Hell Divers Series | Book 8 | King of the Wastes

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  Michael and his team were doing what they could to prepare for the next one.

  Pulling Cricket 2.0 from his pack, he ran a patch cord from the handheld computer to the satellite dish to run a diagnostic.

  After defeating the machines at Mount Kilimanjaro a year ago, Michael had trekked back out and salvaged the hard drive. He was still reprogramming it, but Cricket 2.0 already had a variety of functions that included in-depth environmental scans as well as communication with the drones deployed outside the barrier between light and dark.

  The drones from the ITC Ranger helped them monitor the storms from a distance, giving them more lead time to get the crops covered and buildings battened down and the growing fleet of ships and small craft out of harm’s way.

  A chirp sounded, and data rolled across Cricket’s screen.

  Michael bumped on the comm and opened a line to Pedro, who oversaw monitoring the drones and assembling the data.

  “Pedro, do you copy?”

  “Sim, copy, Chief. Satellite is online and we are get uplinks.”

  “Excellent. I’m on my way.”

  Michael started down the ladder, pausing to brace himself against a gust of wind.

  Halfway down, a voice called up. But this wasn’t Pedro; it was Michael’s deputy chief engineer, Alfred.

  Michael hurried down the last rungs of the radio tower and hopped off to the deck. “What?” he asked.

  “You better come see this, Chief,” Alfred said.

  They ran across the middle platform to a hatch that opened onto the command room. Inside, Pedro was leaning over three monitors. The soothing voice of AI Timothy Pepper resonated through the room, explaining something about “miles per hour,” “millibars,” and a “storm vortex.”

  Pedro turned and swung an unruly dreadlock back over his shoulder.

  “Chief,” he said with a nod.

  “What’ve we got?” Michael went to the monitors.

  A 3-D image of Timothy rose above the holopod. He had altered his projected image and shaved his tidy beard, exposing dimples no one knew he had. His salt-and-pepper hair had grown out into tightly curled strands.

  “Greetings, Chief,” he said. “I was briefing Pedro about the data we just received from a drone two hundred miles to the east.”

  Michael leaned down over the monitor depicting a swirling mass.

  “The storm front currently has up to sixty-five-mile-per-hour winds with heavy rain,” Timothy said. “We need to monitor it longer to see if it is growing stronger or weakening. For now, it appears the trajectory will miss the Vanguard Islands by fifty miles.”

  “If it changes course, we could have a problem,” Alfred said.

  “I will keep eye on it,” Pedro said.

  “Let me know if it changes even a little bit,” Michael said.

  “Entendido, Chief.”

  “There is some good news,” Timothy said with a smile. “Engineering crew four just finished the solar panel installation at the trading post rig.”

  “Finally,” Michael said.

  “Want to go check it out?” Alfred asked.

  Michael nodded.

  The two men hurried down the decks, passing a score of technicians and engineers who now reported to Michael. He knew them all by name, even the Cazadores who didn’t speak English. It was a huge change going from hell diving to this, but he enjoyed the job and it allowed him to spend more time with Layla and Bray instead of risking his life in the sky.

  He missed the comradeship and sense of saving humanity, but he was still protecting his people, just in a different way.

  At the marina, Michael and Alfred untethered his speedboat, an enclosed armored warcraft that had once belonged to el Pulpo. Piloting it used to bring up dark memories, but Michael had slowly buried that past. Happily, so had the Cazadores.

  There was still anger and grief from those who had lost loved ones in the fighting, but defeating the machines and the skinwalkers had helped most of them bury the hatchet. As X often said, the future of humanity would depend on everyone standing together.

  Michael fired up the two 400-horsepower engines. Grabbing the throttle, he eased the boat into reverse and backed away into the teal-green water.

  “Did you ever think we would make it to somewhere like this?” Alfred asked.

  “I dreamed of it as a kid but never thought I would see it in my lifetime.”

  “Me neither, Chief. Me neither.”

  Michael smiled at his friend and deputy. They had worked together for a year, but Alfred’s time as a technician and engineer went back far beyond that. Years ago, he had replaced Ty, the former Hell Diver technician who had served Team Raptor with honor. And like Ty, Alfred served with competence, creativity, and a work ethic that never let up.

  Both Michael and Alfred were tech geeks, but they had bonded over more than that after Bray was born. Alfred was also a dad with a two-year-old son, and he had been a font of timely advice that helped get Michael through the long sleep-deprived nights.

  Alfred also helped at work, especially during the first month, often taking on more of the load so Michael could give Layla a break at home.

  It was time to give Alfred a little something back.

  “After this, why don’t you call it a day,” Michael said.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll finish up work and then head home.”

  “You sure, Chief? I’m happy to—”

  “Real sure.”

  After docking the boat, Michael and Alfred went into a new single-story warehouse building with windows in the walls and solar panels on the corrugated metal roof.

  “What do you think, Chief Everhart?”

  A man with green sunglasses propped up on his bald head walked toward them. He wore a tool belt with half a dozen different hammers and hatchets dangling from its loops. He massaged his thick white goatee.

  “Looks good,” Michael replied.

  He walked over to Steve Schwarzer, one of the leading technicians at the islands. Also the top bladesmith, Steve had designed and made weapons for the past fifty years, starting when he was only twenty, after an injury as a Cazador soldier had left him blind in one eye and with two broken legs.

  Though twice Michael’s age, the man seemed to respect Michael. They had something in common other than their engineering backgrounds. Like Michael, Steve wasn’t a Cazador but rather a former prisoner, stolen out of a bunker as a child and raised in the Cazador society.

  “The panels are installed and hooked up,” Steve said.

  Alfred walked up to the entrance to examine the work. But Michael wasn’t looking at the solar panels. He was looking at the sign mounted over the door.

  The Hive.

  It was the same steel sign that once hung in the airship.

  “I cleaned her up and installed it since you guys decided to name the school after the ship,” Steve said. “Thought it was a nice touch.”

  “It is,” Michael said. “Very nice.”

  “Good. Say, I’ve got another project I need to get to for King Xavier, but let me know if you need anything else today, Chief.”

  Michael nodded and watched the bladesmith hurry off. He could only imagine what type of project X had cooking with Steve.

  “I’ll finish up here,” Michael said. “Go home to Tammy and Leonard.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  Michael opened the doors and walked into the school. There were twenty classrooms for the 610 kids, and Layla was teaching in one of them. Michael headed straight for her door.

  It was ajar, and he stopped outside, out of view. Folding his robotic arm with the real one, he listened to the friendly, engaging voice of his wife.

  “During the early days of what would become the United States, horses were domesticated animals often used to ha
ul goods or as transportation,” she said. “In those days, over nine hundred different native tribes lived all across North America.”

  Michael listened to the story he had heard as a kid, about how the colonizers of the country uprooted the people who were already there, killing many of them and placing survivors on reservations.

  That same social evil could have happened here at the Vanguard Islands if not for X’s determination to make everyone equal. Someone like Captain Leon Jordan wouldn’t have done things quite the same way. He would have exiled the Cazadores or killed them outright after defeating them and taking the throne.

  And that is how humanity was almost wiped out, Michael thought. By men like Leon Jordan and el Pulpo.

  Stepping up to the door, Michael studied the kids inside the room. They ranged in age from seven to ten. He knew them all by name, though only a few of them personally.

  Alton was there, the boy from Tanzania who Michael had discovered when diving into the machines’ camp. He would never forget the kid’s filthy, haggard face and wild eyes. Now those eyes were bright and focused on a picture of a horse that Layla showed the class.

  It was interesting to think about what each of these kids would become as they got older. Engineers, some of them. And doctors, sailors, electricians, soldiers . . .

  Their future wasn’t guaranteed, but they all had the opportunity to become something at the Vanguard Islands. A chance to grow up in peace, without having to worry about their next meal or the fateful lightning strike that would send their airship crashing to the surface. And they didn’t have to steel themselves against the possibility of their parent dying on a raid in the wastes.

  Layla saw Michael and smiled. “Looks like we have a visitor,” she said.

  The class all turned as Michael stepped inside the room.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said. “Just came by to say hi.”

  “Is this your husband?” asked a girl.

  “Yes, this is Michael, a former Hell Diver and now our chief engineer,” Layla said.

  “He saved us,” Alton said. “I’ll never forget that day.”

  “Neither will I,” Michael said.

  He moved down the aisle of desks, looking at the animal drawings each kid had made. Some of them were just stick figures, but he could tell they were horses.

  “You ever seen one in the wastes?” asked a young boy.

  “Me?” Michael asked. “No, horses are extinct, I’m afraid.”

  “What about mutated horses?” Alton asked.

  “Not sure there are any of those, either,” Michael said.

  “Of course there aren’t,” Layla said.

  “Right.”

  A knock came from the back of the room.

  Alfred stood in the doorway. “Can I see you a minute, Chief?”

  Michael nodded and turned back to Layla.

  “I’ll see you and Bray at dinner,” he said.

  Layla held his gaze, clearly concerned. Michael joined Alfred outside the building. Pedro was there. That was all he needed to see to know what this was about.

  “The storm?” Michael asked.

  Pedro handed him an electronic tablet displaying images of the storm pattern.

  “The first drone’s storm trajectory was errada . . . wrong,” he said. “We will be going to get hit.”

  “How long do we have?” Michael asked.

  “Aproximadamente two days, maybe less.”

  Alfred sighed. “So much for some time off. How do you want to handle this?”

  “Scramble everyone—all hands—and meet me at HQ.”

  “What about the alarms?”

  Michael thought about it for a moment.

  “Don’t sound them yet,” he said. “I need to talk to King Xavier first. He’ll know what to do.”

  * * * * *

  Lightning arced across the horizon, its long-delayed rumble almost too distant to hear.

  It was the music of the season, a season of storms—and a foreshadowing of what was to come.

  X sat in his study, reading over the log, now translated, that Ada had discovered on Aruba a month ago. Under the table sat a wooden crate that contained black armor, a helmet, and a beautiful sword inlaid with a golden trident, also found on that raid.

  Only General Forge and Sergeant Slayer knew what the logs said, and until X could figure out a plan, he was keeping it a secret.

  Our journey to find the Coral Castle failed, and now we must return to inform my father. He must accept that the Metal Islands are doomed unless he sacrifices the weak for the survival of the strong. But I fear that my father, like many of my comrades, won’t forfeit the lives of his family for the benefit of the Metal Islands. If he fails to act, I will.

  X turned to the second entry.

  Today my fear was realized. Half my crew turned on me in light of my plan. I now clothe myself in the hides of these men. The Metal Islands are doomed unless we reduce our numbers, and soon I will deliver that message to my father. He must take the action to save our people, or his reign has come to an end . . .

  The log revealed why el Pulpo and his bastard son had gone to war: over a mythical underwater city called the Coral Castle. X still didn’t know where they had come up with this idea, but he was going to meet with Imulah soon to find out.

  Coral Castle or no Coral Castle, el Pulpo and his son had fought for the same reason that humans had always fought: land—in this case, the only habitable real estate with sunshine anywhere on the planet.

  It was a tough bite to chew, but now X understood what had motivated el Pulpo and his Cazadores on their raiding missions.

  They didn’t trap Sirens and human survivors for conquest—they did it to survive.

  Seeing the steady decline of resources at the Metal Islands during his reign, el Pulpo was forced to travel farther and farther for supplies and food to prevent starvation and the total collapse of the islands.

  Even after destroying the machines and killing the Cazador warlords el Pulpo and Horn, the Vanguard Islands were not living up to their name—especially now, with the rigs damaged and supplies dwindling.

  Time was again running out, and X knew he needed to make a decision before it was too late—a decision that would once again send men and women into the wastes to die. It was time to finally tell Michael and his other confidants the truth.

  A rap came on his door. X took off his reading glasses and stood as Victor entered.

  “Sir, the bladesmith has finished his work and is in the garden,” he said.

  “Excellent,” X said.

  Miles followed X out of the room as Ton and Victor led the way to the rooftop of the capitol tower. The two former slaves, freed by the sky people, each carried a spear and a slung rifle. They seemed relaxed, but their eyes never stopped moving.

  At the orange trees, a man knelt in front of the wooden statue that Rodger had made a year ago. The spot marked the grave containing the remains of the Hell Diver they had found aboard the ITC Ranger.

  X cleared his throat, and Steve Schwarzer, the master weaponsmith, stood up. The old craftsman took the green sunglasses off the top of his head, which gleamed like a melon in the thin moonlight. He tucked the shades into his shirt and held up the restored armor X had commissioned.

  “Banged it out the best I could, sir,” Steve said.

  X picked up the chest rig, ran his fingers around the empty cavity where a battery had once powered the suit. Most of the rust was buffed out, and the armor shone almost like new.

  “Excellent work,” X said. “I’ll put this to good use and let this diver rest in peace here.”

  They still didn’t know the diver’s name—only that he had served on Ares, which meant Commander Rick Weaver would likely have known him.

  But like this man, Weaver was long since dead, h
is memory lost like the souls of billions.

  X never worried about people forgetting his name. It meant nothing to him. But he knew that the concept of legacy had once driven men mad in the Old World. Leaders who would do anything to solidify their place in history, even if it meant going to war.

  “I can fix that, too, if you want,” Steve said, glancing at X’s prosthetic arm. “Could make something similar to the spear blade you wore.”

  “That blade served its purpose,” X said, referring to General Rhino’s spear, now back where it should be, at his statue.

  “Let me know if you change your mind. I’d have great fun making something for you that could come in handy for all kinds of situations.”

  “I might just take you up on that. Thanks.”

  Steve bent down to pat Miles. The dog wagged his tail and licked his callused hand.

  X had many ways to judge a man’s character, and one of them was whether Miles liked them.

  “Thanks again,” X said.

  “Anytime, sir.”

  X took the armor and left the grave with his dog and his guards. They crossed the domed rooftop of the capitol tower to the eastern edge, where a machine gun was nestled between walls of sandbags. In the distance, he could see Vanguard, formerly known as the Hive. The beetle-shaped airship rested on the platform, unmoored and ready to fly.

  To the east, two trawlers bobbed in the water, hauling up nets in the moonlight to keep the market filled with fresh catch. But it wasn’t enough. After the last crop was damaged in the machines’ attack, they were playing catch-up, and the next harvest was still two weeks out.

  X was doing everything he could to keep the last bastion of humanity alive and working even harder to keep the peace. One thing was certain: he wouldn’t be able to keep it if they ran out of food, water, or fuel—the three resources without which peace was unattainable.

  Ton and Victor followed X across the tower and into a stairwell.

  At the top landing, Miles started carefully down the stairs, as if he couldn’t see them well. Each step showed his age. The dog’s vision was going, and his hind legs were starting to deteriorate.

  Seeing his decline hurt worse than hitting the ground crosswind on a dive.