Mike Maden - River of Gods

“Quiet! Do you want them to hear us?”

The men hushed.

Al Rus checked his watch. His scout never reported back. No matter. The scout had confirmed Mossa’s arrival at the oasis, and Guo’s intel had been correct. These dogs really were heading for the abandoned Aéropostale airfield. Al Rus had put his team between the oasis and the airfield. What else could he do? The desert was too vast to find a man who didn’t want to be found. Perhaps someday he would acquire one of those devil drones. The Shi’a Persians had them and the Crusader infidels had them, so why shouldn’t he?

“Vehicles?” Al Rus asked.

“None. Only camels.”

Allah be praised, Al Rus thought. He has delivered them into my hands. “Come down, Salah. Carefully.”

The young man slid slowly backward down the dune so as not to attract attention by his movement. Once his head cleared the crest line, he turned around and belly-crawled a few feet in the scalding sand, then leaped to his feet and ran the rest of the way, thudding into the side of a truck.

“Idiot!”

“I am sorry, lord,” Salah whimpered. He was the youngest of the group.

“Clear the nets. On my signal, start your engines.”

The men pulled down the nets and stored them in the truck beds as quietly as possible. Sound carried out here. Drivers took their positions, as did the gunners.

Al Rus took the gunner position on his truck, told his other man to drive. “Kill the infidels!”

The engines roared to life and the trucks jumped forward, throwing sand and exhaust as they raced between dunes. The plan was for two of the trucks to break off and attack from the rear, while the other three trucks would charge straight into the single file of camels heading toward them. The animals would break and run, and it would be an easy matter to chase them down.

Just as they passed the first dune, a shadow flickered in the corner of Al Rus’s eye. He whipped around to see a four-wheeled vehicle no more than a meter tall pacing with them a kilometer away. Its cowling was ungodly, the shape of a demon’s head, or an alien, long and smooth and black. His spine tingled. Something was wrong. Al Rus turned around in the bouncing truck bed. Another one of the vehicles was following them, also a kilometer back.

Mann showed Pearce his screen. He had just tapped on each truck image on the screen, then assigned a Wraith UGV attack drone to each.

“Ready on your command.”

“Now,” Pearce said.

Mann tapped the automated attack toggle while Pearce signaled Mossa and the others to retreat. Two electric-powered Wraiths sped past the feet of his camel. This was the “team” that Mann had assembled, literally, on short notice. They were the latest example of LARs—lethal autonomous robotics. Each solar-powered vehicle was capable of up to sixty-five miles per hour and each carried a drum-fed twelve-gauge shotgun capable of firing 250 rounds per minute. Mann had loaded each Wraith with 180 shells, alternating between explosive rounds, armor-piercing slugs, and antipersonnel 000 buckshot.

“This should be interesting,” Mann said, clinically. “The first real world test for the new software.” He urged his camel to the crest of the dune where, perched high in the air, he could grab a commanding view of the action.

“Careful you don’t get your head blown off,” Pearce said.

Mann ignored him, intensely studying the action unfolding through his binoculars.

Pearce nudged his camel, joining him at the top. Mossa’s camel trotted up beside the two of them.

“This is what you call war?” Mossa asked.

“This is what we call hell,” Mann said.

The six Wraiths swarmed toward the speeding trucks, vainly firing their 7.62 machine guns at the speeding UGVs. Fistfuls of sand spat near the Wraiths’ tracked rubber wheels as they rocketed toward the pickups. When they had closed within range the Wraiths opened up. Heavy slugs tore into the thin steel door panel of the lead truck, splintering the driver’s ribs before they plowed into his lungs. Screaming in pain and terror, the driver panicked and flipped the Nissan. The gunner was tossed high in the air, then thudded into the sand just seconds before the spinning truck crashed into him, snapping his spine. The Wraith continued to fire, emptying its ammo box in seconds, exploding the upturned Nissan and incinerating the men trapped beneath it. It then sped off to find a secondary target, as instructed by its swarming software program.

Three other trucks broke off and sped in different directions, one racing for the shadowed slip face of the next dune. Big mistake. The front tires dug into the liquid sand as the vehicle tried to climb the steep face heading for the crest, triggering a mini avalanche that quickly swamped the truck’s hood, smothering the engine and trapping the driver inside. The machine gun was fixed to a pivot point that gave the gunner a 180-degree sweep over the front of the truck, but not enough play to turn it completely around. The Wraith tracking it raced up to the bed and spat twenty-five rounds in a second, shredding the gunner along with the rest of the truck. It then sped around to the side, crashed into the truck cab, and detonated.

Pearce watched the second Wraith explode, taking out the half-buried Nissan.

“What was the point of that?” he asked Mann.

“They’re rigged to self-destruct. I assumed I wouldn’t have the means to transport them back home and I didn’t want them to be captured. Besides, I may have just invented the first automated drone suicide bomber.”

“I hope you built seventy-two robot virgins to go with it.”

The other two surviving trucks spun in desperate circles and fired their weapons, but Al Rus commanded his truck to turn around and stop. Hitting a fast-moving target like the Wraiths while driving was a nearly impossible task. But the drones weren’t engaged in serious tactical driving. They just came on hard and fast. With his truck stopped and facing down the approaching Wraith, Al Rus easily drew a bead on it with his machine gun. The Wraith sped directly toward him. He opened up with his machine gun. The large-caliber slugs threw up a wall of lead in front of the Wraith that it ran into blindly. Its thin cowling shattered just seconds before the unit exploded in a ball of fire. His driver shouted “Allahuakbar!” as Al Rus gave the order to race away past the wreckage and toward safety, away from his dying friends and the fiendish robots cutting them to ribbons.

Three more explosions rocked the desert.

Al Rus watched the two Nissans explode in fireballs as the Wraiths detonated next to them. His command was dead, but at least he was alive—for now.

The two surviving Wraiths spun around, throwing rooster tails of sand into the air. Their ammo completely expended, they were only rolling bombs now.

Al Rus didn’t know that. All he knew was that the two drones were gaining on him fast and his machine gun couldn’t swing around. He unstrapped his AK-47, braced himself, and fired a series of controlled bursts. Steel-jacketed rounds tore into the Wraiths’ thin cowlings.

Direct hits. The Wraiths exploded. He was home free.

Pearce, Mossa, and Mann watched the surviving pickup race away into the desert.

“What happened?” Pearce asked. “You let that one get away.”

“I’ll have to analyze the data later. But all in all, not a bad result,” Mann said.

“We could chase him,” Mossa offered. “At that speed, he will blow a radiator or a head gasket, especially in this heat.”