“Grenades!” Andrews shouted as he recognized the incoming objects for what they were. His voice sounded small and tinny amidst the staccato barrage of gunfire. Trumbull looked up as one of the explosives thudded to the earth nearly right at his feet, and he opened his mouth to shout. He pushed Andrews away from him.
The grenade went off with a deafening roar, and Trumbull disappeared in a flash. Andrews missed most of it as the din of combat was suddenly supplanted by a constant ringing that filled his ears, as if he had been dropped into a field of echoing chimes. Distantly, he was aware of something warm and wet splashing across him as the world went suddenly topsy-turvy. His last coherent thought was of his rifle was slipping from his grasp, and then time stopped for a moment. His only awareness was of the spectral ringing in his ears despite the headset he wore. There was something lyrical about, something hypnotizing. It drowned out everything else, including cohesive thought. Andrews listened to it for a time, unable to do anything else.
Get up, he told himself, but his body wouldn’t listen. Get up, get back into the fight.
Instead, he lay where he had fallen. In small, infinitesimally tiny increments, the outer world began to intrude into his lassitude. He tasted something coppery on his tongue. Two points of pain began to make themselves known, in his right arm and right leg, where the body armor he wore offered no protection against the grenade’s explosion. The aches seemed far away and unimportant, as inconsequential as the light of the growing morning. Andrews sighed and basked in the tranquility of the moment even as a small part of his mind screamed at him to shake it off and get back on his weapon.
As his consciousness returned, he realized he was lying face down in the brush. A severed finger lay right before his eyes, and in response he wiggled all of his—all present and accounted for. Just the same, he was content to remain where he was. He heard a series of distant pops, slicing through the buzzing in his ears like a knife cutting into a chunk of hard butter three hundred yards away. Then a coarse buzz—miniguns erupting in the distance. The sense of detachment he felt was supreme. Even his body seemed distant, along with the battle that still raged around him, and beyond that, the rest of the world.
—Get up—
A series of loud reports cut through the hum in his ears. Andrews grunted and instinctively cast about for his rifle, but it was gone. He blinked, and he realized his visor was shattered. Only jagged fragments remained. He cast about, searching for his rifle. He came across Trumbull ... or at least pieces of him. The man’s head was separated from his body, eyes staring sightlessly into the lightening sky. Andrews was covered with strands of intestine and shredded flesh, courtesy of the grenade that had gone off only ten feet away. He blinked again, mesmerized by the decapitated head. When he looked up from it, the first thing he saw was Trumbull’s left arm leaning against a bush six feet away. The middle finger on the hand was slightly extended, final testimony to Trumbull’s sour persona.
—Fucking get up—
Andrews rolled onto his right side and felt the pressure of his sidearm. He eased off it and ripped the weapon from its holster as the brush parted and a figure loomed over him. It was the little man with the blond beard who had stood outside Sherwood’s barricades that first day. He carried a battered AR in his hands. His head was wrapped in a green bandana stained dark by the night’s rain and his sweat, and his eyes rolled in his head in a queer combination of fear and bloodlust. He looked down and saw Andrews, and he grinned, exposing his missing tooth.
“Aw, shit! You’re my prize for the day!” he cried as he lifted his rifle and stepped back.
Andrews raised his pistol and fired three times. The man shrieked as each nine-millimeter round slammed into his pelvis, driving him back. He squeezed off a wild round as he fell into the brush, tripping over Trumbull’s ravaged torso. Time dilated again, and Andrews’s next memory was of him on top of the runty little man, screaming as he plunged his knife into the man’s belly. He struck so deep that he felt the rub of the man’s ribs on his left wrist as he stabbed again and again, the blade sinking well into his opponent’s body cavity. The little man made a small squeaking noise as he tried to breathe. It was all for naught. Andrews had shredded his diaphragm, making respiration impossible. His eyes locked onto Andrews’s as he silently pleaded for mercy.
Andrews reared back and slashed his throat open with the blade. Blood splattered all across him, and the light faded from the small man’s eyes. More minigun fire ripped through the day, and Andrews lazily looked away from the dead man beneath him. Forty yards away, several people essentially disintegrated as a hail of rapid-fire rounds cut through them like a gigantic invisible sword. Andrews shook his head, trying to clear it.
A heavy hand descended on Andrews’s shoulder. “Captain, you hurt?”
Andrews turned toward the figure towering over him, his knife still in his hand. Mulligan towered over him, breathing hard. He looked down at Andrews for a long moment, then gave him a little push with his left hand as he stepped back.
“Are you with me, Andrews?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Andrews replied, more out of habit than anything else.
“You sure? You’re covered in blood and guts, sir.” Once he got Andrews to respond, Mulligan looked away from him and firmed up his grip on his rifle. There was still plenty of action going on all around them.
“Not mine,” Andrews said, gasping. The adrenaline was kicking in now, and he felt suddenly short of breath. “It’s gotta be his.” He pointed to the scattered remains of Trumbull.
“Oh, right.” Mulligan nodded toward the man Andrews crouched over. “Okay, so we didn’t kill him first, but he still had a happy ending from where I sit. You hurt?”
Andrews considered mentioning the pain in his right arm and leg, then shook his head. “Good to go, Sarmajor.”
“Great. Then if you don’t mind, stop fucking around with your knife and find your rifle.”
Andrews looked around and saw his rifle lying ten feet away. He pushed himself to his feet and hurried toward it. He looked down at his knife and wondered what had happened to his pistol—its holster was empty. He shook his head again and bent over at the waist to pick up his rifle. As he straightened up, he saw SCEV Five rolling across the butte, its miniguns swiveling from side to side as it gunned down enemy fighters. Someone launched an anti-tank rocket at the big rig, and Andrews watched as one of the anti-missile warheads shot out of its niche in the vehicle’s side. It exploded right in the rocket’s path, and the incoming weapon was shredded by the ensuing detonation.
“Sir!” Mulligan called, his voice muted against the thunder of combat.
“Good to go,” Andrews responded, and he shouldered his weapon and got back into the fight.
***
The battle on the butte ended two hours later. The sun was out now, having burned off all the clouds that had dominated the area during the night. Andrews and Mulligan coordinated with Sean and Amanda to ensure that all the enemy soldiers were killed or otherwise rendered incapable of causing further mischief. Weapons were collected, and friendly wounded were tended to. The fighters from Sherwood had gotten off light. Only thirteen dead, seven wounded, one of those so seriously that Andrews knew there was little hope.
At last, Andrews turned in the direction where Leona was supposed to be. Without checking with Mulligan, he started walking in that direction. Casually at first, then more directly as he moved out of the engagement area. He approached the area where Mulligan had clobbered the mortars, and saw some people from Sherwood were already combing through the wreckage. They waved at him as he drew near.
“Hey, guys, be careful,” he called out. “Might be some live rounds there.”
“Got it, Captain. You all right?” one of them called back.
Andrews shot him a thumbs-up and continued walking. He kept his rifle at the ready even though all the enemy troops in this area were dead. Flies were already buzzing around them. Nature already at work, getti
ng ready to break down dead tissue and return all that energy to the ground from whence it had originally sprung.
Leona lay in a small clearing. Two riflemen from Sherwood had already found the body, and they looked toward Andrews as he approached. One was young, the other substantially older. Andrews recognized the older one. Thomas? Thomaston?
“It’s your girl, Captain,” the older man said. “I’m sorry. She was like this when we found her.”
Andrews nodded vaguely as he continued forward. Leona was naked, and her body had been savaged. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of cuts marred her skin. Some were quite deep, but not so deep as to have been the cause of death. He saw her right hand. Several of her fingers were missing. The rain had washed away the blood, and despite the wounds, Leona was clean.
Andrews moved closer, intending to roll her over. As he knelt down, he saw the ragged hole in her skull. She had been shot, and in that hole he saw no gray matter. It was just a tunnel maybe an inch and half wide through which he could see the ground beneath her.
Oh, Leona ...
Heavy footfalls approached, and Andrews looked up to see Mulligan approaching. The big sergeant major’s face was hard but composed. Andrews hurried toward him, holding up his hands.
“Sarmajor, you don’t need to see—”
Mulligan shoved him out of the way. “You take off on your own without telling me again, I’m going to knock you on your ass.” He continued marching toward the corpse without breaking stride. Andrews spun and ran after him and grabbed his right arm. He yanked the bigger man to a halt, though it took almost all his strength.
“You don’t need to see this!” he shouted in Mulligan’s face.
Mulligan looked down at him. “Captain? I’ve buried my own family. Trust me, I’ve seen a lot worse.”
Andrews met the older man’s stare. “You don’t need to do it again, man.”
Mulligan said nothing for a long moment, then looked down at Andrews’s hand on his arm. Andrews sighed slightly and released him. Mulligan turned away and walked to Leona’s body. He knelt beside it and put a hand on the corpse’s cold shoulder. Flies buzzed around, but he made no attempt to shoo them away. Andrews headed over as well, and knelt opposite the sergeant major. Leona’s body lay between them, and when Andrews looked down and saw the ghastly wound in her skull, his vision grew blurry as tears welled up in his eyes.
Not again. Not again.
“You think you’re the first commander to lose people?” Mulligan’s voice was soft but hard. “You think your job is just about driving around in a high-tech vehicle? You think more of us aren’t going to wind up like Lee?”
Andrews shook his head, but didn’t speak. He was sure he would start sobbing if he were to try and have a conversation right now. The breeze stirred what remained of Leona’s fantastic mane of dark hair. She’d been tortured, but hadn’t told her interrogators everything. If she had, then Fox would have destroyed the warehouse where SCEV Four was parked. As far as he knew, that hadn’t happened yet.
Mulligan sighed and shrugged off his rucksack. He opened it and pulled out a folded body bag. His face was blank, his expression unchanging as he donned the ruck again and then unfolded the bag. Andrews felt a tear roll over his right eyelid, and it traced a cool track down his cheek.
“Mulligan,” he said, and his voice was husky. “I’ll do this, man. I’ll be gentle.”
Mulligan stopped. He had spread the bag out beside the body, and his fingers were on the zipper as he readied to pull it open. He looked up into the sky slowly, and Andrews saw his eyes move behind his visor as he scanned the clouds.
“We don’t have time to grieve right now, Captain.”
“I don’t want you doing this, Sarmajor,” Andrews said.
“I appreciate that, sir ... but we really don’t have time.” Mulligan continued looking into the sky. “We just lost the drone.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
“We just lose the drone?” Laird asked when the UAV’s data stream suddenly terminated without warning.
“Rhetorical question, right?” Kelly replied from the command intel station.
“Tell me what’s up, Lieutenant—we’re in a combat operation here,” Laird said, with some iron in his voice. While he was pretty much always up for some bouts of levity, now was not one of those times.
“Yeah, it’s gone—don’t know why just yet. Reviewing the logs,” Kelly said.
“We’ve got another one in the back,” Slattery said. He was up front with Laird in the cockpit while Cobar ran the engineering station behind the bulkhead.
“Not a chance we’re going to deploy it up here,” Laird said. “I’m not deflating any part of this vehicle until we’re clear. When we’re released, we’ll find a place to set up and launch, but no one’s going outside while we’re in Indian country.” As he spoke, Laird swept his eyes across the displays. They still had sufficient battery charge for sustained operations, as they’d been using the FLIR for targeting the miniguns. But he couldn’t keep the rig up on the butte and operate it blind for much longer. The SCEV’s survival depended on drones, and if he couldn’t use those, then he would have to use the radar. And energizing the MMR would cost them a heavy penalty in battery life.
“Kelly, what do you have?” he asked.
“Nothing in the logs to suggest electrical failure, and all the position data’s disappeared. Even if the battery was running down, I’d see that.” Kelly sighed. “Okay. Drone was intercepted, but not by a missile or something laser-guided.”
“Heat seeker?” Slattery suggested.
“No. The drone doesn’t give off enough heat,” Kelly said.
“Ultra-violet.” Cobar’s voice was sure. “Stinger with block seven or greater upgrades. Switches to UV tracking when there’s no heat source, and the batteries and propellant can last twenty years before they degrade.”
“And our pals might have that kind of gear with them. Awesome,” Laird said. “Okay, let’s turn over the engines. Patricio, run the process from your station. Slattery and I need to stay eyes out.”
“Roger.”
Laird pointed at the FLIR yoke on the center console. “Stay on that, Slattery.”
Slattery reached over and grabbed the yoke. “Got it.” He panned the FLIR from left to right. More enemy were pouring in, and the rig would be a primary target.
Laird loosened his straps and leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck to look as far aft as he could. He had last known position information on Mulligan—Andrews had dropped off, as his helmet was apparently damaged—but Mulligan’s was still transmitting location information. There were a lot of people outside, and still some sporadic fighting. Visually picking up someone as big as Mulligan was going to be tough to do, as the landscape was made complex by dozens of people transiting through the area.
He needn’t have worried. As the number one engine came online, Mulligan’s voice crackled over Laird’s headset.
“Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.”
“Okay, we’re out of here. Crew, rig for transit,” Laird said. “Patricio, once both engines are spooled up, take us out of battery mode. Let’s get them recharging without any load.”
“Understood. Number one is up, number two spooling.”
Laird grunted as he advanced the control column. The SCEV began rolling, and he nursed it through a turn, intending to retreat using the same route they’d taken to get to the top of the butte. Fighters from Sherwood looked at the departing rig with confused expressions; after all, they were perilously close to being overrun until the hulking machine rolled up and started atomizing their opponents with minigun fire. Laird understood that they still needed an armored presence in the area, but he couldn’t continue to loiter and not become a target. And the sarmajor had been pretty specific in his instructions. In Andrews’s absence, Mulligan was the de facto dismounted commander and his call was to release SCEV Five so it could maneuver out of the area. Laird had to comply.
The SCEV began to
accelerate as the engines bumped the batteries offline and took over providing motive power. Laird eased back on the control column, keeping the rig’s speed down to below twenty-five miles per hour. The terrain was still rugged enough that it made for hard driving, and he didn’t need to rattle the shit out of his crew. He leaned forward and looked to the right, searching for the small notch in the terrain that led to the overgrown fire trail they had negotiated earlier in the morning.
“Targets!” Slattery said suddenly. An alarm sounded then, shrill in Laird’s headset followed by the distant pop of an AMW rocketing out of its niche overhead as the warhead’s embedded sensor detected an inbound target. Laird never saw the target itself, but he most certainly saw the explosion as the AMW blew up and took out the projectile. It had occurred less than five hundred meters out, which meant the goblins had moved in close. Then the miniguns opened up, and Laird saw the terrain ahead ripple as the 7.62-millimeter rounds ripped through brush, small trees, rocky-studded earth, and hidden human combatants.
“Heat blooms dead ahead!” Slattery said.
“Multiple launches!” Kelly added at the same time.
Laird saw vegetation pulse as three rockets leaped into the air, trailing vague trails of smoke and heat as they ripple-fired in sequence—one, two, three. That was a problem. They were heading toward the SCEV head-on, which meant the rig had only two remaining AMWs left to counter the threat. Laird’s choices were to do as he had been trained, which was turn toward the threat and accelerate in a bid to get inside their arming radius, or crank the stick to the right and present the expanse of the rig’s left side, where six more AMWs resided. Without the MMR running, the AMWs would launch only when their embedded sensors detected the inbound projectiles, and those operated via line of sight. But Laird wasn’t sure he could turn the rig fast enough to give the AMWs in the left niches time to detect the incoming fire, much less launch and effectively stop them. He pushed the column full forward, and the SCEV’s big tires spun as they dug in. The rig leaped forward, engines shrieking as the first forward AMW popped, zooming away from the rig to meet the target. A moment later, the second one blasted away.
Earthfall (Book 2): Earthfall 2 [The Mission Continues] Page 50