Chapter 7: HOT WAR UNLEASHED
Just down the hall from the fifth floor boardroom, Doctor Carravecky’s personal assistant was an attractive brunet who flaunted her round implants (like honeydew melons ripe for the picking) at every man who entered her executive workspace. She eyed Tom’s strong stature; then she accepted the inked-up sheet of paper from McBridle’s extended hand along with her security clearance card. The lady read the five lots in the data request column, keyed in the security code, accessed the main archives and tagged the authorized files. “I’ll inform security and have your requisition order brought up from restricted resources room,” the doctor’s assistant said with a poorly removed European accent. She handed the identification card back to McBridle. “Tomorrow you can pick up the files at the ground level vault at the main lobby guard post.”
“That’ll be fine,” McBridle replied as she folded her cream-coloured coat over her arm and left the office with Tom. Then the doctor’s assistant closed the door silently behind them.
The elevator opened on the main floor. The guard patrol seemed to have increased its control activities. Each guard now wore his assigned sidearm in plain view, a small but lethal thirty-two shell, 9mm Tracer, one of a dozen weapons manufactured abroad by Carravecky and Sons.
The secured area behind the guard post was cluttered with sounds of combat boot formations and stuffed weapon magazines popping in and out of semiautomatics; it seemed less like a live exercise and more like a staging area for an attack.
McBridle and Tom left through the front entrance, got into the car, drove up to the gate, and waited patiently for a guard to check them out. Then they pulled onto the road and travelled back to the office.