The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (28 page)

We will launch our assault at
0400
when we expect only a few employees to be present—those few researchers who are following their experiments overnight.

We are under strict orders to avoid casualties among both the civilians and the security personnel. I have a feeling the latter will be a challenge.

Outside the building, there are heat and motion sensors, patrolling seekers, and a staff of three Uther-Fen security guards who meet and interview all visitors. There are no guards inside. The interior security at Reyvik Biosystems is entirely automated and relies primarily on the identification of trusted personnel and the use of biometrically coded locks.

It should be easy enough to get to the front door. We’ll just come in through the main driveway as if we have an appointment.

This is a mission that should have belonged to the president’s forces, but Cryptic Arrow’s intelligence team believes that notice of the suspected INDs never reached his office.

So it’s ours.

We’re not ready for it.

We haven’t trained together in months, we’re not in shape, and none of us knows how our new command structure is supposed to work. I’m surprised Shima didn’t give this mission to Cryptic Arrow’s Squad Two. The only conclusion I can draw is that she trusts us more.

•   •   •   •

We rig up on a cool, Georgia spring night and then, with our helmets under our arms and our HITRs on our shoulders, we assemble for some final words.

We’re inside an aircraft hangar lit only by the faint red glow of emergency lights. The bifold door is not quite closed. From outside comes the sound of a light rain pattering on
the tarmac. Behind us are two cargo vans of the same make, model, and colors as the vans carrying Blue Devil and Gold Devil. There are no windows in their cargo areas, but there are sliding doors on both right and left.

We’ll drive the vans to the remote campus of Reyvik Biosystems and, if all goes as planned, we will exchange them for the ones rigged with INDs, hoping it will look to any watching satellites as if we are leaving in the same vehicles.

Shima stands before us, her shoulders straight, her hands clasped behind her back, a determined expression on her aging face. “Keep this in mind,” she says, speaking in an undertone, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. “What Vanda told us was the truth as he knew it about the setup at Reyvik Biosystems. But whether he told us the entire truth, or an expired truth, or a truth subject to change . . . we can’t know. As on any mission, expect surprises. And keep us apprised of your progress so we can serve our support functions in a timely manner. To this end, it’s imperative you maintain communications if at all possible. Good luck to you, and never doubt that you are serving the good.”

There is a whispered chorus of
hoo-yah
s and
yes, ma’am
s.

Then Jaynie murmurs, “Moon, Flynn, get your jackets on.”

They’re assigned to drive, which means they’ll be visible to the security cameras on the way in. So they’ll both be covered up with a lightweight gray drape to hide their dead sisters. It will be about as inconspicuous as football players on the sidelines covered up in capes on a cold day—but we only need to fool the guards for a few seconds.

“Everyone else, helmets on. Take your positions. Let’s get this done.”

We’re heading into combat conditions, so my helmet’s full-face visor is tuned to appear opaque black from the outside, but when I pull it on, the interior display lights up.
Translucent icons assemble on the periphery, confirming links to my skullnet, my M-CL
1
a HITR assault rifle, and to each soldier in the squad.

Night vision kicks in as I follow Harvey into the windowless cargo area of the lead van. I kneel, facing the right-hand cargo door as it slides shut on its electric motor. I’ve got my HITR across my thighs, with rubber bullets replacing the regular ammo and flash-bangs substituting for fragmentation grenades. We’re all carrying serious ammo too, if it comes to that, but our goal is not to kill anybody.

Harvey kneels next to me, and then Flynn covers us with an IR-blocking tent. I hear a seat creak as she settles in behind the wheel. “Team one ready,” she announces over gen-com.

Moon speaks next: “Team two ready.”

Then Jaynie: “Initiate operation.”

It’s
0416
. I switch on the record function in my overlay. As the van leaves the hangar, there comes the sound of a soft rain drumming on the roof.

The angel has already been launched. To avoid setting off any alarms and to allow for a quick retrieval, it will hold a stationary position between the airstrip and the perimeter of Reyvik Biosystems’ territory. So we will be operating without angel sight. But Cryptic Arrow has reactivated the secure satellite account we used during First Light. With the drone as our satellite relay, we’ll have communications—at least until we enter the building. Delphi is our mission handler. She’ll be following our progress from her location at the farmhouse, but Jaynie is the CO and will be her primary client.

Not wanting to attract any notice, Flynn drives at a leisurely, legal pace. Seventeen minutes after leaving the hangar, we turn into the Reyvik Biosystems driveway and roll to a stop. I’m sweating under the IR tent. So is Harvey.

“I’ve reached the gate,” Flynn says. “Trying the card lock now.”

I hear the window slide open and then the unfiltered drip, dribble, and patter of rain falling through trees. The card lock doesn’t work, but it’s close enough to legitimate that a human voice—male, young, and slightly annoyed—acknowledges Flynn. “Stand by.”

I count the passing seconds. We need to get through the gate without raising an alarm. Beyond the gate we have to navigate another half mile of winding driveway before we reach the facility. If we’re forced to, we’ll blast the gate open, or go on foot and blow the gate on our way out, but either option gives the Uther-Fen guards a chance to prepare.

After twenty-two seconds, the male voice speaks again. “I’ll buzz you through. Vendor codes were reset at two a.m. Your card should update sooner or later.”

I hear the gate hum and unlatch. Then we’re rolling.

“Both teams inside,” Jaynie says.

“Hey,” Harvey whispers to me off-com. “It’s been a while. You ready for some fun?”

“Cut the chatter. Let’s just get this fucking tent off.”

On gen-com, Flynn says, “I see the building. Two enemy soldiers waiting out front. Both armed with assault rifles, wearing chest armor. They’ve got the glass front doors standing open.”

It all seems kind of easy.

A new link opens in my visor. It’s a solo link from Captain Vasquez. “Set?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your call.”

“Roger that.” I shift to gen-com. “Flynn, I need locations. How far apart are the two guards you can see?”

“Meter and a half.”

“Stop the van so you put me between them. Any sign of the third guard?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Harvey, when these two go down, you hit the guardhouse.”

“Happy to, sir.”

“Tuttle, you back her up.”

“Got it, LT.”

The van stops. I shoulder my weapon as Flynn triggers the door. As soon as I see the figure on the left, I shoot three fast rounds, then I turn and fire to the right. Harvey was delayed by the extra half second it took the door to clear her position, so we both shoot at the same time. Nonlethals pound into the chest armor of a lean kid, knocking him over so that his answering shot goes through the building’s portico. He goes down, the back of his head bouncing on concrete.

Flynn rolls out of the driver’s seat, stripping off her cloak, while Harvey launches herself out of the van and sprints toward the guardhouse. The second van roars up behind us, its side door already open. Jaynie, Nolan, and Tuttle are out before it slams to a stop. Tuttle darts past us on his way to assist Harvey, while Flynn helps me secure one of the guards. He struggles a little, but a punch to the ribs convinces him to cooperate while we zip-tie his hands behind his back and bind his ankles together. Nolan and Moon secure the second guard. Jaynie strides inside, carrying a breaching shotgun in a sling on her back while holding her HITR in two hands, ready to lay out anyone who might object to her entrance.

“Lobby is empty,” she reports over gen-com.

I flinch as shots go off by the guardhouse. Harvey says, “He’s holed up, LT.”

“Blow the door. Nolan, help them out.”

Nolan takes off, leaving Moon on his own.

Jaynie says, “External-communications room is empty.”

I search my prisoner, recovering a knife, a handgun, and farsights. “Toss everything in the van,” I tell Flynn.

“Door to the building’s secure area is locked,” Jaynie notes. “Preparing to breach. Shelley, Flynn, with me now. You’re the breaching team.”

“On my way, ma’am.”

Using the arm hook of my dead sister, I grip my prisoner’s vest and drag him into the building, abandoning him in the middle of the floor.

I glance around. It’s an expansive lobby, ten meters square, with a spectacular glass skylight, expensive flooring, art, and well-tended plants: a display designed to assure visiting investors that there is money to be made here. The lights are minimal, probably to enforce a nocturnal cycle rather than to save money. Against the right-hand wall is a long reception desk like the registration desk at a hotel. On the left, double doors stand open to a room with lockers, desks, and monitors: the external-communications room already cleared by Jaynie. According to our intelligence, it’s the only place in the building with outside links.

At the back of the lobby, painted the same color as the walls, is a windowless steel door with hidden hinges. Jaynie is standing beside it, checking the load on her breaching shotgun. Flynn catches up with me. We move in behind Jaynie, our HITRs ready.

“On three,” Jaynie says, resting the shotgun’s muzzle against the door, above the presumed position of the bolt. “One, two, three.”

The shotgun’s concussion is muted by my helmet. A hole is punched in the door and an alarm goes off—but the door is not open yet.

“Again,” Jaynie says, moving the shotgun a few inches. “On three. One, two, three.”

Boom!

This time the door shifts. Jaynie moves to the side and I step in, kicking the door wide. On the other side is a dimly lit hallway running right and left. It’s clear of people, but the air is vibrating with the vicious, mechanical buzz of a swarm of tiny drones, at least fifteen of them, speeding toward me in an inverted V. They are just an inch long, their black bodies tapered into blunt cones, with beelike wings to keep them in flight.

No way to tell what kind of hazard they present. I just assume they do.

I raise my HITR. My tactical AI doesn’t know what to make of the swarm and offers no targeting circle as the tiny black drones bear down on me. I shoot anyway, three quick rounds, hoping I get lucky. Flynn is crouched by the door, firing alongside me. One of the mechanical bees shatters. The shrapnel takes out another and slows the advance of the swarm, but not for long.

We need a more effective solution.

“Flynn, fall back! Clear the hall!”

I transfer my HITR to one hand. Two bees dive at me. I take a wild swing with the HITR’s muzzle and clip one, knocking it into the other. At the same time I try to get a flash-bang out of my vest pocket—but Jaynie moves faster.

“Fire in the hole,” she announces, lobbing a grenade past my shoulder.

I pivot out of the hallway, getting the wall to my back.

Flynn screams. The flash-bang goes off, its concussion muffled by my helmet. My visor darkens to compensate for the glare. The dark screen makes it easy to see Flynn’s icon. It’s shifted from the standard faint, translucent green to strident yellow. Her status posts:
Declining heart rate, elevated body temperature, loss of consciousness.

I turn to look for her. She’s sprawled on the other side
of the doorway, unmoving, her HITR fallen beside her. Embedded in the sleeve covering her left forearm is the little black body of one of the bee drones. There’s another stuck in the center of her gloved palm. Jaynie moves in, crouching beside her.

I keep turning until I can peer into the hallway.

All the drones are down. Narrow black wings and glittering bits of glass lie scattered between thimble-size mechanical bodies, some still buzzing faintly and spinning in slow, erratic circles. With their motion stopped or nearly so, details are revealed. At the front of each mechanical bee is a camera button surrounded by a ring of broken glass needles.

When the bees hit Flynn, the needles must have gone right through her clothing, piercing her palm and her arm. Delivering a knockout drug? I don’t think it’s going to be lethal, because the report on my visor indicates her status has stabilized.

“Hallway clear?” Jaynie asks as she uses her arm hook to knock the quiescent bees off of Flynn.

“Roger that. Advancing.”

I step inside, crushing drone bodies beneath my footplates.

The alarm is an irritating mechanical bleat accompanied by flashing ceiling lights that illuminate recessed steel doors, set at wide intervals on both sides of the hallway. “Freight elevator to the left,” I report. “I’m going to check it out.”

“Roger that,” Jaynie says.

I head down the hallway at a trot, while Jaynie manages the squad. “Moon, take care of Flynn and do
not
let yourself get stung by these bee drones. Nolan, status?”

He’s breathing heavily. “We have just secured the guardhouse, ma’am—
goddamn it, Tuttle, move!
—third prisoner on the way.”

I reach the first door, look in through the little window to see ready lights glowing in the darkness. I try the door
handle. It’s locked. I switch to night vision to get a better look inside. A lab is revealed, but I don’t see anyone in it. It’s possible someone is hiding, crouched under a long worktable or squeezed into a closet, but we don’t have time to breach every door.

I check the lab across the hall. It’s locked too, with lights off. I move on.