Symon Meli reached under his face shield and mopped his brow. It had to be over ninety degrees with the heat radiating off the pavement and not a hint of a breeze off the lake. He broiled under the layers of riot gear, his saliva like paste, but he forced the discomfort from his mind and focused. Unwavering focus was much of the reasons he had risen so far and so fast in the MPD. His father's ties to the Lukowskis helped, but that could only take you so far.

A bullet whined off the concrete block he hid behind. Focus. His right hand held the grenade, his forefinger hooked through the pin. In his mind he replayed the one simple, fluid motion. Stand, draw back arm, rotate hips forward as arm passes overhead, train sight on the target, follow through, complete the throwing circle.

Another long burst of gunfire. From the foot of the bridge, the captain chopped the air with his hand: Meli's signal. He sprung from his hiding spot, twisting the pin from the grenade, and focused on the target, an overturned dumpster. He watched the sphere hurtling through the air for a second before he scrambled to cover.

"Go!" the captain shouted, laying down supressing fire. Meli's squad advanced across Berger Bridge as the support team took up positions behind them. He slid behind a column and stayed down. First time this side of the river, he thought.

The team had begun their assault on a cell of squatters stationed five blocks north of Ol' Federal shortly after dawn. It had been a morning of patience and a series of carefully coordinated maneuvers, advancing and retreating on the target from different angles. The opposition had dug in like ticks, fortifying their shelter with layers of sheet metal and heavy artillery. Snipers lurked in upper-story windows and to everyone's surprise they even had a few RPGs, which they thankfully wasted on wild shots that careened over the heads of the guards, exploding on the second and third stories of buildings. Concrete, metal, and glass rained down but did no damage.

They had burst open the bunker door to be greeted by a hail of bullets. The sqautters fled out the back of the building, just beating out the guards rounding the building attempting to seal the exit. The chase spilled onto the streets and they pursued them to the river, following their breadcrumb trail of dropped provisions.

"Meli!" the captain shouted, then flashed two fingers and mimed a throwing motion. As Meli peeked from cover he saw a scavenger duck into the scorched ruins of a derailed tramcar. It was every inch of forty yards away. Meli waited for his signal. When it came he threw one grenade, reset himself, and had the second in the air before the first landed. They detonated, flushing their quarry in the opposite direction.

Three figures made a dash for the alley and the MPD opened fire through the clouds of dust. An amplified voice echoed through the hot, still air. "This Captain Dann of the MPD. You have been escorted off MPD property, everything east of the river. Your possesssions are hereby confiscated. Further trespassing is punishable by death."

There was no response. The captain ordered the guards to pull back.

As General Johnson had dictated from his balcony at the Rock, Project Unification had three goals: elimination, incarceration, and intimidation of any non-MPD-sanctioned citizen east of the Juneau. Meli's team of fifteen men had ousted a deeply entrenched mob of at least a dozen well-armed scavengers and suffered nothing more than a few flesh wounds. It had been a good day.

"Meli," the captain said he drew up beside him as they double-timed it back to the scavengers' nest. "Mark yourself down for six feathers, on my authorization."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, stunned. That put his total to twenty-six in just over two years since graduation. He was over halfway to becoming an officer. The captain noted his expression and clapped him on the shoulder. Then he barked at the guards to assemble for S&S: search and seizure.

The scavengers had made a cozy home for themselves in the belly of the building. At a glance it would take at least two trips if not three to haul the good back to Ol' Federal for tagging and inventory.

The recovery lasted nearly two hours as guards tore apart soiled mattress, probed holes in floors and walls, and otherwise upended the place. They discovered a dozen small arms, ammo, and the two heavy caliber machine guns. In addition they found a decent store of processed and packaged foods; Meli saw at least four guards pocketing rundown tabs they found but he kept it to himself. No sense rocking the boat. There were also clothes and scant medical supplies: bandages, aspirin and the like.

Dann ordered Meli and the others to perform a final sweep. Meli wandered the halls and entered what served as a bedroom. Beside a ripped mattress were not one, but two pairs of dirty baby shoes. He crouched to examine them and their distressed Velcro closures, their worn-through soles. He stared at them for a long while, thinking of fleeing scavengers.

"Meli!" came a voice down the hallway.

The voice broke him from his trance. "On my way," he said standing. He carefully put the shoes back where he found them and rejoined his team.