Malcolm looked around, “Everyone have the play book straight”
They all nodded.
“Alright, we’ll split up here and make for out targets.” Malcolm said, straightening up and closing his own portable. He reached out and tapped Anselm’s shoulder as the rest moved to secure their gear, “You sure about your part”
Anselm nodded, checking the action on the Assault Shotgun he carried, “Yeah. I’m going for the head man.”
“They never told me that Interpol trains cowboys,” Malcolm smirked slightly.
“Abdallah and I have an unsettled score,” Anselm said quietly, “But that’s not the only reason.”
Malcolm quirked an eyebrow at him, and Anselm went on.
“With this,” He held up the American portable comp, “I can probably locate and shut down their jammer and maybe that Radar installation. Containing the virus is our top priority, but if you succeed in your mission, we still have to dig these bastards out of here.”
“Oh aye,” Malcolm said sourly, “And that’s going to be a job and a half.”
“We can only hope,” Anselm replied, “Cause the worst case scenario is a matter of literally digging them out of here.along with everyone else.”
Malcolm nodded, understanding the words said and unsaid. The use of military anti-aircraft weapons around the perimeter of the tower was merely a forerunner of what would happen if all other avenues were breached. The military would have no choice but to attempt to take out the anti-air capability before they could send in any more help, and precision weapons being what they were, there was every chance that the tower could take hits. The amazing construct was built strong, and to last, but not against military munitions.
Even a near miss could potentially tumble one kilometer of cement and steel right down on their collective laps.
“Right then,” Malcolm nodded, “Good luck mate.”
“Thanks.” Anselm said, starting to turn away.
“Gunnar.”
He glanced over to the softly spoken word, and half smiled at the image Gwendolyn Dougal presented now and the sheer contrast it was to his first meeting with the redheaded police inspector. The MP7 was cocked in the crook of her arm, looking somewhat out of place against her civilian clothing even with the assault harness she wore over her white blouse.
“What is it, Gwen” Anselm asked.
“Don’t get killed,” She told him, wishing she was going with him, or that someone, anyone, was.
She was with Malcolm’s tea, however, since the plan to contain the tower had been hers. And the seven of them would be hard pressed to hold their positions as it were, as would seventeen more in all likelihood. The other men and women, however, had other jobs to do. Saving lives within the tower as they tried to save those without. Only Anselm could be spared to worry about anything more than just containing the horror, and even that was a forlorn hope in her opinion.
Anselm just half grinned in his way and shrugged, “Didn’t know you cared, Inspector.”
She rolled her eyes, “Don’t read too much into it, Interpol, it’s just bad for tourism to have one of you outlander types get offed around here.”
Anselm chuckled, nodding. “Right then, I’ll do my best.”
She nodded in reply, and watched as he turned and jogged off. A moment later, Major Malcolm touched her on the shoulder.
“It’s time,” He said.
She nodded, eyes still looking down the path the Interpol Agent had vanished, and then turned to follow the SAS man as the three teams left broke off in three directions. One went to the right, moving away from the gentle arc of the greenhouse perimeter at an easy angle, while another went left along the opposite route.
Gwen, Malcolm, and their team went right down the middle, straight to the central masterpiece of the incredibly huge structure, the one kilometer high tower of power itself.
Colonel Pierson surveyed his troops with a mix of savage fury and genuine pride. They were the survivors of the ambush, most of them at any rate, and while they now appeared to be a motley band at the very least, they were coming together as he expected of his men.
He and the others from the downed Blackhawk Helo had managed to locate survivors from at least three other hulking wrecks in the past hour since the brief ambush firefight had resulted in the destruction of the chopper and the deaths of three of his men, plus the entire squad of terrorists.
Crying over their deaths wasn’t in his makeup and, even if it were, Pierson knew he’d wait until after the survivors were home and safe. For now he, and they, had a mission to accomplish and it started with regrouping in what now had to be considered hostile territory.
That thought sent a shiver up the spine of the military man. To consider a city under his own Nation’s flag to be hostile territory was a blood chilling thought, the idea that he had to employ full military force within such a city, doubly so. Yet he knew that if he had them, he’d use Bradley Fighting Vehicles, Main Battle Tanks, and any other resource to end the occupation of Tower City.
It was what he was trained to do, Colonel Pierson was a Soldier.
First though, was the matter of regrouping and getting the survivors organized and prepared to meet the enemy with all due force. To do that, he had to find the rest of his men, and that’s where they were heading now. Ahead there was smoke rising into the sky, thick and black against the clear desert air, and where there was smoke there were his soldiers.
Dead or alive, he didn’t know, but he’d account for every one of them he could before he called it quits.
He and his men, a force about forty strong now, were double time marching through the eerily quiet streets. Unable to recover any of their own vehicles from the crash sites, and without much in the way of civilian vehicles to commandeer, they were back to the basics of soldiering.
Run, boy, run.
There were some civilians, of course, in a city this size it was inevitable that there be some, but the preplanned nature of Tower City kept most of them well away from the streets and the fighting, for which the Colonel was grateful. The integrated design of the monorail system, with its computerized car system, let people live their entire lives without actually touching the streets, if such was their wish.
Some stores still had street fronts, catering to the tourists who liked to walk through the arcing streets of the city, but most were more accessible from the inside or above on the rooftops where the monorail lines paused in their endless loops around the city and the tower facility.
Since military equipment of the type it would have taken to shoot down the Helos was large and generally bulky, however, Pierson knew that the terrorist anti-air emplacements had to be street accessible. That meant that, with just a little luck, they might be able to minimize all contact with civilians. Pierson hoped so, he didn’t want to be the man who killed thousands in some `vendetta’ against terrorists. He’d be that man if accomplishing his job required it, the stakes were too high this time around to flinch, but he’d rather not if it could be avoided.
“Sir!”
“What is it, Lieutenant” Pierson asked, snapping out of his ever darkening thoughts.
“Look, Sir!”
His eyes followed the direction the young officer pointed and he saw what had attracted the man’s attentions. Ahead of them the smoking wreckage of a building was coming into view, along with the flashing lights of the firefighters working diligently to keep the mess under some semblance of control. He could see lights flashing and men lying on the ground around the emergency vehicles, and Colonel Pierson shook his head grimly.