“Those aren’t birds,” a radar controller informed the Commander. “They’re wingsuiters. She’s seeing the wingsuiters. They’re heading for an intersect, a collision.”
“Delta five-three-nine, you must divert. Can you reach us at Nellis? You are headed into restricted military airspace. You will be shot down.”
“Nellis Tower,” the pilot said in a strained voice through the din around her. “I have one hundred and seventy-six souls on board and am flying a dead stick. I don’t have the luxury of options. I can see a runway out ahead and am gonna do my damnedest to reach it. I need you to help me do that. Please help us do that, you’re our only hope.”
“You can’t,” Commander Caesar croaked, noticing the radar operator tapping his display to indicate the aircraft was suggesting a landing at Dreamland. “You can’t land there, that’s Dreamla… uh, Area 51, that’s Area 51!”
“I’m sorry, we don’t have a choice, tower. This identified flying object is coming in hot. Request emergency services on the scene. We’ll take your prayers if you have them.”
“No… no…” Commander Caesar said, collapsing into his seat. “This can’t be happening…”
Black Pearl
E ven before the U.S.S. Pearl had reached maintenance pontoon three and the docking and engineering crews had assembled, Elite Security Officer Pineda sensed something was off, something the screaming alarms and the flashing amber emergency beacons casting shifting shadows across the skeletal structures of the subterranean base wasn’t telling him. He looked up at the Command Room windows, but saw no anxious faces looming behind the glass. A few meters away on the other side of the dock, through the pattering rain, he heard a soft click as Porter disengaged the safety on her rifle. Pineda swallowed and matched the action almost unconsciously, his heart rate accelerating.
“Something about this feels all wrong,” Porter said, raising her rifle. She rested it against the chest of her rainproof poncho and peered anxiously into the darkness beyond the harbor. “I’m getting the heebies, Pin. This is all wrong, I feel it. Where the hell is everyone?”
“Pah, come on,” Pineda dismissed. “You think they wouldn’t send all the backup in the world if they thought something was going down? Come on, please,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “Relax, dude.”
“You don’t think it’s strange, all our boomers are headed out while this one’s coming in, this one alone? That doesn’t strike you as strange, with all this noise going on, with all that com-talk of a topside incursion, with all the added drills we’ve been running over the past few weeks? Something’s wrong, I know it and so do you. You’d have to be an idiot not to see it.”
“Yeah, right, like that Yamamoto chump is gonna have his very own submantle and somehow, which is crazy and you know it, then somehow, by some cosmic miracle, have access to the vent’s cycling entry codes. Dude, listen to yourself. You heard what command said, some of the mines were triggered by weather under the crust and they’re running the playbook as a precaution. That’s all this is, running the book, which means sending out our boomers.”
“Yeah, maybe running the book is exactly the problem.”
“You watch too many movies. Look,” Pindea said, gesturing to the submantle entering the powerful stadium lights shining through the constant rain falling from the cave roof. “You see, it says U.S.S. Pearl. It’s right there on the side. That’s one of ours, I know it and you know it, just settle down and go easy on that trigger. You don’t wanna shoot somebody just ‘cause you have a bad feeling.”
“I’m just saying, I don’t like th…” Porter’s words cut short. She turned and stared in dismay towards the end of the dock, where the twin turrets of the mounted Phalanx CIWS Gatling autocannon whirred as its twenty millimeter barrels swivelled and aimed down the length of the docking pontoon. The enormous gun hissed to a menacing and motionless state of alertness.
“It’s just procedure, a precaution,” Pineda said, hoping his eyes weren’t as wide as Porter’s. He pressed his throat microphone to his larynx as the Pearl slowly entered the drainable construction berth and began to manoeuvre her starboard beam to the pontoon. “Control, we still have no docking team, is there anything we need to know?”
“Fall back behind the autocannons,” control ordered. “We need you to confirm a visual on Captain Douglas. He’s gonna open the conning tower hatch before we send in docking crews. We need you confirm a visual.”
“A visual?”
“Just fall back behind the autocannons and tell us if it’s him or not. We need eyes on Captain Douglas, we need a visual confirmation. Understand?”
“Understood, visual confirmation on Captain Douglas, falling back.”
Pineda and Porter hustled down the dock and positioned themselves behind the Phalanx cannons, backs pressed to the concrete blocks on which the powerful guns were mounted, rifles primed. Down the length of the base, where other pontoons joined the dock, Pineda heard additional autocannons being locked and loaded, their motors whining as they targeted the maintenance dock. He could also hear the wet slap of running feet as workers across the base dashed for cover.
Soon, everything fell eerily quiet, punctuated only by the low growling hum of the autocannons. Pineda brushed a hand across his eyebrows and pulled the hood of his poncho forwards to stop the rain attacking his eyes. He peered towards Porter, who was on one knee, using as much cover as possible whilst simultaneously pointing her rifle down the pontoon.
As the Pearl’s engine idled and the dark water at her stern slackened, laser beams cut through the rain-swept darkness and a collection of red dots vied for position on the Pearl’s hull around the conning tower hatch. Pineda threw a glance towards the source of the beams. Between the munitions depot and the command center, where the cargo deployment avenue led past the barracks to the freight elevator, which was the only way in and out of the base other than through the vent leading below the Earth’s crust, dozens of red lights shone like the eyes of demonic bloodhounds.
“Still think I’m overreacting? They’ve sent in the Wildcats, team ‘the shit has hit the fan and is spraying all up the walls,’ I told you something was wrong,” Porter hissed out of the corner of her mouth, all the while keeping her sights fixed on the Pearl. “You never listen. That’s your problem. You always think you know best, you always…”
“Okay, okay, message received. I’m gonna move out. I can’t see properly from here. I’ll get the visual. You get my back, okay?”
“I got you, get behind the cargo lift. It’s good cover.”
“I’m moving.”
A few moments after Elite Officer Pineda shuffled from cover in a low crouch, confusion battered his brain like he’d taken a right hook to the jaw from Floyd Mayweather. Impossibly, a portion of hull section towards the rear of the Pearl appeared to be falling away, but that couldn’t be right. None of Dreamland’s submantles had ramps, they had hatches, so it was impossible he was seeing what he was seeing. The falling section clanged against the pontoon, effectively creating a wide gangplank.
Pineda found himself stuck in a state of curious rigidity, a chilly prickling sensation running across his skin. Then, as the Wildcats’ laser beams tracked towards the opening, something even more impossible happened. The only thing that made sense in his brain was that he was seeing samurai on armored horses charging from the Pearl. As the Wildcats opened fire and sparks flashed off the horses and their riders, Pineda realized they were in fact people in full-body armored suits riding giant robot horses.
Pods popped from the machines’ flanks, in front of the riders’ knees, and missiles streaked through the air, trailing twisting smoke. At that exact same instant, the autocannon above Pineda unleashed its maximum deafening fury, its violence so extreme it sucked the oxygen from the air as it pounded round after round towards the invading samurai.
Across the way, Pineda saw Porter duck as the autocannon she was hiding behind detonated, shedding fiery light across the dark water and
the rain swept pontoon. Pineda’s ears made a sucking pop and there was ringing silence as he watched cannons down the entire length of the dock explode like dominoes, in clouds of fire that expelled chunks of mangled shrapnel. Then, a rocket connected with the cannon above him, which exploded, lifting him up and throwing him sideways on a wave of shock both physical and mental.
Lying on his back now, winded and struggling for breath, he watched a barrage of missiles wind towards the network of pipes leading up the cave wall, which housed the communication links with the surface. The piping peeled away from the wall as blast waves spread out, causing dust and rock to fall.
Pineda pushed himself up and was raising his rifle towards the approaching horde, behind which additional combat suited infantry were dashing, when something cold and sharp struck his neck. The arm holding his rifle suddenly weakened and dropped, his weapon clattering the concrete. He tried to lift his other arm, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to look at his arm, but his neck wouldn’t turn.
“They got me!” Porter shrieked across the way. “I’ve been Hiiiii…”
Pineda heard a soft thump as Porter’s body hit the floor. He found himself toppling sideways swiftly after. He lay helpless, breathing steadily but unable to move a muscle, watching the samurai army charge past the burning autocannons, towards the Wildcats, whose laser lights were steadily falling motionless, one by one, pointing off at random angles where they fell. More than fear or shock, or hatred or anger, more than any negative emotion, Pineda felt awed by the skill and swiftness of the small band of invaders. The infiltration was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen, and he worked at Area 51.
Area 51
R eece stepped carefully between the bodies of the tranquilized Area 51 security personnel. He glimpsed the eyes of one of the men through his rain-spattered goggles. They were angrily scrunched and glaring. Reece could only imagine the man’s teeth were bared with equal intensity beneath his balaclava. His twitching fingers strained to reach his gun, but just like the rest of his team, he was helpless to fight through the paralysing toxin circulating his bloodstream.
“We come in peace,” Reece muttered. “It’s nothing personal. Man, you look so pissed.”
“Not as pissed as when he snaps out of it in about an hour,” Fang said, stepping up beside Reece. “Let’s hope we’re a long way away by then. He’s gonna feel like a family of lactose intolerant porcupines set up camp in his head after a cheese binge.”
“Nice image,” Aroon said, pulling up beside them on his warhorse. “You really captured the essence of something beautiful there, Fang, full of layers, like a rainbow.”
“Watch where you’re stepping and stay frosty,” Commander Blake called. “This is not over.”
“Does he always talk like that,” Reece whispered to Fang, “like he’s in an eighties action movie? I bet somewhere he has a notebook full of notes he’s taken over the years that he secretly rehearses at night in front of the mirror.”
“I don’t know why you’re whispering, genius, we’re all on the same coms,” Commander Blake said, whipping round to face Reece. “If you don’t shut that noise, I’ll jam my boot so far up your ass the sweat on my toes will quench your thirst. Now hustle. Move it.”
“Now that’s a powerful image,” Reece said to Fang, who was smirking behind her helmet. “I gotta admit though, he’s very effective.”
Down the length of the dock, the destroyed cannons burned like braziers lining an ancient port, casting cavorting fiery light across the water and reflecting off the damp cave roof. There didn’t appear to be a single light on behind the windows of the aluminium-frame buildings and there were no signs of activity across the dock. It was a ghost town. Here and there, from within the burning cannons, unspent rounds discharged, squealing as they corkscrewed in random directions, splashing down in the lagoon or wheeling into the darkness, their eerie moans fading like fleeing spirits.
The squad followed Commander Blake’s lead and they came up beside a heavy construction crane that operated on tramlines that ran horizontal to the dock. The Commander held up a clenched fist. The warhorse riders dismounted and the group huddled against the crane. Just ahead was a section of track on a turntable, which could be rotated to re-direct the crane down a wide road leading into the heart of the now deserted base.
“You picking up any transmissions?” The Commander asked Robo Yamamoto. “Any idea what they’re planning? I can’t hear anything through this rain.”
“It’s radio silence, but I am detecting movement around the corner in front of the elevator. I can hear armed people assembling. It sounds like fifty or more. I can hear sentry guns and cannons being armed too. I’m not sure how many.”
“Okay, since they’re buying tickets let’s give them the show they’ve been waiting for,” the Commander said, unhooking a cylindrical grenade from his belt and pulling the pin. “Smoke out,” he called, tossing the grenade onto the tramway turntable. “Warhorses, on my ready.”
Before the grenade had hit the concrete, as the first wisps of smoke began trailing from the arcing cylinder, a bullet storm pumped from the artery between the buildings. The bullets were streaming so fast and furious, with such volume and noise it appeared like debris caught in the grip of a category five tornado.
On Commander Blake’s signal, the warhorses cranked to their feet and dashed into the ballistic storm, shuddering and clanking under innumerable impacts, armor sparking white, slugs ricocheting in all directions, one stunning Reece backwards as it struck his helmet between his eyes, chipping away a fleck of glass.
“Get down!” Molotov said, dragging Reece to the ground. “Stay low.”
The warhorses’ wrist mounted Gatling guns span up and they fired towards the assailants around the corner. The firefight was so breakneck, one of the warhorses collapsed and caught fire within seconds.
Reece threw his hands over his head as a sudden percussive boom from behind lit the cave with a brilliant flash. He turned and saw pieces of the Yōgan Koumori falling from the sky and splashing down beside the flaming wreckage of the sinking submantle. In the firelight, he spotted Area 51’s fleet of submantles in the distance, the water ahead of them alive with torpedoes, which were streaking below the surface like a frenzy of hunting sharks.
“They’re… they’re…” he said, fumbling to get his words out.
“Coming back,” Schweighofer cried. “We have incoming submantles!”
No more than a second later, sections of the concrete dock exploded, belching rubble and towers of white water, the impact so powerful it seemed to liquify Reece’s bone marrow as he was lifted from the ground and hurled sideways. He landed awkwardly, but his suit took the impact. When the rubble and water ceased crashing down, he saw squad members crawling from beneath a fallen section of crane. One person remained pinned. He couldn’t tell who it was.
Further down the dock, although the bullet storm attacking the warhorses was less fierce, four of the machines looked so dinged and dented, to fresh eyes, it would have been easy to imagine they’d scrambled from a plane wreck. The fifth horse was limping in circles, the gear inside its domed head bobbing and spinning like instruments attached to a one-man band at an amusement park. The horse suddenly arched backwards, shrieked, then pitched into a twitching mass of smouldering, shuddering metal.
“My horse,” Razak cried. “They took down my horse!”
Reece and Molotov dashed towards the man pinned beneath the crane, but Robo Yamamoto beat them to it. With inhuman strength, he lifted the tangled metal with one arm and Hadley scuttled free.
“You hurt?” Molotov said, stooping down. “I can carry you.”
“I don’t think so, just give me a moment.”
Below the roar of gunfire, Reece heard the unmistakeable high pitch drone of yet more torpedoes homing on their position.
“All hands,” Commander Blake yelled, dashing from behind the crane towards the warhorses. “We are moving in, use the horses for co
ver. Follow me.”
Boots mashed the concrete and there was a blur of charging arms and legs. Reece withdrew his sidearm and went to charge after the squad, but he found something holding him back.
“Not you,” Robo Yamamoto said.
“Get off me, let go. I can help.”
“No, you’re too important. We need you in one piece. You are not expendable.”
“And they are?”
“This is their job, Reece. You’re a pilot, not a fighter.”
“I’m pretty sure I can do both, now let me the hell go, they need me.”
“I’m sorry, Reece. I can’t do that.”
The second wave of torpedoes detonated against the dock with such raw power, Reece felt he’d been ripped from reality. When his vision came back to him, and the ache through his bones abated enough that he could think straight, he saw the suits of the fighting squad dripping wet and scarred with sooty welts. Molotov was lying on the floor, his helmet smashed on one side, blood trickling from his hairline. The hulking man pushed himself up, punched his chest to disengage his helmet, but only the right and rear portions retracted. Commander Blake placed himself between Molotov and the oncoming fire whilst Molotov yanked at the offending section until it tore away.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Commander Blake yelled. “Heavy weapons are disabled. Only a few nesting gunners left. We’ll take them out on the move. We need be on that elevator before those submantles dock. We won’t survive another wave of troops.”
Robo Yamamoto released Reece and everyone charged down the roadway between the buildings, Hadley clutching his arm and limping, the leading squad members downing the remaining defenders, who were entrenched behind stacked sandbags.
Beyond the destroyed weaponry and twitching bodies, Reece saw an elevator the size of a football field, which sat below a diagonally sloping shaft that led to the surface. He staggered forwards in a stumbling run as more torpedoes exploded behind them.
Jurassic Earth Trilogy Box Set Page 34