Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 14

  “Keep it down,” Thompson warns.

  With an affirmative nod, Argo opens his visor and falls in line behind Beckert.

  Beyond the guano heaps, the tunnel turns right, and rays of dim light shine past the corner. Traces of green root where the light strikes.

  Thompson clicks off his helmet lamps and moves to the right wall. Beckert and Argo take the cue, following him closely. The Gun’s hand thrusts up suddenly, and the team freezes mid-step. Argo and Beckert hold their breath, waiting for Thompson’s next signal.

  The Gun raises his rifle and glide steps far ahead, pausing at the bend in the tunnel. He kneels, keeping his weapon level, and sweeps the area. His hand flies up again, beckoning his team forward.

  The Brick and Geek run quietly then drop to a crouch behind their leader. Without looking, Thompson directs Argo and Beckert forward. Both men spring ahead, weapons ready.

  Rounding the bend, they split to opposite sides of the tunnel, staying in the low shadows. Immediately, they see what had alarmed Thompson: far down the tunnel, beyond tall grasses and shrubs, something big lies across the rails. Argo crouches and aims his cannon at the massive object.

  Vegetation is thicker on Beckert’s side, and he stalks like a panther through ferns and hanging vines. Farther on, the tunnel roof is open, letting in early morning sun like a skylight.

  The Geek hunkers down in the shaded plants, and his goggles magnify the oddity crossing the rails. From his vantage, he sees individual riveted plates which form a smooth skin over the object’s length. Curls of paint hang from the corroded surface.

  When Beckert crouches, Argo moves up. His massive frame twists through the sparser plant life until a flash of movement springs nearby. Long faced brown quadrupeds, the kind Beckert spied in the forest, leap from their rest en masse and flee past the big man. Argo’s flared nostrils take huge inhales of air until he calms his reflexes, releasing the half-pulled trigger on his cannon.

  The herd moves like liquid over the green plants then curves around Thompson as if he were a rock in the stream. The Gun aims cautiously at the flowing herd and watches the bouncing white tails disappear into the darkness.

  Little point to a stealth approach, now, Thompson thinks. He rises and rushes forward. Argo and Beckert pop up from their spots as the Gun runs by, and they take flanking positions to each side.

  The tall soldier runs straight up the middle, rifle ready.

  “Brick, swing left. Geek, take right.”

  Argo tromps to the left side of the object and pauses. He peeks around the edge and finds a pleated collar ringing the end of it. A heavily rusted hitch protrudes mid height. A horizontal doorway allows access inside.

  Looking in, Argo finds rows of seats bolted to the left surface. Most of them are decayed to their frames with scraps of synthetic fabrics dangling. Above, a continuous row of broken windows runs the length. At the far end, Beckert peeks in through the opposite door.

  The Brick steps around the rusted hitch and investigates the underside of the toppled train car. Large ceramic magnets form even rows down the full length. The aluminum mounts for each magnet are thick with white crystals.

  Ahead, dozens more train cars pile against one another, some still hitched together. While contemplating the wreckage, Argo feels Thompson’s hand tap his shoulder.

  “Kneel down,” the Gun says.

  Argo takes a knee and Thompson springs off his back, landing delicately atop the sideways rail car. The Gun crouches and peers over the derailed trains. Numerous and chaotic, the tumbled cars resemble a crowd of bacteria under a microscope.

  The jam ends at a sloping wall of earth and stone. Thompson raises his rifle and studies the barricade. Thick vines and twisting roots spill in from the open roof above. Water traces the runners, dripping from the ends and forming rivulets down the sloping earth. Corners of massive ceiling blocks and stone boulders stick out of the earthen pile. Chagrinned, he lowers his rifle.

  “See anything?” Argo asks.

  Thompson gazes at the skylight, believing he can just hear the whine of turbines outside.

  “The tunnel’s collapsed. Filled in to the roof.”

  “Hmm.” Argo looks into the maze of trains, then looks up again at his leader. “Orders?”

  Thompson strokes the bristly stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  “Continue forward. Let me know if you find anything in these wrecks.”

  “Understood,” Argo replies.

  “Copy, Geek?” Thompson asks. Beckert steps out from behind his end of the train car.

  “Understood, Major.”

  While Argo and Beckert weave between the wrecks, Thompson runs on top of them. The cars offer little of note inside, besides rusted seats and shattered windows.

  Soon the trio stands at the overgrown slope of debris, directly below the open tunnel roof. Grass mats drape the opening like green rugs. Hanging roots and vines lead to gnarled trees outside.

  “You hear that?” Thompson asks.

  Beckert and Argo look up. Though faint, the whistle of search craft filters down to them.

  “Not good,” Argo observes, “but to be expected.”

  “I’m surprised they aren’t here now.” Thompson cranes his neck at the opening, trying to gauge the tree cover. “Well. We can’t wait for them to smarten up.”

  Thompson starts up the slope when Argo catches his leader by the arm.

  “I don’t know that popping out in full sunlight is our best option, Gun.”

  Thompson looks down at the large hand gripping him. Argo, suddenly aware he has laid hands on a superior, releases.

  The Gun pivots to Beckert. “Sergeant, give us a moment.”

  Beckert ducks out of sight, and hurries toward the edge of the man-made cavern. Argo and Thompson make effort to keep the volume down, but the snarls in their voices carry.

  The Geek feigns interest in his surroundings to prevent himself overhearing the argument, investigating a fern here, a sprig of grass there. The feigned interest turns genuine when he spots a set of tiny, hand-like prints in a patch of mud.

  He sweeps the foliage aside, eager to see something new, and the tracks lead to a large stone wedged against the tunnel wall. A gap at the corner shows multiple tracks leading in and out.

  Either there are a bunch of them, or this one is really busy.

  Beckert sizes up the stone and takes hold of it. Putting one foot against the wall, he pulls with his whole body. The stone shifts in the damp dirt.

  He exhales fully and takes another deep breath. Hands set again, he pulls the stone completely free, letting it slump to the side. Before him extends a triangular corridor. Whatever caused the roof collapse folded a long section of the wall in and over itself, leaving a narrow channel to the other side.

  Vehement chattering berates him from the far end. Beckert clicks on his lights and several pairs of green eyes reflect the beams back at him. Their chattering abates as the animals turn their banded tails and scamper away.

  “Thanks for showing me the way,” he says with a grin, and the young operator scoots into the corridor. It is a tight squeeze, forcing him to hands and knees. Once inside, his helmet lamps shine upon multiple scrapes running along the folded walls. The floor is covered with a thin layer of damp earth, absent of blocks or debris and covered with paw prints.

  “Did someone clear this out?” he wonders aloud. Curiosity draws him further into the corridor.

  A fetid odor hangs in the air. It grows stronger as Beckert progresses until he finds the source. Spilling out from a crevice in the side wall are cylindrical droppings. Inside the niche, bugs and worms mill through the stinking pile. The Geek grimaces and lowers his faceplate.

  Really should clean the head, there, fellas.

  Several minutes into his crawl, Beckert nears the corridor’s end. It flares toward the exit, propped open by metallic braces. He gets a foot beneath him and draws his pistols.

  Past the corridor opening, the Geek’s lamps fad
e into spacious darkness. He considers turning back and informing his comrades.

  No point telling them if this is a dead end…

  Duck-walking the rest of the way, Beckert emerges beside the toe of a rusted load lifter. Yellow paint still clings in random patches. His eyes rise up the squatting legs to a vacant pilot cage. Perched atop the cage, and supported by both arms, is a gigantic section of concrete wall.

  Beckert marvels at the size of the slab directly above him. More incredible is that the loader still holds it aloft.

  Careful not to touch, he moves closer and inspects the rust-scaled machine. Every plastic button and every rubber grip surface has been gnawed away by tiny teeth, wires spilling from the chewed-apart consoles. The padded cushions are gone, leaving the wire frames to rust. But the hydraulic lines, armored against accidental cutting, remain intact. Thus stands the ancient lifter, like Atlas carrying a flat Earth.

  Beckert moves from beneath the slab. A single excavator is parked on rusted treads behind the lifter, the bucket still holding its final load. Several lumps of gray brown fur huddle in the remains of the driver’s seat. Reflective green eyes watch him carefully.

  He shines his lights around the area, illuminating the sandy floors and arching walls. Large cracks in the wall beside him are filled with some kind of gray bonding chemical, and the repaired area is shored up by sturdy braces.

  This must have been a rescue…

  Beckert steps out into the tunnel and looks back at the collapsed section. The front end of a train car sticks beyond the crushing pile of rubble, its back half mashed flat like a tube of paste. Overhead, a gigantic shaft intrudes at an angle through the roof, over half the tunnel’s width. The mottled surface reflects almost no light.

  He races up the steep rubble for a better view. Close enough to touch the intruding object, he shines his helmet lamps over the pitted and scorched plating. Long streaks are gouged in, extending the entire length. His jaw drops.

  This is a space ship.

  Beckert steps back, still shining his lights on the crashed vessel. Wonder mixes with sorrow as the whole scene comes into view: this ship fell from the sky and plunged through meters of dirt and stone, collapsing the tunnel. The cave in crushed the front cars in moving trains, and the following cars piled up like falling ropes. But there was a rescue.

  The survivors were taken somewhere…

  Beckert’s lights swing into the yawning blackness ahead.

  Now I should get the others.

  The young operator hops down the slope of blocks and boulders, ducks under the huge slab, and races on all fours through the slim corridor. When he emerges, he looks right into Thompson’s rifle.

  “Gah, kid! I almost killed you!” Thompson lifts the barrel away.

  Beckert rises nervously. “Major, Lieutenant! Good news! I found a way through.”

  “We saw your tracks leading over here.” Argo rises from the plants, thumbing the safety on his cannon. “Not sure I’m gonna fit through there, Sergeant.”

  “It gets wider past the mid-point. If we could get you that far, the rest would be easy.”

  Argo looks skeptically at the narrow entrance. He shakes his head, but sets his cannon down and removes his back rack. Next, he removes his helmet and unlatches his thick breast plate.

  Beckert moves to assist, taking components from Argo as they are removed. The Brick strips to his under-suit from the waist up, still wearing a skeptical expression.

  “Let’s try it.”

  The big man sits down and extends his legs into the corridor. He raises his arms overhead and scoots his butt forward. His chest just passes if he holds his breath out, but no matter which way he turns, his shoulders will not fit.

  “Thought so,” he grumbles. “You’ll have to do it, Gun.”

  “Do what?” Beckert asks.

  “Dislocate,” Thompson answers. He slings his rifle and helps Argo out of the corridor.

  “Geek, leave the rope and take Brick’s equipment through. Arrange it on the other side for fastest assembly. After that, scout ahead. Engage nothing, is that clear?”

  “Very clear, Major.”

  Argo takes the coils of carbon fiber from Beckert and ties the end around his waist. His huge arms pass the coil around himself, again and again, cinching tight with each winding.

  Beckert takes Argo’s rack and test fits it in the corridor. Too wide. He grabs the breastplate and lays it outside the corridor like a giant bowl. Compartment by compartment, he breaks the rack down and piles it neatly in the bowl. The Brick’s armored arm components ride on top.

  The Geek shoves the breastplate into the corridor. Weighed down by the equipment, it scrapes harshly.

  “Ach! You hear that, Gun? Hear what the kid’s doin’?”

  Thompson smirks. “He knows how to fix it. On your way, Geek.”

  Beckert nods and grips the breastplate underhanded, trying to lift with each shove. It makes little difference.

  At the end of the corridor, Beckert lifts the bowl and carries it from under the concrete slab. The armor, he arranges in order of assembly. The rack and compartments, he rebuilds into a single unit.

  With some anxiety, Beckert turns over the breastplate. All of the light absorbing coating is rubbed from the center chest area, leaving an abraded patch of native gray. He quickly flips the plate over and grimaces, letting it wobble on its curved surface. He takes a deep breath and scurries through the corridor. Near the end, he announces himself then steps out.

  Argo is lying on his back, wound with rope up to his armpits. His constricted chest rises and falls in short, panting breaths.

  “How’s my…armor…Sergeant?”

  “Uh, fine, Lieutenant, just fine.” Beckert hastily diverts to the Brick’s Helmet, back plating, and cannon. As he did with the breastplate, Beckert loads the back plate like a sledge and skids it through the tunnel.

  When he reaches the end, the ring tailed creatures are climbing over Argo’s back rack, sniffing it. One tunnels into the Brick’s forearm armor, back legs and tail sticking out.

  “Hey!”

  The creatures look at him defiantly through black masks and continue their rummaging.

  Beckert hurries through his grinding shuffle and runs at the would-be thieves with his arms raised.

  “Get! Get outta there!”

  The creatures race for the darkness save the one waist deep in Argo’s armor. Its back legs kick frantically, driving the piece out of the neat arrangement. It skitters in a random trail out into the tunnel.

  “No! No! NO!” Beckert shouts as he chases the escaping armor. The creature twists and bonks away from the rubble, leading Beckert to clear tunnel flooring. Without the sand and concrete filling in the magnetic tracks, the armor falls between a set of rails and wedges.

  Beckert dives for the armor and catches it with both hands. He sits up, and the creature comes up with it.

  “Oh come on, let go!”

  He jostles the armor piece, trying to free its occupant. Skinny black feet kick and scurry in mid air.

  “Outta there!” he says, shaking vigorously.

  A rapid series of angry chirps sounds from the top of the tube. The Geek lowers the armor and looks down the open end. A terrified face looks back at him with whiskers quivering. The chirps grow fervent.

  When Beckert looks closer, he sees claws at the ends of tiny paws are hooked into the inner mesh.

  “Oh, you’re stuck. Ok, hang on.”

  Cradling the creature’s back end with one arm, he reaches in and gently lifts the small black paws away from the mesh. The creature snarls and bares its teeth, but does not bite. When the last claw is freed, the animal drops out of the armor and scampers back toward the excavator, chortling.

  Beckert watches the animal with amusement until he realizes how far he is into the tunnel. He stands and jogs back, only to find the furry animals crawling over Argo’s equipment again. They retreat at his approach but do not flee.

  “N
ot afraid anymore, huh?”

  Some stand on their back legs and sniff the air. Though wary, their attention is riveted on the young sergeant. Inquisitive chirps pass one to the other.

  Up close, Beckert notices most are similar in size, save one which is significantly larger than the rest. It is the large one which keeps the most distance. Its chirps sound gruff, scolding, but are mostly ignored. The smaller ones venture closer.

  “Look, I can’t have you damaging the Lieutenant’s gear.” Crouching down, Beckert reaches to his back rack and pulls a compartment from it. His audience moves closer, shiny black noses twitching. He opens the box and removes a bar of protein.