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gunship helicopter.
    I bring Alpha Squad to the north side of the office park. The guys gather around me and check their gear while I finalize some comm protocols with Patrick. This Squad is all business, no chatter or grab-assing. Squad members are highly trained but nonenhanced soldiers equipped with on-helmet radios that send and receive on the same frequencies as my commphone. Some of them are rejects from Camp A-Go-Go, but anyone who makes it into Initial Training automatically qualifies for Squad duty. Despite the rejection, or maybe because of it, Squaddies tend to have genuine respect for those of us who graduate as Levels. When they’re good to go, they radio their Squad number to me, followed by “ready.”
    Once my guys finish checking in, I comm, “Raj, this is Scarlet. We’re prepped and ready to go.”
    He comms back, “Roger, Scarlet. Proceed to the main entrance and enter the building.”
    “Roger that.” I lead Alpha Squad up to the front door. There’s no point in subtlety. We arrived in fully loaded, nonstealthed helicopters. The baddies know we’re out here. My troopers lock and load their weapons, then assume a chevron formation behind me to cover our approach.
    I comm, “Solomon, this is Scarlet, acknowledge.”
    “Solomon ready.” This is Trick in the command helicopter.
    Raj comms for the green light from Cyrus. “Almighty, this is Raj. Permission to proceed with Job Number AB-789.”
    The comm-handle “Almighty” is reserved for the case officer who bears final responsibility for the job. Normally, the Front Desk doesn’t oversee missions directly, but Cyrus knows my mom personally, and he likes to stay connected to the fieldwork.
    Cyrus replies to the whole team, “Almighty to Raj,permission granted.” Then, only to me, “Give ’em hell, kiddo.”
    “Roger that, boss. Hell will be a step up for these motherfuckers.”
    I’ve had tons of training for this, but it’s my first large operation and my hands are shaking. I release more Kalmers into my bloodstream as I signal my demo guy to blow the north door. He hesitates and says, “Ma’am, we don’t even know if it’s locked.”
    I glower at him, jab a finger toward the door, and cry, “Boom!” He scurries up to the door and squishes a blob of C-4 into the doorjamb. Obviously, this guy doesn’t understand the psychological aspect of this kind of work. I want these kidnapping assholes totally freaked out so they make all kinds of mistakes.
    The demo guy gets the charge wired up, runs back to my position, kneels, and shouts, “Fire in the hole!” We duck our heads, the door blows up, and I charge into the smoke as chunks of door frame and wall land on the grass and front walkway. Alpha Squad crashes in behind me. Trick immediately feeds me directions.
    “Scarlet, stay to the right of the security area … Turn down this hall … Take the second door on the right and go up the stairs.”
    I open the door by blasting the doorknob with a giant slug from Li’l Bertha.
    The .50-caliber bullet rips a grapefruit-size hole through the door and carries away the entire latching mechanism. This is part of our standard assault procedure. It’s in case the doors can be remotely secured behind you. When you’re on offense, you don’t want anything locked.
    “Roger, Solomon.” I keep it short because I’m sure the baddies are monitoring our comm chatter. Under different circumstances I’d make all snuggly and stuff, but there’s not much point since the version of “snuggly” I’m bringing is the kind that results in broken bones and ruptured organs.
    We advance to the top of the stairs. I pause to make sure everybody is right behind me. I comm to Trick, “Solomon, advise.” Again I keep it short. He knows where we are.
    Trick comms back, “Vicinity clear, hard stop 200 left.”
    I blast the doorknob off and rip the door open. Trick has told me that the area behind the door is clear but that there will be some