Dragon Over Washington (The Third War Of The Bir Nibaru Gods) (36 page)

“Bill! Slow down and drive towards it, in the middle of the street,” Ellis said.

“Are you crazy?”

“Just do it!” Ellis snapped. The Ford started to slow down, the driver braking gently. The NSA van was directly in the middle of the two-lane street. The truck was aiming right at them.

“Guardian.”

“Here!”           

“I want incendiary fire in the truck driver’s seat on my mark.”

“Roger, Alpha.” Fred pushed the magazine release button and pulled the magazine out, and he manipulated the bolt, ejecting the bullet inside the breech.

“Give me two eleven!” The spotter handed him a new magazine. Fred slammed it in and loaded the rifle. He put it back down on the ground and moved to the narrow field of view on his thermal weapon sight. The Mil Dot crosshairs on his reticule zeroed in on the truck driver’s compartment.

“Ready, Alpha.”

“Roger, Guardian.” Ellis watched the truck appear bigger and bigger. She could see the sign burnt into its hood with ease. Strangely, the windshield wipers were working. Its huge steel frame kept getting bigger. The truck was vibrating, its huge engine throwing it forward while its exploded front right tire made it swerve to the right, the driver having to compensate continuously. The truck was now one hundred feet in front of them.

“Fire!” Nothing happened and Ellis opened her mouth again when a series of small yellow explosions filled the driver’s compartment. The Mark Two Eleven Armor Piercing Incendiary ammunition caused the driver’s compartment to erupt in flames, the incendiary material inside the bullets designed to sustain continuous burning for at least thirty seconds, making any flammable material it came in contact with ignite. The driver was huddling down, trying to escape the inferno above him.

“Now! Left!” Ellis snapped. The agent driving the van turned the wheel to the left as the white truck, now without any driver in control, swerved to its right, dragged by its blown right front tire. The two vehicles passed each other on the street. The agent struggled with the steering wheel, trying not to lose control over the high-center-of-gravity van. Gradually, the Ford accelerated, heading out to Route 38.

Ellis looked out as they drove out through the town. The few people she could see were sitting on their porches, staring up. None of them seemed the least bit disturbed by all the fighting that had taken place so close to their houses. They just stared up at the descending cloud cover. The sign of the Stormgod was burnt into every front door.

***

Thorpe rushed out of the van, ran into the forest and collapsed, retching. Agent Graham got out of the van a moment later. He looked in the direction of the young man and then joined the director. The big elderly man, wrapped in his overalls, was looking towards Owego.

“We lost the target. All the teams are heading back now. No fatalities, though there are several injuries. It seems they knew we were coming,” the small agent said. There was a moment of silence.

“Agent Graham, the police. I want the entire town cordoned off. Nobody comes in or out,” the director said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want the press kept out, Agent Graham. Sever all communication in or out of the town, including cellular networks. There will be hell to pay if a word of what’s going on here gets out without my permission.”   

“Yes, sir.”

The small agent turned back to the van. The director remained standing. He was looking up, towards the sky above Owego. The opaque dome of clouds seemed to be descending, as if trying to wrap up the town. There were occasional lightning flashes in the roiling black clouds.

***

“I tried. I did what I could. I walked towards them. I tried to reason with them. There was nothing else I could do.” There was a moment of silence.

“Why does it have to be like this? They are Akrabu, but they are human. There are worse things than Akrabu in our world now, prowling around us, hungry. Even the Akrabu should have feared them. Even the Akrabu could have helped to fight them.” There was another moment of angry silence.

“They are the Akrabu. They cannot help themselves. They don’t have any other way. They cannot help but follow their nature. They are the Akrabu. They will burn. I must become what I did not want to be, I must accept the pact.”

A rod and a bull’s mask were lifted up.

Day 16 after Earth Barrier Breach.

NSA Temporary Base on County Road 7, Routt County, Colorado, United States. Tuesday, 23:13.

Benson watched the little lizards prancing around. He knelt down, his backpack thrown carelessly aside, a hesitant smile on his face. The lizards, having already fed and actually finishing off his evening meal, were happy enough to play amongst themselves. The lizard with the black scale on its nose seemed to be the oldest, or at least acted as if it were in charge. It walked around, undulating as it moved forward, touching the other lizards with its snout, and squeaking in distress at one lizard that walked too far away.

Benson noticed that they were much bigger now. The first time he saw them they had been merely a few inches long, but now the biggest one was over a foot long and the others had grown as well.

The smallest lizard, the cheekiest one, badgered the biggest, shyest lizard constantly, its broken tail swinging gaily behind it. It jumped on the shyest lizard, trying to throw it to the ground. That lizard, however, being bigger and stronger, usually managed to easily shake off the tiny claws of the broken-tailed lizard. The little lizard never despaired, and after being thrown to the ground it would shake itself and slither away, its colors changing to match those of the grass and earth around it. A moment later it would jump the bigger lizard again, attacking it playfully from the back, its colors glinting a happy red and yellow.

The biggest lizard shyly stayed away from Benson, its large eyes never meeting his, its sharp ears rotating constantly. It shook the broken-tailed lizard occasionally, bearing the little lizard’s good-humored attacks stoically. Finally, the black-nosed lizard came to the rescue, driving off the little broken-tailed lizard, taking on the role of the shy lizard’s protector.

The broken-tailed lizard stared around to find another victim and then lowered its head and, belly close to the ground, started a stealthy approach towards the thick-bodied lizard who also stayed away from Benson and the other lizards. The thick-bodied lizard turned its cold, evil stare at the little broken-tailed lizard as its scales changed color to a mottled red-white. It opened its mouth and spat out a small jet of flame.

The broken-tailed lizard hissed in annoyance and quickly moved away, but it soon found another target: a grasshopper had the misfortune of jumping in amongst the lizards. The broken tailed lizard started to stalk it, jumping after it in a course that led it next to Benson. The lizard stopped, raising its overly-large, triangle-shaped head to stare at Benson with big, green eyes. Benson laughed.

“Hey man, still hungry?” Benson started to rummage in his new backpack.

“The army must have packaged - aha!” Benson took out a chocolate bar from his backpack and unwrapped it. The broken tailed lizard started to chirp excitedly, jumping around eagerly. Benson laughed again.

“I guess I better give you first or you’ll take your friends’ share.” Benson broke a small piece and gave it to the lizard, who grabbed the piece of hard chocolate and started to munch on it with its sharp teeth, coiling around it and squeaking happily. Benson took advantage of the distraction and threw the rest of the pieces to the other lizards, making sure to leave a piece for the shy big one. Benson knew it would not try to take other lizard’s share, but they might try to take its share.

The broken-tailed lizard finished its piece of chocolate and looked up at Benson. When it saw Benson didn’t have any more, it turned to the other lizards, its head held low, ears flattened, no doubt planning how to swindle them out of their shares. Benson placed his palm in front of him on the ground, a short distance away from the broken-tailed lizard, making the little scaled thing turn around immediately, sniffing at the hand with a long, forked tongue. Benson smiled. He cautiously moved his hand forward, touching the little thing with his finger. It was warm— almost hot. He moved his finger gently over its scales, causing it to arch its supple back. The ears of the little lizard were laid out with pleasure as it purred gently and lazily. With his other hand, Benson adjusted his oval glasses. The tiny cheeky lizard gazed at him, its large eyes lit from within, its broken tail swinging through the air behind it.

Benson stopped petting the lizard. It had stopped looking at him and had turned northward, staring upwards intently. Benson looked at the other lizards, seeing that every one of them had stopped whatever it was doing, even the ones who hadn’t yet finished their chocolate. They were all looking up.

***

Agent Mathew, Captain Anderson and an army aviator stood around a large map of the Colorado Flattops Mountains. The big, bald NSA agent was looking at a bold, red mark on their map that was at the place where the Blackhawk helicopter had crashed the night before. There were several satellite photos of the crash site, courtesy of Thorpe.

“Look, we need heavier weapons, anti-aircraft guns and missiles. You saw that thing yesterday. We don’t have anything that can touch it,” Captain Anderson said. Agent Mathew turned to the infantry captain. “What about your anti-tank missiles?”

“The Javelins were not meant to take down flying targets. If everything else fails, we can shoot them at a helicopter. If it hits, the helicopter goes down. But its guidance system is not designed to be used against flying objects. It will most likely not hit a flyer,” Captain Anderson said. Agent Mathew grunted, his hand resting on his gun in its holster.

“We need reinforcement,” Captain Anderson said.

“Sir, I concur. That flying thing can hit anything in Rout County. We won’t be able to stop it,” the aviator said.

An NSA agent poked his head through the tent’s opening. “Sir, Benson is here to see you.”

Agent Mathew turned around and watched in amazement as Benson approached him, escorted by two soldiers. The small, bespectacled man was looking around nervously, his beady eyes darting every which way. The agent’s eyes narrowed. There was something new in the small man’s posture. He was walking straighter; his back was no longer stooped over. When Agent Mathew’s eyes fell on Benson, the farmer didn’t flinch.

“Sir? He asked to see the man in charge. Sir”,” one of the infantry soldiers told the agent. Mathew’s eyes didn’t leave Benson. He was quite amazed that the little man did not try to evade his stare.

“Benson? What do you -” Mathew stopped. It occurred to him that frightening the man wouldn’t help anything. He took a deep breath and started again. “What do you want?” Mathew asked, as mildly as he could.

“It is coming,” Benson said curtly.

Mathew was taken aback. “What?”

“It is coming. You better leave this place. Flee. You don’t have a lot of time,” the little man said. The camp’s lights were reflected in his round spectacles.

“What is coming?”

“You killed Mother Nature’s children and now she comes for you, man,” Benson said.

 Agent Mathew turned and ran. He passed the guards at the entrance to the fenced-off trailer compound and jumped the three steps leading into the Predator trailer.

“Captain Parker, check with air traffic control. I want to know if there’s something in the air heading our way.” Mathew was breathing hard. The captain stared at him and then pulled a headset from a console.

“Air traffic control, this is 061. Please respond.”

“This is air traffic control.” The voice coming from the speakers was definitely cold. They didn’t like having to deal with this operation; they especially resented being left in the dark even though they had to break all kinds of procedures. Captain Parker arched an eyebrow at Mathew.

“Something’s heading our way. Ask them,” Mathew demanded.

Captain Parker shrugged. “Air traffic control, this is 061. Do you see any object heading our way? Repeat, do you have any object heading our way?” the captain said into her headset.

“Yes, we have. We’ve been tracking it for a few minutes,” the voice said.

“You do? What are you tracking?” Captain Parker asked.

“Why are you asking us? Isn’t it yours? At twenty-three hundred hours we picked up an airplane above the Flattops, Bellyache Mountain. It suddenly appeared, one thousand feet high, speed two hundred knots, heading 115. You can’t pull off things like that. If you have a flight, stealth or whatever, you keep us informed. Supposing there was a civilian flight there?” The voice was definitely getting angry.

“I didn’t authorize any Predator or helicopter flights. I wanted the drones to accompany our recon patrol!” Mathew said. Captain Parker shrugged again.

“Agent, all our drones are on the ground. All of our helicopters are on the ground as well,” she said, coolly. Mathew stared at her for a moment.

“Control, we don’t have any drones in the air. We would have —” Captain Parker said into her headset.

“061, who’s talking about a drone? I am getting a radar return bigger than a Jumbo. It sure as hell isn’t civilian. It appeared in midair and it’s in the airspace you guys are using. It’s not responding to our calls. Its height is dropping now. It’s your -” Mathew left the trailer, running.

“Agent Mathew.“ Something was different in Thorpe’s usually cheerful voice, but Mathew didn’t notice. Mathew sat in the NSA communications trailer, speaking with Thorpe over the satellite link.

“Thorpe. I’ve just heard from air traffic control. They’ve got a large contact heading our way. They say it appeared in midair. It’s larger than a Jumbo and it’s heading our way. Suggestions?” Mathew said.

There was a moment of silence.

“In midair? No takeoff?” Thorpe asked.

“Negative.”

“Where did it appear?”

“Above Bellyache Mountain.”

For a long moment all Mathew could hear were soft electronic background noises.

“Get your camp ready for attack,” Thorpe said.

“Attack, Thorpe?” Mathew asked. He heard a sigh from the other end of the line.

“Look, whatever you’re up against can evade IR and daylight cameras. I won’t be surprised if it can evade radar, especially civilian radar.” Thorpe was talking slowly, as if making sure Mathew would understand him perfectly.

“Radar? How can it evade radar? That’s impossible! That’s a goddamned animal!” Mathew said.

“You’re wasting time here, Agent Mathew,” the tired voice at the other end of the line said. Mathew stared at the communications console for a moment.

“What could be larger than a Jumbo?” Mathew finally asked. There was a long sigh from the other side of the line.

“Let's put together the facts we have, shall we, Agent Mathew? We have, unquestionably, an unknown species of animal or machines disguised to look like animals. Or something. Whatever. We know it has stealth capabilities. We know there are a number of them, some of them very large. We know you stopped one from having lunch in Morse farm. You saw one of them flying. And now, something is heading your way. Something large. Mathew, I’ve seen the video clip from the farm. If that thing that was there or one of its big brothers is heading your way, you better be ready for it. And Mathew, from the shit I’ve seen lately, I think you better not let it catch you with your pants down.” Mathew continued to stare at the console for another moment. Then he got up, his back stiff, the muscles in his shoulders tense.

“Roger,” he said and tore off his headset. He left the trailer at a run. Thirty seconds later the base’s sirens started to wail.

***

Montoya was frowning as the Hummer, sixteen-cylinder motor roaring, bounced as it moved across the low hills above County Road 7, the road they were using as an airstrip for the predator drone. The Hummer bounced again as its wide wheels drove over some rocks. The small, dark-skinned sergeant checked that the Javelins were secured.

“You’re taking care of them better than you take care of us, Sarge,” Reimer said. The sergeant frowned, looking into the face of the grinning corporal.

“Sure. The Javelins are smarter than you, they do better in combat, and, unlike you, they kick ass. And they sure as hell are prettier,” the sergeant said.

“Oh, Sarge, come on! We kick ass, too!”

“Yeah, sure,” the sergeant said. It was not easy having a conversation over the noise that the six-liter engine made. The sergeant looked outside. They were approaching their position.

“Sarge? What’s going on?” Harry Reimer asked.      

“Something’s approaching the base. They think its one of them creatures, like in the farm and like the one that brought down that chopper. Will you be all right, Reimer?” the sergeant asked, looking at the corporal. Reimer shrugged.

“Sure, Sarge. Third time’s the trick!” Reimer said, patting his rifle. The sergeant looked at him for a moment, grinned and then looked outside.

“Ok, we’re almost there. I want us positioned in five minutes. Get the Mag ready. Reimer, you help me with the Javelins. Jim! I want the line to HQ ready in three minutes.” The sergeant looked at every man in the wide, military vehicle.

“Let’s get some!” he said, waving his fist.

The Hummer stopped and they poured out. The gunner, carrying his M240G machine gun, ran forward and took position behind a small mound of earth. His loader, carrying the ammo box, moved after him and started to set up the bullet chains for the machine gun. Montoya ran, carrying one CLU attached to a missile while Reimer followed him with two additional missiles. Montoya picked a spot several yards away from the machine gun position, making sure no trees hampered his field of fire and no one was behind him: hot gasses from a Javelin missile’s back blast can cause serious injury to an unprotected man out to a distance of several dozen yards.