Built in 1920 as the Cadillac LaSalle Sales and Service center, the six-story cube-shaped building was cement and stone, with subdued art deco styling. It sat two blocks north of the I-94 freeway where it cut east-west through the middle of the city. It was the tallest building heading south until you crossed over I-94, and as a result from the sixth floor there was an unobstructed view southwest to almost directly east, to the bridges over the freeway and beyond. They could see every surface street crossing the below-ground I-94 between I-75 and I-10, the Lodge Freeway. Seven streets, seven bridges, from 3rd Avenue to the west to Beaubien to the east, roughly three-quarters of a mile. From west to east—Beaubien, Brush, John R, Woodward, Cass, 2nd Avenue and, finally, 3rd Avenue. They’d memorized the maps, had images of the entire area in their heads.
Cass was the most direct route from the gate of the military base to the New Center area, but Woodward was the widest street. The first force had driven straight up Cass. The next wave of Tabs—and they were all betting there would be, another one—could roll north up any one of those streets, or the Lodge, or all of them all at once, as they all ran straight to West Grand Boulevard and beyond.
There were enough broken windows in the vacant and graffitied office/retail building during that initial scouting trip that busting a few more on the top floor in the middle of the night—part of their prep work for the mission—didn’t draw any unwanted attention. They’d dragged a second desk into the large office which occupied the center of the south side of the building as well.
The two of them entered the building with their handguns out and very cautiously worked their way up to the top floor, but the building still seemed to be empty. After calling out to Morris they sat their gear down by the desks and then quickly boobytrapped all the stairwell doors so no one could approach them without getting a nasty surprise.
The desks were ten feet apart, and set back from the windows, and the men set up their rifles on them angling outward. They’d been trained as snipers first and observers second, and old habits died hard. For this mission they were running DMRs, Designated Marksman Rifles, in this case Lanxang Tactical Cas-22s. While they used the same operating system as an AR-15, these were hand-built and hand-fitted precision battle rifles with stainless fluted 18-inch Lothar Walther barrels that would do groups far better than an inch at one hundred yards. They were tipped with SIG suppressors to help keep their position hidden for as long as possible if they had to shoot.
But… if they did have to shoot, they’d lased all seven bridges and knew exactly how far away they were. The opposite side of the Cass Avenue bridge, directly south of them, was just two hundred yards away. The 3rd Avenue bridge, farthest to the west, was a hair over five hundred yards. The furthest bridge was Beaubien, over seven hundred and fifty yards away. All their magazines were loaded with Black Hills’ specialty Mk 262 Mod 4 ammo, a 5.56 load featuring 77-grain TMK bullets optimized for performance at distance. The rifles were topped with Vortex Razor HD Gen III scopes. Their 1-10X magnification range was a good compromise and allowed the rifles to be used at close range if they had to fight their way clear.
“Bipod or backpack?” Seattle mused aloud.
“Backpack,” Bill said without hesitation. “You might have to do a lot of lateral movement.” From the Beaubien to the 3rd Avenue bridge was over 120 degrees of swing.
Seattle just grunted, then looked down at the electronic device on the desk. It, not the rifles, was their primary weapon. It was why they were in that building.
The two men stood two yards apart, behind the desks, binoculars up to their eyes, scanning each intersection in turn.
“Soon?” Seattle wondered.
Bill shrugged behind his binos. “Could be thirty seconds, could be twenty minutes. I don’t think it’ll be longer than that, if they’re hoping to catch us in those buildings.”
Their radios were clipped to their chests, and they clicked to life. “Almighty to all squads, Almighty to all squads. Eye in the sky shows enemy reinforcements en route. Four columns, proceeding north up the Lodge, Cass, Woodward, and John R. They’re moving cautiously. Total of at least thirty vehicles. ETA three, possibly five mikes. Over.”
Bill and Seattle looked at each other, then at the building around them. “Well fuck, I guess we guessed right,” Bill said.
Seattle looked at the encrypted multi-channel wireless detonator sitting on the table. “Jesus, I’m glad we thought to label the frequencies, this could get hairy.” His heart was hammering in his chest, and fresh sweat broke out all over his body. He looked from the detonator to his partner. “You want the honors? You’ve got rank.”
“Yeah.” Bill wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs and busied himself with the detonator, flipping it on and making sure it had power and signal. They’d stuck strips of tape all down the side of it, with the list of pre-set frequencies and the streets to which they corresponded. “They could veer off onto another street and the drone might not see it in time, so keep your eyes open.”
“Roger that.”
The two men, binoculars glued to their faces, swung left and right like metronomes.
“Enemy spotted!” Bill shouted suddenly. “Cass. Maybe a couple blocks south of I-94, heading this way.”
Seattle swung his binoculars left and right, checking the other streets. The other Tab elements weren’t in sight yet. “Nothing else in view.”
Bill grabbed the detonator and clicked it to the frequency pre-set labeled “Cass”. He held it in one hand while using the other to hold the binoculars up to his eyes. The column of vehicles on Cass Avenue was moving slowly, tentatively. Bill flipped off the safety and waited. “Come on baby, come to Papa,” he murmured.
Seattle was looking left and right. “Still nothing elsewhere.”
The armored column was barely one hundred yards south of the bridge over I-94. An IMP and a Growler were in the lead, followed by at least four more Growlers, an IMP, and at the rear of the column Bill saw the squat shape of a Toad.
As the armored force crawled north at slightly better than walking speed, on their right was a four-story office building, part of a local university. On the left was a six-story parking garage. The roof gunners on the IMPs were slewing their weapons back and forth, checking every window and shadow. The street was one lane in each direction, with parking on both sides. There were a few vehicles parked or abandoned on the street, but not many.
Past the office building on the right was a tavern, then a Carhartt retail outlet, then the bridge, which was very exposed.
From his perch on the sixth floor of the old Cadillac LaSalle building Bill watched the lead vehicles pass the rusted white van parked on the street just before the tavern. He waited until the second pair of vehicles, two Growlers, were abreast of the van, then hit the switch.
The scene through his binoculars disappeared as the four hundred pounds of C4 packed into the body panels of the rattle-trap minivan exploded. Every window still in a frame within two hundred yards was blown out, and the glass in the office windows near Bill and Seattle cracked as the huge blast wave hit their building a fraction of a second after detonation. They felt it in their chests, and their feet.
“Jesus,” Seattle said. There was now a huge cloud expanding where the convoy had been. They’d positioned the van so the blast would reflect off the faces of the office building on one side and the parking garage on the other. They caught just a glimpse of the lead IMP on its side and a Growler on its roof before the cloud of dust and smoke covered them. Movement caught his eye and he looked over, then jerked his binoculars up to his eyes. “John R!” he shouted excitedly. “John R!”