Bitter Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 2) by Michael R. Hicks Page A
Authors: Michael R. Hicks
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something in the corn, but I was imagining things.” He paused. More quietly, almost embarrassed, he added, “I do not like this place.”
Rudenko grunted agreement. “Come on. Cover me. I have a little job to do.”
Sleptsev nodded, then followed Rudenko into the connector that led to the lab building.
“Watch the corn,” Rudenko ordered. “If anything moves, don’t hesitate. Shoot.”
“Understood.”
Propping his shotgun against the wall so the light reflected from the ceiling, Rudenko pulled out a white phosphorous grenade and some fishing line. He tied the grenade in place against the lowest hinge of one of the double doors. Then he tied the filament to the hinge of the opposite door, and then to the pin of the grenade.
“A little surprise for any of those svolochi who might try to run this way,” he muttered to himself. He knew that Mikhailov could have put a squad on this side of the complex to block anything that might come out of the corn fields when they burned, but he didn’t want to split up his men. A squad, not truly knowing what they were up against, might be quickly overwhelmed.
Grabbing his shotgun, he tapped Sleptsev on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”
The two crossed the walkway, making their way toward where Mikhailov had gathered the rest of the platoon.
“Ready, kapitan .” Rudenko was secretly happy to be back with the rest of the men. He had felt uncomfortably exposed while he and Sleptsev had been on the far side of the field. Rudenko could swear that there were eyes in the corn, watching them. Waiting. Before Spitsbergen, he would have told himself that he was just being an old woman. Now he told himself that he was just being prudent.
Three men stood on either side of Mikhailov and Rudenko. The rest of the men were in the connector, some guarding the doors to the last building of this nightmare complex, the rest watching for the fireworks about to erupt here and ready to act as a reserve in case of the unexpected.
“White phosphorous grenades.” Mikhailov’s order was followed by the rustling of web gear as the men extracted the special grenades. They normally did not carry so many, but it had been another modification Mikhailov had made to their weapons loadout before the deployment. “Now.”
There were seven pings as the pins were pulled and the safety handles flew from seven grenades, six from the soldiers and one from Rudenko, as they sailed into the darkness of the greenhouse building.
A few seconds later, Rudenko and the others were rewarded with muffled whumps followed by a spectacular fireworks display as the grenades exploded, sending burning fragments of white phosphorous soaring in graceful arcs over the dark corn stalks.
The response was instantaneous. A series of piercing, unearthly shrieks echoed through the building as the fragments of white phosphorous, burning at nearly three thousand degrees Celsius, transformed the corn field into a raging inferno. While the harvesters were extremely tough, with a skeletal structure formed of a natural carbon composite, their Achilles heel was fire. The parts of their bodies that they could morph to make them look human caught fire as easily as kerosene.
“Steady!” Rudenko bellowed to be heard above the din, sensing the fear of the soldiers around him. He tightened his grip on his KS-K shotgun, his right eye glued to the sight.
There was a sudden bloom of light on the far side of the walkway at the entrance to the connector to the lab building as the booby trap Rudenko had set went off. There were more shrieks, and he could see three apparitions, wreathed in the glare of the white phosphorous that covered them, performing a dance of death. He saw two other shadows dart toward the connector, then retreat: the grenade had covered the walls, floor, and ceiling with white hot flame, an impenetrable barrier to creatures whose bodies were inherently flammable.
The shadows disappeared behind the
Rudenko grunted agreement. “Come on. Cover me. I have a little job to do.”
Sleptsev nodded, then followed Rudenko into the connector that led to the lab building.
“Watch the corn,” Rudenko ordered. “If anything moves, don’t hesitate. Shoot.”
“Understood.”
Propping his shotgun against the wall so the light reflected from the ceiling, Rudenko pulled out a white phosphorous grenade and some fishing line. He tied the grenade in place against the lowest hinge of one of the double doors. Then he tied the filament to the hinge of the opposite door, and then to the pin of the grenade.
“A little surprise for any of those svolochi who might try to run this way,” he muttered to himself. He knew that Mikhailov could have put a squad on this side of the complex to block anything that might come out of the corn fields when they burned, but he didn’t want to split up his men. A squad, not truly knowing what they were up against, might be quickly overwhelmed.
Grabbing his shotgun, he tapped Sleptsev on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”
The two crossed the walkway, making their way toward where Mikhailov had gathered the rest of the platoon.
“Ready, kapitan .” Rudenko was secretly happy to be back with the rest of the men. He had felt uncomfortably exposed while he and Sleptsev had been on the far side of the field. Rudenko could swear that there were eyes in the corn, watching them. Waiting. Before Spitsbergen, he would have told himself that he was just being an old woman. Now he told himself that he was just being prudent.
Three men stood on either side of Mikhailov and Rudenko. The rest of the men were in the connector, some guarding the doors to the last building of this nightmare complex, the rest watching for the fireworks about to erupt here and ready to act as a reserve in case of the unexpected.
“White phosphorous grenades.” Mikhailov’s order was followed by the rustling of web gear as the men extracted the special grenades. They normally did not carry so many, but it had been another modification Mikhailov had made to their weapons loadout before the deployment. “Now.”
There were seven pings as the pins were pulled and the safety handles flew from seven grenades, six from the soldiers and one from Rudenko, as they sailed into the darkness of the greenhouse building.
A few seconds later, Rudenko and the others were rewarded with muffled whumps followed by a spectacular fireworks display as the grenades exploded, sending burning fragments of white phosphorous soaring in graceful arcs over the dark corn stalks.
The response was instantaneous. A series of piercing, unearthly shrieks echoed through the building as the fragments of white phosphorous, burning at nearly three thousand degrees Celsius, transformed the corn field into a raging inferno. While the harvesters were extremely tough, with a skeletal structure formed of a natural carbon composite, their Achilles heel was fire. The parts of their bodies that they could morph to make them look human caught fire as easily as kerosene.
“Steady!” Rudenko bellowed to be heard above the din, sensing the fear of the soldiers around him. He tightened his grip on his KS-K shotgun, his right eye glued to the sight.
There was a sudden bloom of light on the far side of the walkway at the entrance to the connector to the lab building as the booby trap Rudenko had set went off. There were more shrieks, and he could see three apparitions, wreathed in the glare of the white phosphorous that covered them, performing a dance of death. He saw two other shadows dart toward the connector, then retreat: the grenade had covered the walls, floor, and ceiling with white hot flame, an impenetrable barrier to creatures whose bodies were inherently flammable.
The shadows disappeared behind the
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