Nanotroopers Episode 17: Lions Rock Page 6

  Kincade’s lips tightened and his moustache bristled. “I’m well aware of that, Murchison. We’ll just have to take the chance…or find another way to get at that base.”

  Winger swallowed hard and stole a glance at Galland. She kept her eyes focused on the 3-D globe, with its swelling splotches of red indicating the growth of the Red Hammer swarms. It was an infestation on a planetary scale, nearly half a world consumed and so far, they’d done little to even slow it down.

  “We’ll make it work, General,” she said. “Look at the globe, sir. It’s like a cancer spreading.”

  Like evolution speeded up, thought Barnes. Or evolution in reverse, re-creating the conditions of the primordial Earth. But she didn’t say any of that. They had no proof. Only faint traces from the core processors of a captured master bot from Lions Rock and a few theories to try and make sense of them.

  “A pretty apt analogy, Sergeant. And we can no longer afford the luxury of half measures to deal with it. This is one disease that’s going to take radical surgery to root out.”

  Standing up Boundary Patrol took every available minute of the next two weeks. At the north end of the Table Top mesa, Hangar C was converted into a geoplane assembly and test center. Three hulls were in varying stages of assembly by the end of the first week: Mole, Badger and Prairie Dog.

  For the time being, U.N. Boundary Patrol would be co-located with Quantum Corps at Table Top, sharing command, tactical and logistics spaces with the nanotroopers. Lieutenant Oscar Mendez was appointed as liaison officer with Quantum Corps. Johnny Winger would work with Mendez to develop tactics and procedures for effective subterranean operations using the geoplanes.

  Late in the afternoon, a week before the Tectonic Sword assault force was due to depart, Winger showed up at Hangar C and got to know Mendez a little better.

  Mendez was short, stocky, olive-skinned with a trim black moustache. He was following a wireway along the outer hull of Prairie Dog. Winger walked up.

  The two O-2s shook hands. Mendez patted hull plates with a rueful smile. “She looks like a big metal wiener, Winger. I volunteered for this TDY but I don’t know—maybe I should’ve stayed with BioShield.”

  Winger could see that final assembly was essentially done on the geoplane. “Not too keen on burrowing underground, eh? I know the feeling. But the design works. I can vouch for that.”

  “You and Galland were nearly killed on Gopher’s test ride. How can you say the design works?”

  “It wasn’t the design. It was tactics. Down there, you do have to be careful. I envy you in a way, Mendez. You’re in on the ground floor of a new force. You’ll be developing your own tactics…your own procedures and customs. You’ll be making up your own traditions.”

  Mendez agreed. “We’ve already started. Have you seen Boundary Patrol’s new org chart and crew complement?”

  Winger hadn’t, so Mendez pulled it up on their wristpads. “Each ship will have a crew of six. There’ll be a commander, a driver/systems operator, a borer operator and a geo tech. Each crew also has a sensor and surveillance tech and a defense specialist, like your DPS ratings. Boundary Patrol plans to operate the geoplanes with two crews, just like the Navy’s boomers…a red and a gold crew. And they’re already drawing up plans for patrol stations around the world—five in all, to start with, all set up near tectonic plate boundaries. If Red Hammer or any other nasties use swarms or fluid hammers to set off quakes, we’ll be on ‘em like bad news on a politician. Any threats from below ground, well—“Mendez pointed to an engraved Latin inscription on the forward hull of Prairie Dog,” read it and weep.”

  Winger scanned the words: Subterraneus defensores percutunt dure.

  Mendez translated. “It means ‘subterranean defenders strike hard.’ UNIFORCE just approved the motto. Say, Winger—“ the two lieutenants stepped around some workers welding fittings to Prairie Dog’s borer module, “You’ve got some experience with this geoplane business. What was it really like…down there?”

  “You mean other than being nearly crushed to death and having to burrow our way out like real gophers? Eerie, Oscar…damned spooky. You feel the weight of all that rock and earth pressing in on you…you can actually see the hull frames compress from the pressure. Like a submarine, I guess. You move slow…the borer chews a path and your treads propel you. You’re lucky to do two kilometers an hour….depending on the strata. You pay attention to voids and fault lines and gas pockets…everything you learned in 8th grade Netschool about the Earth’s crust and mantle…you can throw that out. In a lot of ways, it’s a helluva medium to try and conduct military ops in. But with Red Hammer in control of most of those killsats up there, we needed a way to assault Lions Rock. Swarms and geoplanes…it’s pretty much the only way. If we don’t take out Lions Rock, Red Hammer can dictate whatever terms they want and we’ll all have to pay up. I guess UNIFORCE is using this mission to stand up an all new force…and not a moment too soon.”

  Mendez hoisted himself up through the hatch and made his way to the command deck, Winger right behind him. Electricians were on their backs, pulling wire below the control panels around the compartment. Mendez plopped himself down sat in the commander’s seat. Winger took the DSO position…driver/systems operator.

  “I was a BioShield guy the last year,” Mendez admitted. “I got TDY’ed to Boundary Patrol but I would have volunteered anyway. I needed less patrolling and more action. Now, with UNBP, instead of sniffing out bad nano and alerting you guys at Quantum Corps, I’ll be working the sharp end of the stick. Now, I can do something about the problem. You’ve heard the latest intel?”

  Winger ran his fingers over the twin tread control handles. “Swarms setting off quakes and tremors in half a dozen places…I heard it. They stole the configs from us. Now Red Hammer’s got bots that can chew through solid rock at unheard-of speeds. Boundary Patrol’s coming along at just the right time. But first, we’ve got the Tectonic Sword mission.”

  “My crew’ll be ready,” Mendez told him. He recited the details of Prairie Dog’s support from memory: “Troop transport and logistics support. Additional firepower. Safety backup, in case you guys set off more quakes like you did with Gopher.”

  “Hey that was an accident,” Winger retorted. “There was a fault line we didn’t know about…Gopher did fine. Her crew consisted of me and Galland. We just got a little—“

  “Over-eager?” Mendez suggested. He snorked out a laugh. “Sorry, Winger, I couldn’t help it. I’m the same way. Still—“ his smile faded and his face became serious. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being a little nervous about next week’s check ride with Dog here. Seriously, any pointers or pearls of wisdom you’ve got, lay ‘em on me. We’ll need them.”

  “Amen to that,” Winger said.

  Mendez’ face suddenly brightened. “I’ve got an idea. My crew’s doing beer and burgers this afternoon at the Robbery---“ that was trooper slang around the Hill for the commissary—“I’d be honored if you and Lieutenant Galland could make it.”

  “It’s a deal,” Winger said. He left Hangar C to head over to Mission Prep. He wanted to review the Stores and Supplies list for the mission, probably for the hundredth time. Then he planned to swing by Hangar B, where his own geoplane, Mole, was going through her final form and fit checks. August 10 was less than a week away and both Mole and Prairie Dog were scheduled to be loaded onto a hyperjet for the flight out to Quantum Corps Eastern Command base at Singapore in five days.

  By the time he got to the Robbery, the festivities were in full swing. Winger and Galland dived into the crowd, met each member of Mendez’ crew and toasted Prairie Dog’s check ride coming up in two days. But before the crowd could dig into their plates of burgers and fries, Mendez’ wristpad beeped…a beep he’d learned long ago to detest but one he couldn’t ignore. It was a Threatcon One alert…all hands to stations.

  Men
dez shook his head as he climbed up on a nearby chair to be heard over the commotion. The alert message was still scrolling on his wristpad and he nearly stumbled, climbing and reading at the same time. Somebody rapped on a bottle for attention. Mendez’ face was dead serious.

  “What is it, Skipper?” came a voice from the back.

  “Another drill…do we really have to have one every day?”

  Mendez waved them all quiet. “Threatcon One, troops. And this is no drill. I’ll read it…text is from General Kincade and UNSAC: Magnitude eight tremors hitting northern Iran and southern Turkmenistan…suspected Red Hammer source or cause…tremors continue…swarm signatures detected in the area…Boundary Patrol commanded to mobilize all available geoplane crews…mission is surveillance and defense of known fault zones along Arabian and Indian Plate boundaries….” Here, Mendez looked up with a dead serious look. “That means us. Looks like our check ride will be a little more than we bargained for. Finish your plates and assemble in Hangar C at—“ he checked his pad once more, “1700 hours sharp. Full packs. And bring your game face. This one’s for real.”

  Chapter 2

  “Subterranean Ops”

  Tabriz, Iran

  August 6, 2049

  0500 hours

  “It looks like a giant caterpillar,” said Dr. Christian Hayes. The UN Quantum Corps inspector circled the vehicle, studying its unusual hull shape, circumferential treads and bulbous nose. “Or maybe a big armored beetle.”

  Lieutenant Oscar Mendez chuckled. “This beetle has quite a bite. Prairie Dog can burrow into the ground and be completely submerged in less than a minute. And she can dive to five kilometers depth, given her composite armor and thermal regulation system. That borer lens up front you’re looking at can penetrate the hardest shales and rock on earth, just like butter. She’s a true creature of the deep…the deep earth, that is.”

  Geoplane Prairie Dog squatted among the rubble piles and smoking ruins of the Blue Mosque, while all around her, scores of fixbots scurried around removing debris from the

  site, dumping broken glass, broken stone, mangled rebar and trash into loaders lined up along Emam Street for half a kilometer. A huge gaping fissure crossed the street in a jagged line, where the underlying faults had lifted the earth in the massive quake several days before. As a result, the toppled Martyrs’ statues across the street were several meters higher than the Mosque itself.

  Prairie Dog’s crew, assigned from Boundary Patrol Detachment BP-4, explained her features to Hayes and to Reza Hokmar, the Teheran-based official from UNDERO, the UN Disaster and Emergency Relief Organization. It was Hokmar’s job to head up the recovery efforts in Tabriz, still reeling from a series of magnitude 8 and 9 tremors.

  “You have the coordinates of that last swarm sighting?” Hayes asked. “Somewhere a few kilometers southeast of here.”

  Mendez was Prairie Dog’s CC1, the senior command rating, in charge of the mission. “Got ‘em from Q2 on the trip over. I don’t have intel on any other sightings.”

  “I haven’t heard of anything official,” Hayes admitted. “Just rumors. Reza--?”

  Hokmar shrugged. “People here are frightened. They see all kinds of things. My office has reports of ghosts, three-headed tigers, the Prophet Mohammed, you name it. We’ve had a hard time distinguishing fact from superstition. Most people here lost family in the quake. And the tremors….you know they continue.”

  Mendez went over the mission orders with both of them. “I’m going deep right here, right through that fissure across the street. After we descend to about two thousand meters, we’ll turn south and head for the coordinates of that last sighting. Quantum Corps has been scanning this area for days, looking for any kind of unique signature. But there’s so much noise down there, it’s hard to get a fix. Even the quantum detectors can’t grab anything solid.”

  “I guess the real question we have,” said Hokmar, “is whether the quake and the tremors are natural phenomena. Tabriz is no stranger to earthquakes. The city was eighty per cent destroyed in the late 20th century, over a hundred and twenty years ago. It’s all the tremors following…and the swarm sightings…that have people on edge.”

  Mendez understood. “Q2 has plenty of related intel that it’s Red Hammer. Prairie Dog’ll smoke ‘em out. If you’ve got swarms operating in the area, we’ll find them.” Mendez got on the crewnet through his lip mike and ordered the rest of the Detachment to mount up. “Let’s go, troops. Prairie Dog’s rolling and digging in two minutes.” He stepped through the forward hatch and disappeared inside the geoplane.

  Hayes and Hokmar stepped back and gave the vehicle plenty of clearance. On the hull beside the forward hatch, Hayes saw the Boundary Patrol insignia and the Latin inscription: Subterraneus defensores percutant dure.

  “’Subterranean defenders strike hard’”, he translated for Hokmar. Prairie Dog’s treads started up with a screeching clank and a blue-white glow soon enveloped the nose of the ship as the borer lens came fully online. The cylindrical geoplane huffed and shuddered as she motored forward on her treads, clambering over nearby rubble piles and across the three-meter ledge that marked the fissure in the ground. Fixbots stopped in their own tracks and police held up traffic as the ship rumbled across the street. Passing the recently re-erected statue of the poet Khaqani in a small park opposite the Mosque, Prairie Dog started her descent, angling nose-first toward the ground.

  Inside the command deck, Mendez gave directions to Corporal Robles, the Detachment’s DSO1 (Driver/Systems Operator). Pressing a few buttons, Robles manipulated the borer that formed a huge dish-shaped nose on the geoplane’s bow. Inside the borer, actuators fired to release the ANAD swarm contained there. In seconds, the outer surface of the dish was thick with nanoscale disassemblers, forming a shimmering half-globe around Prairie Dog’s nose. Like a single huge blue-white headlamp, the dish and its halo of mechs formed the geoplane’s working surface for subterranean operations.

  “Let’s go digging,” Mendez said. “Head for that fissure and contact Ops… tell ‘em we’re going under.”

  Robles complied. “Turning left, heading now… one three five degrees. Depth is forty five meters, five degrees down angle.”

  “Borer coming on line,” Sergeant Li Kejiang reported. Li was the Borer Operator, BOP1 for the Detachment. She scanned her instrument panel, reading swarm density, alignment and other parameters. “Bots are ready to bite—“

  Prairie Dog slowed down as the fissure approached, then a high keening wail could be heard through the hull, as the borer bit into the rock. The geoplane shuddered as she decelerated. Outside the command deck, unseen by the six-person crew, Prairie Dog’s nose buried itself in a shimmering blue-white fog as the borer revved up and uncountable trillions of mechs tore at the rock.

  Li licked her lips nervously, reading her instruments. “Coming back mostly quartz and pyroxenes, with some sandstone mixed in. Bots should eat this stuff up.”

  The geoplane plunged into the tunnel created by the borer, angling nose down as she bit deeper into the side of the fissure.

  Prairie Dog’s instrument panel showed the results of acoustic sounding, displaying rock layers on a graph, with temperature and pressure readings all around the graph. Borer status was displayed as well.

  “Looking good,” Robles muttered. “Borer configured for quartz and pyroxenes…ANAD’s chewing through at a rate of two point five kilometers per hour. Treads are functioning fine.”

  “She’s a real hot rod…let’s try some basic maneuvers,” Mendez suggested. “Prairie Dog’s never had a proper shakedown cruise.”

  “Aye, sir--“ Robles turned the stick to port and Prairie Dog initiated a shallow left-hand bank. The command deck listed slightly, then stabilized. For the next few minutes, first Robles, then Mendez took turns putting the geoplane through a series of turns, dives and climbs.

  Mendez began to relax his grip
on the stick slightly, trying to forget they were now hundreds of meters below ground.

  “There’s a layer of basaltic rock a few klicks south of here,” he remembered. “It’s nearly a kilometer down. We should see how Prairie Dog handles there.”

  Robles was cautious. “Sir, remember what Captain Karst told us in the briefing: don’t push her too hard on this first test. Basaltic stuff is superhard and dense…all shale inclusions and quartzite. We’re not sure Prairie Dog’s hull can take the pressure.”

  “I know but this is supposed to be a recon mission to find Red Hammer swarms. We have to find out how she’ll handle. Sergeant Rounds, anything yet?”

  Sergeant Rounds was the SS1, Sensors and Surveillance Technician. “Nothing yet, Lieutenant. I’m scanning all bands…EM, thermal, acoustic, quantum….some plate shifting, crustal grinding…that’s about it.”

  “Very well.” Mendez programmed a new heading into the tread control system and Robles steered them southeast on a heading of one two five degrees, roughly paralleling the volcanic cone of Sahand and the Eynali ridge at the surface. Acoustic sounding soon showed the geoplane was entering harder, denser rock layers.

  “Shales,” Sergeant Rita Rono muttered. Rono was GET1 for the Detachment, the Geo Engineering Technician. From earlier briefings with Quantum Corps geologists, she knew the layer was sheeted with hard slate and mica, compacted over millions of years by glaciers and the overriding Eynali mountain range. “Nothing to worry about…just sit back and enjoy the view.”

  Mendez snorted. The only view they had was of the inner pressure hull of the geoplane. Even as he watched, he imagined that he could see the compression of Prairie Dog’s interior frame under the millions of tons pressing down on them.

  “Sounding ahead…” Rounds reported. “Your depth is now four eight eight meters. Signal distortion coming back…it’s probably the shale zone.”

  Robles shoved the control stick forward. “I’m going a little deeper…see if we can plow through some of that quartzite.”