Where was that blasted boat? Rachael thought. The old logging site seemed to stretch down the beach forever. At least no aircraft had harassed her since she took down that attack helicopter. Maybe she'd make it. She took another bounding leap southward, and . . . that was strange. At the top of her leap, she glimpsed a red light coming from the East. She jumped again, this time focusing her attention in that direction. No doubt about it. Above the tree line, she could see the top of a glowing red dome. One more jump . . . the dome seemed to be mowing a swath through the trees. There was steam, or was it smoke?, rising from its edges. And it was heading closer. Was this some new weapon that Norman Dockran had up his sleeve?
A red wall of light reached the tree line just a few dozen meters north of her, and those trees and bushes evaporated in flame and ash. The trees parted like the curtains of a vast stage show, revealing the shining hemisphere of deadly light that was the show's star. It advanced toward her. She glanced at the incinerated trees, and then glanced down at her own wooden body. If it could burn a tree down, it could burn her down just as easily.
She turned and ran — but the fireball kept pace with her. It even seemed to . . . bob slightly up and down, as though it were jogging. And that was when she caught sight of the dim, man-sized silhouette at its center, who really was jogging. There was somebody in that inferno, somebody who was probably creating it.
Maybe, if she could stop that somebody, she could keep the fireball from advancing on her.
She picked up a nearby log and threw it at the silhouette in the center, just like the log she'd thrown at the helicopter. It flew fast and hard, right on target . . . and burned up as it entered the red light. ALl that reached the figure in the middle were a few harmless grains of ash.
Damn. She leapt away from it, hoping to put some distance between herself and this walking inferno. Whoever was inside could run as fast as she could, but she could cover twice that distance by leaping. Which she needed, since by stopping to throw a log, the red sphere had gotten dangerously close to her. She took another leap, and gasped. There! Dead ahead, way down the shore. That must be the motor boat that Hans had told her about! It was up on the sand just a few meters away from the surf. She could get there before the fireball guy reached her. But . . . she'd never seen this boat before. It would take time for her to get her bearings, time to figure out how to start the engine, if she could even start the engine.
That delay would give the deadly hemisphere an opportunity to catch up with her.
She looked inland, to the tree line, and — there. A cluster of boulders, some as small as basketballs and others as large as a Volkswagen Beetle. They might do the trick. She bounded over to the rocks, and hefted a beach-ball-sized one. It was as easy for her to pick up as an actual beach ball. She ran back out onto the open sand, raised the boulder over her head, took careful aim, and hurled it straight at the silhouette in the middle of the approaching conflagration.
It flew as straight and true toward her target as the log had. It glowed with heat, but was moving too fast to melt. It reached the silhouette in the center . . . but the person spun and ducked to one side. The rock flew harmlessly past him. Or her. Damn it. Besides creating a deadly zone of intense heat, her assailant could also play dodgeball. She ran back to the treeline, acutely aware of how close the red light was getting. What now? She could throw one of the giant boulders at the guy; it might be too big to dodge. That would probably squish him and kill him. Or . . .
She scooped up an armload of smaller rocks, and ran back. This would be unwieldy. She'd have to get in as close as she could. For the first — and she hoped, last — time, she charged toward the shining curtain of heat, and at the last moment flung the entire pile of rocks sidearm, right toward the figure at the center. Once again, her aim was surprisingly good. (Was this a bonus feature of her cybernetic body?) The mass of smaller rocks hurled toward her target, who managed to dodge one, then two, then three — but couldn't dodge the fourth. It hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet . . . and right into the path of the fifth rock. It looked like this last rock hit him on the head. He crumpled to the ground, not dead but definitely unconscious.
The red light didn't dim. Its radius didn't shrink. Even unconscious, his body continued creating the same mad inferno around him. That might even work to her advantage — a 70-meter-wide swath of beach was now basically blocked off from any pursuers.
Now for the boat.
She bounded up to the craft, and her heart sank. It was just a cheap, open-hull boat with an outboard motor strapped to the back. It probably used to be a plain old rowboat. She had no idea if such a vessel could make an Atlantic crossing. And she wouldn't exactly call the gas tank "huge." Outboard motors stored all their fuel onboard, and this one was actually rather dinky. She got closer and peered into the hull. Ah! That's what Hans had meant. There were three big metal gasoline cans sitting in the back near the motor. She could probably refuel a dozen times, if those cans were full.
And they were. Excellent.
She picked up the boat with one arm and dropped it into the surf, then climbed aboard. Balancing her eight-foot-ten body in such a small craft was a bit tricky. She damn near overturned the boat once or twice. But she managed, and now all she had to do was start the engine. Did outboard motors have ignition keys? Maybe some did, but thankfully, this one didn't. All she had to do was pull the starter cord, like on a gasoline-powered lawn mower. Toning down her prodigious strength so as to be as gentle as possible, she pulled the cord once. Twice. Three times. The engine finally caught on the fourth pull, and now it was idling.
So . . . how did one apply power? There was a round grip at the end of the tiller. Was this a twist-grip throttle, like on a motorcycle? She twisted it clockwise, and the boat backed itself up until the screw propeller lodged itself in the sand. Damn it. She reached down below the waterline and shoved the boat free. This time, she tried twisting the throttle counterclockwise. The engine roared, the boat lurched forward, and at last she was headed out toward deeper water.
A blue-white bolt hissed past her boat and struck the water. She looked back. Damn it all! Troopers had closed in on her last position, and were now firing blasters at her from the shoreline. They knew where she was. They could radio that information to the pilots, who could go after her with attack helicopters or worse.
Even if she could withstand their weaponry, her little boat couldn't. She opened up her throttle to full and sped straight out to sea. It was only a matter of time before they sank her. She took a breath of the brisk sea air and waited for the end.
But . . . what was that in the sky ahead of her? It looked like F/A-18s, the American fighter-bombers that regularly buzzed the island in pairs. Only this time, there were at least five of them. And now a new sound reached her ears from the island behind her. It sounded like a siren. She gasped. It was the air raid warning! They'd never sounded this warning when F/A-18s were overflying the island before. She watched as the lead F/A-18 hit its afterburners, descended to a few hundred feet altitude, and . . . holy cats! Something, or rather some things, fell from the underside of the plane.
They were bombing Dockran's Island for real!
She watched the canisters tumble down through the air. Damn. T.H.E.M.'s raid on Fort Knox must have really crossed the line. The canisters fell, lower and faster . . . but never reached the ground. They struck an invisible dome a couple hundred feet off the ground, splashing burning napalm on it which oozed harmlessly down its sides. A second fighter-bomber followed the first in, and dropped an equally ineffective bomb load on the same invisible dome. It must be those new force shield generators she'd heard rumors about during basic training. Her comrades were, apparently, safe. At least this bombing raid would give the Perpetual Army something to worry about besides her escape.
She looked more closely at the edges of the island, where the force dome met the ground, and she brightened with glee. It would do more than distract her pursuers. With those force shields keeping the bombs out, they would also keep the Perpetual Army in! They couldn't send aircraft or other boats out to get her, without leaving themselves vulnerable to the bombs.
The U.S. Navy had just, inadvertently, given her a new lease on life. She owed it to herself to capitalize on it. She pointed the boat toward her best estimate of westward and let the motor push her through the waves. Baring her face into the wind, she hollered to any who might hear: "North America, here I come!"
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