THE SPYCHIP CONSPIRACY

Black clouds moved across the midnight sky, obscuring the moonlight and darkening the alleyway. A warm drizzle began to fall. Trooper Victor Ganin charged his M4 assault rifle, flipped down his helmet-mounted night vision goggles and scanned the alley. The goggles depicted the old brick buildings, rough gray pavements, and barrel fires of the Bronx sector in hues of green. Rebel groups were everywhere in the sector. They thrived on illegal activities including piracy, smuggling, and gunrunning. Victor was apprehensive. All his years as a World Government trooper hadn’t quite prepared him for this night. Red Team, the Global Police Attack Team under his command, was highly experienced and heavily armed. And some of the team members had fought with him through bloody conflicts in other world regions. But the fact they were now in World Region 1-Northeastern Quadrant-New York City Zone, was not encouraging. The Bronx had recently been designated a high-threat sector. According to Global Police Force (GPF) intelligence, the Crusaders Rebel Army had set up headquarters from a building further down the alleyway. Their leader, known only as Steele, was lethal. Several attempts to liquidate him had failed. His fighters didn’t take prisoners, not even for interrogation, exchange, or ransom. “Red Leader, immediate area secure, cleared to go into the target building,” said the voice in Victor’s earpiece. It was the voice of Commander Drake, regional chief in charge of all liquidation operations. Drake rarely participated in field missions but this one was so important that he had decided to direct it himself from the command helicopter gunship. “Have rebel leaders been positively identified in the target building?” Victor spoke into his microphone attached to his helmet. “Affirmative, Red Leader,” Drake replied. “Robot support is in place?” he inquired further. “Robot-troopers are integrated with Blue and Green Teams as briefed, Red Leader. Your orders are to move on the target at this time. That means you, Ganin!” Drake snapped. “Command acknowledged,” Victor said, scanning the alleyway, his amber eyes reflecting the dim glow of the night vision goggles. A cold sweat ran down his hawkish face. “Blue and Green Teams, confirm you are in backup positions.” “Blue Team, affirmative,” Blue Leader replied. “Green Team, affirmative,” Green Leader responded. “Miller, Toth, Rodriguez, Branson—we’re up,” he breathed into his microphone. “Ready,” each team member responded in turn. Victor signaled his team to move out. He took the lead as the black-clad troopers moved down the alley with their M4 assault rifles held in the ready position. They moved swiftly through the rain toward the target building; water splashed beneath their boots. He paused by the structure adjacent to the building, putting his back to the wall and looking around the corner at the building. A narrow pathway led to the side door. Some of the windows were broken, litter was scattered about, and rats scurried to and from the drainpipes. Next to the door stood a dilapidated fire escape that zigzagged its way to the heights of the twelve-story building. Victor signaled with a wave of his right hand. The attack team moved down the pathway to the side door. He smashed through the door with his left shoulder, and then ran up the winding stairway with speed and stealth. The commander’s voice came through the earpiece again: “Terrorists’ coordinates confirmed in apartment seventy-seven: three rebel leaders armed with AK-47s, RPGs, grenades. Engage at will.” He continued up the stairway like the wind, counting the floors in his head—floor number one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six. . . . He paused at the top of the stairs on the seventh floor. The team members breathed heavily behind him. An eerie silence hung in the air, disrupted only by the sound of water pipes dripping. He peered around the corner. Along the dreary hallway was a line of wooden doors; there were no lights. He identified door 77 as the fourth door from his position. Victor looked back at his men. Miller was closest to him, his eyes sharply focused, his camouflaged face beaded with sweat. The others were dark silhouettes further down the stairway. With his left hand gripping the grenade launcher mounted underneath his M4, Victor whirled his right forefinger, giving the attack signal. The team moved into position within seconds—with Victor to the left, and Miller, Toth, Rodriguez, and Branson to the right of the door. Victor kicked open the door. He and Miller pointed their assault rifles inside and fired in sweeping motions—brrrrr, brrrrr, brrrrr. Then they rushed into the room with the other team members providing cover.