State of Emergency (14 page)

'Connor!' McNally yelled into his radio. 'Get into the driver's
seat and reverse out –
slowly
.'

The crew in the back of the rig had all heard the radio
exchange with the operator. The shooter was high up
somewhere on the near side of the fire truck. Engineer Gene
Connor crawled to the front seat, keeping as low as possible,
out of the line of fire.

The engine was still running. Connor slid into the seat
and moved the shift into reverse with his body bent almost
double, his head half under the steering wheel. The fire truck
started to crawl backwards. Then a dozen rounds shattered
the driver's side window. Following bullets passed through
nothing but air until they arrived at the passenger's window,
sending beads of safety glass outward onto the concrete. But
two bullets hit Gene Connor's helmet, passed through it
like hot pokers through butter and smashed into the door,
taking large chunks of the fireman's brain with them. Blood
cascaded down Connor's face and he fell forward, his foot
jamming down on the accelerator.

The fire truck roared, its rear wheels screeching on the
concrete. Then it suddenly jolted backwards and ploughed
into a police car that was drawing to a halt immediately
behind it. It kept going as if it had hit a toy car, gaining
speed as it went. The police vehicle spun around 180 degrees,
slammed through the mangled doors of the building and
smashed into a girder dangling from the ceiling. The metal
tore from the concrete above the car, and the upper end of
the girder came loose at the joist. Twisting for a second on
its single remaining bolt, the girder came down like a felled
tree. The two cops in the car could see it all happen as if in
slow motion. One of them reached the door handle and had
even opened the door a fraction of an inch when the girder
landed on the car, crushing the roof.

Outside the building, the fire truck had collided with
the front of a companion rig. The engine of Connor's truck
squealed like a spiked pig, its wheels spinning, sending up
smoke and the stench of incinerated rubber.

Fifty feet from the truck, Captain James McNally was
crouching beside his dead colleague and completely
exposed to the shooter. Bullets ripped through the gaping
windows and sent up sparks as they shattered their way
through rubble and ricocheted from metal girders and
posts. Keeping low, he crawled as fast as he could towards
the stricken fire truck. The
rat-tat-tat
of shells hitting the
floor and the remains of the wall of the devastated building
followed him.

But McNally, it seemed, had nine lives. He reached the
truck and was finally shielded from the shooter. Pulling on
the door, he pushed Connor's corpse across the seat letting
it fall into the space between the front seats. He killed the
engine and the dreadful churning of wheels on concrete
stopped. Keeping low, he looked into the back of the truck.
Raul Burgos, who had been closest to the door, was obviously
dead – a ricocheted bullet had hit him in the chest and
ripped it open. Maney Steinberg appeared to be alive but
unconscious – he had been thrown across the back seats and
collided with an oxygen tank.

McNally crawled into the back as more bullets ripped
through the cabin. He checked Steinberg's pulse and shook
the unconscious fireman, slapping his face. 'Maney!' he
shouted, and shook him again. 'We've gotta get out!'

McNally went out first, dragging the semi-conscious
Steinberg with him. His biggest fear was that the shooter
would hit the truck's gas tank. He was just trying to figure
out how he could get away from the rig and reach cover
when he heard fresh gunfire. 'Jesus Christ!' he exclaimed.

It was coming from the second rig. Moving to the back of
the truck, between it and the building, McNally could just
see three cops shielded behind a patrol car. They were taking
turns to release a few rounds in the direction of the shooter
before ducking down as the return fire came searing through
the rancid night air. The cops were providing cover for the
crew from the other truck to crawl out through the cabin.

The shooter unleashed a few more rounds towards the
cops, then he sprayed the fire truck before flicking back to
the cops again. But he was over-stretched. All four firemen
made it safely behind the patrol car. McNally dashed towards
the car, dragging Steinberg with him.

Three more patrol cars screeched to a stop behind the first
one. Six officers scrambled out under the first car's cover and
started firing in the direction of the sniper.

McNally was about to direct the firemen out of the
shooter's line of sight and into the CCC when there was
an incredibly loud roar from the plaza between the main
road and the steps leading down from the entrance of the
gutted CCC. It sounded like nothing on earth. They all spun
round to see what had caused the noise, and for a second
the gunfire ceased completely.

'What in the name of fuck is that?' McNally gasped.

Nine minutes after leaving Base One, Josh Thompson slowed
the Silverback as he flew over the Californian coast at 60,000
feet. He brought the plane down to 20,000 feet, still a long
way above the commercial air traffic coming into LAX, and
checked in with Cyber Control at Tintara.

'You have airspace clearance,' a technician at Base One
told him. 'All commercial flights across the country have
been diverted or grounded. Emergency services have been
notified.'

The devastated shell of the CCC lay directly below. Josh
put on the close-range scanners, sweeping all electromagnetic
frequencies, from radio waves in the low-frequency range,
around 10 MHz, to gamma radiation with frequencies
upward of 10 ExHz. Next he instructed the computer to
filter out anything unrelated to the current situation at the
CCC and its environs. The computer profiled the scene as
a holographic image in his visor. Josh could see the fire
trucks and police cars and the shootout taking place 20,000
feet below. It was all accompanied by the radio exchanges
and live sound. He focused in on the shooter, who was
located on the roof of a gas station directly across from the
entrance to the CCC. But even with the technology aboard
the Silverback, all he could make out was a hooded figure
crouched over a machine gun.

Taking the Silverback down, Josh found a suitable landing
site in the plaza close to the main doors of the ripped-open
building. At the same time, he monitored the gunman on the
roof. As the craft came down to land, he saw the shooter shift
position, but he could still see almost nothing that might ID
the man. A few dozen feet above the ground, the Silverback
drew parallel with the roof of the gas station. The figure moved
away from the gun, grabbed a bag and vanished from sight.

Josh decided to turn away from the assassin. His first
priority was to get into the CCC and assess the situation.
With a great roar from the engines, the Silverback touched
down on the debris-covered concrete of the plaza. He shut
down the engines and suddenly the aircraft was silent and
still, sitting outside the CCC like Klaatu's flying saucer in
The Day the Earth Stood Still
.

He was removing his helmet and about to tell the
computer to open the canopy when a voice broke through
on 506 MHz, the radio frequency most commonly used by
the LAPD. 'This is a designated emergency scene. Exit the
aircraft with your hands up.'

'What?' Josh said aloud. Then he pulled his helmet back
into place and tapped the virtual keyboard. 'Mark,' he
intoned into his mic. 'I think I have a problem here. It seems
the natives didn't know I was coming after all.'

For a moment there was only silence at the end of the
line. 'Roger that, Josh. We've been trying to clear it but it's
chaos down there. Leave it with me a minute. Out.'

'This is a designated emergency scene. Exit the aircraft
with your hands up,' came the radio transmission again.

Josh looked out through the canopy. The building was a
complete mess. Fires were still raging inside, flames licking
up the exterior walls. There were bodies strewn everywhere,
ripped asunder by the powerful blasts and thrown around
like rag dolls. Outside the building stood a dozen fire trucks
and at least another dozen patrol cars. But only a few figures
were moving around. Josh realised the shooter must have
had them pinned down.

'This is Silverback 4,' he said into the mic, transmitting
the message to the sender of the police message and through
speakers on the outside of the plane. 'I'm supposed to have
clearance. I'm here to help.'

Silence the other end. Silence from Base One.

Josh flicked off the mic and swore loudly.

'There has been no official clearance for your aircraft. I
repeat, this is a designated emergency scene. Exit the aircraft
with your hands up,' came the police response.

Josh looked through the canopy and saw four officers
approaching, sweeping their guns in front of them. Others
were out of the patrol cars and leaning over the roofs of their
vehicles to provide cover. One group kept their guns trained
on the roof of the gas station. The rest were pointed at the
Silverback.

'Mark?' Josh said, his voice betraying his growing
exasperation. 'I need help here . . .'

'We're working on it, Josh. Bear with us.'

Josh knew he could simply sit tight. Nothing the LAPD
could offer would so much as scratch the Silverback. But he
had come here to do a job and he was being thwarted – by
red tape, for Christ's sake!

'I'm going out there,' Josh announced to Base One.

'No, Josh. Don't do that –'

But Josh switched off his comms and was pulling off
the helmet again. His finger hovered for a moment over
the virtual keyboard, and after a second of indecision he
unlocked the canopy and let it slowly pivot upwards.

Outside, the four cops stopped advancing and crouched
down. They kept their weapons trained on Josh as he lifted
himself free of the craft and began to back down the steps
from the cockpit. Reaching the ground, he turned slowly
with his arms raised. Two of the cops ran forward, grabbed
his wrists and pulled restraining plastic strips around them.
They led him to the nearest patrol car.

After telling his captors his name and purpose, Josh
decided to say nothing more. The fire trucks were emptying
now. Hoses were pulled into action as the fire crews dashed
into the building. Two policemen ran over to the youths who
had been gunned down just inside the concourse. Captain
James McNally covered the bodies of his colleagues as they
lay side by side close to the wall of the CCC. Then he joined
the remainder of Fire Station 9 inside the building.

Josh was bundled into a patrol car and watched over by a
single cop, a young man who looked like a scared rabbit. His
blue shirt was soaked with perspiration. They were sitting in
the front of the car and the cop had his gun level with Josh's
left temple. The cop's hands were shaking.

Josh was growing increasingly concerned. But his concern
was tempered with frustration.
We're all on the same side
,
he kept telling himself. He was about to say something to
the young cop when he saw another policeman approach the
patrol car. By the look of the stripes on his sleeves, he was a
senior officer. He ordered the rookie to go into the CCC.

'You're Josh Thompson,' the cop said.

'I believe so.'

'You're part of something called E-Force.'

'Correct.'

'What are you doing here? You can understand we're a
little anxious.'

'If you know my name and where I'm from, I don't need
to answer that.'

The cop sighed. 'Humour me.'

'Two more vehicles will be here soon, carrying my
colleagues and specialised equipment,' Josh said. 'Our task
is to rescue Senator Kyle Foreman, who we believe to be alive
inside the building.'

The cop simply stared at him. 'FBI?'

'No. We're also keen to help the emergency services in
any way we can.'

'Yeah, well, we need it,' the officer said wearily, looking
at the cataclysmic scene beyond the window of the patrol
car. 'And if that fancy looking thing out there is anything
to go by –'

But before he could finish his sentence, an ear-splitting
noise erupted from outside. The cop looked startled. Everyone
was jumpy as hell. But then he saw a huge hamburger-shaped
object lowering itself onto the plaza 50 feet from
Josh's Silverback, and he relaxed a little. 'Looks like your
buddies are here,' he said, stony-faced.

The Dragon had watched gob-smacked as Josh Thompson's
Silverback came out of the night sky and settled on the
concrete of the plaza.

Perching up here had been extremely risky, but
necessary. His employers' instructions were clear. He had
to make sure Foreman did not survive even if he escaped
the impact of the blast. To make doubly sure, he needed
to hamper the rescue operation in any way he could. The
Four Horsemen were nothing if not thorough. The Dragon
respected that.

His police scanner told him SWAT teams were minutes
away and he had already decided it was time to go, but
seeing the futuristic craft appear out of nowhere threw him
off. He snatched up his bag and headed for the trap door at
the back of the roof.

The key to any successful sniper mission was to prepare
an escape route. The trapdoor had been left open for a
speedy exit, but the Dragon was leaving at his own pace.
Crouching low, he ran across the roof and quickly sank
into deep shadow. He slithered into the opening in the roof
and his feet found the rungs of a metal ladder. Once inside,
he flicked on a torch and pointed it downwards. The light
illuminated a narrow access way, but beyond the dissipated
beam there was nothing but blackness.

The Dragon pulled down the cover and threaded the
lock, clicking it into place and testing it. Next he moulded
a knuckle of plastic explosive into the rim of the door, set a
tiny pressure fuse and retreated down the ladder.

The access way led directly to the gas tanks under the
station forecourt. A dozen feet below ground, an inspection
channel a yard wide and two high ran between six chambers,
one for each pump. Doors led off the inspection channel into
each chamber, with windows at head height. The Dragon
reached the foot of the ladder and saw the opening into the
inspection channel directly ahead. Flashing the torch beam
into the darkness, he could make out the curves of the first
two chambers, one on each side of the inspection channel.
He took three paces into the darkness. Peering in through
the first window on the left, he could see the tank was half-full.
The one on the right was almost empty.

It took just a few seconds for the Dragon to run the length
of the channel. At the far end stood another ladder pinned
to the wall. He climbed it, counting the rungs under his
breath. Reaching the top, he flicked off his torch and pushed
on the metal door above his head.

Clambering out into the stinking air, the Dragon carefully
lowered the door back into place and crawled away to the
cover of some bushes just beyond the perimeter of the gas
station. Between him and the burned-out CCC stood a row of
tall bushes that stank of burned vegetation. In their matted
branches lay detritus from the blasts.

The Dragon could see just beyond the bushes to where the
fire trucks and patrol cars stood, the devastated Conference
Center their backdrop. Hearing shouts from close by, he
watched as two Saracen assault vehicles rumbled past, their
7.62 mm turret-mounted machine guns pointed directly
at him. But he was quite invisible, his dark form merging
seamlessly with the night.