Next to him, he sensed Pieter flinch as the sharp crack of a rifle rent the night air. Several more followed close upon it. Each of the Headhunters carried either a military-grade sniper weapon or a high-powered hunting rifle.
"That's our cue," Randal said over the headset, pulling down his primitive Abkhenazi night vision goggles.
They high-crawled across the street in file. Randal gave thanks for the snow banks packed to either side of the roadway. Once over the snow banks, he led them along the hedges in a crouch. Their goal was a break in the hedge up ahead. Jeni's spies had spotted a trail of footprints in the snow there during daylight. This was essential — there was too much likelihood of mines and biteme wire if they blazed their own path.
Approaching the spot, he leaned forward to peer through the break.
Two Abkhenazi troopers walked through the bushes, nearly into him. Backpedaling, Randal's feet slipped out from under him on the ice, pitching him back on the concrete. Overhead he heard the throaty whisper of Pyatt's silenced SMG as he dropped the two.
"Thanks," Randal said as they pulled the bodies under a hedge and shrouded them with armloads of snow.
"No worries."
Tentatively, Randal took another peek. It looked clear to the next available cover. "Let's move." Keeping carefully to the trail, they low-crawled to a tiny, demolished prayer chapel. A half-meter of snow lay on the ground, their white wraps blending with it seamlessly.
From the chapel it was slow progress through the jumble of abandoned buildings and offices leading to the science center. Avoiding contact often meant waiting long minutes for the opportunity to dash a few critical meters.
The Headhunter's attack had long since tapered off, though occasional rifle cracks could be heard, answered by autofire. The plan was for the Headhunters to break contact and circle to a rendezvous point to support the evacuation of the scientists. Either Shin was improvising, or the Abkhenazi were pursuing more tenaciously than they'd hoped. It was just another variable to worry over.
Eventually they made their destination, taking cover behind a snow-covered mound. "Burned books," he heard Ariane whisper disgustedly.
Brushing aside a bit of snow, he made a sour face. She was right; the mound was actually a huge pile of scorched books. To their right was the brick-and-stone facade of the university library. It amazed Randal. Even in the midst of war the Abkhenazi censors never rested. Across the narrow walk was the science building, two hulking Theocratic Guard soldiers standing watch on the stoop. If Nabil's intel was current, another trio awaited them on the other side of the doors.
"I'm going car shopping," Johnny whispered.
"Roger. Let me know when you get lucky."
Johnny's job was to steal a transport while the rest of them sprang the prisoners. The pilot crept out of sight, black plastic tool case in hand. Randal wondered how many times he had boosted vehicles before joining the military. He certainly had a knack for larceny.
"Pyatt, these Theocratic Guard types wear ballistic armor. Make sure you go for a headshot."
The response came back wryly. "Mummy, can you come show me how to take my gun off safety, too?"
Randal grinned, lining up sights on his guard. For a First Centy, Pyatt had really loosened up. It was important to get a headshot though. The subsonic rounds the SMGs fired were much easier to sound suppress than other ammunition, but they were useless against a decent ballistic vest. "Okay, on three. One, two..."
Both gently squeezed a three-round burst. Randal's guard pitched backward; Pyatt's just sort of crumpled where he stood.
"Go!" Randal grabbed Ariane's waist belt, encouraging her along. The team sprinted to the door. Each pushed back their night binos. Inside, the light would overwhelm the systems, reducing their vision to a green blur.
Pieter threw open the door. Randal entered low, Pyatt high.
As he crossed the threshold, Randal hoped fervently that Nabil's intel was right.
***
Lebedev was miserable. Not only did each corner of the freshly harvested benzkamen seem intent on poking him somewhere sensitive, but he'd found in the shale-like substance an entirely new allergy to add to his list. The dust cloud filling the enclosed bed of the crawler made his eyes sting and choked him with sneezes despite the filter he wore. Worse were the hives he felt forming from hairline to ankles.
In the dim light he could just make out the beaming face of Miriam. His young apprentice seemed to find the experience exhilarating. For his own part, he would never have come at all, except the mission was too important to entrust to children. His apprentices amused him; they'd drawn straws to see who would get to accompany him on the reckless errand.
Through the back opening he could see neat rows of suburban houses, each nearly identical to the last. They looked new - likely the area was wilderness when Haelbroeck first built the factory.
He felt the crawler decelerate. "Nu, Miriam. Time is for burrowing." The two pushed aside narrow trenches in the rock and then wriggled into them, covering themselves as best they could. With their dark clothing they should pass any but the most thorough inspection.
Someone clambered up the back of the crawler, shining a high-powered hand torch. Burrowed near the front of the bed, the light barely reached them. "Clear! Proceed!" the guard barked in Russian. He hopped back down, slapping the gate. With a jolt, the crawler moved out.
Lebedev watched the twin guard towers recede. Next, the large retaining pool holding waste water from the factory's MTP section went past. Soon would come the factory's Feed Processing Point.
The crawler swung in a wide loop and then began backing slowly. Lifting his head, Lebedev saw the dark mass of the feed pile. "We must move, now. Buistro, devochka!"
He and the girl scrambled back over the rubble. The timing was tricky — jump too soon and get spotted; jump too late and be crushed beneath tons of rock. The bed started tilting. Miriam leaped out, lost to sight in the dusty haze.
Stepping up on the gate of the bed, Lebedev flexed to jump. And overcompensated. And dove headfirst out the back.
Landing with an oof! he heard the releases on the bed gate give. He sighed fatalistically and prepared to be flattened.
Strong hands grabbed him by the collar, hauling him back as an avalanche of rock poured from the bed. He was dragged through the rubble, his hands firmly pressed over his face. "Doctor Lebedev, you're alright." Tentatively, he pulled his palms from his eyes. The voice seemed to be telling the truth, he noted, patting his legs and torso.
Miriam smiled down at him, offering a hand. The willowy tech was certainly stronger than she looked.
"Euh, spacibo," he said, accepting the help up.
He readjusted his headset as the two skirted the mound of raw benzkamen. Miriam was an inky contour ahead of him, he noted with satisfaction. He'd insisted they both go garbed in dark blue. Military types always favored black out of a totemic belief that it was somehow tougher, but scientifically Lebedev was convinced that blue camouflaged better at night.
Lights stabbed at them through the darkness. Both threw themselves behind a pile, preparing for trouble. The vehicle shifted rightward and they could see the hulking silhouette clearly. It was one of the tracked industrial 'bots used to feed the conveyor belt leading from the feed point into the MTP. In his shock from the crawler incident, Lebedev had forgotten their existence.
Keeping in the shadow of the conveyor, the two crept toward the MTP. The structure towered over the landscape, reaching at least six stories in height. Inside he could see the flickering of flame as the benzkamen was melted into a petrol-like fluid called kerogen. Steam poured out funnels atop the structure and a sluice kept a steady flow of waste water pumping down the channel to the holding pond.
On several of the catwalks circling the MTP he saw guards pulling watch. Hopefully none had night vision gear or they were likely to be spotted. Luckily, the Abkhenazi seemed to be issuing little night vision gear, presumably needing it for the war in
the south.
They sheltered under the conveyor. "Now detka," he said softly, though the grinding of the belt overhead would drown him out past a few meters. "You know how to correctly set charge, da?" In a fatherly impulse he brushed black powder from the girl's nose.
"I do, Doctor Lebedev. I won't let you down - I promise."
"Clever girl! Call me after charge is set. And good luck to you."
The girl grinned impishly, flashing the strange, four-fingered hand sign he'd noticed his apprentices using with each other. Awkwardly, he repeated it back. In a moment she was gone, off to demolish the petrol holding tank on the far side of the plant.
He turned his attention to his own task. The liquid hydrogen tank was set on a tall, concrete pedestal. Reaching it meant making it to the second floor catwalk and then crossing the gantry from the MTP to the tank. Unfortunately, a guard stood squarely in the middle of the gantry.
Dodging from one support beam to another, he made his way to the external staircase. Just before starting up he heard footsteps ring on the catwalk overhead. A tan-coveralled workman descended the stairs right above him. As soon as he was gone, Lebedev climbed the stairs, crouching at the top. A pair of guards disappeared around the corner, chatting in Russian. Roving patrols injected a troubling element of randomness into the equation; he must be swift.
He charged the silenced pistol, feeding a round into the chamber as he stepped out onto the gantry. He took a deep breath and leveled the weapon at the guard. The Abkhenazi dropped his rifle in shock as Lebedev squeezed the trigger.
Click sounded the pistol.
"Nyet! Not again!" He had charged the weapon with the safety on. It wouldn't work that way. He was always doing that.
With a frustrated growl, he tossed the weapon at the soldier's head and charged across the gantry. The man's hands were high to protect his face as Lebedev collided with his middle. With all the force his spindly legs could muster, the pint-sized Belarusian drove the larger man backward, spilling him over the low railing. The guard struck the concrete below with a hollow crunch.
Lebedev barely stopped himself from following the guard in his fall. He pushed off the railing and turned to the liquid hydrogen tank. Out came the canister of pressurized explosive. With broad arcs of his hand he coated the side of the tank with explosive foam.
"I've always wanted to try this. . ." he said to himself conversationally, finishing the coating with a flourish. The pyromaniac in him cartwheeled in anticipation of the upcoming detonation.
Suddenly, a deep voice barked from below. "You there! Stop! Do not move!"
***
Nabil followed behind Ariane's father, running a finger under the tight collar of the formal Abkhenazi tunic. Even as a civilian he'd hated wearing business attire. It felt constricting.
Laurent Mireault stunk of fear and alcohol. In spite of the frigid air the man's bald head ran with sweat. Nabil worried he might be weighing betrayal. He hated collaborators with all his guts — the Abkhenazi used them back home in their purges. If Mireault gave them up, Nabil's last act would be to kill the traitor with his hands.
He cast a sidelong look at Mafouz, one of several ethnic Abkhenazi in the Irregulars. Mafouz was a descendant of one of the many families which chose to stay on the peninsula when the land was sold to New Geneva, rather than return to the Khlisti-run "paradise" to the north. He had volunteered for the mission. The two of them were posing as new arrivals from Abkhenazia needing training from Mireault, the plant director.
Mafouz did not seem any more comfortable in his business tunic than Nabil, giving him a shaky smile. He carried a briefcase identical to Nabil's, though the handle looked absurdly small clutched in his hammy fist. The man stood well over two meters, with the build of a champion buzkashi player.
The factory control center was constructed with anything but aesthetics in mind – three stories of ferrocrete surrounded by hard-frozen ornamental plants. Its windows were narrow slits covered with bars, the main entrance a sliding blast door flanked by soldiers.
Mireault held his badge aloft as he approached them. "These two are with me," he said in answer to their questioning looks.
Only one seemed to understand English. "Where are their badges?"
"They are fresh arrived from Abkhenazia. I was told to begin training them immediately. The security office will not open until morning. I'll have badges made for them at that time."
Nabil was relieved. Mireault looked to be playing straight, so far.
The guards deliberated, chattering rapidly in gutter-level Russian. Finally the English-speaker punched a code on the door panel. It slid open with a hiss.
Inside, the trio was thoroughly patted down, their briefcases searched as well. Nabil noticed the sensors of a magnetic anomaly detector surrounding the doorframe as he entered, as well as the intakes for a chem-sniffer. Anyone bringing in a bomb or gun would be nabbed immediately.
Good thing none of them were packing.
"Go in," the guard said flatly, opening a much lighter transplastic door for them to enter the main level of the center.
Once past security, Mafouz made a show of pantomiming using the urinal. "Which way is bathroom?" he asked, deliberately mangling his English.
"Down the hall and to the left," Mireault answered. He looked between them, likely searching for a cue on what to do next. Nabil had kept him in the dark on the remainder of the plan, not trusting him a millimeter.
Mafouz went to the lavatory while Nabil kept an eye on Mireault. He returned a few minutes later, and Nabil headed for the bathroom. Inside, he popped open his briefcase, ripping out a long piece of its interior. What before looked like molding was revealed to be an improvised blade, whittled to razor-sharpness from a piece of extremely dense polymer. Magnetic Anomaly Detectors were practically infallible with guns, but useless against plastics. He wrapped the base of the knife in coarse tape to make a grip and tucked it up his sleeve.
Now armed, they had Mireault lead them to the third floor. It was almost entirely taken up by the control room. This was open, with the back area raised slightly. Workstations covered in digital gauges filled the floor, though few were manned that late at night. A gray-suited Theocratic Guardsman stood at each corner of the room, unmoving as a statue.
An Abkhenazi with the red security badge Nabil was beginning to associate with management walked over to them. Mireault explained the situation to him, mopping at his forehead with a palm. The management type seemed satisfied with the answers.
Now all that was left to do was go through the motions of training and wait for things to start blowing up out on the factory grounds. Nabil hoped the weird little Belarusian came through, or things were going to end ugly.
"Well then," Mireault said, clapping his hands together and smiling a sickly smile. "Let's begin with an overview of reporting procedures, shall we?"
***
Entering low, Randal fired from the hip, tagging one of the seated guards. Over him, Pieter squeezed off a burst, stitching rounds across the other guard's chest before he could even reach for the autorifle propped against the table. The force of the rounds rocked the guard off his seat, though they didn't penetrate his armor. A follow-on burst ended him.
It looked like Randal's man might still be moving, so he double tapped him. Totally against the Hegemony laws of war, but those were not worth the parchment they were printed on any longer.
They paused in the foyer, the stench of expended rounds thick around them. "Where's the third one?" he heard Ariane ask in a small voice.
The answer came bouncing around the corner.
Seemingly in slow motion, the group watched as an ugly, oblong-shaped Abkhenazi grenade rebounded off the wall and clattered across the floor toward them.
Randal was shoved from behind, hitting the tile floor hard enough to loosen teeth. Pieter vaulted over him, reaching for the grenade. Randal's peripherals caught sight of him scooping up the deadly object, tumbling forward in a roll and t
ossing it back around the corner.
A half-second later the air was shattered by the explosion.
Awareness returned slowly to Randal. His eardrums throbbed and spasmed and his head pounded from the concussive force of the grenade The air was filled with plaster dust and smoke. He thought he must have checked out for a few seconds. Around him the others were starting to stir.
He crawled up to Pieter and rolled him over. His friend was alive, but white-faced and stunned. Blood trickled from his left ear.
"We've got to move," Randal croaked back to the other two. "Ariane, see if you can help him. Pyatt and I will head down." His vision still swam, but if he moved slowly he thought he could walk without falling down or vomiting.
Passing the desk, he took up one of the autorifles. Stealth wasn't a big concern any more.
The basement door flew open; an Abkhenazi soldier ran out. He skidded to a halt, eyes wide at the demolished hallway. Pyatt killed him before he could recover his wits.
With the barrel of the autorifle, Randal edged open the door, peeking down the stairs. It looked clear. The two made their way carefully into the basement.
"What a shop of horrors," Pyatt said, disgust filling his voice.
It was indeed.
A large mahogany desk had been called into service: restraints for wrists and ankles were crudely attached to the top and a metallic box with electrical leads running from it sat on one end. Beside it sat a wheeled tray covered by a towel. Surgical tools lay across the towel, gleaming coldly in the fluorescent lighting.
Near the windows hung various contraptions made of welded metal poles — some inverted triangles, others twisted into even more sinister-looking shapes. Brown patches that had to be dried blood pooled under several of them. "Where are the professors?" Pyatt sounded antsy, with good reason. Enemy reinforcements should be there any time.
Knox's Irregulars Page 20