CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Nox had departed the Magadan airport 20 minutes earlier, leaving the timid General and his staff officers with instructions to stay on the base until General Popov arrived and had an opportunity to debrief them. Even though his craft could comfortably seat 10 passengers, Nox enjoyed flying solo. His craft had now been properly prepared for the weather and he had reduced speed to 700 miles per hour so that he would have a better chance of not missing something important on the ground. As he approached the location of where the Russian helo had made last contact he started paying closer attention to the surface. However, the crash site was clearly visible, along with the huge nuclear-powered transport plane sitting next to it.
Of course, the Americans were already here. How did the MiG-31 fighter pilot miss this huge debris field on the first pass?
Nox saw a squad of men preparing to load large containers into the large white cargo transport. Nox did not know what cargo they were loading. The only thing he knew for certain was they were not Russians, and they were not supposed to be here. He assumed they were Americans, maybe Chinese; only a few nations could produce the battle armor these soldiers appeared to be wearing. If they were going through all the trouble to load these containers, the contents must be valuable.
Nox gave it no further thought. Statistically speaking, he knew it was unlikely he would face a technologically superior craft in Siberia. Nox pushed the flight controls into a dramatic dive and opened fire on the large, unsuspecting transport plane. All three shots from his particle beam weapon made contact, slicing through the thin fuselage of the plane. Nox pulled back on the flight controls, and his craft veered to the left. Nox was impressed that the enemy transport plane was not destroyed upon taking a direct hit from his particle beam weapon. He decided to bring his craft around for another attack.
This time, the armored men were scurrying about like little ants whose hill had been kicked over by some thoughtless bully. He fired again, three more direct hits. This time he could see flames flickering through the craft.
Silly Americans. They think they can waltz into my country and do anything they want. I’ll teach them a lesson.
Before Nox could finish his thought, his warning siren went off, and his cabin lights dimmed to red.
Not again. What now?
Nox glanced at his control panel and then out the window, just in time to see a mountain of a man firing a mini gun from the hip position.
What the fuck?
Nox was not prone to expressing himself by using human slang, but the situation seemed appropriate. Ten more bullets slammed into his fuselage. More warning sirens. Three penetrated the craft’s armor, venting atmosphere. His craft was almost impervious to lasers and EMP weapons. Only the most powerful particle beams could penetrate his shields, of which the humans had none. Even the human’s best rapid-fire heavy machine guns where not effectual when shot from an armored platform because his craft was faster than most bullets. Under normal circumstances, he would be a couple thousand feet up, traveling at such a high rate of speed, that he could easily outmaneuver even a Phalanx Close-In Weapons System. But here, he was flying low and slow, the shooter was not miles away, but only a few hundred yards away. Nox had no time to correct course or speed up. More bullets ripped through his cockpit.
Damn these Americans.
As he decided to sweep around and take a shot at the gunman on the ridge, he noticed the transport plane had decided to take off.
That thing can still fly? Six direct hits and it’s on fire. What’s that pilot thinking?
Rather than lining up a shot on the ridgeline-mini-gun-toting giant, Nox broke off to chase the transport; figuring that cutting off their means of escape would be better than taking out a sentry.
The transport attempted to engage it’s Exoskin, rendering it invisible, but the trail of smoke gave away its position. It tried to punch up the speed, but Nox easily kept up with the damaged NATT.
Nox initiated the auto fire feature of his particle beam weapon, which essentially just shot a constant spread of directed pulsed particle bursts in a spiral formation at the target. Hundreds of individual particle beams ripped through the NATT, shredding it like a log tossed into a wood chipper. The nine-billion-dollar plane slammed into the ground, just beyond the sightline of the Americans.
Nox was ecstatic. It had been decades since he had personally shot down an enemy craft. He jerked the flight controls to swing back around and take another pass at the Americans, but he quickly thought better of it and continued in a westward direction.
Why fight the Americans alone when I have reinforcements on the way? They aren’t going anywhere, I saw to that.
He would have chuckled at that thought, had his vocal chords evolved in a manner that would have allowed for laughter. Instead, he flew 10 miles west and set down his craft on an isolated snowy plain, far from the prying eyes.
Nox activated his COM system, “General Manpugna, where are you and your crew?”
“General Bellator, we are about 15 minutes west of Site Four,” General Manpugna said. General Manpugna had been a loyal officer since the beginning, even before crash landing on Earth so many decades ago. General Manpugna had been in charge of securing the perimeter of the Antarctica base, but he had transferred to Moscow to assist Nox with the Council of Three hundred.
“I’m sitting on the ground, 10 miles west of the site. Land here so we can plan the next move. How many soldiers do you have?”
General Manpugna said, “Myself, two other Ondagra and 10 Russian operators.”
“Thirteen. That should do it. We also have several hundred paratroopers in route. They may already be there by now.”
“Do you think they could take out the Americans before we arrive?”
“Not a chance. These are not regular Americans; they are all equipped with Next Gen FALOS suits, and they took out a company of paratroopers in minutes. Best we can hope for is that they slow down the Americans until we get there.”
“I’ve locked onto your COMs signal. We will be on your position in three minutes,” General Manpugna said.
Nox trotted down the ramp to the icy ground below. A quick survey of the exterior of his fuselage revealed a dozen bullet holes.
Could have been worse. After all, that giant clone was firing a mini gun at point blank range.
Nox lifted his helmet visor for a minute to take in the frigid air. Normally, cold temperatures did not bother him, but the ice pellets seemed like little bullets being fired at his exposed face. A saucer shaped craft, identical to his, landed 10 yards from his position. He knew the fighter well, it had been on his interstellar ship when it crashed, rendering them permanent residents of Earth.
The ramp slid down and General Manpugna crunched through the icy snow toward Nox.
“Welcome to the battle, General,” Nox said.
“I’m glad to be here, old friend. It has been a long time since we battled a worthy adversary. I hope you have not grown weak from fighting the politicians with words and paper.”
“Never,” Nox replied. “I have already destroyed their transport plane. They are sitting ducks waiting to be led to their destruction. I almost felt bad, it was an impressive nuclear-powered plane, with optical stealth. Had I not arrived just as I did, they would have likely escaped.”
The other two Ondagra were standing next to General Manpugna. All were wearing the same battle armor as Nox, impervious to any directed energy weapons, vulnerable to only the most powerful, high-velocity rounds.