Into the Storms: A Hell Divers Prequel, page 35
“Indeed, Tyron.”
“Okay, stand by. I’ll have you out of here in a few minutes.”
Tyron left the chamber and hurried to his next stop in his personal robotics workshop. Just as with the Faraday chamber, Tyron had spent countless hours here as a child, watching his father perfect many of the designs that became the service droids and the Defector war machines.
The lights came on, illuminating crates of spare parts and prototypes, and through them a path that led to a platform. On it, housed in a glass structure, was a humanoid metallic robot strangely accessorized with a red bow tie over the shiny white exoskeleton.
Tyron had already made all the preparations earlier in the day, connecting the AI’s mainframe to the machine. The chip inside this robot was the most advanced ever designed, with enough memory to house all the data from the mainframe over the past thirty-plus years. It was the equivalent of an entire data center that would have occupied over two city blocks only a decade ago.
He went up to the control monitor and tapped in his credentials.
“Here we go,” Tyron said. With a push of a button, he transferred Orion from the encrypted mainframe to the robot. The eyes in the skull flashed white, then gleamed a steady sky blue.
“This is your new ride,” Tyron said with a grin. “How do you like it?”
“Wow, Tyron, I don’t know what to say,” Orion replied, speaking through the mouth of the machine.
“Let’s take it for a spin.”
Orion took his first step, then his second. The glass door opened, and he joined Tyron on the floor.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Marvelous, Tyron.”
“Good.” Tyron pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch.
They were running late.
“Okay, I want you to accompany the medical crew and Angelina to Genesis 1,” he said. “I will follow a few minutes later with Whitt and my security team. The medical team knows I will have authorized a service droid for medical transport, but they do not know that you are that service droid. Make sure that remains the case, okay?”
“Understood, sir—er, Tyron.”
Tyron stepping back into the elevator, watching the machine walk down the hallway. His heart thumped with anxiety, but he knew that this was the right thing, and the best option he had left for regaining control of ITC.
The elevator doors opened at the command center, where an exhausted Jay Whitt looked at him.
“Sir, I have the security team on standby to take you to the launch,” he said. “Be advised, the first shipment of Def-9 units has arrived at Omega Base and is being prepared for deployment by the JMF. They have asked for the codes.”
“I’ll have them sent over shortly,” Tyron replied. “Okay, let’s head to Genesis 1.”
Whitt tilted his head slightly—something he did when Tyron caught him off guard.
“Sir, we don’t have time to waste,” he said. “There’s no telling how many forces the Tritons have, or what type of machines they’ve been working on.”
“General Vucci has assured me they have the situation under control, and I’m authorizing the codes shortly.”
Whitt hesitated, then nodded. He accompanied Tyron up to the top floor of the ITC HQ with its sprawling view over Atlanta. The black Wasp was waiting, pilots already in the cockpit, and a security team of four men on the rooftop with submachine guns and a sniper rifle. They fell in around Tyron, guiding him to the aircraft.
The flight to Aeon 2, on the northern edge of Atlanta, took only ten minutes. Tyron looked out the window as they lowered over the sprawling factory complex that had once produced the Defector units. As far as Whitt knew, the facility would soon be producing them again.
But not on Tyron’s watch, not after what he had learned. Soon he would share his plan with the loyal guard, explaining exactly what Vucci and the JMF had done. Part of Tyron blamed Whitt for not seeing this, but then again, Tyron hadn’t seen it at first either.
The tilt-rotor craft flew over the runway, passing over Genesis 1, which had been moved out onto the restored asphalt at the secret launch site. The two Nexus 5 rockets were mounted under the wings of the ship, cleared for launch to blast Genesis 1 into space after reaching altitude.
An enclosed jet bridge was still attached aft, with two ITC armored vehicles parked outside. One of them had been used to discreetly move Angelina and the cloned passengers who would launch on the ship.
Tyron looked at his watch and saw the message that she had been safely transferred to the ship and placed in a cryostatis chamber. For now, Tyron felt that with ITC under attack, this was the safest place for her.
“Prepare for landing,” said the pilot of the Wasp.
They flew over the new ten-story glass building, where a small crowd had already gathered to watch the launch on the upper observation decks. Most of these people were staff, but there were also supporters of ITC, such as pilot Jon “Acers” Asay, who had survived the attack at the terrace two nights ago and accepted the invitation to witness the launch.
Tyron got off the Wasp and walked toward the building, and saw the bandaged face of the famous fighter pilot. The security guards around Tyron closed in as Whitt led the way to the entrance. The guards opened the glass doors, but Tyron elected to take the stairs instead of the elevator—for the exercise as much as for the view out the building’s all-glass walls. He started up the stairs toward the tenth floor, where the onlookers waited.
On the ninth floor, Tyron stopped and looked out the windows to see the APCs drive away from the ship. Orion, in charge of the launch, was remotely controlling the craft on the runway right on time, positioning it for launch.
Tyron looked over at Whitt. “Everything’s about to change,” he said.
“This launch will be an amazing accomplishment, sir.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean, then, sir?”
Tyron looked his old friend in the eyes. “It wasn’t Tritons that killed Sergeant Rodriguez and Lieutenant Yosef.”
Whitt stared at him, giving away nothing.
“Red Platoon killed them,” Tyron said. “After they hacked the Def-8 units and sent them to the location of the seismic activity.”
Another moment passed before Whitt nodded. “You’re right, Tyron.”
Hearing the man call him by his first name told him all he needed to know. Whitt was in on the conspiracy too.
Tyron felt the betrayal like a knife twisting in his back.
“I helped them do it,” Whitt said. “I hoped you would come around, authorize the Def-9 units, work with the JMF to end the Triton threat, but you stalled. Angelina, bless her heart—she kept you from seeing the true risk.”
“You did this?”
“Damn right I did. The Tritons are still out there, Tyron, and it’s our—your—responsibility to stop them. Unfortunately, like your father, you’re weak. Now you’re going to suffer the same fate.”
Tyron felt that knife in his back twist again. “You had him killed?”
“He betrayed me, betrayed ITC, betrayed a hundred thousand troops in Korea, including my own son. If Booker hadn’t given up the Def-9 generation, my son would be alive today.”
Tyron felt like a patsy. He should have seen it coming. But not even Orion had seen this.
Tyron shook with rage. “I’m going to kill you, and I’m going to expose you and the other bastards to the entire world.”
“No, Tyron.” Whitt shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. No one’s going to know.”
He raised his hand, then dropped it.
Glass exploded inward, hitting Tyron in the chest and abdomen.
“Sniper!” Whitt shouted.
The guards above and below came rushing to Tyron. He tried to speak, tried to tell them that it was Whitt, but his throat tightened. He reached down to a warm spot of dark crimson blooming on his white lab coat over his chest and stomach.
Chaos erupted all around him.
“What’s that?” someone yelled.
“Stop it!”
Gunfire cracked.
Tyron glimpsed the blurry white frame of a humanoid machine. Then he was being torn out of the hands of the security guard, who was smacked away by a robotic fist. Glancing up, Tyron saw a red bow tie, then the robotic face of Orion.
“I have you, my friend,” Orion said as he carried him down the stairs. “Hold on to me.”
Tyron felt his life force draining away as the machine broke through the second floor of the glass building and jumped to the ground with a thud. An APC skidded to a stop beside them.
Tyron struggled to suck air into his lungs.
He had done everything he could to protect humanity from a dark future, but what he had failed to realize all this time was that he couldn’t protect humanity from itself.
“Launch Gen,” Tyron mumbled. “You must . . . launch . . . Gen . . .”
The path back to the surface at the train tunnels was more treacherous than the way down. But after the JMF blew the main tunnel shaft, this was their only option.
“We’re getting close,” Hayun said.
She had guided them through the web of concrete tunnels connected by stairwells and vertical shafts that once housed elevators. With the cars no longer in service, they had to climb the rusted fixed ladders in the shafts.
They approached one of those shafts now, where Hayun waited while three of her guards started the ascent.
“We will wait here for them, to make sure the way is clear,” she said.
“You speak good English,” Santiago said. “How’d you end up here?”
“I was born in these tunnels forty years ago. Many people sought refuge in them when the Tritons rose to power. My parents sent me away with my uncle when I was just six. We made it across the DMZ, and he became a spy. I grew up in Seoul, went to university, and, all told, had a good life for that time.”
She sighed.
“Then the North, with the aid of Iran, invaded Seoul, starting the second war between the countries. My uncle came to me and said he was going to try to get my parents out of this bunker. I came along, hoping to be reunited with them.”
They heard noise above them in the shaft, and one of the guards climbed down the ladder on the far wall. He stepped over to the tunnel entrance.
“There are other survivors like us in North Korea,” she said. “People who were never Tritons, who need help. I trusted the JMF, but if you’re right, then they won’t stop until everyone in the North is dead.”
It was chilling, but Santiago had heard this kind of talk before. Back during the war, some of his comrades had advocated for genocide, believing that maybe it was better just to salt the earth. But Santiago had never gone along with destruction born purely of vindictiveness. There were children and other innocents who suffered due to their leaders’ greed and shortsightedness. People were still suffering, like Hayun and her people.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Santiago helped Yosef hobble to the shaft. Yosef reached up with his unbroken arm and grabbed the ladder on the wall, with Santiago behind him to hold him on.
Every rung up got them a foot closer to the surface, but they were still far from home, far away from his family. And with the JMF waiting on the surface, they were heading into the lion’s den.
Finally, at the top of the shaft, Santiago climbed out to find more of Hayun’s soldiers. There were twenty, maybe more, with submachine guns and hazard suits. All of them came to attention as Hayun emerged.
She spoke to them in Korean, then gestured to Santiago and Yosef.
“So you got a plan on how we’re going to get a message to Persephone?” Santiago whispered.
Yosef glanced over. “Gotta see what’s waiting for us first.”
“We must hurry,” Hayun said. “Come with me. We’re almost there.”
The long concrete corridor ended at a blast door. One of the soldiers cranked the wheel handle until it swung open to a wide corridor that sloped upward. Two broken-down trucks with all flat tires were parked outside, partially crushed by fallen concrete.
“The surface is fifty feet that way, and the tunnel comes out at the bottom of a destroyed building, buried by rubble,” Hayun said. “There is a path out. We will guide you through.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Santiago said.
He fell in line with the soldiers, who had now grown in number to twenty-four, all armed with automatic weapons. They would be outnumbered and outgunned, but this was their only shot. Despite the daunting odds, they all had to fight.
Santiago said a silent prayer as he walked down the tunnel with Yosef’s good arm over his shoulder. Flashlight beams guided them through the rubble ahead. Sure enough, they had dug a horizontal shaft through, using thick wooden beams to shore up the low ceiling.
Again they waited for someone to check it out. The scout returned a few minutes later and spoke with Hayun, who waved Santiago and Yosef over.
“The JMF has positioned fifty troopers outside the train tunnel,” she said. “They aren’t moving yet. Two Wasps have landed five hundred meters behind them.”
“Is there any way we can get to those Wasps without being seen?” Yosef asked.
“Maybe, if we provide a distraction.”
“No, too dangerous,” Santiago said. “They’ll likely shoot you on sight.”
“I’m not afraid to die,” Hayun replied. “I’ll go out unarmed to explain the communications I’ve had with Allied Commander Richardson of the JMF.”
“That’s Red Platoon out there,” Yosef said. “They don’t answer to Allied Commander Richardson.”
“Then you better hope my distraction works long enough for you to contact someone they do answer to,” Hayun said. “Now, let’s move while we still have the element of surprise.”
Santiago nodded, in awe of her bravery and strength.
They started into the tunnel shaft beneath the building, crawling at times, and burrowed out behind a three-foot-high foundation wall. Santiago peered through a hole in the concrete. They had come out on what used to be a road east of the train tracks. Estimating the distance, Santiago put them at two thousand feet from the main tunnel he had entered through hours earlier.
Positioned in front of that tunnel were fifty JMF soldiers. Some two hundred feet behind them, the two Wasps sat idle with their cockpits manned.
Hayun crouched next to Santiago and Yosef. “My men will spread out in this area and stay hidden while you flank those Wasps,” she said. “Above the train tunnels is a road; you might have seen it. That road runs along a hill that overlooks those Wasps. There are plenty of vehicles for cover on the road. Use them to get close; then sneak down behind the Wasps. I’ll go talk to the JMF. If things go bad, my men have permission to fire.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Yosef asked.
“If you have a better way, I’m listening,” Hayun said.
Santiago hesitated. If he somehow did make it to a Wasp with Yosef, it wasn’t as if they could just waltz in and borrow a radio. They would have to fight. That meant the JMF would fight back, and Hayun would be in the cross fire. Her people had the element of surprise, as she said, but her men were facing laser rifles with archaic weapons.
Special Forces against some pimply-faced teenagers, Santiago thought.
It would be a slaughter unless Santiago and Yosef could get to the Wasps and take one over. Then they could target the troopers with the weapons on board. A long shot, but it was a plan.
“I’ll signal you when I get to the Wasp and transmit to Persephone,” Santiago said. “When I do, hit the ground or get away, if you can, ’cause I’m gonna light those assholes up with everything the Wasp has.”
“In that case, you’ll need this.” Hayun unholstered a pistol from her duty belt. She handed it out to Santiago. He took it, then reached out and shook her hand.
“Thank you for doing this,” he said.
“I’m doing it for my people,” she replied.
Another soldier handed Yosef a pistol. And they were off, Yosef leaning heavily on Santiago and limping on his sprained ankle. They had known Hayun only for a few hours, but she had gained Santiago’s respect with her bravery and leadership.
He knew that the odds of seeing her alive again were slim, but he prayed for a miracle. They both needed one.
Santiago helped Yosef around the corner of the wall. They worked their way up a hill and found the road Hayun had mentioned. Keeping low, they moved down it, using debris and vehicles for cover. The road was elevated, allowing them a view of the Wasps in the distance. Posted at each of the aircraft was a single JMF guard. Santiago hadn’t seen them earlier.
One of them panned his rifle over the road Yosef and Santiago were trekking across. Santiago pulled Yosef down behind the melted frame of a sports car about a thousand feet from the Wasps.
If they got spotted now, they stood no chance with their pistols. Those energy weapons had targeting systems that could put a laser between their eyes without any effort.
Santiago hugged the radioactive dirt, heart pounding. After a minute, he pushed up and looked out at the Wasps. The guards were standing together, talking.
“Now’s our chance,” he said. “Let’s move.”
Yosef scrambled up to his feet, grunting in pain. He put an arm around Santiago again and they set off down the road, dodging between dead vehicles.
Six hundred feet from the Wasps, Santiago heard shouting. He crouched with Yosef behind another burned-out shell.
“Contact, contact!” someone yelled.
“Hold your fire. I’m unarmed!” Hayun shouted. Santiago peeked up to see her standing on a ledge above the tunnel entrances, hands raised in the air. The JMF troopers below fanned out.
“Come on!” Yosef said.
They got back up and kept going to the Wasps, moving another two hundred feet along the road as Hayun shouted down.
“We have an agreement with Allied Commander Richardson! Please, lower your weapons and let me talk to whoever’s in charge.”
