Thermals

by Evan Currie

“Alright,” the first man said, lifting the imager to his eyes. He scanned the scene again, noting the people present, and began looking closer at the uniforms. After a moment he turned back, “Looks like they’re rescuing soldiers from the crash.”

  The second man nodded, lifting the radio again, “Base, the firefighters are rescuing downed soldiers from one of the choppers.”

  Another brief pause crackled then, and finally the voice came back.

  “Kill them.”

  *****

  Marion didn’t hear the snap whine that passed only feet from his head, his helmet hiding the evil sound from him, but the others around him did. The firefighters had heard that sound before, normally only in training, the sound of projectiles cutting the air around them after an explosion.

  There had been no explosion this time, but the meaty smack that followed the whizzing sound was more shocking in its way. They fell back from their attempts to stop their Captain’s forward motion, some dropping automatically to the ground in instinct as they looked around.

  One man didn’t move, not for a long moment. He stood, frozen in shock, a pained look on his face, until finally pitching forward.

  Then the moment of paralysis lifted, and men yelled and moved.

  “Scott!!”

  Three men dove for the fallen man, turning him over quickly, only to fall away in repulsed shock as the flow of blood poured out of the small hole in his uniform. The flame retardant material was also water proofed, so the blood seemed to bead and flow away from the material instead of soaking into it like normal cloth, but it stuck to the bare hands of the men who tried to stem the flow of it from his chest.

  “EMT! EMT Over here!”

  Marion heard almost none of this, the noise canceling receiver in his helmet doing the job that was supposed to open his ears all the better to radio signals that were now being jammed, but he did sense the change around him and he turned. The men on the ground, the blood flowing free, for a moment none of them seemed real, or right, somehow despite the injuries all around him.

  He automatically broke the seal on his helmet, pulling it off, “What the hell happened?”

  “We don’t know!” Someone yelled as he rushed forward, but their yell was cut off by the sudden overabundance of answers to his question.

  The air filled with the sound of whizzing, whining, projectiles and more meaty smacks of bullet in flesh sounded around them as men yelled in pain and fell. Over those cries, this time the distinctive crackle of gunfire made itself known, and the men began to mill in panicked confusion.

  Marion dove for the closest injured man, yelling above the commotion to enforce his will over the men in his command, “Grab a man and get behind the trucks! Get behind the trucks!”

  He was already scrambling along the ground himself, one hand locked around an injured man’s coat shoulder as his remaining hand scratched at the asphalt for purchase in an attempt to speed his motion forward.

  He ducked his head under the frame of the fire truck, still dragging his man along with him, and the sound of bullets slapping into the metal above his head prompted Marion to call out one last time.

  “Get behind the trucks!”

  *****

  “Colonel! Look!”

  Pierson squinted against the sun as the sound of gunfire reached his ears, automatically grabbing an imager to give himself a closer look at the situation. In the distance he watched the firefighters as they suddenly broke from their grouping and scattered, most of them scrambling like mad for the cover of the trucks that owned the streets.

  “Muzzle flash, sir!”

  The report of muzzle flash whipped Pierson around, his eyes tracing the direction of the trooper’s and the imager filling in the rest.

  “We’ve got tangos to the south, based on the rooftops,” Pierson said calmly, as if dictating notes to his secretary back in the office. “Sniper crews, I want them neutralized asap.”

  “Sir!”

  He ignored the confirmation of the order, turning to the remainder of his men. “The rest of you, we have civilian rescue workers in trouble, and from the looks of it they’ve been saving our people. Don’t know about you, but that don’t sit right with me. Let’s give them some cover, boys!”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Move it!”

  The men broke quickly, some looking for better ground to perform their role as counter snipers, while others put the height of the closest buildings between them and the gunmen they’d spotted, intent on closing the distance as quickly as possible.

  Colonel Pierson hefted his own XM-90, and took the lead of one of the groups heading toward the firefighters’ position. In addition to the civilians in trouble over that way, he had spotted some of his own people among the rescued injured. He’d be damned if they were cut loose on his watch.

  *****

  Trooper Mackenzie carefully edged forward, crawling on his belly as he made his way through the last fifty meters or so of plants. Along the way he’d ruined a few hundred dollars of strawberry plants, and permanently stained the hand tied Ghillie suit he’d taken such care of over the past few years. It wasn’t that big a deal, of course, since any stains would only serve to make the camouflage even more difficult to detect. Even the reddish tint of strawberry juices. Nature was funny that way.

  A few feet to his left, Trooper Givens was also huddled down deep in the broad leafy plants, his imager glued to his eyes as they both looked over the huddled masses of people that lay just across the open rotunda before them.

  “No sign of radiation gear.” Givens said after a moment.

  Mackenzie nodded, sending a brief prayer of thanks upwards as he pulled his rifle drag bag forward. “You ID any tangos?”

  “I see four from here, Mac,” Givens told him, “you’d think they’d have more men, though…there has to be a couple thousand people down there.”

  “Doesn’t take an army to hold civilians hostage, Son.” Mackenzie told the younger man, “I’ll bet that there’s not more than a half a handful of legal guns in this entire city, and all of them are owned by folks living out in the ’skirts…Outback Jacks, all of them. Not the sort of folk you see down there.”

  Givens nod was slight, almost motionless, “Yeah. I hear you. Still…four guys, even with guns, isn’t a lot to hold that many people.”

  “No, no it isn’t, but we only see four. There’s more of them down there.” Mackenzie said quietly, breaking the seal on his drag bag as he lay on his side, and slowly drawing his rifle out.

  The accurized marksman’s weapon he carried was at once the oldest and, in some ways, most sophisticated weapon his team fielded. The Parker Hale Model 98 was the only weapon in the squad that still used one of the old Cold War NATO rounds, the 7.62mm rifle round, and its lithe frame encompassed some of the most sophisticated engineering in any weapon they fielded.

  The design was also over twenty years old, more than twice the age of any of their other standard issued weapons.

  Age didn’t bother Mackenzie, though, he trusted his weapon. He’d fired thousands of rounds through it over his years of service, most of them admittedly in training scenarios, and it had never let him down. Nor did he expect it to begin today.

  The scope fixed to its mounting brackets wasn’t twenty years old, however. In fact, the advanced optics were some of the latest issue the Special Air Service Regiment had received. Sporting multiple zoom levels and electronic overlays for thermal, light amplification, range finding, and of course the ubiquitous network relay link so it could speak to other information sources within the squad, the electronics mounted on the old rifle were some of the most advanced anywhere in the world.

  This would have been more of a comfort if half the systems housed in its plastic frame weren’t currently out of commission due to the signal jamming.

  He ignored his misgivings, suppressing an involuntary shudder when the electronics powered up with a neatly inaudible whine, and pushed the weapon out ahead of him as he
rolled slowly back onto his stomach and rested his cheek against the pad of the rifle’s stock.

  “In position.” He said softly, speaking to Givens.

  “Roger.” Givens replied, gently lifting his head up out of the leafy plants until he spotted the next fire team. He flashed them a curt two fingered wave, followed by a closed fist, then sank back into the cover of the plants.

  The waiting had begun.

  Along the edges of the field the other four members of the team began to move in, taking their time now that the signal had been given. Mackenzie softly worked the bolt of his rifle, watching the terrorists through the powerful optics as he slid the first 7.62mm NATO round home. He counted the hairs waving across the right eye of the closest man, noting that the whites of his eyes were somewhat bloodshot.

  It was nice to see that someone else was having a lousy day.

  *****

  Lieutenant Greene eased himself up against the black concrete ridge that divided the line between the monorail and slowly eased himself to the edge of the obstruction so he could peer out around it. He had led his Interpol Starters along the monorail line, taking cover in the cement and steel construction, right up to their target area without incident.

  The group of hostages were literally filling the large promenade area just beyond their position, the numbers of civilians absolutely staggering in comparison to either their captors, or their would be rescuers. In any smaller area, Greene was certain that they would be a sea of huddled souls, but in the Facility Promenade they were a sparse population at best.

  Even so, they were more tightly packed than he believed they would prefer, the men holding Chinese made assault weapons herding them tightly to keep a tighter rein on the hostages. Greene reached back, snapping his fingers silently until he felt the cool plastic grip of a pair of high powered imagers slide into his hand. He brought the instrument forward to his eyes, and focused in on the nearest of the armed individuals.

  “Mixed bag,” He whispered, knowing that Corporal Burke was just behind him, listening intently. “Looks like a few Arabs, some Caucasians, Orientals…I’m guessing we’ve got a real grab bag of scum here…”

  “Could be good for us,” Sharon Burke whispered, “Could be bad.”

  Greene nodded grimly, “Yeah…”

  Mixed races would mean mixed ideologies, potentially splitting the terrorists, but the fact that they were together at all meant that somewhere along the line they had decided to work together despite their differences. That spoke volumes of the group’s leadership, Greene decided. As long as it appeared that the plan was moving along on schedule, he doubted the group would fracture.

  The test would be how they reacted when things began to fall apart.

  He tightened the zoom on another man, frowning.

  “Hold on…”

  He closed in as tight as he could, feeling like he was staring the man in the face from mere inches away, and noted the bloodshot eyes and the dilated pupils.

  “What is it, Sir?” Sharon asked after a moment.

  “They’re doping.” Greene replied after a moment’s consideration. “Some of them anyway. Modern day Hashashin.”

  “Christ.” The Corporal cursed.

  Greene just nodded, drawing back under cover. “Yeah, spread the word. When we move we don’t take any chances with these bastards.”

  “Right, Sir.” She nodded, drawing back herself as she moved to convey his message.

  Greene watched her go, thinking about the situation while he waited. Modern pharmaceuticals had come a long way since the days of the Hashashin who smoked the illicit substance that gave them their name in order to gain their ‘power’. Minds muddled by the drug were without fear, difficult to handle in any way other than to kill them. They were also slower to react, less able to thing.

  Things were different now, though. Drugs were more potent, less debilitating in the short term, and far more dangerous both to user and anyone they might encounter. A man on the right combination of laboratory drugs could be superhuman, right up until he ripped his arms from his sockets trying to do something so clearly impossible that no right minded person would try.

  In the long term, the drugs would kill the users as surely as a bullet, of course. But the damage they could inflict in the meantime made them attractive options to many terrorist groups that specialized in martyr style sacrifice.

  They couldn’t all be drugged, Greene decided. Some of them had to be in control, thinking clearly and calmly. The types of drugs the Middle Eastern terrorists had come to use commonly weren’t prone to strategic, or even tactical, thought. So the question was how many men were doping?

  And on what cocktail?

  *****

  Reaching the middle of the power plant was surprisingly easy, especially since Major Malcolm’s team and Gwen had the advantage of the satellite recon provided by the portable in Anselm’s hands before they parted ways. By avoiding the areas where hostages were being gathered, they also avoided the terrorists, and while the distance to the central pylons was over a thousand meters, everyone in the group was fit and a kilometer was only a few minutes away.

  As they closed on the center of the facility, the light breeze began to warm and become more and more noticeable. The moist air that flowed past them became almost muggy by the time they reached the first inner ring that announced the end of the planting areas. Past that point the ground was hard cement, painted black to absorb more and more heat.

  Long tubes of black PVC pipe, filled with water, served to supplement the heat gathering system and the temperature went from mildly uncomfortable to sweltering in only a few steps. Sweat beaded on their faces as they pressed on, droplets of water condensing from the air along the glass above them as the cooler air above the glass drew the moisture out.

  By the time they reached the concrete cone that marked the edge of the final inner ring, the moisture in the air had dropped considerably, though it was still present, and the wind speed was enough that their faces had dried.

  “We’re almost there,” Gwen told Major Malcolm as they moved further into the artificial light of the inner ring, the sky blocked out by the concrete and steel above their heads.

  He nodded, “When we get there, you hold back Inspector. My team and I will secure the control facility. You’re certain that the fire controls will be inside?”

  “The automated ones, yes. There will be manual controls inside the tower, though.”

  “We’ll worry about those in a moment,” Malcolm replied as he held up his hand, signaling silence. He waved to his men, drawing them forward with a series of quick, unhesitant motions, and then pointed ahead of them.

  Gwen risked a look around the corner of one of the large chunks of PVC and immediately saw the entrance to the facilities power control center just ahead.

  They had arrived.

  Malcolm lifted his hand, splitting his team with a single motion, and pointed to either side of the power control center. His men nodded silently and broke up quickly, breaking cover briefly as they ran in half crouches across the space to their target. Malcolm took a moment to place a restraining hand on Gwen’s shoulder, shaking his head, and whispered “Wait here.”

  Gwen scowled, but nodded and the Major broke cover himself to join his men.

  She watched them as they pressed up against the wall along either side of the control center, the lead men on either side moving slowly forward in a tight crouch, his weapon pressed tight to his shoulder and cheek as the man behind him stayed close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder. They moved togther to the door, the men on the left side crouching low under the huge panel of glass that gave the people inside the center a view outside, and vice versa.

  They paused at either side of the door to the center, exchanging communication that the police inspector didn’t understand, then seemed to move as one being as they rose form their positions, flung the door open, and rushed in. The yelling and sound of gunfire penetrated to where she
waited, and Gwen shivered slightly as she realized that there had been no attempt to demand a surrender.

  Within seconds it was all over, and Major Malcolm reappeared and waved her in. She broke cover, hurrying over to the center, and was quickly ushered inside. She paused just inside the door, staring as a body was pulled out of the way and deposited in an available closet at the far side, another one waiting in the corner for the same treatment, but Malcolm didn’t let her stand there for long.

  “Come on, Inspector,” He said firmly, “This is your show now. Get the water pumping.”

  She shook her head, then nodded. “Right.”

  Gwen got to the computer system quickly, and thumbed her way through the operating screens. Basic training in emergency response here at the tower had been part of her initial training, back when the police department were still a private security force hired by the tower and not the city. She easily located the emergency systems and thumbed her way into the fire control systems.

  “Alright,” She nodded, “I can start the sprinklers running from here, but when I do it’ll set off an alarm all through the complex.”

  “Can you disable it?”

  She shook her head, “Only the audible alarms. There are silent alarms that will trip in all the major control areas, especially in the administration sector. When that happens, if they figure out what we’re doing, they’ll send people to take control back…or, failing that, cut the water off at the source.”

  “Alright,” Malcolm looked over his shoulder, “Sergeant.”

  “Sir!,” Teal looked over.

  “Take the rest of the team and proceed to the Tower core. We need to secure the water pumps there and hold them.”

  Teal nodded, “Yes Sir. What about here?”

  “After we trip the system,” Malcolm said cooly, “I’m going to disable the controls. We’ll meet you there.”

  “Yes Sir,” Teal nodded again, waving to the other three men. “Let’s move, boys.”

  The four SAS people vanished through the door, heading into the maw of the tower itself, while Malcolm turned back to Gwen.

  “Do it.”