Discarded

by Mark A. Ciccone

  Patrick held up a hand, cutting him off. ‘Hold on.’ He brought the other to one ear, turning away. ‘Say again… When? You have the coordinates? Good, we’re set to take off. Call your team together, and we’ll rendezvous at the other end.’ He faced Hargrove again. ‘NORAD’s radar picked up an unidentified blip heading westward, roughly northwest. It’s going in and out, and hard to lock onto, so the Mountain sent out a discreet alert to all branches. Possible smuggling aircraft, they’re calling it.’

  ‘What’s the nearest major facility, along the plane’s route?’ Hargrove demanded.

  Patrick frowned in thought. ‘Fairchild Air Force Base, if I remember right. It’s the hub for all operations in the Pacific Northwest, and specifically for the Seattle Contaminated Zone.’

  ‘That’s where we head, then, as planned.’ Hargrove’s body went taut and eager. This proved it. There was only one place where the targets could be heading – one that he knew quite well. ‘You fill in the pilots; I’ll get my people outfitted. We’ll have to coordinate with the Fairchild people en route, see if we can get eyes on the targets while they’re still in the air. Hopefully we can force them down before they reach the CZ, intact as possible.’

  ‘Right,’ Patrick replied, all business. He trotted to the front of the Osprey, throwing a last, cagy look back at Hargrove. When the colonel was out of sight, Hargrove turned to the four members of his team. Board and stand by, he pulsed. Continue monitoring of signal from stolen comms device. Prep for aerial insertion, non–lethal takedown. Silent as shadows, the men climbed into the back of the plane. Taking seats on the hard benches affixed to the walls, they froze into immobility, hands on their knees.

  Hargrove climbed in as well. Glancing back once down the ramp, he reached into another pocket, and knelt beside the body bag of his ‘associate’. The baggie of grey powder glinted dully in the overhead lights. He peeled it open, and dipped it forward. A fine dust descended over the ‘associate’s’ corpse, from head to toe. Almost at once, there was a soft crinkling sound, like paper being crumpled. Hargrove quickly resealed the baggie, then zipped the body bag shut and moved away. He’d seen the effects himself, but it was smart not to be too close to the stuff regardless. If all went according to design, and the amount he’d used, there’d still be a body, or most of it – and no sign of anything special, unless someone performed a full blood and DNA workup, and knew exactly what to look for. Given how fast events were moving, there wasn’t any worry of that, not until he’d dealt with the situation at hand.

  The Osprey’s engines came to life with a thrumming roar. He tucked the baggie away, and sat down on the bench, opposite his men. A minute or two later, Patrick climbed in, wearing a pilot’s headset and ear mufflers. He handed a second pair to Hargrove, and then moved to a seat farther up front, keeping his distance from the four men in brown. For once, Hargrove didn’t need to hide his smile. Clearly the colonel was even more uneasy, working around him. But if it motivated him to pass word of the pardon on to Costa, or ask more questions that Hargrove couldn’t answer… His hand found the baggie again. It wouldn’t come out, not unless absolutely necessary. But that time might come – and soon.

  Chapter 11

  Above Mt Rainier National Park, Washington State

  Four Hours Later

  The landscape below was striking, despite the heavy cloud cover. From his window on the right-hand side, Greg could see a muddled carpet of grey and white, broken every so often by jagged contours of black stone soaring up in a squat pinnacle. Here and there, patches of tiny evergreen pinpricks sprouted towards the sky; otherwise the entire crumpled landscape was bare of vegetation for miles. If he craned his head forward, or backward, he would just be able to make out the even greater stretches of green and brown that made up the rest of the Park’s range. Directly to the northeast, the line of the Cascades stood out in sharp contrast to the valleys of melting snow and brown-grey mud.

  Five years after the Seattle Bomb, basically the whole of Washington west of the mountains was still considered contaminated and uninhabitable, left to the elements and whatever looters or bands of stubborn residents felt like chancing it. Even the rest of the state was a toss-up – the radiation cloud hadn’t stayed in the Puget Sound area for more than a few hours before drifting south and east, forcing yet more evacuations, and knocking the region’s and the country’s economy for another tailspin. All this, combined with increasing temps and worsening weather, meant yet more ruination to what had once been one of the few truly ‘wild’ areas left in the continental United States.

  He turned away from the window. Leah was making minute adjustments at the controls. Cayden was seated in the rear, face and clothes wiped almost clean, staring into the void as he’d been doing since Monticello. It was clear he wasn’t just reliving the fight, or bottling up the adrenaline. The few cuts he’d taken at the airfield were healed, without even a hint of a scar; they’d closed up within bare seconds of take-off, instead of the few minutes it normally took for Golems of Greg and Leah’s generation. No question– he was more than just a prototype. Greg’s gaze fell on the two duffels, for the hundredth time. And if what we saw at the cabin was right, I’ve gota pretty clear idea how—

  A faint coughing sound broke the silence, from the engine compartment. Fully alert, Greg looked to Leah. ‘That what I think it is?’

  She nodded, without taking her eyes from the cockpit window. ‘Charge is dying in the main batteries, and the backup – not enough sun or UV at this altitude. Going higher to find it’d just drain the reserves faster.’

  Cayden leaned forward, looming over the two of them. ‘How much time do we have?’ he rumbled.

  ‘Half an hour – forty-five, if we don’t push it.’ She glanced at the GPS monitor. ‘We’re about a hundred miles from the old Fort Lewis range. If we keep this speed, we’ll hit the perimeter in maybe twenty minutes, and the meet in forty. Dicey, but we—’

  A sharp buzzing sound cut her off. She flicked her eyes from gauge to gauge, until they settled on the tiny radar screen. Her knuckles whitened on the controls. ‘Radar scan from unknown source,’ she said tonelessly. The buzzing sped up. ‘Gaining on us, too – couple thousand yards, and closing fast.’

  Greg fought the urge to glance out the window. ‘Any ID? Civilian or military?’

  ‘Just the lock. Nothing on the transponder yet, but—’ She stopped, squinting at the radar again. ‘Oh, shit.’

  A harsh buzzing reached Greg’s ears, growing steadily louder. A grey, winged object shot past the GreyWitch’s port side, travelling a good several hundred yards before looping around approaching from ten o’clock high. The outline of the object was all too clear. He gripped the sides of the seat. ‘Predator.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leah peered out the window as the craft zoomed past again. ‘Can’t tell if it’s armed, but it’s a safe bet that’s a yes, in this area.’ One hand on the steering controls, she pressed a few buttons on the panel. ‘No problems with the stealth shielding. Maybe they’re chasing the ghost of our profile.’

  As if in rebuttal, the radio crackled. The noise quickly resolved into monotone speech. ‘Unidentified Cessna, this is Recon Patrol Drone 4484. You have entered restricted airspace. Identify, and state your course and purpose.’

  ‘So much for that,’ she muttered. Pressing the transmit control, she put on a cheery tone. ‘RPD-4484, acknowledged. This is Golf Whiskey 8, carrying medical personnel and supplies bound for Longview Airport.’ That was the furthermost Washington town within the scope of the Columbia River Resettlement Area. Greg had heard there were some refugees still camped there two years ago, but had no idea if there were any of them left now. ‘We appear to have suffered a glitch in our primary guidance system, hence our drifting into this area. We will correct this momentarily.’

  The voice was frosty. ‘All craft found in violation of quarantine line are to be escorted to Forward Operating Base Yakima, for further evaluation at Fairchild AFB.’ A wink of light off
metal: the drone was beside them again, to their right. ‘Stand by to adjust course accordingly.’

  The drone drifted closer. Greg could see the minigun under its nose, but no sign of missiles. Must not be expecting anything needing that kind of ordnance– not that thathelpsright this second.

  Letting a bit of panic show this time, Leah thumbed Transmit again. ‘Golf Whiskey 8, negative. We are carrying crucial supplies for the Longview camps. Deviation at this time would result in further needless delays, and possibly deaths. Request permission to correct course for intended destination.’

  ‘Request denied.’ Icy before, the voice was pure robot now. ‘Either adjust course, or prepare to be forced down. You have thirty seconds to comply.’ A loud click, and the voice went off. At the same time, the drone drifted out of sight, towards their rear.

  Greg cursed under his breath; Cayden only watched silently. Greg looked Leah’s way. ‘Any ideas?’

  She said nothing at first, eyeing the various screens again. Suddenly, she smiled. ‘Maybe.’ One hand lifted to the headset again. ‘Golf Whiskey 8, acknowledged. Making course correction now. Be advised: our engine levels are low, and falling by the second. We may require an emergency landing prior to our arrival at FOB Yakima.’

  She clicked off before the controller could answer, and tugged at the rudder, putting the GreyWitch in a gentle turn northeast. Seeing Greg’s puzzlement, she pointed to one of the readouts, at the top of the dashboard. ‘Geiger says there’s a strong fallout plume blowing from the deposits in Seattle, settling over this whole area. Even the latest Predators aren’t rad-hardened enough for the levels it’s putting out. We get low enough, it’ll screw with the drone’s link to home base, and maybe the guidance system. It gets thrown off, maybe enough to crash, or just to leave it wobbling all over the Park—’

  ‘While we keep heading west,’ Greg finished, smirking. ‘What about our exposure?’

  ‘Counter’s not showing enough to penetrate the hull. The plume looks to be staying above close to a hundred feet, and our clingers should keep out the residual ground levels, at least until we reach the perimeter.’ They were facing directly northeast now, the sun glinting off the flaps. Checking the radar again, Leah frowned. ‘Our escort’s hanging a bit close, isn’t he?’

  Greg peered at the radar. Sure enough, the drone was within 200 yards of their tail. The angle of approach was off, too. Almost like—

  He seized the rudder controls, yanking hard to port. The plane twisted, turning almost on its side. A line of tracers streaked past the starboard wing. Grasping the controls again, Leah throttled back, cutting speed and altitude. Still spitting rounds, the drone shot by overhead, going at least a thousand yards before banking in a slow turn. ‘I’d say we’re made,’ she said, breathlessly.

  The drone completed its turn, accelerating head-on. Leah put the plane in a downward corkscrew, diving below the next spray. Greg clenched the edge of his seat, fighting back g-force and nausea. Cayden held himself in the middle of the rear seat, hands and feet pressed against the hull. The drone streaked past again, at slower speed. Another bank, and it would be on them in seconds, with a much shorter range. ‘What now?’ Greg said through clenched teeth.

  Leah spared a glance out the side window. ‘Puyallup River’s to our right, maybe a mile off. Best spot for a landing, unless we want to become evergreen kebabs.’ She twisted the plane to the right again, twirling it through another barrel roll. The Geiger was buzzing now, instead of the sedate clicks from before. ‘We’re in the middle of the rad plume now. They want a clear shot, they’ll have to get close.’

  The plane’s nose dipped, pointing itself at forty-five degrees. A ribbon of white-blue was visible to the right, winding through the forest. The trees became bigger and clearer; Greg could almost count the branches. Leah jinked right, left, then back, dipping the tail and nose at random. ‘Almost there,’ she muttered, squinting at the river. ‘Come on, just a few more—’

  Four rounds struck like hailstones fired from a giant’s blowgun. ‘Fuck!’ Leah cursed. The GreyWitch lurched right, nearly turning over. Thrown against the window, Greg spotted two holes the size of a human hand punched through the starboard wing. Smoke and hydraulic fluid were already trailing from them.

  Still turning the craft this way and that, Leah scanned the gauges. ‘Main batteries are gone; reserves barely registering. Nothing from the starboard controls.’ She pushed against the controls with all her strength. ‘Hang on, this isn’t going to be subtle!’

  The plane dropped like a stone. Greg’s stomach leapt into his mouth, before he forced it down. The river was directly below them, gaining with every second. He could see frothing rapids, and rocks protruding every few yards. Another volley of tracers zipped overhead; Leah ignored them. Her hand shot out and grasped his, fingers clenching tight enough to snap ordinary bone. He clasped it equally hard in return. Still staring ahead at the rushing water, she began counting. ‘Seven… six…’ Greg closed his eyes, pressing back against his seat. ‘Four… three… two… one…’

  The belly of the GreyWitch struck first, caroming off the river’s surface at 100 mph. The landing gear sheared away with a screech of tortured metal. Greg’s seat catapulted upwards. He threw his arms up against the ceiling panels, snapping both forearms like matchsticks. A microsecond later, the plane hit again, dipping hard left and down. The propeller struck the edge of a jagged boulder, tearing all three blades and twisting backward toward the cockpit. The craft heeled hard right, slicing the starboard wing through the water. Chunks of metal ripped away, pinwheeling in all directions. Momentum yanked them forward, nearly sending the plane twirling end over end – which would have shoved the engine back into the cabin and crumpled the entire frame, killing or severely maiming them all despite the ARC. Instead, the nose ground itself into the riverbed, throwing up a torrent of silt and spray. The port wing plunged into the current, digging deeper into the bed and bringing the tail up like a grave marker. Groaning piteously, the rear of the plane dropped hard on the rocky shoreline, breaking off the rear flaps and tearing off bits of the hull.

  Hacking and wheezing, Greg pulled at the straps. His arms felt doused in tingling fire. When he spat, bits of pink froth landed on the controls. Punctured lung. Already he could feel the ribs retracting, and the internal wounds closing. Both legs were still working; it felt like there might be a double sprain, but those were healing faster than the rest. Still, it would be a minute or so before he was stable, let alone combat-ready.

  Beside him, Leah was sitting up, too. Blood dripped from a gash on her throat and another on her forehead, but she seemed only stunned. She held out her hands. Both wrists were bent almost completely back, the fingers gnarled and mangled. She winced, once, as they began resetting, twisting and rotating back into place. ‘You okay?’ she rasped; the cut must’ve hit her vocal cords.

  ‘Yeah, sort of.’ He started to turn. ‘Cayden? You—’

  The older Golem loomed up between them. His shirt and coat were ripped even more from flying debris, and there were several deep, already-healing cuts on both his cheeks. ‘I’m fine,’ he murmured. ‘We need to move. Drones won’t wait around too long to confirm the kill in this zone, but that won’t stop this one from strafing us again.’

  ‘Right.’ Greg glanced out the window but could only catch a sliver of the sky; the wing was buckled almost ninety degrees. He turned his gaze to the riverbank. ‘Current’s strong. We jump out, let it carry us clear of the wreck, and break for the treeline.’

  ‘No,’ Cayden said flatly. ‘The drone’ll rip us to shreds before we get a hundred yards.’ Reaching to his waist, he drew his pistol. His right arm moved out of sight, reappearing with the dark green duffel from the forest. Unzipping it, he yanked out a few random bits of clothing and small gear. Eventually he pulled out what appeared to be a standard sniper scope, arm-length metal barrel, and attachable rifle butt. He snapped all of these onto the pistol, in a matter of seconds. Slinging the
duffel over one shoulder, he hefted the weapon, looking gravely at them both. ‘It’ll be tight, but I can make it.’ He kicked hard at the door with one foot, breaking it clean off. Modified rifle in one hand, he yanked himself through the hole, dropping with a loud splash into the water.

  Greg tugged at the straps, then, exasperated, tore the buckle free and wiggled out of them; Leah cut her way free with her blade. He wrenched his door open, and dropped feet-first, feeling the river rise to his chest. Being mostly snowmelt, the temp had to be near zero, but the clinger kept most of the chill out. Fighting against the current, he waded to the western shore, grasping boulders here and there to keep upright. Splashes behind him said Leah was clear of the plane, too.

  Clambering onto solid ground, he spotted Cayden several yards upstream, down on one knee and scanning the skies through his weapon’s scope. The sound of the Predator’s engine reached his ears in the same moment. A muted buzz this time, with the faintest hint of a stutter. Must be the fallout, or some glitch made worse by it. Which meant—

  He whipped his gaze further upstream, to the west. A glint of metal flashed at him, maybe 600 feet high, and a quarter mile off. A short burst of speed, and the drone would have the easiest shot in the world.

  His movements smooth and confident, Cayden brought the weapon to his shoulder, and chambered the first round. Exhaling, he froze immobile, peering down the sight. The drone’s buzz grew louder. Greg could see its low-slung profile, dropping with every second over the valley. Any moment now, and it would have them lined up.

  Cayden squeezed the trigger. A single blue tracer spat out, rocketing towards the Predator. The colour told Greg everything, in the millisecond before he ducked his eyes behind one arm. Bright white light stabbed at his eyelids, before the hood’s filters dropped. Winking away tears, he heard the drone’s engine sputter twice, and cut out altogether. The sleek, agile craft wobbled, before tilting into an awkward glide for the eastern shore. Its wings snapped off against the peaks of several dead pines, causing it to spiral. Then it smashed into the main trunk of another tree, almost punching clean through. A gorgeous ball of sparks, fire and smoke erupted. The nearest trees went up at once, adding to the drone’s pyre.