Earthfall (14 page)

Leona ducked inside the cockpit. “So this is it, huh?”

“The sign says it all, Lieutenant.” Mulligan pointed toward a large, badly peeling sign that read WHITNEY MANUFACTURING, INC.

“Yeah, that does make it pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” Leona leaned forward and looked past Andrews’s head. “That long building there must be the warehouse.”

Andrews nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. Even though the rig carried enough water for them to take the occasional quick shower, he still felt dirty and grimy. “Roger that, we’ll start there. I guess we’ll just crash what’s left of the fence.” He slowed the SCEV and turned toward the sidewalk. The rig jounced slightly as its big tires met the curb, then it smashed right through the fence. Andrews worried briefly about the razor wire slashing open a tire so badly that the self-sealing compound inside it might fail to do its job, but when the tire pressure system didn’t indicate anything even remotely approaching a leak, he allowed himself to relax. He kept his eyes sharp and moved his head on a swivel, scanning the area for anything that could threaten the rig as it rolled across the facility’s cracked, empty parking lot. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mulligan doing the same thing. There was a metallic
click
as the sergeant major relaxed his harness’s shoulder straps and leaned forward, half-turning in his seat to look out the rear of the vehicle. When he leaned back, he caught Andrews’s eye.

“It’s always wise to check the flanks, sir,” he said.

Leona laughed. “You think there’s anyone out here who’s going to try and harm us, Sergeant Major?”

“I have no idea, Lieutenant. But it’s wise to presume there is.”

Leona laughed again, and Andrews nudged her with his elbow.

“This is what Mulligan’s here for,” he told her. “Knock off the pissy attitude, Lee.”

Leona looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. With a blank face, she slipped out of the cockpit and returned to her station. Mulligan shot Andrews a thumbs-up, then went back to his scans.

Andrews brought the vehicle to a halt by the loading docks and pressed the red TRANSMIT switch on the control column. “Five, you copy?”

Laird’s voice came back a moment later, marred slightly by the hiss of static. The air was still full of charged particles, and radio communications would become progressively more unreliable the further away the vehicles were from each other. “Standing by, Four. Over.”

“Yeah, listen Five, we found the complex. We’ll have to enter some structures, so I’m going to bet we’ll lose voice commo for a while. I’ll try and keep you updated every hour. Is that good by you? Over.”

“Roger, Four. Hourly updates are good from our side.”

“Outstanding. I sent you the route we took to get here, did you get a chance to review it?”

“We have it, Four. Both myself and my XO checked it out. Seems simple enough, and the computer tells us we can make it to your location in about forty minutes if we take our time. I’m presuming you left us a nice path? Over.”

“Roger that, Five. Just follow the crushed vehicles and the tire tracks in the dust. You have a fix on our pos? Over.”

“We have your pos as Latitude North, 37 degrees, 19 minutes 47.0316 seconds, Longitude West, 121 degrees, 53 minutes, 19.7736 seconds. How’s that?”

Andrews chuckled but confirmed the coordinates anyway. “That’s pretty precise, Jimbo.”

“Hey, we aim to please.”

“Roger that. We’ll be suiting up and heading out now. We’ll update you before we leave the rig, then hit you every hour afterwards. Over.”

“Roger your last, Four. Happy hunting, and we hope to hear good news soon. You give the word, and I’ll bring in the SME to verify your findings and we’ll be on our way home. Over.”

“From your lips to God’s ear, Jim. SCEV Four, out.” Andrews set the parking brake and looked at Mulligan. “All right, Sarmajor. Let’s go through the shutdown checklist, and then let’s get suited up and ready for action.”

“Highly motivated, sir,” Mulligan said, though his tone indicated he was anything but.

T
he clamshell doors
on the SCEV’s starboard side opened. The lower half formed a brief ramp to the ground while the upper half tried valiantly to shade the occupants of the cramped airlock from the blazing sun, which hung high overhead. Andrews walked down the three steps to the bone-dry asphalt and felt the day’s heat immediately, even through his protective suit and respirator. Mulligan was right behind him, holding his assault rifle at low ready. Andrews thought it was kind of dumb bringing weapons with them, since the chances of anyone surviving out here were simply astronomical, but the gargantuan NCO had insisted. Because security was his territory, Andrews had relented. He’d had to argue with Leona for a minute, since she was convinced it was plain nuts to carry an assault rifle around under the circumstances, but even she had to give in when Mulligan planted himself in front of the inner airlock door and declared no one would leave the vehicle unarmed.

That had ended the discussion.

Behind them, the airlock doors closed. For the next two minutes or so, Andrews and Mulligan were on their own while the airlock was sterilized; only after it had been scrubbed of possible contaminants would Eklund and Spencer be allowed to progress through it to join them. Andrews looked around, the visor of his full-face respirator polarizing against the brightness of the day.

“Well, California’s still sunny,” he said via his voice-activated transceiver. Everyone had transceivers in their suits. It certainly beat shouting to be heard beneath all the gear they carried.

“Some things, even nuclear wars can’t change,” Mulligan said. “You sure we shouldn’t leave Spencer with the rig? He’s the crew chief, after all.”

“I want to be operational, Sarmajor,” Spencer said over the radio—even though he and Leona were still inside the rig, they could still monitor the suit frequencies. “Besides, I want to stretch my legs a bit.”

Mulligan looked over at Andrews. “Sir?”

Andrews sighed. Doctrinally, leaving the rig unattended wasn’t wise, even though access could only be gained by entering the access code on the keypad next to the airlock door. But Spencer might be useful; he was the closest thing they had to an engineer. “No one’s alive to mess with the rig, Sarmajor,” he said.

“Roger that, sir.” Mulligan slowly turned in a circle, taking in the entire area in one long scan.

Andrews felt like he was loafing, so he did the same, then wondered why he cared what Mulligan might think of him. At any rate, the two men found nothing even vaguely threatening beyond the day’s dry heat. Andrews took it upon himself to do a quick walk-around of the SCEV, checking for any damage. The rig was filthy, covered entirely with a thick coating of dust, save for the electronic probes and viewports, which had been treated with an anti-static compound that prevented the dust from accumulating. Except for the grime, the hardy vehicle seemed to be in perfect condition. He even checked the tires for any sign of tearing from the concertina wire they’d driven over, but he found nothing worthy of anxiety. No leaks, no gouges, no indications of anything burning away, seizing up, or falling off.

When he moved back to the right side of the rig, the airlock doors opened again. Spencer and Leona emerged from the rig’s cool interior, wearing their white environmental suits, air tanks, full-face respirators, and carrying Heckler and Koch M416A3 assault rifles. Knapsacks slung over their shoulders contained whatever they might need to crack open a crate or shipping container: hammers, screwdrivers, crowbars.

It didn’t take long for Spencer to start bitching. “Damn, think it’s hot enough?”

“Yeah man, but it’s a dry heat,” Mulligan said.

“That’s a line from that old movie
Aliens
, right, Sarmajor?”

“I guess nothing slips past you, Copernicus.”

“Yeah, well, we won’t be having this funny repartee if one of us passes out from dehydration, Sarmajor.”

Mulligan sighed wistfully. “Please, God, let it be me.”

Leona made a disgusted sound as she pushed past the two men and tried a nearby door. It was apparently locked, and even though she shoved herself against it, she couldn’t get it to budge. Andrews hurried over and tried it as well, but the door was definitely locked. It was a metal fire door, too. He sighed and looked down at the loading dock doors, but they were closed and quite likely locked as well.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a crowbar.

“Tell you what, Captain. Let’s go total old school, instead.” Mulligan steered Andrews off to one side and handed him his assault rifle. He motioned Leona to stand clear, and she moved back a few steps. She looked at Andrews, who merely shrugged at her.

“How old school are we talking about, Sarmajor?”

Without answering, Mulligan walked to the door and kicked it down, almost tearing it from its hinges. He stepped to one side and peered into the darkness, minimizing his profile and being careful not to silhouette himself against the bright day. Again, Andrews thought the big man was overdoing things a bit, but after that display of strength, he didn’t want to bitch too loudly.

Finally satisfied all was well, Mulligan returned to Andrews and reclaimed his assault rifle. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the severely dented door.

“I learned that in Special Forces,” he said proudly.

“You must’ve been the toast of the dinner party circuit,” Leona said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Indeed, I was.”

“All right, all right, let’s get going.” Andrews slung his rifle over his shoulder by its patrol strap and stepped toward the door. He leaned into the darkness beyond and found it to be quite gloomy even after his visor brightened. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and snapped it on, panning the bright LED beam across the area as he stepped inside the warehouse and moved to his left. Mulligan was the next one in, and he held his assault rifle at the ready, the stock pressed against his right shoulder, the barrel pointed at the dusty concrete floor. The interior of the warehouse was dark and gloomy, the only light coming from several holes that had been ripped through the roof. Crates were everywhere, mostly stacked atop one another. Some had fallen to the floor and burst open, spilling their contents. Andrews walked up to one and examined the spillage. He couldn’t tell what the objects were, only that they weren’t what they were looking for.

“Okay, we’ve only got two hours of air on hand, so let’s make the most of it. Mulligan, head for that office down there and look for a stock manifest that might tell us what’s where.”

“Roger that.”

“Lee, you and Spence split up and poke around. Don’t rip your suits. It’s still hot enough around here that you’ll wind up shaving some years off your life if you’re exposed for more than a day or so, so take it seriously.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Spencer said.

Leona played her flashlight around. “Let’s just get going, all right? This place gives me the creeps.”

“You’re not going to get all
girly
on us now, are you, LT?” Spencer asked.

“What, afraid someone’s going to compete with you for the Miss Universe crown, Spencer?” Mulligan asked. Leona laughed at the unexpected support, and Spencer shook his head sourly.

“And from a fellow enlisted man, no less,” Spencer said.

“Everyone clear on their orders?” Andrews asked, smiling.

Everyone reported their assent.

“Okay, then. Like the lieutenant said, let’s get to it.”

***

With empty eye sockets, the nearly mummified corpse in the office’s single chair grinned at Mulligan as he slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside. The sight of the skeletal remains chilled him and, for a moment, he stood paralyzed in the office doorway. He had automatically raised his rifle into an attack posture and pointed it at the human remnants, which sat half-slumped over in the chair. Most of the skin was gone, giving the sergeant major a good opportunity to inspect the corpse’s many dental implants. Mulligan slowly lowered his rifle and released a quiet sigh, then stepped into the office and looked down at the skeleton. On the dust-covered desk stood an equally dusty drinking glass and a small pill bottle. Both were empty. Mulligan picked up the pill bottle and squinted, trying to make out the label, but the ink was another casualty of war. He placed the bottle back on the desk, then glanced at the computer sitting nearby. For sure, the entire warehouse’s contents were there, written to a hard drive system that had probably been wiped clean by the electromagnetic pulse that shut down the entire city’s power grid when the first nuke detonated. That meant the electronic search was over before it had even started. With no other recourse available, Mulligan pawed through the desk drawers, ignoring the leering skeleton. He found nothing of any great interest.

Hell, not even some pornography. Who ran this place, Jesuit priests?

He turned to the file cabinet behind him and found it was locked. He tried all the drawers, but with the same result. He considered his options: go through the keys in the desk, trying each one, or blast away the lock with his rifle. He elected to conserve ammunition and went for the keys instead. The lock was old and desiccated, but he found the proper key and forced it to turn in the cylinder. The cabinet drawers squeaked loudly as he pulled them open, and he searched through the green folders inside. Eventually, he grew weary of thumbing through them one by one, so he pulled an armful out of one drawer and dropped them on the desk. He shoved the office chair out of the way and it spun into a wall, unceremoniously dumping the rag-clad skeleton to the filthy floor. Bone rattled against concrete in a macabre, atonal symphony.