James Axler - Dark Goddess

“Fuck, there are definitely wars out there,” Robison snapped, pushing back his chair and rising from the table. His female companion fell onto the floor and appeared to go instantly to sleep. “There’s a big-ass fuckin’ war going on.”

“Yeah, but those Cerberus pricks won’t let us fight it,” Reichert said.

“Won’t let us fight it with them,” Joe Weaver corrected. “Guess we shouldn’t have killed all those friends of theirs, huh?”

Hays shrugged, not responding to Weaver’s sarcasm. “Bunch a’ ersatz injuns with feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. Good old collateral damage. No loss.”

“Not to us, mebbe,” Robison agreed. “But Kane sure seemed to set big store by them.”

At the mention of the man’s name, an image of Kane’s pale, cold eyes flashed into the mind of Major Mike Hays and he repressed a shiver. He involuntarily glanced over his shoulder, made uneasy by mere utterance of the name.

Although he and his subordinates had promised to never speak of what actually happened when they had been lured into the trap laid by the Cerberus warriors, Hays still shuddered at the most oblique reminder of the encounter.

Mike Hays gusted out a sigh, then tilted the bottle to his lips and drained it in several noisy swallows. Reichert watched him with slitted eyes. “Fuck, this is worse than that Rwanda mission…didn’t do nothing there but drink and fuck.”

Hays dropped the bottle to the floor and made swooping and rising gestures with his hands, intoning a prolonged, “Smoo-o-oth.”

Weaver pinched the bridge of his nose and whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Oy,” the bartender said angrily, “don’t drop your shit on my floor.”

Hays speared him with a challenging stare. “I drop my shit where I please.”

“Yes, I can see that,” the man shot back. “That’s why I mentioned it.”

Hays locked eyes with the bartender, hoping he would notch up his objections from the verbal to the physical. He wished he could vent a fraction of his frustration by shooting several holes in the man’s head with his Mag-58.

His frustration sprang less from boredom than the knowledge he had once again failed to achieve an erection, even under the ministrations of the girl he had bribed with several MRE packs.

When the bartender dropped his gaze, Hays announced loudly, “I think it’s time we leave this fuckin’ burg and take the fight back to where it fuckin’ belongs.”

Reichert groaned wearily. “Not more fuckin’Indians.”

Hays scowled at him. “It don’t have to be Indians, but—”

He broke off when a high-pitched whine touched his hearing. Hays, Weaver, Reichert and Robison stared around in puzzlement. Little sprinkles of dust sifted down from the ceiling as the drone grew in volume.

“A chopper?” Robison asked. “One of those old Apache 64s the Magistrates call Deathbirds?”

Reichert shook his head. “We’d hear the fuckin’ rotors.”

Hays spun toward the door, hefting his subgun. “Let’s recon.”

The four men rushed out into the humid afternoon air and stood in a muddy street that twisted between ramshackle buildings, past hovels, shacks and tents. There was no main avenue, only lanes that zigged in one direction and zagged in the other.

They looked toward the latticework of residential Enclave towers connected to the Administrative Monolith, a massive round column of white rockcrete that jutted hundreds of feet into the sky.

A featureless disk of shimmering silver twenty feet in diameter hovered above the flat top of the tower. The configuration and smooth hull reminded Joe Weaver of the throwing discus he had used in his college days. Perfectly centered on the disk’s underside bulged a half dome, like the boss of a shield.

As the four men gaped in silent astonishment, the craft settled down on top the monolith and from the rim sprouted three tentacles of alloy. They curved out and down, plunging through the slit windows.

“What the fuck is that?” Robison half gasped, voice quavering. “It’s like a fuckin’ flying saucer—!”

“No fuckin’ way!” Reichert blurted, but he didn’t sound completely certain. “Maybe we’d better get Bob warmed up—just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Weaver asked, a slight mocking edge to his voice. “Just in case it is a flying saucer?”

Sean Reichert glared at him through narrowed eyes, then he nodded. “Yeah. Just in case.”

The four men sprinted down a narrow alley running alongside the Tosspot Tumor. The alley opened up into a wide courtyard where Bobzilla was quartered. The huge, armor-plated LAV-25 had been modified by the Phoenix Project designers to serve as the team’s rolling base of operations.

As they reached the rear hatch, a shadow momentarily blotted out the sunlight and in unison they heeled around, necks craning, heads tilting back. Reichert’s face paled despite his dark complexion, and he muttered, “Fuck.”

Another silver disk hovered barely five yards overhead. As it slowly sank toward the courtyard, Robison fumbled with the hatch latches and swung the heavy metal panel open on squeaking spring hinges. “Let’s get our asses heeled!” he bellowed.

Swiftly, he took an AK-108 and then passed one of the lightweight carbines to Weaver. Hays reached around Robison and snagged an FIM-921 Stinger shoulder-fired antiaircraft rocket launcher. Reichert grabbed an M-203 grenade launcher combined with an M-16 rifle. With expert fingers, he loaded the weapon with three blunt-nosed 40 mm explosive rounds.

The disk slowly descended, but it didn’t come to rest. From the half dome on its undercarriage snaked out three gleaming legs. They in turn sprouted three claws that sank deeply into the muddy soil and lent the machine a resemblance to an old-fashioned milking stool coated with a shifting sheath of quicksilver.

A chill fist of dread squeezed Weaver’s heart and he said to his companions, “Let’s not jump the gun, boys. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

Hays snorted in derision, placing the tube of the launcher on his right shoulder. “I’d say it’s those fuckers that don’t know what they’re dealing with.”

Weaver fearfully eyed the tripodal machine. “Heard that before, Major. But this time we’re not facing a bunch of childish savages with bows and arrows. We need to discuss tactics before we—”

The disk emitted a harsh, electronic hoot, which to Weaver sounded like a warning to get out of its way. Three legs moving in unison, the machine took a weirdly graceful step forward.

“Here’s your tactics, Joe!” Hays bellowed. “Turn out the dogs!”

The weapons in the hands of the four men spit flame, thunder and multiple kinds of projectiles. The courtyard became a crashing, exploding, blazing inferno. Steel-jacketed bullets sparked a dozen miniature constellations on the rim of the disk ship’s hull.

Mike Hays squeezed the trigger of the FIM-921 and the Stinger rocket leaped from the hollow bore, propelled by a wavery ribbon of smoke. It struck the disk ship broadside, the warhead detonating amid a billowing mushroom of black smoke and a blinding gush of flame that rolled over the hull.

The flurry of grenades fired by the howling Sean Reichert burst all around the tripod, eardrum-compressing detonations blooming against and below it. Dirt and mud erupted, raining down in all directions.

Smoke billowed, a shroud of gray enveloping the courtyard, completely obscuring the disk from view. As the roiling canopy of haze and smoke spread, Team Phoenix ceased fire.

Coughing, fanning the air in front of his face, Robison declared hoarsely, “Overwhelming firepower trumps tactics every fuckin’ time.”

Hays dropped the rocket launcher and gusted out a satisfied sigh. “Smoo-o-oth.”