“‘We’ don’t do anything,” muttered the small man as they moved into a slow trot. “Meyerson and I have one job: to get you to the roof.”
“The roof?”
“For VTOL extraction. Contingency orders in the event the facility is compromised. And, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Unnecessary talking will get us killed.”
Caine closed his mouth tightly, nodded, and followed.
MENTOR
“So who is our Calypso?”
Nolan tapped his compupad. “Opal Marie Patrone, born May 14, 2035, Knoxville, Tennessee. Grew up all over the place: an army brat. Father was stationed in Cleveland, San Antonio, Buffalo, Fort Bragg. Five-foot-five, a hundred twenty-five pounds, all fitness indices in the ninetieth percentiles. Got a full ride for her first two years at Vanderbilt, then had to go ROTC to finish her degree: biology, specializing in zoology, magna cum laude. Exemplary soldier, well-liked by those who served under her. Qualified as a medic and sharpshooter. She was severely wounded during a counterterrorist joint op with the Royal Marines, September 16, 2066, British Guyana. Hers was the third successful field application of cryogenic reduction.”
“Sounds like she was going career military.”
“Doesn’t say. We don’t have a lot of time to get her ready, though.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The virus that compromised her is a garden-variety terrorist construct that we can now eliminate with several different therapies. But her liver is a mess.”
“Reparable?”
“No way. She was surgically stabilized before they put her in cryogenic suspension; she can function for a day or so, but then she’s going to need regrowth therapy and a two-stage-”
The commplex buzzed. Nolan tapped his collarcom: “Corcoran.”
Downing had just raised the snifter when he heard Nolan’s tone change. “They what? When? How many-no, forget it. Response code X-Ray Alpha. Yes-all of them. I’ll be on the roof for pick-up in three minutes. Sitreps every two.”
Downing was already on his feet, coat on. “Sidearm?”
“If you’ve got it.”
“What-?”
Nolan shrugged into his overcoat. “The safehouse in Alexandria. It’s being hit. Right now.”
“Bloody hell,” breathed Downing.
ODYSSEUS
They moved using a modified version of a leapfrog advance: after the rear man moved forward, Caine swerved out of cover to follow him at a distance of about five meters, staying close and low against the same wall. They were nearing a bank of elevators when Little Guy, who was in the lead, dropped to one knee, fist raised.
Caine heard it too. Gunshots. Full automatic-breathy and extremely rapid. Almost like someone tearing a paperback in half: the individual reports were so quick that they bled into one smooth patter of sound. Meyerson had come off the tail position, kneeled next to Caine.
“Damn.”
Little Guy looked back, harpooned Meyerson with his eyes. “Until it’s your turn to advance, you watch our six.”
Meyerson looked to the rear-but his head spun back forward as the sounds resumed, closer this time, apparently rising up through the stairwell that was co-located with the elevators. Caine listened, heard a buzz of sharp, thin snaps mixed seamlessly into the reports.
“Machine pistols. Silenced,” Meyerson commented.
Before Caine could think the better of it, he was voicing his own assessment. “Maybe not. Each of those little snaps is a round going supersonic. But that high rate of fire and smooth suppression-I think they’re using liquid propellant assault rifles. No ejection ports, so only the muzzle blast to suppress. And only full-bore rifle rounds have that crisp supersonic snap.”
Meyerson looked incredulously at Caine, then smirked. “Anything else?”
Caine shrugged, looked forward. “Probably bullpup weapons; they’ll want something short and handy for close-quarters combat.”
Meyerson grinned forward toward the back of Little Guy. “You believe this? He’s a real-”
“He’s right. And this is the last time I’m going to tell you to watch our six, Meyerson. We’re heading for the roof, now. Let’s go.”
They rose, Little Guy’s weapon up and ready. Caine edged closer to him. “Those guns-doesn’t seem like amateur hour.”
“No, sir. I think you’re right about that.”
Six meters from the elevator gallery.
“Probably had to come in on the ground.”
“That’s certain: we’ve got the airspace locked up tight. Sensors all over. Verticals on two-minute standby.”
Two meters.
“Which they’d probably anticipate.”
One meter. Little Guy paused. “What are you saying?”
“Even if they don’t dare go to the roof themselves, wouldn’t they try to prevent us from getting there? Send someone ahead?”
Little Guy turned to look at Caine. “A blocking force.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Little Guy nodded, moved forward at the double-quick, waving for Meyerson to catch up. Meyerson did, went for the stairs: Little Guy waved him off.
Meyerson’s eyes were surprised, his voice quizzical: “We’re taking the elevator? It’s a death trap.”
Little Guy shook his head. “Cover me.” When Meyerson had set himself up, Little Guy took out a palmtop. Looking over his shoulder, Caine saw a building schematic on the small screen. Little Guy scrolled through it, selected, enlarged, selected again-too fast for Caine to follow. Then he was turning off the palmtop, slipping it back into his shoulder pocket, and pulling a master key/wrench combination from a pouch on his web-gear.
“Can I give you a hand?”
Little Guy nodded at Caine, who followed him over to a panel between the staircase and the leftmost of the elevators. Jerking his head at the wall panel, he told Caine, “Keep it from falling. No noise.” He already had the first of the restraining bolts out of the panel.
About twenty seconds later, the last bolt came out and the panel sagged forward toward Caine-who lugged it away from the wall and lowered it to the floor. A half-size access door was embedded in the wall.
“Meyerson.” Little Guy had the key in the lock; the access door swung open with a stiff squeal.
“Yeah?”
“Give us ten seconds, then follow us up. Close the door after you and keep watching below as we climb.”
Little Guy stuck his head in the maintenance shaft, did a quick up-down check. Popped back out, looked at Caine. “Here’s the drill. I go in first. Give me five seconds, then you start up. It’s not a self-contained chute; it’s a recessed ladder in an access channel that runs the length of the elevator shaft. Keep your rump and your shoulders within that channel and you’ll be invisible. Stay about five feet lower than I am and don’t come out on to the roof until I give you an all-clear. We’re on the second floor; the roof is only three above us, so you shouldn’t need to pace yourself on the climb. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay. And good thinking about that blocking force.”
Little Guy ducked under the top edge of the doorway and was gone. Caine counted to five and swung himself
