Mecrats

by C J Klinger

  It was a very personal question and one certainly inappropriate for a soldier to ask about his commanding officer, but Cathy understood. Randy had almost become a big brother to her and she loved him for being so concerned. She touched him again and said, “I love him Randy, but I’m so afraid of losing him. You guys take such terrible risk.”

  Randy’s face could not display emotion, but he was capable of nodding his head in understanding. “We’ll take care of him for you, Cathy. Don’t worry.”

  An immense weight seemed to lift from Cathy’s shoulders. Randy’s reassurance gave her a sense of security about the future. Nine Mecrats protecting the one she loved was a powerful guarantee of his safety. She smiled brilliantly and said, “If I could kiss you Randy Rucker, I would.”

  “I’ll cherish that image, Doctor W.”

  The fact that he had switched back to a more formal address told her the general and Greg were approaching the helicopter.

  “Let’s get going,” General Emerson said unnecessarily.

  Randy moved his massive legs aside and let the group climb the short steps. Once they were aboard he tucked up his legs and turned to let a crew member close and latch the sliding door. The sound of the turbines winding up made conversation impossible without headsets. Cathy put them on to block the noise, but didn’t turn on the commo switch. She wanted to be with her own thoughts. Greg squeezed her hand, but made no attempt to talk to her.

  The flight was short. Downtown Baltimore was no more than forty miles north and slightly east of Andrews Air Force base. The pilot swung out over Chesapeake Bay to clear Baltimore International’s airspace and flew straight up the Patapsco River past Ft. McHenry before angling to the northwest past the National Aquarium. The pier that berthed The USS Constellation, sister ship to Old Ironsides was straight ahead.

  General Emerson, who was sitting behind the pilot and copilot, announced over the headset, “We have a crowd.”

  Starting with the seven AM drive-time radio shows and the morning edition of the paper, Baltimore had been barraged with the news that America’s newest combat weapon would be on public display at Constellation Pier at ten AM. The Baltimore Sun ran an article based on information supplied by General Emerson’s office that detailed the size and general abilities of the Mobile, Enhanced Combat, Recon and Tactical Systems, or M.E.C.R.A.T.S. in army lingo. A brief description of their two exploits in IS controlled territory was included in the article. It took all of ten minutes for the morning DJs to describe the weapon as a cross between Terminator and Transformer. By the end of rush hour, Randy had been officially named T-Wreck by Baltimore’s morning pundits.

  On the Hatteras, The black man sat patiently waiting. He had changed his clothes to a casual outfit of crème colored slacks and a white Polo shirt. His black, nighttime outfit was packed in the small shoulder bag he had brought with him as were the rags he had used to wipe down all the surfaces he may have touched. The casual clothes would make it easier for him to blend in when he left the pier. His instructions were to leave the Barrett on the boat. He very much regretted not being able to take it with him, but a five foot long weapon, even broken down into three parts in a duffle bag would stick in witnesses’ memory and make it difficult for him to make a clean escape.

  A distinctive thumping noise announced the approaching Black Hawk. The sound was unmistakable, one he had heard often as a passenger and as a ground observer of the Army’s main combat helicopter. The Barrett was set up with the tripod resting on the bar. It was aimed at the slight opening between the sliding door and the jamb. Fate had been kind to him. The gap in the door, the space between the two fishing chairs and the pier three hundred yards across the bay lined up as if he had arranged them personally.

  “Inshallah,” he thought. Allah must have willed it so. The bottom side of the helicopter came into view as it flared out for landing on the end of the pier. For a brief instance, the man considered trying to shoot it out of the sky, but there would be no guarantee the people would die in the crash or that the new American weapon would be destroyed. He calmed himself and prepared for his original plan. His instructions had been clear, destroy the robotic warrior first and then the woman scientists who had helped create it. After that, as many military men he could take out before escaping would be a plus. The instructions had also told him to not waste his time trying to shoot the Mecrat in the head. It was the chest cavity that seemed to hold the vulnerable parts. He picked up the stock end of the Barrett and nestled it into his shoulder. He was intimately familiar with the kick the gun produced when fired. It had taken him several months in the gym to build up his shoulder muscles enough to handle the recoil of repeated shots. He clicked off the safety and took aim at the Black Hawk as it settled into his sights.

  On board the helicopter, Cathy and Greg took off their headsets. The crew member unlatched the side door and slid it open. He pointed upward and told Randy, “Watch your head.” Cathy didn’t know if the crew member thought he was talking to a machine or a remote operator, but either way he had the nonchalance of a man who had already seen too much. Randy swung his legs around and touched the ground. He remained stooped as he turned around to offer his hand to Cathy to help her down the helicopter steps. She accepted his help and walked with him as he stoop-walked to the edge of the still rotating blades. Once clear he stood up and a gasp went through the crowd gathered behind the barrier at the front of the pier. Some young man hollered “T-Wreck” and the crowd took up the chant, “T- Wreck.” Randy put his massive arm high in the air and waved. Suddenly he staggered and almost fell forward.

  “Shot,” he roared above the sound of the crowd. Greg instantly understood and grabbed Cathy around her waist and picked her up. He desperately looked around for cover and the only thing that possible might protect them was the USS Constellation. As fast as he could move while trying to explain to a protesting Cathy, he ran up the gang plank. As he reached the opening in the railing, a shower of splinters from a near miss hit the two of them. Greg shot through the opening and saw what he was looking for, a huge black canon tucked up against the starboard railing. He skidded to his knees and put a wide-eyed Cathy down behind it. “Are you hit?” he asked as calmly as if he was asking her about the weather.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered in a shaking voice. “Oh Greg, you’re bleeding.”

  “It’s just a splinter,” he answered. “Stay here.” It was not a request, it was an order and she obeyed without question. Greg moved at a stoop to another canon and stuck his head up to see what was happening. By now the crowd understood what was happening and were running in panic in all directions away from the pier. His quick reconnoiter revealed Randy looking across the bay pointing at something. The Mecrat staggered again, but kept upright. Without a sound the Mecrat turned and started running toward the promenade at the head of the pier that circled the small inner harbor. It was almost clear of the panic civilians who had come to see America’s latest fight against terrorism. Those who stayed were now seeing it in action.

  Greg move to the port side of the frigate and watched as Randy ran at an incredible speed around the harbor toward whatever he had seen on the opposite side, presumably the source of the gunfire. Judging from the amount of splinters they had been showered with, Greg knew it was a large caliber rifle, probably a Barrett. How Randy had survived two direct hits and maybe more was a testimonial to the new armor, but that didn’t mean he was completely uninjured. Beneath all that armor and massive body was a delicate system and Greg was concerned that 10Rat might be in need of critical care. He moved along the railing toward the stern of the ancient warship ducking between cannons to watch Randy’s progress. At the stern rail he crouched behind a rearward pointing canon and looked across the harbor for Randy’s target. He was rewarded with the sight of a man in light colored clothes running down the pier toward the gated entrance. Randy was approaching the far side of the harbor that lead to the southern promenade that paralleled the pier. Greg quick
ly estimated it was not going to be a race in favor of the running man.

  The people on the south side of the harbor had been unaware of what was happening on the Constellation pier and panicked at the sight of a running behemoth charging toward them. Randy roared at them to get out of the way. No one doubted the meaning of his words and the promenade cleared in front of him as if swept by a giant broom. Several people recorded his run on their cell phones.

  On the pier, the sniper panicked. He had never witnessed a man and very few machines survive a direct hit by a 50 caliber round. He had hit the Mecrat twice and yet, here he was running for his life from the target. He slowed briefly to get through the turnstile at the head of the dock and then resumed his sprint to his car. He was almost there when he was scooped off his feet.

  A deep, metallic voice said, “What’s your hurry little man.”

  The sniper screeched in fright and struggled against the grip that penned his arms to his side. The Mecrat shifted him to carry him under his arm like a misbehaving child. He continued to struggle until the deep voice warned him, “Stop it or I’ll squeeze harder.” The sniper lost hope and resigned himself to his fate.

  On the Constellation, Greg walked back to the still crouching Cathy. He offered his hand and helped her to her feet. “It’s safe, Honey. Randy got the shooter.”

  She hugged him and said, “I was so scared, Greg. How do you do it? How can you be so calm in such a situation?”

  “For the same reason you’re calm in surgery, Cathy. Familiarity with the danger and training, lots of training.”

  They walked down the gangplank and watched as The Baltimore police swarmed all over the area. A police captain asked them, “Are you alright, Sir? Do you need medical attention?”

  Greg shook his head and said, “Not yet, Captain, but I am concerned about my soldier.” He pointed in the direction of Randy returning at a more moderate pace with the suspected sniper under his arm. The ride could not have been comfortable. “Your men are pointing their weapons at him like he’s a criminal. I assure you, Captain, he is a decorated American soldier.”

  The captain explained, “Sorry, Sir. They don’t know what to expect. I’ll have them lower their weapons.”

  Randy returned to the pier with the sniper and handed him over to the Baltimore police. A subdued General Emerson and his aide came from behind the information building adjacent to the USS Constellation. He explained to the captain the need to get the Pentagon’s top secret weapon back to Andrews and agreed to stay in Baltimore to clear up the mess created by the sniper and the subsequent rampage by the avenging Mecrat. The captain was quick to agree. He wanted T-Wreck out of his city almost as fast as the general.

  Cathy, Greg and Randy climbed aboard the Black Hawk. The crewman closed the door and gave Randy a thumbs-up. Randy returned the gesture. As the rotors began to turn, the crewman took a first aid kit and squatted next to Greg. He said, “Let me get that splinter out of your arm, Sir.”

  In the adrenaline rush of the moment, Greg had been completely unaware he had a three inch long splinter from the shattered railing stuck in his left bicep. The crewman cut off the sleeve above the splinter and gently extracted it. He dressed the wound and handed the splinter to Greg. The crewman, who was a Marine and by default part of the US Navy said, “Congratulations, Major, You have just received the oldest type of wound in the US Navy, injury by flying wood splinters.”

  As they lifted off the pier, Greg looked at the tethered USS Constellation and wondered what the brave men who had served on her would have thought of their modern day fellow warriors, the Mecrats. He believed they would have soundly approved.

  Chapter 42

  True to her words, Senator Martha Brillings visited Groom Lake Area two weeks after the incident in Baltimore, but it was not the inspection trip she had promised; she was the bearer of bad news.

  “There has been a general public outcry about letting a self-controlled, independent thinking, military robot run rampant on the streets of Baltimore,” she reported to the group assembled in Doctor Natonovich, the project director’s office.

  Greg, who was there because he was the Mecrats’ commanding officer quipped, “No doubt fueled by a disaster-hungry press.”

  As a seasoned political pro, Senator Brillings did not comment on Greg’s accusation, even though she privately agreed with him. “I have long ago given up trying to figure out what motivates our press corps, Major. I can only say the public seems to be in agreement with them.”

  It was Cathy’s turn to express her displeasure. “But they’re portraying the Mecrats as robotic monsters. Don’t they realize those ‘robots’ are actually American soldiers.”

  The Senator liked Doctor Williamson, not only for her intelligence and for what she had accomplished, but also because she appreciated any woman who stood up to overbearing males who threw their weight around. She said kindly, “That’s because they don’t know they’re American soldiers who have sacrificed so much. The public thinks they’re self-controlled robots and the decision has been made not to tell them the truth. I’m sorry, Doctor, but your brilliant work out here in the desert will have to remain a secret.”

  Doctor Natonovich asked the question that was on the tip of Greg’s tongue. “What about the Mecrats? What’s their future?”

  Senator Brillings turned to Greg and said for all of their benefit, “I’m sure you’ll be getting a call from the Pentagon today or tomorrow with the news the Mecrats will be classified as a super-secret organization assigned directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The CIA wanted them and lobbied hard for their services, but the President decided the military would make the most appropriate use of them.” She smiled graciously and added, “And there’s probably a promotion in store for you sometime in the near future, Major Donavan.”

  Greg was shocked. To go from a captain to a lieutenant colonel in the space of six months would be unprecedented, except in wartime. His immediate concern was how Cathy would react to this latest handcuff that tied him to the military. They would have to discuss it honestly and openly. Greg promised himself to do whatever it took to keep her in his life.

  Cathy was dazed by the turn of events. She asked, “Where will they be based?” She didn’t look forward to being separated from the Mecrats or the man she had just fallen in love with.

  “This is about the most secure place on earth,” Senator Brillings said with the implication the Mecrats would be stationed here for the foreseeable future.

  Cathy was relieved. “You’re going to have to build a really large soccer field.” It was the first thing that popped into her mind; how to keep her Rats feeling like their humans.

  “I don’t understand,” the senator said.

  Cathy smiled for the first time since the meeting started. “It’s an inside joke. I’ll explain later.”

  The rest of the day was spent giving the senator and her staff a tour of the lab facilities. Cathy did not know the senator had a master’s degree in chemistry in addition to her law degree until she started asking her penetrating questions on the procedures used to transfer a human brain and spinal cord to a mechanical receptor.

  “Seeing it on paper and seeing them in action is altogether another thing,” the senator said later as she watched the Mecrats play a game of table tennis.

  “That’s why we need the soccer field, Senator,” Greg explained. He was as concerned about preserving the Mecrats’ humanity as was Cathy.

  Senator Brillings appreciated the meaning behind the request and decided to make it her own project. “What about our friends above?” she asked while pointing a finger up at the ever present spy satellites.

  Greg said, “It’s not like they don’t already know, Senator. We’ve given them three demonstrations including the unintended one in Baltimore. I think it might be good for them to see our men in action on the soccer field. It might give them pause about provoking them.”

  “That’s an interesting point of view, Major. I’ll
discuss it our next meeting.”

  Later that day, Cathy and Greg watched as the senator’s plane departed for Washington. “We have to talk,” they said simultaneously and laughed at this new evidence they were on the same page. Neither of them had to explain what they wanted to talk about.

  “I have an idea.” Greg said. “Why don’t we discuss it with the Mecrats? They call us Mom and DadRat and our decisions will affect them as much as it will affect us.”

  Cathy liked the idea. “Let’s go up into the Papoose Mountains like we did for Jerry’s burial. There’s something magical about being out in the desert at night.”

  Greg agreed with her suggestion and before he left, told her to be at the hanger at nine that night. “Wear your fatigues,” he suggested. As a surprise, Greg had purchased a set of desert colored camos for her. She had accused him about trying to induct her into his military life, but she had also been very pleased.

  The ride in Randy’s pulpit was as thrilling as it had been on the more somber trip to bury Jerry’s final remains. They selected a ledge well above the desert floor and sat in a circle, nine Mecrats and two standard humans. Greg and Cathy were plugged into Randy’s com system which gave them access to the group’s thoughts. Greg explained the situation in both military and civilian terms. “I suspect we will be deployed as we have been in our first two missions, rescue efforts or against specific strategic targets and not as general assault personnel.”

  Cathy listened with increasing interest as the ten military minds candidly discussed the risks of the type of combat missions they would likely be given. They talked matter of factually about measures to insure their success and their survival. She began to understand that the risks they were talking about were not foolish ones, but well thought out with contingencies for evacuating the area if it was deemed too risky.