Jerome Preisler - Net Force--Attack Protocol

That was a single bullet.

The M2 fired eight hundred rounds a minute. And each ’hog carried three specially designed, thousand-round disintegrating feed strips.

Fernandez took a deep breath, expanding his broad chest. The robotic tracks in the snow, and the spent cartridges near the bodies of the runners, told the whole story of what happened to them. They must have seen the ’hog gliding up and thought nothing of it. Assumed it was just making its usual patrol rounds. It had caught them totally by surprise.

Fernandez pursed his lips, ballooned his cheeks, and finally exhaled a long, slow stream of air. The ’hogs had learned their collective lesson. They weren’t about to jeopardize themselves by coming any closer. They wouldn’t waste ammunition on autonomous rolling stock, or even his manned battlewagon. Their goal right now, right here in the current situation, would be to take the maximum number of human lives possible. And that meant the people evacuating the bunker.

There would be walking wounded. There would be men and women on stretchers. Getting them aboard the vehicles would be slow and difficult. They would have a hard time maneuvering inside the circle of Pumas. But the hogs outside the circle would have no such problem. They could wait a safe distance from the vehicles’ rockets. Then move with ease once the people appeared, and pour ammunition through the openings between the wagons, which made convenient lanes of fire. And the awful beauty of it for them was that their bullets couldn’t be deflected by electronic countermeasures. Bullets didn’t need fancy guidance systems. The simplest kind of missile, they just went where they were aimed at a barrel velocity of three thousand feet per second.

Fernandez stared at his screens. No trace of movement from the shed yet. Nothing from the ’hogs, either. Sure , he thought. Why would they budge? They had their targets right where they wanted them.

They could afford to wait.

Howard knew getting everyone out would be a sticky proposition.

The evacuees fit into three groups. The ones who could walk on their own, the ones who could walk with help, and the ones who couldn’t walk at all.

There were five men in the first group. Four men and two women in the second with a variety of burns, gashes, and lacerations from broken glass and falling debris. And a man and woman on the floor on scoop stretchers. They were both in rough shape—he had a shattered collarbone and a mangled leg, and she’d suffered a puncture wound in her side that was pouring blood. Her dazed, staring eyes made Howard suspect shock was setting in.

That made eight out of thirteen who needed assistance. With each of the stretchers requiring two carriers, he and Wasserman would have to help, which would hinder them if they had to use their weapons. But there was nothing they could do about it.

Persevere and pick a lane , Howard thought. He was not going to leave anyone behind for a second trip. He wasn’t even sure there was time for a first trip.

“You know about the drones?” he asked Jeffries.

“Yes, sir.” The captain gestured toward Wasserman. “He informed us. And we’ve heard the explosions.”

Howard grunted.

“Those fliers might make some noise, but I think we’ve got them beat,” he said. “The ’hogs are a problem. They’re still up top. And they’ll open up on us the minute we’re out there.”

Jeffries nodded.

“I understand,” he said. And paused a beat. “Thank you for coming back, sir. Sincerely.”

Howard looked at him, his eyes steady, thinking the man would need reconstructive surgery to have a face. After a moment, he turned toward the rest of the evacs.

“Keep your heads down,” he said. “Once you leave the shed, don’t think about anything. Don’t stop for anything. Just get right inside the Pumas. We stick together, we’ll be fine, okay?”

Those who could nod, did.

“Then listen up,” Howard said. “I’ll tell you how we do this. Then we’re getting out of this pit.”

Howard led the way up, helping a young E3 named Larocca, who had a badly broken ankle—it looked like multiple fractures had torn through the skin. One arm around the private’s back, his blooper on its sling, he took things step-by-step, trying to ignore his own severe pain. For a moment in the bunker, he’d considered taking a morphine shot from a first aid kit. But he’d wanted to stay sharp.

Larocca managed to hobble to the top mostly under his own strength. Next came the men carrying the wounded on stretchers, then Jeffries and one of the women, followed by the rest of the evacuees, both alone and assisted. The last trooper climbed the stairs alongside Wasserman as he brought up the rear.

They pressed together in the shed and waited expectantly for Howard’s instructions. He moved toward the edge of the door with Larocca, partly supporting his weight.

It had gotten quiet outside. Or quiet er. He could still hear the buzzing of drones, but no explosions, close by or in the distance.

“We can fit both stretchers in the C&C,” he said to Jeffries. “Maybe a couple more of us if they push in tight. The rest go into one of the autons. Which one depends, so stay on the ball.”

The captain nodded, and Howard glanced at Larocca.

“With me, son?” he asked.

“All the way.”

“Like you got a choice with your ankle being so fucked.”

Larocca smiled a little.

Howard looked around the shed and exchanged glances with Wasserman.

“Steady and ready, people,” he shouted, grabbing the door handle. “Move out! On the double!”

Howard pushed open the door and felt cold air hit his face. He saw the Pumas around him in a circle with their hatches raised.

After a moment, he nodded to Larocca and jostled forward.

Outside the coil of Pumas, Walt and Nash opened fire.

Fernandez, waiting, leaned closer to the multipanel displays. He could hear the loud, staccato chop of the ’hogs’ Ma Deuces coming alive as Howard and the rest poured from the shed.

“Pickles...engage the Strikers,” he ordered his AI. “Now.”

Two of the autons instantly released a series of grenade rounds—Percy Three’s turret gun leveling on Nash, Percy One’s zeroing on Walt. The guided projectiles tracked and acquired their targets in a heartbeat.

The hedgehogs were equally quick to react. Reading the RPGs’ trajectories, their articulated suspensions folding to the ground, they ducked just before impact like boxers in the ring.

Fernandez watched the rockets whiz right over them, overshooting their marks. Several slammed into the west fence and detonated with brilliant bursts of light. Others popped off in the air to the north, bright as day.

He wasn’t surprised. It was exactly what he’d anticipated. Trying to hit the bots was futile. They were mobile, and he was stuck in position, unable to budge until the evacuees were aboard. But maybe, maybe, maybe he could screw with their aim.

He turned to peer outside the open hatch. A group of evacuees was rushing up under steady fire, carrying the most severely wounded on stretchers. They pushed one, Sergeant Linda Marley, through the open hatch. A second, E4 Corey Ambler, was hustled over next. Behind them in the crowd, Howard was shouting, “Hurry! Hurry it up!”

Fernandez watched as Ambler was lifted in. So far, the defensive coil had kept everyone from being sliced to ribbons, but he could see the hedgehogs maneuvering for better positions outside it, bobbing and weaving and scuttling sideways like crabs, their guns making continual adjustments and clapping out torrents of fire.

He clenched his teeth. These were his people. His friends. Soldiers. Their lives depended on him. He would buy them some time. It was all he could do. The only thing. With luck they would be moving out in a few minutes.