Contagious Page 11

“I know, I know,” Otto said. “I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Keep her barefoot and in the kitchen.”

“Don’t forget pregnant,” Amos said. “But you’re working on that.”

Margaret felt her face flush red. “Amos! Knock it off!”

“Amos, my diminutive white friend,” Otto said, “you’re just mad that a fine-looking black man is getting all the action.”

“Fine-looking until you put on that suit and get all sweaty,” Amos said. “Then you look like a half-chewed Tootsie Roll.”

Margaret sighed. The juvenile name-calling never ceased. She just didn’t get men.

Otto smiled and nodded, which meant he had a killer comeback, but his cell phone chirped before he could speak. There was only one person who would be calling. Clarence answered.

“Otto here.” He listened. His smile faded into an expression that was all business. He pinched the cell phone between his shoulder and ear, then looked at the map.

“We’ll be there in three minutes.” He hung up.

“What’s the matter?” Margaret asked.

“Baum and Milner are down,” Otto said. “A kid named Tad found them, said Dawsey was going to his house.”

Otto leaned forward to give Gitsh directions.

Margaret cursed under her breath. If Perry got to the hosts first . . .

LESS LETHAL

Staccato gunfire echoed through the woods as Third Platoon opened the engagement, making the dark western tree line sparkle with bright muzzle flashes. First Platoon waited exactly three minutes, then pushed due north, straight toward the construct. Second Platoon swept east and curved north, ready to flank the hatchlings should they flee directly away from Third Platoon’s fire.

Fourth Platoon held their position. If the hatchlings fled northwest, they’d run directly into the Fourth. If they ran due north, the Fourth would strafe their flank the whole way.

Predator drones circled low to the northeast, ready to launch h.e.l.lfire missiles that would either herd the hatchlings back into the action or kill them outright.

There was nowhere for the creatures to run.

Ogden watched through night-vision goggles, ready to adapt his strategy if something unexpected popped up.

But nothing did.

“Corporal Cope, status of air support?”

“Apaches, Predators and Strike Eagles still on station, sir,” Cope said. “Ready if you need them.”

“Very well.” Ogden watched as First Platoon moved in, methodically marching forward in a squad-after-squad leapfrog style that allowed a steady advance with constant fire on the enemy position. As First Platoon closed in, Third Platoon ceased fire to avoid any friendly casualties.

Two soldiers in each nine-man squad carried a less-lethal weapon. Like all the platoons, First had three squads, putting six less-lethal weapons into the initial infantry a.s.sault.

Such weapons had once been called nonlethal, but in combat there was never a guarantee of preserving life. If you killed half the people you fought instead of all the people . . . well, then that wasn’t actually nonlethal, now was it?

They didn’t know what would work against the hatchlings, so they’d brought two less-lethals: the sticky gun and ShockRounds.

The sticky gun fired jets of foam that would, theoretically, tangle the hatchlings’ tentacle-legs. The guns had been used with mixed success against people in Somalia—the “mixed” part was that the foam sometimes got in the targets’ eyes, blinding them, or clogged up their mouths. Put a clogged mouth together with hands immobilized by that same foam, and within minutes you had a dead target. Somewhat unacceptable against human targets, but hatchlings were a different story—it was worth the risk.

Compared to sticky guns, the ShockRounds seemed almost normal—5.56-millimeter bullets that delivered a concentrated electric charge. These were untested, but his men didn’t have to do anything different from what they were trained to do—point their weapons and fire.

He’d avoided Tasers. Their range was just too short for his comfort. If electricity even worked on the hatchlings, he had that covered with the ShockRounds.

He’d brought the less-lethals a.s.suming that the hatchlings would behave the way they had in the last two engagements—once the fighting began, they would rush the ground troops and force hand-to-hand fighting. He hoped the lead hatchlings could be taken down with a less-lethal, then the rest could be slaughtered with concentrated conventional fire.

But this time the hatchlings didn’t attack.

Ogden watched the construct. The little monsters moved around the structure itself, scuttled across the ground surrounding it, but they didn’t come out to engage. One by one they shuddered as bullets tore through their plasticine skins. Gouts of their purple blood looked gray through the night-vision goggles, spraying on the ground in stringy strands before the hatchlings collapsed into twitching heaps. If any of those bullets were ShockRounds, they punched through the hatchlings just like normal ammo.

Why the h.e.l.l weren’t they fighting back?

He had a bad feeling he knew why—another trap. Something new. He had no choice but to push forward and hope his attack plan allowed enough flexibility to react when that trap was sprung.

Corporal Cope lowered the handset and held it against his chest.

“Colonel, First and Second platoons report no resistance. Nothing is coming out to attack. They estimate enemy forces are down to maybe five or six individuals.”

“Order immediate cease-fire of lethal weaponry,” Ogden barked. “Less-lethals move in slowly. Sticky guns first, but tell them to also try the Shock-Rounds and see if they have any effect. All squads are to try and take one alive. Tell the squad leaders no lethal fire unless they specifically order it.”

The last shots echoed through the woods as soldiers stopped firing the M4 carbines and M249 squad automatic weapons.