"No. He's in lockup. But a couple of his pals bought it."
"No loss. They're all trash." Hickok pushed the empty bowl away. "I should've told you face-to-face. But to tell the truth, I was a little scared of you. A note was easier."
Debbi looked down at her soup to cover an unexpected smile. Someone was scared of her.
"But listen," Hickok said, "here's the payback. I know an inbound caravan that's about two days out, carrying a wad of those black guns you're interested in. The Reapers know it, and they're gonna hit it."
Debbi sat up straight. "When?"
"Sunrise. They'll catch it coming through the Bosporus Straits."
"How do you know this?"
"I was out at a Reaper camp yesterday," Hickok said. "They got orders directly from Nicolai and were packing up to move, so I asked a few questions."
"How many Reapers are going to attack the caravan?"
"That I don't know for sure. About fifty, sixty. They're serious about taking the guns and they're well armed. But they aren't expecting heavy defense; just the usual freelance guards."
Debbi asked, "If they're after the black guns, you think they'll stick a little tougher than usual?" Reapers depended on surprise, speed, and shock. They hit fast and hard, hoping to break the will of their victims. And more often than not, they were successful. But they didn't usually stand in the face of stiff resistance.
Hickok shrugged again. "Maybe. But if the Rangers are out there with heavy ordnance, it should dissuade them."
"Who's transporting the black guns?"
"Oh, hell, I don't know." Hickok grinned. "I know more Reapers than I do caravaneers. And frankly, I trust what the Reapers tell me a lot more than what the legit guys say anyway."
Debbi tapped her spoon against the soup bowl while she thought. She eyed Hickok while the pilot drained the last drop of milk from the glass.
Debbi said, "You know this better be on the level, don't you? The Reapers killed a Colonial Ranger in Ghost Rock City a few days ago."
Hickok looked up sharply. "I didn't know that. Friend of yours?"
"No. But he was a Colonial Ranger."
"I understand. This is completely on the level. I didn't know about Ghost Rock City. I hope you guys kick their asses."
"Okay. I'll go to Ross with it."
Hickok stood up. She seemed relieved. "I want you to know, this whole thing with Borneo, nothing against you. I'm just trying to survive. You know? Just trying to get by in this world."
"I understand."
She eyed the door. "So, how are things going here in, um, you know." Hickok lifted her hands in an imitation of a creeping monster and gave a mock snarl. "In Zombie Town? Is it safe to walk around yet?"
Debbi lifted her hand from her gun and placed her elbows on the table, leaning over them casually. "You wanna keep it down? Once a place gets to be known as Zombie Town, it hurts the tourist trade."
Hickok laughed.
Debbi smiled a bit too. "We've cleaned out all the burying ground at St. Calixtus. We shouldn't have any more problems there. Plenty of undead popping up in the main cemetery outside town, but we've got militiamen manning the walls and walking perimeter to insure that no more get inside. As best as I can say, Zombie Town is under control."
"Good to know." Hickok's eyes lingered on Debbi as she stepped to the kitchen door and leaned in. "Hey, thanks for the chow. It was delicious."
"You're entirely welcome, dear." Miss Etta came out and put a motherly arm around Hickok's waist. "You come back anytime. Any friend of Debbi's is welcome here."
Hickok seemed wary of the physical affection. She walked stiffly as they crossed to the door.
"Hickok," Debbi called out. "Thanks."
"Sure."
Miss Etta returned to the dining room after closing the front door behind Hickok. She began clearing the dishes.
"I'm glad you're finally getting some friends for yourself," Miss Etta said. "She seems nice."
"Seems to be." Debbi wiped her mouth on a freshly pressed linen napkin and strapped on her gun belt.
Chapter 14
A small dust storm appeared on the open plains. The storm was raised by a caravan as it thundered out of the Bosporus Straits. The Bosporus was the exit point of a ten-mile long canyon that caravans used to descend and ascend the half-mile high plateau that rose abruptly seventy-five miles south of Temptation. It was a heavily trafficked route; avoiding it added five days to the trip between Temptation and Makeshift.
This caravan had been a third of the way through the Bosporus Straits when Reapers roared down on it from both sides and cut the line. The head of the caravan spurted out into the plains with Reapers on speeders in pursuit. The fleeing caravan began to stretch out and break apart. Vehicles scattered in hopes of escaping. Motorized transports pulled ahead, while the nonpowered vehicles and wagons hitched to oxen, horses and native beasts of burden fell desperately behind. Some broke down or stopped to make a last stand. Azeel warriors mounted on fierce chanouks quickly overwhelmed them.
The rear of the caravan was bottled up in the narrow Bosporus and thrown into bloodied chaos. Caravaneers scrambled for safety. Children were hastily grabbed and pulled inside vehicles. Teamsters struggled to arrange the vehicles into some sort of defensive positions while shells ripped into them. The security force, a handful of freelance adventurers, produced firearms along with most of the drivers and returned fire. Heavily armed Reapers positioned high in the rocks hammered them. Mounted Azeel tribesmen were held in abeyance, waiting for the right moment to ride down on the demoralized caravan and destroy it.
"There they are, boys!" Ross called into his mike. "This is for Ghost Rock City! Let's open 'em up!"
The two Colonial Ranger Stallions roared over the plains out of the rising sun. The first ship, with Ross at the stick, streaked toward the Bosporus. The second, under Stew's steady hand, veered off and made for the disintegrating caravan head that was under close pursuit. Three speeders with heavy machine guns mounted and multiple Reapers hanging off roll bars had swung out wide and were angling to intercept the lead caravan vehicles. Two others were chasing.
Stew brought his ship skimming down at rooftop level. It skipped on the hot air rising off the desert floor. Co-pilot Patrick Ngoma armed the fore and aft 20 mm autocannons. The targets quickly came to bear. The Stallion's forward cannons pounded and stitched the rocky ground across the path of the Reapers' chase speeders, tossing up chunks of debris. The raiders swerved wildly to avoid the incoming fire, throwing one off its pursuit track and rolling the other over in a shower of dirt.
Ngoma cursed at his miss as Stew brought the Stallion up into a steep climb. Ngoma eyed the gun sights carefully and fired a controlled burst from one aft cannon into the somersaulting speeder. It blew up in a ball of flame. He let out a grunt of satisfaction.
Stew sticked the Stallion around sharply and laid it over. Ngoma grabbed the control panel with one hand as he was slammed into the side.
"God Almighty, Stew! You can't pull this old Hoss around like that! This isn't a fighter craft!"
"Got to hit them fast," Stew responded, nonplussed and deadpan.
The cannons targeted the advance Reaper vehicles. Ngoma quickly took a sighting to avoid hitting any of the scattering caravan. He thumbed the fire button.
One of the speeders looked as if it hit a wall, shattering from the impact of the cannon shells, sending men airborne.
A ticking sound rippled across the Stallion's outer shell. Stew felt the stick jerk uncomfortably. They were hit, but still under power. Stew saw muzzle flashes from a Reaper vehicle below. He tapped on the side window with his finger and inched the Stallion over. He heard a comprehending sound from Ngoma followed by aft cannon fire. The Reaper vehicle exploded.
The Stallion streaked past the caravan and rose into another banking climb. It was throwing out a thin stream of oily smoke.
"Is that bad?" Ngoma peered out at the smoke.
Stew shrugged. It w
asn't good, but it wasn't critical. Luckily, the other two Reaper vehicles were racing off in opposite directions across the plains. This was typical Reaper tactics; you couldn't chase all of them. And Stew wouldn't be chasing any of them today.
He turned back to the haphazard trail of scattered wagons surrounded by anouks. Taking their retreat cues from their motorized brothers, many of the Azeels were already riding away. But others had started looting.
Ngoma clicked his com unit to the four Rangers in the back of the Stallion. "Ready!"
Instantly, four windows in the back of the vehicle popped out and rifle barrels protruded. Stew slowed the ship to a crawl as it neared an overturned wagon. He angled the Stallion so the Rangers could pick off the Azeel below. He and Ngoma, unable to open the cockpit windows, watched for survivors. They spotted several unmoving human bodies amidst the wreckage. As the Rangers' rifles opened up on the anouks below, Stew was reminded sickeningly of the target shoot he and Debbi had at the cemetery. The tribesmen returned ragged fire as they staggered to their chanouks carrying loads of looted goods. Those who had not already escaped would not.
Ross climbed his Stallion to the level of the plateau top and made a long turn to aim the ship at the cliff where the Reapers were ensconced.
"Arm up!" he called to the five Rangers waiting in the rear compartment. Then he turned to Ringo sitting next to him. "Smoke 'em."
The kid nodded and pressed the fire button.
Ross dropped the Stallion into the ravine as a forward cannon launched a barrage of smoke grenades. They exploded across the far ravine wall, creating a thick smoke cloud that drifted between the Stallion and the Reapers. Ringo opened up with the other forward cannon, blasting the Reaper positions as the Stallion plummeted into the smoke-filled canyon like an elevator with a broken cable.
Debbi's stomach crowded her throat. She sat hunched in the back of the Stallion watching the jagged ravine wall flash upward just a few feet outside the window. She clutched her automatic rifle tightly to her chest. Miller sat on the opposite side with three other Rangers; Natalie Chennault, a fireplug of a woman with dyed blonde hair; Boston Fitzpatrick, a tall, muscular creature who sang in a good baritone voice; and Hiroshi Tsukino, darkly handsome and charmingly affable. All their faces were wide-eyed masks, fingers white around their weapons.
"Hold onto something!" Ross's voice crackled in their ears.
She reached down with one hand and seized the hard metal seat. The other Rangers did the same. The Stallion slammed to a jarring stop and the back door sprang open.
"Go!" Ross commanded.
Debbi was first to the door. The Stallion hovered three feet from a rock ledge. She threw a heavy ammo box across and jumped, landed, and rolled. She scrambled behind an outcropping as Miller landed nearby with a strangled huff. He carried a bulky personal rocket launcher. Debbi had her rifle out and was firing through the drifting smoke at the far wall of the canyon one hundred yards away. Miller slapped up his rifle and started firing too as the last three Rangers made the leap from the Stallion. Chennault, Fitzpatrick, and Tsukino immediately fanned out along narrow footpaths leading off the outcropping to seek cover.
"We're clear!" Debbi radioed.
She cringed as Reaper shots pinged off the Stallion. The rear door closed. The forward cannon continued to punish the facing slope as the ship shot straight up.
The Rangers were locked into position now. They were stranded on the ravine wall, unsure even if there was a safe retreat route up or down. The mission was to save the caravan, not force a death struggle with a band of Reapers. If the enemy decided to stick, however, Debbi and the others were in a bad place.
The Reapers were suddenly in a tough position too. They had gone from having undisputed high ground over surprised opponents to being under attack from the caravaneers below, the Rangers across, and the Stallion hovering above.
Debbi heard Chennault and the others opening fire from their hidden positions nearby. She dragged the ammo box over to Miller and took the rocket launcher from him. He seemed briefly insulted. She hefted the heavy weapon and sighted through the lens. On the ravine wall opposite, she saw movement as Reapers scrambled for new cover. There were easily fifty of them. They looked like a nest of spiders scurrying in and out of sight. She saw Azeel on chanouks riding single-file deeper into the ravine along steep, winding paths.
Debbi smiled. It looked like the tribesmen were already beginning to make their escape.
Suddenly an object trailing flame streaked up from the far side and flew toward the Stallion hovering a quarter mile above.
"Ross!" Debbi shouted into her comlink, but the rocket had already reached the Ranger ship.
The Stallion disappeared briefly in a white hot flash. It was a high-temp phosphor shell, very high tech. The ear-piercing crack sounded a second later. When the flash cleared, the ship was still whole, but it had been pounded sideways. It tilted and began a heart-sickening drop into the ravine.
Debbi watched helplessly as the Stallion roared down past her position, bleeding smoke and fire. The nose of the ship pulled up slightly and it angled back into the canyon. She knew Ross was still at the stick trying to rein in the crippled Stallion.
Debbi forced herself to look away from the failing ship and bring up the rocket launcher. She had to keep the Reapers from firing another phosphor at the Stallion. She clicked the launcher's sighting key to IR, locked onto the phosphor's heat signature and located its general point of origin. She primed the load and fired. The rocket flashed out of the tube, slipped across the ravine, and exploded against the far wall. Debbi rolled another from the magazine into the breach and let it fly too. She saw several Reaper bodies torn apart in the explosion and felt harshly satisfied by the sight.
She took a second to search the ravine for a sign of the injured Stallion, but it was gone. She returned her eye to the launcher sight and scanned the far side of the ravine. When she saw telltale signals of living targets, she fired again and there was another shattering explosion.
More scurrying Reapers were visible now. They paused to fire at the Ranger positions before continuing to scramble up and down the paths. Shots flicked off the rocks nearby. Debbi and Miller ducked behind cover. Maybe the Reapers weren't retreating. Maybe they were taking fresh positions.
"Ross, do you read? Ross. Come in." And she waited. "Ringo? Do you read?"
Her headset sounded. "Dallas. It's Stew. What's your situation? Do you need assistance?"
"Stew, Stallion One hit by a phosphor. Might be down. Approximately one mile up the canyon."
"Roger, Dallas. We are responding."
"Be careful," Debbi said. "Lot of Reapers moving that way."
"Thanks."
Debbi called, "Chennault, what's your situation?"
"Fitz is down," Chennault answered.
"Shut up," Boston Fitzpatrick said gruffly, followed by the sound of shooting. "My trigger finger still works."
Miller placed a new magazine in his rifle for the fourth time. Curls of smoke twisted from the barrel. He eyed the far slope.
"I think they're on the run," he said just as a shot clipped off a rock a few inches from his head. He dropped. "Jesus!" He glanced sourly at Debbi. "What the hell! Reapers usually take off as soon as they see Stallions. I mean, there'll be two more caravans past here before the sun goes down. Why're they so gung-ho over this one?"
Debbi looked up at the sound of Stallion Two passing over. It quickly disappeared from view leaving a thin trail of smoke.
"Oh great," Miller complained. "Stew's hit too. I'll be pissed if the Reapers take out both vehicles. I don't feel like climbing down off this cliff."
Debbi stared angrily at Miller. He looked back blankly.
"What?" he snapped. "I don't!" A few more shots hit nearby. "Damn caravaneers! We risk our lives so they can make money!"
Debbi said nothing. She reloaded the rocket launcher with a sick feeling.
Ross shook his head. His eyesight was blur
red and he tasted metal. He wiped his mouth and the back of his hand came away bloody. As the cockpit of the Stallion began to swim into view, he reached over to Ringo. The kid was limp, slouched forward against his seat restraint. Ross shook him gently.
"Stuckey? Hey, Ringo."
The young man didn't move. Ross dug his fingers between Ringo's glove and sleeve and felt for a pulse. It was fairly steady.
Ross was startled by a hard thud beside him. He turned to see the purple face of a grim anouk warrior staring in the side window. The anouk slammed his black stone war ax against the window again. It bounced back. Another native appeared in front and bashed at the windshield.
Ross heard shouting in Azeel dialect from a figure he couldn't see. The warrior in front slid off. Immediately the windshield was stitched with automatic weapon fire. The plastic was scratched, but it didn't crack.
Ross unstrapped himself and reached under Ringo's seat for the first aid kit. Throwing back the lid, he scrabbled in it and then popped a small capsule under the kid's nose. Ringo flinched and jerked his head back wildly.
"Easy!" Ross put his hand against Ringo's chest.
Ringo blinked. Beneath his tangled hair his eyes weren't quite registering.
Ross asked, "Do you understand me?"
Ringo nodded instinctively. His eyes stared blankly.
Another line of bullets peppered the front window. This time they gouged out some heavy pockmarks.
Ross popped another capsule in Ringo's face. The young man jerked back again, restrained by the crash belts. His arms came up and flailed at Ross's hand.
"All right!" Ringo complained. "I'm here already!"
Ross asked, "What's your name?"
"Will Stu...Ringo."
"What are you doing here?"
He swallowed and squinted against the pain in his head. "You crashed the Hoss."
Banshee Screams Page 14
