“Granted,” Jagger said.
The kid stood up and shouted, “Marconi chapter! To me!” The HA’s disappeared from the scant protection into the stormto find a place to chat, all but Enrico, who sat in the corner plastered to his seat by the weight of cats.
In the end, we were all agreed. The storm was wearing itself out or shifting east, or whatever. The winds were less gusty, the snow showing occasional gaps where we could see each other and, occasionally, up to ten feet away. My plan, such as it was, depended on the storm. We had to act fast. I armored up.
* * *
I drove my front-end loader, bucket down, using it like a snowplow to position the earth mover where it could do the job I had envisioned, front and center of the command helo. Its batteries and generator were going, so hopefully, the storm hid the engine’s roar.
The cab wasn’t enclosed and even with armored, heated gauntlets, I could feel the cold emanating from the steering wheel and hydraulic controls, but I got the snow-packed beast where I wanted it.
Securing the side stabilizers in the snow, I emptied and set the backhoe down to provide more immovability, adjusted the rocker, tightened my seat belt, and turned the front bucket upright. I tapped my armor into fully automated battle mode, the actively repositioning armor, Chameleon skin, and auto hardening now under AI control so I could think about other things and still be protected. The recoil-anti-recoil sleeves and legs tightened and released, telling me everything was functional. Mostly, I was warmer, though using power faster than I wanted.
Jacopo, his rifle in hand, leaped into the bucket and I jockeyed the bucket up high.
Both uphill and downhill shots have a flatter bullet trajectory than a level shot of the same distance, meaning bothwill strike higher than expected if not corrected for, but the few feet involved here wouldn’t be a difficulty for the wonder-shooter. Wind and obscuring snow were greater problems. Or being seen. It wasn’t like I could move us quickly. Without the snow, in perfect conditions, the fastest this baby had ever moved was less than twenty-four KPH, and I had just stuck us in place as firmly as I could.
I checked the suit’s morphon and tapped to begin the countdown. On another part of the morphon’s face, a timer began. Ticking down. This was the moment Enrico and two of his father’s men tossed bags of hydraulic fluid into the helo cabin that was overfilled with grunts. We expected them to slip and slide out of the helo, fighting to breathe, fighting to get the fluid out of their eyes and off their faces and bodies, leaving behind their drenched, useless weapons.
What might have been a scream came on the wind.
Bengal and Jagger, nestled in the snow, would now be taking the enemy down, securing them as best they could. The plan was to give each enemy warrior a bag of warm water so they could begin flushing their eyes.
All we could do in a pinch. Time in a medbay would fix the corneal damage. Hopefully.
A second scream yodeled past. We had delegated forty seconds to the grunts’ takedown stage. That was too short a time for the brass in the target helo, to figure out a plan. There was an old saying about too many generals, too few troops. We were about to prove that axiom.
I had sealed my armor’s helmet and faceplate, but I still caught a wisp of hydraulic stench on the air. I strained to hear. I might have heard a third shout on my enhanced armor pickups. Or it might have been my imagination.
I felt around my armor for my weapons’ placement. I didn’t armor up often. It wasn’t second nature for me.
At the forty second mark, Puta Bella and her crew began climbing up each of two Sikorskys to disable the rotors, leaving only the rotors on the command center helo for Jacopo to take out. Or that was the plan. Assuming everyone was able to do their job. Assuming no one got delayed or killed and missed their mark. Assuming everyone on our side was really on our side. There were times when I hated being a worst case scenario thinker.
I also hated not knowing what was going on. Hated depending on others to do their jobs when I couldn’t keep track personally. And this time, in this battle, we had no local comms, no vid, no nothing but timers, like war in the twentieth century, utterly archaic and chaotic.
At the sixty second mark, something black flew past my head. Slammed into the windscreen of the command center Sikorsky. Dead bird.
Spy leaped into my lap. “Bloody cat,” I half shrieked, rolling against the seat and seatbelt. “Near scared me out of my skin.”
The gray cat cast me a contemptuous glance and leaped into the snowfall, landing in the bucket with Jacopo. She and her two lieutenants were wearing war harnesses, each carrying a camera. There were pockets for a water bottle and for food, both currently empty.
The first shots sounded, snow-muffled, fired by Jacopo’s men into the command windshield to attract attention, while other men with handguns darted in and fired, damaging the weapons assemblies and scanners with close-in rounds.
Jacopo took out the rotor assembly. Three shots.
Five seconds of silence passed.Too long. It was supposed to be instantaneous.
I caught a glimpse of a figure before sparks flared. Diesel smoke was a whirling tornado, dark on the wind. Flames dancedin the smoke over the body of the command helo. It began to spread.
Razor McBride and Big Dick McKraken—Jagger’s people—had just dumped two liters of precious gas and diesel fuel over the main helo, setting the exterior on fire.
A second flare of fire appeared beneath the exterior flames, this one inside. The enemy had been stupid. They hadn’t secured the cockpit hatch. Hammer’s team, two of Jacopo’s men, had thrown a Molotov cocktail inside. I grinned into the heated face shield.
In the meeting I had said, “The intent is to drive them into the snow so Jacopo can take out every traitor possible with leg shots or any disabling—but not instantly lethal—shots.”
“How many targets?” Jacopo had asked.
I glanced at Enrico, hoping for a vague idea of the numbers of the brass in the command helo. I got a lot more.
