Into the storms a hell d.., p.2
Into the Storms: A Hell Divers Prequel, page 2
A few minutes later, he returned. “Four units two blocks away,” he said. “We can track them from that structure.”
David pointed across the blasted ground to a three-story building, then led the way after Yosef gave the nod. They took an internal stairwell, clearing each floor to the third level. At the end of a hallway, the squad scrunched down behind a shattered window and looked out through their thermal-imaging binoculars. Below, in a sunken plaza, Santiago spotted two Tritons standing guard around a makeshift metal pod about ten feet tall and four feet wide. Vents in the side emitted a pale blue light. Santiago had seen these in the field before. They were mobile stations used to charge and repair enemy combat machines, often deployed from the sky or from ground vehicles.
Santiago homed his rifle scope in on the sentry in front of the seamless door. The seven-foot-tall android came into focus, a hulking behemoth of lethal design. Each forearm had a mounted Minigun, with ammo belts feeding from a magazine on its back. And was that a flamethrower fuel canister on the shoulders, just above the Minigun belt feed?
As the machine shifted, Santiago’s scope revealed the full horror of the design. The chest was a bizarre melding of machine and something that at least resembled human anatomy. Jagged armor plating covered much of the rib cage, while glowing veins pulsed through cracks in that plating.
A triad of legs ending in a scythe-like spur enabled rapid movement in any direction, and deadly potential in close combat. The humanoid metal skull showed razor edges along the jawline. A triangle of eye sockets burned with a cold blue light. When the face began to turn in their direction, Santiago pulled back.
“Slightly upgraded models,” Nodin confirmed, capturing high-resolution images with his R-8 tactical scanner and documenting the location of the mobile charger unit.
“Brilliant,” Alistair growled. “Take some fancy pics, and let’s get out of here.”
Santiago held security while Nodin continued gathering the intel they needed for command. It wasn’t unusual for the enemy’s CrioX AI to upgrade the machines. Conversely, the JMF’s own AI, Orion, was constantly making improvements to the Defector models that fought the Tritons.
Santiago could see on Nodin’s scanner that these new upgrades concerned mostly the flamethrowers and some heavier armor—nothing that was going to change the course of the war.
In the distance, a shotgun boomed, echoing through the ruins. All eyes in the squad looked east.
“That’s not Triton fire,” Nodin whispered.
“Raven Squad,” Santiago said.
Yosef remained quiet as he turned to look back at the upgraded machines. The two sentries scanned eastward with their glowing eyes but remained at the mobile station. A door slid open in the side, and a third machine emerged, snapping a plate over its chest where it had finished servicing some internal equipment. It strode out, uttering an electronic screech from a tiny rectangular mouth.
The three war machines all moved in sync, scrambling away on their three legs like strange, gigantic insects.
“Say the word, and I’ll light these tin cans up,” Alistair said.
David nodded. “I can take one down before they get too far.”
After another beat, Yosef turned away and shook his head. “We don’t engage until we have eyes on a survivor of Raven Squad. Let’s go.”
He got up from his lookout post behind the shattered window and started back down the stairwell from the building. Nodin led the way outside, hurrying toward the area where they had heard the shotgun blast. Two blocks later, he stopped, holding up his scanner.
“Signal is Raven Squad,” he confirmed.
Yosef flashed hand signals, and Hell Squad fanned out in that direction, preparing to engage the three Tritons and maybe other hostiles as well. Santiago knew the slim odds of their all going home. But they wouldn’t leave a trooper behind, not if they had even a remote chance of saving him.
Nodin led them into a block of buildings reduced to twisted steel and weathered concrete foundations. The Tritons continued their hunt through the ruins, pounding over rubble while flashing scanners over the crushed blocks and warped I-beams, hunting for the survivor from Raven Squad.
David pointed to the second building ahead, where a lone soldier burst through an open doorway, stumbling across open ground with a limp. Behind him, shadows moved—two new Tritons emerging, their metallic forms gleaming in the dim light.
The soldier dove into an opening in the rubble, crawling away as the Tritons closed in, the little pilot flames on their flamethrowers glowing blue.
“He’s about to get baked if we don’t do something,” David said.
Yosef lowered his binoculars and said, “Nodin, call in evac with our position. Then we engage. Alistair, David, you take down the three hostiles moving. Santiago, Nodin, with me. We’ll focus on those two coming up behind that trooper.”
Heart thrumming, Santiago stilled his mind for combat. Alistair and David picked out their targets as Yosef waited.
“Now,” he said.
Alistair unleashed a barrage from his machine gun, the heavy rounds dinging the Tritons’ armor and drawing their attention. David aimed and fired a precise shot to the skull of a machine. It staggered. He fired a second shot, and one of the glowing eye sockets exploded with sparks. The machine crashed to the ground.
“One down,” David confirmed.
“Go, go, go!” Yosef said. He hurdled a concrete slab, and they sprinted across the open ground, toward the hole beneath the building where the survivor had taken refuge. The two Tritons closed in on their fleeing quarry, and Santiago plucked an EMP grenade off his vest—just as one of those Tritons pointed a Minigun-mounted forearm at Nodin.
“Down!” Santiago shouted.
He tossed the grenade at the machine. A blue flash exploded as the killer robot fired. Tracer rounds flashed across the street, strafing the concrete barrier that Nodin crouched behind. Then, abruptly, the barrels flitted up, blasting into the sky.
Yosef aimed at the disabled machine, firing a burst of armor-piercing rounds into the metal skull. The second machine clambered out, allowing Santiago to rush into the building from the side and flank it. He tossed another EMP grenade, which stuck to the back of the machine. It jerked spastically but then whirled in his direction, launching a jet of fire from its mounted flamethrower. It narrowly missed him as he dove away. The whine of a Minigun warned him to get down just as a blizzard of tracer fire streaked over his head.
A shotgun boomed. One shot, then two, three, and a fourth.
The Minigun went wild, firing rounds into the roof and knocking debris down over Santiago. He pushed up and fired a burst at the Triton still standing, throwing off its aim. Then he unloaded his magazine at close range into the torso of the machine until the legs gave out and it slumped to the concrete in a poof of dust.
As the three blue eyes winked out, Santiago turned toward the stranger—a trooper holding a tactical shotgun. His cracked helmet visor revealed dark skin and short-cropped black hair caked with mud and blood.
“Private Cecil Pepper, Raven Squad,” he gasped. “They’re coming . . . They’ve upgraded . . .”
“Easy, we’ve got you,” Santiago said.
Nodin and Yosef rushed into the building and helped him pull Cecil up to his feet. A low rumble broke from the sky, and they all glanced up as a Wasp roared out of the clouds. Lights from the descending aircraft swept over the ruined building.
Santiago exhaled his relief and began to help Cecil move out of the unstable structure.
“Wait. Stop,” the trooper protested.
“Easy, brother. We’re getting you out of here,” Nodin said.
David and Alistair showed up inside the ruins of the building, panting. “Still got two more hostiles incoming,” Alistair huffed.
“Get ready to move!” Santiago shouted.
The aircraft lowered overhead with the ramp extended. Inside, a crew chief was setting up a hoist.
“No, wait!” Cecil said, pulling on Santiago.
“You’re safe now,” Santiago started to say. He flinched as a dazzling red light beam flashed into the cargo hold of the Wasp. The crew chief was there, and then, in a blink, half of him vanished.
“Incoming!” Nodin shouted.
More of the cherry-red beams slammed into the Wasp as the pilots tried to pull away. The flashes cut through the armored hull like bullets through a piñata. The entire craft seemed to burn with the same brilliant red.
“Get back!” Yosef yelled. He grabbed Santiago and Cecil, pulling them behind a chunk of concrete as the Wasp sank away in flames. The craft exploded on impact, showering them with debris. When Santiago risked a peek, he saw the silhouettes of machines skittering toward the wreckage. These machines weren’t just upgraded models; they also had upgraded weapons, as Cecil had tried to warn him.
The odds now looked even worse for Hell Squad and their newfound comrade.
“We have to move—fast,” David said, panic in his voice.
“Alistair, suppressing fire!” Yosef ordered.
The machine gun roared over Alistair’s booming voice. “Bloody get some, ya rattletraps!”
“David, keep them off us,” Yosef said.
“You got it,” David said, shouldering his rifle.
“More coming on our right flank!” Nodin warned as Tritons emerged from the ruins to the west. Dozens scrambled over the fractured cladding and brickwork of gutted structures while more charged across the streets.
“There’s too many of them,” Santiago said. “We need to fall back.”
“Son of a bitch,” Yosef said in a rare display of emotion. “Nodin, get us a new extraction point.”
Cecil struggled to his feet, wincing in pain. “There’s an old subway tunnel nearby. We can try to hide in there. That’s where I was headed.”
“Lead on,” Yosef said.
Supporting Cecil between them, Santiago and Yosef moved out the back of the building. According to the map on their HUDs, the subway tunnel was two blocks away.
It might as well have been a mile.
Alistair groaned behind them, and Santiago turned in time to see the big Brit collapse to the ground.
“Covering fire!” Santiago yelled.
He rushed back to Alistair while David fired selected shots. Yosef and Nodin took up position behind a vehicle with Cecil, all three of them firing at the approaching machines.
Santiago slid down beside Alistair to find both legs gone below the knees. The laser had cauterized the wounds, which was the only reason he wasn’t bleeding out like a stuck hog.
“I’m fucked, Sarge,” he groaned. He tried to lift his helmet to look, but Santiago pushed on his chest. “You’re gonna be fine. Stay low.”
“Ah, I’m done. Get out of here. Leave me.” Alistair tried to push Santiago back, but Santiago fought free of his grip. He shouldered his rifle and fired a burst at a machine that rose up on a mound of rubble. Nodin came up to them and grabbed Alistair’s vest, helping Santiago drag him back toward the others.
“We got a massive energy signature above us,” David shouted. “Something really big is coming.”
As if in answer, a deep rumble reverberated from the skies. Santiago helped pull Alistair all the way back to Yosef and Cecil.
“Changing mag!” Yosef yelled.
David popped up to take his place, squeezing off selected shots at the dozens of Tritons scurrying toward them from the east.
The deep thrumming overhead got louder.
Through a break in the clouds, Santiago saw a colossal airship, silhouetted like a celestial body against the dark sky. The immense vessel was bristling with weaponry.
“An ITC ship!” David shouted.
“So they are real,” Nodin said.
Santiago stared in awe at what had until now been only a rumor. Industrial Tech Corporation was the company behind Orion and the Defector war machines. It was also the biggest manufacturer of advanced weapons, vehicles, and aircraft.
This one dwarfed any that Santiago had seen before.
The airborne city, easily three blocks long and a block wide, hovered above the urban ruins. From its belly, hatches opened and metal humanoid figures began dropping down. ITC’s answer to the Tritons—Defector units, but unlike those Santiago had fought with in the past. These, like the enemy machines, were upgraded.
Dozens of the units soared downward, activating retro jets on their backs to slow their descent before impact. Six landed gracefully between Hell Squad and the Tritons, energy weapons blazing.
Santiago leaned down to Alistair, gripping his hand and squeezing. They both watched as the Defectors moved with precision, their sleek forms in stark contrast to the bulkier Tritons.
A message broke over the squad channel. “Hell Squad, this is Valkyrie One. We have you on visual. Stand by for pickup.”
From the massive airship, a smaller craft detached—a sleek black Wasp. It zipped toward them at astonishing speed.
“That’s our ride!” Yosef yelled.
As the ship lowered, a squad of four Defector units landed around Hell Squad, forming a defensive perimeter.
“Protect the human assets,” one of the machines stated in a synthesized voice.
“Never thought I’d be glad to see these silicon soldiers,” Nodin said.
Santiago nodded, partly in shock. Hell Squad was all going home, and the JMF had new weapons and airships that just might end this brutal war.
ONE
Upper Amazon Basin
Border between Venezuela and Brazil
March 1, 2038
Tyron Red swatted a fat fly away from the net covering his face. Lifting the net briefly, he took off his eyeglasses with blue prescription lenses designed specifically for his damaged retinas injured in the war. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow and scanned the lush rainforest terrain. Seeing nothing but a field of blurry green, he put the glasses back on, restoring shape to this landscape of spiny palms and brilliant macaws and immense trees supported by buttress roots taller than a man.
Sunlight filtered through the emerald canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor—a rich mosaic of roots, leaves, and hidden creatures. He breathed in the earthy scents of damp soil and flowers and river. A symphony of sounds resonated through the dense forest, from the croaking roar of howler monkeys to the incessant buzz of insects and the errant calls of unseen birds and frogs.
He hopped over a yard-wide river of ants, careful not to interrupt their foraging mission as he hacked a path through the dense foliage. Sweat dripped down the neck of the moisture-wicking shirt liberally dosed with deet to discourage the myriad ticks and insects of the jungle. Over this, a well-worn utility vest’s many pockets carried the essential tools: a compass; a folded map; a multitool; and the small insulated, breathable containers for his mission here. His wide-brimmed hat draped a fine mesh to protect his dark-skinned face from the persistent biting flies.
Tyron Red was the son of Booker Red, the founder and CEO of Industrial Tech Corporation—the multitrillion-dollar company dominating the global market in robotics, AI processing chips, and military hardware, including the Defector killer machines and the city-size airships being used in the machine war on the Korean Peninsula.
He hadn’t spoken to his father since their falling-out over Booker’s relentless commitment to providing ever-deadlier iterations of Defector units to the United States Joint Military Forces. Tyron had fought in that very war, which continued to rage. Just three months after earning his degree in robotics from MIT, Tyron had deployed with ITC staff to gain real-world experience working with the first generation of Defector machines.
Six months into that deployment, an explosion took his right foot and damaged his retinas. Thanks to ten arduous surgeries, he could see again and walk with a prosthesis, but the scars ran deeper than flesh and bone.
He had left Korea believing that the answer to foreign threats wasn’t machines, especially the Defectors that grew more lethal with each generation. The last he heard, his father had produced a ninth generation, the deadliest yet, using brutal tactics and terror to strike fear into the enemy.
Tyron couldn’t support that. He firmly believed that ITC had a responsibility to help humanity, and while he had once believed that winning the war would do so, he could no longer get behind these new killer robots. He wanted to save lives, not create weapons to destroy them. His father had disagreed.
“We must finish this, Tyron; the fate of the world depends on it,” Booker had said. “Sometimes war is the quickest way to peace.”
That was over two years ago.
As Tyron pushed on through the curtain of dangling aerial roots and stepped over a rotting log with his bionic foot, he had to marvel at the twists and turns of fate that brought him here, two hundred miles from the nearest road, with his best friend, Harvard anthropologist Dan Córdova. They both were in this remote stretch of the upper Amazon to save lives through science.
He could hear Dan twenty meters ahead. The young researcher moved briskly, barely pausing to rest, his excitement evident.
For the past two years, Tyron had traveled the globe, striving to prove—to himself more than anyone—that he was more than just Booker Red’s son. And today, if fortune favored him, he might well make a discovery that could launch his own company. At last he could offer something far more vital than pure soulless technology.
When Dan had first shown him a map, Tyron was skeptical. But Dan had provided compelling evidence from a travel journal that came with the map, both belonging to a young botany grad student named Mick, who had taken one of Dan’s classes at Harvard. Mick had been searching for a natural remedy to cure the cancer that was slowly killing him, and had traveled up this Amazonian tributary during a summer break.
And he had found something remarkable.
The weathered pages of his journal detailed an ancient ruined city hidden deep in the jungle, said to harbor a unique plant that sought out and destroyed the cells of blood cancers. Mick had sketched the little green and purple bromeliad that he had found and whose central leaves he had consumed. Within six months, his cancer had gone into remission. But before Mick could return, he had died in a car accident.
