Jordan Summers - [Dead World 01] by Red (html) Read Free Book Online

normality.
    Red entered the imposing military structure via a
twenty-person EDS shuttle, since her two-seater transport had been damaged in
the firelight. The electrodynamic technology had been developed in the
twentieth century for Maglev trains, which used high-temperature
superconductors in conjunction with magnets in order to run. The EDS technology
had been altered several times since then in order to eliminate the use of tracks
and increase speed. The added boost allowed the tactical team to get anywhere
on the North American continent within five hours or less. From the Republic of
Arizona it had taken three hours to reach IPTT, located in what used to be
northern Montana and Alberta, Canada.
    Three very long hours with Bannon bitching in her onboard headset the whole way. Red rolled her
neck, trying to ease the tension knotting her shoulders as she strolled
out of the docking area toward the central hub. The man loved the sound of his
own voice.
    Rows of stainless-steel beams, like silver incisors
clenching a kill, marked the entrance to headquarters. The thick sloping,
lead-flaked outer glass walls appeared vaguely pyramidal in origin, but the
reality was much more mundane. The glass filtered the sun's harsh rays while
the sloped walls helped dissipate blasts from hydrogen car bombs and other
projectiles.
    Started in the year 2010 during
the last world war— which
brought about the dissolution of countries and the formation of self-governing republics—the IPTT was in its 150th year of existence. The agency's
main job was to curtail open aggression between the republics.
    At one hundred thousand square miles each, the
republics took up 70 percent of the land mass in the world. The other 30
percent encompassed no-man's-land, a place of lawlessness and utter chaos.
These areas were so dangerous that boundary walls had been erected around them
to keep the peace.
    Due to the constant threat of
upheaval each republic created its own unique computer chip, which was used to identify its citizens. People could travel
freely from place to place as long they were
registered with one of the republics.
If too many registered individuals from one republic crossed a border checkpoint into another, it would be considered an act of aggression and IPTT would step in, whether the republic
wanted its help or not.
    This didn't help its popularity around the world, but since the team had gathered 90 percent of the weapons left over after
the war, no one said much in protest.
    Along with peacekeeping duties, the tactical team was also responsible for boundary patrol and handled most of the unusual criminal cases.
    Murder, having been all but
eliminated, qualified as unusual. Killing unknown individuals fell into the acceptable
action category and wasn't considered murder due to the unknowns' lack of
registration with a republic.  As far as the world was
concerned, unknowns did not exist.
    Red strode to the weapon detectors, noting the extra guards posted nearby. It wasn't drill day, so what were they doing here? She began to disarm, crinkling her nose at
the sharp mint odor the A.I. filtration sys-tem pumped into the air to keep
everyone alert.
    She laid her laser pistols down first onto the
conveyor belt, followed by Rita, her malfunctioning navcom, her pencil bombs, emergency oxygen inhaler, u ltrasonic whistle, throwing knives, and rib splitter, then stepped into the arched scanner.
    A green beam shot down from
above, slowly traveling the length of her body before
shutting off. A machine located on the other side of the scanner spat a
printout through a thin slot.
    Red slipped Rita back on and
grabbed the synthetic paper before gathering her weaponry. She scanned the document. Her vitals were on
target. The only marker readings that
spiked were from her bloody combat boots.
She paused to stare at the readouts that represented McCallan's and Lisa
Solomon's DNA. Neither one had deserved to die.
    She glanced down at the offending