She patched in to the Geneva law enforcement net—she could eavesdrop, but not talk—and flipped down a police-fire-and-emergency map of the city on her cockpit’s heads-up display. Pinpoints of light on the map showed the location of the Hall of Government, the Senatorial office building, and the Hotel Duquesne, where everyone who was anyone was staying.
Heather and her troopers weren’t the only people up early in Geneva this morning. The map already showed the first spots of political demonstrations. Pink lines swirled on the map, marking their locations. Back at her headquarters, Duncan was probably going out of his head, but these weren’t her concern, except possibly as obstacles to be avoided.
“Paladin, we’ve confirmed an arms cache on the northwest side,” came the voice of Santangelo in the Fox armored car. “Kittery Renaissance material.”
“Well, let’s go,” she said. The location of the cache came up on her display as a pulsing red dot. “Follow my lead.”
She set the Spider into motion, turning from the ’Mech bay out into the street. The sky outside wasn’t yet fully light. They made a strange procession, the thirty-ton ’Mech, a wheeled light vehicle behind and a hover darting ahead.
Thirty tons is thirty tons, and the centuries-old street vibrated with each heavy footfall. Running ’Mechs in Terra’s ancient cities was always a risky business. There was so much buried infrastructure, you never knew when some government’s generations-old poor maintenance might result in the pavement caving in beneath you today. Heather kept the Spider’s steps slow, carefully gauging the path ahead, working carefully through streets designed for lighter, narrower vehicles.
Law enforcement woke up to her presence; she heard chatter on the net, then reports of her movement. Some confusion amid the police, then a voice from higher up: “That’s a Paladin. Let it go. They’re doing what they do.”
“Five minutes to contact,” Santangelo said over the command net. “Rules of engagement?”
“Here are your rules,” Heather said. “Pass the word to the militia: We do not shoot at people, even if they’re shooting at us. We destroy materiel only, and that only if we know it’s Kittery Renaissance stuff.”
“And how will we know that?”
“If a place is on our list, consider the stuff in it KR by definition. Anything else—we’ll know it belongs to the bad guys when people start shooting at us. And repeat, no shooting back; I want to see property damage only. Be careful not to start any fires. I don’t want today to be remembered as the day we burned down Geneva.”
“Lousy terrain for us,” piped up Koss, the junior Knight, who was riding the Shandra. She’d chosen to wear light battle armor for this mission—it would do something to protect her from small-arms fire at least, though it wouldn’t help much against the heavy stuff. “We can get ambushed from on top, from below, or on the sides and back—and we can’t run or hide.”
“Keep thinking cheerful thoughts,” Heather advised. “Foot troops, off your bikes. That’s our target ahead. Koss and Santangelo, take station on the two far corners, keep reinforcements from coming in. Foot troops, in the doors ahead.”
“What are the chances that we have surprise?” Santangelo asked.
“Depends on whether they’re deaf, blind and stupid, I suppose.”
“You mean, ‘nil.’”
“That’s about the shape of it,” Heather said. “The only question is whether they expected a ’Mech to join the party this early.”
“If they were listening to the police bands earlier,” Santangelo said, “then they certainly expect it now.”
“So let’s not wait.” She scorched a marker on the building with a laser set to low power. “Let’s go.”
53
Warehouse District, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
20 December 3134
“Squad, by sections, overwatch advance!”
In response to their squad leader’s orders, Heather GioAvanti’s borrowed militia troopers moved into action. Those on the right and the left advanced, while the ones facing the center of the building remained still, their eyes surveying the facade for movement or any sign of resistance. They saw nothing, and heard no sounds other than the normal ones of a city waking up. With a rush of booted feet over ancient streets, the flankers reached the walls and stood still, eyes scanning, weapons high.
Then it was the center’s turn to advance, rushing, waiting for the sound of gunfire. Nothing. They reached the doors.
“Screw subtle,” said the squad leader. “Breaching charges.”
The charges were set, then detonated. The large doors came off their hinges, falling inward. The men at the center dashed inside, rushing into eerie quiet, followed by the flankers from the front corners.
Through it all, Heather GioAvanti watched over the action from the cockpit of her Spider, ready to provide supporting fire if needed. So far, it hadn’t been. For a panicky moment she wondered if perhaps they’d hit the wrong warehouse. She rechecked the coordinates—no, this was the one.
Then Koss in the Shandra and Santangelo in the Fox reported all secure in the rear of the building. A signal from inside the warehouse, from the militia corporal leading section two: “Ma’am. We have a large amount of military materiel here. Pistols, rifles, charge canisters, gas masks and”—he dropped synch, came back a moment later—“missiles. In launch racks. Instructions?”
“Destroy it all,” Heather said. “Render it inoperable. Speed is important. Make it good.”
She keyed off the circuit. A moment later, the squad reappeared, trotting out from between the blast-broken doors of the warehouse.
“Fire in the hole!” the corporal shouted.
A cloud of dust rolled out of the warehouse doors; up above, a skylight blew out in a rainbow of glass fragments. The shockwave vibrated through the limbs of Heather’s Spider, and the glass in the windows of the building behind her shattered and fell to the street.
“Right,” Heather said. “Next on the list.” She read them the coordinates. “Mount up and move out, people.”
“Next one may not be so easy,” Santangelo commented over the command circuit. “That one wasn’t guarded and we had surprise on our side. Next one, if they aren’t awake by now, they’re dead.”
“We’ll take them. Hopefully without trashing large sections of the city.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Santangelo replied. “But I can’t give any guarantees about the KR.”
“How long until contact?” she asked.
“Under three.”
“Hit it. Same plan.”
The Fox and the Shandra peeled out ahead of Heather’s skittering ’Mech, the bike-mounted troopers of the militia infantry squad following at speed.
“They did what?” Cullen Roi stared at the foot messenger. The man had found him at his Spartan west-side apartment, finishing the last of a hasty breakfast before going to the temporary command center he had established specifically for the day’s activities.
“Destroyed our supply cache at the Grundewald warehouse,” repeated the messenger breathlessly. “And they’re—”
A second foot messenger hurried in.
“Reported attack on our warehouse at Lundquist Street. Several vehicles, at least one ’Mech. Commander Hansel believes that it’s Paladin GioAvanti’s people.”
“What are the police and the militia doing about this?” Cullen demanded. He didn’t get an answer; he didn’t expect one. Not from these two. He put down his coffee and said, “I’ll be at the command center. Bring any other messages there. Here are your orders: To all cache commanders. Empty your warehouses. Distribute your arms and armor as best you can. If attacked, resist.”