Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  Brent, making an exception to his own rule, glanced up. The planet was right there—looming bright and looking close enough to almost reach out and touch. How many shifts had they managed? Fifty? He didn’t remember. It looked like one more phase-shift would do the trick. He entered the exact coordinates for the compound, and in a final bright white flash the three brothers disappeared from the asteroid belt.

  * * *

  The three brothers flashed into view, two hundred yards from the compound, and fell to the ground both mentally and physically drained. What they’d accomplished was beyond amazing—truly miraculous.

  Eventually, Brent sat up and spotted Orloff’s big, brown, creepy-looking, Paotow tanker. The monstrosity was parked close to the main cabin. But what most captured his attention was the Consignment Freight delivery van nearby. He’d seen a thousand similar vehicles across space. Much like FedEx and UPS trucks that once were a common sight in neighborhoods on Earth, before the numerous Craing invasions.

  “Larry, Payne … check out the van. Make sure no one’s hiding in there.”

  In truth, Brent already knew the van was empty of life. He understood the HUD sensor readings well enough—but he doubted Payne, and certainly not Larry, had figured out what those readings meant. Hell, they might never understand them.

  Brent made his way into the cabin, doing a quick look-see to make sure nothing unwanted was in there. Deactivating his battle suit, he watched all the tiny segments retract back into the small SuitPac device he wore on his belt. He smiled. That sight never gets old!

  Next, he moved outside and headed to the tanker. The portside hatch seemed jammed so he walked around and tried the starboard hatch. It opened right up and Brent found the inside airlock hatch already open. Stepping into the main lower compartment, his nostrils flared. Ugh. Something putrid was on the ship. Brent had tried to be patient with his younger brother, knowing he had mental issues. Smart—probably some sort of rain man genius—but his … what was the word? … proclivities made him a constant problem. For long spans of time he’d be fine. Did his job managing the various Picket mining operations. He most always kept his calm but then, all of a sudden, he’d be off on a junket. Disappear without a word for days, sometimes weeks. Often he’d come here. This compound was Orloff’s special place. Brent tried not to think about what else went on here, above and beyond hunting game.

  He looked about the compartment. Midway down the port side was his brother’s workbench. Creepy. The bulkheads were void of anything—the compartment cold and uninviting. Creepy-creepy. He took the narrow stairway to his right at the stern and hurried up to the top level. He started at the bow end of the ship, first checking Orloff’s quarters. It was immaculately clean. Who at his age still makes his bed? Off to the right was another small stairway. Brent knew from past experience that it led up to the claustrophobically small cockpit.

  He moved back out to the passageway and next checked the holding cell. Opening the hatch, he saw the chains and bindings lying on the deck. A thin mattress, stained with god only knew what, took up much of the space. He side-stepped an overturned metal bucket and left. He checked out the other compartments on his way astern. The second door opened into some kind of storage compartment. Large blue plastic barrels dominated the space. The smell in there was ghastly. Staying at full arm’s length, Brent used extended fingers to lift the lid off the closest barrel. Noting the contents within the barrel’s murky dark confines, Brent instinctively flinched. The barrel top went flying, as Brent doubled over, both gagging and dry heaving. Oh my god … a fucking barrel full of … legs!

  CHAPTER 39

  At any other time, Ryan would have thoroughly enjoyed the exhilarating speed while flying two feet off the ground at close to one hundred miles an hour. The sand crawler, with its three oversized turbine engines, exuded so much raw power that Ryan was fairly certain he could double, maybe even triple, his speed, if outer conditions allowed. But his thoughts were consumed with Wendy. Was she harmed in any way—had she been raped? What was she going through at this very moment? It took all his will power not to crank the controls to the left and go find her—rescue her. But that was exactly what the mountain man wanted.

  Ryan slowed down just enough to maneuver between an outcropping of sandstone rocks then quickly goosed the throttle back to its former speed.

  Feeling a tap at his shoulder, he glanced back at the Two-ton robot, and yelled, “What is it?”

  The robot leaned in closer, “Wendy is over that way … about a half mile.”

  “And Orloff?”

  “Straight ahead. Two hundred and fifteen yards.”

  Ryan brought the craft to a complete stop, letting the engines idle a moment. “All right … this is where you get out, robot.”

  * * *

  The wind had come up, and Orloff Picket felt his large pant legs being whipped and buffeted back and forth, like a couple of flapping flags. It brought with it a funky putrid odor, coming upwind off the narrow lake—situated below and behind him. Between tree trunks, for those fleeting moments when the hovercraft was out in the open, he tracked their progress with his riflescope. He fired off three rounds and, missing each time, silently cursed himself as he looked back up. The target was too erratic and moving too fast to get a clear shot. He’d anticipated Ryan being on foot—not whizzing across the dunes and tundra in a machine like a maniac. The echoing roar off the hovercraft suddenly became silent. Orloff, putting his eye back to the scope, searched for any sign of the sand crawler and its occupants.

  A static burst of noise began emanating from his daypack, and he gazed down at where it lay on the rocky surface. Lying prone on his belly, his rifle supported up on a small-portable tripod, he continued staring at the pack—willing it to stop making such a racket. Then a fractured-sounding voice accompanied the static, coming out from the radio. Orloff pulled the pack closer and opened the top flap. Without taking his eyes away from the distant terrain, he rifled around inside the pack until he felt the cold metallic radio unit. Pulling it out, he looked at the display and adjusted the squelch and volume controls. He depressed the talk button, and said, “Repeat last message … over.”

  “Where the hell are you? Where’s the kid? Over.”

  The kid, his brother Brent was referring to, was Ryan Chase; he was supposed to be locked up tight within the Paotow tanker by now. Orloff glanced up toward the sky and realized he hadn’t seen a spacecraft arrive. How did they get here? He tried to remember if he’d hidden his trophies—pulled the sectionalized sliding accordion bulkhead all the way across that back wall in order to hide them. Yeah … I definitely did that, he thought, somewhat relieved.

  “He’s being dealt with … don’t worry about it,” Orloff replied.

  The radio crackled and Orloff heard several voices that sounded like they were arguing. Brent came back on, “Listen you overgrown retard, everything revolves around that fucking kid … do you have him or not?”

  “Yeah, he’s in my sights. I’m about to—”

  “No! No! No! Do not … I repeat … do not kill him! Do you understand me, ass wipe? If he dies … you die … over!”

  “I thought you already had the president lady,” Orloff replied. “Why do you still need the kid? Over.”

  “She … they … got away. Don’t worry about that side of things; it’s all under control. But we still need the Chase kid … over.”

  Orloff stayed quiet.

  “Look, we’re on our way to you in a few … so hang tight and don’t do anything stupid. Over.”

  Calmly, Orloff stared at the radio in his hand. Ten seconds later, he raised the instrument over his head and smashed it down quickly onto the rocks. Once, twice. Three times more he smashed the walky-talky radio until it was little more than a jumble of plastic shards and exposed broken circuit boards. Grunting with satisfaction, he flung what was left of it over the rocky cliffs. He’d deal with his brothers later.

  Ryan, and then the girl, had to die. B
oth knew far too much about what was mounted on his trophy wall. Though people often disappeared when in space he didn’t want to be tied to someone’s murder. Sure, he understood why they’d needed Nan Reynolds to cooperate. A lot of money was at stake. Contracts made with the kind of people you don’t double-cross. But he didn’t like how things were changing. He’d managed the Picket family space-mining operations for years, but since that old pirate had become involved … what was his name? Stu-something. Orloff didn’t like him; didn’t like that things were changing. No! His brothers would have to find some other way to recapture the ex-madam president. It wasn’t his fault they dropped the ball and let her escape. He was going to finish what he’d come here to do.

  He pushed himself up and onto his knees atop the rocky perch. After re-stowing his small tripod into his pack, he moved to shoulder his rifle but suddenly lost his grip. One problem with not having pinkies, things sometimes got fumbled. As the rifle dropped, its stock hit the solid rock below then bounced. Orloff awkwardly grabbed for it—almost felt the cool metal of its long barrel in his hand. The Barrett .50 cal fell forward and slid three feet before sliding over the side. He heard a sickening crack crack crack as it smashed onto the rocks below.

  Irritated with himself, but keeping an impassive expression, Orloff gazed out over the valley below, then toward the hillside off to his right. Again, hearing the engines roar up and seeing momentary flashes of red, he knew the sand crawler was getting closer. Best he got down there now—be there to witness what happened next. Watching young Ryan Chase’s expression change when he encountered the first laid booby trap, for that was what this hunt was all about. One way or another, the delivery man was going to die today. He needed to hurry—retrieve his broken weapon and be ready for the show.

  * * *

  Ryan brought the hovercraft’s speed down to a slow crawl as he approached the foot of the closest of the four buttes. Up atop, the psychopath was undoubtedly perched. Ryan, looking straight up, squinted his eyes against the bright sky but couldn’t see a damn thing. He turned off the hovercraft and listened to its hot engines go tic tic tic. Then, placing a hand on the Tavor lying across his lap, he waited.

  Five minutes later, he climbed up out of the craft onto an immense boulder and moved toward the base of the column-like butte. At least from its front side there was no easy way up. He jumped from one smaller rock to another then moved around to its rear side, where he saw a clear way to ascend to the top. Stacked step-like rocks were at the bottom, with a series of natural switchbacks set higher up. The chance of Orloff still being up there was slim. It wasn’t like the sand crawler could ever be stealthily quiet, but he had to go check.

  Ryan took in a breath, thinking this is too easy. But seeing no other alternative, he started his trek upward. The third step abruptly shifted under his right foot. Losing his balance, Ryan wildly windmilled his arms to keep upright. A distant echoing crack came. Movement too. From above, he heard the unmistakable sound of heavy rocks grating against other heavy rocks. What earlier looked like part of the butte itself, hundreds of feet above him, was actually a separate slab of rock now precariously leaning against it. Paralyzed, Ryan watched in horror as the ginormous slab of rock continued to pull away from the butte and go perfectly vertical—only to slowly lean out above him. So large was the slab there was nowhere for him to run—nowhere to take shelter. He watched with dread as the mass of stone came completely away and began to fall. With no clear alternative coming to mind, Ryan pulled the Tavor from his shoulder and began firing up at the big falling rock. He switched the Tavor to full auto and emptied the magazine into its center mass. The ear-splitting sound echoed off the surrounding rocks, crack crack crack crack. Above him, at no fewer than one hundred feet, the slab began to break apart. A sandstone solid piece of rock, it would have flattened him like a bug. Now, as mere seconds ticked past, the rock started to break apart—much of it turning to sandy rubble.

  Ryan threw himself down on the rocks then curled into a tight ball. He covered his head with his arms and clenched his eyes shut, waiting to die.

  As the largest of the fractured rock boulders crashed about him, a constant shower of small rocks and sand landed on his backpack, head, and exposed legs. Something that was both hard and sharp hit his shoulder, causing him to scream out in agony.

  Ryan realized he’d survived the ordeal. By some miracle he was still breathing—hadn’t been squashed into a puddle of fleshy goo.

  Slowly raising his head, he assessed his condition. His left shoulder throbbed badly and, rubbing it with his other hand, he felt warm moisture there—blood, but not a lot of it. No bones seemed to be broken, but damn—it sure hurt. About to stand, Ryan noticed something beneath the cracked rock of the third step he’d been leaning against. Lifting the slab up, it broke completely in half, and lying there, just beneath it, he saw a jumble of wires attached to some kind of pre-hidden pressure plate. It had been an elaborate booby trap. Ryan thought back to when he’d first stepped on the step. There’d been a noise—prior to the sound of the rocks grating—like a tiny explosion. He shook his head. Setting this up would have taken hours. He briefly wondered if this setup was all for him or had Orloff prepared this trap days, even weeks, earlier? Perhaps for another poor shmuck, also caught in one of Orloff’s games of hunter and prey. Well, Ryan wasn’t about to become anyone’s prey—not today—not ever.

  He raised his head and took in the terrain around him. Orloff would have wanted to watch the scenario play out. He rose to his feet and slowly turned around on his heels. “You’ll have to do a lot better than this, ass hole! I’m coming for you!”

  Several distant firearm reports startled Ryan and he ducked his head. Small arms—not the Barrett .50 caliber. A single round ricocheted off a rock behind him. Ryan ducked down lower to his haunches—then quickly dove into the nearby rock pile.

  CHAPTER 40

  Staying low, doing his best to keep his head below the rocks surrounding him, Ryan started to move back in the direction of the sand crawler. Halfway there, he heard the unmistakable sound of three turbine engines coming to life. He’s taking the crawler. About to hurry after him, he stopped himself. No … Orloff likes traps. That’s what he wants me to do. Ryan pulled the pack from his back and, like a knife being driven into him, a searing pain engulfed his left shoulder. Maybe something’s broken in there, after all, he thought. He opened the flap and dug out the last full magazine, swapping it with the spent one. Reloading the Tavor, he gingerly swung the pack back in place on his back. As quietly as possible, he made his way around the base of the butte.

  Ryan heard the engines changing cadence as the craft moved off—its echoes bouncing off the rocks and all the way down into an adjoining valley. At least Orloff isn’t lurking out there—his riflescope trained on my head, he rationalized. Picking up his pace, he continued to listen to the distant drone of the crawler. Coming around the butte’s front side, he further tracked the sound. It was moving in the same direction the Two-ton-AI robot indicated Wendy was being held. Dread swept over him. He pulled the straps of the pack tighter and began to run.

  * * *

  He figured he was approximately three-quarters of the way there and clung to the hope that the robot, Two-ton, had made its way to where she was being held and had freed her long before Orloff would arrive.

  A sheen of sweat covered Ryan’s face, and the pain in his shoulder had progressed further to halfway down his left arm. The ground, mostly even here, was interspersed with clusters of trees, then clumps of rocks, then clusters of trees again. At least there’s no thorny bramble in these parts, he thought, as he trudged on—running, then jogging, then running again.

  Passing through a strand of tall yellow pines, he nearly tripped over the robot. His quick-moving stride landed him mere inches from its head, which was turned up—its conciliatory expression unnaturally fixed. Ryan went down on one knee. Assessing the damage, he turned the robot’s head to the side and noticed it was d
ented in and now concave. An arm was missing. Only by ducking under close, low-hanging branches did he come across the metallic appendage hidden beneath them. Pulling it clear, he held it up—not quite sure what to do with it. He set it on the ground beside him then placed his open palm onto the robot’s chest where a human heart would be. Orloff had run the robot down—probably gunning the powerful engines to inflict the greatest amount of impact. As sadness of the whole situation overtook Ryan, he wiped away the moisture welling in his eyes. Twice he’d lost his best friend to the same lunatic, who was doing who knew what now to Wendy. His grief quickly morphed into rage, and his fists tightened into two white-knuckled balls. Aloud, he said, “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch!”

  He sensed sudden movement and looked down at the battered robot—its head turned left and right twice before its mechanical eyes locked on to Ryan’s.

  “Ahh … those tears for me?”

  Ryan’s first impulse was to hug the mechanical man, but he restrained himself. Instead, he asked, “Why don’t you shut up for once and tell me how bad the damage is?”

  “I was in the process of figuring that out when you interrupted me.”

  “I thought you were … dead.”

  “Um … truth is … that ship already sailed. But the artificial intelligence you’ve come to know seems to be in pretty good shape.” The robot, while trying to sit up, realized it had a missing arm. “What the fu—”

  “Hey, let me help you.” Ryan put a hand behind the robot’s torso and lifted up as the robot tried again to rise.

  Success. Two-ton’s AI robot sat up and looking at the ground, asked, “Hand me that arm, will you?”