“It’s a recommendation.”
Reaper had been stopped for a moment by the thought of Olduvai. The personal ramifications of it. But those connections were exactly why he had to go…
Still. It’d be hard to be objective.
Sarge looked at him — then turned and climbed the stairs, leaving him alone to think.
But thinking was something Reaper was trying to avoid, lately.
RRTS Six, without Reaper, was crossing the tarmac in the predawn grayness. They were headed to the big, armored transport chopper, already warming up, its rotors lazily turning. It showed their squadron’s insignia: a gun and knife crossed, twined by a fanged serpent.
They clambered into the large troop bay of the chopper, went immediately to their spots along the face-to-face wall-mounted jump seats.
Each one grabbed a weapon from the overhead rack — the one they specialized in, or, in the case of the Kid, the ones they were cleared for.
Destroyer grabbed an enormous chaingun — an ordinary man would have trouble even lifting it, let alone shooting the thing. Almost tubular in overall shape, with its primary handle up top, designed to be wedged against the hip while fired, it was fed with long, long chains of 10mm armor-piercing bullets.
“Any idea where we’re going?” the Kid asked, getting his own ordnance down from the rack.
“Yeah,” Destroyer said, slinging an extra ammo chain over his shoulder. “Wherever they send us.”
The weapon itself spoke up, then — its computerized identity lock system said, in a monotone:
“RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Destroyer.”
Goat stood a moment, looking at the small worn Bible in his hand — then he put it in his coat pocket, so he could have both hands free to heft the double-barreled, multiround shotgun…
“RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Goat.”
Portman grabbed the plasma rifle. It was made of light, artificially hardened maxiplastics, its design bulky, jutting with attachments. When properly charged it had the power to fire ionized plasma capable of breaking down the bonds of the target’s molecules. Though it looked as primitive as a triceratops, it was sophisticated, if anything this murderous could be called sophisticated. Portman chuckled, hefting the plasma rifle. It made him feel like his balls had just doubled in size.
And the weapon spoke up: “RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Portman.”
The Kid started for a chaingun, but Destroyer shook his head at him. He hadn’t been cleared for the weapon yet. The Kid sighed and took the two handheld semiautomatics.
And the automatics, speaking in chorus, confirmed it: “RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: The Kid.”
The Kid winced. “‘The Kid’?”
The Kid was looking forward to getting a new nickname. Once he’d said as much to Duke, hinting that maybe he could earn a handle a little ballsier than the Kid. Duke had said, “Your handle’s too small for you to get a bigger handle.”
“He couldn’t handle it,” Portman had chimed in, thinking he was pretty cute.
“If he handles it, it better be in private. I don’t want to see that in the barracks.”
The Kid had kept his mouth shut about it after that.
Katshuhiko “Mac” Takaashi took the massive Combo ATS Grenade Launcher and Elephant Gun off the rack. He made a low growling Mmmm sound as he hefted it, like a man who’s just bitten into a perfect cut of steak. This was so much better than the M-100.
“RRTS Special Ops clearance verified, Handle ID: Mac.”
Gregory “Duke” McGreevy lit a cigarette with one hand, grabbed his automag with the other: light, similar to a Mack 10, but chockablock with lethal rounds, it had decent long-range accuracy.
He twirled the automag, as its ID chip said, almost companionably: “RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Duke.”
“Oh yeah,” Duke said. “Say my name, baby.”
A huge hand reached into the overhead rack, in one scoop — in that one hand — taking both a sniper rifle and a big 65mm pistol. He took the rifle in one hand —
“RRTS Special ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Sarge.”
— and stuck the pistol in his holster. “All set?” Sarge asked.
He turned to shout the liftoff order to the chopper pilot up forward…
“Hold it!” came a deep voice from the tarmac — someone just outside the chopper passenger hatch.
They all turned as one to see John “Reaper” Grimm entering, dressed for combat, complete with helmet.
“You sure about this?” Sarge asked, his voice soft, as discreet as he could manage in the circs.
For answer, Reaper selected his handheld machine gun: lighter than the chaingun but lethal close in, good accuracy for longer ranges — six hundred rounds max, sixty-round clips. Reliable — no matter the humidity.
“RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Reaper.”
Reaper turned and met Sarge’s eyes. Gave out a tiny smile.
Sarge nodded. “Take us up!”
Three
THE CHOPPER LIFTED off, carrying the squadron to the Ark Facility in Papoose Lake, Nevada.
Strapped into his harness, Reaper noticed the Kid watching him and Destroyer; modeling himself on them, Reaper figured.
Jumper had sort of looked up to Reaper, too…Where had it gotten him?
Portman noticed the Kid watching Reaper. He grinned. “You know, Kid, it’s funny. Couple days ago I tell Sarge I could use a little pussy. Next day, he brings you onto the team.”
Annoyed at Portman’s constant ragging on the Kid, Reaper said, “Don’t give me an excuse, Portman. No one here will miss you.”
But the Kid was distracted by Goat — who was pulling a knife.
Goat’s shirt was open, his scarred chest exposed. He ran a thumb along the edge of the combat knife, locking eyes with the Kid — then turned the blade against himself, digging the point into the skin. He looked down at himself, concentrating on his handiwork as he carved a cross into his skin — amongst all the other crosses scarring his chest. The chopper gave a sudden shudder, making Goat’s hand jog, so the bottom of the cross came out a bit crooked. He had to start another one, to get it right. Then the chopper lurched again…Goat frowned. And started another cross.
The Kid stared. Had to shout over the noise of the chopper. “Fuck is he doing, man?”
Portman chuckled. “Mission log. Goat used to collect human scalps. But he’s all straightened out now, aintcha, Goat?”
Goat’s dark eyes flickered over Portman, then drilled the Kid. The Kid swallowed and paled.
The chopper’s engine roared; the blades beat a drumroll against the sky.
Sarge glanced out the window. They were far enough away from base to get into the classified briefing. “Look in!” he shouted.
He slapped a disc into the briefing console on the bulkhead. “This is what we got from Simcom,” Sarge told them. He turned the volume all the way up so they could hear over the racket of the chopper.
The VDU screen flashed, and they watched as a fuzzy image of Dr. Carmack appeared.
There was Carmack’s terrified face, looking down at the minicam node on the comm-sole he’d used for that transmission. The image fluttered, resolved. Carmack’s voice came across only a little less fuzzy than the picture.
“…is Dr. Carmack at Classified Research, Olduvai! ID6627. We’ve had a level-five breach, implement quarantine procedures now!” The sound of a distant pounding. “I repeat, implement level-five breach quarantine procedures now!”