Sword of Minerva (The Guild Wars Book 10) by Mark Wandrey (good books to read for teens txt) 📗

Sato didn’t question; he just did as Rick suggested. A minute later, the Phoenix nosed over and added more power. “What are they doing?” Sato asked.

“Probably going NOE—nap of the Earth—through the mountains to evade border radar.”

“Smuggler stuff,” Sato said.

Rick nodded. “We had some lessons on smuggler interdiction while I was with Mickey Finn. A lot of aliens hire mercs to stop smuggling into their systems or stolen goods out of them.”

The dropship’s maneuvering became more extreme, some of the turns pushing the Gs to four, and once to six. Of course, Rick scarcely noticed; the Æsir armor wouldn’t be strained until the G forces pushed 10. Sato was another matter, groaning every time it got above three. That was how it went for two and a half hours. By halfway through, Sato looked green. A few minutes later, he was grabbing the barf bag.

Suddenly the craft dropped, followed by a high-G pullout, and they entered level flight. The speakers in the passenger/cargo area crackled, and a voice said, “Welcome to the United States.”

“Thank God,” Sato groaned.

“I didn’t think you had religion,” Rick said.

“I might now.”

Rick knew they were passing over the endless scrub of south Texas, the land rolling by at supersonic speed. San Antonio, he remembered going there for…sports? Yes, a track meet as a freshman. There was also a debating society competition at the same time. Only he’d never been on the debate team.

Again he cursed as his brain, or the copy of his brain, struggled to make connections once damaged by a laser beam. Or the echo of an injury, which was how he thought of it. He was a copy, a clone was the closest way he could think of himself, of Rick Culper. And still, there was the question of his soul. Had Nemo brought him back from the dead, recalling his soul from heaven or hell? It wasn’t something he wanted to think about right then and there.

It wasn’t too long until the pilot came on again. “We’re landing,” he said.

“Kinda fast, aren’t we?” Sato asked.

Rick felt forward thrust cut and heard the four engine pods whine. Oh, this is going to be bad. The pilot, either a genius or a raving lunatic, let the dropship plummet for several seconds before firing the engines with a deafening roar and the worst jolt yet. Almost exactly as the engines screamed to peak power, there was an almost imperceptible bump as the gear touched down, and the engines were cut.

“Please remain seated while we taxi,” the pilot cautioned. “Sometimes we have to leave again in a hurry.”

“I bet,” Rick said aloud over Sato retching into his barf bag a final time.

“I didn’t think anything was left in my stomach,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“You get used to it,” Rick said, unbuckling and moving toward Dakkar’s module. He interfaced his pinplants with the device. “You okay in there?”

“Yes, I slept through most of the trip. The rocking was most soothing.”

“Your species should be pilots.”

“Boring profession. However, I am a qualified starship pilot from several buds ago.”

The dropship turned hard. Rick easily held his position next to the tank as it taxied some more. The tarmac was rough and uneven, making Rick wonder where exactly they were. He checked his pinplants and blinked in amazement. It appeared to be an empty field south of San Antonio. The dropship came to a stop.

“Welcome,” the pilot said, appearing at the door. He was followed by the loadmaster, who must have also been the copilot.

“I thought we were going to an airport,” Rick said.

“This is…sort of,” the loadmaster said, then he looked at the pilot and laughed.

Rick considered his options. He could easily take them both out. He couldn’t fly the dropship, didn’t know how much fuel was left, and couldn’t count on Dakkar’s assertion of its flying abilities. He could force the pilot to fly them somewhere else, but he’d have to trust them not to double cross him. Or he could do nothing and see what happened. He decided to wait and see.

The loadmaster went to the rear cargo ramp and activated it. With the whine of hydraulic motors, the ramp lowered and let in the Texas afternoon sun. Flight time from takeoff to landing had been two hours, nineteen minutes. As the ramp touched the ground, Rick could see it was grass. They’d indeed landed in a field, though he could see it stretched for at least a kilometer and looked regular.

“An abandoned airfield?” Sato guessed.

“Yes,” the pilot confirmed. “It’s called Cannon Field. Back in the early 21st, before the aliens showed up, it was used by an old vintage plane group who flew World War II prop jobs. Real old school, eh?”

“Yeah,” Sato agreed, glancing at Rick, who shrugged.

“Anyway,” the pilot continued, “those guys are long gone, but the runway is still here. We have someone mow it before we come in. Nobody out here to see us come in. Even if they do, there’s a little sub-orbital rocketport only a few kilometers north. No one is ever the wiser.”

Outside, a short convoy of trucks was rolling to a stop. The pilot and loadmaster had a manual pallet jack and were maneuvering a skid of Sparkle toward the ramp. A lot of junkies are going to be thrilled, Rick thought.

The trucks stopped just to the rear of the dropship, and men piled out. They all looked like itinerant laborers or day workers, except for four dudes with laser rifles. The workers went for the pallet of drugs, while the gangsters met the pilot.

Rick had seen plenty of movies like this. They always had tough characters facing off, testing who was the most macho, and often it ended in deadly