Catching Up

The Secret Armory of Herrera & Ridgefield...

“How’s the ol’ 50 looking Cap?”

Grim went silent as Nic walked over, the two black wolves standing idle in the darkened gun range on Ambiorixian Base Alpha. The Latino smirked as he loaded his laser cartridge, the silver casing slid from his hands and into the monstrous rifle. “As good as this bullet, I hope.”

He took the behemoth in his gloved hands, and aimed. With a squeeze of the trigger, five black rounds, edged in white, lit into the target dead-center, the fifth cleaving the metal plate in half in a roar of sparks. The clang of the remains against the concrete floor echoed through the range.

Nic whistled in amazement. “How that feel?”

The Captain set the rifle down, taking his hat off and loosening his bolo tie. When Nic hit him with a deep and gruff “well,” the Latin soldier replied plainly. “No recoil, the laser locks keep the cartridge in place, but that was just the main barrel. Nada on 2 and 3.”

Chief Ridgefield was stumped at first before realizing. “Shit, ya mean the refractor ain’t amplifying the round?”

Captain Herrera nodded, clearing the chamber and pocketing his .50 cal cartridge. “Back to the shop, hermano.” They shook paws as he slung the gun on his back. “How’s Libélula?”

“Dragonfly’s coming along.” the hard-rock cowboy chuckled. “She’s almost flight ready, keyword: almost. Engine starts, hydraulics are in order, but weapons development is getting skittish about airborne bombs.”

“¡Dios mío!” Grim snapped. “We’re paying ‘em well enough to get on with the payloads, and the bastards get scared.”

Nic patted the Captain on his shoulder, “Save the Latin passion for Soledad. They’ll pull through. If they hadn’t gone this far already, refracting that laser’d be the least of our worries. Besides, my ass is getting in that jet even if I can’t rain hell on the targets.”

Grim gave a playful salute. “Must feel like rediscovering the wheel.”

“Try learning how to fly,” he retorted. “God, I can’t wait to christen her.”

“Name in mind, Señor?”

Nic paused. He paused for a good long while as the clack of the hounds’ cowboy boots echoed through the compound, the sound bouncing off dozens of prototypes both failed and successful. New guns, new augmentations, old diagrams, tomes and tomes of data and records. The echo carried the black-furred officers right to the door of the hangar where the great winged beast stood idle. For a while, they simply stood in the threshold, gazing upon her, drinking in the Cessna as she sat resting, waiting that fateful day of flight.

At last, Nic turned to face Grim, and said with a smile, “Icarus Wright.” The Captain nodded approvingly.

“Think our spur-branded friends got anything like her over yonder?” Nic asked.

Grim scoffed. “Ask Hartwick when he comes back from recon. ETA should be after Knox closes the book on Maxwell and Zavia tomorrow. There could be aircraft, but no one knows how to fly ‘em. And if they do.” He paused, pulling the rifle into his leather-clad mitts. “Los Cincuenta will fix ‘em for you.”

With that, they shook hands again, and closed the door to the hangar.