Audacious (38 page)

“Sergeant,” he shouted to one that commanded the shooters on the second-floor balcony, “throw down some plastic cuffs. If you allow yourself to be cuffed we’ll move you down to the north wing. You won’t get killed if we have to shoot these crazies.”

The plastic stringers were thrown out, scattering as they fell. Some people did offer their wrists to their neighbors to be bound.

“Don’t do it,” the orange harridan shouted. “They want to kill us all. If you make it easy for them, they’ll just kill you last.”

The eager rush to be cuffed died.

Grant eyed the firing line on the second floor. Should he give the order to fire? Let the massacre begin? He did not plan to let anyone here out alive. The only question was when to let them in on the secret.

“Hey, Grant!” That blasted woman’s voice drew his attention back to her. The tall Naval commander moved out from in front of her.

She held a service automatic. It was aimed directly between Grant’s eyes.

“You die first,” she said.

A second later, several of the Marines had joined her, their automatics on him. Reflexively, Grant’s eyes searched their uniforms. All were sharpshooters. One a sniper.

Somewhere in the building there was an explosion.

Now Marines and armed security guards drew beads on the punks lining the upper balcony.

“You sure you want to die with a jarhead’s dart between your eyes” came in the voice of a Marine sergeant.

Above, rifles wavered. One disappeared from view as someone broke into a run.

Grant waited for one of his sergeants to tell him what was happening. Better yet, for one of his sharpshooters to take that woman down.

Then the lights went out.

Grant dropped into the darkness and off of the bronzes. Behind him darts pinged off the artwork where he’d been a second ago.

Kris
said a bitter word as the lights went out. That was not what she’d intended.

She’d edged up to the door slowly, examining it as she went. It was metal, with an armored-glass window, reinforced with bars. In an older, more safe world, it would have been the epitome of maximum security.

Today, it was puny.

She waved a Marine forward. He frowned at the lock, then reached into this uniform and withdrew a coil of plastic explosives.

While he rigged the door for destruction, Kris risked a few glances through the glass.

It showed her little. Whatever was inside was far inside, well away from the door. What she did see carried the hint of observation and security.

Hopefully, this was where the auto-guns were controlled.

The Marine stepped back, signaling that he was ready to blow both the lock and the hinges.

Kris reached into the padding of her rear and pulled out two whizbangs. Jack took one. She kept the other.

The sergeant held up three fingers, then two. Finally one.

And the door exploded.

Kris launched herself from the wall in a low crouch. She hit the door low, Jack high. It went down ahead of them.

But not flat. A body was on the floor beneath it.

Ahead of Kris was a counter, a glass cage cutting off further access to the computer stations within.

There was all of ten centimeters of clearance between counter and glass to allow supplicants to pass requests inside.

Kris tossed her whizbang through the space the same moment Jack did.

Behind her, a Marine went fully automatic, hammering at a small-caliber auto-gun turning to take her under fire.

Even as Kris ducked and rolled up to the counter, the auto-gun was sighting in on her. Kris left that problem to the Marine behind her and aimed her gun at the four men sitting at the computer stations in the room.

The auto-gun put three rounds into Kris’s hairdo, then coughed and spat no more.

That’s going to hurt in the morning,
Kris thought, as she shouted, “Anyone got a grenade?”

“Here’s one,” a sergeant behind her shouted. He tossed. She caught it, pulled the pin in one motion, and tossed it through the opening in the glass.

“Fire in the hole,” someone shouted.

A moment later there was an explosion. Kris counted to two, then jumped up and started shooting.

Maybe she didn’t aim all that precisely at any specific target. Maybe she should have.

The lights went out.

51

For
fifteen seconds, only the light of muzzle flashes lit up the main hall. It was enough for people to die by.

Penny tried to trace Von Schrader’s flight by the flashes of the gunners behind him, but he was in full beat-feet mode, and not looking back.

Penny did see several gunners go down behind him, so she wasn’t wasting her ammo.

“Mind if we grab some grenades, ma’am” came from a Marine.

“Let’s don’t and say we do,” Penny said. “We got a lot of civilians lying around” was her answer.

“Let’s get them some protection,” Commander Mulhoney shouted. He rolled behind a marble statue in front of Penny, braced his back against the wall, and pushed. What was likely a very expensive bit of art toppled over, crashing into pieces as it hit. But people could huddle behind it. Around the great hall, other statues of bronze and marble went down.

Fire from the balcony was getting light. Penny balanced that against the fire from the rotunda and ordered her shooters to concentrate there. She also sent a couple of shooters to cover the stairwells in the back. No question, she could be rushed from there.

“Let me see if I can get some of the civilians out of here,” Commander Mulhoney said. He backed up, found a door that opened onto the east portico, and tried it. It stayed closed. He stood and fired at the lock. It flew open.

He stepped out on the portico. “Civilians,” he shouted, “follow me. Let’s get the hell out of this place.” That got the attention of the people cringing on the floor.

It also got the attention of people with guns who were already outside, covering the balcony. Two rounds spun him around.

“Blast it,” was his only response as he went down.

Then the emergency lights came on and Penny got a good look at just how bad hell could be.

Grant
von Schrader slid to a halt behind a huge bronze vase. “Colonel, the situation is developing faster than we expected,” he said into his commlink. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“We no longer have contact with Security Central,” he reported.

“I told you that Longknife girl was not to be underestimated.”

The colonel did not defend himself or argue that there was no proof the loss of Security Central was the work of a Longknife. Instead, like a pro, he went on with their future.

“We are taking fire from the parking lot. I suspect we did not get all the Marine guards around the Wardhaven limo. I have detached a fire team to keep them busy.”

“Do not ignore our back door,” Grant snapped.

“I am not. I have detached two fire teams to cover the river. I’m sending a third up to see if the auto-guns can be operated locally.”

“Good. Tell them to look out for that Longknife hellion. The man who gets her will get millions.”

“Yes, sir. They are aware.”

“And now we must say good-bye, Colonel. Activate the jammer.”

“I was about to, sir. May I recommend that you fall back on my command post.”

“I will see you there in a moment. The slaughter here should be over very soon.”

Grant turned to the sergeant at his elbow. “Kill them all, then report to your colonel when your job here is done.”

The Greenfeld men pulled grenades from their belts as Grant low-crawled for the stairwell.

Bronc
stared at his computer. It was totally jammed. A rock would tell him as much as his fine computer.

One of the sergeants picked up a gun that had fallen to the balcony’s floor. The young man who had held it stared blankly ahead. His forehead had a small hole in it.

Bronc had seen what the back of his head looked like. He never wanted to see that again.

“Your computer’s no good. Do some shooting,” he ordered.

Bronc put his computer aside and took the gun. He eyed it like some snake.

“Shoot, damn you, kid. Shoot or I’ll shoot you.” It didn’t sound like something Bronc could argue with.

Not when the sergeant punctuated it by shooting down a kid that was running for the far end of the balcony.

Bronc edged up to the balcony. Most of the kids still shooting were lying flat on the floor, shooting through the fancy marble poles that held up the banister. Bronc slipped his gun out, and aimed the barrel in the general direction of a statue of a half-nude woman.

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. The gun didn’t fire and the trigger didn’t move all that far back.

He squeezed harder on the trigger, but it just would not move.

“I think you have to do something with this lever,” the kid to his right said. He lay his rifle down, leaning it sideways so Bronc could see what he was pointing at.

He also made the mistake of getting higher up on his elbows than he’d been.

Something took the top off his head, spraying blood and stuff along the wall behind him.

Bronc felt like throwing up.

“Shoot, damn you.” That may or may not have been aimed at Bronc, but he got his head down, pushed the lever with his thumb, and shot.

The gun fired. It fired a long burst until Bronc remembered to ease back on the trigger.

“Don’t go automatic,” the kid on his left warned, staying low. “The sergeants don’t like that. Push the safety back a notch.”

Bronc did. The next time he pulled the trigger, it only fired one shot.

“And aim,” the kid said. “The sergeant hates it when you shoot but don’t aim.”

That kid was looking hard down the barrel of his own gun. Bronc did the same. He tried to line it up on that half-naked lady and pulled the trigger.

Some plaster above her head exploded. Was that him?

“I’m out of here,” a kid shouted, down the line from Bronc, as he jumped up and headed for the stairs.

“No you ain’t,” the sergeant snarled, and blew his head off.

“Enough of this,” the kid at the sergeant’s feet shouted, rolled over, raised his gun, and put three rounds into the sergeant’s belly, below the body armor that they had and the kids didn’t.

The other sergeant drilled that kid, but a girl, one of the few that got jobs as shooters, put two rounds into the back of that sergeant’s head.

But then she half got up and someone below put a bullet into her.

“Now what do we do?” the kid next to Bronc asked.

“I know a way out of here, I think,” Bronc said.

“I’m right behind you,” said several voices.

“They’re gonna kill us,” said one guy who was still shooting.

“You can stay here and get killed by those Marines. Me, I’m taking my chances with anyone else,” said Bronc and led a dozen or more in a low crouch off the balcony to the stairwell. He’d seen his sensor sergeant go up higher when he was peeled off to back up the firing line.

Bronc led the way up, rather than down the way they’d come.

A couple of guys headed down. But a second later there was fire from that direction, and the screams of dying youth.

The rest followed Bronc up.

“Sorry,
ma’am, I must have tossed you a demolition grenade.” That sort of explained to Kris the mess she was looking at.

Jack’s flashlight showed a grizzly scene. The counter and its glass enclosure had held, as had the windows. That left nothing for the explosives to work on but four human bodies and the electronic gear still smoldering in the room.

The walls were covered in soot and blood and bones and body parts. The armored glass wept red onto the counter.

The sergeant used his last bit of C-8 to blow the lock on the door and let them into what they had done.

“You see any switch that might turn the lights back on?” Kris asked.

“Looks like the grenade blew up on that work station,” Jack said, aiming his light at one particular sparse bit of wreckage. Cables led into to it, and away from it, but there was no telling what they might have done in between.

“Do we have the auto-guns out of commission?” Kris asked.

That got only a shrug from Jack. On a well-designed ship, any station could be brought up as any station. Even if they had demolished the primary work center for the guns, was there a backup security center in the basement?

No way to tell.

“Nelly, order the Marines to attack.”

“I can’t, Kris. That jamming just started.”

Kris said a very unprincesslike word.

“Jack, can you signal the captain?”

“Let’s see how good my Morse code is.”

Jack wiped the gore from a small section of the window and started flashing a message toward the river. “Let’s hope this is good enough.”

“Stop or I’ll shot” came from the sergeant guarding their back door. He followed that up with a shot.

“Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot” came in a voice that sounded familiar to Kris.

Captain
DeVar knew things were changing in the Gallery when he spotted the explosion behind several windows on the roof.

“Let’s get ready to ride, troops,” he ordered, wondering if he was ordering them into a slaughter.

Then the lights went out.

“That sure looks like showtime to me,” he said, ordering the first squad forward.

They splashed from the river and slid down on the riverbank, rifles at the ready. Nothing happened.

Then a light started flashing from the window that had been lit up a moment ago by that explosion.

It took Captain DeVar a second to realize that the light’s flashes had meaning.

“FROM THE HALLS OF MON” said enough for one Marine.

“Charge,” Captain DeVar ordered for the first time in his life.

“Move it, move it, move it,” sergeants echoed to his right and left.

“Last one to the big house does KP next month” came from somewhere along the line.

And a hundred sharp troopers raced across the manicured lawn of the Gallery as fast as full-battle rattle would allow.

And ahead of him, on the roof, the captain spotted movement. More movement down on the west portico.