"As the concrete of the foundation started to set, they realized they lost a good friend today. But under the tyranny of the Irken Empire, the fact that it is still standing is pure defiance of what they represent. We survivors know they'll return, but this time, we'll be ready. We'll keep going until the foundation is built into a beacon of new found hope." - Major Tuvia, Prokofiev Delta, Team 1 Commander
Chapter Thirteen
Forest near Target Location
Sandhurst
Dib's HUD lit up like a Christmas tree.
No, it better resembled the lights of Times Square, New York, with enough color and flash to make him blink hard and imagine an elaborate advertisement- WWIII sponsored by your favorite cola or sports shoe.
He looked again and realized he didn't fully comprehend what the computer was showing him. A data bar below indicated the obvious:
Target acquired.
Guidance system nominal.
"Do you with to neutralize the target?"
Okay, he got it now. His race to this part of the forest had stolen his breath and blurred his vision. Data overload wasn't uncommon. As he gained back control of his breathing, the computer's voice purred in his ear, repeating the question, and with a sudden rush and shiver his senses connected with his brain and he saw it all:
The trees ahead-
The pair of Irkens beginning to fire on the four Russians, two Spetsnaz troops, two Prokofiev Delta Spec Ops, who'd spread out along a slight depression- And the wire frame targeting vector superimposed over it all that fed him the round's projected trajectory, replete with scrolling numbers that marked precise angles and distances.
Old schoolers argued that this was more information than Dib ever needed, but it was impressive nonetheless. The real and virtual worlds had blended into a battlefield of mathematical relationships and ever fluctuating calculations based on thousands of variables.
He took the shot.
The round that exploded from his rifles XM239 underslung grenade launcher was an advanced prototype of a Less Than Lethal (LTL) weapon developed by the NSA and engineers at Third Echelon. Based upon the old "sticky shocker" that rendered targets unconscious via an electrical impulse, the new LTL Track-Shock was a homing dart that used heat, infrared, and acoustical means to locate the target's heart and deliver the shock with surgical precision, increasing or decreasing current as acquired to render the target unconscious without killing him.
These weren't your grandmother's tranquilizer darts to bring down wild elephants. And your grandmother would keel over from a heart attack if she knew how much each round cost her and the rest of the taxpayers...
The Track-Shot sped away, trailing a single ribbon of thin smoke. It banked, turned, and wove through the trees as though it were being steered by an alcoholic cab driver on the last hour of an all night bender. But the round knew exactly what it was doing, and it sewed a remarkable if not chaotic course through the forest, only swooping down at the very last second to strike one of the Spetsnaz troops dead center of his chest. The man was racked by electricity for a second, shaking violently and involuntarily before he simply collapsed.
"Target temporarily neutralized. ETA to consciousness approximately eleven minutes. Warning clock initiated."
It had been a while since Dib had played with LTL ammunition. He wasn't used to his targets coming back from the "dead" like zombies, but it was nice to have a computer that reminded you when the zombie clock ran out. Without another second, he loaded another round and lifted the rifle. "Computer, acquire target."
"Stand by. Target acquired."
The HUD no longer resembled a skyline of neon billboards. The second Spetsnaz troop was there, at the end of the round's trajectory, and what had once been a dizzying kaleidoscope was not a perfect match equation within a fluctuating grid. The launcher thumped. The round shot hungrily away, and that eerie smoke trail stitched the trees together for a moment before the second Spetsnaz troop shook like he'd been playing golf during a lightning storm.
Nice.
As expected, the two Russians, noting that their brothers in arms had been "taken out", and Dib was certain they assumed their comrades were dead, broke from their positions and rushed off to the east.
What they didn't realize was that the pair of Irken Elite's had done likewise.
Those Russians were now rushing toward the Irkens in dark clad armor.
This was the part where Dib came in.
He swung around and started tracking back toward the Irken Elite's when-
"Ghostex Lead, this is hammer. Repeat, we've located her. Are you there, over?"
Dib had barely head Parsons call the first time and had been so swept up into the moment that only now did he realize he hadn't responded to her, which was damned ironic- since his entire career was now riding on her intel.
"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead, stand by!"
"Lieutenant, I need you out of there."
"I need me out of here. I understand. Where is she? At the bar the Colonel told us about?"
"Negative."
"All right. Stand by."
Dib raced through the woods, foliage dragging across his arms and legs until he spotted the two Russians about forty meters to his right, with the Irkens charging toward them another forty or so meters out, 36.57 according to the tactical computer, but Dib ignored the detail at the moment, understandably so.
The one Elite to the far left darted behind a pair of trees and dropped down to one knee, while the second forged on, cutting loose with two salvos meant to draw fire on him, while his buddy cut down the unsuspecting Russians from his more concealed vantage point.
This was a rather unoriginal gambit that made Dib snort. He reached into his web gear, drew his favorite model grenade, and let the bird fly home to poop on the Irken crouched behind the trees. As the Russians opened fire on the first Irken, the second one exploded in a flash of light backfilled by a shower of blood.
Both of the Prokofiev Delta units dressed in digital flora uniforms turned in unison to spot Dib, just as he swung around, lifted his rifle, and fired on the second Irken, who'd dropped to the leaf covered forest. Dib was pretty sure he'd missed the guy, so he knifed off as though he had a 500 horsepower engine in his chest, covering the gap between him and his prey in all of half a dozen heartbeats.
When he arrived, the guy was gone.
He spun around, crouched. Looked up.
Son of a-
Dib glanced beyond the small clearing to the stand of trees from where the Elite emerged, the Irken's PRV-225 plasma rifle aimed squarely at Dib.
Only the Elite's eyes were visible, his mouth covered bu his Kevlar balaclava and metal face plating. But if eyes could smile menacingly, his did so.
A flurry of gunfire boomed in the distance.
That sound was enough to distract the Elite, and all Dib needed was a fraction of a second, that mere flick of the Irken's glance.
He fired at the extraterrestrial while falling backward, knowing the Elite would return fire simultaneously, and yes, Dib's instincts paid off. The Elite's rounds punched the air no more than three or four inches above Dib's chest as he hit the ground. On impact, Dib glanced up, never losing control of his rifle, and fired again, riddling the Elite with a full salvo. If the Elite wore overlapped silver plated armor or some other type of strange, unseen armor type, Dib's rounds had found the seems and went under them. The Elite slumped and didn't move.
Dib sighed deeply.
"Identify yourself!" Screamed one of the Prokofiev Delta troops, rushing up behind Dib, the guy held his rifle high and aimed it at Dib's head.
The first Russians partner ran up beside him. Leveling his machine gun on Dib as well.
"Do you speak English, comrade?" Cried the second guy.
"Don't you mean Yankee?" Dib asked.
"You're American?" Cried the first guy, lowering his weapon, his friend still leveling his machine gun. "You're lucky you're not dead."
"Then I guess this is my lucky day," Dib answered, wearing a silly grin.
"Ah, we have a wiseass." The second guy said, lowering the barrel of his machine gun.
"Go back to your comrades. They'll be waking up soon. We got it from here."
"Who's we?" Asked the second guy.
"No one, really." With a groan, Dib hauled himself to his feet.
The first guy's eyes swelled. "You tell your Yankee friends that the Russian government will be lodging a formal complaint regarding your unauthorized actions here."
Dib shrugged. "We won't be staying long."
"It was a joke."
Dib nudged the Russian in the shoulder. "Soften your tone Ivan."
With that, he turned and raced away, stealing one last glance at the now snorting Russian as they turned to retrieve their Spetsnaz troops. "Lakota, how we doing?"
"Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Irkens. Tristan is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound aircraft, still unidentified..."
"Gotcha. On my way!"
The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other kids stared at him in envy. The bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he'd been killed, and so in Chopra's young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.
He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve year old.
When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound in his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.
The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty boxes still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two bots a few years older than himself. They'd been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.
The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra's bike. "It's mine now," He said evenly.
"What are you talking about?" Asked Chopra.
"Your bike."
"You're not taking it," Said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling, "Take good care of it. Don't let anyone borrow it."
The boy shifted up to Chopra and stared down at him.
He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. "What are you going to do anyway?"
Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. "You can't have my bike."
"I'm doing you a favor. You're just making the old man rich. You can't work for him anymore. Do something else."
"You know I can't."
"Then you'll never be anything in this world, so it doesn't matter if I take the bike or not." He started away from Chopra and grabbed the bike's handlebars.
His friend came up behind him. "Can you double me?"
"Sure," Said the boy. "Climb on."
The second boy balanced himself on the rear wheels bolts while the first boy took a seat.
"You can't take it!" Shouted Chopra, reaching toward them.
The first boy turned and shoved Chopra away. "Don't do anything. I don't want to hurt you."
Chopra reared back, ready to punch the boy in the face, but suddenly he was on the ground, the dust coming up into his face. The other kid had come down and shoved him.
With tears in his eyes, Chopra watched as his bicycle vanished down the alley.
"Change of plans!" Said The Empress, riding up beside Chopra.
They were still pushing along the embankment, passing the rows of gridlocked cars, with Hussein keeping close behind them.
"Are you listening to me?" She asked.
Chopra glanced at her. She was riding through that old alley in Mumbai, and then the alley dematerialized into the narrow country road. "What did you say?"
"I told you we have a change of plans. We're not going to Dover anymore. We're heading to Folkestone. We'll be met there. It's farther south than Dover and closer to us. Now let's pick up the pace. Come on."
Chopra was sweating profusely in the summer heat and humidity. He took a deep breath, wondering what those boys had ever done with his bike. He'd never seen it again, and in truth he'd never forgiven himself for allowing them to steal it. His father would not have approved.
But he'd shown them, right? He'd risen from the dirt, the ashes, the same way Dubai would in time. He refused to let this women take that way, and he silently vowed that she wouldn't. No matter what he had to do. He glanced back at the young Sheikh, who rolled his eyes and said, "When can we stop? I'm absolutely dying of thirst!"
"You have become an expert in complaining."
"Shut up, old man."
"You must learn to respect your elders."
"Get me a drink- or at least get her to get me a drink..."
Chopra braced himself. Patience. Patience.
Dib loved how politics affected military operations.
When he'd earlier needed Close Air Support, he couldn't get the time of day, but now, after parsons had some time to throw her weight around and negotiate her way up and down the pipeline with the Russians, who had seemed to just appear out of thin air in one of the largest air fleets and ground forces seen, maybe bigger than the Armada and the Irken Army. They had been breaking down the Irkens in Europe, Russia, and even off the planet. An Mi-35V XE10 Super Hind came whomping toward them, as menacing as a mutant wasp with the intent to kill. They'd be picked up and whisked at high speed back into the chase.
The Empress, Chopra, and Hussein were on bicycles and riding toward the coast.
Parsons had had to repeat that.
Bicycles? There was The Empress's connection to the Tour De France, the cousin who'd been murdered. But Bicycles?
Parsons had explained that all the roads had been flooded with people trying to flee to the coast and cross over to France. The Empress's escape was actually quite clever and much faster than any attempt by car.
A keen eyed intelligence analyst with his face glued to a satellite feed had, however, picked up the group of three pedaling southward.
Easy prey? Hardly.
Worse, getting back in the air wouldn't go by the numbers as Lakota confirmed. "Our ride's got an Irken on his tail. Looks like a Ripper."
All right, you talk in our ride, and I'll get us to put some fire on that Ripper," Dib said, still jogging through the forest.
He reached the road and the pair of trucks where the others had already climbed aboard and were waiting for him. He signaled both drivers: Take us back up the road, to where a large clearing would serve as the landing zone.
They tore off, the engines revving, Dib's driver cursing under his breath, a habit it seemed. It took just five minutes to reach the zone, where Dib ordered his team to fan out, away from the trucks- all but Daugherty and Heston. He put those operators on the fifty caliber guns. Then he told the two British drivers and gunners that they didn't have to stay, that his men would take out that Ripper, and thank you very much for allowing us to borrow your nice toys.
"You think I can stand here and turn over my equipment to a Yank? Hell no!" Hollered Dib's driver. He ordered his gunners back to their weapons.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you a choice."
"Bloody hell, I know that. So rest assured, we'll get the job done. You but your boys on the bird as well. We're in the fight now."
Dib snorted. "Not worried about drawing fire?"
"I think they should be," Said the driver, tipping his head toward the oncoming Irken craft. "Let's go hunting."
Finally, Dib smiled. "Thanks."
"Yeah, yeah, just get ready."
Dib jogged away as his people set up along a slight mound, all lying prone, weapons trained at the two dark blips appearing over the distant tree line. The team had packed relatively light, not expecting to face armor or aircraft, and Dib longed for a nice Zeus, a fire and forget missile launcher that would certainly give the Irkens pause- much more so than a pair of fifty caliber guns.
Dib dropped down beside Tristan, who'd been given a rifle by Lakota. His gaze was fixed through the scope.
"How you doing?" Dib asked, shifting awkwardly onto his elbows.
"Just fine. How are you?" Tristan snapped.
"Look, I'm sorry."
"No, you;re just a guy trying to save his half-ass career, and I'm just a guy who doesn't belong here. Never did. Never will."
"Parsons knows your brother's there. She'll send a recovery team."
"He always knew he'd die out here. I have a detailed list of instructions of what to do. He wrote them for me. This is no surprise."
"Like I said, I'm sorry."
Tristan's tone grew even nastier. "You know why I finally joined the NSA? Because my father came to me, told me he wanted to protect Jorge. He said Jorge took too many risks. I needed to watch out for him. And stupid me believed my father. What a crock. I found out later that Jorge told my father what to say- just to get me on board. But I keep thinking that maybe it wasn't lie. Maybe it was true. I was supposed to keep an eye on Jorge because I'm the sane one, not a warmonger. And I failed. I let my brother die."
"Survivor guilt is natural. I promise we'll talk about this later. I promise." Dib cleared his throat and opened up a channel to the team. "Ghostex Team, this is Ghostex Lead. Stand by. Here they come!"
The Super Hind swooped down to within a meter of the treetops, with the massive Ripper tailing. That the Irkens hadn't already blown the transport from the sky bothered Dib. They were holding fire. What the hell?
Maybe they wanted something- or someone- on board. They'd been given orders to track and observe.
Interesting...
"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead. The Irkens aren't firing on our bird."
"Ghostex Lead, just take out that Ripper. Now!"
Dib glanced up at Lakota, waved her over. She rushed to his side and dropped down. He switched off the audio on his Cross-Com. "This is weird."
"I know."
"Talk to the Hind pilot. See if he's carrying any precious cargo or VIPs."
"Parsons will hear."
"I don't care. Just do it."
Lakota called the pilot, who spoke in a thick accent and broken English, saying he wasn't at liberty to discuss such issues. That was pilot code for I've got precious cargo but I can't tell you.
Otherwise he would have just said Nyet ('No' in Russian.)
"All right, let's get that bird on the ground, then we'll find out what the hell's going on here," Dib said.
The Super Hind drew closer, then, under Lakota's guidance and on her count, suddenly banked hard to the left, facing the Ripper and opening a window for the fifty cals.
"All right, fire, fire, fire!" Dib shouted.
The two Brits manning the fifties cut loose with a massive barrage, every third round a tracer that shimmered like laser bolts across green crowns of trees. The co-pilot in the Super Hind brought the 40mm autocannon around, took aim and let it open up, unleashing a vicious salvo of rounds that punched deep into the Rippers fuselage. It seemed now that three fire lit wires were attached to the massive Ripper as it climbed and rolled against the onslaught. The wires fluctuated and wanted to drag the Ripper down.
Below, both gunners adjusted fire until their round were drumming along the fuselage's thick armor plates. It was awe inspiring to see an aircraft take that many rounds from the fifties, Dib's people and an aircraft with as much punch as a Super Hind, which had started firing it's light anti armor cannon and maneuvering behind the Ripper.
The thing still remained aloft, seemingly undamaged as the side doors opened up, Irken door gunners bringing their triple barreled heavy plasma cannons to bear, suppressing some of Dib's men and sending the Super Hind banking hard and below the large aircraft to readjust fire.
"Damn, I don't think we can touch her," Shouted Lakota.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Cried one of the gunners, breaking off fire. "We've pissed him off now! He's coming around!" The man abandoned his gun, jumped off the truck, and began running.
As the Super Hind dove under the Ripper and continued away to put it's rocket pods to use, the Ripper started to move forward, coming to bear on one of the trucks. A single white hot flash came from a small ion cannon mounted to the bottom. Before Dib could open his mouth in an order to fall back, the first truck lifted off the ground and burst into a dome of fire whose heat and blast wave sent Dib sliding backward.
Smoke swirled in the propulsion wash and dropped on them like a woolen blanket as the din of gunfire rose. Dib coughed. His eyes burned. He could barely see the images piped in from the Cross-Com. And then the smoke thinned. The second gunner kept firing at the Ripper, a fountain of brass casings rising at his side. Dib screamed for the guy to get out of there, but he doubted the man had heard him. The Brit seemed unfazed by the massive Ripper coming around to finish him off.
The Super Hind had fired at least a dozen rockets from each of it's pods in the attempt to bring down that Ripper, but the rockets struck the armor plates, they crumbled off to expose the less armored section under the plates, and fired again, opening a large hole in the craft that billowed black smoke and pink flames. The door gunner of the Ripper opened up, sending the Super Hind banking again.
Dib hollered again for the gunner to get the hell out of there, but the ion cannon flashed again like a camera and a thin smoke trail slashed in the air between the Ripper and the truck, following a deadly orb of energy.
But that gunner never released his weapon and fired until the white hot explosion swallowed him.
(End Chapter)