Indian Hill 6

by Mark Tufo

  Chapter 4

  ARROW TWELVE

  “Arrow Twelve, this is Captain Anders aboard the Guardian. You are being ordered to stand down.”

  Riser could hardly believe his ears. They were destroying the mutes by the hundreds—without air support it was like mute hunting season without a bag limit. He didn’t know whether to question the order or just turn his radio off and say he’d had a malfunction. In the end, military discipline won out. There had to be a reason, albeit one he could not fathom.

  He turned off the comm to the ship. “Patter,” he was speaking to his second in command, Stone Patterson. The man was indeed built like a brick shit house and figured he was a shoo-in for the nickname Stoney. Problem was you couldn’t pick your own call sign, and Riser had known how much the other man was pulling for his own choice. His friend had taken it graciously, though he let him know about it every time they got together.

  “Patter. Go,” he replied.

  “We’ve just been called off.”

  “Yeah I heard. Came over an open channel.”

  “I don’t like it. We’re finally kicking their asses and they want us to pull up short—then they announce it publicly? I had eyes on Colonel Talbot—I know for a fact he’s still down there.” Both men stopped short of mentioning the well-known feud between the two leaders. “The boy-general better have a good fucking reason for doing this.”

  “I doubt it,” Patter said in response. “He’s been getting more erratic, if anything.”

  “This is bullshit,” Riser said.

  “I agree, but orders are orders and if you don’t follow them, you’re bound to end up in front of a firing squad.”

  “This has Beth written all over it.”

  “Careful, pal.” They’d often talked about the woman’s abilities to manipulate events around her and they were both concerned with the amount of influence she wielded like a heavy bat. “We’ll pull back, but then we'll demand a satisfactory explanation.”

  Riser wasn’t thrilled with that outcome. It was like watching a car head for a tree, pedal down, then discussing what they could have done differently once the front end was wrapped around the trunk. He switched his comm to the open channel. “This is Arrow Twelve to all squadrons. Pull back and head to the Guardian.” There was a lot of grumbling disbelief and questions, none of which he answered. “That’s an order,” he reiterated, silencing them.

  They were halfway back when Patter called him. “You seeing this?”

  Riser had been so focused on the angry conversation he was about to have with the general, that he was not watching anything.

  “Rise?” Patter asked, getting his friend’s attention. “Look at your radar.”

  “Holy smokes,” he answered. “Is this a malfunction?” The entire screen was nearly blotted out by the sheer number of flying objects.

  “Not unless we’re all suffering it.”

  “All squadrons! This is Riser. Battle formations. Make sure your wingmen are in place, groups of three, spread out. Prepare to engage incoming!”

  “There’s so many of them!”

  “Who are they?”

  “There’s not enough of us.” His men were on the verge of panic.

  “Keep it together and I’ll get you through this!” Riser shouted. Then he said a prayer as quietly as he could. “Patter, give us some words.”

  “Yea though I fly through the bleakness of space I will fear no aliens because I am a Human, born from the one true God, and I am the baddest motherfucker in the entire known universe!”

  There were battle cries as his men and women got into position. It was dozens against thousands. Riser did not think he would ever get to have that conversation with the general, although right now it didn’t matter much. They were five minutes from engagement when he once again heard from the Guardian.

  “Arrow Twelve—Commander Riser, this is General Ginson. You will stand down from battle formations. You will veer forty-five degrees to stern.”

  “Sir, I don’t think you completely understand the circumstances,” Riser started to explain.

  “I am well aware,” Paul stated.

  “Colonel Talbot…”

  “Get your ass back on this ship Commander Riser! There are things going on that you do not understand. I will not have one of my subordinates questioning my decisions.”

  “Oh that’s right…you have a wife to do that.” Riser blurted out before he could think on his words.

  Riser could hear Patter’s sharp intake of air.

  “You’re a good commander, Riser, possibly the best I have, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. You be on this ship in a half an hour or I will light you up from here. Out,” Paul said as he released the button and walked away from the comm.

  Chapter 5

  MIKE JOURNAL ENTRY 3

  “I don’t believe this shit,” BT said for my ears only. “It’s like your voice is a good bottle of Tequila and they are each one leg of a beautiful woman who’s almost at the bottom of it.”

  “That’s a really weird analogy for this situation man.”

  “What I mean is you’re getting them to open up to your suggestion.”

  “Oh, I get what the fuck you’re saying, but looking at either of those monsters is the furthest thing from a sexual experience I would ever go with. Now, maybe that’s something different for you…who am I to judge…but maybe you should keep that shit to yourself going forward.”

  “Fuck you, Mike.”

  “Again with a sexual suggestion. Some people can’t keep their mind out of the gutter, I guess you’re one of them.”

  He was about to give me the middle finger and thought better of it.

  “It is true we despise all of the mammalian class, but between the two of you, the Stryvers have been an enemy for ages untold. Our war with you is nearly complete; there is an advantage to be gained by aligning with you against them before you are extinct.” Grar said in a rare display of anything intelligent and more than a growl.

  “I love the way he makes me feel inside when he talks,” I told BT.

  “Don’t undo whatever you just did.”

  I was wondering if Vegas had any odds over what was eventually going to do me in. I knew old age was the high paying long shot.

  “We have about five minutes. Do you think we can maybe get our asses in gear and set up something to greet the Stryvers with?” I asked.

  Keecan and Grar were still mean-mugging each other, the level of distrust was pegged in the red. They’d probably still be standing there when the world around them began to explode.

  “I said fucking move or we will die!” I shouted.

  “The little one squeaks the truth.” Grar said pulling his gaze from Keecan.

  “Ha...he said squeaks.” BT thought that was most hilarious thing ever.

  BT, myself, and Keecan headed back to get prepared, as did Grar.

  “Do they even have anti-aircraft?” BT asked when we got back to the Geno line. “I mean wouldn’t they have used it?”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that. Keecan?”

  “The best way I can translate what they do is called a slaughter box.”

  On our side, Keecan had his Genos place nearly a hundred anti-aircraft tubes in a grid formation; he told us that it increased their effectiveness.

  “Like to a hundred percent?” I asked hoping.

  “Long ago, I am told, the tubes could destroy five of every ten ships; however, the Stryvers have since upgraded their technology. We will be lucky to kill two out of every ten.”

  “What about the slaughter boxes?” BT asked.

  “They will be highly effective until they are targeted,” he answered.

  Found out soon enough what a slaughter box was, and I’m not sure who the word “slaughter” was for—the enemy being targeted or the one inside doing the shooting. The mutes would get into a tight, square formation of about five hundred troops, all facing in the same direction, weapons pointed up. T
hey would form four groups, each picking a compass heading. From above, it looked like a giant cross, two thousand strong. Each had a quadrant of sky they were responsible for. Yeah, for whatever reason, their blasters weren’t highly accurate at that range but they would travel nearly indefinitely until they made contact with something. And five hundred ray blasts heading in roughly the same direction…well, let's just say I was interested to see how this played out.

  “We doing that slaughter box thing?” BT asked.

  “It would not be wise,” Keecan said.

  “Here they come,” I said, pointing to where Rackinall was looking. I’d seen fewer black dots during peak blackfly season in Maine; the sky from where they were approaching was blotted out by a cloud of them. Standing out in a field was seriously about the last place I wanted to be. Well, second to last; in a room with Beth alone would probably be number one. Out here, at least I could shoot at the Stryvers. The hum of juice as the tubes lit up had the same smell and feel you get right before an impending electrical storm. We were about to seriously fry some ozone. The blackflies grew in size to wasps; soon they would be hawkish, and when they were close enough they would blot out the sun, plunging us into preternatural dusk, or a world-ending eclipse, depending on my frame of mind.

  I could barely wrap my mind around the sheer number of ships they had committed to this endeavor. Then I was left to wonder why they hadn’t just done their version of a nuke. The amount of resources and risk expended on this made no sense; at least not that I could understand. But, again, Stryvers are as different from us as we are from spiders. Could we possibly understand the thought patterns of a black widow? Doubtful. Or quite possibly they thought very much like us and this was a vengeful fucking-over, plain and simple and up close. The old “I am going to send you to death as personally as I can” bit. I got that. Much more fun to see the terror on your opponent’s face when you crush him as opposed to just dropping an impersonal bomb and getting the numbers later. Maybe that was it.

  I guess what did they really have to fear? When had ground troops ever really fared well against a massive air strike? Ants can give one hell of a bite, but what can you do when a boot comes down? Silver bolts as fine as spider web filaments began to unfurl from the nosecones of the fighters that were now maybe a mile away. In terms of size, it didn’t look all that impressive, even next to the hand blasters we were all carrying. Like they had .22s and we were shooting fifty cals. Oh, how I wish I’d just kept that thought locked away. The beam, round ray, whatever the fuck it was called, was brutally effective in its ability to kill. I watched as hundreds of shots landed harmlessly in the field with barely a puff of dirt being disturbed. I was under the mistaken impression that with some body-armor I could probably withstand the shot. What I didn’t know at that moment was that the little silver ping hitting the ground was just the beginning of its cycle.

  At first, I didn’t understand what was happening; the ground just exploded for no discernible reason. Then the silver beam came corkscrewing back out of the ground, a metallic, razor sharp cyclone ten feet in diameter, slicing through whatever it touched with impunity. It was terrifying; a murderously devious war machine.

  “What the fuck?” Was all I could manage as I watched hundreds of Genos and mutes get savagely mutilated or outright shredded in that very first strafing run. The mutes took that as their cue to unleash their first assault. It was fucking impressive; a slaughter box if I've ever seen one. An entire group pulled their triggers as one, sending five hundred bolts up into their quadrant of the sky in this absolute sheet of crimson. It was like a curtain of fire as it plumed. Dozens of Stryver ships burst into flame from the assault. Their intimidating approach was their undoing; the mutes could not help but hit the enemy, they were so closely packed together. And before the Stryvers could make their separation, all four quadrants joined in. I was cheering as the Stryvers were getting downed in droves, but my optimism was brief—those flaming ships had to fall somewhere.

  The burning debris raining down was nearly as effective as the munitions they were shooting. The Geno tubes started firing; electrical arcs formed and flew out across the sky. Unlike one tube firing, its streaks racing out to strike a target, multiple tubes firing simultaneously with their counterparts formed, fuck—I almost hate to say it—a sky net. Some of you will get the reference, although this was very different from the Terminator movies. It was an electrified grid across the sky and when a ship touched it there were explosive results. At first, I thought Keecan’s kill estimates were extremely low, the net was wiping out Stryver ships at an unprecedented pace as far as I could tell...then there was a sudden change. A force field maybe, something negatively charged, maybe even a lightning rod type of apparatus dissipated the charged net. Suddenly ships were flying right through without so much as a sizzle.

  Keecan made some hand signals and those responsible for the tubes made adjustments. The grid disengaged and went back to the target chasing beams I was accustomed to. Although, one tube didn't have enough juice to push through whatever Stryver defense was in place, once a beam locked on, it somehow notified its weaponry peers and others would join in, combining to overwhelm the Stryver protection shields. Effective, but this rapidly slowed down our kill rate. Oh, how I wanted to run—somewhere, anywhere. We were just standing there, mouths open...might as well have pulled up a bench and read the newspaper for all I was contributing. I was terrified on a grand scale; I suppose I could have even said I was paralyzed and couldn’t even make a run for it, but the truth was there wasn’t anywhere to go—they were all over the sky. This was as good as any other place to die.

  “Should have got on that shuttle,” I said.

  “You talking to me or thinking out loud?”

  “Out loud,” I mistakenly said to BT.

  “Now you have a change of mind?”

  “I usually get to the right decision eventually.”

  “Yeah, but usually before it costs us our lives.”

  “Probably right; should’ve said something sooner.”

  “You seem alright with that.”

  “Oh, I’m scared man,” I told him. “But it seems I’ve just been waiting for the end, for that last shoe to drop, ever since this started. I think I’m building up a tolerance to it. It’s tough to get overly emotional about something that should have happened almost from the get-go.”

  “That’s hard-core man.”

  “Yeah I’m not meaning to be.” We both looked to the sky, the sun was blotted out; the Stryver ships were so numerous it looked like what I imagined a Biblical plague of locusts would. There were thousands of ships; they were not leaving anything to chance here. Acre-sized plots of land were being turned into desolate landscapes, devoid of anything resembling life. The mutes were still delivering lethal payloads with their slaughter boxes but those had incurred the accumulated wrath of the ships coming in and were taking damage at a much higher rate than the rest of us; they were more like slaughter crates now.

  Maybe suicide shooters would have been a better moniker for those poor bastards. And for the life of me, at no time, would I have ever thought I would feel bad for mutes. They were crazed genetic freaks hell-bent on destroying anybody they were directed to kill. But fuck if they weren’t as brave a being as I’d ever come across; maybe they were just too stupid to be scared.

  “What now?” BT asked, he already knew the answer. We waited. What the hell else was there?

  The suicide shooters were taking so much damage they were becoming ineffectual in their return fire. We (and by we, I mean Genos and mutes) had taken down over a hundred ships, easily, which sounds great, only that was nothing more than a handful when compared to what was left. I was looking to Keecan’s radio wondering if now would be a good time to see if I could borrow it and patch a call to Tracy. I wanted to say goodbye but wouldn’t this be the worst way possible? What kind of asshole calls his significant other during an air strike to let them know they aren’t going to make it
? That’s just being dickish. Plus, knowing her, she’d order the ship to turn around. And I could not even go through the mental exercise of what even one of these fighters could do to a shuttle—plus, Paul probably wouldn’t allow it because of what it could mean for his so-called alliance. Then she’d know his role in all of this and I could guarantee the next time she met up with him it would not involve a fist, but rather a 5.56 mm response.

  Paul might have his detractors, but he also has his supporters and there’s no way my wife would be able to get away with murdering him and not be brought to justice for it. So, as much as I wanted that radio, the cons far exceeded the pros of me having that one final moment of solace with my wife. My problems would be over while I would have subjected her to a lifetime of her own regrets, mostly caused by my stubbornness, I imagined.