Transformers Dark of the Moon (34 page)

“No, you don’t get it. I had this … this thing,” and he pointed to his wrist. “A spiderlike Decepticon that could also make itself look like a watch. Gould put it on me, and if I didn’t do what it wanted, then it would bite into me or even shock me. It could’ve turned my nervous system into Swiss cheese.”

“Ouch.”

“Not to mention that Carly’s life depended upon my doing what they said.”

“Okay. But I’m still not seeing …”

“Don’t you get it?” Sam said, feeling mortified but compelled to tell someone what was eating away at him. “The Decepticons were tracking me the whole time. I led them straight to the space center. They wouldn’t have known where the Autobots were and wouldn’t have been there to—”

“Whoa, whoa … slow down, chief. You didn’t lead them there.”

“But—”

“I checked around immediately after the … after the incident. That F-22 was there since the previous day.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. And don’t think I didn’t ream some people out for that. No one questioned it being there. Everyone just assumed that everyone else knew about it. Considering we’re dealing with beings that can shift into alternate forms, that’s exactly the kinda crap that should be setting off bells everywhere. Point is, they were there ahead of you.”

“How, though?”

“You said it yourself. They’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. They could have found out any one of a dozen ways. Hell, for all we know, they had someone staked out at every major facility in the country equipped with rocket science, hoping to get lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Well, lucky for them. Sorry.” He shrugged. “Probably wasn’t the best word for me to use.”

Sam waved it off. “No sweat. You didn’t mean anything by it. And besides, if it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be back in Florida trying to bum a ride, so—”

Then he jumped as a hand rapped firmly on the door.

Someone was standing outside, a large, bulky man with a face so pockmarked and scarred that it looked like a road map of a life of warfare. Behind him there were other hard-to-see figures. They seemed to have emerged from the darkness like shadows come to life.

“Took your sweet time,” said the scarred man. He scowled at Sam. “Who’s he? Your boyfriend?”

“Sam,” Epps said, “this is Hardcore Eddie. And over there”—Epps gestured toward the shadowed figures—“is Tiny … and that’s Stackhouse … and that’s … is that you, Rakishi?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Rakishi. And standing over there by himself because he’s got this whole go-it-alone thing is Ames.”

“Okay, well … I’m Sam Witwicky. My girlfriend is
the one Dylan Gould grabbed and took with him to Chicago.”

Rakishi spoke up with a deep and impressive voice. “He’s a dead man.”

“No,” Sam said angrily. “I made a promise. He’s
my
dead man.”

Hardcore Eddie nodded approvingly. “Kid’s starting to grow on me. Okay, then: Let’s go to Chicago and blow some stuff up.”

Moments later Epps’s Mustang, followed by three low-slung, nondescript vehicles that Sam would’ve sworn just a few minutes ago weren’t there, pulled out of the rest stop and started rolling down the highway.

Every single one of the drivers was an experienced mercenary, and they also happened to be among the best wheelmen in their singular line of work. Hyperaware of their surroundings at all times, they would have staked their lives on the notion that they were not being followed.

They would have lost that bet.

Normally, on a regular morning, I-65 heading into Chicago was choked with traffic, filled with people on their normal morning commute. Southbound, on the other hand, was fairly light.

This morning was, as Sam might have said when he was a kid, Opposite Day. On this day, the southbound traffic was so heavy that it was scarcely moving. Northbound, on the other hand, wasn’t simply light; it was nonexistent. Nothing was headed toward Chicago.

It was easy to see why even from less than a mile out.

Epps, Tiny, Stackhouse, Hardcore Eddie, Ames, Rakishi, and Sam had all pulled over and emerged from their cars. They simply stood there, staring, and even the hardened mercs appeared stunned into silence by what they were looking at.

Large portions of Chicago had simply been blown away. The skyline had literally been decimated; at least a tenth of it was no longer there. A vast cloud of blackened smoke hung over the city, and there was some sort of huge shape that was visible in the lower sections of the smoke. Sam wasn’t sure, but he suspected it was some sort of Decepticon vessel. An airship, maybe, or a base from which Decepticons could launch smaller attack ships. It could be the equivalent of a floating aircraft carrier.

And oddest of all, the city was glowing. It was as if it were suffused with some sort of energy, or perhaps energy
that was starting to build up to something. Had the Decepticons nuked the place? Sam got a mental picture of Carly dying from radiation poisoning, her skin covered with sores, her eyes glazing over …

He closed his eyes a moment but then gave up when he realized that it would do nothing to block out the images in his mind.

“You ever get the feeling there’s something you don’t want to know about?” said Epps.

“You have no idea,” Sam said.

Stackhouse seemed to be checking something on what looked to be a palm-sized computer. Meanwhile, Tiny had removed some manner of device with a flat wand attached to it and was waving it in the air. Sam tapped Epps to get his attention and then pointed to Tiny. “He trying to cast a spell?”

“Taking readings. What’ve ya got, Tiny?”

“No rads. Or at least nothing beyond what’s normal these days,” Tiny said.

“No communications, either,” Stackhouse informed them. “We can stay in touch with shortwave, unit to unit, but forget about cellphones.”

Epps shook his head at the prospect of what they were facing. “My God. We came here to find one guy … in the middle of
that
?”

“We going into that, Epps?” Tiny sounded dubious about it.

“No one’s going in,” Epps said flatly.

“Are you kidding?” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I thought you guys were mercs! I thought you were badass! This is just … it’s a city that’s been messed up by war! You’ve never been to places like that?”

“We’ve been to plenty of places like that, runt,” Hardcore Eddie said. “But we got prep time, we got access to
way more equipment than what we have with us, and—oh, yeah—we got a paycheck.”

“Eddie’s right,” Ames said. “Don’t mind doing no pro bono for old time’s sake to help out Epps, but this? With a week or two to plan, maybe …”

“Well, we don’t have a week or two! The damned planet may not have a week or two!” Sam said angrily. “You’re not going in? Fine! I am. With or without you, I’ll find her.”

He started to stalk away, but Epps grabbed him firmly by the arm. Sam tried to pull away, but Epps’s grip was solid iron. “You’ll get yourself killed. That what you want? Come all this way for that?”

“She’s here because of me!”

“If she’s in there—if she’s even alive—there’s no way you’re ever gonna reach her. I’m sorry, but it’s all over.”

Sam relaxed, and in response Epps did, too, easing up on his grip. It was exactly what Sam was waiting for, and when he yanked free, Epps was caught off guard.

He started running toward Chicago. He was hoping that Epps would simply shrug and say that if he wanted to throw his life away, he was welcome to do so. Instead, Epps immediately went in pursuit. Sam tried to put on as much speed as he could, but within thirty seconds he was gasping for breath and could tell from what he was hearing that Epps wasn’t even breathing hard.

And suddenly from behind them, Hardcore Eddie shouted,
“Incoming!”

A Decepticon fighter was howling through the air in their direction. Sam hoped for a moment that it hadn’t spotted them, that it was just hurtling past on its way to somewhere else. That notion was quickly dashed when the fighter angled straight down toward them and opened fire with a strafing run. The mercs, Sam, and Epps scattered in all directions, and it was just Sam’s luck—or maybe it was by design—that the fighter appeared
to be zeroing in on him. It chewed up ground behind him, and he knew that it was catching up. It was only a matter of seconds before it overtook him, and there was nowhere for him to hide.

And suddenly the fighter exploded, blown right out of the air.

The concussive force knocked Sam off his feet, and he fell flat onto the highway. He threw his arms over his head to protect it as huge chunks of the fighter bounced all around him. He saw the head of a Decepticon, the pilot, go rolling past, and—with the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears—he looked around to see where the blast that had destroyed the fighter had come from.

He couldn’t believe it.

Optimus Prime was standing ten feet away, smoke still wafting from the discharge of his arm cannon. Arrayed behind him were all of the Autobots, the ones who were supposed to have been blown to cinders.

The mercs were gaping at them, exchanging glances as if to ask one another,
You ever see anything like this?

“Perhaps your leaders will now understand,” Optimus said. “Decepticons will never leave your planet alone. And we needed them to believe we had gone.”

It took Sam long moments to recover his breath. “They … they were watching me.” He pointed to his wrist even though the miniature spy was long gone. “I couldn’t tell you …”

“You told me enough for me to know that something was wrong.”

“But your ship … They blew it up …”

Roadbuster strode forward with his characteristic swagger. “Designed the damn thing, didn’t we? First booster rocket to separate … that was our splashdown escape pod!”

“Thing was a bucket of bolts anyway,” Topspin said dismissively.

Roadbuster agreed. “Never woulda made it outta the atmosphere.”

Optimus looked toward the city. There were explosions in the distance, and Sam watched with dismay as another building collapsed. He prayed that there was nobody in it but was afraid he was wrong. God, what if it was the one that Carly was in?

Why? Why the hell are they doing this?

“If they’re destroying the city,” Optimus said, answering the unspoken question, “it’s to make a fortress so no one can see what they’re up to inside.”

“Then I think I know how to get a look,” Sam said. He turned and pointed to the fallen alien ship. There were chunks of it all over the place, but a considerable portion of it was still in one piece. “Can we sneak in with that thing?”

Without hesitation, Roadbuster called out, “Get to work, boys! I want this enemy ding-wing shipshape top-tight ready!”

The Wreckers pounced on the ship, moving in perfect synchronization in their efforts. They kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking so fast and furiously that Sam couldn’t tell what the hell they were talking about. But, he reasoned, it didn’t really matter whether he understood, as long as
they
did.

The way that they were moving … it seemed familiar somehow …

Suddenly he laughed.

Considering the circumstances, it certainly seemed an odd reaction. Epps stared at him questioningly, and Sam said, “Don’t you see it?” He pointed at the Wreckers.

“See what? What’re you—?” Then he realized, and a broad smile crossed his face. “A pit crew.”

“Yeah. They’re moving just like a pit crew.”

“Who says television isn’t educational?” Epps said.

“So, ah,” Sam said uncertainly, “are you guys, y’ know … outta here? Like you said you were gonna be?”

“You kidding?” Epps pointed toward the mercs, who seemed engaged in endless, fascinated discussion with the Autobots. “This is going to be
the
heavyweight fight of the world. If you think we’re going to wanna be anyplace other than ringside, you can just forget it. We’ll stay under the El tracks, use subterranean roads. We’ll be fine.”

The Wreckers were finished in less than an hour. Once they were ready, Bumblebee climbed into the cockpit. Sam followed right behind him, although it was somewhat cramped since Bumblebee was taking up most of the space within.

Sam glanced around. He did not for one moment think he was remotely qualified to render judgment on the quality of the work the Wreckers had put into slapping this thing together. But to his untrained eye, it sure looked like it was being held together with spit and baling wire.

“You think it’ll fly?” Sam said, trying to keep the uncertainty to a minimum.

Bumblebee gave a confident thumbs-up.

That helped ease Sam’s concerns a bit, and then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “And you
do
know how to fly it?”

The hand that was holding an upwardly pointed thumb flattened out and wavered side to side, conveying the sign recognized throughout the galaxy:
So-so
.

“Whoa, wait, what does that mean?” Sam was suddenly less sanguine about the whole notion. “Bee, explain that—”

Bumblebee declined to do so. Instead, the ignition of
the engine and the liftoff of the fighter ship were almost simultaneous. Sam was thrown back hard against the seat as the fighter hurtled into the sky, banked hard, and headed at top speed toward the smoking remains of Chicago.

The situation room at NEST headquarters, while not quite as impressive as the one in the White House, was capable enough when it came to dealing with an emergency. Also, because of the fact that the walls were entirely curved, it had been given a whimsical nickname by NEST personnel: the Egg. Mearing, annoyed by anything having to do with whimsy, had actively discouraged and then outright forbidden it. Naturally, this had caused the name to become so entrenched that by this point even she was using it.

Fortunately enough, the Egg had not been in one of the sections that Sentinel had annihilated during his rampage through NEST confines. Having remained unbroken, the Egg was now serving as accommodations for General Morshower, Director Mearing, Agent Simmons, and the titleless Dutch.