Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4)

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  A jagged crack marred the windshield from where Aces had hit us with a grenade during battle with him in the Glenwood pool. The right arm had also been damaged, but we’d survived the encounter. Aces hadn’t. That jackerdan was roasting in hell along with most of his Neanderthal followers.

  The Audrey Hepburn stood next to us, waiting. Wren had grabbed Dutch so they could stab the zeppelin crew in the back once we hit them from the front.

  Rachel had chosen to drive, which wasn’t so surprising. I had the idea her fighting days were behind her now that she could feel. Tibbs Hoyt had bio-engineered her, and the other Vixxes, without emotions, since he thought they were a liability. Maybe he was right, but more and more I saw feelings as powerful things that, if channeled correctly, could prove to be the ultimate weapon. Well, if one could control them. Rachel was still learning how to do that. So was I, for that matter.

  Marisol was above her in the gunner’s seat. The shy, quiet girl had worked Audrey Hepburn’s guns before, during our big escape from Glenwood, so I was hoping she could do it again.

  I glanced at the glow-in-the-dark hands of my Moto-Moto watch. The date function didn’t work anymore, but the clock did. We’d synchronized our watches. It was 12:51 am. At 1:00 am, we’d take the Stanleys down the hill, guns blazing.

  It was a plan we’d done before, playing the killdeer, distracting our enemies so Wren could go in and do her damnedest to kill or be killed. Since she was nearly invulnerable after being dosed with the Gulo Delta, it’d prolly be the former and not the latter.

  Dutch, on the other hand, was untested and a scoundrel to boot. I didn’t like him, but Wren loved him. Well, loved him, was scared of him, and hated him all at once. She’d said she didn’t know which she liked better, kissing him or smacking him.

  Weird, but leave it to Wren to have such a love life.

  Her real name was Irene, but Mama had made a mistake in naming her. Wren was a wren, born to fly ’cause sitting still hurt too much.

  Poor Mama. Months dead now. Her heart had given out and we’d buried her. It nearly broke me. Did break Sharlotte. And Wren? Wren had told me Mama was dead with a smile on her face.

  Bad history between Wren and Mama. Some kind of secret was there.

  The minutes crept by. I closed my eyes to pray, but more and more I wasn’t sure if anything would listen to me. Being Catholic, though, was more about habit than belief at times, and so I prayed to God He’d watch over us, He’d deliver us from evil, and He’d forgive our many trespasses against His other creations.

  Sure, the Cuius Regios had come out of a vat, but if they walked the earth, God had allowed it, and it made them a part of His divine plan.

  If only He’d let us in on His schemes.

  Another cheap “if only” not worth a green street penny.

  Sharlotte’s voice punched through the tube. “It’s time, Cavvy. Let’s go get ’em.”

  I swallowed and threw the sticks forward.

  The Marilyn took off in a whoosh of pistons and the thunder of her big, cross-hatched metal feet pounding on the slushy mud of the road.

  Another roll of the dice. Another battle in our war. Another chase to save the day or die trying.

  (iii)

  Sharlotte controlled the arms from up in the gunner’s seat. While the Marilyn’s right arm weapons didn’t work, we still had our left guns.

  I controlled the legs and feet. The gauges for the steam engine glowed in front of me, the needles coated with phosphorescent paint. Behind me was an auxiliary hatch so I could feed fuel down into the firebox. A valve next to it allowed me to dump water into the engine, ’cause steam needs equal parts water and heat to keep the pistons pumping.

  It was hard to see in the dark. The windshield kept getting clogged with snow; we had no windshield wipers and my breath kept icing up the inside. I tried rolling down both windows, and still I had trouble seeing anything. But I kept on heading toward the lights.

  The Audrey Hepburn was right behind me.

  Sharlotte triggered a rocket, and it went streaking through the darkness with a tail of sparks and light. It hit in front of the troops, which was okay; our job was to be the distraction while Wren and Dutch did the killing.

  The Regios started firing at us. Their bullets pinged off the metal, sparking, and one cracked the lower left part of my windshield. Lucky for me the glass was bulletproof. Even luckier, the bullets shook off enough snow for me to see again. My engineer’s mind did ponder how much the grenade had compromised the glass’s integrity. I had to hope for the best.

  Sharlotte returned fire, working the fifty-caliber machine gun on the left arm. Marisol did the same. The thud of the belt-fed guns eclipsed all other noise for a minute, and then I heard a familiar sound, the explosion of a 40mm grenade from Tina Machinegun. That would be the middle Weller sister, making her mark.

  Regios lay scattered in the snow. Wren and Dutch crept into view, exchanged more fire with someone shooting at them from inside the Jimmy ten meters above them. Tethers held the airship to the ground, and a rope ladder dangled down. Either Wren or Dutch hit their target, and a body tumbled out of the airship to lie motionless in the snow.

  Wren started up the rope ladder while Dutch held it. Sapropel lanterns lying in the snow lit the scene.

  Something about those lanterns looked wrong to me. Set up in a perfect circle, they looked staged, since the guards wouldn’t need so much light. But why would the ARK do such a thing?

  I pushed the thought aside as I opened the door of the Marilyn and slid down her ladder. In seconds, my feet were killing me with cold. Dutch grinned at me when I got close. “So, did they teach you zeppelin flying in that special academy you went to? God, I got tired of hearing about it from Wren, how you were such a genius and how you went to the best school, and how someday you were going to give Maggie Jankowski a run for her money.”

  I didn’t even respond to him as he droned on. Glancing up, I saw U-hooks in the bottom of the Jimmy, and then I saw her name, the Kashmir IV. I cut off his chatter by pointing at the hooks and saying, “We’ll need strong rope or cables, so we can secure the Stanleys to the bottom of the zeppelin. I’ll go up and see about the engines.”

  I crouched and picked up a fallen AZ3 and retrieved two fresh clips from the ammo belt of a fallen Regio. I didn’t bother to check the rounds in the gun. I ejected the clip and slammed in a fresh one and worked the action to chamber a round.

  Dutch watched me. Let him look. I knew my way around firearms.

  The Kashmir IV was about fifteen meters off the ground, tugging on the ropes and swaying. The valley was giving her some protection from the winds. I’d had my fair share of experience climbing rope ladders into airships, so it wasn’t a big deal for me to get on board. Unlike the Moby Dick, this zeppelin had rooms built in, and I found myself in a hallway with doors on either side. Some were open and revealed racks of weapons and supplies. In one room, a big crate of grenades was strapped to the wall.

  Other rooms were floor to ceiling with cots, so it seemed the Kashmir IV was a troop carrier, but where were the troops?

  I listened hard and heard footsteps ahead. Most likely from Wren ... but what if they weren’t?

  I switched off the safety and put the stock of the AZ3 to my shoulder. Sapropel lights in sconces barely lit the hallway. I walked past doors, doors, doors. Any one of them could open and give me a fight.

  The Neofiber floor under my feet had rubber ridges glued on it, to keep people from slipping. I could feel the ridges through the thin slippers. Still I went forward.

  A door bashed open. A figure emerged carrying some kind of rocket launcher.

  I remembered the last time I’d had to gun a girl down. It had all happened so fast; really, it had felt like it had all happened at the same time, like time itself had turned to sludge by the sweat and violence.

  Before I fired, I checked my target—Wren. It was Wren. She moved into the light, looked at me, smiled. “Hey, Cavvy. Looky
what I found.” She raised up a newer model of an RPG-7.

  I let out a breath of relief and lowered my rifle. “Damn, that was close. I almost shot you.”

  She leaned forward and squinted at my rifle. “You could’ve. Safety is off. Good for you. Good for me that you paused to confirm your target. You’re becoming quite the soldier.”

  “Whatever,” I said, but still feeling kind of proud. Praise from Wren was a rare thing.

  My sister went on. “I don’t think no one else is on this balloon. The pilot came out after me, and I put her down. But what were they waiting for? Why just hang out here?”

  That was the mystery all right. And why the circle of lanterns down below?

  “I saw U-hooks underneath,” I said, “so while I get the engines going, you secure the Stanleys.”

  Wren saluted me. “Yes, ma’am. Ain’t this just too exciting? And I can’t wait to try this baby out. Already lowered down a whole crate of grenades. You speak German?”

  “No, why?” I asked.

  She showed me the name of her new toy: Panzerfaust. “That’s German, ain’t it?”

  I nodded, “That’s the next generation of the RPG-7. Germany engineered them during the Sino. They went back to their roots, since the RPG series was originally modeled after the Panzerfaust from World War II.”

  Wren grinned and slapped me on the back. “Listening to you talk about guns is almost as good as shooting ’em. Almost.”

  I just had to ask. “So we were in a hole, weeks on end, barely fed, and the first day you get out, you get drunk, then you nearly die fighting Aces. Then not an hour later, we find ourselves running down the highway in the dark and into another fight. Aren’t you tired?”

  Wren made a face at me, but then it cracked into a grin. “Tired? Hell no. Mrs. Panzerfaust won’t let me sleep until she’s killed herself a skank or three.”

  She moved past me, and I ran forward to the door leading to the cockpit. I watched her go with the bazooka and a bad feeling crawled into my belly. Something wasn’t right. Not with her. Not with our current situation.

  Then suddenly I felt a whole lot better: we could use the Jimmy to get to Burlington. Yes, we’d have to rescue Pilate and Micaiah first, but if we survived that, we could fly over the Rockies, cross the plains, sail above the hogs, if they existed at all, and arrive safely in my hometown.

  I was feeling good as I opened the door.

  Then I saw the controls: a panel of switches, levers, and a yoke. The label to every mechanism was a number and a letter, and that was it. I found the pressure gauge for the steam-engine which showed our pressure was low. Which meant I’d have to stoke the engine. Which was ... where?

  Pedals were on the floor, but what did they do exactly?

  One most likely was for acceleration, but the other? I needed Micaiah. I needed Sketchy.

  The windshield in front of me showed swirling snowflakes pushed around by strong winds, uncertain winds—a bad breeze would send us crashing to the ground. The Kashmir IV bounced as the wind blasted it.

  Even if I could get her flying without killing everyone, how would I see to find the ARK convoy? We’d been following their tracks in the Stanleys, but those tracks would be invisible up in the air.

  Speaking of being up in the air, I’d need to add more theta-helium to the air-cells as we got higher and the temperature of the air plummeted. Had no clue on how to do that. And what were the physics of high altitude and its effects on the zeppelin?

  More and more questions hit me.

  Everyone was counting on me to once again be the genius, but all I could think of was a novice flying an airship in a storm was the exact opposite of genius.

  As I stood by the pilot’s seat, fretting, something outside caught my eye. Lights. Moving toward us.

  Wasn’t the Stanleys. They were under the zeppelin.

  My heart plunged into the acid of my stomach and a sweat broke out on my forehead.

  Well, one thing I didn’t need to worry about was finding the ARK convoy. They had found us. I counted four Athapasca troop carriers, three UHV Humvees, and at least a dozen motorcycles.

  And the tank. The M1 Acevedo.

  The lanterns, the zeppelin, the skeleton crew of guards, it had all been a killdeer bird, and we’d gone right for it. They’d used our own strategy against us.

  The tank raised its turret ...

  “Sweet Jesus,” I whispered.

  ... and fired.

  Chapter Two

  You won’t plant cotton

  But you will sow weeds

  You hate me at night

  But you love my need

  You only want to kiss me

  When you see me bleed.

  —Missy Lewis

  (i)

  BAD PRESSURE OR NOT, wind or not, my doubts left me. I plunked myself down into the pilot’s seat and threw the AZ3 onto the passenger seat.

  Underneath me, gunfire erupted. Already on edge, it made me shout.

  A series of communication tubes poked out of the wall above my shoulder, but again, no labels. I guess the Regios didn’t need English ’cause they could read their code. I picked one at random and shouted into it, “Get everyone on board. Release the ropes! We gotta get out of here!”

  I slammed my foot down on the pedal to the right, and the Kashmir IV shuddered forward but didn’t move. I didn’t know if both the Stanleys had been secured or if they were still in the process. I only knew that the ARK had come for us, and that had been their plan all along: lure us in close and when we took the bait, hit us hard.

  I pulled back on the yoke, and the tip of the zeppelin rose. Pushing it forward brought her level again. Okay, that was like an airplane. I could go up and down. The yoke would prolly work for left and right as well. Now I just had to get us free.

  A boom from the Acevedo tank made me yelp again. A swoosh of a missile answered, and for a minute, the snow landscape below lit up with fire and raw mortal destruction. Was that rocket from one of the Stanleys or Wren’s Panzerfaust?

  The Kashmir listed to the right, and I fought the yoke to keep her level. The ropes on the left must’ve been cut. I yanked the yoke as far left as I could get her, then drove the pedal to the floor.

  We spun clear around the ropes to the right. I didn’t have a seat belt on, and I felt myself slipping off the seat. We went around and around, and I caught a glimpse of one of the Stanleys returning fire and taking fire as well. She was sparking and smoking, and when I saw both arm guns up, I realized it was the Audrey Hepburn. No sign of the Marilyn. Had she already been strapped under the zeppelin?

  The tank boomed again, but I couldn’t see the target.

  The wind bashed the zeppelin, and my stomach sank as we were pushed toward the ground. I huffed and stood on that pedal, pulling the yoke as far back as I could.

  If we smashed to the ground, it might destroy the Marilyn and whoever was inside, prolly Sharlotte.

  I had to keep the airship up and let the Marilyn help in the fight.

  More explosions rocked me from underneath, but I couldn’t see what was going on.

  My mind’s eye, though, painted the scene. Wren would be on foot, running, firing, screaming at the skanks that they needed killing and she was just the woman to serve the killing up plenty. The Audrey Hepburn would be shooting her machine guns and missiles at the oncoming troops while Marilyn dangled from the underside of the zeppelin. Knowing Sharlotte, she’d work the guns if she was able.

  Didn’t know if Dutch had crawled into one of the Stanleys or if he was on foot with Wren, fighting. Or maybe he had scampered off. I had the idea that he was the type of guy who would run away to fight another day, even if it meant he had to step casually over our corpses to do it.

  The zeppelin spun around again, and it was pretty clear I didn’t have the pressure to be able to pull away from the cables binding the Kashmir to the earth. Which meant I had to do my fighting from the air.

  I rose from the seat, and the zep
pelin leveled off, but then a fist of wind struck it, and we went sailing around on the rope, like a boat around an anchor chain. I was flung to the floor, hitting my head against a Neofiber wall, but I didn’t slow. If Sharlotte was in the Marilyn underneath, she’d be an ideal target. A duck tied to a goose tied to a tree.

  I made it inside an ammunition room before I was thrown to the floor again. A whole rack of Panzerfausts and boxes of rocket-propelled grenades teetered above me, but thank God, they were secure. I grabbed a rocket launcher and loaded her up. Ha, and my instructors at the academy said I was wasting my life watching YouTube videos on modern weaponry. I was about to prove them wrong.

  Now, I had to figure out where to set up so I could take out that tank.

  The decision was made for me.

  The zeppelin shuddered as something hit it. Smoke and debris boiled down the hallway, and I was overwhelmed in the cloud. The smell of burning plastic and sulfur drove me to my knees and shook my body into coughing. I stayed low so I wouldn’t inhale another lungful of the lethal gasses. Blinking away the dust, tears streamed down my cheeks.

  I crawled to the cockpit. The windshield was long gone, most of the control panel had become a charred black gnarl of plastic. The yoke was nothing but a shattered stump. I wasn’t going to be able to steer. There went all my dreams of flying to Burlington. It had been a bad plan anyway. But how was I ever going to get to the ground? What if the zeppelin tore loose and floated away?

  Couldn’t worry about any of that. God would provide or kill me. Either way, I had the work of the moment to do.

  The wind blowing through the blasted windshield had cleared the air enough for me to run back to the ammo room and grab a box of grenades for the Panzerfaust. Dragging the box behind me, I pulled it into the wreckage of the cockpit. The four seats, by some miracle, had survived the blast.

  Another gale flung the Kashmir to the side.

  I was sent skittering into the seats, and they were hot to the touch. The box of grenades smashed against me. I hissed in pain but got to my feet. I noticed the AZ3 I’d brought aboard was still on the passenger seat.