by Dean M. Cole
Rourke had guffawed, and the rest of the group had dissolved into fits of laughter again.
That had been last night. In the days leading up to it, they had traveled through Newfoundland and Iceland with overnights in St. John’s and Reykjavík. Exhausted, they had decided to get an extra day of recovery time when they stopped along the United Kingdom’s eastern coast.
After two days of rest at a helicopter base that had supported oil exploration operations in the North Sea, they’d woke this morning with varying levels of hangovers. The wing commander seemed to have suffered the most. Rourke had heard him throwing up on more than one occasion. However, the man had gone out of his way to apologize for the previous night’s words.
Presently, Bingham rubbed his temples again. Seeing Rourke looking at him, the man dipped his head. “Think it’ll take more than another round of bangers and mash to quell this mindquake.”
Monique handed him a bottle of water and then extracted a pill from a small pack she pulled from her pocket. “Take one of these. I use them for my migraines.”
Accepting the water, Bingham took the pill and held it up, studying it in the dim light. “This won’t fog my brain, will it?”
The lieutenant shook her head. “Quite the opposite, it has a good shot of caffeine in it as well.”
The Wing Commander nodded. “Thanks, Leftenant. You’re alright for a bloody grammar Nazi.”
Rachel’s voice came across the intercom, a smile audible in her words. “Don’t make me come back there, Chauncey-Baby.”
Bingham scowled. “I’ve told you I don’t like that. It’s Chance, not Chauncey.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Chauncey-Baby. Now settle down and take your medicine.”
Bingham held up a hand in surrender. “Yes, my Asian-American princess.” He took the pill and washed it down with a long draw from the water bottle.
Angela stirred in her seat. “Pipe down! You people are making it impossible for a woman to get any sleep around here.”
Rachel laughed. “Suck it up, buttercup.”
Commander Brown smiled and appeared to go back to sleep, although Rourke doubted she was actually getting any shuteye.
The bot’s voice broke over the intercom. “Did Lieutenant Gheist tell you the creators originally designated me as a Corps Operations Combat - Robotic Invasion Neutralization Gunner?”
Rourke looked back. “BOb, why did they change it to Battle Operations bot?”
The robot pointed to Monique. “Lieutenant Gheist was vociferous about it not being appropriate. She was quite adamant my name be BOb.”
Sitting up, Teddy looked from the bot to Monique. “Why? Was the other name too long?”
A guffaw burst from Bill. “Wait, wait, wait! … They called you a Corps Operations Combat - Robotic Invasion Neutralization Gunner?”
BOb nodded. “Yes, Major Peterson.”
Through barking laughs, Bill asked, “So … the acronym … the acronym … would’ve been … Ca … Ca … COC-RING—?”
“William!” Monique shouted, cutting off the man. “That is quite enough.”
Vaughn and several of the others snorted loudly over the intercom.
“Suffice it to say,” she added, “I was having none of it.”
Bingham scoffed. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
Rachel had been laughing, but she looked back and gave the Brit a hard look.
The man’s mouth clicked shut, although the snickers continued.
Covering his lower face, Rourke looked everywhere but at Monique.
Major Lee’s voice cut through the giggles. “Everyone strap in. It’s about to get rough. First ridgeline is dead ahead.”
The laughter evaporated, leaving cacophonous silence in its wake.
Dropping his hand, Rourke looked forward and swallowed hard. “Shit, shit, shit, shit …”
Chapter 15
Rourke scrambled back to his side of the aircraft.
As he finished strapping himself into the seat, he could feel his heart racing.
Rachel was right.
This shit was getting real.
Up to this point, it had all seemed like a remote possibility, disconnected from reality, but now that Major Lee was preparing to go tactical, using the tiltrotor’s terrain-following laser radar to keep the aircraft low and masked from enemy detection, it suddenly seemed very real indeed.
Staring at his console with mounting trepidation, Rourke eyed the video game-like controller that currently rested in its cradle.
Captain Singleton had assigned him to the crew chief’s jumpseat. That station came with the responsibility of controlling the aircraft’s belly-mounted Gatling gun.
After leaving Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, they had taken turns firing the Osprey’s two machine guns. The one on the ramp was actually an automatic grenade launcher that rained smart grenades onto a target at an impressive rate of fire. Mounted to a pedestal, it had a dedicated seat. In spite of its high-tech electronics, it still required you to fire it the old-fashioned way: by hand.
However, the other weapon, a belly-mounted, swiveling Gatling gun rigged to extend and retract through a bay in the middle of the floor, was controlled and fired by a video game-style controller, the device that Rourke was still staring at with increasing unease.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
Why on earth had he thought this a good idea?
A long-time gamer, Rourke had proven to be the best shot with the camera-equipped Gatling gun, regularly able to nail passing cars and buildings with ease, even when Major Lee had been turning the aircraft from side-to-side to simulate combat conditions.
Rourke had even taken a measure of pride in his success. It had been the first time he’d received an approving nod from Wing Commander Bingham.
He extended a trembling hand toward the controller and then shook his head and snatched it back.
What if he had to use the gun?
That would mean they had been seen, that someone was chasing them, maybe one of the Taters.
Shit! Again with the reality thing.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and his ears began to ring in response to the massive load of adrenaline dumping into his system.
The interior of the V-22 seemed to darken as his vision narrowed.
A hand touched his arm.
Looking left, he saw Commander Brown staring at him with concerned eyes. She covered up her helmet’s microphone and leaned toward him. “What’s the matter?”
Rourke pivoted his mic boom away from his mouth. “Oh, I don’t know.” Heart still pounding, he paused to draw a breath. “Maybe the idea that we’re about to fly into a nest of killer robots?”
Angela’s eyes softened, and her words took on a soothing tone. “We’ll be okay. The idea is not to be seen.” She pointed toward the front of the Osprey. “And we have some of the world’s best military pilots making sure that doesn’t happen. They’re used to covert ops, especially Rachel. She spent an entire combat tour in Afghanistan flying in a unit that made a ton of incursions into enemy-held territory, and no one ever knew they were there, at least, not until they wanted them to know.”
Rourke swallowed again and then nodded.
His breathing rate subsided. He looked at the console. Knowing Commander Brown was watching him, he finally summoned the courage to act. He grabbed the gun controller. Smiling self-consciously, he turned to the commander and held up the device. “This is a video game I’d rather not play.”
Angela nodded toward the belly cannon’s monitor screen. “I doubt you’ll ever have a chance to even glimpse a robot on that thing.”
“I hope you’re right.” Rourke furrowed his forehead as another consideration troubled him. “What if they don’t send any robots? What if they see us and just send out another wave of light?”
“I don’t think they can do that. They spotted Vaughn and me a bunch of times back when we were trapped in the time loop, but they n
ever sent out the entire wave again. It was always just a Tater.”
Rourke nodded. Feeling his pulse rate subsiding, he took another deep breath and let it out in a long exhalation. Then he looked at the commander and grinned sheepishly. “Tater, huh? Who came up with that name?”
Angela smiled and then removed her hand from her microphone. “That was Vaughn. He thought they looked like eggs, but I always thought they looked more like a boiled potato, so he started calling them Taters.”
BOb spoke up, his voice taking on a Southern drawl. “They call me Tater Salad.”
Rourke laughed in spite of the uncomfortable churning sensation in his gut. BOb’s head cut a comical silhouette. The helmet strapped to the robot’s otherwise skinny head made the bot look like a life-sized bobblehead. Initially, BOb had been able to broadcast his voice directly through the airplane’s intercom system without the need for a headset or helmet. However, at Captain Singleton’s insistence, Monique and Rourke had deactivated and removed all of the bot’s wireless interfaces. Vaughn had reasoned that, should the enemy robots become aware of their existence, he didn’t want them to be able to reprogram BOb remotely, hijacking the armed robot and using it as a weapon against them.
Laughing, Vaughn turned and looked back. “Thanks, Bobblehead BOb.” He shifted his gaze to Angela. “Did I hear my name being used in vain?”
Angela nodded. “Was just telling Rourke how you said the flying things looked like a potato.”
Rourke twisted his mic boom back into place and tilted his head toward Captain Singleton. “He also says you’re the theory savant. Got one on why they wouldn’t just send the white light through instead of a Tater?” He said the last part with a Southern drawl, mimicking BOb.
Screwing up her face, Angela shrugged. “Not sure. I think they’re sentient, so maybe the light can damage that part of them, but I don’t know. There’s another thing, though. They seem almost nonchalant about life. I mean, once they’ve swept the planet clean, they never go out of their way to watch for us. It’s like they see any remaining life as a pest, something to be squashed like a bug, but only if it rears its ugly head. Otherwise, they don’t bother to actively look.”
Rourke nodded slowly as he leaned back and stared through the far side of the airplane. Then he looked at the commander. “So essentially, a Tater is just a giant can of Raid?”
Angela smirked. “Yeah, albeit a floating, egg-shaped can that sprays out white light that’ll send you to Hell, but you’ve got the idea. Bottom line is I don’t think they can be on this side of the wormhole when they send the light through.”
Vaughn had followed the conversation since first hearing his name. Now he leaned over and looked at Rourke. “Yep, she’s the theory savant alright.”
Smiling, Angela rolled her eyes. “Aww, stop it. You’re getting me all hot and bothered.”
Vaughn grinned. “Beautiful, too, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not put this particular theory to the test.”
“Okay!” Major Lee interrupted. “Let’s adjourn the mutual admiration society before you make Chauncey-Baby throw up again.”
Bingham massaged his temples. “Hear! Hear!”
Rachel laughed and then gave them a meaningful look. “We’re almost to the first ridge. If you’re not already strapped in, do so now.”
The robot jumped from the bench and belted himself into the rear ramp’s gunner seat. Looking toward the cockpit, BOb extended a thumb and his voice changed to that of a serious-sounding, deadpan male. “I want to tell you both good luck. We’re all counting on you.”
“Ha!” Vaughn laughed. “Leslie Nielsen. Airplane! Love that movie.” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, shit. That reminds me.” He leaned in and patted Colonel Hennessy on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck up.”
“Thanks!” Mark said, drawing out the word. “No pressure.”
Looking back with a smile, Vaughn saw their confused faces and shrugged. “Tradition.”
Rachel shouted over the intercom. “Brace yourself, folks. First ridgeline in three … two … one!”
Chapter 16
Rourke’s face sagged, and his spine compressed.
He clutched at the sides of his seat.
His heart began to hammer in his chest again.
A moment later, the aircraft reached the top of the ridge and pitched over, generating negative G-forces and causing his body to press upward into the shoulder straps.
The Gatling gun’s wireless controller lifted from the table. He’d forgotten to secure the damned thing in its cradle.
Rourke’s eyes widened. Oh crap. Way to go, dumbass.
He reached out to grab the surreally levitating device.
The V-22 pitched over further as Rachel urged the plane down the far slope.
The levitating controller lurched upward and disappeared into the ceiling’s cluster of ducts and conduits.
Ah shit!
A moment later, gravity began to reassert itself, and the device reappeared. It fell from the ceiling and accelerated toward the floor. Lurching for it, Rourke managed to grab it before it would’ve slammed into the deck.
He plugged it back into the charging cradle. Looking around, he released a held breath. It appeared no one had observed his screw-up, but then he saw Wing Commander Bingham glaring at him.
Wonderful.
Two heaving gyrations later, he saw Monique doing a little heaving of her own. Fortunately, she managed to catch the remnants of her previous meal in a bag designed for the purpose.
BOb’s voice came over the intercom in a passable impression of C-3PO. “Thank the maker I’m not cursed with a stomach.”
Everyone started to crack up, including Monique as she wiped the back of a hand across her mouth. Then the airplane did another gyration, cutting short their laughter.
This time, even BOb grabbed the side of his seat.
His voice returned, now sounding like Lloyd Bridges. “Oh … I picked a bad day to stop doing acid.”
The aircraft lurched upward and then just as quickly reversed direction.
For the first time—that day, anyway—Rourke began to seriously fear for his life.
“Yee-Haw!” Rachel shouted, her voice so loud Rourke was certain he’d have heard her even if she hadn’t transmitted the shout over the intercom system. She laughed hysterically. “It’s getting real now!”
“She's enjoying this,” Bingham said, shaking his head. “That woman is an absolute nutter.”
This elicited another round of laughter from the front. “Oh yeah, I’m crazy alright, crazy ‘bout you, Chauncey-Baby.”
For a moment, Rourke wondered if the major had gone off the deep end, but when he looked around, he saw everyone smiling between G-induced grimaces. Then it dawned on him: they were whistling past the graveyard.
Rourke doubted Rachel’s machinations were accidental. Considering her history as a badass special forces operative, he imagined this was just another one of her finely tuned abilities.
And it had worked…
For a moment.
Now that he had seen through her psychological warfare, his thoughts returned to what lay ahead of them.
Rachel turned and looked at him, her head tilted back so that she could see under her night-vision goggles. “Rourky?” she called, drawing out his name. “I can feel you thinking. Cut it out. You’re not paid for that anymore.” She nodded toward the Gatling gun’s control module. “Go ahead and activate the cannon. Focus on your new job. Keep us safe.”
Rourke swallowed and then gave a short nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We’re getting close to Geneva now. Don’t worry. I’m not going off-script. Still planning to land on the back side of Mont Salève, but it’s better to be ready and not need it than …” She left the rest unsaid. Lowering her helmet, Rachel looked at him through her night-vision goggles and dipped her head.
He returned the nod and then activated the cannon’s control system.
Major Lee turn
ed her attention back to the outside world. “You’re doing great, Rourky. You’ll be fine.”
Rourke sighed. He toggled a final command. The sound of rushing air filled the cabin as the bay door on the belly of the aircraft opened.
Colonel Hennessy called back from the flight deck. “You ready, BOb?
Strapped into the tailgunner’s ramp seat, the gray robot adjusted the mic boom on its helmet. “Yes, Colonel Hennessy, I am in position.”
“Good. When I open the ramp, you are cleared to engage any enemy combatants you see.”
“Roger, Colonel. Does that include airborne assets?”
Captain Singleton’s head spun to face the robot. “Especially airborne assets. If you see a goddamn Tater following us, I want you to blow the bastard from the sky.”
“Yes, Captain Singleton.”
Mark nodded at Vaughn and then looked back at the robot. “I’m going to open the ramp now.”
Barely visible in the dark, BOb raised a thumb. The machine’s voice lowered an octave and acquired a British accent. “Make it so, Number One.”
At first, Rourke didn’t see anything change, but then he saw a horizontal sliver of a lighter shade of black appear beyond the robot. The thin line soon became a fat bar. A moment later, he saw fields and tree lines through the expanding gap, all of the features dwindling as they fell behind the onrushing aircraft.
For now, BOb was manning a grenade launcher instead of his EMP cannon. The latter weapon had proven capable of killing a truck’s engine from better than a hundred meters. When they’d tested the EMP cannon, it had permanently fried the electronics of everything they’d aimed it at. However, Monique had worried it might not have the range it needed to be effective from the back of a flying aircraft, so they had mounted an MK47 Striker 40mm automatic grenade launcher to the ramp pedestal. It was a beast of a weapon that could shoot a shit-ton of grenades downrange at a high firing rate.
Like the belly-mounted Gatling gun, the Striker had a dedicated camera and display. It also afforded the gunner the ability to fire programmable grenades designed to airburst at a user-specified range.
