Hell's Faire lota-4 Page 11

  “And it was one,” Tommy said. “An antimatter generator at a guess.” He pulled a last bit of concrete away and put his palm on the lock of the plasteel door, which obediently opened.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mosovich muttered, looking into the tunnel. The walls were gray plasteel; from the exterior view they were at least six inches thick, which about equalled the armor of a space cruiser. The cache was about eight meters deep by four wide and the the interior was filled from floor to ceiling with Indowy storage boxes. Most of them were marked with the complex woven pattern, resembling a Celtic brooch, that indicated antimatter containment systems. There was enough raw antimatter in the cache to wipe out Georgia.

  “Woo,” Mueller whistled. “No wonder this thing is armored like a fortress.”

  “Are those all ammunition?” Cally asked quietly.

  “Yep,” Tommy said, yanking the top box down and opening it up. “This here is the motherlode; standard grav-gun ammo with antimatter teardrop initiators. If one of these went up, there wouldn’t be any more mountain.” He looked at the thousands of reloads in the box and shook his head. “McEvoy, get your ass over here and let’s find out what we’ve got.”

  * * *

  The cache had been partially emptied into the outer cave and the materials sorted out by order of preference. First priority were the three antimatter power packs. Each was rated to resupply one company of ACS for four full days of use in standard terrain. Excepting the power to drive the guns, they should last the remaining suits about six days in the current conditions.

  Second priority was standard rifle ammunition. This was “the good stuff,” Indowy manufacture complete with their own antimatter power system on each round, which meant the suits wouldn’t have to draw power to run the guns.

  Last priority was Reaper ammunition. The Reapers were flat out but, like the MetalStorms, they ran through enormous quantities of material in firing.

  Tommy determined that with clamps the three suits could carry all three of the antimatter packs (about the size of a large suitcase, mostly due to the armoring) and a couple of ammunition packs each. The unarmored humans could probably carry one ammo pack apiece for a total of twenty. He decided to make it eighteen standard packs and two of the Reaper packs, both flechettes.

  In addition there was one oversized box that indicated a weapon. He looked at it and smiled inside his suit.

  “W… AID?” he said.

  “Yes, Tommy?” the AID answered in Wendy’s voice.

  “Can you… delete some of the information about this cache? Or modify the information about what we’re going to carry?”

  “I can,” the AID answered. “But I’ve already uploaded the data.”

  Tommy frowned and worked his face in the gel. “Okay, correct your inventory of what we’re carrying. I don’t want this item on the inventory. Substitute a case of Reaper ammunition.”

  “Very well, Tommy,” the AID replied sweetly. “Care to tell me why?”

  “Because I don’t want the Posleen to know that we’re carrying it back,” he grinned, ferally. “And make sure that the other AIDs don’t show it.”

  “I’ll try,” the AID said.

  “McEvoy, I’ve got a special job for you,” Sunday said…

  * * *

  “Okay,” the lieutenant finally said, “McEvoy, you and Pickersgill move the packs to the top of the hill. Just clamp them together in a chain and haul them up.”

  He turned to the refugee group as the two troopers got to work and raised his hands. “I need each of the adults to carry a pack.”

  “We can do that,” Elgars replied. “Where?”

  “It’s going to be a bit of a hump,” Sunday admitted. “We need to get them across the valley and up the side of Lookout Mountain.” He generated a map and put a pinpoint on the spot.

  “I take it you’re not talking about the one in Tennessee,” Shari said sharply.

  “No, it’s a pretty common name for mountains,” Tommy replied, equanimably. “You’re uncomfortable leaving the kids?”

  “Very,” Shari said. “I didn’t pull them out of a madhouse then drag them across the mountains just to have them killed by some passing Posleen.”

  “Shari, they’d have to get through me,” Cally said. “I’m strong, but not strong enough to carry one of those boxes. So I’ll be staying.” She reached down and tapped Billy on the shoulder and grinned. “And Billy will be here to protect me.”

  The boy shook his head and grinned back. He had developed a severe speech blockage right after the first Posleen landing way back in Fredericksburg. Lately, it had started to clear up. But he still didn’t talk if he didn’t have to.

  “I’m glad that you’ll be here, but…”

  “Shari,” Wendy interrupted. “I was there the whole time, too. I don’t want anything to happen to the kids, either. But if I had the choice of leaving you or leaving Cally…”

  “You’d leave Cally,” Shari said. “I understand that. But I don’t think Cally is enough. What if the Posleen do come. I want Mueller or Mosovich to stay.”

  “Ma’am, I understand,” Tommy said. “But we need to get this stuff to the battalion. And we need to do it as soon as possible.” He stepped aside as the line of gray boxes started snaking out of the cave, dropping a load of wet soil onto the ledge outside the entrance. “And we need all that we can get; there are a sh… a bunch of Posleen to kill.” He paused and waved his hands around wildly. “If we don’t stop them, it doesn’t matter what cave you hide in, they’ll still come…”

  “Hiding was good enough in Fredericksburg,” Shari said.

  “Only because the ACS came along and dragged us out,” Wendy corrected. “The same unit, come to think of it, that’s in the Gap.”

  “And if that don’t beat all for coincidence,” Mueller said with a grin. “Shari… we can’t stay. And you’re not going to be a hell of an addition to having Cally here. We need you to carry boxes and quit fighting it.”

  She sighed and looked at the children. They had started to move around and she and Wendy had gotten them fed. But even with children’s usual ability to bounce back they weren’t going to be up to another trip real soon.

  “Okay, I’ll quit complaining,” she said, looking at Tommy. “But if one hair on their heads is harmed…”

  “It won’t be,” Cally said, quietly. “I’ll make sure of that Shari. I promise.”

  “I’ve had lots of promises in my life.” The woman sighed again. “I know you’ll try. That’s not the same thing as succeeding.”

  “And victory doesn’t always mean you survive,” Cally said with a shrug. “I’ll get it done.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rabun Gap, GA, United States of America, Sol III

  1453 EDT Monday September 28, 2009 AD

  Here’s health to you and to our Corps

  Which we are proud to serve;

  In many a strife we’ve fought for life

  And never lost our nerve;

  If the Army and the Navy

  Ever look on Heaven’s scenes;

  They will find the streets are guarded by

  UNITED STATES MARINES.

  — Marine Hymn

  Gunny Pappas slid into the fighting position and looked around. The front of the position was partially dug away where a lucky HVM round had taken out the trooper who had dug the pit. The trooper’s armor was somewhere to the rear, piled into a hole with the rest of the luckless troopers who had died this day.

  Pappas didn’t think he’d make it to the pit.

  “Battalion, mass fire.”

  The Posleen were still pouring through the narrow gap but at a slower pace and the battalion had reduced fire to conserve ammunition and power. But now every rifle on the line opened up with a full weight of fire, filling the narrow pass with lines of silver.

  The Posleen had already built a wall of their dead, towering man high in places, over which they struggled to get to grips with the awful suits. They had
also been nibbling at it from behind, dragging out functioning weapons and tearing out bits of flesh to deliver to the waiting forces as rations. Now they quit in those efforts as it became obvious something was happening and every Posleen in reach began scrambling over the mound, trying to drive forward to the line of suits.

  The ACS was having none of it. The lines of silver picked out the God Kings and then swept from side to side across their assigned sectors, wiping the line from the top of the mound and adding to it as the dismembered bodies of the aliens scattered to lie amongst their brethren.

  As the assault faltered again, Pappas heard the second command.

  “Mobile personnel, retreat and regroup.”

  Pappas slid another magazine in his weapon and continued fire as the green dots of the retreating group moved backward on the tactical schematic. They moved fast, leaping out of their holes and running in quick, low leaps to the rear. But despite that, and despite the fire of the fifteen troopers still remaining on the line, he saw one suit go red. Then two, five. That was the last, though, as the remainder of the battalion made it around the curve of the mountain and disappeared off his screen.

  The Posleen had not been idle. The forces backed up behind the wall of flesh, at the first cries that the suits were retreating, redoubled their efforts to close with the battalion, scrambling over the mound and through the lower patches.

  They were met with fire but not enough. Despite the interlocking fires of the remaining suits, some of the Posleen drove forward, then more and more.

  “Hmm, da dum,” Pappas muttered, pulling another magazine out and slipping it into the well as the empty dropped out. “If the Army and the Navy, ever look on heaven’s scene…” The Posleen were pushing forward hard; a solid block of them were across the wall of bodies. Most of them had dispensed with shotguns and railguns and missile launchers and were dragging out their boma blades even as the fire of the remaining suits piled up windrows of bodies. But each windrow was closer and closer. Fifty meters, thirty, ten, five.

  “If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven’s scene,” he half hummed, half sang as the first normal reached his hole. He blew it apart with a blast of silver fire, but there was another and then another behind it, all around, and his magazine dropped out. “…they will find the streets are guarded, by United States Marines.”

  * * *

  Tommy had managed to get Wendy aside for a moment as the two Reapers assembled the boxes on the top of the hill. It had required, among other things, climbing around the shoulder of the ridge. But with the preparations to carry the gear over to Black Rock Mountain well underway, he could take a moment of private time.

  He ended up carrying Wendy the last few meters as the side of the mountain got vertical; with ample power he could apply his full anti-grav system and simply fly around the precipice.

  “Now that was exciting,” she said as they landed on a relatively flat patch. It was a narrow ledge, mostly granite with some moss and twisted saplings growing out of the rocks. Under the rising moon it was an inhospitable and airy place that seemed to speak of sylphs and elementals, a place where lichen struggled to grab a gray foothold.

  “So, Superman, what’s the big secret?”

  “Not a secret, really,” he said, taking off his helmet so he could see her with his own eyes. “It’s just… we don’t have much more time.” He paused and looked to the south. There was a strong, cold breeze from the north and their aerie was exposed to it, but he still could hear occasional sounds from the Gap where the Posleen hordes were pouring through. “When we go back… there’s not going to be much we can really do. Just… dig in and hold on. And there’s not anything really coming that’s going to get here…”

  “So you’re saying that when you go, you’re not coming back?” Wendy asked pushing her hair back behind her ear. The wind was hitting the ledge and being deflected upwards. The zephyrs yanked her blond hair back out from where she had futilely tucked it and streamed it out and upwards.

  “I… I think so, sweet.” Tommy toggled on a white light and looked her in the eye. Her eyes were a deep, magnetic blue. It had been so long he’d almost forgotten how blue. “It’s been bad before. And there was always the chance of catching a round. But this time…”

  “So you brought me here to tell me you’re going to leave me?” she asked, quietly, stroking his face again. The suit undergel took care of all personal hygiene needs, including depilation. His chin was normally rough with a beard; he had to shave twice a day. But under the care of the suit it was as smooth as a baby’s.

  “Maybe, a little,” he answered. “And… you know we’re in a rush. We don’t have much time. But…”

  “Tommy?” she said, pulling her shirt over her head and starting to undo her bra. “Shut up and get that goddamned armor off.”

  * * *

  Mosovich tried not to smile as the lieutenant and his “lady” joined them on the hilltop; if he’d had the opportunity he probably would have taken it as well.

  “Well, Lieutenant, nice to see you back,” Mueller said with a chuckle.

  Tommy had the grace to look a bit shamefaced but Wendy just smiled languidly. “I guess it’s time to port and carry, huh? I hope we can rig it so it doesn’t hit my bruises.”

  Mueller coughed as Shari chuckled wickedly. “That sounds like a self-inflicted wound to me.”

  “Oh, it took two,” Wendy said with a wink.

  “If we’re ready to leave,” Sunday said, looking at the boxes, then at McEvoy. “Time to load up.”

  He lifted one of the boxes onto the side of the Reaper’s suit and locked it in place with a gravity clamp, then added one to the other side. It took a moment to figure out but he finally found a place to add a third, and that seemed about the maximum that would fit. He did the same with Pickersgill then had them load him up with one of the power packs, an ammo box and the weapons box, now covered in cloth. Finally the three suits were ready, looking very much like some odd species of worm that preferred to camouflage itself in boxes.

  With difficulty Tommy and the Reapers helped the unarmored group to each load up a box. The cases were heavy, running nearly a hundred and fifty pounds, and didn’t have carrying straps. But by strapping them onto empty rucksack frames they finally got them on their backs. They were terribly unwieldy, but marginally portable.

  “Let’s go,” Elgars said, leaning forward to try to get the box balanced.

  “Take care of the kids,” Shari said, shifting the weight to try to get it comfortable. But, really, there was no way to do that; she could feel the straps cutting into her back, and her legs already felt wobbly.

  “I will,” Cally said, looking over at Wendy and Tommy. “You guys take care, okay?”

  “We will,” Mosovich said. “Keep your head down.”

  “Will do.”

  Sunday looked around at the group, then at Elgars. “Captain, if you’re ready.”

  “Cally, get back to the cache,” Elgars said. “Let’s move out.”

  With that she took a step down the trail, placing her feet carefully. One slip with these damned boxes on their backs and they’d end up in a broken pile of bones.

  “I remember filling this out on my list of future employment,” Mosovich said, shifting the weight again and trying to move his AIW into a better position.

  “What’s that?” Mueller asked. Of all the group he was the one who seemed the least bothered by the weight.

  “Sherpa,” the sergeant major said with a laugh. “I always wanted to tote somebody else’s luggage over hill and dale.”

  “You know, there’s got to be a better way to run a war,” Mueller said.

  * * *

  Dr. Miguel “Mickey” Castanuelo was a fanatic.

  Miguel A. Castanuelo had first seen the United States from the bow of a pitching, overloaded boat. And if there was anything more lovely than that faint shred of land of the horizon, it was the Coast Guard cutter that had appeared just as it seemed th
e leaky boat was finally going to sink.

  The boat was one of the last “official” refugee boats from Castro’s Cuba; within a month all transport would be forbidden. Miguel’s father, Jose Castanuelo, was a medical doctor who was the victim of one of the favorite post-revolution games: catch the Batistist.

  Dr. Jose Castanuelo had not been involved in the Batista government. But when a colleague fingered him as a Batistist, he knew it was only a matter of time until he would be incarcerated in a “reeducation camp.” Instead, he took his family out on a rickety boat towards freedom.

  However, a degree of doctoral medicine in Cuba was nothing more than an interesting piece of paper in the United States. Jose never let that stop him, though. He found a sponsoring family in Atlanta, Georgia, and moved his family there. Then he and his wife, who was from a prominent family and had never before known a day of real work in her life, found jobs in a restaurant. He went to night school at Georgia State University and then Emory while his children, though donations from the parish, attended first Christ the King Elementary School and then Pope Pius X High School.

  In time, Jose graduated from Emory (cum laude) in a pre-med track and entered medical school. After the first year his professors determined that what they had in their midst was not a student, but a very knowledgeable colleague who was stuck in a bureaucratic nightmare. The rest of med school was remarkably smooth. He attained his (second) doctor of medicine degree, stayed at Emory and eventually became a full professor. His wife, in the meantime, had opened a prominent and successful Cuban restaurant. Their combined income had finally caught back up to what they had lost nearly ten years before.