The original passenger from the Humvee Torbin had taken out finally made another appearance, MOPP gear and all. He had recovered a rifle and tried to hit the assault team in the rear. Sgt. Nelson shot him through his forehead with one round, killing him instantly.
“Get something, Sarge?” Black asked, still providing long cover with his Barrett.
“Yea, some dumbass still in full MOPP gear trying to sneak up on us. You’d have thought he would realize that a full-fledged nuke or germ attack would have taken place by now. Now, he can’t realize anything.”
“Yeah, Sarge. War is hell. But it sure can be fun.” Black smiled again, this time unnoticed under his Ghillie camouflaged poncho.
Through the two sets of double doors in the front of the HQ Building was the foyer, with a large, winding staircase that led to the left up to the second floor. Here were the offices and the living suites. Andrew had already sped up the stairs, went into the Director’s office.
Adam heard something and spun to face it, gun in hand. “Please do not shoot, Director. I just had a new finish put on my body.”
Adam smiled. “I still have not figured out how you, being so large and heavy, can move so quietly.”
“Superior technique and technology, Director. In that order. And now, I must get you out of here.”
“Can’t do that, Andrew. I’m the Captain of the Ship. Can’t leave with crewmen still aboard.”
“Director. Adam. The subject is not up for discussion.” Andrew seemed to glide over and picked Adam up effortlessly, holding him under his left arm like a small dog.
“Goddamnit. Put me down!”
“Sorry, Director. Higher orders.” He walked through Mary’s office toward the exit to the stairs. He stopped, then set Adam down. “The enemy is too close to the front door, and too well armed to risk running with you. I will have to dispose of the threat first, and then move you.”
“What about the Falcon?”
“Sadly, due to my misjudgment, I underestimated their capabilities to do damage. The Falcon is sitting well offshore. Now, I must engage the attackers and beat them back. Please stay away from the windows, Director, and in the center of the office. I shall return.”
Andrew slowly walked toward the winding staircase. He was interfacing with the various cameras, radios, and surveillance equipment in the area to obtain a true picture of the attacking force. He saw the Tschaaa Soldiers had been taken out rather quickly. Then, the Security Forces beaten back. And the attackers were coming straight to the Headquarters Building.
Just then, Chief Hamilton came sputtering, choking down the hallway from the ladder that went to the roof.
“Chief, are you well?”
“As well as one can be, after being gassed and hit with shrapnel.”
“Please, join the Director in the office. I must deal with these attackers directly.” The Chief did not have to be told twice. He went in.
Andrew decided he would wait at the top of the stairs, giving him space and distance to use his targeting systems. He had the capability to target any incoming object, including a bullet if given a good distance for response, and hit it with the MP-5K compact weapon he carried on his hip. He had found, as many of his brothers, that their integral interfaced targeting system worked just fantastic with conventional human weapons that threw bullets downrange. One bullet, one hit, at the most vulnerable spot on the target. Using his computer interfaces, he dimmed the lights in the foyer and the upper stairs landing. He stepped back into the shadows and waited. He did not have to wait long.
Washington burst into the building first, and immediately noticed it was darkened. The sun had begun to rise, so there was some ambient light coming in through the small sun dome that the Director had built above the staircase and foyer. However, all the interior lights were off. He slipped on his night goggles.
“Let me take a look with my night goggles first,” he told the other three, as he motioned for them to stay put at the entrance. He moved slowly into the foyer. Andrew spotted the night goggles and hit them with a pencil beam of light. The goggles’ safety feature to prevent blindness shut them down, but Sgt. Washington still saw stars and dark dots. He swung his M-60EI up and began firing. The other three assault troops hit the doorway and came boiling in.
The small light had told the humans the threat was on the second floor, so they began firing in that general direction. Andrew began to take a few rounds on his armor, so he moved swiftly to the right toward the top of the winding staircase and opened up one-handed with his MP-5K. Four targets, four hits on the torsos to start. The small rounds were stopped by the body armor and had been more of a last minute warning to flee than anything. As he fired, PFC Trump fired his 40mm grenade at Andrew. The cyborg’s fifth shot hit the round halfway to its target, detonating it. Surely the blast would make the troops realize who and what they were dealing with! But Andrew, having dealt with a fairly passive population the last couple of years, dulled by his interface with so many emotionless databases, had again underestimated the enemy’s capabilities. And anger.
Sgt. Washington charged up the stairs, through the back part of the blast, firing his M-60 as he moved two steps at a time. In his hands, the M-60 seemed to be as light as a BB gun. The AP and Ball rounds smashed into the robocop, denting the front armor plate. Surprised with the ferocity of the attack, Andrew sped along the top of the stairs back to the shadows where he had been. Sgt. Washington kept firing, some of the rounds hitting Andrew. The cyborg fired a round into the large man’s head, hitting the helmet because the human happened to duck his head just as he had fired. Washington fired at the muzzle blast, smashing the MP-5 barrel, causing it to jam.
“I got you now, bitch!” Sgt. Washington screamed as he reached the top of the staircase. The MP-5, propelled with great force, smashed high into the man’s chest, knocking him on his ass. Somehow, the NCO remained cognizant enough to reach for his hand grenade attached on his left shoulder. He saw a figure approach from his left as he started to pull the loosed pin with the thumb on his right throwing hand. It was the Director, approaching with his sub gun.
In a microsecond, Andrew processed the scene. The Director had not stayed back, and was now in danger. He launched himself with inhuman speed, smashing into Sgt. Washington. He ripped the hand grenade from the human’s grasp and tossed it into the foyer. He ripped the M-60 from the assault strap. Andrew held it with his left hand as he turned and threw the African-American human by his throat, down at his fellow soldiers near the bottom of the stairs.
Trump was hit with the flying body just as he tried to bring his 40mm to bear again. His left arm sustained a compound fracture as the heavy human body in body armor smashed the M-16 to his body. The grenade discharged from the launcher, impacting and detonating above the top of the staircase. Andrew was peppered with shrapnel, but did not seem to notice as he threw the M-60 like a spear. The barrel penetrated the skull of Muller between his eyes, completely destroying his face and head. He died in an instant, never knowing what hit him. Moore emptied the rest of his magazine at the robocop, then ducked out of the foyer back into the entranceway, just as the spoon popped completely free of the hand grenade that bounced around. Five seconds later it exploded.
With the explosion of the hand grenade, Andrew stopped his descent down the winding staircase. He was on autopilot, en route to turn any surviving attackers into mush. The explosion ended that line of thought; his quick assessment was there were no humans in the foyer. The cyborg turned and hotfooted back to the Director’s office. Moore, outside when the grenade went off, was safe from the shrapnel. He popped a new magazine in and tried to sneak back into the foyer as smoke boiled around. Trump started to scream in pain, which drew his attention. Moore heaved the dead Washington off the wounded man, and helped Trump up. He half carried him out from the foyer to near the entrance. Once under more light, Moore saw the bone sticking out Trump’s left arm. He used a large bandage to secure the arm across Trump’s chest. H
e then helped him out into the sunlight.
Torbin and company had heard the shooting and explosions, then nothing. They stayed in position, waiting to see what happened next. Finally, two figures appeared, one supporting the other. “Friendlies. Cover them.”
About three minutes later, Moore helped Trump lay down behind the staff car Torbin and Gunny used as cover.
“Did you see him? Did you see the Director?” Torbin asked.
“I don’t know, Captain. We blew some shit up, but that damned robocop was in the way. We blew the shit out of him and he kept coming.”
“Fuck.” Tobin had a quick decision to make. He could try with his remaining personnel now, or try a tactical withdrawal. The decision was made for him. He saw at least a couple of dozen Security Personnel approaching from the northwest. He yelled at his remaining grenadier, Standing Bull.
“Lob a grenade at that office window, then lob another! Start firing at those troops! Moore, get Trump back to Black’s position. Get Nelson ready to bug out!”
“Everyone with 40mm. Hand it to Standing Bull and me.”
Torbin grabbed the Shorty M-79 from Gunny Smith and loaded it with a HE round.
Andrew went into the office. “Director, Chief, you must go to your shelter. Go, or I will carry you. I do not know if I can stop another attack. “
Adam hesistated. “Okay. I guess you are right...”
Andrew heard and sensed the 40mm rounds approaching. He grabbed the Chief and Adam like small children under his arms and dashed from the office. The grenades exploded on the window sill, filling the office with shrapnel. He carried them over to the escape ladder that ran parallel to the escape elevator. “Go now!” Andrew ordered. After the last explosions, Adam did not argue.
“Be careful, Andrew.”
“Of course, Director. Caution is my middle name. As of right now.” Andrew’s droll humor became more noticeable every day.
The Security Forces began to fire at Torbin’s remaining team. They fought back, hitting many of the soldiers who were crossing the open field. But more were coming, trying to encircle them.
“Captain, you need to go.”
“Gunny, you stay, I stay.”
Gunny Smith stopped firing the SAW long enough to yell at him. “Bullshit! You have a wife and soon a child waiting on you. I lost everything years ago. It’s my time to stay. Please, go.”
Torbin hesitated. Smith continued. “Besides, you need to report to Madam President what happened. Go.”
Torbin looked at him. Time to go. “Semper Fi, Gunny. I go with the wounded. Surrender if you get a chance. I was told the Director still has some honor.”
Gunny Smith laughed. “See you on the Sands of Iwo Jima.” A mortar round landed close. Torbin turned and sprinted back to Black and the wounded. Gunny kept firing. Standing Bull began to sing and chant a possible Death Song. He let loose with another grenade at the advancing forces.
Martinez and Moore were doing a fireman’s chair carry for a protesting Sgt. Nelson.
“Goddamnit. I can walk.”
“Like hell you can, Sergeant.” Cpl. Martinez scolded him. “That AP round must have tumbled sideways when it was in your right thigh. You’re missing a hunk of primary thigh muscles from the exit wound.”
Torbin arrived at their position, and heard the nearby Barrett start to fire one round after another. Each round was a kill, and would hopefully help to break the resolve of the attacking force, as they watched their people getting torn apart from long range. A Humvee had made the mistake of exposing itself and now had a ruptured gas tank and a hole in its engine from a SLAP (Sabot Light Armor Piercing) round. However, firing so many rounds would eventually lead to it being located for mortar strikes.
“Corporal Black. Time to leave.”
“Alright Sir.” Torbin knew he was smiling although he could not see him. That man enjoyed his work. Nelson had a rifle in his hands, being the shooter from the seated carry position for the three troops. Trump, holding his arm in pain, had no weapon. Torbin stepped up, hit him with a morphine shot, and then handed him his Makorav. “Eight rounds, Private. Don’t waste them.”
Torbin looked back and saw the Gunny had popped his smoke flare, trying to generate some more confusion. He tried to move faster.
Ichiro Yamamoto had actually crossed the causeway first. He saw the armed guard in the parking lot of the Headquarters Building and heard the vehicles driving around. He decided that rather than draw possible attention to himself by a frontal assault, he would try and sneak around and find a back way into the HQ Building. The sun had just started to peak its rays over the horizon when he snuck down the fence line along the causeway, then began to swing wide, stayed in the shadows. He snuck to and from bushes, along small ditches.
He was on the southwest area from the HQ Building when the Humvee and two jeeps drove by. Ichiro flattened, willed that they could not see him, and had his katana ready for action. They did not see him. A couple minutes later, all hell broke loose toward the front of the headquarters. Torbin had arrived. Ichiro jumped up, and ran toward the back of the building.
Just as he reached a back window, a few human soldiers jogged around the corner. They must have emerged from a concealed room or basement somewhere. They almost bumped into him before they saw him.
“Hey!” one yelled in surprise. Then Ichiro was on top of them.
Five seconds later, they were laid out. He had managed to knock them unconscious, not kill them. After all, they were just ignorant peons, trying to survive. However, judging by the firing, everyone had been alerted to the assault. Ichiro swore. Just five minutes later, and he would have been inside the building. Five minutes more, and the Director would have been captured or dead with a slit throat. He was not ignorant; he was the leader, a good target for a ninja.
He sighed. Well, sometimes fate was just fate. He started to work his way back to the causeway.
It looked like the survivors would make it onto the causeway before they were blocked. Gunny and Standing Bull were still drawing all the attention, with the Security Forces swinging around close to the HQ Building to encircle them. Torbin and his wounded had made it outside the encircling force. They were about fifty yards from where the causeway intersected with the Base proper. Trump was out front, still holding his badly injured arm close to his body. In a sudden move, what looked like a changing colored mass literally engulfed him. He was gone.
“Martinez. Get them to safety.” He ran in the direction where Trump had been and took a hard left. It was official sunrise, things were lightening up. The extra light helped him see that the mass was a Tschaaa. Torbin had not been this close to one, ever. He’d shot at one from a distance during the invasion, that was it. He saw the characteristic the Tschaaa shared with Earthly octopi; the ability to change color and camouflage.
He raised his rifle before he realized how close he really was. The long social tentacles wrapped around his ankles and upended him. As the rifle went off, he heard an odd hissing noise, and the rifle was ripped from his hands by the same tentacles that had upended him.
Torbin rolled to his feet. He grabbed for the .44 Magnum in the shoulder holster. Nothing was there. Somehow, it had been knocked loose from its holster. Out came his Ka-Bar. A calm came over him. This is like what Ichiro did. Facing a large alien beast with a blade.
“Come on, you ugly calamari! Let’s dance.”
Dropping the rifle, the adult Squid lunged at him, its limited cartilage skeleton structure giving it better mobility on land than its earthly cousins. The Marine couldn’t tell if the rifle shot had winged it or not. It didn’t matter. He went in under the long grasping social tentacles, slashing and stabbing. The next he knew, the shorter arms where throwing him up and over. He hit hard, some soft grass helping mute the impact. As he got to his feet, the Squid was hissing, clicking, and making deep belching noises. One of the tentacles was cut almost all the way through, hanging limp. It clambered toward him. He leapt up, then threw h
imself onto the main torso and head area. He sunk the Ka-Bar in as deep as he could, and the blue-hued blood began spurting from around the knife wound. He sailed through the air again, this time sans knife. He performed a judo breakfall and managed to get to his feet. The Squid was trying to pull the knife out of its body. Torbin frantically searched for another weapon, any weapon. Stuck in a nearby flower bed was a five foot aluminum pole with a small photocell powered light. Torbin lunged and yanked it out of the soft dirt, just as the Squid charged him with his own knife.
The rest was a little blurry. He remembered colliding full on with the three hundred pound alien, using the pole as a crude lance. Then, he was on his back, looking up into the sky. Combat training and instincts took hold, and he managed to scramble to his feet, almost falling over from vertigo. Then, his sight cleared and he saw the Squid, with its arms wrapped around the pole, which was jammed deep into its mouth. It shuddered, and all of its arms twitched. Then it lay still. As his head cleared, he noticed the body of Trump. His neck had been broken. He saw his Ka-Bar lying in the flower bed, and he retrieved it. He looked at the M-14 and saw the scope had been ripped off and the magazine was nowhere in sight. He started to look for the .44 Magnum pistol. There it was, half buried in the flower bed.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He heard the slightly throaty female voice from behind him and he turned around. A very strong-looking female in a set of combat fatigues was glaring at him with red, somewhat puffy eyes.
Torbin thought, she looked like she had a dose of the CS gas. And was now royally pissed off. He had never heard of Heidi Faust before, nor she him, but fate from the perfect storm dictated their paths would cross.
“Lady, I just killed this Squid. All I want to do is leave the area. I don’t see a gun on you, so I don’t think you can stop me. I don’t make it a habit to smack women around, military or otherwise, but I don’t have time to screw round. Don’t get in my way.”
The Gathering Storm Page 42
