So was Nineveh Prison.
The cell blocks of the original detention center, used for disciplining troops or holding soldiers awaiting court-martial for criminal charges, had been expanded into an interrogation and imprisonment facility that was already the terror of anyone unfortunate enough to run afoul of POPPA’s displeasure. To rescue the Hancock family, Kafari’s group would have to shoot their way into the most sophisticated prison facility on Jefferson, rescue the prisoners, then shoot their way back out, again.
Kafari halted the truck at its assigned assault point and used her field goggles to study the base. Despite the emergency scramble, there was no sign of heightened security. She could see the usual complement of tower guards, but no patrols were out scouring the perimeter for potential threats. That was fine with Kafari. There were fewer targets for her guns to hit, with everyone conveniently bunched up in the buildings. Kafari nodded to herself, more than pleased with the situation.
She gave the signal to don battle helmets and started to put hers on, but Red Wolf interrupted.
“Time for you to dismount, sir,” Red Wolf said, pausing in the act of fastening his own biochem helmet in place. “Anish would have my cockles for supper if I let anything happen to you.”
Kafari glanced into his eyes. “Then you’d better watch my back, son, because I’m going in. I’ll play auntie sit-by-the-fire on every other mission we carry out, but Dinny and Aisha Ghamal are family. I will get them out.”
“But—”
“No time to argue,” Kafari said as her wrist-comm beeped. “We’re going in.”
She jammed her helmet on, sealed it against the body glove and hit the accelerator. He didn’t have time to protest.
III
I clear Nineveh Base and head south, moving at my fastest cruising speed. At a sustained ninety kilometers per hour, I will be within line-of-sight range of the enemy in thirty minutes. This is a long time for enemy troops to finish looting and escape with their spoils. I cannot help but compare this situation with one of the most famous pre-civil war strikes in Terran history, at a seemingly insignificant place called Harper’s Ferry. How will Anish Balin compare with John Brown, who also used violent methods to present his argument? The arguments of both men — Brown and Balin — carry logical weight, but were — and are — sustained by a person both reactionary and, ultimately, destructive to society.
I pick up another transmission from Sar Gremian, this time to the commander of a federal police unit in Gersham, the town closest to Barran Bluff. This message is coded, but I have access to the military algorithms necessary to decipher it.
“First, shut down the reporters out there. Grab the cameras and lock them up or destroy them. Lock up the reporters, while you’re at it. Then get in there and start shooting at those assholes. Use all available force. It’s critical to make an example, here. Take a party-trained videographer with you. Get some good video clips, something approved news crews can flash as a special report when we’ve contained this mess. And for God’s sake, keep casualties to an absolute minimum. Between the arsenal guards and the strike force, we’ve already got seventy-three dead soldiers, out there, and a whole air crew. The last thing we need is a bunch of cop widows whining on the daytime chats. And whatever you do, don’t tape any footage with the Bolo in it!”
“Understood, sir. Scrambling all available field units now. ETA Barran Bluff, five minutes.”
“Good. See to it none of those bastards gets out alive.”
“Yessir.”
By the time I arrive, police units have ringed the compound, staying well back, doubtless hoping that the Grangers still inside the compound won’t fire the Hellbores at them. An uneasy stalemate exists, wherein neither side wants to risk coming into the open long enough to draw fire. When I reach visual distance, I lose my main data source from within the compound: every security camera in the facility goes dead, in a well-orchestrated act of destruction. What I have already seen tells me that I am at serious risk of damage, due to the terrain surrounding the compound and the layout of the compound, itself.
I am far taller than the site’s largest buildings, but the entire site is built on a high promontory, so that the ground on which the buildings sit is actually higher than my turret. The access roads are sufficiently wide to accommodate my warhull, but I have little desire to rush straight in. There are high berms scattered throughout the compound, which I cannot probe, even with ground-penetrating radar, as they are too thick. I cannot tell where any of the mobile Hellbores are now located. This is not good. I slow forward speed and halt near a police command car.
I recognize the officer in charge. He is the police lieutenant who ordered the mass arrest of the Hancock family, setting off a cause-and-effect chain of events that has culminated in the seizure of this compound. He now wears a captain’s insignia, clear indication that his superiors were pleased with the way in which he conducted the Hancock case. Yuri Lokkis, who appeared supremely self-confident in the news footage surrounding the Hancock arrests, does not appear to be quite so self-confident tonight. Perhaps it is only that he is face-to-face with me that has triggered the copious sweat and fine tremors in most of his voluntary muscle groups. Every single man in his command is in roughly the same physical condition.
Why did Kafari Khrustinova display so little fear, by comparison, the first time she encountered me on the field of battle? Will I ever understand humans. I do my best to reassure the uniformed officer staring slack-jawed at my warhull.
“Captain Lokkis, Unit SOL-0045 reporting as directed by President La Roux. I will require infantry support to ensure minimal loss of equipment currently in rebel hands.”
He stares, wet-lipped and vacant-eyed, from one gun system to another, apparently incapable of rational speech. I try again.
“Captain Lokkis, are you the officer in charge of this operation?”
“Huh?”
It is a response, at least. Unhelpful, but better than total silence. Did Captain Lokkis attend the same school as Phil Fabrizio? I make a note to cross-reference dossiers once the business at hand is concluded.
“Are you the officer in charge?”
“Uh… Yeah. Oh, yeah. Yes, I am. I’m in charge.”
“I will require infantry support to ensure minimal damage to captured equipment or myself.”
“Infantry support? Whaddaya mean?”
“I have been charged with the task of regaining possession of expensive military equipment with minimal damage, as the treasury is not capable of sustaining replacement costs for mobile Hellbore units. By extension, the government is incapable of sustaining repair costs for any significant damage done to me. Given terrain conditions and the use of security berms, I cannot see the interior of the compound adequately to detect the location of those guns. Without infantry support to check terrain in advance, I am at serious risk of crippling injury. That would defeat the purpose of my presence on Jefferson, which is to provide long-term defense of this world. I therefore require infantry support in this operation.”