Hard Drop

by Will van Der Vaart

  A thick snowbank, piled high up to her waist, emerged through the snow ahead, running perpendicularly to her course for as far as she could see. She made straight for it, keeping her legs moving and building speed as she approached, fearful of getting stuck in its drift. She reached it quickly, feeling her boots sink through the soft layer until it felt like she was swimming. With a determined effort, she dragged her feet through it, forcing her way forwards. The snow bunched around her waist, its resistance stiffening as it compacted in front of her, and for a second she thought it might bring her to a stop.

  Far from it: just at the moment when she felt herself slowing, when she wondered if she might find herself stranded and stuck, the piled snow gave way. She lost her balance and fell, sprawling down the slope and landing on one knee on a painfully hard-packed surface.

  Flip put down a hand and felt the ground beneath her. It was hard and cold, a thick layer of ice and snow that had melted and re-frozen, and it was now packed several inches thick. Dirt was visible below, showing through as a wide track of dull reddish-grey. Deep tire tracks in the ground below were still visible through the ice, the mud frozen in place by the winter cold. She had landed on a dirt road, and by the looks of it, it was still in use. Heavy tire treads, visible in the thin layer of snow that coated the ice, extended as far as she could see in either directions. They were wider than truck treads, and deeper too. She recognized the type: military, heavy grade, armored. Six- or seven-ton vehicles. Not the kind she’d want to meet. Not up here, not alone. With a hurried, nervous glance along the road, she climbed quickly to her feet. There was no telling when the next patrol would make its appearance.

  She moved across the track quickly, the sudden threat reinvigorating her tired legs. Her rifle found its way immediately into her hands. Its cold, hard metal was little comfort given what she knew she could be up against.

  She had barely made it off the road when the sound of a heavy throttle broke through the clouds. Flip looked up anxiously, turning her head first one way, then the other, trying to determine which direction it was coming from. She didn’t have long to wait.

  Heavy, angry, and overworked, treads spinning over packed snow, first one engine, then another came hard around the bend. They were moving too fast on too little traction, groaning as they lurched around slight bends in the road, driven by drivers who clearly had no concern for their maintenance. Flip flattened herself against the snow, inching her way towards the cover of a small cluster of evergreens. She stared as the vehicles roared into view. They were large trucks, big ugly militarized vehicles with miniguns mounted on their roofs. They were standard-issue, fairly modern and several grades beyond Flip’s meager firepower. If they saw her, she wouldn’t have a chance. The lead tank slowed menacingly as it drew even with her position, and Flip froze, wishing she could sink into the snow below her, gripping her rifle ferociously in her hands. As if it might do some good.

  The sound of the gun roaring to life startled her. Bullets strafed the low forest, sending branches flying and throwing snow high into the air. Flip shielded her eyes, going completely flat as the bullets flew by above her. She set her jaw and unlatched her safety, waiting for the first soldier to appear, ready to put a bright red hole in his forehead. She would not go quietly.

  The gun spun on for what seemed like an eternity, churning and ripping branches from the trees above her, stripping the trees to their trunks. She steeled herself, waiting for the wheels to slow and the engines to idle, expecting the vehicles to send their occupants out to finish her off.

  But they never stopped. After a long, brutal minute, the miniguns fell silent, and the engines roared away. Flip looked up slowly, still lying flat against the ground, peering warily out towards the road. The thin sheet of ice was clear. The vehicles had gone, continuing up the icy path, and still she stayed, convinced the soldiers were toying with her, hardly daring to believe her luck. The last echoes of the truck engines were even now dying away in the distance, leaving Flip alone in the savaged wilderness. Branches lay strewn around her like macabre amputations. Piles of needles and pinecones dotted the snow blanket like scattered arterial spray. The carnage clustered farther down the road, twenty feet away from her, around a dark mound half-swallowed by a drift. Flip looked towards it cautiously, brushing away the sweat now stinging her eyes. Forced quickly off the road, she had not noticed it before, but now that the miniguns had laid it bare, its angular frame gave a clear idea of its contents. Flip hurried towards it. She could be certain now that the gunners hadn’t seen her from the road. They had been focused on what lay buried in the snow instead.

  She reached the mound and went to work, digging away the snow with both hands, stopping only briefly when she uncovered its metal hatch to confirm her suspicions: it was a jump pod. The mountain was not anywhere near the drop radius. This one must have been thrown off-course by the cruiser’s destruction, and given its condition she didn’t hold out much hope for the occupant. This last patrol had clearly not been the first to find it, if the rows of bullet holes dotting the glass shield were anything to go by. The minigun was brutally efficient: whatever threat the pod might have posed initially, it was little more than target practice for the troopers now. Flip wedged the door open reluctantly, expecting the worst.

  The pod was empty, and Flip sighed in relief. Death in its simple, messy form didn’t bother her, but the reality of dealing with a frozen corpse in tight constraints, at high altitude, very much did. The prospect of handling rigid, frozen limbs, of negotiating burst blood vessels and broken skin, was not appetizing or likely to be manageable. She inspected the empty pod, rifling through the storage pockets for anything that might help to keep her warm. She reached the weapons rack and stopped.

  The soldiers may have seen the structure in the snow, had riddled the frame with bullets, but it was clear they had not taken the time to actually search it: when she peeled back the frozen cover of the weapons rack, she was greeted by a brand-new rocket launcher, its barrel a pristine, shining grey. Flip set to work worrying the frozen launcher loose, easing it back and forth until she finally gave up on subtlety. With a quick, angry grunt she planted her feet and yanked the frozen bore from its compartment, smashing what remained of the brittle, frozen glass.

  She stood up slowly on the road, holding her new weapon cautiously, feeling its weight in her hands. It felt good. She would be ready, now, if the patrols came back.

  The beacon blinked on unchangingly ahead, leading her directly up the road the tanks had come roaring down. There was no telling how much farther it went. With a heavy sigh, she stepped back inside the treeline, slung the rocket launcher across her back, and set off down the track.

  SEVEN: INTO THE FIRE

  The armored personnel carrier rounded corner after corner of potholed mountain road, bouncing over wide gaps in the concrete and rattling its occupants mercilessly. Tyco sat near the front, looking watchfully through a firing slit in the side of the vehicle. The hills they had come down looked higher from here than they had seemed coming down, their slopes falling in a series of rolling cascades that culminated in the wide, flat valley now flashing by below the APC. Tyco stared down into the valley, quiet and grimly observant, shielding his eyes against the glare from below. The intermittent flashes of sunlight that blinded him at intervals came as a reflection off of the dense jungle of concrete and glass buildings that crowded the low valley floor. They had reached the city at last.

  It was modern by the standards of outer-ring planets, ringed by highways and punctuated by a series of skyscrapers now dwarfed by the smoke that dominated the sky around them. The road the APC now roared along traced its outskirts, winding up into the low hills immediately overlooking the cracked, weather-beaten concrete. Their rendezvous lay just ahead, blinking on Tyco’s display. It would serve as a strategic vantage point from which to begin their final descent into the city below.

  Chip was smoking again, leaning against the carrier’s side and exhali
ng slowly through a narrow firing slot. He smiled easily as the vehicle jolted, strikingly at peace with the world now that he had gotten his fix. He looked up at Tyco and grinned.

  “Guns, Cap.” He said. Tyco frowned. He hadn’t heard it yet. Turning away from the window, he closed his eyes, listening intently. Not that he really needed to: Chip’s hearing was precise and unerring, and he knew his weapons inside and out. The insistent, dull popping sound of distant gunfire came steadily, now audible over the growling engine. Tyco looked at Chip expectantly, waiting on the details he knew would come. “Seven guns, ¾ of a klick.” The sniper reported, after a brief pause. He fell silent, then, and set to work calmly double-checking his firearm in preparation.

  “That’s at the rendezvous.” Hog called, from the front.

  “We’re going in hot.” Tyco nodded in affirmation.

  Ringo racked the turret gun loudly and emphatically, clearly itching for the chance to use his new toy. Tyco had to smile at his enthusiasm. He leaned forward in his seat and peered ahead just as Hog turned a hard corner. Their rendezvous lay dead ahead, across a wide, level gap in the mountain cliffs.

  It had been a strip mall, in a better time, years, maybe decades ago. The buildings here had been boarded up long ago. Some were rotting husks, their walls sagging and fragile. Others had been burned, their walls scorched and blackened. The shell of an old gas station building stood freely in the center of the plaza, its tanks long gone, the long, angled arc of its roof dominating the ruins. The walls all around were clean, unmarked by bullets or grenades. Judging by their untouched appearance, the war had not made it this far.

  That was changing, now, with the arrival of the APC, and with the loud flurry of gunfire sounding at the far end of the strip. It boomed across the square, furious and heated: a firefight was in full force.

  “Son of a bitch.” Chip said, dropping his cigarette through the side-window, and Tyco looked up in alarm. “It’s eight guns, not seven.” The sniper shook his head in disgust. He picked up his rifle and stared down the barrel, muttering to himself. “I’m slipping…” Tyco turned away and cocked his rifle, shaking his head. There was no winning with Chip.

  “Cap, what do you want me to do?” Hog asked, at the wheel.

  “Is this thing bulletproof?” Tyco asked.

  Ringo smacked the metal roof above their heads with his open palm and smiled widely. “Only one way to find out.”

  Before anyone could stop him, he had pulled his gun from his shoulder, unlatched his safety, and opened fire directly down onto the roof of the carrier.

  “Ringo - !” Hog shouted.

  The bullets drowned out her voice, bouncing harmlessly off the outer armor. Their impacts left only minimal dents in the armor.. Ringo laughed triumphantly.

  “All clear, Cap!”

  Tyco shook his head in dismay. “Get down, Ringo.” He called over his shoulder. “We’re going in.”

  Hog accelerated, grinding over the cracked concrete and piled debris. She cut the wheel hard, skidding under a fallen metal walkway and heading directly in the direction of gunfire. The rattle of machine guns echoed deafeningly off of the surrounding buildings, growing louder in waves as they approached. The skirmish was in its closing stage. Tyco recognized its familiar death rattle – the fire rate was building to a brilliant crescendo as one side tried to push home the advantage they had gained. The other side – the losing side – fired only in clipped bursts. Either their ammunition was running low, or their numbers were falling.

  The personnel carrier spun its wheels over a patch of broken glass, fishtailed wildly, and skidded past the abandoned hulk of the gas station. Hog fought the tailspin, righted the hood, and plunged her foot against the pedal. The vehicle responded well, roaring the final few feet directly into the middle of the firefight, lurching to a hard stop in the clearing between a shot-out storefront and a stacked, splintered pile of crates serving as cover for the unfortunate soldiers caught behind it.

  The guns fell silent, stunned by the sudden intrusion. The last echoes of gunfire died away, leaving the shuttered, smashed storefronts in deep, ominous silence. And then, from behind a thick wooden crate, a sunburned soldier raised his head, shouting as he stepped towards the vehicle. His enormous, lumbering build and dirty, ragged uniform marked him clearly as a local, another one of the muscled soldiers they had encountered on this planet. The markings on the side of the APC had lured him into the open, and he stepped towards it with bold confidence, shouting and gesticulating across the square towards the boarded storefront where his opponents had taken shelter. His men followed more cautiously behind him.

  “Ours, Chip?” Tyco asked tensely. He was already fairly certain of the answer, but bitter experience had taught him to make certain before opening fire.

  Chip, staring down his sniper scope, shook his head.

  “Negative, Cap.”

  “Ringo.” Tyco said, smiling already in anticipation of the response he was about to get. “You’re on.”

  Ringo needed no further encouragement. He launched himself up through the open hatch and into the turret, taking hold of the turret controls with both hands.

  The local soldier froze in his tracks as Ringo appeared from the belly of the APC. The grizzled trooper who had emerged from the vehicle’s belly was unfamiliar, the markings on his uniform unmistakably foreign, and the wicked smile on his face as he brought the turret around left no doubt as to his intentions. The local man barely breathed as the barrel spun. He was caught in the open, betrayed by his legs, caught in his mistake and unable to save himself. He raised his gun in desperation, firing blindly and frantically as the turret gun came up to speed. His bullets came nowhere near Ringo, pinging wildly off the carrier’s undercarriage as he flailed with it.

  A shot rang out from the inside the tank even as the turret opened fire. The man jerked once, a clean hole punched through his head from cheek to scalp. A split-second later, a flood of bullets smashed into his falling body, driving him backwards across the concrete like a ragdoll.

  “God damn it, Chip!” Ringo yelled in fury, knowing damn well who had stolen his kill.

  Chip laughed loudly from below, calmly taking aim at his next target. Above him, Ringo threw his weight against the turret sides, rushing to turn his spinning barrels on the remaining soldiers with a redoubled fury.

  The local soldiers scattered and bolted for cover, diving behind their crates and burned-out car frames, but these gave little protection against Ringo’s minigun. The barrel spun freely, sending bullets smashing through metal, leather, and wood alike. It scythed through the soldiers’ flimsy cover, mowing them down as if there were nothing shielding them at all. They fell in quick, brutal succession, most without firing a shot.

  In the end, the one-sided skirmish took a matter of seconds to conclude. Satisfied with the complete lack of movement from the behind the shattered debris, Ringo released the turret triggers. For a long second, the whining of the spinning barrel was the only audible sound in the concrete square.

  Tyco opened the carrier door cautiously, stepping down onto the hard concrete and heading towards the pitiful remains of the storefront. Its splintered woodwork and freshly pock-marked bricks had passed as cover in the skirmish, but given the condition they were in, it was hard to believe anyone had survived behind them. Tyco shielded his eyes and stepped into the darkness with more hope than expectation.

  “Commander, that you?” A voice called out from the rubble

  “Affirmative.” Tyco replied, lowering his rifle as his eyes adjusted. “Who’s there?”

  Slowly, warily, four figures emerged from the darkness, squinting uncertainly into the light. At their head was a small, stocky, balding man, bandana covering an open wound on his head.

  “PFC Carter.” The man said, voice hoarse and gravelly, worn out from the firefight. “Boy are we glad to see you. That’s Clark, Mac, and Sinclair.”

  The other three emerged behind him, bloodied and dirty but other
wise in one piece. Tyco recognized them with unexpected relief. All three of them were veterans, all good soldiers, and he was glad they’d made it this far. They hadn’t been alone, either – there were more bodies behind them in the rubble.

  “Looks like we could’ve made it sooner.” He muttered apologetically.

  Carter nodded and grimaced. “We’ll take what we can get.” He said quietly, with grim resignation. Without ceremony, he handed Tyco a small handful of tags. Tyco took them with a sympathetic nod.

  “Who’d we lose?” He asked evenly, keeping his voice down. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Negative.” Carter said, answering the last question first. “Morgan, Patel, Petersen.”

  “Got it.” He said grimly, and looked away, carefully adding the new tags to the one already lying in his side pocket. He turned towards the APC. “You know Ringo, Chip, and Ghost. Hog’s at the wheel.” Carter nodded at each trooper in turn.

  “That makes nine, by my count…” He said, shaking his head. “You’re the first group we’ve seen. Otherwise it’s all been single troopers coming in. The last one brought the army with him.”

  Tyco glanced at the surrounding hills intently, both looking for more of his troopers to arrive and worrying that more locals would come instead.

  “I’m going to need a few minutes to update the new rally coordinates.” He said at last, turning back to his team in the APC and raising his voice. “Spread out.” He said. “Find some firing angles and – “ he looked at Chip. “- Get up somewhere high.”