“Run!” shouted Brant. He grabbed up an armful of repel-belts and tossed the EMR device under his arm.
“What’s a Goliath!” cried Jessie.
Teresa whirled and scooped up Sam in one lunge. “Who cares! Look at Ten-Of-Three! Even he looks afraid!”
“His name is Three-Of-Ten!” corrected Sam, his voice sounding very staccato as he rode like a football under Teresa’s arm.
“Whatever!” she shouted, shooting past the android on a dead run for the Sandray. In seconds her feet had hit the ramp. She bolted inside and threw Sam into a seat. “Buckle up!” she ordered, then wheeled back to the doorway. “Move it!” she hollered at Jessie, grabbing for the girls hand.
Jessie scampered up the ramp, her EMR device flopping cumbersomely from a strap still attached on her arm. It banged loudly against the framed entry as she scampered inside.
“Get that thing off your arm and start up this bus!” roared Teresa.
Jessie flew down the aisle and fell into a seat at the controls.
“Brant!” Teresa shouted from the entry, “hurry!”
Brant was running fast but he had his hands wrapped around two repel-belts and the EMR device was barely pinched under his arm. The off-center load suddenly got the best of him. He stumbled, recovered, then stumbled again. Down he went, landing hard on the metal floor with a “woof!” Although he managed to hold fast to the belts, the EMR device went scooting across the floor in a clanging bounce. “Crap!” he cussed and hurried to right himself.
“Men,” grumbled Teresa. She leaped ahead to help him. But as her foot touched the downward grade, an unimaginable pressure wave slammed into her. The air left her lungs. She felt her body lift and tumble as effortlessly as a feather on the wind.
Everything went silent.
The next thing Teresa knew, she had landed in a shower of smoldering fragments: metal shards, chunks of broken salt, glass, wire—all kinds of debris. Her mind felt numb, and she fought to bring life back into her lungs. From the most distant void, she felt herself return as the surrounding chaos trickled back into the encompassing drone buzzing in her head. A cacophony of broken sounds, blurred motion, and odd odors overwhelmed her, then finally, she heard a familiar voice . . . familiar, yet somehow distorted.
“Run! Teresa! Run!”
It was Brant! Teresa eyes flew open and was instantly paralyzed by the thing which reached down for her! She heard herself scream as the knife-like claws splayed open and extended from an ugly mass with a single red eye. She turned away, tightened her body and waited for the pain which would come as the blades pierced her flesh and cut her to shreds. But instead, something darted in like a striking snake, and ripped the claw from the Goliath’s frame. Sparks flew, metal tore as the thing let out an angry howl like that of a wounded beast!
Three-Of-Ten moved like a bat spinning on a midnight breeze. He had fought this battle before, and had learned the weaknesses of these metal monstrosities. In the blink of an eye, Teresa saw the android spin down like lightning and smash the robot’s ugly head. Then, in another instant, he had grabbed her up in one arm and Brant in the another. Three-Of-Ten hauled the two humans effortlessly toward the Sandray. But as he did, another of the Goliath killers suddenly appeared out of thin air . . . then another, and another! Teresa screamed as each of the creatures moved to attack, their arms extended wide to crush, their claws slashing. But Three-Of-Ten held fast to his precious cargo. He maneuvered in and between the assaults like a cork on dancing waves. Teresa shrieked as her body was yanked, whipped and jolted like a rollercoaster ride from hell. Brant was so stupefied, he could only grunt as air was drawn in, then nearly crushed out of him. Finally, in one great lunge, the android landed at the top of the ramp. Without missing a beat, he hurled his two passengers through the doorway then reached and pounded at a button just inside the entry. “Help Jac—!” he said, but the door slammed shut. Now, like a swarm of angry wasps, the Goliaths fell ruthlessly upon the android. Three-Of-Ten fired his weapons and used every tactic that he could. But he was overwhelmed by numbers. And like the fall of a cornered cat, fighting with all its might amongst a pack of angry dogs, Three-Of-Ten too, succumbed and disappeared in the crushing mount of the enemy.
“Get us out of here!” shouted Brant, clambering to his feet. “Now!”
Jessie’s look was one of hesitant-fear . . . and she paused. “Where’s Three-Of-Ten!” she cried, somehow already knowing the answer.
“Go, Jessie!” Teresa yelled.
“No! No!” came Sam’s desperate pleas. His head popped up from behind his seat. “We can’t leave him! We can’t!” He began to yank at his belt.
Again, Jessie hesitated, her pause putting them all at terrible risk. Then, as her mind fought with conscience, a tremendous bang exploded outside the Sandray’s hull. The craft jolted hard to one side—and everyone screamed, including Brant. The Goliath AD’s had turned their assault on the Sandray. Through the thick windows in the front, the robotic killers could now be seen as they bounded onto and tore at the small craft; the sound deafening as they smashed and pounded the hull.
“Do you want to save Jacob or not!” screeched Teresa, her voice desperate. It was the only question that carried an absolute—an answer which was undisputable.
Jessie pulled hard on the throttle. “Brant! Get up here and help me!”
Brant scrambled down the aisle. He plopped rigid into the seat next to her. “What do I do!” he shouted.
“There!” Jessie pointed, her face frantic and white as her teeth. “That’s the defense panel. Start pushing buttons!”
Brant had actually studied the small panel from behind Three-Of-Ten’s shoulder on their way to the hidden cavern. It was a brief scan, yet he had deduced probable operations for most buttons and switches. He took hold of the joystick type lever, armed the weapons, and like Jessie said, began pushing buttons. His first few shots blew out walls, and tore a large gap in the floor, but it was enough to momentarily stun the Goliaths. Finally, the Sandray leaped forward, smashing right into a wall! The transport’s solid alloy shell absorbed the impact, pushing right through the partition with a crash of ripping metal and collapsing chucks of solid salt.
“Ahhh!” screamed Jessie as her head recoiled.
“Maybe I should drive!” cried Brant.
“Are you kidding! Have you seen the way you shoot! I got this!”
Teresa’s head suddenly shot in from behind. “Would one of you just drive!”
Jessie gulped, gazed ahead, and pulled at the lever. The Sandray lurched backward, banged into another wall, then ricocheted off in an angle which finally headed in the right direction. Now, however, as the craft’s powerful beams illuminated the wall ahead, a line of ugly, crouching Goliaths suddenly came into focus, there angry eyes aglow and their frames poised.
“Those things are blocking the only way out!” shouted Jessie.
The Goliaths quickly assembled into one massive bulwark and began firing their weapons. The effect of the rogue EMR arsenal would have been extreme, but Jacob, like a teenager with his first car, had modified his Sandray to the hilt. Her skin was thick and had been fitted with another of the boy’s, unauthorized, technology. One specifically designed to absorb and deflect the EMR pulse—but not for long, and not without damage. The tiny craft pitched and reeled until it seemed as though her frame would shatter, but she withstood the first assault, as the Goliath’s EMR energy swept upon her, like flashing knifes of light.
“Punch it!” cried Brant. “I’ll make a hole!” He took aim and blasted with everything the Sandray had. Pieces of Goliath’s went flying in all directions, their shattered fragments trailing smoke and fire. The hovercraft shook from the retort. Thick salt dust spilled into the air causing a blinding battery of reflected light from the craft’s powerful beams.
“I can’t see!” Jessie bellowed in a frantic squint.
“Just keep pushing ahead!” Brant barked, flipping the beams off. The fog of salt was like a thi
ck hazy soup, and for a few more seconds all they could see was dirty clouds of dust whizzing past their window. Then a sudden bump reverberated through the craft as the Sandray ripped through the last of the jagged openings and bounced over debris. Like tearing loose the blindfold, their view suddenly cleared . . . they were in the large cavern! The pathway out lay just ahead.
--
“Can you track them!” cried the captain, shaking with fury as the data returned from his Goliath AD division—all were destroyed. But how? And by whom? What could lay waste to such a destructive hive of machine and technology?
“Yes sir! I’ve got them on infrared. It’s some kind of transport alright . . . and fast, very fast!”
The young captain glared at the data pouring in on the monitor. This was not a scenario he had been trained for. Secure the HOPE perimeter. Find and eliminate all remaining defense sentinels, including the android, Three-Of-Ten. Those had been his orders. But no one had said anything about people in the underground tunnel system. Who were they and how had they come to know and work with the rogue android?
“Sir, Colonel Briggs is on the line!”
“Finally,” the captain replied, yanking the communication device from the man’s hand. The call was very short, the expression very clear. The captain clicked off the radio and stared blankly for a moment.
“Orders, sir?” came the voice from the monitoring terminal. “I still have them on tracking.”
“Very good,” he replied, his voice less forceful, his demeanor less commanding. The captain glared down at the screen, his sense of duty sparring hard into his conscience. “They’ve got to be eliminated. The android,”—he paused—“and his human allies.”
There was silence. Only the repetitive blip echoed from the tracking system’s audio as the red dot moved along the sloping glass like spilled blood. “The Apaches are already in position. When that transport breaks out into open desert, they’ll be blown to bits.”
--
“We’re nearly out!” hooted Brant, his eyes keen, his finger pointed. All were relieved, of course. But the sweet of the moment was stifled, made bitter in the consuming loss of Three-Of-Ten; especially to those younger of the group.
Jessie would not allow her emotions to distract at this crucial time. She was still very much focused on maneuvering the Sandray out of the cavern and to safety. But her heart felt like lead, and her stomach ached with guilt. And Sam? He was much worse. He hadn’t stopped crying since they broke free of the Goliath strike at workshop dome. His head lay tucked against Teresa. She instinctively reciprocated by resting her arm around him in a consoling hug.
“He saved our lives,” she mumbled, looking up to meet Brant’s worrisome eyes.
He nodded, somberly. “I know.”
She let loose a long sigh. “I just want to get as far away from this place as we possibly can.”
“We will, we will,” he assured. He turned to Jessie. “Are you holding up okay?”
She nodded, surprisingly in check; her eyes locked stoically ahead. “Turn off the exterior beams and open the tunnel exit,” she directed, gesturing toward a handle near the top of the panel. “We’re heading out.”
Brant reached and gave the extension a gentle pull. The iridescent walls with their sparkling performance of refracted light instantly died to a smothering darkness. It was a dreary contrast, and cast an equally dark sensation on the anticipation of the escape. Then, just as the void felt like it would swallow them up, a smear of glistening stars suddenly appeared from an opening ahead. A subtle burp of dust rose in the foreground. “And there it is,” said Jessie sounding wistfully relieved.
“Thank Heavens,” spoke Teresa. “I’m—” but her sentence shattered in a terrible instant. As the craft zoomed out of the opening and into the vast night air, the quiescence of the desert erupted in a barrage of exploding shells and flying bullets! The five Army Apache helicopters let loose their arsenal of Hellfire missiles and M230 30-mm chainguns.
Jacob had cleverly engineered the Sandray’s metal skin for stealth maneuverability and anti-EMR technology, but the tiny hovercraft was no match for one of the army’s most lethal weapons. The shockwave of a near hit by the first Hellfire missile impacted the craft like a puck in a Hockey game. It careened to one side and spun out of control, skipping along the surface of the smooth sands like a rock on a still pond.
Teresa screamed and grasped for Sam, her seatbelt cutting into her waste.
Jessie closed her eyes as the G-force paralyzed her movements and tore at her frame.
Brant knew in that horrible instant—knew when the air around him froze and the percussion paralyzed—that they had made a catastrophic mistake in not engaging the Sandray’s stealth protocol upon exiting the cavern, something Three-Of-Ten would never have missed. But now as his body thrashed like a wind-blown sheet, the controls became a jarring blur. He heard Jessie cry out, slow and unnatural—as when time stands still and the vision of all which life has dealt marches past like a scene on a stage—her voice a whimper, then a glaring howl, fearful and desperate: “We need stealth! Engage the stealth!” But it was too late. The Sandray spun like a top as missiles soared and bullets rained down. Several shots managed to penetrate the outer hull, just missing Jessie as they buried themselves deep into the electrical panel; deep into the craft’s relays and circuitry; into her electrical arteries and her pulsing power sources. Smoke and sparks blew out as hot fragments sprayed in all directions. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the vessel suddenly plowed into a mount of boulders jetting up from the flat terrain, crushing one side and shattering a port window as she ground to a whiplashing halt.
The Apaches wasted no time in maneuvering to pursue and kill their motionless quarry. Their powerful spotlights quickly converged, their targeting systems locked, all on the wounded craft at the base of the small rise. There would be no survivors, and only burnt ash when morning’s first light revealed this tomb.
Suddenly, a sixth Apache moved quickly in from the distance, its bright lead beam growing fast in intensity. The army warbird didn’t approach in a standard attitude, but instead increased her speed and climbed rapidly above the other five. Then, like the plunge of a falcon to the pigeon below, it suddenly attacked, releasing a torrent of weaponry upon its own. Taken by surprise, the five hovering warbirds didn’t have a chance. Their rotary motors were brilliantly targeted, as 30-mm bullets ate into their crank and gears. The five Apaches dropped into hard landings, nose down and spewing oil like blood from severed arteries. It was the most extraordinary of targeting—quick and precise. One after another, the wounded warbirds fell, impacting the desert’s sandy base—their fuselages flipping, their blades blowing into pieces and their tail-booms shattering upwards like trees snapped off in an avalanche. The pilots could not have known that compassion had guided the targeting of their choppers, and spared them from being blown from the sky with Hellfire-missile fury. Most if not all the soldiers from the five downed Apaches would survive: a far kinder ending than that which had been planned for the unidentified and helpless transport below.
The rogue Apache spared no time in a quick landing of its own, setting down just feet from the Sandray. Even before the rotors had slowed to a safe velocity, a single form bolted from the cockpit and ran amid a flurry of dust and churning sand, toward the debilitated craft. When the door—too damaged to open—didn’t respond, the pilot smashed it down with one swoop of his powerful arm and leaped inside. A heavy steel rod came swinging down out of nowhere at his head.
“Take that you Son-of-a —!” but the android moved with speeds well beyond human means, and in a fraction of an instant, had caught hold of the weapon midflight. “Three-Of-Ten!” came the shocked voice of Brant, his hands still wrapped tightly around the bar. “But it can’t be!” he cried in delight. He released his grip, and instead of trying to beat the android across the head, threw his open arms around the metal companion and hugged him.
Three-Of-Ten smile
d, then scanned the others for medical attention. Luckily, everyone was okay, just petrified.
Jessie and Sam both hooted with joy, hurrying down the aisle to hug their friend.
“How did you survive?” asked Brant, still beaming with relief. “Those Goliaths were all over you!”
Sam threw his arms around one of the android’s legs. He hugged him tight and sniffled with happiness. “Hey!” the boy said, glancing up at the tall frame now peering down at him. “You look different!” And Sam was right. Three-Of-Ten’s coloring had changed, just slightly, and all but one arm, part of a shoulder, and about half of his head, appeared perfectly unblemished and as new as a shiny penny.
“He rebuilt himself,” said Jessie, ginning with comprehension. “He had to.” She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You used one of the EMR devices in the workshop and regenerated the damaged parts. You completely rebuilt yourself, didn’t you, buddy.”
“Correct, Jessie Goodwin,” the android spoke.
“What a battle that must have been, and you survived!” Brant still could hardly believe his eyes.
Three-Of-Ten was not programmed to brag, nor to relate data unless queried. He didn’t tell them how he had been blown into near pieces by the Goliaths and left in a pile of smoldering rubbish with nothing more than part of his head, a piece of shoulder and a damaged arm. He didn’t expand on how he had crawled to an undamaged EMR system in the workshop and engaged an emergency protocol Jacob had prudently written to repair catastrophic damage to all companion droids. Nor did Three-Of-Ten deliberate on how, once fully rebuilt, he had intercepted the orders to destroy the unidentified craft. Running at near the speed of sound, Three-of-Ten had made it out to the desert and scanned for the entrance to the hidden Mole Hole Base. He arrived just in time to see the Apaches already on the rise from their underground bay—the last of the warbirds just lifting above level ground. The rest had been simple, really . . . for an android. He had easily jumped from the edge of the opening onto the rising Apache. He had ripped the cockpit door from its hinges and slid inside. The shocked pilot was quickly overwhelmed and tossed out. Then, in the cover of darkness, Three-Of-Ten cleverly followed the other five Apaches, shadowing them like a fox trailing its prey, until he could attack. So, yes. It was in fact, quite a battle.
Of Salt and Sand Page 72