“With that keen eye for operational detail, Abernathy, I can’t believe you haven’t made sergeant yet. Special Agent Hoff is the United States’ eyes and ears on this caper. Here to make sure we primitives do a good job. Being that she represents a key trading partner, and that you would no doubt prefer your loved ones to travel by helium and not its more combustible cousin, yes, she will be joining us.” More laughter. “The Special Agent will accompany us in the infantry element. Sgt. Baylor will command the armored element.”
“How will the sergeant know to assist us if he’s so far away?” Abernathy asked. I’d been wondering the same thing. Radio has been around for over a century, but I’d yet to see one, and didn’t know if it was kosher to Steam Pointe orthodoxy.
“The way you queens will scream if anything goes wrong, I’ll be able to hear it even with my engines on,” Sgt. Baylor called out.
“Or we’ll simply launch a flare,” Speer said. “And with that spirit of team cooperation, I yield the floor to our esteemed Triclops commander.”
Baylor was a thickset man with a lumberjack beard. He looked like he’d have trouble catching anyone going faster than a slow jog, but if he did, it wouldn’t be hard for him to crush their trachea with those tree-trunk arms.
“As Inspector Speer mentioned during his comedy routine,” Baylor began, “your orders are to take this terrorist alive. You’ll be shocked not-at-all to learn that he’s Arab. His name is Mohammad Talib. You’ll be given photographs to help identify him, but just remember that if he has a deeper suntan than you, that’s probably our man.” With that, Baylor began outlining the route this steam-driven lynch mob would take.
The caravan rumbled out of the SIO’s courtyard just as the sun was beginning to set. The Triclops turned out to be a combination of locomotive and tank — an armored, self-propelled artillery piece with not one but three long barrels protruding out. Three small zeppelins whispered off the building’s rooftop, and shadowed us from above.
Inside the lead personnel carrier, I checked my Glock.
Speer sat across from me. “Nervous?” he asked.
“Excited.”
“I just thought you might be anxious, given how you’re fidgeting with your sidearm.”
“You don’t think it’s a good idea to check your equipment before an operation?”
From his holster he pulled out his revolver to show me. It was large and long-barreled, like something a movie cowboy might use. Its black metal was inlaid with silver blazons. It could have been something from a museum except that the scratches made clear it had seen heavy use. “Unlike autoloading pistols, revolvers never jam.”
“I’d rather have an autoloader’s higher capacity,” I said, ejecting the Glock’s magazine and brandishing its ten rounds in front of him. “Not to mention the quick reloading.”
“We have rapid-loading as well. Plus, we enjoy more exotic bullet capabilities.” Speer opened his gun’s cylinder and pulled out one of its six bullets. The cartridge was thick as a .45, but longer than any magnum load I’d seen. “Jacketed hollow-point for ordinary circumstances,” he said. Then, depressing a button near the hammer, he detached the cylinder and put it aside.
From a vest pocket, he withdrew another cylinder, except this one was gold. He took out a round, and I could see its red tip. “Mercury-tipped explosive for more trying circumstances,” he said. Then he reloaded the bullet, and attached the cylinder to his revolver.
“You people use explosive bullets?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’d heard that there isn’t much street crime here. Why such heavy artillery? I mean, why even have a three-gunned tank, much less feel the need to drive it around city streets?”
For the first time, Speer looked uncomfortable. “You are correct on that point. Except in a few communities to the south, and some of the barrier islands, murders and property crimes are rare here. But when you have a people who have put the physical sciences on such a pedestal, who are taught from childhood that they can bend the universe with iron gears, steam engines, and Tesla coils, that the only limits to what they can achieve are their willpower and imagination… Well, perhaps it’s inevitable that such knowledge would be used by some for evil. These are what you might call supercriminals. My office protects the people from them.”
There wasn’t anything about that in my briefing at State. I wanted to know more, but he quickly asked, “What caliber are you shooting?” pointing at the top of my magazine. “It doesn’t look like the .40 I understand many American law enforcer agencies use.”
“It’s a Glock 29. I shoot 10mm.”
He looked skeptical. “I read that the FBI stopped using 10mm back in the ’80s. Apparently it was too powerful a load, and certain agents — by which I mean female affirmative action hires — couldn’t control it.”
“Yeah, it is a hot load. I control it just fine.”
“Are you sure you’re not just firing a downloaded version of the round?”
When the 10mm turned out to have too much perceived recoil for a lot of people to use, they started to come out with a “lite” version — a nice way of saying “less powder” in the casing.
“These are full-power loads,” I said.
“Would you even know the difference?”
“I should. I had to beg for special permission to carry the round, and part of the deal was I had to pay for my own ammo.”
His eyebrows rose ever so slightly. I took that to mean he was impressed. His approval shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, but there it was: I was proud.
Our carrier stopped and we dismounted with the other SIO officers. It was fully dark now. I couldn’t see our trailing pocket zeppelins anymore. The Triclops remained behind while Speer, myself, and fifteen other men fanned into the woods.
We moved parallel to the road. Silently crossing a mile of broken ground, we finally came to a tall, wooden stockade.
Speer quietly ordered his men to dig beneath it with their pack-shovels, and once they had, we slipped under it.
The industrial airship yard was larger than even the airport, with only a few electric lights dotting its expanse. Still, I could make out hangars like low mountains in the distance. Far from us, there were a few airships anchored in the open.
Nearby was a squat, brick office building. It looked kind of like an aboveground bunker, which made sense given the tons of flammable hydrogen lying around. The lights were on, and I could see movement in the windows. According to Khaliq, Mohammad Talib was hiding there.
Stacks of shipping containers and I-beams lay here and there about the yard, but nowhere near the building. It was the only structure in the immediate area. Nothing else to offer cover for a hundred yards around it.
Speer gestured to his men. Two squads moved across the grass towards the building, silent as ghosts while Speer and I hung back with the third squad.
Then an explosion shattered the quiet.
It took me a second to process what my eyes had just seen: one moment, a squad leader was halfway across the field. The next, there was a fiery plume of dirt, hurling the man into the air and blowing off his leg below the knee.
“Minefield!” one of them yelled. “Fall back, fall back!”
Blinding floodlights hummed to cruel life atop the building. The field was suddenly brighter than Miami at noon.
Speer’s head swung around, looking at the stockade that would block any escape, and yelled to his squads: “No, it’s a trap! Switch to mercury rounds, shoot out a path through the minefield, and keep moving forward!”
The advance squads stiffened at Speer’s command, pulled the standard-round clips from their rifles and loaded red-tipped cartridges.
“Smoke grenades!” he yelled. “Conceal our advance!”