"All clear," Dumont said.
"Scouts out," Mary ordered.
Two marines trotted into the woods ahead. When Jeff flipped his goggles off, the men vanished. Moonless, the night would get even blacker when the predicted clouds moved in from the coast. Rain would come with morning, but Jeff would be long gone by then, or in the deepest pile of shit Vicky could find.
"Dumont, move out your squad," Mary ordered, and Du waved his team forward. Mary, Du, and Jeff fell in the middle of the widely disbursed team. There was no talking. Everyone knew their job; now it was just a matter of doing it. Twenty minutes later, they reached the end of Jason Woods. Halfway across the three hundred yards to the compound fence, two dark figures moved at a crouch. With a single hand wave from Dumont, the rest of the marines joined the scouts crossing the open space.
Except for lights in two basement windows, the archives were dark. Fairview itself was lit like a Lander's Day cake. Just looking at it made Jeff's goggles blur. Guards circled the big house like ants at a picnic. "See any surprises?" Mary asked; Jeff shook his head. She bent at the waist and followed her team. Jeff did the same, feeling naked and vulnerable.
"Freeze" came over the net. Jeff froze. Around him, images in his goggles locked in place, half steps unfinished.
'"What we got?" Mary whispered.
"Scout One here. Guard and dog making a round of our side of the fence."
"Hold this freeze," Mary affirmed the order.
At the compound fence, backlit against the main house, a man, air rifle slung over his shoulder, walked a large dog. Even though Mary had never seen a dog, except in a zoo, she'd quickly called up instructions on how to handle them when Vicky added four to her security blanket. "We approach from downwind," Mary said, and adjusted the blimp approach from east to south.
Now they'd see if the manual was right.
Halfway along their side of the fence, the dog halted, whining softly. "What is it, girl?" the guard asked, pulling gently on the dog's leash. The dog stared out, head weaving but settling on no particular line. She continued to whine.
"Come on, girl," the guard pulled on her leash gently, then yanked. "Come on. I'm not staying out here all night."
The dog obeyed. Jeff started breathing again. Mary didn't give the "Let's move it" order until the guard started down the next side of the fence.
"We got ten minutes before those two are back," Mary informed the team. "Make 'em count."
In less than five minutes, the team was spaced evenly along the fence. One of the trailing marines came up and pulled several devices from a satchel. First he checked the ceramic bars of the fence for an electrical charge. Vicky had several strings of thin glass piping along the top of the fence, charged with salt water. Anyone climbing over it was sure to break one. Vicky didn't expect anyone to go through a kilned ceramic bar.
The marine's hand laser made short work of six bars. Mary moved shooters through the hole, sending each for a specific target. It was two minutes to takedown when Jeff passed through the fence. The engineer followed Jeff in, then taped the bars back in place. They didn't expect to come out that way, but there was no use advertising they were in.
Sharpshooters spread across the archives grounds, intent on getting close to their targets. Four guards walked back and forth on the archives roof, new additions since midday. Mary had assigned a shooter to each one, a fifth to the guard and dog. Two more marines edged as close as they could to the basement windows where the duty watch and off-duty guards lounged. If things worked right, they'd be captured awake—sleepy darts did not do windows. However, if things got too exciting too fast, well, Mary had her plan B.
"Take them down on my count of three," Mary ordered softly. "One ... two ... three."
Soft pops hardly disturbed the night as sleepy darts hit the four guards on the roof and the walking guard. The dog snapped around when her master went down. She hardly whimpered as a sleepy dart took her a second later.
Mary listened to the silence for a moment. "No alarms," she judged. "Dumont, take the basement. The rest of you, take the roof. Blimp, you're on immediate standby."
"Starting my approach. You have sixty seconds to order me into a go-'round," the blimp pilot said evenly.
Everywhere Jeff looked, marines were running. The engineer was first at the back
door. One wave of his laser and the door slid open just as Dumont and five marines raced through, diving for the basement. The shooters who had taken out the roof and guard dog had farther to run. They went through the door behind Dumont's team and headed up. Mary joined Jeff in the vestibule. In front of him, the small lights on the workstations winked in reds and greens. The disk archives lined the wall to his right. Nothing appeared to have changed since his last visit.
"Basement secure," Dumont announced.
"Roof secure," another voice answered.
"Building secure. Rhynia, bring in the blimp. Second squad, your clock starts the second that gas bag is down."
"Is that any way to talk about your driver?" Rhynia chided Mary. "Touchdown in five seconds."
Jeff checked the archives making sure Harry's data was there. They appeared to be. He pulled one, read the cover. Mark Sterling, Western Survey, 292. Having no more trust than anyone else in his family, he pulled the disk. It said the same. Jeff grinned as marines grabbed disks and stuffed them in bags slung over their shoulders. Great. Jeff turned as another marine took cutters to the cables securing the workstations to their stone tables, starting with the one closest to Jeff.
"Don't cut that one!" he shouted. Too late, the cutters did their work. All the green lights on the workstation went dead.
"Problem, mister?" Mary asked curtly.
"That station just went active. Someone was accessing it. The stations in the house slave to these."
"And one did," Mary sighed. "Knew it was going too good."
The network boxes on the other stations went green. A phone beeped downstairs. "Boss, Dumont here. Do I answer?"
"No," she snapped. "Cut those other stations loose," she ordered. "Folks, we got company coming, let's get ready. Dumont, any spare rifles you got, I want them on the roof. Okay, everybody, move it. I want us out of here five minutes ago."
Jeff followed Mary up the stairs. On the roof, marines were posted at each corner, eyes roving to cover their quarter, even the ones facing away from the big house. At the house, every light was on. People streamed out, buttoning coats or otherwise getting dressed. Too many for Jeff's liking had airguns at the ready. On the porch, Vicky screamed at the top of her lungs for security to earn its pay, to do something.
Several large spotlights, formerly at the blimp field to assist in late-evening landings, had been moved to Fairview's roof. They snapped on, played over the grounds for a second, then locked on the archives and the blimp looming behind it.
"Dumont, turn out those lights," Mary ordered.
"Heave, live ammunition."
"Going live," a woman's voice answered. "Good night, Mr. Light," she whispered as
three pops sounded. One light shattered. Three more pops and the second went dark. The others clicked off without further encouragement. Relative dark returned. It didn't hide the crowd gathering on the lawn of the big house. Servants, guests, guards, both armed and not— anyone close and willing had been pressed into what Jeff knew could only be a slaughter. Dumont had already warned Jeff that sleepy darts had a range of only twenty to fifty meters. Put enough energy into a dart and it didn't matter what you tipped it with, it shattered bone, arteries, skulls.
"I can take down the screamer, Captain," Heave announced.
"No," Jeff and Mary said at the same time. Jeff swallowed. He couldn't kill Vicky. He hated her, but killing her... she was his sister. "Please, Mary, don't shoot Vicky."
"Probably wouldn't settle the crowd, anyway," Dumont judged.
"Grenadiers, load blue rounds," Mary ordered in answer.
Jeff followed Dumont's motions as he pulled one of the rockets from his backpack and attached it to the top of his rifle. Then he pulled a grenade from his belt, checked to make sure it had a broad blue band around its middle, and loaded it on his rocket. Done, Dumont went over Jeff's load. "Got it right the first time, kid," was Jeff's reward.
"Lay down a slick halfway between the house and the gate," Mary ordered. The archive had a low decorative fence about four feet high midway between it and the mansion. As Mary worked with her wrist unit, Jeff's goggles lit up with six target crosses in a wide blue swath, showing her fire plan. One blinked; Jeff had his targeting orders. With the others, he lifted his rifle, aimed at his assigned location, and fired. A dot of light leaped from his rifle, quickly suppressed by his goggles. Loud pops came from where the grenades were aimed, and a blue wash seemed to spread out from Jeff's target. What had he just done?
The crowd had stepped back as the rockets came in. When all fell short, they seemed to take courage. Vicky, of course, was yelling all the time for them to get a move on. Get over there and stop those thieves stealing her property.
"Grenadiers, load yellow rounds. Set them for a B—repeat, Bravo—pattern." Mary ordered in a voice so steady and calm Jeff wondered if she was here, watching several hundred people work themselves into a killing rage. Jeff followed Dumont's lead again. This time it included twisting the cap of the grenade around until a pointer settled on a B, logically located between A and C on the side of the round. Ready, he waited. Mary marked the same target for him. "All hands, we are about to go to flash bangs using a B pattern. Adjust goggles to B pattern."
Dumont was feeling around the right edge of his goggles. Jeff did, too, and found a small wheel half submerged in the rim. He moved it slowly. A small sign in the upper right-hand corner of his goggles that he had previously ignored changed to an A, then a B. His goggles started flickering between viewing the scene and blanking it out. "Got a B," Dumont said, pointing a finger at the place on Jeff's goggles where he now had a B.
"Yes. What's going on?"
"Just watch," Dumont grinned, white teeth gleaming in the borrowed light from the big house. "This ought to be funny."
"Here they come," Mary said. "Stand by." The crowd surged forward. A howl started
growing louder and going up the scale. "Stand by," Mary repeated calmly. The first runners were approaching the blue wash on Jeff's goggles. They slipped, fell, shrieked in surprise. "Now!" Mary said.
Jeff and five others sent grenades arching out. They hit just ahead of the people who were down. Six booms reverberated over the howls and screams, then changed into some kind of popping racket. Now Jeff knew what was happening with his glasses. Rhythmically, they blanked, protecting him from blinding flashes that were disorienting the mob. Not that the people out there needed much help. More ran or were pushed into the blue stretch of yard to stumble, tumble, or pratfall all over each other. On hands and knees, people tried to get back out, only to fall on their faces. Over their groans, screams, shouts, and a few laughs, Vicky shrieked orders to get up, get moving. It only got worse for those who tried.
"We got leakers around the edges," Mary noted, and Jeff peeled his eyes away from the centerpiece to note a couple dozen people on the mob's flanks edging around the blue slick, looking for a way through. "Grenadiers, load blue, fire at my marks."
Jeff quickly went through the drill and lobbed a slick grenade off to the right, completing a box between the first line and the edge of the main building. More people went down.
"Archives and gear are out of the building," came over the net. "We're headed back to the blimp, Captain."
"Very good. Dumont, withdraw your squad."
"Basement detail, withdraw. Roof sharpshooters, withdraw."
The light and noise show came to a slow end. The mass of people on the lawn continued to try to grope, crawl, and belly-swim out of the slippery stuff. Mary grinned beside Jeff. "Came off easier than I'd expected. Let's go crew."
Jeff led them down the stairs. On the first-floor landing, he could see the last of the gear being loaded aboard the blimp, and the troops hustling quickly for it as well. Mary and Dumont joined him.
"Don't move" came in a familiar voice. From a small room off the main vestibule—a rest room—stepped Millard, impeccably dressed in black tails, an air pistol firmly in his hand. In the dim light coming through the window and the doorway, he aimed at Jeff's heart.
"Who's this gentleman?" Mary asked, coming to a very fast and complete halt.
"Millard, the downstairs butler," Jeff answered. "He can trim rosebushes with that pistol at fifty paces," he quickly added the essential information.
"Good shot," Mary nodded.
"He also teaches unarmed combat to the staff."
"I'm liking him better by the second," Dumont wisecracked. "Any chance you'd like to join the corps? We're always looking for a few good men."
Jeff rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "He can't be bought."
"I and mine have served the Sterlings for six generations. Now"-he waved the gun toward the door-"if you will, order Miss Sterling's property returned."