"That looks like a fuckin FLEB van," Lisa observed.
"Sure does," Brian agreed, noting that it actually seemed to be melting from the intense heat. "And somehow I don't think that fire is accidental."
They split up when they reached the intersection, each of them heading for one of the four "fire stations" that were located at every intersection of streets. The fire stations were locked cabinets in which one hundred meters of six centimeter fire hose was stored, hooked up to a high capacity hydrant. Dip-hoe carts all carried extra hose in case the one hundred meters was not enough to reach a particular incident. In this case however, the burning van was less than thirty meters away from two of the stations.
Brian reached his station first. He looked at the number printed on it and then talked to the dispatch computer. "Computer," he told it. "Unlock fire station 34-7-2."
The computer quickly analyzed his voice pattern and concluded that he had authorization to order such a thing. A second later there was a click and the mechanism slid open. Inside of the compartment the hemp hose was wrapped around a large reel, a large nozzle resting on top of it. Brian grabbed the nozzle and put it over his shoulder. He began to walk towards the fire, the hose unreeling behind him as he pulled. Across the street, Lisa had reached her station and was doing the same.
When he got within ten meters of the blaze, his patrol computer warned him that the heat was becoming too intense for safety. He stopped. "Computer," he said. "Charge up my hose."
The computer complied, opening the main valve on his station and allowing water to rush forth into the hemp. The flat hose on the street suddenly ballooned up as it was filled, the various twists and turns jumping up and down and then resettling. When the water reached the nozzle, the weight of the hose against his shoulder suddenly quadrupled. Brian brought the nozzle down against his chest and then opened it, allowing a powerful stream of water to blast out towards the burning van. The sheer force of it tried to knock him off his feet but he braced himself tightly, just as he always had in the training classes, and kept the stream on the flames. Slowly, he began to move in.
His stream of water was joined by Lisa's less than a minute later. Although there was no negligible effect at first, their streams were soon joined by others as the first dip-hoe team arrived and activated the other two stations at the intersection. The smoke billowed even thicker for a few moments as the battalion chief ordered the blast doors shut around them to contain it. But a few moments later it began to dramatically thin as exhaust ports in the roof were opened up, allowing it to escape into the Martian atmosphere. Ventilation engines in the enclosed areas then kicked into overdrive, blasting fresh air into the area as fast as it was being sucked out by the pressure difference.
Once four water streams were concentrated upon it, the blaze was knocked down in less than five minutes, revealing that the vehicle was indeed a FLEB van, although now a partially melted and grotesquely distorted one. It was when Brian, Lisa, and the other cops and dip-hoes moved in to inspect the interior of the van that they made the shocking discovery that it was still occupied. Ten bodies were inside, all of them little more than grinning, blackened skeletons with melted helmets on their heads and charred body armor over their ribs. Their weapons, which were mostly plastic with steel barrels, were melted lumps in their laps or on the floor.
"Christ," Brian said, glad that he still had his mask on. He could imagine what the smell would be like in there. "What do you think did this?"
"A Molotov cocktail," replied one of the dip-hoes, an old, crusty one that looked like he had at least twenty years on the job. "I've seen them used before during the riots of '28. A little pressurized hydrogen in a Fruity bottle, a simple igniter designed to fire on impact, and you have yourself a hell of a fire."
"Where the hell do they get pressurized hydrogen?" Lisa asked, unable to take her eyes off of the charred bodies.
"Contacts in the agricultural industry," the dip-hoe replied. "The same place they get the chemicals for making dust."
This theory was strengthened by the finding of a large chunk of concrete, blackened but still intact, resting between the front seats of the van.
"Look at that," the old dip-hoe said, pointing it out. "I bet they threw that concrete through first, shattering the window, and then followed it up a second or two later with the Molotov." He smiled a little, seemingly impressed by this. "Pretty smart," he said. "Two simple ballistic throws and you've got ten feds charbroiled. Guess they won't be taking down any pamphlet makers anymore, will they?"
"Or gunning down any protesters in front of their office," one of the other dip-hoes put in.
Brian and Lisa both stared at the blackened corpses for a moment, both knowing that they should feel outraged at the murder of fellow law enforcement officers, both feeling guilt that they didn't. After all, these feds had undoubtedly been on their way to yet another illegal raid upon Martian civilians when the attack occurred. When you came right down to it, shouldn't they expect this sort of thing considering the way they had been operating lately?
"Ten less Earthlings we have to worry about now," Brian said, stepping back away from the van.
"You got that right," Lisa agreed.
Once the smoke was evacuated from the area, the blast doors on the perimeter were opened back up and an all-clear signal was given to the surrounding buildings. From every lobby curious Martians and a few scattered Earthlings came pouring out to resume their business. Human nature being what it always had been, most of them maneuvered themselves so they could pass as closely as possible to the burned out van. A few were even able to catch bare glimpses of the charred corpses inside. The Martians that witnessed this all went away grinning.
Lieutenant Duran and the DPH Battalion Chief showed up at the same time. While the BC went about the task of arranging a fire investigation, Duran rounded up all of the cops on scene. "All right people," she told them with a sigh. "It looks like we got ourselves a multiple homicide investigation to handle here."
"Question, lieutenant?" said Sam Stanislaus, a five-year police officer.
"What is it Sam?" she asked.
"Is it really considered a homicide if the victims are a bunch of fed fucks?" he asked with a smile. "I mean, shouldn't we think of it as more of a public assistance?"
"Or defense of life," another cop put in. "They were probably on their way to jack some poor slobs printing pamphlets."
Everyone had a laugh over this, Duran included. When it died down she said: "While I'm inclined to agree with you, we still have to go through the motions here. So, Haggarty, Wong, Stanislaus, and Ventner, start picking through this crowd and see if you can find any witnesses."
"Oh right, lieutenant," Brian said. "I'm sure that our fellow Martians here will be glad to provide statements about who killed these poor feds. How many statements should we get? Is twenty enough or should we go for thirty?"
This produced another round of laughter. "Just go through the motions, will you?" Duran asked them. "Even shithead feds deserve the same sort of jerk-off treatment that we give to welfare class homicides, don't they?"
Everyone was forced to agree that this might be true. Brian, Lisa, and the other two fanned out through the crowd, asking if anyone had seen anything and each recording "I didn't see nothing" more than a hundred times for the report.
Just as the forensics unit showed up to begin combing the van and its contents for evidence, three more FLEB vans arrived on the scene. They parked less than ten meters away from the crime scene and fully armed and armored agents poured out of their doors, all of them rushing over to the burned van and looking inside, their expressions horror at what they saw. The cops, dip-hoes, and civilians all watched this spectacle as it occurred, more than a few of them making snide remarks. The man in charge of the team, a high-ranking agent by the name of Don Mitchell, found Lieutenant Duran soon after having his worst fears confirmed.