Terracorp (3)
Actually, this expedition had nearly been scrapped due to Artemis's opposition. [There's a massive horde nearby. Long-distance vehicle travel is risky enough as it is.] She was dead set against me heading there. My thinking was different, though.
'We can't keep driving cars around forever, right? Out of land, sea, and air, the only path still open is the sky. We'll need air transport for any serious external scouting from here on out.'
To launch proper expeditions, we'd have to venture beyond our region. That might mean skirting densely populated areas or infiltrating urban facilities. Trying to do it with ground vehicles would be suicide. But with a helicopter, we could leapfrog over threats and drop right onto rooftops. Escaping would be a breeze if things went south.
Even after laying out all those advantages, Artemis wouldn't budge. Turns out, my pitch was all wrong. The key to swaying her wasn't the gains from a successful op—it was my safety.
'War isn't just about the threats you see coming. If your retreat path is secure, it doesn't matter if there's thousands—no, tens of thousands—right next door.'
A guaranteed escape route makes ten thousand enemies you can evade far less dangerous than a hundred you'd have to fight with your back to the wall. Once I explained the underwater infiltration and exfil plan to Artemis and convinced her it was safe enough, she finally agreed.
It was a new experience for me. Back in my active duty days, briefings to superiors always focused on mission success, naturally. The risks to me or my men? Collateral. I'd never filled 80% of a briefing with escape contingencies like this. And honestly? It felt pretty damn good. Knowing someone worried about me that much.
Of course, it was kinda funny that I was the one seeking permission here, even though I outranked her in the chain of command.
The op went off smoothly, and now we were en route to collect the spoils.
"This the right way?"
[Straight ahead. Right at the second block, then left again. Hop the barricade, and you're at the target.]
Pic! Pic! Walkers crossing our path dropped amid suppressed rifle cracks.
I double-checked the PDA mid-stride. The drone photos from overhead showed the factory layout clear as day. Normally, they'd camouflage with tarps for concealment, but this war wasn't against the North Korean army—it was against the infected. Camo was pointless.
That let us spot the docked aircraft easily, including one we couldn't ignore. The aerial shot alone was impressive. A big, black beast in the photo: the UH-60 Black Hawk. The multipurpose chopper that starred in countless movies and shows. The crown jewel of this mission.
If I wasn't mistaken, it was the UH-60X—the final upgraded model. I'd seen them plenty during my deployment, even ridden in a few. It had every feature an infantryman could dream of. Pre-war, the U.S. military was developing a next-gen replacement, but that was never happening now.
Or was it?
Whirr. I glanced at the shoulder cam scanning our surroundings.
[What?]
"Nah. Nothing."
Thanks to the scientist, gearhead, goddess on my shoulder, that is. Uncle Sam, you're a pal.
[Beyond this door.]
The maintenance bay entrance hung open. Team 2, who'd cleared in first, was holding position.
[Area secured.]
One intact robot reported in. But it hadn't been easy. The other two were banged up. One had half its face and chest melted away—despite its acid-resistant materials. Probably hit by a Dissolver's spray. The other had a shattered primary rifle, so it was on its backup, and both eyes were blown out, relying on shared feeds from the others.
The bay split into nine hangars. I fired up a nearby terminal to check status. Two empty. Four with military vehicles. Two with half-dismantled Surion helos. And at the far end: the Black Hawk.
Oddly, its hangar was isolated behind a transparent bio-containment enclosure.
[Got the Surion blueprints.]
Artemis had scoured the terminal and copied designs for every logged aircraft. I bypassed the security with my admin creds easily enough. But the Black Hawk was the issue. Being U.S. military, its hangar had a standalone system my access couldn't crack.
That got solved quick.
Splat! A walker's skull exploded, brains splattering the one behind it.
"Kree—?"
The rear walker blinked in confusion, face a mess of gray matter.
"Kreeee—!"
The instant it spotted us, its face twisted in rage.
Thwack! Before it fully formed, a bullet punched through its forehead, dropping it.
All the walkers around wore U.S. uniforms. Bay 9's isolation made sense now—everything inside was American. Walkers or corpses. Some bodies were in Level A hazmat suits like spacesuits. Nametags marked them as scientists. The suits had kept infection at bay... but led to a worse death.
What the hell had they been doing here?
"Don't shoot the officers. Take 'em hand-to-hand."
[Order confirmed.]
The robots popped the enlisted and NCO walkers, then closed on the last two.
Click-click. They drew knives and fixed bayonets.
"Kreeeeek—!"
The officer-badged pair charged, howling. One skewered straight through the eye into its brain, dead instantly. The other lunged jaws agape like a croc—only to eat a rifle butt that shattered its teeth. It flailed, gushing blood, until a robot snapped its neck from behind.
[Got it.]
A robot handed me the keycard from an officer corpse.
Beep. Swipe unlocked Bay 9's terminal. Artemis dove right in.
[UH-60X Black Hawk blueprints secured.]
Her voice brimmed with excitement. Her hunger for the skies burned hotter than mine, no doubt. I was buzzing too.
"Surions won't cut it. No way."
Even giving the homegrown bird props for patriotism had limits. Payload was the killer for me now. My squad weren't humans—they were heavy robots. Heavier weapons too. The Black Hawk's two-ton edge made it perfect.
[Too bad—no install gear blueprints.]
"We'll rip it off and carry. Not like I'm hauling it."
I eyed the chin-mounted chain gun. Seventy kilos easy. I nodded to nearby bots; they swarmed it, disassembling. We grabbed every loose part too.
Bonus haul: "Found this here."
In my hand: an M27 IAR A5. U.S. standard issue. Lay next to a dead soldier. Pristine.
Loaded up, the bots looked like they'd packed full battle rattle.
"That's plenty. Let's exfil."
One snag, though. We spotted something late on the Black Hawk. Why park in a Korean depot over their own base? Why the scientists in Level A gear? Why the sealed container here alone?
A parasite. Like the one from the shelter recapture that tried infecting our guard bots—and mutual-killed.
A similar critter clung to the cockpit. Gray synthetic resin glued it in place, U.S. science project maybe. It woke as we found it. Siren blared from the helo—ear-splitting shriek.
"Kreeeeeeek—!"
"Kruuuueek—!"
The noise drew every infected in the factory. Bots shredded the parasite, but the siren wailed on.
[Exfil now! Outside horde's turning our way!]
We'd accidentally rung the dinner bell. Industrial espionage gone wrong.
We bolted back the way we came. Drone feed showed hordes swarming the grounds. Lugnuts mixed in. Those could smash barricades and charge straight—they were trouble if ignored.
[Deploying smokescreen.]
Loitering recon drones dumped tear gas canisters. Artemis's R&D had new crowd-control rounds, so these were expendable. Perfect call bringing the stockpile.
Whoosh! Gas bloomed on impact, fogging the yard and building edges.
Crack! Some infected ate direct headshots en route.
Soon, hacking coughs and wails echoed from all sides. Kinda surreal—monsters roaring was cliché, but choking ones? Rare sight.
It slowed their rush. We hit the river, bots sinking fast under gear weight.
Weeeeeng—! The helo wailed nonstop. It cut out only when we hit the far canal bank.
[Wondered why they'd skip their base for this dump. Parasite research, huh.]
Easy to abandon if needed.
"Sneaky bastards, sure. But fortune favors the bold. We profited."
PDA loot list—gear, blueprints, salvage—wouldn't quit scrolling.
[Loadout complete.]
Last bot reported as APC filled.
[Head home. Three hours to sunset. Tight even on safe route.]
We piled in. Overloaded, one bot rode outside.
"Hang tight."
[Affirmative.]
It sprawled frog-style on the roof. Stuck like that till shelter.
"Bountiful harvest."
We'd scored big. Smiling despite the cramped gear pile.
Vroom. Our APC kicked up dust, distancing from the factory. Drones trailed as escort.
The helicopter. A branch on the tree of war history. Its mighty fruit—from ancient envy of birds, passed to our hands as the last seed.