An Armageddon Duology (54 page)

“
O
kay folks
, time to take your positions,” said the pilot. “Here comes the crazy part.”

Houston and Lightfoote walked to the large SUV and opened the doors, entering the dark behemoth. Houston sat shotgun. Lightfoote took the back seat, spinning to look on the forms of two compact motorcycles strapped in the back, then turned back and belted herself in. Outside, Lopez looked over the vehicle, examining the chains and their attachments to the floor. He called up to the cockpit.

“These will release automatically?”

“Yes,” said the pilot over the speakers. “Once the ramp is lowered. You follow it down, accelerating out and clear the aircraft. Then we’re gone.”

Lopez nodded and stepped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. He pressed a button on the dash. “You picking us up?”

“Roger that,” said the pilot through some static. “We’re on approach, monitoring all frequencies. The airport is still shut down for all commercial flight, but they’ve started bringing in cargo planes and military aircraft. We’ve got some heavies around. Air traffic control can’t see us, and as yet we’ve only had one pilot call in a UFO. It’s getting dark, so—hold on. Make it two UFOs. Word’s getting out.”

“Jesus,” said Houston. “How are we going to land in this mess?”

“Hold on!” cried the pilot.

The plane banked sharply, throwing them sideways. Lopez slammed into the glass, and nearly pitched to the other side of the SUV when the stealth craft leveled off, only his grip on the entry assist handle keeping him in position. He quickly buckled himself in.

“Looks like we land dangerously,” said the pilot. “An Airbus Beluga super transport at takeoff. A flying whale for sure. Just missed it.
Jesus!
Okay, hang on, coming behind another plane on approach. Prep for wake turbulence. This is it!”

Their stomachs dropped as the plane descended rapidly and the stealth aircraft was pummeled and shaken violently. Lopez grabbed the wheel instinctively as the SUV convulsed around them. He could hear the crates of weapons and ammunition rattling loudly from behind.

Then a kick in the gut as the plane slammed onto the ground. The landing gear miraculously held together as they were yanked mercilessly forward. The pilot decelerated the aircraft forcefully, and they felt him struggle to keep the plane from pitching. The brakes screamed, and the smell of burnt rubber filtered into the SUV.

“Prepare to detach!” cried the pilot.

“Roger!” called back Lopez.

He released the brake and put the vehicle in neutral. Despite slowing, the plane still moved quickly on the runway. The failing light of dusk streamed into the dark cargo hold, a slit in the floor growing in front of them. The ramp lowered, the tarmac below racing madly past.

“Go, go, go!”

There were several loud pops, followed by the rattling of heavy chains. The SUV pitched forward down the ramp.

“Brace!” Lopez cried out.

The vehicle slammed onto the asphalt as he gunned the engine and accelerated, sparks flying from the ramp behind them as it scraped the ground. He quickly angled away from the runway.

“Clear!” he yelled.

A strained voice came over the speaker in the SUV. “We see you. Accelerating for takeoff.” They heard the black plane scream into full throttle. “We aren’t coming back. Good luck! Always check your six.”

“Thanks, and get the hell out of here.”

He steered toward the main terminal as the stealth craft rose into the air. Lopez scanned the planes and crew around him, dodging obstacles and bewildered workers.

“Map’s a bit blurry in my mind. We head for the main terminal, then west, and the highway?”

Houston nodded. “Right. No one seems to have picked us up yet. I’m sure they were a bit distracted by the unexpected landing and takeoff. But it won’t last forever. There, Francisco! Ahead. Follow the green line.”

Lopez flew past parked airplanes, approaching a gate surrounded by booths.

“Boom barrier ahead. Arm’s down. We ram it?”

Lightfoote leaned up from the back, straining against her belt. “No choice. Look!”

Bright red and blue lights began to flash from outside the SUV. Sirens howled.

“Police,” said Lopez. “Well, that didn’t take long.” He shifted and accelerated, grinding his teeth. “Okay, hold on!”

“Guards! Take cover!” cried Houston.

Lopez had a millisecond to process the scene in front of him before he aligned the car to the gate and ducked. Two dark figures stood at either side of the barrier. They opened fire.

Impacts struck the front window, the shatter-resistant glass forming circular craters around the bullets. Other projectiles banged across the hood and roof of the car. The passenger side mirror exploded.

They crashed through the barrier and the shots momentarily ceased. Lopez jerked up, desperately steering the SUV out of the oncoming lane and onto the right side of the road, narrowly missing several cars approaching the gate. Horns blared. Several shots chased them, two thumping against the rear doors. But they were through!

Lopez gunned the SUV down the road and approached a turnoff to the main highway. He glanced in the rearview mirror, flashing lights from police clearing the gate in the distance behind them.

“Anyone hurt?” he cried out. Sweated beaded on his forehead.

“I’m good,” said Houston, exhaling slowly and leaning back into her seat.

“Ditto,” said Lightfoote. She laughed. “Your man can drive, sister.”

“That he can,” said Houston. “We clocked a hundred before we kissed.”

“Don’t get too excited,” said Lopez, the SUV screeching as it rounded the exit ramp. “We’re going to have the entire Dutch SWAT brigade on our asses in ten minutes.”

“
M
aybe travelin
’ by night might be more secret,” said Bosworth, eyes squinting. Wisps of breath escaped from his mouth.

Savas shook his head, pulling the hood down behind him. “It might call attention. Typical RV is going to drive by day, stop at night. We’ll leave as soon as we’re packed, be out of here by sunrise. Should be in Colorado by nightfall.”

“Don’t think any vehicle on the road these days will look normal. Everyone’s shut up. Fuel’s mostly gone. I’d vote for night. At least then it’s hard to see you.”

“We’ll need lights. It will stick out for sure.”

Bosworth nodded. “There’s that.”

The two men stood beside the dingy sides of the old camper, its once-white paint chipped and yellowed, dents spread haphazardly across the vehicle. The garage was spacious yet crammed with tools and a small hydraulic lift. A rusted pickup truck was on the other side of the RV. The faint first light of morning began to glow through small windows in the structure.

Cohen and York stepped out of the camper, discussing what they had found inside. Mrs. Bosworth shuffled across the oil-stained floor loaded down with heavy bags. She set them down in front of the RV.

“You two look twenty years younger,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

“Miracles of food and a shower,” said York.

The old woman nodded toward the interior of the vehicle. “So?”

“You weren’t wrong about the smell,” said Cohen.

York smiled. “It’s not Air Force One, but it’ll do.”

“Might lose your appetite, but here,” she said, indicating the bags. “Some food and supplies. You won’t be needing much for this trip. Maybe Barric’s gun collection might prove more useful. But it’s nothin’ we can’t spare.”

“Thank you,” said Cohen, grabbing the bags and heading back into the RV.

York stepped up to the two men. She pointed under the truck to a large metal box. “The auxiliary tank?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Bosworth. “It’s not Department of Transportation approved, mind you. Set it up myself. But served well for a lot of trips. You got fifty-five gallons in the main tank and forty more there in the reserve. That’s a good seven, eight hundred miles. Unless you do something stupid, you won’t have to even stop.”

“We don’t plan to,” said Savas. “Stop or do anything stupid.”

“What we plan and what’s happened haven’t always been in perfect alignment,” said Cohen, returning.

“You got that right, girl,” said York. “But we’ll go with the plan. Dawn to dusk, straight shot. I-70 is likely mostly clear. Hope for the best.”

“Not much else you can ask for in life,” said Mrs. Bosworth.

“I still think you’re gonna be the only ones out on the road,” said Mr. Bosworth. “If they’re looking for you, it’s got to call their attention.”

“Maybe,” said York. “But we can’t wait. And most of Hasting’s troops were at Kansas City. Don’t know what he has left out here.”

“Hastings,” echoed Mr. Bosworth. “The general you mentioned?”

“That’s the one.”

Bosworth shook his head. “Bombed his own
troops
. His own
country
. What kinda man does that?”

“One we need to stop,” said York.

The five of them stood silently before the large vehicle for several moments before Mr. Bosworth cleared his throat.

“I wasn’t for your politics, Ms. President, but I have to say you make a good impression. My money’s on you for this fight. God speed to you and I hope you make those bastards see justice.”

Mrs. Bosworth flicked her hands at them. “Okay, get, all of you. Come back some day and see us. You’re good company, and we want to find out how it all ended.”

“And you two stay safe,” said Cohen. “We don’t know how long it will be until things return to normal.”

“We’ll do fine,” said Mr. Bosworth. “Got supplies laid up through this winter. If’n things ain’t better by the next, country’s lost anyway. We’ve seen a lot of good. Feel bad for the young ones.”

Savas slapped the old man’s shoulder and grabbed a shotgun on the back bumper. “Thanks for everything.” He glanced at Mrs. Bosworth. “We won’t forget. Don’t worry.”

The three said their goodbyes and boarded the RV. York slid into a booth in the middle of the vehicle, unfolding a large map in front of her. Savas placed his hand on Cohen’s shoulder.

“You sure you want to drive?”

She nodded. “If anything happens, you two are the gunslingers.” She looked at his weapon. “Sit. You’re shotgun.”

“All right. Let’s pray I don’t have to chamber a single shell.” He eased into the passenger seat, pointing the weapon to the floorboard.

Cohen started the RV, the old engine coughing loudly and catching, the entire vehicle shuddering. They’d agreed to leave off all climate control, both to save gas and not to risk overtaxing the engine. They sat in poorly fitting coats, Cohen’s fingers poking up through finger holes in a set of frayed gloves, the winter gear supplied from the attic trunks of their hosts. She checked the mirrors, adjusting the rearview, and looked out the window. The garage door was opening, the pale light before sunrise spilling in. A light snow had begun to fall, the air dancing with ice crystals.

The Bosworths walked alongside the camper and stepped outside the garage as the door retracted. Standing motionless by the left side, their expressions were inscrutable. Cohen waved and shifted, the RV rumbling forward and onto the driveway, bouncing clumsily on its poor suspension. They left the farmhouse behind, the front lawn passing on the right, two stony protrusions marking the entrance to the property. She turned right and onto a local road.

“All right,” she whispered, clouds escaping her lips. “Here we go.”

L
opez accelerated
to over ninety miles per hour. They passed the early morning traffic on the highway out of the Amsterdam airport like the cars were tied to the road. With five lanes and little congestion, he easily picked his way around smaller vehicles.

“What the hell does this thing have under the hood?” asked Houston. “It’s as big as a bus with two cycles in the back!”

Lightfoote hung her arms over the two front seats. “And what was the military doing with it? Urban warfare?”

“Later,” snapped Lopez, dodging a blaring commuter bus. The speedometer hit ninety-five. “Status of those blue lights?”

Lightfoote spun back around. “No visual, but you can bet they’re in pursuit. They’ve likely radioed ahead. They’re going to set up road blocks soon.”

Houston laughed and glanced at Lopez. “Sound familiar?”

“Too familiar. Angel, the turnoff should be close! You have the maps?”

Lightfoote stared at her laptop, open on the seat beside her. “Saved by the bat-plane satellite internet. Take the next one. Puts us in some small town—not going to try to pronounce it. They sure like lots of letters here. Narrow streets. It’s perfect.” She paused to glance through the back window. “Update: We got company. Good half mile, but I can see the flashy lights. A lot of them.”

Lopez growled. “This is going to be close.”

“We need to be clear enough so they don’t see the bikes,” said Houston, “or else it’s just another chase.”

“I know,” said Lopez. The speedometer read one hundred.

“That’s it,
there!
” cried Lightfoote, again leaning into the front space, her arm pointing to the right.

Several signs indicated an approaching exit ramp. The beginnings of a town could be seen along the roadside. Lopez swerved toward the rightmost lanes, accelerating even more to pass several vehicles lining up for the turn, horns protesting loudly behind them. Once he hit the exit lane, he floored the brake, pitching them forward in the cabin, cycles rattling loudly behind them.

They swerved into the turn far beyond the recommended off-ramp speed, Lopez fighting the wheel, G-forces slamming them toward the left side of the SUV as they whipped around the curve. Bags beside Lightfoote thudded into the left door as she clung to the headrests of the front seats. Exploding through the turn, Lopez raced through a stop sign, narrowly missing several cars crossing the intersection. Tires screeched in their wake.

“Awesome!” cried Lightfoote as they bounced through a narrow road, old buildings rising like walls on either side of the car.

Lopez continued to decelerate. Already the highway was lost to sight. As they approached a four-way, he turned left and brought the SUV to a stop on a deserted street.

“Move!” he yelled, opening the door and leaping out.

Houston followed, her limp nearly gone. Inside, Lightfoote bent over the back seat, reaching toward the flatbed. She worked frantically at the restraints on the cycles. The back doors opened, and Lopez slung several heavy bags to the ground.

“Sara, set the charges,” he said as Houston caught up, then leaned into the SUV interior. “Angel, are they free?”

“Yes!”

“In three, two, one!”

Lightfoote grunted inside as Lopez pulled on one of the bikes. The motorcycle rolled backward and careened out of the truck. He steadied it as it hit, wheels bouncing on the cobblestone road inches from Houston’s face as she crouched over a large, black bag, a detonator in her hand.

“Number two!” cried Lightfoote.

The second motorcycle bounced down onto the street, Lightfoote following it out. Both vehicles were pitch black, even the metallic elements covered in a dark matt material. Black helmets were snapped into holders near the back of the seats.

Lightfoote leapt on one cycle, quickly donning the helmet. “The bat-bike!” she called.

Lopez handed her a heavy backpack, and she strapped it on. He swung his leg over the other cycle, handing the second helmet to Houston as she exited the van.

“Ready?” he asked, motioning toward the SUV.

She nodded, strapping on a second backpack, and taking the helmet from him. “Where’s yours?”

“They didn’t plan for three. Don’t worry—likely the safest thing we’re doing this week.”

Lightfoote laughed. “They’re quiet too. Light. Stealth Harley’s next.”

Her engine was running, but the sound was minimal. Lopez pressed a button and started his cycle, hardly feeling the motor.

“Electric, remember? More than enough juice to get us to Oosterbeek.” His head whipped to the side. “Listen!” The unmistakable sound of the Dutch sirens wailed from the distance.

“Let’s go!” cried Lightfoote, gunning her cycle and ripping off down the street.

Houston wrapped an arm around Lopez, her other grasping a small metallic box. “Go, Francisco!”

Their bikes raced past the SUV and down the hill. As they approached an intersection, Lightfoote banked left and turned, soon lost from view. Houston held up her free hand, the other anchoring her to Lopez, a red light winking in her palm barely visible in the growing sunlight. As they turned the corner, she detonated the charge.

The SUV exploded. A fireball rose into the air, fragments of the vehicle raining around the ancient street along with smoke and ash. Blue flashing lights approached the raging fire from down the road, the police vehicles slowing to a stop. One officer opened his door some fifty meters away and gawked at the inferno in front of him.

Racing back onto the highway, the two motorcycles merged with the rest of the morning traffic. Houston turned her head and stared behind them. A cloud of smoke rose from the receding town and into the sky.

“Tracks covered,” she said, flipping a black sun visor over her eyes.

They raced south.