War Weapons

by Craig Sargent

  “Good,” Stone said enthusiastically. “Then we’re in this until the fat lady sings. All right, then—we gotta get things going. First, I can’t even remember all of your names. So tell me who you are, and what—if any—special training of weapons you know about.” Stone looked at the man on the far right side of the ragged line who looked around, down, at the men next to him, back at Stone, back down at the ground, up at Stone, and then asked, “Me?”

  “Yeah, pal,” Stone said with a grimace. “You.”

  “Oh, well, I’m Nathan Farber, come from Greenwood, other side of the state. Far as any trainin’—well, I’s good as a mother with a knife. Can skin a deer—or a man’s throat.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said. “Next.”

  “Ross Phillips,” the man said, “from Brandon. Don’t know a hell of a lot about weapons,” the man said, “but good with a truck, drove one for this guy. Can shift gears, everything.”

  “Gary—Gary Zzychinski,” the next said, “from Greeley. Done a lot of hunting. Used .22 and 30–30. These here M16s suck, but get me something good and I’ll knock a squirrel out of a fucking tree—or just take his balls off if you want.” Stone grinned and moved his attention to the next man.

  “Trevor Simpson, sir,” the guy barked out, keeping his back straight, looking more like a soldier than the others. “From Rangely, sir. Knowledge of explosives. Used to help set them for a mining operation—before things got bad. Know nitro, fuses, timers, you name it. Show it to me—I’ll blow it up for you.” The man seemed a little older than the others—more intelligent.

  “Excellent,” Stone said, slapping the man on the shoulder and making a mental note to keep this guy on tap. His services were undoubtedly going to be needed soon. So it went along the line, coming finally to the last guy there, Bull. Stone could feel himself tense up as their eyes met. He knew the bastard hated his fucking guts.

  “You know me,” the man said. He was a good four inches taller than Stone and probably fifty to sixty pounds heavier. But though he scared the others, Stone had already knocked him down. The guy hadn’t forgotten.

  “Hope there’s no hard feelings,” Stone said, holding out his hand.

  “Nah,” the man said, taking the offered hand. “Bygones are bygones—got to take care of business. I ain’t no idiot, much as I might sound like one.” For some reason Stone’s hackles went up at the words. They sounded out of character for the man, revealing more self-analysis or awareness of his outward appearance than Stone would have thought him to have.

  “And believe it or not, I know something about communications equipment. They had already started training me to be a corps signalman, carrying radio pack and all. So if we can dig up any, then you got yourself a comm man.”

  “Good, Bull,” Stone said. “I’m glad to see that you’re man enough to be beyond all that bullshit.” He knew the son of a bitch was lying. And he knew Bull knew he knew…. But they smiled at each other like account execs at a cocktail party. Typical communications between members of the human species.

  “All right, then,” Stone said, slapping his hands together as if they were really getting somewhere. Then he remembered that his father had often done mat and instantly stopped, sort of holding the hands out in midair, not quite knowing what to do with them. “The first thing we’ll do is just what Bull said—dig up something. Let’s spread out and scout up what gear we can. Look for big stuff, mobile artillery, armored vehicles. Even if it looks fucked up, make note. Then we can check it all out. Try to find automatic weapons. I know there were some Steyr 5.56-mm assault rifles, that the general had just received—crates of them. We’re going to need heavy-duty firepower, so forget anything small. Grenades, grenade launchers, hand-held rockets would all be useful. Break up into groups of two-we’ll meet back here in half an hour. And keep your fucking eyes open, ’cause there’s assholes shooting at anything that moves out there.”

  They broke up and headed off, Stone taking the dog and one of the other men, Bo, who he had been friendly with in boot camp and who, though not terribly smart, seemed trustworthy. And Stone was going to need someone he could trust. Because he didn’t even know for sure if these sons of bitches were going to come back with weapons to help him —or to kill him.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  TWO HOURS later Stone stood in the center of a pile of equipment that the men had dragged, pulled, or wheeled back. He had the raw recruits arm themselves with the 5.56-mm assault rifles, which were in perfect condition and fresh out of the crates—with enough ammo to give each man twenty thirty-round magazines. There was also a box of grenades, a flamethrower, and various assorted other items that he had them load up with. Most of the vehicles he was unhappy to find had either already been knocked out in the barrage of the fort or stolen by the enemy forces and taken back to their squalid little hideouts in the mountains where the half-tracks, the jeeps, the tanks would more than likely be the centerpieces of the whole rotten show and would just stand there and rust for the next fifty years.

  But it was the scouting report that interested him most. One of the teams had gone to the northern perimeter of the smoking fortress to search for supplies and had heard some heavy machinery rumbling around. They had gone outside and seen three tanks manned by Guardians of Hell just sort of wheeling around back and forth on a large, open field. “Like they was playing bumper cars or something,” the man, Bannister, reported.

  Stone looked them all over, now that they were cleaned up a little and armed. They still looked like shit—and their first blood battle was about to come up. He had hoped to have a little time to work with them on the way north as they tried to track down Patton. But as usual fate wasn’t about to hand out any Get Out of Jail Free cards. He glanced over at the two jeeps and one transport truck that the men had scrounged up. At first he had been glad to have them—any vehicle was welcome—but now that there was the chance to get working tanks … For Stone knew the power of the supermodern Bradley Ills, with their 120-mm cannon and mini-missile systems, their laser sights. If they could get their hands on a few of them, it might make all the difference. Especially since the general was bound to have a whole shitload of the war wagons stashed somewhere else. Shit, the whole thing seemed impossible every time he thought about it. So he didn’t think about it.

  “We gotta get those tanks,” he said as they kneeled in a circle every man loaded to the hilt with firepower. “And I think I know how.” Slowly and carefully, enunciating every word so they understood just what he had in mind, Stone told them his plan, and though they stared back a little wild-eyed at him, no one objected. Or had the guts to say that they did.

  An hour later Stone crawled through some bushes at the top of a rise and took out his binoculars. There certainly wasn’t any problem finding them—the bikers were making enough noise to wake the dead in the next county. There were about thirty of the Guardians of Hell in their usual black leather jackets loaded down with chains. They lay on the slope about two hundred feet below Stone as they chugged bottles of liquor and laughed uproariously at the goings-on in front of them. Stone had never seen tanks playing chicken before, but these guys, Stone had to admit, as slimy and murderous as they were, knew how to have fun.

  On a long, cleared field, two of the Bradley Ills were revving up at opposite ends. The third tank by the side was loaded down with Guardians draped all over the thing in various states of drunken bliss. The parked tank shot its cannon, the barrel aimed at the center of the fortress, and the entire Bradley shook violently as the shell exploded out. It was apparently the starting signal for the fun and games, for the two tanks shifted into gear and, with a loud roar of engines not being worked quite right, came tearing toward each other. There was about a hundred yards separating the two, which gave them enough time to accelerate as they drove forward. Stone watched, fascinated, at the same time with a sick feeling in his stomach, since if they damaged the battle machines, his whole plan was going to be ni
pped in the bud.

  The two thundering vehicles sending up a cloud of dust behind them came charging toward each other like two rogue elephants ready to do battle over territorial rights. They both seemed to be trying to go faster, but it was clear by the constant grinding sounds coming from the tanks that they didn’t quite know how to operate them. The tanks came right up on each other, neither one veering off. If this was chicken, neither of the bikers inside wanted to be the one to cluck. The Bradleys smashed into each other with a crunching sound, and both were instantly enveloped in a cloud of dust. When it had cleared, Stone could see that the one coming from his right had caught the other just at the front corner and spun it around nearly 180 degrees. Both cannons still seemed to be functioning. But it couldn’t go on—a few more crashes and the things would be valueless. It was now or never.

  Stone wriggled backward a few yards and flipped over onto his back. He waved his hand up and down, and a hundred yards or so down the other side of the slope, Ross, the youngest, and hopefully the fastest, of his attack force, saw the “go” sign and sprinted off as fast as his legs could carry him. Stone got to his feet and tore ass down the hill and over to where the action was about to take place. But first the trap had to be set and the prey lured into it.

  Ross, stripped down to T-shirt, cotton khakis, and sneakers, ran up to what had once been one of the side entrances to the fort, now a collapsed row of fencing and barricades. He jumped up on top of a bomb-created mound a good eight feet high with a bloody foot sticking out of the bottom of it and, making sure he was in clear sight of the tanks and the bikers, cupped his hands over his mouth.

  “Hey, assholes,” Ross yelled out, enjoying this even though his heart was threatening to pound right through his chest. “Hey, assholes, hey, assholes…” He had to yell it five times before they really heard him. Then there was an instantaneous silence as every biker fell quiet, their bottles dangling in their hands; even the three tanks shut their engines off so they could hear what all the commotion was about.

  “What was that you said, twerp?” the nearest Guardian of Hell, only about fifty yards away from the teenage soldier, yelled back, wiping his hand across his mouth in disbelief.

  “You heard me,” Ross screamed back again, so scared now that he suddenly got afraid he might lose control of his bladder. He had never had fifty ugly, scarred faces staring at him with nothing but death in their eyes. But there was no turning back now—that was for damned sure. “I said, hey, assholes. That is the proper way to address you, isn’t it?” Ross felt satisfied with that statement. It had a certain ring to it.

  “Kid, I killed so many of your fucking guys today”—the biker laughed out with a hoarse cough as he gulped down a huge draft of the rotgut whiskey he was drinking—”that I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and let you live. That is, if you turn around right now and run as fast as your fucking legs can carry you.”

  “Now why would I want to run from a syphilitic pansy like you and all your other ugly pig friends?” the teen yelled back. If Ross had been searching for the right words to get things going—create a little emotional fire, as it were—he succeeded beyond his wildest expectations, as to a man the bikers leapt to their feet and ripped out pistols and rifles of every size and caliber. Ross didn’t wait to see the next act but turned and ran, as their hands were still fumbling wildly for their weapons. He tore ass straight back into the fortress, leaping madly over burning debris, stiffening corpses in their own little private pools of blood. A fusillade of slugs slammed into the mound where he had been standing, sending little puffs of dirt into the air. The entire bunch of bikers started toward the little worm who had dared insult them, but stopped after a few yards of huffing and puffing as the tanks roared back into life and all three of them lurched forward, treads spinning like they were trying to get airborne. The bikers were big, most of them going two-fifty, three hundred, and more. So they came to stumbling stops as the Bradleys tore past them, out for blood.

  Ross ran for his life past what had been the open training field. The battle machines were moving a little faster than he had thought and were already at the side gate, while he was only halfway across. One of the huge 120-mm cannons suddenly roared, and he flinched involuntarily, wincing and waiting for the explosive sledgehammer to descend on his head. But though the Guardians driving the tank had figured how to fire the thing, they still hadn’t quite mastered the aiming of it. The shell took off straight over the ruins of Patton’s fortress and didn’t come down for five miles, where it took out about ten square feet of desert in a funnel of dust and smashed rock. The shot, if anything, slammed a whole quart of adrenaline into Ross’s legs, and he surged ahead like a sprinter in the hundred-yard dash at the Olympics.

  The tanks came right over the fence, crushing it beneath their treads, grinding it up and sending it out behind them like something ready for the scrap heap. They rode over the debris and the bodies, following in Ross’s footsteps as they headed deeper into the remains of Fort Bradley.

  Ross reached the first of the barracks that were still standing and relaxed for the first time in the last five minutes. He tore between the two buildings, one of them partially collapsed, the other burned out inside but with walls and roof still intact. He slowed slightly to make sure they didn’t lose him, but as he saw the cloud of dust coming right down the main thoroughfare, he tore ass again. The three tanks came up to the barracks and surged forward, searching for the little bastard who was about to die. The long cannon of each Bradley swiveled up and down and from side to side as those inside tried frantically to sight up the little cocksucker who was now only about fifty yards ahead.

  Suddenly, from the rooftops of the buildings on each side of them, men jumped down and onto the speeding tanks. Two on the first; three on the second; three, including Stone, on the third. They grabbed for dear life onto whatever handholds they could find as the big war wagons lurched and shook like Brahma bulls beneath them. Stone grabbed hold of the hatchway and pulled hard. Thank God the bastards wouldn’t even think of sealing themselves off—the one thing he had been praying for. Why should they? Who the hell was about to attack a tank?

  Stone lifted the armored steel cover as Bo, hanging on just feet away at the other side of the opening, heaved a grenade inside. Ahead, the attack team did the same in each of the tanks. Stone ducked down and covered his head with the side of his arm as a loud pop came from inside and a rush of acrid smoke exploded from the top as if from a chimney. The smell made Stone gag for a second, and he turned his head to avoid a full whiff of the nausea gas. He pulled out his Luger .44 and held it in his right hand, the left clenched tightly around a handle built into the top of the battle machine. The tank suddenly seemed to slow dramatically and then spun to the right, where it crashed into the side of a small shed, leveled the structure, and came to a shuddering halt. Stone saw one of his team fall beneath the treads of the tank just ahead of them, but his eyes shot back to the hatchway next to him from which a greasy-haired head was emerging.

  The Guardian came out firing, his finger squeezing down on a sawed-off 12-gauge pump. He got one blast off, which shot straight up toward the clouds before Stone’s Redhawk spoke. The slug tore into the biker’s throat like a guillotine, slicing through the larynx, the jugular. A sheet of red sprayed out over the top of the dark green metal, and the biker seemed to rise up from the opening, as if being launched from it, and rolled down over the side onto the ground. Another head emerged, this one trying to get his .38 into firing position. But as the pistol rose up, sighting for Stone’s chest, Bo, still dangling from the opposite side of the tank, slammed the muzzle of his army-issue .45 right up against the slime’s skull and pulled. For Stone, who was staring directly into the biker’s boil-pocked face, it appeared to disintegrate suddenly—the nose, the lips, all melting like a plastic doll on fire. Then the face actually shot toward him, as if being sent special delivery, and Stone had to duck to avoid the bloody cargo.

 
; The body somehow climbed another step or two on twitching legs and seemed almost to dive over the edge of the Bradley, as if trying out for the school swimming team. Stone waited for a second to see if anyone else was surfacing, and seeing nothing, he started down into the machine. He was but halfway down the ladder when he heard a click and looked down to see a Guardian pointing a pistol straight up at him. Stone squeezed himself against the rungs as the biker fired and the slug tore so close to Stone’s back that he could feel the heat of it go by. There wasn’t room or time for him to fire, so he slipped both hands around the steel ladder and slid right down the thing.

  His heavy boot slammed into the biker’s skull just as the oversize killer was getting ready for squeeze number two on his Luger. But the boot, coming down with the very edge of the steel-plated heel into the top of the slime’s head, dug into the skull, cracking right through it so that a bloody line appeared across the whole top of the scalp. Stone lifted the leg and brought it down again. This time the skull completely split open, the hair-covered bone cracking apart like a badly broken egg. Brain tissue and blood and God knew what else was stored up in a man’s head all exploded out, covering Stone’s boots and the innards of the tank with a piece of his mind.

  The biker dropped to the floor of the war machine where he lay jerking, his pistol still in his right hand, the finger still trembling as it pulsed with the last command the brain had ever sent out—to fire. Stone, knowing the man was no longer a threat, scanned the inside of the tank, but that was it. This one, at least, was deloused, and still functioning. He kicked the quivering corpse out of the way and slid into the driver’s seat. All the systems were still on, and as far as Stone could see, everything was working. The entire system was computer-controlled, and constant readouts of the readiness of the Bradley’s component systems were being scrolled on a computer screen just over the front control panel.