“Goddamn it, Laird!” he shouted.
“Sorry,” Laird said. “Come on, let’s get this thing loaded up—”
“Captain Andrews? You there, my friend?”
The sudden voice over the radio made everyone freeze in place. Laird looked up at Andrews, the question visible in his eyes, as Kelly and Choi shifted uncomfortably. Andrews felt a stab of fear run through his heart.
It was Law. And if he was broadcasting on their frequency …
“Mulligan, position of SCEV Four!” Andrews shouted, panic plain in his own voice.
“Negative contact,” Mulligan reported back, and there was an almost embarrassed quality to his voice. “Sorry, sir. We weren’t paying attention to Four’s transponder data. It’s been shut off. Recommend you get back immediately. Over.”
Laird bent over, struggling to get a grip on the support. “Come on, let’s get this thing—”
“Everybody back to the rig!” Andrews grabbed Laird’s arm and yanked him away from the support. “Now!”
“Too late, my friend,” Law whispered over the radio.
The warehouse became a living hell. From outside came the long, drawn-out ripping sound of miniguns firing, their six-barreled, electrically driven guns pumping out four thousand 7.62 millimeter projectiles per minute. The barrage ripped through the warehouse’s shell as if it were made from wet paper towels, opening up great holes through which harsh sunlight poured. The bullets continued across the warehouse, decimating ancient shipping crates and sending splintered wood and fragmented metal whirling through the air like a vicious, barbed cyclone. Steel shelving units rocked back and forth, and as Andrews ran down the aisle, he heard all manner of shrapnel strike the crates and shelves around him. Outside, he heard SCEV Five’s turbine engine begin to wail to life, and then another minigun blast exploded into being as Five opened fire on another target.
“Mulligan, SITREP!” Andrews yelled.
“Taking out their observers, Captain. No visual on Four, and I’m prepping to evac. Over.”
“We’re on our way!” Andrews followed Kelly and Laird as they turned the corner. Choi remained where he was, rifle at the ready, finger on the trigger. Another salvo of minigun fire tore through the structure from the opposite side of the warehouse, and Andrews flinched as something cracked past his head. He signaled Choi to head out, and the young Asian man did as instructed, running in a crouch for the door. Andrews turned the corner and saw the bright rectangle of light ahead of him. The SCEV’s airlock was already open, and he watched as first Kelly, then Laird, vaulted up the short stairway and into the rig’s interior. Then Choi emerged into the bright sunlight, and he skidded to a stop beside the stairway and squatted there, keeping an eye toward the SCEV’s rear. He raised his rifle and started shooting immediately.
“They’re coming up behind us!” he screamed over the radio, releasing a burst on full automatic.
“Get aboard!” Andrews shouted. Tinny clanks and clinks filled the air, and he felt projectiles hitting him with enough force to pierce his suit. A spiderweb of cracks filled one corner of his visor, and he realized Law’s rounds were passing through the warehouse and slapping into the SCEV, disintegrating when they hit the rig’s dense, armored hide. He scrambled up the stairs and launched himself through the small airlock, spinning around on the other side and reaching back for Choi. Choi bolted up the stairs and slammed into him, sending both of them reeling.
“Mulligan—go!” Andrews yelled. The SCEV lurched into motion and it sped away from the warehouse—in reverse.
***
“What are you doing?” Leona shouted from the right seat.
“They’ve already scouted us, so they know our orientation,” Mulligan said tightly. “They probably have a kill box set up ahead, where your pal the Law is sitting pretty in SCEV Four, waiting to put a missile up our ass as we come around the corner. Sit tight, Lieutenant—unless these fuckers have an Abrams squirreled away somewhere, the other rig is our biggest obstacle.”
“But he knows how to use it!” Leona said. She sat rigid in her seat, fear etched into her face, her eyes wild.
“He might know how to drive an SCEV, but he doesn’t know how to fight in an SCEV,” Mulligan said. “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he’s sitting in a fixed position, hosing the warehouse, trying to flush us out. And we’ll do what he wants, just not the way he wants us to do it.” As he kept the rig hurtling backward, Mulligan’s thick fingers danced over the center console. He raised the missile pod into firing position and brought up a targeting window on the viewport. He saw through the external cam feed broadcast to one of the displays on the instrument panel that Choi was right—there were about ten or so combatants behind them, obviously placed to add urgency to the situation and force the SCEV to expedite its departure. But they hadn’t expected the rig to come right at them, and they dove behind the corner of the warehouse as the SCEV bolted backwards.
“Lieutenant, you want to hose those guys with some minigun fire while I tend to everything else?” Mulligan asked. “I’ll pull past the warehouse and bring the nose to the right once we’re clear, so all you’ll have to do is fire. You don’t even have to kill any of them, just get them out of our way. Hooah?”
“Hooah,” Leona said, and she seemed to throw her fear into a corner as she pushed back her dark hair. She took hold of the fire control yoke on her side of the cockpit. “Guns up!”
“Stand by,” Mulligan said. He held the control column back until it almost reached the control stop, and the rig’s turbine engines bellowed with power. Then the vehicle flew past the corner of the warehouse, and he brought the column to the left while applying the brakes. The rig slewed crazily, its nose abruptly tracking to the right as a cloud of burnt rubber began to form outside. Leona pressed the firing button on the yoke, and the twin miniguns mounted on the SCEV’s nose erupted as they vomited forth a salvo of destruction. The ten or so enemy combatants there didn’t stand a chance—eight of them went down in spreading explosions of gore while the remaining two dived for the dirt and curled up in fetal positions, likely waiting for Death to tap them on the shoulder and inform them they were required elsewhere. Leona could have set up that meeting by depressing the guns just a few degrees, but she didn’t, and Mulligan wondered why. Not that it mattered to him one whit. They had bigger fish to fry, then they would leave San Jose to rot in the powerful sunlight.
“Mulligan, what’s the op?” Andrews appeared in the cockpit doorway, and he wedged himself between the seats.
“I’m going to see what I can do about SCEV Four,” Mulligan told him. “We can’t have that bat-shit crazy dude you guys say leads these morons taking us out from behind when we try to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I agree, but what are you going to do?”
“Don’t know. Let’s find out, shall we?”
“Uh—” Whatever sage advice Andrews was about to impart was cut off when Mulligan set the SCEV in motion once again, its big tires screeching on the parking lot’s cracked surface as it accelerated forward, pulling parallel to the rear of the warehouse. The surviving combatants there tried to make themselves even smaller and, for a moment, Mulligan considered running them over, but he dismissed the notion. They were combat ineffective, and the team from Harmony Base had likely taken more than its pound of flesh during the night. The SCEV barreled to the other side of the warehouse and accelerated into the parking lot on the other side. A flurry of projectiles struck the rig’s left side, and Mulligan grunted. Apparently, his opponent wasn’t quite as predictable as he’d hoped.
Looking to the left, he saw SCEV Four slam its way through the rotting hulk of two cars, sending the metal carcasses tumbling across the parking lot. The miniguns on the rig’s sloped bow were blazing away, raking SCEV Five with dozens of tungsten-cored rounds. If the SCEV had been more insubstantial—like the armored truck Law’s people had tried to use as a gunnery platform earlier—then the crew from Harmony would have been in d
eep shit. But the rig’s armor was thick and ballistically tolerant. It would take more than 7.62 millimeter to do anything but dimple its hide and mar its paint. Unfortunately, SCEV Four was also equipped with Hellfire missiles, and Mulligan wasn’t keen on sticking around to see if Law knew how to use them.
“Time to boogie,” he said, more to himself than Andrews and Leona. He kept the rig accelerating straight on, and it crashed through the fence on the other side of the parking lot and hurtled down a mostly vacant street. The rig’s Hellfires were radar-guided, so if he could get Law to follow him down the comparatively narrow city streets, then the chances of him scoring a hit would be reduced. Even millimeter-wave radar was subject to ground clutter, and despite their versatility and high-tech systems, the SCEVs hadn’t been designed for street fighting.
“Lieutenant, set the chaff dispensers to pop off automatically if we get a launch detection, and take the safeties off the root beers,” Mulligan told her. Each rig carried six pan-shaped anti-missile warheads that could be launched from the rig’s sides to intercept an incoming projectile. Essentially flying claymore mines, the AMWs—called ‘root beers’ by old timers such as Mulligan because AMW sounded a lot like A&W—would detonate in the path of an incoming missile or rocket and explode, sending a crescent of ball bearings flying into the projectile’s path. The idea was that the missile would strike the steel wall and be damaged so severely that it would be unable to hit its target.
In theory, anyway.
“Done,” Leona said.
From the rear of the SCEV, they heard something like hail hitting metal.
“Hey, we’re taking fire back here!” Laird shouted.
“It’s Four,” Andrews told him. “Everyone strap in.” He turned to Mulligan. “You planning on outrunning him?”
“Not much chance in that, sir. He’s running a lot lighter than we are, so he’s going to have the edge on us when it comes to speed and maneuverability. But I’m thinking I might have a surprise or two up my sleeve.” He nodded toward a multistory building ahead, its exterior battered and worn by war and earthquakes and the passing years. It was a fairly tall and narrow structure, one of what had once been known as pocket skyscrapers—structures that were built on small parcels of land yet provided a remarkable amount of floor space due to their height. In heavily urban environments, they’d become wildly popular in the third decade of the twenty-first century. Many of them had been the cause of numerous lawsuits, because several had proven to be death traps. Mulligan hoped he’d picked a lucky one.
“You’re going to lose him in that building?” Leona asked.
“Nope, but he’s going to lose us. Captain, can you visually confirm everyone is strapped in?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Andrews turn and look into the next compartment. “Roger that.”
“You might want to hang on, sir. If this thing has a basement, we might wind up severely fucked.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you might want to think about this again,” Andrews said.
Mulligan shook his head. “Nah.”
An alarm sounded, and something went poof from somewhere on top of the rig. Mulligan felt the pucker factor increase then, and half an instant later, a Hellfire missile ripped right over the speeding SCEV. It had passed through the radar-blinding chaff the rig had fired, and the seeker head in the missile’s nose hadn’t had the time to reacquire the vehicle when it emerged from the blinding cloud. With the target lost, the missile went into a steep climb so that it might be able to reacquire SCEV Five from a greater altitude. It never had a chance; it disappeared into a ball of flame and fury when it slammed into the pocket skyscraper. The building shook, shedding whatever layers of glass it still had, like a man brushing snow from his overcoat on a brisk winter day. A blizzard of rubbish cascaded to the street below like a filthy waterfall.
“How far behind us is that fucker?” Mulligan asked.
“A little less than two hundred meters,” Leona reported. “Do you want the radar display added to your tactical overlay?”
“I’m good, Lieutenant. Too many pretty lights in front of me gets me all distracted.” As the rig bore down on the building, Mulligan found he couldn’t hold the tension back any longer. The palm of his left hand was slick with sweat, and if not for the light stippling on the control column’s grip, it might have slipped out of his hand. He found himself pressing his back into his seat, and the harness’s shoulder straps loosened a bit before the retractors took up the slack. As the vehicle sped on, he could see the building’s lobby, empty of everything save some fallen ceiling tiles, shattered glass, an ancient reception desk, and several large empty pots that might have once held decorative saplings.
The SCEV crashed through the empty window frames, parting them like a ship’s bow cleaving through a heavy sea. The rig bounced up and down as it hurtled across the marble floor and crushed the reception desk into thousands of splinters, then it burst through the framework on the other side of the building and into the street beyond.
“Lieutenant, your vehicle!” Mulligan snapped, and he released the control column. The SCEV began to slow immediately, and Leona hurriedly grabbed the column on her side of the cockpit. The SCEV accelerated forward again as Mulligan reached for the fire control yoke. A tactical overlay sprang to life on the viewport before him, and he activated the missile pod. He rotated it one hundred eighty degrees, deselected the missile safeties, and dead-fired two Hellfires right at the building. The two projectiles leapt out of the pod, accelerating to their peak velocity of Mach 1.3 within two hundred yards of launch. Not that the speed was really required; the building wasn’t about to take evasive action, after all. Both weapons slammed into the structure within milliseconds of each other, right as SCEV Four drew near. Each missile was equipped with a blast fragmentation sleeve warhead capable of defeating reinforced concrete bunkers—in fact, the warhead had been developed specifically for that purpose. The dual explosions were nothing short of remarkable, and the concussive force of the blasts essentially gutted two of the building’s lower floors, wiping out everything from sheetrock to thick I-beams that provided core support. The building began to pancake, instantly imploding in a gigantic cloud of dust that mushroomed into the air.
“Holy shit!” Andrews remarked, watching the video from the rear surveillance camera. “I don’t believe it!”
“Me either,” Mulligan said dryly, taking a moment to crack his knuckles. “Hopefully that son of a bitch drove right into it, so it’ll be lights out for him.” He looked at Andrews, still crouching between the seats and staring at the display. There was no sign of SCEV Four. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m sure Benchley will send us back to dig it out. The guy might be a general, but he’s also a hell of a bean counter.”
Andrews snorted, then looked at Mulligan directly. “I think the general might be a little more understanding of what the real world is about, Sarmajor. After all, he’s the one who assigned you to the mission, and look what we ran into.”
“Hey, I’m just glad it wasn’t wall-to-wall boredom.” Mulligan felt suddenly uncomfortable beneath Andrews’s gaze, and he cleared his throat self-consciously.
When was the last time someone paid you a compliment? When was the last time you did something for someone else?
He shook his head and glanced at Leona. She glanced at him as well, and there was something in her eyes bordering on hero worship. Mulligan had to force himself not to groan in disgust.
“My vehicle, Lieutenant,” he said, taking the control column in his left hand. “Captain, with your permission, I think it’s time we head home.”
“Damn straight, Sergeant Major. Damn straight.”
19
Two hours later, SCEV Five was slowly climbing up the rim of the Santa Clara Valley, leaving the shattered metropolis of San Jose behind. Mulligan refused to vacate the pilot’s seat, so Andrews helped Leona out of the cockpit and asked Kelly to check her wounded leg. She had already cleaned and dressed th
e wound during the time they made their way back to the warehouse, but Andrews wanted it looked at again. The last thing they needed was for Leona’s wound to become septic while they were out in the field. He then claimed the copilot’s seat and strapped in while Kelly tended to Leona; Laird and Choi continued with decon procedures. He paid particular attention to the ground-search radar, looking for any sign of SCEV Four. There was no indication they were being pursued, which was a relief.
“How’re you hanging in, Sergeant Major?” Andrews asked as the rig bumped its way toward the remnants of Highway 130, a twisting road that cut through the foothills surrounding the valley. Blocked in places by old mudslides, the road was just barely navigable. It was also fairly flat, which made it preferable to striking out overland.
“Still operational, Captain.” Mulligan kept his eyes on the road, weaving around the occasional rotting husk of a long-abandoned motor vehicle. While he continued to handle the SCEV with impressive dexterity, Andrews was becoming worried. The sergeant major’s face was puffy from swelling, and there was dried blood in his dark hair from a small scalp laceration.
“Maybe you should kick back for a while,” he suggested. “Let Laird or Choi come forward and—”
“I’m good to go, Captain,” Mulligan said.
Then his head dipped forward, and his hand slipped off the control column. The SCEV began to slow immediately, drifting to the left and bouncing over the remains of a rock-studded earth slide. Mulligan’s head bobbed from side to side, and for a moment, Andrews thought the older man was joking, but it became apparent that he had passed out, held in place by his safety harness. Andrews seized the copilot’s column and brought the rig to a halt.
This Is the End: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (7 Book Collection) Page 65