"What do you think?" the head of the covert intelligence division asked his boss when the information was confirmed.
"Let me get this straight," asked the deputy director as he looked the data over. "You're saying that the MPG moved their entire special forces division up to Triad today?"
"That's correct," he said. "We have about as absolute of a confirmation as we're going to get on that one. Three different sources. We intercepted the call up order as it was put out, three of our operatives were able to observe known members of these teams entering their bases this afternoon, and the asset we have in orbit was able to observe a lifter moving from the four key bases and docking at the Triad MPG base."
"And in Denver?"
"The information is not as solid but its still high on the scale," he said. "It seems that a federal indictment and arrest warrant were issued by a grand jury accusing Laura Whiting of various crimes. One of our operatives there was able to actually talk to one of those members. It seemed that this young women, who was not very smart I understand, did not take her oath of secrecy very seriously."
"And do we have any idea if the MPG knows about this arrest warrant?"
"We have no way of knowing for sure," he said, "but I can't believe that they wouldn't. Jackson, as you know, has a pretty impressive array of agents, both on Earth and Mars, including civilian workers in the FLEB building itself. He keeps his ear to the ground and his job is made a lot easier by the contempt that the WestHem people have for him and his organization."
"So you're saying that if a warrant was issued and transmitted to Earth, Jackson and Whiting would most likely know about it?"
"Correct."
The deputy director smiled. "My friend," he said. "I think that food is going to become a bit cheaper in EastHem in the near future."
"Shall we wake the executive council with this data?"
"I think we should. And I think that we're in for a jolly good show on Mars tomorrow morning."
Chapter 5
Don Mitchell, son-in-law of Director Clinton, had of course been given the honor of leading the takedown team that would take Laura Whiting into custody. He and his team gathered at the main FLEB office at 0700 that Thursday morning. There were forty of them, including himself, and he divided them up into teams of ten, each of which was assigned a leader. He then briefed them on their mission, an act that did not carry the dramatic punch he had hoped for since every last one of the men had already heard through the grapevine what they were going to be doing that day. Still, those that weren't in the official loop pretended to be surprised when they heard the news so some of it was saved.
He distributed diagrams of the Martian capital building to each of the team leaders, assigning them positions to take up when the time came. "Team B," he said. "You will be guarding the rear of the building in case she tries to flee. Team C, you'll be covering the front. Team D, you will split into two elements and cover the side entrances of the building in case she tries to come out that way. Team A, which I will be personally leading, will enter the building itself for the takedown. You outside teams, in addition to sealing the building from her premature exit, you will also be keeping the streets clear of greenies. I don't expect any resistance from the MPG troops that guard Whiting since we have a federal warrant, but I would expect resistance from any greenies that happen to see us leading her away. So keep a sharp eye out for that."
"How sure are you that the MPG troops won't resist?" one of the men asked at that point.
"The MPG are technically part of the WestHem armed services," Mitchell responded. "They won't be happy that we've come for her, but I seriously doubt that they would disregard a federal warrant for her arrest. If any of them does resist in any way, he or she is to be immediately placed under arrest for obstructing a federal officer."
Everyone seemed satisfied with this and the subject was dropped. The briefing went on for another twenty minutes and then the men were dismissed to go suit up. They retired to the locker room and donned their raid gear. Heavy Kevlar armor vests were put over their torsos and black helmets with FLEB stenciled in white were put upon their heads. They strapped on their weapons belts, which contained their 4mm pistols as well as extra rifle ammunition and handcuffs. Steel-toed combat boots were put on their feet. The picture was completed by the addition of M-24 assault rifles loaded with sixty round magazines. Because it had never been thought necessary in the environment within which they operated, they had no combat goggles. Aiming would have to be by the old-fashioned method if a battle occurred and tactical displays and mapping software would have to be looked at on their PCs.
Once suited up they walked out to the building's parking area and boarded four of the black panel vans. The vans all had multiple dents and scratches from rocks and bottles thrown by angry Martians over the past several months. There were places where the paint had been scraped off and reapplied to cover anti-fed and anti-Earthling graffiti. And of course, since the incident of the Molotov cocktail a few weeks before, all of them now had metal bars across the windshields to keep a repeat of that incident from happening.
With Mitchell and his team in the lead van, they pulled out of the parking area and onto the busy street that was teeming with Martians on their way to work. They turned right and started heading for the capital building thirty blocks away. The Martians, as always, were deliberately slow getting out of their way and many of them raised their middle fingers or grabbed their crotches in contempt. Spit flew whenever the van passed close enough for someone to hit it and several times there were thumps as cans or bottles slammed into the sides.
Most of the people on the street had no idea where the federal vans were going or what they were doing. But a few people did and they were on their PCs to other people before the vans were even out of sight of the office.
General Jackson was waiting in Laura's office with her when his PC buzzed, indicating a high priority message. He unclipped it from his belt and flipped the screen up, seeing the face of Major Sprinkle, head of intelligence. "Talk to me, Tim," he said.
"Four vans just left the FLEB office five minutes ago," he said. "They're heading your way. We didn't get a good look but it's probably safe to assume that they're coming in platoon strength."
"Any chance that they're just heading out for their normal raids?" Jackson asked.
"There's always that chance," Sprinkle replied. "But they don't typically head out to normal raids with that many troops. Even the biggest takedowns they do usually only require half that much. Also, this deployment fits with the information we received yesterday. My guess is that this is it."
"That's my guess as well," Jackson said, feeling his heartbeat pick up a few notches. "Keep your assets in place until we know for sure. If it is them, things are gonna get real busy in a hurry on this planet. If it's not, we'll just have to wait some more."
"Right," he said. "Continuing to observe. Keep me updated."
"You'll be one of the first to know," Jackson promised. He signed off and put his PC on the desk.
"They're on their way?" asked Laura, who was looking a little haggard this morning due to the fact that she was living on less than an hour's worth of sleep.
"It looks like it," he told her, picking up a combat computer and fitting the microphone and earpiece into place. "And we're ready for them. They won't get anywhere near you."
She nodded, chewing her lip a little nervously. She had always known that Martian resentment towards their corporate masters was something that would not need much fuel to whip into a frenzy. That frenzy had been achieved. But now, in order for them to support an open revolt against those masters, they needed a single, outrageous act to rally behind. The various massacres and mass arrests that had been taking place all over the planet were outrageous of course but, strangely enough, they could not provide quite enough impetus to compel them to act. Something else was needed, something that would unite everyone behind the cause and the corporate Earthlings, in their glorious predictability, were now providing that something. They were attempting to forcibly remove her from office with trumped-up charges, charges that most of the Martian people, with their cultural intelligence and common sense, would recognize for what they were. The moment was now at hand. Everything, her entire career, her entire life, had all come down to this day. It was time for the most dangerous game to begin.