by Mich Moore
security due all US citizens."
"And just what does that mean?" Bentley sneered.
"In your case, a proper burial."
Bentley gritted his teeth. "Duly noted." He sat back and stared through the windshield at the machine and at the throngs of people dashing to and fro. Was he taking in one last look at the world? Maybe. Maybe this was it. His final hours. He felt tears on his cheeks. That his life's final scenes would play out like this was so far from what he imagined they would be was beyond ridiculous.
Robo Dog at the End of the World.
... And maybe just a little fun. He squelched a totally inappropriate grin. I'm losing it! And then he giggled outright.
Well, if this was indeed the end, then he was certainly going to have the last word. "A word of advice, Mr. Fields: don't give what you aren't prepared to receive." He thumbed off and punched in the mayor's emergency phone number. He got his voicemail.
Bentley screamed into the receiver. "Dammit! This is T. Bentley of the goddamned St. Louis Fire Department!"
Calm down. He closed his eyes and managed to get focused. "I'm at the Jones Dome. We're about to be attacked by Washington troops. I repeat. Invasion imminent. They've got some kind of new weapon that's gotten away from them. They're coming after it. It's my feeling that we need to keep it, but we've got about a thousand civvies in the immediate vicinity. The situation is dire. The police department is on the scene, but they've got their hands full. Can you call the Advance South station and see if they can get here and buy us some time and maybe set up some road blocks along the Poplar bridge so that these bastards just can't drive in here? Hello? HELLO!??" The line went dead. "Crap!"
He called Carey over. "Find out who's in charge of the police detail over there, and tell them that I've talked to a Mr. Freddy Fields. He's in charge of this thing, and they're ready to come through us to get it." The crowd was beginning to buck and bray loudly about something that he could not see. Carey was straining to hear him. "TELL THEM TO GET SPECIAL FORCES, THE GUARD, ANYBODY WHO'S PACKING SERIOUS HEAT OVER HERE FAST. AND TELL THEM TO SET UP ROAD BLOCKS ON THE POPLAR BRIDGE!"
Carey stood there with unblinking eyes. "Are we about to die?" The fireman was in his twenties with a baby on the way.
Bentley felt his knees go weak. He forced a devil-may-care grin worthy of an Oscar. "Not tonight, kid." And then he flipped him a defiant thumbs-up. That galvanized the younger man into action. He sprinted off confidently toward the knot of police officers across the way.
Bentley pulled a gold-plated pen—a gift from the department for twenty-five years of service—out of his pocket and calmly wrote down a vengeful note to his ex-wife. Every few seconds or so the car would rock on its wheels as fleeing people randomly slammed into it. The fire chief rolled with the punches. He finished up with an embellished signature and then slipped the paper into the glove compartment. Then he lowered his face in prayer.
"Lord, if this is it, then I give thanks for this life. The good and the bad. Most of all I want to thank you for my mom and dad. My sisters. I loved them. I loved them all. In Jesus's name. Amen." Bentley genuflected and rejoined his men.
He elbowed his way to the police barriers. The thing was still there. It had turned itself around and was now facing south, completely oblivious to the pandemonium breaking out around it. Bentley walked out onto the street straight towards it. Several others followed him. When he was but a short distance away, he stopped.
"Oh, my," he muttered to himself. Up close, the machine looked more animal than machine. How was this possible? It turned to face them, its expression a frieze of placidity. Lighted symbols appeared in its forehead. Words? Bentley drew closer. Closer still. It was just one word. He read it.
"RUN!"
One of his men blurted out, "Shit!"
Something flew directly overhead. It was fast and made an ear-splitting noise. It could have been a jet, but it had a preposterous tic-tac-toe like grid of bright lights fastened to its belly. Bentley was about to turn and make a run for his car when the entire area suddenly lit up, making him feel as if the city had been magically teleported into the center of the sun. There were several mini-booms, like dud cherry bombs going off, and then nothing. A soft ash fell from the sky. Bentley felt a scorching pain arc through his head and then slash down to his toes. He clapped his hands on either side of his head, marveling that he could no longer feel his body. Then he and almost every other man, woman and child within a third of a kilometer of the Dome stiffened and collapsed.
Within minutes the acrid fog parted, and three platoons from the American mobile infantry rolled in.
The twelve infantry combat vehicles barely made a sound as they steered past the heaps of bodies in the square and on the sidewalks. Dead center stood the AI, his green TCAS beacon flashing.
One ICV pulled ahead of the rest, put on the brakes, and executed a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn so that its rear was now facing the DAT. Just as four long rifle barrels poked through portholes set in the vehicle's sides, the rear doors swung open and four figures dressed in helmeted hazmat suits raced out, secured the robot, and hustled him back inside. The ICV's doors banged shut, and the vehicle lunged into first gear.
Major Helen Avery thumbed the right button on her headset to gain access to the company radio. "Eagle's Nest, this is Alpha Stork. Baby on board. I repeat: baby on board. Do you copy? Over."
Company commander Carole Brainerd's voice came across the airwaves. "Alpha Stork, this is Eagle's Nest. Affirmative. Good work. Rejoin the team; we should be across the Poplar state line shortly. ETA ten minutes. Over and out."
Helen hit the left button on her headset. This gave her access to the platoon radio. Her voice would be heard only by the other two platoon leaders in the company: Captain Melody Dinard and Captain Marsha Van de Veer. Although she knew that they would have heard her transmission to Brainerd over the company net, she repeated it again.
"Alpha Stork, this is Beta Stork." That was Captain Dinard. Her platoon contained the mobile surgery and was staffed with Patriots: one full-fledged trauma surgeon, an anesthesiologist, and two surgical nurses. "Is Peter all right? Over."
"He seems fine. I was worried that the stun device might affect his interfaces but everything seems to be online."
"That's more than can be said about the people out here." That was Gamma Stork, Captain Van de Veer.
"Don't worry," Helen replied. "In twenty-four hours they'll wake up with only a headache to complain about. Commander Brainerd wants us at the state line in ten minutes, so tell your navigators to turn and burn. Over and out."
Her own navigator, Lieutenant Howell, who was seated directly across from her command bay, heard the order and accelerated the engine. They hurtled down the now barren street at ninety-eight kilometers per hour.
Helen went to her walkie-talkie and called up the ICV's gunner. "Dakota, whatcha got up there?"
Lieutenant Joan Dakota's cheery voice filled the cramped cockpit. "Looks like clear sailing all the way, ma'am." Dakota sat atop the ICV in a metal bucket that was situated directly over the navigator's chair. A 30mm gun was bolted to the chair directly in front of her. Her upper half was almost completely exposed to the open air, with only a titanium helmet and neck brace to protect her from injury.
Helen's earphones came alive. "Alpha Stork. Come in, please." It was Commander Brainerd. In spite of the extreme danger that they were certainly still in, her voice was dull, almost catatonic. Of course, she had probably been sedated. "I have a confidential update from Scott regarding Timberwolf pack. Transmitting now. Alpha ears only. Over and out."
Helen steeled herself. They had been told that two Wolves had been seriously wounded, but not which ones. An update now could mean that they had learned the names of the wounded ... or that the wounded were now the deceased. Either way it could be devastating news. Would Brainerd have given her the transmission if it had been something about Gene? It would be difficult to know. Carole was not her normal self, and, in
her estimation, should not have been on active duty. But because of the very real possibility of a DAT falling into AS hands, all of the Timberwolves had been kicked to the front line. That included Carole, who had been in the psych ward under suicide watch at Scott just that morning.
Helen forced herself to listen to the message.
"Scott Air Force Base. Mission Control. Start communique. Lieutenant Colonel Eugene R. Palladino and Captain August N. Smith have been reported as wounded in action with injuries. Palladino and Smith have been airlifted to base hospital and are awaiting additional medical personnel to arrive from Chicago. End of communique."
For a moment, Helen could not think straight as a hundred different thoughts fought for space in her mind.
She became aware that Howell was speaking to her. "Ma'am, I'm picking up something on my thermal camera."
Helen fought to control her emotions. Don't be like Carole and fall to pieces.
"Where?" Carole Brainerd, a Harvard graduate with a master's degree in computer science, had taken a box cutter and cut her wrists ... lengthwise.
"Approximately one hundred and ten meters southwest from our position. It could be civilian. It's hard to get a clear picture with so many buildings around us."
Once again, a bad man had caused the downfall of a good woman. Joe Mackey was a good soldier but a pathetic excuse for a
