Resistance: The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER TWELVE Angel of Death

Near Valentine, Nebraska

Monday, December 3, 1951

William Dentweiler was wearing a snap-brim hat, a suit, and a thick topcoat, but the air blowing in through the VTOL’s gun ports was frigid and it would have been nice to have a lap blanket. But there weren’t any blankets, not that Dentweiler could see anyway, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Partly because he didn’t want to come across as a whiny civilian VIP, and partly because he knew the thin layer of warm air between his skin and his clothes would disappear the moment he stood up. Which he would certainly have to do if he wanted to address the helmeted crew chief who was slouched on top of a crate labeled “Cartridges, 7.62mm, Ball M5A2.”

So Dentweiler remained where he was, gloved hands thrust deeply into his pockets, as the VTOL droned north toward base SRPA 6. Like President Grace, Dentweiler was of the opinion that allowing SRPA to construct and maintain its own bases had been a mistake, even if the need for secrecy seemed to recommend it. Because now, as the war continued to drag on, the SRPA hierarchy was starting to show an independent streak even though the officers in charge of the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps were typically cooperative.

But it was too late to strip SRPA of its bases at this point, and as long as Grace remained in control of the organization’s budget, they would be forced to toe the line.

Dentweiler’s thoughts were interrupted as the engines changed pitch, the VTOL communicated a different set of vibrations through the seat of his pants, and the aircraft seemed to stall briefly as the engines went vertical. Then, as Dentweiler felt his stomach flip-flop, the aircraft went straight down. Less than a minute later he felt a palpable bump as the VTOL’s landing gear made contact with the oil-stained mech deck.

The crew chief came over to help Dentweiler release the harness that held him in place while the engines spooled down.

“Welcome to Nebraska!” the noncom shouted cheerfully, “and watch your step. The ramp can be slick.”

Meanwhile outside the VTOL, and well clear of the windmilling props, a group of officers was waiting to receive the President’s Chief of Staff. Major Richard Blake was in charge of the delegation, which included a scruffy-looking intelligence officer named Captain Bo Richards and Lieutenant Nathan Hale.

Having completed the mission into enemy-held Hot Springs less than a week earlier, Hale had been hoping for a three-day pass, and a chance to visit Cassie in Denver. A trip that would have allowed him to see Dr. Barrie as well—who was said to be recovering nicely.

But that plan had been blown out of the water when a so-called rocket arrived from SRPA Command ordering Blake to stand by for a visit from a VIP, and to prep a SAR team for a special mission. A mission that would involve both Richards and Hale.

So he felt mixed emotions as the battle-scarred VTOL put down, the props stopped turning, and the cargo ramp grated on concrete. The civilian who strolled down the slanted surface paused to look around, and having spotted the group waiting to receive him, ambled over. Blake took care of the introductions, and when it was Hale’s turn to shake hands, he noticed that Dentweiler’s gloves were still on. A small thing, but he knew that life was comprised of small things, all of which typically added up.

Nevertheless, he showed the proper respect.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, and Hale noticed that Dentweiler didn’t seem to be surprised by the color of his eyes.

“The pleasure is mine,” the official replied. “Nice job up in Hot Springs by the way. President Grace wanted me to thank you.”

A compliment from the President of the United States was a very special thing, and Hale couldn’t help but feel a surge of pleasure, but there was something about Dentweiler’s cold affect that prevented him from liking the man.

“It was a team effort, sir,” he said truthfully. “I’ll pass the message along.”

“You do that,” Dentweiler replied dismissively, turning to Blake. Together they led the way to the elevators with Richards, Hale, and the others following along behind. Though dressed in a rumpled Army uniform, the Intel officer had longish hair, three days’ worth of un-shaved stubble, and a weather-beaten face. Hale barely knew the man, but had already come to enjoy his irreverent sense of humor. “The only thing more dangerous than a Steelhead armed with an Auger, is a civilian carrying a briefcase,” Richards said sotto voce. “God help us both.”

The elevator delivered the group to the admin deck and a smartly uniformed sergeant who was waiting to escort them through security and into the same conference room where the briefing for Operation Iron Fist had taken place.

But the maps, photos, and schematics were different now. The aerial shots didn’t come as any surprise—Hale was expecting those—yet some of the pictures had been taken from ground level. That was unusual, since most SAR missions took place behind enemy lines where such photos were almost impossible to get. And even though he didn’t know the city well, Hale recognized Chicago’s war-torn skyline, and felt something cold trickle into his bloodstream. Because while an attack on a building in Hot Springs was a bit loony—a mission into stink-held Chicago verged on insane.

“Okay,” Blake said, once all of them were seated and their visitor had removed his overcoat. “Listen up… Mr. Dentweiler is here to brief us on a top secret SAR mission—only this time we’re going to bring back a person, rather than an object. Mr. Dentweiler, the floor is yours.”

The Chief of Staff’s white shirt, striped tie, and blue suit were impeccable. Light glinted off rimless glasses as his eyes passed over each face. “Thank you,” he said levelly. “Major Blake indicated that this mission will be top secret, and he is correct. Under no circumstances are you to share any aspect of this briefing or the mission itself with friends, family, or the press. Is that understood?”

All of the participants nodded dutifully, and having received that assurance, Dentweiler began what appeared to be a carefully rehearsed speech.

“As you know,” he began, “things are not going well. The Chimera have control of Canada, and are pushing south into the United States. However, thanks to the black eye that you and the 5th Ranger Battalion gave the stinks last week, plus the Liberty Defense Perimeter presently under construction, the President remains confident that we will not only be able to stop further incursions, but counterattack in the very near future.

“That’s the good news,” Dentweiler continued. “The bad news is that in addition to battling the Chimera, the government has been forced to cope with internal dissension, too. That includes organizations bent on overthrowing the elected government, all manner of whacko dissidents, and—I’m sorry to say—the occasional traitor. In this case a cabinet-level official who had not only given up on the war, but left Washington in an effort to contact the stinks and try to open negotiations with them.

“I know,” Dentweiler said, even though no one had spoken. “It’s hard to believe—but I assure you it’s true. And, what makes the situation even more shocking is the fact that the official I referred to is none other than Secretary of War Henry Walker!”

The group had been silent up until then, but that was enough to elicit a heartfelt “Holy shit” from Captain Perko, who was there to represent the Air Corps.

“Yes,” Dentweiler said solemnly, “that was my reaction as well. Frankly we don’t know if such negotiations are even possible, given how alien the stinks are, but were Secretary Walker to find the means to communicate with the Chimera, it could be disastrous. Not only because of the possibility that he might claim to represent the United States government, but because he knows everything there is to know regarding the defense perimeter. That’s why it’s absolutely imperative that you find Walker, and bring him back. Or, failing that,” Dentweiler said darkly, “eliminate him.”

Blake had been silent up until that point, but the last comment caused him to frown and clear his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dentweiler, but the charter under which SRPA operates specifically prohibits our personnel from participating in assassinations. However, if we can find Mr. Walker, I can assure you that we will bring him back.”

For a moment the Chief of Staff was silent, and then he nodded agreeably.

“Yes, I’m sure you will. And that brings us to the question of where Secretary Walker is hiding. Based on information provided by the FBI and other sources we believe he’s in Chicago.”

Having already identified the photos on the wall, Hale wasn’t surprised. Nor, apparently, was Richards—who was busy cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade. Hale wondered how he got away with it, but Major Blake hadn’t seemed to notice.

“We tracked him from Washington to Indianapolis,” Dentweiler continued, “and we damned near nailed the bastard, too, but two hours before our agents closed in on the hotel where Walker and his wife were staying, the two of them left town in the company of a so-called runner named Twitch. According to Twitch’s common-law wife, he was headed for Chicago.”

Richards sat up straight upon hearing that news and the knife vanished. “Twitch Saunders?”

Dentweiler raised an eyebrow. “I believe that was his name—yes.”

“Then they had a pretty good chance of getting through,” Richards mused. “Twitch is expensive—but he’s the best. But why? What can the Walkers accomplish in Chicago? The city is crawling with stinks.”

“There’s no way to be absolutely certain,” Dentweiler replied, “but we believe Walker plans to contact Freedom First and ask for their assistance. You’re acquainted with the organization, I believe?”

“Yes,” Richards answered. “I am. They hate President Grace, but they hate the Chimera even more, and fight the stinks every day. In fact, some people claim that something like five thousand ′brids are tied up trying to track the rebels down. If true, that’s five thousand stinks who aren’t headed south.”

“I’ve heard that argument,” Dentweiler responded, and his voice was strangely cold. “I might even buy into it if it weren’t for all the lies they tell via their illegal radio station. Which, when you think about it, is probably why the Walkers were drawn to them.”

Hale could sense the tension between the two men—as could Blake, who was quick to intervene. “In spite of the illegal radio station, it should be noted that Freedom First people continue to be a valuable source of intelligence,” the major pointed out, “which they funnel to Captain Richards here. I’m sure his knowledge of the group will prove to be invaluable in determining whether the Walkers are in Chicago or not. In fact,” Blake added, “I daresay we wouldn’t be able to execute the mission without him.”

The last was intended as a warning, which Dentweiler received loud and clear. He forced a crooked smile. “Yes, of course. Well, that’s the essence of the situation, and I have only one thing to add. If you apprehend Walker—no, when you apprehend Walker—he may be carrying a diary or other materials. If so, bring them back. And such materials, should they exist, must be treated with the utmost secrecy. Under no circumstances will unauthorized personnel be permitted to read them, copy them, or share them in any way. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” Blake replied, as he directed meaningful glances at Richards and Hale.

“And Mrs. Walker?” Hale wanted to know. “Are we to bring her back as well?”

“Of course,” Dentweiler replied harshly. “She’s a criminal. Just like her traitorous husband.”

The briefing came to a close shortly after that, Dentweiler was escorted up to the mech deck where his VTOL was waiting, and the junior officers were allowed to remain behind.

“So,” Hale said as he and Richards made their way to the elevators. “You’ve been to Chicago.” “Yes,” Richards answered grimly. “I have.” Hale glanced sideways. “How bad is it?” “On a scale of one to ten, it’s a fucking twelve,” Richards said. “I know you were in England—and I know it was a freak show. But this is going to be just as bad, and maybe worse. Bring your A game, Lieutenant. There won’t be any second chances.”

The trip from SRPA 6 to the Chicago area was interrupted by two intermediate stops. One to refuel, and one to wait for a storm front to pass, because Echo Team had enough problems to deal with without flying into the side of a hill. Which, given the plan to come in low and fast, was a very real possibility, especially in the dark.

Except that, as Hale crouched between Purvis and his copilot, and stared out through the Party Girl’s badly scratched canopy, what remained of the city of Chicago was anything but dark. What looked like bolts of lightning strobed between half-seen structures of uncertain purpose, fireflylike blobs of incandescence floated here and there, and clusters of tightly grouped greenish blue lights marked the location of Chimeran fortresses. A convenience at least some of the stinks were about to regret.

“Okay,” Purvis said tightly, “we’re ten minutes out, so it’s time to get ready. Good hunting.”

Hale nodded soberly, “Thanks, Harley. Watch your six on the way out.”

“Count on it,” Purvis replied. “Now get the hell out of my cockpit. I have work to do.”

Hale grinned, stood, and backed into the cargo compartment as Purvis spoke into his headset. “Hollywood to Eagle-Three… I’m eight out. Come on down and kick some ass. Over.”

“Roger that,” came the reply. “Stay low, stay slow, and we’ll show you cargo camels how it’s done. Over.”

A few months earlier Purvis might have taken exception to the cheerful arrogance inherent in the fighter pilot’s transmission, but he’d seen the latest stats. Chimeran fighters were three times faster than their human counterparts, more maneuverable, and better armed. In fact, the only edge human pilots had over the stinks was skill, because, good though their aircraft were, Chimeran pilots lacked imagination and were delightfully predictable.

Still, the life expectancy of a Sabre Jet pilot was even shorter than that of a VTOL cargo camel, so Purvis let the trash talk slide.

“I’ll be sure to take notes,” he promised dryly. “Hollywood out.”

Cold air roared into the VTOL’s cargo compartment as the twelve-man SAR team prepared to execute one of the most difficult evolutions any of them would be called upon to carry out. The plan was to rappel from a hovering VTOL into a stink-held city in the middle of the night. It was, as Sergeant Kawecki so eloquently put it, “a chance to do something really stupid.”

Both side doors were open, the sliding gantries were extended, and the men were lined up ready to go as the Party Girl made her final approach, and a series of explosions rocked the northeast sector of the city. Hale knew that a Chimeran tower was located up that way, but the real purpose of the Sabre attack was to create a diversion calculated to pull Chimeran resources away from the area where the SAR team was going to put down.

The strategy wouldn’t work entirely of course, but it couldn’t hurt, and he was eager to improve the odds any way that he could.

Both Hale and Richards checked each and every soldier to make sure their harnesses were clipped to a descender and that each rope was properly threaded. Once that process was complete Richards took his place at the head of the line and waited for Kawecki to check his hookup.

Hale, meanwhile, was at the tail end of the other line, so that if Richards was killed during the insertion, he would be available to take command. That was the theory anyway, although there was always a chance that both men would be killed, which would leave a noncom like Kawecki to take over.

All such thoughts ended abruptly as Purvis switched from horizontal to vertical flight and battled to keep the Party Girl steady. It was no small job, as gusts of wind hit the ship from the west and gravity did its best to pull her down.

Hale saw the green jump light flash, heard the VTOL’s crew chief yell, “Go, go, go!” and watched his Sentinels exit, one after another. There were no signs of ground fire, and the ship was positioned above a so-called fresh point, meaning a set of coordinates that hadn’t been used before. A precaution intended to lessen the chances of an ambush. But that didn’t mean much in a city where they might be rappelling onto the roof of a stink stronghold if Purvis was the least bit off target.

Then it was Hale’s turn.

As he threw himself out the door, he was conscious of the need to put a sufficient amount of space between himself and the drop ship’s tubby hull, lest he smack into it. A very painful proposition indeed and one that would slow his descent in a situation where speed was everything, and mistakes could cost lives.

Hale felt a brief moment of free fall, followed by a spine-stretching jerk and a surge of fear as the VTOL lurched sideways, coming within half a foot of his dangling body. Frigid prop wash blew straight down and threatened to spin Hale around as he ran his right hand along the rope that curved around his right hip. By letting rope slide up through the descender, he was able to swiftly lower himself to the ground.

Things became a little easier as one of the Sentinels already on the ground took control of Hale’s drop line and held it steady. A few seconds later he was standing on a city street, where he hurried to unclip his harness lest the Party Girl inadvertently soar upward and jerk him into the air.

“The last man is clear,” Richards said over the radio. “Thanks for the lift, Hollywood. Out.”

Purvis had been waiting for what seemed like an hour. As his crew reeled the drop ropes in and brought the extendable gantries inboard, he took the ship straight up.

Powerful searchlights and long necklaces of tracer fire began exploring the night sky, searching for the meat-things that had been so audacious as to invade Chimeran airspace. The Sabre Jets were long gone, having fled south, before the stinks could scramble their fighters.

Which was nice for the jet jockeys, but not for Purvis, who was still in the area.

The solution, such as it was, consisted of switching to level flight while fleeing south at little more than rooftop level. A very dangerous process indeed, especially at night, but one calculated to keep the Chimeran fighters off his ass. Because they were so fast that they couldn’t ride the VTOL’s six, and being unable to get under the ship’s belly, they were unlikely to nail Purvis with their cannons.

So it was their heat-seeking missiles he feared the most, and the only defense against them was to fire white-hot flares to port and starboard as the Party Girl ran for its life.

Meanwhile, back at the insertion point, Richards was busy sorting everyone out.

This was his fifth drop into Chicago. That made him an Ace in the parlance of his Intel peers. How many more such missions was he entitled to before his number came up? Six? Seven? Or five and out?

There was no way to know.

But given that Hale and his men were Sentinels, and he wasn’t, Richards knew he was the most vulnerable man on the team. An irony that he did his best to ignore as his subordinates went about creating a defensive perimeter and waited to see who would arrive first. Freedom First—or a heavily armed Chimeran response team.

It was a question made all the more urgent by the fact that they had been dropped into the center of a major intersection. It was too dark to see his surroundings clearly, but thanks to the photos he’d memorized, Richards knew that partially burned-out buildings surrounded him on three sides, with an elevated train station on the fourth. Any or all of them might provide protective cover, but if the Freedom First guide arrived after the team cleared the street, he might assume they had been compromised, and leave without them.

Then they would be shit out of luck.

So Richards was forced to settle for a wheel formation, with all the Sentinels facing out as precious seconds ticked away. The guide was late—five minutes late—and Richards was getting ready to retreat to the train station. He considered his alternatives. Should he leave a radio where the guide could find it? That might work, but if a Chimeran patrol happened by, it would signal the team’s presence as well.

Suddenly a manhole cover popped up out of its metal collar, fell over, and hit the street with a clang. Richards yelled “Don’t shoot!” and not a moment too soon as Corporal Vedka and Private Oshi swiveled toward the noise, ready to fire.

“Eyes front!” Hale ordered, lest the men in his sector take their eyes off the perimeter. He turned to see Richards kneel next to the dimly seen guide and exchange a few brief sentences. Then the group was on the move.

In keeping with pre-established protocols, the Sentinels armed with scope-mounted Fareyes, M5A2s, and Rossmore shotguns descended into the depths first, leaving those with Bellocks, rocket launchers, and the team’s single minigun to provide security until they, too, were ordered below.

That was when Hale dropped into the hole, felt for the rungs with his feet, and passed the M5A2 down to Private Tanner. The biggest man on the team and the proud owner of the minigun.

The cast iron lid made a harsh grating sound as Hale pulled it over, pushed the chunk of metal up, and then lowered it into place. At that point the team could lay claim to a clean insertion. An accomplishment that boosted their chances of success from damned unlikely to the realm of the barely possible.

As Hale lowered himself into what appeared to be a storm drain, the first things he noticed were the dank, fetid air and the harsh glow of a flare which had been inserted into a crack in one of the brick walls. He hit bottom, and a layer of black sediment squished under his boots as Tanner returned his weapon.

The scene that greeted him was surreal, to say the least. The Sentinels were lined up with their backs to a wall as a young woman inspected them. Except that “inspected” wasn’t the right word, since what she was really doing was looking each man over prior to sniffing him the same way that a friendly dog might have.

She had rough-cut blond hair, a pug nose, and was dressed in a leather jacket, tight-fitting jeans, and lace-up boots.

“They call her Spook,” Richards explained as she moved from Cooper to Samson. “She has an extremely acute sense of smell—and that can be quite useful down here. By memorizing what each man smells like, she’ll be able to sort them out in total darkness, if need be.”

“I see,” Hale said as the vetting process continued. “Is that why people call her Spook?”

“No,” Richards replied, “that has to do with her tattoos.”

That was when Hale noticed the tattoos on Spook’s face, neck, and hands. At first he had thought they were a trick of the light from the flickering flare. Most if not all of them were symbols which seemed to have religious or occult value, including variations on pentagrams, crosses, triangles, sigils, moons, and at least one ankh, located at the very center of her forehead. “So they’re for more than decoration?” he inquired.

Richards nodded as Spook subjected an embarrassed Private Perez to her strange form of scrutiny.

“Yeah. Spook believes that those symbols protect her from Chimeran energy projectiles, and maybe they do. You’ll notice that she isn’t wearing any body armor, yet there isn’t a scratch on her. And that’s saying something, here in Chicago!” The strange young woman completed her inspection of the men and turned to approach the officers.

“Stand by,” Richards said. “It’s your turn.”

Hale stood his ground. Spook had very direct green eyes, and they registered surprise as she examined him. She was pretty, even with the facial tattoos, and exuded a strong animal magnetism. “You have stink eyes,” she said artlessly. “And I can smell the virus on you. The others have it, too. But not as strong.”

Hale didn’t know what to say, so he was silent as Spook began to sniff his right arm. She followed the limb all the way up to his shoulder, where she paused for a moment, before licking his neck. That was something new, and slightly erotic, as Hale had the opportunity to smell her. Rather than the soapy fragrance he had come to associate with Cassie, Spook exuded a musky scent which was appealing, but in a different way. “You taste like they do,” Spook said as she pulled back. “You’re changing. Did you know that?”

Hale shrugged. “I’ve been immunized. That amounts to a change.”

Spook stared at him thoughtfully, as if deciding whether to say more, then turned to Richards.

“The station is two miles away,” she said. “The first mile and a half will be very dangerous.”

“We’ll be ready,” Richards assured her. “Lead the way.”

So Spook led the way, followed by Richards, Kawecki, Henning, Vedka, Oshi, Perez, Obo, Cooper, Samson, Dana, Tanner, and Hale.

The order of march had been determined by the type of threats they were likely to encounter, the sort of weapon that each Sentinel was carrying, and the need to place an officer at each end of the column.

The going was fairly easy at first, because the ceiling of the main tunnel was at least eight feet high, and it was wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Not that Richards or Hale would permit such a thing. Their challenge was to keep the Sentinels spaced out so that a single explosion couldn’t kill more than one or two men.

Illumination, such as it was, came from the lights built into or taped onto their weapons. White blobs overlapped each other and roamed the ceiling, walls, and floor as the twelve-man column followed their young guide through her subterranean world.

Then the situation changed as Spook paused in front of a pipe that was about four feet in diameter. It opened into the larger drain at a point approximately three feet off the floor. After peering back, as if to make sure that the Sentinels were still with her, Spook entered the smaller tube and promptly disappeared.

Hale watched Richards and the rest of them remove the secondary weapons that were slung across their backs, and slip them into canvas drag bags which each man would tow behind him lest the barrels get caught on an obstruction of some sort. Tight spaces weren’t good, but Hale figured that Spook knew that, and wouldn’t have chosen such a route unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.

It took a full five minutes for the team to enter the pipe. Hale went last, the M5A2 carbine dragging behind him as he elbowed his way forward with the shotgun cradled in his arms. The surface beneath his chest was dry, and would remain so until the snow started to melt and the spring runoff began.

Thanks to the light projected from under the Rossmore’s barrel and reflected from one wall back to the other, Hale could see Tanner’s drag bag and the soles of his enormous boots as the other Sentinel made his way forward. It was a slow, painstaking process and Hale hated the way the tube hugged him from all sides.

At one point it was necessary for him to pull himself over the corpse of a badly mauled rat. But he’d been forced to deal with worse—much worse—and he kept on going. He was in a rhythm by then, and starting to feel better about things.

“Leapers!”

Spook yelled over the radio Richards had given her, but the horrible screeching noise spoke for itself as the cat-sized Chimera dropped out of vertical drain holes to land in the pipe they occupied. It was just about the worst thing that could have happened at that point, since none of the Sentinels could fire forward without hitting the man in front of them.

So as one of the horrors landed on Tanner’s legs, and turned to attack Hale, the only thing he could do was to thrust his shotgun barrel into the Leaper’s gaping mouth, using it as a club. Fangs broke as the weapon went in, and the stink shrieked in pain as Hale drew his commando knife, and slashed at the beast. A good twenty inches separated the two combatants, but the Fairbairn Sykes was long enough to make contact, and the tip found a major artery.

Blood sprayed the inside surface of the pipe as Richards shouted over the radio.

“Fire up into those drains! Kill them before they can drop!”

Private Russ Dana was directly in front of Tanner. He was one of two Sentinels armed with an L11-2 Dragon, which he had already used to fry one of the Leapers. Samson’s boots had been singed by the momentary belch of flames but there were no complaints as Dana rolled over to direct the flamethrower upward.

There was a subdued roar as a tongue of fire shot up through the vertical drain, found flesh, and cooked one of the falling Leapers. The body caught on an obstruction, another stink landed on top of it, and began to eat its way downward.

He and Henning sent blast after blast of liquid fire up to intercept the gibbering beasts even as one or two others managed to roll over and bring other weapons into play. Hale’s Rossmore generated a deafening BOOM, BOOM, BOOM sound as he fired upward and empty casings fell back on him. They were hot, and therefore uncomfortable, but a lot better than the alternative.

Then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, it was over, and the team was free to elbow their way forward again. Those located at the tail end of the line had no choice but to drag themselves through the bloody remains of their attackers, and the stench typical of all Chimera combined with the throat-clogging odor of cooked flesh and the harsh smell of gunsmoke.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity of crawling, but was actually only ten minutes, Hale saw Tanner’s boots disappear, followed by his drag bag. Then it was Hale’s turn, and he stuck his head out into an open chamber, where the others were waiting to pull him clear.

As before a flare was inserted into a crack, and it produced a harsh blue-green glow as minor wounds were checked. Some of the Sentinels took long drags from their I-Packs, and others looked to their weapons. Hale slipped shells into the Rossmore, and he swung the shotgun up just as something huge materialized out of the darkness.

“Don’t shoot!” Spook said tersely. “Ralf won’t hurt you… Will you, boy?”

At that point Hale and the rest of them were treated to an amazing sight as a brawny lion-sized Howler padded over to stand on its rear legs while it licked Spook’s face.

“Don’t ask,” Richards said as he appeared at Hale’s elbow. “It was wounded, Spook found the beast, and nursed it back to health. But watch what you do… Ralf will attack anything that threatens her. Human or Chimera.”

Hale had never heard of such a thing, much less witnessed it, but he was coming to realize that by living in such close proximity to the Chimera, Chicago’s freedom fighters were finding new ways to adapt and survive.

With the fearsome Ralf ranging ahead, Spook led the team through a maze of interconnecting tunnels and passageways, slogging through ankle-deep water. All were deserted, but there were signs of habitation. As Hale walked along he saw graffiti, ledges where cooking fires had scorched the walls, and in one sad case a mound of broken bricks with a white cross painted directly above it. There were occasional signs of battle, too, including areas where the walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, empty casings littered the floor, and well-gnawed bones lay scattered about.

Eventually, having traveled the better part of two miles, the team was forced to pause in front of a well-guarded steel gate. Based on appearances Hale concluded that the obstruction had originally been put in place to filter debris out of what was transformed into a raging river at certain times of the year. Twin ladders led up toward the surface, and would allow maintenance workers to remove accumulated garbage from the filtration system below the streets.

But modifications had been made—a pass-through door had been added, and two heavily armed men were there to guard it. They nodded to Spook, eyed the Sentinels warily, and kept their weapons handy as Ralf followed his mistress through the opening, followed by the SAR team.

From a point fifty feet farther on, a hand-excavated passageway led to a large subway tunnel that had originally been separated from the main storm drain by seventy-five feet of solid earth and rock. Tracks ran both ways and gleamed dully under the light cast down from fixtures above. Clearly the Freedom First rebels had some sort of power plant, and weren’t afraid to use it. Still another sign of how resourceful they were.

A flight of stairs led up to a platform where Chicago’s citizens had waited patiently for the trains to arrive. Posters advertising the merits of the city’s public transportation system hung above the wooden benches lining the wall, and another set of well-worn stairs led to the street above. The stairway was blocked by a makeshift wooden barricade with carefully placed Chimeran-made land mines, and was covered by raking fire from a large-caliber machine gun.

The weapon was positioned at the bottom of the stairway, and manned by a boy-girl team, both of whom appeared to be about twelve. They waved to the Sentinels as they passed by, and shouted greetings to Spook, who raised a hand by way of reply.

She led the Sentinels along the platform, past a shoeshine stand and an empty newspaper kiosk to a glassed-in office where the local subway sector manager had once held court. It was furnished with a huge wall map of the transit system, a calendar that boasted a topless brunette, and a beat-up metal desk. Some mismatched chairs, a bookcase filled with binders, and a coatrack completed the decor.

That was where Richards called a halt and ordered Kawecki to put half the team where they could defend the station, giving the rest of the Sentinels a chance to grab a bite to eat.

While they pulled out their rations, Ralf licked himself and lay down next to a bench, and Richards and Hale followed Spook into the office. The person in charge of Freedom First Chicago awaited them there. He had been a big man once, well over six feet tall, but now he was missing both his legs. He had fuzzy red hair, a craggy brow, and a fist-flattened nose. The wheelchair that supported his torso had clearly seen heavy use, and was fitted with holsters on both sides.

“Welcome!” the rebel leader said cheerfully, and he eyed Hale curiously. “My name is Jacoby. Sam Jacoby. Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

Hale chuckled politely as he went forward to shake hands. It was probably an old joke, one Jacoby likely used to break the ice and put new acquaintances at ease.

“Glad to meet you, sir,” he said as the other man’s fingers nearly crushed his. “My name is Hale.”

Jacoby took in the yellow-gold eyes, raised his bushy eyebrows, but remained silent and turned to Richards.

“It’s good to see you again, Bo. So the lieutenant has been immunized, I see. Do all the people you work with have Chimeran eyes?”

“No,” Richards replied flatly. “Only Hale. But the rest have Hybrid-fast reaction times, they can take more punishment than you or I, and they heal quickly. Very quickly, so long as they don’t take major damage. It comes in handy.”

Jacoby nodded grimly.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that the Grace administration finally did something right. God knows we’re going to need all the help we can get, if we’re going to win this war.”

“Yes,” Richards agreed soberly. “That’s something all of us can agree on.”

“So, why the visit?” Jacoby demanded tactlessly. “As you know, the government hasn’t given us piss-all since they pulled out of Chicago. Present company excepted, of course. So you must be here on a special mission of some sort.”

“That’s true,” Richards admitted reluctantly, as he went on to describe the meeting with Chief of Staff Dentweiler, the government’s case against ex-Secretary of War Henry Walker, and the evidence that pointed toward a trip to Chicago.

“I know you dislike Grace and his administration,” Richards finished, “but Walker plans to open negotiations with the stinks if he can. And that would be bad for everyone—including the members of Freedom First.”

Jacoby nodded slowly, as if still in the process of assimilating what Richards had said.

“You’ve got that right, Bo,” he said deliberately. “But I’m afraid that you made the trip for nothing. Walker sent us a letter, via runner. He said he was on his way to Chicago, carrying something of importance, but he didn’t say what.

“Then, a few days ago, we got word that Twitch, the runner who had agreed to bring the Walkers to Chicago, had been killed. Some people figure the Walkers are dead, too, but others think they got away and are headed for our base in Montana. Personally, I don’t have a clue as to what happened to them. God help them if the Chimera got ahold of them.”

Hale waited for Richards to respond, and when the other officer didn’t, he cleared his throat. “No offense, Mr. Jacoby, but why should we believe you?” he asked, careful to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “Given your dislike of the government, you could be protecting Walker.”

Richards frowned and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Jacoby raised a hand.

“That’s a fair question, son… But suffice it to say that Bo’s correct. If Walker showed up here, and tried to open negotiations with the stinks, I’d shoot him myself!”

Suddenly an Army-style field phone on Jacoby’s desk rang. Jacoby picked it up, held the receiver to his ear, and listened for five seconds before slamming the device down.

He mashed a red button, and a klaxon began to bleat. He had to shout to be heard over the din. “A trainload of stinks broke through the barrier a mile south of here and is headed this way! There isn’t enough time to run, so we’ll have to stay and fight. Welcome to Chicago, gentlemen—and here’s hoping you live long enough to get out again.”

The rebels were well organized for civilians, but the Chimera had the advantage of speed and the element of surprise, so the humans were still taking up defensive positions when the first blocky car appeared. It was going way too fast, as if the Hybrid at the controls hadn’t had much practice driving it, and sparks flew as the brakes were applied and the train came to a shuddering stop.

The cars’ curved roofs came within inches of the arched ceiling and were painted yellow, with black stripes. The stinks had chosen to commandeer one of the work trains normally used for maintenance, rather than a regular commuter train. Dozens of Hybrids emerged and a hellish firefight began. Glass shattered as plasma projectiles fired from a Bullseye sleeted across the office, and everyone hit the floor. Everyone except Jacoby, that is, who sent his wheelchair rolling forward, and drew his .45s.

He fired both pistols in alternating sequence, swearing at the Chimera as he did so, careless of the projectiles that whipped around him.

Hale knelt two feet back of the shattered window, triggered two 40mm grenades from the M5A2, and had the satisfaction of seeing both of them shatter windows and explode inside the second car.

Fortunately for Jacoby and his freedom fighters, the Sentinels were present to absorb the brunt of the initial attack and keep a lot of stinks bottled up on the train as others fell to combined fire from a multitude of sources. The battle was far from one-sided however, as Corporal Vedka took an Auger round right between the eyes, Private Henning died in a ball of flame when a stray projectile struck the fuel canister for his Dragon L11-2, and Private Oshi was struck down by half a dozen spines from a Chimeran Hedgehog grenade.

Serious though the causalities were, they were nothing compared to the slaughter imposed on the stinks who were forced to perform a macabre dance as a hail of bullets jerked, spun, and even lifted them off their feet before throwing them down onto the oily ground. Even the children on the machine gun got into the act by swiveling their weapon around to fire on the enemy.

Hale should have felt jubilant, but as he put half a dozen bullets into one of the Steelheads, he felt as if something was wrong. Nothing specific—just a crawly sensation that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

But why?

The answer came as a shock as a blast of mental energy hit every human within a thousand feet, killing four of them, including Private Cooper, and bringing the rest to their knees. A few managed to fire anyway, but most were incapacitated, as Hale struggled to stand.

“There’s an Angel on that train!” he croaked. “Kill it!”

Many experts believed that Angels were in charge of lesser Chimera, capable of giving them orders via mental telepathy. If so, the Angel on the train might well have planned the surprise attack based on intelligence gathered by subordinate forms.

Hale’s order went out over the team frequency, but the response was anemic at best, because so many of the Sentinels were incapacitated. As a second flood of stinks poured off the train, he staggered out of the office and onto the body-littered platform. Spook was there, facedown on the concrete, having been rendered unconscious by the mental blast. Ralf had positioned himself next to her body, and growled menacingly as Hale shuffled past.

Energy projectiles and plasma projectiles pinged, zinged, and whined around Hale as he staggered head-down, searching for a weapon that might make a difference. So complete was his concentration that he didn’t even notice the loud clang as one side of a maintenance car dropped away to reveal the monster within. Finally he looked up.

The creature had a vaguely triangular head, glowing eyes, a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth, and multiple limbs. Leathery, parchmentlike skin covered its hideous body and rippled as the Angel floated out over the metal ramp. It uttered another scream, accompanied by a new blast of mental energy, and Hale brought both hands up to cover his ears—even though the sound was inside his head.

Spines flew off the monster, penetrating whatever they hit, including concrete.

But then Hale spotted what he needed, lying only feet from Obo’s prostrate body, and he staggered forward to pick it up. The L210 LAARK was prepped with one round and ready to fire.

Hale swore as a projectile knocked his right leg out from under him. He hit the concrete hard, fought to roll over, and brought the launcher into position. There wasn’t enough time to use the scope properly, to take careful aim, but the Angel was only fifty feet away.

So Hale pulled the trigger, felt the rocket leave the tube, and gave thanks for a direct hit. Judging from the horrible caterwauling noise it made, the stink was hurt, but he knew how tough Angels could be, so he struggled to reload as the Chimera spidered forward.

Meanwhile, Tanner had struggled to his feet and leveled the minigun at the surviving Hybrids. The weapon’s multiple barrels produced an ominous whine as they began to rotate, followed by a throaty roar as the gun began to fire. Waves of advancing Chimera fell as he hosed them down, his teeth bared, blood pouring from a shoulder wound.

That gave Hale the time he needed to finish loading the LAARK and fire a second rocket at the Angel. There was a loud BOOM as it hit, followed by an explosion of blood, meat, and bone that sprayed the entire area.

The Angel was dead, but by some miracle a Steelhead had survived Tanner’s barrage and gained the platform. Auger firing, it was advancing on Hale.

The Sentinel thought about the Rossmore, and realized it was back in the office. He was waiting for the stink to kill him when Ralf attacked. Because the Auger bolts were a threat to Spook, who was just coming around, the Howler went for the Steelhead’s throat, tore it out instantly, and remained crouched over the body.

Jacoby wheeled himself out onto the platform. Broken glass made a persistent crackling sound as it broke beneath the chair’s wheels. Coming to a stop, the Freedom First leader aimed a glob of spit at one of the lifeless Hybrids. It hit dead-on.

“Bastards,” he said defiantly as Hale regained his feet. “This is our fucking city, and you can’t have it.”

The battle for the Adams/Wabash station had been won.