selected them all, identifying them as TAFTs, or targets for termination. Wit blinked at the five men he intended to take, selecting them, and watched on his HUD as his teammates selected the others.
“Now, Lobo,” said Wit.
Lobo’s response was almost immediate. “Clear. Go.”
The silencer on Wit’s weapon muffled the fire, and his five targets on the roof all took a spider round, their suits going stiff and turning red. Wit touched down and released his chute. No one was firing at him. The other roof sentries were down. He grabbed his chute and stuffed it under one of the red PCs. He could hear the man’s muffled complaints behind his visor, and Wit put a finger to his own visor over his lips, telling the man to stay quiet.
The other five MOPs landed on the roof and began tucking their chutes away. Lobo was kneeling beside one of the downed PCs with a wire connected to the man’s helmet. It was only a matter of time before the men on the ground and those in the towers did a check-in with the men on the roof. If the PCs found the roof silent, they’d know the roof was compromised. Lobo was downloading all of the chatter the sentry had heard and given that night. Voice manipulation software would do the rest.
“Status, Lobo?” Wit asked.
Lobo’s lips moved inside his helmet, and then after a brief delay, Wit heard Lobo’s words in his own helmet. Only, it wasn’t Lobo’s voice. It was deeper, with an Indian accent, no doubt identical to that of the downed PC. “All set, Captain. If they call up for a status, I’ll tell them all is hunky dory on the roof.”
“Let’s move,” said Wit, leading the others through the roof entrance. They went down a stairwell, across a short corridor, and onto the third floor, taking down four more sentries along the way. These they dispatched with spider pads, small magnetic discs that were the dampening-suit equivalent to a fatal knife wound. Slap a pad on a suit, and the person goes red. Much quieter than gunfire.
A sandbag barricade with four sentries blocked the entrance to Ketkar’s office. The New Zealander, an SAS officer whom Wit had nicknamed Pinetop, took the gear and weapon off the downed sentry at Wit’s feet and began walking down the center of the corridor toward the barricade. The lights were off, and only Pinetop’s silhouette was visible in the darkness. The sentries mistook him for someone else until he was right on top of them. Four shots later, the hall was clear.
Major Khudabadi Ketkar was sitting behind his desk in a dampening suit with a smile on his face when Wit entered. He stood and extended a hand. “Captain O’Toole. I suppose I should not be surprised to see you. Welcome. And I see you brought seven of your finest men.”
“All of my men are my finest, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Mrs. Ketkar is well, I hope.”
“She is nagging me like a frightened hen, but my ears have grown accustomed. She wants to know when you’re coming to dinner again. She calls you ‘the handsome American.’ I pretend not to be jealous.” He looked past Wit, saw the four downed sentries at the barricade, and smiled again. “Those are four of my senior officers. I don’t think they’ll like you very much after tonight, Captain.”
“Few people do, sir. Occupational hazard.”
Ketkar smiled. “I hope they put up a good fight at least before you shamed them in front of their commanding officer.”
“Yes, sir. They are fine soldiers. It was difficult to overrun their position.”
“Funny,” said Ketkar, smiling. “I didn’t hear so much as a scuffle.” He picked up the neatly folded flag on his desk and handed it to Wit. “You must tell me how it was done, though,” he said.
“HALO jump, sir.”
Ketkar frowned. “Attacking from the air? That’s breaking the rules, isn’t it?”
“I was not aware that our game had any rules, sir.”
Ketkar laughed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. It’s a bitter irony, though. The PCs are paratroopers. You would think we would look to the sky.” He sighed. “Well, you are to be commended for coming this far, Captain. But surely you must realize that escape is impossible. My men have these facilities surrounded. They will never let you out of here.”
“With all due respect, sir, I think they will. They’ll open the front gate for us.”
Ketkar looked amused. “And why would they do that?”
“Because you will ask them to, sir.”
“Forgive me, Captain, but our friendship only goes so far. I will do nothing of the sort.”
“No, sir. I will do it for you. We have enough samples of your voice now.” Wit clicked over to the private frequency. “You ready, Lobo?”
“You’re good to go, sir,” said Lobo.
Wit began speaking, but it was Ketkar’s voice that came out of the speaker on Ketkar’s desk. He was broadcasting to every PC. “Gentlemen, this is Major Ketkar. I have just received a personal call from Captain Wit O’Toole of MOPs congratulating us on our victory. Many of you know, but some of you may not be aware, that I sent a small strike force ahead of our main force and asked them to observe strict radio silence. While our main force engaged the MOPs at their camp, creating a distraction, our strike unit has sneaked through and taken the flag from Captain O’Toole without suffering a single casualty. They are now approaching the base. I will meet them outside the gate, along with my senior officers, to give them a hero’s welcome. Once they’re inside, I expect you to do the same. Our friends in MOPs fought valiantly, but we have shown these cocky bastards who the real soldiers are.”
There was a cry of approval and applause from outside.
Major Ketkar was no longer smiling. “Well, that was unexpected.”
“Forgive me, sir,” said Wit. “I hope this doesn’t damage our future dinner plans.” He politely slapped a spider pad dead center on Ketkar’s chest.
Lobo had two cars waiting down in the building’s garage. Wit and the other MOPs climbed inside. All of them were now wearing the red berets of the Indian Para Commandos. At a distance, in the dark, they might pass for senior officers, but if anyone got a close look, the ruse would be up.
“Make a show if it,” said Wit. “Lots of celebratory honking.”
Three of them carried small Indian flags on sticks that they had taken from Ketkar’s desk. They cracked the windows and stuck the flags outside, waving them ceremoniously. Lobo pulled out of the garage, and Bogdanovich, at the wheel of the second car, followed. As soon as both cars were away from the building, Lobo started blaring the car horn in short beeps. The PCs, who were still a distance away, cheered and raised their weapons over their heads.
“They’re opening the gate,” said Wit. “Don’t gun it, Lobo. Keep a normal speed. You’re driving a major.”
“Yes, sir.”
Soldiers were leaving the safety of the barricade and running toward the cars, cheering and celebrating. Wit settled back in his chair, keeping his face in the shadows. The soldiers were still thirty yards away, but they would be on the cars in seconds. The gate was just ahead. “Normal speed,” repeated Wit. “Nice and easy.” The sentries at the gatehouse stepped outside and snapped to attention as the large gate doors slid open. Wit’s car began pulling through the gate, passing the sentries, just as the cheering soldiers behind them reached the second car and began slapping the trunk in celebration. One of the sentries at attention lowered his gaze to Wit’s car and smiled. The smile vanished an instant later. Then the man started yelling and reaching for his weapon, and all went to hell.
“Gun it, Lobo,” said Wit.
Lobo floored it. Behind them Bogdanovich did the same. The celebration became a furious mad scramble. Men tried climbing on to the second car, reaching for the door handle. Spider rounds pinged off the glass. Bogdanovich swerved and floored it. Men tumbled off the car.
“Roadblock,” said Lobo.
There were two vehicles parked in the road ahead with a half-dozen PCs already leveling their weapons.
Chi-won was sitting in the backseat beside Wit. “Chi-won,” said Wit.
“Happy to, sir.”
There was no explanation needed. Wit lowered his window just as Chi-won did. Their weapons were out the window an instant later, firing. PC suits flashed red and stiffened.
Lobo gunned it. “I’m going through.”
“Don’t run over anyone,” said Wit.
