Bitter Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 2) (43 page)

“Come on,” Boisson said. “We’ve got to move.”

While most of the adult harvesters had moved past, the bulk of the larvae, large and small, were coming right for them, converging. The clinical part of Naomi’s mind wondered how they could possibly sense anything, as they seemed to be made up of nothing more than a variant of the harvester’s malleable flesh. But they clearly could. The larva in the jar, which miraculously still stood, undisturbed, had proved that. Even now, it was plastered against the side of the carboy that faced her and the others, trying to get at them.

“Great. Adults ahead of us, larvae behind.”

“Yeah, and the big ones are fast.” Boisson gestured for one of the surviving agents who had run out of ammo to pick up the carboy. Grimacing, the man knelt down and cradled the thing to his chest, then followed Naomi and Boisson as they began trotting south across the parking lot toward Huntington Drive.
 

They quickly discovered that while the harvesters had learned to fear their own children, the humans were still nothing more than food. Two of the things attacked, killing another agent before they were brought down.

Now, the only thing the FBI agents had were their pistols.
 

Boisson cursed. “We should’ve brought more hair spray.”
 

More of the harvesters slowed, then turned to watch the humans. There was a ring of the creatures now, hemming in the team as the larvae continued to approach from behind.

“Shit,” Boisson breathed. “We’re trapped.”

She was right, Naomi knew. They were caught in a vice. “Dammit,” she whispered. She reached up and scratched Alexander behind the ears, wishing she could do the same for Koshka, who continued to cling to her back. She raised the muzzle of her pistol, pointing it over her shoulder, just under the big cat’s chin. There was no way the cats could escape, and she wouldn’t let them suffer.
 

Beside her, Boisson nodded.

Naomi’s finger was just applying pressure to the trigger, squeezing it gently as Alexander rubbed his muzzle against her neck when she heard the sound of an approaching helicopter.

Easing her finger off the trigger, she looked to the west and saw a bright blue Bell 412, larger than the Marine gunships, zoom over the mall. It was flying so low that there couldn’t have been more than a few inches between the tops of the air conditioning units and the aircraft’s skids. It flew over the parking lot where they’d been, then suddenly banked to the right, heading right toward them, coming in low over the larvae converging on what was left of the team. The doors on both sides slid open, and a man in combat gear and wearing a flight helmet, supported by a safety harness, stepped out onto the skid on the starboard side. In his hands was a machine gun.

“Let’s go!” Boisson pushed Naomi toward the helicopter as the skids brushed the pavement. Glancing over her shoulder, Naomi saw that the harvesters had decided that it was time to play again. As one, they were rushing the helicopter.

The door gunner opened fire, sending a solid stream of tracers just inches over the heads of the agents and Naomi as they ran toward the helicopter.
 

Boisson shoved Naomi in first, then the agent carrying the carboy gingerly handed it up before climbing in after it.

Naomi turned to help the other agents in, noticing how accurate the fire from the door gunner was. It seemed like every round the man fired hit one of the harvesters. Like inflammable marionettes, they danced in a costume of flames before they collapsed to the pavement.

As the last agent was hauled aboard, the helicopter lifted away. The man on the machine gun continued to fire until the harvesters were out of range.
 

Someone thrust a headset into Naomi’s hands, and she pulled it on while two of the other agents tried to pry the cats off her back.

“Jesus Christ, girl!” The voice was familiar, and belonged to someone she’d known well, although she hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year. “Why is it that every time I haul your ass around the sky, something’s either blowing up or somebody’s shooting at us?”

“Al?” She nearly burst into tears, she was so relieved. “Al Ferris?”

“Who else do you think would be stupid enough to land in the middle of a bunch of monsters?”

Pushing herself out of her seat, she leaned forward against the pilot’s seat and wrapped her arms around the older man, hugging him tight. “Oh, God, Al.”

“Take it easy, kid.” Ferris, a retired and highly decorated veteran of Combat Search and Rescue, had been the main pilot for the Earth Defense Society. Even though Naomi had been his boss, he’d always been like a gruff but loving uncle. “It’s damn good to see you. But I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“How did you know to come for us?”

“Renee called me,” he explained as he pointed the helicopter to the east. The nose dipped as it picked up speed. “She told me that if I didn’t pick you up, she’d never make me any more of those meatballs of hers. Couldn’t have that.” He jabbed a thumb back toward the man who was still manning the door gun. “Hathcock got hired as a security weenie, ‘cause he’s too dumb to fly.”

Naomi turned to look at the door gunner. He raised his visor and gave her a thumbs up and a smile. It was Craig Hathcock, one of the hired guns that had been with the EDS and a world-class sniper. “Good to have you back, Naomi.”

“Thanks for the cover, Craig,” she told him. “You saved our asses.”

“All in a day’s work.” He smiled again, then turned his attention back to the ground below. They were flying at well over a thousand feet now and still climbing, so the harvesters were no direct threat, but his job was protecting the helicopter, so he kept his eyes and the muzzle of the machine gun pointed outside the ship.

Naomi was still confused. “But where did you come from?”

“Unlike you, kid, I had to find a real job after the EDS got burned. This rich guy heard about what a hotshot pilot I was and offered to hire me as his personal aerial chauffeur. Who knows, you might even know him.” He nodded toward the copilot’s seat.

Both Naomi and Boisson looked at the copilot, who happened to be wearing a very expensive suit. Turning toward them, he raised the dark visor on his helmet to fully expose his face.

It was Howard Morgan.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Norway?” Khatuna stared at both men as if they had lost their minds. “
Duraki!
Idiots! That must be two thousand kilometers from here. We cannot reach so far.”

Jack looked back into the cavernous space in the back of the plane. “How much cargo can this thing carry?”

“A little more than two thousand kilograms.”

“And how much fuel?”

“Twelve hundred liters.” Khatuna narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking, Jack?”

“I think I saw some fuel drums behind the station here. What if we get them in here and fill them up with fuel. We should be able to extend our range.”

“Not enough.” Khatuna shook her head. “We could not carry enough safely to reach Norway. We would still be perhaps three hundred kilometers short. And I doubt we will be so lucky to make another refueling stop like this.”

“Then we carry what we need to get where we want to go, Khatuna.” Mikhailov coughed, then wiped the blood from his lips. “We have gone well beyond what is merely safe, I think. But we need to act quickly. The authorities will come soon. That will not be good.”

“We must get you to hospital.” Khatuna put a hand to his chin and lifted his head to get a better look at his face. “Your bleeding is worse.”

“I am fine.” He closed his hand over hers, gently, then pushed it away. “Now go. Hurry.”

Jack led her out of the plane, Khatuna muttering what he knew must be venomous curses. Without a word he pushed through the ring of onlookers and headed toward the rear of the station. Sure enough, there was a stack of fuel drums.
 

“Each holds two hundred liters.” Khatuna rapped her knuckles on one, then another. They were empty. “We will need at least eight, Jack. Nine if we are to have any reserve at all. But that will put us over maximum load of plane.”

“What does that mean?” Jack began to roll the first drum toward the plane. The two men who ran the station had come over to see what they were doing, and Jack pointed at them, then at the fuel drums. One of them opened his mouth to protest, and was met by the muzzle of the Desert Eagle, about three inches from his nose. Jack stared at him for a moment, then twitched the gun in the direction of the fuel drums. The men, dark expressions on their faces, moved past him and grabbed a drum each, and Jack shoved the gun back in its holster.

“It means we will probably crash on takeoff, or soon after.”
 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to be an ace and fly very carefully.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You don’t have to come with us, Khatuna. But Sergei and I have to do this. We have no choice.”

“And who will fly plane? Sergei? He can barely raise his arms!” She cursed again. “Get drums inside, as far forward as you can, and tie them down.”

“How many?”

“Ten. If we are going to die, let us die with maybe enough fuel to get there. But you have forgotten one thing.”

“What’s that?” Jack set the barrel on its side and began rolling it toward the plane.

“We have no way to get fuel from barrels without landing.”

“I’ve got an idea about that.”
 

She shook her head, sending her hair flying in a golden halo around her head. “
Durak
.”

* * *

It didn’t take long to get the fuel drums aboard, and after raising the flimsy metal seats in the cargo area to make room, Jack lashed them down with the rope he took from the storage compartment in the tail. The drums were packed in tight, with no walkway to reach the cockpit.
 

Khatuna had to crawl over them to come aft. “Main tanks are full. Now we fill these. Come.”

Outside, she disconnected the fuel line from the plane and handed it to Jack. “Put this in first drum. When it is almost full, tell me. We will shut off pump, then move to next drum.” She glared at him. “Do not spill fuel in plane.”

“Got it.”

While Jack hauled his end of the hose into the plane, Khatuna pulled the other end from the underground fuel tank and dragged it over to the premium fuel pump. In Russian, she ordered the two men who now followed her like hyenas, “Turn on the pump.”

“And who will pay?” They were very angry now. “Do you know how many rubles this is costing us?”

“You will be reimbursed by the VDV, and given extra as a reward for your cooperation,” she said smoothly. “
Kapitan
Mikhailov is keeping careful records of what we are using.” Her voice softened slightly. “He is an honorable man on an urgent mission. You will not be cheated.”

Mollified somewhat, the two men shrugged. One went back to the office and started the pump while the other continued to keep an eye on her.

She removed the pump handle and laid it on the ground, end to end with the fuel hose. Taking a roll of duct tape that she’d found in a tool box in the plane’s rear compartment, she carefully spliced the two together, winding the tape back and forth across the join.
 

When she was finished, the artificial joint between the pump handle and the hose was solid enough, although she knew it wouldn’t be long before it started leaking. Looking up, she saw Jack standing in the door of the plane. He gave her the thumbs up.

She squeezed the pump handle and locked it open. The hose to the plane twitched, and fuel began to flow.

* * *

In the cockpit, Mikhailov stared at his phone, dithering over the next action he knew he had to take. Most of what he had done thus far could have been excused in a military tribunal. At most, he would suffer a reduction in rank, or perhaps dismissal from the service.
 

But what he was about to do now, especially with his country at war, albeit not in a conventional sense, could very well be considered treason. Assuming he survived, of course.

Like Jack’s phone, his was almost out of power, and they had no chargers. He had considered sending Jack and Khatuna into the station to see if there might be one that was compatible, but he could see from his vantage point that the crowd around them was becoming less curious and more apprehensive.
 

He pushed the call button.

“Hallo?”

“
Kaptein
Halvorsen?”

“
Ja
. Mikhailov, is that you?”

Mikhailov imagined Halvorsen’s expression, trying to match it with the shock he heard in his Norwegian counterpart’s voice. Terje Halvorsen was a company commander in the Norwegian Army’s
Hans Majestet Kongens Garde
(His Majesty the King’s Guard) Battalion. The two men had met during the during the battle for the Svalbard seed vault on Spitsbergen the previous year. “Yes, Terje. It is me,” Mikhailov said in English. While he could speak some Norwegian, both men were more fluent in English.

“What in the devil is going on there?” He lowered his voice. “You are lucky you called when you did. We have been placed on alert and are getting ready to deploy. An hour later, and I would not have had my phone.”

“Terje, I do not have much time to explain.” Mikhailov paused, gathering his thoughts. It was becoming more and more difficult to think clearly. “I have Jack Dawson with me. The harvesters, they are back, Terje. And not just a few. There must be thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, in southern Russia and elsewhere. India for certain, and from what Jack heard, probably China, too.”

His phone began beeping a low battery warning.

“But why are you calling me?”

“The FSB, our security service, has posted orders to arrest Jack on suspicion that he caused the outbreak here.” Halvorsen made a rude sound on the other end of the line. “
Da
. He came to help us, and they want to blame him. He has vital knowledge of these things, as you know, and learned much while here and in India. I am trying to get him out.”
 

“You are trying to come here? Sergei, the border has been closed and all air traffic between Norway and Russia has been suspended.”