Resistance Page 2

  Hale knelt next to Jasper's mangled body, somberly removed the young Sentinel's dog tags, and dropped them into a pocket. Then, with a quickness born of grim experience, he stripped Jasper of any items he and Kawecki might be able to use.

  As much as he wanted to take the body back for a proper burial, they were still half a mile short of the LZ, and had to assume that more Chimera were on the way. Rather than leave Jasper's remains to be picked over, however, Hale pulled the pin on a thermite grenade, dropped the cylinder next to the body, and backpedaled away. Kawecki followed suit.

  There was a flash as the device went off, followed by an eye-dazzling glow as powdered aluminum combined with iron oxide to produce molten iron and aluminum oxide. Even from where he paused, a good thirty feet away by then, Hale could still feel the wave of intense heat as half a dozen rounds of loose ammo cooked off.

  Hale wanted to say something, to thank Jasper for his sacrifice, but there wasn't any time. Shots rang out again as Kawecki fired his Fareye upstream.

  “We got Howlers, Lieutenant … Six, make that five, all southbound.”

  Hale sighed.

  “Okay,” he said as he dropped the empty Bellock in favor of Jasper's carbine. “Let's haul ass.”

  They took off at a fast jog, and caught a whiff of ozone as they passed under the Burrower, splashed through knee-deep water, and emerged on the other side. Hale spoke into the lip mike of his radio as he ran. Each burst of words was interrupted by the need to suck some air.

  “Bravo-Six to Echo-Three … We have one man down … Five Howlers on our tails … Southbound in the riverbed … ETA about ten minutes … Over.”

  “This is Three,” the pilot replied grimly. “You keep a-coming, Six … We'll take care of those Howlers. Over.”

  The pilot sounded confident, but Hale had his doubts. They increased as the Howlers—lion-sized Chimeran quadrupeds—uttered the long, bloodcurdling cries from which their name had been taken. From the sound, he could tell that they were closing the gap.

  “Let's slow them down!” Hale shouted as they came to a bend in the river, and he skidded to a halt. The now discarded shotgun would have been effective at close range, but Hale didn't want to get up close and personal with any Howlers if he didn't have to. Kawecki watched as the lead Chimera fell, and managed to get back on its feet again. Then, dragging a wounded leg behind it, the beast continued to advance as another Howler took over the lead. Meanwhile, having slowed the Chimera down a bit, the humans turned and ran.

  The ground was uneven, the ice-covered rocks treacherously slippery, and freezing water splashed away from their combat boots as the two of them zigzagged back and forth across the riverbed in order to avoid rocks and patches of slick ice.

  Then the VTOL shot into sight, coming straight at them and traveling only ten feet higher than the top of the riverbank. Marilyn's engines roared as she passed overhead, and Hale could feel the plane's prop wash.

  The pilot opened fire. He turned to look back, and saw a curtain of spray appear as hundreds of high-velocity bullets chewed their way through both the water and the oncoming Howlers. They went down screaming their defiance, and the river ran red with their blood, as the resulting waves broke around his boots.

  “Tell Marilyn I love her,” Hale said appreciatively into the mike, as the aircraft flashed overhead.

  The VTOL turned upstream and waggled its wings as it roared overhead in search of a secure landing spot. Ten minutes later what remained of the team was safely on board and strapped in.

  The mission had been successful—but had the tradeoff been worth it? Had Jasper died for something? Or was his death just one more sacrifice in an unwinnable war?

  The Sentinel closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the bulkhead. He was exhausted, but sleep refused to come. In his hand, clutched so tight that the metal cut into his flesh, was a pair of dog tags.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BANDIT DOWN

  Near Valentine, Nebraska

  Friday, November 16, 1951

  The chasm was hundreds of feet deep, and as Hale made his way out onto the flexible conduit, he was careful to keep his eyes fixed on the far side of the canyon. If he looked down, he would almost certainly lose his balance and fall.

  So Hale placed one foot precisely in front of the other, and felt the conduit start to sway.

  Suddenly someone knocked on the door. The bottom fell out of his stomach, and he was snatched into the real world, where he lay panting on a sweat-soaked sheet.

  “Lieutenant Hale?” a voice inquired from the hallway outside. “Sorry to wake you, sir … but the major wants you in the briefing room by 0400.”

  Hale peered at his wristwatch. It was 0325.

  “Okay,” he croaked. Swallowing, he added in a firmer voice, “What's up?”

  “Don't know, sir,” the voice answered. “It's above my pay grade.”

  Hale swung his feet off the metal rack, planted them on the cold floor, and began the process of making himself look halfway presentable. Less than twelve hours had elapsed since he and Kawecki had returned from the field. Two of those hours had been spent telling a team of debriefers the same things, over and over again. Finally, having been wrung dry, he'd been released, and used his freedom to eat some chow, and grab some much needed shuteye. He had fallen into bed without even hitting the showers.

  Now Hale stripped down to his boxers and took a turn in front of the mirror that was mounted over the sink. Only a slight trace of redness could be seen where enemy fire had sliced his left arm open. The puncture wounds caused by the exploding drone were completely healed, and he felt better than he had any right to. Ironically he had the Chimeran virus to thank for his quick recovery, although if left to its own devices, the alien bug would likely turn malevolent.

  Fortunately, frequent inhibitor shots kept the virus in check, and were supplemented by aerosolized doses he took into the field in his I-Pack. But everything depended on access to a military treatment center. Without regular inhibitor treatments his cells would begin an inexorable transformation.

  That was a possibility Hale preferred not to think about.

  He wrapped a towel around his neck, slipped his feet into a pair of moccasins, and carried his shaving kit out into the hall. From there he followed a line of naked light bulbs down a windowless corridor toward the communal showers. The SRPA base wasn't equipped with a lot of amenities, but there was plenty of hot water, and Hale was determined to get his share.

  The countenance in the mirror was pale and thin. It was the face of an ascetic, rather than a man of action. He'd been teaching classes at MIT only six months earlier, had never fired a weapon until he entered Officer Candidate School, and was scared shitless. But Captain Anton Nash knew things, important things that had to do with physics, which was why he had been given the brevet rank of captain.

  Now he was going to lead soldiers into combat.

  A lot of men had been called up under President Grace's Emergency Mobilization Order, and placed in jobs they weren't qualified for. But what made Nash different, or so he assumed, was the fact that he was absolutely terrified. Not only of the Chimera, but of his own weaknesses, of which there were many. So as Nash looked himself in the eye he wasn't very impressed. Was this the day he was going to die?

  Yes, Nash thought to himself, it probably is. And with that he made use of a washcloth to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead, buttoned his jacket with palsied fingers, and took one last look at the photo that was sitting on top of a utilitarian dresser. The woman in the picture was beautiful, very beautiful, and more than a man like him deserved. Above all else he wanted to make her proud.

  With that thought in mind Nash went to meet his fate.

  Each SRPA base was different, but all of them had certain things in common, including underground bays in which aircraft and vehicles could be maintained and stored. Subsurface levels were dedicated to administration, medical, and food services. Typically, living quarters
were located even deeper underground, where they were protected by a matrix of passageways in which prepositioned explosives offered a defense against incoming Burrowers.

  Nevertheless, Hale was armed as he made his way through the maze of corridors and boarded an elevator that would take him up to the admin deck. Standing orders called for every Sentinel to be armed while on duty, so Hale was carrying an HE .44 Magnum in a cross-draw holster, plus two six-shot speed loaders in quick-release belt pouches. Though not fully combat-ready he was wearing thermals and a cotton shirt, with a waist-length gray jacket. It would do in a pinch.

  The gold bars on Hale's collars drew salutes from the enlisted people he passed, and having only recently been promoted to second lieutenant, he was self-conscious about returning the courtesy. As the elevator door started to close, a sergeant darted in and, finding Hale there, quickly tossed him a salute.

  There was no such thing as central heating in a SRPA base, so the air was chilly and Hale was glad of the wool uniform as the elevator lurched to a stop and he followed the sergeant off.

  Before Hale could enter the briefing room, it was first necessary to pass through a security checkpoint manned by three heavily armed soldiers. Having shown his SRPA ID card and the number that had been tattooed onto the inside surface of his left arm, he was allowed to make his way down the spartan corridor to the point where a table was loaded with coffee, orange juice, and thick ham and egg sandwiches.

  It was simple food, but Hale knew better than to take it for granted, because as the planet's atmosphere grew colder and the Chimera took more and more land, food shortages were becoming increasingly common. It made him feel slightly guilty as he carried a heaping plate into the briefing room and looked for a place to sit down. A corner preferably, where he could maintain a low profile while consuming his breakfast.

  Any such hopes were quickly dashed, however, as Major Richard Blake spotted him from the front of the room and gestured for him to come forward. There were about thirty officers and other SRPA officials in the room, and at least a dozen heads turned as Hale made his way forward, partly because he was in motion, but mostly because of who he was. He'd had a hard time maintaining a low profile since he'd come back from the battle for Britain—one of the few who had survived.

  He was also one of the first Sentinels, and a key member of the Search and Recovery team that was slated to leave the base at 0630.

  Captain Nash, who was already seated at the mission table at the front of the room, watched Hale approach. There was no question about the lieutenant's identity. After being infected with the Chimeran virus in England, and somehow surviving the normally fatal experience, Hale's eyes had changed color. They were yellow-gold, and therefore reminiscent of the Chimera, despite the fact there were only two of them.

  Hale's hair was little more than stubble on the top of his head, and there was something hard about his features, as if he was a man who didn't suffer fools gladly. As Hale set his food and a steaming cup of coffee on the table and prepared to take a seat in the front row, Nash rose to greet him “You're Lieutenant Hale … It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nash. Anton Nash.”

  As the gold eyes came up to meet his, Nash saw a good deal of intelligence there, as well as what might have been caution—which was understandable, given the circumstances.

  “Glad to meet you, sir,” Hale replied, his voice neutral. He might have said more, except Blake chose that moment to begin the meeting.

  Blake was a big man with prominent brows, cavelike eyes, and a pugnacious jaw. His gray SRPA uniform was immaculate, and it was well known that he expected every SRPA uniform to appear that way, regardless of who was wearing it. His parade-ground voice carried to every corner of the room.

  “Please take your seats … As many of you know time is of the essence—so let's get this briefing underway.”

  There was a scraping of chairs, followed by a rustling sound as everyone got settled. Hale found a seat, and grabbed the opportunity to take a big bite out of his sandwich, then wash it down with a swig of hot coffee. Peering around, he noticed that there seemed to be a heightened air of expectation, and wondered what the source might be.

  “Okay,” Blake said, making his way past the mission table to the podium beyond. It was located next to a large white screen. “We've got something unique today, and we need to move quickly. But before we begin, there's something you need to see.” The lights dimmed and the projection system came on. The quality of the video footage wasn't very good.

  It looked as if it had been taken late in the day, when the light level was low, and snow swirled in front of the camera, making it even more difficult for the viewer to tell what he was looking at. Centered in the middle of the screen was what many people would have called a hill—and a rather unremarkable one at that, except for the way it towered over the surrounding plain. Most of that area was flat as a pancake.

  Being a native of South Dakota, Hale recognized the geological feature, which, according to his seventh-grade science teacher, was a laccolith, a juncture where molten magma had been injected between two layers of sedimentary rock, forcing one to bulge upward.

  “You're looking at Bear Butte,” Blake confirmed as the camera began to move, indicating that it was airborne. “A little more than 1,200 feet tall, and located near the town of Sturgis, South Dakota.”

  Hale shifted in his chair, and wondered why the major was wasting their time on a relatively unremarkable piece of landscape. He reached for his food as Blake spoke again. “And here, as we come around the other side, we find the wreckage of a Chimeran shuttle.”

  That got Hale's attention. As the video froze he put the rest of his sandwich down.

  The Chimeran aircraft was positioned high on the hillside, just below the snow-capped top. And while the fuselage was intact, large pieces of debris could be seen. There were no signs of an explosion or post-impact fire, however, and that was promising.

  “This footage was taken late yesterday. We don't know what happened to the shuttle,” Blake said, as his pointer tapped the image of the crash site. “Perhaps it suffered a mechanical problem of some sort, or given the weather conditions late yesterday—when we think the incident occurred—it's possible the pilot didn't see the hillside until it was too late. Whatever the reason it was a stroke of good luck for us, because if we can put a team in there fast enough, we can search the wreckage for Chimeran tech. The kind of stuff that will help us to defeat the bastards.

  “But we'll have to be quick,” he added, “because the stinks are onto our SAR strategy and will probably put some sort of freak show on the butte to secure the crash site.”

  At that point Blake turned to gesture toward the two men seated at the mission table. “Please welcome Captain Anton Nash to the team … He'll be in overall command of the mission—and I'm sending Lieutenant Hale along to provide backup. The rest of the team will consist of two squads, each led by an NCO. You'll leave at 0630. Are there any questions?”

  There were questions, at least one that Hale could think of, though he didn't give voice to it. Has the major lost his mind? Nash was green as grass. Anyone could see that. And lives were at stake.

  So Hale waited for the staff officers to stop peppering each other with questions and comments. When the hubbub died down, and the group made ready to leave, he sidled up to Blake. “Sir?” Hale said. “Do you have a moment?”

  Blake smiled grimly. “Don't tell me—let me guess. You're pissed off at the prospect of reporting to Nash.”

  A muscle twitched in Hale's left cheek. “Permission to speak freely?”

  Blake sighed. “I'll probably regret it, but yes, go ahead.”

  “I think it's bullshit, sir … My men deserve an officer with combat experience.”

  “And they have one,” Blake replied pointedly. “You! As for Nash, you're lucky to have him. Rather than swoop in and secure a location so the techies can sweep it for artifacts, the way you have in the past, this mission is g
oing to be different.”

  Hale started to speak, but the major raised a hand to silence him.

  “Think about it. Let's say you're one of our guys, rummaging around in the Chimeran shuttle, and it's loaded with fancy-looking equipment, but your men are under attack. Which thing would you take? The box with the most knobs? If so you might come home with the Chimeran equivalent of a toaster! We've had that happen too many times, because we weren't prepared to take advantage of the situation.

  “This is serious business, Hale … The freaks are way ahead of us where technology is concerned, so we're always playing catch-up. Nash may not look like much, but he's smarter than you and me. He knows more than we'll ever forget about the enemy's tech, and if push comes to shove he'll know which box to take. So he goes, and you will make the best of it. Do you read me?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Hale replied stiffly.

  “Good. Now get going. You're on the clock,” Blake replied. Then his tone eased. “Be careful out there … You may not be as smart as Nash, but you come in handy from time to time.”

  The mech deck, as the Sentinels referred to it, was a huge space in which banks of bright lights stood in for the sun, and the frigid air was thick with the combined odors of Avgas, oil, and exhaust fumes. Engines roared, chain hoists rattled, and power tools screeched, as the ubiquitous public address system produced a nonstop flow of incomprehensible gibberish. It was a chaotic atmosphere to anyone who wasn't used to it, and that included Captain Anton Nash.

  In his eagerness to do everything right, Nash was already standing next to the big, twin-engine VTOL transport when Sergeants Kawecki and Alvarez arrived, each leading a squad of Sentinels. All of the soldiers wore I-Packs over white winter gear, and were armed to the teeth. Each one carried two firearms, a variety of grenades, and as much ammo as they thought they could get away with. It was a balance that had developed through practical experience, since too much weight could slow them down.