Resistance: The Gathering Storm r-1

by William C. Dietz

  And then they were “there,” being led around the edge of an open pit mine, which was lit by pole-mounted work lights. Walker could see an access road that corkscrewed down into the bottom of the depression, the shantytown that had been constructed there, and three flickering bonfires around which dozens of people were huddled.

  “Well there it is,” Burl said sarcastically, “home sweet home.”

  As Hybrids led them down into the pit, and the walls rose around him, Walker thought about the recorder and Chicago. Would Myra and he be able to escape from the open pit mine?

  Walker wasn’t willing to give up, but it was hard to feel optimistic, as the earth swallowed him up.

  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 dur
ing 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.