Empire

Cole and Cat got to the base of the ladder at about the same time. The water was still sinking. But it wasn’t getting warmer.

“Can’t stay in this,” said Cat.

“Can’t climb,” said Cole. “They’ll see us.”

Back on the shore they had come from, only about a hundred yards closer to the dam, a heavy concrete wall was being revealed. Huge steel doors looked like they could withstand the water pressure just fine. But once the water sank low enough, and those doors opened, anybody coming out of them would have a clear shot at anybody climbing the ladder.

Cole clung to the ladder with his legs as he worked the pack back onto his shoulders. It was hard—his fingers were numb and he was shivering. Cat was having the same amount of trouble.

“Just leave the packs?” asked Cat, shivering.

“We’ll want our weapons if we make it up top.”

“Big if,” said Cat.

In answer, Cole started to climb. It was hard to keep his grip. And cold numb wet bare feet weren’t as stable to climb with as well-fitting boots. But he had to keep moving. Maybe he could still get to the top before the doors opened.

Cat was keeping up with him, nice steady progress up the ladder.

The big steel door started opening. A couple of men in rebel body armor came out and scanned the area. It didn’t take them two seconds to see Cole and Cat, and another two seconds to start shooting.

They missed.

“Their marksman training not as good as our marksman training,” said Cat.

“Fine with me,” said Cole.

A bullet came much closer.

“Getting the range now,” said Cat.

“I’m nearly there.”

Cole noticed the whooshing sound behind him and to the right. A moment later, the entrance of the tunnel erupted in flames.

“Good shot with the SMAW,” said Cat.

“Inappropriate weapon,” said Cole. “Rifles would have been enough.”

“Either way, I think we lost our element of surprise, abun.”

Cole knew that Drew and Babe would be moving the SMAW to a different position now.

“Wish I knew what was waiting for us at the top of this ladder.”

Rifle fire from directly behind them didn’t result in any bullets striking near them. It was sniper work— ping. Wait. Ping. That would be Load and Arty, firing past them at someone on top of the island.

And now there was returning gunfire from directly above them, shooting out across the water.

“I just hope Drew and Babe don’t try to use a mortar,” said Cole. “I don’t want them to blow up that cabin.”

“Don’t stop to put on your infra, abun.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

They were now on the steel beams that supported the dock. But there was gunfire coming from inside the huge doors again, and from men fanning out along the shoreline. Correctly, Load and Arty were only shooting at targets on top of the island, so that Cole and Cat would have a chance to get up and onto the surface without getting their heads blown off the moment they raised them above the level of the dock.

Cole got out his handgun and swung out to climb the swimmer’s ladder.

“Such a baby,” said Cat. He clambered directly onto the dock from the other side.

There were two bodies—in ranger uniforms, not armor—lying on the ground. But Cole was aware—from the sound, from motion—that there were others inside the cabin now, and a pair who had moved off into the brush beside the cabin. He flattened himself on the ground. He was immediately aware of every rise and dip in the surface and arranged his body to present the hardest possible target, even as he looked into the brush and found a target. A flurry of motion told him that he had at least come close.

He crept over to the nearest body and used that slight cover while he got his pack off. It would be like a howdah on an elephant to carry that around with him during this. He pulled his rifle off the pack. This was sniper work now.

Trap door

If your soldiers can’t fight at least as well as the enemy’s soldiers, it doesn’t matter how good a commander you are. Training is the foundation of everything.

The two dead bodies had been disguised as park rangers. The guys they were facing now wore body armor.

Whatever training the rebel troops might have had, it wasn’t at Army Ranger level. They relied too much on their armor. It made them feel invulnerable. So they constantly revealed themselves. And they shot carelessly—too quickly, without stability. They also didn’t learn from their own bad shots. They’d overshoot the first time, and on the next shot they’d do it again.

Even undertrained soldiers can kill you with a lucky shot, though. Cole had no intention of dying because he had contempt for his enemy.

Their pistols were mostly for noise and show. The rebels dodged the bullets—they didn’t trust their armor enough to overcome their reflex to flinch.

Cole reached up and detached the M-24 sniper rifle from his pack. It fired a heavier round than the pistol— that’s why he brought it. Testing had shown that at fairly close range, it penetrated the rebels’ body armor at certain key points. Like the faceplate.

Two shots. Two rebels down.

“Good work,” said Cat. “Now it’s time for Minimi.”

Cole fired into the cabin window, shattering glass, as Cat scrambled up the slope and got into position against the cabin wall, just beside the window. It was an obvious time to toss a grenade into the cabin, but they both knew they couldn’t risk damaging whatever mechanism concealed or locked the passage down into the tunnels. So Cat reached down and pulled up a lump of turf and tossed it through the window as if it were a grenade. It would take the guys inside a split second to realize it wasn’t an explosive device. During the split second, Cat raked the inside with automatic fire from his Minimi.

They both reached the door of the cabin at the same time. It was open. They came in low, Cole first, and found three rebel soldiers, two dead, one trivially wounded in the left arm.

“I surrender!” the wounded guy said.

“How are we supposed to take you captive?” said Cole.

Cat walked over to the guy.

Terrified, the rebel said, “I’m an American, you can’t kill me.”

“Tell it to the cops you guys killed in New York,” said Cole. “And the apartment building doorman.”

“You guys are all murderers!” shouted the rebel. “You love to kill!”

Cat reached down and broke the guy’s right arm.

The guy screamed, staring at his arm. When he could speak, he groaned, “I’m an American!”

“American with a broken arm,” said Cat.

“He might be left-handed,” said Cole.

Cat broke the other arm. The guy screamed again. “Threat neutralized,” said Cat.

“Torturers,” the rebel gasped.