Web of Extinction (Zone War Book 3)

by John Conroe

  I moved to the TP pallets, kneeling down to reach under each corner. Little wheels, the kind with the built-in brake, were hidden just underneath the pallet’s edge. Flipping the brake locks to the off position let me roll the whole thing away from my armory door with little effort.

  It was an ordinary commercial office type door, light metal with a locking handset. The handset wasn’t locked, but the door wouldn’t budge. Good. Next to the door was a light switch set into the sheetrock. I pulled out my multi-tool and unscrewed the switch plate. Behind it, inside the switch box, among the wiring, was a loop of thin cable that my finger could fit through easily. I pulled it, slowly and smoothly, out of the wall, using my right hand while pulling on the door knob with my other. The door suddenly came free, opening outward to reveal a rising two-by-four stud, one end now up at an angle, just lifted clear of the metal brackets on the back of the door and the doorframe.

  Inside the smaller room, my chem light stick revealed not a single bit of custodial gear. Instead, racks of rifles and shotguns lined one wall while olive drab cans of ammunition lined another. High-impact plastic equipment cases were stacked on the third wall, and body armor hung on hooks on either side of the door.

  Turning in a circle, I surveyed my space, letting my brain ponder the question of what, exactly, I needed in order to finish this run. To travel the last kilometer to 55 Broadway, climb the stairs, kill Plum Blossom, and then get the hell out, fighting the whole way. My turning stopped with my eyes on the heavy cases.

  Actually, on just one case. It was black with government markings on it. Chief among those was the words EXPERIMENTAL—PROPERTY OF DARPA. The rest was a jumble of letters and numbers that only a federal employee could love. A big sticker slapped diagonally across the top said NYPD Trial Period, then listed a set of dates from over ten years ago. I had found it in the armorer’s vault a year ago. That particular security setup had taken me the most time to defeat. Inside, among some rather surprising pieces of ordinance, was this case.

  Moving to the box, I pulled it away from the others. Two heavy duty combination padlocks secured each end. I entered the combination into each and pulled them off. The lid flipped back to show what appeared to be the awkward love child of a Barrett .50 caliber heavy rifle and some mocked-up prop gun out of a Hollywood science fiction movie.

  It had been tentatively called the ChemJet, according to material packed with it. It fired 9x52mm FSDPCA rounds. The letters stood for Fin Stabilized, Dual Propellant, Continuous Acceleration. The military had been quietly testing it, and somehow, so had the NYPD. It was a dark brown color, the tone the military called Flat Dark Earth. Much of it looked a lot like most modern assault weapons. Collapsible shoulder stock just about like the one on my little 5.56mm AR. Pistol grip just like it as well. On the different side, it had a big plastic box magazine to hold the extra-fat cartridges. And the barrel was stubby and thick, with no flash hider on the muzzle. A thick handguard covered most of the barrel and had lots of attachment points for extra gear, like lights and laser-aiming modules.

  According to the copious manuals packed inside the case, the weapon used a standard smokeless rifle propellant to shove each projectile out of the barrel, just like a regular rifle. Then, somewhere downrange, a secondary propellant kicked in, a tiny rocket built into the projectile itself, which pushed it faster and farther than mere gunpowder could. The rocket was supposed to kick in within two meters from the muzzle, according to the specs.

  The rocket-propelled nine-millimeter projectile achieved hellish speeds, giving it the same kinetic energy as a .50 caliber machine gun round, but without the massive weapon weight, the heavy recoil, and with even greater energy farther downrange.

  The weapon had an integral fire control computer that took the information about the target under the crosshairs and fed it to the bullet. Each bullet had its own tiny chip, and it would continue to track the target on its own after discharge. Fire and forget. The tiny rocket burned for maybe a tenth of a second, but that was way more than enough time to maneuver to and kill its target.

  In theory. As far as I could tell, the weapon was delivered to the NYPD armorers a week before Drone Night. Never got tested or deployed. There were ten preloaded, plastic-wrapped twenty-round magazines packed in the foam cutouts around the rifle.

  This was it. My game changer. But it was completely untested. There were, however, some notes and a few videos on the data stick that was in with the manuals that had come from DARPA’s own testing team.

  They indicated that the weapon performed as advertised; if anything, maybe even better. The demonstration videos were pretty impressive and were of this particular weapon itself. But the DARPA testing team had also expressed concern that the projected cost of each weapon and of the extremely sophisticated ammunition was going to prove prohibitive, which might be the answer as to why it had never been fielded by the military.

  I had done some light snooping during my time with Zone Defense. None of the soldiers in Major Yoshida’s team had ever heard of the ChemJet. But the first electromagnetic rifle prototypes had come out around the same time as this weapon, just a few years before Drone Night. And once the bugs were ironed out, the e-mag guns were cheap to make and cheaper to feed. Steel ball bearings and electricity cost fractions of what the super complex rocket projectiles and special computers cost.

  Fiscal responsibility had won out. I know: Crazy, right? Perhaps one of the very few times the government complex chose not to waste money.

  So, I had to make a tough choice—use an untested, unknown weapon or dig out a tried-and-true choice from my well-proven arsenal.

  Normally that’s a no-brainer. Always go with the known, tested weapon. But this was a bit different. We were headed into serious shit. There was no way stealth would get this job done. As soon as Rikki fully powered up, it would be just a matter of time before all hell broke loose. I needed something lightweight, but capable of heavy firepower, both in terms of muzzle energy and in terms of rate of fire. E-mag weapons were obviously out due to the electromagnetic nature of the weapon. They would bring drones like flies to shit.

  I had powerful sniper rifles, but they had slow rates of fire and weighed a ton. I had full auto 7.62mm weapons that were easier to carry but didn’t have the range or power that a .338 or .50 caliber did.

  The ChemJet weighed the same as most full automatic 7.62mm battle rifles, but could (supposedly) hit at really long distances and could shoot rounds that would track down their targets on their own. That would be real handy when a hundred drones were trying to light me up.

  Pulling the rifle out of its foam nest gave me a feel for it. I liked it, and it turns out I was wrong. It was, in fact, lighter than most 7.62s. Short and handy. The electronic sight’s batteries were dead, but it had a solar panel on top.

  I took the rifle out and set it next to Rikki. That would be my deciding factor. If the sights took a charge, I’d use it. The sky outside the window was lightening. The sun would rise soon.

  I went back inside and dug out some battle rations for myself. Then, while I waited for the sun, I dug into my treasures and put together the best loadout I could dream up. From the arsenal, I dug out another special toy, this one a weapon from much earlier times, as in the 1960s—at least the original design was. Again, I had found it in deep in the armorer’s vaults. When I first came upon it, I was baffled, but as soon as I was out of the Zone, I was able to search it online and find out what it was. Titled the American 180, it was a .22 submachine gun. No really—a .22 long rifle, the most common cartridge in the entire world and one of the smallest. Digging into the history explained why it was in the NYPD’s clutches. Originally designed for police and prison guard work, it was meant to be an ultra-high capacity, super low recoil weapon. Individually, each little bullet had very low power, enough for rabbits, squirrels, or rats. Certainly, during its history, the little cartridge had been used for much bigger game, like deer and a couple of famous kills on big bears,
but those were either deer-jackers with head shots or acts of desperate survival, also using head shots.

  But when you send one hundred to two hundred rounds into anything, it made a big impression—like a little buzzsaw. A hundred .22 bullets could dig through concrete block or soft body armor if they kept hitting in the same place. With almost no recoil, hitting a small spot repeatedly was pretty easy. It was small and light at two-point-six kilos empty, although the three one hundred and seventy-seven round drums each almost doubled its weight when they were fully loaded.

  Personally, I had always thought that it would have some real merit as an anti-UAV weapon, something I was pretty sure we would need in the near future. Packed in its own black nylon carrying case, it wouldn’t take up much room on my back. The loaded drums fit into a pouch I attached to the back of my armored vest.

  Finally, my preparations as complete as I could make them, I lay down and slept. My last thought before sleep took me was of my father, nodding in satisfaction. Always get the prep work done before resting.

  Chapter 12

  I woke up on my own sometime later. I had bunked down inside my arsenal with the door barred. Before opening it, I used a dentist’s mirror to look under the door. Sunlight streamed into the supply room and I could see the sun must have been up long enough to shift across the floor because Rikki had moved to stay in the best light.

  With the door unbarred, I stepped out, one of my salvaged HK SCAR-H rifles in my arms. The room was undisturbed and Rikki immediately ticked four times.

  “Status?”

  “Power at fifty-eight percent. Immediate area remains clear.”

  “Estimated time to full charge?”

  “Four hours twenty-seven minutes at current solar exposure level. However, the sun will shift position above these windows in the next one hour and forty-for minutes, reducing solar efficiency by over fifty percent.”

  “So we hang out for a bit less than two hours, then head out and let you continue to charge as we move?”

  “Essentially. How we move will determine how much additional charge I am able to accumulate.”

  It took me a second, but I got it. “You want me to push you some more.”

  “Want is a word that does not apply to Rikki unit. It would, however, be the most efficient method. Hovering at thirty percent of fan power with full sensor suite active will allow approximately twenty-six to thirty-eight percent more power to accumulate. Operating at full power will leave reserves at current levels.”

  “Yeah, I get it. So I push you along like a baby stroller.”

  “Rikki unit is completely unlike the device you reference, even the hover models. There are no references to infant strolling devices being armed with 10mm electromagnetic weapons and a full complement of advanced micro-missiles.”

  “Oh, sounds like someone’s sensitive this morning,” I said as I checked the ChemJet rifle. The sight came on and showed a twenty-five percent power level. I put it back in the sun.

  “My senses always exceed human levels.”

  “That’s not what I mean and I know you understand the reference,” I said.

  “This unit will not waste energy engaging in conversational style known as trash talk.”

  “Hmmpf. Probably for the best.”

  “Correct. Human feelings are easily injured.”

  Wow, my drone was salty this morning. Interesting. I started suiting up, first pulling on an NYPD ESU coverall. Stealth was out this morning, at least for the most part. I needed more protection than the stealth suit I had worn into the Zone.

  “Internal diagnostic results?”

  “All systems are nominal with the exception of extra processing occurring in logic centers.”

  “What are you processing?”

  “Probability of survival of Ajaya Gurung.”

  My drone was worried. I doubt it was an exact emotional correlation, but essentially Rikki’s primary programming was to protect me, and we were headed into a possibly unsurvivable environment. I had come to grips with that back when I found out I had a bomb on my carotid. But Rikki had one primary mission and this little field trip was completely at odds with it. Arguably more so than any other mission I’ve ever done.

  “What are the odds that we survive if Plum Blossom is left unchecked? If it continues its efforts to kill off mankind?”

  “Calculations for that event have too many variables and permutations to have any degree of statistical significance.”

  “Well, I’m sure you have better numbers for this current mission, but the ones I’m interested in are the odds that we’ll successfully kill Plum Blossom.”

  “If unit Plum Blossom is currently located at indicated address, there is a range of fifty-three to sixty-one percent that we will effectively terminate that unit.”

  “Rikki, my primary program is to kill Plum Blossom in order to protect the lives of humans everywhere, but primarily my family and Astrid… and Harper too. If my life has to end in order to accomplish this, that is all that matters. So I have new orders for you. Protect me so that we can terminate Plum Blossom. But if protecting me will allow Plum Blossom to survive, killing that CThree takes precedence. Got it?”

  “Termination of CThree unit Plum Blossom is primary mission. Rikki unit will undertake that mission now.”

  All of his fans powered up and he rose off the ground, swiveling toward the glass windows above. Immediately I knew what he was doing.

  “Cease actions!”

  He froze in mid-lift, about two meters off the ground.

  “Calculate the odds of Rikki successfully killing Plum Blossom without aid and compare to odds of both of us making the attempt,” I ordered.

  “Rikki unit has thirty-one percent chance of mission completion.”

  “I need you to process this: If you leave to do this alone, I will still follow to make sure. Should you fail, what are the odds that I’ll succeed by myself?”

  “Twenty-two percent.”

  “That high? So, logically, it makes more sense to combine our abilities, which gives us over fifty percent chance, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “So we’ll be going together, correct?”

  The answer wasn’t immediate, but three seconds later, it came. “Correct.” He powered back down, his solar-sensitive upper surface turned to take in the sun.

  I went back to my preparations. I had ransacked the best-equipped building in Manhattan for the finest gear that was available ten years ago. The coverall was a synthetic blend that stayed flexible until any kind of impact. At that moment, the fibers locked up better than Kevlar, providing pretty decent ballistic protection, more than a stealth suit could. It had hardened knee and elbow pads, and the Mandarin-style collar protected vital neck areas from shrapnel and flechette fire.

  Over top of the suit, I put on the best body armor I could find. It was lighter than most other versions that I had found because it didn’t use trauma plates. The drones that the NYPD faced on that night a decade ago had been brand new, state-of-the-art versions with full ammunition hoppers. Rifle-grade ballistic trauma plates had been a must.

  But I was facing worn-down units, only a few of which were still able to fire projectiles, and those were makeshift flechettes. Some could fire lasers but again, their capabilities were greatly degraded, and they would have to stay locked onto me for long moments to get through my clothing and gear. I filled the vest’s ammo pockets with the ChemJet magazines, finding spaces for seven. One would go in the rifle and two would fit in cargo pockets on the legs of my coverall. The three drums of .22 ammo for the American 180 went into the pouch on the back of the vest.

  My pistol holster was adaptable to the vest, so my handgun would be on the front of my torso instead of on my hip, allowing for a cross draw from the chest. The plastic sheath for my kukri attached to the back of the vest, along side the drum pouch. I filled the rest of my pockets with the best combination of stuff from my own gear and the Police Plaza lockers
. Finally, I put on a ballistic helmet and adjusted the straps. Very strange feeling and not very comfortable, but I took mental comfort knowing that my head would have protection from nasty bits of high-speed wire and burning hot beams of light.

  There was even a place to fit my modern hydration unit into the back of the vest, with a drinking tube threading up and over my shoulder. I got all geared up and suddenly realized I had to go to the bathroom. Every single damned time. One of the advantages of a stealth suit, as you just pee right into it.

  “Rikki, is the building still clear?”

  “Affirmative.”

  There was a bathroom in the facilities management area and I had jugs of cleaning fluid stacked there for flushing, as water had stopped flowing through the building’s pipes long ago.

  After that particular emergency was over, I geared back up again. Then I hydrated from stored water and ate some more of the cache’s rations.

  It was still too early to leave, so I used the time to practice movement with my gear, adjusting the fit, taping down anything that rattled or made any noise. I practiced pulling each magazine, each flashbang, smoke grenade, and incendiary unit, every first aid piece, drawing my knife, my pistol, every piece of gear I had.

  “Solar charging is now degraded below optimum,” Rikki suddenly announced.

  Time to go.

  Chapter 13

  I stepped out into the sunshine, pushing my deadly carbon-black baby stroller, the ChemJet rifle slung across my front, patrol style. We made it about a hundred meters before my drone stopped dead in mid-push. He spun around in place, gun pointing back behind us.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “EM signals similar to unknown drone. Location Madison Street,” he came back, his speakers quieter than my whisper.

  “It’s on our back trail?” I hissed. We had come out the back of the building, reset the tape, and then traveled sort of cross-country, going over the streets and highway ramps, crossing green spaces in a straight line—at least straight-ish. So the entire bulk of One Police Plaza was between us and whatever drone was behind us. It couldn’t see us.