Farley frowned. He could not remember how he’d gotten here. There’d been the four newcomers. The pulled-off balaclava. The girl’s face. The sudden spotlight. The following machine-gun fire. And then, and then?
He must have run with the others. But what he remembered was just standing there, staring at the girl. A stranger’s face that he already knew.
He shook his head like a dog shaking off water. Your station’s drifting, Captain Midnight. You’d better get tuned in.
He peered out from his side of the rock. The Fata Morgana faced him a hundred feet away. Directly behind her the two dark and nonreflective troop transports were parked in a V. They looked purely mangled. Both leaned out where their balloon tires had been shredded by gunfire. The metal sides were dented, dimpled, and holed. The spotlights on each transport had been shot out. Curiously, the dark front windshields remained intact. Hatchways had opened on the far sides of the vehicles.
“Jer,” said Farley.
Broben did not look away from the tableau. “Yeah, boss?”
“Plavitz, Wen, and Martin still on the bomber?”
“Unless they got Houdini with ’em, they are.”
Black-clad troops wearing matte-black helmets with dark faceshields came around the sides of the vans and sprinted toward the bomber. Their outfits had the same chameleon trick as the newcomers, and it was hard to draw a bead on them. Broben squeezed off a round and the lead man staggered back, looked down at himself, and kept going. Broben looked at his pistol.
Farley saw the bomber’s top turret swivel, but Plavitz didn’t fire. Farley realized that the vertical stabilizer was in the way and the turret’s cutoff cam was preventing the gunner from firing.
The tail gun opened fire again and two helmeted men fell apart like cut dough. The others checked their advance and retreated back behind the angled carriers. Martin didn’t waste more ammo on the vehicles.
“Welcome to the big leagues, assholes,” Broben muttered.
Farley glanced at the girl behind her boulder. She had been sighting down her chunky weapon and now she brought her head up, apparently startled by the twin Browning’s relentless firepower. Farley noted her stance, her steadiness, the way she coordinated with her team. He felt her over there like a beacon and he knew he had to put her out of his mind for now.
He looked back at Broben. “Those people sound German to you?” he asked.
Broben frowned. “They sound something, but it ain’t German. I’m not—whoah.” He raised his automatic as two more helmeted figures carrying stubby weapons sprinted for the bomber from different directions. Farley fired. He was certain he hit the left-hand runner in the chest, but the man just flinched and kept going.
From his left Farley heard a rising, high-pitched electric whine that cut off with a dull thunk. The man he thought he’d shot suddenly stiffened and fell forward like a toppled statue. His helmet slammed the ground without his arms coming up to break the fall.
The remaining runner raised his weapon. Farley heard another whine like a dentist drill revving up. It cut off, and some instinct made him duck back behind the rock. Something crackling whooshed by him and the hair on his arms stood up. He smelled an odor from his childhood, the sharp metallic smell of a nearby lightning strike.
He peeked out again just as Garrett’s .30 cut loose from the rockfall. Blood and bone exploded out the running man’s back and he went down like a dropped sandbag.
Broben waggled his pistol. “I want to trade up,” he said.
Now the crew and their new friends were firing at the transports. Pistol pops and guttural machine-gun fire and the weird windup whine-and-clack of the strangers’ stubby weapons.
Motion caught Farley’s eye. The girl was waving at him. She pointed forward but Farley didn’t see anything. “You got field glasses?” he asked Broben.
“Nope. Got a Zippo, though.”
Farley scowled. “I think there’s another transport headed our way.”
The girl leaned back from her boulder. “We have to go,” she called to Farley. “Destroy your aircraft and come with us.”
“Three of my crew are still in there,” Farley called back.
She shook her head. “Their reinforcements will flank us and attack while the others target the aircraft,” she said.
“I’m not leaving my men,” Farley insisted. “And I’m sure as hell not setting them on fire.”
“Do you know what they’ll do to them?”
“We should burn them alive so they won’t be tortured?” said Broben.
“We’re grateful for your help,” said Farley, “but it’s not your fight.”
“If your aircraft is captured it will be used against us.”
“I’m not killing my own men.”
“If I can get them out, will you destroy the aircraft?”
“Count on it.”
She studied Farley a moment, then conferred with her team member lying prone now beside the rock and looking very naked without a weapon. Then she leaned out and signaled one of her confederates behind the rockfall. She made a series of complex gestures that reminded Farley of a baseball coach signaling an on-base runner. Her comrade replied in kind and she nodded and looked back at Farley. He thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t. She turned and ran out into the darkness.
Farley could see the third transport coming now, angling off to the right. Moving to flank, as the girl had said.
“Now what?” said Broben.
“I don’t even have a bad idea,” Farley admitted.
They watched the bomber’s top turret as its twin machine-gun barrels lowered and began to track the transport.
“Come on, Plavitz,” said Broben. “Beat ’em to the punch.”
Plavitz did. The moment the transport was in range he opened up. Hot streaks flew across the canyon air and struck the slowly moving transport. The vehicle rocked from the barrage, and a dull ring of hammered metal carried along the valley floor, as if an invisible giant were pounding the vehicle with a mace. The metal dented and dimpled and crumpled, but resisted the fusillade.
The transport stopped. Light spilled onto the canyon floor as a hatchway popped open on its far side. Brief silhouettes appeared as troops hurried out and ran for cover. Plavitz peppered the balloon tires and the transport lowered a full six inches. He kept hammering until he took out the spotlights and the metal hull looked like a cheese grater. It was purely awesome to behold. Their new friends in black could only gape at the devastation wrought by the terrifying weaponry.
Broben nudged Farley and nodded at the bomber. Farley looked just in time to see a dark figure sprint to the forward hatch, jump up, and swing inside.
“That your girlfriend?” Broben asked. “Think so,” said Farley. “Man.” Broben shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give to see their faces when they get a load of her.”
Farley snorted, imagining Plavitz and Wen seeing the girl climb aboard. Hiya, fellas! I’m the nose art on your bomber! A kind wizard brought me to life, and I have come to save you with my toy ray gun. Walt Disney with the DT’s couldn’t have tricked that one up.
The top turret stopped firing. Farley thought Plavitz couldn’t have much ammo left. Martin either. Once they all were down to pistols this party would be over.
A hand holding some kind of device emerged from behind the newly devastated transport. Machine-gun fire erupted from the bomber’s left waist hatch and the arm withdrew. From the bomber Wen’s voice yelled, “That’s me wavin’ back, you dumb bag of shit.”