ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2) (28 page)

Assuming we could get the High-Value within the metal circles before the Phant seeped out.

Glancing toward the cockpit area, past the seated outlines of the pilot and copilot, I was able to discern a portion of the city through the main window. The outermost buildings loomed about two klicks away, and were coming on fast. The place looked like a forest whose trees of steel and glass struggled to grow out of the black, bulbous disease that encased them.

It was a city that once teemed with life. A city where people had laughed and cried and walked the streets in safety, where children had played, adults had shopped, and robots had fulfilled humankind’s every need.

A city that was now a war zone, reduced to a shadow of what it once was by an alien invader.

One million people lost.

This had been humanity’s moon.

Humanity’s colony.

And the invaders had come and blatantly taken it from us.

Humanity wouldn’t stand for it.

We couldn’t.

We’d blast this alien invader from our side of the galaxy and send it back to where it belonged.

Someday.

Maybe today was the first step in achieving that goal.

Maybe today would change everything.

I sincerely hoped so.

“Launch HS3s,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “And moderate speed.” “Launching HS3s and moderating speed,” Mordecai, our pilot, answered.

I heard the swoosh as rockets discharged from underneath the fuselage, and I saw the twin streaks of booster rockets pull ahead, carrying the drone payload to the city.

I quickly lost sight of both objects, but I knew six HS3 scouts would eject from each rocket a short way from the city, leaving the spent shells to fall harmlessly to the ground.

“This is a hot drop, people,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “I don’t care how many LIDAR obfuscators and background rad maskers this puppy is throwing out. There are goddamn alien beings out there, using our own goddamn tech against us, and I want you on the highest goddamn possible state of goddamn alert. Understood?”

“Understood, sir!”

“Good,” he said grimly. He glanced down the line. “TJ, anything to report from the HS3s yet?”

“HS3s have separated from the boosters,” TJ, our lead drone operator, said. The tanned Italian must have been feeling a bit handicapped without his usual complement of support robots. All they’d given him this time around were a dozen HS3s. Though I guess he was lucky, because our other drone operator, Bender, didn’t get any. “The insert site at the northeastern edge of the city seems clear. Should I initiate stage two?”

“That’s a negative,” the Chief said. “I want the drones to take up an overwatch position on the insert site. First sign of trouble, we turn back. If things turn sour during the insert, and the SKs want to stay and get themselves blown out of the sky, that’s up to them.”

“Moving HS3s into 360-degree overwatch position,” TJ said.

Still flying low, the MDV throttled down. Through the portal opposite me I watched the SK shuttle match our speed.

“TJ?” the Chief said. “Update me.”

“All clear,” TJ answered. “So far.”

A three-story building filled the portal, blotting out my view. The MDV’s right wing hovered in line with the second-story windows.

The craft slowed further, and started to descend.

“Prepare to deploy,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “I want a defensive perimeter. Cigar shape. Rage and Cyclone, stay aboard until I give the order.”

The compartment shook as the MDV touched down.

The down ramp folded open.

My shoulder and waist latches clicked aside.

“Deploy, deploy, deploy!” Chief Bourbonjack said.

Tahoe and I watched as the platoon moved out at a crouch, each man staying close to his assigned “buddy.”

Tense moments ticked past. On my helmet HUD, the green dots of the platoon assumed a cigar shape around the MDV. There were no other targets, and everything seemed good. Even so, Tahoe and I exchanged a worried glance. The waiting was always agonizingly long when you stayed behind.

I fingered the three-meter-long cord slung to the shoulder opposite my rifle strap. When it came time for jetpack portage, I’d use that cord to secure myself to the glass container. Tahoe carried a similar cord. For now though, we’d just use our gloves.

“Rage and Cyclone, bring the package.”

I looped my gloved fingers around a lower handhold on the left side of the glass container, while Tahoe took the right. We lifted in unison. As usual, we’d upticked the muscular strength of our suits to the max before turning off our Implants, so porting the half-tonne container was really no worse than ATLAS PT in training. Though it was still heavy, and without Tahoe’s aid I would’ve never hoisted it from the ground.

We hurried down the ramp at a crouch, and as soon as we stepped onto the black rock that coated the streets, we lowered the container.

I dropped to one knee and slid the strap of the sniper rifle from my shoulder. My jumpsuit, like everyone else’s, had darkened to match the black surface below. Through the sniper scope, I scanned the streets and alleyways for any sign of movement.

Beside me, Tahoe did the same thing. He carried a standard-issue rifle—his porter role denied him the usual bulky heavy gun.

Shangde City reminded me a little of my home country, because the buildings weren’t overly tall, and there was only one level of road system, unlike, say, New Chicago, where the multilevel roadways used the heaven-reaching skyscrapers as supports. I guessed with so much room to spare, the city planners didn’t have any real need to build upward, and outward worked just fine. Unfortunately, that only increased the level of urban sprawl we’d have to navigate on the way to the High-Value.

One thing kind of ruined the whole “home country” reminiscence for me, and that was the bulbous black shells that encased the lower halves of most buildings. Those shells had an uncanny resemblance to anthills caking the bases of trees, replete with multiple access holes. The only thing missing were the ants. Giant-sized.

There was no sign of alien life. Or any life at all, for that matter. The only noise was the hum of the MDV behind us, waiting for liftoff confirmation.

The SK platoon was deployed behind the opposite building, according to the blue dots on the HUD map.

Blue was an interesting choice of color for them. Normally friendlies were green, enemies red, and things like waypoints and payloads blue. In the previous battle, the SKs had been tagged as green, but this time we’d labeled them as payloads: not enemies, but not entirely friendlies, either. By tagging them blue, we’d left open the ability to fire on them without having to issue a “disable friendly fire” command. This would spare us precious seconds, potentially saving our lives if the SKs reneged on their part of the bargain.

Of course, both platoons had tagged the ATLAS mechs and other war machines to automatically appear as enemy combatants, regardless of whether those machines were of SK, UC, or FI make. Any robot other than the High-Value Target and our own HS3s was considered fair game.

“Waypoint Boston achieved,” Chief Bourbonjack said over the comm. “We have ourselves a successful insert. Golden Arrow, you are cleared for takeoff.”

The MDV launched, and I cringed at the engine roar. I glanced at the black bulbs caking the buildings, waiting for the crab hordes to erupt from the many holes.

But none came.

Returning the same way it had come, the MDV passed low overhead, flying out onto the plains where it would wait for our return signal. The Lieutenant Commander had decided against leaving the insert crafts in the city proper, in case a roving band of ATLAS mechs or Centurions stumbled on it. Or in case the aforementioned crab hordes decided to emerge while we were gone.

The SK shuttle left the cover of the three-story apartment building beside us and joined our MDV in retreat.

“Status, Snakeoil?” the Chief said.

“Golden Arrow is making toward the safe harbor site one klick away,” Snakeoil said. “Signal reception is extremely poor. We’ll probably lose contact as soon as we leave this spot. Meaning we’ll have to return to this exact location if we want to call for extract. That or distribute some HS3s behind us as we go, to function as network repeaters, extending the range.”

The Chief pursed his lips. “Once we move out, I’d rather keep the HS3s deployed ahead of us in a scouting role.”

Snakeoil nodded. “Then better get any last-minute requests to the LC in now, sir.”

“Fair enough,” the Chief said. He glanced at TJ. “Raptor status?”

TJ shrugged. “Not reading a thing from them. They’re flying too high . . . too much interference.”

The Chief frowned. “I’ll ask the LC to lower them.” To Snakeoil: “What’s the air like?”

“Breathable, sir,” Snakeoil said. “Minimal toxins.”

“Then open up your face masks.”

We did, then lowered the aReal visors built into our helmets.

“Smells like balls out here,” Bender said.

I put in the obligatory jibe. “Your favorite smell.”

Bender shot me a sarcastic grin. “Only yours, baby.”

“The LC has refused my request to reposition the Raptors,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “Any lower, and they’ll be within range of the air defenses. Looks like we’re on our own for now, boys. Maybe we’ll have better reception when we get airborne.”

It didn’t really matter all that much as far as I was concerned, because as mentioned in the briefing, we weren’t authorized to call in any air strikes right now anyway—the Brass didn’t want to risk damage to the Artificial.

“Facehopper, get us in sight of Dragon,” Chief Bourbonjack said. That was the callsign of the SK platoon deployed with us.

“On my order, people, take the side street indicated on your six and rendezvous at the waypoint,” Facehopper said.

I zoomed in on my overhead map and saw the flashing blue dot of the waypoint Facehopper had just added.

“On me.” Facehopper dashed into the side street. The rest of the platoon followed at a crouch.

Tahoe and I hoisted the glass chamber by the handles and set off. The two of us had to run in unison, but that was something we had trained at. The long, looping nylon cords slung over our shoulders swayed with each step.

I turned onto the designated side street. The black, bloated substance plastering the walls of the buildings on either flank made it feel like we were traveling deeper into some sort of alien nest.

Which we were, of course.

The platoon halted at the far end of the street, and we crouched against the black gum caking the building.

Tahoe and I set down our load.

“Dragon in sight,” Facehopper said.

I checked the map. The blue dots indicated that Dragon platoon resided across the street in an alleyway, but I didn’t actually see any of them with my own eyes.

“TJ, bring the HS3s around and sweep the area,” Chief Bourbonjack said.

“Bringing HS3s around and sweeping the area,” TJ repeated.

One of the drones flew past and proceeded down the lane. Across from us, the SK equivalent of an HS3 drone emerged from an alleyway and followed a similar path.

I zoomed in on my aReal. Yes, now I saw the SK platoon. They were huddled against the black plaster in the alleyway opposite ours. Their jumpsuits had changed coloration to match the surface, making them difficult to discern.

I zoomed in closer, and realized the foremost soldiers were kneeling, and had their sniper rifles trained on us.

Fret had apparently made the same realization as I had, because he said, “Uh, their rifles are aimed at us, you know that, right?”

“I have them in my scope too, don’t you worry,” Trace said. Peering into his rifle sight, he was crouched on one knee near the edge of our alley.

“As do I,” Ghost said.

I lifted my own sniper rifle, and positioned myself so that I got a bead on one of the SK snipers. “Me too.”

The unpleasant memory of my last encounter with a company of SKs surfaced, as I’m sure it did in the minds of my platoon brothers, and the tension in the air became almost palpable.

It felt like an SK bullet might come in any second and tear right through my scope, into my eye.

“Who aimed first?” Bender said.

“They did,” Trace said.

“It doesn’t matter who aimed first,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “Stand down.”

Trace and Ghost hesitated, as did I.

“Stand down,” the Chief repeated. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”

Still we hesitated. Trace finally lowered his rifle, followed by Ghost and me. I was convinced we were going to be riddled with armor-piercing rounds any second.

No bullets came.

I zoomed in on my aReal and watched the SK snipers lower their weapons.

The tension in the air eased somewhat.

“That was close,” Fret said.

“Stay on your toes, boys,” Chief Bourbonjack said, his voice dark. “It’s not over yet.”

“HS3s report all clear,” TJ said. “Other than Dragon, we’re all alone out here.”

Chief Bourbonjack nodded. “Initiate stage two.”

“Initiating stage two. Deploying HS3s for High-Value Target sweep.”

I watched the green dots of the drones fan out across the HUD map. The SKs presumably had their own HS3 drones sweeping the area, but none of theirs showed up on the map.

The HS3s started winking out as they traveled beyond the reduced signal range imposed by the EM interference of the alien race. Even so, I knew the drones would continue to fly down the streets, searching for the signature of our target: the possessed SK Artificial.

All Artificials and robots contained a built-in wireless adhoc network node and a unique MAC address associated with that node. Because of the aforementioned interference, the already weak range of the node would be reduced to around thirty meters. So, assuming the Artificial hadn’t turned off its network node, and hadn’t spoofed the address to create a decoy, eventually the HS3s would find a match.

Eventually was the key word.

All we could really do now was settle in and wait.

Our specialty.

“Feels almost like we should cross the street and introduce ourselves to the SKs or something,” Bomb said.