The Clone Assassin (29 page)

Every step took the squad farther into a world that soldiers do not want to enter.

Afternoon slowly gave way to dawn. The light that filtered in through the manholes degraded from white-gold shafts to a pale glow. When they looked up through the storm drains, the Deltas saw shadowy buildings and darkening skies.

The tunnel was long, and they followed it in silence. Thorough by training, Deltas don’t rush. They moved ahead slowly, methodically, leapfrogging positions, scanning tributaries, searching for traps, sensors, and mines. Deltas took the toughest assignments the Army had to offer and prided themselves in returning home with every man.

The tunnel ran flat and straight with tributaries that traced perpendicular routes. The traffic on the street above them ran constant and slow. Wheels rumbled, their noise cascading down through the storm drains. During a silent moment, the Deltas heard the clatter of shoes and the occasional voice, but the aboveground world seemed like a distant galaxy from under the street.

They didn’t find enemy soldiers hiding in the tunnels. Aside from pipes and cables, the only things running through the tunnel were rats. Locked panels and doorways had been built into the walls. Mounds of garbage piled up along the trough. And everywhere, rats rooted through the garbage.

One of the soldiers carried a GPS tracking device that showed their position in relation to the city. They had traveled south and west, the tunnel becoming darker the farther they went. Five blocks from where they started, the squad of Deltas came across a place where another hole and been blown into the wall. Major Jensen approached the opening, pressed a hand against the jagged edge of the concrete, and muttered, “Anybody home.”

Then he signaled MacAvoy.

The general wasn’t there to take the call. One of his aides, a colonel, responded. He asked, “What can I do for you, Major.”

Jensen said, “We found another entry point.”

Clearly not briefed on the mission, the colonel asked, “Entry point to what?”

Jensen wanted to say, “The entry to your ass, dumb shit, now put the general on the horn,” but the protocol hardwired into his brain kept him silent. He couldn’t bring himself to show disrespect to a superior.

He said, “Colonel, the general sent us into the sewers to track down the Unifieds.”

“I am aware of that,” the colonel said with ruthless officiousness.

Bullshit,
thought the major. He said, “They entered two buildings along Pennsylvania Avenue through underground tunnels. We’ve found an entrance to a third building on H Street.”

“H Street? Why would they give a speck about H Street?” the colonel asked himself.

Jensen didn’t respond. He thought he knew the colonel’s type—a do-nothing political climber. Clones like the colonel hid intel in their wallets and spent it to buy themselves promotions.

“Should we go in?” asked Jensen, though he’d already decided that this asshole of a colonel was incapable of making decisions for which he might later be blamed.

Jensen was wrong.

The colonel asked, “How many men do you have with you, Major?”

“I have a squad.”

Not hesitating to consider the danger, the colonel said, “Search the building.”

The colonel was a do-nothing climber, but hearing the word “squad” helped him decide. He measured risks and weighed possibilities by calculating the harm bad decisions could do to his career against the benefits an unlikely success could bring while factoring in the plausibility of blaming mistakes on junior officers. Win a battle, and your star rises; lose a squad, and you can blame your aides.

 • • • 

Even before they reached the lobby, the Deltas could tell that civilians had died. They found blood and bullet holes in the basement hallway.

The major opened the janitorial closet and found a man in a business suit sprawled on the floor. He’d been executed—told to lie facedown and killed with a single, well-centered shot in the back of his head. Jensen gathered his men, showed them the body, and told them, “We’re not looking for clones in combat armor here. This was done by the Unified Authority Army, natural-borns. They might still be in uniform, but they also might be dressed like civilians. You see a civilian, I want your guns locked and loaded. If he reaches for his pocket, you shoot. Do you read me, Deltas?”

They found four bodies in a men’s room and two in the women’s. They found dozens of bodies stacked in the service area, men and women who had been locked in an airtight refrigeration unit and left to suffocate. The skin of their faces was pale and slightly blue, their eyes closed, their lips discolored.

Killing unarmed civilians is easy as long as you have the stomach for it,
Jensen reminded himself.
Let’s see how you bastards do against people who return fire.

Sick and angry, Jensen and his men waited while his scouts checked for traps and alarms. They took several minutes. When they returned, they reported that the building was hot. They’d found sensors and spotted men with machine guns.

That was the only time Major Jensen doubted himself. He sent a man to radio the information in. Because he didn’t know the address of the building, the corporal used a satellite to scan his location and set a beacon. Then he rejoined the squad.

Before leaving the basement, the Deltas found a gated storage area, practically a warehouse. The cages inside the storage area were packed tight with boxes. When Jensen opened one of those boxes, he knew that he and his squad were in over their heads.

 • • • 

Having just finished his MRE dinner, MacAvoy entered his mobile headquarters. He found the colonel sitting in his chair, and said, “’Scuse me, sir. I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”

The colonel swung around, saw the stars and the glare, and just about unloaded on the spot. He said, “Pardon me, General. I thought you were out.”

“I was out, son; now I’m back and wondering what the hell your nonstar keister is doing in my three-star seat.” He didn’t raise his voice, not yet. That might come in a moment.

Pernell MacAvoy’s tirades were legend throughout the Army. Once angered, MacAvoy behaved like a bear. If you ran, he attacked. If you attacked, he became more vicious. If you played dead, sometimes he lost interest and moved along. The trick for the colonel was to slowly climb out of the chair, pretend nothing had happened, and avoid eye contact. The trick for the rest of the general’s staff was to show no sign of enjoying the show. At this point, a giggle or smirk could end an officer’s career.

MacAvoy asked, “Were you warming the leather, son, or did you have a reason for sitting in my seat?”

“Ummm,” said the colonel, weighing every possible answer before speaking.

“I just want to know if maybe I should change the lock on my bathroom before I catch you warming my toilet as well.”

“The Delta team we sent to investigate the Pennsylvania Avenue shooting reported in,” said the colonel.

“Did the major ask for you?” asked MacAvoy.

“No, sir.”

“Did he ask to speak to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you took it upon yourself to hear his report?”

“Yes, sir.”

Giving off the same vibrations as a nuclear warhead, the general calmly asked, “Did the major say anything of interest?”

Everyone in the mobile center knew that the moment had come, even MacAvoy. They could feel it in the air. He might scream until spit flew from his lips. He might even pull the ceremonial pearl-gripped sidearm from its holster and shoot the colonel; rumor had it that he had done that before.

“They followed the Unifieds into a building on H Street,” said the colonel.

“H Street?” asked MacAvoy. Unlike the colonel, he didn’t pretend to know the geography of Washington, D.C. The term “H Street” held no more meaning for him than “Dupont Circle,” “Crystal City,” or “Foxhall Grill.” He mumbled something no one could decipher, though the words “incompetent,” “firing squad,” and “ass-first on a flagpole” rang clear enough.

MacAvoy turned to the only man in the mobile command whom he trusted, a sergeant major who had served with him back when he was an enlisted man. He barked, “Do I know H Street?”

The sergeant major located the street on a map on a wall and showed it to MacAvoy.

Though it ended and restarted a few times, H Street stretched nearly all the way across the map. Without saying a word, MacAvoy walked over to the map, tapped it, and said, “H Street has a shopping mall on one end and hotel on the other with five miles of buildings in between. I don’t suppose you happen to know which building you told my Delta team to enter.”

Thinking maybe he had dodged a bullet, the colonel said, “I had them set up a beacon before they went in.”

“A beacon?” asked MacAvoy. He knew the term but had no idea how to access it.

The sergeant major tapped a button on the side of the map and the beacon appeared.

MacAvoy studied the location. It was about four miles away. He smiled as he asked the colonel, “Son, do you have any infantry experience?”

“Umm, yes, sir.”

“Glad to hear it, son; the next life you save might just be your own.”

Army squads are small units, generally nine or ten men. When all of its members are Delta-trained, however, a squad becomes a tactical force. Trained for counterterrorism, Deltas hit hard, hit fast, and seldom miss.

Instead of entering the lobby as a group, the Deltas spread out, approaching it along four different paths. They moved as silently as mice, the riflemen spreading and looking for cover as they approached the lobby.

The three businessmen they found in the lobby wore suits and ties with loose-fitting jackets. They stood beside the reception desk apparently lost in a quiet conversation. But scanning them with the X-ray function built into the drop-down lens of his helmet, Major Jensen spotted the M27s hidden near their arms. He saw the knives they had strapped to their legs, and identified them as Unified agents.

The Delta riflemen selected their targets by proximity. At the major’s signal, they would shoot. Every Delta carried an M27 with a custom suppressor, but, for this shot, the riflemen used S9 pistols—accurate at close range, silent, and clean. Shoot a man with an M27, and the bullet will likely blow out the back of his head. Hit him with an S9, and the fléchette passes through his skull, leaving through a pinpoint-sized hole.

A master sergeant placed a hand on the major’s shoulder to get his attention, then pointed to the three security cameras perched on the lobby walls.

Jensen shrugged and nodded. He’d noticed the cameras as well. If the Unifieds had men in the security office, they might catch a quick glimpse of corpses or Deltas. The only other option would be to disable the cameras, and that would take time.

At Jensen’s signal, three Deltas fired, making no more noise than a flag fluttering in a gentle breeze. The fléchettes entered each man at the base of his skull and exited through his forehead. Had they been hit with bullets, the targets would have splattered all the way across the room. Shot with fléchettes, only fine streams of blood were spilled. The Deltas quickly hid the corpses behind a counter. They stripped a jacket from one of the dead men and used it to mop up the mess.

Anyone entering the lobby would simply dismiss it as deserted.

Jensen didn’t like nebulous missions with undefined objectives. He saw no point investigating an area that should be attacked. The problem was that the colonel had given him orders to investigate. Max Jensen, a general-issue clone, couldn’t ignore orders even when he recognized them as
dumb-ass orders from a dumb-ass officer who belonged in a stockade
.

He sent three men to check the loading dock, giving them the order to kill any Unifieds on sight. He left three men to guard the lobby and gave them the same orders. At this point, the entire mission would be left to his discretion. Radio contact was out of the question, it would be too easy for the Unifieds to overhear them. The Unifieds and Enlisted Men used the same radio equipment.

Jensen took his remaining Deltas to go search the first floor. They found bodies hidden in offices. They found and killed five armed men dressed in business suits.

Jensen climbed the stairs to the second floor, where he found more bodies and killed six more
businessmen
.

He took his men to the third floor, and there they died.

The faint glow that shone through the lobby windows was too dim to have come from an office light. Sitting in his MNC, MacAvoy saw the building and recognized the glow of the shield armor. Having heard what happened when Harris’s Marines engaged enemies in shielded armor, the general had no interest in fighting clean.

He tapped the microphone, and said, “Bring down the building.”

The one-star on the other end knew better than to argue. He relayed the message to a colonel, who asked, “Clean or dirty?”

“What’s the difference?” asked the general.

“Clean, we place charges around the base of the building and make it implode, sir. Could take an hour or two, but we could bring that baby down without scratching the cars parked around it.”

“And dirty?” asked the one-star.

“Hell, I could pop her right now if you don’t mind bricks flying through the neighbors’ windows. The locals won’t thank us.”

The one-star general touched the microphone, and said, “General MacAvoy, sir, we’ll have her down in ten minutes.”

 • • • 

The troop carriers parked two blocks up the street, hidden from the Unifieds by buildings and trees. It was already nighttime, and this part of H Street sat mostly empty.

Globes burned in the streetlights, brightening the otherwise dark landscape below. A few dedicated employees still worked in the offices of the various buildings. The janitorial crowd cleaned around them, leaving scattered lights in office buildings and storefronts. The road traffic had died away hours ago.

Each team of soldiers included a guard, a trained grenadier, and two engineers. The guard would guide the rest of the team to their spots and keep them safe. The engineers would evaluate the target and locate soft spots. The grenadiers would pull triggers.

MacAvoy spoke to the general, and said, “I sent a colonel to watch this area a couple of hours ago.”

“Yes, sir. That would be Colonel Dickens, sir.”

“Dickens, yeah, Dickens,” said MacAvoy, hoping he was the right man. He said, “Send him into the sewers. Tell him to watch the basement . . . make sure no one gets out.”

“How many men should I send down with him?” asked the general.

MacAvoy didn’t want to give the man a company, not a platoon, not even a squad. He said, “Send him on his own. Tell him we’ll send a squad down as soon as we find one.”

“Are you trying to get him killed, sir?” asked the general.

“General, I don’t see how that is your business,” said MacAvoy.

“Yes, sir.”

“No. I am not trying to get him killed,” said MacAvoy. “Just tell him to keep clear of the explosion; he’ll be all right.”

“Yes, sir.”

 • • • 

Under the cover of darkness, the four teams took up positions across the street from the target. They wore dark gear and dark hats; they had black paint on their faces.

They hid behind gates and under awnings, invisible to the naked eye. If the enemy bothered to search the streets with heat vision, they would see the men and rockets, but that couldn’t be helped.

H Street was silent. No sounds floated on the warm, languid air. Across the street, the lowest level of the building glowed pale gold. The shining forms of men milled within the lobby, their shapes visible, the glow of their individual shields mingling. Formations of men stood just inside the doors.

If the Marines in the shielded armor exited the building, MacAvoy’s infantrymen wouldn’t stand a chance against them.

 • • • 

“Our teams are in place, sir.”

MacAvoy asked, “Are you sure my Deltas are out of commission?”

“They’re not responding.”

“Damn,” MacAvoy muttered. “Specking hell.” He loved his Deltas; they were the boys who did things no one else could do. He watched the scene through a pair of binoculars. “Those Unified sons of bitches look ready to pick. Light ’em up.”

“Fire on my mark,” said the general.

Across the street, the doors slid open. Beyond one of the doors stood columns of men in glowing armor. The soldiers could see them clearly. Had the Marines in the shielded armor used heat vision or night-for-day lenses, they would have spotted the soldiers as well.

“Three,” said the general.

Marines started marching out of the building.

“Two.”

Looking through laser sights, the grenadiers focused reticles on the spots that the engineers had painted with lasers.

A Marine stepping out of the east face of the building spotted the soldier across the street and shot his wrist cannon, firing fléchettes from the tube mounted along the top his arm. He hit all three soldiers before they could respond. The fléchettes, fragments of depleted uranium, hit the soldiers’ arms and chests. They fell to the ground still alive, writhing and wounded as the neurotoxin coating the fragments spread quickly through their bodies.

More U.A. Marines ran through the door looking for targets, sprinting out to the street, their right arms out, their arm cannons ready to shoot.

“Fire.”

The remaining grenadiers launched their shoulder-fired rockets. Any one of the rockets would have had enough power to demolish the building; three rockets struck, hitting central spots that supported the weight of the building.

The smoke from the rockets still hung in the air as they exploded in flashes of white and yellow and red. Shaken down to its foundation, the building fell apart. Its outer walls toppled; its insides collapsed deck upon deck. Alarms roared in the night, and a tide of rubble washed into the street. No fire, no flames, but an eerie orange glow showed through the rubble.

 • • • 

It just never gets old,
General MacAvoy thought as he surveyed the aftermath. The building, now a hill of concrete and broken glass, glowed. The demolition had not been neat, but it had been thorough.

He walked around the foot of the mountain and listened to trapped Unifieds crying for help through his earpiece. Some begged for their lives. Some bargained.

MacAvoy was not the man who invented the tactic of demolishing buildings on top of troops in impervious armor; that had been Harris. MacAvoy admired the initiative and creativity of Harris’s idea.
If you can’t hurt the enemy, bury him.

On his earpiece, he heard an officer shout, “Who is in charge out there? Who is your commanding officer? I want to speak to him.”

MacAvoy chuckled. Back on Terraneau, where Harris had first employed this tactic, the Marines had referred to the voices as “ghosts.” It made sense. They were calling from their graves. One thing was certain—no one under his command would dig these bastards out.

 • • • 

MacAvoy thought he had turned the tide of battle. He didn’t know that the H Street building was one of ten buildings that the Unifieds had selected as launch points of a major assault. Sometimes, what you don’t know can kill you.