Her shout came from a line of five American patrol boats that blocked the width of the river as they sped toward Liquid. A similar force blocked the other side.
US forces poured across both shores of the river and the bridges to either side of Liquid’s boat. In an instant, the bridges were covered with APCs, Jeeps, and Humvees with mounted heavy machine guns—so many that the combined weight of troops and equipment might send the beautiful stonework crumbling into the river.
“Drop your weapons and stand down. Now!”
The roar of whirring rotors multiplied. Liquid looked up to see a fleet of helicopters bearing down on him of such number he must have found it a bit ridiculous—and most of them had sharpshooters on deck. They were like a swarm of flies buzzing in circles around Liquid’s ship.
Liquid was ecstatic—like a struggling artist finally thrust into the limelight.
His boat made a loop in the center of the river, while Meryl led her ship to the docks near Snake and EVA.
Snake put his arm around EVA’s waist. He led her onto the Rat Patrol’s ship and past Ed and Jonathan, who stood guard. As for Akiba, he was slumped at the edge of the deck, taken out of commission by seasickness.
“All of you,” Meryl shouted, “drop your weapons and put your hands up!”
Snake kept on telling her to stop, to run, but his voice was drowned out by the cacophony of rotors and engines—or perhaps she did hear him but chose to ignore his pleas. She believed her show of force would meet with certain success.
She piloted the boat after Liquid, moving in for the arrest.
The horde of machines howled from the land and the sea and the air. To the pilots and snipers, Liquid, bathed in the searchlights, must have looked like a helpless man surrounded by a hundred wild beasts.
Liquid took a deep breath.
It was like the pensive moment when a musician pauses before his audience before launching into his most beloved song with no introduction.
He raised his right arm. His fingers formed an imaginary gun, as if he were a child playing pretend. He pointed its barrel at one of the helicopters.
“Bang.”
What the hell was Liquid doing?
At first, nobody—not Meryl or any of the American soldiers—knew what the gray-haired old man was trying to accomplish with his childish display. He kept pointing his fingers at the helicopters. Bang, bang, bang.
The first to notice something amiss was the pilot of the first helicopter “shot down” by Liquid. All of the chopper’s instruments simultaneously went black, and the navigation display in his headset winked off. Within moments, he realized the control stick had ceased to have any effect.
One after another, the helicopters lost control and were thrown into erratic spirals. The falling vehicles made a sad, absurd dance.
The first scream came from that same pilot. “Metal Slave 01 has lost control! We’re going to crash!”
The SOP’s tactical link was flooded with a continuous noise of shrieks and cries, with new voices coming in waves, filling in for the ones that fell silent.
Liquid aimed at a soldier on the bridge.
“Bang.”
His target groaned and collapsed to the ground. The Marines next to the fallen man didn’t know what had happened.
Meryl yelled, “Fire!”
The US forces raised their weapons in unison and squeezed their triggers.
Click.
The metallic chorus rang through the night sky.
Scores of weapons were pointed at Liquid’s boat, from small arms to light machine guns, to the Humvee-mounted large caliber guns. But none with a hammer willing to fulfill the needs of the inhabitant of the chamber.
Meryl went pale. “What?” She stared at the Desert Eagle in her hands. Reflexively, she checked its mechanical safety, even though she already knew it was off. It was.
Finally she realized what was happening.
Her patrol boat was slowing down, its engine no longer running.
In the distance an explosion violently blossomed. One of the helicopters had crashed.
“The System is mine!” Liquid boomed.
His personal guard opened fire from the deck. This time the attack was with real guns and real bullets. The other helicopters lost their battle against gravity, crashing into the buildings and streets. Amid the thunder of explosions, the helpless soldiers were cut down by an onslaught of lead.
The ones who reacted quickly enough to get behind cover experienced the world falling apart. Their suppressed and compressed residual emotions, suddenly given free rein, became a raging storm battering at their nervous systems.
Blood streamed from their ears as they vomited relentlessly into their masks. With hands to their heads, the soldiers screamed unintelligibly, their wailing every bit as loud as the gunfire. They convulsed like wind-up toys. Everything crumbled—consciousness, meaning, the world, the landscape, words—into grains of sand blowing in the wind.
Most of the fighters hadn’t made it to cover behind their vehicles. They either collapsed on the spot into a twitching mass, threw themselves over the guard rail, or were shot in the back.
Liquid pointed four fingers straight out and mimicked a Gatling gun with each hand.
He started with the ships to his left and his right.
He aimed at them, Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. His arms shook with mock recoil.
The ships’ engines exploded.
The searchlights were destroyed by the blasts, but the flaming wreckage lit the river orange, painting a beautiful light on the canvas of the water’s surface.
Next were the vehicles on the bridges and riverbanks.
Liquid swept his arms in a 180-degree arc, Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam, and the vehicles launched into a neat, orderly line of explosions. The grenades and ammunition of soldiers caught in the fire ignited, and the earth looked as if it had been napalm bombed.