ll do what I can, Mr. President.”

  Severson sighed as he set the phone back in its cradle, then turned to his people and began snapping orders.

  A floor down from him, in another room, a second group of people were watching the announcements with similar sensations running through their minds and guts.

  “Oh God.” Natalie Cyr shook her head, “It’s in the toilette now.”

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked at the confused face of one of the younger analysts and grimaced slightly, “The politicians are in on the decision making now, Paul. This whole situation just became headline news all across the net, and that means voters. Australian, American, Everyone…They’ll all be sticking their noses into this one now.”

  “I see Ma’am.”

  “Do you?” She asked softly, her tone ironic.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind, Paul.” She said, shaking her head. “Keep tracking our boy.”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  Natalie Cyr looked back to the symbols on the screens in front of her, showing the locations of the terribly tiny assault team that had penetrated the outer ring of the Power Plant facility. In the back of her mind she again wished them all the luck in the world, because she was sorely afraid that they were going to need it.

  Because Abdallah Amir had just gotten exactly what he’d wanted, she was sure of that.

  Chapter 10

  Just inside the perimeter of the greenhouse skirt the men stopped, two of them moving to examine the bodies of the two shot my Tavish while Malcolm, Greene, and Anselm paused to confer.

  “We have to split up,” Anselm said seriously, “A team has to move to contain the potential outbreak, that will keep this from becoming an international matter, to say nothing of the number of deaths in every Australian territory to the East of here.”

  “Agreed.” Malcolm said, nodding. “I’ll take five of my men to the central supports of the tower, we’ll trigger the fire system and hold the area as we discussed. Sergeant!”

  “Sir!” Mickey Franks said instantly, leaning in.

  “You’ll lead Bravo team. Your objective is to prevent, if possible, the disposition of the biological vector.”

  “And if not?” Franks asked grimly.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but if not then try to limit its spread in any way possible while eliminating any of the terrorists you can. We know we have at least four groups, so the Interpol team,” Malcolm nodded to Greene, “Will be the second half of that endeavor. Lieutenant?”

  Greene nodded, pointing to a diagram of the tower schematics on his portable, “We’ll take these two points. The heat sources from Agent Gunnar’s borrowed satellite feed tells us that there are several thousand people here…and here. We’ll do a soft recon along this path here, and try to evaluate the terrorist presence.”

  Malcolm nodded, “Sergeant?”

  “Same plan, different sector.” Franks replied, quickly going over the final details of their plan both in mind and voice. He pulled up his own portable, also showing a similar schematic to the Lieutenant’s, “We’ll start with long range recon from the…hehehe… strawberry plants…”

  “Sergeant,” Malcolm growled warningly.

  “Sorry Sir,” Franks smothered another snicker, “As I was saying, we’ll do a recon and try to determine the terrorist assets before moving in. If they have not yet deployed the biological, we’ll move to ensure that they don’t get the chance.”

  “How are we going to know about that anyway?” Greene asked, frowning.

  “If the bad guys are wearing radiation suits,” Anselm responded, “They’ve deployed it. The bug is contained in irradiated tubes that slow its most virulent stage. This keeps the victims alive a while longer so they can better produce the virus and breathe it out into the air. The radiation will kill them, though, even if the Virus doesn’t…and no matter what vaccine Abdallah and his people have against the bug, assuming they aren’t the suicidal kind, the radiation would kill them dead.”

  Malcolm looked around, “Everyone have the play book straight?”

  They all nodded.

  “Alright, we’ll split up here and make for out targets.” Malcolm said, straightening up and closing his own portable. He reached out and tapped Anselm’s shoulder as the rest moved to secure their gear, “You sure about your part?”

  Anselm nodded, checking the action on the Assault Shotgun he carried, “Yeah. I’m going for the head man.”

  “They never told me that Interpol trains cowboys,” Malcolm smirked slightly.

  “Abdallah and I have an unsettled score,” Anselm said quietly, “But that’s not the only reason.”

  Malcolm quirked an eyebrow at him, and Anselm went on.

  “With this,” He held up the American portable comp, “I can probably locate and shut down their jammer and maybe that Radar installation. Containing the virus is our top priority, but if you succeed in your mission, we still have to dig these bastards out of here.”

  “Oh aye,” Malcolm said sourly, “And that’s going to be a job and a half.”

  “We can only hope,” Anselm replied, “Cause the worst case scenario is a matter of literally digging them out of here…along with everyone else.”

  Malcolm nodded, understanding the words said and unsaid. The use of military anti-aircraft weapons around the perimeter of the tower was merely a forerunner of what would happen if all other avenues were breached. The military would have no choice but to attempt to take out the anti-air capability before they could send in any more help, and precision weapons being what they were, there was every chance that the tower could take hits. The amazing construct was built strong, and to last, but not against military munitions.

  Even a near miss could potentially tumble one kilometer of cement and steel right down on their collective laps.

  “Right then,” Malcolm nodded, “Good luck mate.”

  “Thanks.” Anselm said, starting to turn away.

  “Gunnar…”

  He glanced over to the softly spoken word, and half smiled at the image Gwendolyn Dougal presented now and the sheer contrast it was to his first meeting with the redheaded police inspector. The MP7 was cocked in the crook of her arm, looking somewhat out of place against her civilian clothing even with the assault harness she wore over her white blouse.

  “What is it, Gwen?” Anselm asked.

  “Don’t get killed,” She told him, wishing she was going with him, or that someone, anyone, was.

  She was with Malcolm’s tea, however, since the plan to contain the tower had been hers. And the seven of them would be hard pressed to hold their positions as it were, as would seventeen more in all likelihood. The other men and women, however, had other jobs to do. Saving lives within the tower as they tried to save those without. Only Anselm could be spared to worry about anything more than just containing the horror, and even that was a forlorn hope in her opinion.

  Anselm just half grinned in his way and shrugged, “Didn’t know you cared, Inspector.”

  She rolled her eyes, “Don’t read too much into it, Interpol, it’s just bad for tourism to have one of you outlander types get offed around here.”

  Anselm chuckled, nodding. “Right then, I’ll do my best.”

  She nodded in reply, and watched as he turned and jogged off. A moment later, Major Malcolm touched her on the shoulder.

  “It’s time,” He said.

  She nodded, eyes still looking down the path the Interpol Agent had vanished, and then turned to follow the SAS man as the three teams left broke off in three directions. One went to the right, moving away from the gentle arc of the greenhouse perimeter at an easy angle, while another went left along the opposite route.

  Gwen, Malcolm, and their team went right down the midd
le, straight to the central masterpiece of the incredibly huge structure, the one kilometer high tower of power itself.

  *****

  Colonel Pierson surveyed his troops with a mix of savage fury and genuine pride. They were the survivors of the ambush, most of them at any rate, and while they now appeared to be a motley band at the very least, they were coming together as he expected of his men.

  He and the others from the downed Blackhawk Helo had managed to locate survivors from at least three other hulking wrecks in the past hour since the brief ambush firefight had resulted in the destruction of the chopper and the deaths of three of his men, plus the entire squad of terrorists.

  Crying over their deaths wasn’t in his makeup and, even if it were, Pierson knew he’d wait until after the survivors were home and safe. For now he, and they, had a mission to accomplish and it started with regrouping in what now had to be considered hostile territory.

  That thought sent a shiver up the spine of the military man. To consider a city under his own Nation’s flag to be hostile territory was a blood chilling thought, the idea that he had to employ full military force within such a city, doubly so. Yet he knew that if he had them, he’d use Bradley Fighting Vehicles, Main Battle Tanks, and any other resource to end the occupation of Tower City.

  It was what he was trained to do, Colonel Pierson was a Soldier.

  First though, was the matter of regrouping and getting the survivors organized and prepared to meet the enemy with all due force. To do that, he had to find the rest of his men, and that’s where they were heading now. Ahead there was smoke rising into the sky, thick and black against the clear desert air, and where there was smoke there were his soldiers.

  Dead or alive, he didn’t know, but he’d account for every one of them he could before he called it quits.

  He and his men, a force about forty strong now, were double time marching through the eerily quiet streets. Unable to recover any of their own vehicles from the crash sites, and without much in the way of civilian vehicles to commandeer, they were back to the basics of soldiering.

  Run, boy, run.

  There were some civilians, of course, in a city this size it was inevitable that there be some, but the preplanned nature of Tower City kept most of them well away from the streets and the fighting, for which the Colonel was grateful. The integrated design of the monorail system, with its computerized car system, let people live their entire lives without actually touching the streets, if such was their wish.

  Some stores still had street fronts, catering to the tourists who liked to walk through the arcing streets of the city, but most were more accessible from the inside or above on the rooftops where the monorail lines paused in their endless loops around the city and the tower facility.

  Since military equipment of the type it would have taken to shoot down the Helos was large and generally bulky, however, Pierson knew that the terrorist anti-air emplacements had to be street accessible. That meant that, with just a little luck, they might be able to minimize all contact with civilians. Pierson hoped so, he didn’t want to be the man who killed thousands in some ‘vendetta’ against terrorists. He’d be that man if accomplishing his job required it, the stakes were too high this time around to flinch, but he’d rather not if it could be avoided.

  “Sir!”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Pierson asked, snapping out of his ever darkening thoughts.

  “Look, Sir!”

  His eyes followed the direction the young officer pointed and he saw what had attracted the man’s attentions. Ahead of them the smoking wreckage of a building was coming into view, along with the flashing lights of the firefighters working diligently to keep the mess under some semblance of control. He could see lights flashing and men lying on the ground around the emergency vehicles, and Colonel Pierson shook his head grimly.

  “Alright!” He shouted, “Let’s move! Double time people! Spotters, keep your eyes peeled! We don’t want to walk into an ambush here! Let’s go!”

  *****

  “She’s coming down, Stan!”

  Marion turned to glare at the man who had a grip on his shoulder, the screaming of the words barely penetrating his sealed helmet despite the fact that they were practically touching. He wrenched his arm from the grip of his friend and turned back to where he was jamming the titanium prybar into the wreckage holding a young uniformed man down.

  The arm was on his shoulder again, but this time Marion turned around and shoved the man back, not even able to see who it was through the thick black smoke. His infrared HUD gave him the general shape of the figure, even through the thickest of the lung clogging soot, carbon, and chemical fumes but not the numbers painted on the side of the helmet.

  He assumed that it was Joey Smithson, since Joey had been right behind him when they finally busted into the warped side of the chopper’s fuselage, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, even know that it was one of his friends, one of his men, one of his comrades, he shoved the man back and pointed to the door.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t bother with the wasted breath. The other man wouldn’t hear him, but he would see the gesture.

  Get the hell out.

  That was what it said, and then Stanley Marion turned back to his task and put his back into the bar. There was no more grip on his shoulder, no one trying to pull him out, but after a moment passed the figure returned to his side and wordlessly threw his own weight into the effort. Together they grunted and groaned as the bar gave only slowly, while the world around them burned, collapsed, and fell.

  When the weight pinning the man down gave, it gave quickly, almost throwing them to the ground as it toppled clear. They had to scramble fast to avoid being the next people pinned by that hardened mass of what was probably once a very expensive electronics system, but they focused on their jobs the instant that threat was past and turned to the man who had not moved as the weight was lifted from him.

  He was still alive, the heartbeat sensors in their helmets told them that as they listened in on that very specific low frequency that the human heart would beat at. Alive, but not well in the least. His limbs were crushed in places, his chest didn’t look much better, and without much more time than they had they couldn’t tell if his spine was intact.

  Given that, they assumed the worst and treated him appropriately. Folded pieces of plastic, compressed into a package no larger than a tv remote control slid from their pockets and were quickly unfolded and snapped together. These braces were locked around his legs, arms, and neck to keep the body as immobile as possible, then both men took the man by his shoulder and begun to drag him out.

  Behind them the thick smoke soon obscured the wreckage of the helicopter as the building around them creaked and groaned dangerously, occasional loud crashes signifying that the structure was collapsing under the strain. The stairs were still intact, and their rescuee’s legs thumped as they took the steps two at a shot.

  They broke out into the open, clear of the choking smoke, and the light came back into their world as if someone flipped on a switch. Marion glanced to his side, recognizing the number seven on Joey’s helmet and smiled as they were joined by four others. The other firefighters grabbed their arms, propping them up as they let the heat get to them finally and their legs began to wobble. Two others immediately lifted the fallen man carefully, and they all made their way back to the trucks.

  Stanley Marion popped the seals on his clamshell helmet, letting the expensive piece of electronic machinery hit the ground with a bounce as he looked around.

  “Did we get everyone!? Did anyone see any others in there!?”

  Men shook their heads, looking around.

  “Is everyone out?,” Marion called next, trying to do a headcount at a glance. “Are we missing anyone?”

  The men checked each other, looking for missing faces, and after a moment a voice spoke up.

  “Hey…where’s Tom??”

  Marion looked around, grabbing men and pushing t
hem out of his way. “Tom! Tom! Sing out!”

  After a few moments, there was no response.

  Marion looked to the burning building, the blood draining from his face, and then he whipped around and slammed his fist into the side of the fire truck.

  “Bleedin Hell!” He shouted as the sound of fist on metal rang out, then immediately bent to pick up the open clamshell of his helmet.

  “Are you nuts, Mary!?” Joey snapped, grabbing his arm as he fitted the helmet back over his head. “You can’t be going back in there!”

  He shook loose, snarling as he cleared his hair from the seal, “I’m not leaving anybody in there, Joey!”

  “Damn it, Mary, listen to me…!”

  The seals clicked shut as Marion flipped up the gasket around his throat and pushed through the yelling crowd, only barely able to hear the roar of their voices as they grabbed at him only to be rebuffed forcefully as he bulled on through.

  *****

  “Firefighters…”

  The man lowered his imager, a bemused look on his face. “What do we do about firefighters?”

  The second man, over his shoulder, shrugged and lifted his radio to his face. “Don’t know. I’ll call it in.”

  “You do that.”

  “Rakheen to base.”

  The reply crackled back quickly, a little distorted by the powerful jammers they had in place.

  “This is base. Go ahead.”

  “We have a group of Firefighters in sight, base. Orders?”

  “What are they doing?”

  The man with the radio let the device droop a little as he shot the piece of electronics an incredulous look.

  “Fighting fires, Base.” He replied, trying to keep his tone from sounding too sarcastic.

  There was a brief pause.

  “Are their military people present?”

  The man with the radio looked over to his partner and shrugged questioningly.

  “I don’t think so…” The second man said, shrugging back.

  “Check.”