A second later, Stan got a video shot of a three-story building two blocks long. Black bricks— “Wait a minute,” Stan told Marvin. “Zoom in on that sign in front.”
“Which—oh, I see it. Sure.”
Stan saw it, too, a second later. He ran the Chinese symbols through a translation device. He swayed a moment later.
“That’s Jiamusi Police Headquarters,” he said.
“Is that important?” Marvin asked.
“Do you still hear gunfire?”
“I’m backed up too far for that.”
“All right,” Stan said, beginning to get a suspicion of what went on. “We’re going to silence those tubes.”
It took fifteen minutes on the horn as the division’s tanks swept through the rest of the town. Either the people stayed inside or they were already gone. Through radio communication, Stan maneuvered his tanks around the Police Ministry Building, although out of direct visible range.
Thirty minutes after his first argument with the Air Force, drones screamed down. They attacked, bombing the Chinese artillery tubes into silence.
“Stan!” It was Colonel Marvin Buckles again. “I see people. They’re fleeing out of the back of the police building.”
“Are they soldiers?” Stan asked.
“Sure don’t think so. They’re all wearing dresses.”
Stan scowled for just a moment. Then his heart went cold. “Kill them,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Those aren’t women.”
“How can you know that?” Marvin asked.
“Why do you think you’ve been hearing gunfire from the Police Ministry building?”
“I don’t have any idea, sir.”
“I do,” Stan said. “China is a police state. That means political prisoners. I think East Lighting personnel have been slaughtering people down there.”
Colonel Buckles swore.
“Kill them,” Stan repeated.
“I’m not sure I can do that, General…” Marvin said.
“I appreciate your ethics.”
“It’s on my head if I fire.”
“I’ve giving you a direct order. I’m responsible for this.”
“Yes, sir,” Marvin said. “General, I sure hope you know what you’re talking about.”
Stan watched on his screen, forcing himself to see what happened. If he was wrong, he wanted his conscience to torment him. Before the dress-wearers could duck out of sight, Jefferson tanks cut them off. The vehicles’ heavy machine guns and flechette launchers took them down. It was bloody, a real gore-fest. People blew apart, their dresses disintegrating. A silver brooch tumbled down the street. None of the enemy survived. They lay dead in the street, their clothes in bloody tatters.
Ten minutes later, American infantrymen left their carriers. Stan’s shoulders slumped with relief when he heard, “Hey, the General’s right. These are a bunch of guys. They’re wearing East Lighting uniforms under the dresses.”
Stan expelled air from his lungs, and he told his driver to head straight for the Police Ministry Building.
Fifteen minutes later, with an armed escort of tankers on foot, Stan marched into the empty building. Papers were strewn everywhere. Most of the computers were still on.
“What’s that smell,” Marvin asked. He was a tall man, missing an upper front tooth.
“It’s coming from that way,” Stan said, pointing left down a dark hall.
Soon, they found heavy doors. Opening one, Stan shined a light into a dark basement stairwell.
“You shouldn’t go down there, General,” Marvin said. “Let me send one of the boys.”
“Forget that,” Stan said. “Follow me.” With his flashlight shining and pistol ready, he descended the stairs. They creaked at his weight. It stank like a slaughterhouse down here. Soon, the beam shone on bloody walls. Stan found the first cell. Dead men and women filled them in grotesque postures. The police must have machine gunned them.
“Some of these people are still alive,” Marvin said.
Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He staggered up the stairs and vomited. Panting, he gave the order for medics to hurry here.
“Why did the Chinese bother doing that?” Marvin asked.
“Don’t know,” Stan said. He wiped his mouth. “This is a police state. That’s how they play the game.”
“It’s not like America.”
Stan frowned, not so sure. Director Harold ran the show now. His Homeland Security people had Detention Centers. With his lips firming, Stan made a silent vow. Come what may, he was going to do something about America, to make sure his beloved country didn’t turn into a police state that butchered its own people like this.
Paul Kavanagh was having problems with his battlesuit.
Encased in the metal thing, he felt like a cocooned larva and looked like a giant gorilla. A warehouse filled with electronic gear, lifts, computers and diagnostic machines produced a host of strange sounds. Over a dozen techs hovered around his suit or sat at stations trying to figure out what was wrong.
Huge lamps glared their light. Sometimes, Paul felt as if this was a surreal Home Depot nightmare of the distant future.
Black cables slithered away from him. Dr. Harris with his thick lenses and white lab coat stood in front of his powered armor. The skinny man examined an electronic slate.
“Lift your right arm,” Harris said.
Inside the battlesuit, Paul tried to lift his right arm. Instead, his right-hand fingers straightened. He wasn’t ready for that, and it almost torqued the middle finger.
He told Dr. Harris that.
“Ah-ah,” the man said. “I think I might have it.” The scientist began speaking rapid-fire technobabble through a throat microphone.
Paul had become used to this. The powered armor was amazing, and he still studied at night to figure out every system.
The outer armor was made of single-walled carbon nanotubes, or SWNT, also nicknamed Buckytubes. They made the armor light and puncture-resistant, but only by comparison to steel or titanium. One centimeter of SWNT equaled ten centimeters of RHA: rolled homogenous armor. It made this thing tough.
Paul had listened to the lectures on the battlesuits and laughed to himself. Sometimes, the speakers had told old tales of men in armor, from times he hadn’t expected. Apparently, during the American Civil War, some cavalry officers had worn steel vests, like the cuirasses of an earlier era. The lecturer had showed them a slide of one with dents and two large holes. Usually, such steel vests had halted the soft, pure lead bullets of the time—but the two holes showed they hadn’t always done so.
The lecturer had shown them the holes for a reason. He and various combat psychologists continuously warned the powered armored Marines about developing a god complex. As in, suited in these babies, Marines might begin to feel like gods and make stupid decisions during a firefight. They were supposed to play it safe when the time came and pretend they were as vulnerable as ever.
The lecturer had pointed at the holed vest, saying, “The god complex, don’t get it or we’ll hold up your suit as the example next time.”
The outer armor of the suit was only the beginning. This thing had spacing, with other exotic materials between the layers. That would especially help against enemy RPGs and their shaped-charged munitions. Spacing would also help against high-energy kinetic penetrators and explosive charges.
Underneath the multilayered body stockings of armor, the Marines wore an orthotic frame exoskeleton. The last coat was flexible Kevlar. That would protect a Marine from spalling or anything else that managed to penetrate the outer shell.
The powered armor also provided Paul with strength augmentation. This came from fibers that contracted when electric currents passed through them. The advanced electro-elastic fibers mimicked the natural pattern of human muscle. That helped ease suit control and helped to produce natural movement. It meant he didn’t really have to learn the systems, as the systems had to learn him.