Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Read online

  The next flight lands him up to his waist in water. Spreading waves crash against the close walls and slosh up, collapsing and meeting in the middle before settling.

  Without my helmet, this trip is over.

  He looks hard into the depths finding only blackness. On the wall beside him, however, is a bright yellow arrow pointing down the stairwell. The words, “DC Tunnel” are stenciled inside it.

  The Geek flashes back to the general’s resignation, and he remembers something about the staff being evacuated through a “DC Tunnel”.

  Giddy with excitement, Beckert climbs the long flights back to the surface. Collecting his helmet at the tower’s entrance, he latches it securely before dashing across the darkened landscape to rendezvous with his comrades.

  Aschimothusia

  Alone at the rendezvous point, Beckert hunkers down and watches two patrol craft sweeping the northern outskirts of the Washington ruins. The counter in his goggles reads “+00:15” in bright red, but Argo and Thompson are nowhere in sight. The Geek shifts uneasily in his crouch.

  Unable to wait another second, he leaps from his spot and heads toward the nearest cluster of standing structures. Bright moonlight provides ample illumination, and he picks up Argo’s deep tracks through drying mud.

  The tracks lead to the northern section of the building, then inside through a ground floor window. Beckert runs on his toes, careful to step only in Argo’s steps. He breezes through the open floor plan, tracking his comrade to the second floor. The tracks end at a section of freshly broken concrete.

  “Hammer Fall,” challenges an electronically clipped voice behind him.

  “Killed them all,” Beckert replies automatically. The Geek turns and sees Thompson crouched near the outer wall several meters away. The Gun lowers his rifle and resumes his gaze out the window.

  Beckert hustles to his leader and kneels.

  “Sir, I couldn’t wait at the rendezvous, there are…”

  “I know,” Thompson interrupts. His gray eyes follow a slow-moving search craft at the city’s eastern edge. “I was moving to collect you when I saw you approach.”

  Beckert looks his leader over, noticing he is covered in mud. He is about to ask but the Gun speaks first.

  “Did you find anything?”

  Beckert’s eyes light up. “Yes, Sir! A standing tower in the next valley.” The Geek’s arms point and gesticulate. “Such things inside, Major!” Beckert becomes lost in his recollections. “But they don’t make sense. They…”

  A roaring crackle to the west silences him. Both men raise weapons and take cover behind support beams. Peering around the beams, they see a pair of search craft decelerating a half kilometer from the rendezvous spot. Triangular pink rays fan out beneath the craft as they slow and sweep the area.

  Thompson’s lip twitches. He points to a thin rope leading into the pit.

  “Get down there and help Brick pack up. We’re leaving.”

  “Sir!” Beckert acknowledges. He looks over the edge of the deep pit and sees a rectangular object at the bottom. A broken slab of concrete leans against it, half submerged in the surrounding water. In the top of the rectangular object, an Argo sized hole is cut. Dim light flickers from within.

  The Geek takes hold of the carbon-fiber braid and rappels expertly. He drops onto the object and peeks through the hole into a vault of some kind. Numerous racks are tossed, their contents spilled across the floor.

  “Ah, Sergeant,” Argo greets warmly from inside, labset in hand. Muddy residue covers the big operator head to foot. “I’m glad you’re here. Hurry!”

  Beckert pours himself through the hole head first, catching the edge with his fingertips. In a fluid motion, he flips upright and drops to his feet. Piles of square plastic crunch beneath him.

  “Gah! Careful!” Argo chides. “Those are media records!”

  Beckert freezes, his eyes searching for a clear place to stand. When he steps away, there is a long string of snaps and cracks.

  “Here,” Argo states, tossing over a small electronic device. “See what you can do with this.” The Brick resumes his study of the vault’s corner.

  Beckert looks down at the flimsy device. Too delicate to be Cadre made, he reckons. A glass lens is nested at one end with a view finder on the opposite side. He flips out a side display and finds a narrow slot, occupied by one of the plastic records.

  “It’s a media recorder.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out,” Argo smirks. “Can you fix it?”

  “Yeah, sure. But Major says we’re moving out.”

  Argo spins around, eyes wide. He looks over the scattered records as though in pain. Grimacing, he reaches into a compartment of his rack and pulls out two thick sacks. One he holds out to Beckert.

  “Bag what you can. Move fast!” The Brick’s hand shovels loose plastics into the wide mouthed bag. Beckert stashes the small video recorder then drags the open bag through the piles like a fishing net.

  With both sacks stuffed to capacity, the soldiers look at what they must leave behind—another ten bags at least. Argo pulls his draw string tight and passes the sack to his comrade.

  “Take this.”

  Beckert zips his own drawstring tight and takes the cavernous bag from Argo. Argo collects his weapon and crouches beneath the entrance hole. Lifting the bulky cannon over his head, he leaps up and catches the opening’s rim, pressing himself the rest of the way through. His round helmet pokes down from the hole.

  “Pass me the bags.”

  Beckert flips each bag up to his comrade. While Argo splices the draw strings into a harness, the Geek looks into the corner where Argo was working. Propped inside a bent cabinet are two small skulls. He steps over to them, noting the handprints of Argo’s handling. Below is a mixed heap of brittle bone and synthetic fabrics. Arm bones reach from one skeleton to the other.

  Beckert takes the skulls and places them with the rest of the bones, having to guess which belongs to whom. When he steps back a terrible feeling washes over him. Unlike the swift death of the General, these people had to wait for their end. Awareness of mortality must have consumed them. Huddled close and locked in a vaulted darkness, their embracing arms offered the only comfort.

  Pushing through the heaviness in his chest, the Geek notices an intact brown bag beside one of the skeletons. The cover flap is thrown back, and the mud streaked interior proves Argo was rummaging through it.

  Unable to restrain his curiosity, the young operator delves into the contents: personal electronics smashed to oblivion, small notebooks, short pencils in vibrant colors, dried out waxy sticks in shades of deep red, a cracked leather binder stuffed with numbered cards and IDs, a brown plastic bottle with a white cap, and a ring with three times as many baubles as key fobs.

  A small zippered pouch hides near the mouth of the bag, and Beckert excitedly opens it. Inside are eight more of the media records.

  “Sergeant!”

  Beckert’s spine straightens with something like terror. He spins to see Argo’s scowling face poking through the roof.

  “Gun said, ‘Move out’!”

  “Y-yes, Sir,” the Geek stammers. He thrusts his hand into the small pouch and retrieves the extra records. Hustling to the exit hole, he stuffs them into a box from his rack.

  Crouching low, he leaps up through the hole, scarcely needing any effort from his arms. He looks Argo in the eye.

  “Sorry, sir, I…”

  Argo’s fist thumps into the Geek’s chest. Beckert looks down at the clenched gauntlet and takes the carbon braid from it. Argo spins the Geek around and loops the sack harness across his chest.

  “Today, Sergeant.”

  Beckert nods submissively and pulls himself hand over hand up the rope. When he crests the broken concrete edge, Thompson is crouched, waiting.

  “Was I unclear in my order?”

  “Sir, NO Sir!” the young operator states as he gets to his feet.

  Thompson looks hard to make sure the me
ssage is received.

  “Take the northwest corner and watch for a pattern in enemy movement.”

  “Understood, Major!” Beckert draws his pistols and runs stealthily to his position.

  When Argo’s big arm slaps flat on the concrete, Thompson takes the Brick’s hand and helps him over the edge. The Gun gives his friend a questioning glance.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” the big man shrugs. “But I’ll find out, and I’ll fix it.”

  Thompson nods, satisfied. “Won’t be long before the whole planet shows up. Take the southwest corner and look for gaps in enemy coverage.”

  “Roger that.” Argo takes a half step away when he faces his friend again. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I thought that muck had swallowed me for good.”

  Thompson nods modestly and slaps his friend on the shoulder, partly for reassurance, mostly to get him moving.

  With his north and south lookouts in place, Thompson dashes to the western face of the building. Hunkering behind the frame of a window, he looks out at a row of lights racing in from the distance. Through his rifle scope, he zooms in on the formation and spots two heavy transports with twenty search-craft flanking them.

  The Gun clenches his jaw and turns to the two search-craft nearby. They hover over the rendezvous spot, their turbines whistling forcefully.

  He lowers his rifle and runs to the eastern face, keeping hidden behind support columns. Under bright moonlight, four search-craft make a lazy orbit at the far edge of the city. Between him and the search-craft is an expansive wasteland. The grays and blacks of the irradiated concrete remind him of the cratered surface of home.

  Thompson checks his six-hour counter, noting only one hour forty left. He runs to Argo’s position and kneels beside him.

  “What do you see?”

  Argo points a flat hand at lights approaching from the southwest.

  “Another three coming in.”

  Thompson spots the trio and watches them slowly drift to the East.

  “Looks like they’re taking orbit behind the others,” Argo says.

  “Looks like,” Thompson echoes.

  The big man points down into the broad river delta. “If we can make it into the valley, we could get into the river and walk out submerged.”

  “Pretty slow going…You said we have to be out of here by six hours.”

  “The water is flowing in from outside the radiation zone so it’d be ok. Plus, it’d give us some protection.”

  Thompson thinks a moment. “Assuming the bottom isn’t total muck…”

  He looks Argo over, recalling the effort it took to free him from the cloying silt.

  “It’s an option, but let’s keep looking. C’mon.”

  The men rise and pad swiftly to Beckert’s lookout. Argo keeps watch while Thompson crouches beside the Geek.

  “Tell me something good, Sergeant.”

  “The enemy’s keeping outside the radiation zone, for now. But since we can’t stay, time is on their side. I think they’ll soon have us surrounded.”

  “Agreed. Suggestions?”

  “It’s rough terrain, sir. Anywhere we go, it’s gonna take a while.” The Geek looks past the high flat field he crossed and bites his lip. The taste of bitter dust hits his tongue again.

  “The tower I found has a substructure. It was flooded, but seemed intact. And the General mentioned a tunnel which…”

  “The General?”

  “Yes, sir! The top of the tower is a General’s office, and…”

  “You spoke to the General?” Thompson interrupts again.

  “I saw a video, from before. And I found this.” Beckert slides the sheathed sword from between his armor and rack. Thompson marvels at the elegant weapon. His hand instinctively finds the release catch, and he slides the blade part-way from the scabbard. Ghostly characters catch the moonlight, seeming to hover above the metal.

  “GUN!”

  Thompson and Beckert both whirl at the sound of Argo’s alarm. The Brick flicks his head toward the rendezvous spot. Both search craft have turned toward the building. Their noses dip as they thrust forward.

  Thompson slaps the blade home and jams it between Beckert’s armor and rack.

  “To the tower. You lead. Go!”

  Beckert springs from his second-floor perch and slams down onto the drying ground. Argo sails out behind him, thumping hard and sprinting after his young teammate. Thompson takes a last look at the approaching craft and leaps to the ground. His feet carve deep tracks in the damp earth.

  Argo and Thompson labor to keep up with the gazelle-like movement of their younger comrade. The Geek’s path leads them over leaning frames, hanging ledges, and sprawling rubble fields. There is no time to second guess whether the damaged structures will support them; and they blindly trust their guide as they jump, climb, and sprint after him.

  The noise of turbines whines louder behind them. Stray beams of white light spill through gaps in the concrete.

  “DOWN!” Thompson commands.

  All three slide to a stop and wedge themselves under whatever cover they can find. The ground rumbles and vibrates, spilling loose sand over them. Both search craft roar by, their pink beams missing Argo by centimeters.

  Thompson pushes free of his cramped niche and rushes up a mound of rubble. Ahead, one of the craft banks gently and peels away. Hot thrust from the rear of each craft blurs their outlines.

  “GO!” Thompson orders, tracking the turning craft with his rifle scope. First Beckert races by, then Argo, and Thompson follows. Adrenaline tightens his sinews, giving his stride great spring. Pleasure centers of his brain fire with the influx of stress. Chemical triggers amplify aggression, boost his metabolism, sharpen his awareness, suppress complex thoughts. The sensations, long absent since his assault on the Europa, enervate him fully. How he missed them…

  Beckert leads them up to the high, square field and skirts the edge, keeping close to the cover of collapsed buildings. Thompson pauses and looks back. Two transports, with six hovering escorts, have landed at the city’s western edge.

  He kneels and supports his rifle with a knee. Through the scope, he watches a suited team of blueskins run from each transport. Bulky packs ride on their backs. Full-face helmets cover their heads. Gloved hands carry long tubes and rods with circular halos.

  Thompson springs up and tears after his comrades. The chase is made easy when he finds them crouching at the far side of the open field. They stare at a single search craft loitering above the tower.

  “How could they know to look there?” Beckert asks.

  Thompson zooms in on the tower, studying it.

  “Did you leave traces?”

  “No, Major.”

  “It’s still standing,” Argo states matter-of-factly. “Made it interesting to you, didn’t it?”

  Beckert pops his eyebrows and nods.

  Thompson lifts his view to the hovering search craft. “You’re in my way,” he growls at the craft. “Brick, take position north of the tower. I’ll take west. Geek, you draw it between us. On my signal we concentrate fire at the peak of that pink beam.”

  “Once we clip this thing, they’ll be on us fast,” Argo advises. “We’ll need to be close.”

  “Agreed.” Thompson lowers his weapon and briefly surveys the surrounding terrain, noticing the search craft at the eastern edge of the city are turning in. With eerie calm he gives the order, “Move.”

  Beckert leads the team across the charred terrain, jinking around loose slopes of decayed bricks, working closer to the tower. The roar of turbines is everywhere, and at times they drop to their elbows for lack of cover. Clouds of dust wash over them from the search crafts’ closer passes.

  Soon, the sound of hovering turbines grows loud enough to be felt. Beckert climbs a pile of rubble for a look. Through a gap, he spies the lone craft loitering around the tower. Its pink beam sweeps up and down the metallic surfaces.

  The Geek scurries down the slope a
nd leans close to his comrades, having to yell to be heard.

  “It’s just over this hill, Major, ‘bout a hundred meters. There’s a clear path all the way.”

  Thompson punches Argo in the arm.

  “Go!”

  Argo nods and glides into the darkness. Thompson grabs Beckert by the head and speaks directly into the Geek’s helmet microphone.

  “Stay here and wait for a double ping on the radio, then draw the craft up the open path. When we bring it down, haul ass to the tower!”