Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle - eARC Page 8

  The others did so, stripping out of their coveralls as John removed the poncho; it stank of alcohol, and he could see Bear looking forlorn at the hint of a drink. Each member of the team was outfitted identically, with much the same equipment that John had used on the previous mission. Bear was the exception, due to his mechanical body; he still had a load-bearing vest carrying everything he needed, strapped around his shoulders and waist. He also had rubber slip-on caps for his feet, so that he wouldn’t make any noise while walking.

  “You have five minutes till the next cop car, ten before the rent-a-cop on the next warehouse makes his rounds, there’s nothing on the scanners and no alarms went out.” That was Vickie, working her electronic wizardry.

  “Roger. Let’s move it.”

  “Remember if you need magic, I have to have contact with something natural. Wood, dirt, anything but metal and plastic. That means your bare skin on it. Brick will do. Concrete is iffy.”

  “Gotcha, Sammy. We’ll letcha know when to twitch yer nose.”

  “If you think you’re a wit, you’re half right.”

  Mamona was studying the door, casually, but professionally. “Ah think Ah can handle this, ya’all.” Mamona was an Atlanta street kid, and had a variety of useful skills besides her meta-human abilities.

  “Can the chatter and do it, comrade.” John was starting to like this new gal’s spirit, but he had a job to focus on. Still, he recalled that even when he last did things like this professionally, the best of the best horsed around constantly. It reminded him of a story a friend had told him about two artillery teams. One was completely by the book and clean-cut, and the other was full of jackasses. The two teams decided to have a competition to square away in preparation for a fire mission. The clean-cut team did everything right, but the goofs did everything better, and faster. And had time to throw rocks, half-naked, at what they described as a “lizard-thing.”

  Mamona bent down next to the lock, pulling a lock pick kit from a pouch on her vest. It contained several dozen different picks, jimmies, and other assorted instruments that John couldn’t immediately identify. Even with her apparent skill and impressive tools, it took her several minutes to crack the lock; Vickie had given John updated timetables for the police cruiser and security guard that were due on the scene as per their schedules.

  “Dammit. OK JM. I’m gonna have to make a diversion. Everybody, get flat. I don’t want any shadows in that doorway.” She repeated it in Russian. “Vse ujditeiz polia zrenia. Mne ne nuzhny teni v prohode.” John went prone after a moment’s hesitation; he didn’t like being given vague instructions, but he knew enough that complying was in his best interest.

  “OK you look good on the camera. Count of five. Piat’…chetyre…tre…dva…e…” An alarm went off down the street, if John was any judge, about three city blocks down the street. “That was me. Wait for the cops to get past you.” A police cruiser, as if on cue, came around the corner of the street at that moment, followed shortly by another. Both had their roof lights on, and completely bypassed the team as they sped towards Vickie’s distraction.

  “We clear, Vic?”

  “One sec.…OK. The guard’s gone to see what’s up too.”

  John switched over to a private comm line to Vickie. “Just gimme a little more heads-up, if’n ya can.” He didn’t wait for a response, clicking back over to the team channel as they waited for the all-clear.

  “OK. The cops are inside making an eyeball check of the warehouse, and I fried a circuit in there to account for the false alarm. The guard’s back on his rounds but he skipped your side of the building to make up for the time he spent rubbernecking. Go.”

  “Roger. Mamona, wrap it up. We’re still on the clock.” The team recovered from their prone positions, watching all the areas of approach while Mamona went back to her job.

  “Good work takes time, ya’all.” As an Atlanta native, her accent was deeper and more pronounced than John’s. Some of the Russians had trouble understanding her. Sooner than John expected, she gave a gasp of surprise, and the door gave an even quieter click. “We’re in.”

  “Alright, stack up, and let’s do this.” The team formed two separate lines on opposite sides outside of the door. Each member of the team was equipped with a AKSU-74, so they could share ammunition magazines if necessary; it was a favorite of Spetsnaz teams, especially with the affixed sound suppressors that John’s team had the good fortune to be issued. Pavel was the odd man out, with his ever-trusty PPSh-41.

  Mamona was the only one without a gun; not that she objected, but she hadn’t been trained on the AKSU yet. It was something that bothered John, but he had his orders, and there wasn’t anything to do about it now. She had knives that she clearly knew how to use, and use well, and she had her powers. John was reminded of a quote from Star Wars, as well as an old axiom about knives and gunfights. He shook his head to clear it and focus on the task. John was on point for himself and Mamona, while Unter was in front of Bear. John took what looked like a dentist’s mirror to peer under the door, and quickly assessed that there were no immediate threats or traps of any sort. With a quick nod, he pulled the door open. Unter and Bear both button-hooked through the door, while John and Mamona did so simultaneously. John’s job was to clear the right-most corner of the room; it was a reception office, and was completely empty. Once the entire team was inside and had made sure there were no enemies, they closed the door behind them, and regrouped for the next door. This one would take them inside of the warehouse proper, if Vickie’s building plans were correct.

  “You sure you’re right on the money for this, Vic?”

  “No guarantees, but there was a fire inspection a month ago. Mandated after the invasion. No one wants people trapped in buildings under fire with chained exits and rooms you can’t get out of.”

  “Roger. Stack up.” The door here was smaller than the one to the street, so the entire team had to line up on one side. “Status?” Everyone on the team signaled, “Up,” which indicated their weapons were loaded and their gear was checked. Unter took the lead this time, opening the door. The rest of the team flooded in, crouching to stay low while keeping their weapons trained in front of them for any potential targets. John was the last person through the door this time, and what he saw almost literally took his breath away. We should’ve brought more guns.

  “Uh. I think you need a bigger boat,” Vickie said quietly as her “eyes” on John took in what he was seeing. The warehouse couldn’t have been bigger than the plans said, but what filled it made it look much more massive somehow. The armored suits. Hundreds, maybe a thousand of them, standing in ordered ranks, waiting for bodies to fill them. They gleamed with a soft sheen under the dim lights. There were terminals that John immediately recognized as being of Thulian origin. The screens were an eye-burning yellow, the lettering red, the keyboards had never been meant for human hands; they were too broad and had too many keys, and they were kidney-shaped. You’d think that an advanced alien race would have more ergonomic tech. There were dozens of technicians and workers standing around; several resembled the Thulian soldiers John had fought in person recently, while others looked as human as could be. John noted that, filing it away in the back of his mind.

  John triggered his throat mic. “We’re here for a sneak and peak. Let’s snatch some more intel, then scoot the hell outta this joint.”

  Unter’s eyes burned with hatred. “We can take them.”

  “Da, but that ain’t what we’re here for tonight. We don’t have enough personnel, and sure as shit not enough ammo. We figure out what’s goin’ on here, and then we’ll burn the joint down tomorrow night.” He looked to each team member in turn. “Alright, stick together, and keep quiet.”

  “No way they can empty all that shit out overnight, people,” Vickie didn’t have to whisper, but she was doing so anyway. It was a funny habit that John had noticed about tense situations. The team crept forward, using shipping crates, weird metal containers,
and even armored suits for concealment. The Thulians continued going on about their business; it looked like they were preparing several of the Nazi suits for transport in the Delex truck that the CCCP’ers had spotted earlier.

  “This looks to beink major catheter of transport for the faschista, comrades.”

  Mamona piped up. “Pavel, where’d ya’all say you learned English again?”

  “Watching Ricky Lake and E.R, of course. Is not where all Americans learn?”

  “Could be worse,” Vickie said on JM’s private channel. “Coulda been Springer.”

  John could almost feel Unter’s mental face-palm.

  A new voice came in on the channel. “Comrade Murdock,” Red Saviour said crisply. “Please to be remembering your orders. Once intel is secure, I will to be organizing proper immolation party.”

  “We’re on it.” The team crept forward, keeping adequate spacing between each member. “Our goal is the foreman’s office, in the SW corner of the building. We get in there, snag anything of importance, and then get the hell out.” John absorbed as much about his surroundings as he could in as little time as he could manage. The big thing was to make sure he had his area of responsibility covered; with Vickie looking through her set of “eyes” on him, there was an ongoing recording, and anything he missed, she should catch, or would get later when the home team looked through the record. The lighting was dim, orange sodium bulbs that always seemed to make the shadows look deeper. The Thulians moving through the warehouse looked almost androgynous and identical, lemmings following one another and going through the same mechanical routine.

  Mamona was sweeping her eyes over her sector when she caught the guard; a roving sentry on an upper catwalk that was sneaking a cigarette in a corner, away from the prying eyes of his superiors, she guessed. He spotted the team of CCCP’ers in the middle of taking a drag on his smoke; the burning coal reflected from the lenses of the odd goggles he was wearing, lighting them up like a crazed devil’s pupils. He was just about to exhale when Mamona flipped one of her blades over, paused for a moment to gauge the distance, and threw the knife.

  Sailing end over end, the blade connected with the Thulian guard, catching him in the throat. John’s altered hearing heard the man’s dying gurgle, and he immediately centered his rifle at the source of the noise. Another few milliseconds to assess the threat, and John pulled the trigger twice; two suppressed rounds from his AKSU-74 hit the guard’s head. As if in slow motion, John noticed that the guard already had a weapon draw from a hip holster; the gun looked like something fresh from a Commando Cody; Sky Marshal of the Universe episode. A reflex action moments before John had fired, the gun was pointed towards the ceiling, and fired. It didn’t have much of a sound signature; kind of like a bug zapper with the volume turned down. What was very obvious, however, was the bright blue-white glow it gave off, lighting up that entire corner of the warehouse. All of their damned weapons fire that blue ray-gun crap.

  The muzzle blast and light from the weapon’s beam perfectly and unfortunately outlined the team. The Thulians scattered throughout the warehouse all immediately turned to see what the disturbance was.

  “Soldat! Was machts du?” came a barked query.

  Untermensch was the first to orient himself and fire at the Thulian that had spoken. The alien crumpled as the bullets struck him. The team dispersed and took cover behind crates and boxes; it seemed as if everyone was shooting almost immediately. The suppressed rifles cracked the air like some sort of maniacal sewing machine, while the Thulians’ weapons fizzled and burned through the air. Wherever the blue beams impacted, the impact-area melted, splattering gobs of concrete and metal in all directions. John barked into his comm, “Vic, we’ve got trouble! Any help?”

  “I”m gonna send a big surge through their electrics.” Saviour was repeating what Vic said a second later in Russian. “I sobirajus’ poslat’ moshnij impul’s cherez ih elektroprovodku.”

  “Get the snoopers on. Flash first. Watch out for falling glass. On Three. Two. One…” Every light bulb in the warehouse exploded in a shower of sparks at that moment; more of Vickie’s techno-wizardry at play, whether legitimate magic or just her awesome hacking abilities, John didn’t know. The team already had their NVGs mounted, and it only took a few precious seconds to fix them over their eyes and turn the monocles on. The warehouse was lit up by the infra-red lights that the NVGs used in total dark situations; the blue-white beams from the Nazi guns came out the characteristic night-vision green, scintillating across the team’s vision. The sparks, ray-gun fire, and muzzle flashes from the rifles all played merry-hell with John’s goggles, so he turned the light gain down with his off hand, still firing. Some of the Thulians were climbing into the armored suits, powering them up to help fight off the interlopers.

  “Don’t let them get in the suits! You guys don’t have armor piercing rounds!”

  “Stay tight, and pick your shots! Get anyone going for a suit!” John gritted his teeth as he expended the last rounds in his weapon’s magazine. “Mag change!” He hit the magazine release, his free hand already prying a fresh ammunition magazine from his LCH and slamming it home into the magazine well. He charged the rifle’s bolt, and began firing again.

  “Frag out!” It sounded like either Unter or Bear; the team hunkered down slightly, still firing, when a tremendous explosion went off several meters to John’s right. It was still close enough to rattle his teeth in his skull. John could make out several Thulians scream while the shrapnel and debris settled. That’s gonna get some attention. The police officers were only a few blocks away; even if they hadn’t heard the explosion, someone nearby might call it in.

  The team was pinned down, facing far too many Thulians for his own taste. If any of them were able to get into their monstrous suits, the cover that John and his comrades were hiding behind would quickly turn into only so much easily destroyed concealment. Cops would be here soon, maybe even that one security guard; more people that would be caught in the crossfire and probably killed. Probably? He’d seen with his own eyes how cops with sidearms fared against those suits. They might as well be kids armed with water-guns.

  Mamona was keeping low behind cover, making herself as small as possible. Since she didn’t have a firearm or training with one—a fact that John was seriously regretting at the moment—she was focusing her energies elsewhere. She was using her meta-human powers to disrupt the aim of as many Thulians as possible. It was working, but only barely; even with the team taking down the Thulians at a fair rate, there were just too many of them for her to keep tabs on. Eventually, she was going to lose it, and one of them would connect with a shot on someone in the team.

  John was thinking at a mile a minute. He knew how this was going to end unless the team could withdraw; they wouldn’t be able to fight their way out and concentrate on the Thulians going for suits, though. They were surrounded and outgunned.

  At that moment, he felt something horrible well up inside of him, engulfing him in a maelstrom of pain and memory. Frozen solid, he stopped firing and—almost unthinkably, given that he was trained to the point of instinct and muscle memory—dropped his rifle. His entire body started to spasm. Visions of jungle canopy, muzzle flashes through night vision, friends and comrades gunned down and left bleeding flashed through his mind and took the place of the warehouse around him until that was all there was, all there ever had been, all there ever would be…

  John screamed uncontrollably; it wasn’t out of fear or anger, but a guilt so fierce it was eating him alive. The weapons fire from both sides slackened momentarily at the almost inhuman sound coming from him.

  Dimly he heard a voice that used to be familiar screaming in his ear. “Lozshites’ na zeml’u e ukroites’! Bistro! DROP AND COVER! NOW!”

  There was one, tiny, sane little bit of his mind left—just enough to register that the concrete floor suddenly erupted all around his friends, that shields of earth and broken cement mounded above every member of the
CCCP team except for him with a roar like a Richter 8 earthquake, and the ground around him shook, knocking some of the nearest Thulians off their feet.

  John threw his arms out wide, his back arched and half-standing. He was exposed to the Thulians, and still screaming when it happened. A low boom sounded throughout the warehouse as a giant pulse of plasma exploded outwards from where John stood. Everything near him was bathed in flame, waves of fire splashing over everything. Metal, even the Thulian alloys in the suits and equipment, turned red and white hot in an instant, exploding from the sudden temperature change. Boxes were blown apart, and concrete split open. The Thulians were incinerated almost immediately, not even conscious long enough to feel pain; several had their silhouettes burned into the brick behind them at the first blast of the firestorm.

  John shook, screaming and crying, as pulses of fire raced away from his body. Then, as suddenly as it had erupted, the fires ended, and with them, his strength, He dropped to the floor, panting, for a moment lost in confusion. Where was he? What—

  Behind and around him, mounds of smoking, blackened—and in some places, vitrified—earth erupted up again, freeing his comrades from their improvised shelters. Unter was the first to leap out. “Nasrat!” he spat. It seemed like the entire warehouse was on fire; the entire place looked like something out of a Baptist minister’s brimstone sermon with the few Thulian suits still standing passing for demons.

  The world of the real flooded back to him. He was here again. “Finish the job,” came John’s shaky reply.