The Nightmare Unleashed

by J. J. Carlson

  Nicole nodded. “I have an idea.” She broke away from the group and ran forward, then planted three claymores in the dirt, angling their faceplates upward. Rejoining the group, she shrugged and said, “Seven hundred projectiles each. It couldn’t hurt.”

  “Heads up,” Eli said, “they’re about to reach the interceptors.

  Halfway across the minefield, the massive swarm crashed into the quadcopters. At first, it looked as if the interceptors had no effect. Then, the hundreds of drones in the swarm began impacting bits of airborne shrapnel. Propellers snapped off, sending the drones careening into each other.

  Tiny flashes of light accompanied drones falling from the sky. The swarm thinned, then slowed to a hover. The drones jockeyed into new positions, filling in the ranks of their fallen members, then surged forward.

  Janson’s team instinctively huddled together as the sound of the swarm reached their ears. The noise was bone-chilling, like an armada of giant hornets ready to protect their nest.

  “Easy,” Janson said. “Wait until they’re within range.”

  As the swarm drew closer, individual drones came into focus. They were roughly the size of shoeboxes, and they each had a tiny turret with a smooth barrel underneath. Janson guessed they were armed with .22 caliber rifles. They could undoubtedly carry heavier guns, but the recoil of larger calibers would be catastrophic for the tiny aircraft.

  Then Janson’s stomach twisted into knots as she came to a dark realization. Her metamaterial armor, which covered her from head-to-toe, would keep her safe. Ford’s would do the same for him, but everyone else would be shredded by the pending onslaught.

  “Screw it,” she said. “Get your primary weapons up, and don’t spare the ammunition. When they get closer, switch to shotguns.”

  The operatives shifted their hands, placing their fingers next to the trigger guards of their rifles.

  Janson raised her own rifle and grunted, “Fire!”

  The team’s guns thundered with one voice, then broke into a chainsaw roar. The operatives emptied their weapons on full-auto, refreshed their magazines, and emptied them again. Thousands of rounds tore through the air, punching a hole through the center of the swarm. The drones, acting on preprogrammed instructions, shrank together to fill the gaps and charged onward. An explosion on the ground spewed a cloud of dust—Nicole’s claymores sent hundreds of lethal pellets into the air, knocking out several dozen more. Despite the heavy losses, the swarm pushed forward, an unrelenting cloud of death.

  Someone shouted, “Out!” then switched to his shotgun. Seconds later, the rest of the team did the same.

  Then, all at once, the drones opened fire. The hail of tiny bullets ripped into the group, sending splatters of flesh and blood flying and drawing moans from the operators.

  “Keep firing!” Janson shouted, rising to her feet. She pulled the trigger on her shotgun until her ammunition was spent, then drew her sidearm and continued firing. Ford stood beside her, still using his shotgun and dropping two or three drones with every shot.

  When the swarm was perhaps fifty feet away, the remaining two-dozen drones suddenly spread out, forming a half-circle around the operatives.

  Bullets slammed into Janson’s chest and head, sending searing pain through her body. She squeezed the trigger three times, and all three rounds went soaring past the nearest drone. She clenched her teeth and waited for the drone to settle into a hover, then pulled the trigger.

  The rest of the drones hung in the air, pummeling Ford and Janson and receiving precisely aimed lead in return. One by one, the drones were knocked aside, careening to earth. Finally, the last drone fell, and an eerie quiet settled over the plains.

  Ford dropped to his knees, then collapsed onto his stomach. Janson knelt beside him, resting her hand on his back. When she was certain he was still breathing, she turned her attention to the rest of the team. “S-s-sound off if you can hear me,” she said, her voice trembling.

  Yuri pushed himself off the ground, then dropped back onto his face. “Bravo…”

  Eli dropped his rifle and reached for the personal first-aid kit on his belt. “Charlie.”

  Trent didn’t respond. He lay motionless, his face on the stock of his rifle and blood pouring from his right ear.

  Kacen’s jaw worked up and down, and his crimson-soaked hands grasped at his neck.

  “F-F-Foxtrot,” Nicole stammered, her eyes closed and her teeth clenched against the pain. A row of entry-wounds dotted the backs of her legs.

  Janson fumbled through Yuri’s pack, throwing its contents on the ground. Her mind raced as she tried to decide who to treat first. But she couldn’t keep from casting a fiery glance toward the forest, and the Palace beyond.

  33

  The Palace, Central Siberia

  Dmitri watched the last green light blink out. Moments before, the satellite image had been awash with orbs indicating the location of the swarm, and now it looked cold and dark. Dmitri’s hands floated over the lectern, retrieving the footage from the last drone to fall. The video appeared on the holographic display, and he cycled it forward by spinning a pearlescent globe among the controls. He sped through the recording until the swarm entered the airspace over the minefield, then paused the video when a cluster of tiny objects came into view.

  He frowned, then slowly advanced the video and digitally zoomed in. There were perhaps sixty palm-sized quadcopters on a collision course with the swarm. It seemed the intruders had defended themselves with drones of their own, but he couldn’t believe these tiny machines could have brought down the mighty Palace swarm. Advancing the video, he found that the defensive drones had reduced the size of the swarm by one-tenth—hardly enough to explain its total devastation.

  The feed stabilized as the drones regrouped following the initial attack. For nearly a minute, Dimitri could see nothing but grass. Then something caught his eye, and he switched the feed to infrared. Among the sea of gray plains, a cluster of white-hot images stood out. The intruders had grouped together—a move he would have considered suicidal. Then, a hail of gunfire erupted and began tearing apart the swarm, and Dmitri realized the wisdom of the tactical maneuver.

  The drones, though moving as a unit, had reacted to the behavior of their individual targets. Rather than spreading out in smaller flocks to eliminate the foot soldiers, the drones had stayed in one large mass, and it had been their downfall.

  Having found the explanation for the loss of the swarm, Dmitri scrolled forward to get a better look at the intruders. He paused the video, and his heavy-lidded eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Five of the intruders lay on the ground, wounded or dead, but two of them remained standing until the fight was over.

  He pulled up the last seconds of the feed and zoomed in. The two shooters stood like fearsome sentries, guarding their teammates. They wore load-bearing gear, much like the others, but their appendages were clad with seamless black armor. Against all odds, they had survived the swarm’s hailstorm. And if they could survive the swarm, there was a chance they could get through the remaining defenses.

  “Call in the attack helicopters,” Dmitri said to no one in particular.

  “Yes, sir,” someone in the third tier of the Operations Center replied.

  Dmitri rested his hands on the lectern, silently cursing himself for not calling in air-support sooner. It would take the crews at the Krasnoyarsk at least twenty minutes to get airborne, then another hour traveling at top speed to reach the Palace.

  He tapped a button on his wrist computer, pulling in the image from the overhead display, then brought up his contact list and sent the image to Emily. Rather than wait for her response, he swiped her name to call her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, waiting for her to answer.

  Emily left her chair next to Borya and strode across the room. She tapped her wrist computer and held the microphone closer to her lips. “Yes, what is it?”

  “We have a problem,” Dmitri said, a slight tremor in his voice. “The swarm
has been destroyed.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “What? How?”

  “I sent an image to your device.” He hesitated. “Two of the intruders seem to be nearly indestructible. I am worried one of them might be Jarrod Hawkins.”

  Emily glanced at the miniature holo-projection on her forearm, and her breath caught in her chest. She adjusted the light settings, then exhaled. “No. He isn’t with them. Those are the Alphas, the top shooters on the Hillcrest security team. They must have been given experimental armor.”

  Dmitri appeared where the image of the Alphas had been. His face, though lined with years of worry, bore traces of relief. “That is good to hear. I have requested air support from Krasnoyarsk. They should be here in ninety minutes or so.”

  Emily’s eyes wandered to the dark globe, which flashed ever more frequently with miniature bolts of lightning. She felt an uncharacteristic grip of superstition tightening around her chest. In precisely ninety-one minutes, Borya would finish copying his conscience into the nanobots, and they would be ready to inject into Eugene. She wondered if it was a good omen or bad, then pushed the illogical thoughts aside entirely. “Thank you, Dmitri. Stay vigilant and let me know when they are dead, and tonight, we will have more than one cause for celebration.”

  34

  Krasnoyarsk, Siberia

  The briefing room was filled to capacity when Dale Drach opened the door and went inside. Fighting through the crowd of nosy Katharos agents, he reached his usual seat and snarled at the man sitting there. The man looked up and, seeing who was standing behind him, jumped out of the seat and mumbled an apology.

  Drach sank heavily into the chair, his bushy hair drenched in sweat and his face drawn.

  A straight-backed man wearing the three-starred and red-striped insignia of a Russian colonel stood at the head of the room. He stared straight at Drach and said, “Captain, are you feeling alright? You look feverish.”

  Dale swallowed, then rubbed his stomach. “I…uh, had some problems with my lunch. But I am feeling better now. I’m sorry for running late.”

  The colonel nodded. “Will your co-pilot be joining us?”

  “Eh, no. He won’t.” Drach stared down at the table. He wasn’t used to lying to his commanding officer. “He is preparing the helicopter for takeoff.”

  “Very well. You can give him the details during the flight.” The colonel cleared his throat, then addressed the room at large, “I know you are all very excited by the opportunity to defend our beloved Emperor. I am grateful for your enthusiasm, but I want to stomp out the rumors right now. There is not a large-scale attack in progress. A small team was inserted a few hours ago, and we have reason to believe they have been largely incapacitated. We have been called to hunt down any rats that may still be alive. Most of you will not have cause to fire a weapon.”

  He paused, then walked around the room until he was right next to Drach. Bending over, he said, “I was going to put you in the lead attack helicopter, but if you are not feeling well, you can be third in the formation.”

  Drach nodded his head shakily. “Yes, I would like that.”

  The colonel stood and spoke in a commanding voice. “Three Havocs will be all that is necessary for this mission. They will leave here as soon as possible and eliminate any remaining enemy personnel. Once the Palace is secure, the helicopters will land, refuel, and remain on standby for the next forty-eight hours. I am sorry to disappoint the rest of you, but we have had no request for ground troops. You are to remain at Krasnoyarsk and await further instructions.”

  A chorus of mumbles broke out, and the colonel held up his hand. When the room grew silent, he said, “Our short-term priorities are getting the Havocs in the air. After that, we will meet in Hangar Three to discuss additional duties. Everyone clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Drach said, half-heartedly joining his comrades.

  “Good. You are dismissed.”

  As Drach joined the cattle-line of agents leaving the briefing room, a man with white hair and a scruffy beard slapped him on the back.

  “The colonel just told me I’ll be taking the lead,” the man said. “I couldn’t believe it—Drach and Stoic turning down a chance to raise their kill-count?”

  Dale couldn’t meet the older man’s eyes. “Pops,” as he had known him, was a hero of more than a dozen Russian military campaigns. He had been to Afghanistan, Georgia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Syria, Iran, and even North Korea. He was recruited into Katharos when he was in his fifties and had been flying an Ilyushin transport helicopter ever since.

  “My lunch,” Dale mumbled. “It’s not playing nice.”

  Pops let out a hearty laugh. “Is that so? Well, try not to shit in your seat, young friend.”

  Dale tried to sound jovial. “Why not? It’s not my job to clean up after a mission.”

  Pops grinned and shook his head. “You need to be nice to your crew. A pilot without a working helicopter is like a eunuch in a whorehouse. You can sit around and watch, but you’re not going to have any fun.”

  Dale put on a fake smile and left the building in silence. Pops followed him down the sidewalk that ran between two aging hangars. When they reached the tarmac, they went their separate ways, each toward a Mi-28 helicopter.

  Pops reached into the cockpit of his Havoc and retrieved a black flight helmet. He smiled at Drach and called out, “Don’t forget to watch my back.”

  Dale’s stomach twisted into knots, and he thought he might be sick. Choking back the taste of bile, he nodded and banged his right fist against his chest. He watched the veteran pilot climb into the cockpit, then turned toward his own helicopter. He ran his hand along its sleek tail, then rapped his knuckles against the spare fuel tank attached to the stubby wing. At nearly seventeen meters long, with a pair of engines that could generate twenty-five-hundred horsepower each and an armored cockpit, the Mi-28 looked like the famed “Apache” attack helicopter’s big brother. Drach glanced over the weapons attached to the wings, then up at the cockpit.

  “I ran the pre-flight checklist already. We’re all ready to go.”

  Dale teetered on his feet. The voice had been Stoic’s. The man in the front seat—Stoic’s seat—was wearing Stoic’s helmet with the black visor pulled down. But it wasn’t him; it was that thing.

  Without a word in response, Drach climbed into the pilot’s seat and pulled his helmet on. He double-checked the settings and ran his hands along the controls. When he was satisfied nothing was amiss, he powered up the engine and continued his pre-flight checks. The rotors began to turn, gradually picking up speed.

  Dale stared at the lead helicopter for a long moment. Thumbing the switch on his radio, he opened up communications and did a radio check. The hideous beast in his front seat responded in Stoic’s voice, then the other pilots and gunners checked in. A few minutes later, they received clearance from the tower and gently lifted off the ground.

  Drach guided his helicopter to the rear of the formation, sick with guilt as he imagined the treason that lay ahead.

  35

  Four Miles East of the Palace, Central Siberia

  Janson approached Eli from behind and stood silently, waiting for him to finish his mumbled prayer. Her heart ached for him as much as it ached for Trent. In the quiet, painful aftermath, when wounds were fresh and the future was uncertain, being among the survivors never felt like a blessing.

  Nicole lay on the ground, her legs bandaged from hip to shin. If her physical wounds hadn’t excluded her from the rest of the mission, her emotional state would have. She held Trent, the man she had trained with day and night for months, tight against her chest. Tears rolled down her face and landed on his matted hair.

  Kneeling over Trent’s body and shedding tears of his own, Eli whispered the last words of a strained prayer. He kissed Trent on the forehead, then stood and faced Janson. His eyes, though bloodshot and glistening, held a fury she had never seen before. His wounds had been minor—superficial cuts to his arms—and he look
ed eager for revenge.

  “If you’re ready, we’ll head out,” Janson said.

  Eli brushed past her without answering, and she jogged to catch up.

  “I’ll need you to carry extra gear,” she said. “And the sniffer.”

  “That’s fine,” Eli said, his voice hollow. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Upon reaching the rest of the operatives, Janson finished dividing up the explosives. With both demolitions experts out of the fight, they would need every ounce of high-explosives they had. Janson shouldered her pack, then stacked Nicole’s gear on top and slung Yuri’s submachine gun over her shoulder. “Does anyone have 7.62 ammo? I’m down to my sidearm.”

  Eli passed her two blood-stained magazines and murmured, “They were Trent’s.”

  Janson nodded her thanks, then said, “I know it’s hard, but we have to keep going. Eli, you’ll take point with the sniffer, and I’ll be right behind you. Then Ford, Kacen, and Yuri. We’ll cache the extra explosives before entering the forest, then come back for them when we clear the defenses. Let’s move out.”

  The ragged team set out at a brisk walk. Eli took the lead, peering into the sniffer to watch for mines. Janson and Ford, though battered and bruised, had survived the swarm with only minor injuries. Kacen’s left arm hung limp at his side—the result of nerve damage to his shoulder, and he wheezed loudly with every breath. A stray round had punched through his trachea, missing the major arteries in his neck by a fraction of an inch. Yuri was serving as a pack-mule. He had been shot several times in both arms and couldn’t lift a rifle, so he took as much of the excess equipment as he could and stumbled along in painkiller-induced delirium.

  Eli led the team onward in a diagonal line, heading northwest. After a few minutes, he changed directions and led the team southwest. The mines had been laid in a grid pattern meant to make movement in vehicles impossible, but they were spaced far enough apart to barely impede foot traffic. Still, Janson worried that one of her injured teammates might fall and land on one of the deadly traps. She glanced over her shoulder constantly, checking on Kacen and Yuri. Her eyes were also drawn to the forest, where the blinded grenade launchers still stood, camouflaged within the trees. If Ford and Eli had missed a single targeting pod, or if one survived the impact of their .50 caliber sniper rounds, the team was doomed.