Jackson realized what the stakes were as well. The plan for the next twenty-four hours was something he had come up with years before in its base form and had been modified and re-modified dozens of times since. It was now time to see if it was going to work. He instructed the combat computer to patch him in with Lieutenant Warren Whiting's security detail. The computer complied, taking less than a second to do so.
"Warren here, General," he said, his voice calm and professional.
"It looks like they're on their way, Mike," Jackson told him. "Intelligence reports four vans moving in, probable platoon strength. More than likely they will not all come inside."
"Both the inside and the outside teams are in place and ready," Warren said. "We should be able to handle them easily."
"Remember," Jackson warned, "get a look at the warrant and the indictment before you do anything. If they don't have it with them, don't let them in."
"Understood," he said.
Laura listened to all this with interest, part of her knowing the her security platoon was one of the best in the business, but part of her worrying that the FLEB agents might get in anyway. "How many men do we have around the building?" She asked Jackson once he signed off the transmission.
"One hundred and twenty," he told her. "Warren and his regular platoon are covering the lobby and they'll take the agents that come inside. We also have two platoons of the regular infantry that we quietly called up last night along with the special forces guys. They were briefed in on what was happening early this morning and they've been placed under Warren's command for the duration of this operation. They're hidden in the adjacent planetary office buildings. They'll take the FLEB guys that deploy to guard the exits."
"Did any of them have a problem with their orders?" she wanted to know.
"Not a single one," he said. "In fact, they all seemed rather enthusiastic about them. You're in good hands. This is what I've been training these guys for all these years." He turned Laura's computer terminal towards him. "May I?" he asked her.
"By all means," she said.
"Computer," he said to it, "get me building operations."
"Building operations coming on line," it said.
The screen cleared and a moment later a scruffy, unshaven face appeared. A look of annoyance at being interrupted was upon this face until he got a good look at the person calling. "General Jackson," he said, surprised. "What can I do for you?"
"You can shut down the blast doors on all floors except the lobby level," Jackson told him. "Do it immediately and shut down the elevators as well. Let anyone who is on them get off at the next floor — as long as that floor is not the lobby — and then don't let them go anywhere else."
The maintenance supervisor looked a little taken aback with this request. That was understandable since it was a very unusual one. "Sir?" he asked. "Are you sure that you..."
"I'm positive," Jackson cut in. "Do it now. I want all the workers in this building to stay right where they are. No one is to leave their floors or their immediate area until further notice."
He swallowed a little, trying to process this information. "May I ask why, sir?" he finally blurted. A legitimate question.
"A security threat against the governor," Jackson told him. "There may be some action down in the lobby and I don't want any bystanders blundering into it. I don't have time to explain any further. Now get it done, man before its too late."
"Right away, General," he said, signing off.
Less than a minute later the blast door warning alarm sounded from out in the hallway and the solid steel doors, which were spaced every twenty meters on every floor and were designed to hold in air pressure and everything else, came clanging down. The 6400 planetary government employees, including the legislature and the lieutenant governor, were now trapped in their offices.
The four black FLEB vans pulled up in front of the main entrance to the capital building three minutes later, parking in a neat line. Their doors slid open and the armed agents jumped out, their weapons in their hands. Quickly they spread out. One of the teams took up position directly across the street, pushing their way through the throng of curious Martians that had stopped along their way to see what was going on. Three of the pedestrians were shoved with gun butts before the rest decided that this was not a particularly healthy place to be at the moment. They moved off down the street, most shouting angry and profane words at the FLEB agents as they went. Two of the other teams moved off in different directions. One began trotting around the block to take up position in the rear, the other split up and headed for the side entrances. All forty of them were in contact with tactical radio sets.
"Remember," said Mitchell to everyone on the radio frequency, "she gets taken alive and unharmed at all costs."
No one answered him but all heard him.
Once everyone was deployed that left only Mitchell and his nine team members standing before the entrance to the building. They pulled together into a tight bunch and, following behind their leader, headed for the doorway.
The main entrance to the capital building featured two heavy duty sliding doors that were capable of withstanding a direct hit from a heavy machinegun bullet or a close explosion of significant magnitude. An MPG guard dressed in full armor and with an M-24 slung over his shoulder was manning the security booth right between the two doors. He was protected by a layer of the same glass from both the lobby side and the street side and was able to talk to people only through a series of tiny holes in this glass at face level.
Mitchell walked towards him. He noted that the guard was a lieutenant — a rather higher rank than you would expect to see manning the booth — but he dismissed this as an irrelevancy, figuring that the MPG guard detail was probably short staffed. After all, what kind of moron would want to guard that greenie bitch in the first place? He also noted that he was dressed in full battle gear, something that he never recalled seeing in his past visits to this place. Usually they were dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with nothing more than a sidearm strapped to their sides. Was there any meaning to this? He thought about it for about a tenth of a second and finally concluded that there wasn't. The greenie — whose name stencil on his armor identified him as WARREN — probably didn't get to wear his armor very often and was taking his stint on booth duty as an excuse to do so.
Warren looked at him expressionlessly as Mitchell stopped in front of the voice holes. "Can I help you?" he asked politely, as if he were a normal citizen asking about tours of the building or an appointment with a legislature representative and not a fully armed FLEB agent holding an assault rifle and leading a team of nine others.
This, at the very least, should have put Mitchell on edge. It didn't. "FLEB," he said simply, with a certain amount of arrogance in his voice. He flipped open a leather case that displayed his federal credentials. "We need immediate access to Governor Whiting's office."