Paolo got in the Land Rover. “Sure, no problem.”
They passed dog handlers and security guards, stopping at a bunker with armorglass windows. A bored-looking sergeant sipped from a plastic cup, playing card games on his pad.
Paolo acknowledged his salute. “I’m Nordstrom, Apex 7. I need to speak to the duty officer.”
“N.O.R.D.S.T.R.O.M. Is that correct?” The sergeant said, tapping at an omni. “I’m afraid your name ain’t on the system, sir.”
Paolo slid his ID into a card-reader. The Crimson Brigade quartermaster in Rimini assured him it was genuine. “I just transferred back from NATO in Milan. I was gone for two years, they warned me this might happen.”
“They did a system upgrade last month… typical IT bollocks,” the sergeant shrugged. “Funny, your ID is current though.”
“Sergeant, I don’t wanna be difficult, but this is urgent.”
The sergeant looked at Paolo for a moment and nodded. “Look, why don’t I give you a visitor’s pass, sir? Then I can raise a service ticket for your global profile.”
Paolo’s hand crept from his pistol, “I appreciate it.”
The NatSec officer drove them across an airfield, past a World War Two fighter resting on a plinth. Maintenance crews stood in the gloom, drinking from steaming beakers. Two helicopters stood on an apron, pilots talking to clipboard-carrying crew chiefs. They parked outside a portable cabin. “There you go, Sir. Duty officer tonight is Inspector Campbell.” He keyed his fob, “Alpha-Sierra Zero? You’ve got a visitor outside the ops hut.”
A woman in a flight suit appeared at the door, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She was black and fine-featured, with the high cheekbones Paolo associated with East Africa. “I’m Campbell,” she said, eyes settling on his beret. “Apex? Do I swoon now or later?”
Paolo smiled. “Now’s good, but I can live with later. I’m Tom Nordstrom, Apex Team 7.”
“Special Projects, eh?” Campbell looked him up-and-down. “How can I help?”
“I need a recce flight, over the Crosland Estate.”
Campbell folded her arms. “It doesn’t work like that – we’ve got protocols for booking sorties. Who’s your authorising officer?”
Paolo’s knife flashed, tip pressed against Campbell’s jugular. “Inspector, you’re going to fly me to the Crosland, or I’ll open your neck and do it myself.”
“What the fuck are you on?”
“Combat respirocites, actually,” Paolo replied, the pilot’s breath hot on his cheek. “Now, let’s go.”
Twenty Five
The lobby was littered with sandbags and barrels of armorgel, defenders firing through wall-slits. Ragged kids brought fresh water and ammunition, relaying messages and lighting cigarettes. “The perimeter’s fallen,” reported a sentry into his fob. “Yeah, we’re holding the lobby. Dunno for how long.”
Hooker lowered his rifle. “How do I get upstairs?”
The sentry shook his head. “You don’t. We hold here.”
Hooker touched the edge of his Answerer’s cowl. “With respect, I’m not under your orders. I’m here to look after the wounded.”
“I guess not. Your brother out there was brave, he bought us time.”
“He was a good man,” Hooker replied, passing his rifle to the sentry. He’d only one magazine left for it, and the FN was too bulky for close work. “Now, take this and good luck.”
The French girl, Florence, said Paolo lived on the top floor. The thirty-fifth. Studying a fire map, he identified the stairwells and elevators, which he knew would probably be broken. He chose the longest route, figuring it would be the least busy. No time for fighting. Checking Brother Francis’ sub-machinegun, a subcompact MP5, Hooker mounted the stairs two at a time.
Fifth floor, heart pounding, squatters ignored the monk in Answerer’s robes. On the eighth, Hooker stopped. Dumping the heavy robes, he emptied his water bottle in two long gulps. Through a broken window, he watched leaguers bringing up trailers loaded with breeze blocks. Cover. The shooting from the Commune was ragged now, defenders conserving ammunition. Each side pelted the other with arrows and bolts, bricks and bottles.
The tenth-floor stairwell was blocked with rubble. Hooker switched route. Squatters sat huddled in candlelit doorways, smoking skanj and brewing coffee. Some nodded greetings. “I’m trying to get upstairs,” Hooker asked a young woman. “The way I’ve come is blocked.”
She pointed down the gloomy passageway. “There’s a fire escape at the far end,” she replied. “But it’s dangerous up there. Y’know, drones. Stay away from windows.”
“I’ll be okay.”
She wrapped her coat around her, although it wasn’t cold. “None of us will be okay. We’re going to die.”
Hooker shrugged, “you won’t die if you get out. Get on a fob, tell the cops you want to surrender.”
“Too late, ain’t it? The General’s men will shoot us as deserters.” The woman pulled a bottle of vodka from her coat and drank. She stopped when a speaker mounted on the wall began crackling.
Attention, Comrades! A fascist intruder has infiltrated our Commune. He is described as a big man, black, possibly linked to the Answerer monks. On strictest orders of General Ignacio, this class-traitor is to be executed ON SIGHT. There is a reward for any Comrade who kills him.
Squatters eyed Hooker, hefting clubs and knives. They said nothing, circling like jackals. “You don’t wanna do that,” he warned, shouldering his MP5.
A hooded squatter stepped forward, a knife in his fist. “You a cop?” he said.
“No.”
“He is,” said another. A bearded lump with an axe, reminding Hooker of a Viking. “You can tell.”
“Definitely a pig.” A third man, slapping club into his palm. “He can’t shoot us all, can he?”
Hooker’s MP5 barked three times. He’d already decided to shoot the Viking first. Three men fell, a neat hole in each of their foreheads. “I can shoot you all,” he growled. “I don’t want to, but I will.”
“Murderer,” a woman spat from a doorway.
“Definitely,” Hooker shrugged. “There’s twenty-seven bullets left in this magazine. There’s what? Twelve of you?” Just like the old days.
The squatters melted away. Hooker, weapon shouldered, padded along the corridor. At the end was an elevator, doors caked in rust and old paint. Scrawled instructions in English, German and Spanish explained the lift stopped at some floors but not others. Hooker pressed the button for the twentieth and, lights flickering, the lift limped skywards. The doors opened into a battle-scarred lobby, corpses strewn like mannequins. Hooker checked the bodies for ammunition, but found nothing. Only a cheap fob. He pocketed it anyway – you could never have too many fobs. Below, leaguers lashed cables to the Commune’s doors. Holding shields above their heads, they limbered the cables to a tipper truck. Missiles rained down, concrete and petrol bombs and even buckets of shit. Wounded leaguers were dragged to waiting ambulances.
Hooker’s secure fob chirruped. Gordy. “Rufus, where the hell are you, son?”
“Is this line safe?”
“Darkwired burner, fresh out of the box. I got Trashmob’s message.”
“NatSec pinched me and Leah – they knew we were working for Hyatt,” Hooker replied. “Leah’s at Milbank Tower now. An OCS man called Bliss is threatening to have her tortured.” He explained what Bliss had ordered, and why.
“Bliss? Horrible bastard,” said Gordy darkly. “Our paths have crossed once or twice before.”
Hyatt’s voice cut in. “Did you just say OCS wants Lottie dead?”
“Did you hear the part about Leah being tortured?” Hooker growled.
“We’ll make sure Leah’s safe,” Hyatt replied. “We’ve got a plan to get you out of there, once you’ve found Lottie.”
“Best you get on with it,” said Hooker. “There’s an army of leaguers outside, but I got a feeling they’ll be inside soon.”
“We’re tracking your f
ob – find Lottie and get on the roof. Then message me. Understand? Remember, the roof. Don’t try to get outside of the Commune.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to. Promise me you’ll get Leah out of Milbank.”
“You’ve my word.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” Hooker replied.
“Just go,” Hyatt ordered, ending the call.
The uppermost floors seemed deserted. Hooker climbed two more flights of stairs, finding only a fire escape. The walls were sheared away by rocket fire, beyond a twisted steel ladder nothing but the night sky… and a hundred-metre drop to the plaza below.
Shit.
The only route left was a companionway, planks laid over scaffolding, crudely bolted to the exterior wall. Taking the nylon rope from his belt kit, he attached either end to a carabiner and clipped onto the scaffold. Probing the platform with his boot, hot wind tearing at his clothes, he climbed gingerly outside. Vertigo made him hug the wall, like a baby at its mother’s tit. Below, other squatters traversed a web of scaffolding, connected by ladders and gantries, a higgledy-piggledy mess. Some of the figures carried guns, others spears and axes. Several wore harnesses attached to bungee ropes, fighters bouncing from platform to platform.
Hooker tugged the fob he’d found on the dead body and switched it on. It’s signal would pulse into the night, alerting NatSec’s electronic warfare teams – a high-technology version of a sentry lighting a cigarette in the dark. He placed the handset on the platform, the scaffolding swaying as a more squatters swarmed up ladders. Gunshots rang out, the whine of bullets hitting steel. He pulled the mezuzah from his armour and kissed it, rain stinging his face. Thinking of Beatriz, and faraway Wessex, Rufus Hooker began hauling himself up the tower.
Twenty Six
Paolo followed the pilot, Campbell, to a waiting copter. A decrepit, military-surplus Wildcat, battle-damage patched with armorgel strips. “This is my bird,” she said quietly. “I’ll need to talk to my ground crew.”
Paolo nodded. “Say a cross word…”
“I’m a pilot, not a cop. The rank’s honorary. I’m on contract, for Christ’s sake…”
“That’s a novel twist on the Nuremberg defence.” Paolo’s blade touched the small of the pilot’s back, “wear fascist uniform, take fascist risks.”
The ground crew nodded a greeting, Campbell returning the crew chief’s salute. “I hope she’s ready – I’m taking her up now. This Apex officer needs a taxi ride.”
“Apex? Yes, Boss,” the crew chief replied, seeing Paolo’s beret. He turned to his team, wiping his hands on a rag. “Right, shift your arses.”
“She’s fuelled up,” said a young technician. He handed Campbell her flight helmet and a spare for Paolo. “Anything else, Ma’am?”
“Nothing, thanks, Mercer. We’re in a hurry.”
“No flight engineer or gunner?”
“It’s a half-hour job,” Campbell replied. “Besides, the inspector here is flight-qualified.”
Paolo nodded. “We’ll be fine.”
“There’s no flight plan on the grid, ma’am,” said one of the ground crew, a crop-headed woman in fatigues. She tapped at a pad. “Unless this thing’s fucked for a change.”
“There is no flight plan for this operation,” said Paolo, watching the ground crew focus on the Apex flash on his sleeve. “This is dark work. Understand?” Dark Work. NatSec used copters for enhanced interrogation. Take six prisoners up. Return with one. Talk or drop.
“I understand,” the Crew Chief nodded.
Inspector Campbell nodded. “Good, so let’s have a sense of urgency, please. We need to get this man where he needs to be.”
They were soon airborne, the Wildcat flying north towards Lagoon City. The control tower hailed them over the radio, but Paolo shook his head. “Just fly.”
Campbell flew no more than a hundred metres from the ground. Her finger hovered on the navigation console, a schematic of southeast England appearing onscreen. “Okay, where to?”
Paolo pointed at the horizon. “The Goons. Do it visually, else your control will pick up any coordinates you enter. Just follow the flames.”
They were soon over the estate. By the river’s edge loomed the Commune International, bullet-pocked and trailing smoke, tracer splashing off the upper levels. Campbell pointed at the Wildcat’s control panel. “Tactical air ops are asking for my permission code. There’s a no-fly embargo over the tower.”
“Ignore it and land on the roof,” Paolo ordered, scanning the landing site with his eye implant. There was enough room to land, as the General promised.
“On the bloody roof? You could walk on the flak over there.” Campbell hit a button, anti-missile countermeasures flaring from the Wildcat’s weapon pods. She banked over the river, voices crackling urgently over the tactical net.
Paolo pressed his knife to the pilot’s throat. “I could set automatic flight control, kick you out and land myself. You choose.”
Campbell nudged the cyclic forward, the Wildcat nosing towards the Commune’s roof. “Cut me again and I’ll crash this bastard,” she spat.
Paolo kept the knife against the pilot’s jugular. “No you won’t.”
“Put the blade down. If I’m landing, I do it my way – I’ll gain altitude then drop straight down.”
“Then do it,” Paolo ordered. Something caught his eye. Movement on the Commune’s exterior, higher than the other defenders… He activated the copter’s FLIR display, thermal imagers sweeping the tower.
“What’s that?” said Campbell.
“A crazy bastard, near the top of the scaffold,” said Paolo, locking the camera on a figure scaling the tower. Heading for my floor. It was a dark-skinned man, heavily-muscled. Hand in his pocket, as if searching for something. Hooker. The NatSec agent. It had to be…
“I see him,” said Campbell. “Look – he’s being followed.” Below, more dark shapes swarmed in pursuit.
“Hold steady.” Unclipping his seatbelt, Paolo clambered into the copter’s passenger bay. Pulling his HK35, he wrenched the side door open.
Campbell shook her head. “No way, I’m taking her down.”
Bracing himself in the doorway, Paolo went to paint a sight vector on Hooker’s torso. Too fast. Paolo held his breath. Target nearly centred. Any moment now…
Movement right.
Campbell pivoted in the pilot’s seat, a snub-nosed pistol in her hand. She fired, a bullet slamming into Paolo’s ceramoweave vest. He spun and squeezed the trigger, a nano-munition piercing Campbell’s flight helmet. The dead pilot slumped in her seat, blood leaking from her visor. Warning alarms screeched from the copter’s gore-spattered instrument panel, ground fire plinking against the fuselage. The copter lurched, avionics whining, the undercarriage clipping the edge of the tower with a sharp crack. Paolo jumped, legs like pistons against the Wildcat’s fuselage door. His fingertips brushed concrete as the copter spun away into the night. It fell like a dead bird, crashing into the plaza, flaming smoke roiling skywards.
The Crimson Brigade agent hung from a ledge, rain spattering his face. Peering into the abyss, he saw a wooden plank suspended on a scaffold. He dropped, catlike, balancing on it like a surfer. Below him he saw the man he knew was Hooker. Hauling himself up beams and poles, Hooker made for a doorway carved into the exterior wall. Paolo remembered it was made for the maintenance crews, experienced climbers who tended the Commune’s solar panels and evernet dishes. If Hooker got inside, he’d be only minutes from the apartment.
From Lottie Rhys.
Paolo’s eye implant picked out the rivets that secured the scaffolding to the tower. He fired two armour-piercing rounds, projectiles with tungsten penetrators. With a flash of white light, they bit into steel. Creaking and yawing, a beam swung crazily from wall. The big man clawed and flailed, trying to swing back towards the doorway. Paolo aimed again, augmented hearing filtering two sets of noise – the subsonic whisper of stealth-enabled aeronautics…
The other sou
nd was bitter and deep. Laughter. Hooker was laughing.
A light winked below them both, on a wooden platform amidst the scaffold-maze. Paolo focussed and saw a fob, tiny screen glowing.
Then, like a wasp sensing jam, came a stubby-winged aircraft, swooping out of the darkness. Paolo winced. The Fob. The drone’s sniffed the fob’s signal…
The Eviscerator appeared, hovering near-silently, attracted by the electronic bait. It was a machine of preposterous angles, rows of phallic-looking weapons bulging urgently beneath its wings. System specifications flooded Paolo’s optical implant – Warning! Autonomous Airborne Interdiction Platform detected. You are being targeted by 30mm Jackhammer IV cannons and Almaz-Antey Werewolf antipersonnel rockets…
The drone’s targeting systems relied on heat-seeking optics. And thanks to the respirocite, Paolo was a burning man. The Eviscerator fired at multiple targets up and down the tower, spattering the walls with fire. Shrapnel tore a chunk of flesh from Paolo’s calf, the respirocite numbing the pain. Panting, he let himself drop to another plank, the drone jinking like a kitten playing with a ball of wool. It shuddered mid-air, weapon ports spitting flame. A rocket exploded somewhere above. A body toppled from above – a Black Rifleman, headband fluttering like bandages as he fell.
Paolo’s hands scrabbled for the wall, fingers piercing concrete. He checked his weapon’s ammo load – only a handful of high-explosive and fragmentation rounds remained. Painting target vectors on the drone’s comms array, he squeezed the HK35s trigger. Detecting incoming fire, the drone cut its engines and dropped, counter-measures popping and fizzing. A lucky high-explosive round struck its starboard wing, making a flurry of sparks. The Eviscerator’s engines roared back to life, soaring away into the night.
Paolo half-fell down a ladder. His calf hurt now, a sharp, biting pain. The respirocite was waning, nanobots evaporating, weakness flooding his body. Soon he’d be unable to fight, and there was still no sign of Hooker. Dropping to the entrance hewn into the wall, he ducked inside the tower, HK ready. He saw wet boot prints. Hooker made it…
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 20