“I’ll do that. He’s a good man, Travers. Do you reckon we’ve lost them?”
“Lost them? It would take a miracle for them to find us in here.”
He stared ahead as the entwined branches moved, pressing in toward the track. “Is that a storm coming up?”
She shook her head. “I checked the forecast. There’s nothing due, not for several days.”
She tapped the inactive screen, and it pulsed with light before showing their battery status, current route details...and most important, the updated metrological data for the region.
"See."
She then hit the unit, and it turned off, leaving the interior in blackness once more. She squinted through the windshield. “Although it sure looks like it. It would take quite a wind to move those trees like…”
The tracked vehicle burst out, like some primordial monster, dragging its mate behind it. The windows of the front vehicle opened, and two gun barrels poked out. The first shots disappeared into the trees, but a further burst drilled holes in the windshield, traveled through the interior, and out through the back window.
“Get off the track!” he shouted.
She seemed to have gone into shock, but his words brought her back to her senses. She selected a miniscule gap in the bushes where the overgrowth was sparser than the rest. The SUV drove in and forced its way through the greenery; into a dark green and brown morass, a dripping, claustrophobic forest that hadn’t seen daylight in decades, maybe even centuries.
“Can we get through this way?”
“I...I’m not certain”
“Where will it take us?”
“I just don't know! To the quarry...I think.”
He looked behind, in time to see the bow wave of the steel behemoth as it plunged after them.
“We won’t make it. He’s gaining on us. Can you go any faster?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “In this? You’re kidding me.”
He darted another look behind, and the hood of the strange vehicle had come into view. They couldn’t run, couldn’t hide.
He recalled seeing something similar in an old movie. After, he'd looked it up and discovered the strange-looking vehicle was named a Hagglund. Two vehicles, in fact, a tracked tractor unit, pulling a tracked trailer, both powered, designed to go anywhere, including through thick forests. The foliage grew thicker, and she was driving through a thick mush of green and brown. The wheels churned up the undergrowth, and the stink was bad. He wondered if they were the first Humans to travel this ground for thousands of years. Probably not, this place had once been home to a thriving deuterium plant. When humanity walked away, nature returned with a vengeance.
The Falcon shook as a storm of lead punched into the rear, but the cops had shot low, aiming to take out the tires.
"You need to take evasive action. Find another way through."
She laughed, and for the first time he realized she was losing her calm façade, and inside, hysteria was close to the surface. "You find another way through, and I'll take it."
A short burst whistled through the interior, past her head, and drilled out more of the windshield. It was now just a few fragments of Perspex. He knocked them clear as she continued her battle to punch through the forest. At last, the enclosing greenery began to thin. They could see light ahead, and he had mixed feelings. They'd have a chance to forge ahead, get some space between them and the Hagglund. But the drones would be out there, hovering birds of prey, ceaselessly circling of the sky, waiting for a glimpse of their prey, and for the final plunge to earth. Gun ports blazing, weapons pouring down fire in remote-controlled precision.
There has to be another way.
“Stop! Throw a right, in that gap. Luther, give me the gun!”
She jammed on the brakes, and already he was out the door as she steered the burner into a narrow tunnel. A few meters ahead, the forest ended. He bellowed the order, “Stay here. Stay out of sight.”
“What…”
He was racing ahead, toward the light where the trees ended, and he’d be exposed to everything they threw at him. He had to decoy them away from Rose and Luther. Behind him, the track pushed through the last of the trees. A volley of shots whistled past him.
They’ve taken the bait, now to reel them in. Or maybe they’ll reel me in. Either way, she’ll have a chance to get away.
It was an old, abandoned quarry in the middle of a large clearing, almost a kilometer across, and half as wide. A long, steep gradient sloped down to the bottom of the bowl-shaped stone working, and huge chunks of rough-cut stone littered the sides. Halfway down he saw a two hundred meter-long stone plateau, with the remnants of the office and workshop buildings. If he were going to lose them, this would be the perfect place.
Gunfire chewed up the ground around him, and he pitched down to give them less of a target. Diving and rolling, he slid ten meters downward. He stopped as he slammed into the first of the massive stones. Gunfire ripped into the rock and drilled deep inside.
The drones.
A glance up to the sky, and they were performing what looked like an aerial ballet. Four drones in each flight, a programmed ‘pas de quatre,' or 'step of four,' that made each craft move in perfect time with the other. Each fired at the same moment, and as the shots hacked and smashed around him in a cacophony of smoke and flame, hurling broken stones at him hard and lethal as bullets; so they danced away. The next flight swooped down, like eager flocks of carrion eaters, whose next meal is assured. All it took was to kill the helpless victim, and they threw everything into the effort.
The Hagglund saved him. The monstrous tracked vehicle didn’t pause at the top of the slope. The driver powered over the lip and charged straight down toward him, aiming like an arrow at the place he sheltered. Steel tracks bit the ground and maintained the grip on a surface that would have consigned a lesser vehicle plunging to its doom. He watched it approach, and inside he could see the men who had come to kill him; a civilian behind the wheel and two deputies, their grins a snarling rictus of delight now their target was as good as dead.
They needed a body. Nothing less would satisfy them, and he waited for his moment. The drones had stopped shooting and were hovering in the sky, a half a klick away. Their internal sensors had registered the presence of another predator. This one was Human, law enforcement, and they had priority. They waited, like the crowd in an ancient Roman gladiatorial ritual, waiting to view the end, or to deliver the end if the cops failed. This was a far cry from the drones of a generation ago. These devices carried a sophisticated artificial intelligence, one capable of making complex decisions based upon their mission parameters. And Noah knew that.
Rules of Engagement.
He smiled, but the grin vanished as another long burst of automatic fire lashed around him, and the metal tracked monster was almost on top of him, a scant ten meters away. Yet more firing, and he went down.
His body jerked in time to the heavy burst, and he lay crumpled on the stone-littered surface. Head and torso flung behind a large rock, legs exposed in the open. The Hagglund braked to a stop five meters from him, and two more shots cracked out. The big gas auxiliary engine was idling as the door opened, and two men got out. He heard one say, “Cliff, you better be able to get this thing out of here. There’s no way we’re walking back to Westbank, not through that shit.”
“Aw, it’s the reverse gearing. It’s just jammed. I’ll play with the shift; see if I can free it. You reckon he’s dead.”
A nervous chuckle, “He better be. The bastard sure led us a dance through these woods. Better put a couple of rounds in him to make sure.”
The rifles cracked out, and bullets slammed into his legs. He didn’t move, waited.
“He’s dead, no question.” Another chuckle, this time more confident, “If he ain’t, if he’s still breathing, it won’t be for much longer.”
He lay still, controlling his breathing, lest the movement of his chest gave him away when they came neare
r. Then they were over him, and one of them knelt down. He felt the hot breath on his neck as the man got close and put a hand on his artery to check the pulse.
Now!
He moved, spun himself around, and brought around the R-22 Stryker assault rifle he’d kept out of sight behind the rock. He pulled the trigger, and two shots smacked into the deputy’s chest. He stared down at the ruined flesh for an astonished second, and his eyes glazed in death. The second deputy was too slow, small town slow. He carried a Striker, but in his panic he went for the P7 Protector pistol holstered on his belt. The gun was small, but powerful enough to use the same bullets as the rifle. None of this helped him, though. Cage was ready for him.
"No, don't!"
The deputy died. Cage put two bullets into him and bounded toward the Hagglund. The man inside was quicker. He slammed the vehicle into gear, and it started moving, picking up speed on the slope. Overhead, the first drone flight, sensing a problem in the balance of power of the fight, began to drift closer. He ignored them.
The track was speeding down the slope, and the driver leaned out the window to start shooting. One hand held the wheel, the other clutched an old fashioned hunting rifle. He aimed at Cage and peppered the ground with shots. Another glance at the sky, the drones were still holding formation. He ran faster, conscious of the threat presented by the Hagglund. It could follow him anywhere and looked as if it could climb Mount Everest without drawing breath. The track followed a bumping, lurching route as it ran parallel with him, looking for the shot to end it all. He had no choice but to go after it. If he separated from the vehicle, the drones would sense he was a safe distance away, and they’d attack.
His sprawling run was enough to keep up, and his damaged legs showed almost no sign of serious problems for the shots they’d poured into them. Almost. The intermittent hesitation he’d experienced when he lifted the huge tree was still there. Except now it was more jarring, like faulty bearings, or a motor out of sync. A damaged control unit, maybe, but he could override it, and he did. The expensive equipment fitted to his body carried numerous secondary systems for just this eventuality.
A lucky bullet tore into his boot, and the Hagglund stopped abruptly two hundred meters away. He put on a burst of speed, risking a tumble to the bottom, and dove into a shallow recess cut into the slope. The driver’s intent became obvious.
It wasn’t a rifle, but a light machine gun. Old fashioned maybe, but he knew many hunters kept such antiques for the hell of it, and the black market was full of old military hardware. Providing the bullets could be sourced they had value. Decades ago, they’d used such guns as a light support weapon, known as a SAW, a Squad Automatic Weapon; able to spew out long bursts of automatic fire, and useful to take down a bunch of grazing deer. Or kill a pack of wolves savaging a farmer’s cattle. Simple, direct, and devastating, pull the trigger, and the target would disintegrate into shreds of bloody flesh. The long burst was a hurricane of lead that almost parted his hair, and he looked for a better place to take cover. There was nothing, and the engine whined as the driver maneuvered it to get nearer to him.
He darted up and triggered a few shots at the driver, but the man was expecting it, and he ducked down and stopped again. This time, a mere twenty meters from where Cage sheltered, and another storm of gunfire erupted around his head. The voice that called to him came as a surprise.
“Hey, feller, why don’t you give it up?”
He kept his head down. “What do you want?”
A low rasping laugh, “I want you in custody, Mister. You’ve caused too much damn trouble as it is, poking your nose in where it isn’t wanted. There’re people make a living stripping materials from the old deuterium plant, and the more cops you bring down on our heads, the more they’ll see what we don’t want them to see.”
“You’re a scavenger?” He thought of Luther, but this man didn’t fit. With a tracked vehicle like the Hagglund, he could make a good living. Since the devastating losses after the Martian wars, both vehicles and fuel were in short supply. The tracked Hagglund could travel over the ruined infrastructure of PanAmerica where lesser vehicles had no hope of going.
“Nope, I ain’t a scav, but some of those boys are my pals. Well, more like customers. The last thing I want is for MPs and cops to come sifting through this place.”
“You’re a fence.”
“That’s me. Cliff Trudel, buy and sell anything. Now listen, if you’ll just give it up, we can end this nonsense, and…”
The burst of automatic weapon fire came from a different direction. The bastard had moved while he was talking, and now he had Cage square in his sights.
“So long, sucker.”
As the weapon yammered in his hands, he jumped. The adrenaline caused the neurons in his brain to fire urgent signals. Interpreted by the discreet circuitry in his cybernetic systems, they reacted in less time than it took a bullet to reach him. A massive leap, and he landed ten meters further away from the shooter. He leapt again to land behind a massive boulder. A super-human feat, made more impressive by his sheer desperation.
The man shouted, “Asshole!” The autogas engine of the vehicle whined, and the tracks bit into the slope. He was coming for him.
Coming with the entire monster’s toughened, steel clad might. A few meters away, the driver halted, and Cage was in full view of the driver’s window. No need to make the effort to climb out and take the shot, he leaned the machine gun out the window. Once again a stream of bullets parted the air, kicking up rock and debris. His aim was awful, but he didn’t need to aim. Just needed to keep pouring lead at Cage’s hiding place, and sooner or later he’d hit the target.
Yet he’d left himself slow and exposed, unable to maneuver, relying on the Hagglund’s strength and power. Cage waited for the inevitable. The ammunition belt was empty, and the shooter fumbled to replace it. A pro could do it in a few seconds, but not this man.
Noah raced at the Hagglund, and the driver’s hands shook as he slammed a new belt into the breech. He brought the barrel up to aim, ready to fire, but Cage wasn’t there. He’d found a shallow fold in the ground, and he crawled along it. Armed with the ever-reliable Stryker, he reached the passenger side of the track. The windows were still open where the deputies had been shooting.
He popped up, and the man inside whirled to stare at him, his eyes wide with terror, and he shouted, “No, no!”
“So long, pal.” He didn’t jerk the trigger. He had other problems. The passenger rotorcraft swooped in low, and the pilot made a flashy landing on level ground at the bottom. The Hagglund driver, the man who’d said he was Cliff Trudel, saw them at the same time. He tossed away the machine gun and jumped from the cab. He was heading for safety, for the security of numbers. Already, the rotorcraft was disgorging troops. Amongst them, he recognized the Sheriff and the deputy who’d been with him when they stopped him coming into town.
The bullhorn bellowed, “Lieutenant Cage, give this up. Surrender into my custody, and you’ll be safe. Come down now with your hands up.”
The escaping driver sneaked a quick look around as he stumbled away, struggling to draw the gun he carried at his belt.
Shoot first! Negotiate later.
Cage lifted and aimed the Stryker without thinking, and then fired on instinct. A three-shot burst sliced into him, and the body tumbled head over heels to land almost at the feet of the cops.
Men were shouting, and the ducted fans of the Vulture dropships were still making their whine as they began to spin up. They’d get airborne, and they could hover over him and direct an aerial firestorm onto his position. Either that or take him themselves. He fired a burst at the aircraft, and an MP went down, but he’d missed hitting anything vital. The engines roared, and the fans blasted dust in all directions. The cops were bundling up the ramp, and within a minute they’d be airborne. He’d be dead.
He looked around, desperate for something with which to fight the machine, other than a puny, plastic rifle. His ey
es fell on the Hagglund, and he was already racing toward it. The engine was still idling, and Cage worked the track levers and kicked the speed pedal to start it rolling. Pointed downhill, it got up to speed in seconds, rolling toward the rotorcraft, making its inexorable way across the steep, sloping ground. Lurching over loose chunks of stone and rock, tracks rolling over potholes deep enough to trap an unwary wheeled vehicle. The track performed its designed task to perfection. Unstoppable.
They saw the danger when he was less than forty meters away from his target. Men blasted burst after burst at the charging, steel menace, and he ducked down as a storm of gunfire shattered the windshield and blew holes in the instrument panel. The Sheriff’s big handgun boomed out, fired off six shots, and was empty. They all missed. Moving, plunging, lurching targets played hell with a shooter’s skill.
If they’d run, they’d have escaped, but it wasn’t part of their mindset. Why would a squad of trained and armed men run from one beaten-down Mars vet? Pride dictated they stay and fight, and shoot him down with their massive superiority in numbers and weaponry. Thirty meters from the Vulture, Cage bailed out. The track plowed on toward the high-tech dropship, and at last they ran. Some got away, Vos and his deputy, Hartmann and his senior noncom, but at least one crewman, two MPs, and a deputy succumbed to the blast when the Hagglund impacted the target in a shower of sparks and flying debris as the autogas tank exploded.
The effect was like that of a Claymore mine. A twentieth century fragmentation device designed to kill large numbers of enemy soldiers by means of high-explosive laced with steel ball bearings. Men leapt to find cover as the deadly hail of hot metal fragments sliced through them. Smoke roiled over the area, as burning plastic and rubber became a funeral pyre for the fallen.
He couldn’t walk. The damage to his legs was worse than he'd known. When he looked down, his borrowed pants were in ruins. Through the tears in the fabric, the fine mesh of micro-engineering and electronics were visible behind the punctured artificial skin. His arms functioned, and painfully he began to pull himself uphill. The sound of an autogas engine hummed further up the slope, and half a minute later, Rose Romero’s SUV nosed through the smoke, silent and smooth as always. Luther was first out, and he grimaced as he took him under the arms and began dragging him toward the tailgate.
Last Life (Lifers Book 1) Page 12