The Clone Assassin Read Online Free PDF Page A

federal penitentiary, run by the Enlisted Man’s Empire. A few of the guards were clones, retired military. The dispatcher was a local civilian.
    The first guard, a natural-born who had never served in the military, said, “How the speck would I know that? If you want aircraft information, call a specking air traffic controller.”
    The second guard in the nest was a clone, a retired airman. He leaned over the console, and said, “It’s a gunship, maybe a TR-40.”
    “A gunship?” asked the first guard. “Are you sure?”
    “No, sir, I’m not entirely sure it’s a TR-40, could be a forty-two.” He picked up his binoculars, equipment made for searching prison yards, not skies. “Two racks for rockets . . . Yes, sir, it’s either a forty or a forty-two.”
    “What’s it doing here?” the dispatcher asked.
    Below the tower, guards started lining up along the prison wall for a better look. There were no military bases near Sheridan, the gunship was an unusual sight. Off in the distance, the gunship dropped slowly until she was almost even with the tower, then she remained in place, as still as a toy on a shelf. She hung in the air about fifteen feet above the tips of the pine trees.
    “Are you sure that’s a gunship?” asked the dispatcher. “I just checked with the tracking station at Newport. They say there’s no air traffic in the area.”
    “Speck that,” said the first guard. “That sure as shit ain’t no seagull.”
    The dispatcher said, “Let me check with . . . hey, Astoria isn’t answering.” A moment later he added, “I can’t reach Coos Bay.”
    A civilian, he didn’t know that gunships carried equipment that could block satellite transmissions; the retired airman did. He ran the military math in his head and asked, “Have you tried using civilian communications?” Military consoles used a satellite link. Civilian lines used underground laser cables.
    The dispatcher said, “Hey, there it is; we have it on our security cameras now.”
    “I told you it wasn’t a seagull,” said the natural-born guard.
    The clone guard didn’t join in their conversation.
If that bird is one of ours,
he asked himself,
why didn’t we know it was coming?
But gunships were not known for their stealth capabilities. There was no way the Unified Authority could have flown one in without being spotted.
    “What’s it doing out here?” asked the dispatcher.
    Still staring out at the bird, the clone guard said, “Once you broke in, what would you do with a gunship?” A silent moment passed before he answered his own question, “You couldn’t land it, not in here. You’d only need it for . . . cover.” Speaking to the dispatcher, he said, “We’re in deep. They have infantry out there.”
    The dispatcher shouted, “I tried the landlines; I can’t reach anyone!”
    “They cut the lines,” said the clone guard.
    “Who cut the lines? Who the hell are they? What are they doing here?” asked the natural-born guard.
    “Here they come,” said the clone guard.
    Five military transports approached in the air, drifting in behind the gunship, then touching down along the highway that led to the gates of the penitentiary.
    Isolated and alone, the penitentiary at Sheridan was protected by gates and walls and a handful of guards. The warden addressed his men over the intercom. He said, “Sheridan FCI is now under lock . . .” Before he finished the sentence, the prison went dark.
    “They cut the lights,” said the natural-born guard. “What do we do now?”
    Raised in a military orphanage, having survived airman training and a life at war, the clone guard had duty programmed into his brain. He said, “We lock down.”
    “Lock down? With that thing out there? Lock down? Bullshit! I didn’t sign up to fight gunships. I didn’t sign up for this!” His mind decided, the natural-born guard fled. He sped down the stairs of the tower and disappeared into the tunnel that led into the wall.
    The