I saw no trace of Wingate’s jeep in front of me and had no time left for discretion. Turning my headlights on, I raced down tree-lined lanes and into the forested countryside. The sounds of sirens and explosions carried in the air, but they were distant and I ignored them. The attack was far away now and seemed no more significant than a day-old dream as I concentrated on finding the transport.
I looked at my wristwatch and saw the timer hand sweep past the twelve. One full minute had passed since that first laser attack. Why had I not started timing when I spotted the commandos? Why had I gone to the base instead of simply hiding out here?
I doused my headlights. Up ahead, the white light of arc lamps shined through a grove. The trees blocking the glare created a strobe effect, as if I were watching an ancient silent movie. I pulled off the road and skidded to a halt in the mud.
There would be no time to call for help or pack my weapons, not even my M27. I jumped out of my jeep. A good hundred feet into the woods, men in green uniforms loaded small stacks of crates into an antique-looking military transport.
Other men with guns circled the area looking for folks like me. Here I had a stroke of luck. These men were dressed in Army fatigues that looked precisely like mine. They were camouflaged to look like the soldiers at Fort Clinton. Had one of Wingate’s soldiers unknowingly stumbled into their operation, these spies might have pointed to their own transport and claimed that they had located an enemy ship.
“We’re out of time,” somebody said in a soft voice that carried through the silence. “Anything and anyone who does not get on now gets left behind.” Somewhere back near town, still as distant as a dream, sirens and explosions continued to break the silence. I had to make my move. Fortunately for me, one guard had strayed far enough into the trees for me to take him.
“Last call. Return to the transport.” The voice was soft but it echoed over a hundred comLinks and carried through the woods.
I drew closer to my target, a lone man with an M27. He had blond hair. We looked nothing alike, but I did not think it would matter. Looking around these woods, between the men loading the ship and the guards, there were too many faces for anyone to keep them all straight.
I doubt my victim heard me. He took one last sweep of the area before turning to go back to the transport. I hid behind a tree, no more than fifteen feet from where he stood. He had his back to me. I could see the barrel of his M27 pointing straight up above the top of his shoulder. Nice of him to bring me a replacement for the one I left in my jeep.
I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs. Barely lifting my feet, I rushed forward, staying in a slight crouch, my arms out and my fingers stretched as if preparing to strangle the boy. Had the floor of the forest been dry, I could have taken him easily, but the ground was muddy from the rain. I moved more quickly than he did, but I had to shuffle my feet to squelch the sound of my boots tromping through the mud. He hiked, I glided.
Ahead of him, I could see the landing area. Guards, cargo handlers, and commandos hustled into the transport. They did not look back as I leaped forward, fastening my right hand around the boy’s chin and anchoring my grip by placing my left hand just on the back of his neck. I pulled with my right hand and pushed with my left. The sound of his neck snapping was no louder than the tick of a clock as we both toppled forward. He was dead before our momentum sent us to the ground.
Straightening my fatigues, I climbed to my feet. There was a smear of mud on my knee. I brushed off the dirt and leaves as best I could as I approached the transport.
“Hurry up, asshole,” someone yelled as I started up the ramp. I nodded and ran forward as the doors closed behind me. My boots clanked against the metal floor. I heard excited chatter all around me. The cabin was mostly dark except for soft red emergency lights. The engines rumbled and the transport lifted straight up in the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Every ship in the Galactic Central Fleet was more than forty years old. That did not mean that they were in bad condition or that they had seen a lot of action. In fact, few of the ships had traveled over the last few decades. New and clean as this transport was, it had antiquated technology. To prevent glare in the cockpit, the only light in the kettle—that was what we called the cattle car in which the soldiers traveled—came from red emergency lights. That was to my liking. I was, after all, a stowaway. I sat in the back of the kettle not far from the cargo area where nobody noticed me.
The men around me did not like the dark atmosphere. “Like traveling in an armpit,” one man complained. “Sending us back and forth in a damned drain pipe,” another man said in a different conversation. The best line came from the man sitting beside me: “Not even fit for clones.”
The inside of the kettle was anything but luxurious. The walls, ceiling, and floor were bare, unadorned metal. A line of benches ran along the wall of the cabin offering enough seating for maybe one-quarter of the men on this flight. Safety harnesses hung from the ceiling. In the case of an emergency, men would strap themselves in with these harnesses and hang from the ceiling like butchered cattle in a slaughterhouse freezer. The harnesses became rigid when in use, preventing the men from swinging into each other.
In a transport like this, passengers were nothing more than cargo. There were no windows and no way of knowing what was happening outside of the ship. The launch from New Columbia was smooth enough, but moments after we took off, the pilot signaled us to harness ourselves in.
Batt Wingate and his commando-escort sat somewhere in the front of the kettle. I could not see them. It did not matter. I knew they were inside and besides, there was only one way off this bird. Once we landed, I would slink toward the door so that Wingate would pass me before he left. The mood in the kettle changed as the men fastened themselves in. Now, nobody spoke. Most of the men hung absolutely silent. A few smoked cigarettes and spat their smoldering butts to the floor.
Outside the ship, the gears of war were turning. Swarms of fighters might spot us and attack as we left the atmosphere and entered the blanket of space. A lone fighter could destroy a transport, but it would take multiple missiles. These ships looked and flew like pregnant seagulls, but they had powerful shields and thick armor. This ship could survive a direct hit from a particle beam cannon. If one or two fighters homed in on us, we would likely survive the attack long enough for the Confederates to send help.
I looked at my watch. Just under four minutes had passed since the bombardment began. By my best guess, the GCF ships had been in the area for six minutes and would broadcast out in another two.
A missile slammed into our shields and the transport shuddered. The red lights blinked out for several seconds. In the darkness, men gasped but no one screamed. The atmosphere was tense but not panicked.
Another missile slammed into the shields sending the transport skidding sideways. It was a blow, a force that struck quickly and vanished. A few moments passed and we were struck by a particle beam. The walls of the kettle began vibrating. At first they shook, and then they convulsed in short fast shakes that seemed to tear the metal plates around us.
The lights went out again. This time they stayed out. I heard heavy breathing. The shuddering continued for no more than three seconds, but it seemed like minutes. I heard an occasional whimper, then somebody yelled, “Shake ’em and bake ’em!” It was a dumb joke but it broke the tension. Relieved laughter filled the cabin. A moment later the red lights came back on.
In times of danger, I had the Liberator combat reflex that flooded my blood with a hormone made of adrenaline and endorphins. Everyone else on this ship turned to desperate humor to distract themselves. I did not need it. A warm, comfortable feeling spread through my body, a sense of power and mental clarity. I was not in control of the situation, yet the hormone made me feel as if I were.