Jason King: Agent to the Stars 1: The Enclaves of Sylox (27 page)

Chapter 36

I led the nine person squad to the trail left by Billork in the soil of his planet. He wasn’t headed for the underground complex, but rather around the large entrance mound to the left. I knew this was his turf, and no one knew it better, so there had to be purpose for his actions.

“Can any of you spare a 1911? I’m tired of using one of these cheap ray guns.”

Two of the Marines surrendered their Close Quarter Battle pistols to me and Quint.

“Don’t I get one of the big-boy guns, too?” Miranda said.

“Why, yes, ma’am,” Hector said with a smile. “You can have mine. Just be sure to return it – at dinner.”

I saw Miranda drop the magazine and check the rounds for the tan-color handgun. She snapped the magazine back in, drew back the slide and fed a round into the chamber – as confidently as any of the rest of us would have done.

She looked at me with exasperation. “Later, Jason. Right now you need to concentrate.”

She was right. We were around the tall mound now and the trail in the dirt was gone, replaced now by a low grass covering where the traces of blood were harder to follow. It was obvious from the straight line of the trail that Bill wasn’t making any evasive moves. Instead he was heading straight for a stone structure set off by itself and half-dug into the side of a small hill.

The structure looked like a bunker, and if that was the case, the Zorphin could barricade himself in there and we wouldn’t have any way of getting him out. We’d have to call for a demo unit, and I was pretty sure this small unit of Marines wasn’t equipped for the job. And who knew how extensive the underground labyrinth ran beneath our feet. Bill could exit at another point several miles away and we’d never know it.

The blood trail grew a little more noticeable as we neared the entrance to the bunker. This was an ancient cobblestone path and it led to a closed metal door devoid of a handle or other means of operation that I could see.

“Shit! You didn’t happen to bring any C4 with you?”

Hector tapped the pockets of his field jacket. “That’s a negative, Sergeant. Seems I must’ve left all my C-4 at home. The kids like making toy dinosaurs out of it.” Hector answered. “But really, we didn’t even come in equipped for a full battle, like the one we were just in. We were just supposed to drop in and pull you guys out.”

“Well, it’s going to take a Howitzer to break through this—”

Miranda had moved up to the tall metal door and placed her hand on it. She pushed, and to all our amazement, the door spun open, pivoting on a central pen. Even though it was clearly a foot thick of solid metal, it was so precisely balanced that a child could operate the multi-ton door.

“Looks like someone forgot to lock it.” Miranda turned to the gawking faces and smiled. “It’s a talent of mine,” said the jewel thief.

The Marines split into two units, one on each side of the entrance. There was light flooding from inside the bunker, exposing all of us to whatever defenses the bunker held. With Miranda being the closest to the interior, she suddenly darted inside and hugged the wall to the right. I went to yell at her, but she was already gone, and I didn’t want to alert anyone inside, if they hadn’t already been alerted.

“Junior, you and Carter get in there with her,” Hector commanded. Two of the other Marines moved inside in a combat covering formation and with their IAR’s glued to their cheeks.

A moment later we heard a loud whisper, “Clear.”

The rest of us moved in.

**********

This was even worse than I thought. We were in what looked to be a small subway station, complete with a lowered set of rails leading off in opposite directions through a circular tunnel, now dark and quiet.

“He could be anywhere by now,” Quint said. He leaned over the space above the tracks and looked both ways. There was no sign of lights or even the distance, echoing sound of a moving train moving away. “He can’t be more than a few minutes ahead of us. And I don’t even smell any of the things you normally smell in a working subway. I don’t think anything’s moved down here in a while.”

We were all lined up on the platform, assuming we had missed him. Now I turned back to the concrete flooring. “Look for blood tracks. If he didn’t get aboard a train, then he’s somewhere nearby.”

Just then, two of the Marines at the end of line took direct bolts to their backs, throwing them down on the tracks. The rest of us jumped down, too, taking cover in the recess area where the tracks ran.

I was relieved to see the two Marines up and hugging the concrete wall. They each wore Kevlar vests, and from the brief glimpse I caught of the bolts as they hit the men, these were Level-2 bolts. An L-2 bolt hitting a vest was equivalent to taking a sharp punch to the gut, nothing more. The Marines were unharmed, and now really pissed.

“What out for the third rail … it may be electrified,” Hector called out. “I’m sure these aliens use some form of anti-gravity to move their trains, but we can never be sure.”

“Did anyone see where those shots came from?” I asked. I popped my head up over the platform and looked to my right. There was a darkened passageway off in that direction.

“I think I see some blood over to the right,” one of the Marines reported.

“Okay, Victor, Stevie and Quint, make your way to cover on the right,” Hector said. “The rest of us will cover you.”

Just then I felt a deep rumble under my feet. The rest of us felt it, too, and we all hesitated, waiting to see if it grew stronger. It did, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that a train was coming down the tracks.

The three men Hector had called out earlier jumped onto the platform – and immediately were hit by a barrage of no fewer than six bolt trails coming out of the darkened corner of the station. However, unlike the first bolts, these were a deep blue. All three of the men were hit, with the two Marines taking the bolts in their vests. Quint wasn’t wearing a vest, so when he was hit in the right shoulder, he spun around and fell back onto the tracks.

Miranda and I were at his side in a heartbeat. His shirt had caught fire and we tamped it out with our hands. Quint’s body was twitching, having absorbed an overload of plasma energy from the bolt. His eyes were rolled back in their sockets and white froth came from his mouth. This didn’t look good.

I took off my waistcoat and placed it over the wound. If bolts hit just right, they tended to cauterize their own wound, and it looked as if this one had done just that. But Quint had suffered a third-degree burn and the blackened, sickly-smelling flesh was clearly visible through his burnt shirt.

And then his eyes suddenly reappeared and his mouth formed a large ‘O.’ He blinked several times before focusing on me and Miranda.

“Whew, that was something! Did I live?”

Miranda took the sleeve of my coat and wiped the froth from his chin. “Yeah, ya did. And when that burn heals you’ll have all the girls creaming over your sexy battle scar.”

“Little darlin’, that ain’t the only one. Someday I’ll have to give you the tour.”

With our concern for Quint, we hadn’t paid much attention to the thunderous explosion of M27 fire that was directed into the dark opening by the Marines. And when Hector sent an M203 grenade into the opening, it punctuated the assault with a ground-shaking exclamation point.

“Everyone up and out!” Hector ordered. “There’s a train coming.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a bright light appeared down the tunnel to our right. The Marines scrambled for cover, even though no return fire came from the dark corridor. Miranda and I helped Quint up on the elevated platform.

The train suddenly stopped down the tunnel, yet within sight of the station and I thought I saw several dark shadows pass between wall of the tunnel and the train. Several people – beings – had just boarded the train. Now I felt the rumbling begin anew.

“He’s on the train!” I cried out.

Hector and his men had moved into the corridor, and only the last couple of them on the platform heard me call out.

“Hector, I need another 203!”

The Marines were calling to Hector, their squad leader and the only one of them with the grenade launcher attached to his M27. Rifle fire wasn’t going to stop the train, only a grenade.

But now the train was at the edge of the station and picking up speed. It was a smooth-skinned, oblong-shaped silver pod, with a single large window in front and only a few others dotting the side. As it slid past, I saw a closed door, and then through a window, Zorphins – at least three of them – inside the train. I couldn’t tell if one of them was Bill, because they all looked alike to me, but I thought I saw one with a white bandage on his shoulder. That would have to be my old second baseman.

I took off running along the platform, trying my best to keep up with the departing train. It was gaining speed, but near the tail of the pod I saw a small ladder attached to the side, used to gain access to the roof. I reached out with both hands and grasped the warm metal. My left hand slipped off, but I held on with my right, just as the platform disappeared under my feet and the train entered the tunnel on the opposite side of the station.

I banged hard against the metal surface of the pod, as my feet scraped along the wall of the tunnel and the rest of my body flailed in the narrow space between the wall and the pod. We were already going about twenty miles per hour, and there was no place for me to fall if I let go, except to be bashed against the tunnel wall or sucked under the speeding train. And so I held on.

My right arm felt like it was being ripped from my shoulder, and I tried once, then twice to grasp the ladder with my left hand. On the third try I found a purchase with one of the rungs and was able to pull myself closer to the skin of the pod.

As the side of the tunnel raced by only a few of feet away, the air pressure inside the tunnel increased, and although the train was probably traveling at less than forty miles per hour, the velocity of the air streaking over my body felt like it was approaching seventy or more.

I managed to wrap a leg around the ladder and then threaded my arms through the outer stanchions. I was taking a beating from the wind, but I seemed to be secure with my holds – if this didn’t go on much longer.

The wind over my face and body was too strong for me to do nothing more than squeeze my eyes shut and hold on for dear life. But then my body was violently pulled away from the pod as we blew through another subway station and the air pressure inside the tunnel dropped suddenly. My left leg lost its perch and a moment later I slammed hard against the side of the station as we immediately reentered the tunnel at the other side of the platform.

I grimaced with pain and pulled the leg back onto the ladder. If it wasn’t broken, I would be surprised. But with the rest of my body being tortured by the hurricane force winds in the tunnel, the throbbing in my leg was just one more item on the inventory of pains I was feeling.

The one good thing about experiencing such an incredible rush of air over your body is that you certainly can tell when it begins to diminish. We were slowing … and none too soon.

I looked ahead and saw a slash of light illuminating the tunnel ahead. We were coming up on another station, and for all I knew, there could a hundred Zorphin Brown Shirts waiting there to greet their Fuhrer. I had done a foolish thing by grabbing on to the ladder. But now I was here, and if my leg wasn’t broken, then I had to do all I could to make sure Bill didn’t escape.

When the pod dropped below five miles per hour, I slid down the ladder and carefully let go. My momentum still caused me to fall forward when I hit the ground and I tumbled over painfully on my right shoulder. I stood up immediately, feeling a sharp pain in my left knee. This wasn’t good. I could deal with a broken leg, but a knee injury could spell the end of my softball playing days. I knew of too many guys who never fully came back from a torn ACL or meniscus.

I was fuming by now. Forget about the billions of creatures who could die as a result of a galactic war, now Bill was screwing with my softball. This was serious. Oh, yeah, that damn grasshopper was going to pay. Damn right he was!