Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (39 page)

fie eastern border road along Junshi Park was a mass of cluttered emergency vehicles, tracer-lights and clustered, sheltered personnel. Sandy halted her Prabati before the roadblock and flashed her ID at the policewoman ... got a somewhat dubious look from the cop, then a signal to pull the barrier aside. Simple metal barriers, Sandy noted, as used in road construction-the police were unused to this sort of thing, and had no more specialised equipment. She repocketed her ID and nudged the throttle, the Prabati accelerating smoothly away and up the main, six-lane road toward the chaos ahead.

Firetrucks, police cars, equipment vans and control vehicles blocked the road several hundred metres further on, the odd civilian cruiser dispersed among the ground vehicles. Toward the perimeter of those sat several aircars, sleek lines with bulbous nose and rear field-gens, and a single hulking, broad-shouldered flyer, thrusters angled down at the road surface. She sped down the empty stretch of open lanes with the forethought of someone who knew the precise meaning of "field of fire" first-hand. Applied brakes as she hit two hundred kph, coming to a sharp, nose-standing halt by the flyer's broad, armoured side. Stood the bike, deactivated the engine and racked the helmet, sparing a skyward glance at the humming, whining reverberations that hovered about the site overhead ... several aircars that her Ops-site active uplink tagged as CSA surveillance, and a circling flyer in orbit several kilometres out-SWAT backup, Team Six-running lights off and barely visible on normal light. Traffic Central had rerouted all civilian air traffic out to a kilometre. There were now many grounded vehicles within the exclusion perimeter that had been stuck there for half the day ... doubtless their drivers weren't happy about it.

She stretched briefly, arms overhead, trying to loosen her shoulders and back, irritated at how fast she was stiffening up. Her stomach hurt when she tensed.

Beyond the wrought-iron fence around Junshi Park on the right, IR vision caught emergency personnel moving in the dark through the greenery, sweeping to keep it clear. CSA uplink showed the whole park was off limits ... big place to cordon off, she'd walked through Junshi Park, it was broad and beautiful, only a half hour's run from home.

Gave arms and legs a final shake to get the remaining kinks out, and ran quickly to the first firetruck, then on through the vehicles beyond, up onto the road verge to give waiting vehicles a wide berthalong with the various uniformed and plain-clothed officers, agents and public services officials crouched and waiting behind their cars. All lights off, she was pleased to see ... there'd been a worrying habit of leaving emergency lights flashing at such occurrences, for reasons she knew not, all it did was interfere with surveillance gear and draw fire. But there were far too many people here, she reckoned, dodging along the verge for some room-too many spectators, too many officials come to survey the action, too many pointless suits taking notes and sipping tea.

Then the building came into view past the nearside obstruction, and she ducked left and halted behind a police car bonnet, crouched more to remain inconspicuous than for protection. They were not sure about the nearer building, she'd gathered, and the regular cops had volunteered to sweep it floor by floor ... not strictly their job, but there simply was not the personnel to do it full kit. Thus the blockade stretching far down Park Street, beyond the bend, although the affected address, number 214, was out of view. There had been numerous shots fired at police in the opening stages, writing off several vehicles, and no one was taking chances. No one had been hit, though. It told her something about the calibre of terrorist they were dealing with, and their weapons.

Number 214 was billowing smoke along the front half of its top storey, where the Roads and Safety Branch of the Department of Central Services was located. Why the Human Salvation Jihad had targeted Roads and Safety was anyone's guess. Probably because they were so inoffensive no one would ever have suspected them a target, and security was lax. She scanned full-spectrum through the smoke and darkness ... plenty of broken windows on the top two levels, lots of smoke but no fire. Evidently the fire systems were still working. OSA uplink showed the SWAT team inserted, from floor and ceiling simultaneously, large chunks of which were now missing ... yeah, she thought, reckoning over the graphical construct she saw in her mind, that was a Vanessa pattern, wreckage everywhere. Extreme violence, efficiently applied. Ricey would have made an excellent spec ops, on either side of the war. Though she was glad she wasn't.

The problem now was the bedamned Tanushan architecture. It was one of the first axioms she'd learned upon being assigned to SWAT- Tanushan architects are a pain in the arse for active insertions. Not content with designing a building with square back and sides, manic aestheticism had driven some Tanushan design genius to make 214 Park Street into a "curvaceous rectangular prism," like a box but tapered upward, curved at the corners and rounded here toward the front where it looked out onto the road, and Junshi Park beyond. Lovely view, nice architecture, it had doubtless made the planners happy. The problem was the natural skylights, multiple-storey central atriums and the adjoining rear connection to 221-the building behind, which was office space blending to a retail/food hall square blending to shopping stretch ... everything blended. Again, pretty and aesthetic. For an armoured assault against well secured, trigger happy defenders, a bloody nightmare. Her present access to the tac-net showed her enough for a very educated guess at the cause of the present hold-up. But not confirmation. She needed to talk to someone.

And that would be ... she glanced quickly across and noted the biggest truck with the biggest aerial antennae, several importances in uniforms and suits gathered at the rear. Too damn easy to spot. Lucky the terrorists had nothing heavier than rifles ... Damn, it'd be easier if she could just talk to Vanessa direct, but Vanessa was locked into the command circuit and that was tight security, she didn't want to break that and cause alarms, that would be just plain reckless.

Vanessa had command, SWAT Six supervised from the circling flyer, and from there the relay went back to CSA HQ, and down to this ground station. CSA HQ was always monitored by associated services, they doled out information to whoever they felt needed to know-Parliament, SIB, even news services on rare occasions, though not on this occasion, thank God. If she called HQ, the SIB would monitor it, and that wouldn't be good. She doubted they'd ever suspect she'd be calling from the on-site ground station. And, of course, there were no SIBs actually here. On a field op crawling with sweaty cops and SWAT grunts, heaven forbid.

She moved, crouched low and weaving past the sides of cars, and behind several police snipers, heavy-mag laser rifles plugged into portable recharge-good for snipers, lasers avoided the need for deflec tion shots. She just hoped they knew the difficulties with reflective glass and smoke penetration. She personally preferred slugs, nothing argued with velocity. Pulled up at the rear of the control van and straightened, stomach hurting, and shouldered her way between several suited men who could have been insurance salesmen for all she knew...

"Who's in charge?" And was nearly surprised at how people jumped, heads snapping about. Had it been that long since she'd used her best command voice? The van's side was open, graphical screen displays alight inside, more personnel in chairs or standing behind ...

"Who the hell are you?" one man shot back at her, incredulously, with the frayed air of someone who'd had to deal with wandering bureaucrats too many times now. Sandy pulled her badge and tossed it to him, jumped up to the van's sideboard as he caught it and another protested ... She caught sight of a policeman with Commander rank on his shoulders, consulting with several others further down, and shouldered toward him past men a head taller than her.

"Commander, you in charge?"

He glanced up, frowning, face lit up in the wash from multiple screens and the hushed, working atmosphere of tense voices and speaker-com.

"Who are you?" his second snapped, displeased at the interruption. Another man. Jesus, it was over eighty per cent men, she guessed, and at least half of them Indian ... she'd heard they dominated the more specialised segments of basic policing, anything involving guns and potential violence. Had heard grumblings about the Old Boy Raj at police HQ.

"I'm Ibrahim's secret weapon, I want a duty uplink, I can help."

"Says she's CSA," came a voice behind her, recent arrival from outside. "April Cassidy, Intelligence." Sarcastically. Sandy uplinked to police files, fast, and broke about twenty security procedures with a flurry of attack overrides through the security barriers ...

"We don't need Intel here, thank you," the colonel said dryly. "Please step outside, you're not wanted here." She found the files she wanted, cracked them open with no regard for subtlety, unleashed a flood of information that racketed past at speed ...

"Commander Azim, right?" Pressing the side wall as someone edged past in the enclosed space. "Nikil Azim, age fifty-three, fifteen years in special security, four commendations, one for active service. You're not in charge here, Commander, you're just supervising. Command rests with SWAT Four Commander Rice, I want to speak to her. I'm on temporary assignment to Intel, I'm technically SWAT Four, she's my CO." Frowns all round at that.

"Don't you know anything?" said the second, incredulously. A lieutenant, Sandy saw. "Go through CSA HQ. Don't bother us, follow procedure and stay the fuck out of our faces."

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind. Civilian men always tried to solve command disputes with aggression. Especially civilian men in positions of power. They thought it made them more effective. Sandy wondered briefly how such twisted logic had ever crawled from under a rock and seen the light of day. It limited her options severely.

"Come on, blondie, let's go," said the man behind her, pulling at her shoulder. The lieutenant returned to his discussion slate, shaking his head and muttering something about bloody pathetic females ... She took the man's hand off her shoulder, and squeezed. He turned white. A twist, and his knees hit the floor. She grabbed a handful of belt and a handful of shirt collar, lifted, carried him back to the open van door, and threw him out. He crash-landed five metres away and tumbled.

"Don't call me blondie," she called after him. Hit the door close mechanism, and the side of the van came whining shut behind as she squeezed back up the narrow aisle to where the Commander and his lieutenant were standing stunned. The lieutenant panicked and tried to reach for his gun. Sandy grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, then dumped him back up against the reinforced side wall, and pinned him there with a straight arm to the upper chest.

"Commander," she said calmly, "if you'd bothered to read CSA priority reports to all police personnel of your rank and security clearance, you'd know exactly who April Cassidy is, particularly the April Cassidy connected to SWAT Four under Lieutenant Rice. That you haven't read such reports is alarming. It suggests to me there's something fundamentally unsound with the present relationship between the CSA and Tanushan police. Worse, it's put us at this unfortunate impasse. What do you think we can do to rectify this unseemly situation?"

The Commander stared, eyes wide beneath his blue baseball cap. Too collected to react further, when any reaction would be fear or shock. A man lunged at her from back along the aisle. She kicked him in the stomach. He hit the floor behind the row of seats and curled into a gasping, wheezing ball.

"Sir," the lieutenant managed, in a small voice past the pressure on his chest, "I think she's the GI." The Commander stared at him. The lieutenant nodded, knowingly.

"I am so pleased," said the Commander, "to be surrounded by such genius intellects." The lieutenant winced. The Commander turned to Sandy. "Agent Cassidy, perhaps you'd like to speak to Lieutenant Rice?"

"I'd be delighted." Released the lieutenant as the Commander reached around for a headset. The lieutenant stood where she'd pinned him, unwilling to move. A full head taller than her and much broader, frozen as if confronted by a poisonous snake ready to strike. She smiled and patted him on the cheek. He winced at that, too. The Commander gave her the headset and she fixed it on, fixed the mobile source to where her belt would be if she'd worn one, squeezed past an end chair and swung herself up to seat her backside on a vacant console panel by the command chair. It gave her a good view of the van interior. A row of faces, all staring at her in the dim, artificial working light.

"Get back to work," she admonished them, "we're just discussing duty protocols." Some nervous glances back and forth at that. "What's the matter, haven't you seen a pretty girl before?" That got a response, a few nervous titters from the largely male cps crew.

"Come on, people," announced the Commander, clapping his hands, "back at it. She's just our friendly neighbourhood GI, we mistook her for someone else, our fault. Come on, there's three of those bastards still alive in there. There's lives at stake, let's pay some attention!"