Chapter 5A

Don Mitchell, son-in-law of Director Clinton, had of course been given the honor of leading the takedown team that would take Laura Whiting into custody. He and his team gathered at the main FLEB office at 0700 that Thursday morning. There were forty of them, including himself, and he divided them up into teams of ten, each of which was assigned a leader. He then briefed them on their mission, an act that did not carry the dramatic punch he had hoped for since every last one of the men had already heard through the grapevine what they were going to be doing that day. Still, those that weren't in the official loop pretended to be surprised when they heard the news so some of it was saved.

He distributed diagrams of the Martian capital building to each of the team leaders, assigning them positions to take up when the time came. "Team B," he said. "You will be guarding the rear of the building in case she tries to flee. Team C, you'll be covering the front. Team D, you will split into two elements and cover the side entrances of the building in case she tries to come out that way. Team A, which I will be personally leading, will enter the building itself for the takedown. You outside teams, in addition to sealing the building from her premature exit, you will also be keeping the streets clear of greenies. I don't expect any resistance from the MPG troops that guard Whiting since we have a federal warrant, but I would expect resistance from any greenies that happen to see us leading her away. So keep a sharp eye out for that."

"How sure are you that the MPG troops won't resist?" one of the men asked at that point.

"The MPG are technically part of the WestHem armed services," Mitchell responded. "They won't be happy that we've come for her, but I seriously doubt that they would disregard a federal warrant for her arrest. If any of them does resist in any way, he or she is to be immediately placed under arrest for obstructing a federal officer."

Everyone seemed satisfied with this and the subject was dropped. The briefing went on for another twenty minutes and then the men were dismissed to go suit up. They retired to the locker room and donned their raid gear. Heavy Kevlar armor vests were put over their torsos and black helmets with FLEB stenciled in white were put upon their heads. They strapped on their weapons belts, which contained their 4mm pistols as well as extra rifle ammunition and handcuffs. Steel-toed combat boots were put on their feet. The picture was completed by the addition of M-24 assault rifles loaded with sixty round magazines. Because it had never been thought necessary in the environment within which they operated, they had no combat goggles. Aiming would have to be by the old-fashioned method if a battle occurred and tactical displays and mapping software would have to be looked at on their PCs.

Once suited up they walked out to the building's parking area and boarded four of the black panel vans. The vans all had multiple dents and scratches from rocks and bottles thrown by angry Martians over the past several months. There were places where the paint had been scraped off and reapplied to cover anti-fed and anti-Earthling graffiti. And of course, since the incident of the Molotov cocktail a few weeks before, all of them now had metal bars across the windshields to keep a repeat of that incident from happening.

With Mitchell and his team in the lead van, they pulled out of the parking area and onto the busy street that was teeming with Martians on their way to work. They turned right and started heading for the capital building thirty blocks away. The Martians, as always, were deliberately slow getting out of their way and many of them raised their middle fingers or grabbed their crotches in contempt. Spit flew whenever the van passed close enough for someone to hit it and several times there were thumps as cans or bottles slammed into the sides.

Most of the people on the street had no idea where the federal vans were going or what they were doing. But a few people did and they were on their PCs to other people before the vans were even out of sight of the office.

General Jackson was waiting in Laura's office with her when his PC buzzed, indicating a high priority message. He unclipped it from his belt and flipped the screen up, seeing the face of Major Sprinkle, head of intelligence. "Talk to me, Tim," he said.

"Four vans just left the FLEB office five minutes ago," he said. "They're heading your way. We didn't get a good look but it's probably safe to assume that they're coming in platoon strength."

"Any chance that they're just heading out for their normal raids?" Jackson asked.

"There's always that chance," Sprinkle replied. "But they don't typically head out to normal raids with that many troops. Even the biggest takedowns they do usually only require half that much. Also, this deployment fits with the information we received yesterday. My guess is that this is it."

"That's my guess as well," Jackson said, feeling his heartbeat pick up a few notches. "Keep your assets in place until we know for sure. If it is them, things are gonna get real busy in a hurry on this planet. If it's not, we'll just have to wait some more."

"Right," he said. "Continuing to observe. Keep me updated."

"You'll be one of the first to know," Jackson promised. He signed off and put his PC on the desk.

"They're on their way?" asked Laura, who was looking a little haggard this morning due to the fact that she was living on less than an hour's worth of sleep.

"It looks like it," he told her, picking up a combat computer and fitting the microphone and earpiece into place. "And we're ready for them. They won't get anywhere near you."

She nodded, chewing her lip a little nervously. She had always known that Martian resentment towards their corporate masters was something that would not need much fuel to whip into a frenzy. That frenzy had been achieved. But now, in order for them to support an open revolt against those masters, they needed a single, outrageous act to rally behind. The various massacres and mass arrests that had been taking place all over the planet were outrageous of course but, strangely enough, they could not provide quite enough impetus to compel them to act. Something else was needed, something that would unite everyone behind the cause and the corporate Earthlings, in their glorious predictability, were now providing that something. They were attempting to forcibly remove her from office with trumped-up charges, charges that most of the Martian people, with their cultural intelligence and common sense, would recognize for what they were. The moment was now at hand. Everything, her entire career, her entire life, had all come down to this day. It was time for the most dangerous game to begin.

Jackson realized what the stakes were as well. The plan for the next twenty-four hours was something he had come up with years before in its base form and had been modified and re-modified dozens of times since. It was now time to see if it was going to work. He instructed the combat computer to patch him in with Lieutenant Warren Whiting's security detail. The computer complied, taking less than a second to do so.

"Warren here, General," he said, his voice calm and professional.

"It looks like they're on their way, Mike," Jackson told him. "Intelligence reports four vans moving in, probable platoon strength. More than likely they will not all come inside."

"Both the inside and the outside teams are in place and ready," Warren said. "We should be able to handle them easily."

"Remember," Jackson warned, "get a look at the warrant and the indictment before you do anything. If they don't have it with them, don't let them in."

"Understood," he said.

Laura listened to all this with interest, part of her knowing the her security platoon was one of the best in the business, but part of her worrying that the FLEB agents might get in anyway. "How many men do we have around the building?" She asked Jackson once he signed off the transmission.

"One hundred and twenty," he told her. "Warren and his regular platoon are covering the lobby and they'll take the agents that come inside. We also have two platoons of the regular infantry that we quietly called up last night along with the special forces guys. They were briefed in on what was happening early this morning and they've been placed under Warren's command for the duration of this operation. They're hidden in the adjacent planetary office buildings. They'll take the FLEB guys that deploy to guard the exits."

"Did any of them have a problem with their orders?" she wanted to know.

"Not a single one," he said. "In fact, they all seemed rather enthusiastic about them. You're in good hands. This is what I've been training these guys for all these years." He turned Laura's computer terminal towards him. "May I?" he asked her.

"By all means," she said.

"Computer," he said to it, "get me building operations."

"Building operations coming on line," it said.

The screen cleared and a moment later a scruffy, unshaven face appeared. A look of annoyance at being interrupted was upon this face until he got a good look at the person calling. "General Jackson," he said, surprised. "What can I do for you?"

"You can shut down the blast doors on all floors except the lobby level," Jackson told him. "Do it immediately and shut down the elevators as well. Let anyone who is on them get off at the next floor — as long as that floor is not the lobby — and then don't let them go anywhere else."

The maintenance supervisor looked a little taken aback with this request. That was understandable since it was a very unusual one. "Sir?" he asked. "Are you sure that you..."

"I'm positive," Jackson cut in. "Do it now. I want all the workers in this building to stay right where they are. No one is to leave their floors or their immediate area until further notice."

He swallowed a little, trying to process this information. "May I ask why, sir?" he finally blurted. A legitimate question.

"A security threat against the governor," Jackson told him. "There may be some action down in the lobby and I don't want any bystanders blundering into it. I don't have time to explain any further. Now get it done, man before its too late."

"Right away, General," he said, signing off.

Less than a minute later the blast door warning alarm sounded from out in the hallway and the solid steel doors, which were spaced every twenty meters on every floor and were designed to hold in air pressure and everything else, came clanging down. The 6400 planetary government employees, including the legislature and the lieutenant governor, were now trapped in their offices.

The four black FLEB vans pulled up in front of the main entrance to the capital building three minutes later, parking in a neat line. Their doors slid open and the armed agents jumped out, their weapons in their hands. Quickly they spread out. One of the teams took up position directly across the street, pushing their way through the throng of curious Martians that had stopped along their way to see what was going on. Three of the pedestrians were shoved with gun butts before the rest decided that this was not a particularly healthy place to be at the moment. They moved off down the street, most shouting angry and profane words at the FLEB agents as they went. Two of the other teams moved off in different directions. One began trotting around the block to take up position in the rear, the other split up and headed for the side entrances. All forty of them were in contact with tactical radio sets.

"Remember," said Mitchell to everyone on the radio frequency, "she gets taken alive and unharmed at all costs."

No one answered him but all heard him.

Once everyone was deployed that left only Mitchell and his nine team members standing before the entrance to the building. They pulled together into a tight bunch and, following behind their leader, headed for the doorway.

The main entrance to the capital building featured two heavy duty sliding doors that were capable of withstanding a direct hit from a heavy machinegun bullet or a close explosion of significant magnitude. An MPG guard dressed in full armor and with an M-24 slung over his shoulder was manning the security booth right between the two doors. He was protected by a layer of the same glass from both the lobby side and the street side and was able to talk to people only through a series of tiny holes in this glass at face level.

Mitchell walked towards him. He noted that the guard was a lieutenant — a rather higher rank than you would expect to see manning the booth — but he dismissed this as an irrelevancy, figuring that the MPG guard detail was probably short staffed. After all, what kind of moron would want to guard that greenie bitch in the first place? He also noted that he was dressed in full battle gear, something that he never recalled seeing in his past visits to this place. Usually they were dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with nothing more than a sidearm strapped to their sides. Was there any meaning to this? He thought about it for about a tenth of a second and finally concluded that there wasn't. The greenie — whose name stencil on his armor identified him as WARREN — probably didn't get to wear his armor very often and was taking his stint on booth duty as an excuse to do so.

Warren looked at him expressionlessly as Mitchell stopped in front of the voice holes. "Can I help you?" he asked politely, as if he were a normal citizen asking about tours of the building or an appointment with a legislature representative and not a fully armed FLEB agent holding an assault rifle and leading a team of nine others.

This, at the very least, should have put Mitchell on edge. It didn't. "FLEB," he said simply, with a certain amount of arrogance in his voice. He flipped open a leather case that displayed his federal credentials. "We need immediate access to Governor Whiting's office."

"Oh?" said Warren, raising his eyebrows a tad, only glancing at the shiny badge being shown to him. "I'm afraid that's not possible at the moment."

"Make it possible," Mitchell told him, removing the indictment and the arrest warrant. They were printed in large script on the finest hemp paper available. "I have a federal indictment and an arrest warrant ordering me to take her into custody."

"An indictment and an arrest warrant huh?" Warren asked, still with no hint of surprise or alarm in his voice. "This sounds rather serious. May I take a look at them?"

Mitchell considered threatening him with obstruction for a moment but finally decided it would be easier to just do as he was asked. Besides, that way the greenie would get to see the official proof of the downfall of his governor. Maybe that would put the expression of fear that he craved upon his face. He slid them through the small slot at the bottom of the glass.

Lieutenant Warren picked them up and looked at them, reading through each document carefully, word for word. Neither Mitchell nor any of his men saw him keying the transmission button on his radio pack three times, sending out a pre-arranged, encrypted signal to the other members of the platoon and General Jackson upstairs. It took him more than two minutes to get through everything. Once he was finished he looked up, his expression still carefully polite and neutral. "Well Agent uh..."

"Mitchell," he provided, more than a little testily.

"Agent Mitchell. Things do seem to be in order here. This is an official indictment and an official arrest warrant for Governor Whiting."

"I'm glad you agree," he said. "Now are you going to buzz us into the building or are we going to have to force our way in?"

"No need for threats," Warren told him. He placed his hands upon a panel on his computer screen and the glass doors slid open. "Come on in. I'll call for the elevator for you."

Mitchell had the vague thought that things were going just a little too easily. It was a thought that he should have listened to. Instead, excited at the thought of getting this over quickly, he dismissed it. He took a quick glance behind him, seeing that the media vans from the big three, responding to the tip that had been given to them less than an hour ago, were pulling up and positioning themselves across the street. That was good. Soon they would film him leading that troublemaking bitch out in handcuffs. He waved his men forward and into the lobby of the capital building, moving past Warren's security booth and onto the simple Martian red carpet that covered the lobby floor.

The lobby was a huge area, stretching from one end of the building to the other. It was decorated as one might expect a seat of government's lobby to be. Ornate sculptures were located in many places along the walls. Decorative planters and even a working wishing well with benches around it were in the center. It was actually quite a nice place and one that workers in the building and tourists enjoyed lounging about in to eat their lunch or rest their feet. At the moment however, the entire area was completely deserted except for Lieutenant Warren. Or at least that was how it seemed to the FLEB agents as they trooped inside.

Mitchell had never been a soldier before and he wasn't even really a cop with a cop's instincts. He noted the lack of people in the lobby and it did strike him as a bit odd for the beginning of a workday but this failed to trigger any danger signals within him. He never considered for a moment that all of the planters and sculptures, all of the benches and information booths, were ideal places to hide security troops that did not wish to be seen.

The glass doors slid shut behind them, latching with a clank of steel mechanisms coming together.

Mitchell turned to Warren. "Keep those doors open," he told him. He wanted his men outside to be able to enter the building in a hurry if it became necessary. He didn't know that it was already necessary.

"I'm afraid not, Agent Mitchell," Warren said, smiling now. "You are now sealed into the lobby. Your men outside will be shortly taken into custody. You and all of your men will put your rifles down on the floor and then throw your sidearms down there with them."

"What?" Mitchell said, his face scrunching into an expression of annoyance. "Listen to me, greenie. I don't know what you think you're trying to pull here, but I'll advise you that attempting to interfere with a federal arrest is a crime punishable..."

"I'm not attempting to interfere," Warren told him. "I have interfered. You will not be taking Governor Whiting anywhere. You are surrounded on all sides by my security forces, all of whom are veterans of the special forces division. You will put your weapons on the ground and prepare to be taken into custody or you will be fired upon."

Mitchell took a moment to digest these words and then keyed up his radio. "All teams," he said into his microphone. "We need some assistance in here! We're getting resistance from..."

"Your radios are being jammed," Warren said matter-of-factly. "We have dampers set up all around the edges of the lobby and set to your frequency."

Mitchell wanted to disbelieve his words but the lack of response on the channel kept him from doing so. He looked around, seeing the stunned, nervous faces of his men. He didn't know what to do. He had never been faced with a situation such as this before. He was a federal agent! People feared him. They didn't attempt to take him hostage. The very idea was absurd!

"There is no need for this to come to violence," Warren told him. "Drop your weapons and surrender. You will be held here in the capital for the duration of this little crisis and you will be treated well. If you don't, however, my men will be forced to take you down by force. Go the easy way, Mitchell. Let's keep this thing civilized."

It might have ended peacefully. Mitchell was just about to order his men to do as they were told, knowing that the guard would probably not be bluffing about what he was saying. After all, he had looked into Whiting's security force himself when he'd been examining the possibilities of arranging an assassination. But special agent Brackford, the youngest member of the team, had other thoughts on the matter. At only twenty-eight years of age and an appointee to the FLEB by virtue of family connections instead of ability, Brackford was known for his short temper and impulsive actions. These were traits which had earned him reprimands in the past and that would now cost him much more than a black mark on his file. Outraged that the greenies would actually threaten federal agents carrying out their duties, he took matters into his own hands.

"Fuck you, greenie!" he yelled arrogantly. Before Mitchell could stop him he raised his M-24 and pointed it at the guard booth. It is doubtful that the shots would have penetrated the glass, but they never got a chance to find out.

Flashes appeared from four different directions followed by the harsh popping of M-24s. Brackford's head rocked back and forth as two of the rounds slammed into his helmet, drilling through into his skull. The other two slammed into his chest, penetrating with ease through the Kevlar of his armor vest. He dropped to the carpeted lobby without even firing a shot.