Survival Gene. Science Fiction Novel. Artsun Akopyan

holster and put it on his hip – just the way the captain had done before.

      Barkov discerned chatter of one more helicopter coming from the east. It couldn’t be seen through either of the windows or the open door, but judging by its powerful and even noise, it hovered somewhere over the end of the police cars line.

      We’re being squeezed in the vice, he guessed.

      No doubt, those were representatives of the secret service. Had they decided to stop a possible leak of information by shooting the local cops? Unlikely. Law enforcement agencies couldn’t be at war with each other. Most probably, Emily had misunderstood something.

      “Did you hear their conversations mentally?” he asked forcing his voice over the noise of helicopters.

      “Yes!” Emily replied. “It was a secret service agent who talked to a certain General Larsson.

      “What did they – ”

      The sergeant raised his gun. “Stop talking! Otherwise, I’ll plug a hole in your beans!”

      The guy was young. Obviously, he had graduated from the Police Academy recently and was trying to imitate the captain. Andrew had been like that in the past. If what Emily said is correct he won’t be able to grow up.

      “Listen, sergeant,” Andrew began, “this girl has a gift. There might be truth in – ”

      “Silence!” the policeman commanded sternly.

      “…her words,” Andrew continued.

      “Silence!” the sergeant shouted even more sternly.

      Palmer appeared in the doorway.

      “Come out!” he ordered loudly.

      Barkov knew his boss very well. If the man had decided something, it was impossible to dissuade him. Grasping the bracelets so that they didn’t slip off, Andrew stood up and got off the van. Emily followed him.

      The convoy, as he could see now, consisted of five police electromobiles: three cars before the van and one behind it. A helicopter had landed and was blocking the way in front of the first electromobile. Its blades kept rotating. The side door was open and a multi-barreled machine gun was stuck out of it. Behind the machine gun, a man wearing an olive drab uniform and a helmet sat pointing it towards them. On one side, in front of the helicopter, there stood two men in civilian clothes.

      Behind the convoy, an attack aircraft was hovering. A gun was in the fore part of its fuselage, rockets glittered under the wings. Such helicopters were called “flying tanks’ unofficially. No more than two dozen of them were left in the world. In theory, their task was supporting special mission units when they suppressed riots or destroyed terrorists’ bases, but in reality they had not been used for a long time as there was no such need in the restructured world order.

      Palmer ordered, “Sergeant, you go first, the prisoners follow, and I’m the last. Quick march!”

      The men in civilian dress stood motionless, waiting for the approaching group.

      Walking behind the sergeant, Andrew felt a threat of murder for a second. The man sitting behind the machine gun took aim at him and moved his weapon away at once. It seemed the man was simply viewing the site through the gun sight and was ready to shoot anybody any moment.