World of Hurt: Mech Command Book 2

by George S. Mahaffey Jr.

  There was a cleanup in progress, soldiers and workers laboring alongside an endless number of trucks which arrived and were loaded with heaps of waste as other machines pushed more of the debris into towering mountains that were five stories tall.

  “And I will make this city desolate,” I said.

  Jezzy looked over.

  “That’s from the Bible. Book of Jeremiah I do believe,” I said.

  “Since when did you know about the Bible?”

  “Since my mom’s brother was a youth pastor,” I replied.

  She pointed out the window and we watched a group of people gathered around a mound of fresh dirt, their heads bowed as if in prayer. I imagined they’d found human remains in the refuse and were giving the person (or people) a proper burial.

  “How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life,” Jezzy said.

  My eyebrows ridged. “Is that from Jeremiah?”

  “Nope. It’s from ‘The Book of Kirk.’ Captain Kirk. Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan,” she replied. “Best. Movie. Ever.”

  I watched more government trucks delivering food and aid to the hundreds of shabbily-dressed survivors who lined the streets. The survivors looked up as we drove past and one of them, a hollow-eyed girl who couldn’t have been older than ten, gave us a thumbs up. I realized Vidmark was right. Everyone who’d survived needed something to believe in. They needed hope and a sense of security and the only way that would happen was if we had a way to defeat all of the aliens that remained on Earth.

  We picked up speed, threading around snarls of war-ravaged machinery, both human and alien. We had no choice but to cut across Florida Avenue, through what had once been the city’s U Street Corridor, and here we had to speed. The military and law enforcement had just moved back into the area which was infested with scabs, humans who’d thrown in with the aliens. Mostly white-collar bureaucrat types who’d done the dirty work for the bugs, functioning as their administrative arm during the occupation.

  Rumor had it that the collaborators had been armed by rogue alien elements after the surrender and asked to help wage a guerrilla campaign against the new administration. This included sniper attacks, rigging IEDs along the roads, and even a few suicide bombings. The bottom line was, the scabs represented a heavily-armed group of dead-enders who would soon have to be smoked out of their urban spider-holes. In the meantime, however, they were not above taking potshots at anybody who drove past. Our driver told us to get down as we flew past clusters of deserted row houses that were marked with orange “Xs” to signify that a scab lived inside.

  * * *

  Having successfully run the Florida Avenue gauntlet, we motored over New York Avenue ten minutes later and it was here that the rebuilding efforts were more apparent. New buildings were going up, security was everywhere, and there appeared to be an inordinate amount of security scanners and CCTV cameras perched on overpasses and street lamps.

  Driving down North Capitol Street, we soon arrived outside of what was left of Union Station. We parked and began hiking up toward the remains of the U.S. Capitol. We were headed toward a somewhat secret subway under the streets of Washington, D.C., a series of tunnels with a monorail that connected the U.S. Capitol with the buildings used by the American House of Representatives and Senate.

  Frankly, I had no idea this system existed, but there I was, thirty minutes after the meeting in the National Cathedral, being ushered down a flight of stairs by President Landis and her Secret Service detail. We all boarded the still-functioning monorail that whisked us under the city streets.

  “We taking a tour of the city?” I asked Richter, who was standing nearby.

  “The parts that matter,” he replied.

  “What’s down here?” Jezzy asked.

  Richter pursed his lips. “A place called ‘The Tomb.’ It’s where we’re going to plan our order of battle.”

  8

  The monorail stopped and President Landis and her people escorted us down a brightly lit cement tunnel into The Tomb, a colossal subterranean city that had been constructed under the streets of old D.C. Built for continuity of operations purposes decades earlier, the city under the city was honeycombed with offices, storage space, kitchens, sleeping quarters, and warrens of corridors and walkways.

  We passed through security stations and doors guarded by facial recognition scanners, shuttling down another corridor that was dotted with black doors. Some of the doors were open and I noted that the rooms inside were cluttered with boxes of documents and old computer equipment and the like.

  “What is this place?” Jezzy asked.

  President Landis turned back. “The place where conspiracies were born.”

  She stopped and stared into a room with a partially opened door whose walls were completely covered with photographs and old newspaper clippings, and giant sections of poster board with the names Daniel Casolaro, Tom DeLonge, Mark Lombardi, Tupac Shakur, and Gary Webb scrawled in black magic marker. I faintly recognized one or two of the names.

  “This was an area partially occupied by something that some referred to as ‘The Octopus’ once upon a time.”

  “Where’s the aquarium?” Billy asked.

  “This ‘Octopus’ wasn’t an animal,” the President said. “It was a ‘SAP,’ a kind of special access program. A group of like-minded intelligence, corporate, and administrative officials. Has anyone ever seen ‘The Wizard of Oz’”?

  Most of us nodded.

  “Well, ‘The Octopus’ was similar to the wizard. Only instead of hiding behind a curtain, the members of ‘The Octopus’ hid behind ten feet of reinforced cement, pulling the levers, manipulating things, controlling domestic and international events.”

  “So this is the Emerald City?” Dru asked.

  “In a sense, yes,” President Landis said. “All the secrets of the kingdom are kept down here.”

  “How about UFOs?” I asked. “Any flying saucers lying around?”

  President Landis nodded. “I believe the Advanced Aviation Threat Identification Program occupied Room 208. It’s right down the hall next to the collection of material on the faked moon landings and the real identity of the men who killed JFK.”

  A sly smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “One of the only positive things about the invasion is that it’s given us a chance to right old wrongs, to make a clean break from the things that nearly destroyed this country in the days before. The two-party system is over. The big money donors, the unelected operatives who specialized in swinging elections, and the purveyors of fake news are all gone. We’re essentially back to square one, which means we have a chance to do things right. But none of that will matter unless we finish off the aliens.”

  She turned and continued walking down the corridor that widened and curled around several spaces with ultra-thick metal doors marked “XXX” in white paint, manned by a small army of young soldiers holding automatic weapons.

  The metal doors opened and out dashed a group of scientist-types in white smocks. Several of them were holding what looked like cattle prods. I glanced over their shoulders and I swear to you, I saw what looked like glass cages holding a number of misshapen creatures, including something that looked like a friggin’ Komodo dragon with long, tapered biomechanical wings.

  “What the hell was that?!” I asked, stabbing a finger at the area behind the steel doors.

  President Landis flicked her wrist. “Oh, that’s just a kind of … cryptozoology collection room. A place where we store some of the … creatures the aliens left behind.” She summoned a huge smile. “Relax. Everything in that room is perfectly harmless.”

  A roar echoed from one of the things on the other side of the steel doors. An unholy sound made by a beast that sounded very large and very angry. Harmless my ass.

  The steel doors were quickly closed and bolted shut. I exchanged baffled looks with Jezzy and the others as we continued on, eventually ente
ring a space that seemed almost as large as our hangar back at The Hermitage. There were four men in urban camouflage standing in front of our mechs next to Dexter, Richter, and two enormous tractor trailers. During the time we’d been in D.C., somebody had evidently brought our machines down.

  President Landis gestured to the first man in camouflage, a strapping white dude in his thirties with closely mown hair who had a black patch over his right eye. “This is Captain Fincher,” the President said.

  “My call-sign back in the day was ‘Charon,’” Fincher said, adjusting his patch. “Cause I was the one who ferried people into the underworld.”

  Richter cut in. “What the Captain means is that he and his team are in charge of infiltrations and exfiltrations. They will be flying you in and extracting you.”

  “What do you mean fly?” Simeon asked.

  “You will be transported via plane and then descend on the target using ballistic recovery systems.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Parachutes,” Richter replied.

  My guts seized. “Parachute as in … the kind that you use when you jump out of a plane?”

  Richter let out a laugh. “Nothing gets past you, Deus.”

  “But I’ve never parachuted before, sir,” I said, a quiver in my voice.

  “Well, here’s your chance.”

  Some of the other operators cursed under their breath. Fincher advanced toward us and I noticed a tattoo at the base of his neck, what looked like a red and black phoenix rising over a series of orange flames.

  “Don’t get your undies in a wad,” Fincher said. “We’ve rigged up some very special slings and ‘chutes for your mechs. You’ll be nice and snug inside Juicy Lucy’s belly until it’s time to hit the LZ.”

  “What’s a ‘Juicy Lucy’”? Billy asked.

  “A modified C-130 transport plane,” Fincher answered. “We were unable to source an alien craft large enough to transport you, but rest assured, the C-130 gives us the ability to place you people and your machines down within fifteen feet of an imaginary X.”

  “Which brings up the issue of our order of battle,” Richter added. The lights dimmed and Dexter tapped a button on a device strapped to his wrist. A beam of light issued from the device, filling the air in front of us with holographic images. I saw a stretch of sunbaked canyonlands that fell to a vista of limitless desert. In the middle of the desert was a rise, a series of dunes that looked as white as bleached sugar. Richter raised a finger and drew a loop around the dunes. “That’s the target,” he said. “You will parachute down at zero six-hundred hours tomorrow morning and wait to ambush the enemy. If and when the aliens manage to reach the vault, you will destroy everything you encounter.”

  I raised a hand and Richter snapped: “Zero six-hundred hours is six a.m., for those not in the know.”

  My hand came down and I smiled sheepishly.

  “Who’s got our six?” Simeon asked.

  “There is no overwatch,” Richter said, looking at Dexter. “A larger movement of men and machines would compromise our ability to ambush the scuds. Mister Jackson and I will be available via a hologram application in real-time inside your respective cockpits if you run into any problems.”

  “How will that work?” Sato asked.

  Dexter looked up. “Well, we’ve reverse engineered some of the alien applications. As you know, the scuds had a superior ability to control optical wave fronts and a variety of plasmonic nano-structures that led to—”

  “Metasurface holograms?” Billy asked, cutting Dexter off.

  Dexter grinned and nodded. “Those surfaces allow for the reconstruction of multiple holographic images in free space via scatterings of surface plasmon polariton.”

  My gaze ratcheted to Jezzy. I could tell she, like me, had absolutely no flippin’ idea what they were talking about even as the other operators nodded along.

  “What the hell does any of that mean?” I said.

  “It means you’ve got a button on your viewscreen, Deus,” Richter said, obviously annoyed. “A nice little red one. Push that and me and Dexter will appear.” Richter clapped his hands. “Other than that, you people are ‘triple-oh,’ officially on your own.”

  “What happens after we land?” Billy asked.

  “You initiate contact with the enemy, liquidate them, and destroy the vault.”

  “Just like that?” Dru asked.

  Richter snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

  I suddenly felt dizzy as the holographic images vanished. The unsettling realization that I’d soon be parachuting down in a goddamn robot gripped me.

  “By the way,” Richter added. “You will have less than eight hours in which to get some rack time and pack your gear. At zero one-hundred hours, one a.m., for any dumbasses out there, you will be transported to a lock and load facility at what was once Dulles airport. I shouldn’t have to say this, but do not reveal any of what we’ve discussed to third parties. The is a straight-up, alien toe-tag operation. Any questions?”

  As I stood there, listening to Richter, all I could think about was a scene from the movie “Aliens,” another flick that my old man had much love for. More specifically, I recalled the scene where the Colonial Marines were huddled around Master Sergeant Al Apone, listening to Ripley detail her experiences with xenomorphs prior to their drop down to LV-426. I was waiting for one of us to do his or her best Private Hudson imitation and blurt out: “How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?!” Nobody said anything, however, and the briefing was adjourned.

  I ran over and caught up to Richter who was making for a side exit. “Can I ask you a question, Jack?”

  “It’s ‘Mister Richter’ when I’m on the clock,” he replied.

  “What can you tell me about the aliens that were broken out of the prison?”

  “Depends what you want to know.”

  “Was one of the ones who escaped named … Alpha Timbo?”

  “That’s a helluva great name.”

  “For a really nasty bug.”

  “Why does it matter if he was one of the ones that busted out?”

  “Because I’ve got a little history with him.”

  Richter grinned, but there was no humor in his expression. “I honestly don’t know the identity of every rogue alien who escaped, but if you’ve got a past with one of them, I think that’s a positive. Gives you even more motivation to kick some ass in the a.m.”

  * * *

  Me and the rest of the operators were soon escorted up through a stairwell at the back of the complex. Jezzy and I were in the rear, moving slowly behind the others.

  “How are you feeling about all of this?” I asked.

  “You mean how am I feeling about parachuting down inside a robot to fight an alien army in a desert?” she replied. Off my nod she continued, “Fantabulous. Just … super peachy, makes me all warm and squishy inside. By the way, are you detecting any note of sarcasm?”

  “That was more like a symphony of sarcasm.”

  “Well, things are happening fast, Danny. I mean, we’re fighting aliens and meeting with the president, which was admittedly awesome, and … I’d prefer it if we could slow it all down just a wee bit.”

  “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

  She grabbed my arm. “I didn’t really sign up for this. I’m not some kind of warrior princess, okay? Hello. I’m not Quinn.”

  “What would you be doing otherwise?”

  “Not being killed by aliens.”

  “Yeah, well, we need you,” I said.

  “No, you need me,” she replied. “The others don’t give two hoots in hell about me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, I think it is, buster. I think I helped you get a seat at the table with the cool kids and now you’re loving it.”

  “Don’t hate on me just because I’ve finally been accepted by somebody.”

  “You mean accepted by the people that literally tried to kill us during those fights
with the Roman soldiers and the dinosaurs? Great friends you’ve got there, Danny D.”

  Before he could respond, somebody whistled overhead. I looked back up to see Billy smiling at us. “Any day, lovebirds!”

  Jezzy grumbled under her breath and we moved up, reaching a landing at the top of the stairwell. We pushed through a security door that lead through a windowless corridor, ending at yet another door. Our escort left us there with instructions to report back in a reasonable amount of time to get ready for the operation.

  “So … what do we do in the meantime?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” Simeon asked. “We go outside and explore.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” I asked.

  “No, you may not,” Simeon replied. “It’s Friday night in the big city. The eve of a battle that might signal a new direction in the history of man—”

  Jezzy coughed and Simeon corrected himself. “Human … kind.”

  “Which means what?” I asked.

  Billy smiled. “That it’s time to get our stroll on.”

  The other operators turned their back on us and moved down the corridor toward the far door. I glanced at Jezzy who was grinning, fluttering her eyelashes. “Amazing how fleeting acceptance can be, huh?”

  9

  It was surprisingly chilly outside, and then I remembered that it was only a few days before what would normally be Christmas. The thing you have to remember is that during the alien invasion time became, as Buddha Blades used to say, unwound. What that means is that marking time during the occupation felt like doing a stretch in prison where days and months no longer mattered. I had only a vague concept of the seasons and had almost completely forgotten what it felt like to celebrate anything in November and December. Even though they hadn’t directly targeted churches and the like during the occupation, the aliens had strictly forbidden celebrations and the marking of holidays, so this was the first year that anybody would be able to outwardly celebrate anything.