The surface of the Great Rust-Mire at three in the morning was an eerie, choking sea of yellow sulfur fog that clung to the black peat in thick, thick, sticky banks.
Arthur Vance climbed the rusted steel rungs of the upkeep shaft. He stepped onto the cracked concrete slab of the surface check bunker. Beside him, Kira Jansen pushed her night-vision goggles down over her eyes, raising her lever-action phosphorus flare rifle, her finger resting along the trigger guard.
The cold night wind was sharp, cutting through the damp air with the smell of scorched diesel fuel and ozone.
Fifty yards out across the flooded fen, the quiet hum of electric ducted fans cut through the mist. A high-hum, insectoid whine that rose and fell in coordinated search grids.
Arthur clicked down his Zeiss-Vanguard monocle, the infrared overlay piercing thirty feet of chemical smog:
“Military hunter-killers from Promethean Beastworks Heavy Industries,” Arthur whispered into his throat-mic. His voice was calm and level. “They aren’t looking for heat signed names. The sulfur fires have blinded their infrared cameras. They’re using tiny fraction of an inch-wave radar to track the metal hulls of our backup wagons beneath the concrete.”
“If those drones get within three hundred yards, their radar will paint the storm-surge ceiling,” Kira hissed, sighting through her scope. “Once Mercer has the load-bearing weak points, he’ll drop bunker-buster penetrators directly onto the civilian shelters.”
