Amazon
War Zone
We
Feed Camp 114
22
May 2056
Three
days passed.
More
refugees poured into camp, more suffered, more died–leaving Sir
Jason Litchfield grim witness to it all. He had seen it all before,
in so many other parts of the world. It was the same old story, but
he said nothing of it to his friend. For he knew Alex Kinkade would
not want to hear of it, nor be persuaded from his mission. Perhaps
reality would one day set in, the New Zealander hoped, and thus open
his friend’s eyes to the true nature of humanity. Until then,
however, he would likely continue along his humanitarian path, no
matter what the consequences. And though Sir Jason Litchfield could
not be unaware of it, those consequences were even now taking shape.
For even as he fretted over his younger friend’s fate, fate itself
was moving stealthily through the jungle toward CAMP 114.
As
night fell over the Amazon, marking the end of Litchfield’s third
day in camp, five hundred heavily armed men moved silently into place
around the hunger relief installation. Concealing themselves among
the jungle foliage, they directed their collective hate toward their
target: WE FEED CAMP 114.
Their
leader, a man with a scar across his face and the blood of many
Brazilian troops on his hands, raised a pair of old-style binoculars
to his dark Indian eyes. For a long time he studied the layout of
CAMP 114. It shone brightly beneath pools of electric illumination,
its every detail clearly magnified now. He examined everything he saw
with intense scrutiny. The electrified fences. The automated machine
gun towers. The back and forth sweep of the patrolling sentries.
Then, silently, he lowered the instrument from his unmoving eyes.
Tonight
would be the night.
For
revenge.
Tonight
the White Savior and his milk-faced do-gooders would die.
Behind
him, his guerrillas finished checking their assault rifles,
positioning their mortars, and crouching for the attack. His orders
from rebel commander Vargas were clear.
Make
it quick and savage.
Spare
no one.
Not
three hundred meters away from where the rebel leader and his men
waited to launch their commando assault, Alex Kinkade and Sir Jason
Litchfield sat, in the Englishman’s hut, playing a game of chess.
Kinkade was winning, even though the crafty old New Zealander had his
queen in a rather tight spot at the moment.
As
Kinkade pondered the trap Litchfield had sprung on him, the New
Zealander stuffed his pipe with an amused grin on his face. “God
won’t save the Queen this time, I’m afraid.”
Kinkade
glanced up, but said nothing.
Then,
in a startling flash of insight, the Englishman whipped a rook across
the board. “Checkmate.”
Litchfield
gazed down at the board, his pipe half-filled, stupefied. “Why, you
bloody bugger…”
Kinkade
chuckled and started to reach for his glass of Scotch when the sudden
shriek of an incoming mortar shell brought Litchfield leaping across
the table. Chess pieces scattered as he dragged his English friend to
the floor.
In
the next instant night became day as the mortar shell exploded just
outside the window in a white-hot flash, tearing a gaping hole in the
side of Kinkade’s hut.
“Alex–run!”
Both
men scrambled to their feet and bolted for the door. In quick
succession, three more mortar shells slammed into the compound,
blowing two huts of sleeping, war-weary refugees into oblivion. The
third mortar shell hit one of the HN-9000’s, toppling the automated
machine gun tower backward into the compound, crushing two of
Kinkade’s personnel beneath the wreckage. Litchfield had to
forcibly restrain his friend from dashing to their aid.
“They’re dead,
lad!”
More
were dying.
Many
more.
Machine
gun and automatic weapon fire coming from somewhere beyond the
compound’s fences ripped the hunger-relief installation with
withering ferocity. Kinkade whirled around, saw his volunteers
returning fire with valiant determination. Up on a nearby rooftop he
caught sight of Hilda Ahlstad pumping round after round of brainwave
rockets deep into the jungle, her brunette hair swaying in the
flame-driven wind of a nearby burning hut. Hideous screams of men
ripped apart by her rockets echoed out of the blackness, even as
Litchfield gripped his arm and rushed him away.
Another
dozen mortar shells hop-scotched across the burning compound, blowing
huts, WE FEED personnel and hysterical refugee children to pieces.
Kinkade turned to Litchfield as they momentarily sheltered against
the steel-wall of a silent robodozer, “Something’s wrong, Jay!
Those HN-9000’s should have cut that jungle and whoever’s hiding
in it to bloody ribbons by now!”
Litchfield,
familiar with the HN-9000 after having once sent a company of New
Zealand troops against its predecessor, the HN-7000, well knew what
the computer-controlled machine gun towers could do once they began
to sing their terrifying hymn.
Yet,
the camp’s three remaining HN-9000’s remained ominously silent.
“Sabotage,” Litchfield murmured, just as a second tower, near the
south fence, shattered beneath a twin mortar strike. “Only two
left, Jay! I’ve got to reactivate them!”
“No
chance, lad! We’ve got to get away from here! This camp’s
finished!”
Kinkade
gripped Litchfield’s shoulders. “I’ll bloody not run away! My
people are being slaughtered out there! I’ve got to save those who
are still alive!” His words seemed in vain, however, for in the
next instant the camp gates exploded into molten bits and vanished
before their eyes.
“My
God, lad! They’re going to storm the camp!”
They
ran.
Behind
them, a flood of armed guerrillas rushed out of the night, carried
forward on a wave of bloodthirsty cries. Bullets zinged past their
ears. One struck Kinkade in the shoulder and flipped him headlong
into the dust.
Reacting
instantly, Litchfield whipped out his 9mm Nitro-Shock as he skidded
down next to his fallen friend. “Good God! Listen to me, lad! We’ve
got to make for the river before the rebels completely overrun this
camp!” Even as he spoke, the New Zealander turned and snapped off
two shots, hitting one guerrilla in the chest from a range of a
hundred meters and killing him instantly.
“It’s
no good, Jay…I’d only slow us down. Our only chance is to make
for the control shack and reactivate the gun towers.”
“C’mon
then!” Litchfield said, pulling Kinkade back to his feet. “Let’s
make for it!”
They
stumbled away into the flaming night.
When
they came within sight of the control shack three armed men suddenly
burst out the entrance. Kinkade recognized all three as refugees he’d
given sanctuary to only weeks before. Now they were headed straight
for Litchfield and him, their dark faces full of murder.
Litchfield
acted without question or hesitation.
Bringing
up his Nitro-Shock, he fired at the nearest man. The explosive-packed
projectile burst dead center of his chest, expanding like a miniature
nova as it vaporized his head, part of his torso, and one
gun-wielding arm before flinging what remained of him end over end
into the night. He might have screamed but no one but God would ever
know. The second man to his left fired back, ripping the ground
between Litchfield and Kinkade a split second after the New Zealander
shoved the Englishman aside. Steadying his hand, Litchfield squeezed
off a second shot. It hit the second man in the groin, emasculating
him an instant before his agony-wracked body was torn in half like a
canceled theater ticket and discarded at the feet of the third man.
The
third man raised his weapon in a froth of rage and fired.
Litchfield,
anticipating the coming burst of automatic fire, dodged sideways. Too
late. Three rounds ripped through his left arm, spinning him around
and slamming him face down into the dust. His Nitro-Shock tore free
of his hand and tumbled away, out of reach.
“Run
lad!”
The
third man advanced, grinning yellow teeth as he reached for his
facão–the machete–that he carried in the folds of his tattered
rags. He would enjoy hacking these two gringos to death.
Litchfield,
smearing a trail of blood along the ground as he crawled toward
Kinkade, begged him in tight pleading whispers to make a last ditch
run for it.
“It’s
your last chance, lad…please…don’t die here with me.”
Kinkade,
a man of indomitable will, rolled suddenly away.
Clawing
across the red dust of the compound to where Litchfield’s weapon
lay, he snatched up the gun. Rolling over onto his rump with a savage
grimace, he swung the weapon around in a wide arc.
The
third man flung his machete aside with a bark of obscenity as he
yanked up his weapon in time with Kinkade’s.
Both
fired.
The
third man, a split second slower, saw his burst of bullets rip the
dust uselessly to one side of Kinkade. The Englishman’s shot wasn’t
much better, striking the man in his left kneecap. Poorly aimed, but
under the circumstances all that was needed. With a yelp of agony the
third man’s leg dissolved in a white flash of light as the
Nitro-Shock bullet exploded. Flesh, bone, and the man’s sanity were
vaporized in an instant. Thudding to the ground, he gibbered
uncontrollably until a second shot from Kinkade silenced him.
Now
it was up to him, the Englishman thought.
He
made for Litchfield, pulling him to his feet.
“The
rifle, Alex…” Sir Jason weakly instructed.
Kinkade
retrieved the dead man’s weapon then handed Litchfield back his
gun. As they hobbled toward the control shack the first wave of
guerrillas penetrated the burning refugee camp, spraying everything
that moved with assault rifle fire.
“Ready
when you are!” Litchfield gasped, bringing his gun to bear as they
prepared to burst into the control shack.
Kinkade
nodded. “Now!”
They
crashed through the door.
Both
men saw everything in an instant: Pierre La Rocque tied to a chair,
his face beaten to a pulp. Next to him, beside the HN-9000 control
console, two female volunteers lay bound and gagged. They had been
raped–then disemboweled with machetes.
“They
tortured them, my friend! Forced them to deactivate the HN-9000’s!
Then I came along and heard their screams and–”
A
bare-knuckled fist crashed down on the Frenchman. Jerking at his
bonds like a shackled bull, he bellowed, “Kill them, mon
ami! I am not important!”
But
you are, Kinkade thought, in that last moment between them. Then, the
butt of an automatic rifle swung around in a tight arc, straight into
the Frenchman’s face, pulverizing it.
For
Kinkade the moment of hesitation was gone.
He
hit the floor and cut loose with a long burst of automatic weapon
fire, running a diagonal line of 9mm tracer bullets across two of the
guerrillas, tearing them both to blood-spattered shreds.
Litchfield
threw caution to the wind as well and snapped off a Nitro-Shock
round, dangerous in such close quarters but with their lives hanging
in the balance there was simply no other option. It exploded in the
chest of a third guerrilla, blowing him back against the far wall
like a discarded rag doll.
The
fourth and final guerrilla was quicker than his three dead comrades.
He squeezed off a long, vicious burst of au-tomatic fire at
Litchfield. Weakened by his wounds, the New Zealander couldn’t
react fast enough. He caught the burst full in his legs. Five, six,
seven and more bullets tore through his thighs in a crippling blast,
dropping the old soldier in an agonized heap on the floor.
La
Rocque, blood streaming down his crushed face, surged one last time
against his bonds.“Allez vous en!” he screamed,
butting his large round head into the guerrilla who had gunned down
Litchfield just as he swung the smoking muzzle of his weapon toward
Kinkade.
Automatic
fire blazed again.
One
bullet grazed Kinkade’s cheek, a shot otherwise fatal had not
Pierre’s courage succeeded in deflecting the brunt of the killing
blast. Two additional rounds slammed into the Englishman’s weapon,
knocking it from his grasp. It clattered to the floor as the man at
the far end of the hut struggled to regain his balance.
It
was now or never.
Alex
Kinkade, former Special Air Service major, leapt savagely forward.
Two
desperate men came together. One–a guerrilla of the Amazon
rebels–sent in twelve days earlier with seventeen other Yawalapiti
tribesmen posing as refugees. Their mission: infiltrate CAMP 114 and
sabotage the HN-9000’s. Yet, for the guerrilla, now gripping the
Anglo do-gooder’s throat between two crushing hands, it was also a
matter of revenge. Eight months earlier he had crouched in the jungle
waiting to ambush the WE FEED convoy. Many of his comrades had died
that day, including his brother. He had loved his brother. And every
breath he squeezed from the dying Englishman’s lips would prove it.
Kinkade’s
lungs seethed.
Where
was air? Where was any molecule of it? He bucked
against the rebel guerrilla straddling him on the floor where he lay,
but his grip was too strong, his enemy too fanatically determined
that he die. He felt the brown, callused hands wrapped around his
throat suddenly constrict tighter. Then tighter still.
Everything...starting
to fade…
“Alex,”
a voice cried out from the flickering madness of the burning hut,
“his eyes…dig your bloody fingers into them!”
The
sound of Litchfield’s gasped command from somewhere behind
galvanized the struggling Englishman. His fingers clawed upward
against the sweating face determined to end his existence. Against
this newfound resistance, the strangling hands tightened insanely.
“Kill
him, lad! For
God’s sake kill him!”
Kinkade
found the eyes, black and watery with unfathomable hatred. He ripped
at them with one last explosion of animal savagery. The man killing
him snarled. Kinkade heaved, finally twisting the life-crushing
weight from him. Rolling over across the floor as orange flames
licked up the walls of the burning hut, he searched for
something–anything–to strike back with.
His
hand touched steel.
The
machete.
Kinkade
seized it just as two gnarled hands grabbed his head, ramming it
backward against the wall. Momentarily stunned, he lost his grip on
the weapon. A fist slammed down on the back of his neck, followed by
another, driving him down to all fours.
His
strength, almost gone...
Then,
out of the corner of his eye, Kinkade saw again the raped and
murdered bodies of his people and beside them, strapped to a torture
chair, the battered, dying face of Pierre La Rocque.
It
was all he needed.
Kinkade
found the machete and grasped it firmly between two bloodstained
hands. With a ferocity born of desperation, he thrust it point first
into the underside of the man’s scrotum. The sixteen-inch blade
jammed halfway up, grinding against pelvic bone. Kinkade twisted the
blade savagely, and heaved again. This time the blade sunk all the
way to the hilt. The guerrilla, his face frozen in a lockjaw of
horror, slowly crumpled to the floor.
Crawling
to his feet, Kinkade staggered over to the beaten and tortured
Frenchman–but there was nothing to be done. He was already dead.
Gently, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, then let it slip
away again, like the mooring line of a boat left to drift forever out
to sea.
Nearby,
a groan hastened Kinkade back to Litchfield, now slumped unconscious
on the floor of the hut. As he knelt beside the older man, he heard
the shrieks and moans of the wounded being bayoneted by the invaders.
Only
seconds left...
Struggling
to his feet, Kinkade stumbled over to the HN-9000 control console,
scanning its cluster of data screens through smoke-stung eyes. Two of
the screens kept flashing: Failed Unit–indicating the two gun
towers destroyed by mortar strikes. The remaining two screens flashed
a different message: Unit Deactivated.
Kinkade
tried to remember the reactivation code even as his mind fought
against a rising tide of blackness. Dimly, he heard booted feet
running past followed by the sound of doors being kicked in, one by
one by one. Then: short, savage bursts of automatic fire.
Think!
Suddenly,
like tumblers in a safe clicking together, his sluggish mind
remembered the code even as his fingers punched in the numbers.
Instantly, the HN-9000’s hummed back to life. All that remained now
was to press the Engage Enemy tab glowing on the console and the
machines would unleash their hellish havoc against the refugee camp
and jungle beyond. But as Kinkade’s hand moved forward to do so, a
guerrilla suddenly burst into the hut, his face feral with intensity.
Dark eyes searched the bodies on the floor for any signs of life.
Now!
Kinkade
punched down on the activation tab just as a combat shotgun roared
from behind. Spun around by the impact, he was struck by a second
blast that sledge-hammered him to the floor. Blacking out, he never
saw the smoking barrel lower toward his head–nor the final look of
triumph on the face of the guerrilla about to pull the trigger that
would bring him oblivion. Only–the guerrilla never got to pull
the trigger a third time.
For
in the next instant his head burst open like a dropped melon, blown
apart in a fury of 20mm bullets as CAMP 114’s two remaining
HN-9000’s swiveled over the compound, raking it with implacable
fire.
WE
FEED CAMP 114 lay silent in the early morning heat.Tendrils of smoke,
fetid with the smell of burnt flesh, coiled up into the orange dawn.
Nearby, half-wild dogs from war-ravaged jungle towns trotted outside
the camp, whining with hunger lust. Fear of Man had kept them at bay
through the long night but now that fear was fading as the smells of
carrion slowly drove them mad. Even now the first of them, their jaws
slack with drooling hunger, began to nip at the bullet-riddled
corpses lying around the outer perimeter of the camp.
As
the equatorial sun climbed up into the screeching branches of the
surrounding rain-forest, a dozen or more diskkopters suddenly
appeared over the smoldering refugee camp. The dogs, seeing them,
trotted away–their bellies sagging now with undigested human flesh.
They vanished quickly into impenetrable undergrowth.
Seconds
later, the first of the mid-21st century machines drifted down into
the midst of the smoking compound. Soldiers rushed out, automatic
weapons sweeping the desolation. When nothing stirred save for the
bright tropical flies buzzing around the corpses, others landed
behind the soldiers, emerging from their flying machines with hands
grasping medskanners as they grimly searched the smoking graveyard
for any signs of life.
And,
finally, still others landed, venturing forth under the killing rays
of the jungle sun with their glittering multi-lensed autokams.
One
of them was a man named Blake Haldane...
