The War in 2020

Heavy bullets rinsed over the packed courtyard. The rounds were so powerful that they did not merely fell their victims but shredded them and threw the remnants great distances.

Kloete ducked, hugging the roof. Noburu followed his example. The South African was laughing like a wild man, his behavior insanely inconstant.

Beyond the lip of the wall, the fury of the crowd turned to wails of despair. Noburu could feel the intruders scrambling to avoid the godlike weapons, and he could picture the oversize rounds rinsing back and forth across the courtyard. Sometimes the old weapons were the best.

Noburu went cold. Underneath him, the sounds of combat within the headquarters building punctuated his horror.

He had realized that none of the new Japanese systems in the theater of war mounted Gatling guns.

Behind him, the dream warrior laughed and laughed and laughed.

The sound of the aircraft was deafeningly close now. He could begin to make out their swollen black forms against the deep blue sky. Each time one of the ships unleashed another burst from its Gatling gun, the cone of fire was shorter, closer. The Gatling rounds made a sharp crackling sound as they split the cobblestones amid the dead and the dying.

'Americans,' Noburu said to Kloete.

Perhaps the noise was too much. The South African merely stared at him in incomprehension.

'The Americans,' Noburu shouted, cupping a hand beside his mouth.

Kloete looked at him as if the general had gone mad.

The rotor wash began tearing at their clothes. The big ships were settling, hunting for places to nest.

The dream warrior howled with glee, goading Noburu to laugh along.

No. He was not giving up so easily. He pushed the phantom away.

One of the descending aircraft was heading directly for the helipad.

'Come on,' Noburu shouted, already moving. 'We've got to let somebody know about—'

The noise was too great. He scrambled toward the passageway that led to the elevator and the stairwell. It would take too long to route a message through the computer with the system locked down. The only hope was the old radio.

It had to work. Tokyo had to be informed.

He turned his head to hurry Kloete and the NCO along. But the roof erupted in a holiday of sparks. One moment he was watching the scrambling forms of the two South Africans. An instant later, their bodies disintegrated as the approaching gunship's Gatling cleared the rooftop helipad.

Noburu threw himself into the deepest corner of the passageway until the drilling noise of the gunnery stopped. He felt as though he had been stung by dozens of wasps. Masonry splinters, he calculated, glad that he could still function. He threw himself into the shelter of the stairwell, just as an enormous black monster settled onto the roof.

* * *

'This way,' Kozlov shouted. Taylor followed the Russian across the helipad, ducking under the flank rotor of the M-100. The roof was slick with the spread remains of several corpses so badly shot up they were barely recognizable as human.

Meredith moved up past Taylor, weapon at the ready, determinedly shielding the older man. Hank Parker followed, lugging a man-pack radio over his left shoulder and shepherding the young warrant officer who held the magic keys in his briefcase.

A few surviving members of the mob who had been stranded in the courtyard fired up at the spectacle on the roof, but they seemed to be too dazed or shaken to make their efforts tell. Meanwhile, other M-l00s settled across the parade ground, their Gatling guns sweeping the living and the dead across their chosen landing zones. American soldiers leapt from the lowering ramps and hatches, their short automatic rifles clearing each fire team's path toward the headquarters building. Protected by lightweight body armor and face shields, here and there an American fell backward, knocked down by the force of a bullet, only to rise from the dead and follow his comrades into the fight.

Taylor scanned the scene just long enough to make sure that the three birds designated for the assault had put down safely. In the low heavens, a last M-100 patrolled above the near streets, now and then issuing a spike of fire that warned the rest of the world to keep away.

There wasn't much time. Even as the raiding force approached Baku, enemy relief columns had been shooting their way into the city from multiple directions. The lone M-100 flying cover shifted its fire from axis to axis in the ultimate economy of force effort, striking the long columns selectively, blocking as many streets as possible with burning combat vehicles. But all of the main guns desperately needed recalibration now and the Gatlings, too, were down to their last reserves of ammunition. Here and there, the combat vehicles from the relief columns snaked their way inevitably into the labyrinth of streets. Worse still, the strategic down-links feeding the M-l00's on-board computers showed a fleet of enemy aircraft over the Caspian Sea, flying on an axis whose aim was unmistakable.

Taylor followed the others into a passageway littered with chipped masonry. Kozlov yanked open a steel door and was about to rush headlong into the stairwell. But Meredith caught him, knocking the unarmed man out of the way. Kozlov tripped back against a wall just as Meredith hurled a grenade into the darkness. The S-2 turned and pulled Kozlov to the ground with him.

The explosion rang so loudly from the concrete stairwell that it sounded as though the entire building would collapse.

'Let's go,' Taylor shouted.

But, once again, Meredith was quicker. He took the lead, spraying short bursts into the smoke and crunching over litter splintered off the walls. Taylor threw a compact flare past him into the recesses of the stairwell.

No one fired at the light, which was little more than a pale glow in the shroud of smoke left by the grenade. It was very hard to see.

But there was no time to waste.

Standard drill, learned in L.A., perfected in Mexico. Taylor slapped Meredith on the shoulder.

'Go.'

Meredith pounded down the stairs, laying down a burst as he made each corner. The bullets punched at the walls, rebounding, making quick spiderwebs of light.

'One flight clear,' Meredith shouted.

Taylor turned back to Hank Parker and threw a hand in the direction of Kozlov and Ryder. 'Keep those two here until I blow the whistle. Then get down those stairs as fast as you can.'

The colonel hustled after Meredith.

'Three floors,' Kozlov called after him. 'It is three floors of stairs.'

Taylor caught up with Meredith, then pushed past him, taking his turn in the two-man drill. Meredith covered him. The smoke bothered Taylor's lungs, and he felt faintly dizzy. He realized that he still had not recovered completely from the futile rescue attempt of the day before. The smoke had eaten into him.

But he kept going, holding his short-barreled automatic rifle tight against his side. He had entirely forgotten the pain in his hand.

Beyond the stairwell, the building echoed with rifle fire and shouts in three distinct languages. On the ground and upper floors, the Japanese defenders were battling the Azeris hand-to-hand, with the Americans slashing in behind, fighting everybody.

But the other American efforts were only distracters. Supporting strikes. Everything depended on getting Ryder down to the computer room before somebody blew the machine apart.

'Clear,' Taylor yelled. He crouched against a wall on the next landing. Meredith's boots clambered down the concrete steps, closing on him. The younger officer slapped Taylor's shoulder and moved past him like a shadow. It was the best they could do. An emergency drill. There was no time for a careful, completely thorough clearing operation.

This time Meredith went all the way down the stairs without firing his weapon. The earlier bursts had met with no response. And the bullets had nowhere to go from the bottom of the stairwell except back up toward the firer.