Michael looked around the rain-slicked square fronting the High Temple complex. It was deserted and looked like it would stay that way. Moore’s men had not wasted any time, attacking the small access door beside the massive bronze gates, the only access to the complex that opened into the Plaza of Redemption.
The door gave way, and the 385th poured through, leaving Michael at the gate. He and his troopers got busy: unboxing and launching a cluster of microdrones, then fast-fixing claymores to the complex’s towering outer wall, their chromaflage shapes invisible against the lichen-splashed blocks of stone. More claymores went in an arc to protect the main gate inside and out before heavy weapons and shoulder-launched missiles were positioned ready for use.
Finally, they had done all they could.
It was not enough, of course. The temple complex was indefensible, but only if the Hammers broke the absolute taboos that prohibited vehicles from entering; even the airspace was sacred, which ruled out an air assault. Only one unit was allowed into the complex-DocSec’s 1155th Special Company-and it had to be invited in by the Teacher of Worlds. Everyone else was deemed profane and denied entry, which ruled out an old-fashioned ground assault.
If the taboos held, it was a stalemate: Hammers outside, Moore and his hostages inside. But Michael had to wonder how long all that superstitious claptrap would restrain the Polk. The man needed Calverson and the Brethren; surely he’d send in DocSec, boots, guns, and all. But until he did, Calverson would only say-appear to say, to be more accurate-what the NRA wanted him to say, which he would thanks to a Fed-supplied avatar AI, one of the best in all humanspace.
Shinoda dropped down beside him. “That’s everything,” she said.
Michael nodded, cycling his neuronics through the holovid feeds coming back from the microdrones. “Still quiet out there,” he said. “I’ve checked the entire perimeter. There’s nothing moving.”
“I’ve checked the net, sir,” Shinoda said. “DocSec has locked the city down. Anyone breaching the curfew will be shot.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Michael patched his neuronics into the holovid feed coming from Moore’s helmet-mounted holocam. The 385th had moved fast along the colonnades that flanked the plaza, men peeling off to secure the flanks and cut the fiber-optic cables connecting the temple complex’s comm hub to the outside world and others seeding the area with short-range jammers.
Inside the complex, there was no sign of life. Martin Ruark had told him that the place housed around 500 Brethren along with the same number of support staff. The latter were at home. They were forbidden to be in the complex between six at night and six in the morning.
But where was the Brethren?
Moore’s men pushed through the second wall. Ahead lay the temple sanctuary. Protected by yet another wall, it hosted the massive bulk of the High Temple and the modest buildings that were home to Calverson, Malfroy, and the rest of the senior Brethren.
Something was wrong: The door beside the gate into the sanctuary was open. It should have been shut. “Cover,” Moore’s voice snapped in Michael’s earpiece.
Michael had to stifle a laugh. A pair of Brethren, their plain brown cowls marking them out as junior acolytes, emerged from the door. Formless shapes broke away from the shadows and bundled them away.
“One, Bravo,” a voice said. Lieutenant Horta, 2 Platoon, Michael said to himself. “I have two acolytes. They confirm Tango-One and Tango-Two are in the High Temple with the Brethren.”
Michael felt for Moore. The High Temple was huge. It had more entrances than the 385th could cover, and if that wasn’t bad enough, they’d have to pick their targets out of a large crowd of Brethren.
“Niner-Niner, this is One. Fallback Kilo, Fallback Kilo now!” Moore said. Directed at the entire unit, the order sent the 385th pouring through the gate into the sanctuary. Moore’s men ran hard for the temple. They split into six units: four groups to cover the building’s perimeter, one to secure their egress, and a snatch squad to locate and extract Calverson and Malfroy.
Tanglevine hung in the balance. Moore did not have the reserves to deal with any more complications.
“Squatter, this is One,” Moore said to the snatch team. “Building secured. Go!”
The snatch team sprinted through the High Temple’s imposing bronze doors, each a good 10 meters high. They stood open, spilling golden light into the night. The image from the team leader’s holocam flared. Michael blinked in the light scintillating off the gold- and jewel-encrusted walls. Hundreds of voices filled the air with their chanting. The team ran down a passageway parallel to the main chamber. Arched openings every 10 meters opened onto the assembled mass of Brethren. Brethren packed the brilliantly lit space.
“One, Squatter,” the leader of the snatch team said. “In position. We have eyes on Tango-One and Tango-Two. We’re ready.”
“One, roger … Stand by … go!” Moore barked a microsecond after a small explosive charge blew the building’s switchboard apart. Darkness engulfed the proceedings. A brace of grenades skittered across the marble floor and popped into life, spewing gas and smoke in all directions. A volley of flashbangs followed as the snatch squad exploded into the main temple chamber.
Michael would never forget the confusion and fear on the two targets’ faces, which he could see for a split second in the searing flare of the flashbangs. The men stared, open-mouthed. Then the snatch squad was on them, three to each target. They half lifted, half dragged Calverson and Malfroy off the altar steps, out the door, and into the courtyard.
“Niner-niner,” Moore’s voice said in Michael’s ear, “Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey, now!”
The 385th needed no encouragement to withdraw. They ran hard. The team tasked with securing their flanks pulled back with them. It’s all going too well, Michael thought as Moore’s men passed through the gate in the second wall. Where were the Hammers? There had to be someone with enough presence of mind to find a way to get a message to the police or DocSec that the Hammer’s most sacred building had just been attacked.
There was. A police drone dropped into orbit outside the walls of the temple complex. It didn’t last long as a missile slashed it out of the sky. The shattered wreck tumbled out of the air, hit the ground, and exploded. The blast stripped the elaborate tiles off every roof and tossed them away in a confetti of shattered terra-cotta.
Breathing hard, Major Moore arrived back at the main gate. Boots sliding across wet paverment, he skidded to a stop where Michael and Shinoda waited.
“Great job, Major,” Michael said, and he meant it. Moore and all the troopers with him stripped off, replacing their marine combat fatigues with DocSec black. Despite himself, Michael shivered at the sight.
“Long way to go yet,” Moore said. “How do I look?”
“I feel like blowing your head off,” Michael said.
Moore chuckled. “We can take it from here. Thanks and good luck.”
“It’s been an honor, Major Moore. Let’s go, Sergeant Shinoda.”
Monday, October 4, 2404, UD
Ludovici commercial district, McNair
They moved slowly, ducking out of sight whenever the microdrones screening their advance warned of a DocSec patrol or a passing surveillance drone. Five kilometers from the temple complex through nearly deserted streets, they reached the safe house. The office on the fringe of McNair’s commercial district was a tired, decaying monument to the economic cost of the Hammer’s commitment to decades of war.
Tucked away behind an abandoned cluster of reeking dumpsters, Michael scanned the area around the building. He spotted a broken crate tossed into the weed-infested remnants of a flower bed “There’s the telltale,” he whispered to Shinoda. The crate was red: The building had been checked by an NRA countersurveillance team some time in the last two hours and was clean.