| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Urban Warfare (Vegas #4) |
| Date: | Sat, 13 Feb 1999 13:51:43 +0000 |
>>>>>[Your tough guy fought the Law.
And the Law lost.
+++++begin diary
We double-time it along the service road, boots thudding on the
concrete, in a split diamond formation. Forged and I are on point,
Innocenta and Daniel dragging, and most of the group have switched
weapons now we don't need to pass ourselves off as a SWAT team any more:
still weapons you'd see a SWAT team use, but now we have three Alphas
and a SPAS-22 and not a H&K submachinegun in sight.
The Vegas PD are still scrambling to react, still not sure what
happened. The Mistral was robbed, by a fake SWAT team, that much they
know, and they know we shot our way out of the Strip, but after that
which way did we go, did we split up, what the hell is going on?
By now Innocenta's buddies will be knocking police drones out of the air
and beating the drek out of the LVPD's matrix, further complicating
their job, and all the time the other three teams should be opening
ground between themselves and the cops.
We just need to hold the Vegas Police's attention for a couple of
minutes, and then slip away.
Sounds easy.
A police cruiser skids to a halt across the service road, the two cops
inside looking at us - barely fifty yards away now - with pop-eyed
surprise. They're not used to how fast four enhanced men can cover
ground, still think we're back amidst the Lucky Seven's dumpsters and
loading dock: they thought they'd have time to block the exit and ambush
us.
Sorry, guys, nothing personal. They're ducking for cover as I fire into
the car, a short burst blowing the side windows out. _That_ will up
their laundry bills, as they realise we're using APDS hotloads that will
beat their body armour just as easily.
As they're trying to hide, Forged reaches the vehicle and posts a
grenade through the shattered armourglass, and it explodes in a white
pulse of light. A concussion grenade, not a frag, but those two cops are
out of the picture for a while.
As Innocenta and Daniel break left and right to cover the street, I
wrench the door open and lean over the moaning, semiconscious passenger
to grab the car's datalink module: now I'm eavesdropping on their
frequencies. Innocenta's shotgun booms twice, hiding the tinny report of
a grenade launcher, but the exploding concussion grenade makes the
shotgun sound quiet by comparison.
I slither back out, to see two more cruisers slewed in the road, doors
open and lights strobing, the LVPD officers bravely engaging us with
their sidearms. Brave, but stupid, two falling as I bring the Alpha to
bear: I aim and fire, one shot, knocking a third sprawling.
The last shooter goes down too: unhurt but terrified, using the excuse
of a wounded comrade to get out of the line of fire.
"Control, this is Mike Tango Two, we're heavily engaged, I count five or
six hostiles with automatic weapons!" she's babbling into the radio.
"What's their location?" Control wants to know: as 'Mike Tango Two'
begins to answer, I fire a long burst into the car, blowing out the
windows and punching holes in the bodywork. That should let Control know
that things are less than satisfactory here.
Which way to run? I know where I want to get to, but I don't want to
make our route obvious or predictable. The cruisers offer better cover:
I exchange hand signals with Forged, and he puts a string of aimed
singles into the cruiser as I crab around to the side, keeping out of
his line of fire until he checks and I go straight over the car.
The LVPD patrolman is young and very scared and, after I kick her in the
helmet, unconscious. Three others lie in variously wounded states, one
of them moaning and one probably dead. On the radio, Control is babbling
for all units to converge on our last known location: we've got about
thirty seconds before the next car arrives.
When it does, it drives into a murderous crossfire a block short of its
destination. I'm amazed how many pedestrians are still around: in
Seattle the streets would be empty, too many random acts of lunacy for
anyone to want to see what's happening.
Here, though, everyone seems surprised, even offended, that such things
could happen in their town, and too startled to do more than duck...
Control's got two units behind us, but they've bogged down treating the
wounded and are less than keen to pursue. Good. We break cover and beat
feet north, then west, four SWAT troopers in a hell of a hurry as far as
the citizens are concerned. For the moment, we've broken contact.
Control is frantically mustering units, trying to mass enough cops to
throw at us that some might survive to fight back. He's not having much
luck. The SWAT team are still trying to disentangle themselves from
their fight with the Bloodbathers and aren't going to be a threat for
many minutes. And it's sinking in that, at this instant, they aren't
sure where we are. Meanwhile we're covering three blocks a minute and
we're two minutes away from our destination.
"I've got them, I've got them! Heading northeast on Kenickie, passing
Sentinel!" Control got a lucky break, it seems. Wonder how? Some off-
duty cop, a traffic camera, a concerned citizen, magic, a drone
Innocenta's rigger team missed? The datalink shows us, and the avenging
angels of the Vegas PD converging on us.
Not that it matters either way. We were expecting this, in fact we were
expecting it sooner.
Daniel and Innocenta can cover our back: Forged and I will keep the way
ahead open. We break for cover, and I shoo a starled civilian out of his
car to use it as cover: he starts to babble at me as the lights and
sirens of four, no, five police cruisers swing into view ahead of me.
When I open fire, though, he runs like a cockroach under a floodlight.
The lead Patrol-1's hood explodes in a storm of flying paint chips and
chunks of grille, and the engine seizes almost instantly. As it slithers
out of control its comrades swerve frantically around it. I finish the
magazine into the car behind it, riddling the passenger compartment with
nearly twenty rounds before the bolt locks open.
I pull another magazine from the bandolier, slam it home, let the bolt
fly forward and fire again, spraying fire across the other cars as they
slam on their brakes. The cops are realising they risk being slaughtered
in their cars if they don't get out and fight, _now_.
The Toyota I'm using for cover vibrates under half-a-dozen impacts and I
hear sharp whipcracks overhead, as the Vegas Police finally manage to
return some fire. I shift along it, coming up around the trunk to fire
an air-timed grenade into the untidy tangle of cop cars.
That doesn't improve their marksmanship, and lets me switch from
suppressive fire to aimed as one idiot stands up clutching his face and
howling that he can't see: only to fall clutching his chest after I
shoot him.
"Move north, one bound!" I yell, and rake the police cars again: the
compensated Alpha riding perfectly, letting me put all my rounds into
the cruisers in a noisy cacophony of destruction. My partner breaks
cover and dashes to a parked van, reloading before also shouting "Ready!
Move!"
I run, ignoring the steel-cored hornets zinging around me, already
knowing where I'm going. No percentage in jinking, it'll just give them
more time to shoot at me. Instead I reach the newstand I picked out as
my next fighting position and sight in: a LVPD trooper forgot to duck as
he changes magazines, and I knock him down with a three-round burst
before putting another half-dozen into the cruiser.
Noise, violence, momentum, we're outnumbered five or ten to one but
we've snatched and held the initiative and the LVPD cops aren't trained
for this. While they think what they ought to do next, we've acted and
reacted and acted again.
Just remember that cooler heads outside this gun battle have time to
think, and don't get bogged down ourselves...
"Ready! Move!" I yell, continuing to riddle the police cars and the
troopers behind them with short bursts. Remembering Groton and SEAL
training, Gunny Ramirez pounding into us that suppressive fire needs to
intimidate, even if it doesn't kill. Aim for something that'll break
noisily, or better yet explode. If you're going to miss, miss low:
ricochets whirring past and sprays of earth or asphalt impress much more
than a bullet zipping somewhere overhead. And don't get buck fever,
otherwise you'll run out of ammunition before you run out of hostiles.
Forged is in place and firing, shouting "Fight through! Ready!" I change
magazines, glancing back to see Daniel and Innocenta skirmishing back,
keeping pace with us: the cops show very little enthusiasm for pursuit,
one of their cars burning reluctantly.
Thirty yards from the nest of police Patrol-Ones, now mostly in terrible
shape. Five magazines expended, seven left, but for now I pump out the
six grenades still in the launcher, Forged coyping me, and as the
detonations echo and the smoke drifts he and I are storming the gaggle
of cars.
Ruined police cruisers, wounded cops, dead cops, a few terrified
survivors, a couple still willing to fight.
I take the lead through the shot-up cars in a crouching crabbed run,
anyone armed and awake gets a burst in the chest, anyone down gets their
weapon kicked away, no time for more. We're through, leaving riot gas
grenades hissing and spewing white choking smoke behind us.
Eight cars, twenty-three cops down, I counted on our hasty fight-
through.
Control is babbling, calling for status reports from the north team. He
sounds like he's crying. Nobody's answering.
I'm tempted to join in with some misdirection, Lynch was notoriously
fond of radio games like that , but I'm a crappy actor and I'm more
worried about the last leg of our run.
The south team are claiming they're busy with wounded and can't pursue
yet, and Control is running out of cops to throw into the meatgrinder.
If we wait five minutes we'll have every patrolman, SWAT trooper and
traffic warden in Las Vegas bearing down on us, armed for bear and out
for our blood, but I'm not going to give them five minutes. I'm not even
going to give them two.
We've done our job. Time to take a trip to Elsewheresville.
+++++end diary
Holy hell.]<<<<<
-- Yefrem <13:51:35/02-13-60>
