A voice called, “Hey, Leopold? Leopold, you okay?”
Leopold wasn’t going to answer. Lessing crawled away from the captain, toward the doorway from which the opfoes had launched their ambush. He wasn’t expected there, and with luck he’d get behind them.
A deeper, more authoritative voice yelled, “Hey, you two! Give up! Get the fuck out of this building and you can loot all you want! We won’t stop you.”
“We’re official,” Lessing called back. “We have President Outram’s personal order to secure this installation!”
“Who!”
“Jonas Outram… Speaker of the House! He’s President now that President Rubin and the Vice-President are dead.” He waited.
“We didn’t know. Come on out and talk. We’re sorry about the misunderstanding. Let’s get our wounded to the medics.”
Misunderstanding? Lessing did not think so. The other party had seen them come in and had set an ambush. Moreover, the captain had worn a military-issue N.B.C. suit; looters did not.
Lessing needed a sure test. He cast around and spotted what he wanted, a cylindrical wastebasket of green-marbled plastic. He humped himself along the floor to it. Holding it gingerly, he thrust it up above the desk. It was the oldest trick in the world.
The basket flew from his fingers in a spray of bullets.
So that was how they wanted it. The man who had fired was on his feet, looking to see if he had scored. Lessing rolled and came up from a new position three meters away. He let off several rounds but missed. The opfo dove for cover behind a filing cabinet just as Wrench lobbed a grenade into the area. The explosion sent bits of glass and shrapnel in all directions, and Lessing felt a sting across his right calf. A minor zip — he hoped.
A thin squealing, like the mewling of a kitten, came from where the opfo had been. Lessing had heard badly wounded men utter such sounds before.
“You started with five!” he shouted. “How many you got now?
The answer came in another racket of bullets along the desk tops above him. He fired again, then hunkered down and checked his weapon; time to reload. As he dug into his suit’s big pockets and thrust ammunition into his pistol’s magazine, a green-clad rump backed out from under a work table five meters away. The man had only to turn his head to see Lessing. The magazine didn’t want to go back into the gun; it resisted like a demon— and he knew it would click loudly when the catch caught. He felt his bowels loosen. The man turned his head.
It was Wrench.
“Jesus…!” If Lessing’s gun had been ready, he would have fired. He hadn’t expected Wrench this far to his left. Luck alone had saved the little man from a 9-mm butt-reaming.
Wrench grinned and got to his feet, apparently planning to make a dash over to join Lessing.
Three meters beyond Wrench, a soldier lurched up from behind a desk. He and Wrench whirled and saw one another simultaneously. Both yelled, jigged, ducked, and fired wildly all at once. Two of Wrench’s grenades missed and ploughed ragged holes in the far wall.
The third grenade caught the man squarely in the face. His swarthy features vanished in a gout of blood.
There was no time to react, no way to brace for the shock. In a single, kaleidoscopic vision, Lessing foresaw what a high explosive grenade would do: it would rip both Wrench and his opponent to shreds; then it would pour a rain of shrapnel into Lessing himself. They were all dead meat.
He heard only a polite popping sound. Acrid white vapor gushed out of the opfo’s shattered face.
Smoke!
Wrench had loaded his launcher with at least one smoke grenade! Thank God for inexperience!
The man’s arms windmilled, and he crashed over backwards, his head ludicrously concealed in a roiling cloud.
“Smoking’s bad for your health!” Wrench giggled. He stood up with exaggerated care and examined himself.
Another shot rang out. Wrench made a moaning noise and bent over. The enemy’s shot had struck home. Lessing saw scarlet on the upper left shoulder of his N.B.C. suit.
Belatedly Lessing remembered the fifth man, presumably Major Golden himself. Another slug whined off a speaker cabinet nearby. The major was no sharpshooter; a better marksman could have put two more bullets into Wrench even as he slid to the floor.
Lessing spider-walked over to his companion. He found Wrench conscious, blinking dazedly at the bloodstain spreading down over his biceps. He was in no immediate danger. Lessing spared him a consoling grimace, scooped up the grenade launcher, and scrambled on, keeping a row of desks between himself and his adversary’s position. The two parties had now exchanged places: Wrench and Lessing were close to the opfoes’ original door, while Major Gold-en — if it was he — was over near the exit leading out to the elevators.
Lessing inspected the launcher. It held only one more round: a red-tipped high explosive grenade. He waggled the weapon and raised his eyebrows. Wrench shook his head: he hadn’t brought any extra ammo. Lessing glanced at the opfo’s body, now wreathed in smoke. The man’s assault rifle lay within reach, and he grabbed it.
“Hey, Golden, whoever you are!” Lessing called. “You ready? Only one of you now. Two of us. We’ve got grenades, and we’ve got those crummy M-25’s your men won’t be using anymore. Last chance to kiss and make up. Toss your ordinance out onto the platform.”
He didn’t expect a reply. The way these people behaved indicated they were playing for all the chips. If Golden were stupid enough to answer, he’d give away his location. Lessing would then lob the last grenade up into the ceiling right over his head, showering him with concrete and shrapnel; then he himself would instantly follow, blazing away like gangbusters.
Another half -magazine of bullets howled through the line of cabinets and consoles to Lessing’s right. He made himself flat and very small beneath his desk. Slugs hummed and sang overhead, but nothing hit him.
The firing cut off in mid-burst. Lessing heard a muffled curse. The man’s M-25 had jammed! The American assault rifle was a fine weapon, but at a thousand rounds per minute on full auto, it gobbled ammo like a beast, and it also tended to jam. A good shooter needed only moments to clear the chamber and resume firing, but Golden was not that skilled.
Lessing wondered whether to rush him. The man probably still had a pistol, maybe one of his fallen comrades’ guns as well. Footsteps clattered, slapping away toward the far wall. He glimpsed a figure plunging into the airlock tunnel. Apparently the major lacked the stomach for a one-on-one duel. Lessing decided not to fire his last grenade after the fleeing target; he might need it later. They weren’t out of the soup yet. Golden had more doggies upstairs.
What had happened to their own driver and to the two paramedics outside? Had Golden’s men thumbed them, or were they still doing fun-smoke, like a bunch of Bangers at a boom-concert?
He returned to take stock. The captain was now unconscious, barely clinging to life. Wrench had discovered a first-aid kit in a pocket of his N.B.C. suit and was trying to wrestle it out with one hand.
Lessing knelt beside him. “Busted you much?”
“Just a little fungled, that’s all,” Wrench answered grimly, also in the argot of the mere battalions. “Gimme a jack-up, eh?”
Lessing helped him out of his suit and saw that the bullet had grazed a rib and passed completely through the flesh below his left armpit. Acoupleof inches to the right, and Wrench would have been a memory. Lessing set to work with the kit’s antibiotics and bandages. Every mere learned “basic health care” as a matter of course.
“We’ve still got our job to do,” Wrench grated. “In my wallet — on the back of a bar-bill from the Pixie Club— three phone numbers with girls’ names beside them.” The pain was starting to bother him; it would be worse later. “I can’t reach it.”