Hard Drop (8 page)

He turned and ran abruptly, making frantically for the far side of the bridge. Chip fired again. The bullet caught him in his massive shoulder and twisted him halfway around, but the sentry didn’t stop. He barreled on across the bridge, sprinting for the other side, limping and desperate.
 

Hog stepped out of the far bunker, submachine gun leveled, and opened fire. The bullets caught him across the chest and stomach, thudding horribly and painfully into the soft tissue. And still, the man didn’t stop.
 

He roared on towards Hog without hesitation, throwing his hands up in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to shove her aside and reach the freedom that lay beyond. She kept firing, seeing her bullets rip through muscle and sinew, but his momentum carried him onwards unstoppably. He collided with her solidly, the bone-jarring impact sending them both flying over the side of the bridge and into the water below.
 

They disappeared in a heavy splash, staying under for several long seconds. The sentry’s limp body re-emerged, floating face-down as it was ferried rapidly towards the waterfall. It slammed hard against the jagged cliff before dropping abruptly down the long plume of water and out of sight below.
 

Tyco and Ghost rushed to the edge of the bridge and stared down into the water, waiting for Hog to resurface. Nothing broke through the water– no clothing, no weapon, not even bubbles from below. The water flowed on rapidly without a trace of the trooper or her gear.

“Did you – see where she went?” Ringo asked, surprising anxiety in his voice.
 

Tyco shook his head, but it was Ghost who answered. “In this current, she could be…” he let his voice trail, equally concerned, breathing out slowly to hide it. He turned and looked back towards the upstream side of the bridge, but there was nothing there.
 

“Hey boys.” They looked up as one to see Hog standing on the far side of the bridge, sopping wet and very smug. “What can I say?” She groaned teasingly. “A little action gets me wet.”
 

“Oh…hi.” Ringo mumbled, unable to keep his eyes from straying down her now-clinging uniform. The sting of his earlier rejection was fresh, and he turned away darkly, swallowing hard in frustration.

Tyco shook his head, rolling his eyes at Hog as he turned away. “Whatever. Pick it up. We’re moving.”

“Oh man, Cap, I am so jealous of you right now.” Chip moaned over the radio.
 

That, finally, was too much for Ringo.
 

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” He growled over the radio, taking care to make sure his comm was disengaged before walking on.
 

But Tyco had stopped in his tracks, staring up at the surrounding mountains curiously. The hills, which up until this point had run parallel to the road on both sides, now fell away sharply below the falls, rising just as sharply into the mountains above them. The road ran North-South; to the West was the sharply rising ridge, impassable from the road. To the East were the falls and the precipitous drop. Either way, there was no way Chip could flank them on either side. Nor was he in front of them. Which meant –
 

“Hey Chip.”

“Yeah, Cap.” Chip crackled over the radio.
 

“Have you been right behind us this entire time?”

Long silence greeted him.
 

“Uhh…yeah.” Chip confirmed, at last.
 

“You are one weird bastard.” Tyco tapped back, shaking his head. Ringo, reloading his machine gun, nodded emphatically.
 

“Jesus.” Ghost’s exclamation made Tyco turn in alarm. Coming from the usually quiet trooper, it seemed louder and more shocking. Ghost was standing over the fallen body of one of the bridge’s defenders, staring down at the rippling muscles under its armor. “These guys are huge.” He said, at last, turning to look up at Tyco. “Come take a look at this.”
 

Tyco followed Ghost’s outstretched finger, taking stock of the well-built soldier before them. Even from twenty feet away, the man’s shoulders were impressive and enormous. Whatever training plan these soldiers had been on, it had worked.

“Hey Cap. You might want to come take a look at this.” Hog called. She was standing over another muscle-bound corpse, staring down at a pronounced, ugly scar on his neck. She pointed towards it now with the barrel of her submachine gun. “What the hell is
that
?” She asked, disgusted and disconcerted.

Tyco knelt down over the body, scrutinizing the mark. The skin on the man’s neck seemed angry, inflamed. Despite the grime and dirt on everything here, despite the mud streaked along the soldier’s body and through his hair, the incision on the back of his neck was precise and clinical. A row of symmetrical stitches ran along his spine, clustering around a thick bulge in his neck. Something glowed beneath the surface there, blinking visibly even in the sunlight. Tyco knelt down to examine it more closely, shielding his eyes to get a better look.
 

The source of the light appeared to be mechanical, an implant of some kind. Tyco could make a symbol on its back, illuminated at intervals through the dead soldier’s skin.
 

He recognized it almost immediately: it was the same industrial, interlocking Möbius strip, that he had seen painted on the truck. This one was mechanically neat, but the inflamed skin still scarring over on top of it gave it the impression of an unhealed brand. The device blinked on eerily, as if something were still breathing beneath the surface.

“This one’s got it too.” Ringo chimed in, standing over another corpse.
 

“And this one.” Ghost nodded, turning over the body at his feet with his boot.

Tyco stood and glanced over at the fallen gunner in the bunker. The same mark was visible on his neck as well. “Safe to say they all have it.” He nodded. “Looks like some kind of – unit tattoo.”
 

“How come we don’t have something like that?” Ringo asked, comparing his biceps to the massively muscled arm of the soldier at his feet. The dead soldier’s arm was bigger, and Ringo scowled.

Tyco didn’t answer. He turned away from the bodies, putting the strange markings out of his mind. There were more pressing things at hand. “Any sign they hit the alarm?
 

Ghost checked the klaxons in the bunkers quickly. “Doesn’t look like it.”
 

Tyco nodded and tapped in. “Chip, how close are you?”

“Hey Cap.” Chip sang out, crossing the bridge towards them, fresh cigarette hanging from his lips. “Sorry about that first guy. Think I was rationing my smokes a little too good.” And then he noticed Hog, still dripping dry despite the heat. “Hey Sexy.” He said, and swaggered towards her.
 

Hog smiled, walked up to him, and unceremoniously kneed him between the legs. Chip doubled over and fell in a sputtering, coughing heap as Ringo burst out laughing.
 

“Attaway, Hog!” He smiled, but she cut him short with a threatening glance.
 

But Chip, lying on his back on the wet wooden planks, laughed as well as he slowly raised himself to his knees, blinking away the tears in his eyes.
 

“Good thing I wore my cup.” He groaned, and laughed up at a frigid Hog.
 

“If I ever have to do that again,” she growled, “It won’t matter.”
 

“We’re moving.” Tyco tapped in firmly, striding up the broken road ahead towards an open concrete structure. Reaching its entrance in a few long strides, he peered through its opening and stopped in his tracks.
 

A wide, proud smile spread across his face, and he turned, beaming, towards the troopers behind him.
 

“Hey kids.” He called, gruffly. “Get up here and take a look at what I found for us.”

Intrigued, they sprang into motion, jogging up the hill towards him. One by one, they reached the structure, turned the corner, and broke out into wide smiles of relief.
 

There, parked between crumbling concrete pillars and gleaming dully in the bright sunlight, was a large armored personnel carrier with a heavy turret mounted on its roof. The same odd Möbius strip design that they had seen on the dead soldiers was splashed across it in dark red paint.
 

“Hog, Driver.” Tyco said, giving commands with rapid-fire efficiency. “Ringo, Turret. Ghost, you’re with me. And Chip,” he finished, as an afterthought, “Do your thing.”

“Yes, sir.” Hog nodded.

Ringo chimed in. “You got it, Cap.”
 

Chip said nothing, but tipped his hat and climbed up onto the roof. Satisfied with his perch, he went to work reloading his sniper rifle one jagged bullet at a time, the red end of his hot cigarette gleaming red mere inches away.
 

“Yeah,” Tyco grimaced. “’Cause that’s safe.” Chip ignored him and carried on, slamming the magazine home with special emphasis.

Hog hesitated before climbing into the driver’s seat, turning to Tyco instead. “Shouldn’t we – uh – blow the bridge?”
 

“Good point.” Tyco nodded, then glanced at Ringo. “Take it down, will you?”
 

Ringo smiled toothily and pulled out his machete with a dull ring, lumbering off towards the bridge. Hog looked at Tyco, disappointed and disapproving. “What?” Tyco asked, annoyed. “It doesn’t always have to end in ‘boom’.”

“I could cut those ropes from here.” Chip said, brandishing his rifle.
 

“You rest your eyes.” Tyco answered, grimly, remembering his missed shot. “Besides, it gives the big ape something to do.”

Ringo chopped at the thick rope suspension strands with maniacal intensity, sweat flying freely as he threw himself into it. The blade cut steadily through the rope, until finally first one side, then the other snapped, and the entire bridge fluttered dramatically into the water below. It had hardly reached the spray before the current caught its edge and swept it away, ripping it from its moorings at the far end.

Satisfied, and with a distinct swagger, Ringo returned and climbed aboard the APC, swinging up into the gunner’s seat. The engine growled to life and the wheels turned. They were underway.
 

With one last look back at the collapsed bridge and the men lying dead on the ground behind them, Tyco ducked into its belly, rapping his knuckles against the roof with a touch of pride in a job well done.

“Let’s go.” He called down to Hog. And then, muttering to himself with a worried look at his small team, “Time to see who else made it.”

SIX: SNOWBLIND

From high on the hillside, Flip had watched the muzzle flashes below, had felt the resonance of the explosions and seen the battle play out. She had paused, sheltering against the mountain wind behind a rocky outcrop, staring down into the valley below with wary eyes as the team handled the patrol. She had watched anxiously as Hog fell into the river, laughed as she pulled herself back out, and laughed even louder when Chip went down in the fetal position, smothering the sound with her gloved hand.
 

Above all, she was relieved she hadn’t had to intercede. It would have meant giving away her position, and she couldn’t afford that. Her rifle had gone straight to her shoulder with Chip’s first wayward shot. It had fallen away again slowly as, one by one, the soldiers of the patrol slumped and fell, their blood dripping deep red on the rocky ground below them, visible in stark contrast even from this height. She continued to watch until the team mounted their APC and drove off up the road, leaving her to return to her task.
 

The beacon on her display blinked white-hot on the display, pulling her ever farther up the hillside. The trees had thinned slowly, and a thin blanket of snow now covered the ground at her feet. The temperature had dropped, and the going was slow, but the countdown at the top of the screen was insistent. She continued on up the hill, knowing they wouldn’t miss her down below. Tyco, the Drop Commander, was the only one who’d really noticed her in the launch bay, and she could tell he hadn’t known what to make of her. Anonymity was what she’d wanted, after all; she had joined the unit quietly the day before departure, a last-minute replacement to a last-minute training accident, they’d been told, and she had kept mostly to herself on the weeklong voyage since. There was no point in loudly announcing her presence, not for just one mission.

She turned back up the hill, following what little was left of a path into the deepening snow. The gusting wind stung her cheeks and eyes, making her wish the ride down hadn't been quite so harsh, or abrupt. Her ears, red with cold, reminded her in no uncertain terms of the helmet she had left below. Never mind that she had filled it with bile following her rough ride through the atmosphere. She felt a grudging respect for the orbital veterans, the men and women who had done this fifty drops and counting.

But then, they weren’t up here, slogging through several inches of freezing powder at four thousand feet. She continued up through the drifts, lifting her feet high to keep them from dragging. The clouds closed in as she climbed, and soon her steady pace slowed to a methodical, painstaking crawl as visibility dropped from fifty feet to twenty, then ten…and then she was in a full-blown blizzard, feeling her way ahead by the dim outlines of trees that were barely arms’ length away from her, shuffling through snow drifts that filled in behind her with appalling speed.
 

Her suit regulated her core temperature, keeping her mostly warm and comfortable as she worked her way through the falling snow. The thin hood that she had pulled from her jumpsuit pinned back her hair effectively, keeping her head and ears above hypothermia, cold though they might be. A helmet, she decided, would only have fogged over in the cold, and she pressed on despite the weather, ignoring the stiffness she felt.
 

The drifts became heavy underfoot, and the undergrowth it hid pulled and trapped her boots with every step. She trudged ahead, following the beacon almost blindly, trusting the coordinates, trusting that the objective would find her, staying as cheerful as she could. The harsh weather did have one significant advantage, she reminded herself: it provided excellent cover.