“Look, do you know where the tanks were taken?” Stone asked them all frantically.
“I—I think I overheard a guard say they were in C Warehouse, whatever that means,” Bull said as he shook his head, trying to clear out the loose screws and cobwebs that the detonation of the land mines had created.
“Yes, I know where that is,” Little Bear said, looking around nervously when he heard a sound come from nearby. He extracted a snub-nosed .44 from his black denim jacket and held it ready. “But perhaps you could take any of them. From what I know, mostly what they use here is Bradley IIIs. Probably getting ready to take out of here over in Section D, north end of the fort.” He pointed off to the distance where they could now hear firing, as the rest of the Cheyenne attack units were obviously running into opposition now that the fort had been alerted. The loud, crisp pops of the land mines going off here and there meant they were already using their heaviest firepower.
“We gotta move,” Stone said, addressing them all. They were ready to follow just about any fucking order he had to give them now. The fucking guy had come through. He saw them staring at him with near hero worship in their eyes, and he looked down, embarrassed, as he spoke. “Look, there’s no time for plans—just try to take whatever tank or tanks you can and stir the place up. Then get the hell out of here. Head due east—you hear me?—due east.”
They all looked at one another for a second, knowing it was the last time they might ever see each other. And then they split up, moving fast in all directions.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
STONE AND the two Cheyenne flew through the back alleys and narrow passages between the barracks, the rows of canisters, and parts that filled the place. Ex-caliber had somehow fitted himself alongside Stone in the slung-back seat of the three-wheeler, but there wasn’t a hell of a lot of room, so he kept digging into Stone’s leg, trying to get more space, the front part of him half hanging out of the tearing vehicle. At last they emerged from the darkness and into the light. And the silo came into view. The chrome-topped hood rose out of the ground a good six feet and was perhaps ten feet wide. Four floodlights sent down brilliant beams of light that made the place well lit enough to shoot a movie.
The three all-terrain vehicles pulled to a stop just where the darkness turned to light and hid the three-wheelers in the shadows. They started forward in a half crouch, Excaliber sort of crawling along behind when a voice stopped them in their tracks and a figure stepped forward from behind a shed.
“Stone, Stone, always so predictable,” the general mock scolded the man he hated most in this world. “Now how did I know you were going to come to this silo?”
“Just psychic, I guess,” Stone muttered back as he noted from the periphery of his vision that the low roofs of two of the barracks had machine-gun posts, two of them—both aimed at the intruders. “But then you’re a very talented man when it comes to murder. The whole world knows that.” Stone smirked, trying to rile the bastard a little. Trying to follow his father’s constant adage to always make your opponent angry, lose control. For then you can take advantage of his impulsive motion or action—and destroy him.
But the general, unlike Stone, took the ability to kill well and in large numbers as a compliment and smiled back. “Thank you. I appreciate the kind words. But, Mr. Stone, there is one thing—before I kill you. Your little Rin Tin Tin there killed my favorite dog—if you remember. Now I have another dog that would like to meet him. A close friend of Apollo’s, rest his soul.” The general clapped his hands hard twice, and the sharp retorts bounced around the nearby walls, and out of nowhere a pitbull emerged, coming straight to the general’s side. He was huge, the biggest of the breed that Stone had ever seen, and Excaliber was no slouch in that department, either, weighing in at over eighty-five the last time Stone had put him on the bunker scale. But this bruiser who stood at shoulder height, perhaps as large as a Doberman, had to tip the scales at a hundred and fifty. It must have been a mutated gene of some sort, from the radiation that lingered throughout America. But if it was a mutant, the animal in no way looked imperfect. As both Stone and Excaliber looked across at their opposite numbers who stood at the far side of the silo, they could see that the canine was in perfect shape, with muscles that literally rippled across every square inch of its body, even as it breathed. Its neck was as thick as a man’s thigh, and its long jaws hung open slightly, revealing incisors a good six inches long that looked like they could snap through steel.
“A final bet,” Patton said, sweeping his hand across the fort, the missile silo. “You know I’m a betting man. Always have been. To me God tells you how he feels in a bet. After all, it’s up to him, right? So it’s my dog against yours, Stone—winner takes everything. And I mean everything.”
“No way, Patton,” Stone began to yell back at the sadistic bastard. “Excaliber’s front leg doesn’t even work, he’s wounded, infected … he’s—” Stone looked down at the hapless dog, which didn’t look too happy about the turn of events, either. As a fighting dog bred to kill tigers, he was always ready for a good scrap. But the very thing that had made his breed so fierce and indestructible, aside from their cannonball bodies and jaws that were more powerful than any other dog’s in the world, was their intelligence. So the pitbull was also a realist. In good shape, he knew he could kick the other mutt’s ass. But his paw being useless and hanging in front of him, Excaliber knew he was in for trouble, big trouble.
“You don’t understand, Stone.” Patton laughed as he stepped back and held out his hands. “You don’t have a choice. Go, Aristophanes, kill.” He clapped his hands once, and the huge pitbull lunged forward, its jaws opened and snarling like a wolf. “Nor does your dog,” he added, but no one even heard that. If Patton had named his dogs after Greek poets and philosophers to point out a softer, more refined side of their nature, this one hadn’t been told about it. He looked mean and real bad.
Excaliber rolled his eyes up at Stone with an oh-God-do-I-really-have-to-do-this kind of expression. And then he charged forward to meet the other pitbull, which was just passing the silo itself, halfway to him. He tried to charge, anyway. Excaliber made two full strides forward and then collapsed straight down on his right side as his leg buckled out from under him. All things considered, this was just about the best thing that could have happened to him. For right where his skull had just been, the adversary slammed its jaws shut with such force that a tooth broke free from the inner part of its mouth and flew out. Excaliber, lying flat on his face in the dust, saw the leg of the attacker just inches from his own mouth, and being an opportunistic kind of creature, he just sort of opened up his jaws without even rising and slid his head suddenly forward like a snake striking. The teeth crunched into the animal’s left front leg, cracking it at mid-joint with a loud snapping sound. Aristophanes fell down in a heap, cracking the underside of his jaw, and Excaliber pulled away until he was about two yards off and crouching down, growling with a high-pitched squeal like a steampipe going off.
Stone and the two Cheyenne watched, their hands primed to grab for their weapons. For they knew that whatever happened, the machine gunners on the roof would open up the second it was over, the second Pattoh commanded them to. So they watched with both fascination and horror, along with the rest of them, as the two animals battled to the death.
Excaliber was feeling a hell of a lot better already, now that he had taken out the opponent’s leg. That made the odds at least slightly better, and the canine knew that the other would be awkward at first while it had been walking on three legs for nearly two days. It waited patiently, crouched back on its back legs, waiting for the enemy to strike, to make a mistake. The pitbull didn’t have to wait long. Aristophanes rose with a howl of rage from his rough tumble to the ground. He turned, mindless of the pain in his leg, and started forward, slowly at first, as if to lull Excaliber into thinking he was going to circle—and then suddenly sprang up off both back legs. But the smaller pitbull had b
een thinking the other was about to try such an attack. As the immense killer dog came soaring through the air like a rocket ready to draw blood, Excaliber pushed himself over, so he went onto his back. Aristophanes soared right over his head, snapping down at him, perhaps inches away. But the bites missed, and the smaller dog kicked its rear legs up, helping the airborne attacker along.
Patton’s dog, an animal that had fought fifty fights in its three-year career, had never lost one. It knew it was tough. So it had no fear, took no caution, even with three legs. Excaliber twisted himself upright with a single whiplike twist of his strong body. He came up to three legs and faced the enemy, which was still adjusting itself after its ten-foot flight, then crash-landing on its head on a small rock. Aristophanes let out a roar of fury, a sound that should have come from a lion or a mountain cat rather than a dog, a high-pitched wail of pure rage. He came forward on the fly, once again not judging the strength of the broken leg. He was almost upon Excaliber when he went down again, his jaws snapping, this time into the dirt so that his teeth scooped up a whole mound of earth that was swept into his mouth and throat. Excaliber again took advantage of whatever presented itself to him. In this case it was his opponent’s stomach as the animal lay sideways for an instant before it could regain its balance. The smaller pitbull snapped forward, digging in as far as it could, and closed its own murderous jaws. The teeth dug deep into the animal’s guts, deep inside it, ripping through intestine and kidney, liver and spleen. Excaliber clenched once again, hard, and then ripped away with all his might.
The flood of guts and innards, coated in a slime of blood mat exploded out as Excaliber pulled backward, was truly revolting to see. The only one that didn’t know it was dead was Aristophanes itself, which somehow hobbled to its three working legs and stared at Excaliber, pulling its lips back, snarling, showing what remained of its macho. It felt strange, like everything was tingling, and its stomach felt on fire, but there was no time to stop now—it would see later. It started toward Excaliber again and tried once more to leap, to propel itself like a missile. But nothing happened. The legs collapsed like rotten, splintered pieces of wood, and the huge pitbull, dragging a trail of intestine along with it, sort of slithered toward Excaliber, still opening and closing its jaws in a frenzy.
Even the victorious Excaliber couldn’t stand the pitiful sight. The dog had been brave; it fought to the end. It didn’t deserve to suffer. Knowing he had won already, but having his own streak of animal compassion, Excaliber lunged suddenly forward and clamped onto the dying canine’s throat. With a single powerful snap and then a shake of his muscular head, he flung the once powerful animal out of his jaws again, and it fell to the ground, dead.
Stone and the two Cheyenne moved almost instantaneously the instant they saw Aristophanes receive the coup de grace. And barely in time, for the machine gunners above them clicked back their firing mechanisms and pulled their triggers. But the attackers were already rushing to each side, heaving up the land mines they carried in satchels around their shoulders. Four streams of .30-caliber slugs scissored patterns all over the field, sending up numerous puffs of smoke and digging little pockmocks into the hard dirt. Stone heaved first one mine to the left, the other to the right, spinning them both out like discuses at the Olympics. To each side of him he could see the Cheyenne throw theirs, and then they all dived down again as the lines of bullets came screaming toward them. Explosion after explosion ripped the air, as if lightning bolts were striking all around them. NAA troops went flying from both rooftops, spinning wildly, arms and legs flailing around like broken dolls. It was truly—as the lyrics went—raining men.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
WHEN THE smoke had cleared and the few screams had died out, as had their screamers, Stone jumped up with his .45 in hand and spun around to sight up Pattern. But the general was already gone, dust swirling where he had stood. Stone instantly shifted his eyes down to the dog, praying that after such a valiant and clever fight it had survived. But the pitbull was already rising and shaking itself from head to foot. Although coated with a layer of dust from the mine explosions and a few splashes of blood from the dog it had sent to the Great Pound in the Sky, the ass-kicking canine seemed okay. In the sudden, immediate silence Stone could hear the cracking of firearms from every direction of the fort, along with larger explosions, grenades, artillery. All hell was breaking loose, though there was not the slightest way of knowing what was happening or who was winning.
Stone rushed forward, stepping over some of the ripped bodies, and reached the shining surface of the silo’s cover. He ran his hand down the outside; it was as smooth as glass and as tough as shit, Stone knew. Yet they had to get in there and fast.
“Here,” Little Bear said, taking two more mines from his satchel. “These have ten-second timers. They’ll go off together.” He slammed the mines onto the crease of the silo cone, the razor-thin line that separated the two halves of titanium steel, and turned a little dial.
“Move,” the Cheyenne yelled, and the three of them, with Excaliber hobbling along gamely on three legs, beat a quick retreat behind a pile of thick lumber planking some fifty feet to the side and barely made it when the two mines went off with a roar. They poked their heads out again and, seeing the smoke drifting up, rushed back to the chromium cap. But aside from scraping things up here and there and gouging a few shallow little craters in the surface, no real damage had been done whatsoever. The silo hadn’t opened an inch.
The three of them, with the dog licking at its broken leg, stood motionless in front of the silo, totally stymied at how to get inside. It was as if the entire journey, the men who had died in battle, the ordeal they had all just been through, was all for naught—stopped cold in their tracks at the last few inches. Stone bent down as the dog looked up at him with pain-racked eyes.
“Sorry, pal,” he said, getting down on one knee and lifting the damaged leg gently in both hands. The dog groaned slightly, letting out a little half-stifled yip of pain and then let Stone handle the leg, looking with interest as his master began examining it. Stone couldn’t see any bones poking through anywhere, nor any blood. But the bone was clearly cracked, the bottom half of the leg going off at perhaps a five-degree angle from the top half. The whole thing must have just been held in place by the tendons and muscles mat surrounded it, Stone realized. It was only because the goddamn pitbull was made of steel inside, as well as out, that it had been able to go on, to fight, to kill, using a broken appendage. Stone patted the animal on the head.
“This is going to hurt you a hell of a lot more than me, you hear,” Stone said. Excaliber looked at him trustingly, knowing his master was doing some strange human thing to his leg that would make it all better. A jolt of pain suddenly surged through the dog that taxed even its unflappable nervous system as Stone pulled the bottom part of the leg back into place and snapped the two parts cleanly together. The dog howled several times, holding its head high as if baying at the invisible moon. But he let Stone handle it, kept his paw on his master’s knee, motionless. Stone made a quick but sturdy splint from several straight pieces of metal he found—shrapnel from the exploding machine-gun nests—about as long as pencils. He held them parallel on each side of the break and then took shoelaces from some combat boots nearby, whose owner no longer needed them and tied the metal holding the whole thing firmly in place. The dog put its weight down when he was at last done and walked around a few steps as if testing it. Then it looked up at Stone and barked, and its tongue rolled out from its jaws, again in its usual happy-go-lucky state.
Stone had scarcely risen from setting Excaliber’s bone and turned to ask Little Bear what suggestions he might have for penetrating the silo when he heard a sudden deep vibration, and the very ground beneath their feet shook as if they were in the grip of a small earthquake. Stone knew instantly what the sound was. He experienced it just days before. The noises of the missile’s systems being turned on, of the mechanism for the silo
’s protective hood being opened. And sure enough, as the three of them jerked their heads around toward the sound, the chromium cover moved and began sliding back with a deep hum. Stone rushed toward the missile hole and stared down as the cover dropped farther out of the way and into deep slots on each side of the cylindrical launch tube. Little Bear and Meyra came alongside him, and the Cheyenne chief whistled.
“I’ve never really seen one of these motherfuckers—except, you know, in Time magazine or something. It’s big.” He leaned all the way forward as the silo covers dropped completely out of sight on each side of them so there was just a ten-foot-wide, hundred-fifty-foot deep hole below them with a missile taking up over half that height. Far below they could suddenly see little spits of white-hot fire start to lick out of the tail.
“We’ve got to stop it,” Stone screamed. “Somehow.” He turned to the Cheyenne and grabbed him frantically by the lapels of his denim jacket. “Do you have any more mines … anything? Anything we can throw down there and—” Little Bear pulled away from Stone’s grip, giving the white man a strange look as he reached for the satchel hanging behind him. There were three left. He took them out and held them stacked in his arms.
“These are impact,” the Cheyenne said coolly. “No time to get away. Throw—and bang.”
“Then I’ll take one,” Stone said, meeting the Indian’s questioning gaze.
“And me too,” Meyra said, reaching out for the third one before either of them could stop her. They pulled them back in their arms to heave them down into the chemical-smelling hole beneath their feet as the flame of the rocket seemed to grow brighter.
“‘No, wait,” Meyra suddenly screamed out as her eyes caught a figure rushing up the curved metal stairway that ran up around the inside of the silo. “It’s Carla, our contact. She’s risked her life for us—we’ve got to let her get out.” Stone groaned and looked up at the sky, which returned no advice. He dropped his arm and leaned over to look into the mist-shrouded chamber.
War Weapons Page 14
