ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2)

by Isaac Hooke

“Rage and Cyclone, bring the package.”

  I looped my gloved fingers around a lower handhold on the left side of the glass container, while Tahoe took the right. We lifted in unison. As usual, we’d upticked the muscular strength of our suits to the max before turning off our Implants, so porting the half-tonne container was really no worse than ATLAS PT in training. Though it was still heavy, and without Tahoe’s aid I would’ve never hoisted it from the ground.

  We hurried down the ramp at a crouch, and as soon as we stepped onto the black rock that coated the streets, we lowered the container.

  I dropped to one knee and slid the strap of the sniper rifle from my shoulder. My jumpsuit, like everyone else’s, had darkened to match the black surface below. Through the sniper scope, I scanned the streets and alleyways for any sign of movement.

  Beside me, Tahoe did the same thing. He carried a standard-issue rifle—his porter role denied him the usual bulky heavy gun.

  Shangde City reminded me a little of my home country, because the buildings weren’t overly tall, and there was only one level of road system, unlike, say, New Chicago, where the multilevel roadways used the heaven-reaching skyscrapers as supports. I guessed with so much room to spare, the city planners didn’t have any real need to build upward, and outward worked just fine. Unfortunately, that only increased the level of urban sprawl we’d have to navigate on the way to the High-Value.

  One thing kind of ruined the whole “home country” reminiscence for me, and that was the bulbous black shells that encased the lower halves of most buildings. Those shells had an uncanny resemblance to anthills caking the bases of trees, replete with multiple access holes. The only thing missing were the ants. Giant-sized.

  There was no sign of alien life. Or any life at all, for that matter. The only noise was the hum of the MDV behind us, waiting for liftoff confirmation.

  The SK platoon was deployed behind the opposite building, according to the blue dots on the HUD map.

  Blue was an interesting choice of color for them. Normally friendlies were green, enemies red, and things like waypoints and payloads blue. In the previous battle, the SKs had been tagged as green, but this time we’d labeled them as payloads: not enemies, but not entirely friendlies, either. By tagging them blue, we’d left open the ability to fire on them without having to issue a “disable friendly fire” command. This would spare us precious seconds, potentially saving our lives if the SKs reneged on their part of the bargain.

  Of course, both platoons had tagged the ATLAS mechs and other war machines to automatically appear as enemy combatants, regardless of whether those machines were of SK, UC, or FI make. Any robot other than the High-Value Target and our own HS3s was considered fair game.

  “Waypoint Boston achieved,” Chief Bourbonjack said over the comm. “We have ourselves a successful insert. Golden Arrow, you are cleared for takeoff.”

  The MDV launched, and I cringed at the engine roar. I glanced at the black bulbs caking the buildings, waiting for the crab hordes to erupt from the many holes.

  But none came.

  Returning the same way it had come, the MDV passed low overhead, flying out onto the plains where it would wait for our return signal. The Lieutenant Commander had decided against leaving the insert crafts in the city proper, in case a roving band of ATLAS mechs or Centurions stumbled on it. Or in case the aforementioned crab hordes decided to emerge while we were gone.

  The SK shuttle left the cover of the three-story apartment building beside us and joined our MDV in retreat.

  “Status, Snakeoil?” the Chief said.

  “Golden Arrow is making toward the safe harbor site one klick away,” Snakeoil said. “Signal reception is extremely poor. We’ll probably lose contact as soon as we leave this spot. Meaning we’ll have to return to this exact location if we want to call for extract. That or distribute some HS3s behind us as we go, to function as network repeaters, extending the range.”

  The Chief pursed his lips. “Once we move out, I’d rather keep the HS3s deployed ahead of us in a scouting role.”

  Snakeoil nodded. “Then better get any last-minute requests to the LC in now, sir.”

  “Fair enough,” the Chief said. He glanced at TJ. “Raptor status?”

  TJ shrugged. “Not reading a thing from them. They’re flying too high . . . too much interference.”

  The Chief frowned. “I’ll ask the LC to lower them.” To Snakeoil: “What’s the air like?”

  “Breathable, sir,” Snakeoil said. “Minimal toxins.”

  “Then open up your face masks.”

  We did, then lowered the aReal visors built into our helmets.

  “Smells like balls out here,” Bender said.

  I put in the obligatory jibe. “Your favorite smell.”

  Bender shot me a sarcastic grin. “Only yours, baby.”

  “The LC has refused my request to reposition the Raptors,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “Any lower, and they’ll be within range of the air defenses. Looks like we’re on our own for now, boys. Maybe we’ll have better reception when we get airborne.”

  It didn’t really matter all that much as far as I was concerned, because as mentioned in the briefing, we weren’t authorized to call in any air strikes right now anyway—the Brass didn’t want to risk damage to the Artificial.

  “Facehopper, get us in sight of Dragon,” Chief Bourbonjack said. That was the callsign of the SK platoon deployed with us.

  “On my order, people, take the side street indicated on your six and rendezvous at the waypoint,” Facehopper said.

  I zoomed in on my overhead map and saw the flashing blue dot of the waypoint Facehopper had just added.

  “On me.” Facehopper dashed into the side street. The rest of the platoon followed at a crouch.

  Tahoe and I hoisted the glass chamber by the handles and set off. The two of us had to run in unison, but that was something we had trained at. The long, looping nylon cords slung over our shoulders swayed with each step.

  I turned onto the designated side street. The black, bloated substance plastering the walls of the buildings on either flank made it feel like we were traveling deeper into some sort of alien nest.

  Which we were, of course.

  The platoon halted at the far end of the street, and we crouched against the black gum caking the building.

  Tahoe and I set down our load.

  “Dragon in sight,” Facehopper said.

  I checked the map. The blue dots indicated that Dragon platoon resided across the street in an alleyway, but I didn’t actually see any of them with my own eyes.

  “TJ, bring the HS3s around and sweep the area,” Chief Bourbonjack said.

  “Bringing HS3s around and sweeping the area,” TJ repeated.

  One of the drones flew past and proceeded down the lane. Across from us, the SK equivalent of an HS3 drone emerged from an alleyway and followed a similar path.

  I zoomed in on my aReal. Yes, now I saw the SK platoon. They were huddled against the black plaster in the alleyway opposite ours. Their jumpsuits had changed coloration to match the surface, making them difficult to discern.

  I zoomed in closer, and realized the foremost soldiers were kneeling, and had their sniper rifles trained on us.

  Fret had apparently made the same realization as I had, because he said, “Uh, their rifles are aimed at us, you know that, right?”

  “I have them in my scope too, don’t you worry,” Trace said. Peering into his rifle sight, he was crouched on one knee near the edge of our alley.

  “As do I,” Ghost said.

  I lifted my own sniper rifle, and positioned myself so that I got a bead on one of the SK snipers. “Me too.”

  The unpleasant memory of my last encounter with a company of SKs surfaced, as I’m sure it did in the minds of my platoon brothers, and the tension in the air becam
e almost palpable.

  It felt like an SK bullet might come in any second and tear right through my scope, into my eye.

  “Who aimed first?” Bender said.

  “They did,” Trace said.

  “It doesn’t matter who aimed first,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “Stand down.”

  Trace and Ghost hesitated, as did I.

  “Stand down,” the Chief repeated. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”

  Still we hesitated. Trace finally lowered his rifle, followed by Ghost and me. I was convinced we were going to be riddled with armor-piercing rounds any second.

  No bullets came.

  I zoomed in on my aReal and watched the SK snipers lower their weapons.

  The tension in the air eased somewhat.

  “That was close,” Fret said.

  “Stay on your toes, boys,” Chief Bourbonjack said, his voice dark. “It’s not over yet.”

  “HS3s report all clear,” TJ said. “Other than Dragon, we’re all alone out here.”

  Chief Bourbonjack nodded. “Initiate stage two.”

  “Initiating stage two. Deploying HS3s for High-Value Target sweep.”

  I watched the green dots of the drones fan out across the HUD map. The SKs presumably had their own HS3 drones sweeping the area, but none of theirs showed up on the map.

  The HS3s started winking out as they traveled beyond the reduced signal range imposed by the EM interference of the alien race. Even so, I knew the drones would continue to fly down the streets, searching for the signature of our target: the possessed SK Artificial.

  All Artificials and robots contained a built-in wireless adhoc network node and a unique MAC address associated with that node. Because of the aforementioned interference, the already weak range of the node would be reduced to around thirty meters. So, assuming the Artificial hadn’t turned off its network node, and hadn’t spoofed the address to create a decoy, eventually the HS3s would find a match.

  Eventually was the key word.

  All we could really do now was settle in and wait.

  Our specialty.

  “Feels almost like we should cross the street and introduce ourselves to the SKs or something,” Bomb said.

  We wouldn’t, of course. According to the briefing, our platoons were to provide bounding overwatch for one another. We would remain separate the entire mission, even once the High-Value Target was captured.

  “Bounding overwatch,” Bomb muttered, obviously thinking about the mission, too. “You think they even know what that is?”

  “Of course they do,” Lui said. “Just because they’re Sino-Korean doesn’t mean they don’t grasp basic small unit tactics. You think it was coincidence they kept trying to overwhelm our flanks during the Geronimo ambush?”

  “Those were crack units,” Bomb said. “They sent their best out to that planet. Wouldn’t you if you planned a mission eight thousand lightyears away? But these guys? Come on.”

  “They’re good enough, don’t you worry,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “The SK brass knew we’d send MOTHs. That means they sent their best, too. The SKs don’t want to look bad. And neither do we, coincidentally. This is an important mission, boys. Don’t go messing it up on account of your mistrust of the SKs.”

  I sat back against the bulbous black rock that encased the building beside me and prepared myself for the long wait.

  Some hours later, a green dot abruptly appeared on my HUD map, to the west.

  Then another.

  A third.

  My platoon brothers stirred.

  “See that?” Trace said.

  The HS3s were returning.

  Red dots started to appear, too, clustered at various points throughout Shangde City: the last known recorded positions of enemy units.

  A flashing blue dot appeared as well, this one inside a warehouse-like building near the center of the city.

  The High-Value Target.

  The entire region around it swarmed with red.

  “Doesn’t look good,” Fret said.

  “Chief,” TJ said. “I’m only reading six HS3s. Looks like we lost the others.”

  The Chief nodded slowly. Then he glanced at me and said, “Rage, Cyclone: prepare the package for jetpack portage.”

  I slid the nylon cord from my shoulder and secured the locking carabiner on one end to my utility belt, then fastened the opposite carabiner to the container’s handle. Tahoe did the same on his side. This way, if either one of us dropped the container while we jetted from building to building, the three-meter-long cord ensured it wouldn’t fall too far. Assuming the cord didn’t drag down whoever had dropped the container, too.

  I exchanged a glance with Tahoe through the two plates of glass that separated us. He looked determined. We were going to port this container through hell if we had to. And with all those red dots swarming the HUD map, it looked like that was precisely what we were about to do.

  “TJ,” Chief Bourbonjack said. “Did we get visual confirmation on the target?”

  “I’m reviewing the vid feed as we speak,” TJ said. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, Chief. The HS3s couldn’t get close enough. All we have to go on is the MAC ID. Which can be spoofed.”

  “Do you think it’s spoofed, TJ? Your gut instinct.”

  “My gut instinct?” TJ tightened his lips. “It’s real. There wouldn’t be so much red around the target, otherwise.”

  The Chief nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Facehopper, take the platoon out.”

  “Got it, Chief.” Facehopper turned toward us. “Bender, compute a trajectory to our target. I want the path with the least amount of horde activity. Mark out overwatch spots for Dragon and Alfa.”

  A few seconds later a blue trajectory appeared on my HUD map. The curving lines passed between the buildings, with flashing overwatch waypoints positioned along the way.

  “Done,” Bender said.

  “Relay the trajectory to Dragon,” Facehopper said. “Ghost, Trace, and Skullcracker, provide moving overwatch of the advance. You choose the hides. We’ll be playing leapfrog with Dragon as we advance, and if possible I want you to cover their positions, too. We meet at Waypoint Chicago, across the street from the warehouse containing the High-Value Target. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Ghost, Trace, and Skullcracker activated their jumpjets and vanished onto the rooftop of the building beside us.

  “Trajectory relayed to Dragon,” TJ said.

  Across the street, the entire platoon of SKs abruptly launched skyward and moved out.

  “What in the hell?” Chief Bourbonjack said. “We were supposed to go first.”

  Dragon platoon crested the rooftop of their own building, then leaped onto the next building. I noticed the latter members among them ported a glass container similar to our own. It seemed they intended to capture the High-Value Target before us. If that happened, we’d be forced to listen to a secondhand, filtered version of the interrogation.

  “Should we provide overwatch, Chief?” Facehopper said.

  Chief Bourbonjack frowned. “They’re still in range of the comms, but they’re not answering. So that’s a negative on the overwatch. I believe we have a race on our hands. We move, and we move now! Take us out!”

  “Understood.” Facehopper turned toward the rest of us. “Follow tight!”

  “Damn SK traitors.” Hijak wore an I-told-you-so expression on his face.

  Facehopper launched skyward, leaping onto the rooftop of the building beside me. One by one, the rest of the platoon followed. Everyone wore extra fuel canisters this mission. It increased our individual weight, but it was necessary if the platoon wanted to stay off the ground and avoid the alien hordes.

  I wrapped my gloved fingers around the handhold on my side of the container, waiting for the oth
ers to complete their jumps. Because of our portage duties, Tahoe and I had the most fuel of anyone on the mission, topping out at five canisters each.

  When everyone else had jumped, I glanced at Tahoe through the glass container. Like me, he was kneeling, with one hand wrapped around the handhold on his side.

  He nodded.

  The two of us leaped, firing our jets in sync.

  Once Tahoe and I reached the rooftop, we proceeded after the platoon, bringing up the rear.

  To conserve fuel, none of my platoon brothers fired their jets continuously. Instead, we used the strength-enhanced jumpsuits to increase the range of each jump. We’d leap off the side or rooftop of a building with the suits, and then let off a quick jumpjet burst, adding to our existing momentum. That small tactic alone tripled the jumpjet range.

  I was the one in charge of calling out the jumping cadence for Tahoe and me. I’d also set up my aReal to transmit a visual cadence to Tahoe, sending a green light the moment I shoved off a building, and a violet light when I fired my jetpack.

  “Contact,” I said as I reached the side of a building.

  “Jump.” I pushed off.

  “Thrust.” I fired a jet burst.

  “Contact,” I said as my boot touched the ledge of the opposite building. “Jump. Thrust.”

  “Contact . . .”

  We had to compensate at times as one or the other of us got out of sync, but it was a simple matter of firing a stabilizing burst. In any case, Tahoe and I easily kept up with the rest of the platoon, and we made good progress toward Waypoint Chicago.

  Motion drew my gaze to the left in midjump. I saw Trace, Ghost, and Skullcracker jetting between rooftops, shadowing us on overwatch. Good men.

  TJ had sent the HS3 drones ahead of us to act as scouts, and according to them, Dragon platoon was still a half klick in the lead.

  I kept to the trajectory Bender had drawn on the HUD map. It was actually a three-dimensional route, which my aReal overlaid onto my vision as a series of blue rectangles, creating a sort of wireframe tunnel for the platoon to follow.

  According to my HUD map, the first horde of enemy units was quickly approaching. I kept glancing at the map, watching those closely packed red dots grow near . . .