Crossover (22 page)

"I have 120 million lives under my care, Cassandra," Ibrahim replied, in quiet, measured tones. "57 million of them in Tanusha. When it comes to their security, I'm afraid I am not in a position to promise anything."

"You can try," she whispered. Ibrahim just watched her. She spared him a glance, trying to keep the pleading from her eyes ... and was uncertain if she succeeded. Ibrahim did not sigh or fidget. He only considered. And finally he nodded, shortly and without reservation.

"I can try," he said. "And I will. In the meantime, if you are to help us, you will serve according to the needs of the CSA, and only the CSA. No other government agency will have authority over your actions. Do you understand?" She nodded weakly. "You have knowledge of League and FIA connections to Tanushan biotech corporations. There is a raid planned for tomorrow morning. I want you on it. Can you manage that?"

CSA SWAT. Civilian operations. To an ex-Dark Star captain, hardly intimidating. She took another deep breath in the cool, murmuring night.

"Sure." What was the civilian expression? "Piece of cake."

CHAPTER 10

The CSA flyer shuddered roughly through the predawn air. Sandy frowned, Leaning forward from her holding-brace behind the pilot's seat, scanning out the canopy side. Could make out the faint outlines of scattered cloud above, barely distinct against the faint glow of the eastern sky. Tanushan weather, so frequently idyllic, could change fast. The cloud was torn and broken, frayed at the edges like wet tissue paper. Again the flyer shuddered and bounced.

The pilot craned her head round to look at her. "Be thankful we're going in before dawn," she said loudly over the dull keening of engines. Shudder and bump, something metal clacked and rattled in the back. Indicated with a gloved finger the gathering cloud, fractured shards across the flat span of sky ... like sea ice breaking up, Sandy thought, viewed from below the surface.

"Damn northerly stream," the pilot half shouted, guiding the flyer one-handed through a gentle leftward bank and pointing with the other. "Ocean's only fifty clicks
that
way," jabbing with the finger back toward the west, "warm southerly currents meet the cold northerlies ... you get these rapid weather changes. Things just blow up with no warning a few hundred Ks out, maybe a few thousand. This is nothing. This is just the on-shore flow ... wait three or four hours, it'll be lightning city and pouring rain."

She levelled out of the turn, rectangles matching, passing through on the navscreen. Bump and wobble as they flattened out, and Sandy gripped the overhead more firmly with a gloved fist. The tops of towers soaring by, spire lights and roof lights ablaze, tall and majestic beneath the ragged ceiling of cloud. Incredible sight. The looming towertops sprawled off for many kilometres in all directions above an intricate carpet of ground light. Another wobble, pulling her arm-grip tight, more equipment rattling in the back.

"How strong's the wind?" she shouted to the pilot to be heard above the earphones.

"Sixty, sixty-five knots. It's not the speed, it's these damn towers," another indicating finger as the flyer curved through yet another one-handed turn. "Turn a steady stream into soup. It's like flying in a washing machine. I'd go lower, but it's not in the profile."

In the left seat, the co-pilot looked a lot more occupied than the pilot, eyes shaded and interfacing something complicated. Navcomp interface. Co-pilots were always busiest, inbound. Rifle at her side and headset com-plug in her ear, it was all feeling very familiar to Sandy. Not to mention head-to-toe ablative body armour, a familiar, bracing weight that was no weight at all.

She half turned to glance back at the hold, never losing the all-important grip. The rest of SWAT Four were locked in two facing rows down either side, armoured and armed, just like her. Helmeted, like her, some checking equipment or weapons, others talking. One or two glanced her way, disinterestedly curious, or appearing to be ...

"Arvi!" shouted Lieutenant Rice from the commander's post behind and to Sandy's left. Barely an armspan opposite, Special Agent Arvid Singh glanced up from his graphic-slate expectantly. "Haven't you memorised that damn thing yet?" Singh grinned, a good-natured flash of white teeth within a young, brown, thin-bearded face.

"Don't mind me, chief, I'm a little bit stupid." Some laughter down the rows, and Vanessa half glared at him, lock-strapped into her swivel seat.

"No argument here," she replied.

Sandy had had the introductions, hours earlier. Vanessa's team, SWAT Four, armed and armoured civilians, for those rare occasions where civilian law enforcement required something more than tasers and wrist-tape. She'd done a brief, half-hour cram of SWAT operational, jacked into a database at CSA headquarters, and had been suitably impressed — CSA SWAT followed a basically practical, professional approach centred on training fundamentals and top-line technology. It wasn't flashy, but civilian operations rarely were, and the recorded track record looked solid. The last thing she wanted was a last-minute detachment to an overambitious unit determined to stretch themselves beyond their basic capabilities. Vanessa, she noted, had the initials KISS rather flamboyantly emblazoned in black letters on her armoured shoulder — Keep It Simple, Stupid. Although she suspected Vanessa enjoyed the more suggestive interpretation also.

Vanessa tapped her mike function, swivelling fully about to face her troops. "Okay you guys, listen up. Final thoughts. We're after data. If Tetsu's into illegal biotech, we want the evidence. Data has priority, we get the lockdowns in place early, secure the terminals, let the automateds do the job and wait for the Intel geeks to arrive and sift.

"Don't discount the human element. We're not carrying live ammo for nothing. Remember, Tetsu encryption codes were used to purchase the flyers that launched the attack on the President. Yes, we want data connecting Tetsu to the attackers, if it exists, but don't forget the basic point — if there's a direct connection, we've no idea who might be home when we come knocking. For all we know, the building itself might be harbouring armed GIs ... we doubt it, Intel suggests otherwise from surveillance, but we're not taking any risks. Intel want us data focused —
I
want us people focused. Data won't put a bullet in your head. Any questions?"

There were none. No one looked particularly worried, Sandy noted. They checked equipment, weapons, com-gear, armour tensions and visor readings, occasionally exchanging brief, professional remarks. Singh, Sandy noted, had something emblazoned in Sanskrit across his helmet above the visorplate. A man named Devakul had a similar blaze, this time in Thai. And there were others, too ... she wished her language skills were better. Another thing to work on at some stage. Vanessa's was one of the few in English — a smiley face surrounded by the words 'have a nice day'. Above what would be, when lowered, a fearsome visage of armoured visorplate and breather, in frowning, deadly intent.

An access signal registered in Sandy's inner ear ... she frowned and allowed the linkup, a brief crackling
pop!
in her eardrum.

"
It's me
," said Vanessa's voice in her ear. Sandy spared a look at Vanessa, who had swivelled her chair back to her command post displays, monitoring while she conversed in internal formulation without apparent effort. Sandy regripped the overhead, and scanned back out the cockpit windows as the towers slid by.

"
What's up
?"

"
HQ called in five minutes back, they found a shuttle in the Verdrahn region tucked in among the hills ... that's about five thousand kilometres away. They say it looks to have come in about five weeks ago
."

"
Big shuttle
?"

"
Capacity about one hundred and twenty. Enough for all the GIs who hit the President, and all the FIA involved in your abduction too, if it turns out to be the same bunch. Not that we're allowed to speculate that the FIA and the League are working together on anything
..."

"
No. Not even when it's true
." Her mind was racing.

"
Especially when it's true. What d'you think? Five weeks ring any bells
?"

"
I've only been in town about two weeks total, Vanessa. They got here three weeks before I did. If this whole thing is about me, they had some serious advance warning
."

"
True. Raises the question of how they're getting out again
"

"
A smaller shuttle
," Sandy replied sourly, "
once they've let their GIs kill themselves off
."

"
But all of them
?" Vanessa queried.

"
Well I suppose that's the big question, isn't it
?" The flyer bumped again, and things rattled ominously in the back.

So it was definitely a large-scale infiltration. A capital-O Operation, in every sense. One hundred and twenty was a very large shuttle. She knew all the models personally, and the physical constraints by which such large-capacity assault shuttles operated. They were not used lightly in a military environment. In a civilian environment they were not used at all. Legally. But the security agencies on both sides of the conflict had precious little respect for interstellar law.

"Two minutes," Vanessa shouted in the back, which started a flurry of final preps. Sandy scanned out the canopy, adjusting visual patterns for maximum effect. Scattered air traffic moved along various skylanes, gently curving past the lighted towers, running lights blinking. She hooked briefly into navcomp reception, found the target closing, a declining sequence of numbers. From behind came the power surge of activating armour, com-systems and tracking units, familiar sensations.

"LT," the pilot said calmly over radio frequency, voice now active in Sandy's ear.

"Go, Sunset," Vanessa replied, calmly doing a final weapons check to Sandy's right.

"Hover LZ has a bad crosswind — be careful on the pancake."

"Roger that Sunset. Team Four, affirm and copy." The calls came in, one at a time. An altitude dip and curving around the next looming tower, a flash of window light slipping close by to the left and suddenly the target was there, ten o'clock and coming about. One minute.

Sandy switched her links to scan, multiple sources, ground-fixed on neighbouring towers. Usual security, all unsuspecting. Clearance came in from those observers, and everything went green. The flyer continued its innocuous course along the registered lane, and the tower ahead swung gently by as they curved left across it. The rooftop was an intriguingly aesthetic mix of a large dome, a spire antenna, and a landing pad.

Very obvious, that landing pad, squarely illuminated in the ostentatious lighting from the surrounding floods and the deep, golden glow from within the dome ... function rooms for important guests, luxurious beyond imagining — the Intel previews had said so. The Intel previews had also detailed the security provisions at great length — CSA had helped set the regulations governing their use and operation, after all. For people foolish enough simply to land on the rooftop pad without authorisation, there were obvious and extensive precautions. But desperate times allowed for desperate measures, and when the tactical briefing had begun Sandy had been quite surprised. And impressed. These guys didn't mess around.

"Go go go," said an unannounced voice on directional com, and the flyer came about with a hard starboard turn, breaking lanes with a flaring of navigation alarms, quickly overridden. Thrust flared as the acceleration kicked in, Sandy braced firmly, left fist gripping the overhead and feet widely spread, rifle gripped in her right fist, having done the final checks in advance of final approach, as was her habit. She always liked to take a look, if possible. She looked now, connections hooked in, watching and scanning, thinking ahead. Counting down.

Reached zero, and a thin red line from a nearby towertop targeted a point alongside the landing pad, clearly visible with a spectrum shift. By the landing pad, something flashed, and caught fire. Another line, and a big surge of power as a highly charged electrical system dissolved into flame ... bang, a sudden eruption of fire from beside the pad, mushrooming skyward.

"Flamer," Sandy announced, watching it rise. "Very pretty." The pad was rushing up then suddenly dropping away as the flyer flared, the pilot kicking the thrusters forward and the G forces shoving them down.
Clack
, and a sudden roar from outside, the rear doors fanning open. Cold wind rushed in, a swirling backdraft. Sandy felt the familiar calm descending, smooth and unhurried.

Then the pad was rushing up below, the rearmost team members unhooked and jumping, vanishing into the cold, gleaming night. The rest departed in an orderly rush, Vanessa following them out and Sandy surging after, a guiding hand along the overhead rail and then out ... a moment of dizzying fall, then hit hard and rolling to a firing crouch, team members fanning out across the pad with purposeful haste as the flyer howled and thrust backwash hit them with hurricane force. Then faded, a dark, sleekly cylindrical shape, paired thruster fans angling forward as it accelerated away into the night.

Sandy got up and walked slowly forward. Hardly a textbook modern assault technique, but the other eleven troops were rushing about their allotted tasks and she was out of the coordination loop. So she did the one thing everyone trusted her to do — kept the rifle tucked to her armoured shoulder and scanned the garden-lined pad-departure zones for anyone looking to shoot at them.

Troops sprinted and covered alternately through the clearing wind-blown smoke from the laser strikes. Several went to one doorway, several to another, others crouched in support, weapons levelled. Another pair erected a receptor tripod, the big dish unfolding like a flower toward a nearby towertop. Sandy waited behind, anticipating movements as she moved to the pad perimeter, keeping her firelines clear. It dimly occurred to her that the wind was very strong and very cold, and that the view was truly spectacular. The eastern glow had grown to a clear orange line rimed with blue.

A percussive thump and the twin doors blew apart, a simultaneous blast of flying glass and frames, and the first troops disappeared into the smoke. Sandy ran, hurdling obstructing greenery, then through the smoking right-hand doorway.

Scanned the broad, decorated marble atrium, slowing to an unhurried jog as troops behind quickly laid cabling through the wrecked doorway and sprinted to the corner console, right where the Intel schematics said it would be. Fast communication and terse commands as they hooked in, laser com from the near tower feeding penetration codes to the outside dish and direct to the terminal, bypassing the tower's impenetrable encryption barriers completely.

Luxurious entrance corridors abruptly turned a dull, emergency red, and a loud, male voice said very firmly over the intercom, "This is a CSA raid! Remain where you are!" over and over again.

Nothing like physical penetration to render fancy software obsolete, Sandy found herself thinking as she jogged smoothly down across the marble atrium, tall, high, mirror-like polish on every side. Sometimes those software jocks got far too full of themselves.