Fire with Fire(50)
Downing had remarked that someone might still want Caine dead. Obviously, he had been correct. “Okay, so what do we—?”
“‘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.”