The Forbidden Zone

I heard the squelch in the trailer behind me. I was drivin’ the Rhino through a hairy alluvial fan, and had to keep my eyes forward to keep from spillin’ us.

“Comm’s up!” I yelled.

I knew Radar had it before he yelled back “Cover!”

“What’s the cryp?”

“No cryp. It’s plain text.”

I aimed for the closest thing to flat ground I could find, and dropped gears until we could stop. The winds flipped as soon as we ground to a halt. As I stepped out of the booth I got a face-full of aluminum and silica dust blown upside my head.

The Comm was the first car behind the Rhino. As greasy, oily, and bloodstained as the Rhino was, the mess ended at the Comm. I hit the pressure booth, pulled off my boots and coveralls, and walked into Ops in my skivvies and a black t-shirt.

“Quit bullshitin’ Jack, what’s the news.”

Radar actually looked up from the tube and made eye contact.

“No kiddin'. It’s a plain text transmission between the Trogs and Eloi. We got a party to crash.”

Holy Dirt! We’ve been runnin’on fumes and MRE’s for 6 months now. After our last raid, I was positive that the air boys and diggers would never meet in our back yard. The poor bastards were feelin’ lucky, or they were desperate. Either way, we needed to hit ‘em hard.

“What’s the 20?”

“Back Door India… near The Angels”

“Rev up the jammers. We gotta head through Manson territory to get there on time”