The Moreau Quartet: Volume One: 1

by S. Andrew Swann

  The pilot yelled into the radio, “Hold your fire, I’m landing.”

  The alarms didn’t go away, but the missile didn’t come.

  They were almost on the ground when a new voice overwhelmed the channel the Vipers were using. “Two unidentified attack helicopters, disarm your weapons now! Desist pursuit and accompany us to March Air Force Base.”

  The pilot’s expression changed.

  “What is it?” Nohar asked.

  “The fighters . . .” The pilot shook his head as if he couldn’t understand what was happening.

  Nohar heard the Vipers talking back, “We are on an authorized antiterrorist mission. We have been ordered to stop that helicopter—”

  The fighters called back, “You are following illegal orders. You are to accompany us or be fired upon.”

  There was a long pause before the Viper said, “We require confirmation from our command—”

  The Viper didn’t even finish getting the whole phrase out. Another voice, weaker with distance, broke in on the channel. “Black four and Black five, your mission is aborted. Repeat, your mission is aborted. Follow the fighters to March Air Force Base as you’ve been instructed.”

  “We need to hear from Colonel Shuster—” said one of the Vipers. “This is a matter of national security.”

  “This is General Thomas Charland, and Colonel Shuster is under arrest pending a court-martial.”

  There were a few more exchanges, and the pilot’s face grew more incredulous as he listened. On the radar, Nohar could see the blips of the fighters looping around to escort the two attack copters.

  “Colonel Shuster,” the pilot whispered. “Arrested?”

  There was only one way Nohar figured that could happen so quickly. The command at Long Beach had been monitoring his transmission to Stephie. General Charland must have decided to cut his losses.

  “What’s happening?” The pilot whispered.

  “Don’t land,” Nohar said. “Follow Krisoijn.”

  “Why—”

  “Your general decided that the project was blown.”

  “What project?” The color drained from the pilot’s face. “Not that bullshit you were talking about.”

  “Move this thing.”

  The pilot looked at Nohar’s gun, and banked the helicopter southeast, accelerating toward Arizona. “Biological warfare?” The words were almost inaudible. Nohar could sense the pilot’s fear again. This time the fear wasn’t because of him.

  The kid had just realized that what Nohar had told Stephie might be true. Of course no one had ever told him what the unit at Long Beach was doing. As far as the pilot could tell, Nohar was just another violent morey with a conspiracy theory.

  That was until his superiors reacted. The pilot knew as well as Nohar did that the only explanation for the recall was that someone had monitored Nohar’s comm transmission, and had responded to it.

  General Charland had to be in command, running the show. That was the only way he could have reacted so quickly to the leak of the biowar database. There was probably a plan set in place, with predesigned evidence, preselected fall guys. There was probably a script waiting for this Colonel Shuster laying out exactly what he would say to the Congressional investigating committee when they subpoenaed him. There would probably be stories of how an internal investigation had been onto these folks all along, and just about to hand out indictments when the news broke.

  General Charland had just decided to “discover” the conspiracy and arrest its ringleaders before the news started making headlines. His ass was going to be covered.

  “Will they recall him?” Nohar asked.

  “Who?”

  “Krisoijn, the other helicopter.”

  The pilot shook his head. “He’s supposed to be radio silent. It might not even be on.”

  This General Charland, Nohar had too good a picture of that Machiavellian bastard already, might shout orders, but it was too easy for Nohar to believe that they’d let Krisoijn go through with his objective, just so there’d be an example of what a loose cannon he was. It would help distract attention from the officers in charge of this mess.

  “We’re going to catch up with him,” Nohar said.

  The pilot didn’t contradict him.

  Chapter 27

  With the pursuit gone, the helicopter sped across the desert, in a straight line for Camp Liberty and the Arizona border. The pilot didn’t talk much anymore, but he flew the copter where Nohar wanted it to go.

  While southwestern sand and rock blew by underneath them, Nohar used the comm. He called a half-dozen media outlets, spreading the information on what was going on as widely as possible. Half of them treated him like a psychotic, the other half humored him long enough to download the database on the ramcard. He told everyone who would listen about the coming attack on Camp Liberty, down to the location.

  One of the people who seemed to listen was Enrique Bartolo from Eye on LA, the reporter that Henderson had called at Pastoria.

  Nohar was on his seventh call when the pilot said, “There they are.”

  Nohar looked up through the bullet-scarred windscreen and saw a dot hanging over the horizon. The black dot seemed to grow as Nohar watched. His rotten day vision couldn’t make out any details, but the coloring and the position were right.

  “How long before we reach the base?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Can we beat them there?”

  “Barely.”

  Nohar watched the fuzzy black dot of the other helicopter. It grew, but much too slowly. The difference in the helicopter’s load made only a slight difference in speed.

  If they could reach the place first, he could get everyone out.

  If . . .

  Suddenly, the fuzzy black form of the helicopter rose and banked to the left. “What are they doing?”

  The pilot shook his head. “They know I’m compromised.”

  “How?”

  The pilot turned toward him. “Someone looked back. You kind of stand out.”

  “Fuck—” There wasn’t any way they could have missed him in the copilot’s seat. Even if they’d missed him, the bullet in the windscreen was a giveaway.

  The other copter was sliding close, too close. Nohar could see the copter lining up with them on the left and above. He started to make out the landing gear and the massive side door. It was sliding open as Nohar watched.

  “Can you get more speed out of this thing?”

  The pilot shook his head, more out of stress than negation, and dipped the nose of the copter. The machine started tilting toward the desert floor, just as Nohar began to hear gunfire over the sound of the rotors. It sounded distant, almost fake.

  The smell of panic filled the cockpit as the bottom dropped out of Nohar’s stomach. The copter fell toward the desert floor. At the last minute the pilot pulled up and the copter shot by about ten meters above the ground. Rocks and cactus seemed to reach up almost far enough to grab them out of the sky, and sand billowed in a cloud behind them.

  “Fuck,” the pilot said, “They’re above and behind—”

  The dive had added about fifteen or twenty klicks to their speed. They started banking, back and forth, evading the copter behind them, and large rock formations that sprang up ahead of them.

  Nohar heard more gunfire behind them. The sound still seemed distant, but this time he heard something pounding the outside of their helicopter.

  “Shit,” the pilot said, pulling the copter up into a climb. The desert fell away and was replaced by sky. Just as the horizon slid under his feet, Nohar saw sunlight reflected from something on the horizon.

  A window. It had to be a window in the distance.

  More gunfire, and an explosion rocked the helicopter. The cabin filled with the smell of ozone and fried ceramics. The rotors be
gan making ugly rhythmic knocking noises, and half the lights in front of the pilot began flashing red.

  “What—” Nohar started.

  “The primary inductor blew. I have to put her down.”

  The copter was shaking itself apart now. All over the console, things buzzed for the pilot’s attention. The knocking and the shaking were getting worse. “Losing alignment on the rotors—” He said it through clenched teeth, and Nohar didn’t know if the pilot was talking to him or not.

  The nose of the copter dipped.

  The gunfire continued, as if they couldn’t tell that the helicopter was in trouble.

  Nohar dropped the gun and tried to pull the safety harness around himself. It didn’t fit, and he had trouble doing it one-handed. He roared as the attempt jostled his busted arm, sending fiery waves of agony through that half of his body as the bones ground together.

  They were barely fifteen meters above the ground when he got one strap fastened. They were slowing, but not enough. The helicopter was trying to shake itself apart as it shot over the four-meter-high perimeter fence.

  Suddenly, below them, the desert floor was covered by ranks of vehicles. An endless parking lot spread out below them. In front of them, in the distance, was the fence and the low buildings of Camp Liberty.

  The pilot tried to bring the nose up, tried to slow. But the helicopter began pitching against him.

  More gunfire, and this time he heard a sickening screech of abused metal. The two rotors had gotten out of sync enough to touch. Nohar saw a shower of ferociously turning metal erupt from above the helicopter and tear into the cars below. The copter was now completely dead to the pilot’s control. It nosed straight down into the ranks of parked vehicles.

  An INS van flipped up and smashed against the nose of the helicopter. Nohar was thrown against the single safety strap holding him into the seat. His head struck the armored windscreen, which was the only thing between his face and a jagged mass of twisted fiberglass and metal. The van slid with the helicopter, its body tearing through the desert floor and screeching like the damned.

  The copter pushed the van about thirty meters before it stopped moving.

  The body of the helicopter fell back, tilting the nose up, away from the damaged van. The rear of the helicopter slammed to the ground with a screech of twisted metal.

  The pain in Nohar’s arm was so intense that he had to look down to assure himself that it wasn’t a stump. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he could smell his own blood leaking from gashes in his forehead.

  The pilot was in better shape. He looked as if his nose was broken, but he didn’t seem injured otherwise. He was shaking his head and saying, “My God, we made it.”

  Nohar wasn’t so sure.

  He unhooked the harness that was still attached to him, and picked up the gun. As he stood, he could feel the line of bruises across his midsection where the harness had bit. His legs buckled and he had to sit and breathe for a few moments before he could stand again.

  “Any weapons on board?” he said between ragged gasps for breath.

  The pilot looked at him with disbelief in his eyes. “Do you know how lucky we are to be standing? You can’t be thinking . . . ?”

  Nohar raised the gun at the pilot.

  “You want to commit suicide, be my guest.” He gestured toward the end of the compartment. “There’s a heavy machine gun that belongs to a mount in the door.”

  Nohar pocketed the automatic and found the weapon the pilot was talking about. The thing was nearly two meters long and fed from a belt. It was a fifty-cal at least. It was obviously intended for a door gunner, the only support on the frame was a ratchet meant to slide into a preset mount.

  “This is it?”

  The pilot looked at him and nodded.

  Beggars can’t be choosers.

  Nohar picked up the belts of ammo and draped them over his shoulders. The weight bore down on him, lighting fires in his old shoulder injury as well as his broken arm. For the first time in ages, Nohar tried to force the Beast to come out. He tried to conjure the adrenaline and the engineered combat machine that lived in his genes. He was so close to the edge, he couldn’t tell if his biochemistry responded.

  After standing and sucking in breaths for nearly a full minute, psyching himself up for the insanity he was about to step into, he managed to lift the fifty-kilo weapon one-handed.

  Carrying it balanced, one-handed, was awkward.

  “Open the door,” Nohar said.

  The pilot nodded, and the doors in front of him began to open with a rattling hydraulic wheeze.

  • • •

  Once the other helicopter passed from above them, Nohar stumbled out. He ran, each breath feeling as if it were tearing burning holes in his lungs. He loped past the wreckage of dozens of abandoned government vehicles, many now sporting fifty-caliber bullet holes. To his right, over the edge of the compound ahead of him, the other helicopter was banking, preparing to land.

  Nohar ran for the compound thinking twinned thoughts, that the pilot was right when he said that he was committing suicide, and that in there were Maria and his son.

  In the daylight, Nohar could now see the whole complex. It must have covered a hundred square kilometers. He was heading toward the inner fence that separated the vehicles from the compound and could just glimpse the dozens of buildings through the small vents in the heavy steel fence. The place shimmered in the daytime heat, like a mirage. Nohar ran through the heat, and it felt as if he were slogging through mud.

  He made it to the fence about the time the other copter was dropping troops at the southern end of the compound.

  Nohar realized that the commandos had no idea where Manuel and the others were in there. That was his only chance. Nohar ran along the fence line and found an access gate. He had to drop the machine gun to flip open the keypad access. For a few moments he almost blanked on the access code that John had given him.

  Then he remembered earthquakes—

  “01082034”

  It slid open for him.

  Nohar grabbed the gun and ran inside. The small pedestrian gate was next to a much larger gate that was designed for vehicle access. The gate was plastered with red signs that said “Access Forbidden” in about twenty different languages.

  Between the pedestrian gate and the large vehicle gate was a small guard shack that offered some cover. Nohar dove into it and forced the barrel of the machine gun through the window facing the Bad Guys’ helicopter. The window shattered, and Nohar braced the gun on the guard shack’s desk.

  The ratchet of the gun wedged in a control panel, and the barriers on this side of the vehicle gate began raising and lowering.

  Nohar concentrated on getting the belt of ammo off of him and feeding it into the weapon. He ducked down behind the machine gun and sighted on the helicopter. It was still unloading, three or four pinks were rappelling from lines dangling from its sides.

  Nohar let the copter have it.

  The sound was deafening. Each sledgehammer shot shook the guard shack and slammed the ill-braced weapon into Nohar’s bad shoulder. The small room filled with the smell of gunsmoke and heated brass. The barrel wanted to travel, but somehow Nohar kept pulling the weapon back on target. He could see sparks flying off of the side of the helicopter. And he tracked the shots until he was firing into the door.

  The dangling pinks dropped so quickly that Nohar couldn’t tell if it was panic or free fall. Two others fell out of the side door, unattached, tumbling to the ground.

  The helicopter banked and started pulling up and away to the left, empty rappel lines still attached to it.

  Nohar tracked upward toward the twin rotors.

  By then the helicopter had turned and brought its own fifty-cal to bear on the guardhouse. Nohar caught the hint of a muzzle flash and ducked under the console. The li
ttle building shook as the copter strafed it. It offered cover, but no protection. The slugs carved through it like paper. Nohar could only hope that they didn’t have a steep enough angle to get a good shot at the floor.

  The building shook with each impact, and electronic debris showered him from the console as it was torn apart by gunfire.

  The gunfire suddenly became erratic. He could still hear the fifty-cal jackhammering in the distance, but the shack no longer shook with the impact. Nohar didn’t risk a look out until the gunfire ceased completely.

  When he looked out he could still see the enemy copter. It was banking to the left, but the steepness of the turn told Nohar that it was uncontrolled. The fifty-cal was almost pointing to the ground as the copter tried to pull an impossible inside turn.

  Nohar’s shots inside must’ve taken out part of the navigational controls.

  The copter tried to spiral upward, turning so steeply that its rotors were almost perpendicular to the ground. At that point there was no way the pilot could maintain stability. The nose pitched down and the whole thing corkscrewed into the ground, out of Nohar’s view behind the buildings. Though he couldn’t see it, Nohar heard the impact and the secondary explosions of the inductors letting go.

  He struggled to his feet. Each time it was becoming more of a trial. Pain was no longer localized in his arm. He felt bruised in his abdomen, the old wounds to his knee and shoulder, the cuts on his face, and a half-dozen places where pieces of the guard shack had cut into his flesh. Breathing was pain.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  He looked down at the machine gun. There were a half-dozen shots left on the belt. With a shaking hand, he removed the empty part of the belt from the other side of the gun. Then he grabbed it, the heat of the barrel searing his knuckles when they brushed it, and started after the commandos.

  Chapter 28

  In the daylight, the camp seemed like a waiting room for hell. Heat rippled off of every surface. The smells were of metal and hot asphalt. The buildings were whitewashed cinder block the color of bleached bone. The few windows were boarded over with gray plastic construction panels. Everything was dry, functional, and dead.