Chapter 3

Pressed against the back wall of the warehouse, Morgan clicked his com – “All teams in position. Initiate attack. Be advised that they will be aware of our presence.”
A loud crash came when he kicked down the light metal door, followed by the deafening boom of the flashbang he threw inside and the pew-pew-pew of automatic gunfire as, with his arm over his face to shield him from the effects of the flashbang he sprayed suppressive fire through the doorway, then ducked back outside away from return fire which never came.
With the rest of Alpha Team – Lieutenant Johnson and eight other men – he entered the building, pulse rifle braced at his shoulder, and saw that the refectory where they had entered was deserted. A few of the tables were overturned, the floor was carbon-scored and the walls were dotted with the burns of pulse fire, and – mixed with the glorious smell of stale bread… in the army all they had was nutrition supplements – the smell of cordite was distinct in the air.
“Lieutenant Smith, sir,” the voice crackled over Morgan’s com, accompanied by the sound of explosions and weapons fire, “we’re pinned down on the fire escape, experiencing heavy resistance. Cannot enter building. Requesting urgent assistance.”
“Affirmative, Lieutenant,” Morgan responded. Turning to his team, he said, “You heard the man – Delta Team need our help. Move out!”
Bursting through the door – which had already been torn from its hinges, probably by those in the refectory when the alarm had sounded in their rush to reach whatever positions they had been assigned in the case of discovery – and onto the warehouse floor, Morgan and his men broke into a run.

Knelt behind the wooden and scrap metal barricade, Jeanne felt the rusty lifeline shudder under her against the fire of the attackers’ energy weapons, disgorging from the armoured personnel carrier at the end of the street. The stock of her rifle – a century-old but well-maintained and gleaming M4XX carbine – kicked against her shoulder as she returned fire. Three of the suits – Corporate soldiers, like those of any well-equipped army, wore camouflage of course, but nevertheless they were referred to as suits in the LSF and for that matter most of the anti-Corporate community – fell to her fire, but she was devastated to see Tom lying in a heap on the floor, his arm from the shoulder down having taken its leave from him currently residing on the grimy, oily road on the other side of the barricade.
She was unable to do anything for Tom, as in the next instant her anonymous comrade – whose name she had learnt was Andy – had thrown both of them to the ground behind a stack of plastic crates. “Fire in the hole!” his warning was drowned out by the blast of a grenade behind him, and out of the corner of her eye Jeanne saw Tom disappear in a cloud of fire and shrapnel.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” was her cry of despair, and she launched herself over the barricade to spray death down the road with a vengeance.
Then there was a sickening crack to the back of her skull, and she yelled out, dropping her weapon and falling to the ground. As her vision blacked out, she saw a camouflaged figure lift his rifle back to firing position, its tip pointed menacingly at Andy.

Hearing weapons fire, Sam swung his rifle down from his back. “Fuck,” he cursed the inconvenience under his breath, “they must have been discovered.” He scanned the nearest entrance – the freight entrance – and saw extensive explosion damage inside the loading bay and the makeshift defensive barricade shattered, about half a dozen soldiers entering the building and restraining the two surviving defenders.
“Okay, baby,” he sighed to his blastgun, “I’ll run in, grab a few charge packs and we’ll be out before anything happens.”

The staccato of old-fashioned gunfire filled the air, and a sharp cry drew Morgan’s head – Private Tucker doubled over and fell to the ground, clutching his solar plexus, victim to a burst of submachine gun fire down the aisle.
As he stopped moving, the rest of the team instinctively sought cover in the neighbouring aisles. Morgan braced his rifle on one of the empty shelves and dropped Tucker’s attacker with a single shot. Private Caboose leant out into the aisle down which the rebels were approaching, and the remaining team members dashed for the staircase to the gallery, shooting wildly into the cloud as they passed.
At the top, Morgan leant over the rail to lay down suppressing fire while his men gained ground towards the offices at the end of the walkway. As he was turning to follow them, a single rebel emerged from the slowly dissipating smoke cloud, coughing and sputtering and clutching the bloody stump of his right arm and clearly no longer a threat to Morgan’s troops; Morgan declined to finish the job.
The offices, he discovered, were now a war room, filled with the best communications and tactical equipment the rebels could obtain.
More importantly, it was also filled with people, many of whom were unarmed. In fact, there were several children and even a handful of pregnant women among the crowd.
Grimacing, he raised his rifle and made burnt cheese out of a middle-aged man lining up a 19th Century revolver to meet the newcomers. Other nearby militants were also producing weapons; at the other end by the far door, the gunmen engaging Delta Team were taking notice, but mostly staying focused.
One of Morgan’s men was fumbling with a grenade.
Morgan tackled him and knocked the man’s arm against the railing behind him, forcing him to drop the grenade to the floor below.
“I will NOT have MY MEN KILLING INDISCRIMINATELY!”
With that, he struck the man in the head with the butt of his rifle, smashing the side of his skull and killing him instantly.
Around him, his troops were opening fire.