Cold War 2395, page 15
The LZ better be just a hop and a skip away; the lava behind us is coming up way too fast for comfort. Thankfully, the air color around me starts changing from orange-yellow to yellow-clear, indicating we’re within shouting distance of the foundry’s entrance. Marx better be readying the welcome mat for our torched asses.
“I see the station!” Beecher shouts, his filtered voice rasping around the popping lava.
Just a few more yards . . .
Through the haze of smoke and soot, Marx flails her arms like an air traffic controller. We get it, lady, we’re coming as fast as we can. Trust me, I want to be where you are just as bad as you want me there!
I glance behind. The lava wave has died down and spread across the various pools near the zone’s entrance, but that doesn’t stop me from hurling myself onto the transit platform like it’s a Hawaiian beach. At least the current floor won’t melt underneath me—I hope.
“You okay, Lieutenant?” Marx asks.
“Never better, Sarge,” I say, lying facedown on the ground, kissing the unmelting floor with my helmet.
“Ay, no time for breathing, lads. We got a ride to catch!” McGregor shouts.
I pull my head off the ground and see he’s right. Kilo Company is shouting at us to get a move on from their position in front of our ticket back to R Company. Beecher gives me a hand to help me back on my feet. It looks like my five seconds of naptime are over.
“All aboooooooard,” McGregor yells as we ditch Yankee Squad, hustling to the transport.
Beecher lets out an exhausted sigh and finishes sliding inside the troop bay as we begin takeoff. “And this time, let’s all stay aboard.”
A-fucking-men to that.
CHAPTER 15
Gourd
“Sitrep, Lieutenants,” Grimm asks via comms during our second pass over the foundry complex. He’s getting testier with every interaction.
I can’t blame him. After that bullshit detour and the precious time spent getting R Company ready in the cruiser, we’re left with just over four hours or so ’til the commies flush our treasure down the drain. No more stupid fucking rocket bots better pull any funny business; there isn’t time for it. Plus, my suit’s nanogel just cooled down from my last volcanic adventure. I don’t want to expose it to that kind of heat again. My HUD’s still giving me error readings on internal suit temperatures—I think some sensors are busted.
“We’ve cleared the area and are en route to your location, Captain,” Beecher responds.
Speaking of their location, R Company’s exo sigs are moving around stupidly fast on my HUD. What gives?
“Virginia got the woodland trams running. We’re detecting large amounts of enemy activity at close range, so we’re moving forward. Can’t wait for you three at the station.”
“So how’re we supposed to form up?” I ask.
“Drop in.” With that, Captain ends the call.
Great, more drops! I ain’t a fucking Shake Weight, boss.
To everyone’s relief, our transport zips along without a bump. Still, I can’t take my eyes off those tower tops. All it takes is one more pop-up motherfucker and we’ll be tossed right back into that oversized toaster. Oh, hey, there’s what’s left of the catwalk I dunked earlier. I can see its remains all the way from here, my own little contribution to the forge. I’ll call it “Red on Red.” My masterpiece.
I shift my eyes away from the sizzle spa and peek over at Beecher. He has his sights glued on something else. It ain’t the towers, the fires, or the platforms. He’s looking farther. I glance in the same general direction and can’t see shit, besides big steamy pipes and the bottom rim of the colony in the distance. Not really an attraction, so I don’t get it—oh, maybe he’s trying to meditate, like I do. At last, he takes a page from the master’s book. Attaboy. Just gotta think of nice things, like warm milk before bed or walking in a big field. Or drinking warm milk in a big field.
“Warm milk or fields?” I ask. It’s an important question; it tells me a lot about a guy. I’m betting on fields.
But he doesn’t look over at me. Shit, he must be in real deep.
“Milk or fields, man?” I give him a nudge on the shoulder. That snaps him out of it.
“Whu, huh?” he responds.
“I saw you meditating. What’s your calm place, man?”
“Oh,” he blurts out.
Jeez, that’s a jumpy response. That’s not how calm thoughts work.
“Um, field.”
Knew it.
He pauses for a second before speaking up again. “Hey, have you ever thought . . .”
“Of course I have. What kinda fuckin’ question is that?” Like, really, dude. You can’t go around calling people stupid like that.
“Never mind,” he responds. He doesn’t sound pissed, though. Sounds like he just wants to go back to mind-wandering with that thousand-yard stare of his. Maybe he had something else to say . . . oh well. Probably not that big a deal if he didn’t open with it.
If he’s gonna go back to his thoughts, then I guess I will too, since McGregor’s busy chatting it up with the Kilos, and God knows I don’t want to talk to those guys. The pilot’s probably not in the mood for small talk either. Yep, it’s just me and my own two eyes left to keep the party going. Guess I’ll spectate the lightshow happening overhead since the guys around me have lookout duty covered.
Above us, the biggest, most chaotic dogfight I’ve ever witnessed is taking place. Trying to keep track of individual fighters should be a good way to pass the time, since hundreds of allies are whipping around upstairs creating headaches for the legions of enemy hornet drones. Thankfully, my HUD minimizes visual riffraff by highlighting visible friendlies so all I have to do is enjoy watching the most interesting ones. Hoo-boy, our guys are really handing their shiny chrome asses to ’em. Mother Russia’s getting a good belt-whipping from Father Freedom today, sir, yes, sir.
I lock my eyes onto one of our side’s speedier fighters, a glacier-blue ship that’s roasting hornets left and right. That’ll make for good entertainment. It arcs around the entire field, ditching formation to swing to the rear and take out the hornets tailing it. In a very Beecher-esque move, the star pilot slips right underneath a swarm of silver commies and, one laser at a time, pops their heads off. Left! Right! Left! The turrets screech, alternating shots to pick off two rows of incoming hornets simultaneously. Good shit. No match for that kind of maneuvering, the drones’ chrome shells explode one by one until the last of the swarm gets sent down in flames. From a ground troop’s perspective, it probably feels like the sky is falling, since those ten-ton behemoths are dropping like flies. Good thing we aren’t down there.
“Approaching drop zone,” the pilot cuts in, pulling my attention away from the aerial spectacle.
Shit. More action already?
By now, the greens of the habitat below us have completely phased out the reds of the previous zone. It’s just trees and open fields as far as the eye can see.
“Time to work for a living,” Beecher mutters.
“Man, did you see that guy up there—” I start, but he’s having none of it.
“There are thousands of guys up there. Stay focused on you, me, and the rest of the guys down here.” He pops his head out past the side of the transport’s troop bay and gets a face full of wind as he looks ahead.
“Drop zone in fifteen seconds, prep up,” the pilot nags.
Beecher slides his helmet’s faceplate down in preparation for the dive.
Where the fuck are we even dropping? I’m not hopping out of here just so I can get dry-docked by an evergreen—
“Drop zone in ten.”
We fly over another thicket of trees and enter into a large field. The new environment isn’t so bad, except for the giant dust cloud forming in the distance. Hold on a second . . . giant dust cloud. What is that doing here? And what are all those little things kicking it up?
“Pulling up now.”
Tracks appear below us as we pick up speed, our transport charging forward until the tail end of a tram slides into view. We gain ground on it car by car, flying a couple dozen feet overhead until we’re directly on top of a flatbed filled with troops. Is that Grimm? And the rest of R Company? Took long enough, but we’re back with the pack.
“Stay sharp, lads!” McGregor shouts, wishing his Kilo pals well before bailing on them to join Beecher and me at the edge of the platform.
With all three of us ready to go, the pilot gives us the OK to ditch these Utah Battalion nerds. “Northeast drop zone is clear. Angle your descent accordingly.”
I’m gonna have to jump and pray I make it down fast enough to land on the flatbed; otherwise the car behind it is gonna come up and shred me. Two things moving so fast should not have people bouncing between them. And to make matters worse, my HUD won’t even help me calculate a drop path. Ugh, that’s probably because some systems are still fried from the forge. Or maybe my suit’s tactics processor just isn’t capable of formulating path projections between rapidly shifting variables like a soon-to-be freefalling idiot, a live aircraft, and a moving train.
After a single grunt, Beecher launches into the air and leads the drop. Without pause McGregor follows suit, flinging himself out of the transport. Guess it’s just me, then. Here goes nothing!
My surroundings blur as I leap out of the craft. I slant a bit to the right since I see the edge of the flatbed coming up fast behind me, though it’s hard to tell how close I am to impact when everything’s shaking. If I don’t stick the landing in the next half second, I’m fucking toast. My suit’s thrusters let out short, sporadic bursts, pivoting me like a human gyroscope, but I don’t know if that’ll be enough to stop me from landing with a splat. ACA impact stabilizers, don’t fail me now.
R Company has cleared a space for me and my two compatriots to land without hitting anything important, but the question is: Will I hit anything at all? The whole world’s moving so fast around me I can hardly—
My feet smash onto the flatbed, accompanied by one hell of a thud. That sound . . . I did it! Er, piece of cake. No problem. Having done its job, the transport we just abandoned circles around overhead and ditches us, leaving me with the all-star team on an easy ride to Spire City.
“Nice to have you back, Sergeant,” Captain says to the helmetless Scotsman.
“Nice to be back, Captain.” McGregor gives a parting wave then bails on the three of us to go regroup with his squad at the other end of the car.
“So, what’s the situation, Cap?” I ask.
“That enemy activity I was telling you two about is catching up with us.” He points to the little black dots creating dirt clouds in the distance.
“You telling me those are—”
“Yes. Our sensors indicate those things will close the gap and topple our tram within the next five minutes. We’re setting up defenses on the left flank to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
We have a wave of stampeding droids headed our way that plan to knock us off the rails. So much for an easy ride.
“Join Alpha Squad on the car in front of us. They need some extra manpower.”
“On it,” Beecher and I say, moving toward the next flatbed to help out Sergeant Barton and his team.
After a little pushing and shoving, we make it past the Marines blocking our path and slip onto the rickety little four-foot bolt-bridge connecting the cars. Once across, we find Alpha Squad going full throttle, bustling ammo crates and mobile turrets around like nobody’s business. Barton might not be my favorite sergeant, but when it comes to queen bees, no one runs the hive quite like him.
“Delecord, space that mount out some more, we need room to swivel those things without taking each other’s heads off,” he shouts at an Alpha, who reflexively nods and gets to work adjusting her turret’s placement.
“Hey, Sarge,” I say.
“Ah, Lieutenants Gourd and Beecher! Didn’t know if I’d ever be seeing you two again,” he replies, continuing to give directions and relay instructions to his Marines while talking to us.
“Well, we’re here and ready to help. Where do you need us?” Beecher asks, briskly and businesslike. Sounds like his meditation didn’t work out.
“Centerfold, boys. Man the two lead turrets.”
“Roger,” Beecher says.
Maybe it’s the fighting that’s bogging him down. I mean, I love a good punch-’em-up as much as the next guy, but the shit we’re dealing with is relentless, and I can totally imagine close to two days’ worth of nonstop chaos weighing down on someone. Plus there’s the noise of fighters overhead, which could probably cause a headache. Oh, and speaking of those fighters, there’s the risk of death by flaming jet since they keep crashing down like meteors. Not to mention the giant wave of robots chasing us. Wow, that is a lot of exhausting shit. No wonder Beecher’s so grumpy.
Whatever. I can think about how tired we are after we take the Red Peril, which ain’t happening until we mow down every single robot inside the colony—starting with the wave directly in front of us. Grabbing hold of my assigned turret, I extend its stand to meet my height, pulling it a few feet over the flatbed’s waist-high side paneling. After a little fidgeting, the turret’s in position. I grab a bandolier and shove that puppy in the receiver, waiting to hear the nice little click that confirms it’s locked. There, all set and good to go.
The dust storm’s getting bigger and the commie bots are getting closer, though they’re still far enough away that I can’t quite make out what they look like. As long as we do our jobs right, we won’t ever have to find out.
“You good to go?” I ask Beecher, who’s just slammed in his own bandolier.
“You bet,” he says flatly, not sounding super convincing.
I hope whatever’s bothering him doesn’t make him a bad shot in the next few minutes.
I reach behind my back and pat my heavy rifle, making sure it has stayed in its sheath since Beecher gave it back to me on the transport. Good, it’s still there. Now all that’s left to do is wait.
“Hey, you remember those super old stories of the cowboys who’d try to rob trains and the sheriffs who’d have to shoot them off their horses?” I ask Beecher.
“Yeah?”
“Guess we’re the new sheriffs in town. Heh.” I think I’m funny, at least.
“Ha, I guess so.”
There we go, man. Gotta keep morale up somehow. Especially when robo-dirt storm 2395 is headed right for our speeding tram.
“Positions, Marines!” Barton yells behind us.
Seems like we’re kicking off the main event a little earlier than expected. I zoom in my visor’s optics and take a closer look at the Bolshevik baddies headed our way. I can’t get a close enough scan to see the finer details, but I get the gist: they’re fuckin’ cats. We’re being chased by a wave of metal tigers pouncing toward us at full speed, which unfortunately seems to be just a tiny bit faster than our full speed.
“You seein’ that?” Beecher asks.
“Looks like we got some kitties to put down.” I ain’t going down like a pussy, or by one either.
“Ready!” Barton yells.
I tense my knuckles on the turret grips.
“Aim!”
Got my sights set on the first wave’s right wing already.
“Fire!”
Way ahead of ya.
All other noise is instantly drowned out by a wall of nonstop gunfire. Turrets rip and shells fly, the metal piling up around my boots while bullets tear holes in those clanking cats. They might be almost a mile away, but that doesn’t mean we can’t put a few to sleep before they’re knocking on our front door.
The first row tumbles over as R Company opens fire. Not that it matters; as usual, the robots behind the dead wave don’t pause even for a second. They claw over their destroyed comrades and continue to rush us. There’s no bottleneck, no squeeze-spot to pick them off from. There’s just an unfiltered horde of thousands of these things coming at us out in the open.
It doesn’t matter, it just means more exercise for my gun. The chunk-chunk-chunk of my turret keeps on rumbling as I unload bullets nonstop, keeping one hand on the trigger at all times. The metal barrels glow brighter and brighter shades of orange with every bullet I spit out, but I don’t dare worry about overheating my gun. I’ll risk a blinding cloud of exhaust smoke or even a full-on weapon jam before I give the enemy so much as a second to freely gain ground.
Speaking of blinding clouds, pretty sure the field would look like a droid pet cemetery right now if it weren’t for the fact that the damn robo-cats keep kicking up dust behind them, hiding their destroyed litter from view. It’s a shame, since I could really go for a motivational boost in the form of a takedown tally right about now. Something—no, anything—to remind me that if I keep popping their caps it’ll eventually be over. Seriously, at the rate the machines keep coming I’m starting to think they might be spawning from a wormhole or some shit. I’ve wiped out at least a couple dozen by myself, and the rest of R Company combined is probably inching toward a thousand confirmed kills by now, but the gap between them and us is shrinking, and the holes in their formation keep filling in as more robots charge forward from the rear.
They’re close enough now that I can see them in greater detail. The incoming bots have catlike skulls, fangs, and the general appearance of supercharged black panthers, which honestly sounds right in line with all the other insane shit we’ve encountered thus far. All they need now are some stupidly pointy blade tails to really sell the image—wait, yep, they’ve got those too. Fucking blade tails. No way do I want those things within petting range.
What is up with the station’s wild fuckin’ defenses? I must be witnessing what Faust was talking about when she mentioned the testing going on here and that the cannon was only one piece of the puzzle. Maybe the bots are prototypes for Russia’s next-gen ground forces. Looks like us Americans arrived just in time to be live bait for an impromptu weapons demonstration.
More chunk-chunk-chunk noises sound off as my turret’s muzzle flashes a solid stream of bright orange-yellow. The sheer number of casings on the flatbed’s floor starts to make me nervous; there’s more than enough of them to be a legitimate mobility hazard. If I slip on those things like a pack of loose marbles, I swear—
