Resistance: The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Remember the Alamo

Denver, Colorado

Friday, December 21, 1951

The Denver Federal Center had its own detention facility—and that was where maximum security prisoner Susan Farley had been held during the days immediately following the attempt on President Grace’s life.

The transfer area was a drab space with green walls, slit-style windows, and furniture that was bolted to the floor. Ironically enough, the only decoration in the room consisted of three pictures: one of the Federal Center’s head administrator, one of Vice President McCullen, and one of President Grace.

Before being allowed to enter the transfer center, Hale was searched, not just once, but twice. Two armed guards stood side by side with their backs to a cement wall as he waited for Susan to appear.

The chains on her wrists and ankles made a rattling sound, so he heard his sister before the steel door swung open and Susan shuffled into the brightly lit room. Her hair had been shaved off and the spot where Hale’s bullet had nicked the side of her skull was concealed by a white bandage. Had the projectile been one inch to the right, she would have been dead. Susan was dressed in gray prison garb, including a coat with a hood that hung down onto her shoulders.

“You’ve got five minutes,” the prison matron said sternly. “Don’t touch, don’t whisper, and don’t exchange physical objects without permission. The clock starts now.”

Susan nodded impassively as she looked into Hale’s golden yellow eyes.

“So you came.”

“Of course I came,” Hale replied. “You’re my sister. I hired a lawyer… He’ll visit you in the prison.”

“Why bother?” Susan replied bleakly. “I did it. Everyone knows that.”

“You sure as hell did,” Hale agreed soberly. “But who knows? Maybe we can get your sentence reduced.”

Susan smiled grimly.

“All of us are under a death sentence. You—of all people—should realize that. The so-called Liberty Defense Perimeter isn’t going to work, the Grace administration is more interested in holding on to power than winning the war, and anyone with the guts to oppose them winds up in a Protection Camp… or worse. The only thing I regret is the fact that I missed. That was your fault, Nathan… And you’re going to regret it, too,” she added bitterly.

“That will be enough of that,” the matron said grimly as she noticed the prisoner’s agitated state, and motioned to the guards. “Load her on the bus. And keep your eyes peeled. She belongs to Freedom First, and there are plenty of sympathizers in the area.”

Hale wanted to say something comforting, wanted to make peace somehow, but couldn’t find the words as the guards escorted Susan through the door, and into the cold light beyond. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” the matron said gruffly. “She’ll be all right.”

“Thank you,” he responded, but he wasn’t sure anything would be “all right” ever again.

After days spent worrying about Susan, and being questioned by law enforcement officers of every type, Hale was happy to return to work. Even if the first thing he had to do was attend a meeting.

It was being held at the Federal Center, but on the far side of the complex, and Hale no longer had the Lynx. So he set a brisk pace for himself, and after a ten-minute walk, he spotted his destination ahead.

SRPA headquarters-Denver was located in an unremarkable four-story brick building, which, according to the sign out front, was home to something called the “Federal Land Acquisitions Agency.” A very real organization that occupied half of the first floor. The rest of the structure served the needs of SRPA staff. They were an extremely hardworking group who were responsible for planning and coordinating SAR missions throughout the West.

The briefing center was located on the second floor, and after clearing a security check, Hale arrived five minutes late. As he entered the rather austere conference room Hale saw that Major Blake, Chief of Staff Dentweiler, and a man he didn’t know were waiting for him.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” Hale said. “I had to hike in from the other side of the center.”

“No problem,” Blake replied. “We just sat down. Have a chair. You know Mr. Dentweiler… And this is Mr. Burl. He was a prisoner in what was almost certainly a Chimeran Conversion Center until just days ago.”

Hale shook Dentweiler’s hand, noticed that it was still cold, and turned to the other civilian. “Mr. Burl… It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. And congratulations on your escape. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you pull it off?”

Burl had a firm grip and a direct gaze. “I was lucky,” he answered simply. “The stinks were holding us in a big pit. We dug escape tunnels, and one of them paid off. A few of us got away.”

“Mr. Burl was the last person out,” Blake added. “The alarm had been given by then, so rather than run into the Chimera’s arms, he found a place to hide not fifty feet from the tunnel. So close the stinks didn’t bother to search it carefully enough.”

“I damned near froze my ass off,” Burl put in ruefully. “But I was wearing four layers of clothing, and that helped. The real break came six hours later when a snowstorm passed through. I made use of the low visibility to escape the area.”

“He stumbled across a road, followed it to a house, and hot-wired a pickup,” Blake said admiringly. “And there he was, racing south, when a VTOL crew spotted him.”

“Nice work,” Hale said sincerely. “Did anyone else make it out?”

“A few did,” Burl answered soberly, as he looked down at his hands. “But there’s no way to know if any of them are still alive. Hundreds of people are still in the pit.”

“Yes,” Dentweiler said, as he spoke for the first time, “and one of them is ex-Secretary of War Walker.”

Hale’s eyebrows rose.

“Really? The man we’ve been looking for?”

“Exactly,” Dentweiler replied grimly. “It seems the stinks grabbed the bastard while he and his wife were on their way to Chicago. All we have to do is pick him up.”

Burl felt a sense of forboding. He’d been too trusting. That was apparent now. But his intentions had been good.

Almost from the moment the VTOL picked him up, Burl had been telling anyone who would listen that Walker was being held prisoner, in hopes that authorities would want to rescue the Secretary of War—and therefore all of the poor souls in the stink hole.

He hadn’t mentioned the tapes, however, and wasn’t going to—not until he had to. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you might want to remember that the stinks take people away every few days. So Walker could be dead by now.”

“We need to know,” Dentweiler put in vehemently, his eyes hard. “The man’s a traitor!” He turned to the Sentinel. “I want you to go in and get him. More importantly, the President wants you to go in and get him.”

“And the other prisoners?” Hale wanted to know.

“We’ll bring them out, too,” Blake responded hurriedly, as if fearful that Dentweiler would give some other instruction. “But it’s got to be fast… So the Chimera won’t have time to counterattack. Otherwise we could wind up having to rescue the rescuers.”

Hale nodded. “Understood. How large a force can I have?”

The question was directed to Major Blake, but Dentweiler chose to answer for him.

“You can have anything you want,” the Chief of Staff said flatly.

Major Blake frowned but remained silent.

“And one more thing,” Dentweiler added, his eyes on Hale. “The thing with your sister… Good work. We kept your name out of the press—we had to, given the fact that you’re officially dead—but the President is grateful. He’d like to thank you personally once this mission is over. And with Major Blake’s permission, we’re going to add a contingent of Sentinels to the President’s security team, and put you in command of them.”

There had been a time, only days earlier, when Hale would have been proud to play such a role. Now, after seeing how much Susan had been willing to sacrifice in order to remove Grace from office, he wasn’t so sure.

But Hale was a soldier—and gave the only reply he could. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

The sun had just risen, and was a dimly seen presence off to the east, as the six VTOLs came in from the west. Though not especially fast under even the best conditions, these aircraft were especially slow because of the vehicle that dangled beneath each ship. And, as the wintry landscape seemed to creep past below, the officer in command of the mission was busy questioning his own logic.

Hale was in the lead VTOL, crouched between his old friend Purvis and the Party Girl’s copilot, the three of them eyeing the terrain ahead. It was flat farm country for the most part, much of which had been ravaged by the war, but some of the farmhouses, barns, and silos appeared to be intact under layers of gauzy snow.

Strike Force Zebra had been spotted by that time, Hale felt certain of that, so it was safe to assume that the stinks were organizing a response. And that was where the speed versus throw weight calculation came into play. By choosing to bring two M-12 tanks, plus four LU-P Lynx All-Purpose Vehicles along with his troops, Hale was betting that no matter how quickly they arrived the team might have to cope with a major counterattack. If so both he and the rest of the Sentinels would be glad to have some heavy weapons on their side.

Of course the flip side was that Blake fully expected Hale to bring the vehicles out, which would entail time spent rigging lift harnesses, and a slower exit from Chimera-held territory. It was important matériel, and Hale was extremely conscious of his responsibilities. Purvis spoke over the intercom, breaking into his thoughts.

“We’re five out. Prepare to deploy all vehicles—and get ready to hit the dirt. Welcome to Wisconsin, gentlemen.”

As Hale rose, Purvis turned his way. He flipped the intercom off so only Hale and the copilot could hear him. “Watch your six, Hale,” Purvis said, “so we can come in and save it again.”

Hale grinned, shot the other officer a one-finger salute, and went back into the cargo area.

In addition to carrying a vehicle, each VTOL was loaded with twelve men, for a total of seventy-two soldiers counting Hale himself. It was an unusually large command for a second lieutenant, especially since more than half the troops were Sentinels, each of whom was judged to be worth three Rangers due to their quickness and ability to recover from wounds.

But given Hale’s combat record, and his familiarity with the Henry Walker mission, Blake had been willing to put him in charge, with Kawecki acting as platoon sergeant. Now, as Hale took his seat, he knew all the men were watching him closely. “Remember,” he said as he looked around, “I hate paperwork… So don’t get killed.”

That produced some guffaws, and served to take the edge off as the Party Girl’s door gunners began to clear the landing zone of stinks. Then, as all forward motion stopped, the crew chief pulled a lever and Hale felt the ship rise suddenly as the tank dangling under the VTOL’s belly hit the ground.

Having released the extra load, Purvis put the Party Girl down about fifty feet away from the M-12, ordered the crew chief to deploy the ramp, and cut power. A lot of fuel had been consumed on the trip out, and he wanted to conserve as much of it as he could. The engines were still spooling down as Hale led his men out onto the flat area that surrounded the mine.

Two of the soldiers ran over to the tank, while the rest followed Hale toward the point where one of the enemy’s automatic mortars was dropping shell after shell into the crater below. Gouts of mixed mud and snow rose into the air as explosions marched across the pit and the defenseless prisoners ran every which way, searching for a place to hide.

“Shut that weapon down!” Hale ordered. “Then turn it around. If the stinks counterattack, we’ll use it against them.”

It took the better part of five minutes to kill the Hybrids who were guarding the emplacement and take possession of the mortar. Once that was done, Hale left a team of three men to redeploy the weapon while he turned his attention to what was happening elsewhere. And there were lots of things to worry about, something Blake had warned him about earlier.

“You’re used to leading small groups,” the older officer had cautioned. “This mission will be different. It’ll have a lot of moving parts—not the least of which will be Mr. Dentweiler. The trick is to avoid being pulled down into the tactical stuff, and keep your eye on the big picture.”

That prediction was already proving true. The rest of the strike force was on the ground by then, and a number of brisk firefights had begun as various squads began to tackle the objectives they had been given. But rather than try to micromanage those conflicts, Hale knew it was his responsibility to focus on the main objective, as two of the group’s All-Purpose Vehicles came roaring up to stop a few feet away.

The first Lynx was assigned to Hale, and the second was reserved for Dentweiler and Burl, both of whom wore Ranger uniforms minus insignia, and carried pistols.

Hale had argued against bringing the civilians along, but without success, or much sympathy from his commanding officer.

“You want tanks?” Blake had inquired rhetorically. “Well, you got ′em… Along with the guy who wrote you the blank check. Enjoy.”

“Come on!” Dentweiler shouted as he stood upright in the Lynx. “Let’s get down into that pit and find Walker!”

Burl, who was seated in the rear next to the machine gunner, looked worried. Hale wondered what the man was thinking. Here he was, returning to his own personal hell only days after escaping it.

Hale lifted a hand by way of an acknowledgment as he climbed in next to the driver. He was armed with a HE .44 Magnum and a Bellock Automatic. Both weapons had been chosen for close-in work if it came to that.

“Okay,” Hale said to the driver, “take us past those buildings and down into the pit.”

The engine roared, wheels spun, and slush flew sideways as the Lynx took off, closely followed by the second unit. Hale barely had time to look at the yawning crater off to the left and marvel at how large it was before a couple of Howlers came bounding out of cover and the .50 caliber machine gun began to chug.

Both Chimera were knocked off their feet, and the vehicle bumped over one of them, forcing Hale to hang on for dear life as the four-by-four skidded sideways and a dozen Hybrids poured out of the buildings ahead. They opened fire with Bullseyes, and as the gunner brought the .50 to bear, Hale triggered the Bellock. The combination proved deadly as half a dozen stinks went down.

The driver straightened the vehicle out, just in time for the second Lynx to hose the Chimera down as it followed along behind. Then the battle was over as both vehicles followed the circular road downward. They were about halfway to the bottom when the gunner shouted, “Drones at ten o’clock!” and began to fire.

Hale looked up to see that a swarm of the flying machines had been dispatched to intercept the incoming vehicles. So he fired the Bellock, and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the drones vanish with a loud bang. An instant later the gunner scored two kills of his own. “Yee-haw!” the Sentinel shouted as he smoked a third machine. “Eat lead, assholes!”

Then they were past the drones, leaving the second Lynx to fire on the surviving machines, as they made one last circle of the pit and came to a smooth stop next to the half-frozen lake. Within a matter of seconds a flood of raggedy prisoners surged out of their various hiding places, all yelling excitedly as some tried to jump aboard the vehicles.

That was when Burl stood up and shouted at the crowd: “Back off!” Burl got nearly instant obedience as members of the Fair and Square Squad recognized their leader and hurried to provide him with backup. Hale was suddenly grateful for the civilian’s presence as he gave orders for the prisoners to form a column of twos and prepare to march up out of the pit as fast as they could.

Meanwhile, having exited the second Lynx, Dentweiler was shouldering his way through the crowd while holding up an 8 X 10 glossy of Henry Walker for everyone to see. “Have you seen this man?” Dentweiler demanded loudly. “If so, where is he?”

There were lots of garbled replies as Burl left the organizing task to the members of the Fair and Square Squad and hurried over to the spot where the Walkers liked to eat their meals. The carefully wrapped recorder and the recordings had been hidden there, in a crevice between two large rocks.

But they were gone.

Burl was disappointed, and started scanning the crowd for Walker, when one of his buddies hurried over. “Harley, you crazy sonofabitch! You made it! And you came back… Never mind that serving of glop you owe me. We’re square.”

Burl grinned. “Good. I was going to mention it if you hadn’t.” Then he resumed his search, and said, “Where’s Walker? I don’t see him anywhere.”

“They took him,” the man announced sadly. “Yesterday morning, along with twenty-three others. He’d been here a long time, Harley, you know that, and the poor bastard’s luck ran out.”

“Damn it,” Burl said disgustedly. “Twenty-four hours. The difference between life and death. Do me a favor would you? Help the squad get everybody ready to go. I’ve got to speak with Lieutenant Hale.”

The Sentinel was standing next to his Lynx, listening to the latest in a series of sit reps from the noncoms up on the rim, when Burl materialized out of the crowd.

“Thanks for the help,” Hale said, as he eyed the area around him. “What’s up?”

“It’s Walker,” Burl replied soberly. “I know what happened to him.”

Hale’s eyes came around to meet Burl’s.

“Yeah? Where is he?”

“He’s almost certainly dead,” Burl answered. “But we need to find his body. He was carrying audio recordings of President Grace laying plans to open negotiations with the stinks. Can you believe that shit? I didn’t, until he let me listen to some of them. That’s why Henry and his wife were headed for Chicago… They were going to give the tapes to the Freedom First people, except the Chimera grabbed them the same day the bastards got me.”

It took a moment for Hale to absorb the full gravity of what he’d been told. But once he had a chance to think about it, everything fell into place. Walker’s decision to quit his job, the desperate attempt to reach Chicago, and Dentweiler’s overriding desire to locate the ex-Secretary of War. That, coupled with Susan’s parting words, helped Hale make up his mind. “So you think the recordings would be on Walker’s body?”

Burl looked relieved. “Yes. They aren’t where he normally kept them—so I feel certain he took them.”

“Up to the Processing Center?”

“Yeah,” Burl answered. “We didn’t know what it was… but yes.”

“Okay,” Hale said thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can do. But keep it to yourself. Understood?”

Burl looked grateful as Dentweiler arrived. “Yes,” he said. “Understood.”

“The bastard is dead!” Dentweiler reported triumphantly as he took his place in the second Lynx. “Come on… Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Hale was about to reply when Kawecki’s voice came in over his headset.

“Echo-Five to Echo-Six… We have trouble, sir. Two Stalkers and a Goliath are approaching from the east. There’s plenty of ground troops, too. Maybe two hundred or so.”

Hale swore silently. No matter what he did there wouldn’t be enough time to load the prisoners and pull out without a fight. Never mind the Walker problem.

“This is Echo-Six… Establish an observation post out to the west and tell them to keep a sharp eye out. Once we pivot to the east, we don’t want anyone sneaking in behind us. Put everything else in front of those buildings. We’ll use them for cover and try to defend them. And don’t forget those mortars. Put ′em to work. I’ll be up in five minutes. Over.”

Once again Hale was reminded of the complexities associated with a larger command as he thought about the Stalkers, the Goliath, the people lined up at the foot of the road, and the vulnerable VTOLs parked on the ground above. Time was everything, and there wasn’t enough of it.

The Chimeran armor would be within striking distance by the time the prisoners made it up to the top of the crater.

Such were Hale’s thoughts as Dentweiler yelled at him from the second Lynx. “What are we waiting for, Lieutenant? We have what we came for… I need to get back to Denver.”

Hale glanced up at the gunner who was standing in the back of his Lynx. Pointing at the Chief of Staff, he spoke forcefully. “See the man over there? If he speaks without my permission blow his head off.”

“Yes, sir!” the gunner said without hesitation, and he swiveled the big .50 around so that it was aimed at Dentweiler’s skull. That caused the gunner standing behind the Chief of Staff to swear and jump to the ground. For his part Dentweiler turned pale and slid down into the passenger seat like a deflated balloon.

Having bought himself a moment in which to think, Hale turned to Burl. “Things have changed… Tell the prisoners to line up in alphabetical order. Then break them into thirty-person groups. There isn’t much space next to the lake, so the VTOLs will have to land one at a time. Load ′em as fast as you can. Understand?”

Burl nodded grimly. “And the recordings? You’ll look for them?”

“If I can,” Hale promised. “But the prisoners and my troops come first.”

“Thank you,” Burl said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”

“Time to go topside,” Hale said as he took his seat in the Lynx. The driver put his foot down, the vehicle sped upslope, and Hale issued orders to Purvis. “Echo-Six to Bravo-One. The stinks are closing from the east. You’ll have to land in the pit in order to load passengers. But there’s only room for one bird at a time. Copy? Over.”

“This is Bravo-One,” Purvis replied. “I copy. How many passengers? Over.”

“About a hundred and fifty, give or take,” Hale replied. “Over.”

“That won’t leave room for all of your troops,” Purvis objected. “Over.”

“Roger that,” Hale replied stoically. “So don’t stop for a beer on your way back… We might not be here if you do. Echo-Six out.”

The first VTOL was already in the air and in the process of lowering itself into the crater, when the two four-by-fours emerged from the pit and skidded to a stop. Hale was the first one out and immediately pointed a finger at Dentweiler. “If you want to live, keep your mouth shut and stay with me.”

Then, turning to the drivers, he gave them fresh orders. “Head east, find those Stalkers, and take ′em down. The tanks will tackle the Goliath.”

Both drivers nodded, and as Dentweiler’s boots hit the ground they roared away. The battle began as the Chimera sent salvo after salvo of high explosives arcing down on the cluster of buildings—and the humans answered with cannon fire from the M-12 tanks and hit-and-run attacks from the speedy All-Purpose Vehicles.

Thunder rolled as Hale and Dentweiler arrived on the east side of the big barnlike maintenance shed, and took cover in the grease pit Kawecki was using as a command bunker. Hale’s first task was to get a grasp on the overall situation and assume command.

By parking a grader over the concrete pit, one of Kawecki’s men effectively put a partial roof over the bunker and Hale could hear the steady ping, ping, ping of nearly spent projectiles hitting the machine as he brought his binoculars up and began a quick left-to-right scan of the battlefield in front of him.

The tanks were about a hundred feet apart and hull down behind piles of mine tailings. The mounds of dirt offered excellent cover as Chimeran missiles probed the area around them. Farther out, beyond the fall of mortar rounds, one of the Stalkers was out of action and on fire as three battle-scarred Lynxes harried the second machine. But killing the last Stalker wasn’t going to be easy. Each time one of the four-by-fours took a run at the Chimeran tank it was necessary to deal with dozens of Hybrids before they could get in close enough.

The fourth Lynx was little more than a burned-out carcass that lay farther out and marked the point where its battle had been fought ten minutes earlier. The vehicle’s driver or gunner, it was impossible to tell which, had taken cover behind the wreck and was firing his M5A2 carbine at the oncoming Goliath.

A futile gesture—but a brave one.

“This is Echo-Six,” Hale said into his lip mike. “Foxtrot-Six and Seven are too close together… Six will pull back, break north, and prepare to flank the Goliath. Seven will pull back, break south, and do the same thing. Execute. Over.”

He received two speedy acknowledgments as he turned to Kawecki. “Put all of the LAARKs toward the center of the line—but back far enough to move laterally. Once the Goliath is within range, I want them to fire, then run to a new location. They won’t be able to bring the bastard down, but they can keep it busy so the tanks can get into position.”

Kawecki nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” and hurried to put the word out.

With that accomplished, Hale instructed a nervous-looking Dentweiler to remain in the bunker while he set out to visit the defensive positions that Kawecki had established. His guide was a Sentinel named Jenkins. “Keep a sharp eye out, sir,” the soldier advised. “We killed a whole shitload of the bastards, but we didn’t get all of them, and there are plenty of places to hide around here.”

Hale checked to make sure the Bellock was ready to go before following Jenkins up out of the relative safety of the grease pit toward the admin building to the south. Pieces of rusty machinery, freestanding utility buildings, and a pile of scrap metal offered opportunities to take cover, and the men took full advantage as they dashed from spot to spot.

They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred feet, and were crouched behind a storage tank, when Auger fire slashed through the cylinder, missing Hale by a hair.

Jenkins returned fire from his Auger as Hale circled the tank, searching for the stinks which had to be on the other side. There were two Steelheads, both of whom swiveled toward him as he fired the Bellock. They staggered as a fusillade of explosive rounds went off around them and Jenkins attacked from behind.

Both went down hard, weapons skidding on concrete.

Hale was running low on ammo by that time, and he was on his way over to exchange the Bellock for an Auger Mark II when he saw another weapon lying on the ground a few feet away. The MP-47 Pulse Cannon must have been taken from a dead Sentinel, and Hale was pissed off as he picked the weapon up and followed Jenkins over to the admin building. The structure had taken multiple hits by then, and the south end was in flames as the soldiers in an office to the north end continued to fire a captured machine gun into the open area beyond. A wave of stinks went down as the heavy slugs swept them off their feet.

Hale made himself known to the sergeant in charge before turning his binoculars toward the battlefield where the second Stalker was burning brightly, and the surviving Lynx was on the run as the Goliath hurled missile after missile at it. The two-hundred-foot-tall battle mech was armed with Gatling-style guns, plus multiple missile launchers, and it was close enough for Hale to feel the earth tremble each time one of its feet hit the ground.

Then the newly repositioned tanks came up on the Chimeran machine from the north and south. They forced the colossus to swivel back and forth and divide its fire between two targets. Explosions could be seen and heard as the humans poured round after round into the construct, which still kept on coming.

Most of the captured mortars had been silenced by then, but the LAARK-equipped Sentinels were hard at work, and Hale could see flashes of light as their rockets struck the monster’s superstructure and articulated legs.

It wasn’t going to be enough, however. That became clear as the Goliath stepped over the command bunker and brought an enormous clawlike foot down on top of the maintenance building beyond. It went straight through the roof, and most of the structure collapsed. Then the battle mech took another gigantic step and fired at the Party Girl as she rose from the crater beyond.

Purvis had given himself the job of flying the last bird out, and he swore as a missile flew past the canopy, exploding against the west side of the pit wall.

Then with engines screaming, he made the switch to level flight and felt the VTOL lurch sickeningly as something hit her.

But she was tough, and the Goliath was already turning away as the Party Girl skimmed the ground.

Hale reached the admin building with Jenkins in tow. They dashed inside and metal rang under their combat boots as they raced up a set of interior stairs to what remained of the flat roof. The fire was still burning a hundred feet away, but the wind was blowing north to south, so they could see in spite of the billowing smoke.

There were two ways to bring a Goliath down. One was simply to batter it to pieces—which was a long and dangerous process. The other was to fire some sort of explosive down the exhaust ports located to the rear of the mech’s superstructure. And as they arrived at the west side of the roof, and the Goliath began to turn back toward the east, that was Hale’s intention. The MP-47 Pulse Cannon was on his shoulder by then, and he could see the glowing exhaust ports, but not for long as the colossus continued to turn.

Quickly, knowing that more of his men were going to die if he missed, Hale fired. There was only enough time to get two shots off, but both hit their marks and exploded within the mech. That wasn’t enough to kill the beast, but the Goliath was still taking fire from the man-portable rocket launchers, and one of its leg actuators was damaged. The combination forced it to pause, so that as the rim gave way under its enormous weight, it fell over backward. There was the equivalent of an earthquake as the construct disappeared from sight and landed in the crater. Then, heart in his throat, Hale ran for the stairs.

Once on the ground he summoned the remaining Lynx, which carried him toward the pit. He knew the Goliath was still operational because he could hear the insistent whine of its powerful servos and the clatter of metal on rocks. So he fully expected to see the machine’s lethal superstructure rear up at any moment.

But as the Lynx skidded to a stop at the edge of the pit, it was another sight that met his eyes. The Goliath was lying on its back and legs flailing as it struggled to right itself. That left its belly exposed, and Hale smiled grimly as he got out of the four-by-four and brought the Pulse Cannon to bear. The weapon jerked repeatedly as Hale fired his remaining rounds. All of them hit the target.

The result was a massive explosion with a pressure wave strong enough to knock Hale off his feet and send a fireball hundreds of feet up into the air. Flaming debris fell for what seemed like minutes, but was actually seconds, and kicked up gouts of mud-stained snow all around the bottom of the mine. “Nice one, sir,” the vehicle’s gunner said admiringly as he staggered to his feet. “That’ll teach the bastards!”

It was tempting to take a moment to savor his victory but, as Hale was coming to understand, the price of command was endless responsibility. So he was already thinking about what to do next as Kawecki arrived, followed by a dozen battle-weary Sentinels. It was good to see the platoon sergeant, but something important was missing from the picture. “Where’s Dentweiler?” Hale demanded.

“He ran,” Kawecki answered grimly. “There we were, firing up at the Goliath as it stepped over us, and the bastard ran. I couldn’t chase him without leaving my men. Sorry, sir.”

“You made the right choice. Where did he go? Did anyone see him?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the men answered. “I saw him run into that building over there.”

Hale followed a pointing finger to what had originally been the smelter. Except that the Chimera had converted the structure into what the Intel people assumed was a Processing Center.

“Okay,” Hale replied, turning to Kawecki. “I’ll take six men over for a look-see. Meanwhile, I want you to pull everyone back to the LZ, establish a perimeter, and rig the surviving vehicles for a lift-out. And stay sharp… By the time the VTOLs come back for us, there may be another wave of stinks to cope with.”

Kawecki nodded. “Yes, sir. Danby, you and your men accompany the lieutenant. The rest of you follow me.”

Hale traded the empty Pulse Cannon for a shotgun, and led the squad toward the long narrow Processing Center. He was struck by the fact that the building was intact. As if the Chimera had intentionally avoided firing on it for some reason. And as he stepped in through the truck-sized door he knew why. The place stank to high heaven. A sure sign that a significant number of Chimera were in residence. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he warned. “And let me know if you see anything that looks human.”

It was gloomy inside the building, and almost entirely silent—except for the sound of breathing. Not by one entity, but by many.

The beam projected by Hale’s Rossmore caressed the grimy walls and the feces-smeared floor. Then came an ear-splitting screech as a dog-sized Spinner darted out to attack one of the men. It was immediately put down with a volley of gunfire, but continued to snap its jaws futilely until Danby put three rounds into its brain.

“There’s bound to be more of them,” Hale warned as the group approached a wall and the opening at the center of it. “Put those Augers to work. Let’s find them before they find us.”

Two men carrying Augers came forward. By sweeping their weapons back and forth, they could detect whatever Chimera were up ahead, and they could shoot through walls if necessary. “Bingo!” one of the soldiers said, as his sight lit up.

“Roger that!” the other exclaimed. “There’s at least three or four of them! They look like stinks!”

“Take ′em out,” Hale ordered brusquely, and the Sentinels obeyed. A cacophony of screeching sounds could be heard as the Auger rounds phased through the steel wall and struck their hidden targets. And because the Spinners couldn’t fire back, they were systematically slaughtered.

Finally, when all the Chimera were dead, Hale led the squad through the opening and into the chamber of horrors beyond. It appeared that at least six Spinners had been lying in wait for the humans, and all were dead.

Farther back, standing in rows like a crop waiting to be harvested, were dozens of man-sized cocoons. Each pod incorporated a small vent which allowed the creature within to take in oxygen and vent carbon dioxide. And that was where the rhythmic breathing sounds were coming from. “Check ′em out,” Hale ordered. “We’re looking for Dentweiler and Secretary of War Walker.”

“Yes, sir,” Danby responded. “But we don’t have to open those pods, do we?”

“I’m sorry,” Hale answered sympathetically, “but the answer is yes. And we don’t have a lot of time, so let’s get to it.”

What followed was one of the most disgusting tasks he had ever been required to carry out. Having slung the shotgun across his back, he removed the commando knife from its sheath, and chose a row of cocoons. By starting the cut at the top of each fleshy pod, and running the incision all the way to the floor, it was possible to pry open the cone-shaped structure. That produced a ripping sound, a sudden gush of puslike fluid that splashed his boots, and a horrible, gut-churning smell.

But that was the least of it. Worse yet were the Chimeran pupae within, some of which looked like what they would eventually become, while others remained recognizably human. They were soft, mushy things for the most part, their glassy eyeballs staring out of faces frozen in mid-scream.

Hale had just opened his fourth cocoon when a soldier called from the other side of the room. “I found Mr. Dentweiler, sir! And he’s still alive!”

Hale hurried over to where the soldier was standing. The light from the Sentinel’s weapon was centered on the pupa’s head. And while his glasses were missing, and his features were partially obscured by a filmy material, there was no mistaking Dentweiler’s face. Or the fact that he was still alive, and attempting to speak.

Hale stepped in to make a cut in the membrane that covered the official’s face and rip the filmy stuff away. That was when he saw the staring eyes, the goo that had been injected into Dentweiler’s open mouth, and heard a very faint voice.

“Pleeaasse… Kill meeee.”

The words were breathy, because Dentweiler couldn’t open and close his lips, but they were understandable nevertheless.

“What’s he saying?” Danby inquired from a few feet away.

“He wants us to kill him,” Hale replied matter-of-factly. “He’s already too far gone to be saved, and he knows it.”

“So what will we do?” the noncom wanted to know.

“Grant his wish,” Hale said levelly, as he drew the .44 Magnum. “That’s what I would want. How ′bout you?”

Danby’s throat was dry. He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I would.”

Hale backed away. There was a loud boom as the pistol went off. But instead of passing through the cocoon, the bullet was absorbed. Then, much to his horror, he saw Dentweiler blink.

So Hale ordered his men to stand back, triggered the bullet buried deep within the cocoon, and heard a muffled boom as what was left of the man exploded. Chunks of flesh flew, goo sprayed in every direction, and one of the Sentinels swore as a glob of pus hit him. That was when Kawecki’s voice was heard over the radio. “Echo-Five to Echo-Six… We have four birds ten-out and inbound. Over.”

“Roger that,” Hale replied. “Maintain the perimeter, but load the vehicles, and as many men as you can. We’ll be there soon. Echo-Six out.

“All right,” Hale said as he surveyed the chamber. “Walker’s been here a lot longer, so he won’t be as pretty as Dentweiler was, but we need to find him if we can. Let’s get back to work.”

That announcement produced a nearly unanimous groan, but the soldiers did what they were told, and it was Danby who made the gruesome discovery. “I think I found Walker, sir… But it’s hard to be sure.”

Once Hale was there, standing in front of the partially opened pod, he had to agree. Walker’s features had begun to droop as the chemicals within the cocoon went to work on them, and were barely recognizable.

“Open the cocoon and search the body,” Hale ordered. “And there’s no need to be gentle… He’s dead, and we’re short on time.”

Opening the pod wasn’t a pretty process, and once the body was exposed, Private Quinn had to search it. His features contorted as he ran his hands up and down the slimy corpse, felt a bump, and announced his find. “I have something, sir… Hold on while I cut it out.”

Two minutes later Hale was holding a package wrapped in layers of carefully sealed oilcloth. “It was under his belt, sir,” Quinn explained. “In the small of his back.”

“Good work, Private,” Hale replied. “When we get back to the base, I’m going to buy you and your squad a round of beers. Now let’s pull everyone out of the room, and throw every air-fuel grenade we have in here… I wish we could do more but there isn’t enough time.”

The entire Processing Center was on fire by the time Hale and troops arrived at the LZ, where one VTOL had already departed, and the rest were loading.

“There’s a whole shitload of stinks on their way down from the north,” Kawecki announced. “The pilots saw ′em on the way in. Plus some of our jets are playing tag with two Chimeran fighters at fifteen thousand feet. They’re outgunned though, so we need to haul ass.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Hale said mildly. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Ten minutes later they were in the air and fleeing west. That was when Hale had the opportunity to cut the package open, fool around with the unfamiliar machine he found inside, and listen to the spool Walker had loaded. The recording was pretty boring at first, but it wasn’t too long before the possibility of negotiating with the Chimera came up, along with the name Daedalus. A being with whom Hale was very familiar, and had strong feelings about. When the anger came it arrived slowly, like a fever that made his skin hot, and forced sweat out through his pores.

Images flickered through Hale’s mind. Dead soldiers strewn about the streets of London, the look on Nash’s face a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him between the eyes, the empty shell casings that littered the floor of his family’s home, Old Man Potter sitting in his rocking chair, Barrie going down on the roof, Spook’s tattooed face, Susan in manacles, and the smooth, self-assured man who had promised the people victory, but was preparing to betray them.

And that was the moment when all the pieces fit together, when the slow flush of anger achieved focus, and a new purpose was born.

Walker was dead, but his self-assigned mission was alive, and the man who had chosen to carry it forward was very dangerous indeed.