everywhere.” He paused. “It ain’t looking pretty out there, sir.” The older NCO sighed and adjusted his backpack. “You might as well walk the floor, and take a look around. I’ve got the rest of the troops poking around. Latrines are that way” — he pointed to his right — “along with a pantry. Vending machines, coffee, hot chocolate, even a refrigerator with that Parmalat milk. Tastes like crap, but you can drink it and it won’t kill you. I think.” He paused. “Radios work out here, since they’re not cut off by the stairwell walls, but they’re pretty much useless. Our private freq is blank, but there’s still some activity on the common net. All fragmented. Some of our guys are still alive, but they’re on the run, I think.” His face hardened a bit, and McDaniels knew the first sergeant had heard some things he didn’t like.
McDaniels flipped frequencies on his radio. The private frequency USASOC had allocated for them was indeed silent, nothing but a vague hiss of static. The common tactical frequency was a mish-mash of static broken every now and then by pleas for assistance or other units trying to reconstitute. Most of the calls were unintelligible, and some of them carried with them the sounds of distant combat.
He looked at Gartrell. “We need to keep focused on staying alive, first sergeant. Once we get established here, we should make sure the civilians are safe, and then take an inventory of our gear and ammo. We’ll also need to break out the sat phone and see if we can get a hold of anyone at Bragg.”
“Satcom’s not going to work in here, sir. We’ll need to be up on the roof. And this building is 27 stories, so we’re going to have to go for a walk, unless you want to consider taking one of the elevators. Which are in a locked bay over there.” Gartrell pointed to his left. McDaniels turned and walked over to a nearby reception area. A set of glass doors separated the elevator bay from the office floor. When he tried to pull them open, he found they were locked.
“Magnetic lock, major.” Gartrell hadn’t followed him, and remained near the fire exit. “To get out, you press that button on the wall there. To get in, someone either swipes an entry card or is buzzed in from that receptionist’s desk, there.”
McDaniels saw the illuminated red button on the wall beside the glass entry doors. It was clearly labeled EXIT, and he pressed it. A loud metallic click sounded, and he pulled open one of the doors easily enough. He listened, but heard no evidence that any of the elevators were in operation. He let the door close, and the click sounded again. The doors relocked automatically.
“I wonder if it’ll still work when the power fails,” he said.
Gartrell said nothing. They would deal with that when it happened.
McDaniels looked around. “The Safires?”
Gartrell pointed to over his shoulder. “In the pantry. No windows, single point of ingress. Seemed to be the safest place to put them for the moment. Jimenez has guard duty.” As he spoke, the remaining two Night Stalkers appeared, carrying a heavy wooden credenza by either end.
“Put that here,” Gartrell ordered, and stepped aside while the red-faced soldiers pushed the ornate piece of furniture against the fire door. It only blocked half of it, and the door opened into the stairwell anyway, but it was a start.
“I’m thinking one of us should be on the other side of that door,” one of them said. McDaniels couldn’t see his nametape, as the ballistic vest he wore covered up the blouse of his battle dress utilities. He didn’t know any of these soldiers at all, and they didn’t know anything about him, other than the gold oak leaf insignia on his uniform lapels.
“I’m Major McDaniels, with USASOC J-2,” he told them, “and this is First Sergeant Gartrell. Who’re you guys?”
“Staff Sergeant Dane Finelly,” said the first, a tall, broad-shouldered man who spoke with a subtle twang.
McDaniels flipped frequencies on his radio. The private frequency USASOC had allocated for them was indeed silent, nothing but a vague hiss of static. The common tactical frequency was a mish-mash of static broken every now and then by pleas for assistance or other units trying to reconstitute. Most of the calls were unintelligible, and some of them carried with them the sounds of distant combat.
He looked at Gartrell. “We need to keep focused on staying alive, first sergeant. Once we get established here, we should make sure the civilians are safe, and then take an inventory of our gear and ammo. We’ll also need to break out the sat phone and see if we can get a hold of anyone at Bragg.”
“Satcom’s not going to work in here, sir. We’ll need to be up on the roof. And this building is 27 stories, so we’re going to have to go for a walk, unless you want to consider taking one of the elevators. Which are in a locked bay over there.” Gartrell pointed to his left. McDaniels turned and walked over to a nearby reception area. A set of glass doors separated the elevator bay from the office floor. When he tried to pull them open, he found they were locked.
“Magnetic lock, major.” Gartrell hadn’t followed him, and remained near the fire exit. “To get out, you press that button on the wall there. To get in, someone either swipes an entry card or is buzzed in from that receptionist’s desk, there.”
McDaniels saw the illuminated red button on the wall beside the glass entry doors. It was clearly labeled EXIT, and he pressed it. A loud metallic click sounded, and he pulled open one of the doors easily enough. He listened, but heard no evidence that any of the elevators were in operation. He let the door close, and the click sounded again. The doors relocked automatically.
“I wonder if it’ll still work when the power fails,” he said.
Gartrell said nothing. They would deal with that when it happened.
McDaniels looked around. “The Safires?”
Gartrell pointed to over his shoulder. “In the pantry. No windows, single point of ingress. Seemed to be the safest place to put them for the moment. Jimenez has guard duty.” As he spoke, the remaining two Night Stalkers appeared, carrying a heavy wooden credenza by either end.
“Put that here,” Gartrell ordered, and stepped aside while the red-faced soldiers pushed the ornate piece of furniture against the fire door. It only blocked half of it, and the door opened into the stairwell anyway, but it was a start.
“I’m thinking one of us should be on the other side of that door,” one of them said. McDaniels couldn’t see his nametape, as the ballistic vest he wore covered up the blouse of his battle dress utilities. He didn’t know any of these soldiers at all, and they didn’t know anything about him, other than the gold oak leaf insignia on his uniform lapels.
“I’m Major McDaniels, with USASOC J-2,” he told them, “and this is First Sergeant Gartrell. Who’re you guys?”
“Staff Sergeant Dane Finelly,” said the first, a tall, broad-shouldered man who spoke with a subtle twang.
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