Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Read online

  Beckert nods, “Aye, Sir!”

  Thompson spins and stalks away into the night.

  Beckert climbs the rubble again with a watchful eye in all directions. Search craft pore over the DC ruins in coordinated patterns, concentrated in the northwest. Bright lights crest the high, flat field behind him. Beckert instinctively shrinks into the rubble around him. His goggles filter the glare and magnify two large-bodied vessels, much wider than the transports he spied earlier. The craft slow and spin about, then plunk down on their massive landing struts. Wide hatches covering the back ends of each craft lower to the ground.

  The Geek turns toward the tower and watches the hovering search craft turn slow circles around it. Its brilliant search-lights never leave the cylindrical walls, and its scanning beams concentrate on every niche.

  Enemy radio chatter is constant and heavy, covering hundreds of channels simultaneously. Despite the crushing pressure around him, Beckert waits patiently for Thompson’s signal.

  Ping, ping.

  Beckert reaches for the sword at his back. Gauging the position of the setting moon, he draws the blade and angles it toward the hovering craft.

  Immediately, the turbine pitch rises and the ground rumbles with powerful thrust. The craft noses sharply down, charging Beckert like a bull. The Geek slides the blade home.

  “FIRE!” Thompson shouts via radio, and devastating blasts impact the craft from each side. The midsection explodes and breaks apart, dropping the cockpit like a stone. The back half rears up and slides sideways out of sight, crashing with a jarring thump. A bright fireball rises from behind the tower, illuminating the lofted dust.

  Drawing both pistols, Beckert launches over the top of the hill and sprints down into the rolling dust clouds. Hailing concrete and machine parts clatter over him as he sways and feints around bulky obstacles. He hops down onto the open path and finds himself beside the smashed and bent cockpit. The alien pilot is pinned inside, its legs crushed by the collapsed frame. A cup shaped mask hangs loosely from one side of its helmet and saffron eyes roll in a daze. Surprised, Beckert aims his pistols at the creature’s head.

  The pilot turns its stiff neck and looks at the weapons in Beckert’s hands. Its pale blue skin becomes paler, and it trembles.

  Beckert looks the sad creature in the eyes. He sees the terrible wounds, the mortal fear, the helplessness. This is not the simple, anonymous foe he was trained to kill.

  The creature shuts its eyes and pants. An aching moan issues from its bloodied lips as it awaits the killing shots. Beckert stares, watching the rivulets of blue blood roll down the creature’s long snout. His fingers tighten around the triggers but will not squeeze.

  The roar of incoming craft reminds the Geek to get moving. Beckert lowers his aim and streaks up the path.

  At the base of the tower, a heavy door falls out of the hazy air and crashes beside him. The young operator looks up to see Argo yelling down at him from the tower entrance.

  “Let’s go, Geek!”

  Flashes in the haze show Thompson crouched on a protruding metal beam beside the elevated tower entrance. His long rifle aims toward the distant field, sniping rapidly. Heavy return fire sizzles into the armored tower, showering him in sparks.

  Beckert clips his pistols and throws himself up the tower’s side.

  “Get in there!” Thompson yells, and his aim rises to a cluster of incoming missiles. His shots explode three in mid air, shifting the rest off course around the tower. Beckert is barely over the ledge when the missiles streak past and explode, shaking the structure violently.

  Argo levels his cannon at a formation of approaching craft and triggers twice. The lead ship rocks and smokes from the hits, losing altitude.

  “You, too, Brick!” Thompson bellows.

  Argo nods and follows Beckert into the tower.

  Thompson triggers furiously, desperate to suppress the threats rocketing in. He grits his teeth with concentration, trying to shrug off the small arms fire scoring and chinking his armor. Nearly frenzied, he swings his rifle from threat to threat, neutralizing them one by one.

  Large movement draws his attention, and between shots, he glances at the distant field. There, the heavy transports disgorge gargantuan tracked vehicles. Wide, flat turrets ride atop the vehicles with long barrels. As the tanks motor away from the ramps, the turrets rotate toward the tower.

  Thompson’s eyes bulge, and he jumps up from his crouch. Before he runs inside, he spots a wave of missiles coming in from the east.

  “INCOMING!” he yells as he throws himself through the open portal. Beckert and Argo are waiting at the stairway.

  “GO, GO!” the Gun screams, and the missiles slam into the tower walls. The building lurches with successive hits, tossing Thompson to the floor. Beckert and Argo rattle inside the close sides of the stairwell, falling down to the next flight and landing in a crumpled heap.

  Thompson picks himself up, looking eye to eye with the cracked hawk mosaic in the floor. With no time to appreciate the scenery, he clambers toward the stairwell and tumbles down it.

  The tower shudders again and again as the team leaps down entire flights of stairs. The tower sways with each barrage until a phenomenal crack tears through the upper sections of the building. The screech of tortured metal groans throughout, and the stairwell undulates beneath them. Another phenomenal crack blasts through the tower, much closer than the last, and the concussion stuns Beckert and Thompson.

  Fighting through his doubled vision, Argo grabs his slumped teammates and drags them deeper into the stairwell. The slamming above intensifies, yet the shocks become less forceful as they descend. A massive groan—pierced with metallic pops—yields to a thunderous crunch, and the waves of impacts subside.

  Argo slows his pace, unaware how rapidly he was breathing. He calms his mind, listening to the fading reverberations and small fragments bouncing down the stairs from above. With care, he sets his teammates down. He clicks his helmet lights on, surprised at the quantity of dust rolling by.

  Beckert and Thompson startle themselves awake and scramble to their feet. Still clutching their weapons, the men spin in search of the enemy. Argo calms them.

  “We’re all right.”

  Thompson shakes his head, trying in vain to clear the ringing in his ears. He flexes his jaw over and over, at last getting the pressure behind his eardrums to equalize.

  “What happened?”

  “Sounded like the tower came down,” Argo explains.

  Thompson looks up at the barrier between him and his pursuers. “Then let’s hope this stairway goes somewhere.” His gray eyes fall sternly on Beckert.

  “This way, sirs!” Beckert slides past Argo and runs down the switch back stairs.

  Thompson flicks his head for the big man to follow. With one more flex of his jaw and a heavy blink, the Gun runs after.

  The flights pass swiftly until Beckert unexpectedly halts. His helmet lights fixate on a large yellow arrow pointing down the stairwell. The words “DC Tunnel” are stenciled inside it.

  “Why did you stop?” Thompson asks.

  “I’m sure there was water here before…”

  At waist height along the wall, there is a line of scum. The arrow points directly to it. Beckert looks down the stairwell, and the lower surfaces glisten with moisture.

  “If water is getting out, it’s a good sign,” Argo volunteers.

  “Then why are we standing here?” Thompson demands.

  Beckert takes the major’s unsubtle prompt and speeds into the undiscovered depths. He slips on the slick steps, just catching himself.

  “Careful,” he warns, “slippery.”

  Beckert rounds the next flight and standing water reflects his helmet lights. He treads to the water’s edge and watches as vibrations telegraphed from the structure above become gentle ripples on the water’s surface.

  “One side, Geek.” Argo brushes past and wades into the water. Looking over his shoulder, the big man adds, “Con
firm your hard seal.”

  Beckert blinks at an icon in his goggles. Air pressure rises momentarily in his suit then resumes normal. Hard seal confirmed, displays in his goggles.

  The Geek steps cautiously after his submerged comrade, Thompson close behind. Argo’s passage churns the water with fine sediments, and the two follow the mottled glow of the big man’s helmet lights.

  After two more switchbacks, the stairway ends, and the operators step into a thin layer of soft sediment. Ahead, the glow expands dramatically.

  Beckert extends his pistols at the end of each arm. Neither touches wall. As if passing through a veil, he steps into clear water and his lights stream into a broad, fully submerged chamber with three meter ceilings. Argo’s cloudy trail diverts to the right, where it ends at the middle of a wall. Argo stands facing the wall, sediments swirling around his movements like a semi-translucent aura.

  Thompson presses past Beckert, intrigued by a clean spot at the room’s center. The Gun stops at the edge and watches the kicked up sediment being sucked through a small, corroded grate.

  Not even Beckert could fit through there, he thinks.

  A bright spark from the right draws the Gun’s attention. Within the swirling cloud around Argo is a brilliant gem of blue flame. Copious bubbles rise from the cloud and spread across the high ceiling.

  Thompson strides to the wall beside Argo, his visor darkening against the bright light. He taps the Brick on the shoulder, and Argo’s flame extinguishes. Argo faces his comrade, and the darkened lens of his visor lightens.

  Thompson points at the wall and shrugs.

  Argo waves the Gun closer. His huge hand fans the muddy water away, revealing the edge of a door with an adjacent locking panel. The panel has a fresh cut in it.

  Thompson nods in understanding. The brilliant flame re-ignites with the flurry of bubbles.

  While Argo cuts and Thompson waits, Beckert walks the room’s perimeter. At the wall opposite the stairs he finds a subtle outline, camouflaged by clinging sediments. The young operator clips his pistols and rubs his hands over the door. Translucent crustaceans, visible only in motion, flee from his scrubbing. At the middle of the portal, he feels raised characters and bright gold reflects in the wake of his cleansing. With a final swipe, he uncovers a pentagonal cluster of gold stars above the Cadre Hawk icon.

  Beckert steps back and studies what he assumes is an escape hatch or personal lift for the General. If there was a matching door in the office upstairs, he completely missed it.

  The bright blue light dims. Beckert turns from the hatch and watches his teammates shove a heavy bulkhead aside. The door slides into its pocket with a solid clunk.

  Thompson’s helmet lights swing toward the Geek like a lighthouse in a dark fog. He gives the hand signal to follow.

  Beckert pushes off the wall and surges toward the open door, the sacks on his back dragging like parachutes. He feels his way through the obscuring clouds into a wide corridor.

  The glow from his teammates halts a few meters ahead, and the water takes on a rusty color. The glow lurches forward, followed by another heavy clunk.

  Beckert moves to his right, tracing a hand along the wall. His left hand reaches straight ahead like a blind man’s, and he strides through the rusty water following the dimming glow.

  His hand catches the edge of a doorway, and his toes jam into something solid. He stumbles forward in slow motion onto a severely corroded bulk head. The bars and locking mechanisms are rusted into a solid mass. Apparently, Thompson and Argo ripped it right from its hinges.

  The Geek presses himself up from the bulkhead and steps carefully forward into open space. The rusty color ends and his lights shine into an arched pedestrian tunnel, roughly three meters high and flooded to the ceiling. White tiles of the arch make the tunnel appear bright as day.

  Argo and Thompson are far ahead, and the young operator struggles to catch up. The media sacks tug against him, making his boot treads slip on the tiled floor as if he were in a frustrating dream. He hooks his thumbs into the harness cords, cinching them tight as possible, and powers forward.

  The tunnel opens up onto a concrete platform, and the roof rises several meters higher. The platform ends at a larger tunnel, running perpendicular. Argo and Thompson stand at opposite ends of the platform, shining their lights down each tunnel opening. Beckert strides to the edge of the platform and looks down onto a set of magnetic rails. The rails track the middle of the tunnel, until the tunnel turns out of sight in each direction. Pale, worm-like creatures undulate in the gently flowing current.

  Thompson and Argo turn from their reconnoitering and join Beckert at the edge of the platform. Thompson pulls his team into a close huddle, helmets pressed tight together. Using the conduction of the solid armor plating, he shouts to his comrades.

  “This is good. Excellent work, Sergeant!”

  Beckert grins behind his face plate.

  “Did the General say where this tunnel goes?”Thompson shouts.

  Beckert’s mouth moves, but can not be heard.

  “What?”

  Beckert takes a deep breath and yells. “He said it went to an Arlington Command Center, but that’s all.”

  Argo hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Arlington would be that way.”

  “Then that’s our path,” Thompson declares. “Follow me, stay alert.” The Gun releases his comrades and jumps off the platform. His mass pulls him quickly to the bottom where he lands with a puff of sediment. Rifle in hand, he hooks the toe of his boot on the ties crossing each rail and leans forward as though climbing a horizontal stair case.

  Argo urges Beckert ahead then drops down behind him, and they stride after their leader.

  The tunnel bends left and merges into a cavernous space. Thompson halts warily. His lights disappear into the expansive water, making the cavern appear infinite. He increases the intensity of his helmet lamps, and the beams shine over multiple parallel rails along the floor. The rails at his feet merge with the closest pair in the cavern and continue out of sight.

  Thompson strides into the expanse, eager to find its limits. He crosses six sets of magnetic rails before finally reaching concrete wall. The wall slopes at a low angle, propped up by massive ribs and cross bars. Plastic and glass light sconces run its length. Several meters up, he spots a cat walk.

  Crouching low, the Gun raises his arms and launches. He rises from the floor like a rocket, needing only a single flap of his arms at the end of his flight. His strong hands grip the cat walk’s edge and he hauls himself onto it. When he stands, his helmet breaks the water’s surface.

  Unhindered light shines from his lamps to an arched ceiling. Pipes and wires slump from detached brackets, dripping liquid in thin streams. The concrete arch of the tunnel, however, is in remarkable condition and bears no obvious sign of stress.

  The sounds of his splashes seem abnormally loud in the vast silence, and the Gun turns sideways to minimize his sloshing. Such stillness feels out of place with all of the activity overhead.

  The tall soldier lifts his rifle above the chest high water and shakes it vigorously. Keeping it raised, he squints through the scope. Even with the light from his helmet, the scope only reveals an extra hundred meters, but it is enough to see the tunnel rises ahead.

  He turns around and scans the opposite direction. A tiny speck twinkles in the distance and is lost. He hunts for the reflection to no avail.

  Droplet on the lens, probably.

  Lights shine up at him from below, and the Gun leans his visor into the calm water. At the floor of the cavernous tunnel, Argo and Beckert wait patiently. With a hand gesture, he signals them to proceed. The three form a line and forge on through the flooded tunnel.

  Hunger is Universal

  Tedious hours of slogging leave Thompson’s legs weak and burning. Nutrition interval passed long ago and hypoglycemia makes every step a chore. Having sampled the planet’s rich atmosphere, his lungs protest the stale dampness of recycled bre
ath.

  Argo and Beckert have it worse, he reminds himself. They’re totally submerged.

  He plunks his face into the water to check on his comrades. They are far behind.

  With a sighing exhale, Thompson ends his trudge and leans on the catwalk’s rail. Cramps seize his quadriceps.

  “ACH!” he shouts, grabbing his thigh with one hand. The armor plates resist all attempts at massage.

  He grips behind his knee and lifts, the whole leg rising like a plank. Wedging his boot against the railing, he bends the knee joint and leans in, forcefully lengthening the clenched muscle. Pain mixes with relief in equal measure.

  He punches the top of his thigh, making loud splashes in the waist deep water.