Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 6

  The aircraft divert to each side of the bridge and thrust forward, shining their lights into the dust cloud. The beams scatter into a diffuse glow. Hidden within the dense dust, Thompson searches the edges of the broken slab, frantic for a hint of his comrades.

  Nothing.

  Already, strong winds are dispersing the column of rising dust, dissipating his cover. He sprints around the gaping hole in the bridge and drives himself toward the safety of trees at the far end of the span.

  One aircraft moves close and sinks level with the bridge deck, aiming its intense wing lights at the fresh damage. Its pink beam re-orients, sweeping over the newly broken edges and over the shattered slab amid the trees. The companion craft thrusts over the bridge, its jet wash creating great vortices of dust, and hovers at the far end. It adjusts its oscillating beam to cover the bridge’s full width and slowly glides backward toward the lone operator.

  Thompson looks through the triangular beam at the protective cover of thick forest just beyond. His head swivels back and forth, searching for an escape. The cannon is fully primed and charged, begging for release. These two targets would be easy kills, he thinks, just hovering, unsuspecting. But the rest of the swarm would be here in moments. Vast, innumerable…

  The back-sliding craft pivots about, the lamps on its short wings bathing a broad swath of bridge in bright light. He is out of time.

  Thompson runs to the center divider and hurtles over it to the undamaged side. He glide-steps to the opposite rail, keeping the cannon trained on the advancing craft. Peering over the rail, he sights thirty meters down to the tops of the trees.

  Too far to fall.

  The bridge shimmies under the advancing craft’s powerful thrust. Small pieces of asphalt roll into the many sags and holes, disappearing off the sloping edges. Pebble sized pieces pelt him, driven by the hot, dry exhaust.

  Reluctantly, Thompson resets the cannon’s safety and throws the strap over a shoulder. He leans against the railing, testing the resilience. Most of the fasteners have corroded away, giving the thick bar play. It flexes, but not easily.

  He throws one leg over, then the other. Corrosion and dust make the rail difficult to grasp, and his palms become damp inside his gauntlets. He crouches and lowers a leg down the side of the span, searching for foothold. The toe of his boot scrapes away layers of loose scale, sending several sandy chips spinning and flipping to the ground.

  The bracket in front of him breaks, initiating a chain reaction to the left and right in rapid succession. He hooks an arm and hangs on, feeling the pop of each bracket as it detaches. The railing drops several meters and jangles as though trying to shake him free until it settles to a mild quivering.

  Thompson opens his eyes. Pointed conifers and spreading broadleaves sway in the breeze below his dangling feet. To each side, the railing has unzipped from the bridge deck, creating a long and shallow dip. Where he hangs, the railing’s corroded shell has fallen away, revealing a thick, braided cord of synthetic fiber. His eyes roll with relief, appreciation, and acknowledgement of phenomenal luck.

  Gusting breezes swing him close enough to the bridge to catch one of the many cracks in the side. Still hooked on the thick cord, he shoves a flat hand into a crevice and arches his fingers like a wedge. The Gun transfers weight to the wedged hand until he is sure it will support him and he releases the railing. Dangling from the side of the crumbling bridge, he works his way down the diagonal crack until he is standing on the arched rib at the bottom of the bridge’s spandrel wall.

  The craft slides directly overhead, its vibration releasing a hail of broken concrete. Thompson hunches against the bombardment, barely able to maintain his hold as chunks slam and glance off of his armor. Heavy dust swirls around him, filling his eyes, nose and mouth.

  The Gun squeezes his eyes shut and coughs the dust from his lungs. When he reopens his eyes, he watches a curtain of falling dust and debris advance directly below the sliding craft. Its oscillating pink beam barely penetrates the bridge deck, and diffuses in the debris cloud underneath.

  When the curtain passes in front of the aircraft hovering off to the side, it catches the hovering craft’s bright search lights. The curtain becomes dazzlingly bright, reflecting in all directions. Thompson squints against the luminance and sees a black spot on one of the vertical support columns.

  “Argo!”

  Hanging from his knees like a circus performer, Argo droops from a girder within the hollow support column. Beckert dangles like wet laundry beneath him, held by an arm. The pink beam scans across the column many times but never touches them.

  The whine of thrust grows louder and the two aircraft rise out of sight. With a roaring crackle they disappear over the valley edge to the east.

  Thompson exhales fully, unaware he had been holding his breath. He hooks his thumbs under the weapon straps on his shoulders and carefully picks his way over an intact cross member. The sand and irregular fragments covering the cross member make every step treacherous.

  Once on the opposite side, he shuffles and gropes along the cracks until he stands beneath his teammates. With both arms raised and feet planted, Thompson waves his hands at himself. Argo releases his grip, and the Geek drops into Thompson’s ready grasp.

  Argo flexes at the waist and pulls himself upright. Gingerly, the Brick climbs down, favoring his left arm.

  “You ok?” Thompson asks.

  Argo looks at his comrade and nods. “Catching Beckert tweaked my shoulder.” He rotates the sore joint. “I’ll be fine. You?”

  “Unharmed.”

  The men contemplate the sudden stillness. Tree tops waver in the breeze below.

  “Okay, you were right, Argo. We should have stayed under cover.”

  “Wasn’t going to say anything, sir.”

  Thompson looks up the support column then looks down the arching rib to the abutment at the far end. He passes Beckert over to Argo and takes the cannon from his shoulder.

  “On me. We’ll rouse Beckert once we have cover.”

  “Understood.”

  The men carefully walk down the arched rib to the widened haunch where it joins the abutment. New stress cracks split the reinforced concrete. With a trace of sadness, Thompson knows the bridge will not stand much longer.

  They hop off the haunch onto the sloping abutment and dash up the rough surface. Thompson checks the sky and scouts the deck before waving Argo out. Together, they sprint the last few meters to the cover of trees.

  **************************************************************

  Thompson charges on through the brush to an isolated line of hills and races up the slope. Argo follows closely, Thompson’s swept-aside branches slapping against his weathered face. With a snort, he pulls his faceplate half way down.

  The Gun jogs to a stop on the southern peak and sets the cannon down. He jumps into the low branches of a tree and hauls himself up until he can see past the low hills which flatten toward the horizon. At the very extent of his vision, there is a faint glimmer. He pulls his rifle from his shoulder and sights through the scope at the distant sparkle.

  Light from the rising moon reflects off a wide river which winds to an expanse of open water.

  Thompson lowers his rifle, his jaw slack with wonder.

  Argo lays Beckert on the mossy soil and pulls out his labset. His thumbs trigger a formula of neurochemicals and glucose which fills the attached phial. The Brick detaches the phial and plugs it into Beckert’s neck port.

  Several seconds later, Beckert stretches and yawns. He looks up at Argo’s sweaty, grime-smeared face and grimaces.

  “Did I miss something?”

  Argo guffaws. “Yeah, you did. How do you feel?”

  Beckert sits up and smacks his mouth a couple of times. “Not bad. Where are we?”

  Argo points to the tree Thompson climbed. “See for yourself.”

  Beckert rises from the padded soil and climbs up beside his leader. The tall operator is intently focused
on a distant place.

  “See something?” Beckert asks.

  Thompson lowers his rifle and nods, still looking out toward the horizon. He passes the long weapon over and points.

  Beckert lifts the scope to his eye and trains it just below the horizon. Among the tree-covered hills are numerous black scars. He kicks the magnification up a notch and searches the scars. To his surprise, there are ruined structures just outside the edges. The top floors of the structures are blasted away, leaving twisted framing. They seem to reach like bony hands from a grave.

  “Washington?” Beckert asks.

  Thompson nods.

  “Washington.”

  Proof of the Slaughter

  While Thompson and Argo sleep, Beckert perches in a tree and watches the night sky. Displayed in his goggles are over a hundred channels of radio transmissions, all in heavy use. Most are open, un-coded, and the Geek passes through frequencies listening to the alien voices. They are melodic, interspersed with clicks and an occasional cluck, sometimes gruff, as though scolding.

  A thick band on the upper end of the radio spectrum is encrypted. With little else to occupy the two hours of watch, he sets his Human Digital Interface to the task of decoding the transmissions. The encryption is advanced and evades his usual code-breaking heuristics.

  Intrigued by the challenge, Beckert steps back mentally from the individual frequencies and monitors the radio band as a whole. With a grin, he discovers the transmissions are occurring in packets across multiple frequencies. There is redundancy in the packets, as well, and Beckert knows such a transmission would be hard to jam.

  Military, most likely, he thinks.

  There is a network presence among the swarms of search craft, tenuous at this distance, yet available. He would like nothing more than to be hacking in were it not for the major’s order of radio silence. Instead, he sits and mulls over the frequencies, entertaining himself with the alien encryptions.

  A far-off rumble draws the Geek’s attention, and he lifts his gaze to watch two fat bodied aircraft jet north and west into the mountains. Rows of windows in the fuselages tell Beckert the craft are most likely personnel transports.

  Could be bringing in experts to study the pod, he thinks, maybe ground forces to search and track. Maybe both. Should’ve left a booby trap in the pod…bomb, or something.

  Whatever the case, he knows Argo’s big tracks will be easy to follow. His teammates have had a tough slog to get this far and need the rest, but if the Geek could carry them both he would, just to keep moving.

  The timers in Argo’s and Thompson’s visors reach zero and a tone cycles in their ears. The men wake with a start, instantly clutching their weapons. Beckert looks down from his lofty perch and drops to the ground.

  “Morning, Major, Lieutenant,” he says with a salute.

  The Brick and Gun return slow salutes and stretch stiffly.

  “Report,” Thompson demands.

  “Sir, enemy forces continue to mass at our crash sites, including multiple personnel carriers. We should expect a coordinated air and ground search.”

  Thompson checks over his rifle as he listens. “What else?”

  “Lots of radio talk, sir.”

  “What kind?”

  “Sir?”

  “Loud and excited? Calm and even?”

  “Calm and even, sir. But several frequencies are heavily coded. I wasn’t able to listen in on those.”

  “Can you break in?” Argo asks.

  “Working on it, Lieutenant.”

  “Good man.” Thompson pats Beckert on the back. “How do you feel?”

  “Very good, Major. Anxious to get going, though.”

  “We will. Nutrition interval first. Then clear carbon traps. Five minutes.”

  Argo distributes the rations and the team chews in silence. Beckert collects the wrappers.

  Thompson and Argo unlatch catches in their lower back plating and remove a thin, rectangular cup with a short tab on one side. Holding each cup by the tab, they turn it upside down and knock it against a convenient stone. Several grams of compressed, dark cake crumble out like damp espresso grounds. The men puff away the remaining particles.

  Beckert looks on with amused surprise. “That’s some old gear, there.” He reaches to a point on his lower spine and hooks a finger under a notch. He pulls on the notch and a short tray slides out, divided by multiple slats. A comb-like gate drops onto the slats and when Beckert pushes the tray back in, the crumbly debris is scraped out. He checks his pistols and stands patiently while Argo and Thompson latch up their armor.

  “Hear that, Major?” Argo asks with a sideways glance. “The kid just called you old.”

  “I am. But you, Brick, you’re ancient.” The Gun grips his rifle and looks out toward the eastern horizon. “Right, let’s move. Geek, take point.”

  “Aye, sir!” The young Geek dashes down hill into the brush. Thompson is about to follow when he feels Argo’s hand grip his shoulder.

  “Hold on,” the big man says. Once he is sure Beckert is out of earshot, he continues. “Those planes at the bridge…They had us, but then they just left. It’s been bothering me.”

  “We were lucky.”

  Argo shakes his head skeptically. “The moment we were in the open, they came running. Something spotted us, I know it.”

  “If they saw us, why did they leave?”

  “That’s what’s bothering me.”

  “Maybe they don’t know what they’re looking for.” Thompson thinks for a moment. “Keep on it, but for now, we stick with what we know. C’mon, we need to go.”

  Argo nods and the operators charge after Beckert into the brush.

  Gently rolling hills flatten into waterlogged marshes. A major east-flowing river to the south saturates the land, creating a sprawling terrain of irregular lakes and braided streams. The plant life forms dense nets which snag the operators in their muddy slog and grant the team an all-natural camouflage as the leaves, vines, and twigs catch in their armor. Clouds of gnats swarm in their faces, trying to pour into their nostrils. Biting flies assault their cheeks.

  Argo detects higher-than-usual radiation, of a similar nature to the black scar they passed in Frederick. Though not alarming, the increase remains constant for several kilometers. It tells him that beneath his feet, under meters of silted muck, is another chunk of blasted glass—Gaithersburg, most likely.

  The terrain rises again, diverting the river and its floodplain to the south. Grateful for the respite, the team treks up into firmer, drier ground.

  Far to Beckert’s left, a ledge juts from the gentle slope. He nearly dismisses it when the geometry makes him look again. The ledge is rounded by weathering and mostly buried, but it is clearly the corner of something larger. He breaks from his path and heads straight to it.

  Patches of moss cling to its sides along lengthy cracks. Sandy debris litters the ground around it, and rust stains pour out from circular cavities. Beckert’s breath quickens. One hand reaches out and touches the surface to make sure it is no illusion. Cautiously, he traces a path to the other side of the corner, still marveling.

  “What did you find, Sergeant?”

  Beckert spins to see Thompson standing behind him. “Something man-made, I think.”

  Argo back-steps toward the others, keeping guard behind them. His large head swivels for a quick glance. “Looks like a foundation’s cornerstone. Should we check it out?”

  “No,” Thompson says at last. “Not enough left to warrant a search. Keep moving.”

  Beckert lingers, ensnared by fascination. Argo cuffs him with an open hand.

  “Major gave you an order.”

  Beckert’s cheeks redden with embarrassment, and he dashes ahead.

  Daylight wanes, bringing longer shadows. A strong sea breeze carries a salty smell through the thinning trees and low scrub. The ground is coarse and large pieces of rubble protrude from the irradiated dark soil. On Argo’s recommendation, all three seal up the
ir faceplates.

  At the top of the next hill, the tree line ends abruptly. They crouch instinctively and survey a very different place from what they expected.

  The Colonist archives showed Washington many kilometers inland, built between the banks of the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers. The center of the city was oldest with numerous stone structures erected by hard labor. More modern buildings stood at the edge of the old city, forming concentric rings of high rise dwellings and office spaces. Super highways and underground/elevated rail systems threaded in from all directions, permitting the daily commute of millions from their suburban homes. This city was a living organism with a pulse and breath, driven by each of its inhabitants.