Extinction sf-2

by B. V. Larson

  I ordered everyone to activate their turrets and put them into auto-defense mode. The firing algorithms were the one thing I wasn’t too worried about. I’d taken the time to have the brainboxes from the stationary turrets back at the camp upload their neurological targeting algorithms to the new fire-control boxes. These turrets should be as good at targeting as the stationary turrets had been. In fact, their performance should be identical, except they still had to learn to compensate for being on a moving platform. I felt like having the guns test themselves on trees and boulders as we glided past them, but restrained the urge. It would improve their aim, but I didn’t want to advertise to anyone that we were armed. Not just yet.

  For the first time, I relaxed a fraction. The plan had worked so far. The enemy could have hit us when we were bloated and weaponless. My pregnant metal balloons would have popped easily, and we could not have shot down so much as a single incoming RPG. Now, with our lasers up and tracking, we at least had a good chance of taking out projectiles and engaging any attacking ships or planes.

  We had our lasers out, and were no longer helpless. But the hovertanks were not yet in battle-mode. In that configuration, I’d taught the tanks to take on sleek lines with angled sides that I hoped would take a hit from incoming fire without buckling. Their hulls would deflate dramatically too, leaving room inside only for a few men. The hulls, thus collapsed, would be denser, thicker and better able to operate as armor and deflect incoming fire.

  “Patton, adjust your screen. Increase the scope out to two hundred miles. Reduce contact size accordingly, but inflate small contacts to be at least one quarter of an inch in size, regardless of scale.”

  “Acknowledged,” rumbled the tank. It had a throaty, masculine voice. I smiled to myself every time I heard it. I had insisted on this detail, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I’d become punch-drunk working on them all night, with only a few catnaps taken while waiting for one element or another to be finished. Whatever the reason, all the hovertanks had the voices of gruff, old men.

  The wall before me rippled. I could see the coastline now. Soon, as we reached the northern shores at the top of the Andros Island, we would swing to the right and head east. We would follow the beaches eastward, then finally turn south. If we made it down the coast as far as the main camp I’d be very happy. I wasn’t sure if we would make it that far without being blown out of the water, but if we did, I figured the other side was in for a rude surprise.

  We almost made it in the end. We cruised in formation without incident, and made our planned to turn southward on the final approach to our goal. We’d been cruising at nearly one hundred knots, and the miles went by quickly. In the east, directly ahead, I knew the sun was rising. It had to be lovely, cool and bright pink outside.

  The planes came in from the east. One contact separated into six, and they were moving much too quickly at that range to be ships. I questioned the Patton, and learned they were skimming less than a hundred feet above the waves. Maybe they thought they would be invisible at that low altitude, with the sunrise coming up behind them, blindingly bright.

  But the artificial eyes of my hovertanks weren’t easily blinded.

  — 16-

  “Private channel requested by the Napoleon,” announced my tank.

  “Accept it,” I said. “Mute transmissions to open channel.”

  “Options set,” rumbled the Patton.

  “What the hell are they doing?” asked Crow.

  “Might just be a fly by. I don’t see any missile launches yet.”

  “Bullocks, Riggs. Burn them out of the sky.”

  I didn’t say anything for two seconds. The contacts grew a tiny bit closer. They had to be traveling at twice the speed of sound, I figured. I did some quick calculations. At Mach 2, they would be directly overhead in about ten minutes.

  “We don’t have to fire yet, sir,” I said calmly. “They might be scouting us.”

  “When will we have to fire to be safe?”

  “If they get to within a ten-mile range, I would feel they pose a serious danger. I wouldn’t want them to get any closer.”

  “They can fire an anti-ship missile from much further out that that,” Crow said.

  “True, but I fear their cannons more than their missiles. We can shoot down the missiles unless they are fired very close in. A stream of 20 mm rounds would be unstoppable and would punch right through the walls of these tin puffer-fish we are riding in.”

  “I repeat, in order to be safe we should take them out, now.”

  “Crow, I’m in operational command, remember?” I asked.

  Silence.

  “If we blow our cover and fire on these planes without need,” I continued, “we will warn them that we have offensive capabilities. Let me try to talk to Kerr first.”

  “All right, but if they get to within two minutes of us, I’m relieving you of command and ordering everyone to fire.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. I figured he was right, we couldn’t allow them to get that close. As I recalculated, we didn’t even have as much time as I’d figured at first. I’d forgotten that we were heading toward them at about one hundred knots. Our combined speeds were closing the gap very quickly.

  With five minutes to go, I got out the communications box I’d used to communicate with Kerr from the camp. He seemed to be waiting for the contact. I was able to get in touch with him almost immediately.

  The General’s voice came in over the speakers, answering my call. “Kyle? You ever been to a friend’s house where they had a really big, annoying dog?”

  “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “Well, those planes are just like big dogs. They are friendly. They only want to sniff you, to take pictures.”

  I thought hard for a few seconds. There seemed to be no way to win this situation. Either I threatened to destroy his planes, in which case he would know that we had offensive capability-if he didn’t already. Also, I’d have tipped my hand as a hostile. If I simply blew away his planes, Kerr would be even more upset. On the other hand, if I did nothing, they would come close and either take pictures, showing my armament, or fire on us, which would probably be disastrous.

  “I can’t allow them to come closer than fifty miles, Kerr.”

  “Do you have any choice?”

  “Do you believe I’d leave my base completely unarmed and at your mercy? Is that my style, General?”

  Kerr fell silent for a minute or so. The planes grew closer. I steeled myself to give the order. They were going to have to be shot down, good pilots wasted.

  “What’s eating at you, General? There is no need to force this issue. We were getting along so well.”

  “No. No we weren’t, you prick!” shouted Kerr, with sudden rage.

  “The planes, sir,” I said, not sure what his problem was, and not really caring.

  “What about my men?” shouted Kerr.

  “What men?”

  “The full platoon I sent in there to your empty camp. They were all fried. No warning shots. There’s nothing left except a few smoking boots!”

  I felt a pang of guilt. I sighed. “I apologize, General. We haven’t built our trust back, I can see that.”

  “You didn’t have to leave the base on auto-attack.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to think. Each death on either side seemed like such a waste. Was I in the right? Why couldn’t I give up power, and let the so-called pros do the work? Let them protect the world for awhile. I wondered if every tin-pot dictator in history had felt moments of self-doubt like the one I was having right now.

  “It was a matter of trust, sir. I have to use voice-command to reset those turrets. If I had done it before we left, I would have had no defense. You attacked us first sir, please keep that in mind. I’m sorry good men died, I’ve been sorry every time we’ve clashed. But you are the ones in the wrong, here. We had a deal with your government, but the moment you accounted us as weak, you lunged at us. It is not my fault, General, if I felt o
bliged to defend myself.”

  A new voice broke in over the broadcast channel. “They are in too close, Riggs. I’m ordering every unit to track the incoming aircraft. Every unit will fire on my command.”

  “Patton, open broadcast channel. Crow, wait!” I shouted, staring at the big screen. The aircraft had indeed slid closer while I was arguing with Kerr. “Give me one more minute, Admiral.”

  “Riggs?” said Kerr. He sounded angry and defeated. “I heard all that. You weren’t bluffing.”

  “I rarely do, sir.”

  “Fine, if that’s how you want things.”

  The connection broke, and a few seconds later, the planes split into two wings and flew off to the north and south. I licked my lips, watching them go. It had been close.

  I thought about the auto-defense turrets I’d left behind in the camp. It had been a trap, and I should have known there would be deaths involved. I felt guilty about it, but I wasn’t sure what else I could have done. If I’d turned them off, they would have the factories right now. If I had called Kerr and warned him about the trap, he might have sent assets after my bloated hovertanks sooner. I had slid along, trying to get out of the situation as quickly and quietly as possible. I’d hoped that Kerr would wait until morning to make a move on the camp, and by that time it would be too late. I recalled reading a military axiom to the effect that every plan, especially the closely-timed, complicated ones, rarely survived contact with the enemy.

  Stressing over every mile, I led my gliding whales southward now, toward the main base. Soon, Kerr would figure out where we were headed. I decided to throw him a red herring.

  “Team, we are pulling into our little village at Stafford Creek,” I said.

  “Private channel requested by the Napoleon,” announced my tank.

  I accepted the request with a sigh.

  “What the hell are you up to now, Riggs?”

  “There were two companies of marines stationed at Stafford Creek, Crow. I want to see if we can gather more support.”

  “Those men will sit on their hands for another day or two. If we look strong, they will stay loyal. Let’s head down now and capture the main base before they get smart.”

  I paused. “I want to drop off Sandra, sir. I’ll have her talk to the men. We could use more troops on our side.”

  “Personal issues getting in the way of good military thinking, eh? Right. Why not? Maybe we’ll have a birthday party on the beach, too. Hey, crew, is anyone having a birthday today?”

  I heard, in the background, a few marines chuckling and volunteering that it was indeed their birthdays. I grunted and disconnected the channel. I figured I’d gotten the approval I needed.

  We stopped en masse at the beach along the Queen’s Highway in the Stafford Creek area. I practically had to push Sandra out of the ship.

  “I’m staying with you,” she said, arms crossed and face drawn up in an exaggerated frown.

  “Sandra,” I whispered, “everyone is watching, and I’m not taking my girlfriend into another pitched battle.”

  Sergeant Kwon stood up from the steel benches. “I’ll escort her, sir. I’ll see if I can get us some reinforcements from the troops here, too.”

  I eyed him for a second, then nodded. I just didn’t have anywhere completely safe to put her right now. Those planes had worried me. If we’d been hit, I might have survived serious injury, as might have everyone else aboard. But not Sandra. She was the softest of targets, no matter how tough her attitude was.

  I managed to coax her onto the beach. She gave me a sudden, desperate kiss which I returned, and then she and Sergeant Kwon vanished. The gorgeous beach scene vanished with her. I was left staring at a dimly lit metal wall. The smell of the sea, the fresh breezes and flecks of white sand had swirled inside our tomb-like hovertank.

  The men around me on the benches nudged one another and chortled. I ignored them. I was lost in my own emotions, wondering if I would ever see Sandra again. And wondering if I was out of my mind.

  I climbed up into the cockpit again and took the battlegroup out over the waves. We silently glided southward, toward the main base that had been taken from us.

  — 17-

  They hit us first. The only warning I had was the beeping of the communications box. Kerr was trying to contact me. I ignored the first beeping, and the second that came in a few minutes later. There wasn’t a third.

  I’m pretty sure it was an RPG-maybe a lot of them. I realized in the first seconds of the ambush that they had to be firing from somewhere close, probably in the tree line right along the beach. All I knew was I heard a whoosh and a boom, and one of our troop carriers blew up. It was the one right behind me in our diamond formation.

  The turrets on our hovertanks homed in collectively. They sang less than a second later and there was no more incoming fire. The turrets sang again and again, firing into the beach area. Were they hitting troops? Were there enemy vehicles involved? I couldn’t be sure. A few targets popped up, coppery-red on the wall in front of me, looking man-sized. They vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. I opened my mouth to order the auto-firing to stop, but closed it again. Maybe they were beaten, crawling around out there on the sand between the palms, screaming. Or maybe they were loading another round to destroy my hovertank next. I couldn’t tell, and I couldn’t afford to stop the turrets.

  “Dammit, Kerr,” I whispered to myself. I sweated and watched as we slid by. The turrets slowed their firing, then stopped altogether. Whoever they had been, they were all dead or hiding now.

  “Pull on to the beach!” I shouted on the open channel. “Which tank was hit?”

  “The Rommel, sir,” said a voice.

  I sighed. That was Robinson’s tank. Had he gone through the nanite injections, the hours of agony, not to mention my brutal recruitment techniques, only to be splattered in the first minutes of this battle? “We’ll go back and search for survivors,” I said.

  “Let’s keep moving, Riggs,” said Crow, second-guessing me again.

  “Patton, mute transmission to broadcast channel. Open private channel to the Napoleon.”

  “Options set,” said the tank.

  “What now?” barked Crow.

  “I’m not leaving Robinson and his men in the ocean, sir.”

  “I thought we were sneaking up on the base. We’ve still got several miles to go.”

  “I think it’s clear the enemy understands our intent now. We need to reconfigure these vehicles into battle mode and move down to the target area as battle tanks.”

  Crow argued for a few more seconds, but finally dropped it. I figured he’d been rattled by the hit and had wanted to keep moving fast. I didn’t say so aloud, but I did ask him to stop countermanding my operational orders or I would leave him on the beach as well. Grumbling, he broke the connection.

  We did manage to pick up about half the lost men. Each of the surviving tanks took two aboard. I was pleased to see Major Robinson himself climb aboard the Patton.

  “Robinson! You are a hard man to kill.”

  “Thank you, sir. I think…” he said.

  Looking him over, I could tell one of his legs didn’t operate properly. “You can ride on my tank when we reconfigure. There are some ledges for people to hold on to.”

  Robinson smiled through the pain he clearly felt. “Mighty considerate of you, sir.”

  We disgorged our infantry and reconfigured the tanks on the beach. Nearby, the Queen’s Highway turned into a causeway and crossed the open sea. South of us was Andros Town, long since abandoned, and further south was the location of our base, where the enemy waited with unknown strength.

  The tanks reshaped themselves, taking about a minute to do so. The transformation was dramatic. They soon resembled sharks instead of whales. The transformation continued, flatting out the round contours and forming slanting surfaces. When they were finished, the metal of every wall had been thickened to more than an inch, enough to stop incoming bullets. The armor
was relatively thin, but alive and very reactive. It would reshape itself after a hit. I hoped it would do well against conventional weaponry. Looming atop each tank was a swiveling beam-cannon mount. The cannons scanned everything, softly whirring as they moved. Watching them gave me a ‘creeped-out’ feeling. I could tell they had an intelligence to them-albeit an artificial, alien one. The way they moved and scanned their surroundings was uncanny. They would frequently pause, aiming at an individual marine. They sensed you, measured you and made decisions about you as a possible target. Every man knew that if you were ever classified as a hostile, you would be toast in seconds. The tanks reminded me of the Macros, of their behavior patterns. They were upsetting, and I doubted I would ever get used to them.

  We took the time to pull our dead out of the water. I promised the men we would bury them later. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was lying, but figured if we all died no one would remember the promise anyway.

  We set off along the beach, continuing southward. I was inside my tank, but now I had a tiny slit cut into the metal around the pilot’s chair. I could see my actual surroundings and that made things much easier than calculating the external situation by the metallic beads on the interior hull of the tank. Historically, tanks had performed better with a commander who could see the battle situation directly. When in a pitched battle, I could order the Patton to button up and seal the inside of the tank off completely. It was also programmed to automatically closed the slits, like blinking eyes, if incoming fire was detected.

  We got underway again, this time surrounded by racing infantry. The men were in full gear and had the job of taking out any enemy infantry and light vehicles. The hovertanks were for knocking out aircraft, missiles and heavy armor, if we encountered any.