Ex-Patriots e-2

by Peter Clines

  “Are you sure of this?”

  Pretty sure, yeah.

  “Why did it take you so long to notice it?”

  Well, they are passive scans and it kept a really high altitude this time. There wasn’t much to hear until it was right on top of us.

  “Which was, by your estimates, seventy-five minutes ago.”

  Yeah, sorry. I guess I was distracted.

  St. George frowned. “Distracted by what?”

  I was talking with someone. As I’ve mentioned several times, it’s boring as hell sitting in this ball all the time. Even with the awesome DVD collection.

  “I was not aware of anyone else in Four this evening,” said the cloaked woman.

  “Is it doing anything else?” asked Danielle. “The Predator?”

  Nope. Nothing but navigational commands and some quick looks through the nose camera.

  The heroes looked at each other. “Well,” said St. George, “I guess they’ve made their move.”

  Stealth bowed her head. “Do you agree we should send Zzzap to investigate further?”

  He nodded. So did Danielle. “We should wait until sun-up, though,” said St. George. “That way you’ve got something to hide in front of.”

  Lucky me.

  “Sunrise is in twenty-three minutes,” said Stealth. “I will get the generator crews prepared. It may be wise to warn the guards, as well.”

  “You want to do that?” asked Danielle. “If it is the military, they’re not going to like a bunch of nervous civilians taking potshots at them.”

  “If it is not the military, I would prefer to be ready.”

  Guys?

  “Fine. There’s enough time to get me back in the armor, then,” she said.

  “I’ll help with that,” said St. George.

  “Good. I don’t think anyone on my crew wakes up before nine.”

  Guys , said Zzzap, you don’t have time.

  Stealth looked at him, then up. In the dead silence of the morning, they all heard the noise.

  Four, maybe five helicopters. They just broke radio silence. Army, by their encryption.

  * * *

  People woke up and dashed out of their homes at the thunderous sound of rotors. They clogged the streets and rooftops, pointing at a sight they thought they’d never see again. Some cheered. Some shrieked in fear.

  St. George launched himself into the sky, fumbling his earpiece into place. He keyed the mic as he spun in the air. “Who’s with me?”

  “I’m here,” said Zzzap.

  “Danielle?”

  “Cerberus is searching for her assistants,” said Stealth. “She does not have a radio.”

  “Who’s on the wall?” called St. George.

  “This is Makana,” came the voice. “What the hell’s going on, boss?”

  “Just stay calm, make sure none of your people have their fingers on the trigger,” ordered the hero. “We don’t want anyone shooting at a rescue party.”

  “Copy that.”

  Hanging in the air two hundred feet above the Mount, St. George counted five olive-drab helicopters coming towards him in a V formation. They were fast, tilted forward with rotors aimed in his direction. Three of them had huge miniguns mounted on their noses. He was bulletproof, but wasn’t sure if his skin could take a full-speed helicopter blade.

  The hero waited until the last moment and then shifted in the air. He caught a quick glimpse of one of the pilots staring at him in dumbfounded amazement and the minigun turned to follow the stare. Then the roar of rotors pummeled him as the choppers thundered past on either side.

  His ears rang for a few seconds and he realized Stealth was talking to him on his earpiece. He shook his head and keyed the mic. “What was that again?”

  “Two UH-60A Black Hawk transports and three Apache gunships. Are you unharmed?”

  He glanced down. She was already on the peak of the water tower, staring up at him. “Yeah, they missed me. I could use an aspirin, though.”

  * * *

  “Son of a bitch, that was close,” said Makana. He stared up at the pre-dawn speck that was St. George. So did most of the gate guards. The helicopters weren’t the bright red and white rescue machines he’d dreamed of before coming to work. These were dark, vicious hunters.

  One of the men on duty, a skinny guy named Matt, split his attention. He reached through the gate with his pike and jabbed an ex in the shoulder. “Doesn’t this guy look familiar to you?” It was a tall man with dark hair and a square jaw. The flesh was missing from one side of his skull and the coat sleeve on that side was frayed and shredded, as if the dead thing had been dragged along some coarse surface for miles.

  They glanced at him. “Dude,” said a heavyset man with blond dreadlocks. “You’re thinking about points? Now?”

  “I’m just saying,” said Matt, “I think this is somebody famous.”

  “So what?” snapped Makana. He’d grabbed a set of binoculars from the guard shack and was trying to focus on the flying hero.

  “If it’s someone famous, one of you guys needs to vouch for me.”

  “Get your priorities straight,” said a skinny woman. She snatched the binoculars from Makana.

  * * *

  Danielle dashed through the workshop door just as the helicopters blasted through the air above the Mount. The Cerberus Battle Armor System still stood in the center of the floor, soaking up power through a thick cable. Its arms and back rested in special foam molds on the oversized work tables, and the armored head glared at her from its own spot.

  None of her crew were there.

  “Come ON!” she snarled. She yanked off her shirt and kicked her pants away. She ran to the suit and up the short ladder standing behind it. Her hands gripped the armored shoulders and she lowered her own legs down into the titan’s. She leaned forward into position and felt the tiny pricks and tingles of the sensors as they settled against her body.

  Any instant now, she knew, her six hand-picked, trained assistants would rush through the door. They would put her arms in place, seal her in the armor, and she’d be strong again. When they were in top form, they could do it in just over an hour.

  No one came through the door.

  Danielle shouted out a stream of curses that echoed around the workshop.

  When they faded she was still alone.

  “Goddammit,” she yelled, “somebody help me get back in the armor.”

  She was so close to being safe she almost cried.

  * * *

  In the dim light St. George could just see the helicopters up over the Hollywood sign, swinging around to the east. “I think they’re coming around for another pass. Do you want me to—”

  “No,” said Stealth.

  “They just—”

  “No one has been injured. That was not an attempted attack. They were caught off guard by the sight of you.”

  “It’s not like they didn’t know we were out here.”

  “It is one thing to know a flying man exists,” said Stealth. “It is quite a different thing to see him in person.”

  “Put me in, coach,” said Barry’s voice. “I can do more good up there.”

  “No.”

  “But I can—”

  “If the power were to go out just as a squadron of military helicopters arrived, it would cause chaos throughout the Mount. Maintain your position.”

  The helicopters roared forward again. This time St. George stood his ground in the air, arms crossed over his chest. They crossed the miles between them in seconds. He was tensing in the air when they pulled up to hover a hundred or so yards away from him.

  A full minute passed as the hero and the helicopters stared at each other five hundred feet above the Mount.

  “They’re all talking about you,” said Barry over the earpiece. “Three of them are pretty sure you’re the Mighty Dragon and two think you’re somebody new. They’re not quite sure what to do.”

  “Well,” said St. George, “let’s make sur
e they know who they’re dealing with, then.” He took in a quick breath and tasted a familiar sizzle at the back of his throat. He turned his head to the side and puffed it out as a fireball the size of a Volkswagen.

  It made his point. Four of the helicopters split off. Three of them were the Apaches with miniguns. They circled in the air and fell back half a mile or so. St. George squinted down at the dark shape on top of the water tower. “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “You would need to confirm from your position,” said Stealth, “but I believe they have retreated to just beyond the Big Wall.”

  He looked down and tried to pick out streets in the pre-dawn gloom. She was right. He could see the rough, uneven line of stacked cars running up Vine and across Beverly. “Good call,” he said. “Any idea why?”

  “They are respecting our airspace,” she said.

  “Our what?”

  “ARE YOU THE MIGHTY DRAGON?”

  The amplified voice echoed in the air for a moment. The lone Black Hawk had turned its side to St. George. A young-looking man in a dark suit waved to him from the open cabin door. He wore a bulky headset with cables that ran back into the helicopter.

  “If someone asks if you’re a god,” said Barry’s voice, “you say yes.”

  “It is a test of trust,” said Stealth. “You have demonstrated who you are. They wish you to confirm their beliefs.”

  “You don’t have to talk me into it,” he told them. He cupped his hands to his mouth and tried shouting back, but he was pretty sure the people in the Black Hawk couldn’t hear him over the rotors. After a second attempt he gave an exaggerated nod of his head. The man in the suit smiled.

  “WITH YOUR PERMISSION, WE’D LIKE TO LAND AND SPEAK WITH YOU.”

  He glanced down at the tower again. Stealth had vanished. “Thoughts?”

  “Direct them to the Plaza parking lot,” said her voice in his ear. “I shall meet you there.”

  St. George looked behind him and to the left. The Plaza lot was right by the Melrose Gate, separated by a line of shrubs in heavy planters and some fencing. Because it was so close to the outside it had never been populated with tents or shanties like so many other spaces. He drifted through the air toward it and pointed down at the open expanse.

  The helicopter shifted in the air. “WE’RE GOING TO CALL IN THE OTHER BLACK HAWK TO SERVE AS A GUARD,” said the man in the suit. “JUST THE ONE. IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU?”

  St. George gave another big nod. The man gave him another smile and a thumbs up. The hero dropped down a hundred feet or so and glided over to hover near the lot. The helicopter swung in a low arc to place itself over the wide square of pavement. The air thumped as another craft moved forward to hang high above the landing zone. St. George saw a handful of soldiers in full battle gear looking at him from the second Black Hawk’s cabin doors.

  He drifted down to meet the man in the suit.

  * * *

  “I’m telling you,” said Matt, “it’s that guy from that space cowboy show that was on a couple of years ago.” He jabbed the dead man again. “You can’t see that?”

  The other gate guards ignored him. Even the exes at the gate seemed distracted by the roar of the landing helicopter. Some of them were reaching up, as if their bony fingers could pluck the vehicle from the air.

  The rail-thin woman glanced at Makana. “Who do you think it is?”

  He shrugged. “Army, maybe. Or the Marines.”

  “It’s the Army,” said Matt, glancing back from the gate. “Check out the markings.”

  Makana shrugged again. “If you say so.”

  “Is anyone going to look at this ex? I’m telling you, it’s whatshisface. Nathan something.”

  “Dude, whatever,” said the dreadlocked man. He gave the zombie a quick look. “Yeah, it’s probably him.”

  “Sweet.”

  They all turned their attention back to the helicopter as it settled on the pavement. Behind them, Matt pulled out his pistol. He took it in both hands and lined up his shot.

  * * *

  The Black Hawk cut its engines. The noise level dropped as the long rotors slowed their relentless slashing at the air.

  St. George dropped to the ground on the far side of the lot. Two soldiers on board trained their rifles on him and two more looked out the far door. Their weapons were huge things with dictionary-sized boxes mounted on them.

  The man in the suit wrestled with his harness. Then he fought with it. One of the soldiers reached over and flicked something. The straps dropped away and the man almost fell out of his seat. He caught himself and made it look as if he was climbing down.

  The two soldiers facing St. George tensed and he saw one of the gun barrels shift off to his left. “U.S. Army,” said Stealth. She was a few steps behind him. “Their weapons appear to be M240Bs with a modified ammunition case and larger heat shields.”

  “Yeah,” said St. George. He cleared his throat. “I though they looked different.”

  “It is classified as an infantry medium machine gun,” she said. “It is unusual for an entire squad to be armed with it because of its weight. Each one weighs over thirty pounds with ammunition.”

  “They don’t seem to be having any trouble with them.”

  “Hello,” shouted the man in the suit. He stood on the pavement by the Black Hawk. The soldiers had moved forward, still sheltered by the helicopter’s armor but still flanking the man. “I’m John. It’s good to see you.”

  “You too,” called back St. George.

  “Mind if I come a little closer?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What if we meet halfway?”

  St. George gave a nod. “That’d be fine.”

  He could feel Stealth’s glare on him. “You do not need to agree to his every request,” she said.

  “Take it easy,” he said, taking a few steps forward.

  The gunshot rang out and echoed between the buildings.

  One of the soldiers lunged at the man named John and carried him to the ground. The other one dropped to his knee and focused his oversized weapon at St. George. Two more soldiers had appeared, weapons aimed at the heroes. They shouted short, clipped orders back and forth through the helicopter’s open doors.

  “What did you guys do out there?” Barry asked over the earpiece. “Is someone shooting?”

  St. George looked back at Melrose. Makana and one of the other guards were wrestling a skinny man to the ground. The hero knew what had happened. “Screw up,” he said. “Big screw up.”

  “How are they responding?” said Stealth. She swept her cloak back to expose her holsters but didn’t draw yet.

  “They’re saying something about…they’re deploying Captain Freedom,” Barry told them. “That’s not military code for a big-ass bomb or something, is it?”

  Chapter 10 - Brute Force

  THEN

  Fucking bitch. I cannot believe this. She’s going to do it again.

  It’s supposed to be a man’s Army. That was what I got beaten into me growing up. Be a man, Kurt. Nine more years and you’re the Army’s problem. You better cry now because there’ll be no crying then. They’ll make a man out of you, yes they will.

  And what’s up with the rest of the squad cheering her on? Stupid bitch’ll start to think she belongs here. She’s only doing six-forty. All of us can do six-forty at this point. We’re all fucking Olympic supermen.

  She’s just like all those dumb cunts in school I had to put up with for years. They all thought they belonged. They thought they were special. Giggling at me in the back of class. Yelling for their friends. Crying to the teachers. Kurt Taylor’s staring at me again. Kurt, don’t do that. Kurt, stop it. They wouldn’t know a real man if one came up and punched them in their stupid Barbie faces.

  Finally get out of high school and the U.S. Army’s waiting for me just like the old man said. I get in and what do I find? Tons of bitches who all think they’re as good as me. Better than me. My fucking platoon serg
eant is some dyke bitch. Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph.

  Wally Monroe slaps my arm. “Taylor, dude,” he says to me. He points at Sergeant Kennedy, on her back with her tits in the air, pumping away. Gus is spotting her. “I think the sarge’s going to beat your record.”

  “Yeah, great,” I say. I think about adding “Who the fuck cares?” but he’s a smart guy for a grunt. He figures it out.

  So I sign up for Project Krypton thinking this’ll take care of everything. No more questions who’s supposed to be top dog A-number-one around here. It’ll separate the men from the boys and leave the girls in the dirt. They can wise up and go back to popping out more little soldiers for the U. S. of A like God wanted.

  And what the fuck do I find? A month after surgery three-quarters of the program’s washed out and there’s still three bitches here. And they’re doing better than me. They’ve got the fucking dyke balls to keep trying to make me look bad. Always faster. Always stronger.

  My arm’s still sore. Got our last shots this morning. I hate needles. Hate ‘em. There are air guns now that don’t use needles, but they’re still shots. Doc Sorensen says from here on in it’s up to us. No more shots, just a few tests every other day. Our bodies will keep up or not.

  The money’s on not for most of us. There’s only thirty-eight soldiers left. Orders came down and Shelly pulled us all together into one company. Sorensen said he expects the dropouts are done. There should be enough of us left to make a solid platoon or two.

  One of the bitches is already looking sick. Or maybe she’s just on the rag. Stick a cork in it, sister, this is a man’s Army. If you can’t hack it go back to blowing jocks under the bleachers for a dollar.

  They all applaud and Gus and Monroe each throw another plate on either side of the bar. Seven-hundred ninety pounds. If the bitch does ten reps she’ll tie my record. Monroe shoots me a smile. They’re all cheering for her again.