by Rick Partlow
The metallic bulk of a Protectorate hopper paced jerkily from one side of the fenced-in compound to the other, its groin-mounted cannon scanning from side to side, throwing an elongated shadow over the sterile, sandy soil. Most of the control center was underground: only the black wedge of the cargo entrance scarred the surface, its huge double-doors yawning invitingly open. The massive, skeletal dish antennae surrounded the entrance, each protected by the same sonic stun fences that guarded the base's perimeter, and each patrolled by half-squads of biomechs. At the gap in the sonic fences that formed the security entrance, a pair of trollish figures in powered armor squatted motionless, shoulder-mounted weapons trained outward.
Shannon lowered her binoculars, hissing a sigh through her teeth as she stared westward at the setting sun.
"It's about what we expected," Kristopolis said with a shrug, still staring across the kilometer of open, grassy plain.
"As long as they don't spot us," Shannon whispered hopefully.
The makeshift assault force was spread out through the trees of Powell Federal Preserve, peering through the old security fence that marked the border of No-Man's Land. Their dozen or so vehicles were parked further back under cover from orbital surveillance. Shannon was amazed so many had made it through---she credited it to the fact that the Protectorate had spread their forces so thin. They'd only lost two of the two-to-four-person groups they'd sent out, leaving them with nearly sixty troops. They'd linked up only three hours before, on the outskirts of the Ruins, and held a final mission brief before taking up their positions here, at the edge of the forest. Now, there was nothing to do but wait for sunset.
"At least there's only one hopper," Lieutenant Sanchez mumbled, unconvinced by their optimism. "That we can see."
Shannon tugged uncomfortably at the neck of her neoprene wetsuit---it was an unseasonably warm fall in New York, and she was sweating like a racehorse in heat. "Might as well get this over with," she decided, scrambling up from a crouch to join the rest of her infiltration team.
Of the ten individuals selected for the infiltration, six were RSC lifers with combat experience---older NCO's who'd retired from the Marines to the RSC because of various injuries that would keep them out of space---while the other four were members of the Cleveland PD's Emergency Response Team. They huddled together under the cover of a stand of oaks, all of them dressed in wet suits, an assortment of diving gear collected on the ground in front of them. She'd barely had time to learn their names, and here they were about to follow her into the valley of death. Just like on Aphrodite.
What had she said to Jason when she'd left for Earth? Something about how she'd had enough of being a leader. What a sense of humor God must have.
"Gear up," she told them, grabbing the mesh bag that held her own diving equipment. Her weapons and ammo were already sealed in a waterproof pack strapped across her chest---the diving gear had come from the stores of a recreational SCUBA club back in Cleveland. Shannon still wondered just where the hell anyone found to go diving in Ohio.
Not that she was all that excited about diving off Long Island. Impressed as she was by the scenic beauty of the place, she was fairly sure that the surf crashing on the sand of the shore a couple hundred meters away was colder than a taxman's heart, and she didn't even want to think what might be swimming in that water. She had been diving before---once, when she was fifteen, when her parents had taken her to Australia on holiday. She hoped her troops wouldn't be intimidated by her wealth of experience.
"Not too late to back out," Kristopolis joked as he stepped up behind her. "I've always wanted to be a commando."
"You just make sure you're not late," she said, arching an eyebrow at him. "I don't want to have to take on the whole Protectorate by myself. Remember, if they spot us..."
"I know," he said, raising a hand to interrupt her. "If I hear any firing or see any sudden troop movement, I'm to attack immediately. Don't worry---this plan's so simple not even a dumbass Janitor could screw it up."
Shannon patted him on the shoulder, smiling proudly. "No matter what happens today, Kristy, you and your troops will never be called 'dumbass janitors' again."
Without another word, she marched off toward the shoreline, with her squad in tow.
Kristopolis watched them until they were over the dunes and out of sight, then turned back to the faces of the fifty men and woman under his command, all looking to him expectantly.
"What are you waiting for?" he yelled, his smile offsetting his words. "An engraved invitation? Everyone in your vehicles and in place! Private Vingh, you have the codes---get your ass over to the security lock on the gate and get ready to deactivate the sensors on my signal. Come on, you miserable bastards, we got ourselves a war to win!"
* * *
Shannon fought to keep from hyperventilating as she sucked air through the regulator of her borrowed rebreather unit, blowing out streams of bubbling carbon dioxide into the dark water. Despite her wetsuit, the water of the Long Island Sound felt like liquid nitrogen, and every muscle in her body threatened to cramp up from the bitter cold.
Below her, she could see the sand of the sea floor and the furtive movements of underwater life, some of it disturbingly large, but the night-vision lenses built into her dive mask robbed her of depth perception and she wasn't sure how close or how large the things were. It seemed as if they'd been slogging through the frigid water for hours, but a quick check of the luminous LCD readout of her dive computer told her it had been less than thirty minutes---which, she figured, put them somewhere just past the control center.
Turning back toward the rest of her group, she held up her hand for a security halt, quickly did a head count, then signalled for a position check. Together, they slowly ascended the ten meters to the gently-rolling surface waves and the swiftly-darkening sky, and Shannon turned 360 degrees searching for the shore. It was difficult due to the rise of the dunes at the beach and the gathering darkness, but Shannon finally spotted the lights of the entrance gate shining into the sky nearly parallel to their position.
She motioned for them to head in, then carefully and quietly let air from her buoyancy control vest to allow herself to sink below the waves---too much movement would trigger the sensors on the shore. Once she was down and swimming inland, she checked her chronometer once more and nodded with satisfaction. They had ten more minutes before Kristopolis shut down the alarms.
* * *
"You remember the code, Raj?" Corporal Lee nudged Private Vingh, jostling his hands away from the gate's security panel. Rajhiv craned his head around and favored his friend with a withering glare.
"Yes, I remember the Goddamned code," he growled.
"You sure?" Lee shook his head doubtfully, trying to hide his smirk. "I mean, after all, that Klesko guy wouldn't write it down and that was a couple days ago...anything could happen. What if you forgot?"
"Johnny," Vingh snapped, "if you don't leave me the fuck alone, you won't have to worry about the Goddamned Protectorate, 'cause I'll kill you myself."
"Hey you two, quit screwing around." Lieutenant Kristopolis came out of the trees behind them, taking a knee at the gate controls. "We're all set. Give me a minute to get back to my vehicle, then punch in the codes and get the hell out of the way."
"Yes, sir," Vingh said, but Kristopolis was already sprinting back into the darkness of the woods. The PFC turned back to the gate and an alarmed, blank look passed over his face. He fixed Lee with a terrified stare. "Oh, shit!" he blurted. "I can't remember the code!"
Corporal Lee laughed. "It's okay, Raj," he assured his friend, pulling a slip of paper out of his fatigue pocket. "I was hanging out around the corner when Klesko gave it to you. Here." He shoved the paper at Vingh. "I wrote it down."
"Oh, you son of a bitch," Vingh muttered, punching in the override code.
The chain-link gates swung open with a whine of infrequently-serviced motors, and before they were halfway apart the assault force's motley train of vehi
cles was already advancing out of the treeline. Lee and Vingh scrambled out of the way, waiting for the last of the assortment of groundcars, motorcycles and hovercraft to pass through before they hopped into the three-wheel All-Terrain Vehicle parked to the side of the gate and gunned the engine.
"You ready?" Johnny Lee asked, swinging his rifle around so that it pointed out his side of the buggy.
"Brother, I've been landscaping public parks for the last two years," Vingh laughed, spinning the little car around and accelerating through the gate. "Of course I'm not ready!"
* * *
Shannon knew that the fight had commenced when the Protectorate hopper exploded.
"Go, go, go!" she snapped, levering herself up from the sand with the butt of her rifle.
The infiltration squad raced across the beach, black-clad ghosts incongruously lit by the pinwheels of fire belching from the enemy machine. Shannon had removed her night-vision goggles when she'd donned a battle helmet for the assault---and the obsolete headgear they'd liberated from the stockpile lacked infrared imaging---but in the light from the blast she could see the enemy scurrying around the compound with all the organization of a rugby scrum. Human and biomech troops rushed to the suddenly stilled black pylons that had been the base's sonic fence, running to meet the attack from Kristopolis' diversionary force.
The infiltration team bounded forward, one six-person group moving while the other provided cover in the classic overwatch formation she'd drilled into them over the last few days, but she was too preoccupied to feel much tutorial pride. Her eyes darted about frantically as she led the team through the inactive fence, weaving a path through bits of burning wreckage from the hopper. She had to actively restrain herself from diving to the ground at the explosion of gunfire across the compound as the Protectorate troops opened fire on the assault force.
She tried not to focus on the yawning cargo entrance lest she ignore possible threats from elsewhere, but the light from within the open doors drew her gaze irresistibly. Which was why she was the first one to notice the suit of Protectorate powered armor lumbering up the ramp from the bowels of the base.
"Down!" she yelled, throwing herself into the prone position, her rifle coming to her shoulder.
She was squeezing the trigger even as the armored Russian swung his arm-mounted weapon around, but the 6mm rounds spanged harmlessly off the thick alloy surface of the suit and the gaping bore of the trooper's recoilless rifle lit up with a crack of thunder. Shannon buried her head under her arms as she felt the hot breath of the shell on her neck, and then something that was more a feeling than a noise picked her up and deposited her two meters farther toward the cargo doors.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs, sending her vision spinning through a kaleidoscope of colors, a persistent ringing in her ears drowning out all other sound. Distantly, she felt hands picking her off the ground, dragging her forward, and she wondered with stunned detachment why the battlesuit's weapon hadn't fired again to finish her off. But as her vision cleared, she could see the remains of the heavy, powered armor sprawled just inside the base's entrance at the end of the downward-sloping ramp. A huge hole was blown through its upper torso, the metal peeled back by the blast, and within the remains of a human male still burned wildly. Shannon managed to twist around and spotted one of the Cleveland cops reloading his shoulder-fired missile launcher, a look of grim satisfaction visible through the clear faceplate of his helmet.
As clarity slowly returned to Shannon, she became aware that her own faceplate was spiderwebbed with cracks, and that her whole body was one giant ache from head to toe. It was best she find out now just how badly she'd been hurt. Pulling away from the RSC troopers who had been half-carrying her, she managed to stand on her own and discovered that at least her legs weren't broken.
She shook her head to clear her vision, then threw back her helmet's fractured faceplate and looked around as she struggled to keep up with the squad. They were about halfway down the cargo ramp, and there were no enemy troops in sight from where they were to the shoulder-high stack of palleted cargo containers that blocked off the end of the ramp. A quick count told her they were short by two people.
"Casualties?" she snapped, jogging up beside Lieutenant Priata, the Emergency Response Team leader from Cleveland 'Plex.
"Two of my people dead," he told her---his face was hard, but she could see the pain behind his eyes. "Tripper Scott and John Rubinstein." The names meant nothing to her, and she felt a sudden sting of guilt. He looked her up and down. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know," she admitted, surprised she could still hear after the concussion from the blast. "But I don't have time for a physical." She glanced around. "Did anyone pick up my rifle?"
"Here, ma'am." One of the cops passed her a bullpup identical to the one she'd been carrying but with a grenade launcher mounted under the barrel. "Your stock was broken---this one belonged to Trip."
She took the rifle without a word, checked to make sure a grenade was loaded in the tube, then took the point back from Priata.
"You two." She gestured to the man and woman trailing their extended file formation. "Check around the other side of those pallets." She singled out the man with the missile launcher. "You hang back and cover our rear---I don't want any more of those armored things surprising us. Everyone else, follow me."
While the pair she'd designated sprinted to the right side of the twenty-meter-wide ramp to flank the cargo containers, Shannon led the rest up along the left-hand wall. It was oddly silent within the high-ceilinged chamber, the battle sounds from outside only faint murmurs through the insulated walls, and Shannon felt chills running alongside a trickle of perspiration down her back.
Maintenance catwalks stretched overhead, parallel to the tracks for heavy loading equipment, choice perches for an enemy sniper, and the end of the ramp lurked in hidden menace behind the cover of dozens of cargo containers. Her eyes danced back and forth between the two threat areas, distracted here and there by the blinking lights of control panels and displays, and she began to understand how Jason must have felt as he walked through the hostile streets of Kennedy. She became conscious that she had slowed down to a crawl and made an effort to speed up while still staying alert---this wouldn't be a good place to be if any of the Protectorate troops decided to retreat from the attack.
She dearly wished she wasn't walking point, but the simple fact was that she'd had more tactical training and practical experience than even the ERT cops, whose most hazardous duty was probably smoking out some endorphin dealer from the city's maintenance tunnels. Actually, she admitted to herself, she wished that Nathan were here.
Shannon trod carefully into the narrow aisle between the left-hand wall and the unbroken row of cargo containers, watching the open space beyond for any tell-tale shadows that would reveal a hidden enemy, then came to a halt as she approached the last of the containers. The line of closed security doors against the far wall could conceal anything, but the first order of business was to clear the backside of the pallets. Turning back to the rest of the squad, she motioned Priata forward and signalled to him to "watch high."
The ERT leader nodded and backed into a standing position at the edge of the last cargo container, shoulders pressed against the bright-blue thermoplastic, rifle held at high port. Shannon fell into a crouch just in front of him, facing the line of security doors on the back wall, her weapon across her chest. She took a deep breath, then signalled Priata with a slap on the leg and dove forward on her left shoulder, gun and eyes aimed across the front of the row of pallets.
Movement at the far wall tightened her finger on her rifle's trigger, but she let off a gram's worth of pressure away from firing as she saw it was the two RSC troopers she'd sent around the other side of the cargo containers. The lead of the two Janitors signalled an all-clear, and Shannon motioned for them to take up a position against the far wall, watching back the way they'd come.
She turned back to the half
-dozen security doors, trying to remember the rough sketch Klesko had drawn for her, and finally decided on the double-doors marked simply with an oversized "Three." The keypad on the door yielded to the emergency override codes the Presidential Security Agent had provided, hissing open slowly, giving Shannon time enough to jump to the side out of the line of fire.
But the long, downward-slanted hallway beyond was deserted and Shannon allowed herself a breath of relief as she moved into it, waving the squad forward. The three she'd left to guard the entrance remained in place---she didn't like depleting her already-small force by another third, but she'd like being trapped in there even less.
The squad spread into a close wedge in the wide hallway, stretched out lengthwise over twenty meters, and moved quickly down the corridor. Here and there the odd security office or utility closet beckoned and had to be checked, but all were dark and deserted as Shannon knew they would be. Klesko had told her that the real guts of the place were further down, and that was where she was sure they would be holding the President.
Finally the hallway terminated in a circular cul-de-sac, ringed by a bank of elevators and a single, unmarked door. The squad spread into a defensive formation without having to be told, and Shannon went to the door, the entrance to the emergency stairwell---and swore under her breath. Klesko hadn't remembered the security mechanism for the stairwell, and now she knew why. It didn't have a control panel, a palmprint reader, not so much as a damned doorknob. The only thing she could figure was that the door was set to open automatically if the base's fire alarm went off---which didn't leave her with too many options.
"Back off, everyone!" she ordered, waving them back into the hallway. "On the ground."
While her troops took up prone positions about twenty meters back into the corridor, she paced off another ten meters past the last of them, then fell into the crouch facing the door. Racking her brains to recall her brief familiarization training with the old M-46 Individual Weapon, she adjusted the grenade launcher's sight and brought it to bear on the door.
