That I understood. With my emergency oxygen bottle depleted, closing the faceplate would cut off my air supply, but I didn’t argue. During a moment between waves battering my face, I slapped the faceplate closed. “Got it,” I whispered weakly.
“Pumping water,” Skippy answered tersely. There was a high-pitched whirring noise and the water level inside the helmet began draining away, making a shlorping suction sound.
And then I was able to breathe, even when my head was under the water. “Thanks,” was all I could say.
“Joe, if you are going to fly, you need more regular stick time. You completely forget emergency procedures.”
He was right. I had completely forgotten about the air-purifying feature of the Kristang helmets. The helmets we used with our Kristang flightsuits were basically the same as the helmets of powered armor spacesuits, except the helmets for pilots had less armor protection and didn’t include targeting sensors for personal weapons. Both types of helmets were capable of filtering and concentrating oxygen from contaminated atmospheres, to reduce the need for a person to rely on internal stores of oxygen. That feature couldn’t act like gills and extract oxygen from water so it wouldn’t have helped me until I got to the surface. But now that I was no longer under deep water, the helmet could pull oxygen from the water-saturated air. Even while I was still being bounced around by waves and the helmet’s intakes could only get intermittent access to air, I was able to breathe a steady supply.
Getting all the oxygen I needed made a huge difference; I was able to think and plan ahead. The wave action had no pattern to it, so I could use it to determine which way was the closest shore. “Skippy, can you point me toward land?”
“The closest land to you is the eastern shore of the lake; you do not want to swim in that direction. Here,” a yellow arrow popped up inside my faceplate, “is the direction you should swim.”
“Great, thanks.” That arrow bounced around a lot as I clumsily struggled through the water, I was only able to make slow progress in the correct direction. It seemed like an endless time, but probably only ten or fifteen minutes, that I splashed my way through the water. At the foaming crest of a wave, I caught a glimpse of the new shore of the lake, which had been deep underwater until Skippy’s Rotorooter Service arrived to unclog the drain. What I saw was not encouraging; it was a whole lot of mud and something like dark-green kelp, dotted with rocks here and there. There was a cliff looming over me so I swam away from that; the waves were crashing there and would have crushed me against the face of the cliff. The relatively flat area I aimed for was almost as bad for me; I tried to time when I reached the new beach but the waves had a different agenda. One wave picked me up and broke as I tried frantically to swim back away from the beach, I got slammed down into mud, then the wave was retreating and dragged me back out into the lake with it. Three times I attempted to get out of the water and my final success was due to luck rather than skill or athletic ability. When I found myself face-down in a mudflat, I crawled on my belly to get away from the wave that was tugging my legs backward.
Being out of the water was almost worse than being in the water. No, it was absolutely worse. What used to be the bottom of the lake was now clinging, sticky, slippery mud like quicksand. As soon as I got away from the last wave, I wanted to turn around and get back in the water. By the time my slow brain made that decision, it was too late, I was sinking fast into the mud. An attempt to crawl on hands and knees only made me flip over and sink halfway into the mud; I nearly drowned in mud. Getting back on my belly helped a bit, and I swam awkwardly on my belly to a flattened bed of a sort of kelp that had been growing on the lake bottom. There were eel-like things either dead or flopping around on and under the kelp. Clawing at the kelp, I was able to pull myself on top of it for a momentary respite. No sooner had I stopped for a breather when three things happened. The already-rotting kelp began pulling apart under my weight. I realized the air inside the helmet was getting stale. And two rifle rounds splattered the mud to my left.
“Joe! The Thuranin are shooting at you!”
“Ya think?”
“Standard infantry carbines only now, they do not appear to have another sniper rifle. Yet. Also, the air intake on the back of your helmet is completely clogged with mud and I can’t fix it. You need to open your faceplate.”
I followed instructions without comment, swinging the faceplate fully open. Ugh, the smell of rotting kelp, fish and eels was awful. Another rifle round sent up a fountain of mud to my right, farther away. The Thuranin were either at the maximum effective range of their carbines, or they were very out of practice with marksmanship. To my right was a wave-formed ridge of mud around two meters high, I pulled myself over the kelp, sinking into it, until I was to the west of the mud ridge. From there I dared not move any farther, fearing the soft strands of kelp beneath me would give way and trap me in the mud below. “Skippy, I can’t move. I can move, but I’m not walking out here by myself. This mud is too soft and too sticky. If I slip off this bed of kelp, I’ll sink in that mud like quicksand.”
“Oh, crap. All right, fine. Help is on the way. We are sending a Kristang armored suit down to you. I figured you would need the enhanced speed and power of a mech suit if the Thuranin were shooting at you.”
“How are you getting a suit down here to me?”
“We’re dropping it from high altitude, there is a dropship safely beyond missile range above you now. I think it’s beyond missile range.”
“You’re joking, right? What is your plan, push an empty armored suit out the back ramp of a Falcon, let it splat down here, and I’m supposed to pick up the pieces?”
“Of course not, dumdum,” Skippy sounded exasperated. “The suit will be attached to a paraglider that will bring it over you then flare out into a chute to lower it. I’ll use the jets in the boots to set it down softly, right close to you. Cool, huh?”
“Uncool, Skippy. That suit weighs more than I do. You drop one here and it will sink into the mud and be buried.”
“No it won- Well, shit. Let me check- Damn. Yes,” he sighed. “The monkey is right about that. Crap!”
“Forget the mech suit, Skippy. What is your Plan B?”
“The mech suit was my Plan B, you idiot! Plan A was for you to walk out of there. I never thought you would let a squishy little puddle of mud stop you.”
“It’s not a little mud, Skippy. It’s a freakin’ ocean of quicksand.”
“Yeah, well, I am still very disappointed in you and your entire species right now, Joe. When your ancestors crawled out of the mud onto land millions of years ago, they were sooooo pleased with themselves, but that decision doesn’t look so good now, does it?”
“I can’t argue with that logic, Skippy. But, mud has defeated many military campaigns on Earth, no matter what technology the armies had. You got a Plan C in your awesome mind?”
“Give me a moment to think! Jeez Louise you are impatient.”
Just then, the rotting mat of kelp beneath me gave way a bit, and a thin fountain of watery mud shot up like a jet. I felt my left boot sink into mud.
To make the situation even better, a rifle round smacked into the mud puddle to my right, having gone right through the ridge of mud I was hiding behind.
“Take all the Skippy time you want, but I need a solution in about ten seconds of meatsack time.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “Ok, ha! I got it, smartass. Help will be on its way very shortly, I am walking the pilots through the instructions now.”
“We are not risking a dropship overflying the lake to rescue me, Skippy.”
“Never fear, Joe, no dropships will be harmed in the production of this truly awesomely cool stunt.”
“Crap. This is your idea, and even you think it is a ‘stunt’? What is this awesomely cool plan?”
“Well, Joe, heh heh, you are not going to like this.”
Chapter Nineteen
Skippy expertly guided the package down to splat half o
n the kelp mat and half in a mud puddle to my left.
“What is this, Skippy?”
“Balloons, Joe. They will lift you out of there.”
“Balloons? Uh, you also included a parachute, right?”
“No, dumdum, a parachute would add too much weight.”
“I need a parachute in case the Thuranin shoot down the balloons and I need to go skydiving, Skippy.”
“You don’t need a parachute to go skydiving, Joe.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You need a parachute to go skydiving more than once,” he laughed. “Anyway, get moving.”
I had to swim on top of the mud, floating as best I could with the flightsuit inflated to its maximum. With the torso, arms and legs puffed out, I looked like the Michelin Man. That was better than being Barney, I guess, and the extra surface area spread my weight out to keep me from sinking faster. As I moved in an awkward frog-like swimming motion, the kelp mat shifted and began breaking up, pulling me down into the sticky mud.
“How’s it going, Joe?” Skippy asked cheerily.
I knew he was dying for me to praise the clever way he delivered the package to me, and I had to give him props because it had accurately landed near me after being ejected from a Falcon at over forty thousand meters altitude. “Your part of the plan was perfectly awesome as expected, Skippy. I am not doing so well.”
“Why not?” He demanded.
“Let’s just say my prospects are sinking at the moment.” I moved my arms more vigorously as my boots began sinking into the mud quicker. Kicking my legs only made it worse, as it created pockets in the mud that got filled in with watery mud. Using only my arms, I swam as smoothly as possible toward the package until I touched it with my fingertips. Holding my legs rigid so they didn’t move at all, I pulled the package toward me. It was enveloped in an inflated life vest that the air crew must have wrapped in what looked a lot like duct tape. “Skippy, is this thing wrapped in duct tape? That does not boost my confidence.”
“It’s not duct ta- Ok, it is basically high-tech duct tape. The crew had to use whatever they could find, and there wasn’t a lot of time, because some whiny A-hole on the ground named Joe was bitching at them to hurry up.”
Crap. My knife was in a holster at my right ankle. That did not reflect good planning by me. I grunted.
“What’s wrong now, Joe?”
“I need a knife to cut open this duct tape, Skippy, and my knife is at my boot under the mud.” Pulling my right foot up made that knee sink deeper in the clinging mud.
“Oh, for- Joe, you truly are a dumb monkey. I swear, your ancestors were the ones who were too stupid to climb a tree when they saw a leopard. It is amazing they survived to create you.”
“I am feeling pretty darn stupid now, Skippy.” My fingers finally touched the knife, and I quickly pulled it out. By then, my right thigh was completely encased by thick mud, and my hip was sinking. “Cutting it open now. Got it!” I reported, and the lifevest unfolded, exposing the package inside. I stopped caring about not sinking deeper into the mud because it was happening anyway, so I focused on getting the package open. First, I took out the harness and strapped myself in. It took some awkward gymnastics to get the lower part of the harness around my legs and crotch, and by the time I was done, I was completely up to my waist in mud. Flinging my arms out didn’t slow the mud pulling me down; the kelp I had been laying on was broken apart and mixed into the mud. “Whatever you’re gonna do, do it now!” I shouted as the mud sucked at me and I was suddenly submerged to my armpits.
The package exploded upward with a soft puff, and three nearly invisible balloons began inflating. Skippy triggered the balloons in sequence to avoid them becoming tangled with each other; two of the lines still got wrapped together but that didn’t matter. “You are sure this is going to work?” I asked anxiously as the mud reached the chin of my helmet.
“No. Duh. How the hell can I be sure; this has never been done before. These balloons are designed to hold only the tether line aloft, so it can be engaged by a dropship and pull a soldier off the ground. Like how the SpecOps teams got off those rooftops on Kobamik. Or how they were supposed to get off the rooftops, until some beer can jumped the gun and screwed up the whole mission. Anywho, this should work fine, in theory. These tether balloons are capable of operating in thin atmospheres; they can inflate much more than the setting we used on Kobamik. Three of them, fully inflated, should be able to lift you off the surface. Except, hmm. It’s not working. You should be flying through the air like Superman by now. I do not understand.”
“It’s the mud, Skippy. I’m stuck in it.” It was hard to talk with my neck tilted all the way back, lifting the bottom opening of the faceplate just above the mud. As I spoke, a thin trickle of mud poured into the helmet.
“Oh. Crap, I should have thought of that. Move your arms and legs to create space in the mud, while I deflate the lifevest?”
“Deflate?” I asked in panic, but I should have trusted the awesomeness. Flailing my limbs and suddenly deflating the lifevest created short-lived pockets in the mud. The pockets quickly filled in, not quick enough as I was jerked upward. There was a sucking sound then a POP as my legs broke free.
And then I was soaring through the air!
“The Thuranin are shooting at you, Joe. Their aim sucks. You are in no danger from those morons, that’s for sure.”
“I should relax and enjoy the ride?” I asked with a gulp as the stiff breeze caught me and I was pulled to the right, then left. The tethers had stabilizers along their lengths, but with three of them tangled together, their stabilizers were useless. It was going to be a rough ride, I reminded myself that the only thing that mattered was I was rising up away from the mud that had almost drowned me.
And that the prevailing wind was carrying me to the southwest, away from the Thuranin.
And that the Thuranin couldn’t shoot worth shit.
Ok, that’s three things that mattered.
“Up, up and away in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooon,” Skippy warbled out of tune. “For we can fly, we can fly-”
Swinging wildly back and forth in the gusty breeze below the balloons, I was getting nauseous. “I do not feel like I’m flying right now, Skippy. I feel like I’m skidding across the sky out of control.”
“You don’t like that song? Hmm, in 1937 Led Belly had a song about the Hindenberg, I could sing that one instead-”
“No! No singing about exploding blimps!” I shouted while looking up at the flimsy things holding me in the air.
“Hmmf,” he sniffed. “The Hindenburg did not explode, Joe, that is a myth. The problem was the coating on the exterior-”
“Don’t care, Skippy, do not care! No more talk about exploding or burning or anything that involves something going wrong and me spiraling down back into the mud.”
“Come on, Joe, you won’t fall back into the mud.”
“Ah, yeah, thank-”
“You’re over the original shoreline now, the danger to you would be getting fatally impaled on a tree.”
“You are such a comfort to me, Skippy,” I choked on the words as a gust of wind jerked me up, then violently down. A thermal caught the balloons, and I zoomed upward so fast it felt like my stomach fell into my boots. The ground fell away below me, and I concentrated on keeping my last meal inside my stomach while the ride smoothed out and the gut-churning swaying back and forth damped down. Eventually, I was able to relax and enjoy the view. In a short time, I was high enough that the visual fuzz of the odd stealth field covering the surface of Gingerbread began to obscure my view in all directions except straight down. Soon, I thought with relief, I would be far enough away from the lake for a Falcon to zip down and retrieve me. Unless there were Thuranin far away from the lake, which was possible although our drones had not detected any evidence of Thuranin or any sentient species beyond several kilometers from that now partly drained body of water. “Skippy, you’re sure-” I swallowed har
d, suddenly struggling for breath. Taking a deep breath through my nose, I sniffed to learn if there was some airborne toxin, or if smoke from the battles below was affecting my ability to breathe.
Then I looked down below my feet, where the trees of the forest had blurred into a featureless green fuzz. Pulling off a glove, I looked at my fingernails. They were tinged slightly blue. I was suffering from altitude sickness. No wonder I couldn’t breathe. “Skippy, what’s my altitude now?”
“You’re at about seventy five hundred meters, why?”
“The air up here is thin,” I gasped.
“Oh, for- Duh! Damn it, that particular ‘duh; was directed at myself. I’m sorry, Joe, I forget you biological trashbags need to breathe constantly. It is very annoying. You should take in concentrated metallic oxygen, all it takes is to compress it to about one point two million times the pressure of Earth’s atmosphere at the surface. Then you would only need to take in oxygen once a day or so. Really, though, there are several other reactive elements that would be better suited for-”
“Air!” I felt myself fading, my vision narrowing to a small area directly in front of my eyes.
“Huh? Oh, yes, dammit, you keep distracting me. I’m partially deflating one of the balloons now, you will be descending shortly.”
The descent wasn’t abrupt, more like an elevator. I was on the verge of blacking out before I got down to an altitude low enough to breathe comfortably. Part of the problem at high altitude was, the muscles required to breathe hard required a lot of oxygen, so it became literally a death spiral. Breathe less vigorously to reduce the body’s need for oxygen, and you don’t take in enough oxygen. It was my fault for not considering my altitude, I had learned to monitor myself for signs of hypoxia during pilot training. Dangling under a group of flimsy balloons had not seemed like flying, so I hadn’t connected what I was doing with what I should be doing. Pilots call that poor situational awareness, and in its many forms it kills more pilots than any other hazard.
Zero Hour (Expeditionary Force Book 5) Page 35
