Lieutenant Spier was quite impressed with the Vanguard's parachutes. They came with a maneuvering rig as standard. He'd done jumps with both static line and the maneuverable ram-air types that you could steer. None of them held a candle to the Vanguard model, which he would describe as "lovely" to control. The chute he glided down in now had very intuitive omnidirectional handles that allowed him to flare the chute to control his rate of descent as well as direct it as if it were a paraglider.

  He had been so distracted by the pleasantness of the drop, that he almost forgot to survey his landing zone. He came close to clipping one of his own soldiers as three of the INTERPOL members had already touched down. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he pressed the center button on the harness and whole chute came off instantly. He wasn't sure he liked that feature, as it could easily be hit midair, but it certainly made recovery on the ground alot easier.

  He swept his rifle high as other operators secured either side of the street they landed on. It was completely empty, but the sounds of violence carried down the narrow streets quite clearly. They had landed in an alleyway two blocks west of the White House. It wasn't the shortest distance, but it was only a street cross away from the Eisenhower office building, which contained tunnels that would carry them under the worst of the rioting and into the White House. That wasn't expected to be a cakewalk either, however. No doubt Krakowski would be blowing through many doors today.

  The Striker-Commander landed behind the Delta operator, exhibiting much more grace than one would expect of such a large human being.

  In all Cobra had 15 troopers. Seven "Interpol" agents, six Rifles and a frame. At this point, nobody made any operational distinction with the Interpol agents. They had grown to operate seamlessly with Vanguard regulars. It was also an open secret that everyone knew they were actually NATO troopers under a U.N facade. The markings on their armor were practically for show at this point.

  Lt. Spier Organized them into two columns on either side of the road. "Daytona, you're point." He told the frame, which quickly stepped to the head of their formation, slinging its machinegun.

  "Ready to move." Spier told Federov. To his relief, the Vanguard officer didn't respond with a joke. He was completely dialed in.

  "Let's move." Federov pointed ahead with two fingers.

  There first obstacle was crossing the street. The roadway between them and the Eisenhower building was four lanes and had wide sidewalks running parallel to it. The concrete passage was open and exposed. Though, not as much as it could have been. A smoky haze hung low over the entire area, obscuring vision more than two hundred feet in either direction. Right in the middle of roadway was a police line in an oval shape.

  Police barricades had been erected in between a ring of squad cars with lights still flashing. An armored riot control truck sat at one end. It was completely abandoned, the officers having been driven off.

  It was going to be a risky crossing. At one end of the street, Daytona had picked a group of rioters just beyond the smoke bank. Spier could see the large mass of people through his thermals. Most appeared to be standing around, not doing much. There were agitators at the head, demanding everyone's attention. He could hear them shouting on their megaphones trying to encourage wanton destruction. Some cut loose and were looting shops, but most were content to standby and watch with many recording on their phones. Nobody seemed to flinch when muffled distant gunshots rang out from somewhere nearby.

  Chief Rifle Novak motioned for everyone to stay low and quiet. They crossed the street in groups of two, careful to watch their step so as not to make any noise that might draw attention to themselves.

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  The last two to cross were Spier and Novak. They took thirty seconds to search the police line.

  "I'm seeing blood. No bodies." Spier observed. "Lots of shell casings."

  "Something definitely went sideways if riot cops resorted to live ammo." Novak agreed. He recovered two radios from the cache.

  Once across the street, with sentries keeping a close eye on their periphery, the elements radioman took one of the devices.

  Federov and Spier watched intently as the comms operator expertly duplicated the police frequencies. Most police outfits didn't have encrypted radios, but the capitol police did. The Vanguard device sliced through the security measure in seconds. The radioman touched a finger to the side of his helmet.

  "No joy. It's cluttered with slush. I think they've been compromised. If they're still communicating, then its not any of these frequencies." He reported.

  "Damn, I was hoping to get a better picture of the situation." Spier cursed. "Onward." He ordered.

  The element infiltrated through a side door that had been left open, probably by someone leaving in a hurry. The inside was immaculate, a night and day difference from the chaos outside. The door was quickly barricaded behind them.

  Inside were polished tile floors reflected the light from tall arched windows. The air was still and quiet, filled with the scent of old wood and paper. High ceilings arched overhead, trimmed with carved moldings. Their footsteps echoed softly.

  "End of the hall, left, seventy-six feet, stairway on the right. Access to the subterranean tunnels will be there." A navigating Rifle plotted their route while consulting a map produced from an internet search while they were enroute to D.C.

  Daytona led the way.

  They made it to he stairway before the frame suddenly held up a fist, the motion to halt. It pressed a finger to its nonexistent lips.

  The pointbot waved a hand in front of its face, then held up four fingers, then pointed down. "On my sensors, four individuals, bottom of the stairway." Was what it meant.

  The MARSOC operator inched closer and produced a borescope, which he angled around the corner. On the camera, he saw four people in black robes with ornate red scarfs around their necks, clearly some kind of revolutionary cult regalia. They were guarding the tunnel entrance. Each carried a rifle. He could hear them talking. One was clearly older than the other three by a wide margin. The younger three were probably early twenties. He talked to them animatedly while swinging his gun around, unaware they were being watched.

  "It's all about stance." The leader explained to the rest, a self-indulgent tone. "Think aggressive athleticism, not a range pose. Knees bent, torso forward, center of gravity over the balls of your feet. You’re not a statue, you’re a coiled spring."

  He adjusts his grip with exaggerated precision. "Now, your rifle isn’t a magic wand—it’s an extension of your spine. High-ready or low-ready depends on your doctrine, but either way, the muzzle needs to be able to snap to target with minimal deviation. That means elbows in, not chicken-winged out like some lost ROTC cadet."

  He takes a step forward, slicing the corner with his rifle to demonstrate. "And footwork. Everyone wants to rush, but this isn't a race. Toe to heel, minimize noise, limit your silhouette. Every step is a decision. You expose too much, you're a chalk outline."

  "Control the angles. Own the corners. And remember: whoever sees first, usually wins. Don’t be the guy still adjusting his sling while someone else is writing your obituary. That's how you clear a room."

  He finished his self-gratifying and obtuse lesson to the enthusiastic nods of his peers who didn't know any better.

  The Marine fought the urge to giggle. He plucked two grenades from his vest and pulled the pins. "This is how you clear a room, retards." He muttered and threw them around the corner.

  The explosives clattered and bounced down the marble steps. The cultists saw the grenades but their minds were slow to process what was happening before they detonated. Several hundreds grams of plastic explosives detonated simultaneously. White-hot shrapnel coated the entire space, cutting through clothes and flesh; shredding everything and everyone in the open.

  As soon as they detonated, the Vanguard element stormed around the corner, weapons raised. Four dead bodies greeted them. Daytona hosed them down with his machinegun for good measure.

  The thick steel door to the tunnel entrance was sealed, as expected.

  "Krakowski!" Spier called out.