Read Online The Battle for Terra Two by Stephen Ames Berry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Ames Berry
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really, look at these reports. Much initial excitement, everyone wanting a crack at it, then nothing."
"More. The reports are almost the same after the first year. Verbatim."
Checking, she saw he was right. Maximus's staff kept sending the same negative reports, with only superficial changes in text. "Something's very wrong up there," she said. "It's almost as though the phenomenon's manipulating the experiment."
Their eyes met. "Then the Vipers will support my mission, Dr. MacKenzie?"
"Yes, Major Harrison. Once the situation in the city becomes clear."
The UC battalion's route of march took it through the heart of Lord's turf. Bull watched from a tenement roof as the column wound through Roxbury's broken streets.
Midmorning usually found kids playing in the rusting junk cars, women trudging to and from water and food points. Not today. The delapidated three-decker houses were hushed, the streets empty. Nothing moved, no dogs barked. Even the rats were still, hiding from the rising throb of powerful engines, the crunch of broken glass under clanking treads.
"Shee-it. Only fifty tanks, rest APCs," said Bull's lieutenant, called Chop for his karate-calloused hands. "We can wipe those mothers." Hundreds of gangers paralleled the convoy, well-ordered platoons skillfully leapfrogging through alleys and over rubble.
Bull shook his head. A big man, rippling with muscle, he'd come to Roxbury from Chicago's South Side three years before. His finely honed street smarts and instinctive grasp of infantry tactics had soon put him at the head of the Lords. Over the top of his flak vest, gold chains glinted against rich ebony skin.
"They got trouble." He nodded at the column, nearing their camouflaged bunker. "Hit 'em," his voice rumbled, "then two, maybe three days, gonna be a sweep—wipe a few more miles an' couple thousand niggers to make an ex-sam-ple.
"Pass 'em," he ordered.
Zur Linde radioed to Aldridge, "Ground sensors show hostiles all around us, Colonel. About five hundred, armed with TOWs and automatic weapons."
"If they haven't opened up yet, Erich, they probably won't," said Aldridge. "But we can't take that chance. All strategy's predicated on enemy capability, not perceived intent. Kill them."
"Acknowledged."
Zur Linde switched to the command channel. "Manatee Leader to Manatee Pack. Execute Golf Alpha Sierra."
"What they doin'?" asked Chop, suspiciously eyeing the tanks as they slowed, turrets swinging, cannon cranking too high to hit the gangers.
Bull grabbed the radio. "The tanks! Hit 'em!"
The first shells burst overhead with a dull whump, vomiting greasy, grayish-yellow clouds that drifted gently down.
Rocket volleys answered from all sides, some hitting just so, where turret met body. Twelve of the M80s went up, volatile chemical munitions flaming blue, melting metal and turning men to ash. There was no second volley.
Shrouded in the oily, yellow pall, the column rolled slowly through Roxbury, firing methodically, cloaking itself in the slimy mist.
Seeping into cellars, attics, rough-hewn bunkers, the gas brought ethereal calm to young and old, male and female, animal and human. There'd be no rat problem for a while.
Bull carried Chop well away from the death zone, blood from the smaller man's orifices trickling unnoticed down his flak jacket and clothes. "Hey, man," he said, gently lowering his friend to the floor of the old elementary school, now an impromptu mortuary-hospital. Chop tried to speak, but managed only a rasping, wet gurgle. Shouting for a medic, Bull stood, speaking into the radio. "This Bull. What's it like?"
It was bad. At least three hundred gangers dead, no one yet knew how many civilians. "Old folks, kids, dogs," reported a woman dully. "We're goin' in as it clears, doin' what we can.
"You gonna let 'em get 'way with this, Bull?" she demanded, tone suddenly vibrant with hate.
"No way," he said softly. "Put out a call on the Viper channel. Get me Heather Mac."
Moving at the
"More. The reports are almost the same after the first year. Verbatim."
Checking, she saw he was right. Maximus's staff kept sending the same negative reports, with only superficial changes in text. "Something's very wrong up there," she said. "It's almost as though the phenomenon's manipulating the experiment."
Their eyes met. "Then the Vipers will support my mission, Dr. MacKenzie?"
"Yes, Major Harrison. Once the situation in the city becomes clear."
The UC battalion's route of march took it through the heart of Lord's turf. Bull watched from a tenement roof as the column wound through Roxbury's broken streets.
Midmorning usually found kids playing in the rusting junk cars, women trudging to and from water and food points. Not today. The delapidated three-decker houses were hushed, the streets empty. Nothing moved, no dogs barked. Even the rats were still, hiding from the rising throb of powerful engines, the crunch of broken glass under clanking treads.
"Shee-it. Only fifty tanks, rest APCs," said Bull's lieutenant, called Chop for his karate-calloused hands. "We can wipe those mothers." Hundreds of gangers paralleled the convoy, well-ordered platoons skillfully leapfrogging through alleys and over rubble.
Bull shook his head. A big man, rippling with muscle, he'd come to Roxbury from Chicago's South Side three years before. His finely honed street smarts and instinctive grasp of infantry tactics had soon put him at the head of the Lords. Over the top of his flak vest, gold chains glinted against rich ebony skin.
"They got trouble." He nodded at the column, nearing their camouflaged bunker. "Hit 'em," his voice rumbled, "then two, maybe three days, gonna be a sweep—wipe a few more miles an' couple thousand niggers to make an ex-sam-ple.
"Pass 'em," he ordered.
Zur Linde radioed to Aldridge, "Ground sensors show hostiles all around us, Colonel. About five hundred, armed with TOWs and automatic weapons."
"If they haven't opened up yet, Erich, they probably won't," said Aldridge. "But we can't take that chance. All strategy's predicated on enemy capability, not perceived intent. Kill them."
"Acknowledged."
Zur Linde switched to the command channel. "Manatee Leader to Manatee Pack. Execute Golf Alpha Sierra."
"What they doin'?" asked Chop, suspiciously eyeing the tanks as they slowed, turrets swinging, cannon cranking too high to hit the gangers.
Bull grabbed the radio. "The tanks! Hit 'em!"
The first shells burst overhead with a dull whump, vomiting greasy, grayish-yellow clouds that drifted gently down.
Rocket volleys answered from all sides, some hitting just so, where turret met body. Twelve of the M80s went up, volatile chemical munitions flaming blue, melting metal and turning men to ash. There was no second volley.
Shrouded in the oily, yellow pall, the column rolled slowly through Roxbury, firing methodically, cloaking itself in the slimy mist.
Seeping into cellars, attics, rough-hewn bunkers, the gas brought ethereal calm to young and old, male and female, animal and human. There'd be no rat problem for a while.
Bull carried Chop well away from the death zone, blood from the smaller man's orifices trickling unnoticed down his flak jacket and clothes. "Hey, man," he said, gently lowering his friend to the floor of the old elementary school, now an impromptu mortuary-hospital. Chop tried to speak, but managed only a rasping, wet gurgle. Shouting for a medic, Bull stood, speaking into the radio. "This Bull. What's it like?"
It was bad. At least three hundred gangers dead, no one yet knew how many civilians. "Old folks, kids, dogs," reported a woman dully. "We're goin' in as it clears, doin' what we can.
"You gonna let 'em get 'way with this, Bull?" she demanded, tone suddenly vibrant with hate.
"No way," he said softly. "Put out a call on the Viper channel. Get me Heather Mac."
Moving at the
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