What resulted was complete and bloody chaos as terrified stock rampaged among the assault team. In addition to interfering with the aim of those trying to take out the farm’s defenders, the stampeding cattle were of sufficient size to carry larger and more powerful explosive charges, all surgically embedded. Flocks of chickens and ducks detonated among the team at random intervals. Not knowing which of the panicked, sacrificial farm animals were carrying explosives and which were not, security personnel proceeded to blast away at every creature they saw.
A sudden thought caused Lopé to lean forward to get Bevridge’s attention.
“We need a car!”
The security chief stopped bellowing into his comm, and looked sharply back at him.
“What is it, man? I don’t have time for—what do you mean, you need a car?” Not far in front of him a terrified, fleeing ram hurdled a low rise to explode in the midst of several concealed security personnel. Body armor saved two of them. The third had his face penetrated by a long sliver of shattered bone.
“I want to check something out,” Lopé shot back, glancing at Rosenthal. “We’re not doing anything useful here!”
Bevridge didn’t have time to argue. “Fine!” He gestured behind them. “Take the second one. I’ll alert the driver. Stay down, keep out of the way, and don’t get a bunny bomb up your butt!”
Lopé nodded once. He gestured to Rosenthal.
“Come with me, private.”
Ducking out her side of the armored vehicle, Rosenthal stayed low and kept close to its side as the two of them made their way back to the second vehicle in line. As they ran, the trucks that had disgorged troops left the road and spread out in order to bring their heavier weapons to bear on the bedlam.
Reaching the car, Lopé threw himself into the passenger seat Rosenthal dove into back. As eruptions of blood and viscera continued to splatter the area and the chatter of gunfire filled the morning air, the driver looked over at his passenger. He was very young, and his eyes were very wide.
“Sir?”
“‘Sergeant’ will do.” Lopé pointed. “Turn around. Go back out the way we came in, then circle around to the west and follow the fence line.”
“No road there, sir… Sergeant.”
“So noted.” Lopé lowered his gaze slightly. “That a problem?”
“Not in this machine, Sergeant.”
As the electric motors rose to a whine the car backed up sharply, threw gravel as it spun, and headed in the direction of the access road, bypassing the scattering trucks along the way. Passing through the open gate, the driver engaged the suspension to lift the car’s chassis half a meter before tackling the sloping, off-road mix of rock and grass. Though the vehicle’s suspension smoothed out the worst bumps and dips, Rosenthal still had to steady herself as she leaned forward.
“What’s the idea, sergeant?”
He turned slightly toward her. “There’s chaos around the complex. I think that could be intentional. In combat, what’s the reason for inducing chaos?” She didn’t reply, shook her head. “Diversion,” he told her flatly. “It’s the triple ‘C’ of combat—chaos causes confusion. When you’re trapped, your options expand under chaos.”
They were in a surviving patch of forest now, the driver weaving a course among the trees. Off to their right and increasing with distance, explosions and smoke marked the continuing assault on the farm complex. A few small animals could be seen running in their direction. As they approached the second security team, which had taken up positions inside the fence line, the frightened but lethal creatures were quickly put down, most before they could detonate.
Halfway between the positions established by Bevridge’s group and team two, they encountered the horses.
XXIII
Shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Team One’s command vehicle, Bevridge found himself dealing with a mix of determination and disgust as he continued to give orders.
The trucks behind Bevridge’s car began employing heavier weapons. Very soon now the last scattering livestock would either be taken down by a team member or would have destroyed itself in the fanatics’ desperate attempt—whatever the goal. It was just a matter of waiting until the Earthsavers ran out of “ammunition.”
“Mr. Bevridge, sir?” The driver leaned forward and pointed. The security chief joined him in looking toward one of the two large structures on the property that wasn’t a barn.
The clamshell roof was opening, the two halves rising to swing apart. The instant there was sufficient clearance a sizeable vehicle appeared. Truck-sized, flat-bottomed, with a domed cargo compartment, the four powerful props mounted at its corners aimed groundward and lifted it into the sky, the sound of the motors rising even above the weakening but continuing gunfire. Seeing it ascend, members of the assault team turned their weapons in the craft’s direction. The small arms fire pinged off the vehicle’s sides. Meanwhile, truck-mounted ordnance had to realign itself to take aim.
The craft and its occupants might have succeeded in escaping if not for the cloud of drones. Programmed for both observation and intercept, they immediately swarmed the hovercraft as it rose above its shielded hangar and turned northward. Dozens of the tiny flying machines sought out vents and air intakes. For an instant it seemed as if the hovercraft was starting to pick up speed. Then it shuddered slightly and paused in midair before moving forward again. It was nearly obscured from view as hundreds of drones swarmed its exterior.
From its stern came a loud, metallic cough, followed by the sound of breaking things, as if the glass had suddenly been removed from the top of a pinball machine, allowing everything inside to break for freedom. The hovercraft backed up, swayed to the right, then angled sharply to the left. It maintained that trajectory until it slammed into the ground.
As the gunfire from within the compound’s buildings slackened off considerably, security personnel emerged from cover and ran toward it, weapons aimed and at the ready. One of the craft’s rear-mounted engines blew, sending a shower of shredded metal and nanofiber flying. The personnel dropped instantly to the ground, and the shrapnel passed over. Body armor easily protected them from any that struck home. As they rose and resumed their approach, smoke began to rise from the rear of the craft.
Veering off of the road, two of the Weyland-Yutani trucks prepared to provide covering fire for the personnel who were advancing on foot. This left three vehicles in position to stop any ground-based vehicles from fleeing the complex. Climbing out of his car, Bevridge jogged toward the downed hovercraft as a diverse group of passengers were emerging from within.
Hands in the air, several of them displayed bruises and bloody scratches. Though plainly in pain, one man struggled to affect a normal posture, as if surrendering to the discomfort would constitute a personal insult. A very rotund blond man helped a plump and only slightly smaller woman to exit through the hovercraft’s damaged portal. They were followed by a final survivor who was notably darker-skinned than his companions.
Four in all, Bevridge counted as he dispatched personnel to check the downed craft’s interior. They didn’t look at all like a circle of evil capable of sabotage, kidnapping, and assassination. They did not look like fanatics. But that was the great danger of such groups, he knew. The most dangerous ones didn’t look evil. There were no uniforms, pins, insignia, medals—nothing to indicate a hierarchy or chain of command.
“Which of you is the pilot?” he called out to them.