“Just a second.” Leona disappeared into the second compartment and settled into the chair before the intel station to pull on her socks and boots. Andrews glanced at the radar display. Nothing was moving toward the rig yet.
Leona appeared a minute later. “Set here.”
Andrews vacated the pilot seat as she faded back, giving him enough room to exit. Once he was clear, she slipped into the seat with a practiced ease and buckled up the harness.
“Auto-defense is cancelled, and radar’s still at the ten-mile range. No targets yet, but I expect that to change any moment. You know the drill, if things blow up, start shooting. Remember to exclude me from the weapons systems, okay?”
“Will do,” Leona said. She was already reaching for the instrument panel, verifying all the switches were in the proper position while scanning the multifunction displays. She had everything under control the second she took the seat.
Andrews hurried to the weapons locker and pulled out a rifle, sidearm, ballistic armor, and a tactical vest. The weapons were already loaded and the safeties were engaged, but he did a magazine check to verify. The rifle was a Heckler & Koch 416, unofficially designated as the M416 as it had never really been accepted into the Army’s inventory aside from special operations missions and as such had never received a proper military specification. Instead of using direct gas impingement to drive the bolt carrier group, the rifle used a short-stroke piston. The gases released by expended rounds drove the piston operating system which in turn manipulated the bolt, reducing malfunctions from fouling while increasing the life of parts. The grenade launcher, also manufactured by H&K, was official hardware and had the designation of M320. It had replaced the venerable M203 grenade launcher many years before the Sixty-Minute War, and was a mature system that gave the individual soldier substantial hitting power through indirect fire. The M320 was unloaded. No one wanted a high-explosive grenade being triggered inside the rig.
Andrews slipped on the armor over his uniform. It was already loaded with plating, and its composite shell was sufficiently tough enough to stop rifle rounds up to 7.62 millimeters in diameter. It was also adequate to provide a margin of protection from fragmentation damage from hand grenades and the like. Then came the vest which was already loaded with spare mags for the rifle and pistol, as well as rounds for the grenade launcher. Andrews topped it all off with a Peltor ComTac headset and a high-cut FAST ballistic helmet.
“Mike, contacts on the road,” Leona said from the cockpit.
“How many?” Andrews slammed the locker closed and opened another. Six rucks were inside, already staged for use. Each had contents identical to the one Andrews had given away the day before. He pulled one out and swung into it.
“Ten, but two are coming forward,” she said. “Everyone’s armed.”
Andrews switched his headset to voice-activated. “Sarmajor, company coming down the road. Force of ten total, two in the lead.”
“Roger. You coming out, or am I solo here?”
Andrews pulled on the pistol belt and grabbed the rifle. “Exiting the vehicle now,” he said as he cycled open the inner airlock door.
“No need to rush on my account,” Mulligan replied. “I mean, I don’t even have a visual or anything.”
“Don’t go all belt-fed on me, Sarmajor.” Andrews closed the inner door behind him and waited for a couple of seconds for the pressure to build before he opened the outer airlock door. The overpressure puffed out, and he descended down the ramp in two strides to the road outside. Mulligan stood just off the rig’s nose, rifle held low-ready. He faced the ramshackle barricade that stretched across the road. Dressed exactly like Andrews, he didn’t look over as Andrews formed up on him. Andrews heard the outer airlock doors cycle closed behind him.
“Targets,” Mulligan said. Andrews saw two people walk around the bend in the road ahead. Since it was about twelve feet above them, the millimeter wave radar array had a better angle of intercept than they did, which was how Leona was able to get a good count on the people farther up the road.
“Mike, I’m going to turn over the engines,” Leona said over the radio.
“Roger that,” Andrews said, watching the two figures slowly walk toward the barricade. One of them was definitely the woman they had spoken with before. She wore the same ghillie suit and carried her rifle in both hands. She advanced before the second individual, who wore a similar suit, though with the hood back. A wool cap was on his head, and he wore sunglasses despite the murky sky overhead. Like the woman, a balaclava covered the lower portion of his face. He carried a larger weapon, all black metal and scarred wood.
“Damn, see that? The dude’s carrying an M1A Springfield with a bayonet lug. Now that’s old school. He and I are gonna get along great, I can already tell,” Mulligan said.
“What’s with the face covering?” Andrews asked.
“Don’t know. They both probably have mustaches,” Mulligan said, “but I’ll bet the girl’s looks more like Freddie Mercury’s.”
“Who?”
Mulligan grunted. “Do you know who Justin Bieber was?”
“Oh, hell yeah.”
“Freddie was nothing like him, so picture someone very, very much the opposite.”
“Mulligan, I have no idea what you’re saying. Is this an important conversation we’re having?”
“Just passing the time, son.”
The SCEV’s engines began to whir, spinning up to a low whine. The noise caused the woman to slow down suddenly, and she moved directly in front of the man following her. She firmed her grip on her rifle, staring down the road at Andrews and Mulligan.
“He’s important,” Mulligan said. “She’s blocking for him.”
Andrews waved them on. “You’re good, come on down!” he shouted. “It’s just the engines spooling up.”
After a momentary pause during which the woman talked briefly with the man behind her, they continued walking toward the barricade. There was a section just barely large enough for them to squeeze through, and Andrews watched as they turned and twisted their way through the stands of razor wire and wooden partitions. Even though they knew the path, it took a while for them to clear the fortification. Once they were clear, the pair regarded Andrews and Mulligan for a moment, then looked toward the hulking vehicle beside them. Andrews looked at Mulligan, then started walking toward the pair. Mulligan formed up on him immediately, his big boots thumping along the concrete.
“Lee, I’m excluded, right?” Andrews asked over the radio.
“Roger, but do yourself a favor and don’t get between them and the rig.”
Andrews drifted slightly to the right. As he did so, the man and woman mimicked his motion.
Smart, keeping us between them and the rig.
Andrews gave it up and just walked in a straight line, looking from side to side. He saw nothing amiss in the sparse forest on either side of the road. If there were people out there, and he had no doubt someone was, he couldn’t see them. He stopped before the pair and nodded to the woman.
“Good to see you again,” he said.
“Sure. Sorry we moved out of a direct line of fire,” she replied. Her pale green eyes contained neither mirth nor resentment.
“Can’t be too careful these days,” Andrews said. “On both sides, I guess.” He looked at the man beside her. His eyes were unreadable behind his sunglasses and his face was, like the woman’s, partially obscured by a balaclava that had a vague woodland pattern to it. His green knit cap was a bit frayed from what Andrews figured was constant use. He nodded to the man. “Hello, sir. I’m Captain Mike Andrews. This is Command Sergeant Major Scott Mulligan.”
“I heard. I got your welcome package last night.” The man’s voice was a gravelly baritone. He stood perhaps five foot ten, just a bit shorter than Andrews. He wasn’t very big, but if that was from insufficient calories or just his normal build, Andrews wasn’t sure.
“I hope you liked it,” Andrews said. “There’s certain
ly more to go around, if things work out between us.”
“What is it you’d like from us, Captain?” The man nodded over Andrews’s shoulder, toward the SCEV. “With a vehicle like that, you can pretty much take anything you want.”
“That’s not our mission, sir. We’re not here to make anyone’s life any more difficult than it already is.”
The man nodded slowly, then looked up at Mulligan for a long moment. “Well. Even if you hadn’t given us a treat bag, I can see you boys are doing pretty well for yourselves. I hear you say you’re from Kansas?” He looked back at Andrews.
“That’s where our base is, sir.”
“You’re awfully young, Captain Andrews. How old were you when the bombs dropped?”
“I was fourteen, sir. I’m twenty-five now.”
The man grunted and regarded Mulligan again. “So you must be the institutional knowledge of your, ah, Harmony Base, is it? Cheerful name, by the way.”
“It is a better way to break the ice than telling folks we’re from Camp Death,” Mulligan said.
The man chuckled at that. “Yes, that might not be the kind of calling card you want to hand out.”
“And I am a senior instructor as well as Harmony’s senior noncommissioned officer. I see that I must’ve missed instructing Captain Andrews on proper etiquette, so let me correct that now. I’m Scott Mulligan.” With that, Mulligan extended his right hand toward the man.
The woman raised her rifle immediately. Mulligan looked at her, brows raised, but didn’t move one iota. Andrews tightened his grip on his rifle, but didn’t otherwise respond. The woman’s eyes were hard beneath her beetled brow.
The man slowly turned his head toward her. “Hey, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t get us both killed out here. The man’s offering to shake hands, not trying to sink a shiv into my belly.”
“That’s not really my style anyway,” Mulligan said. “Ma’am, please lower that weapon.”
Reluctantly, the woman slowly did as Mulligan requested. The man shook his head with a sigh.
“I think manners are something we’re running short of. Kids these days, eh?”
“Indeed,” Mulligan said, glancing over at Andrews.
The man removed his sunglasses and pulled down his balaclava. He was clean-shaven and had a ruddy face dominated by a fairly large ski-jump nose and bright brown eyes. His brows were a bit too bushy, and he was well into the jowl stage of life. Andrews figured he was in his high sixties or so.
“Scott Mulligan, I’m Stan Buchek,” the man said, clasping Mulligan’s hand.
“Mr. Buchek, hello. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Darren McGavin?”
Buchek laughed. “No, not in a long, long time, but it has come up. Has anyone ever said you resemble Charlton Heston in his younger years?”
“They have, though I don’t wear a toupee and don’t tear off my shirt at the first sign of trouble.”
“Well. I’m sure that’s disappointing for the ladies.” Buchek turned to Andrews and extended his hand toward him. “Buchek, Captain. Good to meet you.”
“Sir, great to meet you too,” Andrews said, releasing his rifle long enough to quickly shake the man’s hand.
Buchek nodded and jerked a thumb toward the woman beside him. “My daughter, Amanda. She was just a few years younger than you were when the war started, Captain.”
“Ma’am,” Andrews said to her by way of greeting. She rewarded him with a curt nod.
“Captain, your gifts were a very pleasant surprise,” Buchek said. “Your rifle looks like it’s never been fired, and the ammunition was essentially factory fresh. Even the backpack—it’s immaculate. And the night vision goggles were a delight—I stayed up all night goofing around with those.”
“I notice you’re not mentioning anything about the MREs,” Mulligan said.
Buchek waved the notion away. “Those things make me constipated.”
“I’ll make a note to have prune juice sent up,” Mulligan said.
Buchek laughed at that. Andrews noticed he apparently had all of his teeth, though they were a bit on the yellow side. Buchek sobered suddenly.
“Are you people for real?” he asked. As he asked this, he kept his eyes on Mulligan.
“Yes, sir. We’re very much for real, and so is what we’re offering,” Mulligan said. “I get that it must seem like there’s a gotcha somewhere, but there isn’t.”
“There always is,” Buchek said.
“Not here, there isn’t,” Andrews told him. “We’re on a mission.”
“From God,” Buchek said, and Mulligan chuckled. “You recognize that?” Buchek asked.
“Hell, yes. I was brought up on The Blues Brothers, sir.”
Amanda shook her head. “Jesus. Please don’t start the trip down memory lane again, Dad.”
Buchek shrugged and shifted about the M1A in his hands. “I do tend to live in the past more often than I should. But what the hell, I’m seventy and lived through a nuclear war. By the way, duck and cover doesn’t do shit.”
“Duck and cover?” Andrews said. “You mean like in the old public safety films?”
“More like propaganda films,” Amanda said.
Buchek glanced at her, an annoyed expression on his face. “Anyway. Yes, like those, Captain. Should I be surprised you know about them?”
Andrews jerked his thumb toward Mulligan. “We have our relics, too.”
“Institutional memory, like you said earlier, sir,” Mulligan said. He tapped the side of his head.
“You can call me Stan. Not much use for formalities out here, gentlemen,” Buchek said.
“I go by Scott, though some call me ... Tim,” Mulligan said, in an odd cadence that made Andrews think of someone speaking in a bad British accent.
“I thought they called you Sam,” he said, confused by the sudden turn in the exchange.
Mulligan shook his head. “Never mind.”
“It’s all right, Scott. I got it,” Buchek said. “Despite everything, still haven’t developed Alzheimer’s. So, Captain Andrews. We’re obviously interested in your offer, but find it kind of hard to accept. After all this time, the federal government suddenly reaches out to us?”
“I can understand that. The base went into lockdown for a decade after the Sixty-Minute War, which is what we call the nuclear exchange that occurred between the US and the Russian Federation. The rationale was that Harmony couldn’t save anyone in the immediate aftermath—the post is located right in the middle of a hot zone, and anyone we could have gotten to would have died anyway. The installation wasn’t designed for an immediate, robust response like that. We’re more about continuance as opposed to immediate sustainment.” Andrews paused for a moment, thinking about what he had just said. “I can see that’s probably not something you might respect or understand, but it’s the charter we lived by.”
“Captain, do you have any idea how many people died?” Buchek asked.
“We figure around three hundred million plus in the US alone,” Mulligan said.
“Wasn’t asking you, Scott,” Buchek said. His dark eyes remained rooted on Andrews.
“We don’t have an actual number,” Andrews said. “We’ve done several reconnaissance runs through various parts of the nation. Aside from a small group we found in northern California, your people are the only others we’ve contacted. So what the sergeant major says is true, the death toll in the contiguous United States is probably between three to four hundred million.”
“Does that mean anything to you, or is it just a number?”
Andrews felt a stab of anger. “It means something to me, sir. I remember what my life was like before being thrown into a big underground bunker. I was young, but I wasn’t stupid. I don’t enjoy counting the cost, but I feel it just the same.”
“So if you and your people hid out for ten years, what’s to reassure us that you won’t do the same if things get tough again?” Buchek asked.
“Reasonable quest
ion,” Andrews replied. “I can only tell you what my mission is. But I’m not in charge of anything but the rig behind me. Other people create policy and procedures, I just implement.”
“So you could desert us again,” Amanda said.
Andrews looked at her. “We’re here now. Maybe you should roll with that.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group before Buchek said, “Show me your vehicle, Captain.”
Andrews nodded. “Sure thing. My pleasure.”
He led the older man and his daughter back to the SCEV and began describing its features and capabilities. He led them from the sloped nose to the squared-off rear, pointing out various items of interest and detailing their functions. While Buchek’s daughter seemed only vaguely interested, Buchek himself was extremely attentive. He told Andrews he wasn’t prior service, but had worked in a high-tech industry before the war. He understood how the rig’s various systems came together and worked in a synergistic fashion, and several of his questions were so dead-on that they made Andrews wonder if touring him around the SCEV was such a good idea after all. If the man became an adversary, Andrews was essentially delivering a great deal of insider knowledge. After that particular epiphany, he found he began repeating the phrase “That’s classified” often when Buchek’s questions turned more toward the rig’s tactical capabilities.
When the external tour was over, Buchek turned to him and said, “How about a look inside?”
Andrews and Mulligan exchanged glances. “Well, you’ll have to go through decon. And we can’t allow you onboard with your weapons,” Andrews said. “We don’t have anything to hide, but to be honest, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you coming aboard.”
“And I’m not sure I’m comfortable not seeing what you folks have in there,” Buchek said. “Seems like we both have to be on the same page for things to go further, Captain.”
Earthfall (Book 2): Earthfall 2 [The Mission Continues] Page 18
