“Hey, Stan? Maybe you shouldn’t cook anything,” he said. “The scent could give us away.”
“Not going to,” Buchek said from the kitchen, as he went through the cabinets. “We learned that one long ago, nothing brings out the bandits like the smell of cooking food. As far as I know, no one’s going to be doing any cooking any time soon. At least not until we get this situation squared away.”
“Good, we’re on the same page,” Andrews said.
KC went through her MREs. “I guess that means us too, huh?” she asked with a pout.
“Yeah, us too,” Andrews replied. “What do you have?”
“Eh, pork sausage patties and scrambled eggs.”
Andrews made a face. “Jesus, Kace. Why?”
“They taste great when they’re heated up,” KC said.
“Let me see what I got.” As he went through his ruck, Andrews peered into the kitchen. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You want me to collar this chick? Is she getting too difficult to handle?”
KC tilted her head slightly. “I’m good. I can handle it.”
“Sure?”
“Trust me, sir ... after the sarmajor’s training, there’s nothing I can’t handle.” She paused for a moment. “Been thinking about the other rig out there. If we were to send the drone up to ten thousand, it’d be out of gunnery range. Could still get splashed by a Hellfire, but the rig would have to be operating in air search mode, right?”
“True,” Andrews said.
“But we’d still be able to pick up ground search emissions from the MMR,” KC continued. “Visually, no one would be able to see it, and it’d be invisible even acoustically. You can’t hide a rig if you’re trying to use it, and so long as the drone itself stays under EMCON, the enemy would never notice it ... right?”
“Kace, Leona’s working on that already,” Andrews said. “She’s building a couple of recce profiles to do exactly what you’re talking about. The problem is if the rig goes active in air search. They’ll paint the drone, and splash it in a heartbeat. Hellfires move at around eight hundred knots, there’s no chance the drone could evade. And according to Mulligan, if the Hellfire went off in proximity mode, the explosion would definitely take it out.”
“We need more UAVs,” KC said.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“You do have more drones,” Buchek said from the kitchen. “By the way, I’m old, but not deaf.” He stepped into the living room. “And if my daughter’s causing you troubles, let me know. She’s a good girl, but she doesn’t really respect boundaries.”
“What did you mean we have more drones?” Andrews asked.
“Son, we are pretty well equipped here,” Buchek said with a sly smile. “Our stuff isn’t as elaborate as yours, but we’ve used a few drones in the past. It’s how we scout out big game, actually—much more efficient.”
Andrews exchanged a look with KC. “When were you going to tell us about this, Stan?”
“When the moment was right. It’s right,” Buchek said. “We have six operational drones made by an old Israeli company, DJI. Short legs, don’t fly more than a few miles before they have to come back, and they only have cameras. But they have low-light capability, and can be programmed for autonomous flight. Meaning they don’t have to broadcast back to a ground station, in case you’re worried about emissions control and stuff like that. Off the top of my head, I figure we could deploy a couple, get an idea of where these guys are, then send in your unit for a more detailed look.”
“Well ... God damn, Stan,” Andrews said.
Buchek inclined his head. “More seriously—can we kill a rig like yours with a recoilless rifle? Griffith says we can, but he’s a bit, uh ... dated, you know?”
“Mulligan considers them a definite threat,” Andrews said. “To be honest, I don’t know. I’ve personally hit a rig with rifle-fired grenades, and they didn’t do shit. But the AMWs are for missiles and rockets, not rifle-caliber indirect fire weapons.”
Buchek looked confused. “Ah ... A&W? Like root beer?”
KC laughed and clapped her hands. Andrews chuckled and pointed at Buchek. “We call ’em that too, actually! AMW, anti-missile warheads, that’s the point-defense system every rig has. We can pop flares, radar-reflective chaff, and root beers, which will actually launch from the rig and explode in the vicinity of an inbound projectile that’s picked up by the radar. They usually deploy automatically, but can be manually triggered as well.” Andrews went back to rummaging through his rucksack. “Would you allow Mulligan to inspect your Gustafs? If he can put eyes on, he might be able to determine how effective they might be.” He paused for a moment, thinking that through. “Actually, maybe just reviewing the ammo might be something he’d be more interested in. He might be able to tell you what’s viable, that would be a bit of help, right?”
“Griffith’s already done that, but sure. Big Ugly can weigh in,” Buchek said. “The truth of the matter is, Eldon doesn’t see as well as he should.”
“Thanks. Mulligan can offer some insights the rest of us might overlook. After all ...” Andrews pulled an MRE from his bag and offered it to KC. “He’s seen a thing or two in the world before it got blown up.”
“Well, I—”
Buchek’s reply was cut off by a sudden pounding on the front door. Andrews dropped the MRE KC hadn’t fully grabbed and spun toward his rifle. He grabbed it and pulled it to his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw KC do the same. She wasn’t as fast to act as he was, but she was on it, and she was ready. With a single knife-handed slice, he wordlessly ordered her to cover the door while he drifted toward the window. He hung back from the frame, remembering Mulligan’s teachings. A window was a fatal funnel. Look through one, and you’d be dead.
Buchek gave them an odd look. “Guys, it’s just Trumbull ...”
“Find out what he wants!” Andrews snapped.
Buchek rolled his eyes. “Trumbull, what is it?”
“Got about twenty guys at the south wall, looking to have a discussion,” Trumbull shouted through the door. “They’re armed, but no vehicle in sight!”
Buchek looked at Andrews and KC. “Be right there,” he said.
Andrews lowered his rifle fractionally. He looked over at KC. “Get back to the rig. Have Mulligan meet me at the wall. You and Lee prep the rig for transit, and stay on the instruments. You see any sign you’re being targeted, you roll. Don’t wait for Mulligan and me, get down to the replenishment site and hook up with Laird. He’ll have operational command, you guys do what he tells you.”
“Roger that,” KC said. She lowered her rifle as well and swung into her rucksack.
“Body armor, Kace,” Andrews told her. He nodded to her ballistic armor, still on the floor in front of her. KC cursed and dropped her pack and rifle, then seized the armor.
Amanda emerged from her bedroom, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. Her trousers were unzipped and hung low on her hips. Her hair was unbound and fell down her back like a dark waterfall.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“Get dressed and find out,” Buchek said. “Captain?”
“With you, Stan.”
***
The morning was brightening rapidly, and it promised to be a bright and sunny day as Andrews, Buchek, and Amanda followed Trumbull toward one of the gates. Trumbull’s surliness had disappeared, replaced by an almost palpable anxiety. Buchek called to one of the townspeople and asked her to bring the survivors from Beulah forward. Perhaps they could identify whoever was outside the walls. Andrews thought that was a pretty good idea.
Several people were already on the wall, standing in fighting positions with rifles oriented outward. More people were in the guard towers; they wielded sniper rifles. Andrews thought they were all pretty vulnerable, exposing themselves like that. With nowhere to run to, they’d be chopped to pieces if the lead started flying. As they approached the wall, another group of defenders arrived on an electrically driven side-by-side ATV
. The vehicle moved almost soundlessly. The new arrivals were all male, and they wore all camouflage gear. More interestingly, they carried what appeared to be light machine guns. Andrews dropped his visor over his eyes, and it activated automatically. Using the built-in optics, he zoomed in on one of the weapons. He couldn’t be sure, but the rounds looked much smaller than the 7.62-millimeter the SCEV fired, but quite a bit larger than the 5.56-millimeter his rifle was chambered in.
“Stan, where’d you get those?” he asked.
Buchek only glanced in the direction Andrews looked in. “Jesus, Mike. There’s a shit-ton of hardware lying all over the place—we helped ourselves to anything the National Guard had. Those are machine guns. I’m told the actual designation is lightweight medium machine gun, which makes me wonder if they’re heavier than the name suggests. Anyway, it’s a younger man’s weapon.” He slapped the stock of the rifle Andrews had gifted the community with weeks earlier. It was identical to Andrews’s. “Personally, I like this one. Still shiny and new.”
Andrews flipped up his visor and turned away from the men who lugged the machine guns forward. He had a better understanding now of how Sherwood had managed to survive the past conflicts that had arisen with the other communities. Buchek wasn’t kidding around, and it occurred to him that the wily former entrepreneur was a long way away from coming clean with the team from Harmony. Carl Gustafs, medium machine guns, electric ATVs that had somehow not been destroyed during the EMP bursts ... Sherwood was an interesting place, for sure.
They headed for a set of steel stairs that had been welded to the tall container wall that towered over them. Buchek pulled himself up the stairs with a grunt, making best use of the handrail. Andrews followed him, leaning forward a bit against the pull of his rucksack. Amanda followed him, and more people clustered around the bottom of the stairs. Everyone was armed.
Andrews made it to the top a moment later and looked out over the field of razor wire that lay in front of the wall. Standing on the cracked road a hundred feet out was a group of about twenty men and women. They all wore Army combat uniforms, helmets, headsets, and carried rifles. Some of them even had the same visor set that was attached to Andrews’s helmet. The men had beards. Andrews looked at them for a long moment. Their uniforms were well used, but they weren’t faded or noticeably torn. They were fairly new, well past the breaking in stage but not falling into disrepair. The group stood out in front of the container wall, hands on weapons and keeping eyes out, but they didn’t look nervous. If anything, they exuded an easy confidence that made Andrews a little worried.
“Those your people?” Amanda asked as she came up beside him.
“They are not,” Andrews said, “but they sure as hell have a lot of our gear. Same rifles, same uniforms, same headsets. Some of them even have the electronic night vision visors.” He dropped his visor and called up the infrared pane. Out among the trees, more shapes were visible as heat blooms. If he activated the millimeter wave transceiver in the visor’s frame, he would be able to get an accurate count, but he refrained from doing so. He did it the old-fashioned way, and counted out another twenty-six figures lying out in the forest and in the tall grass. They were arranged in two squads, one covering each flank, nestled in right as the terrain began to rise. He wouldn’t doubt there was a trail squad in the security position behind the terrain.
“Stan, got another twenty-six or so in the trees,” he said quietly. “Can only see them by infrared, so don’t know how they’re armed, but we could presume more of the same as what’s out in front of us. The formation looks pretty textbook, so they have training. By the way, the group on the road is out of standard—they’re making a statement by putting so many faces out where we can see them.”
Buchek nodded without saying anything. He regarded the group on the road as Amanda drifted away from Andrews’s side and spoke to another man in a fighting position. She kept her voice soft, and the man nodded before abandoning his position and heading for the stairs. Amanda slid into the vacant position, kneeling down behind the sandbags that had been piled up. She shouldered her weapon and pointed it downrange.
Buchek put his hands on his hips and stepped away from Andrews, positioning himself dead center between two sandbagged battle stations. He let his rifle hang from its strap, and Andrews saw the older man was sending a message himself: I’m not impressed.
“Good morning,” he said, and his voice was loud and clear in the brightening day. “What can we do for you?”
“Good morning to you,” said one of the soldiers on the road. He was a small wiry man with a full blond beard. He wore a helmet over a Peltor headset, and his eyes were hidden behind wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses. The sleeves of his uniform blouse were rolled up, and he carried an H&K M416 across his chest protector in an easy grip. He was missing one of his front teeth, and the gap was clearly visible when he smiled. “I was wondering if you might invite us in, so we could talk?” He grinned and waved toward the field of razor wire in front of him. “I mean, I’m kind of getting the impression you don’t like visitors all that much. Am I right?”
“I couldn’t find a sign that said ‘no soliciting’ or a mat that said ‘go away,’” Buchek replied, “so that’s the best I could do.”
“So I guess we can’t come in for some tea and crumpets, right?” The small man on the roadway kept smiling his gap-toothed grin. His demeanor was cocky as hell, given that he had about forty people pointing all manner of weapons in his specific direction. Even the jocularity in his voice was a type of taunt. Andrews couldn’t imagine a professional soldier exposing himself in such a way.
“Crumpets won’t be out until eleven, so sorry,” Buchek replied.
“Eleven? Hell, man, that’s almost lunchtime!”
“I hear the lunch service in Beulah is pretty good this time of year,” Buchek said. “They even have a vintage roadside diner there. Served up some of the best blueberry pancakes this side of the Cascades.”
The small man inclined his head. “So, you know about Beulah already, huh?”
“It is probably the main reason I’m not going to let you in, yeah.”
“And you might be Mr. Suchek?”
“Buchek is the name.”
The small man shrugged beneath his uniform, the movement barely visible. “Well, you meet one Polack, you’ve met ’em all, right?”
Buchek snorted and shook his head. “You’re really winning me over here, guy.”
“So sensitive? Just a joke, Mr. Buchek. Some friendly joshing, you know?”
Trumbull climbed up the stairs and stood behind Buchek. “Stan, Marquette says those are the guys. Wanted me to tell you the little guy you’re talking to is a real motherfucker—and he thinks he likes kids.”
Buchek nodded. “So listen, what is it that you people want from us? I’m presuming you’re not in charge, you’re just a messenger boy. Right?”
The small man on the road took a step back, his grin suddenly disappearing. “Please, sir, I prefer the term emissary.”
“There are a bunch of kids in Beulah. How are you treating them, Mr. Messenger Boy?” Buchek asked.
The gap-toothed grin returned. “They’re being taken care of. Well taken care of.”
Something looking like a bear wrapped up in a burlap bag crested the stairway landing. Andrews turned and looked on in some surprise as Mulligan appeared, clutching an old shotgun that was barely visible beneath the folds of whatever old, moldy garment he had wrapped himself up in. His face was dusty with dirt, and he walked hunched over, as if he’d hurt his back. He didn’t wear a helmet or radio headset.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Sarmajor?” Andrews asked softly.
Mulligan glared at him. “It’s a fucking disguise, Captain. Not that it matters so much anymore since you’re standing out here in a clean uniform complete with advanced combat helmet and proprietary electronics.” He turned toward the assemblage of armed personnel on the road. “See any Special Forces badges?”
“Negative,” Andrews said.
“He wouldn’t be out here like this,” Mulligan said. He looked into the forest. “So you have a tally on two additional squads? Ballsy, to park an entire platoon of dismounts right in front of us. By the way, drone overhead at around seventy-five hundred.”
“The rig—”
“Take it easy. We covered up the top deck with a bunch of old solar panels. From top-down, the UAV’s radar will read them and not the vehicle itself. Those things are designed to absorb energy, so it’ll definitely mask its presence for a while. Put more on the sides to try and break up the profile if they strobe the building at a slant, but it’s probably not going to be a killer disguise for the long term.”
Andrews nodded. “Good thinking, Sarmajor. What else?”
“Lots of encrypted chatter from the east and south. They’re moving in. All the radio traffic is in the personal handset range, nothing detected from a rig. No engine pings, either. I think it’s shut down, and not in our immediate vicinity.”
“You think they know about Four?”
“I think they know about the Gustafs, and they’re trying to isolate those before they bring the rig in.”
“So the question remains, what do you want from us?” Buchek asked.
“Let me put that one back to you, Mr. Buchek. What will you give us?” the small cocky man said.
“A hard time is pretty much the only thing I can guarantee,” Buchek replied.
The small man shook his head like he was talking to an idiot. “Y’know, that’s probably the wrong answer you want me to take back.”
“Take back to who? Where’s your leader?”
“Oh, the colonel? You’ll meet him soon enough, I think.” The man paused and grinned again. “Well, unless something happens to you before the meeting. Can’t promise that it won’t. Accidents happen, you know. Unintended consequences, etcetera, etcetera.”
Earthfall (Book 2): Earthfall 2 [The Mission Continues] Page 31
