James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“Just a few RPGs,” Ed admitted. “And 40mm grenades, when we’re lucky, but those don’t do shit against armor, just Growlers. I don’t think I’ve seen a rocket in six or seven years.”

“Right,” Morris went on, “so they are not going to expect any sort of capable or concerted anti-tank response. And having you seen as seizing the broadcast facilities, perhaps over reaching, they may take this as an opportunity to crush you. Up here, you haven’t had armor since the start of the war. Most of the time you haven’t had any weapons which will do more than scrape the paint off a Toad, so other than a tank trap, which at this late date are very rare, they haven’t had much to worry about. The current Tab commander is paranoid about losing what few tanks he has, though, which is why he doesn’t roll them out on you more often. That, and a lack of fuel. We’re hoping this will seem juicy enough he’ll send them out, and those Toad commanders, they’re not used to backing off. They should roll right up on you. Or close enough. Along with, hopefully, a lot of IMPs and Growlers. We’re hoping their overconfidence will provide what we like to call a target-rich environment.”

“That’s military slang for being outnumbered,” Ed pointed out.

Morris nodded. “You’re not wrong. We will kill some of them, we will definitely take out some of their vehicles and armor, the only question is, how many? It depends on how hungry and overconfident we can make them. That is where the stealth and surprise come in. The goal is to make them think all of your forces are in Nakatomi here, the Fisher Building. They’ll come roaring in and set up a perimeter while they decide whether or not to go in on foot or just wait you out. Because of all the tall buildings they’re going to have to be somewhat close enough to see what’s going on and, at some point, assault the ground floor. Hopefully whatever perimeter they set up will be right around or even, God willing, underneath where most of your troops actually will be.”

“And then? Brooke asked.

“And then,” Morris replied with a mean smile, “cry ‘Havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war.”

Morris was thinking of this exchange as he stared out the south-facing windows of the A. Alfred Taubman building, otherwise known as the chin in the New Center Area face. Positioned on the eleventh floor he had great visibility south along both Cass and 2 ndAvenue. He wasn’t alone, he had three of his men with him—Conrad, Bill, and Seattle as they’d chosen to be known for this mission, the three men who’d been manning the doorway of the sports complex, waiting for the dogsoldiers to arrive.

Conrad and Bill were positioned at the southeast corner of the building and had the best view up and down Cass. Morris and Seattle were on the west side of the building, looking down 2 ndAvenue.

“I’ve got a big smoke column down south, sir, you catching this? Over.” Conrad said. They were using a separate channel to communicate while still monitoring the other units. They’d heard every word in the exchange between Eagle Eye and RoadRunner, including the fateful last message one minute earlier, “Eagle Eye. Eagle Eye. All elements of RoadRunner that can make it to you are en route. Don’t wait for us. Repeat, DO NOT WAIT. It’s Plan B for us.”

Morris lowered his binoculars and raised his radio. “Roger that. Seattle, you keep an eye west. Just because I think they’ll come up Cass or Woodward doesn’t mean they won’t surprise us. And stay back from the windows, all of you,” he said for the third time, “I don’t want us spotted. Over.” He’d found himself crowding the glass, so he knew his men had to be doing the same thing. Seattle was at the northwest corner of the building, which had been abandoned years before.

“Yes sir.” There was a pause. “You think they’re going to wait to head up here until they clean up their mess down there? Over.”

Morris shook his head, even though no one could see it. “Whatever happened with Alpha is over,” he said curtly. “I can’t see Parker missing out on the chance to trap our people in Nakatomi.”

A minute later the radio crackled again, and he looked down to see it was the general channel audible to all elements of the assault force. “Almighty, Almighty, and everybody else out there, elements of RoadRunner Oscar Mike to your AO, ETA five. Alpha mission at least ninety percent accomplished, repeat ninety percent.”

“Fuck yeah!” Morris heard Seattle shout, his voice echoing down the empty hallway between the offices they occupied. Morris couldn’t help but smile. Ninety percent meant—probably, hopefully—that all but one or two of the aircraft in the hangars had been disabled or destroyed.

A minute later Conrad jumped on the radio, using the main channel. “All Bravo units, this is Almighty. Enemy units spotted south of your position, heading northbound on Cass, about one minute out. Growlers, IMPs, and at least one Toad. Will advise number and call out location when possible.” Morris couldn’t see them from where he was. There was a pause of a few seconds, then Conrad got back on the radio. “Advance armor elements breaking off, heading west, remainder slowing down. Stand by.”

Morris felt his heartrate jump up twenty percent as he stared south through the dirty pane of glass. The hike through the sewer lines had shown him just how physically unfit he actually was, but he’d made it, they’d made it, he’d heard all the Bravo squads call out they were in place, after a brief fight with the few soldiers stationed in the area. Now it was time for them to go to work.

He didn’t need his binoculars; when the Growlers and the IMP turned the corner onto 2 ndAvenue they seemed remarkably close, bright and crisp in the morning sun. “Bravo units, this is Almighty Actual,” he said into the radio. “Three Growlers and an IMP northbound on 2 ndAvenue. They appear to be scouts.” He paused. “Nakatomi, this is your show now. Over.”

The plan was to make the Tabs focus on the Fisher Building and to think, for as long as possible, all the dogsoldiers in the area were inside it, and act accordingly. To do this required two things—troops on the ground floor of the building to fight off the initial attempts to enter it, and men up on the eighth floor, where the Voice of the People was situated, to convince the Tabs they were still concerned with sending a guerrilla broadcast out over the airwaves.

The ground floor of the Fisher Building was a sieve—there were four main entrances, two tunnels, a second-story walkway, and then there were myriad windows and doors at sidewalk level leading into the now-closed ground floor stores. They knew they wouldn’t be able to hold the building for very long at all, once the Tabs decided to assault it in numbers, with or without armor support. But that wasn’t the plan. The building wasn’t the objective.

It was the bait.

George stared out through the eighth-floor windows. He was standing in the office of some sort of VOP executive and even though he was sweating under his armor he could feel there was actually, unbelievably, air conditioning operating in the building. Small offices lined the front of the building, connected by a hallway. George was in the center office with Kelly, one of Flintstone’s people, who was armed with an M4/203, a full-auto military carbine with underbarrel grenade launcher. Mark was in the office to their right, Quentin in a small conference room to their left. Their windows looked south, across West Grand Boulevard and down the length of 2 ndAvenue past the Cadillac Place building. If they needed to, they could run to either end of the hallway and look east and west down West Grand, but George had a hunch at least some of the Tabs wouldn’t be able to resist driving straight up 2 ndtoward the old skyscraper.