In Flight
Sawyers shouted into the ear of the newsman assigned to follow him and his command into the Western Currency Facility. 'They haven't got a prayer, those dumb bastards on the receiving end.'
'Why's that, Commander,' asked the newsman.
'We're trained professionals, son. Those guys are just part-timers.'
'You or your men ever clear a fortified building before?'
'A building's not fortified unless it's well defended,' countered Sawyers. 'And I don't see those amateurs putting up much of a defense. Hope they had a decent breakfast. It's likely to be their last one that isn't behind bars.'
* * *
Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas
'What's for breakfast, cookie?' asked Fontaine.
The mess sergeant sneered, not at Fontaine but at a battery of flat silver containers. 'Same as usual, bubba: undifferentiated meat with differentiated sauce; accompanied by only mildly radioactive, notionally wholesome, 'potatoes-all-rotten'; optional fake ham omelet; and some half decent coffee. We're running short on sugar for the coffee, though, so go easy.'
Cookie never had cared for being rendered half obsolete by modern T-rations.
'Sounds, umm, great, cookie. Let me have—'
Pendergast's voice thundered, 'Breakfast in the mess is cancelled. Get your asses to your battle positions. NOW, people! Move,
Fontaine quickly added two and two, coming up with the mathematically perfect answer of, 'Hungry, and soon.' With a mumbled, 'Thanks, cookie,' he reached directly into the trays of food, extracting several slices of meat and a scooped palm-full of omelet.
Ignoring the cook's outraged look even as he did his successful best to avoid the cook's flailing spatula, Fontaine's heart began to beat quickly as he joined the arm-flailing, grunting, wall-slapping herd of guardsmen racing from the mess to join their comrades at the walls.
* * *
Outside and above the WCF, the bulk of the pilots were mildly surprised that there was no groundfire. That they were also somewhat pleased by the lack went almost without saying. Quick glances at the facility's roof showed no possible landing place. They'd known this in advance and had not even planned such. Instead, the choppers brought the PGSS to soft and safe landings well away from the target building.
Commander Sawyers—he had managed to escape from arrest at the mission where the problem had begun— grunted with satisfaction at seeing the brisk, orderly, and frankly military way his men dispersed from their helicopters, took the prone, then raced for their initial objectives.
All those objectives were, of course, at or just past the outside limit of effective small arms fire from the WCF.
As the last of his men reached those objectives, and the last of the ferrying helicopters departed, Sawyers advanced with one other man and a loud speaker.
'Attention. Attention, all you people inside the currency facility. In the name of the President of the United States and the Secretary of the Treasury I call upon you to surrender, now, while there is still time. You will be tried—at a minimum—for criminal trespass on Federal property in accordance with the laws of the United States. . . .'
* * *
It was only with difficulty that Williams was able to keep the stress and fear out of his voice. He'd never been in real action before, not unless one considered representing a client before the Tax Court could be considered 'action.' Williams somehow didn't think it was quite the same.
Still, feeling stress and fear or not, Williams' words were clear when he asked, 'How do you answer something like that, Top—err, Sergeant Major?'
Pendergast thought briefly, spit some tobacco juice, then answered, 'I think I'd answer it with Royce.'
'Royce?' asked the newly promoted Major Williams.
'Yessir. Best goddamned shot in the unit, bar none. Royce.'
'Royce,' Williams mused. 'Royce? Sure, why the hell not? Might as well add to our charges. And it'll be harder for anybody to back out after the shooting starts. Royce. Fontaine, go get me Sergeant Royce, would you please?'
* * *
Baffled as it was by the building and the slit through which Royce fired, from his distance Sawyers never heard the actual discharge of the shot. One moment he was speaking into a microphone, holding the loudspeaker in his left hand. The next the speaker was torn away, hissing, sparking, sputtering and crackling as it died. Only then did he hear the crack of the bullet as it left its shock wave behind.
Tossing the ruined thing to the pavement furiously, Sawyers muttered, 'So you motherfuckers want to play it that way, do you? Assholes!'
To the accompanying newsman, Sawyers said, 'Did you see that? Did you see? I offered them a chance to surrender peacefully and they shot at me. What's going to happen now is on their own heads.'
I thought you said they'd surrender, thought the newsman. Wonder what else you're wrong about.
Sawyers turned on his heel, stomped off to his command post—sitting behind a nearby wall, and began to issue
