by Sean Ellis
As they started forward, the crowd parted before them, clearing a path to the nearest gunship. Kiong, no doubt, fooling the frightened throng into thinking something terrible was moving through their midst. Not much of a stretch under the circumstances, but Mira was encouraged by the fact that Kiong was able grasp what was required of her. The fate of the world would depend on it. When they reached the helicopter, Mira took her hand.
“You’ve got to keep hiding us from him,” she said, speaking slowly as if by doing so, she might somehow overcome the language gap. “Can you do that?”
Kiong squeezed her hand. “Sister.”
Emotion clotted Mira’s throat, but she returned the squeeze. “That’s right. Sisters. Find somewhere to hide. Stay safe. And if this doesn’t work….” She broke off, realizing the futility of trying to explain it in words. Besides, if it didn’t work, it wouldn’t really matter what Kiong did.
She let go and pulled herself up onto the armored fuselage.
“I know it’s kind of late in the day to be asking this,” Booker said, shouting to be heard over the din. “But do you know how to fly one of those?”
Mira nodded, but the answer was more complicated. She had learned how to fly the AH-64 during her years at the Farm; it was one weapon system of many she had learned. The point of those whirlwind sessions had not been to give her a broad spectrum of skills, but rather to identify her aptitudes. Her precognition had given her a real edge behind the controls of what was considered by many pilots to be the hardest aircraft to fly, and she was counting on that to make up for her lack of experience.
She threw back the canopy and settled into the front seat, which was normally the gunner’s position, though it included a full set of controls. The helicopter rocked a little as Booker climbed up and opened the canopy to the rear seat.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Coming with you.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate the gesture, but no. Stay here. Protect Kiong.”
“Something tells me your friend can take care of herself. And I can help. Maybe I can’t fly, but I can shoot. Besides, I let you drive the Ferrari.”
“That’s not how I remember it.” Mira made her decision quickly, but it wasn’t the promise of an extra set of eyes and hands in the cockpit that weighed in Booker’s favor. Part of it was that she knew better than to try to talk him out of it—his mind was made up, and trying to convince him otherwise would have only wasted time they didn’t have. Part of it was that she didn’t want to die alone. She climbed out of her seat to make way for him. “Fine. You sit there, closer to the gun.”
He nodded and climbed in, immediately gripping the cyclic as if preparing for the start of a video game.
“Let go of that,” she said in an intentionally sharp voice. “Don’t touch anything unless I specifically give you permission, got it?”
He nodded sheepishly.
“Put on your helmet and buckle up. I’ll give you a crash course…don’t say it… in how to use the weapons systems once were up.”
She slammed the canopy down, sealing him in, then climbed into the rear seat and readied herself for flight. As she closed the armored glass hatch to her compartment, she spotted Kiong, standing motionless, her face tilted toward the helicopter as if watching them leave.
“Don’t let him see us,” she murmured, and then started the engines.
As the rotors began turning, Mira donned her helmet. It was a little too big for her head, but she would have to endure the discomfort in order to communicate with Booker. “Can you hear me?”
“Roger.”
“Okay, without touching anything, I’m going to talk you through the weapons system.” She explained how to use the integrated monocle in the helmet to aim and shoot, and how to switch between weapons systems.
“Got it,” he said, a little too quickly for her liking. “So what’s the plan?”
She gripped the controls, adding pitch to the main rotor until she felt the craft lighten. Although Kiong had cleared a path for them to reach the gunship, there were still too many people in the area for a low take-off, so she increased the throttle, spinning the main rotor faster until, with a slight wobble, the helicopter rose vertically into the air.
The disturbance did not go unnoticed. Three hundred yards away, Atlas paused and turned several of his heads in the direction of the sudden downdraft. For a moment, his blazing eyes roved back and forth, searching for the source of the blast of air.
Mira held her breath. “Please don’t let him see us,” she repeated in a barely audible voice. She pushed the stick forward, and the helicopter smoothly pulled away, still gaining altitude as it cruised above the mayhem.
Atlas seemed oblivious to their presence, but the conspicuous absence in the line of Apache gunships, must have aroused his curiosity. He began moving toward the lined up helicopters.
“Get out of there,” Mira whispered urgently, wondering if Kiong understood the danger that was headed her way.
Booker’s voice sounded in her ear. “If she goes down, we’re toast.”
“Then let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.” Mira banked the aircraft and brought it around on a heading that would approach Atlas from behind, where the turbulence of his beating wings wouldn’t be a factor, and high enough to get a clear shot at the Trinity. The creature was so massive now that the ancient artifact was merely a pinpoint of light atop its central head, partly hidden by the weird spiraling horns.
“I see it!” Booker announced, flipping the switch to activate the two-horsepower electric motor that would begin feeding rounds into the M230 cannon at a rate of ten per second as soon as he pulled the trigger.
Mira eyed the glimmering spot. “Can you hit it?”
“If he holds still.”
That didn’t seem very likely. “Do it!”
The armored airframe vibrated as the high-explosive 30-millimeter rounds burst from the barrel and arced through the sky. The first few rounds slammed into the heads and horns in an eruption of fire and gore, but none of them found the real target. Atlas whirled, raising his wings to catch the rest of the volley, and then Mira felt his many eyes seeking them out.
A premonition, in the form of irresistible panic, overcame her and she hauled the cyclic to the side, banking away from Atlas, even as flame jets lanced out like searchlights, scorching the air where they had been a millisecond before. Mira felt the interior of the gunship grow hot from the mere proximity of the dragon fire blasts. She juked back the other way, weaving to stay ahead of the next attack, but the precognitive terror was already beginning to ebb.
He didn’t see us, she realized, but he guessed where we were shooting from. “Del. He’s following the tracers. Short bursts.”
“Stick and move! Got it.”
Below, Atlas remained wary, watching the sky in every direction, wings raised and ready to block another attack. Mira could see scorching on the exterior of some of the horns, but the wounds were already closing over. One thing had gone in their favor though; the abortive attack had diverted Atlas’ attention away from the parked helicopters and Kiong.
Mira made another run at Atlas. Booker limited himself to a quick burst, and this time, Atlas’ reaction was much quicker. He filled the sky with dragon fire, and only Mira’s enhanced reflexes enabled her to dodge the thundering streams of plasma.
“This isn’t working,” Booker shouted, unnecessarily.
Tell me something I don’t know. “Change of plans,” she replied. “Aim at his feet. Switch to rockets.”
“His feet?”
“He’s not invincible. It takes time and energy for him to heal. If we can wear him down a little, keep him busy, maybe he’ll lower his guard enough for us to get a shot.”
Booker’s reply was less than enthusiastic. “You’re the boss.”
“Just stay sharp. If you have a shot, take it.” She came around again, swooping low this time, pointing the nose of the helicopter at the mons
ter’s knee. The gun roared again, and the massive limb erupted in a geyser of blood. There was a strident whoosh as a half-dozen 70-millimeter rockets shot from M261 launcher pods mounted on the stubby wings to either side of the fuselage. A moment later, the ground at Atlas’ feet was obscured by a rising column of smoke and dirt.
Mira immediately peeled off, zigzagging away from the expected blasts of dragon fire, but the counter-attack did not happen. Instead, she heard an ear-splitting shriek so loud that it made her teeth hurt. Yet, despite the discomfort, Mira felt a thrill of satisfaction. Atlas was screaming in pain. They had hurt him, and that meant they could destroy him.
As she came around for another pass, she saw the monstrosity pitch forward, collapsing into the Reflecting Pool. The shallow pool did little to cushion his fall, and the ground heaved with the impact. Mira stayed on course, passing over the titanic creature, and Booker unleashed another wave of fiery destruction. Bullets and rockets chewed into crimson flesh, filling the air with smoke and blood and scorched meat. Once again, there was no reprisal.
Booker let loose a war-whoop that was even louder than Atlas’ agonized wailing. “Let’s do that again.”
Mira nodded and came around to survey the damage. The monstrous dragon was sprawled out in the Reflecting Pool, a mountain of red flesh, its bulk spilling over the sides and covering nearly a quarter of its length. Its tail was whipping back and forth in the air as to ward off another attack. One of the voluminous bat-wings was fully extended, twitching wildly, but the other was gone, blasted to shreds by the high-explosive warheads tipping the Hydra 70 rockets Booker had fired.
Even before she was ready for another strafing run, Booker was firing again, the chain gun swiveling to point wherever the monocle sight in his helmet was aimed. The rounds exploded all along the monster’s exposed back. As Mira got lined up, more rockets burst from the pods and shot unerringly into Atlas.
“Oh, yeah!” Booker cheered. “He’s toast.”
Mira slowed the helicopter to a hover and rotated in place until the nose of the helicopter was pointing down at the creature. It was barely moving now. “The only way to kill him is to destroy the Trinity,” she warned.
“Then let’s do it. We won’t get a better chance.”
Booker wasn’t wrong. Mira tilted the stick forward until they were right above the cluster of horned heads. Mira could see the multiple eyes darting back and forth, searching for the unseen wasp that had dealt it such a lethal sting.
Did it see her?
She kept a light touch on the cyclic, ready to veer off at the first tingle of a precognitive warning, but instead of fear, her senses were telling her to push her advantage.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
She moved closer, a hundred feet above…now fifty. A glimmering light atop one of the heads marked the location of the Trinity, but in the instant she saw it, the light began to pulse brightly, emitting tendrils of radiance.
The dragon jolted in place, like someone falling in a dream, and began thrashing as the white tentacles reached out, enveloping the beast in a protective cocoon, even as they began to devour everything they encountered.
Booker fired another round of rockets, but the energy web simply absorbed them whole without so much as a puff of smoke. The corona of light lasted only a few seconds, but even before it began to recede, the silhouette within began to move, rising once more, completely restored.
And even bigger than before.
72.
Mira’s precognition started screaming in alarm. She banked away, increasing both throttle and pitch, climbing, zigzagging.
Suddenly the air was full of fire. Lances of scorching plasma cut back and forth through the air directly in front of the helicopter. Mira’s psychic senses could not show her a way out of the maze, but they enabled her to shrink away from the path of greatest danger, making split second course adjustments so fast that it was hard to keep her hands and feet on controls. The helicopter swooped and banked in a roller coaster ride that slalomed around the searching tongues of dragon fire for several seconds.
If Atlas had been able to see them, they would certainly have been destroyed with the first blast. The fact that he knew they were out there, targeting him, was going to make destroying the Trinity almost impossible.
In fact, she could think of only one way to guarantee success.
No, there’s got to be another way.
Yet she knew there wasn’t. Eventually, the military would mount some kind of coordinated response, but Atlas could heal faster than conventional weapons could hurt him and if he kept growing in response to each assault, those weapons would become little more than an irritant. She doubted that anyone would be crazy or desperate enough to try a nuke; that would probably do the trick, but at an ungodly cost.
This way would actually work, but she was the only one who could pull it off.
“How are we set for ordnance?” she called out.
There was a pause, then Booker said. “We’ve got eight Hellfire missiles. I was saving the best for last. Only seven rockets left though. The gun is empty.”
Just one Hellfire missile would turn the Trinity into slag, but only if they could get close enough to score a direct hit.
“That’s not going to cut it,” she told him.
“Well it’s all we’ve got unless you’ve got a way to reload.”
Mira sucked in a breath. No other way. “As a matter of fact, I do. I’m going to set us down. We’ll switch to another gunship.”
“That’s risky. What if he notices?”
“A chance we’ll have to take. If we don’t do this, he’s going to keep getting bigger until he’s unstoppable.”
“He’s already there,” Booker said, sounding hopeless.
“Just be ready to go as soon as I touch down. And watch the rotors. We aren’t going to have time to let them run down.”
She angled the Apache toward the waiting rank of replacements. Destruction continued to erupt all around as Atlas lashed out blindly with his dragon fire, beating the air with his fully repaired wings. A jet of blue fire sliced through two of the gunships, triggering an explosion that damaged a third and rocked their helicopter with the blast wave. Mira heard the sound of flaming shrapnel striking the armored underbelly of the Apache and saw warning lights begin flashing on the console. She wrestled the aircraft back under control and pivoted toward a clear landing zone a hundred yards from the remaining gunships.
“Get ready!” she called.
“Which one?” Booker shouted.
“You pick.” She reduced the collective pitch and let the Apache drop the last few feet. The soft grass absorbed some of the jarring impact, but it nevertheless took Booker a few moments to recover and throw open his canopy. Mira watched as he rolled cautiously over the lip of the cockpit and dropped to the ground, ducking low to avoid the whirling rotor blades overhead. Then she unstrapped her safety belt and opened her own canopy.
As she watched Booker move away, she felt a pang of regret for not giving him more explicit instructions about what to do next, but of course if she had done so earlier, he would have adamantly refused. Now, there was no way to communicate with him, to let him know what she was about to do and why.
“Take care of Kiong,” she whispered, knowing that he wouldn’t hear, but hoping he would nonetheless get the message. She crawled out onto the fuselage and slammed the forward canopy shut, then slid back inside and did the same with her own. As the cover came down, shutting out the frenetic noise and wind, she pushed Booker out of her thoughts completely and focused on what had to be done.
73.
Booker reached the nearest Apache and scrambled up onto its exterior. He was just about to open the front cockpit when he heard the sound of turbines revving behind him. Even before he turned to look, he knew what had happened.
“Damn it, Mira. Don’t be a hero!” There was no way she could have heard him, and he knew it wouldn’t have mattered if she had.
>
Mira’s gunship lifted off again and immediately headed away from Atlas as if fleeing the battle.
Booker knew better. Mira wasn’t running; she was backing off to get a running start so that she could charge straight for Atlas like a guided missile.
For a fleeting second, he considered going after her. He wasn’t trained on the Apache, but he had received some helicopter flight training, just familiarization flights and simulator time, but enough to know how the controls worked. As complex as its systems were, the Apache’s controls were the same as any other whirlybird. He might not be ready to race into battle, but he could provide a distraction and maybe pop off a few rounds from a nice, safe distance.
But it would take a few minutes to start the helicopter. This would be over, one way or another, in a matter of seconds.
Damn her.
He pushed away from the gunship and began looking for Kiong. The blind Chinese woman remained an enigma to him, but she clearly had some kind of magic power that had helped hide or shield them. If Mira was to have a snowball’s chance in Hell of surviving her crazy suicide charge, keeping Kiong alive was of paramount importance.
If Mira failed, Kiong might be the last, best hope for saving the world.
He found her in almost exactly the same spot where they had left her only a few minutes before. She was on hands and knees, looking a little dazed, probably from the nearby explosions. He knelt beside her and extended a cautious hand. She recoiled at his touch.
“It’s okay,” he soothed. Maybe she would recognize his voice, or at the very least, his tone. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll keep you safe.”
He raised his eyes, getting his first up close look at the carnage on the National Mall, and the towering crimson figure that loomed over everything, and wondered how he was going to keep that promise.
The Mall looked like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. Familiar landmarks—the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial—were still there, but scorched and cracked, not a testimony to their permanence, but a mockery of how fragile the ideals they represented truly were. Everything else was a hellscape of wreckage and charred corpses.