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"Wouldn't the whitecoats program it to check rad levels?" Dean asked, worried.
"Just to be sure?"
"Why? When a nuclear bomb goes off, if the tank survives the EMP wave, it
still can't go anywhere near a rad pit for hundreds of years. And no military
would plan to leave its equipment alone for that long," Mildred said.
"How about the folks who built the redoubts in the first place?" Dean said in
stark candor. Nobody had an answer to that.
As Ryan angled Leviathan into an arroyo, the bottom of the rad pit came
directly into view. Barren, featureless land, as level as a skillet, stretched
into the distance, with low rolling hills rising in a perfect circle around
the rim. Not a stick or a pebble marred the dead perfection, and not even a
breeze seemed to disturb the pristine stillness of the hellblasted pit.
There was no time to take a rad count, so Ryan plowed straight into the
crater.
"Here it comes!" J.B. said, as the laser rose above the hillock behind them.
But before the tank came into view, the short barrel stopped and began to
withdraw. "Hey, it's retreating!"
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"The trick worked," Dean breathed in relief. Hugging his Mossberg shotgun, the
boy slumped in his chair, looking twice his age.
"Advanced technology is so primitive." Doc sighed in contentment.
"Keep going straight," Mildred said, keeping a constant watch on the hilltop.
"Don't make your move until we're far, far away from this point"
Ryan gave agreement and continued to pretend he was going to drive through the
very heart of the nuke hole.
Slowing to a complete halt, the General Electric Ranger Mark IV sat on the lee
side of the low hillock reviewing its options with machine speed. SIG REP
DELTA? asked the auxiliary subprocessor, after the main subprocessor didn't
respond after the regulation four tries.
The main CDP replied, Confirm. Nuclear strike zone on record. Scram factor 99.
Do not proceed on this course.
AFFIRMATIVE. QUERY: LAUNCH MISSILE SALVO?
Negative. Supplies depleted, February 14, 2095, 1409 AM.
CONFIRM. QUERY: FLANK ESCAPING ENEMY TANK?
Processing.
QUERY: RETURN TO BASE?
Processing.
QUERY: ABANDON PURSUIT OF TARGET?
Negative. There was a full millisecond pause. Repairs to the primary weapon
system must be performed stat.
CONFIRM. ACCESSING FIELD REPAIR FILES... HIGHEST PROBABILITY LOCATION FOR
SUCCESS IS--THE
PEARL IN THE WHEEL.
Accepted. Implement. And the mammoth war machine rumbled off toward the east
at its top speed.
Chapter Six
Rifles and handblasters were held tight in sweaty hands as good luck charms as
Leviathan rolled over the flat plain of the nuclear crater for miles. In spite
of their exhaustion, everyone's face was pressed tight to a window or
blasterport, watching for the return of the dreaded predark war machine.
Scanning ahead with binocs, Krysty cursed. "There's a river coming up ahead.
If the Ranger tries to circle around and ambush us from the other side, it'll
reach the water and be able to see inside the blast crater and track us."
"No, it won't," Ryan decided, twisting the wheel sharply. The tires squealed,
as Leviathan banked sharply on a new course. "We're cutting a tangent. By the
time it reaches the river, we'll be long gone.
The redhead nodded. "Hopefully."
"It's all we have."
The rippled glass under the wheels gave way to streaks of fused glass, shiny
fingers reaching into the sterilized dirt. Acid rain gullies cut miniature
ravines across the arid plain.
Eventually, the pale dirt darkened in color to a proper brown, with some
mutated plants and milkweeds appearing in tiny clumps, fighting for
subsistence. Then flecks of true grass were seen, the faint green as
incongruous as flowers on the moon amid the rad-blasted vegetation. Then more
green grass, thickening to patches, followed by small irregular fields with
stumpy bushes and
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050%20-%20Pandora's%20Reboubt%20-%20Nick%20Pollotta.txt corpses of withered
bushes that became copses of mutant trees. The trunks were gnarled and
malformed, the branches knotted as if in pain and the fruits hairy pulsating
sacks. But even these malformations were a welcome sight after the blighted
zone of the rad pit.
"Almost out," Mildred stated, motioning with a hand. "See there! Fields of
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green grass.
Been a while since we saw that."
"East wasn't as bad hit as the west," J.B. said, stubbornly chewing bites off
a bar of stale cheese as he manned the starboard Remington. "I don't think the
big radstorms ever made it this far."
"Doesn't seem as if the acid rains hit here much, either."
"It's not paradise," Ryan said, feeling the desolation, "but I've seen worse."
A rabbit bolted by them, its six legs hurtling it across the clearing into the
safety of the greenery. "Muties don't seem too extreme, either," Krysty
observed.
"I noticed."
Sipping a cup of MRE coffee from a battered tin cup, Krysty perked up in her
seat as
Leviathan crested a low ground swell. "What's that noise?" she demanded.
Ryan slowed their speed. "I've been noticing it for hours. Getting worse."
"Controls say the engines are fine," Mildred announced. She tapped the console
with a finger. "If the gauges are working correctly, that is."
"Seems to be coming from underneath us," J.B told them, cupping an ear to
listen. "Mebbe there's a branch caught in a wheelwell."
"Could be the tire the hellhounds ate," Dean said, loading his weapon from the
cache of rounds in his vest. "You know, the empty rim spinning loose."
Easing out the clutch, Ryan braked the vehicle to stop and pulled the handle
to set the tandem brakes, fore and aft. "More reasonable than a branch." He
released the seat harness and stood stiffly. Checking his 9 mm pistol, Ryan
accepted the flashlight from Mildred, clicking it on once to make sure it was
working properly. "Come on, J.B., let's go see what's the prob."
"Right," the Armorer said, grabbing a toolbox and his Uzi.
The two men climbed outside while the rest kept a careful watch. After
ascertaining there were no surprises waiting for them below the vehicle, they
lay on the grass and slid out of sight.
Walking to the middle of the tank, Krysty undid the bolts and clamps on the
belly hatch and lifted it out of the way. "See anything?" she called down.
"Shit, yeah! We got a hole in our transmission!" J.B. shouted. "We've lost all
of our gear oil!"
"We catch some shrapnel from the Hummer?" Dean asked through the hole.
His father answered. "No. Apparently, the coldhearts didn't tighten the
draining bolt good enough.
"J.B., check the fill plug to make sure it's okay."
"Doing it," the Armorer answered.
Ryan's face came into view. "Dean, Jak, search for that bastard bolt in our
wake;" he said. "Mebbe it only came off recently. Should be just behind a big
puddle of smelly reddish oil."
"Be right back, Dad," Dean said. The two youths took their weapons and headed
off on foot.
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