A fighting chance

6

PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE THE SAN PEDRO CHANNEL, OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA

Except for the stars and the blinking red lights mounted on top of the sensor towers the Ramanthians had put up, that section of the California coastline was entirely dark. It hadn’t been that way just a few months earlier. Back then, before the Ramanthians landed, anyone looking east from a boat would have seen the sparkling lights of Long Beach stretched out in front of them.

But the city was mostly rubble now. Just part of an urban wasteland that stretched all the way down into what had once been Mexico. But not forever, Commander Leo Foley thought to himself, as an ocean swell lifted the seventy-five-foot hydrofoil up out of a trough. Not forever.

Foley’s thoughts were interrupted as a barely seen figure materialized out of the gloom. The man was an employee of Chien-Chu Enterprises, which was owned by the legendary Sergi Chien-Chu and run by his niece, Maylo. “The drone entered the atmosphere,” the crewman said. “We should have splashdown in roughly five minutes.”

“Good,” Foley replied. “Your crew is ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

Foley wasn’t surprised. Chien-Chu’s people had proven themselves to be very adept at programming drones to enter hyperspace thousands of light-years away, exit inside the moon’s orbit, and splash down before the Ramanthians could intercept them. Nearly 100 percent of the unmanned spaceships made it through at first. But as the bugs became aware of the strategy and sharpened their defenses, the success rate had been reduced to about 60 percent. That was still pretty good, however, and likely to remain constant because two-thirds of Earth’s surface was covered with water. And that made the incoming drones very hard to find. Not to mention the fact that the objects blew themselves up when the Ramanthians tried to recover them. A nasty surprise indeed.

So thanks to the hypercom technology used to coordinate the drops, the program had been very successful. Pickups were normally handled by Foley’s subordinates. But this load was different. Because if it came down safely and the crew managed to retrieve it, a whole lot of bugs were going to die. And Foley wanted to make sure of it. As the seconds ticked away, the crewman reappeared. “Sorry, sir, but we have a problem. Two high-speed surface targets are closing from the north.”

“Bugs? Or pirates?”

“It’s impossible to be absolutely sure,” the man responded, “but I’d put my money on pirates. The Ramanthians don’t use boats very often.”

Foley knew that to be true. The chits had a need for drinking water but didn’t like to travel on it. Perhaps that was because they weren’t very good swimmers. And ever since the government-backed Earth Liberation Brigade had begun to receive supplies from off-planet, it had become a target for various militias, gangs, and competing resistance groups, most of whom were more interested in acquiring power and making a profit than in defeating the bugs. So identifying and eliminating spies had become a full-time job for members of Foley’s staff. And it appeared that, despite their efforts, there was a leak somewhere, a leak he would plug with a bullet once the traitor was identified.

In the meantime, there were a couple of choices: They could fight or instruct the drone to submerge and resurface later, a perfectly acceptable plan under normal circumstances. But not at the moment because the incoming cargo was critical to Operation Cockroach. A plan that might be compromised if Foley failed to trigger it soon. All of that flashed through his mind in an instant. “Let’s turn and fight. We’ll pick up the drone once the battle is over.” Assuming we’re still alive, Foley thought to himself.

If the crewman was concerned, he gave no sign of it. “Yes, sir. You might want to join the skipper on the bridge. It’s going to get rough out here.”

Foley didn’t know if the man was referring to the ride or the impending battle-not that it made any difference. The crew wanted him out of the way. “Roger that. I’ll join the captain.”

The boat was already up on its winglike hydrofoils and entering a sweeping turn as Foley passed a gun tub on the port side. A short ladder led up to the blacked-out superstructure and bridge. As he slid a door out of the way and stepped inside, Foley felt the boat’s speed increase. He knew that the twin engines could send the foil skimming over the surface at a speed of fifty knots. The Interceptor had been a yacht until Chien-Chu’s people “borrowed” the boat from a shot-up marina and turned her into the equivalent of a small warship by adding a missile launcher in the bow, half a dozen guns, and a second launcher in the stern. Some extra armor had been welded to the front and sides of the bridge. But that was the limit of what they could do without compromising performance. Because when all was said and done, the Interceptor ’s main virtue was speed.

The captain was a woman named Kate Prosser. She’d been a tour-boat operator before the war, taking tourists out to the Channel Islands, Catalina, and as far south as San Diego. Prosser gave Foley a sideways glance as he entered. Her face was bottom lit by the screens arrayed in front of her. That gave her normally pleasant features a ghoulish appearance. “I suggest that you sit down and strap in,” she said. “Evasive maneuvers will begin shortly.”

Then Prosser was all business as she turned back toward the screens and gave the orders necessary to fire a salvo of missiles. Flames appeared and winked out as the weapons raced away. “Tracking,” the crew member said. “Uh-oh, the bastards fired flares.”

What looked like balls of fire could be seen up ahead and lit the wave tops with red light. Foley knew the purpose of the flares was to distract the heat-seeking missiles by providing them with false targets. And the strategy was successful. “There goes one and two,” the crewman intoned disapprovingly, as a pair of explosions strobed the night. “No hits.”

“Okay,” Prosser said matter-of-factly, as she opened the intercom. “This is the captain… The missiles missed. We’re going right up the middle. Prepare to engage both targets.”

Foley knew that luck would play an important role in what was about to take place. Because with all the boats rushing toward each other at combined speeds of seventy-five to one hundred knots, it would be very difficult for the gunners to aim. The best they could do was fire a lot of shells and hope that the enemy collided with some of them.

Then the time for thinking was over as the blips on the nav screen came together and the guns began to fire. The incoming tracers were red. And because the guns that fired them were in motion, they curved into the darkness like beads on a string. Except that these beads were lethal. Shells hammered the starboard side of the boat’s superstructure. Some of them hit the gun tub located there, blew a window out, and sent splinters flying. A piece of trim speared the helmsman. He stumbled away, hands to his throat, as Prosser stepped in to replace him.

Then the moment of violence was over as the Interceptor passed between her adversaries and began a wide turn. Foley felt the deck tilt as he freed himself from his harness and went to help the wounded helmsman. But it was too late. The crew member had bled out by then, and there was nothing Foley could do but struggle to remain upright on the blood-slicked deck as the Interceptor completed the turn and began to accelerate. The engine noise increased, and Prosser had to shout in order to be heard. “They’re after the drone! Should we sink it?”

“I need it,” Foley replied tightly. “I need it tonight.”

“Roger that,” Prosser replied. “Check the starboard fifty… We’re going to need it.”

Foley grabbed a handrail, followed it over to the starboard door, and pushed it out of the way. The wind tore at his clothes, and safety glass crunched under his feet as he removed a small flashlight from a vest pocket and directed the beam into the tub. The gunner was slumped to one side, and the fifty was pointed at the sky.

A headset and mike clattered to the deck as Foley climbed into the tub and pulled the body free. Once the corpse was clear, he pulled the earphones on and spoke into the mike. “This is Foley. The gunner was killed. I took her place.”

“Roger that,” came the reply. “I don’t know if you have any experience-but the trick is to lead the target. We’re going up the middle again. All guns will fire as they bear.”

Flares soared up into the sky, went off, and began to drift down. Then, as the hydrofoil caught up with her adversaries, Foley got his first look at the pirates. He couldn’t see what was taking place to port, but the rigid inflatable boat on his side of the Interceptor was about thirty feet long and armed with heavy machine guns fore and aft. Both of which appeared to be aimed at him. As the muzzles flashed, he fired in return. The handles were sticky with the dead gunner’s blood, but he ignored that to concentrate on the advice Prosser had given him. Because, like most officers in the space navy, he knew very little about littoral combat.

His shells kicked up geysers of white water out in front of the RIB boat as it skipped from wave to wave. But then the assault craft ran into the tracers, and Foley was pleased to see the forward gunner blown away. The windscreen, cockpit, and overarching light bar went next. With no one at the wheel, the pirate boat slewed away.

All of it took place within seconds. Someone uttered a whoop of joy over the intercom. Foley had no way to know if it was in response to his achievement or someone else’s. The answer became clear as a burning boat appeared and was quickly left behind. “All hands prepare for the pickup,” Prosser ordered. “The bugs are scrambling aircraft by now. I’d like to be somewhere else when they arrive.”

The Interceptor slowed less than a minute later, came down off its foils, and began to wallow gracelessly as a boom swung out over the side, and two wet-suit-clad crew people dropped into the water. Connections were made, a winch whined, and it was only a matter of minutes before the thick, fifty-foot-long cylinder was hoisted up out of the oily-looking water. The divers rode it up and jumped to the deck as the glistening tube settled into its cradle.

Some of the crew strapped the drone down as others brought the boom back in. Once it was secured, Prosser advanced the throttles, and the Interceptor ’s hull came up out of the water. Moments later, the hydrofoil was flying toward the southwest. “The Ramanthians will expect us to head for the mainland,” Prosser said over the intercom. “So we’ll go to sea instead. We can shelter behind San Nicolas Island for a while. With any luck at all, the bugs will spend most of their time shooting at the pirate boats. Especially the one that’s on fire. Then we’ll sneak in, off-load our cargo, and return to sea. We lost some good people tonight. Don’t forget them.”

I won’t, Foley thought to himself. They will be avenged.

DEATH VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

For hundreds of years, the entrances to the Lucky Fool mine had been sealed off to prevent hikers from falling down a vertical shaft, losing themselves in a maze of passageways, or being crushed by a sudden cave-in. But after months of war, the old digs were the top secret location from which Operation Cockroach would be launched. Margaret Vanderveen knew that much but nothing more. Partly because those in charge of the Earth Liberation Brigade were doing everything in their power to keep “the roach,” as they referred to it, a secret-and partly because she was too busy working on her own project to pay much attention.

To call the gallery that Margaret and her team of doctors, microbiologists, and entomologists had taken over a “lab” was generous to say the least. Especially since the long, rectangular room had once been used to store timbers and other mining equipment. Harsh lights had been attached to the uncomfortably low ceiling, ancient pick marks were still visible on rock walls, and a pair of narrow-gauge tracks led from one end of the space to the other.

A workbench made out of raw lumber ran along one wall. It was divided into workstations, each having its own equipment according to the requirements of the person assigned to it. Power cables snaked this way and that, cots lined the other wall, and a crudely made conference table/lunch table/autopsy table occupied the center of the room. At the moment, it was occupied by a Ramanthian trooper. He lay belly-up on a blue tarp, eyes staring sightlessly at the lights above, while a couple of scientists argued over him.

One of them was a microbiologist named Dr. Howard Lothar. The other was a fiery entomologist named Dr. Catherine Woo. The subject of the heated discussion was whether the dead soldier was a victim of an Earth parasite called Ophiocordyceps unilateris or a microorganism that the invaders had brought along with them.

Though not a scientist herself, Margaret had been the first person to recognize the fact that some of the Ramanthians had the human equivalent of a skin disease. It was a malady she noticed while examining the body of a dead pilot. His chitin and, therefore, his exoskeleton had been very thin. And that was potentially important because, unlike humans, the insectoid Ramanthians had no internal skeletons. So if their outer shells were sufficiently weakened, they would literally fall apart. Which was exactly what the ex-society matron had in mind.

“Look,” Margaret said, as the two antagonists took deep breaths and prepared to attack each other all over again. “Fascinating though the question of causation is, let’s focus on the task at hand. Regardless of whether the Ramanthians unintentionally brought a parasite with them or were infected by an indigenous bug, our job is to use whatever it is against them. So please return to work. We have a war to win.”

Lothar had a head of thinning hair, a gaunt face, and a bad case of BO. He started to say something, evidently thought better of it, and turned away.

Woo was a tiny thing who had a tendency to wear too much makeup and cry when she thought the others were asleep. She looked at Margaret, and their eyes locked. There was not even a hint of compromise to be seen in Woo’s unflinching expression. “I’m right,” she said. And stalked away.

Margaret sighed and was about to return to the card table that served as her desk, when John appeared. He was a domestic android and had been part of the Vanderveen’s household staff for more than twenty years. So when Margaret decided to torch the three-story Tudor rather than leave it for looters, the robot and a couple of employees had accompanied her on a cross-country trek to the family’s ranch. There, after discovering the Ramanthian pilot, she had been able to hook up with the resistance. The android’s chiseled countenance was forever expressionless. “Yes, John?”

“Commander Foley has returned, madam. People are lined up outside his office.”

“Thank you, John. I’ll head over right away.”

So saying, Margaret stopped by her desk to grab her hand comp before following the rails back into the large cavern jokingly referred to as the grand ballroom. Banks of floodlights were angled to illuminate the chamber, welding torches flashed as slabs of steel were attached to ranks of waiting trucks, and, farther back, a scaffolding and curtain concealed still other preparations. “The roach?” Yes, probably.

Meanwhile, all manner of people came and went, the occasional robot sauntered past, and a steady stream of announcements were heard. The irony, in Margaret’s opinion at least, was that thousands of bugs were living in an underground complex located fifteen miles away. Because unlike most humans, they liked to live under the surface.

Foley’s office was located inside a steel shipping container that was supposed to protect the resistance leader in the case of a rock fall. No one knew if it would work, but the fact that they had gone to the trouble was indicative of how important the onetime thief and deserter had become. Everybody knew the story. Foley had been in Battle Station III’s brig, awaiting a court-martial, when the bugs arrived.

The stories about how Foley and his followers escaped from the platform before it blew up varied. But even he agreed with the basic narrative. It had never been his intention to take part in the resistance, much less lead it. And Sergi Chien-Chu, who was a shrewd judge of character, had given Foley a choice. He could either participate in the resistance or pay the price for past crimes.

But as Margaret tagged on to the end of a long line of the people waiting to see Foley, she had to admit that he’d done a good job of pulling a number of disparate groups into a single organization focused on fighting the Ramanthians. Even if it had been difficult to capture his attention where the so-called Dead Bug project was concerned.

The line moved forward in a series of fits and starts as people were admitted to the resistance leader’s office, stayed for a while, and left. There had been talk of having Foley delegate more authority to his subordinates. In spite of repeated promises, things were the same. So an hour and fifteen minutes had elapsed by the time Margaret stepped into the dusty shipping container and Foley rose to give her a hug. “Margaret! Here we are, living in what amounts to a cave, and you look wonderful. How do you do it?”

“I don’t,” Margaret replied. “But I like liars, especially charming ones, so keep it up.”

Foley laughed and returned to his seat. The officer had changed a great deal over the last few months. His formerly full face was gaunt, his clothes hung loosely on his body, and he had the demeanor of a much older man. The changes were understandable but unfortunate. Margaret wondered what her husband Charles would think of her appearance when they met again. If they met again. “So, what can I do for you?” Foley wanted to know.

Was he being polite? Or had he forgotten? Margaret wasn’t sure. “It’s about the Dead Bug project,” she replied. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll keep it short. My team has made progress. Good progress. In fact, I believe we’re very close to being able to weaponize the disease. But we need more resources.”

“That’s good news,” Foley responded brightly. “And I look forward to hearing the details. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to give you more resources until Operation Roach is over. But that’s only a day away, so you won’t have to wait for very long.”

Foley’s eternal optimism was one of the things that made him a good leader. But there were times when it blinded him to other possibilities. Margaret frowned. “I don’t know what Operation Roach involves. And I don’t want to know. But what if something goes wrong? Could the Ramanthians track the effort back to the mine? Because if they could, my project is at risk.”

Foley shrugged. “Anything is possible, Margaret. You know that. But no, I don’t think that will happen. Come see me the moment the operation is over. I’ll get what you need. I promise.”

Margaret was lost in thought as she made her way back to the lab. She had seen the certainty in Foley’s eyes. He was so committed to Operation Roach, so certain of success, that he couldn’t imagine failure. So what to do?

Margaret vacillated for a while. But her mind was made up by the time she arrived. The group was so small that only a couple of minutes were required to call a staff meeting. Once all of her people were gathered together, Margaret made her announcement. “Our work is very important. Because of that, Commander Foley wants us to move to an even safer location. I concur. Start packing.”

Operation Cockroach was timed to kill as many Ramanthians as possible. That meant during the night, when most of the roughly twelve thousand troops that made up the Third Infantry Division were asleep. The problem was that they were deep underground within a complex that was safe from orbital as well as surface attacks. Or so they believed.

But as Foley stood on a platform deep inside the Lucky Fool mine and watched the specially manufactured weapons being loaded into their tubes, he knew there was one thing the bugs weren’t prepared for. And that was an attack by computer-guided subsurface torpedoes. The ugly-looking weapons had been widely used back during the Hudathan wars but had fallen into disfavor since, largely because they were like a club. Effective but brutal, in a time when both military and political leaders wanted to minimize civilian casualties.

But such niceties no longer applied where the Ramanthians were concerned. So when Foley submitted his request through Admiral Chien-Chu, it was approved. And with no subsurface torpedoes in its inventory, the Confederacy had been forced to manufacture the weapons and ship them to Earth. Which was why the mission to pick up the drone in the San Pedro Channel had been so important. There weren’t any backups. Foley estimated that if four of the six torpedoes were able to reach their targets and only two of the tactical nukes went off, the explosions would kill six thousand Ramanthians. Because, thanks to escaped slaves who had been forced to build the underground complex, the resistance knew where to direct their weapons to inflict the maximum number of casualties.

But Foley wasn’t satisfied with that. He wanted to kill all of the bugs in the 3 ^ rd Infantry Division. Once the torpedoes were detonated, thousands of Ramanthians would swarm up to the surface. And that was when a remotely piloted aircraft would drop a nuke right on top of them. Because the attack was slated to take place in Death Valley, the people on Algeron had been willing to green-light the plan. Even if the nuclear explosion resulted in a radioactive crater. Things were that desperate.

There would be survivors, though. Ramanthians lucky enough to survive both the subsurface and air attacks. And Foley had no intention of allowing them to escape. That was where the fleet of armed vehicles would come in. As the enemy soldiers attempted to flee, the resistance would be just outside the blast zone, waiting for them. And Foley planned to be there. The thought brought a smile to his lips as the last fusion-powered torpedo slipped into its horizontal launch tube. A whole lot of roaches were about to die.

A series of five underground explosions rocked Death Valley at 0302 in the morning. There were firsthand witnesses, but none of them lived for more than a few seconds as galleries caved in, tunnels collapsed, and life-support systems failed. Thousands of Ramanthians were buried alive, crushed, or killed by the nuclear explosions themselves. Survivors scurried toward the surface.

Foley, who was watching from miles away, felt the ground shake and saw columns of fire shoot up out of ventilation shafts. A series of secondary explosions followed. A cheer went up from those standing around the trucks, and Foley felt a deep sense of satisfaction. After millions of human deaths and uncountable atrocities, the bugs were finally feeling some pain. Then Foley’s sense of well-being was snatched away as a voice came over his headset. “Shoshone Six to Shoshone One. Over.”

“This is One. Go. Over.”

“We have a malfunction on the bird. Over.”

Foley felt a sudden sense of foreboding. “What kind of malfunction? Over.”

“It’s in the air over the target-but the release mechanism is stuck. Three attempts were made to lay the egg. All of them failed. Over.”

“You must be kidding.”

“We weren’t able to test-fly the bird,” Six said defensively. “Over.”

“All right,” Foley replied tightly. “Crash the bird and trigger the egg on impact. Do it now. Over.”

“Roger,” came the reply. “Six to all Shoshone personnel. Protect your eyes. Over.”

Foley turned his back and began to count. But 120 seconds later, the flash he’d been expecting to see had yet to appear. “Six? Report. Over.”

There was a pause followed by the sound of Six’s voice. “Sorry, sir. The bugs blew the bird out of the air. And two attempts to detonate the egg failed. Over.”

Foley swore as he turned back again. More lights were visible. “This is Shoshone One. Initiate phase three. Repeat, initiate phase three. Kill as many of the survivors as you can. The bugs will send reinforcements. So we will withdraw at 0330. No exceptions. Over.”

Unlike the Ramanthians themselves, most of their vehicles were kept on the surface, where they could be accessed quickly. And rather than being wiped out as planned, the vast majority of them were combat-ready. Furthermore, unlike the partially armored civilian vehicles that the resistance was sending into the fray, the bugs were equipped with well-maintained Gantha hover tanks and Haba attack sleds. Both of which were well suited for the desert terrain.

The Ramanthians had what should have been another advantage as well. And that was a satellite-based command and control system that enabled their officers to track battles in real time and make adjustments as necessary.

But as hundreds of Ganthas and Habas left the protection of their revetments for the open desert, something strange occurred. Hundreds of duplicate symbols appeared on their screens. And that was when the Ramanthians realized the truth. The animals had installed emulators on their vehicles. Devices that made them electronically indistinguishable from their Ramanthian counterparts. A ruse that explained how they had been able to pre-position their forces without triggering any computerized alarms.

But effective though the emulators were on a temporary basis, they couldn’t counter the fact that the bugs had numerical superiority and more offensive throw weight. So the humans were at a distinct disadvantage as the Ganthas and Habas sallied out to fight the old-fashioned way. Each file of three tanks was supported by six sleds. Their job was to protect the battlefield behemoths from rapacious T-2s. Except there weren’t any cyborgs, so the Habas were free to protect their charges from other threats.

Emulators or no emulators, the Ganthas could fire on any target with a heat signature different from those that Ramanthian assets produced. So as they tracked enemy vehicles and fired on them with their 120mm guns, the hover sleds circled like anxious sheepdogs. Flares lit up the night, tracers arced back and forth, and the tankers scored a series of easy kills. Then the tactical situation began to change.

The Ganthas, which had been conceived as quad killers, were very effective at attacking large, relatively slow targets. So they took a heavy toll on the converted dump trucks, armored earthmovers, and other tank substitutes that the humans had pressed into service. But the Ganthas weren’t nimble enough to dance with light trucks, dune buggies, and the motorcycles that sped at them out of the surrounding darkness.

The truck Foley was riding in ran up the side of a dune, caught some air, and came crashing down twenty feet beyond. A six-point harness held him in place as the driver swerved. An explosion lit the western horizon, and the thump, thump, thump of cannon fire came from somewhere off to the east. “Hang on to your panties,” the driver said over the intercom. “And get ready to kick ass. We have a Gantha up ahead.”

A rattling sound was heard as the woman in the front passenger seat began to fire the light machine gun bolted to the hood in front of her. But the six-barreled 1x20mm Gatling gun that comprised the truck’s main armament wasn’t high enough to fire forward over the cab. That meant Foley could engage targets on either side or to the rear but not straight ahead.

But this wasn’t a problem for long as a swarm of sleds came out to meet the humans. The truck bucked wildly as the big bumper hit one of the Habas, and the right-hand set of tires rolled over it. Then more of the dimly seen machines appeared to either side. Each Haba had a fixed nose gun, minimissile launchers, and a rider armed with a grenade launcher or a Negar IV.

Foley saw a muzzle flash and used it as an aiming point. The minigun roared ominously, the hailstorm of bullets tore the Haba to shreds, and its fuel tank blew as Foley’s driver weaved in and out between the crisscrossing sleds. A minimissile exploded against the reinforced passenger door. That caused the front gunner to say some very unladylike things.

Then bullets began to ping the metal around Foley. He stomped on a foot pedal, which caused the gun mount to swivel right. Then it was time to fire at a Haba that was locked onto the truck’s six. The sled’s nose gun sparkled, Foley answered with a burst of his own, and the enemy vehicle exploded.

“To the right!” the driver shouted, as the truck skidded into a turn, and the black-on-black bulk of a Gantha tank appeared. “Hose it down!”

Foley did so. But the tank’s skin was thick enough to protect it from 20mm shells. And the fans that kept the monster aloft were protected by an armored skirt. But that didn’t matter because the truck’s purpose was to serve as a distraction while off-road motorcycles closed in. One took a Haba-fired missile, erupted into flames, and flipped end over end. But the other came within inches of the Gantha’s steel flank. So close that the rider seated in back could slap a magnetic disk onto the tank’s hull.

Then it was time to accelerate hard as the seconds ticked away and the shaped charge exploded. Even the thickest armor wasn’t proof against the jet of molten plasma that bored in through the Gantha’s metal skin and found an ammo bin. There was a deafening roar as a dozen 120mm rounds cooked off, and a gout of flame propelled the turret ten feet into the air before allowing it to crash back down. “Good one!” the driver shouted, and Foley felt a sense of exultation as the truck sped away.

But things weren’t going so well elsewhere. And that became apparent as a series of negative reports flowed in. At least two dozen attack trucks had been destroyed, the number of casualties was mounting, and the bugs were sending more vehicles into the fray. And that wasn’t the worst of it. “Shoshone Two to Shoshone One,” Foley’s XO said, as gunfire rattled in the background. “The bugs located the mine. Hundreds of them are streaming inside. Over.”

Foley felt sick to his stomach. Nearly every fighter he had was committed to phase three. So the only people in the mine were support staff, medical personnel, and their patients. All of whom were being slaughtered. And it was his fault. Because he’d been so sure of his plan, so certain that each phase would succeed, he had neglected to leave a sufficient security force at the mine.

With the sun about to rise in the east, and the increasing threat from Ramanthian aircraft, there was nothing he could do for the people being massacred in the mine. The most important thing was to save what he could and live to fight another day. Foley’s voice cracked as he made his reply. “Shoshone One to all units. Break contact, retreat to your preassigned rally point, and await further orders. No one, I repeat no one, is to return to the mine. Over.”

Having heard Foley’s order, the truck driver turned and set off toward the west, with dune buggies and motorcycles throwing up rooster tails of dust all around. The group’s rally point was the bombed-out ruin of what had once been the China Lake spaceport.

Meanwhile, in the back of the truck, Foley felt for the remote. He’d been carrying it for more than a month by then but never believed that he’d have to use it. He pushed the protective plate up out of the way. A red button was revealed. Then he closed his eyes. No one heard him say, “Please forgive me,” over the roar of the engine and the rumble of the slipstream. But there was no denying the roll of artificial thunder as a tactical nuke buried deep inside the Lucky Fool mine went off, and the ground above it gave way. The knowledge that hundreds of Ramanthians had been buried offered cold comfort. Operation Cockroach was over.