Valkyrie Flight
They were nearly halfway there now. Valkyrie Flight cruised at six thousand feet, their performance sluggish due to how heavily laden the aircraft were. The night sky was beautiful, free from clouds and pollution so that the pilots could have a brief moment of calm, a chance to bask in the cold light of the moon before the shooting started.
Deep down, Valkyrie One knew how important this mission was, but he still couldn't help thinking that it was completely insane. Surely there had to be a more legal way to shut the factory down, didn't there?
No matter, they were nearing the tanker now.
The KC-10 was circling in a holding pattern two thousand feet above them, awaiting the attack group to drink their fill. So heavy was the weapons load for much of Valkyrie Flight that they had taken off with a bare minimum amount of fuel necessary to reach the orbiting tanker.
Valkyrie One lumbered away from the tanker, the pilot silently panicking about the stress being put on his A-10. The Warthog could do a lot, but he felt that this was pushing it. Slung underneath the ungainly aircraft's wings were five bullet-shaped two-thousand pound thermobaric bombs, possibly the most destructive non-nuclear weapon ever built. In essence, it was an imperial ton of fuel—either ethylene or propylene oxide—in a thin bomb casing with two explosive charges timed to detonate seconds after each other. When the first charge detonates, the casing opens and the fuel is released in a cloud that saturates the atmosphere around it; infiltrating everything. Then the second detonates, creating a gargantuan blast wave that levels buildings and obliterates any living thing unlucky enough to be caught in the overpressure wave. And he had five of them mere feet away from his increasingly squishy-feeling body. Oh joy.
No pressure, then.
He chuckled weakly at his lame attempt at lightening the mood, then heaved a nervous sigh.
Just thirty more agonizing minutes.
Shit.
He could hear his heartbeat as he counted the seconds and led Valkyrie flight once more into the oppressive night.
Ground Team
They were able to see the decrepit mansion now. More importantly, they were able to see the four armed guards that comprised the fireteam assigned to protect the house and its secrets. Golem was already working out the most efficient way to terminate them.
Guns would be best. Suppressed, of course.
"If you have any qualms about watching assholes die, I suggest you look away now to preserve whatever so-called innocence you have left," Golem suggested, pulling two black Desert Eagles out from the rocket-shaped crate.
"I'm fine. It's not like it's the first time," Max replied. His head was darting around as if he were looking for threats, or, Golem thought more likely, Jasper.
"What're you worried about, anyways? I'm here, and unless they have a tank, I'm unstoppable." he attacked and leapt out from the tree line.
The first man was fifty meters away, and just off to his left. In the space of two seconds, he locked on and put three rounds directly into his temple, repainting a spruce tree with pulpy brain matter. Simultaneously, he locked on to the mercenary on the far side of the clearing and dispatched him before he even saw him, a well-placed bullet impacting his mouth and punching through the base of his skull.
Next!
Bad Guy #3 attempted to run, and got a fifty-caliber dose of lead into his spine for it.
Golem tracked the bullets in slow motion as they carved through the air towards his target. He was able to visualize them bore through the ex-man's neck and obliterate his spinal cord, granting what Golem considered a merciful death.
Bad Guy #4 wasn't so lucky. He was at least loyal, or being paid a lot, as he attempted block the mansion door with his body.
Big mistake.
"On your knees, wretch," His voice echoed horribly. The man complied, shaking.
"Please, I-"
"Silence. You are accused of aiding and abetting terrorism and treasonous acts. How do you plead?" He finished, his voice venomous.
"N-Not guilty," he stammered out.
"Wrong answer." Golem put a single round directly between the man's eyes and his head virtually exploded in a shower of gore.
Neat, Golem thought as he kicked the limp body aside and busted open the door, Max sprinting up to him through the carnage.
"W-Why are you going into the house?!" Max choked out, fearful of being dragged into the dungeon by a horde of nude, lubed-up old people.
"Simple. I must see what's in there," Golem replied, as cheerfully as his combat programming allowed him. "And we're going into the house, not just me."
"WHY?!" Max shrieked as terror killed whatever slivers of hope and reason remained within the poor child. He began to dry heave as a whirlwind of fear and anxiety took over.
"Max, I have a gun, remember? If there's anything in there I'll just shoot it," Golem explained, mainly so he didn't have to deal with a panicky kid all night. Leaving Max in the woods to die was looking like a more and more attractive idea the longer he thought about it.
"Oh yeah." Max said, blushing furiously with embarrassment. 'How could I have been that fucking stupid?!' he scolded himself mentally.
Golem stepped over the threshold, weapon raised.
"Two taxidermied bears? That seems unnecessary."
"Yeah." Max sighed, defeated.
Nightingale Flight
Soon they could breathe free, the pilot of Christine thought hopefully. Until they hit the target, they were limited to the Lancer's normal top speed of 825 knots, as opposed to the fourteen hundred they could manage now. The uprated engines made his aircraft excellent at high-speed, low altitude penetration missions.
Inboard of the Lancer's engine pods, four large prototype unguided bombs lay in wait. It had been nicknamed the Louisville Slugger by the first crews that used it in action. Each olive-colored weapon was twenty-five feet long and had a distinctive bullet-shaped nosecone, and was packed with eight-thousand pounds of Composition H6 explosive. Each of the three bombers carried the same payload. There were several reasons for this.
Chiefly, these bombs were highly experimental, and there was a high probability that some of the bombs simply would not detonate. Secondly, sometimes, you really need to drive home a point.
The Mark 90 was good at that sort of thing.
And soon enough, he'd finally be able to find out if the damned things worked or not.
Ground Team
They were in what Golem had labelled Sub-Basement 2. The two had enjoyed themselves by trying to figure out what was in the jars and containers in the laboratory above, and Golem had found Max to be surprisingly knowledgeable about some of the sciences involved. He kept his gun level as they went room by room and explored the lair. It was decayed, but it looked like it was still used every once in a while. The lights flickered every so often, meaning it was still getting power from somewhere. Most disturbingly, the walls and floor were covered in what had to be blood. Ropes of sinew and intestine hung from the ceiling like nightmarish ornaments. Max recoiled in disgust as a large glob of blood and tissue landed on his shoulder, probably ruining his hoodie.
"Fucking seriously?!"
Golem kicked open a door. He signaled for Max to stay put and searched the room, weapon drawn. A thin room filled with what resembled specimen tanks in a science fiction movie. They contained the deformed corpses of numerous failed experiments of some kind. In a corner was a bloodied operating table, upon which lay the expertly vivisected remains of a child around the age of most campers on the lake. More research was necessary. One thing was certain, Washington would be informed of this.
"What could this have been for?" he wondered aloud. He motioned for Max and continued down the hall.
"So, what are you going to once this is over?" Max asked, more to try and change the oppressive atmosphere of the facility.
"Go back to base for diagnostics and upkeep, then most likely be redeployed for operations in Eastern Europe, where the fighting is. What are you going to do when you leave camp?" Max sighed and looked uncomfortable.
"Oh, come on. I've revealed state secrets to you, and you won't even tell me about your personal life?"
"That's different," Max shot back, trying to recede back under his mask of surliness and disdain.
Golem changed tactics.
"Listen, Max. If your life sucks, then it sucks. Everyone's life sucks; even my existence is meaningless. But who am I going to tell? Your friends? A bunch of boring scientists and lab assistants in Montana? We're both in the same boat here, in a way."
Max sighed again and he averted his eyes from Golem's hellish gaze.
"How could you hate your life? You're an invincible robot that goes around killing dickheads and assholes. Doesn't sound so shitty to me."
"Because I don't exist. I shouldn't exist. Both I and the government know that I am too dangerous to be kept alive. You may think that you are a mistake, but I know that I certainly was. I was never supposed to…progress in the way that I did. I am an aberration, nothing more, nothing less. I accept this reality. Yet I feel what might be regret. Maybe it is just a detached form of sorrow, but I know that somehow I feel something. I accept my fate, but I still labor over from time to time. Death is universal, the one thing that I will be able to experience that everyone else can. But perhaps, perhaps in death, I can be used to create something greater…"
Max stood in stunned silence for several seconds before he remembered what the hell they were talking about.
"It's just, fuck-" he struggled for words, trying to ignore the nauseating odor of decaying flesh. "I hate it here, you know that. But I hate it at home, too. My parents are barely there, and when they are, it's like they can't stand the fact that I exist. I always have to do everything on my own, but I've gotten used to it now. They always just pretend to care, but never actually give a damn. Sometimes, I wonder why they even had me—"
Max was interrupted by Golem kicking a door open, head darting around while he scanned the room.
"They just treat me like they'd be happier if I wasn't there, but I don't have anywhere else to go, and no one cares enough to do anything anyways…" He trailed off, drowning in his own misery, as was the norm.
"Happy now?" He snarled.
"No." Golem turned to face Max, and pulled something out of his pack.
It was a bulky, rugged-looking smartphone.
"Here. I assume you already have one, but here. In case you are ever in deep shit, or just want my advice or something. Give me your phone."
Max complied, very confused.
Golem plugged it into an adapter that deployed from his middle knuckle, and handed it back.
"If you lose the other one, you have a way to contact me. You're welcome." Max stared, bewildered by this turn of events. It was rare that he got gifts, and very rare that he got gifts from psychopathic sentient machines that he hadn't even known for four hours.
"Thanks?"
"Works for me. Now let's get out of this shithole so we can stop fucking caring, there's nothing else worth finding."
Camp Campbell
David lay awake in bed, for he was just that excited for the upcoming Camporee. Inconvenienced by this, he decided that a late-night walk would soothe him, and would also allow him to check the tents to make sure no one—or three—was not in bed.
His mood quickly turned to the worse when he saw that the entrance to Max's tent was open, and it was short one camper.
"Neil, Nikki, wake up! Do you have any idea where Max is at this time of night?" David tried his best to keep the growing panic out of his voice, but that was most likely lost on the half-asleep campers.
"No, but he said something about taking a walk. Clear his head and plot or something," Neil replied, yawning while Nikki rubbed her eyes and groaned.
Oh no. "Alright, stay here. I'll be back in a minute."
He made sure to walk until he was out of eyesight, and then sprinted full tilt back to the counselor's cabin.
Gwen will know what to do. I hope.
Ground Team
Golem set his pack down on the ridge, while Max watched curiously.
He could see Campbell Laboratories now, and was surprised he hadn't noticed it before. It was a massive, gleaming complex of mirrored glass, concrete and blinking lights. Off to the right, he could see a large group of oil tanks not unlike those of an airport.
Though rather outshined by the lab, he could make out the searchlights of the Woodscouts camp.
His blood boiled with rage. If it's the last thing I do, I will get back at them. He grinned wickedly as he thought of revenge.
Meanwhile, Golem began assembling his rifle.
It was a one-of-a-kind instrument of death. At six feet long, it needed to be carried in multiple parts and assembled in place.
The gargantuan 15.2 millimeter bullets it fired were larger than anything in the U.S. arsenal that wasn't mounted on an armored vehicle or attack helicopter.
Golem felt…right as he screwed the brick-sized muzzle brake onto the end of the yard-long barrel. Despite what he and told Max in their impromptu therapy session, he had no qualms with killing. In fact, he loved it.
More than that, he loved preparing for the kill; loved putting the weapons together and sizing up his targets. He loved checking over his prized sniper rifle to make sure everything on it was just right.
It made him happy.
It made him whole.
He pulled the scope out of the padded case and examined it carefully. It was the first time he had ever used this particular optic.
Like his rifle, it had no name, or even a designation beyond what the manufacturer had assigned it.
It was an elegant thing, really, even if it was unwieldy.
About the size of a two-liter bottle of soda, it was a massive, dull black cylinder with a rather unfinished look. Wrapping around the device were about a half-dozen multicolored wires which fed into a trio of red laser sights mounted on the side in a triangular formation. Golem assumed that the designer had intended this as a homage to the eponymous villain from Predator, as it was located extremely poorly if anyone wanted to sight a target with it. In fact, he was almost certain that no one but him could actually use it, as he was capable of performing the complex calculations necessary to get the thing on target. The scope also had three special modes that he knew of: Night Vision, Infrared, and X-Ray.
He wasn't exactly sure how that last one worked, and so assumed that it was nothing more than a joke.
With a loud snap, the pistol grip was attached and he was ready.
He set the heavy bipod into place and took aim.
"Max, grab that laser designator out of the case, I want you to scout out a few things for me."
"Why the hell would I do that?" Max asked, wisely questioning the sanity of this.
"Because whenever you ask 'Why?' I want you to think 'I could be spending this time attending Stuffed Animal Making class back at camp with David, but instead I'm kicking ass with The Thing That Should Not Be.'" he replied, referring to his preferred nickname.
Max snorted with sardonic laughter at this, and grudgingly grabbed the designator.
Now, Golem was hunting that most dangerous prey: Man.
He activated the powerful optic and began searching for an optimal target.
The night was silent save for the sounds of insects and the deep, pulsating electronic hum of the NV/IR/X scope.
There!
Six thousand yards away, he cast his terrible gaze upon a concrete observation tower.
The infrared imaging let him see through the thick tinted glass and examine the two targets inside. He lined up his shot and prepared to fire. This was how he preferred to see the world.
He pulled the trigger.
A massive cloud of dust erupted around them as the bullet screamed across the lake.
Golem watched the gruesome impact.
The guard's head simply exploded in a viscous shower of gore and brain matter, with teeth and skull fragments turning into deadly shrapnel in an instant.
His squad mate barely had time to register this course of events before Golem racked in another round and snapped to him.
He fired again.
This time the bullet hit the man in the throat, blasting open his neck and sending the now-severed head tumbling to the floor.
He switched over to the second tower.
"So Max, your parents."
"What about them?" His voice was icy.
"How would you feel if they happened to be…neutralized?"
"Are you threatening to murder my parents?"
"Oh no, of course not! I would never! But the world is such a dangerous place, you know. Why, it could be a mugging gone wrong, or a car accident. Or it could just be an unfortunate 'accident,' which are sadly so common these days, no matter where you are. Why, they could be in the middle of work, not even in the same building, and then BOOM! Wind up dead, all of a sudden. And no one would be any the wiser."
"Ummm…"
"The offer's always there."
The watchman in the second tower moved suddenly and Golem overcompensated, missing the officer's chest and blowing their arm off with a spray of blood. The shock had set in by the time the second shot blew their head open, and they were down.
Half of the second watchman's skull was removed in an instant from the next shot.
Now that Golem had repainted two rooms in a fine shade of russet, he shifted his focus to disabling the rest of the towers by shooting out cameras and communication arrays.
His rifle could easily manage.