by Mich Moore
man. But couldn't she make the same case for the colonel?
Helen pulled off her headset and unbuckled herself from her chair. "I'm going topside to take a look."
She walked back to where six Patriots sat. She gave orders for two to stand guard below the hatch and for the other four to man the portholes. She then climbed up to the roof hatch and pushed it open. As she emerged into the ICV's crow's nest, Lieutenant Dakota acknowledged her with a salute, not taking her eyes off the road for a second. Her hands were clutching the gun grips so hard that her knuckles were white.
Helen looked around. They were passing through one of those urban dead zones that were sometimes created when redevelopment money evaporated. The other ICVs were keeping pace. Directly in front of her was Marsha Van de Veer's vehicle. Van de Veer's platoon was the fire support arm of the company. It was distinguishable from the other ICV variants by the sheer number of artillery mounts that studded its surface. The freshly painted words "JESUS IS THE ANSWER!" were on its rear bumper. Pop had written her up five times for what he termed "female moral turpitude" and would order the vehicle's message blotted out with a fresh coat of paint. But Van de Veer paid him no attention, and the words would reappear the very next day.
Gene was wounded. How bad was it? Was it her place to even care?
The traffic signals up ahead began malfunctioning. The air was charged with electricity.
Dakota shouted, "INCOMING! GET DOWN!" Suddenly they were in a blizzard of white hot lead. Dakota's cannon came alive and began a convincing counterattack.
Without thinking, Helen dove back down into the ICV's interior, almost landing on the two Patriots below. In her haste, she had not closed the hatch and they could see the hail of bullets.
She yelled into Howell's ear. "GET US OUT OF HERE!"
"Ma'am, Captain Van de Veer's team is heading for a parking structure ten meters ahead. Should we follow?"
"How many levels?"
"Seven from what I can see on the 'scopes."
"Then GO!"
Howell yanked the steering wheel hard, and the ICV squealed in protest as its trajectory went from straight to diagonal. Everyone not buckled in was shoved sideways. Helen recovered quickly and managed to crawl back into her chair and strap in.
She grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Lieutenant Dakota! We're headed for cover! Sit tight." She depressed the RECEIVE button but did not get a response.
She looked to Howell, who stared at the images coming down from the periscopes that were mounted on all four sides of the ICV. "We're hitting the entrance now."
As soon as the words had tumbled out of her mouth, the relentless gunfire stopped and the only sounds were the low whines of the ICV engines.
Commander Brainerd's voice came over the radio. "Platoon leaders, report in."
Helen pulled down her headset's mic. "Alpha Stork present."
"Beta Stork present."
"Gamma Stork present."
The commander spoke again. Thankfully, she was sounding more animated. "I've received an all clear for the next two floors. We'll stop on the mezzanine and do a recon. We need to see who and what we're up against."
As instructed, the company drove up the first ramp to the mezzanine floor and parked in a wide semicircle. There were no other vehicles on that floor.
Helen unbuckled herself. "I'm going to check on Dakota," she told Howell. "Man the radios."
Helen cleared the open hatch. The first thing that she saw was a large Advance South flag painted on the wall opposite them. Next she saw Lieutenant Dakota slumped over her gun, bleeding from half a dozen holes.
She checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there.
She jumped down and got on the radio to Dinard. "Lieutenant Dakota's been badly injured. Can your team get over here stat?"
"Will do," came Dinard's reply. "Don't move her."
"Right."
While she waited for the medical team to arrive, she listened in on Brainerd's conversation with Van de Veer, who already had four soldiers making their way to the roof of the parking garage. Another team had reached the outer edge of the second floor and was canvassing the street below with the portable thermal cameras, searching for any signs of their attackers. So far, nothing.
"Maybe they've moved on," Van de Veer suggested.
Brainerd coughed into her microphone. "Or maybe they're wearing cold suits."
Helen broke into their conversation. "Pete can do a better thermal scan than the cameras."
"I understand," Brainerd answered. "But we can't afford to expose him. Not until we get across the state line. And we're losing time. As soon as we get the lieutenant into the surgical unit, we're headed out. I want everyone armed. We may have to blast our way through to the bridge."
"Ma'am," Helen began. "Why don't we just wait for assistance?"
"Because it isn't here."
"But—"
"Until it arrives, we're on our own. Orders say to get to the bridge. If things take a turn, we'll detonate the DAT and pass out the Kool-Aid."
Helen slumped in her chair. Oh, Jesus.
Brainerd continued. "Have your navigators give their GPS the coordinates for the bridge and then put the guidance systems on auto pilot. That should free up any additional manpower we may need."
The surgical team arrived and swarmed over Dakota's inert body in a well-rehearsed ballet of movements. They had her extricated from her station and placed inside the surgical ICV in under forty seconds.
When Dinard gave the all clear, Brainerd gave the order for all personnel to return to the ICVs. Once the search-and-identify soldiers were back on board, the company started up again and made their way down the ramp to the first floor. In too short a period of time, they were once again out in the open.
They headed south on a broad street that ran parallel to Interstate 70, and beyond that, the Mississippi River. According to their GPS, they were just two kilometers out from the entrance to the Poplar Bridge.
Helen turned on one of the four video cameras mounted fore and aft on her ICV. There wasn't much to see. Empty streets. Empty buildings. It occurred to her that they might have run into some automated defense system back there. Guns working off pressure switches buried in the street. That sounded more like a cartel territorial defense rather than an Advance South assault.
They flew past a large propane tank that had been thrown into a bus stop. Crazily, her mind began to wander down memory lane. She was sitting on the front porch with her little brother. Daddy was there. It was summer and Mom had given them cold lemonade in frosted glasses to cool off. Daddy was talking about propane. He said that propane was made from raw petroleum by a cracking process. They would crack the oil, and one of the byproducts was propane. She and her brother had been amazed. How in the world could anyone crack oil? That was just plain silly!
The neighborhood changed abruptly. Helen turned on all four cameras to get a better look. The seedy decay that had been so steadfast had finally given way to an artificial cavern of sleek new skyscrapers constructed of gleaming steel and glass. Trendy brick and wrought iron cafes and restaurants graced some of the lobby areas. Unlike the other areas of the city, one could imagine that this one actually lived and breathed during the daylight hours. There was even a smattering of lights still on in the higher floors. In spite of everything—the war, the nonstop disasters, the explosion of mental disorders—parts of the country could still function. Albeit the wrong part of it. The evil part. That was depressing, she thought. But it still brought her a small measure of comfort.
She heard Dinard over the radio. " ...expired two minutes ago. She never regained consciousness."
Before Helen could react, a shell exploded into the ground not more than twenty meters away, and she and Howell watched as the ICV in front of them was tossed up and then hurled sideways into one of the restaurants with metal-crushing force. A split second later they were getting pounded on all sides. Explosions rocked their ICV like a tiny boat in a strong storm. Helen k
ept her footing and kept her eyes glued to the video screens. She thumbed the controls and rotated the fore cameras upwards by thirty degrees. What she saw caused her heart to drop. The entire block was lit up like the Fourth of July. As far as she could tell, there were guns mounted from every window in every high rise, and each one was trained on them. Bullets and mortar shells rained down upon them from forty stories above in a hellish storm of bullets and glass.
In spite of the heavy gunfire, she could make out Van de Veer's ICV directly in front. Every few seconds or so, its rear end would erupt in ghastly flames and smoke. And then it would suddenly clear and the only thing visible on its charred backside would be those blood red words on the bumper: JESUS IS THE ANSWER!
Commander Brainerd was shouting at the platoon leaders, urging them on. "FORWARD! STAY THE COURSE! WE'RE ALMOST AT THE BRIDGE!"
Another ICV went up in flames. Lieutenant Howell began to scream so hard that Helen thought her lungs might break.
Just then another voice broke in, as sweet and clear as an angel's. "Mission Control to all Timberwolves. Assistance is on the way. I repeat: assistance is on the way. ETA is eight seconds. Do you copy?"
Several desperate soldiers began shouting, "YES! WE COPY!"
" ... Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil ... " Captain Van de Veer's voice was quivering but defiant. Helen could still see her ICV on screen. There was a whirlwind of fire all over its surface, and then the vehicle turned into a