“One street more,” Dvora said, folding the map and putting it away. “The building will be defended…” She raised her hand and they all stopped, guns ready, alert.
A man had stepped out of a large open entrance ahead moving cautiously, his back to them. A civilian, apparently unarmed. “Don’t move and you will be all right,” Dvora said. The man turned and gasped when he saw the armed troops.
“I’m not doing nothing. I was working in there, heard the alarms, what’s happening… ?”
“Back inside,” Dvora told him, signaling her squad to follow. “What is this place?”
“Quartermaster supply. I was servicing the forklifts, charging them up.”
“Is there a way through this building?” Dvora asked.
“Yeah, sure. Stairs to the second floor; cut through the offices. Look, lady, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“There has been trouble, fighting, rebel sympathizers. But we are stopping them.”
The man looked around at the silent, armed squad, their uniforms bare of identification or marks of rank. He started to ask a question, then instantly thought better of it. “Just follow me. I’ll show you the way.”
They went up one flight of stairs and started along the hall.
“You said the second floor?” Dvora was suspicious, her gun raised.
“That’s right, this one. The second floor.”
She waved him on. Little details. She had forgotten that Americans called the ground floor the first. And who had forgotten the little detail about the barriers in the road? She wondered how the others were doing, hut knew better than to break radio silence.
“That’s the street door ahead,” their captive said. “Where you want to go.
Dvora nodded and pointed to Grigor, who stepped forward and slapped the man on the back of the neck. He stifled the startled scream with one big hand, then eased the unconscious figure to the floor.
After unlocking the door, Dvora slowly opened it a crack and looked out, distant gunfire and explosions could be heard — then quickly closed it again. She set her radio on the command frequency.
“Black cat five to black cat one. Do you read me?”
The answer came instantly. “Black cat one reading.”
“In position.”
“Black cat two is in trouble. Pinned down. You’re on your own. Effect entrance now. Out.”
The squad stood waiting for instructions, weapons ready; Dvora looked around at them. Good people. But they knew next to nothing yet about combat. They were about to learn. The survivors would be experienced.
“The groups attacking the front of the target have been held up,” she said. “They must be meeting strong resistance. So we’re going to have to do the job. The building across the road should not be as well defended. We hope. The plan is to get in there, get to the rear where it backs onto the target. We go through that wall…”
She broke off as they heard a siren in the street outside, growing louder. She pointed to Grigor who ran forward and dropped flat, then opened the door slightly. “Car coming,” be said. “It may be stopping at the doorway there — someone has come out and is waving to it.”
“We go,” Dvora said, making an instant decision. “Bazooka. Take it out as soon as it stops. Then put one through the doorway. We’ll follow right behind.”
After that it was a matter of training. Vasil rolled aside and the bazooka gunner dropped down in his spot, eyes to the sight, his weapon trained. His loader was beside him, pushing the rocket missile into the rear of the tube, slapping his shoulder to let him know it was ready. The rest of the squad moved to the sides, clear of the backlash of flame when it was fired. In the street the siren wailed down to silence as the car braked to stop.
A tongue of fire shot back from the bazooka and an explosion rocked the street outside. The loader was jamming in another rocket even as the glass from broken windows was crashing to the ground.
“Smoke, target obscured,” the bazooka gunner muttered, waiting — then the flame lanced out again. The explosion, inside the building this time, was muffled. Dvora threw the door wide and led the squad in a rush.
A smoking wreck of a car, bodies burning in the crackling interior. Up the steps and through the ruined doorway, jumping over the huddle of still more bodies here. One of them alive, raising his gun, soaked in blood. Two shots cracked out and he fell with the others. They were jammed in the entrance, fighting to get in. A long hallway, running, shouting soldiers coming toward them.
“Down!” Vasil shouted, standing spread-legged while they dropped, spraying death like water from a hose from the muzzle of his machine gun. Sheets of flame blasted from the recoilless ports behind his arm, empty casings bounced clattering from the wall. The big 50-calibre slugs tore the running men apart, spun them about, hurled them down, killed them all.
There was little mopping up to do. The speed and shock of their attack had carried the defenders before it. But time was running out; they were falling behind. They moved faster now, following Dvora’s direction as she consulted the detailed floor plan she had been given.
Thurgood-Smythe had supplied it of course. Along with all of the other information needed to launch the attack. She had forgotten the man, and her doubts, in the cold frenzy of the fighting. Nor could she afford to think about him now.
“This is the place,” she said, when they entered the large room, one end filled with packing cases. “That wall, where the notices are posted. Six meters in from the left-hand edge.”
And they had even remembered to bring the measuring rules. Three of them had been issued so at least one would get this far. Dvora got her breath back while they made the wall.
“Take cover,” she said. “In the hall, behind those crates. When the charges go, we go. We should be in a wide corridor leading to the entrance that has to be unblocked. This is the big one.”
Dvora checked the fuses herself; all secure. Then ran back to the hall, the wire hissing from the roller in her hand. Dropped through and hit the firing button at the same time.
For one instant as the charge blew she thought of Thurgood-Smythe, and if he had told the truth about what awaited them on the other side of the wall.
After that there was no time for thought. Coughing in the cloud of dust and smoke, scrambling. through the ragged opening. Running. The surprise of the defenders as they were taken from their rear, heads turning, mouths opening even as they fell.
It was butchery. The heavy bunkers outside were open from the rear, had no defenses from that flank. Grenades and gunfire cleaned them out.
“Come on now… black cat… the door is open…” she gasped into her radio. Troops appeared through the thick smoke. General Blonstein was first.
“Final goal. Missile control room,” he said. “Follow me.”
They stopped outside the entrance to the complex, still out of breath from rushing up the three floors.
“Keep your weapons lowered when we go in there,” Blonstein said. “We don’t want any sabotage. I’ll talk to them, explain, give them a story, while the rest of you filter through the control consoles. Remember, we want to capture this place, not destroy…”
His words were interrupted by the thud of a small explosion, apparently from a room across the hall from them; a dozen gun muzzles were trained on it as the knob slowly turned. It opened even more slowly and a man appeared, leaning back against the doorjamb for support; his clothing drenched in blood.
“Thurgood-Smythe!” Dvora said.
“There has been treachery in high places,” Thurgood-Smythe whispered as he slowly slumped down to the floor.