Black Ops (Expeditionary Force Book 4)

by Craig Alanson

  From ahead, Robertson eye-clicked to get a better view on sonar. There was so much non-water things in the sewer water that the sonar had difficulty penetrating far enough ahead to be useful. “Sir, I think I see the first of those two pipes coming in from the left.”

  “Let’s move to the right,” Smythe ordered. The first inflow pipe they zipped past had given them a rude lesson; jagged encrustations of something growing around the lip of the inflow pipe, and trash caught in the crust. Smythe had gotten a sharp knock to the head by a length of chain flailing in the current; while it had not damaged the helmet at all, the incident made him leery of obstructions in the pipe.

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Robertson thought using nautical terminology appropriate for the occasion. Checking his extremely fuzzy sonar, his eyes opened wide. “Something ahead of us on the left!” Robertson extended his arms to swim strong strokes toward the right side of the pipe, but it was too late. With a jolt that made his head smack the inside of his faceplate and a wrenching tug on his right leg, he came to a stop, hanging in the powerful current with his feet behind him and his arms in front.

  Smythe, given a half second of warning, was able to avoid the obstruction, and saw only a vague image of Robertson as he was swept past. “Robertson!” Smythe shouted, spinning himself around and trying to swim back upstream. It was no use, even with all the power of the suit, he could not make any headway against the current, he was being pushed backwards. “Can you get free?” He shouted into the helmet microphone, already out of breath from the strain.

  “I’m stuck, Sir,” Robertson’s voice came through faint and distorted by static. “My right leg is entangled in something. Working to get it free.”

  Smythe, desperate for an idea, stopped swimming with one arm just long enough to reach back and rip a knife off his belt. In those few seconds, he had drifted back so that Robertson was no longer visible on the sonar. Smythe stopped trying to swim upstream and pulled himself over to the right side of the pipe. As they had floated along, he had noticed seams spaced regularly along the pipe’s inner surface. Still swimming as hard as he could with one hand, he looked backward along the pipe, his helmet lights on fog mode and almost useless. When he saw a seam, he jabbed at it with the knife; it bounced off the hard surface and missed. The next time, the knife blade jammed itself into a seam, dug in and held. For a moment, Smythe held stationary against the force of the current. Then the blade snapped, and he was pulled along helplessly.

  If he couldn’t swim against the current, he could swim across it. There was a second inlet pipe on the left, and if he didn’t get himself tangled in whatever junk was caught there, he might be able to hang on there. Hang on until Robertson freed himself and came floating by, when Smythe could join him. There was no way Smythe could get back to help Robertson, the man would need to somehow get himself free. What Smythe could do was buy time; if the current carried Smythe through the bypass gate too soon before Robertson, then Robertson would be trapped. Skippy had warned them to stay close together, for the bypass gate could only cycle open and closed once. It was an emergency apparatus that was designed to open when needed, then force itself closed and lock to protect the river downstream from contamination. Each man’s suit would trigger the bypass gate to open when one of the suits was within seventy meters. Smythe needed to hold position until Robertson floated by.

  Turning around because he needed to use the sonar, he saw the inlet pipe almost too late. With both hands, he grasped onto whatever his fingers could close around.

  And it held. It was some crusty, crunchy, slimy thing that brought barnacles to Smythe’s mind. It held, except it was flaking away from the pipe under the stress of holding the mass of Smythe and the armored suit against the current. The crusty material was flaking away, crumbling faster and faster. Desperate, he let go with one hand and reached down for his rifle. Holding the weapon steady against the current, he held muzzle a half meter away from the pipe surface. Kristang rifles had a feature where, if the barrel was full of water, a gas charge would blow out the water in advance of the round firing. Smythe said a silent prayer his rifle was working correctly and squeezed the trigger.

  And nothing happened, because the safety was on. Cursing his inexcusable loss of focus, Smythe released the safety and squeezed the trigger twice to blow a crack into the pipe liner. He let the rifle swing back onto his leg holster, reached a couple fingers of one glove in the crack with one hand and with the other hand reached for his belt, which contained a cable and grappling hook. Fully extended, the grapple would be too wide for the crack so he jammed it in. Pieces of the pipe liner cracked away before the grapple held. Smythe tugged at the cable, it was secure. “Robertson?” The only response was intermittent and unintelligible, which at least told Smythe that Robertson was alive and attempting to communicate.

  Attempting to communicate?

  The signal was not just intermittent, cutting in and out, was it purposefully intermittent? “Suit,” Smythe called the computer in his helmet. “Can you determine whether the signals being received are Morse code?” His own knowledge of Morse was rusty, for which Smythe remonstrated himself.

  “Affirmative,” the suit’s flat emotionless voice responded, “message reads ‘Almost free’. Message repeats.”

  “Oh thank God,” Smythe closed his eyes in gratitude. “Send back ‘Holding position’.”

  Five minutes later, Robertson’s muffled voice came through. “-the way-”, then “Coming, Major. Had to cut myself loose. No damage to my suit.”

  “Understood, Robertson. It’s good to hear your voice. I’m holding position near the last inlet pipe.”

  “How are you doing that?” Robertson asked, fearing his leader had been caught in an obstruction.

  “It is a long story,” Smythe replied dryly, “I see you on sonar. Releasing now,” he freed the cable from the grapple, leaving the grapple stuck into the damaged pipe liner for a Kristang maintenance team to puzzle over someday.

  The two SAS soldiers floated side by side, keeping to the center of the pipe as best they could. As they approached the bypass gate, their suit computers beeped to confirm the gate had accepted the command to open, and they swam strongly toward the right. Not all the flow of the pipe was going through the bypass, and if they missed the bypass there was no going back upstream. Smythe’s left foot bounced off the lip of the bypass gate as they went through, then they were clear. “Skippy had better be right about there being no obstacles between us and the river, or it’s going to get real dodgy for us.”

  “The bypass gate is open!” Skippy announced. “See, Joe, I told you to have faith.”

  “If the water is flowing at the rate you expected, how could they be late?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Skippy complained. “Maybe they pulled over at a freakin’ rest area for a snack?”

  The sewage bypass pipe had emptied into a river just as Skippy predicted, the only problem being a fixed gate at the far end. After they were slammed into the gate by the force of sewage water flowing out of the pipe, Robertson managed to get his rifle free and pumped three rounds into a hinge, breaking part of the gate free. Attached to only one hinge and the locking mechanism, the gate had briefly swung open to allow Robertson through, flailing his arms and legs out of control. Smythe had almost been crushed when the heavy gate rebounded, pulling his legs back inside at the last second. With Smythe pressed up against the inside and Robertson hanging onto the outside, Smythe had ordered Robertson to wait and not do anything rash. The bypass gate had closed behind them, so the water flow should soon even out between the pipe and the river. He was right, the current slackened quickly, and within a minute the two men working together in their powered suits had been able to bend the gate out of the way enough for Smythe to slip through.

  They were in a river. A deep river, twenty meters down. Smythe ordered Robertson to turn off his helmet lights and use the sonar on minimum power. The suit’s navigation system must have picked up a s
ignal from the local network, because the visor display showed they were several kilometers deep inside a hunting preserve that bordered the city. The area was for the exclusive use of senior Fire Dragon clan leaders and their families and guests. The extensive pre-mission briefing about the city had only skimmed over the parkland and hunting preserves that surrounded the densely-populated urban area. “Skippy? Can you hear?”

  “I’m here. Damn, what took you so long? I told Joe you stopped for a snack.”

  “There was a toll we had to pay, that you neglected to tell us about. My wallet is inside my suit, it was rather awkward.”

  “A toll?” Skippy gasped, astonished. “In a sewer? That is- oh, you’re messing with me,” Skippy chuckled. “Good one. Hey, anyway, you’re out now. Um, you should stay deep, there is a patrol boat coming up the river toward you.”

  Smythe did not like the sound of that. “We should turn off our sonars?”

  “Probably a good idea. Don’t worry, Skippy the Magnificent is on your side. I took control of a truck and I’m driving it toward the river; when it hits the water, that should attract the attention of the patrol boat. There are sensors in the water but they are there mostly to monitor water conditions, and track the predators.”

  “Predators? What kind of predators?”

  “Oh, several. The most dangerous is a sort of large armored crocodile, they can get to be over ten meters long. Hmmm. There’s one of them in the river near you now. Uh, hmm. It’s headed in your direction.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  “Uh, no, duh. How can I hack a crocodile? They have a brain the size of a walnut.”

  “Do you have a suggestion for how to deal with it?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t shoot it! The whole area is networked with sensors that look for unauthorized gunfire, to protect the animals from poachers. I haven’t had time to hack into that network, I didn’t anticipate any of you pirates taking a holiday in a game preserve. What to do? Hmmm, how about that? Wikipedia says it is best to avoid crocodiles, particularly in water.”

  “You are a tremendous help, Skippy.” Smythe felt for his combat knife before remembering his had snapped and he had discarded the broken blade.

  “Maybe they’re ticklish?”

  “Tickl-” With the AI not being any help, Smythe thought their best tactic would be to swim quickly if the crocodile attacked. “Robertson, can you-”

  Skippy interrupted. “Three, two, one, splashdown.” Under the water, the acoustic sensors in Smythe’s suit picked up the sound of something large hitting the water, then the muffled whine of a turbine. “Score!” Skippy exulted. “The patrol boat is going over to investigate that truck I just drove into the water. The splash attracted the attention of that crocodile also, it won’t bother you. Although, hmm. Now there are a dozen more crocodiles in the water; they were sleeping on the bank and now they are in the river. Shit, those things are big! You may, um, want to get out of the water. Like, now!”

  “Which direction?” Smythe asked in a voice kept calm by his SAS training.

  “It is projected on your visors. Swim smoothly, if you are clumsy the crocodiles will think you’re a wounded animal and attack.”

  Swimming with smooth, controlled motions, the two men struck out for the nearest shore, first coming up closer to the surface to avoid crashing into underwater obstacles. Without sonar in the darkness, they were almost blind, relying on the passive sensors of their suits. Smythe’s hand hit something soft and he realized it was a mud bank; according to the map they were near the shore. “Surface,” he ordered, and they popped up to see dim lights above the trees in the direction of the city. Most city lights were still shut off, enough glow remained for the suits enhanced vision to show the dense forest lining the shore. The two men touched the silted bottom of the river and splashed ashore, unable to avoid making ripples in the water.

  “Um, Major Smythe, you have attracted a crocodile. I, um, your motions may have unintentionally mimicked the splashing of a mating pair of crocs, the one coming toward you is a large male. My guess is he is agitated about another male being in his territory.”

  “Suggestion?”

  “Get out of the water and proceed quickly into the forest, dumdum! Damn, do I need to do all the thinking in this crew? Those crocs can run extremely fast for short distances on land.”

  Behind him, Smythe saw a foaming white, V-shaped ripple on the surface of the water. It was moving fast, straight toward him. Without a word, he and Robertson picked up their feet and ran, not caring about making noise. His glimpse behind him had showed the patrol boat shining a spotlight on the sinking truck on the opposite shore; those Kristang were not looking in their direction. Their night vision allowed them to hurry through the forest a distance Smythe thought was safe, until they saw and heard bushes and small trees being bashed aside by something large and heavy coming at them from the river. Again, Robertson did not need an order to follow Smythe deeper into the forest.

  “Are we safe now, Skippy?” Smythe asked as they ran up a hill, dense tangles of some native shrubs impeding their progress.

  “Oh, yeah, that croc gave up chasing you. It turned around and is going back to the river. Safe is, um, a relative term. The part of the forest where you are now is home to a genetically-engineered predator called the ‘grikka’. The best description for you to understand is a sort of dinosaur with heavy armor plates made of dense bone. Very tough.”

  “But you know where these grikka are, correct?” Smythe was not pleased that they could not use their rifles without alerting the Kristang.

  “Um, no. Hunting the grikka is considered the ultimate test of manhood for warrior Kristang, so they are not tagged with transmitters the way most large animals in the preserve are. They are also difficult to spot on infrared, their heat is emitted almost entirely on their bellies. Their skin is like a chameleon, they can adapt their color to their surroundings.”

  “Brilliant,” Smythe muttered. “A large dinosaur, you say?”

  “Since I have to use references you will understand, I will say it is just slightly smaller than a T Rex, and a grikka walks on four legs. The armor makes it very tough; a grikka would eat a T Rex for breakfast and another for dinner.”

  “What does Wikipedia recommend we do if we encounter one of these grikkas?”

  “Be quiet and think happy thoughts? Seriously, you won’t be able to outrun a grikka for long, my guess is your best tactic would be to climb a tree. Prayer may also be helpful. There is a dropship on its way to pick you up, it needs to fly an indirect course to avoid sensors I do not yet have control over.”

  Happy thoughts? Smythe had a thought of himself tossing Skippy into a black hole. That made him momentarily happy. He looked around and up. They were surrounded by large trees, the size of oaks on Earth. Trees with black bark.

  “Major?” Robertson’s voice was quiet. “Something is coming.”

  “How do you know?” Smythe’s visor could not see anything useful. The undergrowth extended three or four meters tall all around, blocking his view.

  “This dinosaur detector says so,” Robertson pointed the barrel of his rifle to a puddle.

  As Smythe watched, the puddle shook and formed a ripple. Smythe looked up in alarm. “I saw that movie.” They needed to run, but in what direction? In the darkness, they might blindly stumble directly into a grikka. Forcing himself to be calm, he eyeclicked through various settings of infrared vision, and saw nothing. The water in the puddle was now still; perhaps the grikka was far away? Or, Smythe had an unpleasant thought, the grikka could have stopped walking because it was close, and was now studying its prey.

  “Maybe it can’t smell us, because we’re in suits?” Smythe speculated hopefully.

  “Sir?” Robertson pointed to caked-on, disgusting something that was stuck to the legs of his suit. And not just on the legs. “We picked up something in that sewer, and it didn’t all wash off in the river. Likely every animal in a kilometer can smel
l us.”

  “Bloody hell.” Smythe’s visor continued to shift its vision up the spectrum, as he had not commanded it to stop. He was about to halt the distraction when something caught his eye, and he froze the visor on that spectrum. Through the underbrush, the vague outline of something massive was showing in the ultraviolet spectrum. “Skippy, can grikkas be seen in ultraviolet?”

  “No, why?” Skippy asked. “Wait, hmm, no. The grikka does not show up well in ultraviolet, however there is a type of bush which flowers this time of year, and its flowers and pollen do glow in the ultraviolet spectrum. A grikka could very well have walked through a grove of those bushes and become coated with the pollen.”

  Whatever it was, it moved slightly, Smythe was certain of it. Now that he thought he knew what he was looking at, it was clearly a patchy outline of an animal. A large animal, that was looking straight at him. It moved again, swaying side to side, Robertson also saw it. The water in the puddle shivered slightly. “Sir,” Robertson began to say.

  “Run!” Smythe shouted as the grikka shook its massive armored head and made a snort that was clearly heard by both men.

  “Skippy,” Smythe hung tightly onto the tree as it shook, “you really Bishoped this op.” He was still out of breath from their headlong race through the forest, then climbing a tree just ahead of the grikka. The beast had crashed into Smythe’s stout tree, nearly knocking the man to the ground. Smythe was as high as he could go without branches cracking under his weight; he was not comfortably high enough to be out of the grikka’s reach. The beast had twice already gotten on its back legs and tried to reach the SAS soldier, the sharp claws of its forelegs raking the tree’s black bark and snapping off branches a mere two meters below Smythe’s feet.