Quake

by Andy Remic

  Carter coughed, his tongue thick in his mouth.

  The road seemed to shimmer ahead of him.

  Suddenly, agony took Carter in its fist and crushed him. The bike’s front wheel slammed against a rock with a crunch of steel and Carter, weight pitched forward from the blow against his back, felt the front suspension sag on heavy oil. The handlebars slammed to the left with a snap of metal against metal. Nausea flooded him with horror as he was flung from the KTM at eighty miles an hour and the world rushed around him in a confused blur as he tried to curl into a ball and behind him the bike screamed a high-pitched metal scream grating along the trail pissing its death sparks across the gravel...

  The ground slammed up to meet Carter.

  He hit hard, all air kicked from his body, and slid along the rough trail for what felt like a lifetime. The bike spun off to one side, twisting and groaning in metal defiance.

  Still sliding, gravel biting through his clothing, Carter wanted to scream, to reach out and halt himself, to tell himself this was just a bad dream. But a bend in the trail loomed and Carter struck a low ridge of rough sand and grass. He was catapulted up, flung tumbling into a sparse copse and rolled to a final crunching halt on dead wood, old leaves and discarded pine needles.

  Carter lay stunned, just trying to breathe.

  For a lifetime.

  Pain hammered through him.

  In the gloom under the canopy of trees the world had suddenly gone very dark. Carter, finally managing to breathe in heavy gasping gulps, saw that most of the skin had been scraped from his right arm. He groaned and tried to sit up but rocked back as pain punched him down.

  And then he was suddenly looking into copper eyes.

  The Nex stood, sub-machine gun loose in its gloved hands.

  Part of its mask was scorched and torn, the skin on half of its face beneath the eye a mess of molten flesh. It was watching Carter as it breathed smoothly, apparently undisturbed by its half-melted visage.

  With hands that - Carter noticed - did not shake, it ejected a spent magazine, which tumbled lazily to the ground. Slowly, it retrieved a fresh one and slotted it home. There was a click that seemed to last for ever.

  Carter tried to reach his Browning.

  Then realised the weapon had gone.

  ‘Mr Carter.’

  He glanced at the Nex. ‘Yeah, fucker?’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

  The Nex lifted its gun and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 14

  BRAWL

  The WIC - or World Investigation Committee - had a central headquarters in Washington DC. The building was massive, an incredible modern structure of glass, steel, alloy and stone glinting menacingly in the strong sunlight. It sat in grounds patrolled by soldiers armed with seriously heavy weaponry. Sniper towers and advanced air defences squatted at every corner. At any one time the WIC HQ was manned by elite soldiers from no less than fifteen different countries.

  At the HQ’s heart lay the Central Chambers, attended either in person or by digital personifications of world leaders. One such meeting was in progress, chaired by General Tetalyahevsky of Russia, Patron San Lee of China and Lady Emma C. Dickinson from the United Kingdom. Nearly five hundred officials from around the globe were present, and a general murmur was echoing softly around the huge vaulted stone ceilings of the Chambers. The noise died to a hush as the images of earthquakes and global chaos faded from the huge fifty-foot optical-plasma screen against one wall to be replaced by a dark, hooded figure who lifted one finger and held it up as if waiting for something of importance ...

  The murmurs increased in volume and Durell looked out from the digital screen at this gathering of the world’s most important and influential people, who had their fingers on the red buttons of nuclear doom.

  Durell smiled within the folds of his hood.

  And when he spoke, everybody present was totally focused on his soft, gentle voice.

  He had gained their attention. ‘You have seen before you the power of the quake. And you have been shown the proof that I have complete control, and can command the earth’s plates to move at will.’

  There came a hiss of alarmed voices.

  ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have a most serious proposal for you.’

  The sky was a massive expanse of blue, a huge vault soaring over the gentle curve of the world. It was scattered with trailing wisps of bedraggled cotton-wool cloud and brightness glinted off a small black alloy object that spun -and hammered past at an incredible velocity.

  A rolling sonic boom followed it and the tiny single-seat aircraft, nicknamed a Manta, banked gently, sunlight glittering along its pulled-back black alloy wings. The twin tail jets glowed white with cold matrix fire as the machine hit 1,900 k.p.h.

  ‘PDSK57 calling in, over.’

  ‘We have you, PDSK57. Over.’

  ‘I’ve found a Charlie. Sending coordinates now.’

  ‘Thank you for that, PDSK57. Out.’

  Haggis looked over at Mo and gave a thumbs-up. Mo nodded, and slowly - inching forward - the two men moved through the rainforest on their stomachs, crawling through the thick dense foliage and evergreen Chinchona, noses twitching at the heavy fragrance of the flowers.

  Twenty miles behind them sat ten TankSquads, awaiting their report and an update from the Spiral mainframes. They knew there was an LVA site there -south of San Jose del Guaviare, Colombia - but had been put on hold just as they thought they were about to see action. A wave of disappointment had swept through the ranks and Haggis and Mo had scouted ahead to gather any possible further intel.

  The two men slowly emerged on a clifftop, a jagged ridge tumbling away to a basin of dense jungle foliage.

  The sun beat down and the men - both of them large -were sweating heavily, their clothing sporting huge stinking stains.

  Mo ran a hand across his shaved bullet head, wiping off a sheen of sweat, and turned his obsidian-eyed gaze on his partner, who passed him a canteen.

  Haggis, who chain-smoked a hundred and forty a day, was quivering from nicotine withdrawal. He nodded down into the basin to where a huge section of hardwoods - mahogany, oak and lignum vitae - had been cleared and bundled with wrist-thick strands of heavily woven rope. The mammoth logs formed an outer perimeter wall. The LVA pump was working hard, and the drone of distant engines could be heard over the rich and exuberant sounds of the jungle.

  ‘I fucking hate jungle missions, said Mo, dribbling water down his triangular black beard. ‘It’s just so bloody hot! I was not built for this kind of climate ...’

  ‘Yeah, you’re a bit of a fat walrus, mate.’ Haggis grinned. ‘I’ve relayed the coordinates. Better get back or that lunatic Simmo will go bananas! Come on.’

  The two men turned, and eased themselves back into the jungle.

  From the cloaking darkness of the thick vegetation, Nex soldiers watched them leave, their copper eyes bright end emotionless.

  The wastelands of the Arctic spread out in front of Jader is he dropped the jet’s speed and heard the decelerating whiine of the engines. He spun the Manta low over the broad undulating plains of ice and could see an awesome, colossal arc of white. Ice crackled from the Manta’s wings and Jader dropped the SK even lower, skimming the snowy expanse. Below him he could glimpse the mad rash of wind-sculpted ice-towers, the diamond sparkle of stalactite-crusted chasms and a territory that was wild, vast and untameable.

  Jader grinned.

  He loved the magic of the Arctic.

  Lifting the Manta he soared up into the cloudless freezing skies. Engines howled with cold matrix pulses and he levelled the Spiral jet, which seemed to float for a while. His scanners scrolled fat green readings of data over the jet’s monitors. Jader watched them with one eye, again slowing the Manta’s speed and peering out.

  ‘There,’ he muttered.

  Hidden among a small range of ice hills, and surrounded by walls of banked white ice sat an LVA pump. It had been painted, obviously to camou
flage it against this Arctic landscape, but Jader’s sharp eyes had picked it out.

  He blipped the coordinates.

  ‘Well done, Jader. Over.’

  ‘How many we got, Control? Over.’

  ‘That’s eighty-six Charlies. You coming home? Over.’

  ‘Be home soon, Mother. You make sure my tea is ready.’ Jader grinned within his HIDSS. ‘Out.’

  As he killed the ECube-linked comm, red warnings suddenly scrolled and flashed over his monitor. ‘Shite.’ Jader jinked the controls and the engines screamed as the jet leapt forward. Something glinted beneath it, a sudden snapping flash of silver. The jet banked and Jader’s eyes went wide as a sliver of alloy spun in a wide glittering arc ahead of him and then—

  Hung. Suspended.

  Jader smashed the Manta down towards the ground and the glinting missile dived, following closely, locked on. Jader banked right and severe-turn and proximity warnings lit up on the console as he felt his guts wrenching within his suddenly fragile human shell. The missile powered past over one wing and Jader steadied the jet -then spun it in a tight curve and began to climb.

  The missile followed.

  Heading away from the LVA site, Jader licked his suddenly parched lips and the HIDSS flickered through different types of offensive weaponry, attempting a match. It could not target the missile, could not recognise the weapon - and so could not suggest the best evasive action.

  Jader urged the jet until it was clipping 2,100 k.p.h., a tiny black blur flashing low over the landscape. The missile paced it, just behind and slightly to one side. Jader felt himself go cold and dead inside. This was like no missile he had ever before encountered - or seen - even in the high-tech development cells below several Spiral HQs.

  ‘PDSK57 to Mother, I have been compromised, I repeat, I have been compromised. Sending images now ...’ The HIDSS whirred around him and relayed data on the missile. Jader dropped the jet towards the ground, eyes frantically searching—

  The ice below him rose and fell.

  And then he spotted it, a wide crevasse glittering blue and as inviting as death ... He spun the Manta in a tight circle and then down into the crevasse, reducing his speed slightly as the walls leapt up above him and he was suddenly plunged into a world of cold ice and shimmering frozen slick walls.

  The jet flew through the deep blue silent gloom.

  Engines whined, noises reverberating from the ice walls.

  Still, neither the HIDSS nor the on-board computers linked to the Spiral mainframes showed an enemy: no missile in hot pursuit, nothing. The Manta jet flittered through and beneath the ice, which flashed past at a terrifying rate to either side. Data crackled across Jader’s scanners. And then—

  The crevasse plunged under snow. An ice ceiling appeared above the jet and Jader felt himself slowing it even more, his eyes searching for the missile. Rear scanners displayed nothing - it was no longer tracking him but something told him not to believe that he had evaded his pursuer.

  It had been too—

  Too ...

  He groped for a word. And settled for ‘sentient’.

  Now, encased in ice, Jader spun through the Spiral mainframes’ inventories.

  ‘Jader? Over.’

  ‘Yeah, Mother. You find anything?’

  ‘Sorry, Jader. Unidentifiable. You’re on your own, buddy. I’ll keep you online, see if anything materialises while you—’

  ‘Fuck!’

  The jet was smashed down, wings flashing into the vertical as a fall of ice and rock invaded the space within the crevasse. Then the world opened up above. Sunlight glinted through snow and ice and Jader tentatively brought the jet to ground level and shot like a bullet from an ice gun up into the waiting infinite sky—

  The missile was hovering.

  Patient.

  It accelerated at an awesome rate and ploughed into the underbelly of the Manta like a needle piercing flesh. There was a sudden, silent microsecond of impact - of suspension—

  And then a purple explosion. Gases bloomed and curled, like flames around the edges of paper. They sucked in on themselves until they glowed, an intense inferno of melting alloy and steel merging with dripping white-hot flesh and liquid bone.

  Jader and the Manta became, for a nightmarish instant, as one.

  And then scattered in glowing arcs across the ice in a scree of twisted detritus.

  The explosion echoed across the snowy wilderness.

  Simmo sat on the HTank, elbow on his knee and chin on his fist. His expression was thunderous. His eyebrows were dark-bushed storm-clouds. His lips were razors of ruby lightning. His eyes were pools of comet-fallen mercury. And his clenched fists were the threatening knots of tropical hardwoods battered by the eternal elements.

  ‘Are you ... OK?’

  ‘Of course I’m not fucking OK!’ screamed the Sergeant, gazing down at Oz and Rogowski. The two men took a step back at Simmo’s wrath, Oz spilling his tea from his plastic pint mug, huge crooked nose wavering a little. ‘We’re here, in the fucking Colombian jungle, fucking sweating like fucking pussies, we’ve found the enemy and what do Spiral HQ fucking say? The fucking politicians are fucking working on a fucking solution and so we can’t bomb the fuck out of the bastards.

  ‘Of course I’m not fucking OK! In fact, I’m ready to ... kill.’

  His dark gaze swivelled around to where Kattenheim was seated on a felled hardwood tree - his face and upper torso a mass of battered, bruised and sliced flesh.

  Kattenheim was staring at Simmo. And then he smiled.

  Simmo felt his temper exploding, but calmed himself.

  ‘You want a cigarette?’ said Oz uncertainly.

  ‘The Sarge not smoke cigarettes.’

  ‘A drop of whisky?’ suggested Rogowski.

  ‘You boys should know by now! Sarge not drink on ops.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but I just thought...’

  ‘Yes?’

  For such a simple word, it carried a wealth of threat. Like a barbed wire maggot in an apple. Rogowski, a soldier who had been shot in the head once and in the body fourteen times, was oblivious to such verbal niceties.

  ‘... I just thought you might savour a nip, you know, after Kattenheim there wouldn’t speak despite your best efforts with the iron bar - God, I thought you were going to kill him! And then we get lifted all the way out here, spend ten hours piloting fucking tanks through jungle lanes just to find ... to find ... that we ... we are ... we are not allowed ...’

  He finally faltered.

  Simmo’s scowl could not get any blacker. He glanced again at Kattenheim, seated calmly on the log with his hands tied tightly behind his back with wire. His ankles and knees were also bound tight. Spiral were taking no chances with the Nex warrior.

  Simmo drank from his canteen, then hopped off the HTank and moved forward past the stationary bulks of other tanks to where Kattenheim sat. Simmo glanced down at him and the Nex looked up, scarred red eyes defiant, gleaming.

  ‘You want a drink, fucker?’

  ‘That would be pleasant.’ Kattenheim’s words were a little distorted by his broken jaw and cheekbone. Simmo stood, drinking, water dribbling down his chin.

  ‘Well, fuck you. Talk to us and I might allow you to drink. And eat. And maybe even sleep a little.’

  Kattenheim merely smiled, a smile that disheartened Simmo. Deep down he wanted to kill the Nex - but Spiral had instructed him to bring him back alive for trial.

  He moved back to the HTank, frustration gnawing him.

  There came a call from the jungle, and some of the TankSquad men lowered their weapons as Mo and Haggis moved into view, M24 carbines held pointing towards the ground in case of NDs.

  Mo made his report to Simmo, who nodded, face blank. Then they sent the report to Spiral and awaited further orders. Simmo sent some more scouts out, securing a wider perimeter around the tanks. As night started to fall the men began slinging hammocks between the tanks and some surrounding mahogany trunks. Simmo ha
d only once - obstinately - slept on the floor in the jungle. He’d suffered 239 ant bites, huge swellings that had left him in blood-red throbbing agony and in no fit state to piss, never mind fight in a covert jungle operation. Simmo was a big man, who hated hammocks - but in this contest with the vicious and uncompromising rainforest he had backed down after the first jab, never mind waiting for the end of the first round.

  Darkness was falling quickly.

  They kept a cold camp, no fires, and the jungle seemed to creep in on the TankSquads. The huge black outlines of the silent weapons of war became shadow-haunted structures around which the enemy could creep and hide. Trees reared all around, sometimes erupting with bursts of monkey chatter or the hiss and click of large invisible insects. Other jungle night sounds warbled around the sixty or so men, some of whom stood guard, eyes alert, and some of whom relaxed within the barricade of heavy steel and mammoth metal tracks.

  Simmo squatted next to Rogowski, Mo and Holtzhausen. They were boiling a pan of water for tea over two chemical kem-blocks, which glowed softly in a tiny ring of stones.

  ‘You want some tea?’ drawled Holtzhausen in his German burr,

  Simmo nodded, dropping a bag and spooning sugar into his mug. He held out the plastic vessel and Holtzhausen poured the boiling water in. Simmo inhaled the steam hungrily. Simmo was the sort of man whose appetite was eternal. And if you fell asleep, he wouldn’t just eat the last slice of pizza, he’d steal the entire contents of your fridge.

  ‘You like your sugar,’ said Mo, grinning. He too held a large plastic mug, larger than everybody else’s - from which he drank a whole litre of tea. His mug looked more like a paint pot.

  Simmo nodded. ‘The Sarge surprised you not piss all night, drinking so much tea.’

  ‘Hey, Sarge, what did you do with that fuck Kattenheim?’ Holtzhausen spat on the ground and continued to sharpen a sliver of wood with his broad-bladed combat knife.

  Simmo frowned. ‘What you mean? He over there.’ Simmo turned, peering through the darkness. Their little camp was lit by nothing more than kem-blocks, the occasional dull luminescence of a NightCube, and the glowing tips of a few cigarettes. Simmo squinted.