Dr. Seabrook typed quickly on his keyboard. “This is a compilation of all available security footage from that night.” He tapped his touch-screen.
The large image of Dr. Red vanished and the screen went dark. Time code began to tick away at the bottom of the screen, presenting the day and date and time accurate to a hundredth of a second. Then an image appeared, a vantage point from the back seat of some kind of vehicle. It was night. Both front seats were empty. The dashboard gauges, climate controls, and radios glowed orange. A large assault rifle was mounted on the dashboard. The only sound was a dull rumbling, somewhere in the background. It was the interior of an all-terrain security vehicle parked with its motor idling and its dashboard and parking lights illuminated. Beyond the windshield, hood, and knobby front tires, two men stood side by side in the night, surrounded by sand and desert scrub. The vehicle’s parking lights cast an orange glow on their backs. They stood with their feet apart, heads down. A fine stream of liquid glittered between each pair of camouflaged legs.
A tremendous buzzing filled the night, alternating off and on, off and on. Both men jerked their heads up and looked off into the night. They turned. For an instant they looked at each other. Each man ran toward the idling vehicle, fumbling with pants and zipper, shining droplets of liquid still arcing away from the glow of the lights.
The men wrenched open their doors and flung themselves inside. The man behind the wheel slammed a shift lever into gear and the vehicle leaped forward. The sound of dirt and rocks flying and tires spinning. The vehicle fishtailed and drove through its own plume of dust. It careened down an embankment and onto an endless expanse of asphalt.
A broken white centerline and enormous white numbers meant it was not a road.
It was a runway.
Jackrabbits appeared in the bright white wash of the headlights. They bounded across the runway, zigzagging in great leaps and hops, trying to escape the oncoming vehicle.
From out of the darkness came the beams of bright headlights, the growing roar of engines, and the sliding and crunching of all-terrain tires tearing across the sand and scrub of the desert.
Dozens of perfectly-camouflaged, nearly invisible off-road vehicles melted out of the night and converged on the runway. Plumes of dust rose into the darkness, illuminated by the headlights. Tires squealed as the trucks turned onto the runway and accelerated, gunning their engines and picking up speed. More vehicles poured out of the blackness. The lead vehicles reached the end of the runway and turned at high-speed, veering onto the vast expanse of paved ramp which extended several hundred yards toward the mountains.
The vehicles screeched to a halt, headlights lighting up the surface of the rock. Cut out of the mountainside was a massive door. Tracks at its base suggested it could slide open, retracting and disappearing into the rock on either side, revealing an entrance to what could only be an enormous aircraft hangar. A red light above the door spun wildly, spitting red light onto the ramp in a series of flashes.
The white trucks fanned out as more and more of them arrived. They screeched to a halt beside the others, forming an ever-growing arc around the gigantic door, whitewashing its sandy color with their headlights. The doors of the trucks sprang open and men in desert fatigues jumped out, perched behind their open doors, all of them pointing heavy assault rifles at the door in front of them. The squealing of tires and pounding of boots was almost drowned-out by the pulsing, buzzing alarm.
The man in the center of the formation keyed the small microphone clipped to the epaulette on his left shoulder. “Biscuit! This is Papa One! Everything I’ve got is on the door. Can we do something about the alarm? Over!”
A few seconds later, the alarm ceased. The only sound was the purring of dozens of engines as they idled, and the low rumble of the exhaust pipes.
The men sighted down their rifles, watching the door for any sign of movement. Their fatigues all bore the same patch on their left shoulder: a fierce-looking eagle with a piercing gold eye and a razor-sharp beak, with wings spread out over a solid midnight-black background. In its massive talons it held two red-and-white striped candy canes, crisscrossing each other and dripping with blood. Below these was a banner with the same arcane gold symbols. Behold These Sweet Secrets. The drops of blood were a nice addition to the crest.
The soldiers aimed at the door.
“Hold your fire,” the driver called out.
“This ever happen to you before, Bud?” said the passenger. He stood behind his open door, looking across the hood to the other man. A white glare over-exposed his face.
“Hold your fire,” the driver, Bud, called again. He looked across the hood at his comrade. “Nope.”
The red light flashed above the door.
The troops began to look sideways at each other, first a quick glimpse to see what the other guy was doing, then a bit longer, trying to see what everyone else was doing.
Something hit the huge metal door in front of them. Everyone jumped and secured their grip on their rifle. Another pound on the door, deep, echoing, and metallic.
“Steady!” Bud shouted.
A third pounding rang out. The door dented outward. Sounds of metal creaking and tearing, the metallic clanking of steel being dropped on a concrete floor.
“Steady!” Bud yelled.
Then a creaking sound and one entire door moved. It began to roll on its tracks, screeching and popping as the door’s machinery was forced open. The gap broadened, revealing darkness inside the hangar, painted intermittently by the red light flashing overhead. The metal continued to protest its losing battle; the door rolled open and came to a rest. From out of the darkness stepped a hulking mechanical figure. It took two heavy steps and stopped directly under the flashing red light. It stood at least nine feet high at the shoulder. The metallic skin on its arms and legs and chest and body was dark gray, with silver covering the joints at the hips and shoulders, knees and elbows. Its body was broad yet lean-looking, almost chiseled, with a broad breastplate sweeping upward to even broader shoulders. Two arms culminated in two powerful-looking metal hands. Its head resembled the cockpit canopy of a fighter jet, laid nearly upright. The smoky black canopy hid whoever was inside. On its back lurked a pack of some sort, with two thick, menacing masts sticking up on either side of its head.
It didn’t move.
Neither did Bud or any of his troops.
Everyone waited.
“Bud?”
Bud glanced across the hood of his vehicle. The other man stared at him.
“Yeah?”
“What is that thing?”
“How should I know?” said Bud. “I only work here.”
“I think we gotta do somethin’.”
Bud exhaled deeply. “Yeah.” He surveyed the scene. “Man I need a smoke.”
“Those things’ll kill ya.”
“Like I’m worried about that right now.” Bud cleared his throat and stood up a little taller. “You are under arrest!” he shouted. “Lie down on the ground . . . and put your hands on your head! If you fail to comply . . . we will be forced to open fire!” He looked sideways at the other man. “How was that?”
“That was real good. Except it ain’t down on the ground, and it ain’t put its hands on its head. Now what?”
As if it had heard his question, the hulking figure slowly raised both its arms and held up its hands, the universal sign for a person who isn’t armed.
This was Go-Boy Ultra.
Go-Boy Ultra looked like it could pick up one of the off-road vehicles and throw it.
“Looks like it ain’t armed. I think it wants to give up.”
“I would too if I had this much firepower staring me in the face,” said Bud.
The figure rotated its hands inward and curled its silvery fingers inward as well, so that just one long middle finger remained extended on each hand.
“Bud, I do believe that son of a gun is givin’ us the bird. I am too old, too tired, and been divorced too many times to stand in the
middle o’ the desert at three o’clock in the mornin’ gettin’ flipped the bird by a darn-fool nine-foot can-opener on the fritz.”
“I couldn’t agree more—”
Bud was cut off by the blaring sound of one of the troops accidentally honking the horn of his vehicle. Someone else yelped and squeezed the trigger on his assault rifle, causing an instantaneous chain-reaction of fear and frayed nerves, until the entire perimeter of troops was firing madly at the hangar doors. Bright orange starbursts of fire spat from the muzzles of their rifles. Hundreds of crackling reports filled the night air, the sounds bouncing back, echoing off the face of the mountain and the steel door.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” yelled Bud. Even his partner had opened fire on the hulking figure in the doorway. Veins stood out on the side of the big man’s neck as his rifle kicked against his shoulder. “CEASE FIRE!” Bud yelled again. No one heard him. The firing continued until the magazines ran dry and the muzzles of the rifles glowed orange with heat.
Go-Boy Ultra was still there.
It hadn’t moved.
Its front now bore countless little smudges, smoky ricochet smears.
The metal doors behind it were deeply pocked, riddled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand bullet holes, and grey from where the bullets had sucked the paint off the steel.
Go-Boy Ultra curled its hands into fists and spread its arms to the sides.
Parker knew what was going to happen next. Perhaps it was his hours in the sim or all the fights he’d had at school. Or perhaps it was pure, natural-born survival instinct. Whatever the case may have been, he knew an act of aggression when he saw it coming.
“Uh-oh,” he heard someone off camera mutter.
“TAKE COVER!” yelled Bud and ducked out of view. Up and down the line of vehicles, men disappeared from view, diving toward the backs of their trucks. They hit the ground and Parker could almost feel the warm pavement scrape the skin off his elbows. Men wriggled behind the back tires and pulled their legs under. Many of them lay on their belly under the truck, hurriedly replacing the cartridge in their rifle.
Massive bursts of orange fire erupted from Go-Boy Ultra’s wrists. Bullets sprayed out at an imperceptible rate. Parker winced at the deafening sound, the whine of a jet engine mixed with the roaring buzz of a very high-power machine gun, the kind of firepower usually strapped to armored vehicles and light tanks patrolling cities in the desert. Bullets tinked and plinked into the off-road vehicles. Engines clunked to a halt, radiators ripped open and steam hissed out, tires popped, glass shattered, and men screamed and scrambled desperately for cover.
Bud pulled his face behind his door just as the spray of bullets washed over his own vehicle. He ducked his head as the front of the truck sank, both front tires going flat. Bullets tore into the concrete all around him, sending chips into the air and hitting him in the face, making tiny cuts in his chin and neck and anywhere he couldn’t cover with his arms. The other man dropped his rifle and covered his head with his arms.
Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the firing stopped. Quiet filled the desert air. Only the heavy breathing and gasping of the troops as they hunkered down inside and underneath their smoking, bullet-riddled vehicles.
Go-Boy Ultra lowered its arms. A blue glow emanated from the feet of the figure. The light grew brighter and bluer and Parker could almost feel warm air wafting across the pavement and hitting him in the face.
Go-Boy Ultra took a step forward, then another, bigger this time, and in seconds it was running at a trot, coming straight ahead. Its enormous feet made heavy clomping thuds on the pavement. When the Battle-Suit reached the row of mangled off-road vehicles, it leaped into the air and jumped over the row of trucks, clearing them easily. It passed directly overhead, and a blue glow illuminated the hood of the truck. The distinct hiss of plasma jets. Go-Boy Ultra shot upward into the night, where it disappeared among the millions of bright desert stars, and was gone.
The image froze. The time code stopped. Rainbow-colored test pattern bars appeared, and the screen went dark.
Parker looked around.
Sunny sat with both hands covering her mouth in pure disbelief.
Bubba sat with his mouth open and his eyebrows raised, his forehead wrinkled, equally stunned.
Parker looked across the aisle at Colby and Igby. Igby’s hands were stuffed into the front pockets of his white lab coat. He stared at the shiny concrete floor of the hangar. Colby’s legs were extended straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His arms were folded across his chest. His body language couldn’t have been more closed-off.
No one spoke.
“What is your impression of the footage?” General Ramsey asked.
Parker waited, to see who would respond.
No one did.
Parker found the General looking directly at him.
“Parker, what is your impression of the footage?”
“My impression?” said Parker. He didn’t know what to say. He decided to be honest. “We’re screwed.”
*** ***
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Ryan Schneider
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Thank you for your interest in this installment of THE GO-KIDS. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. THANK YOU!
~Ryan Schneider
And now, here’s a sneak peek at the next installment:
Chapter 1
Milk, Milk, Lemonade . . .
Parker caught Dr. Seabrook glance sideways at General Ramsey: I told you so.
“You know something, Mr. Perkins?” said Colby. “For once you and I are in total agreement.”
Dr. Seabrook tapped his screen and a new schematic appeared up above. It was a diagram of a Battle-Suit, of Go-Boy Ultra. It was bigger and leaner than Igby’s One-Zero-One, more refined. “This is Go-Boy Ultra,” said Dr. Seabrook. “It’s a prototype, the latest and greatest in the never-ending quest for the ultimate Battle-Suit. And as you’ve just seen in the surveillance video we cut together documenting its escape, it’s pretty serious. It also doesn’t suffer the same problems that plague the original Go-Boy Battle-Suit. Don’t get me wrong, the One-Zero-One is very impressive. But Go-Boy Ultra can fly circles around it. It’s lighter, faster, more maneuverable, and it’s better armored. And better armed.”
“So what’s the problem?” asked Bubba.
“The problem,” said General Ramsey, “is that Dr. Red stole it. It’s gone. That’s what we just watched. The greatest, most amazing, most potentially horrifying machine ever built, ever conceived, is out there somewhere, flying around, doing God knows what. It is literally in the hands of a mad scientist.”
“So I guess your Top Secret underground base has some really super-duper security, huh?” said Colby. Despite his irreverence, Colby had a point.
“If he’s mad, why did you ask him to help you?” asked Sunny.
“Good question,” said General Ramsey. “Dr. Seabrook? Would you care to answer the young lady? Because I still can’t figure this one out.”
“As I said before,” said Dr. Seabrook, clearly working to maintain his composure, “Igby and I were having difficulty with the new pilot interface. Without the pilot interface, the suit is useless. We were stuck for almost a month. So we found someone we thought could help us. We didn’t give him access to the entire project. At least, not at first. But as we worked the problem, we realized it went deeper than we thought. That necessitated giving Dr. Red more and more information. Eventually, he had everything he needed. Though at what point he decided to steal the suit I don’t know.”
“Don’t cry over spilt milk!” said Bubba. “And, if life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”
?
??Lots of it,” said General Ramsey.
“Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made,” said Colby. Igby giggled.
“I hate to sound like a broken record,” said Parker, “even though I’ve only seen records in the Smithsonian when my parents took me there after I got straight-A’s on my report card, but you still haven’t said what you need us for. What’s the deal?”
“The deal,” said General Ramsey, “is this: you’re going to track down Dr. Red and capture Go-Boy Ultra!” His face was one gigantic smile, as if he’d just given Parker the secret for spinning straw into gold.
Parker had only one thought: You’ve got to be kidding.
*** ***
Will General Ramsey’s plan actually work?
Will Parker and the others be able to find and recover Go-Boy Ultra?
What happens if they don’t succeed?
Read Book Three of THE GO-KIDS to find out!
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