Читать книгу Strike Zone - Dale Brown - Страница 13

Sergeant Ben ‘Boston’ Rockland got to his feet slowly. The rest of his team lay around him, officially ‘dead.’ Their objective – carrying a small amount of radioactive soil back from enemy lines for testing – had not been met.

Boston – as the nickname suggested, the sergeant was a Beantown native – picked up the ruck containing the soil. The desert before him was dotted with small rubber balls with nails sticking out from them – simulated cluster bomblets, representing air-dropped antipersonnel mines with proximity fuses. The little suckers worked too – as soon as you got within five feet, an ear-piercing siren sounded, and the range monitor proclaimed you were dead.

Not dead, actually. Just maimed. The range monitor seemed to take a perverse joy in announcing which particular body part it was that had been blown off.

There seemed to be no way across the minefield. Yet to get to the objective – a small orange cone about a quarter mile away – he had to cross it.

As Boston stared, he heard the roar of the returning Osprey gunship. Sergeant Liu had explained earlier that the aircraft was programmed to orbit the test range randomly. He’d also warned that the massive Gatlings were firing live ammunition.

The Osprey swung forward in a wide arc, hunting for a target. Boston had seen from the exercises earlier that it would home in on small reflectors that the people running the exercise had planted around the field. It wasn’t clear to him whether the red disks had some circuitry inside, or if the weapons directors on the M/V-22 could actually home in on the glints of light. Whichever it was, flinging the little disks drove the gear batty, as one of the Whiplash team members had proven yesterday when morale had started to sag.

Maybe he hadn’t flung the disk as a joke, thought Boston. Maybe he was hinting at the solution.

Boston threw himself back down as the Osprey approached. The computers controlling the guns were programmed to avoid hitting anyone, but they didn’t miss by much. As the guns began to fire, the tilt-rotor aircraft seemed to jump upward in the sky.

The burst lasted no more than three-quarters of a second. When it stopped, the Osprey settled back down and flew in a semicircle close to the ground.

Eight feet off the surface.

That wasn’t all that high.

Boston watched as the Osprey flew toward the hangar area, still skimming low over the terrain.

That was the solution. It had to be.

As soon as the tilt-rotor craft had gone, he began grabbing the disks.

Captain Danny Freah watched in amazement as the Osprey whirled around, hoodwinked by the flashing reflectors. It fired, then settled back down into a hover just at the edge of the minefield.

‘I think he figured out how to control it,’ said Liu, who was next to Danny.

‘Or at least confuse it,’ answered Danny.

‘If he uses the Osprey to blast a path through the minefield, the computer simulators won’t understand,’ said Liu. ‘He’ll still be blown up by the proximity fuses. But you’d have to give him points for figuring it out.’

‘Sure, but that’s not what he’s doing,’ said Danny as Boston began running toward the rear of the Osprey.

‘Holy shit,’ said Liu.

Boston leaped into the air and caught the rear tail of the variable-rotor aircraft. His legs pitched forward and his ruck hung off his back, but the sergeant managed to hang on.

Even though the massive rotors were locked above the aircraft, they still kicked up a hurricane around the aircraft. Boston shook like the last leaf on a maple tree in a nor’ easter blizzard as the aircraft pushed ahead toward the apron area beyond the minefield.

The trooper felt his fingers numbing as the MV-22 moved ahead. They were cold, frozen even – his right pinkie began to slip, then his ring finger, then his thumb.

He leaned his head down, trying to see exactly where he was.

Not even halfway across.

Hang on, he told himself.

The aircraft bucked upward. Boston realized he’d miscalculated about how close to the ground it flew once it cleared the minefield – from where he’d stood, it didn’t seem as if it rose at all, but now he realized it must go up at least a few feet, and a few feet were going to make a very big difference when he jumped.

He could get it to dip again by tossing one of the reflectors. But to toss one – he had two more in his pocket – he’d have to hold on with one hand.

Could he?

No.

Besides, the shock of the guns would easily throw him off.

The Osprey began turning to the left. The shift in momentum was simply too much, and Boston lost his grip. He tried to relax his legs so he could roll when he landed, but it happened too fast; his heels hit the ground and he fell back hard. His backpack took a little of the sting out of the fall, probably just enough to prevent a concussion as it slipped upward on his back. He rolled and flipped over, then hunkered against the hard surface of the ancient lakebed, anticipating the screech and growl of the simulated mine.

But he heard nothing. Boston raised his head. Shit, he thought, I blew my eardrums out.

Then he heard the Osprey thumping in the distance. He saw one of the spiked balls lying about fifteen feet away – just far enough not to go off.

Slowly, Boston pushed up to his knees. He rubbed some of the grit from his eyes, then stood, trying to get his bearings.

The cone was ten feet away. He took a breath, and walked slowly toward it.

I could use some water, he thought as he put the ruck containing the soil sample next to the cone.

By the time Sergeant Liu appeared, Boston had stretched out on the ground, his body hovering just this side of consciousness.

‘Yo,’ said Liu. He turned and started walking away.

Boston rose and fell in behind, his limbs sore not just from the fall but from the last twenty-four hours. He managed to lean forward and break into a rough trot, catching up.

‘What’s next?’ he asked.

‘Nothing for you,’ said Liu.

‘Shit,’ said Boston, but he couldn’t figure out where he had screwed up.

The Osprey? But how else was he supposed to get across the minefield? He’d have had to leave the range, and even then, the entire cone was surrounded.

Liu didn’t explain. A GMC Jimmy, blue light flashing, appeared in the distance, kicking up dust as it sped across the open landscape. It whipped to a stop a few feet from him. Liu pulled open the front passenger door, waiting for Boston to get in.

There was no driver. Boston was only slightly surprised to see that – as the Whiplash veterans were fond of saying, This is Dreamland. Nor was he particularly surprised when Liu didn’t climb in after him.

As soon as the door was shut, the vehicle started up again, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed. It drove to a small building just beyond the old bone yard – a storage area for old planes at the eastern end of the base. Boston got out; when the door was shut, the vehicle backed up and drove away.

Captain Danny Freah was waiting inside. Like Boston, Freah was of African descent, though it was clear from his demeanor that any appeal to ethnic roots was not going to cut it.

Maybe, Boston thought, he could appeal to his mother’s side of the family. She was Sicilian. He could hint at a mafia connection.

Probably wouldn’t cut it either.

‘Who told you you could climb on the aircraft?’ demanded Captain Freah.

‘Sir.’ Boston snapped out the word, but he was too worn down at this point to play rogue warrior. ‘Uh, no one. I just did it.’

‘You know how much that aircraft costs?’

Visions of living on bread and water well into his retirement suddenly filled Boston’s head. He had heard stories about the military taking the cost of high-tech gear out of soldier’s pay, but had never believed they were true. Now he suddenly realized that they might be.

‘Um, I didn’t think I’d do any harm to it.’

‘You didn’t think?’ barked Freah.

Boston winced; he had given the classic – classic! – bad answer.

‘I thought incorrectly, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘I was focused on the objective, to the exclusion of other factors.’

He could practically feel the heat coming off Freah’s face. From the corner of his eye, he saw another member of the Whiplash team joining them in the building – Sergeant Liu. Behind him came the other Whiplash veterans.

Great, thought Boston, they’re all here for the hanging.

‘You only thought of the objective?’ said the captain.

‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid I did. I’m sorry.’

One of the Whiplash troopers – Bison – started to laugh.

‘Hang him by his toes,’ said Egg Reagan.

Boston felt the blood rushing to his face.

‘Are you blushing, Sergeant?’ asked the captain.

‘I, uh …’

‘Jeez, if I’d known he was a blusher, I woulda never voted for him,’ said Bison.

‘Me neither,’ said Egg.

‘We need a blusher,’ said Liu.

It was only then that Boston realized he was in.