*****
“It’s armored,” Hemp said, smiling. He walked to the tool box and grabbed a small sledge hammer.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gem asked.
Hemp ignored her and raised his arm, slamming the six pound sledge into the windshield glass.
Nothing.
“Jesus,” I said. “Airplane glass?”
Hemp nodded. “Exactly. Tested with frozen chickens fired at it at high speed.”
“Fuck off,” I said.
“True. It’s called a Chicken Gun, but it’s really sort of a cannon. Airplanes are only likely to hit birds in flight, so that’s how they test the most vulnerable part, the cockpit windshield.”
“Cool,” Gem said. She took the sledge from Hemp and gave it a try. The windshield shuddered, but sounded with a dull thud and did not give or shatter.
“No guns,” said Gem. “I’m driving the Suburban.”
“I’ll fix that,” Hemp said. “Of course, but I think we’d feel better that of the three vehicles you drive this and take Trina. Nothing can get in or penetrate the car, at all. Period.”
“But you’re gonna mount a nice big gun on it, right?” Gem was serious.
“Well, we’re limited right now on what we can mount because of what we have, but I think we’ve got enough to make you feel safe in this car.”
Hemp walked to a work bench on the east side of the room and carried back what appeared to be a compact machine gun. “AK-47,” he said. “The most widely produced assault rifle in the world. I’ve got a ball bearing mount planned, kind of like a Lazy Susan. This will allow the machine gun to sit directly center above the front cockpit area. It’ll lock firmly into place when in the forward position, and that lines up the magazine for easy replacement. I’ll cut a slot in the roof for the magazine to travel in as it turns. You see? I’ve already figured all this out.”
I watched the expression on Gem’s face. It was awesome to see her so interested in this. “Tell us about the engine, Hemp. Anything special?”
“It’s got all you need under the hood. A 4.6 liter V8 delivering around 240 horsepower. But the door panels are lined with B6 ballistic steel. Plus, there’s B4 steel on the roof, which will make it harder for me to –”
“But how do I fire the AK, and how do I know I’m aimed at what I want to kill?” Gem was back to the gun. One track mind.
“Really? You don’t think I’ve thought this through? How long have we known one another?” Hemp laughed.
Gem looked at her watch. “About 20 hours,” she said. “Okay, go on.”
“Alright. I’ve wired up a video sight that I’ll mount to the gun. It’s basically a camera. We’ll essentially have an A/B switch on the dashboard here, and when you hit B, the GPS monitor screen will turn into your gun sight. This gun, on the ball bearing ring mount, will spin all the way around and stay stable in any position.”
“And I fire it how?”
“You pull a handle. Just like an old time toilet flush or calling the porter on the Orient Express.”
“And this will be completed when?”
Hemp stuck a mask on his head and picked up the cutting torch and clipped it to his belt. With both hands, he hefted a circular steel plate about fifteen inches in diameter from the bench and climbed up on top of the car, walking on his knees up the hood, not leaving even the slightest impressions in the heavy duty exterior. He rested his steel plate in the center of the forward cockpit roof and used his striker to light the torch. Lowering his face shield, he said, “Believe it or not, a little more than half an hour.”
He started to cut with a shower of sparks.
Dead Hunger: The Flex Sheridan Chronicle Page 32
