Off World- Ragnarok
Page 20
Now they moved west into relatively unknown territory, and ahead of them was the mountain pass that rose up and out of the jungle. The peaks on either side topped out at over ten thousand feet, and the escarpment they rested on fell a thousand feet to the jungle floor. They had old satellite shots that showed the road carved into the side of the cliff, up a steep ascending ramp, and the structures on either side of it. The road, though made of stone and brick, was broken and overgrown, and looked as if nothing had passed that way in a hundred years. What lay beyond it was anyone’s guess, though again, the satellite shots had given them indications of buildings and cities in the dense jungle. The UK base was on the other side of a further mountain range five hundred kilometers away, but that wasn’t their objective.
The scouts’ job was to get close enough to see if there was any activity in the pass. For the hundredth time, Johnson wished for a frigging helicopter, but their aircraft had been destroyed in the war. He also wished for Gina Kelly in a bikini on the beach with a cold beer, but that wasn’t going to happen either.
“TOC, this is Scouts. We’re at Phase line November, over,” said SPC Crane quietly into their radio. He kept it short to keep the wildlife at bay, but even so, Alphan insects started buzzing him. Use a radio, and sure as shit, insects and birds would be all over your ass.
“Roger, Scouts, Charlie Mike, TOC Out,” the radio whispered back. The Tactical Operations Center controlling the movement was based in one of the still mobile trucks, and the Alpha Centauri Military had given up using call signs during the Gvit War. What was the use when they were the only ones with electronic communications? That and the range of the radios was severely limited by solar interference.
“Thank God we don’t have to use the radio to check in every five mikes,” said Johnson. He hated being micro managed.
“Amen to that,” answered Crane. He patted Rocket on the neck, and then pointed. The dog, completely at home on the new planet, having been born there, snaked forward into the brush. Crane followed, then Johnson, who spun on his heels every few meters, watching behind them.
They moved silently through the brush for another three kilometers and were coming close to the where the road started to slope uphill when they came across a clearing. Another ruined road ran at right angles to it, and the brush was lower on either side of it. No way to go around the break; they took notes for their report, describing their find, and prepared to cross.
Rocket would have no problem; he stood a bit lower than the scrubby growth that covered the open area. The two scouts, though, would have to low crawl across to avoid any watching eyes, and it would be tough to do with full packs. Setting out one at a time, each hugged the ground and kept watch as the other moved. They knew silhouetting themselves could possibly invite an arrow or crossbow bolt from some hidden hunter or war party in ambush. As the scouts crawled, they scanned the ground for any signs of intelligent beings.
Halfway across, Rocket suddenly sat on his haunches and whined, then started barking furiously. The words, “What the Fu…” came out of Crane’s mouth, since Rocket was trained to be silent, always. He never got to finish the sentence as a shadow fell across them both, and the rush of wings were heard. An enormous, bat-winged shape landed on the prone soldiers from behind, snatching at both of them, piercing Crane through with its claws.
Johnson, with a better angle, had seen the shadow from the corner of his eye, and he rolled to his left, almost sitting up with the pack on his back forcing is spine straight. Crane screamed a blood-curdling shriek; one talon had pierced his back just above the ceramic plate, and another had gone through his hip.
The winged creature thudded its wings hard on the ground and leapt into the air even as Rocket charged it, barking furiously. Johnson flicked off the safety on his M-4 and fired, a long, sustained burst that emptied his magazine. The small, high velocity rounds seemed to spark off the creature’s scales, but a half dozen shredded its left wing, and the animal crumpled to earth twenty meters away, fully on top of Crane.
Rocket dashed straight at it, barking furiously, and the dragon-like thing hissed back, showing a row of razor-sharp teeth. Then it spit, a long stream of fluid that splattered the ground and started to smoke, even as Johnson finished swapping out magazines, snapping the precious expended one to a D-ring on his harness. He took careful aim this time and fired again, a single shot, placing the red dot right in the roof of the creature’s mouth through its gaping jaws.
The thing screamed and hissed again, seeming to ignore the pain, and lurched forward at Rocket, who dodged away. The motion turned its head sideways, and Johnson started steady, aimed fire, walking forward toward it, going for what he hoped was a soft spot behind its jaw. The first two shots sparked off scales, but the third must have hit something vital, because a gout of black-looking blood erupted from the thing’s nose and mouth. It rolled off Crane, who lay lifeless underneath, and hurled itself toward the tree line, dragging its injured wing, Rocket barking furiously and chasing after the forked tail.
“ROCKET! HEEL! COME!” yelled the sergeant as he raced forward to Crane. He landed on his knees at his partner’s side and immediately saw that it was too late. The specialist, a man who was closer to him than his own brother, whom he’d known since joining the service and been on countless missions with, lay face down, a huge tear in his back. His body had been flattened by the weight of the dragonbird, his pack frame crushed and ribs shattered so that blood and organs leaked out one side in a red mess. The barrel of Crane’s own M-4 was bent, the force of the creature landing on him had been so great. Johnson also tried to ignore what were obviously two bullet holes in his friend’s leg.
“Fuck, Devin. What the fuck!” Johnson sat down and took off his Kevlar helmet, then worked the radio handset out of the crushed pack. Keying the microphone, he got nothing. He then proceeded to pull the cracked radio set out of the pack, telling Rocket to guard. Radio parts were irreplaceable; almost as valuable were the magazines, ammo, and weapons his partner had carried. He assembled all this into a pile and went back to get his own pack.
A red flare followed by a green one, then another red let the other scouts know that he’d been in contact and had casualties, but the danger was over. They met him two hundred meters from the crossroad with the main highway. Johnson had trusted Rocket to warn him of any further danger, though he’d kept an anxious eye on the air overhead and his weapon at the ready. He slowly dragged Crane’s body back on his shelter half, the stiff canvas sliding easily over the broken concrete.
Staff Sergeant Giamatti, the forward deployed Scout section leader, put her arm around Johnson’s shoulder, gave him a quick hug, then lifted the broken pack with the bent rifle and extra ammo, taking the weight off Crane’s body. Her partner, PFC Dowling, took the shelter half and handed Johnson the microphone to her radio. He called in the contact information in a numb voice, then handed the mic back to her.
“Well, here’s as good as anywhere else,” said Johnson when they reached the crossroads. Some kind of weird, alien-looking obelisk, worn smooth by wind and rain, stood at the junction. He unfolded his entrenching tool and started digging. Dowling joined him, while Sergeant Giamatti stood watch. They were just finishing putting the dirt back when the first Stryker reached them, and the suns disappeared in the east, sinking into the distant sea mountains.
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