Chapter 9: Battle of Baltimore

"AI, contact Major MacAllistor. Send an emergency request through the fleet, I need a squad of Marines immediately with blast rifles and armour, whoever is ready to go right fucking now. Not 'now', not 'right now', right FUCKING now!"

"Understood, Tribune Whitefeather. A ready platoon from the assault ship Da Nang is proceeding to the site. Arrival in thirty seconds. Remote-controlled nexus in target's office has been activated."

"Thank Da Nang's captain for me. I'm heading down myself."

The terrified women and children in the shelter could hear the battering ram splintering the front door. It held on slightly longer than the AI predicted, as it had a steel core. It was the casement that finally gave way. The house mother, Charlene Greerson, had gathered her sixteen charges and their offspring all upstairs and there they waited, unarmed and desperate. Charlene peered around the corner as one of the mothers frantically whispered to 911 on a cell phone. The landlines and power had already been cut.

Suddenly, a large and burly figure burst from the office — an office which had been unoccupied, Charlene was certain, not ten seconds before. He took a glance up the stairs, gave them a reassuring 'thumb's up', and took position near the door, RS-1 stinger rifle aimed at the egress. Another trooper silently and expertly took position across the hallway. A third and fourth went down the hallway toward the back of the structure.

A fifth, just as brawny as the others, climbed the stairs two at a time backwards, keeping his stinger rifle pointed at the front door, no mean feat when you're also carrying a heavy satchel over your other shoulder. He dashed around the corner and broke down the closet with a single mighty blow of his heel. Wordlessly, he removed a round disk from his satchel, placed it on the floor, and activated it. "Who's in charge?" he demanded in a whisper.

"I am," Charlene advised him, still terrified but determined to protect her charges.

"How many?"

"Attackers? I don't know."

"We do. Let us worry about them. How many women, kids, staff?"

"Sixteen women, 47 kids and three night staff."

"Are they all up here, or are any in the basement?"

"We're all up here. Basement's empty, or should be."

The Marine cursed, took on a faraway look for a moment, and shortly additional Marines showed up to cover the basement.

There was a smashing sound and a flickering glow came through the rear windows. "Molotov cocktail!" He looked around. "Stick construction? It'll go up like a shingle factory. Everybody, we're leaving now!"

He grabbed Charlene, as gently as possible. "This is taking you to a hospital ship in orbit. They'll check you out. I don't know what happens next, they just sent us to get you folks the hell out a' Dodge."

The front door finally fell, having given them time to organize both a defence and a retreat in its valiant last stand. About four simultaneous stinger blasts coincided with a single shotgun blast. The blast, aimed upward, splintered the floor above. Some of the splinters entered a handful of the evacuees, lending even more urgency to their scramble to get out.

"When you get to the other side, jump out of the way. The next person will be following you immediately. Go, go, go!"

Down on the first floor, Tribune Whitefeather, battle-armoured, tall as a Marine and twice as furious, strode to where the knot of idiots had used a battering ram to ring the doorbell. He picked up one unconscious body that appeared to still be breathing and with adrenaline assisting the strength his Darjee enhancement had given him, picked it up like it were a child's teddy bear and hauled it back to the office.

"One prisoner for interrogation. Heads up!"

"Ready to receive prisoners," Major MacAllistor advised him.

With an almost negligent toss, he fired the body through the nexus.

"Did it live?" he asked callously.

"Yes, it did. We're waking it up now."

On board the Clara Barton, organized, controlled chaos reigned. Doctors rapidly and efficiently triaged the women and children as they arrived on board. Charlene blinked as nurses, some dressed in scandalously scanty shifts that were vaguely uniform-ish, directed the women under her protection to medical pod rooms. She noted that some care was taken to keep each family together.

Now that the crisis was largely over, she found the time to break down and sob. It had been a terrifying night.

One of the nurses came over to her and put her arm around the sobbing social services worker. Whispering words of comfort that Charlene didn't register, the nurse walked her down the hall and into a med pod. Before she had finished lying back, she was soundly and peacefully asleep.

Up on the Cabot, Major MacAllistor watched Marine Lieutenant Nancy Tremaine do her work. She was skilled at interrogation. She was also a real hot number. Billy Clanton didn't stand a snowball's chance in Hell, with a CAP score of 3.1 and most of his thinking being done by his gonads. Girls from his native backwoods Tennessee just didn't come as sneaky as this cute Parisian.

"The bastard's going to be recycled?" she asked Major MacAllistor, pinning him with eyes of pure steel.

"Yes," replied the Major, somewhat uncertainly.

"Good," she smiled mirthlessly. "I like playing with my food." She turned and entered the compartment holding the doomed Clanton.

A chill ran down MacAllistor's spine. This girl was cold as ice.

Inside, Tremaine was quite a bit warmer than in the hallway. She laid on the French accent nice and thick, and with a little cooing in his ear and fondling of his penis, had the man spilling his guts.