Outlanders 24 Equinox Zero, page 1
Chapter 1
The metal monster roared, squealed, clanked and swerved as if in a panic. The pebble-strewed sand of the California coastline spumed from behind the track treads in double rooster tails.
Sitting in the caged gunner's saddle on one side of the revolving coaxial post, Chaffee glanced out of the topside turret bubble toward their back trail. He reflected dourly that if there were a convoy rolling behind the Sandcat, the drivers of the wags would be digging bucketfuls of grit out of their teeth for the next couple of days. But since he had allowed Bertram to get behind the wheel, he was in no position to complain about his piloting.
The vehicle that carried Chaffee was known by assorted names: Fast Attack Vehicle, Armored Personnel Carrier or simply a wag—but was most often referred to as a Sandcat. Built to serve as an FAV rather than a means of long-distance ground transportation, the vehicle's flat, retractable tracks supported a lowslung, blunt-lined chassis. The armored topside gun turret held a pair of USMG-73 heavy machine guns.
The Cat's armor was composed of a ceramic armaglass bond, which shielded against both intense and ambient radiation. The turret in which Chaffee was seated appeared to be a transparent half dome, but at the touch of a button microcircuitry would engage, feeding an electric impulse to the chemically treated armaglass bubble. It would instantly become opaque when exposed to energy-based weapons, such as particle beam emitters,not that there was much chance of encountering such weapons. Like most everything else used by the Magistrate Divisions, the Sandcat was based on predark tech and had been built to participate in a ground war that was never fought.
Chaffee unconsciously shifted his weight in the gunner's saddle to compensate for the incessant swaying of the vehicle. He was slightly built for a Mag, with an over-large head, narrow shoulders and long, spindly legs. His helmet concealed his grizzled, prematurely gray hair. He kept it cropped to little more than stubble in an attempt to hide the gray, but everyone in the division knew he was getting old;too old to be leading dark-territory probes like this one.
The controlled roar of the 750-horsepower engine sounded uncomfortably loud, even through the polystyrene lining of Chaffee's helmet, but he managed to focus past it. The rhythm and noises of his mechanical environment had long since become part of the substance of his life as a patrol commander in the Snakefish Magistrate Division. It wasn't much different than growing accustomed to the rolling of the Cific Ocean, off to the Sandcat's right, which fostered sea legs.
He looked out the turret blister to the Cat's left. A solid forest wall loomed, the spaces between the tree trunks dim and shadowy. The woods looked like the haunted forests he had heard stories about as a child, full of mystery, gloom and demons. Chaffee was glad the Sandcat, even with its armor and armament, wasn't rolling through that black wood; not that the view on the vehicle's right was much more comforting.
The black waters of the Cific glimmered with the ghostly reflections of the full moon, gleaming like a polished medal high in the cloudless sky. The pebbled beach ahead of the Cat gleamed wetly under the moonlight, which allowed the pilot to dispense with the headlights.
The glistening pebbles skirted the edge of the sea and led to a crowded labyrinth of black rotting timbers half a klick ahead. The spectral moonlight at the ancient marina look even more haunted than the woods. The place had probably been in poor condition even before the skydark of two centuries earlier. Chaffee knew that most of the open boathouses cradled partly submerged and barnacle-covered wrecks from those days.
Chaffee looked down at his squad, their faces cast into eerie shadow by the dimly glowing red bulbs on the bulkheads. The Sandcat's interior comfortably held four people. At the front of the compartment, right beneath the canopy, were the pilot's and copilot's chairs. In the rear, a double row of three jump seats faced each other. Four Magistrates in full armor stared at one another, anxious for the three-hour journey from the barony to end one way or the other, either with action or ennui.
Chaffee was anxious, too, but for a variety of reasons. His years as a bard-contact Mag had taught him to hate forestalling pre-emptive action. He had always silently cursed the long hours of preparing for a mission, the seemingly endless briefings and strategy sessions that burned the details of the operation into his memory. The other five members of his team were recently badged recruits, and though they may have been superbly conditioned by a constant regimen of merciless training, they lacked the regimen of even more merciless experience. That was the main reason he had chosen them for the mission.
"Coming up on the cove, sir!" Bertram announced from the pilot's seat. He spoke very loudly, far more than he needed to be heard over the engine noise.
Chaffee repressed a smirk at the young man's nervous exuberance. It was a silly idea, he reflected, for the division administrator to authorize such an important mission with such a cherry crew. Still it pleased the forty-five-year-old Magistrate in a very personal way to know that he could still charm, persuade and hoodwink his superiors. But after the siege of Cobaltville and the battle of Area 51, there were few Mags with his seniority remaining in Snakefish.
"Ease off on the throttle," Chaffee called down. "No sense in giving them advance notice of our arrival."
Bertram obediently lessened the pressure of his foot on the accelerator and downshifted. The engine roar became a muted growl. Bertram, like Daley, Abel, Saxton and Quinones, wore the black polycarbonate body armor. The lightweight exoskeletons fit snugly over undersheathings made of Kevlar weave Small, disk-shaped badges of office were emblazoned on the arching left pectoral, depicting stylized balanced scales of justice superimposed over nine-spoked wheels. The badges symbolized the Magistrate's oath to keep the wheels of justice turning in the nine villes.
Like the armor, their helmets were made of black polycarbonate and fitted over the upper half and back of his head, leaving exposed only a portion of the mouth and chin. The red-tinted visors were composed of electrochemical polymers and connected to a passive night sight that intensified ambient light to permit one-color night vision.
"Sir, do you really think we'll catch Breeze and his smuggler crew this time?" Bertram said.
"I'm sure of it," Chaffee responded. "Double check each other, make damn sure you've got all your seals closed and helmets secured."
"Yes, sir." Bertram and the other Mags hammered one another on the shoulders to make sure the pieces of the armor were fully sealed and tested the locking guards of their helmets.
Chaffee resettled the small headset under his own helmet's liner as a sudden hissing of static filled his left ear.
"Breeze One-Niner to Cat Walk One," a cultured male voice spoke softly.
Chaffee kept his face immobile as the voice said,
"We see your approach. We're all prepped for the surprise party."
Chaffee didn't respond. The owner of the cultured voice hadn't expected him to say anything, as per their plan. He kept the radio frequency open and Chaffee had to focus through the static, just as he had learned to do with the distraction of the engine rumble.
Climbing down from the turret, Chaffee tapped Bertram on the shoulder and ordered, "Stop us here. Kill the engine."
Bertram obediently downshifted. His hands were firm and quick on the braking lever, and he brought the Cat to a complete halt with scarcely a squeal of metal on metal. Chaffee could tell by the set of his lips he didn't care for the place they'd stopped in— reeds grew high and there were dense stands of sycamore trees nearby, the trunks snarled with undergrowth. The place was perfect for an ambush.
Chaffee reached over and unlatched the gull-wing door, swinging it up and out. Bertram stiffened as Chaffee slid over the copilot's seat and out of the vehicle. "Sir—"
"I'm going to take a quick recce;" Chaffee stated gruffly. "The rest of you stay put until I come back or you hear otherwise."
Because of the visor, Chaffee couldn't tell if suspicion glinted in the younger man's eyes and at the moment, he really didn't care. Chaffee raised his right arm, bending it at the elbow. A tiny electric motor whined as he flexed his wrist tendons. Sensitive actuators activated flexible cables in the forearm holster and snapped the Sin Eater smoothly into his gloved hand. The gesture was performed simply for effect, to show his team he meant business.
"I'll be back," he said flatly and set off toward the distant marina.
The cultured voice spoke into his ear again. "We're all set here. Find some cover."
Chaffee's eyes darted to and fro across the beach, then settled on a large boulder, half the size of the Sandcat, jutting from the shoreline. He strode swiftly toward it, intending to put it between him and the vehicle. He cast an over-the-shoulder glance toward the Cat just as the RPG-4 rocket streaked out of the woods and exploded to the left and rear of the wag in a flare of orange flame and a bone-knocking concussion. The shock wave slammed Chaffee off his fret mid rolled over him like an extended thunderclap. Shrapnel clanged off the armored hull in a series of very non-musical chimes
Chaffee swore under his breath, then scrambled to his feet. At that range the rocket should have hit dead on target unless the man handling the launcher was unforgivably green,even greener than the Mags inside the Sandcat.
He sprinted to the boulder and circled its base, looking back toward the Sandcat. Through the open hatch, he glimpsed Bertram frantically stretching across the seat, clawing to grab the door handle to pull it down and seal it. But before he was able to secure a hold, another rocket sizzled from the t
The sleek, two-foot-long RPG-4 rocket lanced into the Sandcat through the open hatch. The warhead detonated with an ear-splitting explosion. The wag kicked over sideways, driven by the detonation from within that gutted the cab and incinerated Bertram. The Cat swerved into a crazed fishtail, strewing the ground with engine parts. Chaffee felt a blast of withering heat right through his armor. Flames spewed from every port, weld and seam.
A rain of debris filled the air, jagged pieces of metal banging and clattering all around him, mixed in with chunks of men's bodies. Chaffee ducked back behind the boulder and waited until the echoes of the explosion faded and the clank and clatter of falling wreckage became a series of sporadic thumps and thuds.
He didn't have to guess what happened to the Mags, particularly Bertram. When the warhead exploded, splintered shards of metal were propelled at thousands of feet per second. At such close range, the jagged daggers of steel, impacting at over eight hundred pounds per square inch, penetrated the polycarbonate armor like hot needles through paraffin. Bone crumbled into sugar-cube-sized chunks and spinal columns splintered like rotten latticework. There was absolutely no chance that any of the crew survived.
Carefully Chaffee inched away from the boulder, sweeping his gaze from the woods to the reed-choked thicket.
"Satisfactory?" the smooth voice inquired into his ear.
Chaffee started to nod, then remembered there was no reason for him to observe radio silence any longer. He made sure the throat mike adhered securely to the side of his neck before retorting, "Very much so."
He eyed the burning heap of wreckage. Despite its metal hide, the Sandcat reminded Chaffee of a giant burst-open animal. Spark-shot columns of acrid smoke poured from the splits in the hull, and the odor of scorched oil and seared human flesh cut into his nostrils.
"There's no way individual identifications can be made now," Chaffee stated. "As far as Baron Snakefish is concerned, I died along with my team."
The voice in his ear purred gloatingly. "Just the way you wanted it. Now get over here—our partners will arrive any second now."
Chaffee started walking in the direction of the marina, then he paused. "Who fired the first rocket?"
"Ah." The voice sounded genuinely apologetic. "That was little Moxie. His first outside job with me. I hope you understand he was overzealous."
"I do. Are you comm-linked with him?"
"Of course."
"Send him out, would you?" Chaffee's tone suggested mild amusement.
There was a moment's hesitation, then the voice said, "He's on his way. Don't be too hard on him."
"Don't worry," Chaffee replied. "I understand the eagerness to make a kill."
A figure appeared, stepping out of a dark place between the sycamore trunks He was a small man wearing an olive-green, baggy bodysuit. He had dark, swart features and his black hair was arranged in short, beaded dreadlocks. He angled the long hollow tube of the rocket launcher over his left shoulder. He gestured to Chaffee and an abashed, jittery smile played over his lips.
"Sorry about that, sec man," he said in a lilting soprano. "Never used one of these things before."
Chaffee forced a smile to his lips. "Sec" man was an obsolete term dating back to preunification days when self-styled barons formed their own private armies to safeguard their territories. It was still applied to Magistrates in hinterlands beyond the villes, so Chaffee figured Moxie was an outlander by birth.
Lifting his right arm, the barrel of his unholstered Sin Eater pointing at the sky, he called Moxie, "What about one of these? Ever used one of these?"
Moxie came to a halt near the burning Sandcat, the flames sending dancing orange reflections across the blunt planes of his face. Petulantly he said, "I know how to use a blaster."
"Good," Chaffee responded. "Then you know what has killed you."
He dropped the barrel of the Sin Eater and two shots roared, sending out almost physical waves of sound. Moxie kicked backward, as though performing an acrobatic trick. A crimson, wet blossom appeared on the front of his bodysuit.
The two rounds smashed into Moxie's heart, turning it into pulverized meat. He slapped down onto the ground with a rattle of beads. Blood from hemorrhaging lungs bubbled from his nose and mouth.
After a moment, the cultured voice whispered dryly, "Y'know, I figured you'd do that."
"Figured you did," Chaffee bit out. "The stupid son of a bitch missed his target and came close to flash-blasting me. We don't need a stupe like that in our crew."
"Oh, it's 'we' now, is it?" A mocking laugh filled Chaffee's ear.
"It had damn well better be," Chaffee snapped, a flinty edge in his voice. "I took a big risk stealing the launchers from the armory because you told me you had people who knew how to use them."
"Fine. In that case, it's time you meet another member of 'our' crew."
Chafee didn't react to the sarcastic emphasis on "our." Nor did he hear the footsteps behind him, but he felt a presence. If nothing else, his thirty-plus years as a hard-contact Magistrate had bequeathed to him something of a sixth sense. He whirled on a heel, leading with his Sin Eater, finger hovering over the trigger stud. Then he half stumbled, feeling his jaw drop open in astonishment. Unconsciously he let his Sin Eater dangle at the end of his arm. A woman sidled out of the reed thicket, the long column of a rocket launcher cradled in her arms.
Chaffee estimated her height at close to six and a half feet. She was full breasted and large limbed. She was all woman, in spite of the rocket launcher and her garments—which were so unusual, Chaffee had difficulty identifying them as such.
Long golden hair flowed out from under a winged helmet, falling in two thick braids halfway to her waist. They framed a square-jawed face with broad cheekbones, and a straight nose above a wide, thin-lipped mouth. Her eyes were big and so pale a blue they appeared gray.
She wore a deep blue, low-necked tunic that left her magnificent arms bare except for gleaming silver wristbands. On one ample hip she wore a straight double-edged sword at least four feet in length and on the other hip a battle-axe dangled from a thong. Leather boots rose almost to her knees. Her legs, like her arms, were bare. Her limbs gleamed like polished opals in the moonlight. A full, flowing crimson cloak billowed behind her.
Chaffee gaped at her, all the moisture in his mouth drying to a dust-like film. He realized the wings of her helmet were made of thin alloy, fashioned to resemble those of a hawk, and a mesh of chain mail glinted dully at the bodice of her tunic. Her lips were set in a grim, taunting smile, almost as if she dared him to point his pistol in her direction.
Although Chaffee stopped short of rubbing his eyes in disbelief, he husked out incredulously, "Who the hell are you?"
The giantess didn't answer, but the voice in his ear responded crisply, "You may call her Sif." Squaring his shoulders and doing his best to sound in control of himself again, Chaffee demanded, "What is she? Your strong-arm?"
"Hardly. She calls herself a Valkyrie, but over the past couple of months she's been acting in the capacity of an ambassador."
"Ambassador?" Chaffee repeated impatiently. Equally impatient the voice snapped, "Join me and all will be explained."
Chaffee eyed Sif suspiciously, and the giantess jerked the hollow bore of the rocket launcher suggestively toward the marina. Hoping she didn't interpret his momentary hesitation as fear, Chaffee started marching across the gravelly beach. Sif fell into step beside him, striding along with a swaggering gait. Chaffee noted how his breath plumed out before his eyes and he realized the air temperature was close to freezing. Sif, in her abbreviated tunic, seemed permanently at ease.
They passed through the chain-link restraining fence and climbed onto the wooden pier. Their footfalls echoed hollowly on the planks and timbers as they walked toward the boathouse at the far end. A light glowed from within it, and a figure stepped onto the pier.
Chaffee looked at the man emerging from the boathouse with dislike, but he covered it with a smile. He was a very handsome man with longish, carefully styled black hair and a neatly trimmed, waxed mustache. His face was deeply bronzed, which Chaffee knew derived from a sunlamp, not from exposure to the elements. He wore a long coat, the hem of which nearly dropped to his ankles. A fur collar that was almost ridiculous in its luxuriant fullness puffed up around his jaw line.
