“Keep it in your pants.” Max reminded him, “We gotta clear the place first.”
“Of course, Chief. You’re not dealing with a rookie, you know.”
Max noted only a few scattered outposts of orange light. “It’s pretty dim in there. Let’s hope it gets brighter when we step inside.” All the present lighting radiated from small computer terminals beneath a handful of weapons that pointed directly upward, their stocks stuck in the racks for both storage and charging.
“It will,” Dr. Rogers assured him. “Unfortunately, those few weapons you see plugged into the active computers are the only ones charged and ready.”
“Damn, really?” Red asked.
“Yes. At some point, someone, perhaps one of the creatures, smashed the main circuit board that controls the chargers built into the weapon racks.”
“Shit,” Max muttered. “But at least there are a few up and functioning. Red, take Ms. Quinones and clear the perimeter. Dr. Rogers and I will take the aisles.”
Max stepped inside. The ambient ceiling lights came on. Clearing the aisles would take a while between searching for creatures and checking out the weapons. Some of the weapons resembled conventional rifles of futuristic design, with barrels of varying lengths and differing calibers, though only a handful appeared to use projectiles in magazines. The rest must be all electronic, right down to the ammo. Hopefully, we’ll find another cannon, fully charged.
He grabbed one of the magazine rifles and took note of its small caliber, roughly the size of a .38. It had an abnormally short barrel, a large drum magazine, and what appeared to be a motorized cylinder built in. Max examined the receiver carefully and found a button that released the magazine. Packed inside were several hundred fléchettes about four inches long. Max examined one—smooth and aerodynamic metallic finish, yet dense and heavy like depleted uranium. Nice. He locked the magazine back in and slung the weapon over his shoulder with a thick elastic cord that spooled out from the side of the muzzle and stock of the weapon.
“Can’t wait to try this,” he whispered.
Dr. Rogers pointed. “There’s a test firing area at the far end of the room.”
Max and Dr. Rogers continued their sweep of the aisles and located a few more charged weapons. “How about this?” Max lifted a weapon of a submachine gun size that had no barrel but rather something akin to a ribbed porcelain insulator protruding dead center from a concave disk. “Looks almost like one of those old-school portable sound surveillance devices.”
“It emits sound, though I’m not sure at what frequency. It might be highly effective against them.”
“Try it then. It looks dainty enough for you to wield.”
“Wiseass,” she muttered but returned his smile.
She grabbed it from the rack, and they moved on. They wouldn’t be able to take all the operational weapons with them, but they could certainly test a few before choosing what they wanted. Ten lightning cannons lay racked up in the final row, most of them on very low charge. Max grabbed one before moving on.
They met up with Red at the rear of the room before the mouth of a twenty-foot-diameter tunnel built into the wall. Red and Max shined lights inside the ballistics tunnel, spotting no creatures secreted within. However, the tunnel continued past the effective range of their flashlights.
Red jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s an open vault with some ordnance along that wall. Found mines of some sort, some ammo cans too. I left them over there for now.” He pointed to the cannon. “Did you pick that up for me?”
Max grinned. “All yours. If you can handle it.”
Red snorted in mock derision. “Need you even ask?” He took the cannon, checked the power on the computer screen, and admired the weapon. “Un-fucking-real. It’s like an ACME-brand disintegrator!”
Max grunted, almost a chuckle. “Too bad we’re not here to kill Roadrunners.”
“How about a test shot?” Red sounded like a kid with a new BB gun.
Max shook his head. “We already know what it does, and we have to conserve battery life. I’m guessing that cannon has about a minute of power tops, probably not even that. Let’s try out these other two.”
Dr. Rogers stepped up to the tunnel mouth with the sonic weapon, powered it on, and pulled the trigger. An orange light on the receiver illuminated while the trigger was depressed. She expended no great physical effort keeping the weapon on target. It appeared to do nothing, however, emitting neither sound nor light.
“Well, that looks weak,” Red commented when she was through.
“Looks mean nothing in this case,” Dr. Rogers informed him. “This is a sonic disruptor, low frequency I believe, judging from the faint vibrations I felt. It shatters cell membranes with a bass vibration so low the human ear can’t hear it.”
“Makes sense, actually.” Max considered the disquieting bass vibrations produced by massive subwoofers, one of the most unnerving sounds he could recall.
As Max readied the fléchette rifle, Red asked, “Gonna pop some squirrels with that, Chief?”
“Nah, but I could if I wanted to.” He dropped the drum magazine and passed one of the fléchettes to Red.
“Suits your prickly personality.”
Max slapped the magazine in, the cylinder spun automatically. So similar to a chain gun. Red and Dr. Rogers assisted him in figuring out the rifle. They took several minutes loading the weapon and then deciphering the alien computer prompts before Max finally stood to test the weapon.
The rifle barely kicked at all, like shooting an airsoft gun. A barely audible chattering sound and a tiny blue muzzle flash accompanied each shot. Sharp firecracker reports echoed back down the ballistics tunnel when the darts hit the far wall and, to Max’s astonishment, exploded.
He admired the aliens’ innovation. The darts would sink deep into any creature before exploding, likely doing ten times the damage of normal bullets. The rifle’s loaded weight proved to be its only drawback, as the drum magazine weighed around twenty pounds. Still, Max felt confident he could wield it effectively in the thick of combat.
Red commented, “Be nice to have some targets down there.”
Max turned and saw a dead computer kiosk about fifty feet away. He motioned Ms. Quinones to one side and opened fire on it. The fléchettes punched through the computer cabinet and blew the machine apart from the inside out. The screen shattered into tiny faux diamonds, and tendrils of oily black smoke leaked from the holes in the cabinet. Noxious fumes from smoldering plastic filled the air.
“Hardcore enough for you?” Max asked.
Red nodded. “I feel the momentum shifting in our favor.”
Max silently agreed, reminding himself likewise not to get carried away. Going into battle with an unfamiliar weapon was ever a tricky and perilous proposition. “You see any ammo for this in the vault you found?”
“Don’t know, didn’t open any crates. Let’s check it out.”
The vault door, about a foot thick, stood wide open. A jumble of metal crates and canisters lay strewn across the floor. A box half-full of circular objects the size of hockey pucks sat open on a metal table. Each disk had a dial recessed into its surface. The two symbols below the dial corresponded to a dead indicator light. Max guessed the small black window above the dial was a blank digital readout. He noticed several tiny holes spaced at intervals around the circumference. Another hole on the other side of the disk housed what appeared to be a black button.
“What’s your take on these?” Max asked. “Other than mines of some kind.”
Red let out a breath. “The dial is likely a timer mechanism. Maybe it can operate via sensor as well—maybe that’s what the holes are. Hard to say.”
Max nodded. “Let’s take some out and play.” He gave the order with much reluctance. Did you come all this way just to blow yourself up?
“I’ll come with you. I have an idea,” Dr. Rogers said.
“Fine. You stay here,” he instructed Ms. Quinones.
<
br /> “I pray for you,” Ms. Quinones said as they headed back to the tunnel. She ogled Max once again with her wanton cougar’s eye.
You’d better. Without us, you’re beast food.
They brought two mines with them. Dr. Rogers held out her hand, and Max placed one in her palm. Dr. Rogers pointed out one of the markings on the mine. “Okay, the symbol here is identical to ones I’ve seen on other alien weapons. It designates the operation time remaining concomitant to the power supply.”
“And the other symbol?” Max asked.
“No idea.”
“And what’s up with that button on the back?” Red asked.
“Bet you it arms the mine,” Max said. “Only one way to find out.”
“I’ll do it, Chief.”
Max nodded. Red said it with no reluctance whatsoever. He was a weapons expert, and it was part of his job. He stepped into the tunnel. Dr. Rogers and Max took up positions to either side of the bore, safe from the anticipated explosion.
After a few seconds in the tunnel, Red announced, “It’s not a button at all. It’s a magnetic sensor that pops loose from the mine when depressed. The arming button is on the other side of the sensor.” Max heard the soft metallic clank of a magnet grabbing metal. “Yeah, I get it now. Be right with you.” Red’s footsteps walked down the tunnel, followed by the same clank of magnet on metal.
“Okay, here goes nothing!” Red shouted. A click indicated it was armed, then Red’s footsteps pounded as he came running from the tunnel.
Max asked, “What have you accomplished exactly?”
“The mine is attached to the floor about a hundred feet down. I placed the sensor on the wall twenty feet inside and pushed the button, which I’m thinking arms the sensor after a period of time has passed, probably just a few seconds if the aliens knew what they were doing. Now we just need to trip it. Can you spare a few needles from your rifle?”
Max popped out the drum magazine and offered it to Red, who pulled out a handful of fléchettes to toss down the tunnel. Max and Dr. Rogers took up positions with their backs flat against the wall next to the tunnel, fingers in their ears.
Red flattened against the other side. “Hope these mines aren’t nuclear.” He cast the darts into the tunnel.
The explosion shook the deck. A horizontal column of white-and-blue flame shot from the tunnel into a rack of dead weapons thirty feet away. The non-metal parts of the various guns began to smolder, black polymer grips and stocks melting down to puddle on the floor.
Red nodded in satisfaction. “I think I’ll replace my Claymores with a few of these high-tech alien models.”
“Me too,” Max concurred. “It appears we’ve found a better mousetrap.”
“We should learn how to use the timer function as well,” Dr. Rogers suggested.
That proved easy. The timer activated when the user pressed down on the dial and turned it clockwise. The digital readout came alive with unintelligible alien numbers, so Red spun the dial until the number changed thirty times. He released pressure on the timer dial, and the time indicator light illuminated. The numbers started counting down. Red threw the mine far into the tunnel. They braced for the explosion as before. Max counted down with his watch. The mine exploded twenty-seven seconds later, the flames again shooting from the tunnel to fry the rack of weapons. The barrel on one of the lightning cannons drooped over like a wilted flower.
“That answers that,” Max said after the echo died down.
Red grinned. “Ah, I love incendiaries.”
Back at the vault, Max found three crates of fléchettes along with a second drum magazine, which he loaded. Twenty pounds of explosive darts—God only knew how many individually. He hoped the weapon retained enough charge to be able to utilize all of them. Max pondered leaving his HK416 behind to lighten his load, but after a few seconds of hard deliberation decided against it. The 416 was low on ammo and not particularly effective against the creatures, but he knew the rifle intimately, and he needed a reliable backup weapon. He inserted his last remaining hundred-round drum and released the charging handle on the weapon.
Red dumped his UMP40 and its ammo but refused to part with his machine gun. Max didn’t approve of his decision—two bulky weapons would slow him considerably—but he let it slide. Nobody knew Red’s limitations as well as Red. If he thought he could hump the two heavy weapons, he was welcome to try.
The mines at least were tiny. Max, Red, and Dr. Rogers took five each.
Max thought he was finished arming for the journey ahead; then he remembered the half-dozen M576 grapeshot rounds he’d brought along for the custom-built 40mm grenade launcher he carried on his back. He’d been introduced to the round while he was doing black ops missions for the CIA. He’d never used such grenades before then and didn’t remember them being in the arsenal during his time in the corps. Designed specifically for close-quarters combat, they would likely prove useful in the close confines of the ship. The grenades dated from the Vietnam Era and had been slated for destruction. Max didn’t consider their age a big deal—he’d trained with ordnance produced as far back as the Korean War and had never noticed a preponderance of duds in the older munitions. He ejected the high explosive rounds from the launcher and replaced them with the grapeshot grenades.
Contrary to Red’s earlier statement, Max didn’t think the momentum of battle had shifted to their favor—that remained to be seen—but morale was high, their attitude confident. Drop a man in a war zone with inferior gear and he’ll defeat himself long before the enemy kills him. They’d suffered through that scenario since boarding the ship. That’s over. We’re good to go now, as strapped as we’re likely to get. But is it enough?
The creatures would decide that.
LT peered up the flight of stairs and attempted to calculate whether he had energy enough for the climb. He ran equations in his head as he often did, but he faced a lot of unknowns, the first being how far they would have to climb. The stairs ran thirty feet before turning to switch back. How many flights? How much does Sugar weigh? How much of him am I supporting? LT and Ball supported Sugar between them.
Gable watched their backs. “You gotta be shittin’ me,” he grumbled when he saw the stairs.
“You got a better idea?”
Gable spat a stream of tobacco juice on the floor. “There’s gotta be other elevators, you know. We’re dead if we get jumped by a creature in this stairwell.”
“But the elevators are safe, right?” LT snorted. “Just keep your eyes open and watch our ass.”
“Lots to watch back there. I’m seeing things, but I know I’m not seeing things, you know?”
“Not really.”
“I know,” Sugar rasped. “Need some water...before we climb.”
“Anything you need, buddy.” Gable poured water from his canteen down Sugar’s throat.
Sugar took four massive gulps and gagged on the fifth, resulting in a coughing fit that ended in a bout of chilled shivering. He could barely stand on his own, too weak to walk unassisted. Feverish, dehydrated, he didn’t bleed long, but he bled long enough. LT consulted his watch: 06:42. The Greytech detail should be here any time now. Maybe they’re here already.
LT and his men might have been outside already if not for the last elevator slamming shut in their faces. He couldn’t stop thinking about some puppeteer behind the scenes, pulling their strings by manipulating the ship’s functions. Things happened for a reason. He didn’t believe the ship acted on its own, no matter what the esteemed Dr. Rogers claimed.
After a final moment of mental preparation, LT hoisted Sugar to the first step. He’d felt two faint rumblings about an hour earlier that might have been anything: earth tremors, explosions caused by a creature or perhaps something Max had done. Though he had no way of knowing, LT sensed Max still lived. He could only wonder what Dr. Rogers had him chasing now. She has her own motives. He should have seen that.
LT nodded to Ball. They got Sugar moving and started the
climb. Sugar didn’t take it well. A half-dozen steps up and he was winded. His intact left arm draped over LT’s shoulders, forcing him to bear the brunt of his weight. Ball did what he could on the right side, but the severed arm kept slipping off his shoulder, causing Sugar to groan in pain.
It took twenty minutes to climb five flights of stairs. LT saw an opening at the top of the sixth flight and hoped to see signs up there pointing the way to the exit. The stairs kept winding upward, but he didn’t think Sugar could handle another six flights.
LT and Ball urged Sugar onto the last flight of stairs.
Halfway up Gable muttered, “Shit!”
“What’s going on back there?” LT asked, unconsciously trying to drag Sugar up the stairs faster.
“What the fuck do you think?” Gable responded.
A clanking sound came from the rear: a hard object bouncing down the stairwell and caroming off walls. Gable’s tossed grenade exploded five seconds later. A blast furnace wind shot up the stairwell, but the switchbacks eliminated the concussive effects. Another grenade went bouncing down the steps. Sugar started climbing faster, using what little gas he had left to get them up the steps. He’d picked up the pace for their sake, not his own.
The second grenade detonated; a piercing screech echoed up the stairs and bored into LT’s ears. Sugar was heavy but getting him the fuck away from whatever it was down below was a priority. Using what little strength he had left, he and Ball had Sugar moving at top speed now, already halfway up the flight of stairs.
Gable shouted, “Keep moving; I got this!”
He didn’t need to say it twice. Sugar unleashed a groan of agony when they reached the landing a few seconds later. LT peered out the exit into a three-way intersection. Straight ahead and to the left ran long corridors lined with the typical closed doors. There! He saw another intersection fifty feet down the right hallway. Another kiosk directory stood at the junction.
“Hang on, Sugar,” LT urged. “We’re getting there.”
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